Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 373: Chapter 34 Departure_2

He had completely lost any sense of direction, and simply followed numbly.

The luckiest militiamen only received a bow, and even that was an unstrung single bow that felt like a stick in their hands.

Those who were assigned fighting swords and pikes were a bit less fortunate, as these weapons were heavier.

The unluckiest poor souls had to carry muskets. The matchlock guns bought from Revodan weighed sixteen pounds each and did not come with slings.

Pierre felt like he was carrying a weight of a thousand catties on his shoulder, his flesh sore and numb from the pressure.

He finally understood the somewhat elusive smile on the lieutenant’s face when he saw him eagerly claiming the musket.

“That guy,” Pierre thought resentfully, “must be comfortably riding on his silver-gray steed, laughing at our suffering.”@@novelbin@@

Right beside him flowed the turbulent Big Horn River, and Pierre, pushed to his limit, had the thought: Just jump into the river, and I won’t have to endure this any longer.

He startled himself with this thought and shook his head vigorously.

A voice in his head kept tempting him, “Why do you put yourself through this? Why not rest for a while? Rest a bit, you’ll feel much better. Don’t worry about what others think. Who are they to judge you?”

Finally, Pierre abandoned all his self-respect. He sat down on the ground and, as if declaring to someone, he yelled, “I can’t go on anymore!”

The people behind him simply glanced at him, wordlessly walked around him, and continued to follow the column forward. Everyone did the same.

Sitting on the ground, Pierre first felt an indescribable pleasure, but soon an endless shame followed.

He lay on the ground, burying his head in the weeds.

“Hey? What’s wrong with you?” It was Vashka’s voice.

“I can’t walk anymore,” Pierre said, sniffing. He wiped his face haphazardly, not wanting anyone to see him crying: “I don’t want to walk anymore.”

Vashka picked up Pierre’s musket, “Hang in there a little longer.”

Pierre got to his feet with his hands on the ground and nodded silently.

Vashka shouldered Pierre’s gun and his pike, while Pierre followed him limping, the two rejoining the column.

“Vasya,” Pierre said softly.

“Hmm?”

“I now know why you can be a centurion.”

Loud trumpet calls came from the front, with someone shouting, “Rest where you are! Rest where you are!”

Upon hearing the command to rest, the exhausted militiamen dropped their weapons and collapsed to the ground.

Pierre, unable to wait, yanked off his boots. Both of his feet were swollen like radishes, blistered over.

“Feels like I’ve chafed down there,” Vashka said with a wry smile.

Pierre didn’t respond; that area between his legs was also painfully burning.

A man walked up from the front of the formation. The militiamen along his path lowered their heads in a salute—they simply couldn’t stand up.

Approaching Vashka and Pierre, the two recognized the newcomer as Lieutenant Montaigne.

The lieutenant carried a musket as he passed by the two Dusacks, nodding lightly at them.

“Gentlemen.”

“Officer.”

They brushed past each other and the lieutenant continued his walk towards the back of the column.

“See?” Vashka nudged Pierre with his elbow, whispering, “He carried a saber and shouldered a gun, walked all the way as if nothing was wrong.”

Only then did Pierre recall: when they set out, Lieutenant Winters Montagne was not on horseback.

…

In the days that followed, Winters led his hundred-strong company through wilderness marches every day.

The militiamen, mostly of peasant stock, generally had no complaints, for they were fed and paid for the training.

In strict terms, the intensity of Winters’ training was not very high, roughly fifteen kilometers of cross-country marching per day with only weapons to carry.

If it were the Standing Army, they would have to march at least twenty kilometers outdoors every day, and that was with a full pack of weapons and camp gear.

The young Dusacks were still tormented to the point of crying for their mothers. According to Gerard, Pierre even urinated blood. But the youngster never spoke disheartening words, simply going home and falling straight asleep.

Pierre’s suffering was obvious to Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, who felt it deeply in their hearts.

But Gerard still thumped his chest, assuring the lieutenant, “Grind that boy to dust, and if he dies from exhaustion, blame me.”

Ellen Mitchell, however, was growing increasingly intolerant, with every bruise, swelling, and blister on Pierre’s body tormenting her.

Winters was surprised to discover a subtle shift in the atmosphere at the Mitchell’s.

Mrs. Mitchell, who had been adamant about sending her son to join the militia, was now hoping to hire a substitute to serve for Pierre, or to simply have Pierre leave the militia and wait until he was older.

And Gerard, who had initially been firmly against Pierre’s enlistment, now would not agree to a substitution, nor would he agree to let Pierre leave the militia.

Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell had another heated argument.

In the end, it was Pierre himself who made the decision: “Dad, Mom, stop fighting. I’m staying with the militia.”

…

Time flew by.

On the fourth Tuesday of October, a day shrouded in thick fog, Winters received his orders.

The militia assembled in the town square; relatives came to see them off.

Sons left parents, husbands left wives, fathers left children, brothers left siblings… a scene of bleak sorrow.

No matter how many times he experienced this, Winters could never grow numb to it.

Unable to bear the sight, he quietly went to help Gerard load the cart.

The Newly Reclaimed Land was sparsely populated with vast expanses, and they had to camp in the wild most of the way. Cooking equipment and food were loaded onto four double-team wagons, while the militiamen were responsible for carrying tents.

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