As I attempted to bathe away some of the scabies and lice on his skin and hair, he looked down ruefully at the scarlet rash on his chest. “Just look at this, Geordie,” he said. “I’m as red as a lobsterback—and that without a tunic on!”
One of the other men guffawed. “You’ll soon be reduced to the official colors—Continental buff and blue—like most of us. We’re nearly stripped to the buff and blue with cold!” By then I’d learned that making such pitiful jokes was one of the only weapons these poor fellows had in facing their foes: hunger, cold, and grinding boredom. Not that anyone was actually starving to death—from time to time supplies did arrive at camp, but the roads were often nearly impassable. And sometimes the wagoners lightened loads by draining off the saltwater that preserved the food, so that what did arrive was rotten. When that happened, the soldiers survived on firecake, a tasteless mixture of flour and water charred over the fire. They even joked about this, saying they varied their diet by sometimes eating “firecakes and water” and other times eating “water and firecakes.”
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