I slip my bandolier across my chest, shoulder my knapsack with the few supplies I have left, and pick up my flintlock. Trudging through deep snow, I lead my men from Salem Village to their assigned rank.
“March!” someone shouts, and our ungainly Massachusetts army begins moving toward Pettaquamscut, where we will meet men from Connecticut.
I shiver in the predawn darkness, glad my unit isn’t leading the army. Soldiers step where those ahead of them have left their footprints in the deep snow. Snow flurries fall all day, whipped up by a cold wind. The army marches through thick woods and wades across gullies, climbs hills and crosses frozen fields. The trek feels endless.
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