The descent from the Devil’s Squeeze toward Waystation Five was a test of supply holding power and endurance.
The five sledges moved in a tight, disciplined column, spaced twenty paces apart to allow the automatic friction bridles room to operate if a vehicle slowed. The sixteen mules marched with steady, rhythmic strides. Their breath condensed into a rolling cloud of white fog that hovered over the convoy like a protective canopy.
Tomas walked beside the third sledge—the medical transport carrying the seven most severely disabled veterans.
Among them was Corporal David Pell, a sixty-year-old soldier whose feet had been amputated at the heels after the winter of sixty-four. He lay wrapped in two heavy gray wool greatcoats recovered from Gallery North, his head resting on a sack of dry clover, his dark eyes watching the limestone cliffs roll past with quiet wonder.
“I never thought I’d see the south face again, porter,” the old corporal said, his voice raspy as ungreased leather. “Fifteen years looking at the same black rocks in the cirque. I thought my bones would lie under the snow until the trumpet sounded.”
Tomas checked the lashings on the corporal’s cot. “Your bones belong in the churchyard at High-Arch, Corporal. Beside your brother.”
