Chapter 372: Chapter 34 Departure
The roster had been sent to Revodan. While waiting for the dispatch orders, the Wolf Town’s hundred-man troop began conducting some routine training.
The subjects included formation, weapon use, and marching.
Winters didn’t expect to turn farmers into qualified soldiers in just a few days. But even auxiliaries needed to understand discipline and obedience to survive in the army.
This was a typical rural troop, and in its organization, Winters had made sure that the militiamen in each ten-man squad were all from the same village.
Because not long ago, when there had been a beast infestation, the young and strong men of Wolf Town had all participated in the hunting teams.
So, who was capable and diligent, who was honest and reliable, who spoke in a way that fellow villagers were willing to listen to… after the ordeal of the beast infestation, Winters had a good understanding of these matters.
The Centurions he appointed were all capable of commanding respect, and there were no militiamen who felt dissatisfied.
Except for Pierre Mitchell.
“Big brother Winters,” at the Mitchells’ dinner table, Pierre was still not pleased, “Why am I not a Centurion?”
Before Winters could answer, Gerard, with a stern face, scolded, “You’re on duty, you should call him an officer or Centurion. When I was on duty, if you dared address an officer that way, you’d be invited to a full helping of the whip.”
Ever since Pierre had joined the militia, Gerard’s temper had been flaring up.
Unable to convince his wife, Gerard could only hope that his son would grit his teeth and persist, preferring death to submission. However, it turned out that Pierre was just as spineless in front of his mother.
Now Mr. Mitchell would get angry whenever he saw Mr. Mitchell.
“What’s the big deal,” Pierre muttered under his breath.
“No, listen to your father, it’s important,” Mrs. Mitchell said gently, squeezing her son’s arm, “You might not think it’s a big deal, but if others hear you, it could undermine Mr. Montaigne’s authority. The lieutenant has already helped you a lot, don’t cause trouble for those who have helped you.”
Pierre was not afraid of his father but was very afraid of his mother. When Mrs. Mitchell spoke, Pierre fell silent.
Gerard huffed and puffed, “You just wait. Once you’re in the barracks, people like you, I guarantee, will be set straight in a few days.”
After dinner, during the leisure time—also known as “the gentlemen’s time” among the Mitchells’ maids—the men, as usual, moved to the living room.
There were no other guests today, and Gerard lay comfortably on the leather armchair, filling his pipe and pouring himself a drink, casually chatting with Winters.
In the past, this room did not include Pierre. Sometimes other leather armchairs would be occupied by visiting priests, old Dusack, and estate owners.
But ever since Pierre’s name was registered, Mr. Mitchell had tacitly allowed Mr. Mitchell to join as well.
After holding it in for a long time, Pierre could no longer restrain himself and asked, “Then why can Vasya be a Centurion?”
His buddy had become a Centurion, while he remained a regular soldier. Why? What for? Mr. Mitchell’s head was filled with these questions.
Just as Gerard was about to lose his temper, Winters calmed old Dusack down and explained seriously, “Because Vashka is older than you are.”
“Everyone in the hundred-man troop, the Dusacks, are relatively young. If you were nineteen, you would be a Centurion too.”
Pierre was left speechless but soon couldn’t resist asking, “Then when can we practice shooting?”
“What are they practicing now?” Gerard, too, was curious and asked the lieutenant.
“Formation. I plan to focus on practicing marching over the next few days.”
“It’s just walking around the drill ground, it’s particularly boring,” Pierre blurted out, “round and round, like a donkey turning a millstone.”
Girard slapped the back of his son’s head, “Don’t underestimate marching, marching is an art. The old Duke won battle after battle with us thanks to marching.”
[Note: The old Duke refers to the “Butcher” Duke of Alençon]
“What’s so artistic about it? It’s just marching,” Pierre said, holding his head and speaking in a tone of grievance.
“Could you lead a hundred-man troop to march sixty miles a day, from Wolfton all the way to Revodan, without a single person falling out of line? Could you manage that?”
“Yeah, why not? Just follow along, right?”
“You could do nothing of the sort! You’ve got no skills, yet you talk tough,” Gerard became angry once more and slapped his son again, “If you were leading, you wouldn’t make it thirty miles before the front and the rear were two kilometers apart. You wouldn’t even notice if someone slipped away halfway!”
Old Dusack looked at Winters, “Lieutenant, train him harshly, let the boy suffer a bit; otherwise, he won’t know how high the sky is or how deep the earth.”
“We have been training in the town square these few days,” Winters replied with a smile, “Tomorrow I plan to take them for a walk in the fields.”
The hundred-man troop of Wolf Town, dressed in various outfits, was progressing through the wilderness in a single file formation.
Pierre, carrying a musket, was limping forward with each step causing excruciating pain.
But the formation kept pushing him forward, not allowing him to rest.
In the morning, the lieutenant had distributed weapons from the Town Armory to the militiamen. Pierre thought they were going to practice shooting that day.
He rushed to the front and grabbed a matchlock gun, smugly thinking he had got himself a great toy. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novel·fire.net
As Pierre was waiting for the bullets and gunpowder to be distributed, the lieutenant ordered everyone to take up their arms and follow him.
They walked the entire day.
No one knew when they had left the road; the troop kept marching through the wilds until they reached the banks of the Big Horn River and then continued along the riverbank.
At first, there were cheerful voices and laughter in the formation, but in the end, only painful silence remained.
Pierre was now finding it very difficult even to breathe; he only felt the muscles in his legs stiff and sore, his feet, shoulders, and groin seemed as if they were being rubbed raw with iron sand.