Today our molasses ended. Piggot was partial to its sweetness. We three are touched with scurvy. Joints swell painfully. This night we cross a treeless plain.
Dry grass is at the horses' chests.
It shifts in ripples and the snaking patterns of water. Yet we are on a fretful, jarring path and the horses constantly fall in ruts and holes they have no chance of seeing. Wilson has been dislodged twice, swearing mightily on his way down. I believe he has broken a finger. Piggot is many yards ahead.