The next morning, Napoleon led the army into a vast, dense forest whose leaves had begun to yellow.
Dalemagne stared at the oak trees standing before him like giants, painfully draped a coat over his head, then had his attendant check the seams of his boots.
Though it was already October, countless venomous insects still swarmed through the woods. The spiders in particular seemed to have entered their breeding season and were exceptionally vicious; if anyone came a little too close, they would pounce.
He had truly been bitten into submission.
Seeing his miserable state, a Native American officer smiled and handed him a small wooden bottle. "You could try applying some of this."
Dalemagne waved him off gloomily. "No, thank you."
The insect repellent mixed by the Indians was indeed quite effective, but after using it before, his skin had turned as red as if it had been scalded with boiling water, and it had itched terribly.
Gritting his teeth, he urged his horse into the undergrowth.
Even the privilege of riding would last only another half day or so. Once they reached the depths of the forest, the overly dense branches would force him to dismount and continue on foot.
The thought of that sticky, clinging sensation beneath his feet made him sigh deeply again.
Before long, the entire force of five thousand men vanished into the dense forest.
Unlike Dalemagne's bedraggled state, however, the soldiers moved swiftly and silently, like a river flowing soundlessly between the trees. At the very front marched a row of middle-aged soldiers. They scarcely looked at the ground beneath them, yet even where thick fallen leaves concealed fallen logs, gullies, and vines, every step landed on the firmest ground. At most, they snapped a few dead branches with a crisp crack. Those