Chris was no raw recruit. He had known from the outset that marching and fighting were anything but easy.
For example, if you had ever gone on a school spring outing as a child and still remembered it, you would know how difficult it was to organize a group of people and get them moving toward a single destination.
The same went for marching.
The caravan had originally planned to leave at nine, but after breakfast, the distribution of new shoes and clothes, and another round of fussing about, they only just managed to break camp around ten.
They abandoned the wagons, selling them off cheaply to the locals. The tents, food, five hundred matchlock muskets, and assorted supplies such as medicine and bandages were transferred onto horses and donkeys.
Isaac and Connie assigned people to carry whatever was left over.
People were just another kind of large pack animal. What was wrong with carrying a few things? They ate and drank well every day, and now a little load meant they couldn't walk?
Once everything was ready, the nearly two-hundred-strong column set off in force.
The border was fifty kilometers away. Chris planned to spend four or five days getting there, averaging roughly ten kilometers a day.
That sounded a little strange. Only ten kilometers on foot each day? Wasn't that too short a distance?
But this was the marching schedule Chris had drawn up after carefully assessing the group's stamina and the condition of the roads.
First of all, among the more than one hundred and seventy people in the group, the remaining hundred and twenty-excluding the players and caravan hands-had widely varying levels of fitness.
Some were veterans like Carlos or farmers who worked the fields. They were fit, with sturdy feet, and could carry nearly fifty kilograms of firewood along mountain trails all day.
Others were youngsters who had just left home to make their way in the world. They were short, scrawny, and barely had any flesh on their bones. Without time to adjust, they would inevitably fall behind.
There was no helping it. How many suitable recruits could the players find within a single township?
After weeding out some local thugs and troublemakers, the players really didn't have many options left. They had no choice but to take those green recruits who knew nothing.
Fortunately, these youngsters were delighted to accept a monthly wage of five silver coins. That made the players feel a little better about it. You got what you paid for, after all.
Chris planned to use the march to improve the new recruits' fitness and discipline, training them along the way.
If nothing else, they at least needed to learn how to load a musket. That way, when fighting broke out, even if they didn't dare fire, they could hide in the rear and reload for the veterans on the front line, contributing something to the battle.
Besides training on the move, the group also had to leave the main roads while marching through Bohemia, traveling through wilderness and woods without proper trails.
The reason was simple: those five hundred matchlock muskets and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition were the most dangerous part of their cargo.
If some tax-collecting outfit stopped them on the main road, they would be screwed.
Popoli might have been in charge of this region, but even he had to keep smuggling like this out of sight. They couldn't do it openly, lest word got out and brought disaster down on everyone.
The help Popoli could offer Isaac was a map of El Province for the caravan, showing the terrain and the locations of checkpoints so Isaac could avoid them.
The only potential problem was running into Bohemia's patrols out in the wilderness... But even that would be fine as far as Isaac was concerned. He was already working with Lord Popoli and carried a token from him.
Any patrol numbering fewer than a hundred within El Province would show Lord Popoli some consideration.
They were all colleagues who saw each other regularly. Why make a fuss over every little thing?
Sure enough, with this map personally drawn by Lord Popoli, Chris's group really could skirt the three major fortresses and more than a dozen scattered checkpoints to reach the border.
If other smuggling parties knew Chris had something like this, they would come charging over, eyes red with envy, to steal it.
The first day's march did not go smoothly, just as Chris had expected. As they walked, the newly enlisted recruits started flagging.
Less than three hours in, some were complaining that their feet hurt and had blistered, saying they couldn't walk any farther. Others cried exhaustion and wanted to ride horses.
Chris agreed to a rest, but for those who wanted horses, he raised a hand and sent Home Alone and his military police to give the would-be gentlemen a thorough beating.
Sure enough, after a good beating, those fellows actually behaved themselves and stopped complaining about being tired.
During the break, Chris had people set up a large pot to boil water and begin preparing that day's lunch.
Since they were on the march and hadn't made camp, lunch was fairly simple: a cold, hard flatbread, along with cheap dried noodles in an oily broth made with concentrated soup stock.
It was a simple lunch packed with modern food technology, but it had real substance and plenty of fat.
As military police, Carlos and his men were the last to collect their food, but the large basins they carried clearly held more noodles than anyone else's, along with the chicken carcasses left over from breakfast.
Carlos was very satisfied with his current treatment. After quickly eating and drinking his fill, he began making his rounds through the group. Then he noticed something off about a fellow sitting at the edge.
The shifty-looking fellow kept sneaking glances outward. Whenever Carlos looked his way, he immediately averted his eyes and pretended nothing was happening.
Something's wrong with this fellow.
With that thought, Carlos walked over, stood in front of the fellow, and fixed him with an unwavering stare.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
"Ah... Nothing. Just enjoying the scenery."
"You're not thinking of deserting, are you?"
As he spoke, Carlos waved his subordinates over to hold the man down and searched him personally. Sure enough, he found five flatbreads and more than twenty silver coins.
Clearly, the flatbreads were provisions for his escape. As for the silver coins... Carlos only had to ask around to discover that people in the group had lost money-and not just one or two, but quite a few.
Before setting out, everyone had left the fifty silver coins the players gave them as a family allowance with their families. At most, they carried a few silver coins in case of an emergency.
Carlos quickly reported the matter to Chris, who waved a hand casually.
"You handle it. Put this deserter on logistics duty and make him work for everyone. From now on, treat anyone who tries to run the same way...
"Sigh. I'll write up a set of rules later and introduce collective punishment. Let them keep an eye on the people around them.
"The players just leave everything to someone else. They run off ahead to play scouts, and I have to manage their people and clean up their messes. What a pain..."
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