When they returned to camp, despite their straw rain capes and bamboo hats, the whole party and their cavalry escort were in a miserable state. Dampness found its way through every opening, seeping in somewhere without their knowing. They had not noticed it on the road, but once they stopped, the wet cold became unbearable. Unless they dried themselves by a fire immediately, they were in for a wretched time.
And drying off was maddeningly difficult. Turn over, and another pocket of water would squeeze out from somewhere, making the night a torment.
And what about the warhorses? They had to take care of those precious warhorses first!
Snow really would have been better.
In fact, these winter rains in the second year of Shengping instinctively reminded Liu Cheng of the snowfall South of the Yangtze in the winter of the fifth year of Yonghe.
It was strange: the south feared snow, while the north feared rain. Yet fundamentally, both tested fragile supply systems when numbers swelled and people lacked permanent shelter.
And there was no doubt that, compared with the strange resignation of those days-the pot's already broken, so smash it; this is all I can bloody manage anyway-the present situation was far more agonizing. Because no matter how much you accomplished, you always wondered: could you have done better?
Was he responsible for their current predicament?
Could this situation have been avoided?
The more he feared something, the more surely it came. Over the next few days, the damned winter rain actually settled in. Worse still, temperatures dipped slightly along with the rainfall, until tiny snowflakes occasionally mingled with the rain. Rain fell by day, a thin layer of ice formed at night, and then it melted again the next day.
Casualties from falls began climbing, forcing Liu