“What date is it?” Cumming asked as they slumped into their tent after a nerve-shredding night manning a stockade.
“God only knows,” Chisholm said. “July the somethingth, I think.”
“We’re no closer to Quebec than we were a month ago,” Cumming said. “All we’re doing is chopping down trees and losing men to the savages.”
“Aye, even the Navy can’t breach the French defences,” Chisholm said. “Maybe Pikestaff has lost this one.”
“Winter comes early out here,” Cumming reminded them. “Every day the French in Quebec hold out is a small victory for them. I don’t fancy our chances if we have to overwinter here in the deep snow.”
“It’s only July,” MacKim said. “Winter is months away.” Yet within him, he felt a twinge of hope. If the regiment overwintered in Fort Stanwix, he might see Priscilla a
