te to get a glimpse of
the sun. Red is the horizon yet but the sun has risen behind a low cloud
screen. The advance guard has outwalked the convoy and while ponies toil
up the hill, we seek shelter in the lee of a house to rest, to smoke.
The convoy at last comes up. One animal has a ball of ice on his foot.
We make the drivers rest their ponies and look after their feet. Ten
minutes and then on.

It is a desperate cold. A driver's ears are tipped with white. The
bugler's nose is frozen on the windward side. Everyone with yarn mittens
only is busy keeping fingers from freezing. Here it is good going for
the long straight road is flanked by woods that protect road from drifts
and traveller from icy blasts. This road ends in a half mile of drifts
before a town on the bank of a tributary to the Dvina. We descend to the
river.

So there you are, steamboat, till the spring break-up frees you and then
you will steam up and down the river with logs and lumber and hemp and
iron and glass and soldiers perhaps--but no Americans, I hope. What is
this train that has come through our point? Bolshevik? Those uniforms of
the Russki M. P.'s are alarmingly like those we have been shooting at.
Go on with your prisoners. Now it is noon. The sun is only a hand high
in the sky. The day has grown grey and colder. Or is it lack of food
that makes us more susceptible to winter's blasts? A bit of hard tack
now during this rest while we admire the enduring red of the sky. We are
nearing our objective. For several versts we have skirted the edge of
the river and watched the spires and domes of the city come nearer to
us. We wind into the old river town and pass on for a verst and a half
to an old monastery where we find quarters in a subsidiary building
which once was an orphan's home. The old women are very kind and
hospitable. The rooms are clean and airy and warm.

AT MONASTERY--FIFTH DAY, DECEMBER 22ND

We spend the day at rest. Men are contented to lie on the warm floors
and ease their feet and ankles. We draw our rations of food, forage and
cigarettes. It is bitterly cold and we dread the morrow. The Madam
Botchkoreva, leader of the famous women's Battalion of Death, comes to
call on us. She excites only mild interest among the soldiers.

To UST PINEGA--SIXTH DAY, DECEMBER 23RD

Zero is here on the edge of a cutting wind. But we dash around and
reorganize our convoy. Five sleds and company property are left at the
monastery in charge