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December came, and brought the Canadian winter, with
its fierce light and cold, glaring snowfields, and piercing blasts
that scorch the cheek like a firebrand. The men were frost-bitten
as they dug away the dry, powdery drifts that the wind had piled
against the rampart. The sentries were relieved every hour; yet feet
and fingers were continually frozen. The clothing of the troops was
ill-suited to the climate, and, though stoves had been placed in the
guard and barrack rooms, the supply of fuel constantly fell short.
The cutting and dragging of wood was the chief task of the garrison
for many weeks. Parties of axemen, strongly guarded, were always at work in
the forest of Ste.-Foy, four or five miles from Quebec, and the
logs were brought to town on sledges dragged by the soldiers.
Eight of them were harnessed in pairs to each sledge; and as
there was always danger from Indians and bushrangers, every
man carried his musket slung at his back. The labor was prodigious;
for frequent snowstorms made it necessary again and again to beat a
fresh track through the drifts. The men bore their hardships with
admirable good humor; and once a party of them on their return, dragging
their load through the street, met a Canadian, also with a load of wood,
which was drawn by a team of dogs harnessed much like themselves. They
accosted them as yoke-fellows, comrades, and brothers; asked
them what allowance of pork and rum they got; and invited
them and their owner to mess at the regimental barracks.
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