the
toils and dangers of travel through these wild hill regions. Let
the traveler of today, as he follows the track that once was
Braddock's Road, picture the scene of that earlier time when, in
the face of every natural obstacle, the army toiled across the
mountain chains. Where the earth in yonder ravine is whipped to a
black froth, the engineers have thrown down the timber cut in
widening the trail and have constructed a corduroy bridge, or
rather a loose raft on a sea of muck. The wreck of the last wagon
which tried to pass gives some additional safety to the next.
Already the stench from the horse killed in the accident deadens
the heavy, heated air of the forest. The sailors, stripped to the
waist, are ready with ropes and tackle to let the next wagon down
the incline; the pulleys creak, the ropes groan. The horses, weak
and terror-stricken, plunge and rear; in the final crash to the
level the leg of the wheel horse is caught and broken; one of the
soldiers shoots the animal; the traces are unbuckled; another
beast is substituted. Beyond, the seamen are waiting with tackle
attached to trees on the ridge above to assist the horses on the
cruel upgrade--and Braddock, the deceived, maligned,
misrepresented, and misjudged, creeps onward in his brave
conquest of the Alleghanies in a campaign that, in spite of its
military failure, deserves honorable mention among the
achievements of British arms.

Everywhere, north and south, the early American road was a
veritable Slough of Despond. Watery pits were to be encountered
wherein horses were drowned and loads sank from sight. Frequently
traffic was stopped for hours by wagons which had broken down and
blocked the way. Thirteen wagons at one time were stalled on