Looking around at my traveling companions, I could see we weren’t prepared. Our horses were loaded with goods. The women and children who accompanied the regiment didn’t know how to swim. But what could we do? If we went back we would be at the mercy of the Imperial army; if we went forward we were in danger from Mother Nature herself. The only question was: Which fate could we stand?

The scouts returned an hour later. “Senhor Garibaldi!” they yelled as they came closer. “There is no bridge.”

“Did you search everywhere? Are you sure?” José sighed. His shoulders fell as he looked around at the rest of us.

“We are sure.” The scout shook his head. “We looked everywhere.”

José faced the water. “What are we going to do? We can’t cross here.” He said it as much to himself as he did to the scouts.

“There’s a section downriver where we could cross.” José turned to the young scout who had spoken. “It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s safer than it is here.”

“We can’t swim across the river!” one of the men yelled.

“Well, we can’t stay here!” the scout yelled back. He turned to José. “Senhor, we have no choice, it’s either cross or die. At least if we try to cross we have a better chance at surviving.”

“Show me,” José said.

José left with the scouts and two of his officers. He returned some time later. “We’re crossing the river.”

When we reached the crossing, the horses were unburdened of most of their loads. We could easily let our supplies float across with us; the rest we abandoned. Children clung to the necks of their parents, hanging off their backs like meat shanks. I pulled Menotti out of his solitude under my poncho. At the deepest part of the river, the water would come up to my waist, dangerously close to my son. I held Menotti close to me, saying a prayer as I stepped closer to the ice-cold water. He was two months old and yet he already knew the hardships of a soldier.

I gasped involuntarily as freezing water stabbed at my ankles and calves. Clutching Menotti high at my shoulder, I made my way slowly through the river. The horses kicked and bucked, sending cold sprays of water through the air.

It was at the halfway mark that I heard the screams. A little boy lost his grip on his mother. He was too small to tread the water, too light to fight the current. He was swept away. Imelda, the heavyset woman I had met in camp, began to panic. Her older children had already crossed, but it was her young son, no older than three, who floated down the river. She screamed and dove in the water after him. I turned and watched, unable to do anything as she was pulled under and her screams were drowned out.