Fishkill, 1777.
After a march like that of Hannibal over the Alps, we arrived last night
at this place, where we found the utmost difficulty to get forage for
our horses and lodgings for ourselves, and at last were indebted to the
hospitality of a private gentleman, Colonel Brinkhoff, who very kindly
cared for us.
We came from Hartford through Farmington, Southington, Waterbury,
Woodbury, New Milford, New Fairfield, the oblong, etc., to Fishkill. Of
all the mountains I ever passed these are the worst. We found one
advantage, however, in the cheapness of travelling. I don't find one
half of the discontent nor of the terror here that I left in the
Massachusetts. People seem sanguine that they shall do something grand
this winter.
I am well and in good spirits. My horse performs extremely well. He
clambers over mountains that my old mare would have stumbled on. The
weather has been dreadfully severe.