The next morning, Old Laver, wearing a rain cloak, could see with his naked eye that the water level had risen.
When the convoy arrived at the designated stream for crossing, Old Laver kept his head down, avoiding Bether's sullen expression.
But he could hear the rushing sound of the water.
Pulling back the hood that covered his eyes, Old Laver couldn't help but let out a "tsk tsk" sigh.
Oak branches carried by the upstream current tangled with a broken fishing net, intermittently appearing in the muddy whirlpool.
The stream, once crystal clear, now resembled a yellow python passing before everyone's eyes.
Raindrops pattered on the oilcloth, while Bether and the officers felt increasingly heavy-hearted.
Bether tapped his military boots with a horse whip, and Old Laver could sense his suppressed irritation: "Hey, you, go and see how deep the water is, roughly."
