The wagon leaned sideways into the ditch, its left rear wheel trapped between the broken blocks where the culvert had collapsed.
Ash stood in the dusty roadside gravel with his hands planted on his hips, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows to show his round, sun-browned arms.
'The cart is very full of flour bags... and if the wood snaps, all the white dust will blow away into the river.'
Two tired baggage tenders from the Sixth District were pulling on a rope tied to the front axle, their boots slipping in the mud while the lead mule snorted in protest.
A third carter, an older man with graying whiskers named Master Burl, knelt beside the cracked hub with an oak lever, grunting with strain as he tried to lift the corner.
"Watch the axle tongue, lads," Master Burl called, wiping his forehead, "twist that kingbolt and we'll be fishing flour out of the creek."
