Rugby

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Enjoy!

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Seven captains and a lieutenant were gathered in the study used by the Marquis de Montcalm.

Always dressed in the most elegant manner, he stood out in this plain room, devoid of gilding or fine paintings.

His thick, dark eyebrows were furrowed, highlighting the wrinkles on his broad forehead. The rest of his face remained impassive, and his breathing seemed calm.

It was hard to tell just how angry he was after the scene that had unfolded earlier.

On his desk, the infamous ball looked like a piece of evidence. It was misshapen after an hour and a half of play, with stitches torn in several places, revealing the old fabric ball beneath the leather covering.

"Gentlemen, may I know who came up with this idea?"

"It was my idea, sir," Adam answered in a falsely calm voice, hesitating to meet the commander's eyes.

"So, this was your work, Lieutenant?" the marquis growled, focusing his gaze on the young man.

"Sir, as a captain and the one responsible for…" Captain Fontaine began before being cut off.

"Silence. You will speak when I permit it. Is that understood?"

"Y-yes, sir."

The marquis shot a glare at Captain Albert Fontaine before turning his attention back to Adam, who trembled at the consequences of his actions.

"Order, discipline, honor, and dignity, Lieutenant Boucher, are the elements that distinguish regular armies from militias, regardless of the nation. Last night, I gave you a mission. My orders were to design exercises for the men and exhaust them. But what I saw this morning was simply unacceptable! Our men playing and shouting, running after this ball, and rolling in the grass and mud! It's a disgrace!"

The more he spoke, the more the marquis seemed beside himself. The captains, some of them more green than white from all the tackling and being tackled, flinched, not daring to respond to their officer.

"If His Majesty learns what has happened here, you can kiss your careers goodbye! What on earth were you thinking, lieutenant?! Have you lost your mind?!"

"Sir, if I may, these values are clearly present and honored in the game we organized this morning," Adam replied, mustering all his courage.

Immediately, all the captains looked at him in surprise, as for them, it was just a game meant to tire out the soldiers. It seemed unlikely that a mere game could honor order, discipline, honor, and dignity. Especially dignity, because they had to admit, they had completely forgotten their rank and duties during that short time.

"Really?" the marquis said in an icy tone. "I'm listening, lieutenant. How are our values promoted in your stupid game?"

"Sir, order is defined by specific rules that must be followed. In a society, like in an army, that's called laws. Here, we had rules too, and they were clearly laid out from the start. And they were respected by our soldiers with enthusiasm for the proper conduct of the game. They understood and even ensured that every rule was followed, not just for themselves but for their team. Discipline, sir, is a person's ability to set limits beyond the rules. Even though certain actions were technically possible, the soldiers made sure not to hurt themselves or their comrades. They exercised judgment before, during, and after the match."

Since the marquis didn't seem to want to respond, Adam continued passionately, developing his arguments.

"Honor, sir, is what sets us apart from animals. It's also what allows us to look ourselves in the mirror without shame. Our soldiers, even though we couldn't be everywhere to ensure the game's rules were followed, did everything they could to play by the rules, without trying to cheat or fake fouls. On the contrary, they showed great dignity, and that's the last point. Whether they won or lost the match, all the players shook hands at the end and exchanged compliments about the game. Their clothes may not have been presentable, it's true, but they had the dignity of officers, all of them without exception!"

The marquis, not expecting such a solid defense, was left speechless, as were the other captains. You could see respect and even admiration in their eyes.

It wasn't easy to stand up to an officer.

The marquis stared long and hard at François/Adam and let out a short sigh.

"You've prepared well, I see. What you're saying... makes sense."

"Thank you, sir."

Shit, I thought I was going to run out of air! I forgot to breathe!

The marquis sat back in his chair and picked up the ball, or what was left of it, in his hands. Curious, he examined it more closely.

"You made this yourself?"

"Yes, General. Last night."

"It's been through a lot," he remarked, turning it over in his hands as if to evaluate it.

"It's just that I'm not very skilled at needlework. I used my meager talents acquired in Hanover to mend my worn-out shoes from all the marching."

The officer, whose expression had softened considerably, nodded and turned to Colonel Bourlamaque, who had remained silent in a corner of the room.

"Colonel, what's your opinion on this game, particularly its virtues and its negative effects on the soldiers?"

"General, the atmosphere inside the fort has greatly improved, and the other soldiers are eager to try this game. Although it may seem primitive, it makes the men run a lot, which is good for their endurance and helps them relieve built-up tension. Most importantly, it forced the men, not just the officers, to devise strategies, whether for attack or defense. This happened quite naturally, and talents were revealed among those who were fast, those who were agile, those who were strong, and those who had good judgment. Overall, the effect has been quite positive."

"But?"

"But we must ensure that this game does not interfere with our mission. If our men slack off during the day or are too tired to stand guard at night, it could become a problem. In my opinion, the benefits outweigh the disadvantages. We just need to ensure that discipline isn't disrupted outside of the game."

"I see. In that case... I will authorize this game, this... rugby, is that correct?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"However, the rules must be clearly written. There must not, and I stress this, be any disorder. If I see that this game causes problems, I will put an immediate end to it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"One last thing. The men must not wear their uniforms while playing. I want to see white uniforms at reviews, not green and brown. We are not savages. And make a sturdier ball than that. Your stitching is really poor."

"At your orders!"

As soon as they were outside the room, the seven captains turned to Adam, looking at him with stars in their eyes.

"You, though!"

"You were incredible!"

"I thought he was going to throw you out the window! I can't tell if you're brave or just crazy! Haha!"

"Gilbert kept quiet about you having a silver tongue! You sneaky devil! You were hiding your game well!"

"Well done, kid! Quick, we need to make a new ball!"

Adam's gaze then fell on Captain Gilbert, the only one who had remained silent.

"Not bad at all, kid. You've got guts. But don't think that means I like you, got it? You're still a brat."

"Uh, okay?"

"J-just hurry and make a new ball, all right? I... I didn't stay on the field very long."

Adam looked at the bulldog-faced officer, more embarrassed than he had ever seen him. It took him a few seconds to respond.

"O-okay, I'll do my best."

When they left the building, they were surprised to find their companies gathered on the parade ground, fearing the marquis had made a harsh decision. They all had that strange look, something quite similar to what a child might show when discovering the taste of a delicious treat, but unsure if they would ever get to taste it again.

Their clothes were so dirty that one could believe they had just returned from the battlefield. No. Even there, they wouldn't have gotten this dirty. The shirts, breeches, and stockings were so green and brown that one might think they were prototypes for a uniform designed to camouflage troops in the forest.

"C-captain Fontaine, what... what did the commander say? Can we play another match?"

It was amusing in a way to see all these soldiers acting like this. It was very clear that they were all worried.

"The marquis, in his great wisdom, has given his approval."

"YES! HOORAY!" shouted all the soldiers at once, both those who had played and those who had only been able to watch the first match.

"But we'll need to make a new ball, and you'll need to find new clothes so as not to dirty your uniforms. We'll also have to write down the rules of the game."

These small constraints did not dampen the men's spirits, who were already planning another game.

Adam felt relieved. A huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. Smiling, he looked at his comrades, full of energy.

Captain Fontaine, still shaken by the intensity of the previous scene, patted Adam's shoulder with a broad grin.

"I hadn't taken a good look at your ball, but... the marquis is right: we're really going to have to teach you how to sew, lieutenant."

Captain Gauthier, still gruff but visibly satisfied, sniffed loudly.

"Hey, we'll take care of the ball. You, write down those rules! I want my revenge!"

The bulldog-faced captain couldn't help but smile in anticipation of the next match, a rare sight for the other captains who knew him. As a veteran of the previous war, he had been through many trials and as many battles as Captains Gilbert and Fontaine.

He had also lost many comrades, to the point where he no longer bothered to memorize his soldiers' names, knowing that in an instant, they could all be killed.

Without delay, Adam and the captains set to work, gathering pieces of leather and tools to create a sturdier ball. Around them, the soldiers were already discussing teams for the next match. Some were planning their strategies, others sharing memories of the first game, laughing out loud as they recalled spectacular tackles and heroic tries.

The excitement in the air was palpable.

The space around the fort, which just a few hours earlier had been nothing more than a muddy training field, now seemed infused with new energy. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, a hundred meters away, they had risked their lives defending the fort against an army four times their size.

Well! I knew they'd like it, but not this much...

Adam knew that ball games already existed, but none that even remotely resembled rugby. Although this very popular game from his original time had just arrived in this remote part of the world, he could now see that it was surpassing the level of mere entertainment.

What he had said to the marquis was now spreading throughout the fort.

Well, as long as they enjoy it! Sports are a great way to bring men together, to give them a moment of respite. And if they can forget about the war for a bit..."

Adam smiled as he saw the expressions on the soldiers' faces. Rugby had brought a bit of joy to Fort Carillon, a feeling they had rarely had the chance to savor in recent months.

He himself felt an intense urge to chase after a ball, zigzag between opponents, score points, and share a moment of happiness with others.

His heart tightened as his thoughts once again turned to Captain Gilbert. When he remembered the image of the captain, lifeless and cold in his bed, he felt tears welling up in his eyes again.

"Hey, François—I mean, Lieutenant?" shouted Captain Albert Fontaine from outside the room where he was working. "Have you finished writing the rules?"

"Almost! I'm trying not to forget anything and put them in a good order."

Finally, he wrote the final point and lifted the precious document.

His handwriting was very different from before. He had had to relearn how to write because the shape of the letters was sometimes quite different from what he knew. For example, some "s" looked like "f." But most of all, everything was written in cursive! He had quickly lost the habit of separating his letters as if trying to mimic printed text.

Outside, there was laughter around the new ball. The general atmosphere was excellent around the field. Soldiers from their companies, as well as from other regiments, had gathered, eager to watch the next match.

Soon, the kick-off was given, and the surroundings of the fort were filled with shouts, applause, and bursts of laughter.

If the English had seen this scene, they would have spat blood, because their atmosphere was the complete opposite.

***

At the same time, south of Lake George, the British army, once proud and confident, had turned into a broken force.

They had left the ruins of Fort William Henry to retreat further south to Fort Edward, now that they had regrouped and the first aid had been given to the many wounded.

They formed a long, sad, and pitiful column, the opposite of what they had been a week earlier.

General Abercrombie, who had once been so sure of victory, had lost his swagger. Even his mount seemed weighed down by the burden of defeat.

With slumped shoulders, he pondered the words he would use to report his failure to His Majesty and his minister, William Pitt, one of the main architects of this grand operation. There was no doubt that all the blame would fall on him, but depending on how he presented things, he might be able to save face or at least minimize the consequences of his failure.

It's… It's not entirely my fault, is it? I was misinformed, that's it! I based my decisions on the observations of that damned Clerk! It's his fault! And besides, not all is lost, is it? We… We can still take that fort! Winter is still far off, and my army is still large!

His officers, also affected by the decisive defeat, were talking quietly among themselves, and Abercrombie could only imagine what they were saying.

Miserable lot! I'm sure they're plotting to make sure I'm the only one to fall! They… They're going to throw me under the wheels of the carriage!

Abercrombie was aware of his mistakes. He had been impulsive, seeking a quick victory when he could have started with a bombardment. He could have also tried to outflank the enemy.

Mathiew Clerk! Curse you! And curse you all who disobeyed my orders to cover yourselves in glory! It's because of you that we're in this mess!

His gaze fell on the Highlanders of the Black Watch, the only ones in this army who had truly distinguished themselves in this battle. They had been heroic, living up to their reputation. But even they were dragging their feet along the dusty path between the trees and impassable bushes.

They had lost half of their number, making this regiment the most affected by the defeat. They had lost many friends, all from the Campbell clan, and Major Duncan Campbell of Inverawe seemed on the verge of joining them. His arm had been severely wounded, to the point where the bone was visible, and the wound had turned black.

General Abercrombie had accidentally overheard a strange story about this man.

In the 1740s, during a rebellion in Scotland to restore a Stuart to the throne, Duncan Campbell of Inverawe had turned over to the authorities a man who had sought refuge in his home, for the fugitive had been a murderer—the murderer of Inverawe's cousin, no less. This man had reportedly told Campbell of Inverawe that he would see him again at Ticonderoga (Carillon) and had appeared to him in a dream, covered in blood, the night before the battle.

From what he had understood, Major Campbell of Inverawe had never heard of Ticonderoga before arriving in front of that fort.

It was very mysterious and disturbed not only the remains of that regiment but also the rest of the army. Everyone expected him to die within the next few hours.