The Little Angel

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The anger of the French was immense, but without the help of the Indigenous allies and coureurs de bois, it was nearly impossible to track the Mohawks in the woods. It would also have been extremely dangerous, as Montcalm's regular soldiers could only deploy their full strength on open terrain.

Entering those dense and unfamiliar forests would have been akin to offering their enemies a golden opportunity to deliver a fatal blow.

The Marquis de Montcalm had no choice but to abandon the idea of avenging the twenty-four men who had been savagely killed along the quarry trail. However, he decided, as was only natural, to increase the size of the escort for the wagons traveling to and from the quarry near Lake George.

He also alerted the Marshal de Richelieu, still as active to the east and south of the fort, as well as the colonial authorities of New France in Québec and Montréal.

Morale was low at Fort Edward, but life went on. They had seen many comrades fall and knew they would lose more before the end of this war.

They had to pull themselves together quickly, continue training, and work on fortifying Fort Edward to make it impenetrable.

Lieutenant François Boucher—Adam—was sent to the quarry once again. This time, he was accompanied by the young Captain Martin Morrel de Lusernes and his men. Together, they brought the escort to a total of fifty-four men.

They marched in two columns on either side of the wagons, silently observing the immense trees lining the trail. The wagons made a comforting sound as they rolled along the dirt road. One could also hear the soft patter of water droplets falling onto the vegetation.

The sky was uniformly gray all the way to the horizon, and there was no sign that the clouds would disperse anytime soon.

What worried the soldiers, however, was not the rain but what might be hiding in those woods. From the moment they left the fort, the French soldiers were on high alert.

The tension was palpable.

Ah… my head hurts from concentrating so much, Adam lamented inwardly, without taking his eyes off the trees, watching for the slightest movement.

All his senses were on edge, and his hand rested on his pistol, ready to draw and cock it.

He glanced furtively to his side and saw that young Martin was in the same state as him. He seemed so nervous that he had barely spoken a word since their departure.

"We're almost there," Adam said to him. "Stay vigilant until the end, but once we arrive, we should let the men rest."

Martin Morrel de Lusernes, his face pale, nodded weakly but remained silent.

Adam watched him out of the corner of his eye before turning his gaze back to the trail. They had passed the spot where their comrades had been massacred, and there was no longer any trace of the carnage. Even the bloodstains had been washed away by the rain.

Ah… the young man sighed silently as he looked at the escort, which resembled a funeral procession. The atmosphere is really grim, but what can we do? After what happened, it's hardly surprising.

The rain grew heavier, forming a fine curtain in front of them. The landscape became grayer, and the air felt cooler.

"Are you okay?" Adam asked. "What are you thinking about?"

"Hmm… I don't know. I was thinking about the attack, about our comrades."

Adam said nothing, but he could see on the young captain's face that he had been more deeply traumatized than he let on.

In his original time, Adam would never have imagined seeing what he had seen in recent months. All these deaths, all these trials, all this suffering—it was a lot for such a young man.

A battlefield really isn't a place for a child. Technically, we're the same age, but he has the body of a kid. He should be spending his time learning things and playing with kids his age. This is really a terrible era for children.

"You know, I didn't want to enlist in the King's army. It was my father who bought me a captain's commission. He wanted me to learn how to command men and see the world before joining him and my uncle in the family business."

"Would you say it helped you?"

"I suppose. I was pretty reserved before. When I became a captain… it wasn't easy. My lieutenant, Gaspard Lambert, took care of almost everything. Of course, I was the one paying the men and for the supplies, but he handled everything from troop management to recruitment."

Adam looked at his friend curiously. It was rare for him to share his thoughts and problems.

"When he died in Saxony," Martin continued, "I had to make an effort to step up. Thankfully, I got a lot of help. Captains Louis, Fontaine, and Gauthier, in particular—but it was mostly thanks to Captain Gilbert."

Adam nodded, knowing that Martin often went to Captain Gilbert for advice. On several occasions, they had both received private lessons at the same time, especially during the long winter nights when there was little to do but wait for the bad weather to pass.

"I think my father will be satisfied, but what would truly please him is for me to make a name for myself. That's very important for us nobles. It's how we make friends, secure good contracts, and obtain prestigious posts where we can accumulate more status. Did you know my uncle retired from the army with the rank of colonel? It allowed him to make many friends and secure a good marriage. I'll probably follow the same path eventually."

"Well, you're still young. You've got plenty of time to think about marriage."

"Do you think so? Before I enlisted, they were already planning my future wife. I was fourteen. Marriage will come quickly, probably as soon as the war ends, when I return to France."

"Seriously?! But you'll still get to choose your wife, won't you? I mean, you have a say in it!"

"Not really. I don't know how things work in the Tiers-Etat, but among the nobility, it's all about rank and fortune. If you have one or the other, you're a passable candidate. If you have both, you're ideal, and in that case, you'll get dozens of proposals."

"D-dozens?!"

"I come from a family of minor nobility, so it's not perfect, but my family is wealthy. I'll probably marry a girl of my father's rank with a solid fortune or someone of higher rank who has financial troubles. My parents will review the offers, compare them, and make a decision."

Martin wore a sad, resigned expression, as that was simply how things were.

"If I'm lucky, she'll be pretty, kind, and intelligent. Then, we'll learn to love each other. If not… it'll be complicated, and we'll have to learn to tolerate one another. Either way, I'll do my duty."

Adam felt a wave of pity wash over him. It was a far cry from how things were done in France—or more broadly, in the Western world—during his own time. His perspective on the nobility shifted slightly upon hearing his young friend.

That's so sad. Is it like this for all nobles? I bet it's even worse for kings. I'm glad I don't have that problem. If I'm going to get married, it'll be to a woman I choose. There's no other way.

He couldn't imagine his parents forcing a lifelong companion on him, chosen as though she were a piece of fruit at the market. Fortunately, times had changed.

I don't know what the future holds for him, but I really hope he gets to have a love marriage.

Adam's thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the front of the convoy.

"The quarry is in sight!"

Immediately, a wave of relief swept over the group.

Good! Everything turned out fine in the end!

As the soldier in the lead announced, the quarry was indeed close. It lay like a scar at the base of weathered mountains shaped by millennia of harsh climates. Several dozen ancient trees had been felled, and a pit had been dug to extract the much-needed stone for the French.

For now, the pit was shallow. They had only scratched the surface and managed to haul away a few tons of stone through sheer effort.

If they had more resources—both human and technological—they could have reshaped the entire geography of the area.

Unconsciously, the convoy quickened its pace. Everyone was eager to arrive and rest.

Shhhh! Tcack!

"Huh?"

An arrow shot out from the trees, piercing the neck of the soldier ahead of Adam. The man collapsed, his head striking a cart violently. A wheel screeched as it rolled over his skull, producing a chilling sound that froze Adam to his core.

"ATTENTION! We're under attack! Gather up!"

Several arrows rained down on the column from the trees, and some men didn't have time to react. The projectiles sliced silently through the air.

Adam quickly drew his pistol and fired at a painted-faced Indian who had just emerged.

Bang!

A thick white cloud formed before him, and the Indian collapsed with a gruesome wound to his chest, where a large black tattoo stretched across half his torso and his entire left arm.

"Quick! Everyone gather here! Form a line!"

Gunfire erupted all around Adam. Shouts echoed through the woods as a growing number of Indians, armed to the teeth, emerged with hatred etched into their faces.

Equipped with bows, long knives, spears, muskets, and tomahawks, they charged the French soldiers with the clear intent to kill them all.

Adam barely had time to notice an arrow speeding toward him before his body reacted on instinct. Pivoting slightly, he saw the projectile sail past him and embed itself in the cart behind him. Had he been slower, he would have been killed or severely injured.

If he had the chance to examine the arrow, he would see it firmly lodged in the cart's sturdy wood. It was as long as an arm, adorned with black-and-white feathers.

An Indian, about 1m70 tall with a face smeared in ash, charged straight at him like a bull, wielding a long knife.

Using all his close-combat skills, Adam struck the Mohawk warrior's throat with full force, causing the man to stagger back a few steps before collapsing. His eyes were wide, and he gasped for air.

Instinctively, the man curled into a protective posture.

Without hesitation or regret, Adam drew his sword and drove its tip through the man's chest. His opponent, defenseless and struggling to breathe, couldn't resist.

He saw the fear in the warrior's eyes as the blade sank deeper into his body. Warm blood began to pour from the wound, spilling over his brown skin.

With a sharp motion, Adam withdrew his bloodied blade. His mind was so clear that it surprised him. There was no confusion, no fear, no tension, and no guilt. There was only him, his comrades, and his enemies.

"F-François!"

Adam spun around to see Martin struggling with another Mohawk—taller and stronger than him. The warrior, his face obscured by long black hair, was straddling Martin and attempting to drive a knife into his throat.

Martin was doing everything in his power to hold him off.

They were locked in place, neither able to gain the upper hand. The Indian looked as young as Martin—perhaps even younger.

"Help! I… I can't hold on!"

The tip of the knife held by the young Indian was so close to Martin's throat that he could die at any moment.

His arms trembled, and tears streamed down Martin's face as he envisioned his death, so far from home and family.

"Q-quick!"

Adam rushed to his friend and tackled the Indian as if it were a rugby match. Instantly, the blade flew from the boy's hand and landed a few feet away.

The young lieutenant pinned the child down with his full weight. Dazed and unable to move, the boy stared up with wild, gleaming black eyes like a starving beast.

When Adam straightened, he saw the boy's delicate features. He really was just a child. His face was slightly round, his nose small and upturned, and his mouth tiny.

Without hesitation, Adam delivered a hard punch to the child's face, knocking him unconscious.

"Th-thank you! You saved my life!"

"It's what I'm here for! Are you alright?!"

"Y-yes, thanks to you!"

Adam felt a wave of relief. He had feared for his young friend's safety. He didn't want to attend his funeral.

"Is he dead?" the captain asked, staring at the boy who had nearly killed him.

"No, just K.O. for now."

"Chaos? You mean unconscious?"

"That's it. Now's not the time to worry about him. Let's deal with the others."

"Yes!"

Adam and Martin lunged at two nearby Indians, taking them down with a sword and a pistol, respectively.

The attack was brief but ferociously violent. Once again, the French mourned the loss of several comrades. But this time, there were survivors.

When the Indians retreated into the woods, barely twenty French soldiers were left standing.

For the Mohawks, the losses had also been heavy, though they had enjoyed a clear advantage at the start of the fight. Fourteen of their warriors lay in the mud, made slick by the ongoing rain. Among them was the unconscious child.

"We're taking him with us to the quarry," Adam said in an oddly cold voice, staring at the boy's peaceful face as if he were simply asleep after a hard day's work. "We'll tie him up and bring him back to Fort Edward."

"Hmm. Should we send a messenger to Fort Edward to warn them about the attack?" asked Martin Morrel de Lusernes, still shaken as his trembling hands revealed.

"We should, but… I'm afraid it's too dangerous. They might linger nearby and keep watching us. I suggest we head to the quarry, load the carts, and send a rider. Monsieur de Montcalm will tell us what to do. He'll likely send reinforcements."

Martin nodded in agreement but kept his brows furrowed, his eyes fixed on the small Indian who had tried to slit his throat.

Little bastard, Adam thought, watching the boy breathe softly. Looks like a little angel. Who'd believe this son of a bitch tried to kill us?

He grimaced and spat on the ground with contempt. His heart pounded furiously in his chest. If the boy woke up now, Adam was sure he'd punch him in the face again—and if he tried anything, the death toll could very well rise by one in an instant.

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The gunshots, partially muffled by the rain, had still been loud enough to alert the French at the quarry. They sent a group out, who quickly met the remnants of the convoy.

The carts, empty when they had left Fort Edward, now carried many bodies.

Adam had ordered his comrades' bodies to be loaded, but they had also taken those of their enemies. It was, in a way, a form of collateral.

If these Indians were anything like Europeans, they would be furious not to recover their warriors' remains. Surely, they would attack with full force.

Perhaps they could even be provoked further and driven into a mistake if they learned that the wrong rites had been performed on their dead.

Adam knew nothing about Mohawk culture. They might bury their dead, or they might cremate them.

But what would happen if they discovered their warriors' bodies had been desecrated? According to Adam, there was no need to go that far. It was enough to simply disregard their customs.

That's what he explained to Colonel de Bréhant, who arrived at the quarry around six in the evening with nearly three hundred men.

"I see," the colonel said, looking impressed. "They'll certainly be furious. But it also means we won't be able to use this quarry in peace until they understand that these lands belong not to them, but to the King of France."

"Oh. I… I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. You can't think of everything. Besides, a direct confrontation is better for us. If we keep this up, it could drag on until the first snows. This is better."

His gaze fell on the captured child, who had woken up by now and tried to escape four or five times already.

"More than the bodies of their warriors, my intuition tells me this boy will be the most important piece in the coming battle. They'll likely do everything they can to save him. We'll keep him as a hostage, use him to provoke our enemies, or negotiate peace. We'll decide when the time comes."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Good work, lieutenant. Keep it up."

With that, the colonel turned and left without sparing another glance at the wild child with hateful eyes.