Fort Edward

In the heat of the afternoon, even though it was almost August, the temperature at Fort Edward barely reached twenty degrees Celsius. As soon as the sun began to set, the temperatures quickly dropped. This feeling of cold was heightened by a constant cool breeze from the north and large gray clouds sweeping across the sky.

The fort was as bustling as in previous days, which was natural given the number of soldiers present. However, their numbers had become more manageable over the last few days, since half of them had been sent to Fort Miller, a bit further south along the Hudson River. This was to avoid overburdening the fort and depleting the food supplies.

Moving that many soldiers wasn't too risky, as it only took half a day's march to cover the distance between the two forts—almost double the distance from Fort Edward to the ruins of Fort William Henry.

This way, the sentinels would have enough time to alert both Fort Edward and Fort Miller, and the soldiers could easily reinforce either fort before any enemy arrived.

Of the six thousand men at Fort Edward, nearly five hundred were wounded, with some in no condition to be moved. A few were still fighting for their lives, despite the days that had passed. The rest of the injured had been sent to Fort Miller for treatment.

Morale was low, but gradually the shock of the defeat at Fort Carillon was wearing off, being replaced by anger. However, according to John Bradstreet, it would take time before they could organize a new expedition. He himself wasn't fully recovered from the wound to his arm. The bullet had been removed, and his arm sewn back together, but it still caused him pain. In such a state, it would be difficult for him to wield a pistol, let alone a sword.

John had a clear idea of their next target, but discussing it now would be premature. No one would listen, let alone follow him.

I think they'll be ready to listen to me by early August. Colonel Haviland and Gage will likely be in favor. For now, we need to regain our strength!

The fort he wanted to attack was a secondary target due to its location and its role in the operation of New France. Its name was Fort Frontenac. It was located over two hundred kilometers west of Fort Edward and Lake George, along the Saint Lawrence River, on the shores of the impressive Lake Ontario.

It will be an easy victory, very different from Fort Carillon, he thought, taking a deep breath of the evening air.

If they managed to capture this fort, the British army could sever the connection between New France and Louisiana, making conquest easier. Furthermore, it was lightly defended. Taking it would require no more than a few days and two to three thousand men—not to attack it head-on as General Abercrombie had attempted at Fort Carillon, but to encircle it.

We need a victory, even a small one, to restore this army's spirit. In these conditions, we can't do anything, despite our numerical superiority.

As he headed toward the northernmost bastion to inspect their defenses, John came across a man he didn't want to see, even from a distance. It was the young Captain Robert Rogers.

Rogers had formed the special ranger company, commonly known here as Rogers' Rangers. He was a 27-year-old man with a boyish face, of average height, with red lips as delicate as a woman's and beautiful blue eyes. But one must not be deceived—this man was no simpleton.

Bastard! What's he doing here?

John clenched his teeth and avoided Rogers' piercing gaze, which reminded him of a large lizard's.

This man cared little for rules and propriety. Despite the authority the army had granted him, particularly to enlist and train his men, to John Bradstreet he was nothing more than a mercenary. If he weren't paid by the Crown, John would have treated him as a bandit and had him hanged.

"Good evening, friend! Lovely evening, isn't it?"

Damn you, don't act like we're close!

His ever-present smile exasperated John to no end, giving him the impression that Rogers was mocking him and the regular army. John also had the distinct impression that Rogers had no respect for officers.

The more Rogers smiled, the more John wanted to throw him off a wall or drown him in the river. Naturally, John didn't respond and continued on his way as if nothing had happened.

Rogers didn't take offense and, still smiling, headed back to what he considered HIS island. That's where his men lived and trained.

Recognizing them wasn't difficult: they were the only ones wearing green uniforms. Their equipment was military-grade, as were their drills. They went beyond regular training, honing their skills to track and kill targets in any terrain.

Like the Native Americans, they specialized in hit-and-run attacks. They would locate a target—say, a French village—strike, burn everything, and disappear. They were very skilled at this, John had to admit, and he was greatly relieved the French didn't have someone like Rogers to make their lives miserable.

Enough! It's not worth thinking about anymore!

John greeted the guards, encouraging them to keep up their good work despite their low spirits, and lingered at the bastion facing the road to Lake George. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything was silent and peaceful.

Are we really in summer? Damn, it feels more like autumn is coming!

His gaze shifted to the surroundings of the fort. Beyond the cleared area dotted with a few watchtowers, the forest stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a sea of trees. The colors varied slightly, as did the species and heights, but the fact that it was a hostile environment remained unchanged.

An army wishing to move efficiently through the region had to use the road—a simple path cutting through the trees.

These trees, towering like the legs of ancient giants, covered everything, making the Hudson River seem like an old scar in the landscape that might otherwise be beautiful. The river had carved the land with the precision of a sword slash. In places, the high hills seemed to have been sliced in two.

Nothing to report today either. Good. If the French could stay in their corner for a month—no, two—that would be perfect. It would give us time to burn Fort Frontenac to the ground and come back.

"Lieutenant Colonel Bradstreet, what are you doing here?"

Snapped from his thoughts, the man turned around to see someone a little younger than him by only a few years but with a higher rank: Colonel. He had a kind face full of dignity, with deep eyes and thin lips. Unlike Robert Rogers, his face inspired trust.

"Colonel Haviland, I didn't hear you approach."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"No problem. I was just doing a round of the ramparts, greeting the guards. Eventually, I got lost observing the scenery."

The colonel smiled and approached, crossing his arms over his chest to keep warm.

"That sunset is truly beautiful. And so is the landscape. Are you from England, by any chance?" asked Colonel Haviland.

"Not at all. Nova Scotia. A small fishing port named Annapolis Royal."

"Sorry, I don't know it," admitted the colonel, shaking his head.

"Don't be. Honestly, I would've been surprised if you had. It's a really small village."

"And yet here you are, with the rank of lieutenant colonel. That's remarkable."

"Thank you, though I could have risen higher. Forgive me, I didn't mean to complain about such small things when our situation is so difficult. Pretend I didn't say anything."

An awkward silence settled between the two officers, standing still before the beauty of the landscape. The colors in the sky were so vivid they could have inspired painters worldwide.

"And you?" Bradstreet finally asked, realizing he hadn't posed the question to Colonel Haviland. "Where are you from?"

"Ireland. I joined the army at twenty-one, but it feels like yesterday."

"Oh? Me too! Do you miss it? Ireland, I mean."

"With its violent winter storms, frequent showers, ear-piercing music, ridiculous legends, and awful food? Oh, yes."

The two men smiled, and as the atmosphere between them started to feel strange, they parted ways. Soon, it would get cold.

***

Adam shivered in the darkness, rubbing his hands vigorously while trying to stop his teeth from chattering. He wasn't sure if it was the cold that came with the nightfall or the fear of the impending battle.

They were all gathered in an endless line at the edge of the forest, waiting for the order to attack.

There wasn't a single lantern to light their way. Luckily, the moon was still visible in the partially clouded starry sky. Even though only a quarter of the moon was showing, it gave off enough light to reveal the threatening silhouette of Fort Edward and the watchtowers that surrounded it.

They were quite simple, but each could be considered a small fortress. Underestimating them could lead to the deaths of many of their own.

Good, it must be past midnight. So, it's the 28th of July. One year. It's been a year since I've been stuck in this damn era.

He wasn't saddened by the passing of time anymore, but resigned. Pitying himself hadn't helped, and it wouldn't help him that night either.

Come on! You've been through this before! Everything will be fine!

A man approached in the darkness. He recognized him late, realizing he was one of Colonel de Bréhant's men. His face was long and gaunt, like someone just rescued from a deserted island.

"The assault is about to begin," the man said calmly. "No gunfire until we reach the fort."

"Understood."

"Your men will take care of that tower, as agreed."

Adam's throat tightened, and he nodded silently. Fortunately, in the night, no one could see him trembling.

Yes, everything will be fine. We're well-prepared, he thought, watching out of the corner of his eye as his men approached with ladders.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Richelieu's army began to move.

"Forward," Adam ordered, taking the first step out of the forest.

Tjenopitoqsit and his Indian comrades went ahead and soon reached the watchtower. They quickly located the few half-asleep sentries.

"Hey, Andrew, you got your deck of cards? (in English)

"You want to play another game? I'm gonna humiliate you again, you know?"

"Doesn't matter. As long as it keeps me busy. Huh?"

"What?"

"Hmm, nothing. Must be the wind."

"Behind y—"

In an instant, both men fell, their skulls split open and their throats cut, without making a sound. When Adam finally arrived, their warm blood was silently flowing from their wounds, staining their fine uniforms.

Similar scenes played out all around Fort Edward, and also at Royal Blockhouse, on the other side of the Hudson River. With disconcerting agility, the Indians climbed the palisades, even though ladders had been prepared, and eliminated the sentries one by one until only those inside the buildings remained.

They offered no more resistance than the sentries, and when the first gunshot finally echoed through the silence of the night, the French soldiers, militiamen, woodsmen, and Indians were already climbing the walls of Fort Edward.

***

John Bradstreet was jolted awake by the sound of a gunshot, but groggy from sleep, he doubted whether it was real. A second and third explosion fully roused him, and shortly after, he heard what he immediately recognized as cannon fire.

"We're under attack!"

"Damn it! Quick!"

"To arms! Everyone up!"

"The French! The French are attacking us!"

Outside, it was pitch dark, and men were running in all directions. Bradstreet, swallowed up in the throng of soldiers at the center of the fort, was wearing only his scarlet jacket trimmed with gold, which he hadn't bothered to button up. In his right hand, he held his sword, searching for the enemy.

"They're on the walls! Look out!"

At that very moment, the French soldiers who had managed to set foot on the ramparts opened fire on them all at once.

Unable to organize, unable to take position, the English began falling under the enemy's bullets.

"Form a square! Form a square!" Haviland shouted from about a dozen meters away.

By the time they managed to organize, more enemies had climbed the palisade using wooden ladders. Meanwhile, the sound of cannon fire echoed continuously, but it was coming from outside the fort.

Where is it coming from?! Where are they firing from?!

Although the French cannons could clearly be heard roaring, there was no damage to the fort itself. It was as if they were missing all their targets or firing blanks.

No, that's not it. They aren't aiming for the fort! But what are they aiming for?!

"Colonel Haviland! Colonel Haviland!" shouted a man who had barely been seen since they arrived at Fort Edward.

"I'm here, General!" the officer called back to Abercrombie, who, like the others, had been roused from sleep.

"I'm coming!"

The stout man laboriously pushed his way through the mass of soldiers, who were too tightly packed to organize in such a small space. Bradstreet did the same to reach the two men.

"Sir, we need to take back control of the walls! The longer we delay, the greater the danger we're in!"

"I know! But they're holding the stairs! We can't get through!"

A bullet whistled past Haviland's ear and struck the fat general in the left eye, killing him instantly as he collapsed backward.

"The general's dead! The general's dead!"

"Don't panic! Form a square, for Christ's sake, or we'll all die here!"

"Colonel! I'll try to force my way to the west staircase! With me!"

John Bradstreet gathered a few men and led an effective assault on the west side of the fort, where there were fewer enemies. Once a path was cleared, he began to organize a counterattack.

Then the French cannons roared once more. This time, he could see what their target was.

They... they're aiming for the bridge connecting us to Rogers Island! Bastards!

The cannon shots found their mark, and the bridge was split in two, completely preventing the men on the island from reinforcing the besieged fort.

Damn it! We're on our own now!