Prisoners Of War

Thank you Daoistssr6xe, Donut_Halo, Mium, ThisguyAEl, mohamed_sadiq, George_Bush_2910 and TheHumble_Dogge.

Even though I'm really busy with work, I will do my best to regularly upload new chapters. I have almost no free time, but I use what little I have to work on this project.

Thank you for your understanding!

Enjoy!

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Adam cast a glance at the long pile of corpses lining the road to Albany, showing nothing more than a slight grimace. The sight was truly gruesome, with countless mutilated and blood-covered bodies. He could even see a few stunned faces and glazed eyes, already being swarmed by large flies.

He had seen too much death over the past year to feel anything more than simple pity and a touch of sadness at such a waste of life. This time, however, the feeling was a bit stronger, as it was the first time he had witnessed a nearly one-sided battle. It had been a genuine slaughter, especially in areas where a few cannons had been positioned.

Seeing the bodies piled up, Adam could really grasp what they had done, but it was war. People died, often without achieving anything.

Here, that was truly the case—they came and died. That was all.

What a waste, really. That's why we undergo rigorous training and don't play at being heroes.

During the battle, he had positioned himself with several other companies among the trees, waiting for the enemy to arrive—or rather, to charge blindly without seeing anything beyond the bait dangled in front of them at the village of Schaghticoke.

Everything had gone according to the marshal duke's plan.

For hours, they looted the bodies, which was far less amusing than in video games. Adam took part, because not doing so meant leaving any valuables for others to find. Part of how armies survived was through such spoils, given that pay was truly paltry.

In a year, he hadn't become rich, but he had managed to put a bit of money aside. This time, though, the spoils were very slim.

Hopefully, we can fill our pockets in Albany, Adam thought as he watched the numerous prisoners—mostly militiamen—being taken to Fort Edward.

Soon, they would join the other prisoners captured between Fort Miller and that village he didn't know the name of, now silently burning. They'd also join the villagers who, contrary to appearances, had not been massacred.

That's a lot of prisoners of war, isn't it? What's going to happen to all these people? Surely they're not going to become slaves, are they?

The somber thought furrowed his brow. Despite experiencing the horrors of war since arriving in this time period, he remained, at heart, a person of the twenty-first century. Naturally, he abhorred such cruel and dehumanizing practices.

If that's the case, I couldn't just stand by and do nothing. Yes, I'd fight to ensure they were treated humanely! No one deserves to be treated like an animal or, worse, as an object. But if I'm the only one… Ah, no use thinking about it now. Maybe nothing will happen?

Adam still had much to learn about this world and era.

For centuries, rules had been established regarding the conduct of war, though they were less strict than in his own time. One of the main principles concerned the treatment of prisoners. Granting the honors of war was an act of both generosity and respect. But even in a century where reason was increasingly valued among individuals and communities, commanders were not required to take prisoners.

The main reason was that prisoners represented a heavy responsibility for the victorious commander, who had to escort them to the nearest fort or allied town—a difficult task when troops were scarce, as was currently the case. Then came the need to house, monitor, potentially treat, and, most challenging of all, feed them.

The value of capturing as many officers and soldiers as possible was that they could be ransomed or exchanged for one's own soldiers held by the enemy. Thus, treating prisoners well was in one's best interest, a fact he understood well.

A commander who didn't want to be burdened with prisoners had two options: the first, as had been done at Fort William Henry (albeit poorly), was to release the defeated soldiers. They could then return home, provided they swore an oath not to take up arms for a negotiable period. The second option was to massacre those who couldn't be taken along. Though seen in the past, such actions were thankfully rarer in these progressive times.

For these civilians, the most likely fate was deportation to prevent their return to the British colonies, along with forced labor in extended captivity. Eventually, they might be fully integrated into New France as subjects of His Majesty Louis XV.

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While these prisoners were taken north, the duke's army began its march southward, unhurried, along the road to Albany.

Naturally, the townspeople had already been informed of Stamoise's defeat and the loss of their volunteers. Although the duke's army moved slowly, it reached the city in a day, shocking everyone. Their surprise doubled upon seeing how methodically the columns of men positioned themselves around the town.

Those living beyond the city walls, especially to the north along the road to Fort Edward, hastily sought shelter. Once the last of them entered through the northern gate, it was closed.

The old marshal, his face calm and devoid of emotion, let them be and quietly formed his men into position, visibly setting up his few cannons.

***

At the top of a small wooden tower near the gate leading to Fort Edward, Mayor Van Schaick was so pale he looked as if his soul had left him. It was clear to all that he leaned against the palisade's parapet to keep from collapsing. Yet, what he was thinking remained unreadable. Probably, his mind lingered on his eldest son, Goosen, who had departed with the Albany volunteers alongside Brigadier General Stamoise. Sadly, he had not yet returned, but hope was not yet entirely lost.

Mayor Van Schaick's eyes were wide open and fixed, unable to look away from the soldiers vastly outnumbering them, each step raising clouds of ochre dust. Arming the women and children would make no difference.

Drums and flutes resonated across the plain, flags fluttering proudly in the wind, while at home, everyone remained silent. Bayonets and gilded buttons glinted in the August sun. He then saw a few Frenchmen advance under a white flag—not to be confused with their kingdom's colors.

They… want to negotiate?

The mayor swallowed and looked at the men around him. Some, though ill, had gathered here to witness the enemy army with their own eyes.

Only a handful of soldiers, still traumatized by the Schaghicoke massacre, remained in the town. It was barely enough to operate two or three cannons.

They were alone, to say the least.

No illusions here. They want our complete, unconditional surrender. This is not a negotiation; it's a summons.

Trembling, the mayor descended the few wooden steps to the walkway, trying to hide his shaking hands as best he could.

Slowly, he looked at the townspeople under his care, mainly women whose husbands had departed for Fort Carillon or to face the French with Stamoise, but had not returned.

His heart heavy, he lacked the strength to lie and reassure them that everything would be fine. He nodded to the men guarding the gate, and without a word, he took one step, then another, beyond the town.

Sybrant Van Schaick couldn't help but look back.

All that remained of Albany's people seemed to have gathered here.

His gaze met that of his wife, Alida, her eyes red from weeping. She had forbidden their children to come, yet he found them among the crowd. His second child, Ryckje, held tightly to Maria, their youngest daughter still alive.

She was only ten and wept, perceptive enough to understand that something terrible had happened and that perhaps something worse was yet to come.

My children, if I do not return, please, be strong and take care of your mother. Ryckje, if… if your brother doesn't come back, you'll have to help your mother and take charge at home. I trust you.

He went forward alone.

Sybrant Van Schaick felt a ball of fear in his stomach and throat, making it impossible to focus. Mechanically, he advanced between the houses lining the road and stopped a safe distance from the French army's representatives.

They were three, each wearing a breastplate over splendid uniforms adorned with golden embroidery and colorful ribbons.

"G-gentlemen, I-I am the mayor of Albany. D-do you speak English?" he stammered, his forehead beaded with sweat, despite feeling chilled.

"I speak it well enough," the eldest of the three replied calmly. "I am the Duke of Richelieu, Marshal of France and loyal servant of His Majesty King Louis the Fifteenth. Here with me are the Marquis de Montcalm and the Marquis de Bréhant."

The man flinched upon hearing the second name. He knew nothing of the marshal or the Marquis de Bréhant, but the infamous name of Montcalm—the butcher of Fort William Henry—was well-known to him.

"I-I suppose you crossed paths with Brigadier General Stamoise and the militia that accompanied him."

"Yes, sir. They were defeated, as you must have guessed."

The mayor fell silent, clenching and unclenching his fists as if holding something invisible. His eyes, like his body, which felt increasingly cold, trembled.

"D-do you… know how many died?" he asked, closing his eyes, trying to steady his heartbeat and calm his breathing.

"We counted about seven hundred bodies."

"My God…" sighed the large man, on the verge of tears for his missing son. "I-I see. May they all rest in peace. Their deaths weigh on my conscience, as I was the one who convinced them to take up arms and meet you. A-are there… many survivors? D-do you have a list of prisoners?"

"Nearly three hundred. They will be well treated. As for the list, none has been made yet. Are you missing a loved one, sir?"

The marshal's voice seemed full of empathy, yet the deeply shaken mayor doubted its sincerity. He nevertheless answered truthfully.

"My eldest son. He is only twenty-one, almost twenty-two."

"There were indeed many young casualties. It is sad, but that is the way of things," the marshal replied, shaking his head before looking at Albany's walls. "Are you willing to withstand a siege? If so, I fear much blood will be shed in the coming days. Our cannons are in position."

Of course, Mayor Van Schaick had seen them. All placed in one spot, there was no doubt that targeting a specific part of the wall would quickly create a breach.

"Soldiers pass through Albany but never stay long," sighed Sybrant Van Schaick. "Its garrison is small. Most soldiers stationed here in recent weeks have been killed or are in retreat after your victories in the north. The rest, you have fought and decimated. Only women, old men, children, and the sick remain here. We cannot withstand a siege. I… I am prepared to surrender the city… but not at any price."

The marshal and the Marquis de Bréhant showed little reaction, though the Marquis de Montcalm raised an eyebrow, surprised that in his view, this town was in no position to negotiate. His thoughts were interrupted by the marshal.

"What are your terms?"

"That no harm come to the people of Albany and nearby villages; that our homes not be destroyed, damaged, or occupied; and that our belongings be safe from plunder."

"Hmm… I might accept your terms, though in reality, I don't intend to keep this town. It can't be defended, neither by you nor by me, so I don't plan on staying."

"What? What are you going to do, then?"

"I will leave the town intact, as you request, placing you all under my protection by making the entire population of Albany our prisoners. You may bring along your personal belongings so they will be protected too."

"Y-you want to…" Sybrant Van Schaick's eyes widened, staring at the French commander. Seeing that he wasn't joking, he lowered his gaze.

"It's… it's your right. Is there truly no way for us to rally at Kingston?"

"No, I regret to say, that isn't in our interests. We will escort you to New France, where you'll be dispersed between Montreal, Trois-Rivières, Quebec, and Louisbourg. Nevertheless, I give you my word of honor that you will not be mistreated or separated from your loved ones. We will make sure your families remain together. Do you accept these terms?"

"I… I must discuss this with the people. Please, give me a bit of time."

"Very well. You have one hour. If you do not return to convey your agreement, I will consider it a refusal and assume you prefer a siege. Then, we will commence bombardment."

Terrified by the threat, the man quickly returned inside the town and explained the proposal multiple times. Death on one hand, refusing the French terms and enduring a siege with so few soldiers; or deportation on the other.

Most Albany residents identified as Dutch colonists. Their houses and names bore witness to their origins, which were also the origins of this town, which, like New York, had not always been English.

These residents, along with others weary of living in a town constantly disturbed by passing soldiers, were prepared to accept the offer. However, others argued that their men, brothers, cousins, and sons had left to face the French to prevent just such a fate, and surrendering now would betray them.

Besides, it wasn't impossible that an officer had managed to gather forces after the defeat of Major General Abercrombie's army—enough to push the French back. Perhaps if they held out just a few more days, reinforcements might come from Kingston.

Finally, as the last quarter-hour approached, it was when the French artillery began moving in agitation outside the town that they decided to open the gates to the enemy.

***

The population was allowed to gather their belongings, knowing they'd have to transport them to their destination. A unit was placed at each gate to prevent any attempts at escape. Meanwhile, the rest of the army busied itself with seizing resources from the town—of which there were plenty!

Because expeditions northward started here, Albany had no shortage of grain, forage, or ammunition. The trickiest task was getting down the cannons from Fort Frederick, perched atop a high mound overlooking the town.

The operation was complex and perilous, given there were around twenty cannons.

The men under Adam's command—half the maximum strength for a company in the New World, about fifty men—had to lower a massive thirty-two-pounder cannon. A heavy caliber, the likes of which were reserved for forts and the lower batteries on English ships. In France, cannons rarely exceeded thirty-six-pounders.

The cannon alone weighed more than two and a half tons, not counting the carriage it was mounted on. With no time to construct a crane atop the fort to lower it safely, they looped ropes under the cannon and hoisted it by sheer manpower.

The process was particularly hazardous on the stairs, but thankfully, there were no incidents.

Once at the bottom, the company loaded the cannon onto an ox-drawn cart before retrieving the carriage—a reinforced wooden platform on small iron-rimmed wheels. Moving it was no easy task, given it weighed over seven hundred kilograms!

"Lieutenant, the cart won't support the carriage's weight!"

"Then we'll load only the cannon," Adam replied tersely, "and move the carriage manually!"

"But, sir, it's too heavy!"

"Use your head, Corporal! There are wheels, aren't there? So use them to roll it. We just need to reach the river! We'll load both onto rafts!"

It was madness, but what else could they do? A cannon like this wasn't designed for long-distance transport. Fortunately, there was a river! It would spare them many troubles.

With the utmost care, they loaded the cart, praying the wheels and axle wouldn't break. Otherwise, they'd have to haul the cannon across town as they'd done to get it down from the bastion.

Through everyone's efforts, the loading succeeded.

One man climbed into the driver's seat and prodded the ox with a branch to get it moving. Behind the cart, they rolled the cannon's carriage, which groaned and clanked each time a wheel struck a stone or dipped into a pothole.

The streets were congested and bustling. On either side, other carts were loaded—often beyond reason—to leave nothing for the enemy. Soon, they reached the river, where large rafts made from nearby trees awaited.

Soldiers were already busy loading them, and Adam got a sense of the challenge of the operation.

Damn, we're going to a lot of trouble for just a few cannons. I hope none of them end up in the water!

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These rafts, built in haste, could support the weight of these massive cannons. Some carts hadn't survived the short journey from the fort to the river, collapsing under the weight of their load. These cannons had to be moved another way.

Once the cannons and carriages were aboard the rafts, they were towed by beasts along the banks. The soldiers were also needed to ensure the weight didn't slow them down too much.

The marshal's troops thus never strayed far from the river. Between two columns of soldiers were the people of Albany and nearby villages. Everyone looked downcast, eyes red.

In some places, the river was too turbulent to leave the cannons on the rafts, so they were brought ashore until the obstacles were cleared.

Finally, the troops arrived at Fort Edward, where they could finally rest. Along the way, they had not encountered a single enemy, to their great relief.

Unfortunately for some, the task wasn't over, as they now had to escort the prisoners to Montreal. Fortunately, Adam and his men were spared and allowed a breather. Thus, he found himself under the command of the Marquis de Montcalm, who also had to stay at Fort Edward to strengthen the fort and defend it if necessary while the marshal returned to the St. Lawrence Valley.

Sadly, Adam was once more separated from his friends. Only Louis found solace, as Anne-Sophie was no longer at Fort Edward. He clung to the slim hope of seeing her again, even for a few seconds, before she departed for Europe.