Change

Hello everyone! Here is a new chapter!

It's quite long, and I hesitated to split it into two parts, but it didn't seem necessary, so I chose to leave it as it is.

Enjoy and thank you Hydrogen8, Mium, TheHumble_Dogge, Jon_Laed, ThisguyAEl, Porthos10, DaoistDQ8t5A, Pimbadeiro and nameyelus for the support!

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The nighttime attack on Fort Edward came at a high cost for both the French and the Iroquois. One-third of the Mohawks, a total of 122 brave warriors, lost their lives in less than an hour.

For the French, the toll was just as heavy, with 145 experienced soldiers killed.

A quarter of these losses occurred on the fort's southern side. The company previously named after its former commander, Armand Gilbert, no longer existed.

It had suffered too many casualties to be reformed in a short time.

After a brief inquiry, Adam and the other survivors were reassigned to Albert Fontaine's company, which now had a full complement of soldiers.

Fortunately, little attention was given to what had happened in the storehouse that night.

According to the official report, Lieutenant François Boucher and his company had gone to the southern wall to monitor the rampart and guard a prisoner. Despite their heroic efforts, the prisoner had been freed by Indians allied with the British and escaped over the southern rampart after massacring the soldiers stationed there by Lieutenant Boucher.

The report further stated that Lieutenant François Boucher had done everything in his power to hold off the Indians until reinforcements arrived but had ultimately been forced to release the prisoner. Luckily, the Indians, having achieved their goal, supposedly fled in such haste that they spared the lieutenant, leaving him unharmed.

Even Adam, who had sought to hide the truth, found the report flimsy. Yet neither the commander nor the colonel pursued the matter further.

Adam assumed these officers were too preoccupied with managing their losses to delve into such a minor detail.

"What are you thinking about, François?"

"Ah, nothing," Adam replied, noticing Albert Fontaine watching him with a hint of concern.

"After what happened last night, I doubt you're thinking about nothing. No one will judge you, you know. Losing your company is, unfortunately, something that happens often. I've seen more than one captain turn to alcohol because of the guilt."

"It's… not that."

"Thinking about the men you lost is entirely natural, François. But you did nothing wrong. You made decisions and did your best to protect the south of the fort while we were engaged in the north. You're not responsible for what happened."

He doesn't listen. Of course, I'm sad for my men, but that's not what I'm thinking about.

In truth, Adam couldn't stop thinking about the child and how he had used him as a human shield. He saw himself as a monster, disgusted by what he had done—and nearly done.

"Ah…" Albert Fontaine sighed as he looked up at the gray sky and the torrential rain pouring over the region. "It's really sad that the company trained by Armand Gilbert had to be disbanded, but it's only temporary. I'm sure you'll soon be able to recruit and train your own soldiers."

"Well, maybe it's for the best. Financially, I was running short. It was hard paying that many salaries."

"Haha, yes, especially when you're stuck in a fort and can't plunder the enemy."

"I heard we'll soon be leaving to join the Duke of Richelieu at Fort Carillon, heading to Louisbourg. Maybe we'll… I don't know, be able to do something and earn some money."

"Hmm, for now, it's complicated. As long as we're stuck here, we can't do much."

Adam and Albert looked toward the faint lights of the main British camp, barely visible through the downpour. The rain fell so heavily it felt as if God had decided to drown the world, tired of watching men slaughter each other for centuries.

The rain smothered the lights, muffled the sounds, and washed away the smells. It was as if Adam and Captain Fontaine were the only two people left in the world.

The water flowed over the ground, which could no longer absorb it, and spilled into the river, swollen and overflowing in several places.

"Well, I'm heading back to get dry," the captain said, stifling a yawn. "There probably won't be an attack tonight. The Iroquois have lost so many of their own they likely won't try again."

"I think so too. The English will probably stay in their camp as well."

"Good luck tonight. Try not to catch a cold."

"As if I could. What terrible weather. Good night, Albert."

The man, partially hidden under a long brown cloak, left the royal bastion, leaving Lieutenant Boucher alone.

Although he had been integrated into Fontaine's company and retained his rank of lieutenant, it was made clear that his responsibilities would be minimal. Albert Fontaine already had a lieutenant and two sergeants.

Thus, despite his rank, Adam held the responsibilities of a sergeant, and his two surviving sergeants, who had luckily made it through the previous night's assault, took on the role of corporals.

This demotion, thankfully, was only temporary.

As Albert and before him both Bréhant and Montcalm had said, Adam would likely have the chance to reform his company when things calmed down. However, he needed to be patient, as this would probably only happen during the winter, when combat would no longer be possible.

The fact that these redcoats had launched an attack so late in the season was a risky gamble in itself. This dreadful weather was proof of that.

I'm glad to be dry. The English must regret coming here to wade through mud.

***

At the same time, in a spacious tent at the center of the British camp, a heated argument was taking place between the Mohawk chief, Akwiratheka, and Brigadier General John Forbes. Their powerful voices could be heard from the camp's entrance.

The sentries, pale-faced, pretended not to hear a thing but trembled under the relentless downpour. Those stationed at the entrance of the grand tent—large enough to accommodate all the officers of this modest army—envied their counterparts patrolling in and around the camp.

Despite being supported by his subordinates—all high-ranking, capable officers from respectable families—the brigadier general did not seem to hold the upper hand.

Akwiratheka was accusing the British of abandoning them the previous night, which had led to disaster. For the Mohawks, losing a hundred warriors was catastrophic.

More than a complaint, the tone used by the Iroquois chief was that of an accuser. This disaster, which could cost the chief his position within the Confederacy, was, in his view, entirely the fault of the British.

One only had to look into his fierce eyes to realize he barely considered these men human. Cowardice was something he could not tolerate in a warrior.

Losing 10% of one's forces in battle was the usual figure, whether in Europe or America. That was roughly what Abercrombie had lost at Carillon, or Montcalm at the same place. But here, the Mohawks had lost three times that number!

Any general would weep tears of blood and prepare for exemplary punishment from their government. Some had lost their lives over far less, yet Forbes did not seem particularly affected.

"Remind that savage," he spat to the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, "that we gave them the opportunity to attack the fort, as promised, but at no point was it agreed that our soldiers would intervene!"

William Johnson, acting as the intermediary between these two men—both more stubborn than mules—was in torment. It was like standing between two monsters.

Suppressing his distress and fear as much as possible, he turned once more to the giant with broad shoulders, concealed beneath a thick red cloak but still clearly showing his Herculean physique and many necklaces.

The two men exchanged a glance, but William remained silent.

"Well? What are you waiting for to translate, Mr. Johnson?" barked John Forbes, crossing his arms even tighter, as if to mimic the Mohawk chief.

"Sir," Johnson replied, his face showing visible discomfort, "if I tell him that, he'll only grow angrier."

"And so?"

"General, he… he might leave with all his warriors. Or, well, what remains of them."

"He would dare?! By what right?! He committed to helping us take this fort!"

William Johnson suspected—or rather knew—that this man, who clearly understood nothing about Indians or the subtle art of diplomacy, would say something like that. It was a mistake.

"Sir, the Iroquois are not your subordinates. They are our allies, our partners. They are not like the Hanoverians. I'm afraid—"

"Just tell him what I said, Mr. Johnson!"

The general's face, until now simply red with anger and indignation, turned as purple as a beet. He no longer bore any resemblance to the calm and refined gentleman Johnson had met just days earlier.

William Johnson sighed in resignation and translated, softening the general's words as much as possible.

Unsurprisingly, the Indian chief erupted in fury. His eyes, like those of a mythical beast, locked onto the finely dressed officer whose heart seemed so black.

If a gaze could have weight, poor John Forbes would have been crushed.

Anyone else in Forbes' position might have burst into tears or soiled themselves under such a show of power.

"Is that what this little fool, this powdered sack of shit dressed like a woman, this miserable, gutless insect said?! That's his excuse for letting my people die?!"

Before William Johnson could respond, the chief leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over behind him. All eyes were fixed on him, and three-quarters of the officers instinctively reached for their weapons.

The others were too petrified to react.

The giant, his body covered in tattoos and scars, glared at them one by one without showing the slightest hint of fear. It was as if, even one against ten, he had the upper hand.

The commander, perfectly still in his chair despite not being immune to the psychological assault, noticed his men's state and raised a hand to calm them. While his subordinates lowered their weapons, none relaxed their posture.

"My brother," said Akwiratheka, addressing Johnson, "tell him this: tomorrow, he will attack without the support of my warriors. We will remain only until the bodies of all our dead are returned to us. Then we will leave. We cannot lose more warriors."

William remained silent for a moment, weighing the gravity of the words, before turning to the commander. He translated the chief's message faithfully.

Predictably, the British officers were outraged.

The diplomat, tasked by the King with maintaining good relations between the colonies and the Iroquois—and the first to hold this position—made a significant effort to calm the situation. The English failed to understand that their allies were just that: allies, not subject to the strict rules of the British Army.

Even the militias had to obey orders.

"No matter! We don't need a few savages! If they want to leave, let them go to Hell!" roared the general, causing his officers behind him to tremble. "Gentlemen, regardless of the weather, I want our cannons operational day and night starting at first light tomorrow!"

***

The next day, at half past six in the morning, before the sun had risen, all of Fort Edward was shaken awake by an intense bombardment.

Adam, exhausted from his long night on the ramparts, rushed with the rest of Albert Fontaine's company to the southern side of the besieged fort. There, he saw a thick white cloud where the English cannons were positioned.

Albert arrived less than a minute after the young lieutenant and positioned himself between Adam and his other lieutenant, a man in his thirties named Thomas Belmaison.

"Hm? They're not forming ranks?" the experienced captain immediately observed.

"No, sir. It seems they only intend to bombard us," Adam replied.

He gazed thoughtfully at the enemy lines. Almost no red uniforms were visible.

From the corner of his eye, Adam noticed his friend and second-in-command discussing something before abruptly falling silent as the Marquis de Montcalm approached the rampart. The marquis carried a long, shining spyglass, reflecting the faint sunlight barely breaking through the thick gray clouds.

The young lieutenant watched him step onto the long wooden bridge connecting the fort to the demi-lune, where Colonel de Bréhant and several other officers were already present.

"They've stopped firing," Adam muttered to himself.

"Hmm, they'll probably take a break and fire at us again in a few hours," Albert murmured beside him.

"Why?" the young man asked, unable to suppress his curiosity despite the time he had spent serving in the King's armies.

"Because cannonballs are valuable, plain and simple. As is gunpowder," Albert explained. "Even if they brought large quantities of ammunition and powder with them, it doesn't mean they can afford to waste it. It takes time to produce and even more time to transport it here. If they're reckless, they'll run out of resources to continue the siege and will have to withdraw without achieving anything."

"Not to mention the wear on the cannons," Lieutenant Belmaison added. "You can't fire a cannon continuously. It heats up quickly and could be seriously damaged if pushed beyond its limits. The gunners might even be killed."

Adam glanced at the lieutenant, who held the same rank but had a decade more experience. Slowly, he nodded. Of course, he knew this; his time enduring hell on the Océan had taught him as much.

Though he had never witnessed a cannon exploding, he had heard stories that chilled him to the bone. During the Battle of Ouessant, one of his comrades had accidentally touched a cannon. The metal had been so hot that his skin instantly burned.

In the chaos, Adam hadn't heard the man's screams—they had been drowned out by the deafening detonations and other cries. But after their resounding victory, when the silence returned, he had seen the aftermath, and it wasn't a sight he could forget.

The unfortunate man's palms had turned redder than an English coat and were covered in large white blisters that looked like buboes. Only cold water could soothe the pain, and even then, it returned the moment he removed his hands from the bucket.

Adam refocused his attention on the enemy trenches, their floors filled with rainwater, and then on the camp beyond, where the British flag proudly flew.

Slowly, the smoke from the cannon fire began to dissipate, carried away by a faint northerly wind. Out of the haze, three silhouettes emerged, like ghosts, becoming clearer as they approached the besieged fort.

Indians? What do they want? Oh, damn, it's him! The chief!

Though Adam didn't know his name yet, his identity was unmistakable. The man had left a strong impression on him—but unfortunately, they were enemies.

There are two Englishmen with him, and they're under the protection of a white flag. What could this be about? Ah, they must be here to retrieve the bodies of their warriors.

***

Marquis de Montcalm watched the approaching men and, despite the temptation, ordered his troops not to lower their weapons. Honor dictated that not a single hair on their heads should be harmed. That the enemy lacked honor did not change this principle.

This was his belief, and he held it to be just.

He folded his spyglass and left the ravelin, though not before instructing Monsieur de Hautoy to shoot these three men if anything should happen to him. He had decided to speak with them, accompanied by Monsieur de Bréhant and Monsieur de Lévis.

Montcalm stepped through the fort's gates and followed the dirt road under the protective range of the French cannons.

The white feathers on his black-and-gold tricorn hat swayed gracefully in the light breeze, while his boots made a squelching sound, reminiscent of walking on a rotting sponge. Despite his precautions, the road's dampness was ruining his attire.

One hand rested on the hilt of his sword while the other clutched a thick pair of yellow leather gloves. He walked with pride toward the enemy, who had stopped just a few meters from the glacis.

Montcalm recognized the Mohawk leader and the English diplomat, William Johnson—a proper man, though still English. The third figure was of no consequence, just a soldier tasked with carrying the white flag.

"Gentlemen, good morning. Let's not waste time on pleasantries. What is it you want?"

"You're right, Marquis," Johnson replied. "I am not here as a representative of His Majesty's army but rather to convey the request of Chief Akwiratheka."

"And what does he want?" Montcalm asked, feigning ignorance.

"Akwiratheka wishes to recover the bodies of his warriors so they may be honored according to Mohawk rites, allowing them to rest in peace."

"If he had not attacked, there would be no bodies to recover," Montcalm responded firmly. "But very well. I am willing to return his warriors. However, everything comes at a price. What does Akwiratheka offer in exchange?"

William Johnson showed no surprise and turned to the Mohawk leader, who stood as tall and imposing as a mountain. Arms crossed over his well-defined chest, he locked eyes with Montcalm, who did not look away.

On the contrary, Montcalm's gaze exuded a respectable strength—though vastly inferior and incomparable to the commanding presence in the Iroquois chief's eyes.

The Mohawk leader listened silently to his friend, the only Englishman he truly trusted, then remained still for a moment. That moment stretched into what felt like an eternity for Montcalm and the two colonels accompanying him.

Perplexed, Johnson glanced at the towering figure beside him. The chief stood utterly motionless, a living statue. If not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Johnson might have sworn the man was dead on his feet.

At last, Akwiratheka spoke in a deep, commanding voice: "In exchange for my warriors, I will return home with all my men and will not come before this fort again until the snow has melted."

Johnson faithfully translated the words, enabling Montcalm to grasp the Mohawk leader's intentions.

Does he think me a fool? Montcalm thought. Does he believe I cannot see the flaw in such a promise? This means he could attack another fort, a village, or a convoy during the winter if he wished!

The Marquis glanced back at the two officers standing behind him and then at the wooden walls of the fort, scarred by English cannon fire.

All he offers is a brief reprieve with no guarantees for anything beyond Fort Edward. It's not much of a gain, but it's something.

He furrowed his brow, feigning hesitation, though his decision had already been made.

It's not perfect, but it's not terrible either. More importantly, I'll be rid of these corpses. The last thing I need is an epidemic.

Slowly, he nodded.

"Agreed," he said simply. "I will issue orders for the bodies to be brought here. You and your men have nothing to fear; I give you my word."

Once again, William Johnson translated the French commander's words. His feelings were mixed. He was relieved for the Mohawk chief, as funeral rites were as vital to them as to Christians. But as an Englishman, he would have preferred the French to refuse.

Such a refusal might have compelled the Mohawks to stay, potentially aiding in the capture of the fort.

As he mulled this over, the French officers turned and headed back to their camp.

Shortly afterward, under a light drizzle, a sort of procession emerged from Fort Edward's gates. Before a solemn line of Indians, their faces grave, over a hundred bodies wrapped in sheets were respectfully laid out.

It was the best the French could do for such an enemy, and it was already more than anyone might have expected.

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By noon, all the Indians had left the British encampment as agreed. Brigadier General Forbes allowed them to leave and refused to see them off.