Hameln

The residents of Hameln watched helplessly as a victorious foreign army marched into their city. They gathered along the main street, on balconies, at windows, and on stone staircases to get a better view of the scene. Some, however, couldn't bear to witness the sorrowful event and chose to lock themselves inside their homes, drowning their grief in alcohol.

Everyone felt abandoned now that the Duke of Cumberland's army had not stayed to protect them. Instead, he and his forces had left—or rather fled—the area under cover of night, heading north.

It hadn't been difficult to determine the route they had taken, as the tracks left by such a large troop couldn't be concealed, especially not in such a short time. However, the route they had taken did not lead to Hanover.

This was very strange, as Hanover was an important city for His British Majesty, who was also the Prince-Elector of Hanover. For King George II, losing that city would be like losing London. If the Duke of Cumberland had intended to defend it, he should have taken the road heading northeast. All the high-ranking officers surrounding Marshal d'Estrées were left wondering what the Duke could possibly be thinking.

For the common soldiers, however, this question was of little concern. Known for their meager pay, they saw this as an opportunity to enrich themselves and finally eat properly.

Not all the French soldiers had entered the city yet, and in front of Hameln's gates, an immense throng of men in white uniforms and black tricorns could be seen. Here and there, colorful uniforms stood out—these were mainly the foreign regiments. Some of them had been killed by accident during the Battle of Hastenbeck, as they had been mistaken for enemies due to their different uniforms.

Lost in the crowd, young Adam waited his turn, barely managing to stay upright by leaning on his long, heavy rifle, while he scanned the crowd for the familiar faces of his comrades. He looked disoriented now that he stood at the foot of the city wall. The wall had visibly suffered a great deal in just a few hours, as evidenced by the fragments of stone scattered across the grass, yellowed by the heat, and the deep impacts left by the iron cannonballs.

"François! François!"

"We're over here!"

A small group of soldiers dressed like Adam pushed through the crowd, huge smiles on their faces.

"It's another great victory!" exclaimed Jean, as imposing as a wardrobe.

"Yes! Two victories in two days!" confirmed P'tit Pol', nodding vigorously, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "Maybe we'll win another one tomorrow? Hahaha!"

Once everyone was gathered around Adam, Jules adopted a more serious expression and looked around.

"Hmm, I doubt that Monsieur the Marshal will order the army to move. We have a lot of wounded, and we've only just captured this city."

"Ah, that's true," sighed P'tit Pol'. "I heard we had nearly three thousand dead and wounded yesterday!"

"That's what I heard too," confirmed Louis, a young man with an angelic face. "I also heard that a good number of them were injured or killed by our own men!"

"I heard that story too," added Charles, fanning himself with his right hand to cool down a bit.

"Apparently, Monsieur de Randan's troops, the Swiss, attacked a position we already held, and because they came from a different direction and wore red uniforms, they were mistaken for the English."

"I heard that actually, that redoubt had been attacked by eight hundred furious Hanoverians who got lost in the woods while trying to retreat," said Louis, clearly not convinced by this rumor, which he found too ridiculous to be true.

"Bah, it's probably the officers trying to cover up their mistakes," commented Jules, clicking his tongue in disdain.

"Yeah, well, we're not entirely innocent either, you know, Jules? If you didn't aim so poorly, I might be among the casualties!"

"Well, what kind of idea is it to go off and relieve yourself without telling anyone? Don't be surprised if you're mistaken for an enemy and shot at!"

The five men laughed heartily while recounting these stories, though they occasionally cast worried glances at their wounded friend. Seeing how pale Adam was, with his left hand trembling on the rifle he was using as a crutch, Jean stepped forward and placed a friendly hand on his uninjured shoulder.

"Are you sure you're alright, old friend? Do you want to go back to the hospital?"

He's so tall! He must be at least 1.90 meters!

"Um, no, no. Thank you. It's just that… I don't feel very well. I just need to rest a bit. So, did we win?"

"Yes! The Duke of Cumberland packed up and left with his army during the night! He only left a very small force behind. In other words, he abandoned them!"

It was P'tit Pol' who had spoken.

Like a flash, a bit of information appeared in Adam's mind. His real name was actually Hippolyte, but everyone called him that. He was a small redhead with a face covered in freckles. He seemed kind but mischievous. His red hair, which stuck out from under his tricorn, was impossible to miss. It looked like fox fur, except it was slightly wavy. If it weren't tied back in a short ponytail, it would have stuck out in all directions and covered much of his face, which still retained its childlike features.

By carefully listening to the conversation they had had the previous day, Adam had learned that he had enlisted with François in hopes of making a fortune during this new war. He had quickly become disappointed, as he had said he regretted not inquiring about the pay. Apparently, everyone knew that the pay for a common soldier was so low that many of them resorted to looting to make up for it and to eat their fill.

Including François, there were six of them who had left their village of Corbie. There was P'tit Pol', the youngest of the group; Jean, the big guy with a body carved out of stone, who seemed ten years older than the rest of the group; Jules, whose calm demeanor and intelligent reflections had greatly helped Adam grasp the situation he was in; Charles, who seemed to be suffocating in his uniform; and Louis, whose perfect face inspired nothing but deep jealousy in Adam.

No one should be that good-looking! Damn, he looks like a top model! If I hadn't traveled back in time, I'd swear he had cosmetic surgery! Is that even possible in this era?

Turning his gaze away from that face, which was too perfect to be real, Adam's thoughts began to wander. He pondered the reasons that had driven François, the original owner of this body. A significant part of the information he had been able to gather was still somewhere in his brain.

François apparently had several motivations for enlisting. Adam believed he understood that François was something of a dreamer. He wanted to live great adventures like those in the epic stories he'd heard in his childhood. These stories were filled with bravery, honor, romance, grand voyages, and riches.

But François was also ambitious. This might have been the most important factor in his decision-making. He didn't want to live an ordinary life, stuck in a role imposed by others. He also wanted to escape a marriage he didn't want with Agathe Desmoulins, the daughter of Joseph Desmoulins, the butcher like his parents in Corbie. His parents had been very enthusiastic about this union because the Desmoulins' butcher shop was much larger than theirs. Adam vaguely remembered a heated conversation between François and his parents about this. Not wanting to settle down in that small shop and miss out on his life, François had jumped at the first opportunity to escape his grim fate.

"Hey, François, you alright?"

"Huh? What?"

"You don't look well."

"Uh, it's fine. Thanks, Charles."

Wait, that's Charles, right? Yes, that's it! Phew!

"Alright. In that case… You should still go see Monsieur de Bréhant later. It's not worth it right now. He's probably with Monsieur the Marshal, taking full possession of this town and inventorying what might be useful for the rest of the campaign."

"Oh, yeah. I'll do that."

"Alright, enough talking! It'll be time to eat soon. Now that Hameln has fallen, we can certainly hope for more than just bread. I'm sure we'll have chicken or pork!"

"Stop it, Jules! You're making me hungry!" said Jean, looking like a sad puppy as he rubbed his stomach.

Although the campaign had just begun, food was already scarce within the army, so the men mainly relied on what they could find from the enemy. The capture of Hameln was therefore a promise of a delicious meal.

Around noon, during the hottest part of the day, the six companions sat directly on the ground on a small stone staircase to eat their meal, which was leaner than they had hoped. By luck, they had found some good charcuterie, butter, and eggs.

As they wondered where they might find utensils to make an excellent omelet, a small squad of soldiers from the Navarre regiment passed by. Their uniforms were very similar to theirs, with the only difference being the pockets. With different shapes, they couldn't be confused. This was how, in most cases since a reform of the army, regiments were distinguished from one another.

Contrary to what one might expect, this regiment didn't come from southern France, since that region was on the Spanish border, but from the northeast. Its name indicated its prestigious origin, as it was formerly called the "King of Navarre's Guards Regiment," but that was centuries ago! Like the Picardy regiment, the Navarre regiment was one of the oldest in France.

Ignoring all these details, Adam watched warily as this group approached them, eyeing their precious food. The good mood that had surrounded the group collapsed suddenly like a house of cards, and everyone fell silent. In this tense silence, the footsteps of these armed men seemed deafening.

"Hello, everyone!" one of the men said, raising a hand in greeting with a broad smile. "I see you've found some good ingredients!"

The man seemed friendly, but neither Adam nor his companions let their guard down. They had seen many soldiers behaving like thugs in town. Just because they were part of the same army didn't mean they wouldn't try something against them.

"Yes, we were lucky," Jules acknowledged without taking his eyes off the soldiers. "But well… We won't go far with this."

"Let's see?" one of the soldiers asked without really waiting for an answer. "Ah, not bad at all! Hey, guys! They've got eggs and butter!"

"Really?! Then we've got what we need!"

Adam frowned, and Jean took on a threatening stance, ready to pounce to protect their stash.

"What do you need?" asked P'tit Pol' with curiosity.

The four soldiers from the Navarre regiment had stars in their eyes.

"Yes! You see, we got our hands on some flour, salt, and cream! Just like that," the man admitted while scratching his nose, "it doesn't sound great, but if we add what you've got, we have what we need to make a good dish from home! Naturally, we'll share. You'll love it! It's called a quiche! You're from the Picardy regiment, right? You must have something similar where you're from."

"A quiche?"

The six soldiers from the Picardy regiment looked at each other without really understanding.

"Yes! And we even have some wine!"

"We're going to feast!"

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Later in the day, the group was comfortably seated at a long wooden table in an inn in the town of Hameln, their bellies full. They all wore the same satisfied expression. Adam had even forgotten that he wasn't in his own time and that he needed to find a way back home quickly.

They had let the soldiers from the Navarre regiment take over the inn's kitchen and were not disappointed.

"Ah! That was really good!"

"For sure, I'm not going to be able to close my vest!"

"More wine?"

"Why not! Hey, actually, this quiche is like our flamiches!"

"A flamiche?" one of them repeated as he emptied the remaining wine into his cup.

"What's that?" another asked before letting out a loud burp.

"A sort of pie," Charles replied, pushing away his empty plate. "You can make it with leeks, cheese, and many other things. In fact, depending on where you live in Picardy, everyone makes it their own way."

"I think eel would have been better instead of the bacon in this quiche," sighed a third Navarre soldier regretfully.

"Eel?!"

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In the late afternoon or early evening, François went to see Monsieur de Bréhant, who was his superior as the commander of the Picardy regiment. He had been injured the day before and had his arm in a sling. He was an impressive man, in his forties, with a very dignified air. His attire was superb, of much higher quality than a common soldier's uniform.

Unlike him, and to his relief, the officer wore a powdered wig as white as snow. Seeing it, he could roughly estimate the current year.

They shouted "Long live the king" when the town fell, and this guy is wearing a powdered wig. So it's before the French Revolution. But who's the king? Louis XIV? Which one was the one who got guillotined? Fuck, I should've paid attention in class!

"Yes? Ah, hello, soldier! François Boucher, is that right?"

"Y-yes, sir! I'm, uh… honored that you remember my name."

Apparently satisfied with this response, which seemed very exaggerated to Adam, the officer gave a slight smile.

"I do my best to remember the names of those under my command. You were wounded in the shoulder and head, I believe? How are you feeling?"

"Better, sir, though it's still painful."

"I see. Take care of yourself, then. It will pass with time."

"Thank you, Colonel," Adam replied very politely, bowing—something he had never done with anyone before arriving in this strange time.

"We'll likely stay in this town for a day or two. You'll have time to rest."

As the officer was about to leave, Adam suddenly thought of something.

"Uh, sir? If you allow it, I would like to use this time to continue the training that began before the war."

If I don't do this, I'm sure I'll get killed in the next battle! I have to find a way back to my time before then! What will happen to me if I die here?

Adam didn't want to know the answer to that question, even though it wasn't impossible that dying might return him to his body and his own time.

"Don't worry, soldier," Colonel de Bréhant replied, quite satisfied with this young man's attitude, "that's already planned. You won't be sent against the enemy without proper preparation. You may go."

"Thank you very much!"