The Price Of Peace

Ah... I have less free time to write this week 😅. Sorry for the delay!

Thank you, Porthos10, Mium, First_Time_****, Dekol347, ThisguyAEl, Pimbadeiro, Odin_12, and Nameyelus, for your support!

I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

----------------------------------------- 

"December 25, 1758

Dear journal, it's been a very long time since I last wrote anything. I've had so much to think about and manage lately.

It's strange—I feel like the days go by slowly because they all look the same, yet I can hardly believe it's already Christmas.

This morning, we attended a big mass in Halifax. We had a light meal, but tonight we feasted.

We slaughtered several pigs, which we roasted for hours, and to accompany them, I prepared, along with Albert's company, an astounding amount of cartoufles (potatoes), fried.

It was an enormous success among the soldiers, though even if they weren't bad, they didn't quite taste as I had anticipated.

We gathered a large quantity of animal fat, heated it up, and then plunged the peeled and finely sliced potatoes into it.

The men were amazed at what could be done with this root, which had previously been dismissed as unremarkable. I also hope this plant will be cultivated more in New France and Nova Scotia because, ever since I introduced them to mashed potatoes, the men have been asking for it more and more instead of the bland porridge we usually eat.

The problem with fries, though, is that they require a lot of fat and firewood. We won't be able to have them often.

The meal was a great success, far more so, in my opinion, than last year's. We ate well back then too, but not like this."

Adam paused for a moment, twirling his quill between his fingers and gazing at the fine black-inked letters on his notebook. His handwriting was looking more and more like that of a true man of this century.

His clothes carried the scent of frying fat and roasted pork. His well-filled stomach formed a sort of lifebuoy between himself and the small desk he used to write in his journal, which he had somewhat neglected.

Beside his notebook, a long white candle burned, casting a soft yellow glow across the room.

Behind him, his shadow seemed to dance on the back wall, over his small bed and the ceiling.

Unfortunately, this was not his room alone, as he had to share it with other officers. He hoped this would change soon, as he was tired of the lack of privacy.

He wanted his own space where he could fall asleep without enduring the snores of others and organize the room as he pleased.

Certainly, he'd need to be patient, possibly until he reached the rank of captain. That was what he hoped for.

"I sense that this winter will be particularly harsh; we'll certainly be unable to do much.

Temperatures are dropping quickly, and it's not impossible that the sea might freeze over in some areas next month. Apparently, it happens in certain ports in the region, though not in Halifax.

At least, that's what the locals say. It frightens me a little because last winter was very cold when we were still in Saxony, but I don't think it was quite this extreme.

If what they say is true, then simply going outside could be dangerous.

Between now and spring, I don't think I'll have much to recount. We'll likely limit ourselves to a few exercises, maintaining equipment, and ensuring the locals don't do anything foolish."

Adam started to write something, then hesitated, because a person of this era wasn't supposed to think like that. To change the subject, he considered talking about Christmas trees, but it wasn't something the French did.

Unlike last year, he hadn't suggested decorating a tree for the holidays. It was common practice where he came from but not in France, not in this century.

When he had proposed the idea, people had looked at him as if he were some strange animal. It was a tradition widely observed in Germany, but to the French, it was a pagan and foreign practice, completely incomprehensible.

To his friends and comrades, his idea seemed as bizarre as going to market riding an elephant while wearing a mushroom-shaped hat and jingling shoes. It made no sense.

He had been equally surprised at the time to learn that here, gifts were exchanged at New Year's instead.

Adam had found it odd, even unsettling, but he had accepted it easily enough. Thus, the 24th was an ordinary day here, and December 25th was more dedicated to reflection.

What a shame—it's fun to decorate a tree. Maybe I'll convince them next year—assuming I haven't returned to my own time by then. I hope so. I really don't want to stay here another year.

The tip of Adam's quill traced a fine line, scratching out a few words he had written before replacing them with something else.

"Oh, that reminds me—something happened yesterday. Monsieur de Bréhant, our colonel who returned from Quebec, told me that apparently, I narrowly escaped a horrible death without even realizing it!"

***

Two weeks earlier, in Quebec.

Monsieur the Marquis de Bréhant, who had just been appointed Acting Inspector General of the Infantry by His Majesty as a reward for his loyal and exemplary service — a position that would likely lead to a full Inspector General role within a year or two — and Monsieur the Marshal Duke de Richelieu found Governor Vaudreuil in a state of distress.

He was pacing nervously in his office, sweat beading on his forehead as if he were about to receive a royal visit from His Majesty himself. In truth, the reality was not far off.

"Ah! There you are! I was afraid you wouldn't arrive in time!"

"Calm yourself, Governor," said the Marshal as soon as he entered the room. "They're only Iroquois leaders."

"Exactly! They're leaders! They're like kings, and they want to talk! We must not make any mistakes, or this discussion will fail before it even begins!"

"Monsieur," said the Marquis, "we are at war. If this discussion fails, then so be it. Nothing will change."

Vaudreuil quickly grasped the problem upon seeing the indifferent reaction of Colonel de Bréhant and Marshal de Richelieu.

"The Iroquois Confederacy, also called the Six Nations, are traditional allies of the British, monsieur. They have been our enemies for generations. But they are only allies, which means they are not obligated to follow the orders of British officers! If they want to talk, it's because they want something! If they are satisfied, we might appease them and push them to remain neutral for the rest of this conflict!"

The Marshal raised an eyebrow slightly and removed his long red-and-gold coat before settling comfortably by the fire burning in the hearth. Its warmth filled the small room pleasantly.

Through the two other windows overlooking the fort's batteries, large snowflakes danced in the wind, blanketing the wild landscape in white.

The Governor took a deep breath to steady himself and sank heavily into the chair behind his wide desk.

"Because we are allied with many tribes, and the Iroquois are often at war with them, we have often found ourselves fighting against the Iroquois to defend our allies—and our economic interests as well. The Iroquois have long wanted a monopoly on the fur trade."

"And now they want to talk with us? That's a good thing," concluded the Marshal, crossing his arms over his chest.

"An excellent thing, even!" exclaimed the Governor, raising his head with newfound energy. "The Iroquois presence hinders our development and partially protects the British colonies. They are a constant threat! If they negotiate a peace with us, the English will lose a valuable ally! Surely your victories, and those of Monsieur the Marquis de Montcalm, have caused our enemies to reconsider their alliance with the Crown of England?"

The old Governor's cheeks flushed with excitement. It was clear his hopes were high, which explained his evident anxiety.

He had requested the Marshal's presence—and, though not specifically requested, that of the Marquis—because he believed their participation could improve the chances of success. After all, the Iroquois deeply respected great warriors.

Age held no weight; actions spoke for themselves, and the Marshal's exploits had been a roaring cry in the forest. The Iroquois could not ignore the presence of such a man.

"Perhaps," said the old Marshal in a low voice, "but it is too early to say. You should not declare victory prematurely. Many battles have been lost because men believed their success was assured."

"Yes, yes, you're right!"

"When are they expected to arrive?" asked the Marquis de Bréhant, leaning slightly forward in his elegant chair.

"At any moment, I believe. Winter is rarely chosen for negotiations. I hope staying in Quebec does not inconvenience you?"

"Not at all. I have given orders to my officers to keep the soldiers vigilant. They have enough to occupy themselves. It would also be surprising if the English tried to attack us in this season."

----------------------------------------- 

As the old Governor of New France had anticipated, representatives of the Six Nations arrived in Quebec two days later.

Their arrival did not go unnoticed by the townspeople, as their colorful attire and majestic headdresses stood out. Each tribe had its own distinct style, making them easy to identify for those familiar with their customs.

There were the Senecas, the Cayugas, the Onondagas, the Oneidas (Onneiouts in French), the Tuscaroras, and the infamous Mohawks, rumored to be fond of human flesh. Their leader, a towering man like a bear, wore a necklace of ears and a dozen scalps at his belt, barely concealed by his large fur coat that made him look even more like a beast.

Naturally, the old Governor recognized them all and greeted them respectfully, as if they were European monarchs. His extensive experience ensured he made no errors. For most of them, this was not their first encounter, as they had negotiated peace on more than one occasion despite being enemies.

"Gentlemen, as Governor of New France, I welcome you to Quebec. Allow me to introduce Monsieur the Marshal de Richelieu, to whom my king has entrusted the command of our soldiers."

"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. It is an honor."

The Marshal Duke responded immediately, momentarily forgetting that he was addressing Indigenous leaders.

As he wondered if they had understood a word he said, one of the chiefs—an elderly man with nearly closed eyes—replied in perfect French.

"Thank you for receiving us in your home, Monsieur the Governor. Given the current situation between our peoples, it is good to see such a warm welcome. Monsieur de Richelieu, your reputation precedes you. We are fully aware of who you are—or rather, what you have done since your arrival. You are a capable leader and a brave man. The honor is ours."

Surprised, Richelieu simply nodded, which the six chiefs seemed to appreciate.

"Gentlemen," said the Governor, hiding his relief, "I propose we enter the city to warm ourselves. A fine fire awaits us in my office."

"In that case, we shall follow you."

The unusual group climbed into the Upper Town and gathered around the large fire burning in the Governor's office. Instead of sitting on chairs, they sat on the floor atop a vibrant, intricately patterned rug.

The elderly chief representing the Cayugas lit a long pipe from the hearth and exhaled a large cloud of faintly blue smoke. The Marshal thought he saw an eagle with outstretched wings take flight, disappearing as it reached the large golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"Well, I suppose there is no need for idle chatter," announced the old Governor, who seemed surprisingly at ease in this unconventional setting. "Let us get straight to the point of your visit."

"Very well," said the Cayuga chief, taking on the role of spokesperson. "Our peoples have clashed many times, leading to the deaths of both our own and yours. So much blood has been spilled, and yet so little has been accomplished. Our losses have only weakened both of us."

The elderly governor nodded and gestured for the chief to continue.

"We are not just warriors but also traders. However, your victories in recent months have deprived us of trading points with our English allies—those allies whom you have defeated repeatedly, covering yourselves in glory, like before that fort you call Carillon, if I'm not mistaken? Our warriors who were there described in great detail how you killed a great number of English soldiers. But above all, it is your compassion towards your enemies that has earned you honor, such as at Albany. Winning a battle is easy; winning it without bloodshed is, in my opinion, an even greater feat."

Marshal de Richelieu showed no emotion outwardly, but internally, he was very satisfied. He enjoyed this sense of recognition, especially when it came from his enemies. He nodded humbly at the great chief.

"What he says is true," added another chief in somewhat broken French, "but these are not the only reasons we have come to you today. We can no longer trade with the English since Albany has been emptied of its inhabitants. We wish to sell our furs and are prepared to do so with you, but for that, peace must be established."

"So, you want peace. Does the entire Confederacy feel the same?"

Although the old governor didn't seem to direct the question at anyone in particular, it was clear he was suspicious and doubted the honesty of the Mohawks. Their chief, arms crossed over his massive chest, clenched his teeth, clearly displaying his dissatisfaction—even hostility.

"We have discussed it extensively, and this option seems acceptable and desirable. However, we cannot accept peace at any price, given that this war is entirely your fault."

"W-What?!"

Vaudreuil turned red and was about to rise, but Richelieu stopped him.

"I have been here only a short time, so forgive my ignorance, Chief. Are we truly responsible for this war?"

His composed voice and understanding demeanor gave the impression that he genuinely sought to understand, though he was partially aware of the history. Vaudreuil had briefed him extensively on the Iroquois and their turbulent relations with the French and allied tribes.

However, the Marshal-Duke's primary goal was to bring these Indians to his side for negotiation, even if it meant accepting blame.

"Indeed. Since your arrival on our lands, you allied with our enemies and declared war on us. Not just once—every time we fought a tribe, you intervened to join our enemies!"

"And let's not forget the hunting grounds! You French hunt so much that we must venture ever farther to find worthwhile game!"

"And your forts are everywhere!"

"And the Lachine massacre—was that a mere detail to you?!"

"Vaudreuil, calm yourself!"

The Marshal's powerful voice echoed like cannon fire through the room, startling everyone. The Mohawk chief Akwiratheka stopped clenching his teeth and raised a thick eyebrow in surprise.

"What happened at Lachine was merely the result of your shameful actions," said the Cayuga chief.

"Well, let's settle down," the Marshal-Duke replied calmly, as if his earlier outburst had been an illusion. "We are here to discuss peace. So, you Iroquois consider yourselves the first victims of our policies in New France?"

"Indeed."

"And I suppose for peace to be possible, compensation must be considered."

"That would be a good starting point."

"Marshal, you…!"

"Monsieur de Vaudreuil, the members of the Iroquois Confederacy have come to negotiate. They've taken the first step, which takes courage. Brave men have died on both sides because our interests clashed. If we want our peoples to coexist, we must acknowledge that the Iroquois have suffered from our interference."

"Your words are wise and pure."

"How do you wish to be compensated for your suffering?"

"…"

The chiefs were caught off guard. They hadn't expected the discussion to turn in their favor. They thought, like the English, the French would try to exploit their situation to impose shameful terms. Even the Mohawk chief was surprised by this turn of events, as he had expected to leave within minutes.

The six individuals spoke rapidly in their language, and after a few minutes, reached an agreement.

"Three hundred scalps."

"T-Three hundred?!"

A scalp wasn't just a trophy; it was a currency with monetary value. To ensure their allies participated in the war effort, the governor had offered bounties for each scalp brought in—a fairly effective policy.

"Agreed. Three hundred scalps."

The Iroquois were once again astonished by this white man. The terms were so favorable to them that even the most suspicious chiefs wondered if they had made a mistake or if it was a trap.

"It will likely take some time to gather all these scalps, but with our recent victories and those to come, I believe we can deliver them before summer."

"Very well. In that case—and I believe I speak for the Six Nations—you may consider us at peace with you."

"Not so fast," said the Mohawk chief in his language, his expression as merciless as if he were on a battlefield. "Three hundred scalps is not bad. But I want the scalp of the bastard who threatened my son."

"Chief Akwiratheka, do not push your luck. Are you trying to derail these negotiations?"

Immediately, the room seemed to drop in temperature, as though icy air had rushed in through broken windows.

The Marshal, the Marquis, and the Governor watched, unable to understand the heated debate among the Iroquois chiefs. Though they didn't comprehend the language, it was clear the Mohawk chief was causing some trouble—a sentiment seemingly shared by the others.

Eventually, the situation calmed, and negotiations resumed.

"Apologies for that. Ahem, yes, this peace between our peoples will depend largely on your future actions. If we go to war with other tribes, even if they are your allies, do not intervene. And do not hunt on our lands."

"As I said," replied the Marshal, resting his hands on his aching knees, "I am new here. Monsieur de Vaudreuil, could you fetch us a map?"

"Ah, uh… Yes, right away."

"Gentlemen, here is a map of the region, including the Great Lakes. Can you indicate your territories?"

The chiefs exchanged glances—or rather, sharp stares.

They couldn't grasp the intentions of the Marshal or the Governor. The negotiations were going so well that they feared making a misstep.

Finally, the Cayuga chief drew a wide circle on the map, prompting immediate protests from the Governor, who argued that the marked lands included not only Iroquois territory but also French lands, lands belonging to other tribes, and even the King of England.

Once again, the Marshal intervened, noting that the Governor's sensitivity likely stemmed from being born in New France.

"Gentlemen, wars arise from conflicting interests and lack of dialogue. For a lasting peace, I propose we meet again, this time with the chiefs of other tribes, to reach a consensus. Only then can we move forward—and better yet, move forward together."

Despite some opposition, the chiefs couldn't counter the proposal. Another meeting was scheduled for the end of winter, in March 1759.