Negociations

The French army remained in Olendorff for two more days, which was terribly frustrating for Adam. A thousand times he had thought that he could have returned to Hameln to retrieve François' watch. Meanwhile, Marshal-Duke of Richelieu and Marshal d'Éstrée had done nothing but talk, discussing all matters related to this expedition.

On August 7th, four days after the arrival of the new commander, the old Marshal d'Éstrées left Olendorff to go to the baths in Aachen. There were thermal stations there that had been famous since antiquity, but they had experienced a revival since the previous century. The use of these mineral-rich waters greatly interested doctors and aroused much passion, particularly among the European nobility.

That day, after a long and exhausting march northward—since temperatures had risen again due to a light, constant wind from the south—two men requested an audience with the commander of the powerful French army. The army had set up camp in Minden, a medium-sized town upstream of the Weser River from Hameln, thirty-six kilometers to the northwest.

These two men wore simple but elegant clothing and high-quality powdered wigs. They came from Hanover and were there to negotiate the surrender of their city, even though it was located fifty kilometers to the east. The Duke received them with the utmost care in the quarters he occupied in this fortified town, which had not dared to resist.

"Gentlemen, do you speak French?" asked the Duke, dressed as if he were about to join the battlefield.

"A little bit, ja. Um... I am the deputy of Stalen, and this is the deputy of Ardenberg," began the first representative, dressed in a brown jacket and breeches, with a strong German accent. "We have come, sir, on behalf of the people of Hanover."

"Pleased to meet you," replied the Duke coldly, his face impassive. "I am the Duke of Richelieu, sent by His Majesty the King of France to command this army. The conflict between us is regrettable, but it is due to the principality's interference in this war. Hanover and the Kingdom of Prussia have been enemies of France since last May."

The two men seemed uneasy and exchanged glances. Their faces were covered in sweat, and they looked as pale as if they had lost a lot of blood.

"What you say," stammered the second man in very broken French, "is both correct and incorrect, my lord. The people of Hanover hold no hostility towards the people of France or His Majesty the King of France. This conflict between us stems solely from our elector, who is also the King of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Um, he is... he is your true enemy, not the people who merely suffer under the positions of His British Majesty."

"Yes, yes!" the first representative firmly agreed, discreetly wiping his sweaty hands on his jacket. "His Majesty sent his son, the Duke of Cumberland, to wage a war we did not want, and now they are abandoning us! We are here with no malice, hoping for a peaceful resolution for Hanover and its inhabitants!"

"Hmm..."

The Duke of Richelieu remained silent for a moment, a moment that seemed to last an eternity for the two men facing him. The fate of thousands of people depended on the next words that would come out of his mouth.

"What do you ask?" he finally inquired in a detached tone.

"W-we want, nein, we implore you, my lord, to spare the city and its inhabitants!"

"Hmm, granted. Anything else?"

The two men suppressed a sigh of relief as they felt a glimmer of hope.

"That His Majesty's houses and gardens be spared by your troops!"

"Even though we are at war with England, it is important to respect the status of one's adversary. We are not English. On my honor, you have my word."

"Thank you, my lord!"

Noticing that the two men seemed reluctant to leave and announce the good news to their city, the Duke of Richelieu slightly frowned and asked, "Anything else?"

"Um, it's just that, um..."

"We humbly request, my lord, the honors of war..."

Mr. Stalen's voice was so faint that the Duke thought he had misheard.

"The honors of war? Certainly not," the Marshal-Duke of Richelieu decisively declared, his steely gaze cruelly piercing the two Hanoverians. "Your men," he continued coldly, "are not soldiers but militiamen and invalids; therefore, they are not entitled to such honors. To ensure that you do not go back on your word, your weapons will be seized. However, your militiamen may return home, provided they swear not to take up arms again in this conflict. The discussion is over. You may return to Hanover safely."

"I... um, thank you, my lord!"

The two men, trembling like terrified children, immediately left the town of Minden, now entirely under French control, and returned to their city.

That day, the Duke also received a delegate from the town of Brunswick, located east of Hanover, who submitted to the domination of the King of France. As compensation for their participation in this conflict alongside France's enemies, they had to surrender their artillery and pay a war indemnity. Additionally, the Duke was granted the right to retreat to Brunswick or Wolfenbüttel, two significant strongholds in this vast territory, if necessary.

However, no guarantees were made concerning the men who had accompanied the Duke of Cumberland in his retreat.

Finally, the Duke of Richelieu made some adjustments to the organization of his army.

In the evening, he received a message from his scouts informing him that the Duke of Cumberland was continuing his march northward and had left his camp in Nienburg, forty kilometers north of Minden, heading towards the Verden region, thirty kilometers further north.

How far does he intend to go? What is he trying to achieve by acting this way?

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The following day, on the orders of the Duke of Richelieu, three regiments of dragoons under the command of the Duke of Chevreuse left Minden to take possession of Hanover. These were rather unique light cavalry units, as they fought both on foot and on horseback. These men were easily recognizable from afar by their green uniforms and golden helmets, designed to evoke those of the brave Roman soldiers of antiquity.

The Duke's army did not linger in Minden, much to the displeasure of the troops who wanted to rest and plunder the enemy as much as possible. Eventually, they arrived in Hanover on August 11th.

"We've arrived in Hanover!"

"Finally! We can get some rest!"

An uncontrollable wave of joy swept through Marshal Richelieu's army, and without his giving the order, they began to quicken their pace. He didn't need to deploy his regiments to take this fortified city by the book since Hanover had been handed to him on a silver platter. A messenger had confirmed earlier that day that the city was under control and that the local authorities would do everything to prevent disorder.

Pleased with the work of the Duke of Chevreuse, Richelieu refrained from letting him know that he had no intention of completely sparing the city. His army was too desperately short of supplies and equipment to pass up the opportunity.

"Who told you to rest?! Get to work! The commander's orders are to set up camp outside the city!"

"What?! We're not staying with the locals?!"

"Silence, corporal! Those are the orders! The camp will be set up in Linden!"

"What's that, Linden? I bet it's some ridiculous rat hole! Well, at your orders, captain! It's not like the men are exhausted or anything!"

Linden was one of Hanover's suburbs but had grown so large that some residents were calling for Hanover's fortifications to be extended to include and protect it. Built to the west of the city's high walls, it had long since surpassed the stage where there were only a few houses along the road leading to the main city.

Although many tents had to be pitched, part of the King's army was indeed lodged with the locals. However, this treatment was reserved for the highest-ranking officers. As for the general staff, they had the privilege of taking quarters in a magnificent castle located in this suburb.

Sprawling and composed of three independent sections, the complex was well-built, rivaling the residences of most of the lords serving under the Marshal-Duke. Naturally, this splendid castle was surrounded by gardens and orchards meticulously maintained to welcome His British Majesty if he ever wished to visit the land of his ancestors—his own, though he often seemed to forget it, according to local lords.

Adam, exhausted from the forced march and illness—likely caused by the water he drank every day, which couldn't compare to filtered tap water or bottled water from a supermarket—collapsed onto his thin straw mattress. His backside struck the hard ground underneath, but he didn't flinch.

Ah, I've got a fever, that's for sure! Damn, I wish I had some medicine to get rid of this crap quickly!

As time passed, he became more accustomed to living without modern comforts. That didn't mean he didn't miss them. He often thought about the softness of his bed, the satisfaction of choosing music to listen to, and watching a movie or series while devouring sugary snacks. He frequently thought about his phone, which would have been so useful for finding out how this war ended.

In reality, even if he had managed to bring his phone with him, it wouldn't have helped him since he would have had no signal and no internet connection. Eventually, the battery would have run out, making it as useless as a rock in his pocket.

He also worried about his browsing history, which he hadn't cleared before going on vacation. If his parents decided to take a look, it would certainly be extremely embarrassing when he returned to his own time.

It's been two weeks now… Without that stupid accident, I would've been back home by now. I wonder what's happening there… Do they think I'm in a coma, or is François in my body living my life like I'm living his?

Adam thought about this a lot and didn't know what was worse. Not knowing what had happened to his body haunted him all day, as he had plenty of time to think. All he did was walk, scavenge for food by pillaging nearby villages and farms, and sleep.

Whenever the army stopped to set up camp, he was too exhausted to do anything. However, he tried to train with his weapon to become a bit more effective than the average soldier. What had happened on the day of the Marshal-Duke's arrival had made him realize that the difference between life and death was slim.

To live longer, he had to be faster and more accurate than his enemy. It was as simple as that.

"Are you okay?" asked Jean, poking his head inside his friend's tent.

"My stomach's a mess, and my head feels like a watermelon."

Jean didn't know this word or expression, so he just nodded to pretend he understood his friend. Many soldiers in this army had fallen ill and were in the same condition as Adam.

It was easy to forget—at least for Adam—that diseases caused more devastation during wars than the battles themselves. In this case, it was mainly dysentery.

"Don't worry, you'll be able to rest. There are plenty of others like you. They're vomiting and shitting everywhere. The officers will have to let us regain our strength."

"Great. Hurgh..."

I'm dying here… It hurts so much! Fuck, I don't want to die like this! The shame!

A small tear discreetly slid down the pale young man's cheek, a basin within arm's reach.

Jean was fortunately right. Neither the next day nor the day after did the French army leave Linden or Hanover. There was no doubt that the old Marshal would be criticized at court for his slowness, but what could they know about the realities on the ground from their townhouses, manors, and castles? He still took the time to write a detailed report to His Majesty, highlighting his merits and objectives. Perhaps then, he wouldn't be too harshly judged.