The Marquis De Montcalm

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The Marquis de Montcalm was not a native of New France, unlike Monsieur de Vaudreuil. He had only been there for a few years, and it wasn't out of joy.

His Majesty had offered him a promotion and a generous pension for his family, who remained in the south of France, in exchange for taking a post that no one wanted.

Indeed, the nobles of the kingdom saw this position as practically a punishment.

It required crossing an ocean to live for years in a muddy, nearly wilderness area, surrounded by savages and wild beasts, far from the lavish parties held at Versailles and other castles. On top of all these discomforts, officers stationed on this continent were unlikely to distinguish themselves by achieving great victories, as they only had a few thousand men under their command.

This was simply incomparable to the grandeur of Europe: while in Europe battles were fought with tens of thousands of soldiers, here they had to make do with the equivalent of a regiment, made up of beggars equipped like soldiers and often behaving like savages.

The day after his arrival, as if the old British enemy had been waiting for him, war was declared between France and Great Britain. From what he had seen so far, and with his fears growing more justified each day, New France was likely to fall into enemy hands.

Their only hope was that Versailles would suddenly realize the importance of this vast, underutilized territory and send massive reinforcements—or at least a few thousand disciplined troops. For the Marquis, the British presence on the eastern part of the continent was reason enough not to abandon New France but rather to strengthen it, as Britain's misfortune would be France's fortune.

Despite the small number of men and limited resources at his disposal, he had achieved some notable successes early in the war.

His military approach was entirely different from Vaudreuil's.

While the governor of New France favored guerrilla warfare, a disgraceful method for a respectable soldier to achieve modest results, Montcalm wanted to conduct war properly, as it was done in Europe. His methods were so different from Vaudreuil's and his predecessors' that he surprised the British in August 1756.

With only three thousand men, a mix of regulars, militiamen, and Indians, he captured Fort Oswego, commanded by Colonel Mercer, and took nearly fifteen hundred prisoners.

The following year, in August 1757, he attacked Fort William Henry, defended by the Lieutenant Colonel George Monro.

It was an impressive and well-built fort, located on the frontier, south of Lake Champlain. Fortunately, that day he had three thousand regulars, as many militiamen, and two thousand Indians under his command.

When the enemy commander surrendered, Montcalm granted him the honors of war, allowing him and all those in the fort to leave with their weapons and colors and head to Fort Edward.

Unfortunately, things didn't go well after that, as the Indians, who didn't understand the subtleties of European warfare, attacked the convoy, which also included many civilians.

Despite his efforts to stop the massacre, even at the risk of his own life and those of his men, about five hundred English were killed. Of course, the British spread the word everywhere that this slaughter had been ordered by the terrible and despicable Marquis de Montcalm.

This incident further widened the already significant gap between Montcalm and the Indians, who, to his great disgust, scalped the wounded and killed prisoners. This had become common practice among them because Governor Vaudreuil encouraged it by paying them generously. A dead Englishman was one less enemy for New France.

Montcalm, having experienced captivity and being sensitive to the rules of war, was particularly shocked by this practice, one of many points of contention between him and the governor.

This time, to defend Fort Carillon and the river route leading to Montreal, Trois-Rivières, and Quebec, he had fewer than three thousand regulars, four hundred militiamen, and three hundred Abenaki Indians.

As I suspected, thought the Marquis, observing the terrain near the fort, this ground is much better suited for defense. Yes, this is where we'll attempt to stop the enemy's advance!

A bit further west, there was difficult terrain that could easily be transformed to significantly slow down an invading force.

The British will have to pass through here to reach the fort. We're at the junction of several important waterways. You could say Fort Carillon is surrounded by water. There's only this side, but here, there are swamps. Only the center is passable. It's the ideal spot to build an abatis and palisades!

As soon as they arrived, the Marquis de Montcalm had all available hands digging a deep trench, cutting stakes, and felling trees. Although they weren't as numerous as hoped, there were enough to modify the terrain and make it even more difficult for the British, who were expected to arrive within a week.

The calm of the forest was soon disturbed by the sound of trees being chopped down and earth being dug.

Everyone worked hard, even the Indians, which greatly reassured the officer, who feared they might leave at any moment. Though he didn't like them, he knew how dangerous they could be.

These savages… If I had more regular soldiers, I wouldn't need them. That said, they make excellent scouts and very good fighters.

With the battle looming, he needed every available hand, even those of these savages and the semi-savages known as the coureurs de bois.

They work hard, but… Ah, if only I had more men. In Europe, I would have had three times the resources I've been given. If we can't repel them, if we all die here, who will defend Montreal? Who will defend Quebec?

It was then that he was informed of the arrival of canoes from the north.

"Sir! About thirty canoes are approaching! I see regular soldiers!"

–What?"

Where could they be coming from?!

He was quite surprised to see so many white coats, as he thought he had already taken command of nearly all the regulars at his disposal for this operation. He left his observation post and went down to the river to meet the soldiers.

As soon as he got closer, he recognized them as being from the Picardy Regiment. They were easily identifiable by the color of their waistcoats, the side pockets on their coats, and the number of gold buttons on them.

They look exhausted, thought the Marquis as he greeted the newcomers.

"Gentlemen, I am the Marquis de Montcalm, commander of His Majesty's troops in New France. Who are you? Who is your commanding officer?"

"My Lord, cough cough, I am Captain Armand Gilbert, of the Picardy Regiment. I've been entrusted with the command of these men. Cough cough cough! We arrived in Louisbourg with a force of five thousand men under Marshal de Richelieu nearly two weeks ago and prevented the city from falling to a large-scale enemy assault. Marshal Richelieu sent me with these men to inform you and Mr. Vaudreuil of our presence and to place us at your service. There are about three hundred of us. COUGH COUGH COUGH!"

A violent coughing fit forced the captain to stop talking for a moment. His health had worsened from sleeping outdoors.

"Cough! P-please excuse me. I've been sick since our ocean crossing. Cough cough! The frigate that brought us to Quebec has already returned to Louisbourg to request reinforcements from the Marshal to help you defend this fort."

"Really?! You truly came with five thousand men?! Magnificent! Ah, it's a shame they didn't come with you! I hope Marshal Richelieu will be here before the English arrive. It's only a matter of time before they do. How many men did you say you brought?"

"A little under three hundred, sir. My company and seven others, cough cough."

"Hmm, it's not much, but every man and every musket counts. Remove your coats and join the others. As for the Indians… Hmm, it would be better if they returned to Montreal to wait for the Marshal. He'll need those canoes to get here. By land, it would take him weeks."

"And what about me?" asked the guide, scratching his cheek lazily. "Can I leave too? Because I've got work. It'll take me two weeks to reach the area where I hunt. And I've got furs waiting for me in my cabin. I can't stay away from my camp too long."

"You, sir, will stay. As I said, every man counts. Your musket will be useful."

"Huh? You didn't hear what I said? I can't stay!"

"And yet, you will. If you refuse, I'll have you shot."

"To hell with it! I should never have said 'yes.' That'll teach me to help anyone!"

Ignoring the complaints of the woodsman, who resembled a grumpy bear disguised as a man, the officer, dressed in an elegant blue and gold coat over a stylish sand-colored waistcoat with silver buttons, continued addressing Gilbert.

"I'll show you what we're doing. Follow me."

The Marquis led him to a tent that had just been set up behind the works and came out almost immediately, holding a rather rudimentary map of the region under his arm. He used two soldiers to hold it upright so everyone could see it.

"Gentlemen, we are here, west of Fort Carillon. As shown on this map, there is an elevation at this location that can be easily defended, even more so with a few adjustments. We're standing on it. Around us, to the north and south, there are swamps, so the redcoats will have to come through here to besiege the fort. That's why we're consolidating this position."

While they were speaking, soldiers, militiamen, and Indians were busy turning the area into a veritable fortress. The fortifications would stretch for about three hundred meters.

There was so much activity around them that it felt like a lumberjack camp. When a tree fell, it made a terrible noise.

"The felled trees are being laid one on top of the other to form a barricade, and to further impede the enemy's progress, we're also planting stakes into the ground. All the branches are left in front of the fortifications to slow the enemy as much as possible. The longer they take to cross, the more time we'll have to eliminate them. Any questions?"

Since there were none, the Marquis put the new arrivals to work.

***

Adam had abandoned his uniform and traded his musket for an axe. Standing in front of a huge tree, so wide that two men could barely wrap their arms around it, he swung hard, trying to hit the same spot each time.

Bark flew, and the intoxicating smell of fresh wood filled the hot, dry evening air.

His forehead glistened with sweat, and a few wet strands of hair fell into his eyes. As for his body, it had never been so taxed. His arms, legs, back, and neck—all ached. His hands, especially, were a mess.

"Stop, you're doing it all wrong," came a deep voice from behind him. "Look at how you're moving; let me show you."

Damien Leblé, the woodsman, who had tucked away his peculiar fur hat, stood beside him and took an odd stance. He began chopping at the tree, twisting and contorting as he did.

"That's you. Now, watch this."

The man adjusted the position of his legs and hands on the axe.

WHACK WHACK WHACK

"See? It's much easier, and I'm not hurting myself."

"Oh, okay. I mean, I get it. Like this?"

"Better, but spread your feet and hands a bit more. You'll be more stable and have more power. No one ever taught you to chop wood?"

"No?"

Can you learn that? To me, it's just… obvious, isn't it?

"Really, youngsters these days…," the hunter grumbled. "Didn't your father teach you anything? You're from a city, right? There are four things a man must know how to do in life: find food, make fire, find his way, and build shelter. Ah, you'll never survive in the wild. Here's a tip, kid: master these few skills, and at least you won't die like an insect. Everything else is crap. Money, women, art… it's just distractions. You can't live on distractions and pleasures."

He then pulled out a small flask from his jacket, and a strong smell escaped like a genie from its lamp.

"Of course, it's important to know how to distract yourself from time to time."

GLUG GLUG

"A life without distractions, without pleasure—is that even a life? Ah, that hits the spot. Want a taste?" he said, offering the flask to the young lieutenant.

Adam smirked slightly and accepted the offer. In one year, he had drunk more alcohol than in his entire life before. Hesitantly, he sniffed the liquid and grimaced.

GLUG GLUG

What the hell is this crap?! It's disgusting! Horrible!

"COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH! Damn! That's strong!"

"Not bad, huh? I make it myself, hehe!"

"My throat's on fire!" Adam croaked.

"There's nothing better in winter, trust me. When you're caught in a snowstorm and all alone in a shelter about to collapse, a good swig will perk you right up!"

It feels like I just drank gasoline… Adam lamented inwardly, feeling the warmth of the alcohol descend into his stomach.

It was like molten lava.

"Alright, kid, back to work. As I said, a life of pleasure isn't a life. You gotta work hard, even if it's not fun."

The man picked up his axe and got back to chopping. Adam, thoughtful, watched him for a moment before joining in.

"Mister?"

"Hmm?"

"You speak the Indians' language, right?"

"The Indians' language? Hahaha! What makes you think they all speak the same language? There are lots of tribes, you know? There are the Hurons, the Algonquins, the Abenakis, the Caughnawagas who are Iroquois, the Innu, and the Ottawas. It's like asking if I speak 'European.'"

"The Iroquois?"

They're the only ones I know from that list. They were so annoying in Civilization V! They kept attacking me! Every time!

"That's more of a nickname than their real name. Apparently, it comes from Basque fishermen or something, meaning 'killers.' The Algonquins have a similar word, Irinakhoi. It means 'Rattlesnake.'"

"Are they really that cruel?" Adam asked as he resumed chopping.

"Cruel? Yes, they are. But then, they're not all like that. Other tribes can be just as cruel to their enemies. When we say Iroquois, we're really talking about several tribes that banded together. Some are more violent than others. Overall, they all hate us. The Caughnawagas are a bit different. They're converted Mohawks."

"They hate us? Why?"

"Well, it's because we've fought often in the past. Every time they go to war against one of our Indian allies, we step in. So, they hate us too. A lot of blood's been spilled, and that's not easily forgotten. I suppose it's the same with the English."

Adam remained silent, pondering the matter.

He didn't hate the English. Why would he? France and England had been allies in two world wars. But ever since he traveled back in time, he'd been surrounded by people who deeply hated the English. Despising and hating them wasn't just normal—it was a duty.

Adam, a stranger to this era, had been forced to fight against them and had killed several. He had also lost several comrades and a few friends as well.

Should he resent the English?

No. That's stupid.

"One day," Adam whispered almost to himself, "this hatred will disappear. It just needs the right conditions."

"Haha, you say that, but you don't know anything, kid."

CRRRRRRR BAM

The tree finally toppled over, crashing down with a loud snap of branches and leaves. The massive trunk lay flat on the ground like a fallen giant. It had lived for so long, survived so many storms, and grown so high into the sky. Yet here it was, leveled to the ground.

Soon, it would lose all its branches to serve in a construction that probably wouldn't last more than a year.