Tournament

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Enjoy!

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Adam was starting to feel hungry, but he didn't have a penny to pay for a good meal, so he decided to head back to the camp.

Although he was only wearing breeches, a shirt, and a vest, he wasn't cold. The weather was clear, and the sun was as warm as in September.

Compared to the day before, the temperature had risen by almost ten degrees. If nothing changed, it would exceed 25 degrees Celsius by mid-afternoon.

For now, the weather was just perfect.

Ah, this feels good! Finally, some warmth! It makes you want to do nothing but enjoy the day!

Behind him, the St. Lawrence River sparkled like a stream of diamonds. If the water weren't so cold, he might have taken a swim.

His hands, still sore from the intense morning work, trembled slightly. That's why he kept them warm and close to his body.

Unfortunately, his breeches didn't have any pockets. It was a real shame because pockets had been so useful in his own time that he couldn't imagine a pair of jeans without them.

More than once, he'd been caught off guard since arriving in this era.

His coat, currently drying in the sun along with the rest of his clothes, had several pockets, but they weren't practical. There were two on each side, long and nearly vertical.

To distinguish between regiments, the shape and number of pockets as well as the number of buttons were varied. In the Picardie regiment, for instance, there were two pockets on each side, each flap featuring three rows of three buttons.

Sniff sniff

Adam caught a delicious smell coming from one of the main streets of the upper town, the one leading from Fort Saint-Louis to the parade square. There were several shops there, but those essential to the town and colony's livelihood were located in the lower town.

Rather than shops, it would be more accurate to call them warehouses for exporting what was considered New France's wealth: furs. For many nobles in mainland France, this was the only reason to keep this unprofitable colony.

It smells so good! Damn! My cheeks hurt!

The young man felt like crying. Such a delightful smell was tickling his nose, yet he couldn't eat what was producing it.

Freshly baked bread! Roast pork! A soup full of delicious vegetables!

Heartbroken, Adam continued on his way and arrived at the camp, where large pots were heating in various spots. White smoke rose gently into the air before slowly dissipating.

A light breeze from the south carried a pleasant, though not outstanding, smell to the camp's entrance. Adam approached one of the pots, surrounded by a large group of soldiers as if it were the baby Jesus, and tried to identify what was being cooked.

Despite his experience, he couldn't figure out what he was about to eat.

Finally, the marshal's soldiers began to be served. When Adam's turn came, he discovered it was just a yellowish porridge, probably made from grains, mixed with some vegetables and a bit of meat.

The sight wasn't appetizing, but it had been a long time since Adam had been picky about food. What mattered was having something in his stomach, not the taste.

With a face as expressionless as a blank mask, he stepped aside and began to eat his porridge.

Without the vegetables and especially the lard, it would have had no taste at all. Eating this stuff wouldn't have been much different from chewing cardboard.

Still, he quickly finished his bowl, which he immediately cleaned so it could be reused later. He put it away with his belongings under his tent and noticed a rugby match about to take place.

The field boundaries had just been set up, and the teams were forming.

Adam quickly spotted some familiar faces in the blue team. The most notable was, of course, Jean, who towered over all the other players by at least a head.

He wasn't the only giant playing, though, as the opposing team had a few grenadiers.

Did they bring the ball with them? The guys left at Fort Edward must be pissed, the young man thought, crossing his arms with a slight smile.

Adam didn't notice Captain Fontaine approaching.

"Your game is becoming very popular, François. It was truly a great idea. The soldiers are in good spirits."

"Ah, Albert. Yes, it seems so. Did you sleep well?"

"Deeply, yes. Well? No."

"Really? Nightmares?"

"Worse. I vomited in my sleep."

Adam turned sharply toward his friend and noticed he wasn't wearing his uniform. His face looked awful, as if someone had dunked his head in a toilet.

He indeed gave off a powerful smell that made Adam's hair stand on end.

As if reading his mind, Albert Fontaine grimaced.

"I know. I stink, don't I? I tried to get rid of the smell, but nothing works. I took a bath in town and gave my clothes to a laundress. She robbed me blind."

"You still had money left after last night?" the lieutenant asked, surprised. "I didn't. I still don't, in fact."

Albert smiled slyly, like a fox.

"I left part of my money with the major to make sure I wouldn't spend it all. Looks like that was a smart move."

"Not too bad of a headache?"

"Surprisingly, no. I guess I'm used to it. I might not handle alcohol well, but the next day, I don't get terrible migraines."

"Lucky you."

"Hmm, not really. I think that's why I drink so much. I let my guard down, thinking I'll be fine."

"And then you end up puking on yourself."

The two officers smiled as the game kicked off. The ball quickly ended up with Jean's team. Like an unstoppable tank, Jean barreled forward, brushing aside his opponents until he met his match.

The grenadiers sprang at him, taking him down like a ripe stalk of wheat. It took two of them, but they finally managed to bring him to the ground.

The opposing team seized the ball and ran in the opposite direction to the cheers of the spectators.

The ball passed swiftly from hand to hand until it was intercepted by the young and agile Martin Morrel de Lusernes.

As fast as lightning, he dashed forward and placed the ball behind the try line with no pressure, as his opponents had been left far behind.

"Yes! Well done!"

Watching the spectators get caught up in the game, Adam couldn't help but smile even more.

For a brief moment, he felt like he was back in his own time, watching an official match between two great teams. Everything wasn't perfect, but he thought that with time, they could create proper jerseys and a worthy ball.

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The excitement of the match outside the camp drew many onlookers, including settlers and Indians. While it wasn't the first game held in Quebec, for some spectators, it was the first they had ever seen.

It was intense and full of emotion from start to finish.

It wasn't necessary to understand the rules to see how fascinating the game was. Many even felt an urge to participate.

The settlers stayed long after the match to chat among themselves and with the soldiers. Their interest was immense, and they hoped to see another game soon. They weren't disappointed, as a second match was organized just a few minutes after the first one ended.

This gave Adam an idea.

"Hey, Albert, what if we organized a tournament?"

"A tournament? You mean a competition with multiple teams and all that?"

"Yes! It's a good idea, isn't it?"

"It's an excellent idea. Come on! Follow me! Excuse us, guys! Coming through!"

The two officers quickly made their way to the field and entered the playing area, surprising the players. Curious, they gathered around them.

"So, would you all be interested in holding a sort of competition?" Adam proposed. "We'd organize several matches, and the winners would face the winners of other matches until there's only one team left!"

The captains, though there weren't really official ones at this level, didn't have time to think it over before the players enthusiastically approved. Their excitement made Adam smile.

"We should let the others know," Adam said. "And make some kind of chart so everyone knows who's playing against whom."

"Hmm, sounds like a good plan. Do we replay the last match?"

"They must be exhausted. And the winners might not agree. Let's find them and talk about the idea, then decide."

The start of the second match was slightly delayed as they organized the first-ever rugby tournament in history. A list of the teams was written down, each assigned a number.

Once enough teams had signed up, they drew lots to determine the matchups.

Under the curious gaze of spectators, they explained the concept and announced the pairings. Everything was approved, and the first match, between Team 3 with white armbands and Team 7 with blue armbands, began.

If the previous match had been intense, it was nothing compared to this one. It was so fierce that several players had to be taken off the field. It served as a warning for the subsequent games.

The next match, between Team 1 and Team 4—Jean and Martin's team—was less violent and much more strategic. Learning from their first match against what was now Team 2, they played smarter and assigned roles.

Jean, with his monstrous strength, became a hero for his team, as did Martin, who scored no fewer than three tries!

The matches continued throughout the afternoon under a radiant sun, drawing even more spectators. Unfortunately, it wasn't a proper stadium with nice stands. Many couldn't see the grand spectacle.

Martin, who wasn't very tall, noticed this when it was his turn to watch from the sidelines. If he hadn't been a player, he might not have seen the incredible match between Team 2 and Team 5.

The game was so close that the winner was decided by just one point. Team 2, with their formidable grenadiers, advanced, while Team 5, dejected, looked as if they had suffered a crushing battlefield defeat.

"All teams, gather around!" Albert Fontaine called from the center of the field. "Thank you. Well, it's getting late, and we've only completed the first round. Half the teams have been eliminated, but there are still three matches to go before we crown the champion of this competition."

"We're going to ask you to come back here tomorrow after training for the next rounds," Adam announced calmly. "The first match will be Team 7 versus Team 4, followed by Team 2 against Team 8. Does that work for everyone?"

As no one objected, Adam nodded in satisfaction.

"Excellent. In that case, thank you all. You all played very well. If your teams were eliminated, it's no big deal. Maybe next time will be your turn. And for those playing tomorrow, rest well. We'll count on you again to play honestly. We don't want the marshal to decide to ban rugby, do we?"

The players smiled and laughed together, happy and satisfied to have let off steam on the field.

Even those who had been eliminated seemed in good spirits, promising themselves to do better in the next tournament.

This is so cool! It went really well! Ah, one day, we'll need to build a real field with stands and everything! I'll have to talk about it with Martin. No, that won't work. I need someone with more authority to bring it up with the governor.

***

At the same time, the Marshal Duke of Richelieu stood over a large map spread out on the governor of Vaudreuil's desk.

The atmosphere was as serious as in a courtroom. The governor barely dared to breathe or move in his own office.

On the polished floor, every sound seemed amplified.

The imposing man, dressed entirely in blue, was as silent as the one who had been appointed commander of the King's armies in New France.

He stood near a tall window overlooking the fortress courtyard, where soldiers were moving about, his hand resting on his round belly, compressed by refined but overly tight clothing.

Across the thick walls of the fort, he could see the few cannons, black and massive, guarding the river. Only a soldier standing near one of them could truly grasp their colossal size.

On one of the bastions, atop a tall pole resembling a long spear, the white flag dotted with golden fleurs-de-lis fluttered peacefully in the wind.

"Do we really have no maps more precise than this?" asked the Marshal Duke, raising his head to look at the governor, breaking the heavy silence that had reigned in the room.

"I regret to say, my lord, that this is all we have."

"Ah, I don't see how I can plan an operation with so little information about the enemy," sighed the old marshal, turning his gaze back to the map provided by the governor. "They have batteries, that's clear, and they're marked here, but I don't know how many cannons they have, their calibers, or their orientations."

"I understand, but it's not as if we can just go there and draw a proper map. I'm afraid we'll have to make do."

The old marshal heaved a deep sigh and nervously tapped the surface of the desk, beautiful despite its simplicity, near the edges of the map adorned with several annotations.

"Men are precious, Governor. You know that better than anyone. I can risk my soldiers' lives; that's not the issue. But I must know what I'm sending them into to determine where to attack and minimize my losses. I know people say many things about me, but I am not a madman."

The marshal sighed again, his expression conflicted. Deep wrinkles appeared on his brow as he frowned.

Due to the remoteness of New France, his powers were far greater than they would be on the Old Continent. Of course, the authority to take initiatives came with a crushing responsibility that demanded caution.

"And we don't even know the size of their garrison. No, that's not the most important thing. This town is small. I have more men in my camp than there are colonists in Halifax. What I truly need to know is the number of enemy cannons, including those aboard ships. They have a decent port, though inferior to Louisbourg, which means there will likely be a few warships, possibly first- and second-rate vessels. Governor Vaudreuil, how long will it take for the frigate we sent yesterday to return?"

"I-I'm afraid it will take some time, sir. It takes one to two weeks to get there, so about three weeks in total."

"Three weeks…" murmured the marshal, visibly displeased.

But what could he do? Halifax was far away, nearly 1,500 kilometers, and the ships were cruelly dependent on winds and currents for speed. That was roughly the equivalent of the distance between Sicily and the Strait of Gibraltar or between New York and Florida!

If he wanted the necessary information to quickly capture Halifax without losing his army, he would have to wait—just as he would wait months for updates from other theaters of war across the globe.

If the war were to end today, he wouldn't receive the news for a month and a half or even two months or more in case of delays!

"Very well. In that case, I'll wait for a while in Quebec to let my men rest, and then I'll move them closer to my objective. We'll leave for Louisbourg in four days. In the meantime, I'll rely on your hospitality, Governor."

"Rest assured, neither you nor your men will lack anything."

Marshal Richelieu nodded and cast one last look at the map of Halifax and its surroundings. He wondered what he would do with it once he captured it because, in his mind, its fall was inevitable after two successive disasters at Louisbourg.

Depending on the situation, he would have to settle for burning it to the ground. Otherwise, he would keep it to establish an advanced base in the region. From there, he could more easily launch further operations against the colonies.

A cruel smile, befitting the worst of bandits, formed on his thin lips.