The Inspection

Hello! Here's a new chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

Thank you mrwolf_hdmi, First_Time_****, Pimbadeiro, Mium and Dekol347 for the support!

I wish you happy holidays and, in advance, a Merry Christmas! See you very soon!

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The inspections were highly regulated, and the officers ensured that everything was perfect. It was a matter of the regiment's or battalion's reputation, but also the image of the King himself.

Everything was meticulously detailed in royal ordinances.

Thus, there were two classes of soldiers: those who managed to follow these ordinances to the letter, and those who did not. For the latter, long hours of drills awaited them every week.

On the ramparts, in the parade grounds, and even in their quarters, they had to train tirelessly to avoid being reprimanded during inspections.

The only way to escape this was to pass an exam during a review. Of course, even a first-class soldier could end up demoted to the second class if they were negligent.

These young recruits had learned the basics, and on the surface, everything appeared in order.

Adam, proudly displaying his captain's epaulette, held in his right hand an intriguing weapon that seemed to belong to another era. It was called an espontoon. It looked roughly like a spear.

His former sergeants, Yves Laroche and Claude Marais, now lieutenants, also carried espontoons. The sergeants, on the other hand, held halberds. All the others—whether privates, anspessades, or corporals—held their muskets.

With rigid steps, Adam walked past his men, shifting his espontoon to his left arm. Then, he positioned himself among his soldiers to begin the inspection.

As usual, it was not the colonel who conducted the review but the major. No one other than him—not even the marshal—was allowed to speak. No mistake was tolerated, even if an error occurred. At that moment, the major was the highest authority.

Adam stood at ease, his feet aligned with heels slightly apart, but inside, he was deeply anxious.

Let's hope everything goes smoothly!

He elegantly switched his espontoon back to his right hand, holding it with the wrist at shoulder height, his thumb along the shaft.

The base of the espontoon rested on the cobblestones of the courtyard, just a few centimeters from the tip of his right foot, perpendicular to the ground. His left arm hung freely at his side, neither limp nor weak.

"Officers, to the head of your troops!"

The major's clear and powerful voice echoed through the courtyard, sending a shiver down the spines of all the soldiers. Adam obeyed simultaneously with his two lieutenants. All three grabbed their espontoon shafts as they stepped out of the ranks.

Once at the front of the small formation, the three men lowered their long lances in unison, the ends striking the cold, damp cobblestones of the rectangular courtyard.

From this position, the three officers began to move in unison, saluting the senior officers positioned a few meters in front of them.

It was like watching a well-rehearsed choreography. They deftly spun their espontoons in their fingers, as prescribed by the 1755 ordinance, before lowering them, tips forward, close to the ground without touching it.

The butt of the weapon naturally landed in their left hands at shoulder height, and they returned to their initial positions.

Every movement was executed in silence, with the precision of a saber cut—an impressive sight for anyone unaccustomed to such displays.

Finally, Adam, Lieutenant Marais, and Lieutenant Laroche removed their black, gold-trimmed tricorn hats in the most elegant manner possible, using their free hands—the left ones.

The major, who had been advancing toward the company and the three officers at its head throughout the process, showed no emotion and walked past them, signaling that they could replace their rigid hats.

Damn! That was nerve-wracking! I thought I was going to mess up in front of the marshal and the governor! Thank goodness I'm used to it by now!

Indeed, as a lieutenant, he had participated in numerous reviews. He knew what to do and how to do it. The only difference now was his position in the formation.

Discreetly, he observed the major's reactions—or lack thereof. His unfriendly face gave the impression that he was perpetually having a bad day.

His jaw was clenched as if someone were stepping on his foot, tightening all the muscles in his face. His small eyes scrutinized the soldiers lined up in three rows behind the new captain, as if searching for the weakest link to devour.

Adam felt a small, cold droplet fall on the back of his right hand, the one firmly gripping the sturdy shaft of his espontoon.

He looked more like a guard than an officer.

Tension rose on the parade ground as the review was about to begin in earnest.

The major's voice rang out again, this time addressing the soldiers of the newly formed company.

"Right hand on the musket!"

The soldiers obeyed silently.

"Fix bayonets to the barrel!"

In four steps, the soldiers complied with the major's order, but there were already a few blunders.

The major clenched his teeth tighter in displeasure.

The soldiers had to pivot on their left heels so that they were perpendicular to their right feet. They then had to let their muskets fall, the ramrod facing them.

They grasped their weapons correctly with both hands—one on the barrel and the other on the belt. They then took their bayonets. One dropped his, while another nearly sliced open the inside of his hand as he began fixing it to the barrel.

Adam thought he might suffocate, so immense was the major's anger. His pursed lips looked like a long scar between his long, narrow nose and his chin.

B-but what are they doing?! Th-they're idiots, aren't they?! Where do they come from?! Where did they find them?! Get your heads out of your asses!

The longer time passed, the more the young captain's face fell apart. His gaze then met that of the colonel, who seemed amused by the situation.

Colonel! Do something! You... You can't leave me with these clowns!

If the colonel noticed the desperate look of his new captain, he acted as though he hadn't.

Colonel!

"Ram the cartridge!" continued the major without changing his tone, completely ignoring the young captain's emotional state.

It was done again in four steps.

"Face en tête ! Portez vos armes en avant ! "

The major's voice was the only one to be heard. The young captain, on the other hand, kept praying and begging his men not to disgrace themselves.

"Reposez-vous sur vos armes, ouvrez la cartouche, fermez la cartouche, remettez la baguette en son lieu, la main basse!"

All the soldiers let their left arms drop and froze.

No soldier was allowed to move, even to adjust their tricorne, until further orders. The major remained silent for a moment, then finally gave the order to rest. All the soldiers let out a collective sigh of relief, which did not go unnoticed by the officers.

Don't sigh like that! Are you kidding me? Fuck!

The rest of the ceremony went without major incident, but it proved to Adam that a monumental task lay ahead to turn these men into real soldiers. The gap between them and the men he had commanded in Gilbert's company was far too vast.

It felt as if he were standing in beachwear at the foot of Mount Everest, tasked with planting a flag at its summit.

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Adam didn't stay in Quebec for more than a few days. He took the opportunity to get to know all the men in his company.

Some were very young—so young, in fact, that their fathers' permission had been required for their enlistment.

He met with each of them individually to learn about their motivations and let them know what he expected from them. He also used this time to encourage them to do their best and promised them rigorous training worthy of grenadiers so they could quickly distinguish themselves within the Picardy Regiment.

What came up repeatedly during these interviews was their deep inspiration from the dazzling victories of the Marquis de Montcalm and the Marshal-Duke of Richelieu.

Everyone loved tales of adventure and bravery in the face of a fearsome enemy. Naturally, they wanted to be part of it, to be the protagonist, the one who played a decisive role, who rallied and led the charge that shattered enemy lines.

They wanted to cover themselves in glory before this war ended, for who knew how long they would have to wait for another chance?

In this century of reason and technical and technological progress, nations waged war very frequently, most often to pursue the gains of the previous war or, conversely, to reclaim what had been lost. At least, that was how it had gone between France and England since the Middle Ages.

Periods of peace only served to prepare for the next war, which typically took a decade.

These young men were full of dreams and ambitions, just like François and his friends had been when they signed up for this life of misery. These feelings were like a fire. If Adam wanted to achieve something with these men, he had to tend to it and keep it from going out.

"Well, what did you think, Captain?" asked Lieutenant Claude Marais, seated across from his officer and next to his colleague, Lieutenant Yves Laroche.

"I think there's going to be a lot of work, Lieutenant Marais, a lot of work."

"I honestly doubt they'll all make it. I thought the major was going to pounce on one or two of them."

"There are certainly a few who will require more effort, but I sincerely believe we can turn these men into good soldiers," Adam said, as if trying to convince himself.

"Do you really think so?" Yves Laroche asked, his particularly thick eyebrows furrowing. "From what I've seen, three-quarters of them will wet themselves at the first shot."

"Watch your language, Mister Laroche," Adam cut in sharply, taking on a stern tone. "Remember that you're no longer a sergeant. Your uniform is slightly different, but your way of expressing yourself must change too—and more clearly. Be like me."

"My apologies, Captain. I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. That being said, I do somewhat agree with you. They have the uniform, but they're not yet soldiers. Everything suggests they've received accelerated training to be quickly integrated into the various regiments in New France. It's therefore our responsibility to prepare them for what lies ahead."

"Yes, Captain! Where should we start?"

"Hmm, it's already March," Adam murmured as if thinking aloud. "We probably don't have much time left before we receive our orders. By the time we return to Halifax, it will certainly be April."

"Already… Goodness, time flies! It feels like we've only just taken up winter quarters!"

"Winter is practically over. There might still be a few cold snaps, some hail showers, but no major snowstorms like in January. The Redcoats will certainly move first."

"In that case, sir, what can we do? We'll lose two weeks just getting back to Nova Scotia!"

"We certainly can't make them march and run, but we can definitely drill them in formation and reloading their weapons quickly."

"And attach a bayonet properly!" Claude Marais suddenly exclaimed, recalling the ceremony that could have been comical if it hadn't been so important. "By the blood of Christ, I thought he was going to cut his hand open! What's his name again?"

"Michel Tournier. His file should be around here… Ah, here it is. Michel Gilles Marie Tournier, born in 1739. He just turned twenty."

"Twenty years old… How is he still alive being that clumsy?"

"Come now, Lieutenant Marais, calm yourself. Perhaps it was just nerves."

"Nerves or not, he'll need to learn quickly how to attach a bayonet without injuring anyone, starting with himself."

"The others weren't much better. Good heavens, can you imagine them on the battlefield? We'll be the laughingstock of the regiment!"

"Then we'll do whatever it takes to prevent that. Everyone can learn. After all, we weren't so different from them when we enlisted."

The two lieutenants smiled, remembering a time that now seemed distant. They knew their officer was right, and yet they had come a long way since then.

Not only had they survived countless skirmishes, but they had also climbed the ranks to become officers in the royal army!

"Well, let's leave this for now. It's getting late, and tomorrow is another day. Gentlemen, I'll count on you again tomorrow. Good night."

"Good night, Captain!" the two men replied before leaving the room, leaving Adam alone with numerous neatly stacked files on a table that was far narrower than the governor's.

***

The next day, as Adam prepared to depart for Halifax, William Johnson attended an important ceremony in the courtyard of the Boston fort.

As Superintendent of Indian Affairs in North America and representative of His British Majesty to the Iroquois people, he dressed in his usual manner—a blend of European and Native attire.

He saw himself as a diplomat, and diplomacy was the tool he intended to use to bring down New France.

Having spent decades in New England, he understood how things worked on this continent. The strength of the French was certainly not in their numbers, nor in the quality of their soldiers or officers.

They controlled a vast territory but had very few settlers. They relied on the Native Americans for this crucial task, forging relationships with numerous tribes and even intermingling with them.

From the beginning, Johnson had done everything he could to sever the ties between the French and the Native Americans. Without them—and he was convinced of this—the French were doomed.

He didn't need the tribes to join the British as allies; a treaty of neutrality would suffice. It was challenging to sow discord between such longstanding allies, but it was not impossible.

The key was to expose the French as weak and incapable of offering protection.

That said, everything had been going in the wrong direction since the start of this war. The French were winning victory after victory, humiliating His Majesty's regular troops.

His requests for meetings were no longer even acknowledged, and it had been confirmed that the Six Nations had grown closer to the French, even signing a separate peace—one they had conveniently neglected to inform him about!

Fortunately, according to his sources, it was a treaty of neutrality, not alliance or friendship.

If it had been otherwise, all the British colonies would have been in danger, as their territories stretched nearly from the Great Lakes to northern Georgia.

A drum roll echoed, and an officer passed between two rows of soldiers in red uniforms, as immobile as statues and as dignified as ancient Greek heroes.

There had been no massive arrival of regular troops from England, as Johnson had hoped—only a few thousand men, and without a general to lead them.

Their orders were to place themselves under the command of George Townshend, a young colonel bloated with ambition who had been promoted to brigadier upon arriving in the New World after the disaster at Louisbourg the previous summer.

He had served under James Wolfe during the second attempt on Louisbourg and was sent to Boston after the general's death on Monckton's orders. That coward's name had since become synonymous with infamy.

Monckton's capture and disgrace had suddenly propelled Townshend to command a considerable force by colonial standards, tasked with defending Boston, which was believed to be threatened by the odious French.

Yet, Townshend showed no intention of attacking before the enemy was ready, let alone reclaiming Nova Scotia or capturing Louisbourg.

To Johnson, this was a grave mistake.

He wholly disapproved of Townshend's appointment, particularly because he knew the man had used his artistic talents to ridicule his general, Wolfe, through caricatures unworthy of an English gentleman.

In his view, the divisions within Wolfe's army were the main reason for its collapse during the first clash with the French inside Louisbourg.

The diplomat had tried to explain the realities on the ground to this man fresh from London, who clearly knew nothing about the delicate game of alliances. Yet Townshend's arrogance was so overwhelming that Johnson gave up, at least temporarily.

That morning, Townshend conducted a lengthy inspection of Boston's defenses and its immediate surroundings to assess the situation.

His verdict came quickly: the city could not be defended if the enemy took the heights surrounding the peninsula where it stood and placed cannons there. The situation would be even more dire if the French managed to enter the harbor.

There was a fort on an islet between the city and the ocean, but it would certainly not be enough.

Moreover, they had few artillery pieces left, as many had been taken to equip forts and ships.

The remaining cannons were scattered between the fortifications guarding the city's landward entrance and the various batteries to the east and west of Boston. In trying to fortify the entire city, his predecessors had made it weak everywhere.

"Remove the cannons from the port side of every ship in the harbor and orient all vessels so their remaining batteries face the sea! Send all marine cannons to the northern and southern batteries, and to the fortifications at the city gates! Finally, fortify every location from which the city could be bombarded! I will take no risks!"

Townshend intended to turn the few ships at his disposal into a formidable barrier against any potential sea attack. They were lined up, one behind the other, their anchors firmly planted in Boston Harbor's depths.

Alas, William Johnson could only watch this man at work and imagine what older, more experienced generals would have done.

The capture of Major General Jeffery Amherst was truly a devastating loss for the British army. All Johnson hoped for was that this invaluable officer would be ransomed from the French as soon as possible and return to the colonies without delay.