The Day Of Departure

Thank you Mium, Donut_Halo, ThisguyAEl and Microraptor for your support!

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The Brest authorities were becoming increasingly worried about the city's sanitary conditions. Even though the death toll Pitt had hoped for was far from being reached, there were more sick people every day.

Despite all efforts, the spread of the disease showed no signs of slowing down.

Because there was a long way to go before old practices and superstitions disappeared, the atmosphere was even heavier than if the city had been surrounded by an army of a million men.

Everyone was on edge, and suspicion easily fell on unfamiliar faces if their behavior seemed even slightly strange. The main rumor was that they were dealing with a poisoner, either in league with the English or with the Devil.

It was only by a miracle that the army had prevented a crowd from publicly lynching an old hunchbacked woman who was half-deaf and blind, simply for lingering too long near a well in Recouvrance, not far from the ruins of the Tanguy Tower, a relic from the Hundred Years' War.

To prevent the city from exploding like a powder keg, Mr. Duguay had told Richelieu and Duquesne de Menneville's men that he didn't want to see a single one of them come ashore, no matter the reason.

The risk was real, as they needed to approach the ships to load fresh water, wine, and food for the long voyage. It was also essential to ensure that the sailors didn't carry the calamity back with them.

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Even though they understood the situation, the men didn't like it. They felt as if they were being held prisoner for a crime they hadn't committed. Most of them just wanted to enjoy some fresh food, good wine, and sleep in a real bed next to a woman, who, naturally, weren't allowed on board unless they were passengers.

Ah, this is taking forever! sighed Adam from his hammock, dimly lit by the bluish glow of the moon filtering through the openings in the deck. It feels like I'm living the same day over and over again!

Adam was exhausted. They had spent the last four days training. When they weren't learning how to tie knots, naming the sails and ropes, they were being taught how to use the massive iron cannons. It wasn't particularly complicated, but it had to be done quickly and without missing a single step.

In such a confined space, even a minor accident could have terrible consequences.

He looked sadly at his hands. They were red, full of blisters, covered in small cuts, and so damaged that it was hard for him to open and close them properly. He felt like a slave, forced to work until death. The only difference was that, so far, he hadn't received any lashes.

I just want to get off this damn boat and take a hot bath! The hammock's alright, I'm getting used to it, I think, but the smell... it's awful!

A terrifying stench rose from the small square openings in the floor. It was so bad, one might think there was a pigsty below. He didn't dare imagine what it must be like to sleep down there.

Up here, he at least had the advantage of some fresh air coming in from outside, though it was in small quantities.

Still, it wasn't enough to completely refresh the air on this deck.

Pfffffffft! (a fart noise)

FUCK! SERIOUSLY?!

Adam wanted to punch the hammock above him. The smell of rotten eggs soon reached his nose, making him want to flee.

Unfortunately, this kind of thing happened often and only added to the terrible odor on the ship. With so many men on board, it was bound to stink.

Despite the late hour, he wasn't the only one still awake. He could hear bits of conversation around him.

Seeing movement in his hammock, the man below him, a simple soldier from his company named Maximilien, tried to strike up a conversation.

"Lieutenant? Where do you think we'll go?"

Adam didn't respond immediately, as if he were considering what information he was allowed to divulge, or perhaps he was already asleep. Everyone knew the departure was imminent.

"Hmm, who knows? If I understood correctly, the English are all over the world with their colonies and trading posts. We could go to Africa or England. My guess is we're heading there."

"So, we're going to England?! I knew it! That's what we were saying too, my friends and I!"

"It's just a possibility. From what I've gathered, it's the kind of thing the English often do. It would be a good revenge, I suppose."

"But, Lieutenant, what about the Royal Navy? We'll never get through!"

"I wonder. After all, we have quite a few large ships with us."

"I heard that there are some even bigger ones out there, with over a hundred cannons!"

"A hundred?! That's insane!"

"I saw one once," said an old sailor. "They're monsters with an extra deck. When all their cannons fire at once, it's like the air itself tears apart. They can destroy anything in a single broadside. Nothing can withstand them!"

The nearby soldiers and sailors fell silent, imagining the terrifying scene. All prayed never to encounter such a ship.

"There are many," said a young soldier nearby, "who say we're being sent to the New World. Since we're stocking up on provisions, it would make sense, wouldn't it?"

The New World?

"Ah!" Adam realized. "We're going to the United States?!"

"The what?"

"What?"

Adam suddenly felt the urge to punch himself in the face.

I'm such an idiot! They probably don't exist yet! Like, that was in the 1800s, right? I never paid attention to that in Assassin's Creed III! I was a kid when I played that! Who was the main character again? Galway, Kaylway? Oh, damn, I don't remember anymore! It was so long ago! Damn! Wait, does that mean I'll see cowboys and Indians if we go there? That'd be so cool!

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Two more days passed without any changes, and finally, on Thursday, April 6, the day of the grand departure arrived.

"Hoist the petit perroquet and the petit hunier ! Hoist the grand perroquet and the grand hunier!"

You could feel the excitement of the men bustling on the deck and in the rigging. Agile as monkeys, the sailors climbed all the way up, dozens of meters above the main deck, to unfurl some of the sails.

Meanwhile, the soldiers didn't have much to do other than stay out of the way.

"Monsieur Lorient, turn the wheel thirty-five degrees," the captain ordered from his station on the quarterdeck behind the poop deck."Fall in behind the Monmouth."

"At your command, Captain!" replied the helmsman, gripping the massive wooden wheel tightly with both hands, focused on his maneuver.

Adam, absorbed by the scene, watched as the large square sails slowly unfurled and filled with the wind high above his head.

Seagulls called out as if to wish them a safe journey, circling joyfully around the masts.

That morning, the sky was uniformly gray as far as the eye could see. The sea was just as gray, as dark as the iron cannons of the Océan. There was a slight swell, even in the harbor, but it was nothing compared to what they had faced in the English Channel.

The sea looked cold and menacing that day. Slowly, the ships fell into position, forming a line. The larger ships adjusted their speed to the slower ones so that the convoy would stay together. Their journey would be long, and splitting up was out of the question.

Staying together gave them a much better chance of arriving safely. Adam watched the seabirds glide peacefully on the wind blowing from the east.

Not too strong, not too weak, it allowed the fleet to move at a good pace, cutting through the waves.

As they approached the Goulet, Adam once again admired the fortifications left by military architects to protect Brest.

The line veered slightly to the left to avoid the rocks in the narrow passage, and as soon as they left the harbor, Adam noticed just how different the sea was there. Without the protection of the rocks and the eroded cliffs of the region, the sea was much rougher.

Luckily, the wind wasn't too strong, and the Océan remained stable.

That's it, we're off, Adam thought with emotion.

He wasn't sure if he should feel excited about this new experience or terrified of the uncertain future. One thing was certain, though—he wouldn't be returning home anytime soon.

If they were heading to the far end of the world, he might not return to France for many years. Perhaps he'd have to wait until the war was over to even begin searching for François' watch, hoping no one would find and pick it up in the meantime.

"Monsieur Lenoir," said Captain du Chaffault de Besné, "we can hoist the main sail. The supply ships and the Monmouth are making good progress."

"At your orders! HOIST THE MAIN SAIL!"

Immediately, the sailors returned to the main mast and, with the help of those on the deck, unfurled the impressive lower square sail. It soon filled with wind like the others, and the Océan slowly gained speed. The massive ship cut through the waves like a sharpened blade.

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There were more than a few routes to reach the New World, but in these distant times, when ships relied on winds and ocean currents for swift travel, two routes were favored.

The first and most common was the one once used by Christopher Columbus. They would sail south to the African coast before turning west. With God's help, ships following this route would reach the Caribbean. Originally, this was the route the convoy was supposed to take.

The second route was riskier since it involved sailing near Ireland before heading west. It was a challenge, a provocation to the Royal Navy. This was the route the lead ship, the Juste, was taking.

At the tip of Brittany, there were many islands and rocks. Even detailed maps of the region weren't always enough to safely navigate through.

The safest option was to simply go around them.

But as the convoy passed a series of islands between one known as Beniguet Island and the modest coastal village of Le Conquet, they crossed paths with an English squadron. It was impossible not to notice it with its massive white sails. Immediately, bells rang on every French ship.

Officers began issuing orders, and the sailors sprang into action, climbing the rigging like circus acrobats.

Adam rushed to the railing with his comrades and was overcome with a violent tremor as he saw all those ships. Like everyone on board, the English had left a powerful impression on them when they crossed paths in the Channel.

Shit! We've only just left the harbor, and we already have to fight?! Fuck!

His heart pounded in terror at the thought, for naval battles were nothing like land battles. The first difference was that each ship carried dozens of cannons! The second was that if they were defeated, there would be nowhere to run.

This was why Lieutenant Louis Lenoir had insisted on training them to launch the lifeboats, their only hope of avoiding a visit to Neptune and feeding the fish.

This British squadron consisted of about twenty warships, one of which was simply enormous—a first-rate ship of the line. These floating fortresses were rare since they were incredibly expensive to arm, but they were also a symbol of royal power.

Losing one was not only a human, economic, and military disaster but also a terrible humiliation.

***

Onboard the Juste, the Marshal turned to the commander after observing the fleet through his spyglass.

"Mr. de Saint-Allouarn, what do you think?"

"Rest assured, my lord, the situation is far from bad. We're practically in my own waters. I know these seas like the back of my hand. Even with five first-rate ships, I wouldn't be less confident in our abilities."

The old Marshal raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked at the young man, whose confidence seemed unnerving. He took this confidence as the common pride shared by all Bretons.

Not being a man of the sea, the Marshal left the commander to make the decisions he deemed most appropriate. The commander shouted a series of orders that the Marshal did not understand, orders that were echoed by his brother, who was second-in-command. Contrary to what the Duke expected, they turned to port, steering the ship left, straight towards the many islets they had just passed.

By the time they completed the maneuver, the enemy had gained ground.

By the blood of Christ, those damned English are catching up to us! They'll be here soon!

Soon, the long line of French ships reached the first islets and barely submerged rocks lying between the island of Molène and the island of Ouessant.

Even to the seasoned Marshal Richelieu, this course seemed dangerously reckless.

My God! he exclaimed inwardly, looking over the starboard rail. Are they trying to sink us on these rocks rather than under enemy cannon fire? Crazy Bretons!

The Marshal and his officers, as well as the ordinary soldiers, watched in fear as the black rocks, as dark as coal, loomed ominously. At times, only their outlines were visible in the water. To their eyes, they resembled sea monsters lurking in the shadows, waiting for their moment to enjoy a delicious meal. A mere meter off course, and their ship, along with those following, risked being gutted on one of those rocks. Depending on the tides, the margin for error was slim, or even nonexistent. Yet, as if by some miracle, the Juste passed between the rocks.

Behind it, the other vessels ventured just as skillfully through this treacherous terrain, all like mad dancers on a tightrope suspended over an abyss.

Relieved, Richelieu returned to the Saint-Allouarn brothers and observed the enemy's reaction.

***

The English grit their teeth and did everything in their power to catch up to the French squadron. Their eyes showed fierce determination to complete their mission and add these ships to their tally.

They had received specific orders regarding this fleet: it had to be destroyed if they failed to block it in the harbor of Brest.

Like hunting dogs trained from day one to track and kill their prey, the British warships pressed ahead at full speed. Although it was still a bit early, the captains had ordered all gunports to be opened. The cannons were loaded, and the gunners stood ready to unleash their fury.

Admiral Hawke, aboard the HMS Royal George, the only first-rate ship in this squadron, had been tasked by Mr. Pitt—despite their strained relationship—with preventing the French fleet in Brest from fulfilling its objectives, whatever they might be.

In his fifties, Edward Hawke was a true sailor, unlike some of those he had to deal with. Having fallen out of favor after the loss of Minorca, he had lost influence at court and with some of his officers.

From the stern of his ship, a behemoth with one hundred guns spread across three decks, and only two years old, the admiral watched part of his squadron race ahead in pursuit of the enemy. Meanwhile, his own ship lagged behind due to its immense weight.

They had entrusted him with the world's largest warship, as if to say that failure was not an option. It could have been called the "King of the Oceans," and it wouldn't have seemed boastful or arrogant. To fully utilize its power, it required a crew of three hundred, disciplined and handpicked.

All the shipbuilding knowledge of the time had been concentrated into this one vessel to create a technological marvel. But even a miracle had its limits, and the main one was its speed.

"These waters are treacherous!" growled the British admiral to his second. "Order the squadron to head north immediately and take the Fromveur passage!"

"Aye, sir!"

The Fromveur passage was a narrow channel where the water was deeper, thus safer for navigation.

No need to risk those rocks.

According to his charts, the result of extensive research and espionage, this area was filled with natural traps.

The admiral, his hands gripping the spyglass, watched the enemy's movements and those of his subordinates, now far ahead. Following the precise instructions in a small brown-red leather notebook, numerous colorful flags were hoisted to relay Hawke's orders.

Why aren't they changing course?!

Minutes passed, and despite the flags displaying the admiral's orders, four ships continued charging toward the enemy like enraged bulls, with full sails set. They were so close that from his position, Hawke could hear the chase guns roaring.

"Signal the commanders of those ships to turn about immediately!"

"Sir, they-they... They say they're going to engage the enemy..."

"No!" the admiral exploded, his face tense, turning from white to red.

Far ahead of the HMS Royal George, the HMS Union, commanded by Thomas Evans, armed with ninety guns; the HMS Resolution, commanded by Henry Speke, seventy-four guns; the HMS Rochester, commanded by Robert Duff, fifty guns; and the HMS Culloden, commanded by Francis Geary, seventy-four guns, all seemed unwilling to obey the admiral's orders.

Pursuing the enemy, who was advancing slowly, they had ordered their bow cannons, known as chase guns, to open fire.

Their aim was to strike the rudder or the aft section of their adversaries, much less fortified than the sides.

Unfortunately, what Admiral Hawke feared most came to pass.

The HMS Rochester, at the head of the pursuit, violently struck a reef that wasn't marked on their charts. With a horrific sound of splintering wood, the rear of the ship shot up and twisted sharply to the right. It was a truly nightmarish sight. From his position, the admiral caught a glimpse of what should have been below the waterline.

Time seemed to freeze, and slowly, the stern of the stricken ship crashed back into the water with a great splash.

A cold shiver ran down Hawke's spine. Despite the distance, he could distinctly hear the ship's dying groans and the desperate cries for help from the sailors.

Alas, it was too late for that ship, as it was for the others.

The HMS Resolution, which had followed almost exactly the same path as the French ships, became stranded on a sandbank, only to be struck on the rear port side by the HMS Culloden, which was trying to avoid a saber-like rock.

Lastly, the HMS Union attempted to reverse course but was ripped open by submerged rocks, allowing a massive amount of water to flood in. Within minutes, the ship sank, leaving only its stern and masts visible.

The admiral, watching this, forgot to breathe. His hands, trembling as if he were caught in a snowstorm, seemed on the verge of crushing the spyglass he still held.

"Sir, y-your orders..." stammered his second, paler than the sails of the ship.

"Send the HMS Anglesea and the HMS Ramillies to rescue the sailors. Order the rest to head north through the Fromveur passage."