Shock And Sorrow

Today's chapter is a little short, but I think it's complete, so I will leave it as it is.

Enjoy!

Thank you to First_Time_Anal, Dekol347, Microraptor, TheHumble_Dogge, Porthos10, and ThisguyAEl for your support!

If you haven't done so yet, please consider leaving a review for this novel!

----------------------------------------- 

The morning mist was slowly lifting over Halifax Harbor, revealing the imposing silhouettes of French warships anchored primarily in the wide basin north of the city. The white flag adorned with the fleur-de-lis fluttered proudly from their masts.

In the city, a heavy atmosphere prevailed, marked by a tense silence broken only by the clinking of weapons and the rhythmic steps of French soldiers' boots. The fearful residents were gradually emerging from their homes as the curfew had ended.

In the governor's office, located on the top floor of an elegant mansion overlooking the central square, Marshal-Duke de Richelieu waited, surrounded by his officers. The room was steeped in palpable tension.

Their victory was not the result of a bloody battle but of a relentless strategy, similar to the one at Minorca. Halifax had surrendered swiftly, sparing lives and preventing the city from being pillaged.

Lieutenant Governor Robert Monckton stood before Richelieu, appearing as a broken man. His hunched posture and downcast eyes revealed the shame that weighed heavily on him.

The contrast with the elderly French officer, sitting upright in his chair and exuding authority despite his age, was striking. Richelieu, clad in a gleaming cuirass, radiated an aura of power and absolute control.

Outside the building, drums suddenly began to beat, breaking the silence interrupted only by the gentle crackling of a fire in a large hearth.

In front of the governor's house, a crowd was gradually gathering. French soldiers formed a security cordon to keep them at a distance.

Three trembling men, their hands bound, cast desperate glances around them. From their position, they could see the faces of the men and women who had gathered in significant numbers to witness their execution.

Slowly, the makeshift executioners looped thick ropes around their necks.

The drums grew louder, heralding the inevitable. With a sharp kick, the chairs were overturned, and the bodies dropped into the void in an eerie silence.

The thick ropes tightened, and the three men began to convulse, their feet dangling mere inches from the ground. Their faces contorted in agony, turning red, then blue, and finally purple as they asphyxiated.

At last, after more than a minute of suffering, they ceased to move.

The small square fell silent, the stillness broken only by the whispered prayers of the town's inhabitants. The soldiers then dispersed the civilians who had come to witness the execution, ordering them back to their homes.

In the office, Richelieu regarded Monckton with calculated coldness.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant Governor. France will not forget it."

His voice was soft, almost honeyed, but each word carried an overwhelming weight. Monckton, sweating profusely, nodded without a word. He had nothing to add, other than a fervent wish that this day be erased from his memory—and England's.

The previous night, several incidents had occurred in the city—isolated acts committed by desperate or unhinged individuals. Some were killed on the spot, but others had attempted to flee.

Quickly identified, Richelieu had called upon Monckton to track them down and help bring them to justice. These three men had killed French soldiers and were hanged for it.

Thanks to Monckton, everything had been resolved swiftly.

Richelieu had ensured the example was clear for all: resistance was futile, and any act against a French soldier would be met with severe punishment.

Rising slowly, Richelieu moved around the large, solid wooden desk. He stopped before Monckton, towering over him.

"Your ship should be ready. If our paths do not cross again, I bid you farewell."

He extended a hand toward Monckton, a gesture laden with provocation. Monckton, despite his humiliation, shook the proffered hand, immediately feeling the firm, crushing grip of the marshal.

With an almost imperceptible smile, Richelieu released his grip, allowing Monckton to slip away in silence. Unfortunately for him, his destination was not the British colonies but Quebec.

***

In the streets of Halifax, French soldiers were everywhere.

Barely after the surrender was signed, they had deployed with remarkable discipline. Companies manned the city gates, others took up positions on the ramparts, replacing British guards, while some soldiers managed the harbor.

The English banners had been swiftly lowered, replaced by the French colors—a symbol of domination that prompted silent tears among the townsfolk.

No one dared intervene.

The white uniforms of the French troops stood out against the wooden and gray stone facades. Orders shouted in French echoed through the streets, imposing a new rhythm on the city.

The British garrison—what little remained of it—had naturally been disarmed and escorted out of the barracks without violence, in keeping with the marshal's promises. This measured treatment was intended to preserve the reputation of the French army, tarnished by less honorable precedents in the region.

A curfew had been imposed as soon as the French army entered the city, and only at dawn was an official proclamation read in the market square. It announced the formal annexation of the city in the name of Louis XV.

The residents, confined to their homes, watched as French patrols ensured compliance with the new rules. These measures, though temporary, marked a dramatic shift in the daily lives of the colonists.

Unlike Albany, Richelieu had no intention of deporting Halifax's approximately two thousand inhabitants. He sought to quickly restore economic activity while firmly establishing French authority.

Despite this moderate approach, tension was palpable. Silence reigned, interrupted only by the sound of boots and the echoes of commands.

At the edge of the town, in a small fort now occupied by the French troops of the Picardie regiment, Adam and his dear friends were gathered in a small room. Sitting on the floor, they all wore the same expression: a mixture of shock and sorrow.

Their eyes, red and swollen, betrayed their emotions. Only Jean, the gentle giant with a tender heart, was crying.

If Adam, Charles, Louis, and Jules were not shedding tears, it was only because they had none left to cry.

They surrounded the lifeless body of their friend, P'tit Pol. The young man, lying in the center of the room, wrapped in a large white sheet that revealed only his youthful face, seemed to be sleeping.

He looked so peaceful.

This starkly contrasted with his final moments.

Adam, hands clasped, was motionless. His eyes stared into the void. Beside him, Jean sobbed loudly, unable to contain his grief.

Everyone was silent, lost in thought, memories—both happy and bitter. The weight of their friend's loss made the air heavier, harder to breathe.

The only sounds were the wind brushing against a small square wooden-framed window—the room's sole window—and Jean's sobs.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly in this dark room, dimly lit by the flickering light of a candle and a pale natural light from outside that appeared as somber as the grieving group of friends. Each minute passed like an eternity.

Adam's heart felt shattered. It was as if it had been crushed, ground, and blended before being replaced in his chest. Yet he sat there, stoic, keeping watch over his friend one last time, unable to take his eyes off P'tit Pol's face.

He thought back to the events of the previous day, to what had led to this situation.

Everything had been going well, and nothing had hinted at such horror. The French army had lost very few men, given their overwhelming numerical superiority.

The English commander had capitulated under the might of the old marshal, and they had entered Halifax as though this town, which hadn't even existed ten years earlier, had always been theirs.

Several buildings had been burned, and looting had begun even before their arrival. At first, they found it absurd, but they were soon ordered to restore order. The high command seemed determined to preserve the town.

It was upon entering a house, scarcely better than a trapper's cabin, that the group of friends caught a man red-handed with a musket—more a hunting weapon than one for war.

Cornered, the man threatened Adam and his friends, all of whom were made nervous by the barrel aimed at them.

In that stalemate, someone entered the building, and there was a scuffle. P'tit Pol, pushed from behind, stumbled to regain his balance, which the gunman misinterpreted.

He fired.

Naturally, the man was immediately shot down.

P'tit Pol collapsed but did not die instantly. He was bleeding profusely and in great pain. Adam could still hear his cries.

His last wish was one impossible to fulfill. He wanted to go home.

Then he took his final breath, surrounded by his friends, who held him in their arms.

----------------------------------------- 

The next day, Halifax's inhabitants were allowed to move about the city but not to leave it.

The weather was splendid that day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. As a result, the air was particularly cold.

It was under these circumstances that funerals were held for the French soldiers and sailors who had fallen during the operation.

The British military and civilians did the same but in a separate area.

Adam, Louis, Charles, Jean, and Jules stood gathered around a rectangular grave. A few other soldiers were also present to bid farewell to the one everyone called P'tit Pol, as though it were his real name.

The entire company came to pay their final respects.

Colonel de Bréhant was also present. He had four funerals to attend that morning.

In the absence of Catholic priests—those in Acadia had been removed before the Acadian deportation in 1755 to deprive the population of guidance that might have helped them avoid, perhaps, the terrible fate they were still enduring on this vast island—the colonel took the lead.

"Gentlemen, we are gathered on this sorrowful day to bid farewell to Hippolyte Richard Antoine Berlotin, born January 6, 1738, in Corbie, deceased November 23, 1758, in the service of the King."

Only the colonel's calm and solemn voice could be heard. Before him, the young soldier lay in his hastily built coffin, waiting to be lowered into the grave his friends had dug.

"Hippolyte, or P'tit Pol to all who knew him well, joined the royal army with his friends here present. I invite them to speak if they wish to say a few words about their comrade."

They had previously agreed that Jules would speak. Clenching his fists and with red-rimmed eyes, he pulled a small piece of paper from his white coat.

"P'tit Pol, from the moment we spoke for the first time, I knew we would become good friends. I wasn't wrong, because you were always there for me, just as you were always there for Jean, Louis, François, and Charles. You were… You were always cheerful, always smiling, imaginative when it came to playing pranks on those around you. With your faithful accomplice, François, you got up to all sorts of mischief! I remember, for instance, the time you placed a big pile of cow dung on the church porch. You covered it with dead leaves, set it alight, and knocked on the church door to draw out the priest. The poor man, suspecting nothing, tried to stamp out the fire and ended up ruining his robe and shoes and had to wash his feet."

The soldiers chuckled softly at the story, and Adam smiled, hearing it for the first time. Even the colonel allowed himself a small grin.

"We were inseparable, and it was so we wouldn't be parted that you joined the Picardie regiment. Despite the hardships, you stayed strong, and even when things were tough, you tried to lift our spirits. Today, you're gone, and there's no one to make us laugh. You leave a great void in our hearts, P'tit Pol, but look at how many have come to say goodbye. See how many friends you have. We will truly miss you."

Jules silently folded his paper and returned to his place. One by one, Jean, Louis, Charles, and finally François placed a comforting hand on his shoulder to tell him it was a fine speech.

The colonel resumed the ceremony, saying a prayer and reading a passage from the Bible before asking if anyone had objects to place in the coffin.

Unfortunately, it was no longer the season for pretty flowers. The simple wooden box was closed and nailed shut.

Finally, using ropes slipped beneath it, the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave. The ropes were retrieved, and under the tearful eyes of the friends, the grave was filled in. A wooden cross with the deceased's name engraved on it was placed above.

Adam thought he had no tears left to cry, yet he felt them come and flow endlessly. Beside him, it was no better. Jean, for his part, was like a fountain.

His heart-wrenching sobs could be heard from afar.

Gradually, the soldiers dispersed, leaving the grieving friends alone.