Snakes In The Mist

I have added a note under the previous chapter.

Here's a new chapter!

Enjoy!

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The sun had timidly risen on the fifth day of the siege, but it quickly proved as merciless as the previous two days. The third and fourth days had been hot and dry, which was perfect for the besiegers. The ground had become solid under their feet once again.

The light mist vanished like a mirage, leaving behind only an almost stifling heat.

However, this sudden change in temperature didn't benefit only the British, who were busy digging deep trenches. Both among them and the French entrenched in Fort Edward, soldiers were falling sick one after another.

For now, it wasn't too much of a problem, but the officers feared further weather changes and a collapse in troop morale.

Cough! Cough! Cough! Cough!

Adam coughed violently, hurriedly placing a hand over his mouth to avoid infecting his comrades.

Damn. This is starting to wear me down.

Adam had started coughing two days earlier in the afternoon. At first, it was just a slight discomfort in his throat, like he had gone too long without water, but by the next day, things had worsened.

He couldn't stop coughing, and he wasn't the only one in the fort.

Cough!

Around him—within just a small section of the ramparts—there were about a dozen men coughing. Some had only a light cough, while others seemed on the verge of coughing up their lungs.

"Prepare yourselves! Check your muskets and cartridges!"

Adam struggled to hold back a cough as he gave his final instructions. No one would judge him, but he wanted to do things right.

He looked up and saw nothing but a blue sky and a shining sun. It gently warmed the air and his skin but did nothing to ease the tense atmosphere.

They were all gathered on the ramparts, careful to keep some distance from the cannons so as not to get in the gunners' way.

Compared to the first day, there were more cannons on this side of the rampart; however, Adam felt that the layout was still far from ideal for defending the fort effectively.

"They're entering their trenches!"

Adam looked toward the enemy camp, vast and bustling, and indeed saw that men were beginning to enter the long trench line stretching between the fort and their neatly arranged tents.

The British soldiers, tiny from this distance, were taking turns descending and resuming their work where they had left off the day before.

"Cannoneers… Fire!" shouted Colonel Bourlamaque, lowering his arm.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Three cannons fired at the same time, and almost immediately, three large brown plumes rose in front of them, hitting the enemy lines. Unfortunately, the British had done good work.

Their trenches were intelligently constructed to prevent enemy cannonballs from killing many soldiers at once. They had started by creating a long line parallel to their camp, before digging approach trenches.

These weren't straight but zigzagged to protect the soldiers inside. It was a classic strategy taught to all officers, whether they were from England, France, Spain, Italy, or anywhere else.

Then, the British soldiers had dug a second parallel line, connecting the approach trenches.

It was exhausting work, but necessary to bring down a fort with minimal loss. Had James Abercrombie not used this at Fort Carillon, it was because he believed sheer numbers would suffice to break French defenses. He was wrong, and it cost him dearly.

Marshal Richelieu hadn't followed this approach during the siege of Fort Edward either, because he had taken the British soldiers by surprise in a nighttime attack. But he was well aware of the risk he was taking. In case of failure, he had planned to besiege this fort by the book.

Adam saw the redcoats advancing quickly in their trenches and getting back to work. With their numbers, they managed to gain several dozen meters each day without suffering heavy losses.

Far from rushing, they continually reinforced their positions as they gained ground. Cannons could be useful, but their destructive power was very limited under these conditions.

The earth from the trenches was shoveled over the top and served as protection for the soldiers covered in dirt and sweat.

The British were, Adam had to admit, very disciplined and very efficient. Not only did they work quickly, but they also worked well. In two days, they had managed to advance more than fifty meters!

Damn! At this rate, they'll reach the embankment soon! If we don't do something, they'll use our ditch as a communication line between their trenches! We really messed up!

Cough! Cough! Cough!

But what can we do? Are we really just supposed to watch them keep going until they're within firing range? Thankfully, we're not short on powder and cannonballs, but it's not enough!

The Marquis de Montcalm stepped out of his office to observe the enemy, but seeing that they were still far off, he didn't linger on the rampart.

He didn't show it, but he was also very frustrated by the situation. He wanted to make a sortie, attack the enemy while they were busy, but the operation was too risky.

The enemy might be prowling in those woods, waiting for him to make a mistake, ready to ambush him and take him down like a dog before turning toward the fort.

All he could do was wait for the enemy to launch a new assault that would cost them dearly. In the meantime, he meticulously recorded the enemy's progress on his map.

In red ink, he drew the new trenches with the help of his officers and, in a separate document, recorded all the day's events in minute detail. This document bore an uncanny resemblance to a journal.

Once this siege was broken—he had no doubt of their chances for victory—he would send it to Versailles so it could be presented to His Majesty. Perhaps, upon reading it, they would understand his constant need for soldiers, numerous and disciplined, to prevent George II's troops from reclaiming what had been captured through heroic battles.

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During the night, the soldiers on watch remained vigilant, spying on every movement, their eyes fixed on the enemy trenches. Every snap of wood, every sound, could signal an imminent assault. The events of the first night had deeply marked their minds, reminding them not to rely on the English to fight honorably (even though they had done the exact same thing to capture this fort). But despite their progress, the English were, for now, content to reinforce their positions and work only by day.

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The sixth and seventh days were not very different, but on the eighth day, when they finally reached the deep ditch surrounding the fort, there was a major attack.

A thick mist blanketed the landscape, making the hills and trees look like ghosts. The rising sun didn't improve visibility; if anything, it gave the scene a golden hue. However, thanks to a few telescopes, the French were able to see the enemy approaching.

In reality, they had already been in the trenches for some time. Slowly, stealthily, they advanced like red snakes.

Quietly, the soldiers were ordered to prepare for the attack. The air, though cool, was heavy with tension. It felt as if the dense fog was a gas waiting for a tiny spark to ignite the entire region.

Adam, exhausted from his relentless cough, silently watched these dishonorable foes approach. With his pistol in his slightly trembling hand, he observed their movements, still unaware that their disgraceful maneuvers had been detected.

Around him, everyone was silent and discreet; you could barely hear them breathe.

They're bringing ladders… So, they do intend to launch an assault.

The distance between the last trench and the fort's walls wasn't small, but it could be easily covered. Only now did he regret not having suggested burying stakes to injure any redcoats who managed to reach that point.

Bah, anyway, the commander would probably have refused, saying it wasn't worthy of them. What nonsense!

"Psst! What are they doing?" whispered an impatient soldier.

"Silence, back there. They're approaching. Be ready," murmured Adam, tightening his grip on his pistol, holding back a cough.

Adam clenched his teeth and turned his gaze back to the enemy gathered before them, practically under their noses. He couldn't help but shiver, uncertain if it was fear or impatience to fight. The waiting was torture.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colonel Bourlamaque lower his arm, and immediately, all hell broke loose, taking the redcoats by surprise.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The cannons thundered, aiming at the trench and recoiling under the force of the blasts. At the same time, countless muskets roared and cracked at the men frozen in terror.

The brave redcoats were the first to react, leaping out of the trench and climbing up the ladders, only to be met with another volley of musket fire.

Smoke mixed with the morning mist and, with no wind to disperse it, lingered heavily.

The English, swift and fierce, reached the fort walls and brought up new, long, sturdy ladders. Once in position, they started to climb.

"They're climbing! Watch out!"

The British army was truly remarkable. In an instant, they had managed to get a foothold on the south rampart. On each side, cannons positioned at the Saint-Louis bastion to the east and the crown to the west roared, killing many of the enemy.

Unfortunately, the angle didn't allow complete coverage of the base of the rampart. As soon as the enemy reached the wall, they were out of range. But that didn't mean they were safe.

"Pour the quicklime!"

"Grenades!"

"Quick! Bring more stones!"

"Is the oil ready?!"

"It's still heating!"

The redcoats were truly living a nightmare, but their morale didn't waver, undoubtedly spurred by the sight of their comrades bravely fighting to clear the way. But courage wasn't enough. Surrounded by enemies, they either ended up dead or were thrown over the walls.

Adam saw a head appear not far from him, topped by a snow-white wig and a black tricorne. He finished reloading his weapon, aiming at the man skillfully slipping between a smoking cannon and a comrade, sword in hand.

COUGH!

He had tried to suppress his cough, but at the worst possible moment, he was overcome by a fit that made him pull the trigger too early. The shot fired, but the man was still standing.

"Goddamn it!"

He threw his discharged pistol at the enemy officer, who simply blocked it by raising his arm before drawing his sword. The man, his face impassive and eyes cold, looked at him with a fixed gaze.

His face reminds me of someone. I know! He looks like Jude Law! But with a wig. Damn, he's a spitting image!

"By any chance, is your last name Law?"

The officer raised an eyebrow in surprise and replied in impeccable French.

"No, sir. You must be confusing me with someone else. My last name is Doty."

"Oh, too bad. That would have been funny."

The fake Jude Law took a combat stance, holding a magnificent sword of clearly superior quality to Adam's. Unfortunately, the young man didn't have time to admire it before it lunged at him.

He felt a bead of cold sweat run down his back. Instinctively, he took a step back, which only barely spared him from a chest wound. Luckily, it was light; without that step, he'd be dead by now.

Shit! That was close!

He glanced briefly at his coat, which was starting to stain red.

Ah, that hurts! It stings!

Colonel Doty, commander of his regiment, which had taken heavy losses at Carillon and who had fortunately not been at Fort Edward or Fort Miller when the French attacked, lunged once again at his opponent, who clumsily parried the attack.

Adam, who had received only basic training in swordsmanship, was far below the level of this officer. He was fully aware of this and did his best to keep a reasonable distance between himself and the man who kept his eyes fixed on him.

Damn, this guy's like the Terminator! He doesn't even blink!

Adam was lucky once again when Captain Fontaine noticed him. With Fontaine's help and that of another soldier whose name he didn't know, they managed to bring the colonel down.

The brave colonel collapsed, his uniform soaked in blood, near the white flag with fleur-de-lis still flying above the fort.

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Shortly after his death, the order was given to retreat, as the assault was becoming too costly in lives. Governor Pownall didn't want to risk making the same mistake as Abercrombie and ending up like him—defeated, dead, and shamed for eternity.

The French, though exhausted, didn't make it easy for them, but they didn't block their retreat either. They, too, had suffered heavy losses.

Relieved to be alive, Adam picked up his beautiful pistol, treating it like a trophy. It hadn't moved from where it had fallen—or almost hadn't.

Someone had probably kicked it by accident, and he found it hidden under the carriage of one of the cannons on the south rampart.

He slipped it into his belt and decided to examine his wound.

Gently, he opened his coat, undid the top three buttons of his red vest, and pulled back his blood-soaked shirt. He grimaced immediately.

Ugh! Not a pretty sight. Well, it'll make another scar.

He couldn't help but smile as he looked at it.

But it was worth it, he thought, eyeing his new sword.

It was a stunning beauty with a gold hilt, a black silk-wrapped handle with a golden tassel hanging from the end. The blade itself was thin, straight, and razor-sharp. It was otherwise quite plain, with no inscriptions or engravings.

The young man then thought back to a dream he'd had, in which he relived one of François's childhood memories. His father had retrieved a bayonet and had it engraved—or had it engraved—as a memento of a battle.

Should I do the same with this sword?

Uncertain of the best course of action, he decided to set the question aside for the moment and searched for the scabbard of this sublime blade on the now pale and cold body of the colonel.

Naturally, the scabbard was quite handsome too. It was black and gold, adorned with fine engravings.

Well, that's quite a haul! Yep, it was definitely worth it. Ouch! Ah, fuck! Hmm, I should probably get stitched up.