Ryckje Van Schaick

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Here is a new chapter!

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The prisoners of war brought to Quebec under heavy guard—more accurately, forcibly relocated under the threat of muskets and bayonets—generally lived a peaceful life in New France. Yet they never forgot that their presence there was not of their own free will.

Their anger matched their sorrow.

Faced with these emotions, born of injustice or perhaps the loss of a loved one, there were only three possible paths: accept their fate and integrate by renouncing their identity as subjects of King George II; wait out the storm and hope to one day return home to rebuild their former lives; or fight back.

The majority of the displaced—hostages until His British Majesty either secured their release through force or gold, or until the war itself ended—chose to wait and observe.

The French, who were said to be vile, dishonorable, and wretched, treated them well and assigned them various tasks. They could even earn a little money through hard work in shops, warehouses, or the fields surrounding the city.

But an increasing number of them were slipping into the first category: the traitors. The opportunists.

They had renounced the oath they had never spoken, for it was instinctive. They had turned their backs on King George II and the glorious flag uniting England and Scotland.

And why?

In the hope of being treated just a little better than their former neighbors.

Their hearts had been corrupted by the honeyed words of the French enemy. Yet to Ryckje van Schaick, there was no doubt that all these words, all these promises, were nothing but a web of lies, a subtle poison that transformed honorable people into docile dogs.

Worse, they had willingly become the submissive slaves of the French! They bent over backward to serve them, showering them with flattery and bowing low in exchange for a few privileges.

To her horror, Ryckje had watched her father—once the mayor of Albany, a man she had thought respectable—bend the knee. Now she saw him groveling before the governor of New France and the demon accompanying him, the Duke of Richelieu.

The man she once admired now filled her with disgust. Simply being in the same room as him made her want to vomit.

It was as if he had forgotten that her brother, Goosen, had been killed by these monsters.

She clenched her teeth and endured in silence. In their house—which wasn't truly theirs, as they were lodging with a couple who might have seemed charming if they hadn't been French—she had no one to confide in.

Even her mother, Alida, was beginning to fall under their spell. Alida tried to converse with the women of Quebec and to learn their grating, barbaric language.

She seemed so proud whenever she managed to utter a word or two in front of Charlotte Fraisier, their hostess.

To Ryckje's utter dismay, even her younger sister Maria seemed to be falling for these people. What had started as simple curiosity had turned into fascination.

Maria had thus lost her innocence, and her heart had been poisoned by French venom.

The cause? A ball game of extraordinary violence.

Maria had attended one of these matches with their father during one of his breaks and had immediately been captivated. That evening, she spoke incessantly about the game throughout dinner.

Ryckje held back tears but silently wept into her pillow that night as she lay in the bed she shared with her beloved little sister.

It was that night she made a radical decision that would change her life.

***

ACHOO!

Adam, bent over by a forceful sneeze, wiped his nose roughly with the sleeve of his coat, which struggled to keep him warm.

The warm and sunny day from three days ago felt like a distant memory. That night, after the world's first rugby tournament, the wind abruptly shifted from south to north, bringing a sudden drop in temperature more fitting for the season.

At the warmest point of the day, it barely reached ten degrees.

Adam was grateful to have clean clothes, as washing anything in this weather was a challenge. Yet the brave washerwomen still plunged their weary hands into the icy waters of the St. Lawrence River to do their work.

He blew into his hands, watching a thick cloud of white breath rise between his fingers and drift into the cold air.

The sky was a uniform gray, and he suspected snow would start falling any moment.

Having endured a harsh winter in Germany, he wasn't eager to face another. Though he'd never set foot in America before arriving in this body, he had heard terrifying stories about winters here.

He'd also seen pictures that literally sent chills down his spine—school buses turned into frozen statues, the sea frozen solid, snowstorms burying everything under meters of powder, and icicles hanging from every roof.

While he liked snow, there were limits.

Adam might have tolerated all of it if he had the comforts of modernity at hand, but here and now, that wasn't the case. Lighting a room was expensive, staying warm cost a fortune, and dressing warmly wasn't an option since, as a soldier, he had to wear his uniform.

Under his jacket, he wore every shirt he owned, had wrapped a thick scarf around his neck, donned woolen stockings, and wore gloves to protect his hands. That was the best he could do.

ACHOO!

The streets of Quebec were nearly deserted. Naturally, in this biting cold, no one was chasing after a rugby ball. Even Captain Gauthier, now obsessed with the sport, preferred to stay warm.

"François! W-wait for me!"

Adam turned at the sound of his name, which felt increasingly like his own. Responding to it had become as natural as responding to terms of endearment in a couple.

He spotted Martin Morrel de Lusernes, bundled up in layers of clothing to combat the biting cold.

They'd been told quite clearly that if they were cold now, they weren't prepared for the months ahead.

Adam believed it, imagining temperatures plummeting to minus twenty Celsius.

"Why are you running like that, Martin? Is something wrong?"

"I'm wearing three breeches," Martin replied, out of breath.

"And does it help?"

"Not really. I'm still freezing. Aren't you cold dressed like that?"

"I'm freezing. I'm heading to the inn to warm up. They've got a big fireplace. I earned some money last night telling stories to the patrons. I've got enough left for a good omelet with cheese and bacon."

Martin swallowed audibly, imagining a steaming, hearty omelet placed before him while warming his feet by the fire.

"I'm coming with you!" he declared with determination, his cheeks as red as if he'd been drinking.

Perhaps he had been, as it was a good way to warm up.

"No problem, but I can't pay for your meal," Adam said.

"No, no, absolutely not! I've got money!" Martin said, shaking a rounded pouch that seemed quite heavy.

"What's all that?"

"Well, it's what's left of the money my father gave me when he sent me to the barracks. It's not company money, I swear!"

Adam smirked as the young man defended himself as though he'd been accused of theft. Shaking his head, he kept walking.

Inwardly, he admired Martin. The young man was very sensible and responsible, clearly distinguishing between his personal funds and the company's money.

A captain wasn't just a commander; he was also a manager. He had to provide recruits for His Majesty whenever he returned from leave (a task also shared by lieutenants and sergeants) or simply to replenish his ranks. He was responsible for clothing and equipping them.

Fortunately, for all that, the king was relatively "generous." A captain's personal pay was three livres per day, with an annual allowance of 150 livres for recruiting expenses and 1,500 livres for equipping and maintaining his troops (due to France being at war; otherwise, he'd receive only 750 livres).

All of this seemed wonderful, but for a single year, it was ridiculous. It was no coincidence that most captains from humble backgrounds ended up ruined.

Perhaps it was intentional, a way to ensure these positions were left to the wealthy, especially the nobility?

"What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing, I just got lost in thought."

Martin didn't press further and simply walked alongside his friend. Naturally, they fell into step with each other.

They entered a wide, partially cobblestone-paved street, covered in mud, garbage, and piles of dung, some of which had been trampled.

As they passed by a cobbler's shop, the two young men saw a beautiful young lady approaching from the opposite direction. She couldn't have been older than seventeen.

She was stunning despite her humble clothes and stoic expression. Her skin was incredibly pale, almost milky, her lips as pink as a vibrant flower, her eyes hazel, and her hair seemed almost coppery.

For a brief moment, the two French officers felt her gaze upon them, and their young hearts leapt.

Inwardly, Adam knew she was about his age, and even if she hadn't been, one would have to be mad or blind not to feel something upon seeing such beauty.

Strangely, Adam immediately thought of someone else.

She's gorgeous, yet I think she's a step below that young Indian girl.

Despite this thought, he felt his cheeks grow warmer. Martin was no different—if anything, he was worse. His face turned redder than the scarf protecting his neck.

At the same time, the two companions turned to admire the young lady one last time. But what they saw caught them entirely off guard.

Out of nowhere, the young woman produced a long, sharp knife in her right hand and raised it above her head, ready to strike Martin.

In what felt like slow motion, Adam saw the blade descending toward his friend, who struggled to react. The woman's face was now filled with hatred.

Like a ferocious lioness pouncing on her prey, her eyes widened, her teeth clenched, and her fingers gripped the knife's handle so tightly they turned white. Two long strands of hair fell across her face.

"Martin!"

The captain reflexively raised his arms to protect himself, accidentally blocking the attack.

The assailant wasn't very strong—not like that young Indian who had tried to kill Martin during an ambush on the road north of Fort Edward. Simply blocking the attack forced the young woman to step back two paces.

But far from discouraged, she launched herself forward again, still focused solely on Martin, likely seeing him as the weaker of the two soldiers.

"Rhaaa! Die! I'll kill you!" she screamed in English, her voice brimming with hatred.

Once again, she achieved nothing. Martin blocked her attack, this time with Adam's help, as he grabbed her knife-wielding arm.

Martin firmly seized the hand clutching the knife and forced her to loosen her grip—a difficult task, as she screamed and struggled like a demon.

Finally, the knife fell into the mud.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!" she repeated over and over in her language, as if summoning the strength to fulfill her sinister goal.

Like a rabid animal, she bit deeply into Adam's right arm, but he refused to let go.

"Damn, she bit me! She's insane!"

Adam was bleeding but hesitated to strike a woman. Instead, he quickly shifted his strategy, moving behind her to restrain her. Wrapping his arms around her, he immobilized her completely. It was as if she were chained.

"For heaven's sake, calm down, miss!" cried Martin, addressing the young woman who was still thrashing about, now stomping on Adam's feet in a frenzy to break free.

"Ow! She's not listening! Hey, calm down! Calm down! Stop moving!"

"I'll kill all of you damn Frenchmen! Every last one! I curse you all!"

"She doesn't seem willing to cooperate! Oh, reinforcements are coming!"

Indeed, the commotion on the street had drawn attention. Gradually, a crowd formed around the young woman, who was fully restrained in the mud and horse dung.

The young lady now looked nothing like an innocent beauty but rather a madwoman escaped from an asylum.

At that moment, Sybrant Goosen van Schaick arrived, his face pale.

"Ryckje! Th-that's my daughter! Let me through! She's my daughter!" he cried with surprising force, alternating between French and English as the crowd parted for him.

Attempts were made to explain the situation to him, and his face turned ashen. His gaze fell on his poor daughter, now covered in mud. For a brief moment, he saw her tear-streaked face, and his heart tightened to the point of breaking.

Eventually, the city and fort authorities intervened, arresting the former mayor of Albany's daughter.

The knife was collected as evidence, and the two officers were naturally taken to the fort for questioning.

***

The investigation was straightforward, and the findings were damning for the young woman. Despite her age, she faced severe consequences, especially during such troubled times.

Attacking a French soldier was a grave offense. People had been hanged for less.

Her age didn't work in her favor, as boys her age were sent to battle. What's more, the two men she had attacked with a knife were officers—one a captain, the other a lieutenant.

But she was a girl and still under the authority of His Majesty, the British King. Executing her could have severe repercussions for their own prisoners in the colonies and Great Britain.

The officers and the elderly Governor Vaudreuil were in a very difficult position. They had to be firm enough to deter other prisoners of war, who lived almost freely in the towns of New France, but not so harsh as to provoke a cycle of cruelty that might not end until the conflict was over.

Ryckje only realized the gravity of the charges too late and broke down in tears.

This pitiful sight didn't leave the governor unmoved, but it had no effect on the old marshal. The colonel was as torn as the governor.

Of course, the young woman's father sought to defend his child, but here in Quebec, he was nobody. His utility was acknowledged, but that had nothing to do with Ryckje van Schaick.

To avoid this heavy responsibility, Adam and Martin were consulted. They were asked whether they wished to press charges for attempted murder of officers of the King.

Both were surprised but didn't show it. Without the need for discussion, they declined and forgave the act.

This was relayed to the accused, who no longer had tears left to shed.

It was precisely what the colonel, marshal, and governor had hoped for to lighten her sentence.

"Ryckje van Schaick, daughter of Sybrant Goosen van Schaick and Alida van Schaick, born in Albany, we sentence you to forced labor until His British Majesty decides to proceed with a prisoner exchange or pay a ransom for your release. You will be placed under the care of the Augustinian nuns at the General Hospital, where you will be reformed."

The young girl, though she had narrowly escaped the gallows, collapsed to her knees in despair.