12: Skirmish

Even though a treaty had been signed between the Duke of Cumberland and the Duke of Richelieu, peace was far from returning to the region. France had many enemies in the area, and nothing was stopping Great Britain from sending new troops.

The one the old marshal feared most was certainly the eternal rival, the old enemy—Great Britain. Their soldiers were in no way inferior to those of the King of France. They were known for their iron discipline, whereas the King's armies relied more on sheer numbers. With a single stroke of the pen, His Majesty Louis XV could raise between two hundred thousand and three hundred thousand men! In contrast, the old King George could barely muster, if his Parliament so wished, sixty thousand men at best!

What the duke feared more than His Majesty's British soldiers were their warships. It seemed to him that they had always been obsessed with controlling the seas and oceans. The title of champion in that field had long been contested, especially with the Dutch, but unfortunately, it was the old enemies of France who had taken the lead. This had played a decisive role in previous wars, even under the glorious reign of Louis XIV.

Although significant investments had been made under his successor, nothing seemed able to bridge the gap that separated the two rivals. During the War of Austrian Succession, they had lost many ships, either sunk or captured, to the point that ten years later, there was hesitation to send these costly floating fortresses out to sea.

The Crown, however, had no choice, for by choosing to keep its proud ships, many of which had been launched in the final years of the previous conflict, sheltered in a port, it risked seeing them simply rot in place.

Despite all this, it was not them who were currently giving Marshal Richelieu a hard time.

The enemy was so small, so little-known that most French officers struggled to locate it on a blank map. This enemy was called Brunswick-Lüneburg, or more simply, Hanover. Despite the Treaty of Kloster Zeven, the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg continued fighting and harassed the French troops wherever they were found.

And currently, it was in the city of Brunswick that he was stationed, practically at the gates of Hanover, as if to keep watch and pounce at the first misstep. The Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg was a fairly young man from what he had heard, not even forty years old. Perhaps this influenced his way of waging war?

What was certain was that he was very annoying. He had started attacking his units on September 12, but every time he sent a troop to eliminate him, he vanished. In a way, he resembled him since he himself had used this dishonorable but very effective strategy.

Ah, this man exhausts me! lamented the officer in his splendid office in Brunswick, at Brunswick Castle, overlooking a rectangular, cobblestone square. If I could catch him, I would be much more at ease!

The duke's dark eyes fell on a multitude of reports and maps. Like a hunter tracking his prey, he followed his every movement, hoping to find the next target before he acted and thus cut off any retreat.

This slippery eel… He strikes everywhere. He has clearly divided his forces to cover a wide area. Can't he fight like a real man?!

From what he knew, His British Majesty supported him and had entrusted him with the command of the British and Hanoverian troops. He would not, therefore, cross paths with the Duke of Cumberland again anytime soon, a man covered in shame and disgrace.

The Duke of Cumberland, at least he would have faced me head-on!

KNOCK KNOCK

Someone knocked on the office door, causing the duke to abruptly lift his head.

"What is it?"

"Forgive me, my lord, a report has just arrived. A troop movement has been spotted. It's quite significant."

"Let's see it. Oh? Do we know who the commander is?"

"No, sir," replied an officer respectfully, dressed very elegantly as if he were at Versailles. "Only their numbers and position are known for now."

"I see. Send a battalion there with some cavalry. I want them to move out immediately."

"At your command!"

***

Adam walked rather calmly among his comrades, taking a dirt road like so many he had seen since arriving in this era. Occasionally, his foot would hit a stone sticking out of the ground, causing him pain. His shoes, though recently repaired, were once again showing signs of wear.

For Little Pol, it was worse. Both his shoes were wide open at the front, giving him a perfectly ridiculous appearance.

On their captain's orders, they were marching briskly eastward, where enemies had been spotted.

The reason he wasn't worried was that so far, if there had been skirmishes, they never lasted very long. Often, the enemy would flee upon seeing them arrive. More than causing them casualties, these enemies, whether Hanoverians, Hessians, or Prussians, were wearing them out and wasting their time.

It will be like the other times. They'll flee as soon as they realize we're numerous.

Indeed, this time their number was not limited to a few dozen people. There was an entire battalion, over six hundred soldiers, six hundred and forty to be precise. This unit consisted of sixteen companies, each with forty men.

Each soldier had a number. It was a ranking by seniority. Numbers 1 and 2 were sergeants, numbers 3 and 4 were corporals, numbers 5 and 6 were anspessades. The rest were simple soldiers. Adam was part of this category; however, despite his young age, he was not at the bottom of this ranking. In fact, he had signed his six-year contract in 1756, over a year ago. He was somewhere in the middle.

However, his situation had changed a bit a few days after the signing of the peace treaty at Kloster Zeven. His efforts had been noticed by the officers, and he had managed to advance significantly in the ranking. He was now number 8, very close to being promoted to anspessade! All he needed was to accumulate more merit or wait for those ahead of him to move up. Indeed, if number 2, for example, left for another unit or was promoted, then number 3 would become the new number 2 and thus be promoted to sergeant.

This change, though minor, had been the last action of Monsieur de Chevert as commander, as he had encouraged the men to train more and thereby reduced disorder in the camp while peace was being negotiated under the watchful eyes of foreign dignitaries. Monsieur de Chevert had left the army shortly thereafter to return to France, having fallen ill to the point where he could no longer fulfill his duties properly.

Adam sincerely hoped that he would recover quickly, for having seen him speak with his men, he could say that he was a good officer and a good person.

Even if there's little chance, I hope I can catch the officers' attention!

This desire was so strong that he almost felt as if he could hear François encouraging him from somewhere within. As excited as a flea, he marched briskly towards a peaceful hamlet surrounded by bare fields conforming to the shape of the terrain and wooded areas. The place was silent.

Suddenly, a troop appeared in the distance. Quickly, they gained a height not far from the first houses.

"The enemy is there! Forward!"

On the order of the captain, who was also the commander of one of the companies, the troop began to advance in a column straight toward the enemy, without trying to deploy beforehand. At this distance—about four hundred meters—they were not at risk of being shot. The maximum range of the rifles of that era was around two hundred and fifty meters, and they had to get within one hundred to one hundred and fifty meters to cause real damage.

Adam saw the enemy take position and spread out over a fairly impressive length. A knot began to form in his stomach as the battalion he was part of continued to advance.

The enemy took up firing positions.

They moved! They're going to shoot at us!

A long white cloud, followed closely by a distant detonation, not much different from an innocent firecracker, appeared in front of the rifles. Adam closed his eyes and, for the first time in his life, sincerely prayed to be spared.

When he reopened his eyes, nothing had changed. No one had fallen around him, and he himself was unharmed.

His hands suddenly became clammy on his heavy rifle, which he held vertically, and his heart pounded like a war drum. Even though he felt his body lose all strength and start trembling violently, he didn't stop walking.

Without realizing it, he was following the orders of his captain, a man with a stern face and a drooping nose, who unlike him, did not have a rifle but a magnificent saber with a golden hilt.

Slowly and in good order, without saying a word, naturally, the soldiers formed three lines facing the enemy, who had understood that it was useless to fire now despite their advantageous position.

Oh my God! Is… Is this what a real battle is like?!

Around him, everyone behaved differently. Some were as calm as Tibetan monks, while others regretted the day they had signed up, knowing they might end up with holes in their skin.

Thanks to frequent drills, the sixteen companies present were in position.

"Forward, march!" thundered the captain in charge of leading the entire troop by virtue of his seniority.

Like a robot, Adam began to move forward at a steady pace through the empty fields, where a few stalks of wheat remained after the July and August harvests. His shoes sank slightly into the loose soil, as if the earth itself was trying to hold him back.

To prevent his neighbors, including Louis, who was on his right, from hearing his teeth chattering, he clenched them tightly. His breathing had quickened as if he had performed an insurmountable feat.

Clinging to his rifle like a sacred relic, he continued to advance, knowing that the closer he got, the more danger he was in.

A new series of detonations cracked in front, accompanied by a large white plume. A light north wind was blowing at that moment. The smoke, heavy with the smell of gunpowder, was soon carried off towards the tall trees, black as ink.

The captain gave his orders, and the French troops halted before quickly taking up their positions.

Adam, who was in the second line on the right flank, felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he dared to hope that the man in front of him would make a good human shield.

The order to fire was given, and an infernal noise exploded in his ears. A thick fog reeking of burnt powder suddenly formed in front of him, completely obscuring his view of what was happening ahead.

Did I… Did I hit someone?!

No one but God could answer that question, for they were not aiming to be precise. Acting as one and firing together, a large number of lead balls had crossed the field at great speed. Who could say with certainty that his shot had done better than the one fired by the man next to him?

On the officer's command, he lowered his rifle and reloaded his weapon as he had done so many times before. These movements, he knew by heart. His efforts paid off, as he finished before many of the other soldiers. But in the meantime, the enemy had had time to reload.

They fired again, and without him realizing it, death brushed past him. He noticed nothing except a faint whistling sound. Instinctively, he reached for his ear, but noticed nothing unusual. Out of the corner of his eye, not daring to move, he looked around. Some in the first line had been hit. This was not the case for the man in front of him, who was likely as happy as everyone else to still be alive.

Compared to the number of shots fired, the losses were very few. Most of the projectiles ended up in the ground as they quickly lost speed after leaving the barrel.

There were several such exchanges of fire, sometimes interrupted by an order to advance and thus shorten the distance between the two troops. Then the order was given to fix bayonets to the rifles.

His hands trembled, but with a small effort, he managed to do it. He then recalled the sensation of killing another man with that terrifying weapon—the resistance of muscles, fat, and bones. The sight of blood running down the blade. The sound of agony. The smell of death.

"Charge!"

He began running towards the enemy, the point of his weapon aimed forward, hoping and praying that it would all be over quickly. Halfway there, he saw a small number of cavalrymen pass them and strike at an enemy already breaking formation to abandon their position.

The clash occurred shortly before he reached the top of the small hill, where a few dozen bodies lay, some merely wounded.

"We… we won!"

That's what came out of his mouth, but inwardly, he was crying like the child he still was, begging fate to grant him the right to return to his own time.