Enemy Reinforcements

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October 10th was particularly rainy. It was as if the sky had split in two.

Yet, the English cannons, sheltered under a large tarp, continued to fire. Their heavy cannonballs tore through the downpour and struck the thick walls of Fort Edward, but they achieved nothing.

General Forbes, whose anger had long since cooled, was now weary of this siege that made no progress.

The morale of his men was very low, particularly among the provincials, who were threatening to return home unless they were paid. Humidity was omnipresent, and sickness had started to spread.

Although they had made significant efforts to avoid this problem, it had not been enough.

For now, the situation was manageable, but if nothing changed, his entire army would be incapable of fighting. He hoped the French faced the same struggles, but that was doubtful, as their living conditions were far better than his own forces'.

John Forbes let out a long sigh as he gazed outside his tent.

The rain streaming down the thick canvas created a curtain at the entrance. The drops striking the canvas above his head made an infernal racket, preventing him from thinking clearly.

What to do? sighed the officer as he looked for the thousandth time at the map spread out on the table in the middle of his tent. Our cannons are useless against them. If I had mortars, I could destroy their living quarters and possibly reach their powder reserves. Ah… and this rain just won't stop! Damn it! I hate October!

"General! One of our sentinels has an urgent report for you!"

Forbes, pulled out of his thoughts, raised his head and once again looked outside, where it was so dark one might think night was falling.

"Send him in."

Immediately, a young non-commissioned officer entered and gave a rigid military salute. He was drenched, as though he had plunged into the river, and his expression was extremely serious.

"General, our men have spotted an enemy army on the move. They are marching straight toward us!"

"What?! Where are they? Show me on this map!"

The soldier stepped closer to the table and quickly located Fort Edward. Without hesitation, he placed his finger on a road running along Lake George.

"They were spotted here, sir. Their march is slow because of the rain, but at this pace, they'll be here in two days."

"Two days…" murmured the general. "When were they spotted exactly, and where do you estimate they are now?"

"They were spotted yesterday morning, just before ten o'clock. By the time our scout returned to our base near the ruins of Fort William Henry and I traveled here, they must be in this area," the soldier said, pointing to a location much farther south.

That close?! No, it's definitely possible if they don't have artillery!

"Did your scout manage to estimate their numbers?"

"General, he couldn't observe the enemy column in detail, as they had sent some horsemen ahead. He was lucky to return and warn us. According to him, the enemy army stretched for at least a mile, marching three abreast."

The general bit his lower lip and quickly calculated. Based on this information, he estimated the enemy force to be about two thousand men.

If it's just them, it won't be an issue. But if they attack us while we're stuck here, it could be disastrous!

"Anything else to report?"

"N-no, General, that's all. On your orders, I'll tell my men at William Henry to pull back."

"Very well. Good work. You may go. Mr. Hall, I need all our officers here immediately."

"At once."

The officer assisting the general disappeared into the rain and returned several dozen minutes later with Robert Rogers, whose chin was covered with a light brown beard, making him look more like a bandit.

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The ensuing discussion was intense and seemed endless. There was so much to consider that new topics constantly arose.

Then, a soaking-wet regular soldier arrived, followed by a militia officer.

"Excuse me, General, but a regiment of provincials has just arrived."

"Really?" Forbes asked, standing up in surprise.

An officer wearing breeches and a red coat under a navy-blue overcoat stepped forward and removed his black tricorn hat as a sign of respect. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and piercing eyes that seemed to analyze everything methodically.

"Apologies for the late arrival, General. We've come from Virginia and faced atrocious weather nearly the entire way. I bring six hundred men and two mortars with me."

"Oh, that's excellent. Unfortunately, you've arrived too late, Colonel…"

"Washington, General."

"Colonel Washington. We're about to lift the siege. Enemy reinforcements are on their way and will force us to fight on two fronts."

"Oh. Is it truly impossible to take this fort before the enemy arrives? With my men and these two mortars…"

"Colonel," the brigadier general interrupted more sharply, returning to his seat, "we've been stuck here long enough to know that this fort won't fall with a few more militia and two mortars. The enemy could arrive tomorrow or the day after. We won't have time to take the fort, and even if we did, we'd be left with a partially ruined position."

"In that case, perhaps we can stop these reinforcements from arriving! With your men, General, we could surely…"

"Enough!" roared the officer, slamming his fist on the table. "When I need the advice of a mere militia colonel, I will ask for it. Until then, remember your place! Have you seen the state of our men? They have no will left to fight, and some of the provincials want to leave. On top of that, part of my army is sick. And let's not even start on our supply issues!"

He let out a deep sigh, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He continued more calmly, looking the man straight in the eye.

"This siege is a failure. I regret that you and your men came for nothing, but it's over."

George Washington looked uncomfortable and disappointed, but there was nothing more he could do. He glanced at the other officers, who avoided his gaze, and gave a military salute before withdrawing.

***

On the southern rampart, all the French soldiers gazed in astonishment at the spot where the English had set up their camp.

Everyone was silent.

On the morning of October 11, as a fine drizzle resembling an ordinary mist blanketed the region, it was noticed that the enemy was breaking camp.

The cannons, like the dreary landscape, were eerily silent, as if something terrible was about to happen. Montcalm, like every soldier in the fort, remained on high alert, fearing a trap.

But nothing happened.

The tents were folded, the cannons loaded onto wagons along with the remaining ammunition, the cooking pots emptied, and the fires left to burn out on their own.

"They… they're really leaving?!"

"It… it seems so…"

"So… we really…?"

"We've won!"

"Hurray!"

"Another victory!"

"We did it! We held out!"

"Long live the Marquis de Montcalm!"

"Yes!"

Soon, cries of joy echoed throughout Fort Edward. Smiles so bright lit up every face that the gray sky no longer seemed as dreary.

Adam joined his comrades, expressing his relief, for like all of them, he was exhausted. Food had been so rationed that portions had been cut, and the wine diluted even further.

If the enemy hadn't given up, the siege could have become dire in less than ten days. Eventually, the French might have been forced to launch a sortie in a desperate attempt to break the siege.

Adam hadn't seen his reflection in days, but he knew he looked utterly worn out. It showed especially in his eyes, which bore the marks of countless sleepless nights.

He looked like a panda, though there were worse sights to behold.

Monsieur de Bourlamaque, leaning on his heavy crutch to compensate for his missing leg, resembled a ghost. Beneath his powdered wig, his hair had turned entirely white overnight.

By some miracle, he had survived the amputation, but he would no longer be able to serve the King on the battlefield.

Pale as a sheet from his ordeal, he stood on the southern rampart among his men, raising his black-and-gold tricorne. A faint, yet genuine smile lit up his drawn face.

Monsieur de Bréhant, stationed on the Royal Bastion, did the same, sharing in the moment of joy with his comrades, whether from his cherished Picardie Regiment or elsewhere.

Monsieur de Hautoy, on the other side of the fort, watched the English with suspicion as they lowered their flag before rejoining the rest of their departing troops.

Only Montcalm remained calm—at least outwardly.

Seeing him so composed, Adam felt a flicker of doubt creep into his mind.

W-What? Is something wrong? A problem?

"What's the matter, François? You look worried," Albert remarked.

"It's probably nothing. It's just… the commander looks so serious. I wonder if this is a trick to make us drop our guard."

The captain glanced over Adam's shoulder and saw the marquis, strangely silent, as if all these celebrations were far too premature.

"Hmm, I don't think so. Breaking and setting up camp isn't something done lightly, you know? I think they're really gone."

"Do you think we'll pursue them?"

Adam spoke without thinking, but the answer came to him the moment the words left his mouth.

No, he won't. Not after what happened last time. We suffered heavy losses trying to make the English regret besieging us.

"It's very unlikely. The fort's walls need to be inspected and repaired, and more importantly, we urgently need to replenish our supplies. Chasing after an enemy far stronger in numbers would be incredibly risky."

The young man said nothing but nodded slowly, showing he understood.

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The military engineers were responsible for planning and organizing the troops, but as soon as Adam stepped outside, he couldn't resist circling the fort to assess the extent of the damage.

The English cannonballs had ricocheted off the sturdy timber of the region, but each impact had gouged large chunks out of the material, leaving immense craters in the cleverly assembled logs in certain spots.

Here and there, enemy cannonballs lay in the mud, blackened and slightly deformed.

Immediately, the French got to work dismantling the painstaking trenchwork the English had built around their encampments.

Adam was assigned to the eastern side of the royal bastion with a dozen soldiers, a third of whom came from his previous company. Armed with shovels, they began the arduous task of filling in the trenches and communication lines.

Under a light, cold drizzle, they labored hard and made slow progress. The earth was heavy, but the real challenge was the mud, which nearly reached their ankles. Each step took considerable effort, as if the ground itself was trying to trap and swallow them like quicksand.

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By the end of the day, they had managed to fill in only the most significant approach line, the one running from the woods to the base of the glacis in front of the royal bastion.

When Adam returned with his team, covered in mud from head to toe, he noticed that the other teams had accomplished about the same. Nevertheless, their efforts had erased 70% of the siege's traces—excluding the impacts on the ramparts.

Oh, damn! I hurt all over! My legs are gone... my arms are gone... my back is gone... Just finish me off already!

His mud-caked hands were clawed like a bird of prey's talons, trembling and as weak as an old man's. He had worked so hard he could barely move his fingers.

I can't even close them properly anymore! he lamented, gazing at them with despair.

It wasn't the first time he'd been left in such a miserable state. After the previous siege and his brief stay with the Mohawks, he had been ordered to do the exact same task. For two days, he had filled in holes deep enough to bury a man standing upright.

The fact that the earth had been piled along the trench edges to serve as cover hadn't made the job much easier. Still, he knew that digging a trench was even harder, as it involved breaking through compacted soil.

He plunged his hands into a large bucket of murky brown water, scrubbing to clean them. The water was so cold it felt like plunging his hands into ice. The longer he kept them submerged, the more it burned, as though they were on fire.

Unable to bear it after barely thirty seconds, he pulled them out abruptly and scrubbed harder, half to clean them and half to warm them.

Fuck, it's freezing! Couldn't they at least heat the water a little? I'd kill for a hot shower! I just want to clean myself properly!

It was one of the things he missed most since being transmigrated to this era. Simply turning a faucet for potable water had been a luxury, but being able to choose the temperature? That had been paradise.

Sadly, that paradise was now far out of reach.

If he really wanted hot water, he would need to heat it in a pot—a process that consumed a lot of wood—and pour it into a wooden tub already filled with cold water to save time. He'd likely have to repeat the process several times, as the water cooled rapidly.

However, this wasn't an option for everyone. He himself had only experienced it once, in an inn in Germany in the dead of winter.

Ordinary soldiers had to make do with cold water for very basic washing, which explained the overwhelming stench that lingered in the barracks.

Ugh! Blisters everywhere, and half of them have burst...

Adam winced as he massaged his hands and stepped aside from the bucket to let the next man take his turn. He then came across Captain Fontaine, who was chatting with young Martin Morrel de Lusernes, Jean-Baptiste Gauthier, and André Louis.

"Ah, François! Have you heard the latest news?" said Morrel de Lusernes enthusiastically, his broad smile still visible on his dirt-streaked face.

"Hm? No, what is it?"

"Riders arrived at the fort while we were out filling trenches. The duke of Richelieu's army is nearby! He'll be here tomorrow!"

"Really?!"

Adam's eyes widened in amazement, and he instantly understood why the English had decided to lift the siege.

"That means we're finally leaving this place! Haha!"

The young man radiated excitement, as though he were on his way home. The other captains showed less outward enthusiasm, but they too were thrilled to leave Fort Edward behind.

Seeing the same landscapes every day and constantly defending the frontier had been exhausting. Everyone had been waiting for this day and hoped not to return anytime soon.

"Too bad he didn't arrive while the redcoats were still here. That would have been fun to watch," Adam sighed, gazing at the now orange, nearly golden sky.

Everyone smirked, imagining the scene that unfortunately hadn't come to pass.

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Just as young Morrel de Lusernes had said, the old marshal's long marching column arrived at Fort Edward on the morning of October 12th.

The duke of Richelieu, dressed like a true general heading into battle, entered Fort Edward at the head of his troops on a horse as black as his cuirass, through which he wore a crimson sash. His long, gold-ornamented sword swung against his thigh as slender as his arms.

Behind him, his force of about two thousand men marched three abreast to the beat of a drum. They all looked utterly exhausted.

In the crowd, Adam spotted P'tit Pol, Jules, Charles, Jean, and Louis. His heart leapt at the sight of them, as it felt like an eternity since he'd last seen them.

My friends! They look worn out! Poor guys! With any luck, we'll have some time to catch up and rest! We'll have so much to talk about!