Hello! I'm back with a new chapter!
Thank you Mium, Porthos10, Ranger_Red, Dekol347, AlexZero12, TheHumble_Dogge, George_Bush_2910 and Shingle_Top for the support!
Enjoy!
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It had been nine days since they had haunted the woods north of Albany.
Nine days of light, mischievous rain, of shivering and waiting in a makeshift camp barely worthy of common highwaymen.
Nine days of living like beasts, in a wilderness as vast as it was dense, as if determined to swallow them whole.
Adam lowered his head and brushed aside a drooping branch—one that had likely grown that way to avoid competing with those above for light. He took care not to slip on the dead leaves covering the ground like a treacherous carpet.
The slope was steep here, and one had to tread carefully.
Using a root as a foothold, Adam made his way down without trouble toward the first tents, hidden among the tight cluster of trees. They had been camouflaged with small branches and ferns.
His coat was heavy with moisture, his worn shoes caked in mud, and every step he took seemed to sap his strength. It felt as if his boots were made of lead.
Beneath his feet, the leaves and pine needles formed a spongy layer. The air smelled of wet wood, damp earth, and freshly cut timber. But there was no trace of the now-familiar scent of campfires.
They were too close to Albany, which had become a garrison town and supply depot. It had been deemed wiser not to light any fires rather than risk being discovered.
After so much time and effort, it would have been a shame to ruin everything for such a foolish mistake.
It wasn't the glow of the flames that worried Adam and André the most—it was the smoke.
With the recent rains, it was impossible to find dry wood.
And using wet wood meant thick white smoke!
Even though they weren't camped right under Albany's walls, it was highly likely they'd be spotted within minutes.
So they endured the cold and damp in silence.
They also had to eat what little they had without heating it up, which greatly limited their options.
Adam passed two motionless figures huddled in their coats. Despite their weariness, the sentries remained alert. They turned toward him and offered a salute.
"Captain," the two men said in tired voices, making no effort to hide their boredom.
"Gentlemen," Adam replied simply, just as flatly. "Anything to report?"
"Nothing at all, Captain."
He heard the disappointment in their tone. People tended to forget that idleness gnawed at the nerves. Surely, they had hoped for some movement, for a chance to prove themselves.
For now, there was nothing but waiting.
Adam nodded.
"Very well. Good work. Keep it up. I'm sure our time will come soon."
He too was growing tired of these woods and of this silence.
A cold droplet slipped down his poorly protected neck and surprised him. As if swatting a mosquito, he quickly brought a dirty hand to the spot, despite his efforts to stay clean.
He scratched his cheek, now covered by a faint beard, slightly darker than his greasy hair. There was no way to wash out here.
At best, he could rinse off and rub his body down with a damp cloth.
Rank didn't matter—behind enemy lines, everyone shared the same hardships.
Under a large pine whose lower branches had been trimmed to conceal the tents, he spotted Beau-Regard.
The man straightened up as soon as he saw him.
"Good morning, Captain!"
"Ah, Beau-Regard. Are you managing to stay dry here?"
The man, now sporting a faint beard that barely clung to the curve of his jaw and beneath his nose, gently shook his head.
"Not really, but I need to stand. I can't spend all my time in the tent, can I?"
Adam gave a faint smile and looked up at a patch of sky framed by a web of increasingly bare branches.
"With a bit of luck, all these clouds will scatter soon."
"Honestly, I don't really believe that. Doesn't bode well for what's ahead."
"Let's hope we won't be stuck here through the winter. If that happens... we'll probably have to move camp farther from Albany."
"So we can make fires?"
"Exactly. Hmm, have you seen Captain Louis?"
Beau-Regard thought for a moment and turned south.
"I think he's that way."
Adam nodded and slowly made his way toward the center of the small camp. There were thirteen tents there, arranged roughly in a half-circle.
In the middle, only black mud remained, marked by the passage of the small troop. It was so thick and sticky one could easily sink into it and lose a shoe. Best to avoid it.
Adam took a wide detour and passed several of his men, busy mending their clothes or repairing their boots. Others kept themselves occupied by maintaining their weapons.
No one spoke loudly. No one joked.
It was as if death had passed through and was now waiting patiently in a corner.
Under one tent, a few soldiers tried to rest and regain their strength. Despite the canvas above their heads, they slept fully dressed, clutching their muskets like a stuffed toy—or a woman.
He continued walking until he reached the small promontory from which the valley could be watched. Albany lay below, grey and mournful like the sky, on the banks of the Hudson River.
André was there, crouched, spyglass in hand.
He didn't say anything when he heard Adam approach. Over time, he had learned to recognize his footsteps.
The seasoned captain moved the spyglass away from his eye and gave a small nod to his friend, who returned the greeting in silence. By now, that silence had become a form of language.
There was nothing to report.
"It's really quiet," André murmured. "No carts. Just a single rider. He passed by about an hour ago."
"Hmm… Did they change their route?" Adam asked, eyes fixed on the small town.
"Impossible. There's no other way. Not for wagons, and especially not in this weather."
"So, they've got nothing to send to their army?"
André Louis shook his head.
"Looks like they brought enormous quantities with them. We might have to wait a few more days."
Adam glanced sideways at his friend, then looked back toward their camp.
"The men are getting tired," he said softly. "They're holding on, but I can see in their eyes—they're nearing their limits."
"Already? Haha."
A bitter smile spread across his lips. His laugh sounded hollow, almost like a cough.
"Then what kind of state would they be in under Richelieu?"
Of course, he understood. These young men, though trained, still lacked real experience.
"I don't know what worries me more, André," said Adam. "The silence of the English, the morale of our men, or disease."
"We've got sick men?" André asked at once, suddenly serious.
"Not yet. But if this continues, it won't be long. Especially if we can't light fires to warm ourselves or dry our clothes. We're heading for disaster."
"I know. But there's nothing we can do. Not right now, at least."
He paused briefly, then exhaled.
"Would be nice if those damned redcoats all got sick. If they just dropped dead…"
"You mean the ones besieging Fort Bourbon?"
"Yeah, them—and all the others. Everything would be so much simpler… and we could finally go home."
He packed away his spyglass and gazed out at the horizon.
"The New World is really starting to wear me down. I want to go back to France."
Adam didn't reply, but the thought resonated deeply within him.
Then, suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps through the underbrush broke their exchange. A young soldier burst forth, panting.
"Captain!"
André and Adam stood up at once. The soldier—a scruffy man who looked more like a coureur des bois and belonged to André Louis's company—had eyes burning with renewed fire.
"A convoy is approaching! Coming from the south, heading toward Albany! It won't be long now!"
The two officers' eyes lit up at the news.
"How many wagons? And what escort?"
"Three wagons, sir! Escorted by a dozen soldiers!"
André sprang to his feet.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, Captain! They looked heavily loaded!"
Adam exchanged a look with his friend, and wide, predatory smiles spread across their tired faces.
"Looks like we're finally going to get to work," he said, cracking his neck.
"It was about time! Good! With eight thousand men, those cursed redcoats must eat like beasts. Let's see how long they can last without supplies!"
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A few hours later, among the trees lining the road to Fort Bourbon, three kilometers from Albany.
The wind stirred the remaining leaves still clinging to the branches. The wagons moved slowly, creaking at regular intervals like some worn-out machine.
Their wheels sank deep into the mud, leaving behind long, narrow tracks.
Around them, men in red and white uniforms marched at a steady pace, adjusting their speed to match that of the wagons. Since leaving Albany—where they had stopped briefly—they had already gotten stuck twice.
Here, the road sloped gently downward, which made things easier, but just ahead, about ten meters away, it rose again. Everyone hoped they wouldn't get bogged down again.
Everything seemed peaceful.
Fort Bourbon was far too distant for the rumble of cannons to be heard.
In the undergrowth to the left of the road, Adam and his men lay hidden behind trees and bushes. André Louis's company was on the opposite side.
They couldn't see each other, but they knew their comrades were there, silent, ready to open fire on the convoy.
Adam clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on his musket. He was confident.
They had confirmed the convoy's size and the strength of its escort. All the odds were on the French side.
They had the numbers, the terrain, the element of surprise… and their morale was restored.
He turned his head slightly toward his men. He could make out a few of their faces—tense and determined.
Adam stood at the center of the line, Bellemaison held the left, and Marais was on the right. They would make short work of those poor bastards who had no idea they were being watched.
They're so slow…
He swallowed hard as the first wagon finally passed in front of him.
André Louis's orders had been clear: they had to wait until the whole convoy was level with them, committed to the slope that would act as a trap. The signal would come from him.
Adam drew a slow breath.
We can't miss. They suspect nothing. It'll be over in seconds.
The escort showed no sign of concern. As far as they were concerned, the enemy was still holed up in Fort Bourbon—still "Fort Edward" in their minds.
They naturally believed they had nothing to fear in these woods.
One of them, walking to the left of the lead wagon, was limping slightly. More worried about his aching foot—which had been bothering him for days—than the safety of the convoy, he noticed nothing amiss.
Neither did his comrades. None of them saw the hostile eyes watching them in silence from all around.
His musket hung lazily from his shoulder, dangling from its strap. If danger struck, he'd lose precious seconds raising it, cocking it, and aiming.
The two wagons behind, pulled by small but sturdy draft horses, struggled along the muddy trail, but followed.
Suddenly, the first wagon stopped.
"He's stuck! We need a hand over here!"
"Three men to push! Don't let the other two stop!"
Adam had no trouble understanding the English, despite their thick accents, which made it sound like several of them had had their teeth yanked out without anesthesia. Very slowly, he raised his musket and took aim at the first soldier's back.
Bang!
A gunshot rang out, immediately followed by a full volley—barely a heartbeat later.
Thick, white smoke billowed around the middle of the convoy.
Screams erupted.
Then everything went quiet.
The smoke cleared quickly.
Adam raised his head and saw that not a single redcoat was left standing.
The three horses had panicked. Though they tried to flee despite the weight they pulled and the sticky mud, they didn't get far.
They were quickly subdued.
Adam and his men emerged from their hiding spots. While some checked for survivors, others began inspecting the wagons.
He ignored the body of the man he had shot—who had actually taken three bullets—and made his way to the back of the first wagon, packed with crates and sacks.
"Jackpot."
Everything's easy when you've got enough men.
Anspessade Petit climbed into the wagon and quickly glanced over the contents.
"Beer, vegetables, fruit, meat, flour, Captain!"
Well, we'll have to thank them for their generous donation.
Adam watched the young man jump down and walked over to find André behind the third wagon.
"Well?" the latter asked as his young friend approached.
"Just food. You?"
"Same. Not bad, but not much for eight thousand men. There'll be more convoys—others like this, or bigger."
"Hmm. And once they realize these wagons never made it…"
"They'll be on guard and increase the escort," André concluded. "Still, that's something less for Fort Bourbon to worry about."
Adam nodded and scratched his head, dislodging a few lice.
"We should get them off the road, then. Won't hide them for long, but it's better than just leaving them here."
"And the horses?"
Adam examined his dirt-covered fingernails, thoughtful.
"They're valuable. We should keep them."
"Alright, we'll see. First, we need to unload whatever we can carry. The rest—we destroy it along with the wagons, but no fire."
"Captain Louis," said Lieutenant Marais, just arriving, "where we were hiding, there's a good slope. We could push the wagons down there."
Orders were given, and the soldiers set to work without delay. They carefully chose what to take, factoring in weight, volume, fatigue, and what supplies were left back at camp.
No one would leave empty-handed.
They prioritized nourishing, easy-to-carry, long-lasting foods like fruit, vegetables, and smoked or salted bacon. The rest was left in the wagons.
The soldiers unhitched the three horses while others loaded the wagons with the redcoats' corpses.
It took barely fifteen minutes.
Finally, they began dragging the wagons off the road to the left, by far the most difficult part of the entire operation.
The wagons crushed the undergrowth and struggled to move even a few inches in the mud.
Regret set in quickly—it would have been wiser to leave the horses hitched and remove them only at the end.
After over an hour of hard work, the first wagon rolled down the designated slope, barely thirty meters from the road, and crashed nearly ten meters below into a massive moss-covered tree.
The second wagon followed close behind, then the third, which came to rest a few meters further down, in a stream.
Aside from some suspicious tracks in the mud, all signs of the ambush were gone.
André Louis, forehead slick with sweat and breathing heavily, turned to his men:
"No reason to stay here. Let's go."
No need to say it twice. Everyone loaded themselves up like pack animals and vanished into the woods, disappearing from the road as if they'd never been there.
Adam lingered a second longer and looked in the direction of Albany.
It wasn't visible from here.
Without any clear thought, he turned away and joined the others, arms full of cabbages, leeks, onions, and carrots.