Hello!
Here is a new chapter!
Thank you Ranger_Red, Dekol347, Porthos10, Mium, AlexZero12, HRN_Dreadnought and Shingle_Top for the support!
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The sun was slowly setting behind the trees, painting the sky in rich colors. Though large clouds drifted above, they didn't seem to carry any rain.
They too had taken on beautiful hues, as if a celestial painter had suddenly felt inspired and spilled his palette without restraint.
The camp, however, had not benefited from this beauty. It remained cloaked in shadow, hidden behind the tall trees, where everything looked dull and gloomy.
Adam trudged between two tents, then past a discreet fire, buried and sheltered. A thin white smoke escaped from it, but it barely gave off any heat.
A little further away, under an isolated canvas, a few men lay down. Their breathing was irregular, punctuated by faint groans.
They muttered deliriously, drenched in sweat, their grayish shirts now sticky and damp. Their clenched fingers gripped the edges of their blankets like castaways clinging to driftwood to keep their heads above water.
Adam stopped in front of one of his men—a giant sergeant named Nicolas Hébert, though most called him "the Cannon" because of his impressive build, even if he was far from matching George, and even further from Akwiratheka.
"How are they doing?" Adam asked in a grave tone.
"No change, sir," the sergeant replied. "They've had something to drink, but we haven't managed to get them to eat."
Adam frowned and turned his head toward the sleeping shapes. Four of them were in that state—two more than the day before.
"Try again. They need to regain their strength, and water alone won't do that."
"A-at your orders," stammered the Cannon, nodding.
The officer, who looked more like a deserter than a commander, let out a deep sigh. He wiped a sweaty hand across his burning forehead.
Damn it. It's worse than this morning, isn't it?
He clenched his teeth.
What he had feared for days was becoming reality. The sickness had finally broken out and was spreading.
For now, it was still manageable, but if everyone ended up like Tournier, Beau-Regard, or those two other soldiers from André Louis's company, then they'd surely be captured… if they didn't die first.
Exhaustion was visible on every face, and yet they had gone down again this morning to intercept another convoy—this time, six wagons.
That was their third raid.
Now they know we're here. If only we'd had more time… No. Nothing would've changed. It was only a matter of days.
The ambush had gone well, but they hadn't had time to erase their tracks. A rider from the north, probably from Fort Bourbon, had passed through shortly after—likely to inquire about Albany's silence.
Ah… They'll tell him they've seen several convoys pass in recent days, and they'll realize they never arrived. This is going to get complicated.
Adam felt a pressure settle on his forehead. It slowly spread through his skull and down his spine.
Since waking up, it had hit him several times and sometimes lasted for minutes.
He moved closer to the fire and leaned his musket against a tree so it wouldn't lie on the ground. Around him, the camp was slowly coming back to life.
The day's loot was meager, especially given the convoy's size, but enough to keep them fed for a few more days. A mutton stew was started.
Slowly, the meat began to simmer among the vegetables, in a broth rich in flavor despite the absence of salt. A delicious aroma rose gently and spread through the camp, gradually attracting the soldiers.
Adam, though famished, felt his stomach twist. The fever was killing his appetite.
A sharp crack from the underbrush froze all the men. Those already holding out their bowls, though the stew wasn't ready, spun around abruptly.
Two figures burst from the trees. One of them was limping.
"All clear! It's Dubois and Frenet!" a soldier reassured them.
A wave of relief swept through the camp. André Louis stood up and walked over to Adam and the two men.
"Captain Boucher, Captain Louis!" gasped Dupuis, his cheeks as red as a British uniform and out of breath from running. "W-we saw another convoy… F-fifteen wagons!"
Adam's heart skipped a beat. These two had been posted south of Albany to alert them early in just such a case.
They were planning to change their hunting ground.
"Fifteen wagons?!" André Louis choked. "And the escort?!"
"M-more than a hundred, sir! They'll be reaching Albany soon!"
André Louis turned to Adam and exchanged a dark look with him.
"If they reach Albany," he said, "they'll soon be warned of our presence in the region. They might leave again with a reinforced escort."
"We could hit them… but everyone's exhausted."
André grimaced.
"So are our comrades at Fort Bourbon. So much for the stew—it'll only taste better when we get back! Gentlemen, take your weapons! All muskets!"
They had recovered several in the past few days from their enemies' corpses. The caliber wasn't exactly the same, but they had also managed to retrieve English cartridges.
Thanks to these extra weapons, they could strike as if they were a hundred and thirty.
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They marched quickly between the trees, using the last light of day, and reached within an hour and a half a spot ideal for an ambush.
Albany was very close now, yet he had been held back to strike a severe blow at the redcoats. The proximity to Albany was meant to help them catch the enemy by surprise.
And this bold idea—it had been Adam's.
The road here formed a wide curve with a high embankment on the left. It would give the French another advantage.
When they arrived, the British were already there, advancing slowly, visibly relieved to be nearing their destination. Many convoys like this one—or larger—were on the way.
They had come from far away, for the northern part of the province had been stripped to allow their army to survive for several weeks without resupply. This particular convoy came from Newburgh, between New York and Kingston.
Silent as assassins, the French soldiers made their final approach, small as mice. Adam turned to his men and placed a finger to his lips. He didn't need to speak to be understood.
Quiet, everyone, Adam ordered silently. They're just ahead of us.
He crept up, almost crawling, to reach André.
"Damn it," André whispered, barely audible. "We didn't manage to get to the other side. What do you think? Should we try farther down?"
"Better not. It's flat there. At least here we have a bit of elevation. Should we go anyway? It's your call."
André looked up at the sky, then down to the road, the carts, the escort, and his comrades. He hesitated.
Adam stayed silent, waiting for his friend to decide. Time was short, and soon it would be too late.
"Would you attack?" André whispered without taking his eyes off the redcoats.
"Hmm, I think I would, yes. They already think they're safe—look at them. And it's starting to get dark. They don't expect anything, that's for sure."
He turned toward his men, crouched in the undergrowth.
"It'll be fine."
André nodded.
"All right then. Let's deploy. Too bad we can't hit them all."
Adam nodded back and quietly gave his orders, more through gestures than words. They moved to the right while the men from André Louis's company positioned themselves on the left.
Hurgh! Fuck!
A fresh migraine stabbed through Adam's skull like a dagger. It was unbearable.
But this was no time to be distracted.
He ignored it and focused on the mission. He slowly cocked his musket, doing his best to remain silent, and checked his second weapon.
The English musket was ready to fire. With every sense alert, he looked one last time at his brothers-in-arms. They formed a long line on either side.
"Ah… haaaaa…"
He took several deep breaths to calm himself and tame the pain. It now felt as if his skull were about to explode.
Adam raised his weapon and took aim at a British soldier.
Bang!
He heard a gunshot from his left, so he squeezed the trigger in turn.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Argh!"
"W-we're under attack! Watch out!"
A hail of lead poured down on the wagon column—or rather, on the uniformed men surrounding it.
The redcoats quickly grasped what was happening and began forming a wall of muskets.
Bang!
Adam heard the wood of the tree shielding him splinter as a bullet struck it. Shards flew everywhere, but he was not in danger.
He grabbed the English musket he used as a secondary weapon and aimed at another soldier.
The man was reloading with trembling hands, fumbling with his ramrod as he tried to insert it into the barrel.
As he packed down the cartridge, he felt something pierce through his body at terrifying speed. The force knocked him off balance.
Before he could utter a sound, the young Englishman landed on his back. His tricorne had flown off.
Winded, he struggled to comprehend what was happening. He remained frozen.
He felt cold. He felt pain. His body was heavy.
He tried to get up, to return to formation, but couldn't.
A warm liquid filled his mouth. He vaguely tasted something metallic and unpleasant.
His head trembled slightly as he made a great effort to lift it, if only to see his wound. But even that was impossible.
When his mouth overflowed, the liquid began to trickle down his cheek like a thin scarlet stream.Even keeping his eyes open was exhausting.
Breathing was becoming more and more painful. Then the pain vanished, and his consciousness faded.
Beside him, another red coat fell, his chest pierced by an English bullet. He collapsed onto the body of his comrade.
The losses quickly—too quickly—became catastrophic. An officer ordered the retreat.
Adam saw it, as did his comrades, and stopped reloading.
"Charge!"
He burst out of cover, his men at his sides.
"RHAAAAAA!"
Bayonet forward, Adam leapt onto the dirt path and lunged at the first Englishman he saw. A boy. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
He had his whole future ahead of him.
He could have lived, married, had children, fought in the War of Independence, been sent to Quebec after Britain's defeat, grown old on a fine estate, and eventually breathed his last surrounded by family.
Instead, he died prematurely like so many others here, on the northern frontier of New York Province, thousands of miles from home.
Adam planted his muddy boot heavily on the boy's back and yanked his bloodied blade free with a sharp tug.
Thwack!
The body remained still, face down in the dirt.
Adam looked around and saw another one, slightly older, but still too young to die. He was running toward him, eyes filled with terror.
He didn't see Adam.
So Adam ran toward him.
"Rhaaaaaa!"
A raw, animalistic cry burst from his lungs.
The Englishman flinched without slowing. He barely had time to place his weapon between himself and Adam's bayonet.
Adam stepped aside, knocked the barrel away, and smashed his elbow into the man's face.
Crack!
"Hurgh?!"
The man's eyes widened, and he staggered back three steps. His nose, broken, turned bright red and a drop of blood ran down to his chin.
But Adam didn't stop.
Taking advantage of his stunned opponent, he lunged a second time. His bayonet slid over a copper button, pierced the coat and the waistcoat underneath.
The blade sank easily into the soldier's flesh. Adam threw in his weight.
In less than a second, the long blade vanished as if by magic into the man's chest. Adam drove him back until he collapsed beside a cart.
Stupefied, the soldier stared up at Adam towering over him. But Adam no longer saw him. His eyes were already searching for the next target.
He yanked the blade from the Briton's chest and left the man to writhe in agony for long seconds.
His migraine was intensifying, so he pushed his body harder to forget the pounding in his head.
Too exhausted, he soon realized he didn't have the strength to continue.
The French officer stopped, panting, and looked around.
Well… what a carnage.
Bodies lay scattered across nearly the entire length of the convoy. Those not yet dead were being finished off with bayonets.
Adam spotted André, sword in hand, covered in blood and dirt. He thrust his blade into a body lying in the middle of the path, thinking he had seen it move.
He was about to call out to him when his gaze caught an English officer on the ground, soaked in blood, clutching his stomach. With a trembling hand, he raised a pistol.
"ANDRÉ!"
Bang!
The bullet hit his friend in the back, on the left side. André winced and fell forward.
The English officer received two bayonet thrusts and died instantly, but the damage was done.
"ANDRÉ!"
Horrified, Adam rushed to his friend, already surrounded by comrades. He dropped to his knees at his side.
André was conscious, but pale, his breathing wheezing.
"Can you hear me?! I'm here!"
"'Course I c-can hear you… Took a bullet, not an ear… Ah… it hurts like hell."
Despite the tears streaming down his face, André managed a faint smile. He couldn't even feel them anymore.
"If you've got enough strength to joke, then you've surely got enough to get back on your feet, right?"
A weak smile formed on André's lips.
"Y-yeah, I could even w-walk to Quebec. Ouch!"
Adam sniffled and clenched his jaw.
"Hey, I'm not dead yet," André muttered. "Why're you crying? Take… Take command. We… We can't stay here."
"Yes… Yes."
Adam stood and looked down the road. His face hardened.
For now, nothing was coming, but very soon Albany would send troops.
"Search the wagons, fast! Take only what we're missing! Burn the rest!"
Exhausted, the soldiers obeyed.
They rummaged through the wagons, looting what they could. Then, without delay, they set them on fire.
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Less than twenty minutes after the attack began, fifteen wagons were burning in eerie silence, surrounded by abandoned corpses.
By the time reinforcements finally arrived, the enemy had vanished, and the supplies were destroyed.
General St. Clair, sent to this front by General Amherst, would be furious when he found out.
Though it meant little to an army as large as his, every supply cart could make a crucial difference in the field.
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Around ten o'clock in the evening, the French finally returned to the camp.
Strapped to the back of "Le Canon," André Louis was in more pain than he had ever known. Every step sent a jolt through his body, as if a white-hot poker were being driven into his back and twisted around for fun.
"A-aaauuuugh!"
Adam, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, strode beside him, eyes fixed on his friend.
"We're here! Hold on, André!"
The red stain on André's white coat had spread even more since they'd left. It now looked so large one might wonder how he was still alive.
As soon as they arrived, Adam barked out orders.
"Get a straw mattress, bring it close to the fire! We need more light! Wood, hot water, and wine—if there's any left!"
He glanced around.
"Does anyone here have medical knowledge?"
No one stepped forward or raised a hand.
The silence made him want to scream.
"Then who's got the cleanest hands? No—who's the least shaky?"
Surprisingly, Le Canon stepped forward.
"I've treated… a-animals before."
"That'll do! Come here, Le Canon. Show me your hands. Meh, it'll have to do. Alright, let's get his coat, jacket, and shirt off! And more light, I said!"
He turned to the hulking soldier with the build of a rugby player, who was already rolling up his sleeves.
"Need anything else?"
"U-uh… what kind of tools do we have? If I have to extract the bullet…"
Adam paled. But thanks to everyone's efforts, they managed to assemble what might—maybe—be enough to save André's life: a pair of tongs, a long narrow knife, a spoon, thread, and a needle.
The wound was roughly cleaned, and Le Canon knelt down, his face unusually serious. He slowly brought the tip of the knife, which had been heated in the campfire, closer to the wound.
He hesitated.
"C-captain, this… this is going to hurt a lot."
André Louis, still conscious despite the pain, gave a faint nod. A thick branch was slid between his teeth.
Then, a terrible scream rose through the woods.
Adam had heard that scream many times over the years, but he had never gotten used to it. This time, it was his friend who was screaming.
"I feel it, I feel it," the big man muttered, more focused than ever and sweating profusely.
He grabbed the tongs—far too big for the task—and plunged them into the wound, now even more gruesome than before.
André stopped struggling. He had lost consciousness.
"I GOT IT!"
Almost surprised himself, Le Canon pulled out the tongs and dropped the small lead ball, now slick with blood. It looked so harmless—and yet… He picked it up from the dead leaves and handed it to his captain, who accepted it with a trembling hand.
"Is he going to make it?" Adam whispered.
The soldier lost his smile.
"I don't know. Uh… I'm not really sure what to do now. I guess I should stitch it up, right?"
No one replied. Le Canon rinsed the wound and poured some wine over it as he'd been told, then took a thick needle meant for mending clothes or boots.
His hands didn't shake, and stitch by stitch, the wound was closed. Finally, he poured more water and wine—this time more generously—and sat down, exhausted.
"I-I did what I could, Captain. I don't know if it'll be enough…"
"I know. Thank you, Le Canon. Really, thank you."
Adam looked at André's face, pale as the moon.
"He'll need rest now," Adam said aloud. "We should move him aside. I'll watch over him."