Hello! Here is a new chapter!
I hope you will like it.
Thank you Mium, Porthos10, AlexZero12, Ranger_Red, Dekol347 and Shingle_Top for the support!
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The day after the ambush, André's condition didn't improve.
He had a slight fever, but nothing alarming. Adam's was worse.
Exhausted, he had slept all day. He was sweating profusely while complaining of being cold.
Adam had given him every available blanket, but nothing seemed to ease his discomfort. It was as if the thick wool covers were no more than flimsy sheets.
The young man had stayed at his side for hours, cooling his forehead with a damp cloth and listening to him whenever he regained a bit of awareness.
Everything he said was perfectly coherent and understandable, which was reassuring. They had spoken about all kinds of things—some trivial, others tied to their troubling situation.
That day, the French had laid no ambushes. Several heavily loaded wagons reached Albany without incident.
In the early evening, Adam had inspected André's wound with Le Canon. It didn't look good.
The skin around it had turned red, and a strange whitish-yellow liquid was slowly oozing out.
Despite their deep ignorance, they understood the wound was getting infected. Le Canon had expected it, though he had hoped it wouldn't happen.
He had once seen a goat die from an infected wound after a fall. Naturally, he shared his concerns with his superior.
Adam had gotten angry—not at him, but at his own helplessness.
For nearly an hour, they had cleaned the wound with whatever they had. Very carefully, they removed the pus and rinsed the area thoroughly with clean water and wine.
By the end of it, there was only a single mouthful of wine left.
But the next day, the pus had returned—thicker and smellier than before.
André's fever had climbed, likely to thirty-nine or even forty degrees. He could no longer hold long conversations. His exhaustion was too great, and his clarity of mind flickered.
At one point, he even called Adam "Dad."
The wound had also turned darker—closer to the color of a boiled beet. It was swollen and tight, as if the flesh were about to burst.
Le Canon pressed on it, and a mixture of blood and pus began to flow.
That's when Adam understood what was coming.
In this eighteenth century, the risk of infection was always high—and here, in the woods...
The day after, the wound had turned black and swelled even more.
If it had been elsewhere, they would've long since considered amputation. But with a wound on the back, that wasn't an option.
And so, the infection kept spreading.
André no longer had the strength for anything, barely enough to open his mouth. Even drinking took a colossal effort. They gave him what was left of the wine.
Adam brought a spoonful of cereal porridge to his lips—so thin it looked like soup.
"Come on, old man… you have to eat."
"…"
"You're not going to make me feed you myself, are you?"
André didn't answer.
His trembling hands clutched the blanket, and his pale face slowly turned away.
"Just one spoonful. Then I'll leave you be."
Adam could hear his breathing—now just a painful wheeze.
His condition was so dire that seeing him like this tore at Adam's heart.
Then he heard a murmur.
"N-no… don't… waste it…"
Adam's eyes widened.
"What do you mean, 'don't waste it'?! It's not a waste if you eat it, André! On the contrary—it would be a waste if you refuse!"
With difficulty, André cracked one eye open. It was cloudy, lifeless, like a fish that had been out of water too long.
"A-already… dead. Don't… waste it."
Adam felt a cold hand crush his heart.
"D-don't say that! You're going to pull through! You just need to regain your strength! So you have to eat!"
André's lips trembled. He tried to smile, but couldn't.
"B-bad… liar. I know… already… dead. It's okay."
Adam swallowed hard. His vision blurred, and hot tears rolled down his fevered cheeks.
He thought of all the people he had known and lost. He knew the list was about to grow longer.
And it was all the more tragic because the war was nearly over.
"Shame," André murmured.
They sat in silence for a long time.
André was weakening fast. Each breath seemed to cost him tremendous effort.
Adam thought back to what they had discussed in the days prior.
If things turned bad, Adam was to evacuate the area and continue operations elsewhere to support all their comrades trapped at Fort Bourbon.
Adam had suggested carrying André to the Iroquois village, but it was too far. The journey would surely kill him.
And even if they made it there, there was no guarantee they could treat him.
In the end, André accepted a spoonful of porridge.
Then Adam had left him, wishing him a good night. Exhausted by everything, but also by his own illness that refused to let go, he collapsed onto his bedding, hoping this time he might have some good dreams.
The night before, he had been plagued by nightmares.
He had dreamed of redcoats sweeping through the forest and eventually finding their camp.
The nightmare had been so vivid that, upon waking, he had grabbed his weapon.
Adam could still picture the uniformed men approaching in a long, unbroken line through the trees, carrying torches and lanterns, flanked by monstrous hounds.
In the dream, panic had gripped his men as the redcoats opened fire without mercy. Even those who surrendered were gunned down.
As for those who fled, they were hunted down by rabid dogs.
Adam had been one of the runners.
He had run—run like the devil was after him. Even after waking, he could still hear the screams, the fading gunshots, and the savage barking growing ever closer.
He didn't know if he made it out in the end.
That dream—perhaps prophetic, as he had no doubt the British were furious—made him want to disappear as soon as possible. But rather than head north, he considered delving deeper into enemy territory to throw them off and cause more chaos to support their comrades.
But André was still there. And he needed rest.
Just a few more days, Adam thought as he closed his eyes. If he's not better in… let's say three days, then we leave. We'll need something to move him with. What's it called again? A stretcher. We'll make a sturdy one.
Plop! Plop! Plop!
A few drops tapped against the canvas above his head.
Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the downpour began.
Adam sighed inwardly, already imagining the state of the ground by morning.
But it didn't stop him from falling asleep.
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When he opened his eyes, he immediately felt something had changed since the day before.
No headache, and the fever had broken.
It was a very promising sign for his recovery.
Still, he knew better than to claim victory too soon.
Outside, several men were already up—especially those who had taken turns keeping watch so the others could sleep in peace.
Adam looked up at the sky with a certain relief—it was clear.
"Good. Looks like it won't rain this morning."
The earth, soaked through, had turned a deep, nearly black color—like rich compost.
He went straight to André.
He wanted to see how the wound was doing, if it needed to be cleaned again.
Adam found him lying beneath his blankets, just as he'd left him the night before. Still just as pale.
Then again, he lost a lot of blood. He looks like a ghost.
"Hey! Still sleeping? It's morning."
He stepped closer, but André didn't react.
He seemed to be in a deep sleep.
His face was serene.
Looks like he's having good dreams…
Adam placed a hand on his forehead.
And froze.
The cold pierced him—cut through him.
His gaze dropped to his friend's face.
The young man's mouth slowly opened, but no sound came out.
As if drained of strength, his hand fell limply.
Adam's eyes moved to his chest.
It wasn't rising.
"A-aaah…"
A guttural sound, impossible to describe, slipped from his lips.
His legs gave out. He looked for something to hold on to—
Nothing.
Adam forced himself to remain standing.
He raised a trembling hand to his face and wept silently.
He stayed there for a long time, alone with his grief.
Until a scout appeared at the tent's entrance.
"Captain! Redcoats approaching! They're sweeping the forest!"
All he could see of Adam was his back, and so he noticed nothing unusual about the young officer.
"Captain?" he repeated.
"I heard."
His voice was strangely low and sounded like a threat. The scout, Gilles Dubois, from André Louis' company, immediately stiffened.
Adam remained silent and still for a moment longer.
"How many of them?"
"A-at least two hundred. Maybe more... sir."
Fuck. There are too many of them for us. If only I had more men...
"We're breaking camp," he said firmly. "Pack everything. We leave as soon as everyone's ready."
"At your orders! B-but… what about Captain Louis?"
Adam turned around slowly. His eyes were red.
Gilles Dubois understood at once. He removed his tricorne and bowed his head.
With a slow, respectful gesture, he made the sign of the cross over his chest.
Adam felt tears rise again, but he held them back, forbidding himself from crying any further. He had greater responsibilities now. People were counting on him.
"Go inform Lieutenants Marais, Bellemaison, Cornette, and Leblanc."
Dubois nodded and left without a word.
It didn't take long for the entire camp to hear the tragic news. Within minutes, all the tents were packed, and the gear was loaded.
Some men were gathering food and ammunition. Others were making a stretcher to carry Corporal Brochard, the only man in the group still too weak to walk.
As for Captain André Louis, he would be buried here. Two soldiers were digging a grave at the edge of the camp, near a majestic maple tree with blazing red leaves.
This is a good place. Peaceful. He'll rest well here. It's a shame it's not spring or summer—we won't be able to give him any flowers.
The officer clenched his fists.
But one day, I'll come back and fix that. We'll give him a proper grave.
The ceremony was brief and very simple—but surely, André wouldn't have wanted more.
Time was of the essence. With the English hunting them, every hour, every minute counted.
Fortunately, their camp had been well hidden—small and hard to spot in the vast woods.
But Adam wasn't relying on luck to escape. He still remembered his nightmare too clearly and didn't want to find out if it had been a vision of the future or not.
On September 21, 1761, at eleven o'clock, the group set out again, Adam leading, guided by Dubois and Frenet.
They left Albany behind, and distant Fort Bourbon, to head further south, following the wide Hudson River.
With each step, they went deeper into enemy territory. But paradoxically, the immediate danger diminished.
The farther they moved from the frontier, the fewer patrols there were. Regular troops were stationed in forts, large cities, or in front of Fort Bourbon.
By avoiding those places, Adam hoped to reduce the risks for his own group—enough to focus on their mission.
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On September 23, Dubois and Frenet reported discovering a camp apparently used by hunters who also practiced some farming.
There were three solid log cabins and a well-stocked pile of dry firewood. It was also close to the road linking Kingston to Albany—without being exposed.
It was perfect.
At dusk, the detachment approached like a pack of hungry wolves and surrounded the small cluster of houses. The light was fading quickly, and a heavy rainstorm was looming.
Adam cocked his musket, and all his men—including those from André Louis' company—followed his lead.
"Let's go."
The Frenchmen left their positions and advanced toward the cabins, weapons in hand. Smoke curled up from the chimneys.
Everyone must be inside now. Good.
When they were just a few steps away from the cabins, a door opened. A portly man with a thick beard and a plain shirt appeared.
Shit.
He widened his eyes in sheer terror, then tried to retreat inside. Too late.
Bang!
The man collapsed heavily forward, face down, and did not move again.
Screams erupted from the house. Everything happened fast, and Adam caught a few English words.
A figure appeared at the window, brandishing a musket. A curtain shifted.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The Frenchmen fired in time and shattered the windowpane. The figure vanished and the cries inside grew louder.
"Move in!"
Nearly eighty against a handful of settlers—they didn't stand a chance. They realized it instantly.
Behind the second cabin, a door opened and someone rushed out—probably to call for help.
But the French couldn't allow that.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The runner collapsed before covering twenty meters.
At the same time, Adam entered the first house. A middle-aged man with brown hair, holding a hunting musket, stood in front of him and was gunned down coldly—in front of his wife and children, frozen in horror.
Adam looked at them briefly and saw all their terror. He noticed a narrow staircase.
"Is there anyone else in this house?"
The woman sobbed and clutched her children to her, crying out in barely understandable pleas. She begged the French to spare them.
But that wasn't the answer Adam wanted. His patience was gone. He repeated, more harshly:
"Is there anyone else in this house?"
"N-no! It's just us! P-please! Don't hurt us! At least spare the children! They've done nothing wrong—I beg you!"
Adam didn't reply. He merely gave the British settlers a cold look, then turned to Marais, who seemed uncomfortable.
"Apparently," Adam said with terrifying detachment, "there's no one else here. Get them out. You, check upstairs. You, the back. And you—come with me. Let's check the other houses."
Everyone obeyed without question.
The woman and children were roughly dragged outside. The air felt cooler now, and a few icy droplets began to fall.
Adam's eyes landed on the stretcher carrying Corporal Brochard. His condition had not improved since they had left.
"Bring him inside. Find him a bed."
"At your orders!"
Soon, seven civilians stood before Adam, including the woman and her two children. All were trembling like leaves.
No doubt they had been told terrible things about the French. But Adam could no longer afford to care.
He turned to the officers with him.
"What do you think?"
A heavy silence followed. All wore grim expressions.
Then Bellemaison spoke.
"We can't send them to New France, Captain. Montréal, even Fort Carillon, is too far. Not to mention the thousands of redcoats likely watching the roads and woods around Fort Bourbon.If we keep them, they'll be mouths to feed and constant security risks. Even if they swear to cooperate and not escape, we have no guarantee they'll keep their word. And if we release them, we'll have to leave immediately."
Adam had expected this answer. He had already thought it through. He nodded, his face severe.
"Does everyone agree?" he asked one last time, perhaps still hoping someone would see another, less terrible option.
Faced with their silence, he nodded again.
"I see. These are... things that happen."
"Yes, Captain. Our enemies have done far worse—to our people."
Adam didn't respond but made a gesture. It was Lieutenant Marais who gave the order.
"Soldiers, form a line."
Before the terrified captives, the French soldiers—grim and filthy—approached and lined up tightly in front of them. The mother took her children in her arms and covered their eyes.
"Ready arms… aim… fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Several shots rang out—then silence.