Hello!
Enjoy the new chapter!
And my thanks to Porthos10, Mium, Ranger_Red, Shingle_Top, Dekol347, dodolmantab, AlexZero12, Daoist397717, and paffnytij for their support!
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Adam had not been mistaken.
His visit to the Mohawk village had been as brief as it was cold. He was met only with closed-off stares, polite but distant words, and an unspoken invitation to turn around.
He had been practically shown the door.
Yes, by acting against the British alongside the French, the Mohawks had secured a good amount of provisions—but attacking a fort held by thousands of English soldiers?
Adam, though saddened, understood perfectly. Akwiratheka's warriors had no reason to risk everything in such a reckless endeavor. From their point of view, it was suicide.
Luckily, they weren't going back to the British either.
Because Adam had shared his scant knowledge of the continent's future, their chief had come to understand that clinging to the redcoats was like boarding a sinking ship or going to war knowing the battle was already lost.
All they could offer him—besides prayers for the fights to come—was their strict promise of neutrality. Even if William Johnson got down on his knees and begged, they would refuse to help him.
And so Adam left, without even having the chance to speak to Onatah.
Pressed for time, he urged his mount forward. As he neared the southern tip of Lake George, he pushed it to its limits.
Spotted by several English sentries, he miraculously dodged their bullets.
At last, he caught up with his men on the road running along the lake's eastern shore.
They arrived together at Fort Carillon on the afternoon of November 15, like a funeral procession, under a freezing, pouring rain.
In silence, exhausted from their long journey, the large group of soldiers passed through the west gate of the lower town—a sort of undefendable sprawl wedged between the hilltop fort and Lake Champlain. Their steps were slow, dragging, their weapons a heavy burden.
No one cheered.
A few militiamen and soldiers leaned on their muskets, sheltered from the weather, watching them from the corners of their eyes with that blend of pity and indifference usually reserved for stray dogs.
Above the fort, the white flag with fleurs-de-lis hung limply, as if in mourning, weighed down by the rain. It looked more like a dirty rag than a standard.
And before them, in the center of the lower town, stood many wagons overflowing with crates, sacks, barrels, and tied bundles. They looked ready to depart.
Likewise, several hundred regular soldiers stood waiting in silence, motionless despite the relentless downpour. One could easily have mistaken them for men being punished.
Among them, Adam quickly recognized the soldiers from the companies of Martin Morrel de Lusernes and Jean-Baptiste Gauthier. They too looked ready to leave.
In truth, it seemed the entire garrison was about to leave.
"François?!"
Two officers approached.
"Martin! Jean-Baptiste! What's going on?! Why is everyone leaving?"
The two officers, soaked to the bone, exchanged a glance—as if trying to decide who would break the bad news.
"You don't know what day it is? You've been gone exactly two weeks. Today's November 15."
Adam's eyes widened and he turned pale as he realized the situation.
"I-it's already the 15th?!"
Martin nodded, dark circles under his eyes.
"Yes," he breathed. "According to the agreement signed with General Murray, we have to evacuate the fort. Everyone who was at Fort Bourbon. We're stuck for four and a half more months. We're probably going to be sent to Acadia, to support Marshal de Richelieu. After all, nothing's stopping us from fighting another enemy. We could very well face Amherst's redcoats."
Jean-Baptiste grumbled:
"It's still going to cost us weeks. By the time we get there, it'll be too cold to fight anyway. Ugh…"
The bulldog-faced captain felt tears welling in his eyes. He turned his head away to hide his emotion.
Martin placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
A heavy silence fell.
Adam knew what was truly hurting his friend. It wasn't the prospect of missing a battle.
"When I think of everything we've been through. All the trials, all the losses… all our friends."
His voice broke.
"We're going to lose everything now. We already lost Fort Bourbon…"
Martin tried to contradict him, to reassure him, but his voice, too, faltered.
"D-don't say that. It's not over. W-we haven't lost yet."
"Of course we have! There are thousands of them! And we're being sent away! You saw the reinforcements we got? What a joke!"
Adam wanted to say something, but no words came.
"Jean-Baptiste, calm down," Martin reprimanded in a hushed voice. "They'll hear you. François, you… you should make your report to the general. He's still here. He must be inside the fort, giving his final orders," he added, gesturing to the walls behind him. "We… we'll try to speak more once you're done."
Adam nodded.
"Yes, let's do that."
With heavier steps, he turned and headed toward the fort, Captains Collet, Belfour, and Deniers at his side.
The walls weren't particularly high, but they were solidly built.
From where he stood, he could see the mouths of a few cannons—black as ink. They seemed few, considering the strategic importance of the stronghold.
Though its layout followed all the conventions of contemporary military architecture, the fort had numerous blind spots. Most of the embrasures were unmanned, which greatly limited its ability to defend against a direct assault.
They must be deployed elsewhere for better use, Adam thought as he passed through a tunnel-like entrance that led directly to the parade ground. Well, even with several cannons missing, this fort won't fall easily. That's for certain.
Just as Martin had said, the four captains easily found the general. He was with his officers—including Monsieur de Bréhant—issuing his final directives.
Adam caught only the end of the conversation.
"In the event the fort falls, I expect you to preserve the lives of your men. Request the honors of war. But remember: they are not granted to an officer who surrenders too quickly. Be firm, but don't be reckless. Misplaced obstinacy could jeopardize everything we're fighting for. If they refuse… only then do you have my permission to sabotage the cannons and set fire to the supply depots. But only in that case."
The Marquis de Montcalm turned around. He didn't appear surprised to see Adam, nor did he seem disturbed by the pitiful state of his uniform—mud-splattered, soaked, utterly disheveled, as if he'd rolled through the muck with pigs.
"Captain Boucher," he said, inclining his head slightly in greeting. "Gentlemen," he added upon seeing the other captains. "You've arrived just in time. Your man informed us of the situation."
"My lord," said Adam, bowing deeply out of respect for both the man and his rank, "we came as quickly as we could."
Montcalm nodded slowly, looking weary. He was clearly disappointed that his plan had failed.
"Were you able to strike their convoy? Or delay them?"
"We split our unit into four autonomous groups to strike and fall back more swiftly. We inflicted losses, but… the escort was too strong. None of our groups reached the wagons. We couldn't slow them down."
Montcalm sighed.
"That's what I feared most. Very well, so be it. As you may have seen upon your arrival, I am preparing to leave Fort Carillon, in accordance with our commitments to the British. Only the garrison, yourselves, and the few reinforcements I managed to gather will remain."
Adam felt his stomach twist into a knot. He turned pale.
"We… we're to defend the fort?"
"We must," Montcalm replied calmly, taking a step toward him. "If Fort Carillon falls, the whole of New France will be in jeopardy—starting with Montreal, which will not hold for long. Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio of the Berry Regiment will assume command."
Discreetly, Adam glanced at Colonel de Bréhant. The latter, expressionless, answered his unspoken question with a simple nod.
Th-they're serious… They really mean for us to defend this fort…
Adam swallowed his shock and complaints and turned toward de Trivio, a tall man with an honest face, nearing fifty.
"I—I see. Sir," Adam said with another respectful bow, "I am at your command."
"And I, Captain, am counting on you. I've heard of your exploits in the South. I expect much from your men."
"Very well," Montcalm interrupted. "How many men have you brought back?"
Adam swallowed hard.
"Hmm… one hundred and twelve, General. One hundred and thirteen, counting the man I sent to inform you. The others… are dead or missing."
Montcalm frowned but said nothing. He knew that in war, losses were inevitable.
Had they faced that column head-on, even with careful preparation, they likely would have been wiped out.
"Sir," Captain Deniers interjected, a worried crease on his brow, "how many men will we have to defend the fort?"
"Your second battalion wasn't engaged at Fort Bourbon. It remains here, giving us three hundred regulars. Two hundred others have come from forts along the Richelieu River and from Montreal. On top of that, we have three hundred militia and around seventy to eighty Indians. Including your forces, that gives us roughly a thousand men."
A thousand?!
Adam felt dizzy.
A thousand against five thousand?! This… This is madness! Proportionally, it's worse than when we had to face Abercromby! This is suicide!
He wanted to cry. Out of pride, he did his best to show nothing. He clenched his jaw and fists, unmoving.
"General," he said in a low voice that surprised even himself, "are you leaving today?"
Montcalm looked at him for a moment with a hint of surprise. He sensed something fleeting in this young man—something he couldn't quite identify.
He nodded gravely.
"At Fort Bourbon, we had set a final date for abandoning the frontier. Today is that day. I cannot go back on it. My honor depends on it."
Adam had been struck by an idea. He ignored his doubts and presented it anyway to the illustrious figure before him.
"If I may, General, I have a request. For the defense of Fort Carillon, we will need your muskets. As many as possible."
All the officers raised an eyebrow. One had to be either a fool or very bold to make such a request.
It was insulting.
One of the officers exchanged a scandalized look with his neighbor. Even Trivio seemed dumbfounded.
Montcalm, however, stared at him, impassive.
"You want us to leave without our weapons? Explain yourself."
The marquis's voice turned icy. Once, Adam would have looked down and retreated, stammering a thousand apologies.
But not today. He held Montcalm's gaze and answered in a calm, confident voice.
"General, despite all our training, the time it takes to reload a musket remains long. Too long. And in combat, every second counts. But if each soldier has two, even three muskets at his disposal? Then we could deliver the same firepower as a force of two or three thousand men at the critical moment! Even if we're outnumbered, it might give the enemy the illusion that they're facing a much larger garrison."
Silence.
Then, slowly, the expressions around the table began to relax. Montcalm, who did not care much for trickery, could tolerate such a stratagem — there was no shame in it.
Fort Carillon had been a storage site since 1758. It lacked neither food nor weapons and ammunition.
He could give his approval — it would not impact him.
However, Montcalm intended to take everything he could with him and leave as little as possible behind, in case the fort fell into enemy hands, which he considered highly likely.
He remained silent for a long while, weighing the pros and cons. And the more he thought about it, the more the idea intrigued him.
"What do you think, Monsieur de Trivio?"
"If it does not penalize you, General, having extra muskets would indeed be an asset. Our firepower would be greatly increased, especially during the first assault. That said… it would only be a temporary advantage."
The general nodded several times.
"A temporary advantage, yes. I understand. Ideally, if I follow you, you would also need hands to reload these weapons. That makes sense. But… I dislike the idea of putting arms in the hands of untrained men."
"General," Trivio continued, "with all due respect, just like in 1758, we'll need every available hand. I share your concerns, but considering what's at stake — the safety of New France — we cannot afford to be cautious. All our resources must be used without hesitation. Fort Carillon must hold. And if it falls… then it must cost the English so dearly that they're paralyzed until spring."
Adam looked at the officer with surprise.
Beneath the austere exterior of a rigid soldier schooled in the ways of the royal army, he possessed remarkable eloquence. If Adam had been Montcalm, he too would have been convinced.
"Very well," Montcalm finally declared. "You will have your weapons, and enough powder to hold. As for the assistants, that will be more difficult. But I'll do my best to send you some men. With any luck, they'll be of use."
"Thank you, General!"
Adam lingered for a moment on the rampart while receiving the final updates about the fort.
In his absence, Montcalm's men had not been idle. Every day had been used to prepare the defenses; their departure delayed until the last possible moment.
He found Martin and Jean-Baptiste where he had left them.
"The General explained everything to me," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "What you've done. Thank you."
"It's only right," Martin replied. "General Murray will regret not making it clear that we weren't to help prepare the fort's defenses. He gave us until today to leave the fort — and we've kept our word."
"Yes," added Jean-Baptiste. "But we wanted to do more. Ah, if only we had had more time!"
Adam shook his head.
"What you did is remarkable. On the way in, we passed the abatis and the redoubts — solid work. The redcoats are going to break their teeth on it. And if they do get through, it won't be without losses. Fort Carillon will finish the job. Then… well, it'll be winter. They'll have to wait for the thaw."
"God willing," Martin murmured. "Well, the colonel is coming. I suppose it's time."
Adam turned toward the fort and indeed saw Colonel de Bréhant and the Marquis de Montcalm approaching.
"It seems so, yes. Hmm, since you're headed that way, may I ask you a favor? I'll need paper, a quill, and some ink. I want to write a note to my friends serving under Marshal de Richelieu."
"Of course — but make it quick."
Adam quickly wrote down his thoughts and prayers for his good friends, his faithful companions he hadn't seen in so long — an eternity — and who he missed dearly.
Louis, Jean, Jules, and Charles.
The garrison saluted the departure of the soldiers and the marquis. But while the latter boarded a canoe bound for the St. Lawrence Valley, Martin and Jean-Baptiste had to walk alongside the heavy convoy all the way to Montreal.
The last of them crossed Fort Carillon's heavy gates around three o'clock in the afternoon, to the steady rhythm of the drum.
Shortly afterward, with the entire garrison gathered, Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio spoke before the officers' quarters.
The regulars stood in formation as if at review, proud and rigid as poles.
The militiamen, far less disciplined, stood in loose ranks. They weren't much different from civilians plucked from Montreal's streets and handed military gear.
As for the Indians, from various allied tribes and dressed mostly in European fashion, it would be a stretch to call it a formation at all. They were simply gathered together — a bit like a group of schoolchildren on a field trip.
"Gentlemen," began the lieutenant colonel firmly, "the Marquis de Montcalm has just left the fort, as he promised the English in exchange for the honors of war at Fort Bourbon. Until the last moment, he stayed to help us prepare the fort. He has left us with a great stock of food, weapons, and powder to face the trial ahead. We must hold Fort Carillon until the first snows. It is the key to the entire valley — the rampart between that pack of rabid wolves and your homes."
The regulars remained impassive, but the militiamen were visibly moved by his words. Most had not taken up arms for daily rations, glory, or fortune, but to protect their families, their land, and their homes.
It was the strongest motivation of all.
"Before leaving, Monsieur de Montcalm entrusted me with the command of this post. Wherever you come from, you are now under my authority. I cannot promise that all of you will survive, but I promise this: I will do everything in my power to ensure we are victorious. I say to you, gentlemen — the English will not pass!"
Adam felt his heart beating faster.
"Even though Monsieur de Montcalm is no longer at our side, we must not ease up and wait for the English to come. We must continue the preparations, deepen our ditches, reinforce and raise our abatis! Every day, every hour, every minute counts! Your officers have already received their orders — now, to work!"
The young captain turned to his men, so scruffy they looked more like militiamen than soldiers.
"Gentlemen, form up — three ranks! Follow me!"
They crossed the fort's gate, heading toward the front lines — the very same where they had repelled the English in 1758 — when two familiar figures caught Adam's attention: a woodsman and a gigantic Indian.
He recognized them immediately: Damien Leblé, hunter, trapper, fur trader, and guide; and the mixed-blood Mi'kmaq Tjenopitoqsit!
Despite the years, they hadn't changed much.