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The first line of defense at Fort Carillon had been significantly reinforced over the past four days.
But time had run out.
Scouts had just reported alarming movements on the other side of Lake George. The British had boarded canoes and rafts. As everyone expected, there were many of them.
Unlike Montcalm in 1758, Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio did not wait for the enemy to entrench themselves behind his line. He ordered several companies to position themselves at the northern tip of the lake, where the La Chute River begins.
Their objective wasn't to prevent the British landing, but to make it as painful as possible.
Adam, Collet, Deniers, and Belfour were part of this detachment. Hidden in the soaked vegetation, motionless as if they were part of the slumbering landscape, they waited and watched the gray surface of the water.
"There they are," Adam whispered, tightening his grip on his musket.
The redcoats were approaching slowly, crammed onto their boats that looked tiny from afar. They seemed so fragile.
In complete silence, they glided across the vast lake.
"Should we go now?" a soldier asked in a muffled voice.
"Idiot," replied another. "They're still way too far. We have to wait until almost the last moment. Right, sergeant?"
Le Canon nodded beside Adam.
If our weapons had a longer range, Adam thought, I'd have given the order to fire already.
Unfortunately, they had no artillery with them—not even small-caliber pieces. All they had were their muskets.
Unless the enemy was within a hundred meters, firing was useless. They would only waste powder and give away their position.
There were about three hundred of them, scattered through the underbrush along the shore.
Their objective wasn't to hold the position. It was indefensible—it hadn't been fortified and could be easily bypassed. They were simply meant to inflict as many losses as possible on the British before falling back.
Every British soldier killed here would be one less at the barricade.
All we have to do is shoot at them until they land. No time to linger.
The main defensive line was solid, and better designed than during the first battle of Fort Carillon.
Here, it formed a broad curve stretching from the La Chute River to the lake, with a gap near a swamp deemed impassable.
Altogether, it measured nearly four hundred meters in length.
The biggest difference compared to 1758 was the season. If the redcoats tried to force their way through, they would pay a heavy price.
"Gentlemen, get ready!" Adam called out with just enough force to be heard by his whole company.
Everyone tensed.
"Advance and fire at will!"
Adam sprang from his hiding place, rushed down a short slope in a few steps, and stopped just at the edge of the water. One more step and he'd have wet feet.
The British at the front saw them before the first shot was fired—but it was already too late for them.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hundreds of shots rang out, mixed with shouted orders, like a sudden thunderstorm.
Smoke rose, twisted, and was quickly carried away by the wind. It formed a pale veil hovering just above the water.
Adam quickly set down his first musket and grabbed a second, already loaded.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Another volley thundered.
Across the water, the British boats were so numerous they seemed to blanket the lake. Terrible screams echoed, bouncing across the water's steel-like surface.
Several men fell into the water with great icy splashes and vanished, as if swallowed.
But most of the bullets missed. Though the enemy was within range, hitting them was still mostly a matter of luck.
As always, it was about numbers and cadence—whichever side could shoot more, and faster, would prevail.
Adam lowered his weapon and began reloading as fast as he could. His fingers fumbled through his cartridge pouch for a paper cartridge, which he quickly brought to his mouth.
He bit down hard, tearing it open, and poured the black powder into the top of his musket. A foul taste filled his mouth.
Pffft!
Fuck! That's disgusting! Adam thought, spitting on the ground, though it didn't help.
Even after all these years, he still hadn't gotten used to it.
He tilted his weapon and slid the opened paper cartridge into the barrel, dropping the heavy lead ball in last.
In one motion, he pulled the ramrod from its slot like drawing a sword from its sheath and spun it between his calloused, cut-up fingers. After two attempts, he managed to push it into the barrel.
One, two.
He pulled the ramrod back out, put it away, and flipped the musket back upright. Adam braced the stock against his shoulder.
The redcoats were a little closer now, but their advance remained slow. Their boats, overloaded, struggled to cover even a few meters.
Bang!
Adam fired. There was no way to tell if he had hit anyone, but he did everything he could to make it count. He aimed slightly high, estimating the projectile's arc.
"They're changing course!" shouted Deniers. "They're going to try to land further south!"
Adam reacted immediately.
"Captain Belfour! With me! Boucher's company, this way! Grab your weapons!"
The two companies ran from the lakeshore and moved around a stand of trees to intercept the enemy. They were eighty meters from the shoreline.
"Hurry up!"
They sprinted two hundred meters until they found a clearing. When they reached it, the enemy, growing in number, was sixty to seventy meters from the shore.
"Form a line! Reload your weapons! Move!"
From their boats, the redcoats fired at them, but only a handful could do so—those at the front.
The others didn't have the space or were busy rowing.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The French held a clear advantage, even though they were exposed. Their bullets whistled through the air, many finding their mark.
A British soldier, hit in the eye by a splinter of wood torn from his canoe, toppled sideways and fell into the water, dragging with him a comrade who was struggling to reload.
The canoe rocked violently and water flooded in from port side. Seeing this, several soldiers panicked and made sudden movements that further destabilized the boat.
More water rushed in, and within three seconds, the entire canoe vanished beneath the surface.
The soldiers, terrified, dropped their weapons—which sank like stones—and flailed their arms and legs in a desperate attempt to keep their heads above water.
Like most people at the time, they didn't know how to swim.
Before a rescue boat could even reach them, several men had already vanished.
Meanwhile, the French hadn't stopped firing.
"Don't stop! Keep going! Don't wait for orders! Fire as soon as you're ready!"
Three more boats approached, one heading toward those struggling in the water.
They were now terrifyingly close.
Adam pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He gritted his teeth, re-cocked the weapon, and tried again.
This time, a spark flashed, the powder ignited, and the shot rang out in a thick plume of white smoke.
"Captain Boucher! The British are going to reach the point! We have to fall back now!"
"Understood! Everyone, fall back!"
The two companies retreated at a run the way they had come, before being overrun.
Behind them, on the lake, the enemy kept arriving. Soon, the entire area would be under their control.
The French followed the La Chute River and, halfway along, passed a second detachment.
Their role wasn't to stop the redcoats either, but to make the advance difficult by using the forest to their advantage. After a few volleys, they too were to fall back and rejoin the defensive line.
Meanwhile, Adam and his men would have time to catch their breath and reload their weapons.
"Well done, everyone," said de Trivio as they returned. "Get into position."
The company took its place at the top of the line, toward the center-left, and awaited orders.
But the long-dreaded assault didn't come right away.
General Murray, ever methodical, preferred to gather his men, study the terrain and assess the French defenses. Much to his frustration, they lacked the weaknesses he had hoped to exploit.
Like him, the French had learned from the mistakes of 1758.
He decided to launch the assault two days later, on November 21st.
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At dawn, the air was freezing. Probably because the sky was clear.
The sun, blinding, warmed no one. The ground was frozen, and the river seemed to steam. If it began to snow now, it would surely stick.
The men, already up and ready for battle, were tense.
The militiamen trembled from fear as much as from cold. The regulars weren't spared either, fully aware of the disparity in strength between them and the attackers.
The position they were ordered to defend seemed far too long to hold properly.
Back then, there had been nearly three thousand of them.
Now, they were expected to hold the line with a third of that number. The fact that the enemy was smaller than in 1758 didn't change a thing!
Several hours passed without any activity, then the first red uniforms appeared in the distance, between the trees.
"Attention! Get ready!" shouted Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio in a booming voice.
By then, the sky had clouded over completely, turning a dull, uniform gray. Below them, the ground was black and littered with obstacles. The French had felled many trees to erect impassable abatis.
The branches had been left scattered in front to slow the enemy's march.
To that, the French had added traps everywhere: simple wooden stakes hardened in fire and buried in the ground, meant to seriously wound as many enemies as possible.
Once the British discovered them, they'd have no choice but to slow down.
It was vicious—but a reliable tactic, tested over centuries by some of the greatest generals this land had ever known.
And that's precisely why Montcalm hadn't used it three years earlier.
But Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio was not Montcalm.
Given the disparity in strength between the two forces, all means seemed justified.
"They're here!"
Behind his shelter of earth and wood, Adam stood tall, a musket in hand and two more at his side.
The cannon was to his right, soldier Tournier to his left.
The enemy was approaching in neat columns, to the steady rhythm of drums. Still out of range, they seemed unafraid of death.
Along the French line, no one—or almost no one—spoke. From time to time, a voice rose, an order shouted.
It was so different from the first battle of Fort Carillon.
Back then, they were so many. And it was so hot.
Adam swallowed and glanced behind him.
A boy stood there—not yet a man—trembling with fear. Brown hair, dark eyes, pale skin, thin lips and a narrow nose.
His assistant. A volunteer who now regretted, too late, having stepped forward to help.
Montcalm had kept his word.
They had received several helpers like him, but not enough for each soldier to have one. So they were reserved for the regulars.
Their mission was simple: reload the weapons handed to them. That was all.
Adam had helped with their crash training. It had taken place in the evenings, since during the day everyone was busy preparing the defenses.
This one's name was Jean Duchesne, son of a farmer, sixteen years old.
Adam had exchanged only a few words with him—maybe you could count them on one hand.
That day, they'd speak more—though it would probably be limited to "Give me a musket" or "Reload it for me."
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The French artillery opened the ball.
As Adam had guessed on returning to Fort Carillon, several pieces had been moved here. Only small-caliber ones, but enough against infantry.
Losing them with this line would surely hurt—but not as much as losing heavier guns.
They belched out solid shot and hurled up great gouts of earth—and a few redcoats.
Adam saw bodies flung into the air, then crash back down into the foul mud.
But the British formations held firm. Barely shaken, they continued deploying.
A first wave broke off and began its advance.
It begins...
"Gentlemen," Adam shouted, lungs straining, "let's rename this place Death to the English! Let them know we're not here to die!"
A powerful war cry echoed down the line, spreading like a wave.
"Kid—hey, I'm counting on you. When a musket is ready, you shout 'Ready.' Got it?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Good. You'll be fine."
The boy had tears in his eyes and looked like he was about to piss himself. He jumped violently when the few cannons on their section roared again.
Thank God he can't see what it looks like out there.
Adam turned his gaze back to the approaching soldiers.
He no longer felt anything when seeing men blown to pieces.
He only regretted there weren't more cannons.
Ah… If we had a hundred, we'd raze all those trees and wipe out that army. This would all be over fast.
Slowly, the British advanced in long lines separated by wide gaps.
The cannon fire continued, but with such dispersion, they were now killing only a few men at a time.
"Hold! Not yet… Not yet…"
The British were now only a hundred—maybe a hundred and ten—meters away.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
From the entire central section, a heavy volley fell upon the redcoats.
They suffered few losses and kept advancing.
Then they reached the trapped area.
Horrific screams rang out—piercing, inhuman. The kind of shrieking that sounded like pigs being slaughtered.
The French burst into laughter.
Good! That'll slow them down a bit!
Adam handed his weapon to Jean and grabbed his second musket.
He loaded it and aimed roughly at the first British line, now significantly slowed.
They had understood the danger well—and hesitated with every step, afraid of stepping on a stake.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
This time, more men fell to their bullets. Holes tore open in that already warped line.
Adam got rid of his smoking musket, tossing it at Jean's feet. The boy struggled to keep up with the reloading steps. The weapon seemed far too big and heavy for him.
"I-I can't do it!" he stammered, panicked.
"Easy, kid. You've got this. You've done it before. It'll go better if you stay calm."
"B-but I'm shaking too much!"
Adam, nervous despite his impassive face, had to fight the urge to snap. The boy wasn't to blame.
He knew losing his temper would help no one.
He had to stay calm. Patient. Reassuring.
"You're doing fine. Use both hands to guide the ramrod into the barrel. You got it?"
"I-I did it! I'm ramming!"
"Good job."
With experience, Adam had come to understand that a good captain didn't train soldiers through terror or by crushing them under pressure. The most important thing, in his view, was to maintain morale.
Once morale was broken, it was extremely difficult to recover. The best way was to encourage and guide with kindness.
"You're on pace. Try to go a little faster on the next one."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Adam flashed a quick smile and shouldered his third musket. His gaze turned cold and distant as it landed on an enemy soldier below.
The man was advancing cautiously, eyes fixed on the ground. He had just seen a comrade impale his foot on a stake as thick and long as a forearm.
Bang!
The bullet struck the man in the shoulder, throwing him into the mud. He wasn't dead, but his battle was over. He crawled backward, seeking shelter and aid.
"I need a musket, kid!"
The boy jumped and clumsily handed Adam the nearest one.
"You can toss it to me, it'll be faster. Don't worry, it won't go off by itself. Thanks."
The resistance was fierce. The British command was caught off guard.
The first wave had crashed against that wall like a wave against stone. Casualties, though not yet known, were already heavy.
Murray, furious, was forced to order a retreat. Of course, he hadn't said his last word. The day was far from over.
He sent a second wave, which was met just as harshly.
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Hours passed, and still no progress was made.
Refusing to become another Abercromby, Murray decided to temporarily pull back and wait for his artillery to be set up. His guns weren't ready until noon.
The sky trembled when the artillery joined the fray. Its fire focused on specific points—like the center and the French gun positions.
But Murray was unsatisfied with the result.
To him, it felt like trying to break down a brick wall with balls of yarn.
He pushed on, and the French responded with equal fury. All eyes were fixed on that part of the battlefield—where Adam was.
When the cannons finally fell silent, even before the dust could settle, Murray launched a new assault.
Among those charging—though Adam didn't know it—was a certain Charles Lee. He had fought in the 1758 battle, been wounded, captured at Fort Edward, sent to New France, and then escaped with a few comrades to rejoin the British lines.
From captain—a commission he had bought in 1756—he'd risen to major in March 1761.
Sword in one hand, pistol in the other, he led his men up to the wall of brushwood, just a few dozen meters from the French muskets. From there, the difficulty of advancing increased exponentially.
Every step was a fight.
They were easy targets.
And as in the first Battle of Fort Carillon, Charles Lee was wounded. His thigh burned and he was losing blood fast. The injury made further progress impossible.
He had to retreat.
In front of the French line, it was a massacre. The brushwood was doing its job perfectly.
If it had had thorns, it could've been compared to barbed wire.
To cross it, the only real option was to climb—but doing so often meant getting wounded or killed.
Without their overwhelming numbers, the French would have had no trouble repelling them.
"The redcoats reached the line! Don't let them climb over!"
They were there, within shouting distance, panting, furious, like a horde of starving zombies. But between them and victory stood a solid wall.
"Quick! A musket!" barked the Cannon to his assistant, who was doing his best to keep up with an unsustainable pace.
He was a man barely in his twenties, cheeks round though the rest of his body was lean. He seemed to be struggling badly.
He hastily tore a cartridge open with his teeth, spilling powder all over his clothes. With a trembling hand, he grabbed another from an ordinary satchel turned cartridge bag.
Adam refocused on his own problems. His heart pounded wildly and sweat poured from his brow.
He tossed Jean his smoking musket and called for another.
The boy handed him one he'd just finished loading and began to load a new weapon. It was a vicious cycle.
Adam scanned the field around him. The minutes ticked by, and the pressure rose to dangerous levels.
On his right, about twelve meters away, a broad-shouldered English soldier was climbing the wall of wood with the agility of a monkey. He was making good progress.
Adam didn't let him reach the top.
Bang!
He was killed instantly and fell backward onto his comrades.
"Hold fast! Don't let them through!"
At that moment, Adam saw a large hand emerge right in front of him, the back covered with thick black hair. Then a snarling face.
Without thinking, he brought the butt of his musket down on the man's face with all his strength.
There was a dull, almost squishy crack, like a watermelon hitting the ground. The impact was brutal.
The man's nose exploded inward, the facial bones crushed. His left eye rolled back and blood gushed from what had once been nostrils.
He vanished from view, dead before he hit the ground. His nasal bone had shattered and fragments had shot back to the base of his skull—instant internal hemorrhage.
To the left, near the cannons, Deniers' voice cut through the chaos.
"They're too many! We can't hold them much longer!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The artillery roared, now loaded with grapeshot. It was absolute carnage.
Over a wide area, many soldiers were torn apart. Their bodies were unrecognizable.
But it wasn't enough.
"They're flanking us from the north!" someone shouted from the other side.
"Goddammit!" roared de Trivio as he saw a group of enemy soldiers had indeed made it through the marsh.
"Everyone fall back! Grab your weapons and retreat to the fort!"
A British bullet whizzed just above Adam's head and disappeared somewhere behind him.
Adam clenched his jaw but followed the lieutenant colonel's order without protest, repeating it aloud.
"Boucher's company, abandon the line! We're falling back to Fort Carillon! Grab your weapons and follow me!"
It was half past four. Despite all their efforts, they couldn't hold the line.
The French had lost over 150 men and seven cannons.
As for Murray, he had lost nearly 760 soldiers—including a hundred at Lake George, killed by bullets or drowned.