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Here is a new chapter!
I hope you will enjoy it!
Thank you Ranger_Red, Mium, Porthos10, dodolmantab, paffnytij, AlexZero12, Kieran_Lynch, Galan_05, Shingle_Top, and Daoist397717 for the power stones!
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All afternoon, the English continued their preparations. This time, as Monsieur de Trivio had guessed, they were targeting the western demi-lune.
Until nightfall, they raised a long, high mound of earth and reinforced it with sturdy parapets made of sandbags and massive wicker gabions filled with rubble.
Despite their best efforts, the remaining French mortars could not stop them from completing their work.
A few crewmen were killed while laboring in the mud, but it changed nothing.
At best, it gave the enemy a taste of what it meant to fear the bombs.
The wounds caused by those infernal projectiles were truly horrific. Like grapeshot, they hurled deadly fragments dozens of meters in every direction.
A single sliver was enough to end a life—or cost a young soldier his leg or arm.
While the French gunners did all they could, several teams of soldiers were working furiously to widen the narrow embrasures that limited the cannons' field of fire.
With hammers and pickaxes, they chipped away at blocks of stone, passing them hand to hand to the northern demi-lune in hopes of repairing what had been destroyed earlier.
An efficient human chain had been organized to speed up the process.
If the new English battery was indeed beyond their current range, only a few degrees of angle were missing. To achieve them, stone had to be broken—even if that meant exposing the guns more to enemy fire.
In the face of the English threat, Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio was willing to take that risk.
It was backbreaking labor, for the walls were immensely thick.
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Night fell quickly over the fort—too quickly.
The French officers gathered and discussed at length what might come next.
By anticipating the worst, they still hoped to prevent it.
At the northern demi-lune, the damage was so extensive that immediate repairs were ultimately deemed impossible. It would have required time, materials, and milder weather.
The British had hammered the structure so relentlessly that only half of it was still standing.
On the other demi-lune and the northwest bastion, it was still unclear whether the ongoing work would be enough to fix the worrisome problem with the firing angles.
It wasn't enough to give the guns more angle—they also had to be able to recoil, which was another issue entirely on the western demi-lune, where each cannon, except the one at the tip, was trapped inside a kind of alcove.
Those thick stone walls had to be broken down, because if the guns couldn't recoil once they had the right angle, they couldn't be reloaded.
Not to mention the assistants wouldn't even be able to access one side of the cannon.
All was not lost. There were plenty of hands, if not enough tools—and the night was still long.
If they could reach their goal before dawn, the English battery might be caught in a deadly crossfire from the two outworks.
Throughout the night, work teams would take turns laboring in the freezing cold by the faint light of lanterns.
Everyone knew what was at stake if they failed to gain those few missing degrees of angle.
Adam stayed up for a long time, overseeing the work on the western demi-lune, before finally forcing himself to go to bed.
The sun would rise in four and a half hours, and he knew that as soon as it did, the shelling would resume.
It'll be even worse than today, he thought, resting his head on a thin, uncomfortable pillow. They'll do everything they can to silence our guns.
He crossed his arms tightly under the rough brown wool blanket and whispered a prayer:
Dear God, if You can hear me, let Fort Carillon hold… and please don't let me die tomorrow… or the days after. Amen.
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The night, marked by the dry clink of pickaxes and hammers striking stone, was restless for Adam.
It took him more than an hour to fall asleep.
His mind was too busy.
He kept going over everything that had been said during the officers' meeting.
If the pessimists were right, this could be his last night in this world—or the last before a long captivity.
Most likely, once his demi-lune was destroyed, the redcoats would keep firing until they had blasted a breach. Then, the defenders would have only two options: fight to the end and die, or surrender.
The latter might seem like the lesser evil, but for the common soldiers, it was far from reassuring.
If captured after the fall of the fort, a terrible fate awaited them. It might be slightly less cruel for officers, but it would still be painful and humiliating.
They would be sent to enemy territory—perhaps even England—imprisoned, treated like criminals or plague-bearers, waiting for the war to end or for the kingdom to ransom them in exchange for British prisoners.
Mistreatment was common, even if there were efforts to limit it.
But that was how things were everywhere.
Naturally, obtaining the honors of war would be the most favorable outcome for them.
They would escape captivity and all that came with it.
But the consequences would be severe for the whole of New France.
To retreat, to be unable to take part in the coming battles for many months...
That could lead to the loss of Montreal. Perhaps even Quebec.
Knowing this, the officers had been unable to decide.
What if the enemy made such an offer?
Adam knew that Montcalm had discussed it with Monsieur de Trivio.
But would he accept? Or would he rather blow everything up?
That was what tormented Adam.
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At daybreak, at half past six — a full thirty minutes before sunrise — Fort Carillon awoke in a strange atmosphere.
Every soldier felt like a pig being led to slaughter.
As Adam climbed the small wooden staircase leading to the parapet walk, he felt more like a condemned man walking up to the guillotine.
Upon reaching the western demi-lune, now silent, he absently saluted the artillery team gathered around the old mortar.
The ground, frozen, was littered with rubble, dust, and scattered stones.
With a single glance, Adam took in the result of a full night's labor. The soldiers hadn't been idle.
Part of the stone alcoves had been demolished to clear space behind the cannons. Adam nodded softly with satisfaction.
I hope it will be enough, he prayed silently, turning toward the enemy battery.
There, just over two hundred meters away, stood the English guns, barely visible in the pale light of the coming dawn.
They hadn't been able to make their position invulnerable — no one was safe from a mortar — but they had fortified it enough to make the French gunners very nervous.
The latter took their places behind their cannons, packed together like sardines, and around the mortar.
Those in charge of the mortar had run and double-checked every calculation and prepared the weapon. But nothing guaranteed the target would be destroyed before enemy fire reached them.
"Captain, we await your orders."
Adam, his face expressionless, turned slightly toward the chief gunner and nodded.
"We wait for the lieutenant colonel's order. Stand ready."
Suddenly, his right hand began to tremble uncontrollably. A powerful shudder ran up his entire arm, reaching his shoulder — as if that part of his body had a will of its own.
Immediately, almost in shame, Adam grabbed it with his left hand and squeezed hard — nearly as if he meant to crush his own bones.
D-damn it! Not now!
He didn't want anyone to see him shaking.
Gradually, the tremor subsided. He released his hand and exhaled deeply.
At seven o'clock, as the sun slowly rose behind the trees and hills, no order had yet arrived.
But then an Englishman appeared, walking under the protection of a white flag. He marched straight toward the fort with steady steps, as if no bullet could ever touch him.
And he had good reason to believe it.
Even though their nations were at war, there were rules — and some were nearly sacred.
The man stopped just a hundred meters from Fort Carillon's walls and calmly waited for someone to meet him.
From his position on the western demi-lune, Adam stood still and watched him at length — like a child staring at an exotic animal in a zoo, waiting for it to do something, anything.
What do they want? Negotiate? I doubt they're here to surrender...
Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio passed through the southern gate of the fort and walked toward the man in red.
To Adam, it felt like watching a stage play — and he had the best seat in the house.
Unfortunately, he couldn't hear what they were saying.
They stood facing one another, like statues — one red, one white — and remained that way for some time. Finally, they parted.
What did they talk about? I'd bet anything it's to get us to surrender the fort...
When Monsieur de Trivio returned to the fort, he gathered his officers in one of the buildings bordering the parade ground.
Outside, the garrison stood frozen, clinging to every signal.
The room was narrow, austere, and poorly lit despite all the open windows, bathed in a cold, slightly bluish light.
"Close the door, please."
The lieutenant colonel's voice was heavy, burdened with bad news.
In utter silence, Captain Collet shut the door under the tense gaze of the soldiers gathered outside.
The fort's commander waited a moment, then slowly raised his eyes to look at each officer in turn.
"Gentlemen, General Murray informs us that he is preparing to bombard us. According to him, our chances of victory are nil. He nevertheless salutes our courage and offers us the opportunity to withdraw intact with the honors of war. He proposes the same terms as those given to General Montcalm. However, his offer is valid only until nine o'clock. If we give no answer, he will consider it a refusal, and his artillery will open fire."
A deathly silence followed.
So… we have to decide now. Surrender the fort, or suffer a bombardment that will devastate it… and most likely lead to its fall.
Adam cast a discreet glance around him.
All the officers wore the same tense expression. The weight on their shoulders was immense.
They didn't want to die, but neither did they want to surrender the fort without at least putting up a fight. Their honor was at stake.
"General Montcalm's orders are clear," continued Monsieur de Trivio. "We are to hold this fort for as long as possible and, if we can, force the British to withdraw for the winter. Though they have come in great number, the conditions in their camp must be harsh. We have the advantage of sturdy buildings to shelter us. We still have the means to hold out, as we are lacking nothing."
He paused briefly, studying the faces before him.
"I am well aware of the danger we are in. Their guns pose a real threat, but as long as we have walls to defend and the advantage of elevation, we have the means to repel an assault. Given the losses the enemy has suffered along our lines, I believe their general needs a settlement more than we do—one that won't cost him more men. Think on that."
Adam and several others nodded. Even though their own position was far from ideal, the British one could hardly be better despite their numerical superiority.
"We must also remember that behind us lie the towns and villages of New France—Montréal, Trois-Rivières, Québec… If we let the enemy take this fort now, then nothing will stop them from sweeping down upon our colonists. For their sake, and for the King, we must hold. At the very least, we must buy Montréal enough time to prepare. Every day counts."
Seeing that he had the support of his officers, the lieutenant-colonel grew more confident.
"For these reasons, I will reject their offer. At nine o'clock, we will fire on their battery. We shall use, as planned, our two remaining mortars, the cannons on the northwest bastion and the western demi-lune, as well as the sixteen-pounder on the northern demi-lune, which we have reoriented. I expect much from our gunners—especially the team on the northern demi-lune. Even in ruins, it remains our best angle to reach their guns. Are there any questions?"
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Nine o'clock.
The deadline had passed.
The French had waited until the very last moment, hoping to deceive the British into thinking an agreement had been reached—that Fort Carillon might be taken without further bloodshed.
In doing so, they had bought themselves two precious hours.
Good. It's time…
"FIRE!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
At the same moment the British cannons thundered from their elevated battery, the French guns roared in reply.
Even the sixteen-pounder on the northern demi-lune fired. Though dangerously exposed due to the partial destruction of its position, it had been secured to the ground with iron hooks and thick ropes.
Adam, for his part, clamped his hands over his ears and ducked. The ground shook and cracked beneath his feet.
When he opened his eyes again, he was still standing—and so was the demi-lune. To him, it was nothing short of a miracle, given the force of the impact.
Oh God! I thought that was it!
The English round shots had caused considerable damage at this distance. Unfortunately, the French could not claim the same.
The enemy battery still stood, firmly entrenched on its artificial mound. Shrouded in smoke, it appeared barely shaken—despite a few visible impacts.
Not enough, alas, to silence their guns.
In truth, most of the French shots had missed the mark. That cursed angle problem again.
On the northwest bastion, only two guns—the sixteen-pounder at the tip and a twelve-pounder beside it—had managed to hit the mound. The sixteen-pounder on the northern demi-lune had struck too, but its aim would need slight correction to have a chance at destroying the leftmost enemy gun.
As for the western demi-lune, where Adam was positioned, only one cannon—also a sixteen-pounder—had managed to reach the mound. All the others lacked the angle.
Their shots had done little more than tear up grass and churn the earth.
"Reload! Guns 2, 3, 4, and 5—pull back!" Adam ordered.
The designated gunners obeyed reluctantly. If they couldn't hit the enemy, they were of no use here.
Only the team on Gun 1, at the tip of the bastion, and the mortar crew remained.
Despite all their calculations, the mortar's bomb had fallen too far left due to a sudden gust—landing amid the frost-whitened wild grasses.
It didn't take even a full minute before the enemy artillery was ready to fire again.
Although they were being targeted by different batteries, the British had not changed their objective. Adam saw thick plumes of white smoke bloom atop the mound and heard the thunder.
Instinctively, he bent double and shielded his head.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The English cannonballs struck the walls of the demi-lune with terrifying force. It felt as though a giant had started pummeling them with his fists.
Stone shattered, and large chunks of masonry were ripped away like charred flesh torn from a burn victim.
The walls of Fort Carillon no longer seemed so solid.
Shit!
Adam clenched his teeth so hard he nearly cracked them.
The noise was so deafening, he didn't even hear the ominous sound right beside him. It was as if he were standing next to a ringing bell.
An English shot had struck the muzzle of Cannon 3. It lifted into the air like a toy, ripping free of all its fastenings.
Just like what had happened on the northern battery, it came crashing down with a monstrous clatter—right on top of the mortar, which had been placed farther back in the center of the demi-lune, precisely to avoid direct hits.
By some miracle, the mortar didn't explode. But it was utterly destroyed.
As for the gunners... Adam didn't know if they'd even had time to scream. It had all happened so fast.
They were all killed—crushed beneath the iron monster and its shattered carriage.
Adam slowly straightened up, frozen in horror at the extent of the devastation.
He had been incredibly lucky: he was stationed at the tip of the demi-lune, near Cannon 1.
The bodies—mutilated, broken, twisted, crushed—lay in a broad pool of blood. It was grotesque.
It took several seconds for his brain to process what his eyes were seeing. His legs buckled beneath him, but he didn't fall.
However, he couldn't stop himself from retching. He emptied the contents of his stomach at his feet.
BLEURGH!
A yellowish-brown bile splattered across the gravel, its acidic taste searing his throat.
Next to him, one of the gunners from Cannon 1—a man in his thirties—collapsed near the wooden wheels of the cannon, unconscious.
"G-get him out of here," Adam ordered in a trembling voice. "C-can you reload without him?"
"Y-yes, Captain."
"I'll send someone to take his place."
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The next hours were hell.
Under sustained and accurate fire, the western demi-lune crumbled gradually—like a sandcastle battered by relentless waves.
The entire right flank collapsed, dragging down the cannons still mounted there.
Over the course of the day, the British lost only three guns: one from the sixteen-pounder at the northern demi-lune, and two others to a lucky mortar bomb. Two more were damaged, but not enough to prevent them from firing.
Although the western demi-lune fell silent around two in the afternoon, the enemy's fire did not abate until half past four, when the setting sun marked the day's end.
In its final moments, the sun bathed the sky in a vivid, magnificent red—like it had been stained by the blood spilled that day.