Hello! Sorry for the late update—this chapter was a tough one to write!
I hope you will enjoy it!
Oh! While writing, I realized I hadn't been consistent in the previous chapter regarding the number of horses captured. I mentioned there were about twenty wagons, so it wouldn't make sense for both the Iroquois and the French to have ten horses each.I've adjusted the numbers to make it more plausible: the Iroquois take fifteen horses, and the French thirty-five.
Thank you Daoist397717, George_Bush_2910, paffnytij, Dekol347, Porthos10, AlexZero12, Mium, Shingle_Top and Ranger_Red for the support!
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It had been five days.
Five days watching for a convoy, hidden in the woods, ready to strike.
Dead leaves, soaked by the rain from the day before, carpeted the ground like an old, soft, treacherous rug.
The cold—especially at night—and the damp had become their worst enemies. They numbed the fingers, gnawed at their feet, seeped through coats down to the bone, and tempted the sentries to drop their guard.
Adam pulled his greatcoat tighter around his neck, never taking his dull gaze off the winding road below. It was empty, broken only by wide, muddy puddles.
A wind from the north still bit at them, even past noon. As soon as the sun began to set, the air turned freezing. If only it were dry…
Still nothing. Not a soul. Tsk. This isn't how we're going to complete our mission.
Adam's small company had moved further south, roughly twelve kilometers from the ruins of Fort Miller.
No one lived in the area. Only trees as far as the eye could see.
In such an environment, it was easy to disappear, even if the season had stripped the undergrowth and bared the trees.
The French had blended into the landscape.
"Ah... ah... Atchoo!"
Adam sneezed loudly and wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his sleeve. Unsurprisingly, he'd caught a cold. Nothing serious, fortunately, but still very annoying.
Sniff!
He snorted and pulled from his pocket a handkerchief already far too filthy. Ignoring the unpleasant dampness on his fingers, he pressed it to his nose and gave a good blow.
He sounded like an old, clogged bugle.
Then, Adam stuffed the square of cloth back into his pocket like a worthless scrap.
After a few more minutes of fruitless observation, he decided to return to the camp, about fifty meters east, between the road and the river. From afar, it was invisible.
On the way back, he passed a middle-aged soldier sitting on a fallen log, covered in moss and mushrooms.
"Still nothing, Captain?"
Adam shook his head slowly.
"No. Nothing at all."
The soldier, Perron—one of the men from the Berry Regiment—sighed and returned to his sketches.
He had real talent. His notebook was nearly full of scenes from their daily life: a soldier smoking, sipping soup, proudly posing with his musket, chatting with a comrade.
He had even drawn Adam.
Adam hadn't liked the result. When Perron had shown him the portrait, it had looked more like a wanted criminal than an honest officer.
Since then, he'd made a point of tying his hair properly. It didn't change much, but at least he looked a little neater.
These days passed like that: dull, repetitive, empty, meaningless.
The day after the ambush with the Mohawks, they'd seen a great number of redcoats go by. A full regiment. Naturally, they had laid low.
Against such a force, they would've been torn to pieces.
Fortunately, the enemy hadn't discovered them.
They had passed right in front of their position, a long column with flags flying and drums beating, headed toward Albany.
Since then—nothing.
In their modest camp, boredom gnawed at everyone. They passed time however they could: playing dice or cards, telling stories, or inventing new games.
In one corner, Adam saw a small group of soldiers playing with pebbles. The rules were simple: toss your pebble as close as possible to a line drawn in the dirt, without crossing it.
If it went over, the stone didn't count. The closest won the round.
Adam sat down in a quiet spot and pressed his hands to his face. He was exhausted.
His spirits were low, his nose hurt, he was cold, and boredom ate away at him. He didn't even have a notebook to jot down ideas for his next project.
Not a single target in five days… Don't they have anything to send to Fort Bourbon? Or are they taking another route? Were we too far last time?
He let his hands fall back onto his knees and scanned the camp.
And they're not going via the river. We'd know if they were. Ugh... I don't know. Let's be patient a bit longer.
That same afternoon, about an hour and a half before sunset, a movement on the road finally caught the attention of a sentry.
"C-Captain! Wagons! Wagons incoming!"
Dozens of heads suddenly snapped up. They looked like a pack of meerkats on high alert.
Some men were already on their feet, musket in hand.
"How many of them?!" Captain Deniers called out at once. "How far away?!"
"I… I'm not sure, sir. I came back to camp as soon as we saw them at the end of the road. They—they're coming from the south and still pretty far."
Adam strode over and placed a firm hand on the soldier's shoulder.
"Good work. Let's go have a look."
Adam seemed fully awake, almost invigorated by the news. In the blink of an eye, the camp was deserted.
All the soldiers followed the sentry to a natural promontory, hidden among the pines, offering a clear view of the road.
The position wasn't ideal for an ambush: the road was a bit far, and several obstacles stood in their way.
But farther down the road, there was a much better position—a wooded ledge about five meters above the road.
Adam squinted and smiled.
Five wagons were approaching, escorted by about fifty men.
Finally! About time! I was starting to think we'd have to move closer to Albany.
After what had happened the previous month—especially their flight through the woods—Adam no longer wanted to venture so deep into enemy territory. If he could stay close to the French lines, he'd be more than satisfied.
They were already far enough as it was. Fort Carillon was nearly ninety kilometers away.
"Captain, I only count five wagons," whispered Marais at his right.
"I see them too."
"Fifty men, maybe?"
"Men? I don't see any," Captain Belfour scoffed.
"Bloody English bastards," growled Deniers.
"Dead bloody English bastards," someone added.
Adam listened absentmindedly, but his focus remained on the wagons, slow and heavy.
"Captain, should we attack?"
"Of course we attack," Adam murmured with cold resolve. "They made us wait long enough. No way they're making it to Fort Bourbon."
"Shame there are only five," Deniers grumbled. "Five days for this."
"Still better than nothing," Collet noted with a shrug.
Adam nodded.
"Yes, better than nothing. Let's do this right, gentlemen. Collet, Deniers, get into position as planned. Belfour, you stay with me. We shoot them, search everything, burn it all, and clear out. Understood?"
"Understood!"
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The French troops spread out quickly and methodically on either side of the road.
Hidden behind a dense bush, Adam tightened his grip on his musket stock. His thumb brushed the hammer and gently pulled it back.
Click.
They aren't many. With our advantage, this'll be over in a single volley.
Below them, the road was muddy.
The wagon wheels were caked and sank deep, splashing anyone walking too close. The convoy struggled to move forward.
Each meter required a great effort from the animals. At times, the soldiers had to push from behind.
If they stopped, it would be hard to get going again.
Suddenly…
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
A long volley exploded from both sides of the road. The redcoats, caught in a crossfire, had no time to react.
The concentrated fire swept through them like an invisible blade. Each man was hit at least once.
As always, a terrifying silence followed the thunder of musket fire.
The smoke was quickly carried away by the wind, revealing the full extent of the carnage.
It was an execution.
Cautiously, the French emerged from their cover, tense as drawn bows, and slid down toward the immobilized convoy.
Adam, flanked by Marais and Cornette, moved slowly into the middle of the road.
Everything was so quiet. Yet he half expected a shot.
His eyes scanned the bodies nervously, watching for the slightest movement.
"Diable!"
Adam spun around, nerves taut. One of his men had stepped into a hole in the middle of the road.Filled with water, he hadn't seen how deep it was. His right leg was soaked up to the knee.
Goddamn… Idiot scared the hell out of me!
"Hey, quit making so much noise! For God's sake! You'd think you'd just seen an enemy, you moron!"
The Cannon smacked the soldier at the back of the head without mercy, sending his tricorne flying into the mud.
"S-sorry, Sergeant," the man muttered as he picked it up.
Adam frowned. But he had more important things to do than watch a soldier get chewed out.
"All right, let's see what we've got…"
He stepped over a corpse, pushed aside a thick tarp, and glanced into the third wagon. His eyes lit up when he saw crates stacked neatly like building blocks, along with heavy canvas sacks—most likely filled with grain or flour.
Not bad.
"C-captain! Captain Boucher!"
Adam spun around, scanning the area for the voice calling him.
"What?! Who's calling me?!"
He froze.
"What the hell is this…"
At the end of the road, in the same direction those five wagons had come from…
"Enemies approaching!"
"Shit!"
Adam's heart skipped a beat.
"Regroup! Re—"
There they were—Redcoats, marching quickly in columns, three by three, bayonets fixed. And more kept appearing.
How many of them are there?
"E-everyone… fall back! This way! Fall back! Leave the wagons! Move your asses, now!"
This convoy, the one General Murray had been waiting for so eagerly, didn't consist of just five wagons. There were nearly seventy.
And to ensure their safe arrival, the army had gone all in. There were at least seven hundred men.
Adam didn't need to see them all to feel the danger bearing down on them.
"Get off the road! Get out of there!"
"You heard the captain! Fall back! You waiting for an invitation?!"
The French, like startled rabbits, fled the road, leaving all their loot behind.
They started running, as if the Devil himself was chasing them.
Guided by their officers, they quickly put distance between themselves and the enemy.
Luckily, the British couldn't stray too far from the road. From their perspective, this could easily be a diversion.If they left the wagons unguarded, another group could appear and destroy their precious supplies.
It wasn't a risk they were willing to take.
The French didn't waste that chance—and vanished.
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Eventually, after a frantic dash through the woods that lasted only a few dozen minutes, they stopped in the middle of nowhere, breathless. No one could say exactly how long they had been running.
It had felt both short and endless.
One thing was certain—no Redcoats were in sight.
"E-everyone here?" Adam asked, hands on his knees, panting. "Count off!"
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three!"
"F-four!"
They were down to a hundred and twenty-eight men.
Though not a single shot had been fired, twelve were missing.
Fuck! They probably got lost in the woods. With luck, they'll show up later.
"Captains Collet, Deniers, and Belfour—over here!"
The three officers approached, gasping for breath and red-faced.
Deniers was in the worst shape. Despite being remarkably fit for his age, he looked about ready to cough up his lungs.
"Gentlemen, what do we do?"
The officers exchanged uncertain glances.
Deniers was the first to speak.
"We need to warn the general. That force isn't insignificant. He needs to know."
Collet shrugged.
"The enemy has nearly four thousand men at Fort Bourbon. A few hundred more…"
"Could make a difference," Belfour interrupted, arms crossed. "Captain Boucher, it's crucial we inform Monsieur de Montcalm that the enemy is being reinforced—even if it's possible these are the same men we saw pass earlier this week. Maybe it means an attack on Fort Carillon is imminent?"
Deniers nodded.
"That's true. But we can't just tell him that. We need to be more specific. Those five wagons we attacked—they probably weren't the only ones. For all we know, there could've been dozens more behind them!"
"Ah? Then why weren't they with the other five?"
Deniers shrugged.
"What does it matter? Maybe one of their wagons got stuck, or who knows what! We need to check and inform the general! Every bit of information counts!"
Adam listened in silence, very attentive, as the three officers exchanged their views passionately.
Even though the marquis had placed him above them, that didn't mean he could impose his will without consultation.
He knew it well: compared to these men—Deniers especially—he still lacked experience.
Those three had been captains for years.
"Alright. Here's what we're going to do," Adam said firmly. "We'll pull back toward Fort Carillon while doing everything we can to slow down the British and kill as many as possible. Given the size and pace of that convoy, they'll probably reach Fort Bourbon by tomorrow evening. If we ambush them along the way, we might gain a day. That time will allow us to estimate their strength, and send someone to warn the general."
"You… want to attack them?" the three officers asked in unison.
"Only quick strikes," Adam confirmed. "We shoot, then fall back. Then do it again further down the road. The goal isn't to destroy the column, but to buy our comrades time to prepare. Monsieur de Montcalm wanted the British to attack in haste and without preparation. This convoy changes everything—and puts the entire west of New France in grave danger."
"That's very risky, Captain," said Belfour after a short silence.
"Not that risky, Captain Belfour. My men and I managed to kill a good number of enemies using this tactic while retreating. Just now, we wiped out what amounted to an entire company without taking any losses. If we repeatedly strike the rear of that convoy—even if we only make them lose a few men each time—we'll definitely affect their morale and slow them down."
Adam could see the three captains remained skeptical. He tried to appear confident.
"Gentlemen, I know trust isn't easily earned. We haven't fought much together, so here's my proposal: let's try a few attacks. No, just one. If it doesn't work, I'll hand over command and we'll do whatever you think is best for the group."
Deniers, Belfour, and Collet raised their eyebrows in surprise. Few officers were willing to give up their authority so easily.
They had no choice but to nod.
"And the camp? Our supplies? The food?"
"And the horses?"
Adam hadn't forgotten any of that.
"All the more reason to head back. Ah… But we can't waste time. It'll be dark soon. What, maybe half an hour left? Forty-five minutes?"
"Something like that," Collet said, glancing at the low sun still visible between the trees.
Adam pressed his lips together.
"Alright. In that case, we should fall back and recover all our things first. Hopefully, the British haven't gotten their hands on them. Then… we'll see."
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When they reached the camp, they found it intact. Clearly, the redcoats hadn't discovered it.
The wind rustled softly through the branches, and the rain had started again.
The horses, gathered in a corner, calm and tied up, seemed barely to have noticed their absence.
Despite their efforts to arrive early, time had slipped away, and there wasn't much left before dusk.
Soon, night would fall.
The convoy had surely advanced, but like them, it would have to stop for the night. Despite the fading light, Adam was already considering an attack.
"Captain," said the old Captain Deniers, "even though it's not dark yet, we'll soon be unable to see enough to fight—or even move. We should stay here for the night and head out at first light."
"You're right. However… I'd like to try something."
"Oh?"
The old officer raised an eyebrow, wary. Several deep lines etched his brow like a parched land.
Adam turned his head toward the horses.
"We have a few horses. What if we gave them to our best men, sent them after the convoy, and had them fire a few shots before returning?"
Captain Deniers looked at Adam as if he were some odd creature. Turning a foot soldier into a rider was possible—but not nearly as easy as he made it sound.
"You… You really want to do that?" he asked, as if to make sure it wasn't a joke.
"Why not?" Adam replied. "Surely some of us know how to ride, don't they?"
"Possibly. But… You want them to shoot from horseback? That's not something you can just improvise."
"Not necessarily. They could dismount, fire, and remount."
Deniers didn't look convinced. He imagined the worst.
"So they'll need to be able to mount and dismount quickly, but… Have you looked at our horses? They're sturdy, sure—but they're built for hauling heavy loads, not for charging at a gallop. I'm afraid we'd only expose ourselves and lose men for nothing. Some of them don't even have saddles."
Adam knew that. It was just an idea he thought might work.
Seeing that his commander wasn't ready to give up so easily, Deniers let out a deep sigh.
"Alright," he said, scratching his cheek, "I suppose we can try to replace them with blankets. But it won't be as stable or comfortable. You can ask the other captains, but I'm afraid they'll give you the same answer as I did."
"Well, if that's the case, then there's nothing we can do. Too bad. Thank you for your honesty, Captain."
"You're welcome."
Deniers gave a quick salute and walked away, increasingly puzzled by the young man. He had strange ideas, but at least he wasn't passively accepting events.
More importantly, he didn't impose them.
In his opinion, a good officer had to be decisive, but not deaf to the advice of his subordinates. He also had to be aware of his own limits and rely on the strengths of his fellow officers.
Throughout his career, Deniers had seen too many officers, promoted thanks to their name, fortune, or connections, ignore the counsel of more competent subordinates simply because they had reached higher ranks.
It was as if, with their rank, they had automatically acquired the wisdom needed to lead thousands of men into battle.
Because of such men, how many battles had been lost and turned into disasters? Too many.
Unfortunately, they were common in France.
It took years to make a decent officer. And some, despite all their efforts, remained mediocre.
Luckily, this boy had a good head on his shoulders and didn't seem eaten up by pride.
The four captains gathered a short distance away to discuss the idea.
The plan had the merit of being bold. It could increase their mobility and have a real impact on the next battle.
However, they had very few horses, which would severely limit the scope of their actions.
"I think it's doable," Collet said at last. "We'll just have to carefully choose the men who go. Most of our men have no experience, but in my company, there are several who know how to ride."
The officer looked up at the dark, overcast sky.
"But tonight, I think it's too late. Captain Deniers is right: riding can't be improvised. Especially at dusk."
"I agree," Belfour added. "I'm not saying the plan is unworkable, but we must make sure every man comes back."
Adam nodded.
"Very well. Not tonight. Let's start by identifying those who know how to ride. Ah! And let's send one man on horseback to estimate the size of this convoy and warn the general. Everyone in agreement?"
The three captains nodded, and a soldier—who had grown up on a large estate between Montreal and Trois-Rivières where there were several horses—was chosen to deliver the bad news to the Marquis de Montcalm.
That left them with just thirty-four mounted men to slow the British convoy.