Hello everybody!
Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
And thank you Mium, Porthos10, Ranger_Red, p_raj, lizeer, AlexZero12, George_Bush_2910 and Shingle_Top for the support!
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April. Springtime. The return of fair weather… and of war.
At Fort Bourbon, a tense atmosphere had taken hold. For everyone there, it felt as though the sky might fall on their heads at any moment.
But this time, they were ready. The Marquis de Montcalm had personally ensured that supplies and ammunition had arrived safely.
He had supervised the operation so closely that not even the leeches in Montreal had managed to divert a single barrel. The stores were full, enough to keep the fort going for many months if need be.
Reinforcements had also arrived to bolster their ranks—young recruits trained over the winter.
Among them was young Gaspard.
He hadn't joined Adam's company, which was already full thanks to the survivors of Albert Fontaine's unit, but had been assigned to Jean-Baptiste Gauthier's.
Adam had been glad to see him again, even if their conversations had only lasted a few minutes here and there.
Though April was already well underway—it was the 11th—the English remained strangely silent.
With each passing day, the men grew more nervous. The garrison soldiers expected some kind of ruse, a surprise blow when their vigilance was at its lowest. Adam shared their concern.
The winter had seen a series of skirmishes targeting patrols and convoys. Each time, the enemy would retreat and vanish before the tide could turn against them.
Of course, the French hadn't taken it lying down. They'd laid ambushes of their own to weaken the English, who clung to Albany like barnacles to a ship's hull.
Nearly all the senior officers' attention was focused on that city. If a major attack was coming, it would come from there. Of that, there was no doubt.
"Ah… ah… achoo!"
Sniff.
Adam sniffled and pulled a cloth handkerchief from his pocket. It was damp—he'd used it several times since they'd set out.
He missed the paper tissues from his own time. Here, he didn't have much choice: he had to make do with this rough square of cloth, barely fit to clean a window, and use it until he could wash it.
"Wash" was a generous term, but what else could he do in this era, where laundry was done at the river or in a communal washhouse?
Adam folded his handkerchief once more and tucked it away.
His nose, red as a clown's, was starting to ache from all the blowing.
Despite the recent stretch of good weather, he'd somehow managed to catch a cold. To be fair, the shift had been abrupt.
Late March had been rainy, then suddenly the skies cleared and the warmth set in. It felt more like May or even June now.
Ugh… it's cold this morning. Damn, I can feel it… I'm gonna sneeze again!
"Achoo!"
He doubled over from the force of it and thought his lungs were going to come out. A dry, sharp pain seized his chest.
Damn. That hurts.
The pain lingered a moment, then faded.
Even though it warmed up by midday—sometimes even becoming hot—the mornings remained chilly.
At dawn, like that morning, the temperature hovered around six or seven degrees Celsius.
A fine mist surrounded them, lit by a shy sun filtering through the tall regional trees. Its rays cast a golden hue, giving the impression that these few men had just stepped into another realm, one of elves and fairies.
Visibility was poor unless walking in the shadows of the living trees, whose branches were gradually filling with lush green leaves and blossoms that would, in time, become fruit.
"Sir," said Thomas Bellemaison, approaching from the right, "we're coming up on a fork. If we go left, we'll head toward Albany. If we take the right path, we should come to an abandoned English village."
Adam nodded.
He vaguely remembered their campaign south of Fort Edward, after they'd wrested it from the English. They had destroyed many villages and hamlets in the region before reaching Albany.
The young captain no longer remembered their exact locations and wasn't sure he'd recognize the ones he'd helped destroy.
"We'll go right. Just a routine check."
The lieutenant gave a brief bow and returned to the rear of the column. There were twenty-two of them, advancing at a steady pace along a wide dirt path, broad enough for a wagon.
Ten minutes later, they reached the fork. They took the right path, which climbed gently before curving sharply in a hairpin bend.
Gradually, the patrol gained elevation, soon rising over ten meters above the road they had come from. The trail they now followed narrowed.
Then Adam noticed a buzzing overhead. He quickly looked up, scanning nervously for the source of the sound.
He had had a very bad experience with bees in his previous life.
His heart skipped a beat when he spotted it—in a large oak tree.
That beehive was larger than a watermelon, and dozens of bees could be seen buzzing around it like guards at the gates of a palace.
E-everything's fine... As long as we don't disturb them, they won't attack.
He forced himself to breathe slowly.
An old natural science class—what they used to call "SVT"—came back to him. He found it strange and amusing that he remembered it so clearly, considering how little attention he used to pay in Madame Hernandez's lessons.
B-bees only sting once… because they have barbed stingers. They lose them when they sting, which kills them. They… they won't commit suicide without good reason.
The group passed under the hive, ignoring the few bees that flew near them like overly curious children, and continued on to the ruins of an anonymous village founded over a century earlier by Dutch settlers.
Almost two years after its destruction, nothing had changed.
Grass had simply grown over some of the scorched planks. The wind slipped through the skeletal remains of the houses, and the fields were unrecognizable.
"No one's come back here, it seems," Adam muttered to himself.
Lieutenant Bellemaison gave a few quiet orders, then walked over to his captain.
He stood before what remained of a log house. The only solid structure left was the chimney, though it had partially collapsed during the fire.
"Captain," he said, consulting his rough map again, "this isn't marked on the plan, but it looks like there's another path further north."
"Hmm. All right. Let's go take a quick look."
The small column set off again, led by their captain. Adam held his musket tightly in both hands, ready for anything.
The path Bellemaison had indicated was so narrow and overgrown that they had to stoop to move forward. The branches formed a tunnel.
Some of them were covered in long thorns that clung to their clothes as if trying to catch them, scratching at their hands.
The trail now sloped downward and led them to a small stream. The water was clear and cool, quietly carving away at the terrain year after year.
It was starting to get warm, but not here, sheltered under the leafy canopy.
"We'll take a short break here, gentlemen. Use the time to drink. We'll head back up afterward."
Adam sat on a large rock partially covered in moss and pulled a piece of dried meat from his satchel. It had been sold to the French by the Iroquois and made excellent military rations for when they were on the move.
This jerky was easy to carry, kept well, and didn't taste bad. Adam's only regret was that the smoky flavor was so strong it was impossible to tell what animal it came from.
His men settled nearby so he could keep an eye on them and followed his example.
"In my opinion," said soldier Tournier, crouching near the stream, "with the defeats the English have taken, the war'll be over by the end of the year."
"That soon?"
"Well, they've suffered too many losses. And too quickly. Their economy can't keep up. Word is there are uprisings every day back home. In England, I mean. They can't keep going forever."
"I doubt it," La Coquette replied firmly, scratching his hand where a mosquito had bitten him—not once, not twice, but three times.
"Oh yeah? You sound pretty sure of yourself," Beau-Regard said as he stepped closer.
"Think about it," La Coquette said, stretching out his legs. "If they try to pull out of the war now, they'll make fools of themselves in front of the whole world. No one will respect them. Not to mention what it'll do to their economy."
"You're probably right," anspessade Gourmet muttered, breathing heavily after the long march. "Maybe next year, then?"
"I bet they've already started negotiating. I don't know how that process works, but I'm sure it takes time. They'd better start now, before they lose more provinces and islands."
"Could be. But that also means we'll soon be attacked by the redcoats. Their king will want to cut his losses."
"Tch, that's why everyone's on edge back at the fort. Hey, Captain, what are the higher-ups saying?"
Adam looked up and glanced at his men one by one.
"Well, they're preparing for every eventuality, of course. They expect a major attack in the coming months, which is why we're keeping a close eye on what's happening in Albany and improving our defenses."
Soldier Tournier hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning on his lips:
"Captain… what will happen to us when the war ends?"
"…"
Adam looked away and didn't answer immediately. He chose his words carefully.
"You signed a contract. You've committed to serve the king and the kingdom for six years. He'll probably need you for another year or two after a peace treaty is signed, just to make sure the English hold up their end. Then, you'll likely be released from duty. His Majesty won't be able to maintain such a large army in peacetime. You'll return to civilian life."
"A-and you? What will you do? If you leave the army, won't you lose your seniority too?"
Once again, Adam didn't respond immediately.
He closed his eyes and made an immense effort to show no emotion.
Go home… I'd give anything to go home.
Adam's silence grew heavier than a lead weight.
Tournier regretted asking that last question.
Ah… After nearly four years, can I still go home? And if the future has changed, will I even have a home to go back to?
He hadn't truly considered that possibility over the past few years. He had forced himself not to—it was too frightening.
All this time, he had convinced himself he was too small, too insignificant, to have any effect on the course of events.
But now he doubted it, and even the shadow of that thought terrified him.
He no longer knew when or how that seed had been planted in his mind. It wasn't because of the capture of Frederick II of Prussia, or the news of his suicide that had reached them ten days earlier.
Adam had known nothing about that man before transmigrating.
Nor could it be the conquest of Nova Scotia—he had known next to nothing about that land or its history.
Perhaps, in the end, it was due to the destruction of Boston by Marshal Duke de Richelieu? He had tried to find explanations for that, twisting facts to match his meager historical knowledge about the origins of the United States.
More likely, it was because of the growing popularity of rugby. He was fully aware he had started that, just like he had with the spread of potatoes.
He didn't know anymore.
What he was sure of now was that he could no longer be certain he would find his family the way he had left them. He no longer knew what to expect when he found François's watch again.
Adam hoped to find some answers during his next visit with the Mohawks. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the chance all winter.
"I don't know," Adam finally breathed. "I still need to think about it. Alright, break's over. Let's move."
The men scrambled to their feet as if eager to escape the place.
In silence, they resumed the barely visible winding path through the vegetation, passed once more through the ruined village, and made their way back toward the main road leading to Albany.
Suddenly, a scout came running back toward them.
"E-enemies! Straight ahead! They're coming down the main road!"
"How many?" Adam asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.
"F-forty, maybe fifty, Captain."
At once, a chill ran through the veins of the French soldiers. Adam looked down the slope toward the main road, twenty or so meters below.
His face grew more confident.
"We have the high ground and the element of surprise! Prepare for combat!"
Adam's unit immediately spread out along the path and took firing positions. The approaching group was large, with a mix of regular soldiers and militiamen, but none of Adam's men thought of running.
They had a truly advantageous position. It was a gift.
As soon as the English column was within range, Adam gave the signal.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hell descended on the unsuspecting men below. Bullets whistled through the trees and struck their targets with deadly accuracy.
Blood flowed, orders were shouted, chaos erupted.
The smoke from their ruthless volley gave away their position, but the English were caught in the open.
Terrified by the number of their fallen comrades, they quickly pulled back. They couldn't tell how many enemies were shooting at them, but the defenders clearly had the upper hand.
The rocky promontory where Adam's men were stationed acted like a natural fortress, not to mention the trees that stood between them. To dislodge them, the English would have to split up and flank them.
They didn't have the numbers for that—certainly not after those losses.
"Fall back! Retreat!" shouted an officer in a bright scarlet uniform, surrounded by men trying to protect him.
He raised his pistol toward the enemy and fired, knowing full well the odds of hitting anything were laughable.
Bang!
The bullet flew harmlessly over the French heads and disappeared into the branches of a tree.
Crack!
Adam heard a sharp sound behind him, like a ripe fruit falling and bursting on the ground. His face went pale as a painful memory from his previous life hit him square in the mind.
"THE HIVE FELL!" screamed a panicked soldier.
Furious, the bees burst from the ruins of their home, forming a dark, menacing cloud.
There were no words to describe the noise they made, but it reached every French ear despite the chaos of battle.
"RUN!" Adam roared, his voice cracking.
The line broke and the French soldiers abandoned their positions. They rushed down the slope like demons unleashed.
The English saw them coming—and ran the other way.
"Ow!"
"Argh!"
"I got stung!"
"Shut your mouth and run!" Adam bellowed, feeling something crawling in his hair.
Chased by an enemy they couldn't shoot at, the French ran at full speed, abandoning the bodies of the fallen English soldiers.
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By the time they finally returned to Fort Bourbon, they looked like plague victims. Their faces were so swollen they were nearly unrecognizable.
Adam, with one eye swollen shut and a face more purple than red, collapsed among his comrades, just as exhausted as they were.
***
At that same moment, in front of a tavern in New York, a handsome young man of twenty stopped, his eyes fixed on the establishment's name.
He had been told the man he was looking for would most likely be here.
Apparently, he was a regular now. Almost as if he lived there.
The young man, tall and slender, glanced over his shoulder—but no one had followed him. He looked like a spy.
Of course, he was innocent.
If he stooped to such a thing, it would mean total disgrace for his family—and naturally, he'd be hanged. But in truth, he had no reason to betray the Crown.
For whom, anyway? France?
He hated them with every fiber of his being. They were bloodthirsty monsters, soulless and heartless arsonist criminals.
He hadn't witnessed their cruelty in Boston with his own eyes, but he had seen illustrations. And he had heard countless accounts—each more heartrending than the last.
He had, however, witnessed the massacre at Fort William Henry. He knew what those despicable French had done, under the orders of their infamous general, the Marquis de Montcalm.
Not even for a million pounds would he betray his king and his people.
What he feared seeing was the ghost of his beloved mother.
Had she still been alive, she would have done everything in her power to dissuade him from what he was about to do.
He knew it—and out of love for her, he probably would have backed down.
But she was gone. His father too.
The young man was jostled.
"Hey, don't just stand there. Either go in or move."
"Oh, um, sorry, sir."
"Tch!"
The man clicked his tongue loudly and stepped into the tavern. A powerful wave of alcohol hit the young man, even from outside.
At last, he made up his mind and entered.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting—but his nose…
He frowned.
"Good Lord… What is that smell?"
Luckily, no one heard him.
He began scanning the room.
He had never met the man he was looking for, and that man certainly wasn't expecting him.All he had was a name, a vague description, and the name of this tavern.
Fortunately, men like that weren't very common.
He found him slumped in a chair, clothes disheveled, face flushed, eyes glassy, a dirty beard, and a bottle in hand.
"Is that… really him?"
He hoped he was wrong, but no one else in the tavern matched the description he'd been given. Sadly, the description had been accurate.
Hesitantly, he stepped forward across the sticky wooden floor, stained by years of spilled alcohol.
"E-excuse me, sir. I-I'm looking for Major Robert Rogers. Are you… Are you him?"
The officer—or what remained of him—slowly lifted his eyes toward the young man who had dared to disturb him.
His gaze struggled to focus.
In his current state, he couldn't really see him, even though the boy was right in front of him. He was just a blurred, dancing shape—perhaps within stabbing distance.
He certainly couldn't make out his features.
"Th-that depends who… who's asking. Do I… do I owe you money?"
"Huh? Uh, no," replied the young man, already regretting ever coming to this crowded city.
"Good, hehe. Because this," he said, lifting his nearly empty bottle, "this was all I had left. Hehehe!"
The young man winced as he watched him raise the bottle to his lips. The liquor dribbled down, soaking first his scruffy beard, then his neck, and finally his clothes.
"Y-you're really Major Rogers? The war hero?"
Robert Rogers nearly choked with laughter.
"A-a hero? Hahaha! Where do you see a hero, kid? And here I thought I was the drunkest bastard in this damn city!"
He set his bottle down, wiped his mouth lazily with the back of his sleeve, and leaned dangerously to the side. If the young man hadn't caught him, he surely would have fallen.
"Whoops! Whoa there—look how handsome your hero is, huh?"
"How could you fall so low? I mean… last year, you were one of the Crown's most feared soldiers."
"Hey now, calm down, kid. You want my cock or what? I'm no hero, I told you. Just someone willing to get his hands dirty, unlike all those fools in uniform. Well, was willing. And look how they thanked me for my service, huh?"
He pointed at his empty bottle, and the young man understood exactly what this drunk, a shadow of his former self, was asking for.
Because he needed him, he paid for another bottle. The cheapest one—he doubted the man would notice the difference in his current state.
Sure enough, Rogers began to drink it like it was milk.
"I need you, sir. I… I want to become a ranger."
Rogers sobered slightly.
"You're barking up the wrong tree, kid. I'm retired. Kicked out. Tossed aside like worn-out socks."
"Sir, I misspoke. I don't just want to become a ranger. I want to become a Roger's Ranger."
"You deaf or something?" snapped the drunk, clearly irritated. "They canceled my commission. Roger's Rangers don't exist anymore. It's over. And for good reason, too. Look at this!"
Robert Rogers twisted in his chair and revealed his missing leg.
There was nothing left below the knee.
"I-I know what happened to you, sir. I'm sorry."
"Don't give a damn if you're sorry! That won't bring my leg back. If you've got that straight, then piss off. I'm keeping the bottle."
The young man grimaced harder and stood silently for a moment.
"What? You still here?"
"I'm not leaving until I get what I came for. I want to become one of your Rangers. I want to be trained to fight the French."
"Pwahaha! You're funny. Let me see your hand. Don't worry, I'm not gonna cut it off."
Skeptical, the young man obeyed anyway. Robert Rogers grabbed it and squeezed with all his strength, trying to crush it.
The young man was surprised, but realizing it was a test, he made no sound—not even a gasp. He squeezed back.
A broad smile spread across Rogers' weathered lips.
"Hey, not bad. A little soft, but I've seen worse."
"So… you'll take me on?"
"Maybe. But this isn't happening in two days, you know? This war'll probably be over before your training is. That is, if I say yes."
"That's fine. If I'm not ready for this war, then I'll train to be the best in the next one. I'm going to become the French's worst nightmare."
"Pwahah! You know what, kid? I like you. Hey, what's your name?"
The young man straightened proudly.
"Arnold, sir. Benedict Arnold."