Hello! Here is a new chapter!
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Under the pale glow of a veiled moon, Fort Bourbon finally took shape—a dark mass nestled against the black river.
After such a long journey, that familiar silhouette seemed almost unreal, as if it had emerged from a dream.
The gentle drumming of hooves on dry earth mingled with the steady creaking of empty wagons, escorted by a small number of soldiers.
A collective sigh rose at the sight.
François straightened slightly in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him.
His shoulders ached, his back protested, and his backside throbbed as if it were one large bruise.
His mission had been long and grueling.
The weight of each passing day had settled deep into his muscles and bones. Just bringing those wagons to Canajoharie had taken a full month.
As the familiar outline of the bastions gradually emerged, a strange calm washed over him.
His mind felt adrift, as if after so many days on the roads and trails, the mere act of returning seemed unreal.
Behind him, the rest of the escort, lit only by a few lanterns, remained silent.
They approached from the west, crossing back into the fort via Long Island. A dog barked, drawing the attention of a handful of sentries.
They appeared at the entrance to the Long Bridge, lanterns in hand. A corporal called out in a gravelly voice:
"Who goes there?"
"Major François Boucher de Montrouge. Back from my mission."
The corporal stiffened and stepped closer to the officer. Blinking in recognition, he quickly gave a sharp salute.
"My apologies, Major. I didn't recognize you."
"All is well, Corporal."
The corporal turned on his heel, shouting to his comrades:
"Clear the way! Let them through! … You may proceed, sir."
François nodded toward the soldiers as they stepped aside to let him pass, then rode onto the long bridge without dismounting.
Soon, they were across the Hudson River and inside the sprawling brick fort.
Within, a few men on duty moved like pale ghosts under the timid moonlight. From the guardhouse, drowsy men emerged, rubbing their eyes as if they had just been roused.
The lanterns cast unsettling shadows across their faces.
François swung down from his horse, stood still for a moment, then handed his loyal mount to a young soldier.
"Unhitch the wagons and tend to the horses."
He lifted his gaze to the officers' quarters, dark and imposing. A faint glow shone from the windows of the colonel's office.
"I'll make my report. Sergeant Delon, I'm leaving you in charge."
"At your orders!"
With slow, heavy steps, François crossed the courtyard and climbed the few wooden stairs leading to Colonel de Faudoas's quarters. He longed to go home and sleep, but the report had to come first.
Knock knock.
"Come in," came a firm voice from the other side.
Inside, the commander of the Nouvelle-Aquitaine Regiment and keeper of the fort was still wide awake, hunched over a pile of reports and letters.
He had removed his coat but still wore his blue jacket, trimmed with gold and adorned with large buttons that gleamed in the candlelight.
Deep circles shadowed his eyes, and his drawn features betrayed a well-set fatigue. His duties were so numerous that even a twenty-four-hour day seemed too short to accomplish them all.
He barely looked up and was startled to see his major.
"Major Boucher! At last!"
The relief in his voice was unmistakable. François's absence had weighed heavily, even though his adjutant had remained at the fort.
"I came as quickly as I could, Colonel."
"And the mission?"
"The convoy reached Canajoharie without incident. The Mohawks accepted our goods. I believe I can say they were very satisfied."
Faudoas nodded several times.
"Good, that is a relief. I feared things might take a bad turn. Now I can finally sleep."
He passed a hand over his face, as if to brush away the pressure that had built up over time.
It had indeed kept him from resting. As colonel, what had happened on the Mohawk River fell under his responsibility, since he had approved the operation. It was more his mistake than his major's.
"If the Mohawks have accepted our goods, then peace is preserved. That's what matters. Well done."
"It's mostly the Governor's doing. I merely made sure everything reached its destination."
The colonel gestured toward the chair across from him.
"Please, sit down, Monsieur de Montrouge."
François obeyed without a word. The wood of the chair was hard and cold beneath his thighs, uncomfortable — but he ignored it.
"During your absence, we received news from New York and the British colonies."
François raised an eyebrow.
"What has happened this time? The redcoats firing on the people again?"
"No, not to my knowledge. What happened in New York earlier this year was an isolated incident. Only six dead… Not the massacre some make it out to be, though it still causes quite a stir."
François slowly nodded. Before leaving for Quebec, Colonel de Faudoas had shown him several illustrations, all depicting the same scene but in radically different ways. On one hand, peaceful civilians being shot at point-blank range by soldiers with hateful faces, acting under their officer's orders. On the other, a violent mob hurling projectiles at overwhelmed soldiers who, nonetheless, held the line to protect the king's agents and his institutions.
"In a few months," the colonel resumed in a neutral tone, "the soldiers involved will be tried. The population seems eager for the trial. On both sides, the propaganda shows no sign of weakening. Tensions… remain very high."
Faudoas pulled a document from the top of a tall stack and placed it in front of him.
"Apparently, it has just been reported to us that the people of that city convinced the military authorities on site that their presence, and being quartered in private homes, was a major cause of the anger. They secured the departure of the last regiment from the city."
"Ah… And… did it work? Has calm returned?"
"So it seems," the colonel replied with a sigh, shrugging almost with disappointment. "But from what we're told, the pressure keeps mounting, and not just in New York. I believe they've only bought themselves time. This victory could even embolden the radicals to go further, to rally the moderates to their cause — especially if new taxes are imposed."
The radicals… Are they the ones who will start the War of Independence? I'm no longer sure what to think.
"All this," François said cautiously, "we know thanks to smugglers? Are they reliable?"
"I believe so, yes. All accounts match. All these pamphlets, these images, these acts of violence, these protests… It's only a matter of time before the army returns to the city to restore order. They will certainly claim it's for the people's own protection. They'll point the finger at us, naming us as the real threat."
François frowned and lowered his voice.
"What are we going to do?"
"Keep our heads down. That is His Majesty's will. Not a word, not a gesture that could put us in the path of their anger. We must make them forget we even exist. The pamphlets circulating in the British colonies must target their Parliament and their army, not us."
"I understand. So… we stop selling them our goods?"
De Faudoas shook his head.
"No need to go that far. We simply have to avoid being seen as a threat. On the contrary, we should sell them even more goods to appear as an ally against the 'leeches of Parliament.'"
"Come again? Ah — you mean the tax collectors."
"Exactly. Those people are more hated than we are. Perhaps even more than the speculators. In any case, that is the policy of His Majesty, the Governor, and Marshal de Contades."
The colonel then rose slowly, his joints cracking faintly.
"Go get some rest, Major. You've earned it. You'll write me a full report tomorrow, which I'll send to Quebec."
François also rose, his mind full of thoughts, and respectfully saluted his superior. He left the office, then the fort.
The young major was already anticipating the moment he could finally slip between the sheets and be with his wife.
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The night was mild and quiet, disturbed only by the calls of a few owls answering one another, and by a lone wolf conversing with the full moon, which had emerged from behind a thick gray cloud.
It bathed the landscape in its gentle white glow.
Upon reaching the edge of his seigneury, François noticed that in his absence, Onatah had opened a second row to the left of the road leading to Fort Carillon. Two new families had settled there, both related to soldiers in garrison.
The first consisted of a young couple and their child, the second of an older couple and their six children.
They would be valuable in the short term: the father was a carpenter — always useful on a seigneury — and the children, soon of marrying age, promised to start new families of their own on his land.
While François had been busy correcting his faults, his wife had also prepared the site for the new rugby field. For now, it was simply marked out with white-painted wooden stakes, occupying only part of a plot.
The land behind it could be used for something else, such as letting the livestock graze in peace.
Exhausted, François left the road, passed between the stone pillars marking the boundary of his estate, and made his way toward his manor, standing proudly on a small hill surrounded by trees.
He pushed open the door and found the house steeped in darkness.
Ah… everyone has gone to bed. Of course.
With reluctance, he slowly climbed the wooden stairs to the upper floor of his manor, lit only by a half-burnt candle in a hand-held candlestick.
The wood creaked softly beneath his steps, despite all his efforts to make no sound. It was as if the staircase were against him, perhaps displeased at being used at such a late hour.
Even the floorboards in the hallway refused to cooperate.
On his left, a door opened, and Jeanne's still half-asleep face emerged.
"Y-your lordship? You're back?"
"Yes. Sorry to have woken you, Jeanne. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."
The young woman yawned and obediently closed the door again with care.
Though she was only a servant, her role in the manor was essential. Without her, nothing would work properly—or everything would go wrong—since Onatah could not handle everything on her own.
She therefore had a room of her own.
François made his way to his own chamber and, unsurprisingly, found only a shape lying under the covers in the large bed. His candle, and the moon visible through the window on the far side of the bed, were the only sources of light in the room.
He blew out the small yellow flame and set the little pewter candlestick on his bedside table.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, he undressed and put on a nightshirt before slipping into bed beside his wife. Her steady breathing calmed him at once. She was turned away from him.
Oh… that feels good…
His head sank deep into the heavy, dense goose-feather pillow. It was like resting in the arms of an angel.
"My husband has finally found the way back to his room," Onatah murmured without turning around.
François tilted his head slightly to the left, hesitated for a second, then replied:
"Sorry if I woke you," he said softly.
"No."
François could have ignored that "no" and gone to sleep, but he knew his wife. He knew that behind it lay other words, other meanings.
Ah… she's angry.
He pressed his lips together.
"Sorry it took me so long. I came back as fast as I could."
"No."
François turned onto his side, facing Onatah's back. Her long black hair spread over the pillow like a wide fan.
"I missed you."
"No."
It was only then that he understood what Onatah truly wanted to hear. A smile came to his lips, and François moved closer under the covers until his chest touched the perfect form of the woman who filled his heart with joy.
He could feel her warmth, the steady beat of her heart, the scent of her hair. She did not reject him, but neither did she welcome him.
"I've come home."
Only then did she turn to face him. More than a statement, it was a promise.
He would never abandon her, for this was her time, and this house was her home.
"Good."
Her left hand came to rest on François's hip, and her lips met his—soft as peach skin.
She laid her head on his chest, her hand still at his hip, and remained there, motionless and silent, for several seconds.
"How long will you stay this time, before you leave on another mission?"
"Normally, that's it. No more missions."
"So they accepted the governor's compensation?"
"Yes. Everything's settled."
"That's a good thing. My father told me you escorted several wagons to Canajoharie…"
"We gave them more than they had asked for."
At these words, Onatah briefly lifted her head, then rested it again as though it were too heavy. Her husband made a good pillow.
"To bring the Confederacy and the French even closer together."
"That's right. Is it that obvious?"
"Pretty much, yes."
François hesitated, then asked in a whisper:
"Do you think it will be looked down on?"
"Why? It's politics. Do you think France is the only nation trying to use and take advantage of another nation? The Elders of Canajoharie used your mistake to get compensation, didn't they?"
François said nothing for a moment and pressed his cheek to the top of his wife's head, using her in turn as a pillow. He felt Onatah's hair tickle the tip of his nose.
"I suppose so."
After a pause, she asked:
"And your departure for France?"
"My leave is going to be upheld. It starts on June 15. I'll board in Quebec at the end of the month."
"I wish I could come with you. I'd like to see what it's like."
"Someone has to keep the seigneury running. And besides, our children are far too young to make the crossing. And France isn't as wonderful as you imagine. From what I saw last time, the towns and villages have barely changed since the Middle Ages."
"What's that?"
"An old era… when our warriors wore metal armor and fought with bows, crossbows, swords, and catapults. Roughly everything that happened between the fall of the Roman Empire and the discovery of this continent by Europeans."
In recent years, he had learned a great deal about France's history. He had bought several books on the subject to fill the considerable gaps he had never bothered to fill back when he was in school.
And the more he learned, the more he realized just how ignorant he had been.
"That was a long time ago, then," Onatah murmured against his chest.
François gave a small smile.
Not that long ago, he thought. Or maybe… Between 1492 and today, it's a little over two hundred and seventy years. And between 2024 and 1769, it's… almost two hundred and fifty years… Yeah, we're almost as far from my original time as from the discovery of America…
"Rather than today's France," François continued after a short pause, "I would have liked to show you twenty-first-century France. For one thing, you wouldn't be seen as some kind of exotic animal. I could have shown you the cities, modern technology. We would have walked in parks, gone shopping, gone to the ciné, to restaurants."
More than once, Onatah had asked her husband about his former world. Even though that strange world frightened her, she always found new questions to ask.
"What's a "ciné"? Some kind of inn?"
"Not at all. Imagine a large room with lots of seats facing a big white canvas, like a ship's sail. Imagine all those seats filled, and there's no light. Then moving images are shown to everyone, on the big canvas."
"Oh, yes. That's what you call a film?"
"That's right. I would have liked to watch one with you, and eat popcorn."
As he said the word, François suddenly had a revelation.
"Popcorn!"
He sat up in bed with a start, making Onatah jump.
"W-what?!"
"Popcorn! We can make popcorn!"
Even if I would have preferred a movie…
He was about to get up, excited as a child on Christmas morning, but Onatah caught him by the arm.
"And where do you think you're going? I don't know what you have in mind, but it's far too late."
"But…"
"Get back under the covers. And be quiet, you'll wake the little ones!"
Once he calmed down, François realized he might have gotten a little carried away. It must have been one or two in the morning.
"All right. But tomorrow, I'm trying."
"If you like."
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The next morning, very early, he went to the kitchen and found Jeanne already at work. She watched curiously as he took a small pot, set it over the fire, and added two generous handfuls of corn.
But to his great disappointment, the experiment was not a success.
This corn, soft and easy to grind, refused to pop. It was definitely not the right variety for making popcorn.