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Even though François knew the plot of Titanic well, and therefore progressed far faster than if he had been forced to invent the entire story himself, it ultimately took him nearly a month and a half to complete the novel.
The main reason for the gap between his initial estimate and reality was simple: his work at the fort.
As soon as his leave ended, he resumed all of his duties as major of the New Aquitaine Regiment. His aide-major had done his best to lighten the burden by handling as many routine matters as possible, but it had not been enough. François soon found himself drowning in paperwork.
The following weeks were exhausting.
Between reports to review, equipment requests, inspections, drills, official correspondence, and the countless problems a garrison could encounter on a daily basis, he felt as though he had lost the right to rest.
If he still managed to find time to write, for the sake of his own mental well-being, it came at the expense of his sleep. He wrote mostly in the early morning, and sometimes late at night, once the day's work was done.
With his writing style, so unusual for the era, he invited future readers to discover the Titanic, its luxurious lounges, endless corridors, and engine room, as deafening as it was suffocating. He was even more descriptive than in his previous novels, allowing readers to picture each scene as though they themselves had traveled into that story and into that century.
By the end, he wanted them all to be astonished by a world that would surely seem fantastical to them, for the year 1910 belonged almost entirely to the realm of imagination, as though it would never truly arrive.
He paid particular attention to the clothing worn by the characters, whether passengers or crew members. Using rich and detailed language, he described the elegant dresses of first-class ladies, the sober suits of businessmen, the uniforms of officers, and the simple garments stained with grease and coal dust worn by the engineers.
Deep down, he nurtured a small hope: that this novel might encourage a change in French fashion.
Despite the years he had spent in this century, François had never truly grown accustomed to buttoned breeches, knee-high stockings, and the countless layers of fabric that composed men's clothing.
To him, a simple pair of straight trousers remained infinitely more elegant, comfortable, and practical.
On December 3rd, François had even asked Yann Madec's wife to make him a pair. She was quite skilled with a needle, though hardly one of the rare geniuses found in Paris.
Twelve days later, François was still waiting for the fabric he had ordered from Montreal, imported directly from France.
Meanwhile, Onatah's belly continued to grow.
Yet this pregnancy was very different from the previous two. It appeared far less advanced than it actually was, even though the birth was drawing near.
There was no doubt about it, however: fatigue overtook her quickly, even during the simplest tasks. She had begun paying close attention to every contraction.
This period was also marked by several visits from Chief Akwiratheka and his second son, Tayohseron, whom François considered a brother.
These visits had nothing official about them, whether in trade or diplomacy. The two Iroquois simply came to see Onatah. They had visited Montrouge several times during François's absence.
It was always amusing to watch these two forces of nature, their bodies seemingly carved from stone, play with Pierre and Louis with such gentleness. Not once did they accidentally hurt either of the boys.
Unfortunately, François's military obligations prevented him from fully enjoying their presence. He barely had time to spend more than a few minutes with them. He sincerely regretted it.
Finally, on December 11th, the lord and lady of Montrouge received a visit from the royal surveyor responsible for measuring, mapping, and marking the extension of the seigneury.
He was a short man, perhaps no more than one and a half meters tall, with a round face, cheeks slightly reddened by the cold, and a small pair of spectacles perched upon a short, broad nose. His name was Jean-Luc Duchastel.
He remained highly professional throughout the lengthy procedure.
Every measurement had to be verified, every boundary carefully recorded, and every document drafted with precision, for the slightest omission could provoke disputes decades later.
Thanks to this expansion, Montrouge nearly doubled in size toward the north, following the course of the Champlain River.
Here as well, there was a wetland area near the river, subject to seasonal flooding, but there were also vast stretches of higher, well-drained ground perfectly suited to agriculture.
The lord of Montrouge could easily imagine the future farms that would one day stand there.
Before that, however, every tree would need to be cut down and every stump uprooted.
A colossal undertaking.
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Saturday, December 15th, arrived beneath a uniform gray sky that seemed to cover all of New France.
Winter had already settled over the region for several weeks. The first snowfalls had come relatively late that year. Nights could be bitterly cold, sometimes dropping as low as -20°C. During the day, temperatures generally ranged between 0 and 8°C, though on rare occasions they could climb as high as 13°C.
The previous morning, another snowfall had blanketed the surroundings of Fort Bourbon beneath a thick white layer. Part of it had melted during the afternoon, turning the roads into icy mud, before the overnight freeze hardened the ground once more.
That morning, the air was particularly sharp.
The small streams running through Montrouge had frozen solid, as had the Champlain River. It now resembled a long white ribbon winding between the trees.
The Hudson still resisted.
It was too wide and its waters far too turbulent to freeze in the center. Only its banks lay trapped beneath a thin crust of ice.
It would likely be different in January, when one freezing night followed another. It might even become possible—as occasionally happened—to cross it on foot.
South of Lake George, not far from Fort Montcalm and the ruins of Fort William Henry, several hundred men stood gathered in an almost religious silence.
François, his fine uniform and Cross of Saint Louis partially concealed beneath a heavy military coat, stood before them, his officer's sword hanging at his side.
His lungs burned, and every breath became a thick white cloud immediately carried away by a light wind that bit at his cheeks.
The soldiers under his command remained motionless, muskets resting on their shoulders, bayonets at their belts, cartridge boxes full against their thighs.
They looked ready to march into campaign.
Half of Fort Bourbon's garrison had marched since dawn to reach this isolated training ground, all with the same objective: to avoid drawing unnecessary British attention to the French colonies.
The ordinary drills naturally continued at Fort Bourbon, but some of the more ambitious maneuvers were now being organized here.
Despite the cold and the packed, icy snow covering the road, they had covered the seventeen kilometers separating the two forts in less than four hours. It was already past eleven o'clock.
François was satisfied. The marching column had remained intact, and he had not needed to slow his men down. The long marches imposed since the creation of the regiment were finally producing the desired results. His next objective was to get them there in three hours and thirty minutes, something even older regiments would struggle to accomplish.
Every minute gained is a victory, François thought, his expression neutral.
The major let his gaze sweep over the companies lined up before him.
Every man is in his place, and their equipment appears to be in good condition. Good. Their faces are red from the cold, but they are not complaining. I expected nothing less. They are becoming real soldiers.
The contrast with the regiment's appearance at its creation was striking.
His gaze shifted toward the imposing silhouette of Fort Montcalm, then to the ruins of Fort William Henry. Finally, his eyes lingered for a moment on the calm surface of Lake George, as gray as the sky above.
A cold, indifferent landscape that cared little for political rivalries, treating every nation with the same hostility, especially those who made no effort to understand this region.
At last, François nodded slowly.
"Gentlemen officers, step out of the ranks."
The captains, followed by the senior lieutenants, immediately stepped forward. François observed them in silence, motionless as a statue.
Hmm... Most of these gentlemen would never have attained such rank in a regiment stationed in France—or at least not until much later. New France truly is a land of opportunity.
Indeed, the colony lacked experienced officers, and the creation of the New Aquitaine Regiment had forced everyone to learn new responsibilities quickly.
Himself included.
"Your march was satisfactory," he declared.
A few faces relaxed. It did not last.
"However, I noted several lapses. Two men from Captain Leroy's company spoke during the inspection. A soldier from Captain Ménard's company was carrying his musket incorrectly. And finally..."
His gaze settled on Captain Lambert.
"You are missing a button from your uniform."
The captain immediately felt several discreet glances turning toward him. There was indeed a missing button on the right pocket of his coat.
"I shall have it repaired as soon as we return, Major," the officer replied at once in a controlled voice.
François nodded.
"I do not doubt it. Nevertheless, regulations apply to everyone. You will participate in the corrective exercises alongside the offenders."
Captain Philippe Lambert, roughly the same age as François, stiffened but did not protest.
It was one of the major's rules. He preferred assigning additional exercises, which was relatively mild compared to the practices of other regiments, where beatings, extra duties, docked pay (already meager) and public humiliation were commonplace. Rank protected a man from many things, but not from setting an example.
The major then turned his attention back to the battalion. These four hundred men had just completed a long march and had barely had time to catch their breath—just enough time for an inspection—but the training had only just begun.
Whether it rained, snowed, or blew a gale, François did not care. He knew that in wartime they might be required to march and fight under extremely harsh conditions. Better to prepare them for that.
They would thank him later.
"Very well," he continued in a firm voice. "Gentlemen officers, return to your companies. We will begin the exercises."
The captains returned to their men, and the drums immediately beat the march. The battalion moved out without breaking formation.
The frozen snow cracked beneath every step. François took his place at the front, just as he would on a battlefield.
The musicians kept the rhythm.
The tune being played was extremely simple and highly repetitive, rather ugly compared to the famous The British Grenadiers. François felt as though the few musicians were playing the same passage over and over again.
The piece, composed in 1766 by the man serving as the fort's music master, had nevertheless been approved by Governor Vaudreuil and Marshal de Contades. François had no choice but to endure it in silence.
Since being promoted to major, François had modified certain habits. Drill exercises remained the foundation of military instruction, of course, but he had added other activities that some still regarded as eccentricities.
Running was one of them.
During the previous war, particularly on the European front, he had come to understand the importance of endurance and mobility for a unit, whether a squad, a company, a battalion, or an entire army. The ability to accelerate suddenly without breaking formation could make a significant difference on a chaotic battlefield, whether launching an assault or reinforcing a threatened position.
"Drummers, quick cadence!"
The rhythm changed abruptly, and the men lengthened their stride. Without warning, the soldiers broke into a run. A gentle run, certainly, but a run nonetheless.
The difficulty increased dramatically, and the first grumbles could be heard. Everyone clenched their teeth and did their best to maintain alignment. The newest recruits, who had not yet had time to become accustomed to this exercise, were struggling badly.
That did not escape François's notice. He had left the front of the formation so he could better observe their reactions.
In the past, this simple acceleration would have thrown the entire unit into disorder, shattering the formation until only scattered groups remained. Today, however, the ranks remained relatively cohesive. It was the result of their regular training.
After five hundred meters, he raised his hand.
"Slow down."
A collective sigh ran through the ranks, including among the officers. The sergeants made sure that everyone had returned to his proper place, and the battalion resumed its original formation.
The major concealed a smile and let his men settle themselves. He then had them wheel left twice, a maneuver far more difficult to execute than one might think.
"Halt!"
His voice cracked like a whip.
"Increase the spacing between the ranks! Push-up position!"
The soldiers exchanged resigned glances but obeyed without hesitation. They knew this exercise well by now. It made their shoulders, arms, backs, and chests stronger. That did not mean it had become popular.
They dropped face-down to the ground, their hands sinking into the icy snow.
"Twenty repetitions. Begin."
Their bodies, increasingly strong and dependable, lowered in unison. But in such harsh conditions, their arms quickly began to tremble with the effort.
"One! Two! Three!"
The sergeants counted aloud. By the tenth repetition, most of the soldiers were already struggling. By the fifteenth, they were all red as beets and sweating as if it were summer.
François walked between the ranks, correcting the men whose form was poor.
"Lower. You call that a push-up, soldier?"
The unfortunate man grunted and lowered himself until his chin touched the ground. Beads of sweat poured down his numbed face and mixed with the snow beneath him.
When the exercise finally ended, the men rose with as much difficulty as if they had been carrying sacks of rubble on their backs. But their suffering was not over. A series of abdominal exercises followed.
As strange as the push-ups seemed, everyone had to admit they had produced noticeable results. Even so, they still did not understand how these exercises would help them when the time came to face a battlefield.
François, however, saw the difference. They carried their equipment more easily and recovered faster after long marches. He had no doubt that in the next war his men would be capable of overcoming almost any obstacle.
Then came pull-ups, performed on a series of wooden structures vaguely resembling gallows. Once they had completed their repetitions, François ordered the ranks to be reformed. Everyone was trembling from exhaustion.
He arranged his men in three ranks and marched them toward a large area used for firearms training.
Eighty meters from where they stopped stood a wall of wooden targets. In reality, these were large boards roughly cut into human shapes. There were around sixty of them arranged in three ranks, providing a fairly accurate representation of an enemy unit deployed for firing.
The soldiers, short of breath and with limbs numbed by the cold, followed their orders, and in an instant they were in firing position. The officers stood where they belonged, alongside their men.
"First rank, fire!"
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
"Second rank, fire!"
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
"Third rank, fire!"
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
The successive volleys cracked through the silence and echoed for a long time, but before the sound of the last volley had completely faded, François ordered every man to reload.
Each rank fired three times.
From where they stood, it was impossible to know how many targets had been hit. They had to cross the firing range and count the "enemy casualties."
François and the captains accompanying him for the exercise headed over while the soldiers caught their breath. Their boots crunched softly in the snow. Tiny snowflakes had begun to fall.
The fresh bullet marks scattered across the wooden targets were numerous, which was already encouraging. The major ran his fingers over one of them, imagining that the target before him was a man of flesh and blood.
That shot would almost certainly have been fatal. The mark was exactly where the man's head would have been. A lucky hit, of course, since it was impossible to be truly accurate with smoothbore muskets.
Not bad... But on a real battlefield, the enemy is not a stationary target. They shoot back as well.
"Sir," said one of the captains—a man in his thirties like François, though he looked considerably older, "half of the targets in the first rank are considered out of action. Six in the second rank and two in the third. Fifteen others bear impacts that would likely have caused wounds."
François did not reply immediately.
Eighteen confirmed casualties and fifteen wounded... That's far from bad—better than last time, in fact. They can shoot straight, that much is certain. On a real battlefield, they could seriously disrupt an enemy line, especially if they can repeat that performance.
He maintained a neutral expression and nodded once more.
"Good. They appear to be improving. Are the sandbags ready?"
"They are in place, sir, as you ordered."
"Then let us begin without delay. They should have recovered their breath by now. One company at a time. Captain Garnier, your men will go first."
"At your orders!"
These canvas sacks filled with sand and suspended less than a meter above the ground were not intended as shooting targets but rather to train the men in charging and using their bayonets correctly.
One wave after another, the soldiers charged and thrust their bayonets into the sandbags. By the time the final wave struck them, the bags were little more than shredded rags.
The men returned to formation, and together they resumed their synchronized march. Led by their major, they halted once more before a long pull-up bar.
In an authoritative voice, François then called forward the soldiers and the captain who were to be punished. They stepped out like condemned men, and François took his place at the front of the formation.
"Begin!"
The four men knew exactly what they had to do. They grabbed the horizontal bar above their heads and hung from it. Fortunately, they did not have to pull themselves up—only hold on for as long as possible. Or rather, avoid being the first to let go, because that man would be assigned additional laps around the training ground.
Very quickly, their faces turned redder than a British uniform as the voices of the soldiers standing before them rose in unison.
"...Four, five, six, seven..."
Captain Lambert's arms began to tremble violently. The officer closed his eyes and did his best to empty his mind. The feel of the wood against his hands was unbearable. He was barely breathing.
The two recruits who had dared to speak during the inspection were in far worse shape. And yet only a few seconds had passed. It was almost a form of torture.
Their knuckles had become as white as their coats, creating a striking contrast with their faces, which had turned purple. One of them, who could not have been more than twenty years old, had a large vein standing out in the middle of his forehead that looked ready to burst.
Yet all four men held on stubbornly, refusing to be the first to fall.
At last, Private Grondin, from Captain Ménard's company, lost his grip and collapsed onto the frozen ground. That was the signal for the others that they could let themselves down. Captain Lambert had thus avoided a second humiliation and the additional laps that would have accompanied it.
No one stepped forward to help Grondin back to his feet. He had to do it himself and face the major.
"Private Grondin, as punishment, you will run five laps of the training ground."
François could almost hear the sigh filled with regret—and, paradoxically, relief as well. In summer, he would have demanded more, and the soldier knew it. François, however, had no interest in punishing a man until an accident occurred. Besides, they still had to return to the fort once the punishment was completed.
The soldier immediately began running around the training ground, and although he was utterly exhausted, he did not dare slow his pace.
The rest of the battalion waited in silence, watching their comrade carry out his punishment. More than a few of them had been in his place before.
Finally, when he completed his fifth lap, he returned to his position, drained and with hands so battered he could barely bend his fingers.
The major immediately issued his next orders, and the battalion formed into a marching column. It was already half past one in the afternoon. It would be dark by the time they returned. At that time of year, the sun set around four-thirty, so François estimated they would arrive at the fort roughly an hour after sunset.