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The great rugby tournament in Quebec would not begin for another two weeks, yet the colony's roads were already filling with soldiers, travelers, and curious spectators, some of whom had come from very far away despite the tremendous amount of work that had to be done at this time of year.
They came from Fort Bourbon, Fort Niagara, Fort Frontenac, Montreal, Trois-Rivières, Louisbourg, Halifax, Richelieu, and even the British colonies!
The latter team made no effort to remain inconspicuous, even though, in the eyes of the French, its players looked like hens willingly walking into the den of a family of starving foxes. On the contrary, they proudly displayed their allegiance, something the other teams could only respect.
Their arrival drew almost as much attention as that of the powerful Iroquois, all dressed in their finest garments and wearing their most magnificent headdresses and jewelry.
François, however, would not be there to witness the opening ceremony. His duty was to guard the frontier, and for the moment everything was remarkably quiet in that remote region.
Standing in the center of the parade ground at Fort Bourbon, he was taking part in another important ceremony.
A few days earlier, a young man barely in his twenties had arrived with several officers. His appearance had come as no surprise, and he had presented Colonel de Faudoas with his papers, including a royal commission signed in the name of King Louis XV.
The colonel had been informed several weeks in advance. He had been recalled to France to assume his new duties with the Guyenne Regiment as lieutenant-colonel. Although the rank was technically lower than the one he currently held, it was in fact a promotion. The regiment belonged to what were commonly, almost affectionately, known as the 'Petits Vieux', one of the most prestigious formations in the French Army, far more distinguished than the recently created Nouvelle-Aquitaine Regiment.
The young man in his immaculate uniform, almost a child, was the one chosen to replace him at Fort Bourbon.
His full name was Mathieu-Paul-Louis de Montmorency-Laval, Viscount of Laval. He was the son of General de Montmorency-Laval, a veteran of both the War of the Austrian Succession and the Six Years' War, a man who bore the titles of duke, marquis, and baron.
Dressed in full ceremonial uniform, François stood beside Lieutenant-Colonel de Rouvroy.
Both men gripped their ceremonial polearms firmly as they discreetly observed their new commanding officer. At the very same moment, they executed a flawless salute as the viscount passed before them.
His noble bearing, impeccable posture, and commanding presence all testified to his illustrious birth. Despite his own personal title and his Cross of Saint Louis, François was not even in the same league.
Although there were ten years between them, and although François possessed far more military experience, this young man had already attained the rank of colonel. With such an illustrious family name, François had no doubt that one day he would hold the same rank as his father—and perhaps even earn the honor of carrying a marshal's baton. François, on the other hand, would consider himself fortunate if he managed to become a colonel before the end of his career.
A trace of bitterness tightened his chest.
If I'd been born into the high nobility, I'd have been a colonel long ago. Ah... climbing the ranks wouldn't be a problem. Instead, I have to fight for every promotion and earn each one.
Out of the corner of his eye, François watched the man walk away to rejoin Marshal de Contades, who had come to the frontier for the occasion. The marshal, however, would not remain at the fort for long. He was expected to attend the opening of the rugby tournament.
The British would certainly become suspicious if such a prominent figure were absent. All their efforts would be wasted if the enemy turned its attention to the frontier instead of the St. Lawrence Valley.
The old marshal's presence completely overshadowed that of the new colonel. Standing beside him, the young officer looked even more like a child dressed in an officer's uniform.
If Contades was dissatisfied with the appointment, he gave no sign of it.
Suddenly, the drums fell silent, and the marshal slowly unfolded a sealed document. Drawing a deep breath, he read aloud in a firm, unwavering voice.
"By order of His Most Christian Majesty Louis, Fifteenth of the Name, King of France and Navarre, let it be known to the officers, non-commissioned officers, soldiers, and employees of the Nouvelle-Aquitaine Regiment that His Majesty, considering the services rendered by the Marquis de Faudoas, Lord of Daunian and du Busca, has deemed it fitting to entrust him with new duties worthy of his experience and merits."
Standing beside him, Faudoas maintained an impassive expression and continued staring straight ahead. His men remained silent and perfectly still, holding formation despite the blazing sun and the suffocating heat that weighed upon the region.
"Consequently," the marshal continued sternly, "command of the said regiment is, as of this day, entrusted to the Viscount of Laval, Colonel in His Majesty's armies."
The marshal paused briefly before lifting his eyes from the document to glance toward the young man in question.
He had requested an experienced officer to guard the frontier and assist him should the British suddenly open hostilities in this sector. Instead, they had sent him a boy. But what could he do? The document in his hands left no room for interpretation.
Even as Marshal of France and commander of His Majesty's armies in New France, all he could do was make recommendations. His Majesty was free to follow them, or ignore them.
Seeing the marshal looking at him, the viscount turned his head ever so slightly in his direction. François noticed the exchange and felt he could almost guess what each of them was thinking.
At last, the marshal concluded:
"All officers, soldiers, militiamen, quartermasters, commissaries, engineers, and every person serving under the military authority of this post are hereby commanded to recognize him as their lawful commander and to obey him in all matters concerning the King's service, the maintenance of discipline, the security of the frontier, and the defense of the French possessions in America. His Majesty expects from each of you the same zeal, loyalty, and obedience of which this regiment has constantly given proof."
Lowering the document, he proclaimed in an even louder voice:
"May God protect the King!"
"Long live the King!" every soldier answered in perfect unison.
The drums resumed, followed by a ceremonial volley. Then came the command:
"Order... arms!"
Silence returned.
Monsieur de Faudoas stepped forward and turned to face what had once been his regiment. It would have been a lie to say that he felt nothing at that moment.
There was a hint of sadness in him, but above all, pride—the pride of having accomplished something worthwhile despite every hardship. This regiment had become something to be proud of, and there was no doubt it would distinguish itself when the time came to fight the British, or any other enemy, again.
"Gentlemen," he said in a clear voice that echoed against the brick walls, "during these past few years at your side, I have witnessed your progress, earned through your constant efforts. I am proud of what I see before me, and it has been an honor to serve as your commanding officer."
He saluted, then turned to pick up the fort's register, a thick, heavy volume without ornament.
"Today, in accordance with His Majesty's orders, I relinquish command of this regiment. Serve my successor with the same loyalty you have always shown me."
With the measured stride of a career officer, he approached the Viscount of Laval and symbolically handed him the register.
This volume, together with the account books and inventories, had already been presented in detail over the previous two days. It was the longest part of any change of command, during which the new commanding officer familiarized himself with the state of the fort and the surrounding region through maps and reports.
The viscount accepted the register but held it only briefly. It was heavy, and he still had to address his men. Preferring to keep his hands free, he passed it to the fort's aide-major, who had deliberately positioned himself one step behind him.
Then, after saluting Marshal de Contades and his predecessor, he stepped forward and halted before his regiment. Around his neck he wore an elegant white lace cravat that partly covered his chest, while a polished gorget gleamed in the sunlight. His tricorne had clearly been customized with gold embroidery along the brim, and his sword was no ordinary weapon either. It was magnificent, obviously the work of a master craftsman commissioned at considerable expense.
Judging by its owner's age, François assumed it had never seen a battlefield. It was unlikely that a nobleman of his rank would carry another man's sword into his first command.
The new colonel allowed the silence to linger before speaking. His voice was not especially loud, yet it carried unmistakable confidence.
"Gentlemen, today His Majesty has bestowed upon me an honor whose full significance I deeply appreciate."
His ambitious gaze swept across the ranks, lingering on Lieutenant-Colonel de Rouvroy and Major de Montrouge.
"I succeed an officer whose devotion and service to the King are known to every man present. I could not accept this command without publicly expressing my respect and gratitude to him."
The young viscount inclined his head toward Faudoas.
"Marquis, I thank you for entrusting me with a regiment maintained in such excellent condition. I shall strive to prove worthy of it."
He paused once more, taking the opportunity to study the faces before him. Local men.
"Many of you have served beneath this flag for years, faithfully guarding this frontier. You know these forests and rivers far better than I do, and I would be foolish to ignore that. I come among you without pretending to know better than those who have carried out this duty for so long. My only ambition is to fulfill faithfully the responsibilities His Majesty has entrusted to me, while adding my own modest stone to the edifice you have already begun to build."
François and several others raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Huh? I wasn't expecting a speech that... humble. Not from someone born into such an illustrious family.
Most of the men had expected to be looked down upon—to be despised simply because they had been born beneath him and lived on this side of the Atlantic.
They knew perfectly well that many people in France spoke contemptuously of them, claiming that their way of life made them closer to the "savages" of this continent than to their fellow Frenchmen. Of course, that wasn't true.
Hmm... Better remain cautious. The marshal is still here. He may reveal his true colors later.
The viscount concluded, his expression growing more resolute.
"I shall expect much from you, and even more from myself, for I know I still have much to learn. I shall rely upon you, gentlemen officers, to assist me and to offer me your counsel. Together, let us make this regiment a source of pride for His Majesty! Long live the King!"
Following the encouraging speech, the officers approached one by one to salute their new colonel and pay their respects.
As major, François was the second to do so. The gesture was purely ceremonial, as they had already been formally introduced before the ceremony.
Major de Montrouge then directed the closing of the proceedings with an acclamation in honor of Colonel de Montmorency-Laval. The soldiers presented arms as they would during any formal ceremony, fired another volley, and, with one voice, shouted a resounding: "Long live the King!"
The ceremony finally came to an end, and the garrison was dismissed. It was a little after noon.
The officers gathered in the fort's largest hall for an official luncheon. For the occasion, several tables had been laid with unusual care, covered with fine tablecloths. Unfortunately, the fort possessed no elegant tableware worthy of such distinguished guests.
Fortunately, there was excellent French wine, part of it drawn from the Marquis de Faudoas's personal cellar.
Naturally, Marshal de Contades occupied the place of honor. The new colonel sat at his right, the former colonel at his left. The following day, they would depart together for Quebec.
The opening moments were devoted to tradition. Toasts were offered to the King's health, to the Royal Family, and to the regiment's future victories. Only after these formalities did the meal truly begin.
The wine cups were filled once again, and conversations sprang up among the officers, never becoming louder than good manners allowed. As major, François sat close enough to the new colonel to take part whenever the discussion concerned him. As meat pies and potatoes roasted in the juices of spit-roasted chickens were served, the colonel turned toward him.
"Major," he said enthusiastically, "Marshal de Contades told me that you first enlisted in the Royal Army as an ordinary soldier during the Six Years' War. Is that true?"
François cast a brief glance toward the marshal, who appeared not to be listening, being engaged in conversation with someone on his other side.
"It is indeed true, sir. I was fortunate—fortunate enough to distinguish myself and earn promotion."
"A remarkable rise! You must have seen and experienced so much. I've been told you're a war hero, and that must be so, since His Majesty himself awarded you that medal."
The major, however, gently shook his head.
"I don't consider myself a war hero. I simply did what I was ordered to do, and what had to be done. As I said, I was merely fortunate. Others deserved this medal just as much as I did."
The new colonel failed to notice the shadow that briefly crossed François's face and continued:
"Hmm, certainly. But it still takes courage to do such things. Oh, I understand that warfare on this continent is very different from what is practiced in Europe. I've heard about it, of course, but I would like to hear your opinion, since you have served on both sides of the Atlantic."
François, who had just speared a potato with his fork, paused mid-motion.
"The methods are different, and so is the geography, Your Lordship. Had we fought our battles as they are fought in Europe, all our drills and discipline would not have saved us from being overwhelmed by superior numbers. The British colonies are giants. They remain a formidable threat, even today."
He allowed his words to sink into the young officer's mind before continuing:
"The British colonies are far more populous than ours, to the point that the balance of power that exists in Europe is completely reversed here. Moreover, there is no sea separating us. That is why, ever since the beginning of the conquest of these vast territories, we have sought to avoid conventional engagements whenever possible. Instead, we have made successful use of what we call la petite guerre."
"Ah, yes," murmured de Montmorency-Laval, making no effort to hide his discomfort with the subject. "That is what the marshal spoke to me about at length upon my arrival. Hmm... If I understood correctly, it encompasses all sorts of operations outside the framework of formal pitched battles."
He pressed his lips together slightly.
"But, Major, don't you think it is time to adopt more honorable methods?"
Several heads turned toward them, and the surrounding conversations quieted.
"We certainly could," François replied patiently, "but our casualties would rise very quickly. La petite guerre allows a relatively small number of our soldiers to create enormous difficulties for the enemy at very little cost. If we were to fight tomorrow as they do in Europe, we would be abandoning those advantages and would instead suffer casualties proportionate to those of European pitched battles. Yet, because of the distance separating us from France and the limited pool of fighting-age men available to replace our losses, the consequences for the Kingdom could be disastrous."
The young viscount's eyes widened slightly, and he parted his lips as if to reply, but ultimately chose to let the far more experienced officer continue.
"By the time reinforcements arrived from France to refill our companies and regiments, the Redcoats, supported by their provincial regiments, could already have reached the St. Lawrence Valley. Our methods may be unconventional, but they work, and they keep the British far from our towns. Isn't that what matters most?"
François could clearly see that these were not the words the young colonel had hoped to hear. Yet lying to him would serve no one.
From the viscount's perspective, these methods contradicted everything his father had taught him. The elder Montmorency-Laval had fought during two wars, however he had served exclusively in Europe and therefore knew nothing of the realities of warfare in the New World.
Mathieu-Paul-Louis de Montmorency-Laval shifted uneasily in the chair he found rather uncomfortable.
"You... don't seem concerned with how history will remember us..."
The remark drew a faint smile from the major.
"On the contrary, Your Lordship. That is precisely why my conscience is clear. I believe every means at our disposal should be employed to achieve victory. When one is victorious, very few people concern themselves with how that victory was won. That is especially true of nations. They judge results, not methods. The means employed are generally condemned only when they fail."
François glanced once more toward the marshal to make sure he was not going too far. Seeing no sign that he intended to intervene, he continued:
"France won the last war, and that is why few people ask questions. The Redcoats, on the other hand, relied on conventional methods that were ill-suited to the realities of this continent. They paid dearly for it and will undoubtedly learn from their mistakes. I would wager that they will become even more formidable opponents in the future."
"Isn't that all the more reason not to use such methods?" the colonel replied quickly. "If they begin acting as we do in order to win at any cost, even at the cost of tarnishing their reputation by behaving like brigands, we risk creating a vicious circle and returning to an age when there was no etiquette, no code of honor."
He noticed the expressions of several officers around the table change, yet he did not back down.
"If we abandon the customs of war, what difference will remain between the King's soldiers and common bandits?"
François frowned but could not simply dismiss the argument. The young man was not entirely wrong. That did not mean François was wrong either.
"Your Lordship, I understand your reluctance and your concerns. They are only natural. But it is equally natural to seek new methods and new strategies constantly, in order to surpass those of one's opponents."
He paused briefly before adding in a more measured tone:
"I keep in my quarters a work to which I often return: Mes Rêveries by the late Marshal de Saxe. I do not agree with all of his opinions, but I found many of his reflections remarkably insightful. The Marshal demonstrates that no system is perfect, and that a commander must first understand the circumstances in which he fights and adapt to them, rather than trying to force them to conform to his habits. At least, that is how I have understood his work."
He had been about to say that he found the Marshal's way of thinking rather conventional in many respects, but thought better of it. Despite the years that had passed since his death, Maurice de Saxe remained a figure held in the highest esteem. No one present—least of all Contades—would have allowed him to speak of the great Marshal in such a disrespectful manner.
"Hm. Some of his proposals would be ill-suited to the vast expanses of Canada, but more than once I found his thinking remarkably close to what we do here."
The Viscount raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Marshal de Saxe... Indeed, that is a great name. But I do not believe I have ever truly taken the time to read Mes Rêveries."
"I sincerely recommend it. It is not a manual of maneuvers, but the reflections of a man who recognized the dangers of applying rigid, automatic strategies unsuited to the realities of the battlefield. He was willing to rely on reconnaissance, diversions, and deception in order to keep the initiative. It truly compels the reader to think, and perhaps that is its greatest strength. If you wish, it would be my honor to lend you my copy."
The Viscount remained silent for a moment before nodding slowly.
"In that case, I shall gladly borrow it. Thank you, Major."
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The luncheon continued without incident, and once it was over, the new colonel set out to inspect the fortifications, accompanied by the senior officers present that day.
As they crossed above the North Gate at a leisurely pace, Marshal de Contades naturally drew closer to François. François noticed but did not initiate a conversation.
"One moment, Major."
His voice was not loud, but it carried unmistakable authority. François slowed his pace and looked toward the marshal.
"Monseigneur?"
The marshal watched the group continue its inspection, then made a discreet gesture to François, indicating that he wanted him to follow. They walked over to a heavy cannon aimed at the road leading to the fort, mounted on a massive red-painted carriage and secured to the fort's walls with thick ropes.
"Is something wrong?"
Contades made sure no one was within earshot before replying in a neutral tone:
"I thought you would want to know. One of your two networks has been dismantled."
François's eyes widened ever so slightly before his expression quickly returned to its usual calm. There was no reason to be surprised; it happened all the time. If anything, it was remarkable that the network had lasted this long.
"Which one? And when did it happen?"
"This winter. The craftsman you recruited, John Hill, brought in someone who turned out to be unreliable. The man practically confessed to being an agent, allowing the authorities to arrest Hill."
"John Hill... Yes, I remember him," François murmured, feeling not the slightest trace of guilt. "What about his contact? The one responsible for passing his reports to... our other agent?"
Contades turned slightly toward François.
"Fortunately, Hill never knew the identity of the man who forwarded his reports. Otherwise, the consequences would have been unfortunate."
He pulled a document, folded into thirds, from his pocket and handed it to François.
"This is a transcript of the report sent to us through your other network, the one involving that former pirate. Your agent in New York recounts several events, including the execution of Hill and that of his accomplice, William Taylor."
François read the report in silence, his brow furrowed.
Then he handed it back.
"I see. So we're down to a single network in New York... Will... will that be enough?"
Contades understood the concern behind Major de Montrouge's question. He feared he might have to return to enemy territory.
"Your second network remains operational, and it is the more important one. We'll continue to monitor the situation closely. You'll be informed if His Majesty requires your services again."
François immediately thought of Liam Kelly and old Seamus Murphy.
"May I ask how things are developing in New York?"
"They're gradually getting worse. These Sons of Liberty are extremely active and refuse to let tensions subside. Every excuse is good enough for them to gather and stage demonstrations outside public buildings."
He slipped the transcript back into his pocket.
"There was an incident in December. From what we've learned, the reaction was extremely violent."
"Oh? What happened?"
"A customs schooner tasked with hunting smugglers was attacked by unidentified individuals, and a fire broke out aboard. One man was killed. Both sides blamed each other, and for three days they fought in the streets of the city."
His gaze drifted upward to an eagle soaring across the vast blue sky.
"It may be only one incident, but each incident brings them one step closer to civil war. The greater the tension becomes, the more these kinds of clashes will multiply... until everything erupts."