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The sun was slowly sinking behind the windows of the commandant's office at Fort Bourbon. Its rays bathed the walls and the heavy beams crossing the ceiling in a warm amber glow, making the iron fittings on the cabinets sparkle as though they were made of gold.
The day's heat was finally beginning to fade, replaced by a light, pleasant breeze.
Now and then, the only sounds were the soft rustle of a page being turned and, occasionally, the faint scratch of a quill gliding across paper. At last, Colonel de Montmorency-Laval closed the heavy ledger he had been studying for more than an hour, drawing François's attention.
"I think I've reached my limit for today."
He rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn.
"I had no idea that commanding a regiment involved so much paperwork."
François smiled faintly.
"This is only the beginning, Colonel. Expect to produce even more in the future... and to lose a great deal of sleep."
"Well, that's reassuring..."
The young officer gave a crooked smile, though the weariness never left his eyes. He then looked at the neat piles of documents he had carefully sorted by subject and importance.
"Well then, let's put all this away."
Once the desk had been cleared of the mountain of paperwork, the colonel turned to his major.
"Do you play chess, Major?"
François straightened his coat, smoothing out a wrinkle.
"A little."
The answer made the Vicomte de Laval smile.
"'A little,'" he repeated. "That's often the answer given by people who play quite well."
François returned the smile politely.
"I can hold my own."
"Excellent. Let's have a game."
He walked over to a small cabinet made of light-colored wood and pulled out a beautifully crafted chessboard from one drawer, followed by a finely decorated case, which he placed on the desk with almost reverential care. As he opened it, François took his seat.
Inside were remarkably detailed pieces depicting tiny warriors armed with swords and spears, some mounted on horseback. Each was wrapped like a sacred relic in red silk.
François picked one up. It was light, probably carved from ivory. It was a rook shaped like a medieval fortress.
He gently set it back down and let his opponent arrange the pieces on the board.
"We've worked together for hours these past few days," the colonel said, "but we haven't really taken the time to talk. I think it would be very useful for me to get to know my officers."
François said nothing, merely nodding.
"My father used to say that a game of chess reveals more about a man than a long dinner ever could."
He placed the final piece—the white king—on the board and looked up at François.
"He's the one who taught me. And not once, even when I was a child, did he ever let me win. I think I defeated him for the first time when I was seventeen. There haven't been many victories since then."
François smiled, amused, and turned his attention to the army facing his own. He dared not imagine what such a magnificent set must have cost.
"He must have been an excellent player" he said, assuming the man was no longer alive.
"He still is."
Montmorency-Laval folded his hands before him.
"To him, a chessboard is a true battlefield. Infantry, cavalry, and artillery. Each has its own strengths and weaknesses. By watching how his opponent plays, he believes he can truly understand the man across the board—especially what kind of commander he would be in the field. More than once, he has even told me that he can follow his opponent's train of thought simply by watching the game unfold."
"You don't seem to share his opinion."
"Not entirely. Rather than trying to interpret every action and every decision, I prefer to talk with my opponent, just as I'm doing now. To me, chess is above all an excuse to have an open conversation, much like some men do over a glass of wine."
François watched as the vicomte advanced a pawn, a simple pikeman with a determined expression, two squares forward.
"That suits me."
He moved one of his own pawns forward two squares in reply.
The opening moves flowed smoothly, as though none of them truly mattered. Yet each player already had a strategy in mind. They both knew the most common openings and the mistakes to avoid in the early stages of the game.
The pace then slowed, and each man took his time before making even the slightest move.
"Were you already playing before the war?"
He advanced a bishop, carved as a swordsman wielding a blade nearly as tall as himself.
"No."
François narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly, as though it would help him better discern the colonel's intentions. He delicately picked up a knight and brought it out from the back rank.
"I mostly learned during the campaigns."
"Really? You had time to play?"
"Don't imagine we fought every day. None of us would have survived six years of that. Besides marching, we also spent a great deal of time waiting. There were occasions when we went several weeks without firing a single shot because the supply train had fallen behind, because a bridge had to be repaired, or simply because we had no orders. More often than not, it was simply because winter made campaigning impossible, or at least impossible in the traditional sense."
The officer thought back to his daily life during the last war. While there had certainly been moments filled with action, there had been far more when he and his comrades had been utterly bored.
"When it's like that, you have to find ways to occupy yourself. That's true for soldiers as well as officers."
"Well, that's far less glorious than what one reads in military accounts and war stories."
"Should that really come as a surprise? When nothing happens, no one writes about it."
The colonel let out a quiet laugh and moved one of his knights in turn, placing it between two pawns. They were powerless to stop it.
Several more moves followed, though at a slower pace. They were accompanied by longer silences, but never awkward ones.
Each man used them to observe the other without appearing to do so.
"Do you enjoy chess, Major?" Laval suddenly asked.
François kept his eyes on the board.
"Not particularly," he admitted. "I play from time to time, but that's all. I have other hobbies."
"Such as?"
"I write, sir."
"Oh? You write?"
Laval looked up at his opponent with genuine interest.
"What kind of writing? Scientific? Military?"
François straightened up with almost visible effort and gently shook his head.
"Fiction, mainly. Short stories, for the most part."
The smile that had begun to form on his lips quickly faded.
"But I haven't written anything for several months."
"I see... Fiction... It's not really my cup of tea. What's keeping you from writing? Lack of time, or inspiration?"
"Motivation, rather," François replied with a melancholy sigh.
He offered no further explanation, allowing a somewhat heavy silence to settle between them. The colonel realized he had touched upon a subject his major did not wish to discuss and chose not to press the matter.
In the end, it was François himself who broke the silence a few moments later.
"Chess is still a fascinating game... but I think it gives a misleading picture of war."
Montmorency-Laval gently stroked his chin, staring at one of his rooks as though trying to melt it with his gaze.
"How so?"
François did not answer immediately.
"On a board like this, everything is visible. You know exactly what forces you have and what your opponent has. You know where every enemy piece is, and nothing suddenly appears behind your lines. There are no communication or coordination problems between the pieces, no supply issues, and no unpleasant surprises. No piece suddenly decides to stop obeying."
The viscount nodded, understanding what the man opposite him meant.
"I know war can be disorganized."
"More often than not, it's downright chaotic."
François took a moment to think before making his move.
"A tiny incident can have enormous consequences. A sudden downpour, and a road disappears beneath the mud, causing a delay that ultimately leads to defeat. Or a wagon wheel breaks at the worst possible place, a courier arrives too late, or a bridge is swept away by a flooded river."
He sighed, remembering what he himself had experienced.
"And when the supplies fail to arrive, the entire army goes hungry. And when that happens, soldiers quickly turn into brigands."
"My father told me about such things..."
The young colonel hesitated.
"Even so, we're constantly told that our army is the finest in Europe. I find it hard to believe our men could have behaved that way."
This time, François could not suppress a smile. The colonel blushed faintly.
"What did I say that was so amusing?"
"Ah... Forgive me," he said, raising one hand apologetically. "It's not you. It's just that... Well... In truth, I'm almost certain that what you imagine—what your father told you—falls short of the reality."
"Really..."
Laval fell silent and lowered his eyes to the pieces on the board. Those he had lost. Those his opponent had lost.
He reflected for a long moment before speaking again in a calmer voice.
"Did you know? It's not impossible that you saw my father during the last war. Even if only from a distance."
"Oh?"
"He was at Hastenbeck, among other places."
The name made François involuntarily flinch. That was where everything had begun.
"After the Convention of Klosterzeven, he returned to France for a time before rejoining our armies in Hanover."
He pressed his lips together and discreetly wiped the moisture from his hands.
"What was it like? Did our soldiers truly behave that badly?"
François hesitated. Several seconds passed before he answered.
"Do you want an honest answer?"
"Please."
He leaned back from the board and rested against the back of his chair.
"In Hanover as well as in Saxony, we were on enemy soil. We had no qualms about plundering farms near our camps or along the roads we marched on."
"Was it inevitable?"
"Yes. We were often hungry because our supply convoys were insufficient. People don't realize just how much an army consumes every single day."
François gave a slight shrug.
"Perhaps it was even deliberate. After all, feeding an army is expensive. It isn't impossible that some people decided it was better to make the enemy bear that burden. It also simplifies logistics."
He glanced toward the cabinet where the fort's ledgers were stored.
"You've seen over the past few days how complicated everything is, even when everything is properly organized. Now imagine your supply line stretching for dozens of lieues, the roads in poor condition, and enemy detachments launching raids behind your lines..."
He saw the young colonel grow pale as he pictured the situation.
"All armies behave this way," François concluded. "I'm not saying it's right—only that it's what happens."
Montmorency-Laval remained thoughtful for a long while, gazing at the half-empty chessboard.
"But," he finally asked, "do you think there's any way to prevent it?"
François frowned slightly as he watched his last knight fall.
"You mean the looting? No. It's impossible."
"Not even with stricter discipline?"
The major looked calmly at his superior.
"Your Lordship," he said slowly, "discipline does not stop a man from being hungry. You can threaten him with the lash, imprisonment, or extra duties, but if your men haven't eaten for three days, they'll forget your orders... and their morality as well."
The young colonel said nothing. François continued in a gentler tone.
"That is why I believe the factor that chiefly determines the outcome of a campaign is not the number of soldiers in the field, the number of cannons, or even the quality of the officers, but logistics. An army that goes hungry will always lose its discipline in the end."
The Vicomte de Laval could not suppress a quiet laugh.
"That's the sort of opinion that would earn you many enemies at Versailles."
"Probably," François replied with a slight shrug. "But ask any old soldier what causes a campaign to fail, and he'll speak far more about roads, provisions, and weather than about grand maneuvers."
The chess game continued, and little by little the viscount's victory became apparent. François had lost several important pieces early on. Now he regretted those mistakes bitterly.
"My father was also at Häuslingen," the viscount suddenly said as he moved his queen to capture an undefended rook. "He never spoke much about it, but I remember him calling it dreadful. That always stayed with me. I saw in your service record that you were there as well. Was it truly that terrible?"
François nodded slowly.
"Yes. Perhaps even worse than you imagine."
He advanced a pawn into the white queen's path, which promptly captured it. Then, with his last bishop, he took his opponent's queen.
"Damn... I shouldn't have done that..."
The colonel frowned. He had not seen the attack coming.
But his attention quickly returned to the man sitting across from him. François's expression had become frighteningly serious, his gaze darker than a moonless night.
"Could you tell me more? My father spoke very little about that battle..."
"I think everyone who fought there would rather forget it. As for me... I still return to it sometimes in my dreams," François murmured. "The violence was beyond anything I had ever imagined. I'm not convinced our officers reported it accurately. In fact, I'm not sure that would even have been possible."
He paused and fixed the young colonel with an icy stare.
"I can assure you, sir, that although the battle may have looked perfectly conventional on paper, there was nothing beautiful about it."
He then began recounting the battle from his own perspective—the final great engagement of the Six Years' War on the European continent, the one that brought the Kingdom of Prussia to its end.
The account lasted only a few minutes, yet when it was over, Colonel de Montmorency-Laval felt as though he had spent several hours there. It was almost as if he had heard the thunder of the cannons, the whistle of musket balls around him, and the cries of dying men echoing across the plain after a devastating charge.
An unbearably heavy silence followed.
"I... I don't understand," the viscount finally whispered through clenched teeth.
"Hm? What is it?"
"I know I lack experience... but the Prussians' behavior seems illogical to me. Normally, a formation facing a charge is supposed to break to avoid a massacre. That's what we've been taught. But they... they stood their ground and fought to the very end. Why such stubbornness?"
A sad smile crossed François's lips.
"There is much I still don't know, even after all these years. But from what I do know, retreat simply wasn't an option for them. Berlin had sentenced their officers to death for treason. Apparently, those officers believed they were acting in the best interests of their kingdom. We knew nothing of this at the time, and it cost us dearly."
A cold shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the final assault against the Prussian entrenchments. More than anything else, it was that moment which haunted him and made him wake in terror at night.
"They fought with exemplary courage—that much must be acknowledged. It was only through terrible suffering that we finally managed to break them and put them to flight."
François let out a long, weary sigh.
"You know, under those circumstances—once you're fighting hand-to-hand, I mean—it becomes difficult to think clearly. More often than not, men turn into beasts: some become sheep, others become lions. That day, unfortunately for us, nearly all the Prussians were lions."
At last, François's king—a crowned figure in coronation robes, holding a scepter in his left hand and an orb topped with a small cross in his right—found himself with no escape.
"Checkmate," Montmorency-Laval announced.
François could only acknowledge his defeat.
He nodded once in acceptance, then looked intently at the young man sitting opposite him.
"Since we're speaking frankly, may I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Why did you come all the way here? With your name—or your father's connections—you could have obtained a far more prestigious command. In France, I mean."
The young man's expression suddenly darkened, and for a moment François thought he had gone too far. But the viscount did not become angry.
"Do you think it was my choice?"
He began putting the chess pieces back into their case one by one.
"I could indeed have taken another command in a more... prestigious regiment, and I nearly did. But my father used his influence to have me sent here, to the frontier, because he is convinced that war between France and Great Britain will soon break out."
François showed no reaction, which made the young man realize that his major shared his father's opinion.
"In his mind," he continued as he closed the case, "a command in America will be far more valuable because I'll be on the front line—possibly where the war will begin and where the fighting will be fiercest. He wants me to learn the profession of arms quickly in the field and distinguish myself."
He stood up, carrying the case back to the cabinet along with the board.
"I would have preferred to remain in France. At least then I could have brought my wife and children with me from Paris."
"Oh? You're married?"
"For a little over five years. I don't even have a portrait of her."
"So... your family will remain in France. That must be difficult."
The viscount nodded.
"I can't bring her here when a war could break out at any moment. Besides, my children are still very young. The voyage would have been too exhausting. Even for an adult, such a journey is a real adventure."
François could only agree.
It wasn't for lack of wanting to introduce his own children to his parents back in Corbie.
"Daughters? Sons?" he simply asked.
"Two boys," the colonel replied with a smile. "Five and two years old."
François smiled in return.
"Mine are seven and four already."
Laval thought of the innocent faces of his two sons, Mathieu and Pierre. Then, without François needing to continue the conversation, he began speaking about them. It did not take long for François to realize that, just as his own children were his entire world, the colonel felt exactly the same way about his.
"I only left in April," the commanding officer lamented, "yet it already feels as though I've been gone for more than a year. I don't know when I'll return, but I hope they won't have grown too much in my absence."
The conversation changed completely, becoming much lighter. For many minutes they spoke only about their respective children. One memory after another surfaced, as though they were drawing them from a bottomless hat. The subject seemed truly inexhaustible.
Only when they noticed that daylight was now fading in earnest did they bring the conversation to an end, and François returned to the Manor of Montrouge.
Back home, François shared a hot meal with his family.
His eldest son spoke at length and with great pride about everything he had learned that day. But his father was distracted. He kept thinking about his conversation with the colonel, and it seemed to him that he had come upon a promising idea.
Later that evening, after telling his children a story and before retiring for the night himself, he made his way to his study, now shrouded in darkness.
Carrying a candle, he walked to a cabinet and took out a small leather-bound notebook tied shut with a thick leather cord.
It was where he recorded his various projects, especially the titles of stories he hoped to write someday. There were about a dozen of them, though not all could be adapted to this century for various reasons. The principal obstacle was the presence of technologies far too advanced to be understood by people of this era, even with a thorough explanation.
François placed the notebook on his desk, setting the candle close enough to see clearly, and untied the small knot that kept it closed. He opened it with care and quickly skimmed the first few pages. At last, he stopped at a blank one.
His long conversation with Colonel de Montmorency-Laval had not inspired a new story, but something else entirely.
He picked up a quill, dipped it into his inkwell, then held it poised above the page.
He hesitated for a moment.
François did not know whether he would be able to bring this project to fruition, for it would require a tremendous amount of work. There would certainly be countless trials and errors before he achieved a satisfactory result. And he already had more than enough on his plate.
One of his projects, rekindled by the arrival of Colonel de Montmorency-Laval, was to write a work presenting these vast lands in order, at the very least, to soften the way people in France viewed them. But he still did not know how to approach it. Should he write a serious essay, or should he do what he did best by inventing a story set in New France?
He had considered writing a kind of detective novel about a father crossing the Atlantic to hunt down his daughter's murderer in the vast wilderness of New France. His quest for vengeance would lead him to encounter the different peoples who had lived there for centuries.
The rest remained vague. It was only an idea he had conceived during the long voyage back from his leave in France.
The tip of the quill gently touched the paper, leaving a tiny black dot. Then his hand began to move swiftly.
In a neat, flowing script, he wrote:
"Project: Wargame.
Chess is regarded as a noble game and an excellent exercise for officers. However, it does not accurately represent the complexity of the battlefield.
Objective: Better train His Majesty's officers in the command of his armies.
Concept: Real-time (?) game using a large board representing plains, marshes, forests, roads, rivers, hills, and settlements. Terrain must matter as much as—if not more than—the troops themselves. Different effects depending on the unit's location and type."
He paused for a moment with his quill suspended above the page, then added:
"Two players assemble their armies, deploy them, and engage one another. Victory may be achieved in several ways: destroying the enemy army, forcing it to rout, capturing its commander, or accomplishing assigned objectives."
After a while, having nothing more to add for the moment, he closed the notebook and returned it to its place.
François then went to bed beside his wife, who was already beginning to drift off to sleep.