Hello! I hope you had a great weekend.
Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
Thank you Dekol347, Mium, Porthos10, George_Bush_2910, AlexZero12, Ranger_Red, Shingle_Top and Galan_05 for the support!
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The ground, soaked through, was so soft in places that walking on it felt like stepping on a deflated air mattress. With each step, the thick, sticky mud swallowed their shoes and spat out dirty water that the earth couldn't absorb.
It had rained almost non-stop for three days. But that morning, the drizzle had finally lifted. The sky, however, remained heavily overcast.
A pale light filtered through the black, twisted branches of the maples and pines—gnarled like clenched hands. It revealed a few pitiful silhouettes, barely human.
Adam led the march. His back hunched, shoulders slumped, and left hand resting limply on the pommel of his sword, he kept a watchful eye on his surroundings.
His sword was an ordinary weapon, dull and far inferior to the one he had unfortunately lost at the Battle of Fort Carillon the previous year. He had taken it from the body of an officer evidently too poor to afford a proper commission from a skilled blacksmith.
The blade was a little over seventy centimeters long and about four centimeters wide at the base. Its guard resembled plain scallop shells with no engravings or gilding, and the grip was filigreed with copper. The pommel was no more than a walnut-sized sphere.
Adam's features were so drawn that he was hard to recognize. His cheeks were hollow, deep dark circles had formed under his eyes, and their former brightness had faded.
In Corbie, not even François's parents would have recognized him. Far more than time, it was the hardships he had endured that had transformed him.
His face had hardened, his gait had lost its spring, his smile had vanished, and his voice had taken on the rasp of a crow's croak.
He now understood—too late—why they had tried to stop him from signing that contract.
His grimy coat hung from his shoulders like a filthy rag, clinging to his skin with dried sweat and grime, as if it were part of him.
Behind him, the survivors of his company and that of André Louis marched in silence.
No songs, no jokes, no talk of their imminent return home. Even the groans of exhaustion had grown rare.
They were a pitiful sight.
No more than shadows, refuse the forest had chewed up and swallowed, but hadn't managed to digest.
This little band—still the size of a full company—was slowly making its way north, following the Hudson River while keeping a cautious distance from the road. They were less than two leagues from Fort Bourbon now.
And yet, the distance felt infinite.
They passed places where they had laid their first ambushes. Memories came back, mocking them.
Back then—what felt like an eternity ago—they had thought themselves invincible, untouchable, unstoppable.
They had hit nearly every convoy that passed within range, aiming bigger each time. They had shown no mercy.
How many redcoats had they killed in a single month? How many more would have had to die to satisfy them?
Such arrogance. Such madness.
The backlash they'd received was more than deserved. How had they ever believed they could strike at the British army in its own territory with so few men and so little means, and not pay the price?
Of course, they had no illusions. As far as the British were concerned, this punishment wasn't nearly enough to make up for their losses.
Like castaways abandoned on a desert island in the middle of a vast ocean, they had pounced on the remnants they themselves had hidden away off the main road.
What they found among the trees and shrubs had rotted and molded. Even what had been sheltered from the elements hadn't been spared.
They had scavenged after the bugs, the worms, and other creatures, but still found something to eat. Some had vomited until they bled.
The first to break the stifling silence was Sergeant Le Canon, leaning on a thick, twisted branch like an old man on a cane.
"I-I think… I think we've made it," he groaned between breaths.
Adam and the others turned toward the river, clearly visible through the trees. It was no longer as menacing as during their crossing, but it still looked gray and lifeless.
It flowed silently several meters below, winding with the terrain, slowly carving the land.
And at its end stood the southern battery of Long Island.
The British camp stretched just beyond, unmoving, massive, and threatening like a sleeping predator. Their tents lined up endlessly like a sprawling canvas city, forming wide, straight streets.
Adam squinted, but saw only a handful of redcoats. The rest were likely farther away, near the fort, preparing for the assault.
A breath, a barely perceptible shiver passed through the ranks. A few smiles—discreet, hesitant, as if they didn't dare believe. They had made it back.
The fort itself was a little farther off, hidden by the vegetation. Now that they were so close, Adam and his companions dreaded what flag might be flying above its gates.
They continued without straying from their path, and it wasn't until they reached the Long Bridge that they finally saw the walls of Fort Bourbon.
Its silhouette was massive, riddled, dark, standing out against the dull sky. A section of the wall had collapsed, and the stone bridge linking the fort to the southern demi-lune seemed to stand by miracle alone—but atop it still flew the white flag with golden fleurs-de-lis.
Adam's heart leapt in his chest.
"My God, look at the state it's in!" Adam choked at the sight.
A strange emotion swept over him, somewhere between relief and horror.It was like seeing an old friend again after a long absence—disfigured and crippled for life.
The ramparts bore the scars of an intense bombardment: shattered stones, collapsed embankments, splintered stakes, an exposed walkway.
They must've gone through hell… Bloody hell, it's a miracle it's still standing!
At this distance, it was hard to make out every detail. Redcoats surrounded the fort in tight ranks but did not seem to be moving.
Only then did he notice.
"The fort still holds, but… why aren't the cannons firing?" Marais whispered as he stepped closer.
"It's too quiet," Adam murmured. "They look to be within range."
Why aren't they blasting them to pieces? Have they run out of shot?
Adam signaled his men to move up a little farther.
He hoped to find a better vantage point. They climbed a kind of rocky promontory overlooking the river. Below, the Hudson carried dead logs and broken rafts in a sinister silence.
A shiver ran through Adam's spine, uncontrollable.
What the hell are they doing over there?
Everything was still. Even the Hudson River seemed to be holding its breath.
Adam found the silence far more terrifying than a barrage of cannon fire.
A timid ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, briefly gleaming off bayonets on the ramparts and at the base of the scarred glacis. But it lasted only a heartbeat. A thick grey cloud rushed in to close the gap in the sky's veil.
From their position, the French could not see that it was on the other side of the fort that Fort Bourbon's fate was being decided.
***
The gates of Fort Bourbon opened slowly into a deathly silence. No one cried out to raise the alarm or tried to stop it.
The redcoats facing that side of the fort made no move to advance either. They stood still and silent.
A sudden gust, stronger than the others, snapped at the flags.
A few richly dressed men appeared, dignified despite the circumstances.
They walked forward with slow, measured steps, in perfect rhythm without the need for drum or fife.
They were led by the Marquis de Montcalm: royal blue cloak and crimson coat perfectly buttoned, matching breeches over boots caked in mud, blood, and ash, a black felt tricorne trimmed with white feathers.
His gold-adorned sword swayed at his side as he walked straight toward the enemy, unflinching and without hesitation.
This was the stride of a true noble of the Kingdom of France.
In that moment, he represented not merely himself or the garrison of Fort Bourbon—but Louis XV and an entire realm.
Behind him, a large white flag hung heavily, as if to mark the death of someone great.
His steely gaze fixed upon those coming to meet him, led by a general in his sixties.
The man had deep-set, dark eyes, a prominent nose like the prow of an ancient galley, and broad shoulders weighed down by age and command.
He wore a splendid red coat trimmed with gold, navy-blue facings, a cream waistcoat richly embroidered, and immaculate white breeches untouched by the surrounding mud—as though even the filth dared not cling to him.
They stopped just a few steps apart, at first without a word.
"I take it," General Murray said quietly, almost dispassionately, "that you've made your decision, General?"
The Marquis de Montcalm did not answer immediately.
He held the man's gaze without blinking, as if trying to peer into the deepest corners of his mind.
"I am prepared to negotiate with you," he said at last, calmly, as though the long month of siege had affected him not at all—at most, a slight inconvenience.
"Will you surrender the fort?" Murray asked, not raising his voice. "It would only be just. It was ours before you took it. Your occupation was but a parenthesis."
He glanced toward the broken walls behind Montcalm.
"A remarkable parenthesis, I'll grant you," he continued. "You've greatly improved it. My king will never say so, but I assure you he'll know how to make use of it."
Behind him, two British officers exchanged glances with their French counterparts, predatory smiles on their lips.
Their eyes betrayed the scorn they felt for their adversaries.
To them, the French were nothing but fools who had spent years working for their benefit.
Montcalm noticed, of course. But he gave no outward sign of anger.
He could not so easily give in to the provocations of the enemies of his king.
"I am ready to surrender the fort… under conditions," he replied, as if their insults slid off him like rain from a cloak.
Murray, who had expected this, barely reacted. Though eager to seize control of the fort, he let none of it show.
He turned slightly, as though to examine more closely the wounds inflicted on the bastions by his own artillery. They had held up fairly well, all things considered, but it would take many months to erase the marks of the siege.
"You're fortunate I took over the operation," he said, as if thinking aloud. "Had General St. Clair not left us, he would likely have laughed in your face. The fort is in a pitiful state. But very well. I'm not him. What are your terms? I would ask that you not test our patience—or our generosity."
"I have only one request, General," Montcalm replied, his eyes locked onto Murray's. "I ask for the honors of war."
Murray felt his officers stir behind him. Their expressions shifted, and color rushed to their cheeks.
Some even looked ready to step forward and protest.
The honors of war? For them? After so many deaths, privations, and suffering? After the stubborn resistance of those damned French, who had delayed the inevitable at the cost of British blood?
Bullets, cannonballs, disease, hunger, rain—they had endured it all!
The honors of war were a favor, granted out of respect for the adversary. And this enemy did not deserve it!
It wasn't a request—it was an insult.
According to the rules of war, such a favor could be denied for several reasons: if the enemy was unworthy (for instance, if the defenders were not proper soldiers), if they hadn't fought hard enough (a coward or even a traitor), as a strategic choice (to break enemy morale or intimidate other fortresses), or if they had been obstinate. From their perspective, this Montcalm checked three out of four of those boxes.
But Murray did not take offense. He had already made his decision.
The most important reason was that he didn't want the burden of hundreds of prisoners.
Still, it was true that this opponent had been a thorn in his side. His resistance had cost many lives.
"The honors of war, you say? Indeed, you fought well—but this may displease both my men and my king."
Montcalm inclined his head slightly, like a man acknowledging a fact. But it could also be read as provocation—the bow of an artist proud of his performance.
"If it troubles you that much," he said in a firmer voice, "we can also fight to the last man."
At once, the men behind Murray turned pale. A heavy silence fell among the English.
Something deep within them screamed that this madman would carry out his threat. He might even blow up the powder stores as a last resort!
How many lives would they lose in the process?
The mere thought sent a chill through their veins.
There was no doubt—without the fort and with heavy losses, the second phase of the operation would be unfeasible, and their careers would suffer. Though none of them showed it, they all wanted this to end—quickly.
This fort was absolutely necessary if they hoped to launch an assault on New France before a peace treaty unfavorable to the British Crown was signed.
"I'm willing to make concessions," Montcalm said calmly. "We swear on our honor not to rejoin the fighting for three months. In exchange, you will let us depart with our arms and our colors, drums beating, toward our lines."
"Eight months. And you'll withdraw to the north of Lake George."
"Four months," Montcalm countered at once. "And we'll play one of your tunes as we march."
Murray raised an eyebrow. That was a standard duration—but still too short for his taste. The war might end before then, but he didn't want to take that chance.
"Five months."
"Agreed."
It had all happened incredibly fast. So fast that General Murray and his officers wondered if they had miscalculated.
But what mattered was that they would recover Fort Edward.
"What tune would you like us to play?" Montcalm asked.
That question dispelled some of their doubts. The officers exchanged glances, faint smiles tugging at their lips.
"Rule, Britannia! sounds fitting. Or The British Grenadiers."
"Very well. It shall be The British Grenadiers."
Behind him, there was clear satisfaction. It was deeply humiliating for the defeated army to play the enemy's tune as they marched out.
It was a sign of respect—and yet, the two sides could barely stand one another. They were old enemies, and would remain so until the end of time or the fall of one of their empires.
That tune wasn't a requirement, which made it feel like a sincere gesture of respect—and a clever bargaining chip.
Both parties drafted a document with only a few terms, then signed it. Meanwhile, Colonel de Bréhant returned to the fort to give instructions.
When everything was ready, Montcalm raised a hand.
From within the fort, a drum began to sound. Slow, heavy, almost funereal.
Above the fort, the royal flag—worn and riddled with holes—was lowered from its mast. It slid down the pole until it disappeared behind Fort Bourbon's high walls.
Montcalm stood with his back to it, gaze fixed ahead, as if refusing to witness the somber sight.
A British company then advanced toward the fort in good order, drums beating, flag at the front.
The French stood on either side of the path atop the ramparts, weapons at their feet, bayonets reversed.
Not a sound, not a word, barely even a glance.
In earlier times, when muskets used matchlocks, they would have kept them lit to respond in case of treachery. Now, they were simply loaded.
Everything passed without incident. They saluted their enemies—emaciated and exhausted, though the siege had not been very long—while the British took possession of the fort.
They raised their flag, symbolizing the union of England and Scotland.
Montcalm and his officers, standing apart, watched their men depart in good order from the fort they had poured so much energy into, and for which so much blood had been shed. They no longer looked back, and marched slowly, northward, like exiles.
As promised, they played The British Grenadiers.
Meanwhile, the British were making a full inspection of the fort, its bastions, and cannons. Their engineers were checking the integrity of the walls.
Murray, however, was far more interested in the food supplies. They were running desperately low due to logistical problems—and because of a small, infuriating group of Frenchmen operating behind their lines.
"Well? What do we have?" he asked anxiously. "Give me good news."
A lieutenant colonel stepped forward, his face grim. Murray's heart immediately sank.
"There's almost nothing left, General. They had no food. Either they were starving… or they ate everything they could before they left."
Murray's breath caught in his throat.
His whole body began to tremble violently. He clenched his fists and his jaw so tightly that the sound of cracking bones could be heard by those nearby.
Several men turned toward him.
He said nothing. For a long time.
Then, through pale, tight lips:
"Montcalm…"
The name came out like a curse. He repeated it in his mind over and over, filled with hatred—like a vow of vengeance.
***
On the other side of the fort and the river, Adam and his companions silently watched the grim spectacle unfold.
A tear slid down the captain's cheek as the British flag replaced their own.
No one spoke. No one moved.
They stood frozen, like brave soldiers turned to stone by the gaze of the terrible Medusa.
No one could truly grasp it.
It's fallen… We're too late… All this… for what? I thought… we could make a difference.
A dull pain, like a ball of thorns on fire, lodged itself in his chest. It crept up his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Seeing that flag hurt far more than he'd expected. And he wasn't the only one suffering.
What now? What are we supposed to do? Where do we go?
They stood for a long time, unmoving, staring at the lost fort.
Their only comfort was that their comrades hadn't been sent south. Who knows what fate might have awaited them there?
Perhaps the worst would have been ending up on a prison ship.
Maybe the British simply didn't have the means to handle so many prisoners… Or perhaps Montcalm had managed to negotiate with them.
Adam took a deep breath of the cool morning air, then turned to his men with a grave but resolute gaze.
"Le Marquis has surrendered and appears to have secured the honors of war. We'll stay here a little while, eat something, and rest a bit. Then, we'll follow them. They're most likely headed to Fort Carillon. We'll probably receive new orders there."
He paused, meeting each man's eyes in turn.
"If the war is over for them, it isn't over for us. Whatever they've signed doesn't concern us. It binds only Monsieur de Montcalm and the garrison. We will keep making our enemies suffer as long as we can—until peace is truly signed!"