Hello!
Here is a new chapter!
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And thank you AlexZero12, Porthos10, Mium, Ranger_Red, Shingle_Top, allhaillkingblood, Dekol347 and toby_cavazos1961 for the support!
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The smell of gunpowder was omnipresent.
Despite the wind, it refused to dissipate.
It clung to the fibers of their uniforms and stuck to their skin, making it feel as though they were always on the front lines.
That smell wrapped the entirety of General St. Clair's fortified camp like an invisible fog.
And yet, the camp was vast, encircling the impressive fort they were relentlessly besieging.
Because it had grown too dark to fight, the retreat had been ordered, and a tense calm had returned.
Many brave men remained behind, left to the crows beneath the walls of what the British still called Fort Edward.
The French had placed so many obstacles between their position and the one held by the British that venturing into that space was as grueling as crossing a swamp.
And the weather wasn't helping.
Ideally, the siege would have begun in the spring, but they hadn't been ready back then.
They had also needed to wait for General Amherst in order to strike New France on two fronts simultaneously.
Inside the general's tent—spacious enough to host strategic discussions in decent conditions—the tension was palpable.
The siege was progressing well, despite the resistance of the fortress, but frustrations were mounting.
With furrowed brows and a clenched jaw, St. Clair tried to maintain his composure as he stroked his dog—a nine-year-old English foxhound—resting against him, its head on his right thigh and eyes half-closed.
It was a beautiful animal with a short, shiny coat and well-defined muscles.
Bred for the hunt, but gentle by nature.
St. Clair's hand moved to the back of the dog's head, scratching behind its ears.
The animal's tail began thumping harder—it was in heaven.
The sight soothed the general somewhat. He was seventy-four now.
His complexion was pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead.
He had fallen ill earlier in the week but continued to perform his duties for the Crown's sake. He'd been advised to rest, but how could he, with the battle still raging?
Ah… I'll rest when our flag flies above that damned fort!
"Cough, cough! This can't go on, gentlemen! We must do something!"
"My general," replied Colonel Murray of the 46th Regiment of Foot, tracing a wide circle on a map spread over the southern Albany region, "we've narrowed down the search area by studying their past attacks. We believe they're located here."
"That's not—cough, cough! That's not enough! I want them dead! If they act like bandits, then let them be treated like bandits! Cough! We need to put an end to them!"
"Sir, they number barely a hundred men. It's clear their goal is to draw our attention away from the main objective."
"And that very line of thinking is what's putting us in this mess! Look at the state of our camp! How much food and equipment have we lost because of them already? It's high time we acknowledged the threat they pose! COUGH, COUGH, COUGH!"
The officers fell silent and bowed their heads.
"My general," intervened Colonel Warburton, a reliable man with broad shoulders, "our forces are concentrated here. We cannot entrust this mission to inexperienced young officers, let alone provincials. We must send seasoned soldiers to crush those two companies that have been harassing us for weeks and butchering our men."
St. Clair stopped stroking his loyal companion. The dog lifted its head, as if questioning its master.
"How many men?" he asked simply, looking him straight in the eyes.
Despite his age and illness, his gaze retained its sharpness.
"As you've rightly pointed out, sir, those Frenchmen have been underestimated for far too long. Despite their limited numbers, they're dangerous—especially with the underhanded tactics they employ. A battalion seems appropriate."
"A battalion?" Colonel Murray choked, setting down his wine glass abruptly, spilling a few drops on his fine uniform. "Isn't that overkill for dealing with such a small enemy force? If they truly number no more than a hundred, as reported, then two hundred men should be enough."
"Sir, with all due respect, they've looted numerous convoys," Warburton replied coldly. "One of them was carrying weapons and ammunition meant for us. Do you think they plan to keep them as souvenirs?"
Colonel Murray's face turned red, but he was cut off before he could respond.
"Very well," General St. Clair declared. "A battalion. Ah… That shouldn't hurt us. I assume you want to deploy your own men?"
"They're more than capable of handling this scum, my general. I believe one grenadier company, one light company, and two companies of line infantry will do the job. My major will lead the operation. He's more than qualified."
The old St. Clair knew exactly who he meant. The man was indeed talented.
"Major Massey, isn't it? Very well. You have my authorization. But with such a force, I want satisfactory results before the end of October."
"It'll be dealt with well before then, my general. I have one final request."
The old general frowned, but gave a nod.
"Speak."
"For swift results, he'll certainly need individuals with uncommon skills."
Naturally, St. Clair understood whom the colonel was referring to.
"Granted."
***
Adam's troop had carried out multiple attacks without ever ambushing the same place twice.
Like ghosts, they were elusive.
Despite illness and harsh living conditions, morale remained high. However, their victories did not allow them to recover their strength or increase their numbers.
Their most recent attack, four days earlier on October 6th, had been a success. They had targeted a medium-sized convoy — just under ten wagons.
Since their daring strike on September 26th against a column of twenty wagons, smaller English convoys had become mere secondary prey. Now, armed with better weapons and sharpened experience, they believed themselves capable of annihilating a force three times their size.
Their audacity knew no bounds.
So when a prisoner revealed that a massive convoy was expected to pass along the main road, the decision to act was quickly made.
But Adam knew the escort would be substantial, determined to see the wagons through, and would remain vigilant until the very end.
Well… almost.
"Captain, are you sure about this?"
Adam squinted, eyes fixed on the homes scattered among the fields. A hamlet large enough to house some forty families — maybe two hundred souls.
It was split in two by the long, wide road cutting through it. On the right side, at the center of the village, stood a modest church with an elegant steeple. Behind it, one could glimpse a small cemetery.
"Hmm… Yes, I'm sure."
Captain Marais scratched his cheek vigorously — rough and covered in a dirty beard streaked with a few white hairs.
"We'll be harshly judged for this," he said grimly.
"Not if they're Protestants," Adam replied. "And if they're Catholics… well, let's just say it's war. We've done worse in Boston. They can criticize us, but they can't condemn us — not as long as we don't cross a certain line."
Adam, now sporting a short reddish beard that aged him nearly a decade, turned toward his subordinate.
"They're all gathered. This is the perfect time to strike."
His gaze slid past his second-in-command's shoulder. As had happened before, he thought he saw three motionless figures by the roadside, staring coldly at him, judging.
He ignored them.
"Start by surrounding the village. No one must escape. If even one tries to flee — too bad for him. Shoot to kill. Under no circumstances can the convoy know we're here."
"Understood, sir. I'll pass on your orders."
Adam nodded and looked back at the road. Nothing.
"Tch!"
He clicked his tongue, irritated.
He couldn't understand why that woman and those children still haunted him. He had killed so many people since his transmigration — always out of necessity.
I had no choice, so leave me alone!
The French troop moved toward the peaceful village. Despite the hour, the streets were silent.
Not a soul in sight.
No one saw them coming. No alarm was raised.
Within moments, the noose tightened around the villagers, unaware of the danger hanging over them.
The men in white stopped in front of the plain-faced church. The doors were shut, but from inside rose the distinct sound of speech in a strange tongue — one none of them, not even Adam, recognized.
The vast majority of the villagers, like many others between Albany and Kingston, were of Dutch origin. They spoke English — naturally, as they were subjects of King George III — but many had preserved the language of their ancestors who had come to this continent the century before.
Their culture, crushed in large cities like New York — once New Amsterdam — by successive waves of migrants from England, Scotland, Ireland, and the Palatinate, had managed to survive in the countryside. It was no surprise that so many settlers clung to their language like a precious treasure.
That was why they hadn't acted the previous evening.
At first, Adam had considered taking control of the village by deploying his men to each household and subduing the families. But among his troops, not a single man spoke English or Dutch.
The risk that the operation might fail or go off-script due to the language barrier was too great. So he had come up with another idea — to act now, on a Sunday morning, during mass.
It was eleven o'clock.
Time was short, for the expected convoy — some thirty wagons escorted by over three hundred soldiers and militiamen — was due to pass very soon.
They couldn't afford to wait for the villagers to finish praising the Lord and listening to the pastor's sermon.
They pushed open the doors and took the villagers by surprise.
Adam was the first to step into the sacred space. Though armed, he removed his tricorne out of respect.
The building instantly fell silent, like a crypt. The pastor, frozen behind his modest altar, opened his mouth so wide he could have swallowed one of his candles.
He was a man in his fifties with an ordinary face, dressed in black from head to toe. Long dark hair streaked with silver was tied at the back with a simple ribbon.
Adam advanced slowly—only a few steps—to allow his men to enter the already crowded building.
Those who had risen from their pews dared not move a muscle at the sight.
"Ladies and gentlemen, pastor," he began in English, "please forgive this intrusion. We are forced to interrupt your service. A British military convoy will soon pass through your village, and we need your cooperation to stage an ambush."
The pastor, a deeply respected figure in his community, regained his composure and stepped around the altar. With a brisk pace and a face flushed with anger, he strode toward Adam.
Three soldiers stepped forward, raising their weapons to block him, but Adam made a slight calming gesture. His men immediately stepped back and returned to their positions.
"How dare you profane this place?! On this Lord's Day?! Have you no shame?!"
The man, likely a little over six feet tall, would have been considered tall for the time.
Few men, like George or Akwiratheka, exceeded such height. Strangely, there seemed to be several of them in this church.
"We're aware of the offense," Adam replied calmly. "Once again, I ask for your forgiveness. We had no choice."
"We always have a choice," the pastor shot back in a sharp tone. "Leave immediately!"
Adam shook his head.
"I'm sorry, but that's impossible—at least not right away. But I swear on all that I hold sacred: my men and I will leave as soon as we're finished. And no harm will come to you."
"Harm? It's already done! You entered this church with weapons! You'll be damned forever for this!"
The captain furrowed his brow and slowly placed his tricorne back on his head.
"Sir… or should I call you Father? We are soldiers. Our hands are stained. We're bound for Hell by nature. But here on earth, we must fulfill our duties. We are at war with England. Our king expects us to destroy his enemies. Our comrades, besieged in the north, expect us to support them by depriving the besiegers of food and supplies. I will carry out this mission—with or without your help. But it will certainly be easier for everyone if I have it."
The pastor glared at Adam with a look that could have killed. Had stares been cannon fire, Adam wouldn't have fared better than if he stood before a loaded gun.
"Don't involve us in your war," the pastor murmured, his gaze unwavering. "We're just simple colonists."
"I know. That's exactly what I'm trying to do. Speak to them—they'll listen to you more than to me."
The pastor grimaced as if he had bitten into something sour and looked at his congregation. He knew them all. They were more than friends—they were family.
He had stood by them in their darkest hours, but also their happiest: weddings, baptisms...
"What… what should I tell them?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "I'll translate. We mostly speak Dutch here."
"Tell them that for a few hours, they'll be under our watch, housed in the homes along the main street that runs through your village. They must remain indoors for the duration of our presence. We'll be gone before the day ends."
The pastor made Adam swear three times that no harm would come to the colonists. Then, reluctantly, he cooperated.
The French demands shocked the villagers, but against bayonets, resistance was not an option.
All of them—regardless of age or gender—were gathered into the houses lining the main street, the road connecting Albany to Kingston.
To prevent escapes, they were confined to the upper floors, while the soldiers occupied the ground floors.
For the colonists, this situation was nearly unbearable—but what other choice did they have?
Here, strength dictated the law. Their only escape would have been revolt—to throw themselves upon the soldiers.
But the soldiers were armed, and they were not.
One musket was more than enough to keep ten men in check, for no one here was ready to take a bullet for another.
So while there were cries and sobs, there was no riot.
***
Same day, two o'clock in the afternoon.
Since dawn, the day had looked bleak. A damp fog devoured everything: trees, earth, stones, sky, sun.
Everything was shrouded in greyness, and grey too was the endless convoy of twenty-eight wagons meant to feed His Majesty's glorious army in the north.
The road was bad, though not disastrous. Muddy and slick, it gave everyone the feeling they were wading through sludge—or worse, excrement.
The only comfort, perhaps, was the lack of smell. But who knew? Maybe the fog had swallowed it up too, just like everything else.
John William was a proud soldier of the New York provincial regiment. To the haughty redcoats, however, he was nothing more than a farmer.
His contract changed nothing.
Musket slung over his shoulder, cartridge box knocking against his hip, he marched north like so many others.
He had left Kingston early, hoping to reach Albany quickly, then Fort Edward.
If the stronghold hadn't yet been retaken by the time he arrived, perhaps he could take part in its fall? He hoped so.
He wanted to avenge Boston, and all the crimes committed by the vile French since the beginning of this war. No—since the day they had set foot on this continent.
They were a plague, a sickness that needed to be eradicated.
How many good people had died because of them?
The New World was supposed to be a kind of promised land, a blessed place where a beggar could rise through hard work and become someone important—even own vast lands and servants!
But the French had brought nothing but misery and war. They had to go. For good.
And young William intended to help make that happen.
Even if he could only contribute a modest stone to the edifice, he believed he could do it. His parents had forbidden it, so he signed up in secret.
His father, Samuel William, hadn't been able to stop him. He was of age now.
He had survived training, and here he was, marching with his comrades on the road to glory.
Splash, splosh, splash, splosh.
His feet were cold, his hands blistered, but he was happy, for a bright future stretched out ahead of him. Maybe, with a bit of luck, he would distinguish himself? Be rewarded, promoted, make a fortune, and one day command a regiment of his own?
He knew it was an incredibly ambitious goal, but to him, it was the bare minimum. A man who didn't dream of becoming a general wasn't a man at all.
Hmm? Houses?
They rose from the fog like ghosts, but he found these shapes oddly reassuring.
The air was crisp, and everything was strangely quiet. Too quiet for this time of day.
The wagons rolled forward and the men began to relax. Surely they weren't at risk of being attacked here.
Young William had heard talk of a group of Frenchmen ambushing every convoy that passed along this route.
So even though he was afraid, he hoped to run into them—and to help destroy them.
If they were such a nuisance, surely he would be rewarded for helping take them down.
The convoy stopped abruptly in the middle of the village.
"What's going on?" he asked, rising onto his toes to try and see what was ahead.
"A cart's blocking the road," replied a comrade in front. "They're dealing with it now."
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Suddenly, shots rang out. Brutal. Unexpected.
They came from everywhere at once.
William instinctively ducked his head and saw the man ahead of him collapse, one hand pressed to his bleeding temple.
"We're under attack! Take cover!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Only seconds after the first volley, another crackled through the air.
"They're in the houses!"
William looked to his left. Smoke laced with powder particles mingled with the fog.
"Why are they shooting at us?!"
"This isn't the ri—"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Shaking all over, young William took position and pulled the trigger. Nothing.
In the confusion, he had forgotten to cock his musket.
With difficulty, he pulled back the mechanism.
C-click!
He aimed at a window and fired, not knowing if he hit anyone.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
A sharp, searing pain shattered his chaotic thoughts. The breath left his lungs.
William suddenly felt like he was made of glass—and yet heavy as lead. His strength failed him, and he collapsed sideways.
His head hit the ground. A muddy puddle welcomed him.
Half his face was submerged. Yet he felt... content.
It was like lying in the most comfortable bed, warm, safe.
Then came a wave of cold. And then—nothing.
The boy, scarcely a man, closed his eyes and never opened them again.