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Many Englishmen had managed to flee, but many more had fallen. It had taken only a minute to break the escort of that convoy.
A single minute of fire, of screams, of fury.
Confined to the upper floors, the villagers had witnessed the massacre as one might witness an opera or a tragic play.
To the French, hardened by this kind of violence, it was nothing. Just another mission.
They hadn't even needed to engage in hand-to-hand combat.
Children had been kept away from the windows, their mothers' hands pressed over their ears. But they had heard everything.
The gunshots, the shouted orders, the screams of pain, the desperate cries for help.
That cacophony would echo in these walls for a long time.
And they would never forget it.
Then came silence.
Outside, the wagons stood still, surrounded by bloodied bodies.
Redcoats and militiamen lay side by side.
In death, they were equals.
The French emerged from their cover as if after a storm.
Not to see if their homes were still standing, but to make sure no breath remained beneath the human wreckage.
With bayonets fixed, they moved from corpse to corpse. They worked methodically, determined not to repeat the tragic incident involving Captain André Louis.
Adam walked among the bodies, and as if wielding a simple stick, he drove his blade into the chest of a soldier so young he could hardly be called a man.
Thwack!
He didn't flinch.
He didn't linger—he moved on.
Even though the next man was covered in blood, mud, and bits of brain, he spared him no more than a glance.
Thwack!
Still no movement.
But not far off, a faint cry of pain broke the quiet.
"Hurgh?!"
With a weary look, Adam turned toward the sound.
A militiaman was clutching at Beau-Regard's weapon as though trying to keep the long blade inside his gut. He would not escape his fate. He died within seconds.
Adam turned his attention back to the bodies between him and the nearest wagon.
Without thought—no hate, no joy—like a machine, he plunged his bayonet into another militiaman's chest.
No resistance.
But then, farther away, he thought he saw a hand twitch.
He froze.
Ah… is there one left?
He stepped over a corpse and approached carefully.
A regular's face, shattered by a musket ball, rested atop the man he had thought was moving.
Adam let his gaze fall to a hand stretched out on the ground.
He drove the blood-slick tip of his bayonet into it.
No cry. No movement. Nothing.
If the man was alive, he had a will of iron.
His eyes slid from the pierced hand to the owner's face. A grimy, blood-smeared visage, eyes wide open but blank.
Unmoving.
Hmm... I must have imagined it. Or maybe it was just a reflex.
He placed his boot on the man's forearm and pulled his weapon free.
The impaled hand was now fully crimson.
But just as he was about to turn away, a fly landed near the soldier's eye.
It blinked.
You sneaky bastard.
Adam raised his weapon, and in that instant, their eyes met.
Raw fear on one side; total emptiness on the other.
Thwack!
"Hurgh!"
This time the cry escaped, along with his final breath.
At last, Adam reached one of the many wagons.
There were twenty-eight of them, which meant they could only assign two or three men per wagon to unload them.
Impossible, of course.
They had come here heavily laden with muskets.
"Let's see what we've got… Mostly food."
Indeed, there was a lot of meat and vegetables. It looked as though they had slaughtered an entire herd and harvested a whole field.
At the sight of it, Adam felt a pang in his chest, because he knew they would have to burn nearly all of it. As always.
A real shame.
Lieutenant Bellemaison approached.
"Captain, we've got only five wounded. No fatalities. The enemy's been beaten—either dead or scattered. What are your orders?"
"Naturally, we let them go. Enough blood's been spilled today, and we've still got plenty of work to do," he said, rapping twice on the wooden frame of the eleventh wagon.
"And the villagers?" Bellemaison asked again.
"They're no threat. Whether they leave or stay holed up doesn't change a thing. As long as they don't get in our way."
He paused for a moment.
"What time is it?"
Bellemaison pulled a small watch from his pocket and glanced at the face.
"Half past two."
"Good. As soon as our men have checked that there are no actors among the dead, we get to work."
"Understood."
The lieutenant spun on his heel and moved off to relay the orders to the other officers and sergeants.
Adam remained still for a moment. His gaze slowly drifted to an ordinary house on the far side of the street.
The villagers watched them with a mixture of fear and disgust. But Adam felt no guilt.
He'd done what had to be done.
These people could judge him in their hearts, hate him, curse his name—it wouldn't change the fact that they were at war. While all those fine folk lived their sheltered lives, it was the soldiers who bled in the mud and died.
In New France, the settlers didn't understand the sacrifices made by Montcalm's men, by Richelieu's, by Adam himself. It was the same in New York.
Only now were these people beginning to glimpse the daily reality of armies.
About fifteen minutes later, the French began sorting through the cargo. Within minutes, every soldier had their arms full.
They could only take a fraction—barely a hundredth—of what the English had been transporting. The rest, as always, was doomed.
Without a word, they set the wagons alight. Flames quickly rose as high as the rooftops. A thick, black smoke billowed into the heart of the village.
As for the draft animals—a valuable resource for the enemy—not one was spared. All were coldly put down, just like the last time.
"Sir," said Marais, approaching with a crate of vegetables in his arms and his pockets stuffed with biscuits, "we're ready to leave."
"Perfect. Let's go."
The column left the village in silence, leaving behind a mass of bodies and a burning convoy. After about a hundred meters on the road, they veered off into the woods.
Then a shout rang out behind Adam.
"Redcoats! Redcoats incoming!"
Instantly, everyone tensed. They looked in all directions—and sure enough, a column was advancing from the north, following the very road they had just abandoned.
The British were marching in good order, a tight marching column with an officer on horseback leading them.
Adam sensed the danger at once. There were far too many of them.
"Don't stand there! They've probably seen us! Move!"
The French quickened their pace. Adam stayed behind a moment longer to gauge the strength of the approaching force.
Shit, how many are there?! Are those grenadiers?! Goddamn it!
He spun around abruptly. Despite the crushing weight of the grain sack on his left shoulder and the muskets clattering on his right, he caught up to the front of the column.
Ahead, the forest swallowed the light. It loomed dark and menacing, like the gaping maw of a beast.
A clammy, greasy mist seeped between the trunks. The air, though cool, felt heavy, thick with smells and unspoken threats.
The trees seemed to have drawn closer. Tall, skeletal, twisted—they looked like giants ready to seize them and devour them whole.
The undergrowth thickened as they advanced. Branches clawed at their faces, thorns slashed their hands.
Briars clung to their coats as if trying to hold them back.
Adam glanced behind him, eyes darting nervously between the trees.
Nothing.
No more road. No more village. Just fog and shadows.
But he knew—they were there, somewhere. The redcoats. Tracking them. Silent. Organized. Hell-bent on avenging their comrades.
"Faster!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "We can't let them catch us!"
The spongy ground swallowed their steps, muffling every sound of their flight—everything but their ragged breathing. They were sweating profusely under their uniforms despite the chill in the air. The effort was brutal.
They all knew: without the element of surprise, they weren't nearly as dangerous. And this time, the enemy had come in force—at least five hundred men!
Even without those damn grenadiers, a head-on fight would be suicide. Slowing down meant dying.
Adam struggled to control his breathing. A bead of salty sweat slipped into his left eye. It burned instantly.
Fuck! he roared inwardly, keeping his eye shut.
It felt like he had suddenly gone blind in one eye.
A few steps ahead, several muskets slipped off his shoulder, as if they refused to go any farther.
Held back by their slings, they weighed a ton in the crook of his arm.
Adam had to stop. He set down his heavy grain sack and hastily repositioned the unloaded weapons before hoisting the sack back up. It must have weighed fifteen kilos. At least, that's how it felt.
Come on, come on, come on…
With his arm bent to keep it balanced on his shoulder, he quickly realized he wouldn't last long in that position. The blood couldn't circulate properly.
His arm began to go numb, as though thousands of tiny insects were crawling beneath his skin and into his veins.
God, that hurts. I—I can't take it anymore!
He stopped again and switched the load, moving the muskets to his left shoulder and the grain to his right.
That's better!
He set off at a jog, shoving a soldier aside to return to the front.
Everyone was struggling.
They weren't carrying more than usual, but this time, they were being hunted—and that changed everything. They couldn't stop whenever they pleased.
In an eerie silence, they pushed forward, unable to see more than a hundred meters ahead. It was a tense, brittle silence—
The kind that breaks with the first shot of an ambush.
A branch snapped to the left.
Adam raised his hand.Everyone froze on the spot, taut as bowstrings.
Nothing. Not a breath of wind. Then, a distant, muffled cry.
The soldiers, eyes trembling, stared into the trees and underbrush, trying to spot the threat.
It's just a goddamn bird!
"We keep moving," the captain rasped.
Somewhere between marching and running, the few dozen French soldiers made decent progress.
Their sacks thudded against their flanks. Their thick leather shoes sank into the mud, crushing branches and rotting leaves.
Another sound—this time behind them.
An echo of voices? A laugh? A mocking birdcall? Or just the wind?
Adam couldn't tell anymore.
His heart was pounding in his chest. His ears buzzed.
Despite the miles covered, no one felt safe. So they pressed on—faster, more tense by the minute.
Eventually, the light began to fade.
It wasn't that late, but the sky was so overcast that it felt like night could fall at any moment.
"Ten more minutes," Adam gasped, his face red. "Just a bit further…"
He was trembling.
His hardened muscles, so used to exertion, had been screaming and begging for nearly two hours.
His fingers opened involuntarily. The muskets nearly slipped from his grip.
He knew his men were in even worse shape than he was. Fear of being caught was the only thing driving them on.
One man fell. His sack burst open in the mud. Chunks of salted meat and hardened bread scattered everywhere.
Everything dropped into the muck, onto broken branches and dead leaves. The soldier dropped to his knees and began frantically gathering the precious food with trembling hands.
Lieutenant Marais got to him before Adam did.
"Leave it! You wanna die for fat and bread?! Move!"
The soldier nodded without daring to answer or meet his officer's harsh glare. He resumed his uneven run, caked in mud.
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Night fell fast, and Adam's troop found themselves shelterless, deep in the woods, far behind enemy lines.
They had no choice but to settle for makeshift shelters, hastily built from branches and wet foliage.
Adam naturally forbade any fire. He wouldn't risk being spotted by the British.
That night was brutal. Exhausting.
Their miserable huts offered no protection from the cold and the returning rain. And what a return.
Around one in the morning, the sky seemed to split open, as if God Himself had decided to flood the world.
The earth had no time to absorb all that water. Streams sprang up where there had only been dips in the ground.
Fortunately, the bivouac site had been chosen wisely. It sat on slightly higher ground, sparing them the nasty surprise of waking up in the middle of one of those new rivers.
Adam didn't sleep a wink.
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By morning, the soldiers' faces bore the marks of the exhausting night. They rose more tired than when they'd arrived and took only a moment to gather their thoughts.
After a light breakfast—courtesy of the British—and some time to reload their muskets, they broke camp.
They looked like the living dead—soaked to the bone and shivering, as though they'd plunged fully clothed into a river.
The rain hadn't stopped, but it was nothing compared to the deluge that had pounded them all night.
Shoulders slumped, the Frenchmen resumed their march in silence beneath the trees.
Their shoes sank deep into a ground that could absorb no more.
No trace of the English, but no one dared lower their guard. They knew all too well what the price of carelessness could be.
From time to time, they glanced behind them. Doubt was a constant companion.
Adam, his nerves fraying, felt his senses slipping away. Every sound in the forest brimmed with menace.
A cracking branch, the flap of wings, a raindrop striking a tricorne, a fallen object—
Everything made him start. Everything seemed like a threat.
But they couldn't leave these woods. The roads were too exposed.
They had to vanish.
"HARGH!"
Suddenly, a cry tore through the column and shattered the silence.
"What's going on?!" Adam spun around.
He rushed toward the soldier, now on the ground, hands clamped around his left leg.
"It's Beau-Regard, sir! He... he tripped over a root!" a sergeant replied, half bent over the injured man, face twisted with pain.
Adam bit his lip to stop himself from saying something he'd regret. The sergeant added:
"His foot was caught when he slipped. I think it's serious."
Adam ran a nervous hand over his face, shook his head, and scanned the surroundings.
Nothing in sight—but he could still feel the Redcoats nearby.
"Is it bad?" he muttered.
Beau-Regard looked up, his eyes dulled by exhaustion.
"I-I think I'll manage, Captain."
Adam nodded and straightened.
"Help him up. We need to keep moving while there's light."
The sergeant nodded and, with another soldier's help, lifted Beau-Regard.
But as soon as the man set foot on the ground, the pain buckled him in half.
It felt like a thousand needles as long as his arm stabbed into his leg.
The agony shot up his spine.
"H-hurh! C-can't... can't put weight on it!"
Adam clenched his jaw.
"Fuck! Shit!"
His nerves snapped.
He stormed off a few steps and cursed under his breath.
He wanted to scream—but he couldn't risk drawing the enemy near.
He drew a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
"Alright. Okay, this... this happens. We'll help you walk. Tournier, support him."
"A-at your command, sir!"
But it quickly became clear: Tournier couldn't carry his share of the loot and support his comrade.
Adam ordered him to abandon anything that couldn't be eaten immediately.
Everything else was tossed into the underbrush, off the path they were carving—so the enemy would find nothing.
He didn't hesitate for a second.
The day dragged on, marked by frequent halts and growing exhaustion.
During one stop, Beau-Regard took off his shoe and exposed his ankle.It was purple and nearly twice its normal size.
They reported it to Adam, but what could he do? He wasn't a doctor.
That evening, they set up a new camp.
Camp was too generous a word for what they built.
It was a miserable arrangement, unworthy even of a wild beast.
But it was all they had.
***
The next day, an Indian dressed half like a European came to an abrupt stop and knelt in the mud.
His eyes swept the surroundings, lingering on tracks still visible despite the recent rains.
To him and his companions, the ground was an open book.
They were five. His four companions were more than friends—they were brothers.
Unlike the others, they had not turned their backs on him.
They had followed him here, determined to carry on the war against the French.
To Joseph Brant—Thayendanegea—their desertion had been a betrayal, a stab in the back.
One word from the Council had been enough to break their oaths.
Without these four, he might have given up too.
But now, it was too late to turn back.
The bridge had been crossed... and then burned behind him.
He now had to deliver victory to the British.
If he failed, his clan, his nation, and the entire Confederacy would pay the price once the war was over.
Only the British could stop the wolves from seizing their lands.
If they lost, the French would not miss the chance to drive them out. And the English colonists were no less threatening.
To slow their ambitions, the Redcoats needed resounding victories.
Strength alone shaped the future, and for now, things were going badly.
At the moment, the threat was that small group of Frenchmen lurking behind their lines.
Joseph Brant was accompanying a major, one Eyre Massey, a reasonable officer who clearly had never known hardship.
The officer, an Irishman, approached cautiously, watching the Mohawk warrior at work.
To his eyes, he looked like a European dressed up as a savage.
In truth, Brant had fair skin. He spoke perfect English and had impeccable manners.
He was so polite and courteous that Massey almost regretted that such a man had been born an Iroquois.
"They're not far," Brant said in a low voice as he straightened. "They're heavily burdened, but exhausted."
"Can we catch up to them today?" Massey asked.
"If your men can keep up. Otherwise, tomorrow."
Major Massey glanced at his men.
Despite their experience, they weren't in top form. The long siege had worn them down, and now this chase through the forest was draining what strength they had left.
"I fear my men can't go any faster than they are now," Massey admitted. "Are you sure we'll catch them tomorrow?"
"Yes. They're moving quickly, but they've slowed down. One of them is injured."
"Oh?" the officer said, surprised. "And what makes you say that? You seem quite certain."
"Look at the tracks, Major. Their placement, their depth, their spacing... There's no doubt."
Massey studied the mud, but all he saw was a tangle of indistinct footprints.
He watched as Brant rejoined his companions.
They looked like true savages—dangerous and unpredictable.
Unlike Brant, it took courage to approach these tattooed men with shaved heads adorned with colorful feathers.
He had no choice but to trust their judgment.
He had been entrusted with this handful of savages for a reason. And so far, they had proven useful, both in tracking the enemy and in finding good spots to camp.
"Tomorrow, then," he concluded.