Hello everyone.
I had originally planned to wait at least a month to do my research and build up a chapter backlog, but it seems the anticipation is quite high.
Since I don't have much free time—I've just started a new job and I'm also about to become a father—it's simply not possible for me to maintain the same release pace as Volume 1, especially if I want to keep the same level of quality.
So for now, I'm aiming for one chapter per week.
Thank you for your understanding.
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The wind whistled softly between the frozen bastions of Fort Bourbon on this 23rd of February, 1769.
On the parade ground, the soldiers of the Nouvelle-Aquitaine Regiment were assembled, waiting in silence, as motionless as the famous terracotta warriors guarding the tomb of the first Emperor Qin.
The air was dry, biting, laden with a heavy tension.
Seeing so many men, so serious and perfectly aligned, gave the impression that they were about to go into battle.
Standing straight as stakes, they clutched their long muskets tightly to their chests, as if that could shield them from the cold.
Though they had been standing for hours, not one faltered. Their gazes were fixed, unwavering.
Major François Boucher de Montrouge walked past them with a heavy step. Under the watchful eyes of Colonel de Faudoas and Lieutenant Colonel de Rouvroy, he completed his inspection of the troops.
The past years had changed him deeply. His face, once boyish, was now marked by fine lines across his forehead and around his eyes.
It was less a matter of age than of experience—and war—that had left its mark. But even more than his features, it was his posture that had changed.
He wore the rank of major like a second skin. There was little, if anything, left of the boy who had landed abruptly in 1757.
Pinned prominently to his chest, his splendid golden cross testified to his valor—it declared him a knight of the Order of Saint Louis. It was an honor to be granted such distinction, and an insult not to wear it with pride.
Even the colonel—like him, a minor nobleman but one who actually owned land in France—had not been granted the same privilege.
The worst offense one could commit was to wear that decoration unlawfully. The King had issued severe punishments for such an act.
If the wearer was an officer or gentleman, he would be stripped of his arms and nobility, spend the next twenty years in prison, and be forever banned from military service.
If the wearer was neither noble nor an officer, he would be condemned to the galleys for life—which, given the appalling living conditions, could be a very short sentence indeed. Compared to that, prison was a holiday camp.
Naturally, it was strictly forbidden to buy, sell, or manufacture crosses without authorization.
Adam—or rather François, as he now identified—was fully entitled to wear his. And he did so proudly.
It rested over his heart, suspended from a small red ribbon. No one could overlook it.
He wore his fine uniform with equal pride: spotless, sharply pressed, and brilliant white like fresh snow, sharply contrasting with his black tricorne trimmed in gold, adorned with a black cockade on the left side.
This uniform, selected by the Maison du Roi in 1762, had been introduced too late to be worn by French soldiers during the last war.
His coat was white and open at the chest; his facings, lapels, high collar, and lining were blue; his buttons gold, as were his two epaulettes.
At his belt hung a beautiful officer's sword—an expensive purchase from his last and only trip to France, back in 1766.
As for his powdered wig, light and elegant, it concealed his hair and nearly hid the long scar that ran from his temple to behind his left ear.
Though the new uniform was undeniably handsome, it was far removed from what he had suggested years earlier, during the Six Years' War.
It seemed all Versailles had kept was the high collar—uncomfortable for the neck, but useful in winter—and the practice of equipping soldiers with swords.
As for officers' muskets, it had been decided they would only be carried in combat, while espontons and halberds would be retained for ceremonial purposes.
A final drum roll echoed from the center of the fort.
A sunbeam, offering no warmth, fell upon the walls and the men. It made all the metal gleam like gold and silver.
The regimental flag—square, blue, with a white cross at its center, like most others—stood apart from the Crown Regiment's by the absence of a crown or motto, and by its lighter shade of blue.
Additionally, in the background, a second, thinner yellow cross stretched diagonally from each corner.
It snapped sharply, like a whip, under a gust stronger than the others.
Without a word and with a stiff step, François walked toward the colonel of the regiment.
As major, it was his duty to conduct the review and lead any drills. It was also his job to report any mistakes.
A misplaced foot, a loose belt, a missing button, an ill-kept musket, and so on.
Overall, he was satisfied, though he had noted a few errors.
"Colonel, the inspection is complete."
Colonel de Faudoas, a man in his forties with a sharp gaze and a well-defined jaw, narrowed his eyes. He nodded slightly, taking his new role very seriously.
He stepped forward, followed by the young lieutenant colonel, de Rouvroy.
The latter, only twenty-six years old, came from the illustrious ducal house of Saint-Simon.
It was only a matter of time before he reached this rank, a stepping-stone on the way to colonel. By accepting a post in this obscure regiment of the New World, he had surely gained several years in his military career—even if his reputation would not benefit from it.
"Officers, report," said the colonel in a clear, nearly commanding voice.
Who would have guessed that ten years earlier, he had been merely an adjutant major and a captain in the regular infantry?
Quickly, but in order, the captains and lieutenants stepped out from formation.
With measured steps, they advanced and formed a semicircle before the senior officers.
The major, his expression impassive, waited for the colonel's next words—but kept one eye on the troops.
"The regiment has a fine appearance," the colonel declared. "Monsieur de Vernet's company impressed me—excellent bearing, well-maintained weapons, perfect alignment. That is worth noting."
The officers concerned gave a brief bow at these encouraging words.
"However," the colonel continued, turning briefly to his major and then to a visibly nervous captain, "the recruits in Captain Lefèvre's company are clearly lacking in training. As Major Boucher de Montrouge pointed out, several uniforms were untidy. And I saw a man step on his comrade's heel. That is not to happen again."
"Y-yes, Colonel," stammered Lefèvre, his face crimson. "I-I'll take the necessary measures."
"Good. Gentlemen, never forget that order and discipline are the virtues of a regiment. You are the guardians of those virtues. Major, write a report for the governor within two days. Include our request for extra buttons and shoes."
"At once, sir," François replied, bowing respectfully.
"Gentlemen, return to your companies. Drummers, beat the end of the review."
Quickly, the troops dispersed and returned to their quarters. Lefèvre's company would soon receive a stern talking-to.
"Major, a word."
"Yes, Colonel?" François answered, turning back.
"While you were preparing the review, one of our scouts reported movement near Albany. Several individuals were seen leaving the town and entering the woods. I don't know more, but I don't want to take any chances. I want you to organize a detachment to find out what's happening."
"As you wish. How many men?"
"A squad will do. I don't want to alert the English unnecessarily."
"Understood. I'll send five or six men with a corporal or sergeant. I can send men from my own company, if you prefer."
"As you like," the colonel replied, clearly more interested in the results than the means. "As long as they come back."
***
At the same time, in Philadelphia.
Seven years had passed since the Treaty of Shame.
Across all the British colonies, a heavy atmosphere reigned, as though the entire population were in mourning. In a sense, they were.
The loss of Britain's territories in the New World was felt like the death of a close relative. The pain still lingered.
This was not a bad day—but it would have been better had the temperature been more forgiving.
At that hour, it was still slowly rising, but soon it would begin to fall again, becoming frigid by nightfall.
Winter in Pennsylvania was far from over.
A man in his thirties pushed open the door of a tired-looking inn, a long, thick black coat over his shoulders and a tricorne pulled low over his brow.
He removed it as soon as he stepped inside.
The place was livelier than he had expected, considering the state of the building—and the state of the British colonies. That didn't mean the mood was cheerful.
There were simply people present, likely seeking warmth and human contact.
The man let out a deep, weary sigh and made his way calmly toward the heavy wooden counter directly across from the entrance.
He stepped around the tables between the door and the bar, some occupied by locals, others by travelers passing through.
When he reached the counter, the man in the black coat noticed it was cluttered with bottles, pitchers, trays, partially sliced dried meats, and crumbs of bread.
The innkeeper—a broad-shouldered man with a towel over his left shoulder—watched the room with a sharp eye. Beside him, likely his wife though she looked ten years younger, was preparing a mint infusion.
The scent was pleasant, though one had to be quite close to appreciate it.
"Good day, ma'am, sir," said the newcomer, glancing quickly around. "I know it's a bit late, but… is it still possible to get something to eat?"
The innkeeper eyed him warily, gauging his clothes—clean, without luxury, but decent. The man seemed able to afford a meal and a drink.
"Please?" he added softly, a somewhat pitiful smile on his lips.
The innkeeper shrugged and cast a brief look over his dining room.
Every table was taken. But he couldn't afford to turn away a paying customer.
"It's possible," the man replied in a voice as creaky as a door on rusty hinges. "We've probably still got some rabbit stew left. But finding a place to sit might be a problem."
The man in the black coat, his complexion pale but his cheeks flushed, winced. The matter he had been working on over the past few days—the reason for his stay in the city—had so occupied him that he had barely eaten since the day before.
His stomach was growling.
He looked more closely at the tables, searching for one with the fewest people. At the same time, he adjusted his collar.
Compared to outside, it felt almost unbearably hot in here. He was nearly suffocating, partly from the number of patrons in the large room, and partly due to the strong fire burning to his left.
A fine stone hearth that took up a good portion of the wall.
"I-I don't mind sharing a table," he said. "Perhaps that one?"
He pointed to the small round table to the left of the fireplace, near a large window.
The innkeeper turned his head toward the table the sad-eyed gentleman was pointing at. His wife, who hadn't been able to resist eavesdropping, did the same.
"That one?" the innkeeper said with a chuckle. "Ahah, it's clear you're not from around here, huh?"
"From Delaware, sir."
"Didn't ask. Well, you can try… but just keep in mind—if you're willing to share, that doesn't mean everyone is."
"Especially him, right James?" added the woman with a hint of amusement.
The man, tricorne tucked under his arm, raised an eyebrow. Now he was more curious to know who this "him" was.
"If you can convince him, go ahead," concluded the innkeeper. "Otherwise, you'll have to sit over there."
He pointed to a solitary stool facing a thick wooden post, back to the door and at the mercy of the drafts.
There was indeed a small board fastened to the beam, but it was so narrow that it could barely hold a plate.
The man stifled a sigh and walked toward the table in question. It was occupied by a single person, though it could easily seat three, maybe four.
The man didn't seem threatening.
More tired than anything—maybe even sad.
He passed a few tables, and as he got closer, he noticed this man was dressed in an unusual manner. For some strange reason, he had mixed European clothes with native garments, likely Iroquois.
He took a few more steps, but the closer he came, something changed. The atmosphere. The weight in the air.
And the nearer he got, the more this pressure grew—like he was stepping into a place he wasn't supposed to be.
Around him—or maybe it was just his imagination—the noise seemed to fade.
It was as if people had gradually stopped talking, drinking, playing, and eating… just to watch him try to approach a dog known to bite, and still reach out to pet it.
It wasn't the table that was the problem. It was the man sitting at it.
George Read looked more closely at him, trying not to show his growing nervousness.
The man didn't look like he had a drop of native blood in him.
In fact, he looked like someone of his own social standing. Could he be a lawyer as well?
He licked his lips and stepped closer.
The man—half settler, half native—still wasn't looking at him. He didn't even seem to notice his presence.
Before him sat a half-eaten plate of stew, now cooling, and a steaming black cup of coffee. Its aroma was strong.
Probably coffee from Barbados—about the only decent British-grown coffee.
Unless the innkeeper had obtained it through smuggling from another nation. That sort of thing happened all the time, despite the laws and severe penalties.
It was inevitable, really, when the legal prices were scandalously high.
George had defended several smugglers over the past few years. And rioters.
Or rather, demonstrators arrested by the army and militia just for being there when protests took a wrong turn.
Since there were demonstrations almost daily—especially in big cities like Philadelphia—his services were often in demand. There simply weren't enough lawyers in town to handle all the cases.
The evidence and testimonies against his last client had been enough to ensure a conviction.
"Good day, sir. May I join you? There aren't many seats left."
William Johnson froze mid-bite, then slowly set his fork on the edge of his plate. He raised his head slowly.
He was now over fifty.
His gaze—dark as his coffee—stabbed into George like a sharpened blade. His brows furrowed, and his lips tightened into a thin line beneath his nose.
He clenched his fists and shot a sharp, accusatory look toward the innkeeper and his wife.
Their full attention was fixed on this table.
It looked as if they were watching a play.
The former Superintendent of Indian Affairs pressed his lips tighter. Clearly, he was furious.
He barely parted them.
"It seems… a quiet meal is too much to ask for."
His tone was icy.
In that instant, George Read felt as though he were standing outside in nothing but a shirt, exposed to the wind. He froze, unable to respond.
He didn't know what it was—but this man radiated something terrifying. A pressure like he'd never felt before.
He wouldn't have doubted it for a second if someone had told him this man was a general. Or an admiral.
William Johnson wiped his mouth, tossed down his napkin, and slowly stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor.
He abandoned his plate and his coffee, then, without another word, walked away—likely never to return.
As soon as he left the room, the air seemed easier to breathe.
He left behind a silence.
"What…?" the lawyer whispered, stunned.
He didn't understand the reaction. All he had done was ask to sit.
The innkeeper's wife approached.
"I-I… I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd leave…"
"It's fine," she said. "He comes here now and then, but he doesn't talk to anyone. He just sits, eats a little, drinks his coffee or his herbal tea, and leaves."
"Did he… did he pay? If not, I'd like to cover it."
"We ask for payment in advance. Ah—maybe I shouldn't have said that. Hmm, I'll clear this away and bring you a plate and cutlery. Would you like something to drink? Wine, beer, coffee? We don't serve tea."
"Hah, no, that's fine. I can't really afford it. Although… a mint infusion, please."
"Very well, I'll bring it right over."
It wasn't long before he had a plate of stew in front of him. The infusion followed shortly after.
It had been the first hot beverage in the British Empire, long before coffee, tea, or chocolate. The latter two were luxury goods that only the wealthy could afford.
A modest lawyer like him couldn't indulge in such things, except on rare occasions. Even coffee was too expensive. And he didn't like the taste, no matter how much milk, cream, or sugar was added.
He used to drink tea. A lot. But that was another time. A time when the commodity had been easily accessible.
Back then, Britain had firm footholds, vast warehouses, long-standing relationships with well-established merchants, and a steady stream of revenue through taxation.
But all of that was gone.
At the end of the war, Parliament and the East India Company had scrambled to find emergency solutions. They had practically begged their Portuguese allies to let them use their last remaining port: Daman.
A modest harbor on the northwestern coast of the subcontinent, spared by the French and the Dutch.
They had come to an agreement. From there, they managed to access precious resources. They had even reached out to the neighboring Durrani Empire in search of additional goods.
This was mainly for the British domestic market, but even more so to please the Chinese. For it was from the Chinese that the British procured their tea.
The Chinese were notoriously hard to satisfy, and obsessed with protocol. If one didn't meet every one of their conditions, they were denied access to their port—the only one open to foreigners: Canton.
Alas, British ships doing trade in a Portuguese port—one not even recognized by Chinese officials—didn't sit well with them. During their first voyage, in 1765, the East India Company's ships were harshly turned away.
To legally acquire tea, only two options remained: buy it from the Portuguese or Dutch at a high price and resell it at an even higher price in British territory—or cheat, using the Portuguese in Macao as intermediaries.
That second option was the one the Company chose, and the effects were swift and painful. Prices skyrocketed, making tea unaffordable to nearly everyone.
A natural boycott took root, and colonists began to change their habits.
Coffee had gained popularity in recent years thanks to government support. It was a strong drink—the drink of victors.
It was all produced in Barbados, near Brazil, but nowhere near the volumes produced by other nations. And it would always be more expensive than this simple herbal infusion.
Hot water and fresh mint leaves. In the South, they added lemon.
George Read began to eat in silence, his back warmed by the hearth fire. When the innkeeper's wife passed by, he took the opportunity to ask the question that had been nagging at him.
"Excuse me, I didn't ask earlier… who was the man who left just now?"
"Oh, that was Mister Johnson. During the war, he served as a liaison between the Crown and the Savages. Now? I'm not too sure what he does. He was replaced shortly after the treaty was signed. But they say he's still in contact with them."
The lawyer looked surprised.
In recent years—even if things were slowly improving—relations with the Iroquois had remained strained.
On second thought, though, it wasn't all that surprising. If he really had served as a diplomat with those people—those bloodthirsty brutes on the frontier—it made sense that he'd still try to keep the peace.
From his attire and that deadly aura, Johnson seemed closely tied to them. George even guessed he might have lived among them.
George Read knew very little about the Savages. In truth, everything he knew came from frightening testimony and gruesome illustrations.
Like almost all colonists, he held a poor opinion of those people.
Not because they had signed a separate peace treaty with the French, but because of the violence they had committed against those who had tried to settle the frontier lands promised to them.
He thanked the innkeeper's wife politely and finished his stew before it went cold.
As he wiped up the sauce with a piece of bread that had gone a bit stale, a door suddenly swung open, letting in a gust of icy air.
Read turned around and saw a young man, barely twenty, breathless and pale.
"Th-they finally did it! The Redcoats! They opened fire on the crowd in New York!"
Everyone stopped what they were doing, and George dropped his bread into his plate. His eyes widened. His mouth fell slightly open.
All eyes turned to the young man.
"It's a massacre! They say there are dozens dead—men, women, even children!"
The lawyer felt his fork slip from his fingers.
God help us…
Though he wasn't truly surprised by the announcement of such a tragedy, his instincts told him this time might be different.
This time, it could be the spark that lit something far greater.