Thank you Ranger_Red, Mium, Repo_Games, First_Time_****, Porthos10, Dev_Wave_gamers, Dekol347, DaoistuQngeZ, aon_8940 and Shingle_Top for the support! I hope I haven't forgotten anyone!
Enjoy!
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August 29, 1759
It has been ten days since we were besieged.
The English bombard us every day as if gunpowder and cannonballs grew on trees. The crash of their artillery puts our defenses to the test, but even more so, the morale of the men.
We are all very tired.
Our only source of comfort in these difficult times is that we have noticed they are firing less than on the first day. Perhaps they have finally decided that they would do well to conserve their ammunition?
However, I fear, and I am not the only one, that they are merely holding back so they can unleash their fury later when they have to launch a massive assault against our lines.
The bombardments have greatly damaged the buildings on the island. Those located furthest to the west have naturally suffered the most.
Some have collapsed; others are still standing, torn apart, threatening to crumble at the next heavy blow.
Those damned English have understood that our men are not easy targets, so they take their revenge however they can.
It's funny how one gets used to everything. Now, when I hear the sound of the cannon, I no longer feel fear. It's like a distant thunderstorm rumbling.
Speaking of which, there was a big one last night. Lightning streaked across the sky for nearly two hours without interruption.
It didn't rain, however, which is truly unfortunate.
No one was surprised by the storm, as the air had been heavy and charged with tension, making everyone nervous.
While we exchanged cannon fire, the redcoats continued digging their trenches. They can now reach the Long Bridge without taking risks.
We are now expecting an attack.
In front of Fort Bourbon, the English have also made significant progress. Their trenches are deep, solid, and well-designed so that our gunners cannot kill their sappers in large numbers.
They have moved their artillery forward, bringing their guns closer, well sheltered behind earthen and wooden fortifications. Whether from the heights of the fort or our island, we cannot dislodge them.
Adam lifted his quill, pondering his next words. He had roughly recounted everything that had happened the previous day and in the days before.
He hadn't written in his journal the previous day or the two before that.
Since each day felt the same, he didn't consider it a loss.
That morning, just before dawn, he had sat at his desk and put his thoughts about the war onto the thin, slightly yellowed paper.
Seeing nothing more to add, he closed his journal with a quiet sigh, realizing too late that he had shut it too soon. The ink couldn't dry that fast. It would surely leave marks on the next page.
Adam squinted and ran a tired hand over his drawn features.
Despite a full night's sleep, he still felt exhausted—almost as much as when he had gone to bed.
Carefully, he pushed back his chair almost soundlessly and made his way toward his bed, where his personal effects rested. He carefully placed his powdered wig on his head, ensuring that none of his real hair stuck out, then adjusted his dark tricorne.
That simple gesture always gave him the feeling of control over his life.
He then strapped on his weapons and passed by the beds of his subordinates.
The still figures of his two lieutenants could be vaguely distinguished in the darkness of the room, vaguely resembling mummies awaiting placement in lavish sarcophagi.
Without a word, he left the room and noted that the hallway was empty. He passed by Captain Briscard's quarters and descended the modest wooden staircase that led directly to the entrance of the tall building.
As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by the fresh morning air, which felt light—so unlike the previous day. It was hard to believe it was still August.
The sky was still dark, so overcast that not a single star could be seen.
Adam adjusted his collar and, with measured steps, made his way toward Battery No. 3. There, he found a few sentries on alert, their features just as drawn as his, worn down by sleepless nights and the exhaustion of the siege.
At this rate, Adam thought as he crossed his arms and gazed at the Hudson River flowing peacefully before him, in a few days, all the men would be too tired to stand guard properly.
Indeed, the lack of manpower was glaring. Since the fort naturally housed the bulk of the garrison, those tasked with defending this island had to endure long shifts and push themselves beyond their limits.
They tried to preserve the artillerymen, as they needed to be well-rested in order to fulfill their mission the next day without making any mistakes. The slightest incident could have very serious consequences here.
A thick mist spread over the Hudson River, delicately enveloping the wild landscape like a spectral veil. Long Island, Fort Bourbon, the forest—everything was swallowed up. Only the treetops emerged, like ghostly shadows seemingly floating in the air.
Silence reigned.
Even the gentle lapping of water against the banks seemed muffled by this grayish fog.
It gave the impression that some malevolent and invisible entity was lurking nearby, prowling and observing both armies with ill intent.
Adam swallowed hard, feeling his throat tighten as a cold shiver ran up his spine. He suddenly had the unsettling intuition that it might be best to stay here, near the sentries and lanterns, rather than venturing alone into that thick soup.
Minutes passed in heavy silence, and there was no sign that the mist would dissipate. On the contrary, it seemed denser and more mysterious than before.
Adam then noticed an unusual ripple on the water—too large to be caused by a fish, let alone an insect. He frowned.
Maybe it's a beaver or some other animal?
He squinted, trying to find the source of the disturbance.
W-what?!
His heart skipped a beat.
For the briefest moment, he saw several silhouettes gliding through the mist on the water. They were in the middle of the river, heading toward their island—south of his position.
"ALERT! ENEMIES CROSSING THE RIVER!"
A cry that did not come from him rang out, immediately followed by a series of deafening gunshots.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Screams erupted on both sides as the enemy landed.
Fuck!
"Everyone, form up! Hold the line! We must stop them!" Adam shouted, his voice betraying urgency and barely contained fear.
The enemy was dressed in green and had arrived in significant numbers using crude but effective rafts.
The Rogers' Rangers climbed over the earthen parapet and spread out across the high embankment surrounding this part of the island, which had been his headquarters.
Like pirates, they landed armed to the teeth, a fierce hatred burning in their eyes.
Adam pulled the trigger of his pistol, and a sharp gunshot cracked through the growing chaos.
Bang!
Opposite him, a man collapsed backward, his chest pierced—only to be swiftly replaced by another, his face menacing.
He held a musket slightly shorter than the ones used by the French and wore a sort of dark wool cap.
"Fire at will! Shoot as soon as you can!"
Muskets erupted, unleashing a volley upon the invaders, and several men fell. Alas, there were too many. With every passing second, more of them arrived.
"Shit! Fall back! It's too dangerous!"
The French had no choice but to yield ground under enemy pressure, reaching the Long Bridge in mere moments. Under these conditions, reloading their weapons in time was impossible. Adam did not hesitate and gave the order to fix bayonets.
"Charge!"
It was madness, and Adam knew it—but if they waited for the enemy to come to them, they would be riddled with bullets without being able to retaliate. A charge was the only option.
The young captain leaped like a lion at the first opponent in his path—an older man wearing a kind of beret—but the ranger easily blocked the attack using the barrel of his musket.
Adam skillfully slid his blade along the barrel, slicing deep into one of the man's fingers, forcing him to yank his injured hand back with a loud cry of pain. The heavy weapon tilted downward, barrel first, giving Adam the opening for a second strike.
His sword's tip plunged effortlessly into the man's throat, piercing through as if it were nothing—for more than twenty centimeters.
Thick, warm blood spurted out, dripping onto his weapon and then his hand, staining the edge of his sleeve.
With a sharp yet fluid motion, Adam grabbed the ranger's coat with his left hand and pushed him away. At the last moment, he seized his musket.
Letting his sword fall to the ground, Adam took hold of the firearm, which had not yet been discharged.
His body had reacted on its own—something that slightly surprised him.
However, he didn't stop moving—he cocked the musket and fired point-blank at the first enemy charging at him.
At this distance, missing was impossible. The lead ball struck the enemy's face just a centimeter from his nose, and his skull exploded like an overripe fruit.
But Adam had no time to catch his breath. Another enemy was already closing in, his face contorted with hatred and rage. Adam didn't hesitate for a second—he swung "his" musket like a baseball bat.
Gripping the weapon firmly by the barrel, he struck the young soldier on the side of the head. His thick, unruly hair offered no protection against the brutal attack.
At the moment of impact, Adam heard a loud crack, and his tensed arms began to tremble violently.
Crack.
The ranger was nearly sent flipping backward and crashed heavily to the ground. But Adam wasn't finished with him.
He raised the firearm once more and struck the enemy again, despite the fact that the left side of his face was already deeply marked and smeared with fresh blood.
A second blow smashed down on his skull.
SPLASH.
The remaining intact bones gave way under the impact.
Adam panted, his breath ragged, his arms trembling from the effort. His vision blurred from the adrenaline, and yet, he felt more clear-headed than ever.
All his senses were on high alert.
He saw a bayonet coming from his left and barely dodged it. Thrown off balance, the ranger found himself within arm's reach—Adam struck him with all his strength at the throat, using the space between his thumb and index finger.
Immediately, the man's face changed color as his breath was violently cut off. His eyes bulged, his weapon slipped from his grasp, and his hands clutched at his throat in agony, as if he had just been hanged.
Adam seized the opportunity and snatched a long, curved knife from the man's belt. In one swift motion, he drove it into his throat.
The blade had no trouble first slicing through the militiaman's left hand before severing a major vein.
He collapsed in turn, writhing on the ground, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding. His mouth hung open, making strange gasping movements, like a fish out of water.
Adam was holding his own, but all around him, French soldiers were falling back and dying. The rangers kept pressing forward relentlessly, forcing the defenders to retreat again and again.
Then, at last, a glimmer of hope.
The situation stabilized when reinforcements arrived.
In the chaos, Adam recognized Lieutenant Marais—his hair disheveled, his uniform in disarray. A few meters away, he spotted Laroche leading some of his men into the fray.
All the companies stationed on Long Island were converging, putting the Rangers in a precarious position—caught between two fires.
But before Adam could regroup with his men, he was shoved aside and crashed hard to the ground.
Suddenly, he saw nothing but feet and legs—along with fallen bodies.
One foot crushed his left hand, another stomped on his leg, and yet another trampled his back as if he were nothing.
D-damn it! S-stop stepping on me! Argh! H-help! I'm here!
The pain was excruciating, and the pressure forced him to breathe in short, ragged gasps, as if he were drowning.
He shielded his body as best as he could and, by chance, spotted a pair of green cloth gaiters.
Without hesitation, Adam brandished his newly acquired knife and drove it in deep—until he could push no further.
Above him, a loud scream of agony rang out, and a ranger dropped to his knees.
Adam yanked the blade free and stabbed again. Once. Twice. Three times. Until the man stopped moving.
Only then was he able to scramble back to his feet, his entire body aching as if he had been put through a grinder.
"Shit!"
He took a deep breath and looked around.
It was chaos. But little by little, the Rangers were being pushed back.
"THEY'RE COMING FROM THE BRIDGE!" someone suddenly shouted to his right.
Dozens of heads turned in that direction. And indeed, through the morning mist, a crimson wave emerged—running, rushing to cross Long Bridge as fast as possible.
They let out a powerful war cry and accelerated even more to reinforce their struggling allies.
The entire force stationed on the other side of the Hudson River seemed to be heading this way.
At their head was a young officer, clad in a scarlet uniform and a powdered wig. He clutched a large British flag tightly, either rallying his troops behind him or hoping it would serve as a shield.
"FIRE THE CANNONS!" a French officer bellowed from about twenty meters away.
Adam couldn't see who gave the order, but he vaguely recognized the deep timbre of his voice.
The young man was near the cannons, especially the 24-pounder, but he was too far away to act. However, he saw a soldier grab the candle from a lantern with his bare hands, completely ignoring the burning wax dripping onto his skin, and bring it to the fuse.
A bright spark appeared, followed by an infernal noise that shook everyone.
BOOM
A heavy black cannonball shot straight into the endless column of redcoats and wrought havoc. The wooden planks of the bridge exploded with a sinister crash, and dozens of men were thrown into the air, their bodies contorted like ragdolls.
Pieces of flesh and shattered limbs rained into the river among the debris, while the bridge's surface turned into a crimson ice rink.
Those who were spared from the horror stared wide-eyed, gazing in shock at the terrible scene. The charge had stopped so suddenly that several soldiers bumped into each other and tumbled into the water.
Alas, the angle wasn't perfect. Had the shot been better placed, perhaps this single cannonball could have wiped out an entire regiment.
Adam didn't know and had no time to dwell on it, as the British, despite their initial shock, were already resuming their mad charge under the firm control of their officers.
The lead officer reached the shore and proudly waved his flag, as if to declare to the world and the gods that this island was now under their control. He shouted encouragement to his men, his voice rising above the chaos of battle.
A shiver ran down Adam's spine, and doubt crept into his mind.
The French were now caught between two enemies, making the situation nearly unbearable for the entire group. They were fighting almost two against one.
Despite their best efforts, losses were mounting, and the outcome was becoming increasingly clear—unless they made a drastic decision.
Finally, the order to retreat toward the Petit Pont was given.
"Captain Voyer!" Adam called out, suddenly finding himself near him without knowing how. "We can't just retreat like this! We can't abandon Île Longue!"
Voyer, eyes locked on the enemy, replied firmly:
"Yes, we can. And we will. We'll defend the entrance to the Petit Pont! Now go! I'll join you later!"
"You… you're not coming?" Adam asked, his voice trembling as he saw the bitter smile on his superior's lips.
"The enemy must not seize our gunpowder and ammunition reserves. I'll join you later!"
Adam grimaced but obeyed without protest. He nodded and reluctantly turned away.
All the French soldiers were falling back in disorder, pursued by the redcoats.
As soon as the British troops passed the barracks at the center of the island, they were greeted by French cannons firing from the fort. Instantly, the pursuit halted, allowing the French to take cover on the far side of the Petit Pont.
Adam took command of his company once more and helped form tight ranks with the others.
"Fire!"
A long volley of musket shots cracked through the air, striking down the first British ranks as they began to form. They now faced each other, muskets at the ready, separated only by a narrow stretch of river.
Meanwhile, the cannons continued to thunder, tearing through clusters of enemy soldiers with every shot. Little by little, French morale rebounded. Conversely, British morale was plummeting.
Normally, it was difficult enough to step over the body of a fallen comrade to take his place in the line. It was even harder when that comrade had been blown to pieces by a cannonball.
Then…
BOOM!
A colossal explosion shook the entire island. Adam felt the ground tremble beneath him and a wave of heat brush against his face despite the distance.
Everyone froze.
At the center of Île Longue, a massive fireball and thick black smoke billowed into the now-brightening sky. A rain of burning debris fell upon both armies.
Paralyzed, Adam swallowed hard as he took in the terrifying spectacle. It was as if a modern bomb had gone off. More than one building had been blown apart by the sheer force of the blast.
***
A moment earlier.
Captain Voyer ran through the abandoned barracks, a lantern clutched in his trembling hand.
The island was in utter chaos, the clamor of battle echoing all around him. He knew he had only moments to act.
He was alone, vulnerable—a perfect target for France's enemies.
Unfortunately, Robert Rogers noticed as the officer left his group and headed toward the few wooden buildings to the north of the island.
The leader of the Rangers stopped for a moment, his snake-like eyes narrowing with joy until they formed two small crescent moons. Slowly, a wide, predatory grin stretched across his face. As if standing before a delicious meal, he licked the corner of his mouth, making him appear even more menacing than usual.
With a swift gesture, he signaled a handful of men to follow him.
The Rangers set off in pursuit of the isolated officer, leaving the rest of their troops to continue hunting down the fleeing defenders, who were running toward their fort like frightened children.
In the distance, they saw their prey enter a large wooden building, similar to the others.
Rogers ordered his men to check their weapons. The French officer would not escape them.
But against all expectations, just as they cautiously approached the building, they saw him rush back outside.
"Fire!"
Captain Voyer saw them too late. He barely had time to raise his pistol before several bullets struck him in different parts of his body. The impact made him stagger back two steps until his back hit the wall of the building he had just left.
His strength quickly abandoned him, and he collapsed heavily.
Large stains of blood rapidly spread across his white-gray uniform. He was still breathing—barely—which was surprising given the severity of his wounds.
There was no doubt, however, that he would soon be dead.
Rogers and his men approached confidently, kicking away the pistol that the officer had not had time to fire. The weapon flew a few meters away.
The Frenchman's eyes were half-closed, his breath short and labored. His chest rose with great difficulty, irregularly.
"Well, well," Rogers murmured with a mocking smile. "That wasn't very smart, wandering off on your own. What's in here?"
His gaze slid toward the building's interior.
But just as he was about to take a step forward, he saw Voyer move his right arm. The motion was so slow that Rogers felt no danger whatsoever. He merely stopped, slightly intrigued.
He watched as the officer feebly pulled a flask from his belt.
With what little strength he had left, Voyer uncorked it with trembling fingers and brought it to his lips. Half of the liquid spilled down his chin, soaking his already stained uniform.
Rogers raised an eyebrow, even more intrigued.
"Hey, is that your last act? Let me see that."
Curious, Rogers snatched the flask from the dying man, whose arm fell limply onto his lap. He brought it to his own lips.
It was alcohol—strong, but with an intoxicating aroma. The scent was reminiscent of rich, black earth after a violent thunderstorm and a warm, crackling fire.
He had no idea what kind of alcohol it was, but he found it perfectly to his taste.
"Not bad. You won't mind if I keep it, will you?"
He leaned in toward the wounded captain, his grin widening.
"Now that I think about it, you've got an interesting face, my friend. You won't mind if I keep that too, right?"
That's when he noticed the officer had stopped breathing. His interest vanished immediately.
"Tch. No fun."
Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he cast a final glance at the man before turning his attention back to the building. He shoved the door open without hesitation and was met with stacks of barrels, sacks, and carefully arranged wooden crates.
A powerful scent of burnt powder filled the air, and at once, a cold shiver ran down his spine. The feeling intensified when he caught a strange, constant hissing sound, though he could not see its source.
A wave of terror gripped his gut.
"SHIT!"
Robert Rogers instinctively recoiled and bolted from the building like a cannonball, passing his subordinates in mere seconds.
Too late.
The fire Voyer had ignited finally reached the black powder, triggering an unbelievably powerful explosion that sent Rogers hurtling forward.
A rain of smoldering debris flew in all directions, shaking the entire island. It was as if a volcano had suddenly awakened.
Rogers, lying face down in the grass, shielded his head with his hands as a hot blast seared his back.
The explosion was deafening.
He remained motionless for a long moment, and when he finally opened his eyes, the building was gone. In fact, all the nearby structures had vanished.
His ears rang, and his normally sharp sense of direction had completely abandoned him. He no longer knew where he was—or even who he was.
Like a lost soul, he staggered to his feet and saw his men lying scattered around him. None had survived.
By some miracle, he had.
He took a few aimless steps before realizing he felt an odd sensation in his legs—especially the left one.
Slowly, he looked down. Only then did he notice a massive wooden splinter lodged deep into his flesh. It had entered from the back and protruded a few centimeters out the front.
Blood gushed freely from the gaping wound, staining his uniform nearly black.
"H-huh, that's not good," he murmured, dazed.
He sat on the ground, now covered in smoldering debris, and caught sight of the Frenchman's flask. Another splinter had pierced it, spilling its contents onto the ground.
Rogers picked it up with a trembling hand, examined the punctured bottom, then let out a rough breath.
"Shame."
And he lost consciousness.