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Enjoy the new chapter!
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The British had not appreciated the Marquis de Bréhant's response and made it clear through an intense bombardment.
This bombardment lasted for three days.
The fort trembled under the relentless fire, further weakening its already exhausted walls and depleting its garrison.
Sensing that an assault was imminent, the French, led by Captains Briscard and Fontaine, attempted a daring sortie under the cover of night. Their objective was simple: to strike a blow against the enemy before the inevitable attack.
But the redcoats had anticipated this desperate maneuver. They had reinforced their night patrols, doubling their numbers. The attack was repelled without the British suffering significant losses.
By some stroke of luck, Albert Fontaine returned unharmed. However, several men were missing.
Finally, on the morning of September 11, as Fort Bourbon awoke beneath a light mist, the redcoats assembled in front of their encampment, determined to take the fort.
A portion of the army had fallen ill, but not enough to prevent them from fighting.
William Johnson, clad in his striking red uniform and a long Indian-style coat adorned with intricate patterns, stood slightly apart from the other officers, observing the final preparations before the attack.
His face was serious, his expression calm, but his brows remained furrowed. His complexion was slightly pale—he had been suffering from stomach cramps and nausea since the previous night.
He felt as if he were about to vomit, but nothing came. It was exhausting.
Suddenly, British artillery roared to life from their elevated positions.
From his vantage point, it was as if the ancient Greek god of thunder had been enraged—but he supposed that, for the French, it must have felt like the very gates of hell had swung open, unleashing an army of demons.
From where he stood, he could distinctly hear the sharp impacts against the wooden walls of the formidable fort.
The mist and smoke from the cannon fire merged together, forming an opaque shroud that obscured the various batteries.
Quickly, the cannons began to overheat, forcing the gunners to pour buckets of water over the scorching barrels to bring them back to a safe temperature.
The ammunition, which had been carefully rationed until now, was suddenly consumed without restraint, along with vast amounts of black powder.
This display of power lasted from five in the morning until nine.
Between the lingering smoke from the gunfire, drifting like a specter over the batteries, and the mist, visibility was poor. Fortunately, a steady northern breeze began to clear the air.
"Hmm, that fort has really taken a beating," William Johnson muttered to himself, admiring the visible damage even from a distance.
A large breach had opened in the middle of the eastern wall.
A shiver ran down his spine, though he could not determine why. His gaze fell upon the French banner, still defiantly fluttering above the fort's walls.
When our flag flies once more over Fort Edward, the road to Montreal will be open. The French won't be able to defend themselves, and the Iroquois will have no choice but to acknowledge that we are reliable allies. We are the future. The only way for them to have a place in this world is to stand with us. When Montreal falls into our hands, the other tribes will have no choice but to join us—or perish alongside the French.
William Johnson pulled his long coat tighter as he felt the chill seep in.
"Let's finish this."
***
Little by little, the mist dispersed, revealing a scene of utter desolation.
Inside Fort Bourbon, the men's spirits were dreadful. Their mood mirrored the gray sky above and their worn uniforms.
The French were nothing more than hunched, exhausted shadows, their gazes empty.
Above them, the sun was barely discernible in the sky. Its light struggled to pierce through the veil and offered neither warmth to their bodies nor solace to their minds.
The fort's walls were in a pitiful state, but the worst was undoubtedly the eastern side, opposite the river.
Three days of relentless bombardment had finally taken their toll.
The wooden structure had exploded under the repeated impacts of heavy British cannonballs. Behind it, the earth—the most crucial part of the fortification—was slowly collapsing into the ditch, forming a gentle yet treacherous slope, a silent invitation to the enemy.
This breach, more than ten meters wide, was like a gaping wound in the fortress's defenses.
So much effort had been poured into making this fort impregnable, yet after all these trials, the British army had proven that nothing in this world was truly indestructible. All it had taken was time and a few cannons.
Adam, at the head of his company, mentally prepared himself for what was about to happen. Everyone around him was doing the same because the immediate future was undeniable: the British were about to attack with all their might.
If they intended to carry out their threats, then only two outcomes were possible—either they would all die here, or the redcoats would be repelled.
No matter the result, the siege would end that day, for the British could not afford another assault if this one failed. They had already lost so many men that this attempt would be their last.
In the end, despite all their preparations, they had still underestimated the French and their stubbornness.
Adam, his hands clammy, tightened his grip on his musket, its intimidating bayonet already fixed. It was loaded, but he had yet to cock the hammer to prevent any tragic accident.
His fingers were tense, his jaw clenched as if bracing for the amputation of a limb. His gaze, fixed and unwavering, studied the long crimson line in the distance, barely visible for now.
He was positioned on the eastern wall, close to the breach and even closer to a 24-pounder cannon—a French one. The gunners surrounding the metal beast looked like sprinters awaiting the gunshot that would mark the start of the most critical race of their lives.
Like everyone here, they were wound tight as bowstrings, their foreheads slick with sweat. It was not the heat that made them perspire but sheer nerves.
They knew what was at stake and what was expected of them.
The more enemies they killed, the fewer there would be to storm the breach.
Unfortunately, the British had designed their trenches well. They snaked toward the fort like converging serpents.
They were right under their noses, their third line now in place.
A drumroll rose from the enemy ranks—a slow, solemn, and ominous sound, like the prelude to a public execution.
"They're moving into their trenches," Captain Fontaine observed beside him, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Yes. The time has come."
Adam's voice was so low it seemed to echo from a cold, dark cavern. His entire body felt frozen, as if submerged in ice-cold water.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The British artillery thundered once more, likely for the last time, as firing beyond this point risked hitting their own men. Instinctively, everyone ducked.
Adam heard the usual long whistles, followed by the heavy impacts that made the ground tremble beneath his feet. All the cannons had focused their fire on the same spot to widen the breach.
Amid the smoke, dust, and debris falling like a fine summer rain, a troubling noise rang out. Adam immediately understood that the British gunners had achieved their goal.
Like broken masts, another section of the rampart collapsed into the ditch, widening the existing breach. The loosened earth spilled partially outward, flowing like fine sand.
The drumroll quickened.
Adam felt his entire body trembling. If he wasn't clenching his teeth so tightly, they would be chattering violently. He bit down even harder, afraid someone might hear.
They—they've reached the second line!
"Cannoniers… FIRE!" a voice shouted above the turmoil.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
All the cannons roared in unison, spitting fire toward the enemy trenches in the hope of cutting down some of the advancing soldiers. Yet nothing seemed able to stop this inexorable red tide.
It surged forward through the communication trenches, stepping over their own dead, and reached the third line.
Adam and his men took firing positions and unleashed a hellish volley as soon as the first tricornes appeared.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The series of detonations was long and brutal, but Adam didn't linger to admire their work.
Ignoring the men collapsing in agony as they sprang from the trenches, he lowered his weapon and instinctively plunged his right hand into the small satchel where he had prepared all his ammunition for this crucial day.
Without hesitation, he seized the first cartridge and brought it to his mouth. The paper, as thin as cigarette paper, tore easily between his teeth, and his lips came into contact with the fine black powder.
The taste had become as familiar to him as its scent when burned. He didn't flinch and continued reloading his weapon.
He had performed these motions so many times that he could now execute them in complete darkness. His men were less confident, but thanks to their relentless drilling, they were capable of carrying out each step with speed.
The soldier Tournier, once a walking disaster, had transformed. In a short time, he had become a new man—a soldier worthy of the name.
He was afraid, but he showed no sign of it, too focused on his task.
Out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw him grab the ramrod fixed beneath his barrel and, with a deft motion, slide it inside the musket to tamp down the charge and lead ball.
One stroke, two strokes, and it was done. With a swift, precise movement, he pulled the ramrod out, flipped it smoothly between his thumb and forefinger, and placed it back in its slot.
Adam, his heart swelling with pride, allowed himself the hint of a smile as he raised his weapon.
His thumb found the mechanism and cocked the long musket.
C-c-c-click!
His musket shifted slightly to the right and locked onto a redcoat who had started sprinting toward the breach the moment he emerged from his trench. Adam's sharp eye aligned perfectly.
He could clearly see the man's face. It was utterly ordinary—broad forehead, straight nose, a well-defined square jaw, and thin lips.
Adam could read both fear and determination in his gaze.
In another time, this man might have been wearing simple clothes, sitting on a university bench, half-listening to a dull philosophy lecture while discreetly texting a romantic message to his girlfriend in a neighboring lecture hall, where she too was only half-paying attention to an Italian or history class.
Bang!
The soldier took a bullet to the chest, his clavicle shattering like glass. His legs gave out, and he crumpled backward like a lifeless puppet before rolling to the bottom of the ditch he had just jumped into.
Adam felt nothing. Nothing at all. He simply raised his smoking musket again to prepare the next shot.
Around him, despite the pressure, order reigned.
No one waited for commands—they had already been given the order to fire at will.
Shoot.
Reload.
Shoot again.
The sporadic gunfire erupting from this battered wall was devastating the redcoats, but it still wasn't enough.
The balance of power was still in their favor.
Shortly after the assault began, the enemy reached the breach, firmly defended by the French infantry.
They were met with a deluge of lead.
The first line fired. A breath later, the second rank followed, and finally, the third.
These cascading point-blank volleys struck down the first attackers. The men in red collapsed, but they were swiftly overtaken by their comrades, who returned fire with equal ferocity.
Several men in white fell, just as quickly replaced.
But they were falling too fast. They didn't have enough men to maintain a solid wall of muskets. Gaps began to appear.
The French watched as chaos set in, while the redcoats swarmed forward, climbing the battered wooden rampart like Indians.
Soon, orders lost all meaning, drowned in a sea of screams and gunfire.
Adam reloaded his weapon as fast as he could despite his trembling hands. From the corner of his eye, he tracked the British advance.
They seemed to be gaining ground everywhere.
His ears started ringing, turning every sound into an unbearable buzzing. The high-pitched whine shattered his skull and refused to leave him.
Meanwhile, bullets whistled around him.
One of his men, on his right, was struck by a shot from the ditch. The bullet entered through his chin and exited through the top of his skull, sending his tricorn flying as if carried away by the wind.
Stunned, the young soldier took a step back, then another, before tumbling off the rampart.
His limp body lay below, a dark stain marking where the bullet had entered. Fresh blood trickled from the wound, like a slow-moving stream.
Adam felt a metallic taste flood his mouth.
Sh-shit!
"We're losing the rampart! Hold the line!"
"The breach is about to fall!"
"Argh!"
The cries mixed with gunfire, moans, and the thunder of cannons.
The redcoats came in an endless wave, stepping over every obstacle—including the bodies of their fallen comrades.
BOOM!
The cannon next to Adam roared, and its shot obliterated five men at once. Bodies flew, tossed like a child's discarded toys, but ten more immediately took their place, their faces tense, twisted with rage.
They would not break.
Adam raised his musket and aimed at a soldier who was closing in on the rampart.
Click!
"Goddamn it!"
He had pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.
Click! Click!
Nothing.
"What the hell?!"
Instinctively, Adam looked down and saw that the musket's small flint had slipped off and fallen at his feet. Without it, there was no spark—no shot.
There was no time to retrieve and replace it. An enemy appeared before him.
"Get the hell away from me!"
As if possessed by a demon, Adam tightened his grip on his weapon and brought the stock down with all his strength on the enemy soldier's skull before he could react.
The man's nose crumpled, and his eye burst like an overripe fruit on impact.
Adam heard the sickening crack and a sort of wet splotch.
The enemy collapsed without a sound, falling backward and dragging with him a comrade who had been trying to climb the rampart.
No time to breathe.
Another Englishman appeared on his left, where Albert had just been.
Their eyes locked as the man pointed his bayonet straight at him.
Sh-shit!
Adam threw himself to the side.
The weapon shot past, grazing his left side. If he had reacted a second later, he would have been skewered like a common chicken.
The captain swung the butt of his musket hard against his new opponent's face, sending the man crashing to the ground.
Adam fell with him and, using all his strength, pressed down on the soldier's throat. It was crushed beneath his grip, and if he did nothing, the man would die in seconds.
The Englishman's eyes widened in shock before twisting in agony.
He dropped his weapon instinctively, his hands clawing desperately at the one choking the life out of him. His face began to change color.
"Die! Die! DIE!"
Adam locked eyes with his enemy as he strangled him. The growing panic in the soldier's gaze was obvious, but it didn't matter.
The man struck at Adam, but his strength faded at an alarming rate.
Then—nothing.
Despite his struggles, the Englishman could not stop his death. A sickening crunch sounded as his windpipe fully collapsed, and his body went still.
His eyes turned as red as his uniform, his face as gray as the sky.
Adam staggered to his feet, breathing hard.
His heart pounded like a hammer on an anvil.
F-fuck! Ah—?!
Something slammed into his back with brutal force, and the officer lost his footing.
He tumbled off the rampart, crashing hard between the wall and a long wooden building—its roof damaged by mortar fire and hastily patched.
The impact knocked the wind out of him, his vision blurring.
Colors and dark spots swirled chaotically before his eyes.
Several seconds passed before the pain finally registered across his body.
The ringing in his ears had only worsened, drowning out nearly all other sounds.
And yet, there were many.
He tried to move, but his body refused to obey.
It was only with great effort that he managed to turn his head. His gaze met the vacant stare of a British soldier, who seemed to be observing him with a strange curiosity.
Adam blinked.
Slowly, his eyes drifted toward the battle raging just beyond him.
Those who were supposed to hold the breach were falling back, struggling to maintain their lines against the ever-growing tide of enemy soldiers.
Boom!
A body crashed down beside him, landing on his left—he was still face down.
He turned his head, sluggishly.
It was Soldier Petit.
His lone eye shut slowly, and with one final breath, he was gone.
Adam pushed himself up clumsily, feeling as if his bones had turned to rusting metal.
A shout rang out—likely an order to retreat. The voice barely sounded like anything at all, distant and distorted.
Another cry followed, closer this time.
Before Adam could react, someone grabbed his arm, hauling him up.
"… alright, … captain?"
"W-what?"
"Are you alright, Captain?" The voice came again, clearer this time, as the ringing in his ears began to fade.
"Y-yeah. Yeah… I—I'm not hurt… I think."
"We have to fall back! We can't hold any longer!"
"S-Soldier Tournier? Is that you?"
"Yes! We have to move! I'll help you!"
Adam nodded, letting the brave Tournier support him. Together, they retreated as the English seized control of the eastern rampart and the breach.