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Enjoy!
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The French were retreating in several areas, but in certain positions, they still held firmly, fighting with relentless determination. The bastions and the demi-lune, south of Fort Bourbon, refused to yield.
Their tenacity commanded respect, forcing those who could no longer hold elsewhere to rally around them.
Deep down, no one here wanted to surrender.
In reality, the redcoats left them no choice. In the fury of battle, they took no prisoners. Maddened by the exhausting siege, they struck with bayonets and slit the throats of those who stumbled.
"P-This way, Captain! Just a little more!"
Adam was in pain everywhere.
Every movement felt as if a truck had run over him. His skull throbbed, and his thoughts were muddled.
He couldn't focus, and dark spots danced before his eyes, forming either stains or floating bubbles of light.
So, he relied on Soldier Tournier to guide him and get him to safety.
"W-wait… The company…" the captain suddenly realized.
Adam's voice was unrecognizable, but at least he could still make himself understood. He had to know.
"Everything is fine, sir. Lieutenant Marais ordered the retreat when he saw you fall."
"Oh… Good. Very good."
A wave of relief washed over Adam. He didn't want to relive what had happened the previous year when Captain Gilbert's company had been massacred by the Iroquois.
He blinked, but the dancing spots before his eyes wouldn't disappear. Around him, vague white silhouettes, like ghosts, moved swiftly, entering what must have been the various buildings surrounding the parade ground.
Tournier headed toward one of the barracks.
"The fort is falling, Captain. W-we should take shelter here."
Adam didn't answer. Despite the shock, he knew Tournier was right.
He followed.
Even in his dazed state, his intuition whispered to him that time was slipping away faster than sand in an hourglass.
When he stepped inside the long barracks, darkness swallowed him whole. The contrast in brightness was too much for his current condition. For a few seconds, he was practically blind.
He squinted, trying to adjust to this new environment. Slowly, shapes emerged. There were many soldiers here, all preparing to defend their position to the last.
They were hurriedly assembling new cartridges and checking how much powder remained. A strong stench filled his nose, and when his vision sharpened enough, he realized someone had vomited in the middle of the room.
Captain Briscard stood there, his face blackened by smoke, one hand pressed against his side, where a wound stained his uniform red. His voice cracked like a whip.
"Steady now! The redcoats are coming!"
"Sir! We only have enough powder for thirty more shots!"
"Is that all?!" the officer roared. "Damn it! Well, those bastards will lose thirty men before they drive us out! Do you hear me?!"
His gaze landed on Adam.
"Captain Boucher! Do you have any ammunition left?"
"W-what?"
"Answer me! Do you have any ammunition?!"
Adam clumsily rummaged through his cartridge box and saw that he had five paper cartridges left.
"Five, Captain."
"Excellent! Do you have a pistol?"
Adam grimaced and shook his head.
"N-no. Ah, I lost the musket I had on the rampart. The flint had fallen…"
"No matter," Briscard interrupted. "Hey, can you still fire?"
Adam hesitated for a moment, and Soldier Tournier seized the opportunity to speak up for him.
"Captain, Captain Boucher fell from the rampart and is still dazed. He needs time to regain his senses."
"Time is precisely what we don't have," Briscard muttered. "Since you have no weapon and can't fire, you'll help reload the muskets. Get over there and stay out of our way!"
Adam obeyed in silence, shame burning inside him. Being sidelined now, at what could be his final moments, was unbearable.
He sat down quietly and waited.
He watched as a mere spectator while the defensive line was formed, seeing the last of his comrades arrive. The door was shut.
"They're here!"
"Prepare to receive them properly, gentlemen!" Briscard called out as the men took their positions near the windows. "Pick your targets and make every shot count!"
"For God and the King!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
On the parade ground, the redcoats who had advanced too far were cut down by the crossfire from the four buildings encircling the space. Quickly, bodies littered the area, and the English hesitated, their assault on the ramparts still raging.
Then, slowly, they resumed their advance.
Adam, crouched in the back of the long rectangular room, grabbed a smoking musket and handed back another he had just loaded. Swiftly, he resumed his work, ensuring the weapon could be fired again.
He moved like a machine. Load. Pass. Repeat.
Gradually, the compartments in his cartridge box emptied. That meant soon, they would no longer be able to defend themselves.
So… this is how it ends?
He looked up.
In front of him, the broad backs of his comrades formed a human wall. They still fired, methodically, despite the exhaustion and the fear of what was to come.
One of them was hit and collapsed backward, writhing in pain.
It's not… a bad way to go.
A strange smile curled his lips as he quickly rose to grab his fallen comrade's musket, still loaded.
He shouldered it and aimed through a window, sharing his line of sight with others. A British soldier had just tripped over the corpse of a fallen comrade.
Bang!
The bullet struck him square in the head, and he dropped to his knees as if in a final prayer before collapsing face-first onto the ground.
Adam reached once more into his small leather pouch and pulled out another cartridge. He could distinctly feel the black powder beneath the paper and the small lead ball at its tip.
After this one, I'll only have one cartridge left.
He took a deep breath.
Ah… What a shame.
For everyone here, the end seemed near. The gunfire was growing sporadic.
Those who had run out of cartridges had stepped back to make way for those who still had some.
Their number only grew.
The British noticed and began advancing with renewed courage.
Adam gripped his musket tighter, his eyes growing damp.
In just a few moments, the redcoats would be celebrating their victory.
***
On the British side, at a safe distance from immediate danger but still within earshot of the battle's chaos, hesitation filled the air.
Victory was at hand, almost tangible. But at what cost?
Reports flooded in, each more alarming than the last. Their losses were far greater than anticipated—catastrophic would not be an exaggeration.
If that breach had not opened, if they had not succeeded in driving the French back inside the fort, there would have been no question about it—they would have ordered a retreat.
But they had won. That was practically certain.
They could not turn back now.
The bulk of their forces had been committed to ending this siege that had dragged on far too long. With their superior numbers, they believed they would wear down the already exhausted French garrison.
The defenders should have collapsed. They should have surrendered.
And yet…
As a precaution, the senior officers had kept a reserve force at their side. That was common sense.
The advantage was theirs, which was why they had not hesitated when giving the order to advance. Ideally, they would have had more regular soldiers to secure a decisive victory, but no matter, they had thought.
And yet, despite the pitiful state of the French defenses—their garrison, their crumbling fort—they had mounted a bitter resistance.
If this continued, their plans for an assault on New France would be in jeopardy.
"But crush them, for all the saints' sake! What are they doing?!"
"Damn it! We're losing too many men! What are they waiting for to take that demi-lune?!"
"This is infuriating! Is the only progress at the breach?!"
"Come on! We just need to snuff out the last pockets of resistance and lower that flag to replace it with ours! Why do they refuse to die?!"
The officers felt like crying tears of blood. This was a massive bloodbath, one that would surely be remembered, and their names would undoubtedly be associated with it as an example of what not to do.
Meanwhile, other, more optimistic officers were already celebrating a victory that could very well turn the tide of war on this continent. The breakthrough at the breach encouraged the highest-ranking officers to persist, for retreating now would be seen as a failure—an act of cowardice in the face of the enemy.
As for William Johnson, he had withdrawn to mourn the loss of their brave soldiers. His vacant stare lingered on the dark walls of the fort and the smoke rising from within. This Pyrrhic victory might very well be the reason they would fail to capture Montréal swiftly.
Under normal circumstances, they should have preserved the bulk of their forces, taken the fort quickly, and then marched on Fort Carillon.
But from the very beginning, nothing had gone as planned.
Nothing.
Johnson closed his eyes for a moment, dizzy from the ominous sounds carried by the wind.
Now, they would have to call upon the provincial regiments in large numbers to compensate for their losses. Time would be their enemy—because the longer they delayed, the more time the French would have to prepare.
Eventually, they would be stopped once again at Fort Carillon, and all of this—all these sacrifices—would have been in vain.
"Hmm?"
William Johnson reopened his eyes and noticed commotion at the rear, near the edge of the woods. A young, bare-chested Indian had suddenly emerged from the trees and was rushing toward the British lines.
He was immediately intercepted by two regulars, who prevented him from getting closer in case he posed a threat. When he tried to force his way through, one of them struck him in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground like a beaten dog.
Lying in the grass, his hand pressed against his rapidly darkening cheek, he found himself staring down the barrels of British muskets. Yet despite the threats shouted at him by the furious soldiers and the bayonets aimed at his throat, he tried once more to push through.
Once again, he was blocked.
Seeing that he could not pass, he began to cry out—sounds that, to the redcoats, seemed almost animalistic.
The Indian's desperate cries eventually drew the attention of the British officers.
William Johnson, still in charge of relations with the Iroquois, hurried over and ordered the soldiers to lower their weapons.
They obeyed without question, straightening as a sign of respect for the oddly dressed officer.
The Iroquois and the diplomat-turned-soldier began speaking in their strange tongue, and as the exchange grew more animated, Johnson's face gradually fell. His right hand started trembling violently, followed by his jaw.
The two soldiers, uncomfortable, did their best to remain impassive, though they listened intently to the unintelligible conversation.
Without a word to them, William Johnson suddenly turned on his heels and ran toward his superiors, his face paler than fresh snow.
The first soldier watched him go, then turned to his comrade.
"Hey, what do you think that was about?"
"I… I don't know… But it stinks."
***
"Gentlemen," Captain Briscard finally said in a voice full of determination, "it has been an honor to fight by your side. At my command…"
The men tensed, silent and attentive.
The last cartridges had finally been fired. No more shots rang out from their building, and the enemy was slowly approaching, cautious.
Adam finished his prayer and tightened his grip on the long, unloaded musket in his hands. Everything would be decided now.
They were going to charge and stake everything on one final attempt.
Their chances were slim, but they had no choice. At least they had caught their breath and regained a bit of strength.
Maybe—just maybe—they would manage to surprise the enemy and drive them back, showing them a determination sharpened by despair.
The British had made a mistake in cornering the French like this, and they intended to show them just how dangerous a wolf with no escape could become.
Adam took a deep breath and thought of his family, left behind in the 21st century, one last time.
"Char…"
"Captain!" a corporal suddenly interrupted, his gaze fixed on the parade ground, his cheek pressed against the wooden wall. "S-something's happening outside!"
"W-what?!"
Adam turned his head, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, and swallowed hard.
The redcoats had suddenly changed their posture. Some were still advancing, but others hesitated, while more and more began to retreat.
In the blink of an eye, the latter became the majority, leaving the French in confusion. Quickly, they saw an opportunity.
A shiver ran down Adam's spine, and he was sure he wasn't the only one feeling it. He took it as his body's reaction to the sudden appearance of hope.
Across the parade ground, a door burst open, unleashing a massive flood of men in white, their savage roar shaking all of Fort Bourbon.
These brave soldiers immediately launched themselves into the attack like rabid dogs, pouncing on the nearest redcoats.
"CHARGE!" Briscard roared, throwing open the door of their shelter, his sword raised.
"RHAAAAAAAA!"
Adam had no time to think. His legs moved on their own, propelling him forward alongside his comrades.
His muscles were stretched to the limit, his heart pounding furiously. His exhaustion was drowned in adrenaline, and within a few strides, he found himself in the middle of the parade ground.
His musket suddenly felt lighter than a feather.
He could no longer see what was happening around him, only the red-coated men retreating en masse in utter chaos.
Many were not fast enough and were caught.
Adam caught a brief glimpse of Briscard charging like a demon, his sword raised high, bringing it down onto a British soldier. He struck with such force that he fell with his victim, rolling in the dust without ever letting go of his bloodied weapon.
Yet he continued his pursuit as if nothing had happened, likely seeing nothing but his next target.
Adam, in the middle of the rushing crowd, had no one to kill, so he kept running.
Ahead of him, the English were fleeing.
And soon, he reached the breach.
The English and French corps lay scattered across the ground, their bodies mingled just as their blood, now absorbed by the thirsty earth.
Beyond this horrific sight, Adam witnessed the arrival of a strong French force, numbering between one thousand and fifteen hundred men.
Like a wave crashing against a fragile sandcastle, they had swept through the reinforced battery and encampment north of the fort and rapidly advanced toward the observation post where the British senior officers had been stationed.
It seemed they had already retreated.
The redcoats were no longer obeying orders, which struggled to be relayed, preventing them from mounting any effective defense. Only terror remained—the visceral survival instinct that drove every British soldier to fall back, desperate to escape danger.
The slowest were the first to fall, pushing those still running to move even faster, to flee even farther.
Adam, who had slowed in astonishment, was suddenly struck hard in the shoulder as a soldier rushed past him. He nearly fell among the ruins of the eastern rampart. That was when he recognized a familiar face.
"C-Captain!"
"Lieutenant Marais! You're alive!"
Relief exploded in Adam's chest.
"Thank the Lord!" Marais exhaled, just as relieved. "I thought… Are you injured?!"
"No! And you?! The men… Is everyone all right?!"
The lieutenant's face darkened at once.
"We lost men, Captain. I don't know how many…"
"Of course," Adam murmured before glancing around at the unfolding battle. "We… We'll count when it's over. It isn't yet."
There was no need for more words.
With a shared understanding, the two men threw themselves into the fray, side by side, shouting at the top of their lungs along with the others.
And soon, they disappeared into the mass, swept away by the tide, becoming one with the human wave relentlessly pursuing the routed British soldiers.
-----------------------------------------
It took nearly two and a half hours for the chase to finally end. It had been an exhausting hunt for all involved, and unfortunately, many Englishmen managed to escape.
At last, everyone returned to the fort.
The stronghold still stood, but it was disfigured. A strange atmosphere hung in the air, thick with the powerful stench of sweat, burnt powder, and blood.
A heavy silence reigned, broken only by the sighs of survivors and the cries of the wounded. No one dared to utter the word "victory."
Taking advantage of the remaining daylight, the men began sorting the corpses. They moved like the living dead—drained of all strength, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.
But they had to endure a little longer. Soon, they would finally sleep without fear of being woken by the roar of cannon fire.
Naturally, their fallen comrades received far better treatment than their enemies, who were discarded like refuse in a vast open-air graveyard.
Exhausted beyond words, Adam struggled to remain standing before their savior, who proudly bore a gleaming cuirass, shining like silver in the fading light.
To the redcoats, he was the butcher of Fort William Henry. But to them, he was simply the Marquis de Montcalm, the defender of Fort Carillon.
Perhaps it was time to find him a fitting moniker? Adam mused as he admired his silhouette.
After all, the Marshal-Duke was called "Monsieur le Minorcain" for having taken the island of Minorca, "Petit Père la Maraude" for his raids in Germany, and even "the Old Rogue" for his actions against British forts and settlements in America.
Hmm, perhaps now isn't the time.
In the fort commander's office, the marquis received the final reports on the siege.
Alas, he had arrived after the assault. The losses suffered by His Majesty's soldiers in this fort were dreadful, ensuring that no significant British action could take place for many months—possibly not before the following spring.
Taking a deep breath, he set the report down with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Nine hundred dead," the marquis murmured, both hands resting flat on the cold surface of the broad desk. "Nine hundred… out of nearly two thousand men. My God."
Colonel de Bréhant, his body covered in wounds both light and grave, stepped forward.
"Sir, I am aware that these losses are severe, but we did everything in our power to keep this fort from falling. Every one of us."
Montcalm nodded slowly.
"I am fully aware, Colonel, and I place no blame on anyone. His Majesty, I am certain, will understand. Had we arrived a day earlier… perhaps we could have prevented this carnage. Ah… But I drove my men to their very limits to get here."
The officers who had accompanied Montcalm in his desperate race to relieve Fort Bourbon couldn't help but agree. Reaching this place in so little time had been a true feat of endurance.
"At the very least," Montcalm continued, his voice heavy with emotion, "the fort still stands, and our flag still flies above it. That is what we must focus on… You should be proud of yourselves, gentlemen."
The officers present, especially those who had survived the siege, straightened slightly.
"However, we must remain cautious. Our enemy is still a serious threat."
Colonel de Bréhant winced in pain as he shifted into a more formal stance, his brows knitting together.
"Sir, if I may, their army is broken—along with their morale. They were forced to abandon their artillery and supplies. Our enemies will not return anytime soon."
Montcalm closed his eyes briefly, thoughtful, before reopening them slowly. His index finger began tapping lightly on the desk, right where the reports from the colonel and his subordinates lay.
"Indeed," he conceded. "But we should send out reconnaissance teams to be certain."