Hello! Here's a new chapter! As Etranger13 suggested on Royal Road, I'll add a special chapter at the end of Volume 1 to explain how this fiction differs from real history. I'm not sure yet how many chapters are left, but from this point on, I think the story will pick up pace.
Thank you Dekol349, P_raj, Ser_Lanciscazzo, Mium, DaoistHa29bb, Microraptor, Ranger_Red, lizeer, TheHumble_Dogge, Shingle_Top and Taizilla for your support!
Enjoy!
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Adam felt something on his cheek—light, almost unreal. Instinctively, he frowned and sensed movement. A fly was crawling across his face.
The sensation jolted him awake, making him startle in his chair.
Back to reality, he looked around. Everything was calm.
It was so quiet.
He wasn't running, and he had no reason to fear for his life.
Under the large tent, everyone was still asleep.
Only the heavy snores of Captain Gauthier disturbed the silence, which suddenly felt oppressive to Adam. He blinked several times and yawned, trying to shake off the fog clouding his mind.
Nearby, young Martin Morrel de Lusernes stirred as if he had felt his friend's gaze upon him.
"Did I wake you?" Adam whispered. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it. We'll have to get up soon anyway. Ah..."
Martin sighed as he stretched, his sore back cracking with a sharp pop that made him wince. Adam mimicked him, then glanced toward Albert.
He seemed to be sleeping deeply, lost in a pleasant dream. The corner of his lips curled slightly, as if smiling.
But Adam knew.
He knew that if he reached out, if he dared touch the once warm skin, he would feel only the cold stillness of death.
A simple sheet had been pulled up to his neck—just enough to hide the brutality of his passing. All that remained visible were the peaceful features of his face, now eerily pale.
There was no trace of movement beneath that sheet. No breath escaped his dry lips. Rigor mortis had already set in.
Albert Fontaine had lost his life like so many others on the eastern rampart, swept away by the English fury as they stormed through the gaping breach their damned artillery had torn into the fort's defenses.
A shiver ran down Adam's spine.
He struggled to grasp that Albert was gone—that he would never again hear his voice, his laughter, or feel the reassuring weight of his hand on his shoulder, as he so often did to catch him off guard. The day before, at this very hour, he had been alive, standing among his men, preparing for the imminent assault.
Now, he was nothing more than a lifeless body under a white shroud, surrounded by those who had known him best—those who had to keep living and fighting without him.
His company had been devastated in the battle, so much so that it likely couldn't be rebuilt. Others had been outright annihilated.
His had been lucky, thanks to Lieutenant Marais' quick response—they had lost only twelve men. On the scale of a company, it was still a heavy blow.
Adam clenched his fists.
From what he had gathered in the meeting the night before, there would be a complete reorganization of the companies. For now, no one knew exactly how things would unfold or what would become of Fontaine's men.
"Hey, Martin," Adam said suddenly, his gaze still fixed on his fallen friend. "Do you know where he was from? I mean… where he came from?"
Martin lifted his eyes, still clouded with grief.
"Albert? I don't know. André might. Or maybe his lieutenant," he said, glancing toward the man in question, who had also dozed off in his chair. "Why?"
Adam swallowed hard.
"He had… He had a son. A son he never met. Someone has to tell him his father is dead… and what kind of man he was."
His voice cracked for a moment. He took a breath and turned to Martin.
"I only know his name is Adrien and that he lives—or lived—with his grandparents. He should at least receive his father's belongings."
Martin nodded silently, his eyes glistening. A lone tear slipped down his cheek.
It was so unfair.
After Captain Gilbert, he now had to say goodbye to Albert—a man he respected, even admired, like a kind uncle, a mentor. He had learned so much from him.
It was unbearable.
For Adam, the pain was just as raw. He had no more tears left to shed. Only a crushing weight remained, pressing down on him from the inside.
And it wasn't over. He still had to pay his respects to the men who had fallen.
Everyone would be buried that day, on Long Island. A new cemetery would take root in the island's southern end.
If things followed the pattern he had seen countless times since he had transmigrated, officers like Albert would receive individual graves, while ordinary soldiers would be laid to rest in a mass grave.
That was simply how things were done in this time.
As for the redcoats, their bodies remained exposed outside the fort, in front of the southern ravelin. They had been gathered there and left overnight as if forgotten. If their officers wished to recover them, they would have to send someone.
Otherwise, the French would have no choice but to take care of them to prevent the outbreak of disease.
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The ceremony took place in the early morning, presided over by the Marquis de Bréhant, as he had been the fort's defender. It was only right that this task fell to him, the man who had bled alongside these brave soldiers.
A heavy silence hung over the ranks of those still standing, pressing down like a leaden weight. The emotion was palpable around the five mass graves. It was in every gaze, in every breath.
Colonel de Bréhant gave a moving speech, honoring the courage of their fallen comrades who had given their lives to defend this fort—and the towns and villages beyond it. He emphasized the importance of their sacrifice and the necessity of holding strong in their memory. Finally, he vowed that no name would be forgotten.
A volley of musket fire was discharged, followed by a final moment of reflection.
Adam prayed in silence alongside his friends, thinking of all the moments of camaraderie they had shared. Only then did they begin filling in the graves—each containing over a hundred bodies, wrapped in simple sheets as if they were parcels.
As expected, Albert Fontaine was granted an individual grave, marked by a simple wooden cross. Before the pit was filled, Adam and his friends took turns tossing in wildflowers they had gathered that morning. It wasn't much, but the gesture meant everything to them.
Whether soldier or officer, all had been identified, and their names recorded in a document so they could later be inscribed on a memorial.
Because of the sheer number of casualties, the ceremony lasted until midday.
The new cemetery, named Saint-Pierre by the Marquis de Montcalm, took shape in just a few hours, though it had no clear boundaries or stone walls.
Some, like Thomas Belmaison—Albert's lieutenant—stayed longer to mourn their fallen. Adam placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, though he suddenly seemed ten years older, then quietly stepped away.
The British camp, now serving as a temporary quarter for the French, offered at least a momentary respite. There, they were served a hot meal—far better than the meager rations of the past weeks.
Adam was given pork.
Had the English not fled in such haste, this wouldn't have been possible.
And yet, he felt no satisfaction. He could barely taste anything.
He chewed without appetite, unable to tell whether the food was good or bad. It might as well have been cardboard.
Around him, the others ate in silence. No laughter, no jokes—only slow, mechanical movements and blank faces.
Their stomachs were empty, but no one felt hunger. They ate because they had to. Starving themselves would not bring back the dead.
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The afternoon was entirely dedicated to reconstruction—physical labor meant to drive away grief with the swing of a shovel or the strike of a pickaxe. The dead were buried, but the living still had work to do, and the task was immense.
The eastern rampart had to be rebuilt, of course, but they also needed to replace the logs weakened by British cannon fire, reinforce the wooden bridges, and, most importantly, fill in all the trenches the enemy had dug.
If the British returned—unlikely, but not impossible—there was no reason to make it easy for them.
Adam oversaw the work across from Île Longue.
There were as many shortages in tools as in manpower, and the labor was slow. The men were exhausted.
Dust rose from every shovel's strike, filling the air and clinging to sweat-drenched skin. The men took frequent breaks, and despite orders, they grew longer each time.
Adam couldn't blame them. One night of rest had not been enough to make up for the weeks spent fearing the next day.
He took advantage of a lull to visit what had been his quarters on Île Longue.
There, all was ruin.
The landscape still bore the scars of the siege—like an old warrior proudly displaying the deep wounds across his body.
Nearly every building had been gutted, leaving only skeletal remains—splintered beams, collapsed roofs. His own had not been spared.
Though it seemed on the verge of collapse, it wasn't the most damaged.
Feeling like an explorer, Adam stepped inside and made his way up a partially missing wooden staircase.
Above him, a gaping hole in the ceiling let in the dull afternoon light—and a faint drizzle, barely perceptible.
The wood groaned and creaked with each step.
Every sense on high alert, Adam continued his ascent.
Adam finally reached the upper floor where his old room had been. He pushed the door open with some effort and discovered a scene of devastation.
The room was silent, and strangely, no one seemed to have come to loot it.
"Hmm… judging by the state of the building, they must have avoided it like the plague," he muttered to himself, stepping forward cautiously.
The floor groaned under his weight. He froze, listening intently. He even held his breath, attuned to the slightest sound.
Adam was ready to bolt at the first hint of a creaking floorboard.
The planks were littered with splinters, and the wall facing the parade ground had a large gaping hole—likely the mark of a cannonball fired from the fort. Through it, he could clearly see the structure in the distance, massive and imposing.
His eyes swept the room with dismay until they landed on something familiar lying at the foot of a modest bed—a violin. Or rather, what remained of one.
It was his lieutenant's. Yves Laroche's violin.
A sharp pang struck his chest. He knelt down and ran his fingers over the cracked wood. The strings, those that hadn't snapped, still clung to the upper half of the instrument.
It was beyond repair.
For a brief moment, he thought he heard a melody—his lieutenant playing as he used to while Adam worked on his novel. But it was only the wind.
He would never hear Laroche play again.
He, too, was gone.
The brave man had been buried that very morning, though by then, his body had been in a terrible state—it had been several days since he had died.
Adam took a deep breath and carefully placed the broken violin on the unmade bed.
Then, his gaze fell upon two notebooks abandoned on the dusty floor near an overturned table.
"My journal! And my novel!" he exclaimed with relief. "Thank God, they don't seem damaged!"
Adam eagerly picked up the two modest notebooks, clutching them to his chest as if they were priceless treasures. Losing them would have filled him with deep regret.
Fortunately, apart from a little dust and moisture, they were mostly intact.
He quickly searched the room, gathering anything salvageable, then hurried out before the entire building collapsed on top of him.
Back on the Long Bridge, he returned to the men.
They were sprawled on the grass, savoring their break as if it were their last. Unsurprisingly, they hadn't resumed work in his absence.
Adam cleared his throat and called out in a firm but not overbearing voice:
"Gentlemen, back to work! The sooner we finish, the sooner you can return to camp! Switch roles!"
Some sighed, others grumbled, but all got to their feet without protest.
A strange sense of déjà vu washed over Adam.
He had seen this scene play out hundreds of times during their drills. A faint smile tugged at his tired lips.
But before he could return to his post, a young officer approached, striding toward him with urgency.
"Captain Boucher," the officer said formally, "the Marquis de Montcalm requests your presence. He is expecting you in his office."
"Ah? Hmm, very well. I'm coming. Lieutenant Marais, I'm leaving the men in your hands… and my things. I'll come back for them later."
With a quick motion, Adam dusted off his uniform before turning on his heel to follow the young man—who looked about five years younger than him, yet seemed remarkably dependable.
Why does the marquis want to see me? Is something wrong? Or is he going to commend me? Reward me? That would be nice, but I don't think I've done anything extraordinary. I did as much as anyone else. If he's handing out rewards, the entire garrison should get one.
Though Adam remained silent on the way, his mind was busy guessing why a marquis would summon him.
Unless, of course, he had called for other captains as well.
That possibility was dismissed the moment Adam stepped into the commandant's office.
It was empty—except for Montcalm.
The marquis sat behind his desk, engrossed in writing letters, one of which was addressed to His Majesty. He had to report the outcome of the siege—both its losses and its gains.
Montcalm also had to justify himself—explaining his delayed arrival at Fort Bourbon and even his absence during the siege itself.
"Ah, Captain Boucher. Come in and have a seat. One moment, I just need to finish this," the marquis said, barely glancing up.
Adam obeyed, taking a seat across from the commander.
A long, heavy silence followed. Time stretched unbearably.
The only sound in the room was the soft scratch of Montcalm's quill gliding over the fine-quality paper—nothing like the rough sheets Adam used for his own writings.
He kept as still as possible, not wanting to disturb the distinguished man before him.
As he waited, Adam discreetly adjusted his uniform and took a moment to observe Montcalm's attire—garments that, a few years ago, he would have found as ridiculous as a carnival costume.
Now, he saw the understated elegance of a man of war, a noble in the service of his king, without unnecessary embellishments. This time, Montcalm wore blue, as dazzling as a calm ocean under a summer sky.
The few buttons on his coat appeared to be silver, delicately engraved with a stylized ten-petaled flower.
Finally, an ordinary powdered wig framed his solemn face, tied at the back with a wide ribbon in a slightly darker shade of blue than the rest of his attire.
All in all, even though it was a modest outfit for a marquis, Montcalm was exceedingly elegant.
"Well then," he finally said, letting out a small sigh as he set aside his papers. "Let's get to it. I summoned you because I have a mission for you and one or two matters to discuss. Let's start with that."
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise but quickly lowered it to maintain a neutral expression. He remained silent and waited, observing his superior's every move.
Montcalm folded his hands before him and looked Adam straight in the eye.
"You submitted several proposals regarding His Majesty's army some time ago, aiming to improve its efficiency. These proposals were reviewed by your superior, Colonel de Bréhant, before being sent to the Court. We have received a response."
Adam's heart leaped. He instinctively straightened in his chair.
"R-really? W-what did they say?"
His face quickly turned red, and he began sweating like a student awaiting the results of an entrance exam for a prestigious school.
Unfazed, Montcalm raised a hand slightly, and Adam forced himself to sit back.
"The kingdom's finances are limited and do not allow for the implementation of some of your ideas, or those of Monsieur de Bréhant. Others, however, have been well received—such as the idea of equipping our soldiers with a saber modeled after the one used by our cavalry. They also approve of officers carrying muskets in wartime. However, your suggestion to equip our infantry with boots was not approved, nor was the idea of adopting trousers."
"Oh… I see."
"That being said, it appears that your sketch caught the Dauphin's interest. He is considering a new uniform for the line infantry. We will likely hear more about it next year."
Adam's expression shifted multiple times, oscillating rapidly between joy and disappointment.
Upon hearing mention of the son and heir of the King of France, the Dauphin Louis, Adam felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. A part of him—the one from the 21st century—wondered if he had just significantly altered the future.
It was a feeling he had only experienced twice before since inhabiting this body: once when he had introduced the rules of rugby and the other when he had shared his knowledge about the potato.
Beyond that, he had always considered himself too insignificant to have any real impact on the world.
Montcalm found these changing expressions almost amusing, as it was easy to read the young man's thoughts. The boy who had invented "rugby" had vanished, leaving behind only a veteran, marked by war and hardship.
Montcalm continued:
"In another document, you also proposed the creation of a brickworks at Fort Bourbon. You suggested producing our own materials to replace the wooden fortifications and all the buildings."
Adam immediately sat up.
"Yes, sir! Not only would it strengthen the fort, but it could also boost the local economy!"
"The local economy, you say? Hmm… I understand your idea. Your proposal was well-argued, though I doubt we will be able to hold these territories until the end of this war. But do you have experience in this field?"
"Uh, no, my lord," Adam admitted, embarrassed. "I consulted a colleague who does. He knows every step of the process and what mistakes to avoid."
Montcalm tapped his desk thoughtfully.
"I see. It is an interesting idea. I do believe having brick walls would be beneficial. It might even allow us to build taller walls. I will ask Monsieur de Pontleroy to draft some plans. We can use the winter to properly prepare this project and begin construction in the spring."
Montcalm fell silent for a moment, and Adam waited, aware that his commander was deep in thought. Finally, the marquis refocused his sharp gaze on him.
"Very well. Now, about the mission," he said without preamble, his voice grave. "I avoided mentioning it last night, but on our way to Fort Bourbon, our scouts spotted Iroquois. They alerted our enemies, allowing many of them to escape."
Adam felt his stomach tighten.
"Iroquois?! They… they're still supporting the British?!"
"That is what I want to determine," the marquis said, his tone laced with menace. "It may be an isolated group, but if not, this could become a serious problem. I want you to go see these savages and ensure their neutrality. Discreetly."
The young captain swallowed hard and bit his lower lip nervously.
"H-how am I supposed to do that? I mean, forgive me, my lord, but how can I ask them something like that without arousing suspicion?"
Montcalm shrugged slightly, as if the problem did not concern him.
"Be clever. Find an excuse to visit their village and question them. Tell them… we need more food. That is not a lie."
Adam slowly nodded.
"I… I understand. When do you wish for me to depart?"
"Hmm… You likely won't be able to go, negotiate, and return before nightfall. You will leave tomorrow morning."
"At your orders!"
With that, Adam stood, saluted, and left the room, feeling more troubled than when he had arrived.
The cool air outside brushed against his face, as if urging him to pause for a moment to gather his thoughts.
The Iroquois… Have they really rejoined the British?
He did not know if Chief Akwiratheka's tribe had made that mistake, but he hoped not. The last time he had seen him, the man had seemed in favor of strict neutrality, refusing to take sides.
What's reassuring is that no Iroquois have been spotted fighting alongside the redcoats. If that were the case, it could shatter the treaty we signed with them and undo all negotiations.
But just as there were differing opinions in France—one could even call them factions—there were likely strong divisions among the Iroquois, and perhaps even among the Mohawks.
Akwiratheka could not be the sole leader of his people. There were probably dozens of others, if not more.
Ah, I don't know. I'll see tomorrow. I just hope this doesn't strain our relations again. It would be nice if we could live in peace.
Adam walked through the fort's gates, passed the northern ravelin, and moved past the line of soldiers still working to fill in the trenches surrounding the stronghold.
The sheer number of men working there ensured steady progress, and it was clear that soon there would be no trace left of the siege.
When he reached the English corpses abandoned in front of the southern ravelin, Adam frowned and turned his gaze away, unwilling to sully his eyes with the sight.
He hoped the English would come to retrieve their dead soon—he didn't want his comrades to waste their strength doing it for them. In his mind, they should consider themselves lucky that Montcalm had not ordered all the bodies to be burned.
It's all those bastards deserve!
He spat on the ground in disgust, thinking of all his fallen comrades who had died for nothing.