Hello! Here is a new chapter!
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Almost from the first light of dawn, it was already hot.
Standing in the shade was no longer enough to cool the body. Fortunately, the Hudson River flowed nearby.
Its level had dropped since the start of the heatwave, which felt like divine punishment. That didn't mean it had turned into a mere stream.
Despite the suffocating heat, the river remained wide, fed by countless tributaries.
The sky, for its part, was a uniform blue, without a single cloud.
Adam plunged his small canteen—his faithful companion since Hanover—into the clear, cool water and raised it to his lips as soon as it was full. A few gulps later, it was empty.
He generously splashed his face and neck, but within moments, his skin was as dry as the grass under his feet—grass that now resembled straw more than anything else.
The ground, just as thirsty, had hardened like stone.
His men did the same, drinking in large gulps as if they meant to drain the river dry.
They had just finished their morning drills, which had begun earlier than usual to take advantage of what little freshness the night had offered—though in truth, it had barely cooled at all.
It was only ten in the morning, and already the air was becoming hard to bear.
"Men, reform ranks! Two columns! March!"
Adam's voice cracked like a gunshot.
Behind him, the French soldiers fell into line, muskets on their shoulders, forming a marching column. They resumed their route toward Long Island.
They crossed the long wooden bridge and passed in front of the batteries protecting that side of the island.
The entire setup had been redesigned and reinforced. The island was now surrounded by an earthen wall over two meters tall and nearly eight meters wide at the base.
Its flattened top was wide enough to position cannons without hindering the movement of troops.
Long, thick wooden stakes had been driven into the banks to strengthen them. The whole island had been fortified in this way.
The only issue—and nothing could be done about it for now—was the lack of cannons. Ideally, they would have had them placed at regular intervals all the way to the southern tip.
But that was impossible.
Still, Adam thought as he passed through the narrow path between the two earthworks, we wouldn't have had enough men to operate them all anyway. Maybe someday.
Behind the tall wall, the garrison's barracks formed a small village.
To the south, a new structure had been built. It had no walls—only a massive roof to shelter the raw bricks while they dried before firing.
The soldiers not assigned to patrols, drills, or construction work had been put to this task, charged with making as many bricks as possible, day after day.
The weather was ideal—humidity being the enemy.
In front of the drying shed, three long tables had been set up. At each table, five men worked in sequence: the first brought raw material and cleared it of debris—leaves, roots, twigs; the second formed compact balls; the third molded and unmolded the bricks; the fourth rinsed the mold and dusted it with sand; and the last carried the fresh brick to the drying shed.
It was, quite literally, an assembly line, each man with his role.
After several trials, Fort Bourbon was now producing bricks at a steady pace—bricks that would one day transform the fort's appearance beyond recognition.
For now, little had been done.
The first bricks had been used to build an impressive kiln, resembling an African hut, from which a long column of white smoke rose. A batch was baking.
These bricks had been molded more than two weeks earlier and had been firing for six days now.
Soon, they would be removed to cool.
An entire pile, shaped like a miniature pyramid, was already ready. They had been carefully stacked to save space.
For now, they sat there, abandoned like waste, because it would likely take fifty or a hundred times more to rebuild even a single wall of the fort.
A second kiln was under construction, along with another drying shed.
If all went according to plan, Fort Bourbon would soon double its daily output. Fortunately, there was no shortage of raw material.
Adam led his men to the central square, where the colors of the French monarchy flew proudly atop a mast.
The soldiers instinctively formed up for inspection.
The captain stood before them, back straight, gaze firm.
He observed them in silence. Despite the heat, fatigue, the sweat on their faces, the weight of their gear, and the thick fabric of their uniforms, they stood correctly.
"At ease."
The relief was subtle, but perceptible. They shifted into a slightly more comfortable position—still in regulation form, still straight, still silent.
Adam had the sun in his eyes and sweat running down his face. He could barely keep them open.
Like the men in his company, he had to pretend everything was fine.
"You've behaved well. As yesterday, this afternoon's drills are cancelled. The heat is too intense—it's becoming dangerous. You'll have free time until six o'clock this evening. Use it to rest. Those not assigned to clay extraction will come with me to the roadwork site."
In either case, Adam's soldiers were going to work hard under a blazing sun. Yet each man seemed to have his preference, as if one task were more bearable than the other.
Still, they all agreed: anything was better than continuing drills.
Adam dismissed them with a gesture, then went in search of Martin.
He found him on the northern wall of the main fort, at the Duc de Bourgogne bastion, named in honor of the Dauphin's first son and grandson to His Majesty. Martin's company was in charge of guarding that part of the frontier fort, but had been divided into six teams to allow for rotation.
Eight of his men were currently on duty. The others were assigned to various tasks or resting.
His friend was making his rounds, his face relaxed, almost carefree, as if on vacation.
"Good morning, Captain de Lusernes. How are you?"
The young man jumped and turned quickly. He smiled at the sight of his comrade, his face reddened by the sun's bite.
"Captain Boucher, you're redder than yesterday. Soon enough, you'll be mistaken for one of those Iroquois."
Adam simply smiled at the joke.
He knew he'd gotten some color, and it wasn't a tan—his skin had roasted.
He was peeling in large strips, especially on his hands and face, making him look like he had leprosy. The rest of his body was fine, protected by his clothes and tricorne.
Martin and Adam walked off at a relaxed pace, and when they were far enough from others, they could talk normally again.
"You seem in a good mood," Adam observed, walking around a large cannon, black as ink. "Heard from your English lady?"
Martin gave a sly smile.
"Heh, is it that obvious?"
"Pretty much, yeah. You've got a big smile on your face."
The young captain raised an eyebrow.
"Hmm? Why are you speaking English all of a sudden?"
Adam gave an awkward smile. He sometimes struggled to shed that old habit.
Now and then, almost by reflex, he'd insert an English word or two into his sentences—expressions common in the 21st century, but not here. Using the enemy's language in daily conversation was incomprehensible—out of place, even.
Luckily, Martin wasn't the type to be offended. He simply found the habit odd.
"Oh, no reason. Just… slipped out. So, good news?" Adam asked, steering the topic away.
"Not really," replied the love-struck young captain. "She writes about her days, what she's doing, her thoughts. Nothing extraordinary, but it's enough for me. I'm just happy she writes to me."
"Hey, that's a big step forward, isn't it? Ahah! She writes you often now."
"Yes! I'm really happy! I think it helped a lot that I could spend my leave by her side. I think we can say we've grown close."
Adam, a little envious of Martin's good fortune, gave him a friendly shoulder bump.
"Lucky guy," he said as they reached the far end of the fort, near the bridge leading to the southern demi-lune.
"I think we were meant for each other. I think I knew it the moment I saw her."
Adam rolled his eyes. He remembered the knife attack in Quebec.
"Oh yeah? Well, if she felt the same, she had a strange way of showing it."
The relationship between Martin and Ryckje van Schaick had come a long way in three and a half years. In truth, it had only recently started to evolve.
Still…
To Adam, it was almost as if it had happened all at once. Yet it hadn't been a short period.
"Say, this seems serious. Have you told your parents?"
He knew it was a sensitive topic, but he was worried for his friend. He was well aware that, in this era—especially among the nobility—choosing a wife was rarely up to the husband.
"N-not yet… But I will."
Martin's face fell instantly. It was as if terrible news had just struck him.
Adam, feeling guilty, put a warm arm around his shoulders.
"W-what?"
"Hey, it'll be fine! You worry too much!"
"Y-you don't know my father. Or my mother. When they find out I love a commoner… a foreigner… an Englishwoman, they'll demand I cut all contact with her… and return home."
"Bah, they can't. You're an officer, and we're still at war."
"For now," Martin replied gravely. "But you underestimate them. They have influence—a great deal of it. My father has many friends, including Marshal d'Estrées, just to name one. If they want me back, I'll receive orders that will bring me home to France."
Adam had no reply. He remained silent, unable to offer any solution.
He gently patted his friend on the shoulder.
At that moment, a movement in the distance caught their attention on the southern road. A patrol was returning.
Hmm? W-what happened? Were they attacked?
As the men drew closer, the two young officers could see how battered the group was. Most were lightly wounded, but others walked like shadows—staggering, supported by their comrades.Some, judging by their pallor and the blood staining their clothes, seemed at death's door.
Quickly, the garrison of Fort Bourbon rushed to assist the small force, which couldn't have numbered more than a hundred.
Adam and Martin made their way back to the parade ground and watched in silence as the men entered. Murmurs rose here and there, helping them understand that the group was in fact made up of two distinct units.
The larger had been sent under Captain Briscard's command behind enemy lines to harass the redcoats, while the smaller had been an ordinary patrol under Captain Rossignol.
The latter, whom Adam had only seen at ceremonies and major meetings, was not among the bloodied, sweat-soaked men. Only his lieutenant, a man named Marignac, had returned.
While the wounded were being cared for, Monsieur de Bréhant received Captain Briscard and Lieutenant Marignac in the commandant's office. Monsieur de Bréhant had once again been entrusted with command of the fort during the absence of the Marquis de Montcalm.
The general had been summoned to Quebec by royal agents who had arrived in the spring as part of the ongoing investigation into the colony's top administrators.
From what Adam knew, Intendant François Bigot was in serious trouble and had been recalled to France.
The inquiry, launched at the beginning of April, was still underway and growing in scope. Rumors suggested the King's agents were uncovering new abuses—and new names—every day.Their expertise had loosened many tongues.
Less than half an hour after the return of Captains Briscard and Rossignol's detachment, a meeting was convened in the commandant's office.
Colonel de Bréhant stood, his face stern and lit by the strong daylight streaming through the small windows overlooking the courtyard. His left hand rested on the hilt of his gold-guarded sword, as if he might draw it at any moment.
His pinched lips betrayed his barely contained anger.
"Gentlemen," he began in a hard voice, "Captain Briscard has just given me his report on the expedition near Albany. His mission was to disrupt enemy supply lines and strike any patrols within range. A delicate and dangerous mission, but executed with efficiency. Several enemy groups were defeated."
He paused briefly, his expression unchanged. The officers before him remained impassive, waiting for what came next.
"However, and this is why I have gathered you, his forces suffered heavy losses while trying to eliminate a better-prepared English company. They were supported by Iroquois. Thanks to Captain Briscard's quick thinking and sound judgment, our men managed to retreat—but they were tracked and harassed nearly to our gates."
The officers' faces darkened. Their anger was palpable.
A murmur of outrage rippled through the assembly.
Since the peace treaty between the French and the Iroquois, there had been many contacts and exchanges. Even a limited act of aggression from the Iroquois felt like a dagger in the back.
For Adam, the matter was more complex. He had come to understand that the Iroquois were not a monolithic bloc, without nuance or factions.
He remained silent, but inside he bristled.
"If not for the help of Captain Rossignol—who tragically lost his life—perhaps those brave men would not have returned safely. That officer's bravery, and that of his men, will not be forgotten.Nor will the treachery of the Iroquois."
The colonel fell silent, offering a brief moment of respect for the dead.
"However," he added in a calmer tone, "the involvement of Iroquois warriors does not mean the entire Confederacy is hostile. Perhaps this is what our true enemy wants. I understand your anger, but I ask you to contain it and have patience—until we can get to the bottom of this."
"Colonel," spoke a major near the front, "what are we to do in the meantime, if Iroquois come to the fort to trade? Should we turn them away?"
Several officers nodded in agreement. But the colonel was unmoved.
"No. Not unless they show signs of hostility. We will continue our exchanges… but remain cautious. Captain Boucher?"
Adam started slightly and raised his hand.
"Here, Colonel."
"You've already dealt with these… people, and negotiated with them directly. You'll go question them about this matter. You'll take this with you."
He picked up an arrow with both hands—recovered from the battlefield. It was long, slim, adorned with black feathers that shimmered blue, its fletching intricately braided.
"Perhaps it will help our neighbors identify the culprit. Don't mince your words. Be direct. Their chief, Akwiratheka, had promised to handle this problem. It is clear he has failed… or never intended to keep his word."
Adam stepped forward and accepted the arrow, lighter than he had expected. He gave a slight bow as a sign of respect.
"When should I depart, sir?"
The colonel gave him a hard look, unusually intense, as if the question itself were foolish.
"Immediately," he said in a commanding tone. "If the Mohawks—or any of the Iroquois—are turning against us now, I want to know as soon as possible."