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They had broken camp before dawn and were moving southwest, toward the Mohawk River, where settlers had reportedly been seen.
The air was bitterly cold—colder than usual for this time of year.
The sudden drop in temperature was likely due to another shift in wind direction and a perfectly clear sky.
Even at midday—the supposed warmest time of the day—temperatures remained well below freezing.
The air bit at their lungs, stiffened their hair, and numbed their fingers, even through gloves.
All around them, everything was white: the trees, the grass, the earth, the rocks. Their uniforms blended perfectly into the almost fairy-tale-like landscape.
The morning mist, which had made the woods appear gloomy, even threatening at times, lifted slowly. Eventually, they could once again see the treetops and far enough ahead not to fear stumbling upon a hamlet or a settler out cutting wood.
The silence of the small unit was heavy, broken only by their cautious steps. The ground and the snow, hardened by the night frost, crunched softly underfoot—yet even that seemed too loud. So they adjusted their breathing, kept it shallow and quiet.
They had marched like this for several hours when Corporal Ferrand, who was scouting ahead with three other men, returned to alert the major.
He whispered, barely audible:
"Sir, we've reached the Mohawk River."
"Already?" François asked, surprised.
He unfolded his map and traced the sinuous course of the river with his finger.
That doesn't make sense. We shouldn't have reached it yet. Could it be another river? No… it doesn't look like it. What the hell did we do?
He frowned.
The only plausible explanation was that they had veered too far south and reached the river where it curved high, about seven kilometers from its confluence with the Hudson River.
We're too far east, François realized. We didn't move far enough away from the Hudson. Well, no matter—as long as we haven't been spotted.
"We continue," he said calmly, folding the map and slipping it into his satchel.
Though it lacked the power of the Hudson or the length of the Ohio, the Mohawk River was no mere stream. It was broad, with rapids and waterfalls in places, and stretched deep into Iroquois territory, all the way to the Oneida homeland.
The British had long laid claim to all these lands—just as the French once had. Even after the 1762 treaty, they hadn't abandoned their ambitions and still proclaimed themselves the "natural protectors" of the Iroquois.
But on the ground, the reality was far more complex.
After the loss of three provinces, British colonists found themselves cramped. Because George III had promised them vast tracts of land as a reward for their loyalty during the war, many sought to settle deeper inland—preferably along rivers, which served as natural highways.
Even common soldiers were entitled to a parcel of land.
Before the war, several families had already settled along the Mohawk. This had not come without conflict with the Native peoples—conflicts that at times jeopardized diplomatic relations with those nations. After the war, the Iroquois felt overwhelmed, dispossessed.
That was one of the key points of the 1762 Joint Proclamation: between Lake Oneida and Fort Hunter, no British settler was to establish a home.
This didn't apply only to new settlers. It applied to everyone.
Existing farms—those that had escaped the wrath of the fearsome Marshal-Duke de Richelieu—had been destroyed, and the boundary was set at Fort Hunter. That fort, burned by the French during the Six Years' War, had since been rebuilt.
It stood about fifty kilometers from the Hudson River. In other words, the Iroquois had taken advantage of British weakness to push the colonial boundary back by nearly sixty kilometers.
François and his men advanced slowly, avoiding paths and any sign of human activity. The major was determined to avoid any clashes.
This forced them to take detours and measure each step like fugitives. In truth, they had no right to be here. Until they reached Fort Hunter, they were in British territory.
At last, on the following day, they reached it. A fairly large village had sprung up around the fort.
But they didn't linger and moved past it.
The temperatures, already extremely low, dropped even further. That night, the air was so cold it felt like claws scraping across the face. The river remained frozen throughout the day—even in the center.
François estimated the ice to be several centimeters thick, but was it enough to cross safely?
To be sure, he picked one of his men—the lightest of the group. Naturally, they tied a sturdy rope around his waist to pull him back if needed.
Come on, you can do it.
The night was deathly quiet, broken only by the occasional nocturnal bird. Even the wind had ceased. A full moon lit the landscape like a massive spotlight.
Very carefully, the soldier placed one foot on the ice.
Nothing.
He dared a second step. The ice didn't crack.
I-it's holding!
But it was far too early to celebrate. The river was nearly eighty meters wide at this point! Every step brought him closer to the center, where the ice was thinnest.
Behind him, the others held their breath and silently prayed that he would make it safely to the other side.
François, too, watched the solitary figure gradually moving away from the riverbank. Compared to the width of the river, the soldier, moving very slowly and alert to the slightest sound, seemed tiny.
Crrrrrrrrrrr…
From the eastern bank, they could clearly hear the ominous cracking of the ice. The soldier, now near the middle of the river, froze in place, legs stiff, as if turned to stone.
His breath formed thick white clouds in the frozen air, as if he were smoking. Then, slowly, he resumed his progress.
Each step was deliberate.
Beneath his feet, the ice groaned again, like the long moans of an old man with a hunched back and brittle legs.
No one dared speak a word of encouragement, afraid to break the man's concentration. They barely dared to blink.
My God, please let him make it! François prayed silently, fists clenched inside his thick gloves. If you hear me, let the ice hold!
Centimeter by centimeter, the man advanced—until, finally, he reached the far bank. He turned around, exhausted but unharmed. He raised both arms over his head.
At that exact moment, the rest of the group let out a deep sigh of relief. Their prayers had been answered.
They wanted to cheer, to cry out in joy at the miracle—but the hardest part was still ahead: now they all had to cross.
One thing was certain, though—Carmène wouldn't be able to make the crossing.
Several bags were tied to the rope so the soldier on the far bank could pull them across. That extra weight could mean the difference between life and death.
Then, in tense silence, the small troop began crossing. They divided into small, spaced-out groups, leaving several meters between each person to avoid accidents—but not too far, so they could help a comrade in trouble.
It took them hours to cross those few dozen meters. And it wasn't without incident.
Three times, the ice gave way.
The first two times, only a foot or a leg fell through. Fortunately—and thanks to quick action from their comrades—they were rescued swiftly.
But the third time, one of them fell halfway into the dark water.
In his misfortune, he'd been lucky. He managed to grip the edge of the gaping hole. He was urgently hauled out of the water, dragged back to the bank he had just left, and immediately began to freeze.
Everyone was shaken. He could have been swept away by the current and pulled under the ice. In that case, no one could have saved him.
He was entrusted to the care of the four men who had stayed on the eastern bank with Carmène.
Now, he had to recover if he hoped to avoid illness. The risk of dying from fever was high.
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At dawn, the pursuit resumed.
The detachment had no trouble finding signs of passage.
François leaned over a set of relatively clear footprints in the snow. They all pointed in the same direction, overlapping and crisscrossing each other.
Captain Delmas stepped beside him.
"They're about thirty in number, heavily loaded," François said in a low, steady voice.
"They have some animals with them. Horses?" Delmas asked, pointing to a series of small, evenly spaced tracks.
"Mules, more likely. At least two. Look how the prints are arranged, Captain Delmas. They flank the animals, like in a military convoy."
He brushed one of the prints with his fingers, then slowly straightened up.
"We're dealing with former soldiers, I'm certain of it."
Captain Delmas grimaced and looked ahead at the trail winding through the leafless trees. The news did not please him.
"That could complicate things," he muttered.
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It was only on March 3 that they caught up with them—or at least, with part of them.
Amid tents, stretched tarps, and sparse trees, about fifteen settlers were visible, working hard to turn this untamed space into a place to live.
A small fire burned at the center of the camp, and smoke rose lazily, visible from afar.
From his elevated observation post, François watched them, seemingly unaware of the risk they were taking.
He noted the presence of a few women and children moving between the tents and working as hard as the men.
He frowned even more deeply.
Thankfully, the Iroquois haven't found them yet.
"They already think this land is theirs," murmured Delmas, crouched to François' left.
François took a deep breath.
"Delmas, position your men. Do not fire unless I give the order or something happens to me. I'm going down with my company to try and reason with them."
"Yes, sir."
With that, he gathered his men and approached the camp by way of a relatively steep slope, crisscrossed by long, wide roots bleached by the cold. It didn't take long for the settlers to notice their presence.
In an instant, the men formed a short defensive line. Their movements were swift and precise.
Just by the way they held themselves, it was clear that some of them had served in the army.
Their eyes were steady, but unease radiated from their tense postures. The younger ones were visibly shaking.
They knew they didn't stand a chance.
But they couldn't flee, nor step back.
Behind them were faces they had to protect—and their new land.
"Stop! Don't come any closer!" shouted one of them in English. His voice was strong, but his accent was impossible to place.
François raised his right hand, signaling his men to halt. He stopped as well. His soldiers spread into a two-deep line, tight and disciplined.
At the sight, tension flared among the settlers.
"Gentlemen," François began in flawless, accentless English, "I am Major Boucher de Montrouge, of the Regiment of Nouvelle-Aquitaine, in the service of His Majesty the King of France and Navarre, Louis XV. You appear to be lost. What are you doing so far from home?"
His voice was so calm, so composed, that it sent chills down the spines of the younger settlers. A shiver ran through their line.
The man who seemed to be their leader looked nervously at his companions. He tightened his grip on his musket, aimed directly at the French officer's head.
"We are not lost!" he shouted angrily. "If anyone shouldn't be here, it's you! You're on British territory!"
François remained unbothered. He pulled a map from his satchel and unfolded it carefully.
"This map says otherwise, sir. You are currently on Iroquois land—specifically, in Mohawk territory. According to the joint proclamation of 1762, signed by both our kings, these lands are protected and closed to colonization. By venturing beyond Fort Hunter with the intent to settle, you have made yourselves outlaws."
A heavy silence fell over the group.
Faces hardened. The men grew more sullen while the women exchanged anxious glances.
Though most people were ignorant of the native tribes, the name 'Mohawk' alone inspired fear..
They had been promised they'd be safe here, that the land's potential was enormous, that they could build a new home and claim as much territory as they wanted.
The settler leader, a tall broad-shouldered man, pulled from his satchel a thick document and held it up like a Monopoly "Get Out of Jail Free" card.
"Nonsense!" he barked. "His Majesty granted us this land for our service! We are not outlaws!"
Then François did something unexpected.
He calmly handed his weapons to his lieutenant and stepped forward, both palms open.
"May I examine your documents?"
The settler hesitated a moment, then handed them over—but his guard remained high.
He had fought the French in America and knew how treacherous they could be.
They ambushed like savages, showed no mercy. He had survived one of those attacks near the end of the war.
He had been so terrified for his life that he hadn't noticed right away he'd been wounded. In just minutes, dozens of his comrades had fallen to those nicknamed the Ghosts of Albany.
To his knowledge, those cowards had never been punished for their shameful raids.
François skimmed the papers quickly, frowned, then handed them back.
"Sir," he said gravely, "I've never heard of this company. But what I do know is that it has no authority to sell or grant land. You surely deserve land for your service—that was your king's promise—but you cannot settle here. His Majesty has been very clear on this matter. You cannot pretend otherwise."
"But these papers… these deeds…"
François turned toward a second settler, a young man about his own age, standing to the right of their leader. He held his musket awkwardly, but he was no less dangerous.
"I'm sorry to say," François continued, in a somber tone, "that they are worthless. You are not the only victims of this kind of scam. In recent years, several groups have come here with the same hopes. The same promises. Some lost everything. Others even lost their lives."
A woman recoiled violently.
"Their lives?!"
She was middle-aged, still beautiful though her best years were behind her. But her drawn features and the fear in her eyes aged her beyond her years.
"Yes, madam," François replied, adopting the most serious expression he could. "As I said, we are currently on Iroquois territory, and they do not appreciate trespassers—especially those who come to settle. Like anyone, really. Their anger this time is immense, and I don't know how they'll react if they find you."
A shiver ran through the group.
The women lost all color and clutched their children tightly.
After a brief but intense silence, François continued:
"Many such companies have tried to make a fortune by selling land to which they had no rightful claim. They are unscrupulous and careless of the consequences. We are allies of the Iroquois, but we do not control them. This is their land, and they are free to drive out any intruders who attempt to settle here."
Seeing the growing fear among the settlers, he sighed inwardly in relief.
From his point of view, it was a good sign.
"Our role is essentially to keep things from going too far—like, say, settlers being scalped… or their women and children being taken as slaves. We do our best to uphold the agreements between our kings and prevent bloodshed. You must leave—for your own safety."
The settlers' leader hesitated.
His musket trembled in his large, calloused hands.
"We can't leave. We gave up everything to come here."
François pressed his lips together.
"And if you stay, you risk losing what little you have left."
He paused, then added,
"Ah… Are there truly no lands left available in the colonies?"
Another settler answered in the leader's place.
"Not in the north, at least. And the rest are poor for farming."
François's expression shifted to one of concern.
He observed the group for a moment, then resumed, almost in a murmur:
"Well… perhaps there's another path. It won't be easy…"
"W-what path?" asked a young settler, torn between doubt and hope.
"You could join the French territories, swear allegiance to our king, accept our laws, and fulfill your duties."
The settlers were so stunned that their weapons naturally lowered.
But doubt quickly came rushing back.
The leader turned red with anger, insulted.
"Are you mocking us?! You expect us to renounce our king?! That's impossible!"
François remained unshaken.
"I understand your doubts and your anger. It may seem… unusual. But I assure you, it's neither absurd nor unheard of. In fact, in recent years, I've heard of many making that choice. Especially since your Parliament decided to make the colonies bear the cost of repaying the debts from the last war."
He let his words hang in the air and watched carefully as their expressions changed.
He saw the temptation taking root in their minds, growing like a seed planted in fertile soil.
"Britain has many colonists on limited land. France, on the other hand, has few colonists on vast territory. We're constantly short of hands. You could build something lasting there. Perhaps not on land as large as what you were promised, but certainly better than living in fear and illegality. I myself own a few acres near Fort Bourbon—Fort Edward, if you prefer—and I've heard the lands around Richelieu—well, Boston—are excellent. Converting to Catholicism would certainly help the process."
The mention of Boston sent a ripple through the crowd.
The contrast with their daily lives hit them with brutal clarity.
Isaac Trenton, the former sergeant in the New York militia, lowered his eyes to his musket.
He hadn't been aiming it at anyone for some time now.
The major's words had begun to sink in, slowly but surely.
What he had thought impossible just moments ago now seemed worth considering.
Of course, the idea of betraying King George repulsed him—just as much as abandoning his faith and his language.
But perhaps this was a new beginning.
The start of a great adventure.
An opportunity he would never have in the British colonies.
They said that those who had refused to return to British lands after the war and stayed in New France lived in misery, near slavery.
That they were oppressed, beaten, insulted day in and day out, crammed into slums.
But Isaac Trenton was no longer as sure of that as he once was.
Because of—or thanks to—his wife.
She had always been much smarter than him, and she had planted that doubt in his mind.
And the more he heard, the less he believed the rumors.
Though his resentment toward the French remained strong, years had passed, and living conditions in the colonies had only worsened.
Now, he had to think of his family.
"That's an offer… worth discussing. We… Please, allow us to talk it over."
His entire demeanor had shifted.
François nodded, understanding, and stepped back with his men.
After several minutes, Isaac returned—unarmed this time.
"We accept. But we'll need your help to reach New France safely."
"A wise decision, sir. We will escort you to the authorities of New France—not as prisoners, but as potential subjects. The process may take a little time, but if our superiors see potential in you, the procedures could move swiftly."
Isaac Trenton nodded slowly, then hesitated, as if struck by a pang of conscience.
"There's something you should know. We weren't alone. Our group split in two. The others went further, following the river."
"Ah, yes," François murmured, his stomach tightening."I was told you were about thirty when you left Albany."
The settler blinked rapidly, then composed himself.
"That's right. The other group's leader, William Travis, is… different. I don't know him well, but from what we've seen, he's likely to cause trouble."
"You mean he won't be easily convinced?"
"He'll fight. I'm sure of it. He won't back down."
Damn! That's exactly what I feared!
"Lieutenant Garnier, ready the men! And alert Captain Delmas! Time is of the essence!"
We must reach them before the Iroquois do—and stop them by any means necessary.