Hello everybody! Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
And my thanks to AlexZero12, Mium, Dekol347, dodolmantab, lizeer, Galan_05, Porthos10, and Ranger_Red for their support!
-----------------------------------------
Adam had only spent a few days at Fort Carillon—too little to feel truly rested, but enough to recover a semblance of humanity.
He took the opportunity to sleep, wash, and shave. Simple gestures, mundane in other times, had become luxuries he hadn't been able to afford for an entire month, when all his focus had been on the mission, his men, and survival.
Thanks to Martin, he was able to retrieve all the belongings he had left at Fort Bourbon. Among them was his Pirates of the Caribbean manuscript.
He didn't have many illusions: the text would likely never see the inside of a printing press, but at least he had tried. After all, one cannot accomplish anything without trying.
After a final read-through, he entrusted the manuscript to his friend, who would send it to his family in France.
On November 1st, the interlude came to an end.
Adam and his men left the fort after a final meeting with the general to set his plan in motion. The goal was to force the British into attacking Fort Carillon before they were truly ready—and before Montcalm left to rejoin the St. Lawrence Valley.
There were 140 of them: a composite group built around the core of his company, now merged with André Louis's.
Three companies from the Berry Regiment accompanied them—seasoned men who had faced hell at the Battle of Fort Carillon in July 1758.
These were led by Captains Jacques Collet (36 men), Philippe Deniers (33 men), and Hubert Belfour (31 men). None of the companies were at full strength, making Adam the officer with the most men under his command.
The fusion of Boucher's and Louis's companies was a temporary and emergency measure—just like the time Adam's company had been massacred by Akwiratheka's warriors at Fort Bourbon.
For Lieutenant Leblanc, it was less than ideal: he'd been officially demoted back to sergeant, though only on paper. In practice, he kept both his rank and pay.
Despite his young age—just twenty-four—Adam had been placed in command of the group because of his experience with petite guerre tactics.
For Adam, this was a trial—a test to see whether he had what it took to lead a force larger than just two companies.
Did he have what it took? He still didn't know. But he intended to prove himself.
This time, there's no turning back. I won't lose any more men.
There was neither pity nor hesitation in his eyes.
We'll drive those damned English mad.
They followed the narrow La Chute River and reached the northern tip of Lake George—where the British had disembarked three years earlier to attack Fort Bourbon. From there, they began moving south along the lake's western side, staying well hidden from roads frequented by enemy scouts.
The dense, silent forest offered them both shelter and ideal terrain for ambushes. Every rock, every rise, every bush became, for Adam and the men who had followed him through the Albany region, a potential firing position.
An army passing through could easily be targeted and significantly weakened long before reaching Fort Carillon.
Adam couldn't understand why such terrain hadn't been used by Montcalm back in 1758 when it was clear the enemy was advancing via the lake.
He could've bought at least a day's time to strengthen his defenses and wear down Abercrombie's forces even more.
Well, no use re-fighting that battle. He must've had his reasons. And in the end, we won—and brilliantly, at that. That's what matters most.
Taking the forest path had cost them time, but they arrived without incident and unnoticed at the southern end of Lake George.
The British were there, watching the roads and the water's surface.
They could have easily ambushed them, but Adam chose to circle around. His goal was to strike from behind—where the enemy was weakest.
His targets lay elsewhere, and he knew they would find them along the long road between Albany and Fort Bourbon.
Yet they didn't head that way immediately.
Instead, they turned southwest toward the Hudson River, making their way to the village of Chief Akwiratheka.
They arrived very late in the day, catching the locals by surprise—not because they had been discreet, but because word had already reached the village about what had happened at Fort Bourbon, now once again Fort Edward.
The French were properly received, but the welcome was not as warm as before. Adam exchanged a few words with Tayohseron and, after half an hour of waiting, was granted an audience with the chief and the matriarch.
Several warriors and elders were also present.
"Let's eat," the chief declared as steaming bowls were brought in. "We'll speak afterward."
Despite his impatience, Adam bowed respectfully. This was the chief's home. His rules applied.
At least, Adam thought as a portion of stew was placed in front of him, he's willing to talk.
The smell was enticing, though the bowl held more vegetables than meat—no surprise. It was the same with the colonists.
In Germany, he'd had more chances to eat meat.
Cows, chickens, and pigs were easy to find. If Marshal de Richelieu hadn't had such a massive army to feed back then, they could've eaten like kings.
As he chewed a piece of meat that had simmered for hours, he suddenly recalled his old meals—his other life. He used to eat this kind of food often, in many forms. Pretty much every day.
Minced beef, sausages, ribeye steak, lamb chops, chicken breast, turkey fillet, veal paupiettes, stuffed tomatoes, salmon steaks, haddock fillets, breaded fish… the list went on.
Flashes of memory returned, jostling and blending in his mind. Calf's liver, just the way his father used to make it—with lots of butter and fresh parsley. The time his parents had tried to make him taste blood sausage.
He smiled faintly, touched with melancholy.
"Well, we can talk," began the towering Mohawk in a deep voice. "Though I've got a pretty good idea what brings you here."
Adam straightened slightly, uneasy.
While waiting outside Akwiratheka's longhouse, he had rehearsed what he was going to say.
"First of all," he began in a calm tone, "please know that I'm not speaking on behalf of my general. It was my idea to come here… and to make the proposal I'm about to offer."
Akwiratheka raised an eyebrow. The matriarch, her eyelids closed as always, leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"As you know, Fort Bourbon has fallen back into English hands. It's unfortunate, but that's how it is. The frontier has shifted again—it now lies north of Lake George, at Fort Carillon."
They nodded silently.
Of course they knew where he was and what forces he had. Tayohseron had even watched from a distance during the terrible battle in which a small French force had defeated a gigantic British army.
"Marquis de Montcalm and the English general—Murray, if I'm not mistaken—came to an agreement. That's what allowed them to retreat with all their arms and baggage. According to that agreement, the entire garrison is forbidden from taking up arms against General Murray's army. They're bound to stand down for five months. However, the agreement has a weakness. My mission is to exploit it… and take Fort Bourbon back."
"Oh?" Akwiratheka asked with interest. "The English made a mistake?"
"Several, actually," Adam replied confidently.
"My boy," interrupted the old matriarch in a faint voice, more and more like an ancient tree, "are you sure you want to share this information with us? If you don't have your general's permission, you could land yourself in serious trouble, couldn't you?"
Adam smiled sincerely.
"I trust you," he said simply. "The English general forced Montcalm to retreat to Fort Carillon, but he left behind a fort in terrible shape—ravaged by a month-long siege, with no food. True, the English general commands a large army—but he doesn't have much to feed it. Everyone knows Fort Carillon is a storage site. There's plenty of food there. He'll be tempted to go after it, even with winter fast approaching."
The Mohawks around the fire nodded. Everything sounded logical and true.
"With Montcalm preparing to pull back, the English will soon have a golden opportunity: to take Fort Carillon—and with it, enough food to survive the winter without fearing hunger. Drunk on success, he might even press on to Montreal."
"I still don't see the Englishman's mistake," Akwiratheka said firmly, pushing him to get to the point.
"His first mistake," Adam said, "is us. He didn't consider that not all the French in the region are bound by that agreement. While the siege was ongoing, we were attacking his supply convoys. And we were successful. There were only eighty of us, and yet we killed over five hundred of them."
"F-five hundred?! Impossible!" the great chief exclaimed.
Even the matriarch was surprised. She opened her eyes—just enough for a spark to show.
They were ink-black, but reflected the orange glow of the central fire.
"I swear it. May I be damned if I lie. Of course, we didn't face them in open ground in a single pitched battle. We set nine or ten ambushes, and each time, we took down a large number of redcoats."
He shook his head with a sorrowful look, as if trying to brush away a painful memory.
"Alas, we were so few. We couldn't steal all their wagons. We had to take what we could and destroy the rest by fire. A hundred wagons, chief! What a waste!"
The chief couldn't help but salivate at the thought of all that loot going up in smoke.
"Because we're free to act, we'll keep up our attacks. This time, there are a hundred and forty of us. That's far better than before, but against British convoys, we'll still have to burn everything."
"Ah, I see…"
"The English will be furious—and starving, very soon. They'll then have a choice to make: wait until we're eliminated and their supply lines are secure, pull back out of our reach… or attack Fort Carillon to plunder our stores."
"That's an easy decision," the chief mused, cracking his back.
"Isn't it? And that's when the English general will make his second mistake. General Abercrombie already broke his teeth on Carillon's defenses, even with sixteen thousand men under his command. That fort is no pushover. But if the new general rushes in, and Montcalm is still there, then he'll have to fight to survive. The treaty will be broken—and Montcalm will be free to pursue the British once they fail for lack of means and preparation."
"Ah, I understand. But if I follow your reasoning, everything depends on you."
"That, I hope, is his third mistake, Chief. He hasn't accounted for you."
"For us?"
His expression shifted from surprise to anger.
"I thought I'd been clear, little Frenchman. I don't want to be involved in your wars anymore. Neither I, nor my clan. My warriors have bled enough."
"And we must follow the Council's guidance," added the matriarch seriously. "We cannot get involved."
"Officially, that's true. But unofficially?"
"What do you mean by that?" Tayohseron interjected, having remained silent until now, though he'd been listening intently.
"Do you know the Dutch?" Adam asked in return. "They're a European republic whose power is based on trade. To my knowledge, they don't have colonies on this continent. But on the other side of the world, they rule a vast empire. Officially, they aren't at war with Great Britain, but that didn't stop them from seizing territory. Very wealthy territory. Thanks to us. And no one judged them for it."
"And Britain didn't declare war on them?" Tayohseron asked, visibly intrigued.
"No, because they don't have the means to fight another nation. War means peace treaties. The Dutch took what they wanted and went no further. If they officially enter the war, they'll be able to demand more when King George is forced to sign a treaty."
Akwiratheka frowned more deeply, clearly disappointed.
"You want us to be like the Dutch? Attack the English without being truly at war with them?"
"The dead don't speak, Chief. We'll take the blame for these targeted attacks. But again, no one will judge us—we're already at war. If you agree, I'll leave you everything those English wagons carry… or at least everything you can carry away. What do you say?"
Akwiratheka narrowed his eyes, displeased but a little tempted.
"You want to buy my people's help? My warriors' blood?"
"No, Chief. I'm asking for your help."
Adam cleared his throat and glanced around discreetly. Everyone was watching him, waiting for his next words.
"The wagons would be your reward for your efforts. This isn't a contract—it's a sharing. And besides, Chief Akwiratheka, when you fought alongside the English against us, you lost many warriors. What did they give you in return? Nothing, I bet. Isn't it only just to take their food, their weapons, and their powder?"
A young warrior in the shadows whispered something to his neighbor. Others nodded.
The idea was gaining ground.
"It won't bring back your dead," Adam finished in a low tone, "but it will serve the living."
The chief folded his arms across his chest, silent. He glanced briefly at his sister, the matriarch, but saw no clear answer in her expression.
She remained silent, still, unreadable.
Akwiratheka locked eyes with Adam.
"You and your men will sleep here tonight. This is an important decision. We need time to consider your proposal. Tomorrow, I will give you my answer."
Adam bowed low.
"Thank you, Chief."
It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.
Adam left the chief's longhouse and made his way to his men, who were waiting in formation in the center of the village.
He exchanged a few words with his officers, then spotted a face he'd been hoping to see again for a long time. His heart leapt in his chest.
By some miracle, Onatah seemed even more beautiful than the last time. It made him wonder if she was hiding some secret behind it.
She exchanged a glance and a smile with him, then gave him a discreet signal. She wanted him to follow her, away from prying eyes.
"Gentlemen, I still need to check something over there. Come find me if there's an emergency. Only if it's urgent."
With hurried steps, Adam set off in pursuit of the chief's daughter, trying not to draw attention. That wasn't easy, given who he was.
He followed her at a respectful distance toward the rear of the village, where a long building leaned against the palisade. From the outside, it looked like any other dwelling.
But as soon as he entered, he felt the difference.
The inside lacked the warmth of a living space. It was a storage building, sparse and perfectly organized.
The Mohawks could store huge amounts of supplies here without needing wooden crates. The provisions were arranged in niches, like honeycombs in a hive.
"Onatah?" he whispered.
A hand shot out of the shadows and pulled him inside in one swift movement. From the outside, it was as if he had vanished.
Surprised, Adam tensed… then relaxed immediately upon feeling a soft, warm pressure on his lips. Onatah's body moved closer to his and nestled against him.
Shorter than him, she must have stood on tiptoe and grabbed his face with both hands to force him to lean down.
Adam wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her more firmly. He had far more experience than she did—and more strength too.
In a flash, he took the lead, which clearly didn't displease the young Mohawk.
It almost felt like a fight.
Their hearts pounded furiously, in unison, within the silence of the storehouse. Their faces grew red and burning.
And as soon as their lips parted to catch their breath, they lunged at each other again, as if that first round had only been a warm-up.
Their passion clouded their minds. The temptation to go further was strong.
But they couldn't.
Not before marriage.
Onatah was deeply attached to tradition. Less than previous generations, perhaps, but still enough to keep her from making a mistake.
As for Adam, he mostly feared Akwiratheka's reaction. If the chief found out what they had done, he would be furious.
The rupture of neutrality between the French and the Iroquois would, without a doubt, be the least of his concerns.
With his Herculean strength, Akwiratheka had more than enough to break every bone in Adam's body. Adam would probably be lucky to just get a tomahawk to the skull and a quick death.
Despite the progress in their relationship, it was important not to forget who the Mohawks were, or what they were capable of.
"W-we should stop here… for now," Onatah whispered, breathless as if she had just run a marathon.
"For now," Adam agreed, reluctantly.
His heart screamed injustice, his brain congratulated him, and the rest of him cried betrayal. If they had been alone, isolated in a cabin deep in the woods, he might not have been able to hold back.
His only consolation was seeing that Onatah was in the same state as he was.
She hugged Adam, holding him tightly as if he might disappear like a dream, and rested her head against his chest. She could clearly hear the furious pounding of his heart.
Adam returned the embrace and let his head rest on Onatah's soft hair. He wished he could stay like that for hours.
For the first time in a long while, he felt truly at peace.
"We should go. Someone might start getting suspicious," the young woman said as she slowly stepped back and fixed her hair.
"Probably," Adam replied, kissing her once more, gently. "One last for the road," he whispered.
Onatah smiled, then stepped out of the longhouse. No one in sight.
She gestured to him, and he followed a few seconds later. They passed in front of the mysterious stele of the Great Peacemaker, where they parted ways, and Adam returned to his men.
Most of them didn't seem to suspect anything, but he did catch a few knowing smiles within the company. Embarrassed, he avoided their gazes and gave a few additional orders, or repeated ones that were obvious.
They were then taken to a longhouse where they crammed in together. At a hundred and forty, it was tight, but not impossible.
The lower-ranked soldiers had to sleep on the floor, on hides generously provided by the Mohawks. Still exhausted from their activities of the previous month, the forty men of his company were the first to fall asleep.
-----------------------------------------
The night passed, interrupted by showers mixing rain and hail.
Out of habit, Adam woke up very early. Around him, a few snores could be heard, some louder than others.
One of his men—he didn't know which—sounded just like a saw cutting wood. It made him smile.
Silently, he got up from his bedding and slipped outside the longhouse. He felt like he was walking through a minefield.
The pale light of approaching dawn gave the still-sleeping village a bluish tint.
The air was freezing, and a thick white plume formed in front of him with every breath. Compared to the warmth of the longhouse he had just left, the contrast was brutal.
It felt like a slap in the face.
The contrast was even sharper within his own body. The cold air burned his lungs with each inhale.
"Damn, it's freezing," he muttered to himself.
Must be around one or two degrees. And it's only November. This winter's going to be harsh.
Adam looked around. Few Natives were in sight. Some stood guard, others were already leaving to hunt or cut wood.
All were warmly dressed—far better than him and his men. With a touch of envy, he watched them walk away.
He wandered a bit, aimlessly, and ended up in front of the stele left by the Great Peacemaker. His gaze slid over the characters carved into the stone, still sharp despite the passage of time.
He still couldn't understand what was written, and that intrigued him.
I wonder who he was, this Great Peacemaker… More importantly, who he was before traveling back in time. If only I could translate that…
There were numbers, dates. That was all he could read. But it didn't help much.
He chose to stay… rather than go back and find his family. Maybe… he didn't have one anymore. Or maybe he decided that his life was here. I wish I could have met him. We would've had a lot to talk about…