New Mission

Thank you Mium, Jon_Laed, Pimbadeiro, First_Time_****, ThisguyAEl, Dekol347 and Porthos10 for the support! 

Here is a new chapter!

Enjoy!

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The day felt endless for Adam. The image of Albert wouldn't leave his mind, and he constantly dreaded that the operation might go wrong.

He didn't want to lose another friend.

In his restless thoughts, the worst-case scenario began to take shape: a long column of exhausted, defeated soldiers, struggling to carry their fallen comrades. He could almost see dozens of lifeless figures covered with white sheets in the courtyard of Fort Bourbon.

Throughout the operation, those who had stayed at the fort were assigned an important task: to lay the foundations of a road that would eventually connect Fort Bourbon to Fort Carillon.

Their large numbers allowed them to make quick progress, and within about ten hours, they had dug out the first three hundred meters. The task had been relatively easy on this stretch, as the land around the fort was clear, but everyone knew this wouldn't last.

As they progressed, they would have to fell massive trees, uproot the stumps, and level the ground before finally digging the base of the road as they had done that day.

This project promised to be extremely long.

In a brief exchange with the military engineer in charge of the project, Monsieur de Pontleroy, Adam understood the monumental effort it would require. Even if they worked like slaves all summer, they could only hope to open four or five kilometers of road.

An entire year would barely suffice to reach the southern tip of Lake George, and that was assuming ideal conditions—a far cry from the reality of war, the terrain, and the climate.

In other words, this war would be over long before the road was completed. Yet, it didn't make it any less necessary.

Unlike his men, Adam ended his day without being exhausted. A captain could not afford to take up a shovel or pickaxe and work alongside his soldiers.

His role had primarily been to supervise and ensure the military engineer's instructions were perfectly executed.

Still, even though he hadn't worked in the dust, he too had suffered from the heat, which became oppressive after noon. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched in sweat, and he longed for a good shower.

He allowed his men to go to the river to clean themselves, which they greeted with enthusiasm. However, they would have to wear their foul-smelling uniforms again the next day, except for their shirts, which they were supposed to have spares of.

As his soldiers quickly dried off, a movement caught Adam's attention. The two teams sent out to eliminate Rogers' Rangers were finally returning.

He rushed to the road and immediately noticed that many of the men were injured. They were advancing with difficulty, some leaning on their comrades to keep from collapsing.

A few lifeless, cold bodies, carried with care, bore witness to the inevitable losses of the operation.

Adam's heart tightened. His large blue eyes scanned each man, frantically searching every face for his friend's. With every passing second, his anxiety grew.

Where is he? Damn it, where is he? Albert!

Then, finally, near the end of the column, he spotted his friend alongside his lieutenant. Dressed like a civilian, Albert was advancing slowly, supported by his loyal subordinate. He was injured, yes, but alive. His complexion was pale, but his thin lips stretched into a broad, weary smile, just like everyone else.

My God, he made it! He's alive! Thank you, my God!

Adam felt all his muscles suddenly relax, nearly causing him to collapse. Warm tears of relief streamed down his cheeks.

Their eyes met, and Albert, despite his visible pain, gave him a radiant smile. Adam responded with a wave, barely managing to contain the overwhelming emotion tightening his throat.

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In the building reserved for Fort Bourbon's highest-ranking officers, several candles illuminated the spacious room, which suddenly seemed rather small. All the officers were present, but none below the rank of lieutenant.

Adam, positioned toward the back, carefully observed the men in attendance, particularly the imposing figure of the Marquis de Montcalm.

Standing firmly behind his desk, majestic and upright, his sharp gaze gave him the aura of a Marshal of France. This time, he wore a light cream-colored coat that was slightly too large, as he hadn't been able to have it adjusted after losing nearly ten kilos in less than three weeks.

The room was eerily silent, broken only by the faint scratching of a quill on paper and the creaking of the wooden floorboards.

Albert stood in the front row, facing the Marquis. He had changed back into his uniform, impeccable despite everything he'd been through, and Adam had to admit it suited him far better than civilian clothing.

Not far from him, Colonel de Hautoy, more richly dressed—which was entirely appropriate given his rank and title—looked very proud and dignified. One might have thought he was about to be rewarded by His Majesty.

His splendid gilded-hilted sword hung at his belt, resting against his slightly bent leg, which throbbed with the pain of a fortunately minor injury sustained during the high-risk operation. His uniform was immaculate and featured several elements he had added at his own expense to enhance its appearance.

On his tricorne, for instance, a few long white feathers protruded and gracefully draped down the sides.

He had also added embroidery along the edges of his coat and jacket, making his uniform unique.

"Sir," he declared in a clear voice despite the pain in his leg, which felt as though it had been beaten with a burning iron rod, "the ambush was a success. It took place as planned on the trail leading to Albany, as we pretended to have an issue with one of our wagons."

His naturally powerful voice echoed throughout the room, so that despite the number of people present, there was no need to make any effort to hear him.

Adam, his heart pounding with pride despite not having participated in the action, listened intently.

"As expected, the terrain worked in our favor. With a steep slope on one side of the road, our enemies could only attack us from the other. My team endured heavy fire for several long minutes, suffering significant losses, but managed to achieve its objectives: preventing the enemy from deploying as they intended to cut off our retreat."

The captains who had served under de Hautoy nodded silently, their faces showing signs of pain.

Their mission had been extremely difficult. They had to put up a cohesive resistance, avoid endangering the other team, and retreat at the right moment, all while maintaining order in the ranks to allow the second team to play its role.

"We deeply regret," continued the colonel in a heavy voice, "the loss of Captain Guillaume Louvain of the Royal Roussillon regiment, killed by a bullet to the head."

"His courage and his name," said the Marquis de Montcalm calmly but in a solemn tone, "will not be forgotten. Please, continue, Colonel."

Colonel de Hautoy inclined his head and resumed:

"The enemy, sheltered by the nearby trees, suffered fewer losses under our fire despite all our efforts. When our ranks became too depleted, we retreated to the designated point. I will now hand over the floor to Captain Briscard, who was in charge of the second team."

The officer, whom Adam immediately recognized, wore his usual serious expression. He stepped forward and gave his report.

"Our second team, disguised as chained prisoners, remained inactive throughout the first phase of the operation. Everyone played their role properly, which led the enemy to emerge from their cover. However, they quickly realized that those we had disguised as women were, in fact, men. We were forced to initiate the second phase of the operation prematurely. Despite this, thanks to the discipline and skill of our soldiers, we managed to take down a large number of their men. We counted sixty-eight bodies at the end of the skirmish."

"And their leader?" the marquis asked in a pressing tone, as though this man were the most important person in the world. "Major Robert Rogers—did he die?"

"He seems to have escaped, sir. However, we did kill his second-in-command, a certain John Stark. A captured prisoner confirmed his identity for us."

"A prisoner," murmured the marquis, nodding slowly and thoughtfully. "I see. How many others did you capture?"

"A dozen, sir. Mostly young recruits, it seems."

"A dozen, you say? That's not too bad. We'll decide later what to do with them. What were your losses, Captain?"

"Forty-one men, sir," the captain responded with a stoic voice. "We also have about twenty seriously wounded and as many lightly wounded."

Montcalm nearly choked upon hearing the higher-than-expected number.

"F-forty-one?! Th-those are significant losses, Captain! Ah, but they are understandable. Those damned rangers! They've been pillaging our lands and massacring our people for years! Their leader must be seething with rage after such a defeat! I will write to the Marshal and His Majesty to inform them of this."

Montcalm let out a deep sigh, struggling to come to terms with the defeat of such a troublesome enemy. But as long as he lived, he remained a threat, and Montcalm was well aware of this.

As if reading his thoughts, Captain Briscard expressed his concerns.

"Sir, we must not relax our efforts now. The enemy is weakened but not destroyed. As long as their leader lives, he remains a threat. He can rebuild his forces, especially if he gains the support of the British regular army. If I'm not mistaken, they don't particularly like him but recognize his usefulness."

"That's true," Montcalm reluctantly agreed. "His capacity for harm is undoubtedly high. That's precisely why I requested reinforcements from the Marshal-Duke. And I fear that even if he were to die, he would likely be replaced. His men can infiltrate our territories too easily and cause significant damage. It's safe to assume that His British Majesty will continue to employ such units to harm our kingdom's interests."

"Sir," Briscard said, "perhaps we should seriously consider forming a similar unit ourselves?"

Montcalm grimaced as though he had swallowed the foulest fruit or smelled the most nauseating odor. He looked at Captain Briscard with displeasure but refrained from contradicting him harshly.

The idea went against all his principles, but if the Marshal and the King approved it, he would lose face.

"I'll think about it," he said simply to avoid committing himself. "Do you have anything else to add?"

Captain Briscard shook his head, as did Colonel de Bréhant, who had not said a word. At that moment, a timid hand rose among the ranks.

All eyes turned toward the officer, and the Marquis de Bréhant raised an eyebrow in surprise upon recognizing him.

The Marquis de Montcalm eyed the officer who timidly raised his hand with suspicion and recognized him as well. He remembered his name because he was the one who had invented rugby.

"Captain Boucher, isn't it? What would you like to add?" he asked coldly, his tone betraying his mistrust.

Adam met the dark gaze of Colonel de Bréhant, who seemed to command him not to say anything foolish. He swallowed hard but couldn't back out now that everyone was staring at him with curiosity.

"Sir, um, if I may, I… I was thinking of making a suggestion."

"Speak," Montcalm said coldly, his gaze even firmer than the colonel's, as if expecting the worst.

"M-maybe we could… um, consider asking the Iroquois to help us track down what's left of Rogers' men?"

A deafening silence exploded in the room. You could hear a pin drop.

Adam's heart pounded so hard it felt like everyone was speaking at once right next to his ears.

"I-I was thinking that they… Well, they know these forests even better than those rangers. They should be able to find and eliminate them for us."

Montcalm turned as pale as paper, and his teeth began to grind. His anger was immense, but he couldn't explode while the officers present were already evaluating the feasibility of the suggestion.

"Captain," Montcalm hissed, "the Iroquois…"

He was about to say out of habit that they were their enemies, but that was no longer entirely the case. He adjusted his response as naturally as possible.

"The Iroquois are not our allies. At best, they are trading partners. They sell us their furs just as they do with the British. We've only signed a peace treaty, which means we can't call on them the way we might have with, for instance, the Abenaki."

"But… but can't we at least try?" Adam insisted, doing his best to withstand the pressure the marquis was exerting on him.

The marquis, simply by looking at him, seemed intent on crushing him like an ant. Fortunately, he unexpectedly found an ally in Captain Briscard.

"Sir, we risk nothing by asking them. We have nothing to lose. Worst case, they'll refuse so as not to anger the British. If they accept, they'll have crossed a line that will naturally push them toward our camp."

"Captain Briscard is not wrong," added Colonel de Hautoy. "We could frame it differently: the British, through these Rogers's Rangers, are making trade with your tribes difficult. Help us make the region safer."

The marquis's expression softened slightly, but he still didn't seem convinced. He turned toward Colonel de Bréhant.

"And you, sir, what do you think?"

Colonel de Bréhant tore his gaze away from his young subordinate and looked at the other officers in turn. He sighed and shrugged slightly.

"As Captain Briscard said, I don't think we risk anything by trying. If they can eliminate those bandits for us, so much the better. If not, too bad. We'll have to manage on our own."

The Marquis de Montcalm shook his head, seeing that he was not supported by his closest officers. He turned to the young captain who had initiated this discussion.

"Captain Boucher, if I'm not mistaken, you managed to enter one of their villages, didn't you? You were able to meet their chief?"

"Uh…"

Adam immediately thought of the towering Mohawk chief with an unpronounceable name who resembled Hulk. If he wasn't mistaken, the man had told him he'd kill him one day for taking his son hostage.

"I-I mainly spoke with the matriarch, who is sort of an advisor. And she speaks perfect French."

"Good. Will you be able to find your way back to their village?"

"Y-yes, sir," Adam stammered, fully understanding what was happening.

"In that case, you will go there and speak with this matriarch. You will represent us and His Majesty, so be up to the task."

Adam's heart suddenly tightened in his chest. Now they were asking him to act as a diplomat, despite his lack of experience and his mere rank of captain.

Why just me?! Can't I be under someone's supervision?! Why isn't the colonel going?!

As he questioned himself, his inner voice screaming in his head, he realized.

Fuck, he doesn't want to risk losing a senior officer! He's using me as a crash test! Bastard!

"A-at your orders, sir!"

SHIT!

"Then it's decided. You leave tomorrow. We're counting on you."

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The meeting ended shortly thereafter, and as expected, Colonel de Bréhant pulled Adam aside. His expression was severe, though it was nothing compared to the earlier moment.

"You were quite bold, Captain," he said.

"I-I'm sorry, Colonel. I should have consulted you first. I didn't think… I-I raised my hand, thinking… uh…"

"Indeed, I would have preferred that you consult me first, especially when it's to speak up like that in front of so many officers. Don't forget that what you do has repercussions on those around you.

Think carefully before acting. The same applies to your soldiers. When one of your men makes a mistake, it reflects on you. Similarly, when he covers himself in glory, it reflects on you as well."

"I'm sorry."

"You've already apologized once. I appreciate initiative, don't get me wrong, but be careful not to confuse courage with foolishness. The line between the two is thin and often unclear."

"Yes! I'll be more mindful in the future."

"Good. Good. Also, keep this in mind: a mistake can happen. When it's repeated, it becomes a fault. I don't want to be caught off guard like that again. You may go."