The Hunt

Hello everyone! Here's a new chapter! I hope you'll like it!

It's a bit long, but I'd rather not split it and leave it as it is.

Enjoy your reading!

And thank you Pimpadeiro, Mium, Microraptor, Porthos10, Dekol347, Shingle_Top, ThisguyAEl, Ranger_Red and Taizilla for the support!

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When Adam returned safely to Fort Bourbon, escorted by his men, he was welcomed as a hero by his comrades. From their perspective, it took great bravery to venture into Indian territory, especially Mohawk territory.

This glory naturally extended to Colonel de Bréhant and his entire regiment.

The success of the negotiations, even if only partial—since Chief Akwiratheka had no intention of hunting down the detestable rangers of Robert Rogers for them—was an unexpected outcome.

The Marquis de Montcalm, who had expected nothing, was the first to be surprised. Though he had only been on this continent since the start of the war, he had quickly understood who these people were—these "savages," as he disdainfully called them (though never to their faces).

France could demand nothing from its indigenous allies, only hope.

Even with their oldest allies, negotiations were always necessary.

Very satisfied with the work of Captain Boucher—Adam—Montcalm decided to reward him by promising him a few days of rest when the opportunity arose. But the luxury of respite was rare in New France.

The vastness of the land, its low level of development, and the technological constraints meant that his only real prospect for relaxation was in Montreal—a city still modest compared to the great European capitals.

And even that semblance of leave felt like a disguised mission, for as an officer, he had the duty to recruit new soldiers during that time.

Unfortunately, those days of rest were unlikely to come anytime soon. As Adam had reported upon his arrival, the redcoats would soon be receiving reinforcements from England.

At once, Fort Bourbon sprang into action. The senior officers launched new preparations in anticipation of another siege. The fortifications were inspected, gunpowder and food supplies were counted, and guard shifts were reorganized.

A swift rider was also sent to Quebec to alert the aging Governor Vaudreuil.

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The days passed quickly, each one resembling the last. The soldiers and officers found themselves burdened with a mountain of daily tasks, and in the blink of an eye, July had arrived.

By the end of the month—on the 26th, to be precise—Adam would "celebrate" his second anniversary in this body and this era.

The mere thought of it made his head spin.

He struggled to grasp that it had almost been two years since he arrived. Two years of living a life that was his, yet not truly his—fighting, surviving, adapting.

He wondered if time was still passing normally on the other side. That was how he saw things, knowing nothing of the mysterious and incredibly rare phenomenon that had brought him here.

He supposed—or rather, he hoped—that nothing he had done in this era had dramatically altered the future, at least not for his family. If his ancestors had been born as they should have, met as they were meant to, had children as they were destined to—leading down to him—then he should still be lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and terribly weak.

Perhaps his mother visited him every day, holding his hand, telling him about her day, hoping her words could reach him, while nurses tended to him to ensure he didn't die of hunger or thirst.

Perhaps, after all this time lying still, he looked like an ancient mummy, with long hair just as he wore it now.

Or maybe… maybe he had it all wrong.

Not knowing was unbearably painful. But what was even worse was realizing that, as time went on, he thought less and less about his original world.

He was so preoccupied with life here that days could pass without a single thought of his parents, even though he missed them terribly.

Adam felt less and less like a stranger in this era. He felt more and more at home in this world.

That terrifying realization, more than anything else, was unbearable.

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On the morning of July 4, 1759, the Mohawks arrived at the entrance of Fort Bourbon.

True to their promise, they had located the remnants of Rogers' unit. They would lead the French to them—but what happened next would be up to the French.

That day, the Marquis de Montcalm assembled a considerable force to annihilate the unit that had long been a thorn in New France's side. Soon, their reign of terror would come to an end.

Nearly half of his forces were mobilized for this grand operation. He had no intention of using half-measures, fearing that his old enemy would once again escape.

He left at Fort Bourbon only what was necessary for its defense, along with all the wounded men and the companies that were too weakened.

Thus, Albert Fontaine's company remained at the fort, unlike the one under Adam's command.

Under a bright sun, Adam marched at the head of his men along the road leading to Albany. They carried no baggage or artillery, lest it slow them down.

Thanks to the mild weather, the French soldiers moved swiftly, kicking up a large cloud of dust in their wake. Fortunately, the troop led by Montcalm himself was not that large—just over a thousand men—otherwise, they could have been spotted from afar.

Guided by three Mohawk warriors—ironically, the same who had fought alongside the British a year earlier at the Battle of Fort Carillon—the French silently left the road near a large, partially uprooted dead oak tree and entered the forest.

The woods were dense and dark in this area. The thick vegetation made progress difficult, as if the Indians had chosen the worst possible path. Before long, they reached a stream flowing into the Hudson River, and from there, their march became easier.

The stream made a soothing sound, tempting those who passed by to slow down and enjoy the enchanting surroundings. Its gentle murmur contrasted with the growing tension among the troops.

Through the crystal-clear water, one could see small pebbles smoothed by the constant yet weak current, a few strands of algae, and tiny silver fish whose delicate scales reflected a fleeting ray of sunlight like a mirror.

A dragonfly of astonishing size flew over Adam's head, then followed the course of the stream as if it were a road before vanishing behind a thick bush the size of an ox.

Ah… This place is beautiful. Makes you want to stop and lie down in the grass.

Adam let out a discreet sigh and refocused on what was happening around him. Gradually, the air grew heavier above the modest troop, which, in Europe, would not have impressed anyone.

He could feel his men's tension.

Looks like we're getting close. The soldiers are getting more and more tense.

No one spoke.

The men were so focused on the upcoming fight that they didn't even exchange jokes. Only a few whispered orders disturbed the oppressive silence.

From the start, they had been ordered to remain discreet so as not to alert their enemies before everyone was in position.

Following the Mohawk warriors' instructions, the French soldiers slowed down and formed a long line among the trees.

In such rugged terrain, this line could only be grotesque, resembling a pale gray serpent. The senior officers and the most experienced captains quickly issued orders to reshape it into a sort of massive encirclement.

At the center of the trap lay Robert Rogers' encampment, seemingly unaware that they were surrounded. His sentries, few but strategically placed, had been silently eliminated without the Indians' intervention.

Hidden in the shadow of a thick bush, Adam spotted one of them to his right, getting his throat slit by a man as swift and silent as an Iroquois.

He was a recruit at the upper age limit for enlistment, from another company that, like Adam's, had needed to fill its ranks with young, inexperienced soldiers. This man, however, had a head start—he had been a trapper for years.

The man in green, who had turned to relieve himself against a tree, died without ever seeing his killer's face.

A French soldier clamped a hand over his victim's mouth, lowering him gently so he made no sound as he perished. Bright red blood gushed from his throat, staining the grass and moss before seeping into the thirsty soil.

As if he had done this all his life, the soldier concealed the body in a nearby bush and signaled to his comrades that the way was clear.

Gulp!

Damn, he got him so easily! Adam thought, suppressing a cold shiver. I hope the others won't run into trouble.

They were ultimately too few to effectively surround the enemy camp, which was larger than anticipated. Their ranks were thin, making the encirclement fragile. Ideally, they would have formed a deadly vise with at least two rows of men, but here, that wasn't an option.

Each soldier stood several meters apart from his nearest comrade.

Adam gestured to his men, and they began to move forward. One step. Then another.

Nervous despite their clear numerical advantage, the young captain tightened his grip on his pistol in his left hand and his sword in his right.

Still, he tried to conceal his own anxiety to avoid unsettling his men, who were already tense enough.

At last, the enemy camp came into view between the trees. Sturdy cabins were neatly arranged, forming a perimeter around a central campfire.

Dozens of soldiers were busy with various tasks, and with each passing second, more seemed to emerge.

Adam raised a hand, and his men froze, each trying to make themselves as small as a mouse. They had to wait to strike all at once.

Unfortunately, without radios, coordinating an attack was difficult.

Montcalm had no choice but to rely on swift men to relay his orders, which inevitably caused delays and potential misunderstandings. That was the reality for every commander of this era.

A good commander had to account for such constraints in all his decisions, ensuring his instructions were clear so every action was carried out as intended.

They must be at least a hundred in that camp. Maybe a hundred and fifty. Fuck! How did they manage to hide this? Adam wondered as he watched a soldier place a large pot over the modest campfire while another approached with dry wood. Without the Iroquois' help, we never would have found these bastards!

In reality, it was only one of Rogers' Rangers' camps. To limit the risks, they had built another camp in the woods, far from the roads but close enough to Fort Bourbon to launch an attack or, if necessary, send out reconnaissance men.

Montcalm and his officers, however, did not rule out the possibility that there were one or two more in the area.

A rustling of leaves and the crack of a branch to his left caught his attention, and Adam saw a soldier from the Royal Roussillon Regiment approaching.

"Captain Boucher," whispered the newcomer, a man with black hair and a hooked nose who seemed to be in his thirties. "Captain Briscard has received orders from the marquis. Your men must advance twenty more steps and be ready to fire."

Adam looked ahead to visualize where he should position his men.

"You will only fire at the first gunshot," he breathed very softly, as if the men in green could hear him from here. "It will come from the other side of the camp within fifteen minutes. If you have no questions, I still need to see Captain Colmard and warn him. Good luck."

"Thank you, you too," the man replied in a barely audible voice before disappearing westward among the massive tree trunks.

Fifteen minutes... This is going to feel long.

And indeed, they felt endless for the young officer and his men.

As ordered, they had very cautiously advanced twenty steps, gaining a better position while exposing themselves more. Every meter mattered and could improve their accuracy.

Finally, several dozen gunshots rang out at the same time from the opposite side of their position, shattering the silence. Chaos ensued.

"FIRE!" Adam roared with all his might, startling his subordinates, who then fired at the men in green caught off guard.

A hundred meters away, give or take, Robert Rogers' rangers were panicking, desperately looking for cover. They leaped behind trees, under carts, and into cabins to escape the deadly downpour raining down on them from all directions. But there was no escape.

All around the camp, white smoke plumes rose, revealing the positions of the French attackers.

The rangers, despite being trained to react quickly, wavered under the shock. Against such an onslaught of violence and such an overwhelming force, they could do nothing but die.

"Reload! Fire at will!"

Adam, standing firm among his men near a massive pine tree, raised his still-smoking pistol once more and fired at a man exposing his back while aiming at the Frenchmen on the opposite side, where Montcalm was supposed to be.

Bang!

As soon as he pulled the trigger, the flint produced a yellow spark that ignited the gunpowder above, then inside the weapon. The shot echoed through the smoke-filled air, rattling his bones, and his arm twitched from the recoil.

The man took the bullet in the lower back—very low—and a cry of pain pierced through the turmoil.

"Argh! Fuck! Ah, that hurts! I took a bullet in the ass!" (in English)

Adam raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue as he saw the soldier clutch his rear in pain. He had aimed for his head.

Before the man could crawl to cover, another shot struck him in the ribs. He collapsed onto his side, joining the many corpses littering the dry grass.

The assault lasted just under thirty minutes and ended in a decisive French victory. At ten to one, no other outcome would have been acceptable.

The entire scene did not escape the Mohawks, who remained mere observers—impassive spectators to this carnage.

Only two prisoners were taken; all the others had been brutally massacred.

Adam wiped the blade of his sword on a piece of cloth to keep his fine scabbard free of blood and joined the other officers, particularly those he knew and got along with.

"Gentlemen," Montcalm declared, his voice dignified and full of authority, "we must strike while the iron is hot. Captain Trouet, I am leaving you in charge of the prisoners and of seizing all weapons, supplies, and ammunition. Leave nothing, or as little as possible, behind."

"At your command! But my company alone will not be enough, my lord. May I have the support of at least one other company?"

"Hmm, very well. Captain Courrier, you will stay as well. I saw they had several carts—use them to clear out this camp. No need to rejoin us after unloading everything at Fort Bourbon. As for the rest of you, ensure your men have enough cartridges. We are moving on to attack the second camp."

Adam let out a discreet sigh of relief; he did not want to miss this golden opportunity that might allow him to distinguish himself and accumulate merit.

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The troops set off again half an hour later, with the sun high in the sky. They reached their second objective around five in the afternoon.

The air had grown very warm, but it was still bearable.

The second encampment of Rogers' Rangers was located in a hard-to-reach and easily defensible area. Its natural defenses made it more difficult to attack, but the French had strength in numbers and high morale.

The assault began much like the previous one. Once each company was in position, the Marquis de Montcalm gave the order to fire, and the enemy was struck down by the overwhelming power of their adversaries.

After several devastating and deadly volleys, the French charged at an enemy that was considerably weakened and disorganized.

"Forward!" Adam shouted, his sword drawn, its tip aimed ahead.

Quickly, his men began to overtake him, gripping their muskets firmly in their hands, bayonets fixed.

"Charge!"

Adam lengthened his stride, his breath short, running faster as he saw that none of his men had fallen behind.

Branches snapped under his feet, and others whipped against his face despite his efforts to avoid them.

He stepped over a body, then another. The ground was littered with enemies, many of them frozen in expressions of horror.

One of them had had the misfortune of falling partially into a campfire and was beginning to catch fire. Adam frowned and grimaced as the scent of roasting flesh rose to his nose.

"RHAAAAA! Die!"

A loud cry to his right startled him, and at the last moment, he parried a knife attack. In reality, his blade didn't strike the ranger's knife—almost a machete in length—but his arm instead.

He cut so deep that Adam was never truly in danger.

The knife immediately dropped to the ground with a dull thud, and the man—who looked like a beggar—let out a scream of pain. He clutched his arm and staggered backward, trying to get out of reach.

Despite the pressure, blood gushed from the ranger's arm. His wild eyes searched desperately for an escape, but Adam didn't give him the chance.

With a sword like his, the distance could easily be closed.

Adam took a large step forward, and his weapon plunged deep into the soldier's chest. The man fell backward in terror, landing heavily on the trampled grass.

Yet the wound was not deep enough to kill him instantly.

"P-please!" he managed to choke out in a strangled rasp just as Adam loomed over him.

With force, Adam planted his left foot on the man's chest, pressing down hard enough to hold him in place, then drove his blade as far as it would go into his belly.

The unfortunate man's eyes widened, his mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out.

Then, his body went limp.

But Adam's attention had already shifted elsewhere.

Shit, everyone is scattered!

"Boucher's company, regroup!"

Yet barely any of his men responded. His shouts were lost in the chaos of battle, and his soldiers had been swallowed by the fighting. They were now like rabid dogs let loose on their prey.

"Captain!" called out Tournier, running toward him in long strides. "There are still enemies over there!"

"Then let's go!" the captain exclaimed, his sword gleaming with blood. "With me!"

A small group quickly formed around Adam and charged at a squad of green-clad men trying to hold their ground.

They had backed themselves into a dead-end, surrounded by steep cliffs. Armed with muskets, hatchets, knives, and swords, these desperate rangers held off a larger number of soldiers. No one could get close.

The two groups barked at each other in their respective languages.

"Drop your weapons!"

"Fall back!"

"You're all going to die! Surrender now!"

"Stay back, you bastards!"

Adam quickly analyzed the scene and made a decision.

"Reload your weapons," he ordered firmly.

His men obeyed without question.

"Hey, up front, move aside!"

Their comrades, too focused on the rangers, only now noticed their presence behind them. The green-coated men had seen them coming but wrongly believed they could still hold off superior numbers as long as their will to fight remained unbroken.

The French soldiers saw Adam's men lining up and quickly stepped aside to avoid being caught between them and the rangers.

The rangers only then realized, too late, that they should have tried their luck in another direction.

"Take aim!" Adam commanded, raising his sword like he was leading an execution squad.

"Fire!"

A volley rang out, and every ranger fell, weapons in hand.

Shortly after, the entire camp fell into Montcalm's hands.

But there was no sign of Major Robert Rogers.