A Brutal Response

Hello! Here is a new chapter! I hope you will enjoy it!

My thanks to Mium, Ranger_Red, Repo_Games, Shingle_Top, Dekol347 and First_Time_****!

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Adam had been awake for an hour and a half and hadn't been able to fall back asleep. Despite his exhaustion, nothing helped.

Lying on his back in his modest bed, barely more comfortable than an ordinary straw mattress, his wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling of the room he shared with his two lieutenants.

Despite the very dim light, he could clearly make out the large, rough, dark wooden beams crossing the room.

Little by little, the light increased, a sign that dawn was near.

"Ah..."

A deep sigh escaped his lips and was lost in the silence of the room, barely disturbed by the breathing of the other occupants. Of the two, Claude Marais breathed the loudest.

When he slept on his back, he sometimes snored. The sound he made was oddly comical, reminiscent of a pig rooting through the earth in search of food. In other circumstances, it might have been amusing.

Hurgh! Damn it! How did I manage to hurt myself this badly? It feels even worse than yesterday!

He grimaced, gritting his teeth, and endured the pain in silence.

His neck was on fire and felt completely locked up, as if someone had screwed bolts into the base of his skull. During the day, turning his head was almost impossible.

Whenever he tried to push past his limits, he immediately hit a barrier of pain that radiated down into his shoulders.

At night, it was even worse. He found no relief.

Adam had to be creative in finding the best sleeping position—or rather, the one that hurt the least. That wasn't even the hardest part.

He was used to rolling over multiple times in his sleep, constantly shifting from one side to the other. He almost never remained on his back.

Ah… Damn… One, two… three!

With one hand pressed against his neck to ease the pressure as best he could, Adam slowly rolled onto his side, painfully shifting his position. He looked like a struggling turtle.

His jaw clenched to keep from groaning in pain, and a large bead of sweat formed on his burning forehead before dripping onto the sheet covering his thin mattress.

"Damn it, I'm so sick of this pain…"

Exhausted by the effort, he closed his eyes, hoping to enjoy the last moments of rest before the new day began. His eyelids suddenly felt terribly heavy.

That was when a deep rumbling reached his ears.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

As soon as he heard those heavy sounds—like someone stomping down a staircase—Adam's eyes snapped open.

They were soon followed by an alarming clamor, a crash that violently tore his two lieutenants from their deep sleep.

"W-what's happening?!" Marais gasped, sitting up abruptly in bed.

"By Christ's blood! We're under attack! Move!"

Shit! Why now?!

Adam sprang up—too fast. A sharp pain seized him, and for a brief moment, he was hit by a wave of dizziness.

Luckily, the rush of adrenaline quickly drowned out the pain. He grabbed his weapons and tricorn hat, hurriedly pulled on his shoes, and dashed out of the large building.

Outside, Long Island was under siege.

"Everyone to your posts! Move!"

"Rally your men!"

At a full sprint, Adam and his two lieutenants crossed the central courtyard and reached the barracks occupied by Boucher's company. As soon as they arrived, they found the company already assembled, ready for action. They had all been startled awake, their senses on high alert.

Their tense faces betrayed their concern.

"Captain! The English are attacking with their cannons!"

"Calm down!" Adam barked. "What is this, a flock of sheep?! Form up! Sergeant Colombe, are all men accounted for?"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Good! In that case, forward! To the Long Bridge!"

Without hesitation, Adam took the lead of his company and began running, sword drawn, between the wooden barracks. Several other companies did the same, converging on the Long Bridge.

Others moved in the opposite direction, heading for Battery No. 1.

The island was in turmoil, but thanks to the officers, it did not descend into chaos.

Quickly, Adam spotted Captain Voyer in the crowd of soldiers, as the man stood a head taller than most of his comrades. However, he was still a runt compared to the Mohawk chief or his old friend George, whom he hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity—a regret that weighed heavily on him.

He had sent a letter to all his friends who had remained in the captured territories north of what had once been Massachusetts. He had yet to receive a reply, and there was no doubt he wouldn't get one for several weeks, if all went well.

With those damned English in the area, Fort Bourbon's garrison was completely cut off from the world.

"Captain Voyer! Do they have artillery?!"

"Ah, Captain Boucher! Yes, our sentries confirm it—they have three guns up there!" Voyer replied, pointing to a location on the other side of the river. "They hit those two buildings!" he continued, gesturing toward two barracks with shattered roofs.

Damn it! I suppose this was to be expected.

"What are our losses?"

"Who knows? We're still pulling out the victims. Some are badly torn up by splinters. I've given orders to send them to the rear."

At that moment, another officer arrived, running, his forehead glistening with sweat despite the early morning chill.

"Captain, we have three dead and five seriously wounded. The others only have minor injuries. We've recovered the projectiles. It looks like they have light artillery—six-pounders."

"I see," Voyer simply said with a nod. "Good work, Captain Dubois."

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Three more detonations shook the air and rattled the soldiers' bones. A thick cloud of white smoke billowed up from the center of a wooded hill across the river. The enemy gunners had just fired another salvo.

The British cannons were indeed positioned on higher ground, roughly ten meters above their own level. For some reason, they hadn't attempted to place them further up the hill.

They're well positioned, those bastards… Hmm, maybe there's no clear ground at the top of the hill.

Still, the British had a significant advantage.

The distance between their cannons and the first barracks was no more than three hundred meters—a trivial range for guns capable of striking beyond a thousand!

Fort Bourbon was far from safe… but the same went for the enemy.

"To the cannons!" Voyer barked, spitting slightly as he shouted. "Target that area! Show them what hell looks like!"

The gunners had anticipated the order and were already at work. Despite their thick fabric uniforms, designed to withstand nearly every hardship of war, their muscles could be seen tensing and bulging.

Crouched behind their guns, they did their best to pivot the massive metal beasts. The cannons were already loaded—all that remained was to aim and touch a flame to the fuse.

"Cannon 1, ready!"

"Cannon 2, ready!"

"Cannon 3, ready!"

"Cannon 4, ready!"

"Cannon 5, ready!"

Captain Voyer raised his right arm, paused for a fraction of a second as if savoring the moment, then brought it down sharply.

"FIRE!"

Almost simultaneously, the French cannons roared, spitting fire and shot at breakneck speed toward the approximate location of the English guns.

Adam followed—or rather, imagined—the trajectory of the cannonballs as they hurtled toward the enemy-occupied hill.

A few seconds later, several heavy thuds echoed from the other side upon impact. Every soldier held their breath, listening intently.

Adam then saw a tree slowly tilt, its trunk split clean through, before finally collapsing onto another with a deep, ominous crack.

"Reload and adjust the angles!" Voyer barked, breaking the spell.

The French gunners got back to work, encouraged by their comrades.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. The men on the other side were by no means inferior. It had taken the English only a few minutes to reload their cannons. Once ready, they fired directly at the French, who were assembled practically in plain sight.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

By instinct, most of the soldiers ducked as they heard the enemy guns thunder. Adam did the same, afraid his head might be blown clean off.

Oh, holy sh—

In reality, he wouldn't even have time to process what was happening if it came to that. He didn't remember where or when, but he had learned that a man could remain conscious for a few seconds after being decapitated.

He had once imagined that those who met such a fate—like Louis XVI or his wife, Marie Antoinette—had just enough time to realize what had happened and experience unimaginable pain.

He didn't think the same would happen here, though, if his head were to be taken off by a cannonball. It would simply be pulverized, reduced to mush.

He closed his eyes, as that was all he had time to do. Praying or forming a thought took too long.

"ARGH!"

Several terrifying screams quickly echoed around him. By sheer luck, Adam was still there—still standing, still with his head intact.

I-I'm still alive? Phew!

His fear of cannons remained unshaken. He would much rather be on the front lines facing infantry. Even heavy cavalry didn't terrify him as much.

While Adam rejoiced in living a little longer, others could not say the same.

Each cannonball had found its mark, cutting down young lives indiscriminately. Seven men were dead, but others were so grievously wounded that there was no doubt that number would rise.

With his ears ringing and his heart pounding, Adam slowly raised his head and looked around at the carnage. Several cries were coming from Battery No. 3.

"My leg! Where's my leg?!" someone wailed from the ground, everything below his left knee having vanished as if by magic.

"Argh! Aaaargh! It hurts! It hurts so much!" another sobbed, collapsing to his knees, a gaping wound near his navel left by a jagged rock shard.

"Mama!" another pleaded, clutching his blood-covered face, rolling on the ground as if he were on fire.

"My God! I—I have brains in my mouth! I have brains in my mouth!"

"Marc! Marc!"

"I-I'm here!"

Adam felt his stomach tighten, but through sheer willpower and his experience in battle, he managed to stay on his feet.

Seeing the soldiers under his command fall, Captain Voyer saw red.

"Idiots! Who told you to stop reloading?! Get to work, and faster than that!"

The gunners, still trembling from those few shots—just the first in what promised to be a long siege—scrambled back to their pieces and resumed their work.

Adam did not stand idle.

"Soldiers, this is no time to be dozing off! Get up! Help your wounded comrades and get them to the rear!"

"Y-yes, sir!"

Before long—Adam couldn't say exactly how, thanks to their rigorous training—the five cannons of this battery were once again ready to fire.

"Sir, the guns are ready!"

"Adjust your angles and fire!" Voyer ordered, his voice so loud it could be heard from the Petit Pont. "Reduce them to dust!"

The soldiers covered their ears as, at each cannon, a man lowered a burning match to the touch hole. The black powder inside the massive barrels ignited at terrifying speed, releasing an immense force that propelled the iron ball between it and its only exit.

Large yellow flames burst from the mouths of the cannons along with their deadly projectiles, and five deafening explosions shook the ground beneath Adam's feet.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Massive clouds of white smoke billowed over the Hudson River as the cannonballs tore through the air in mere seconds.

On the opposite hill, dozens of silhouettes flinched. Heads ducked, and silent prayers were whispered.

Unfortunately for the French, not a single shot found its mark.

One ball struck a massive tree trunk dead center, leaving only a deep scar before dropping limply a few meters away into a thick bush.

Broken branches and torn leaves rained down like snowflakes over the artillery crew manning the central gun.

The enemy's position made them difficult targets. There weren't many of them, and the surrounding trees acted as a natural shield. But that shield wasn't perfect.

Each time the French fired, there was a chance that one of their deadly cannonballs would slip between the trunks—tall as the pillars of a Greek or Roman temple—and strike home. Or, worse, ricochet off a tree and hit them indirectly.

Adam turned to Captain Voyer.

"Did we hit them?" he asked, holding on to a sliver of hope.

"I don't think so," the officer grumbled, squinting through the lone spyglass at the battery. "Hey! Lower your angles! You're shooting too high! Gun Three, it's the opposite! You're too low! Raise that damn cannon a little!"

The gunners obeyed without a word, adjusting the gun carriages with precise yet nervous movements.

But the English, unsurprisingly, finished reloading before them.

As they were about to fire, they were surprised to hear the sound of cannon fire once again. This new salvo came from Fort Bourbon.

Even though there was no lucky shot, the British gunners were greatly shaken.

Due to an issue with the angle, which could not be easily corrected without major modifications to the western rampart, only two cannons could reach the British artillery position west of the fort.

Adam, sheltered behind the long and wide earth parapet protecting the battery, lowered his head in anticipation of the three English cannon shots.

The French had not remained in formation out in the open to avoid offering an easy target to their enemies. Like Adam, they were making themselves as small and discreet as possible.

The enemy fire was not long in coming, always in volleys of three.

A powerful impact startled him just a few paces away when a cannonball struck the earth wall behind which he was crouching. It sent debris and razor-sharp rock fragments flying over ten meters.

They rained down all around him and his men like drops of rain. Adam felt a few hit his fine black and gold tricorne but didn't dare raise a hand to check.

Fuck, that one was close!

As soon as silence returned—heavy and nerve-wracking—everyone made sure they were unscathed before cautiously raising their heads.

A voice suddenly cut through the tension.

"Captain Voyer! The redcoats are approaching with shovels and pickaxes!"

The tall man straightened up and peeked over the parapet.

"Those sons of…! They're using this to dig their entrenchments!"

Adam rose slightly and looked across the river. The smoke from their cannons had dissipated enough for him to see the other side clearly.

As the soldier had said, men were advancing along the riverbank, equipped as if heading to a mine.

They think they're safe just because they have cannons?! No way!

He turned to Captain Voyer.

"Captain, with your permission, I'll turn the 24-pounder towards them."

The officer nodded without hesitation.

"I was about to say the same. The other four cannons will keep firing on those bastards."

The 24-pounder's artillery crew sighed at the thought of repositioning their cannon yet again but obeyed in silence. With the help of a few soldiers, the operation was completed in no time.

A crew chief checked the angle and swiftly turned to Adam.

"The cannon is ready, Captain!"

"Fire!"

Boom!

The heavy cannon belched out its shot, the cannonball hurtling straight toward the British column. It struck the ground first, bounced, and mowed down two men who never even saw death coming.

The impact also sent dirt and gravel flying, injuring four more soldiers. Alas, that wasn't enough to stop the English.

The famed redcoats weren't the type to retreat so easily.

They reached Long Bridge and began digging.

"Reload!" Adam ordered, gripping the hilt of his gleaming sword tightly.

The gunners obeyed while their comrades continued firing at the hillside. Once again, they missed their target.

In the next exchange, an English cannonball barely missed Captain Voyer at Cannon 3. It bounced off the parched earth of Île Longue and rolled to a stop in the dry grass, just three or four meters from a wooden shack whose roof had already been pierced by an earlier shot.

By sheer luck, it caused no casualties.

"Damn, this is going to be a long one," Voyer groaned, echoing the thoughts of everyone present.

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The artillery duel raged on throughout the day, neither side achieving anything decisive.

The English shots continued to graze the French positions without causing significant damage. The earth parapets and makeshift defenses held strong, shielding the men and their cannons.

However, each salvo was a test of nerves.

At Fort Bourbon, the cannon exchange had been far more intense.

Both the French and the English had concentrated their artillery there. The British had placed theirs on high artificial mounds, well protected behind fortifications that quickly became the primary target of the French gunners.

The damage to the fort was considerably more severe.

Several impact marks could be seen here and there.

However, the material absorbed shocks remarkably well. Not a single shot pierced it, and it became clear to everyone in the British camp that this fort would not fall easily.

Naturally, their officers had anticipated this and had gone to great lengths to bring along two mortars. Their projectiles soared over the rampart and crashed inside the fort, causing significant damage.

They had even started a fire, though it was quickly contained thanks to the swift response of the entrenched men.

When the English finally withdrew for the day, deeming it enough for now, the French were finally able to catch their breath.

A suffocating silence fell over the entire fort.

The soldiers under Adam's command, covered in dust and reeking of burnt powder, all wore the same expression. They had all realized the same thing—this was merely the redcoats' response to their own salvo three days earlier.

This bombardment, a grueling test for both body and mind, was only the first in a long series. An appetizer, a preview of what awaited them.

Exhausted, Adam personally went to congratulate the gunners on their good work, even though no English cannon had been destroyed.

When night finally fell and everyone had eaten—sparingly, since food and gunpowder had become more precious than gold—each man returned to his quarters.

The only exceptions were those assigned to guard duty and those who had been staying in the westernmost barracks. The latter were relocated to barracks deeper within the island to prevent a repeat of that morning's incident.

As for Adam, he was finally able to return to his room, where he collapsed.

Throughout the day, his neck hadn't bothered him, but now that he could let his mind rest and his muscles relax, he realized he had made several bad movements.

The pain became so intense that it felt as if long nails had been driven into his neck, shoulder, chest, and practically his entire back. His body was nothing but agony.

He even refused to see his friends that evening, choosing instead to lie down and sleep. He twisted in his bed, searching for a tolerable position, and finally, around two in the morning, he drifted into a deep sleep—one filled with nightmarish violence, a perfect reflection of his daily life on the front.