Holding The Petit Pont

Hello! Here's a new chapter!

Sorry for the late update – I've been so busy with work that it's been difficult to find time to work on this project.

I'll do my best to publish another chapter soon!

Enjoy!

And my thanks to Mium, Repo_Games, Porthos10, First_Time_****, Dekol347, Ranger_Red, Karantir_V, Shingle_Top, Microraptor, and Dev_Wave_gamers for their support!

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The sun had been up for a little over two hours, flooding Fort Bourbon with bright light. A thin veil of clouds clung to the west, but above the fort, the sky remained a clear blue, occasionally streaked by a few carefree birds.

One of them was about to land on a nearby tree when, suddenly, a deafening explosion startled it, sending it fleeing with all its strength. Clearly, not all the animals in the region had realized that a fierce battle between two groups of humans was raging here.

A first cannonball, swiftly followed by a second, struck the upper western rampart with brutal force. The wood shattered on impact, sending sharp splinters flying into the Hudson River, which flowed peacefully at its feet.

These shots came from the enemy battery recently installed on Long Island.

Unfortunately for the besieged French, this enemy was far from naïve or incompetent.

Their battery had been cleverly placed in a blind spot to the north of the island. None of the fort's cannons, positioned as they were, could reach them.

At Fort Bourbon, the southernmost bastion was so narrow that there was only room for two cannons—one aimed north while the other guarded the southern wall. It could not be easily repositioned without hindering the other's operation.

As for the northern bastion, shaped like a sharp arrowhead, only two of its five cannons could cover Long Island.

These two cannons stood side by side like twin brothers. This was the best position to hit those damned English guns, but the margin for maneuver was razor-thin.

The crenellations had to be widened just to adjust the aim of these two pieces by a few degrees.

Under enemy bombardment, the soldiers toiled at this grueling task.

"All set! Pull!"

"Heave-ho!" shouted a group of soldiers, lined up and bound together by a thick hemp rope.

Their muscles strained under the effort as the cannon slowly, painfully, shifted back a few centimeters. These machines had to be handled with extreme caution. A single misstep could lead to a crushed foot, and given the weight of these beasts, amputation would be the most likely outcome.

"Watch out behind!"

"It's fine, the wedge is in place!"

"Perfect! One more push!"

Finally, after several minutes of labor, the second cannon was freed from its wooden platform. Over time, the planks had taken on a distinct coloration in those spots, but they remained sturdy.

All that was left was to reposition the two platforms to realign the cannons at the correct angle to strike those damned enemy guns.

This September 3rd marked the sixteenth day of the siege.

After half an hour of effort and meticulous adjustments, the cannons were finally in place. The artillerymen immediately returned to their posts and got to work.

Within minutes, the two heavy-caliber pieces were loaded, and a grizzled man stepped forward to check their alignment.

Satisfied, he turned to his superior, who had remained in the background.

"Pieces ready to fire, sir!"

The officer gave a nod, and the fuses were lit. Two powerful detonations shook the bastion, now renamed Saint-Marc. After a brief silence—no longer than a single breath—a dull impact echoed in the distance.

The officer, who had followed everything through his spyglass, allowed himself a faint smile.

"Good work. The shots hit the enemy battery. Reload."

The officer's calm, almost detached tone signaled that he was pleased with his men, but he was not about to celebrate.

Down there, 350 meters away, there were only two enemy cannons.

Even if the enemy were to lose them as they had lost their third gun, a dozen others remained, spread across the three batteries to the southwest, west, and northwest of the fort.

The cannon they had lost had not been destroyed in a direct artillery duel. Instead, it had fallen through the Long Bridge while being transported to their new battery on Long Island.

Alas, it was the only one to have sunk into the wide river that day. It was a victory, albeit a modest one.

As for the two remaining enemy cannons, they were now securely entrenched behind a thick earthen wall.

Even at two against two, this officer was not at ease.

Boom! Boom!

Another English volley struck the fort, and a sinister crack echoed around Bastion Saint-Marc. A cannonball slammed into the fort's wooden wall, already weakened by previous fire, shattering a large log, which then toppled into the void, exposing the earth and rubble behind it.

The second shot struck the muzzle of one of the two cannons, violently twisting it to the left.

Shouts erupted.

"AAAARGH!"

A piercing scream echoed across the bastion, far louder than all the others. Several artillerymen had been knocked aside, and one of them had suddenly found himself crushed between the cannon, which had toppled to the left, and the rampart.

"Damn it! Help! Quickly!"

"Oh my God!"

"Argh! I-it hurts! G-get me out of here!"

The artilleryman, a very young man who had likely never had the chance to start a family, was crying and banging his head against the wall behind him as if that could make him forget his suffering.

In a desperate reflex, another young man tried to lift the burning-hot cannon with his bare hands, but he immediately recoiled with a cry.

"Ah! It's hot!"

"Idiot! Get some ropes!"

Meanwhile, the poor trapped soldier was suffocating. Suddenly, he coughed up blood.

"FASTER!"

The reinforcements rushed to help the unfortunate man, but there was nothing that could be done to save his life. The cannon had exerted such pressure on his chest that his ribs had shattered, piercing both his lungs.

In an instant, he drowned in his own blood under the helpless gazes of his comrades.

"Damn it!"

Not only had they lost a comrade, but the French had also lost another cannon.

***

At that same moment, Adam stood at the entrance of the Petit Pont, surrounded by his company and several other units tasked with defending this fragile position.

He knew it: sooner or later, they would have to fall back, as their position was untenable in the long run. It was only a matter of time.

For now, they had the relative protection of the demi-lune south of Fort Bourbon, but when the redcoats struck, they would no longer be able to hold this position. They would be caught between two fires.

Adam took a deep breath to steady his nerves and slow his pounding heart.

The young captain knew the enemy was not far.

They had taken their time digging their approach trenches, but now they were so close that both sides could easily fire their muskets at each other.

A movement caught his eye.

"Captain, they're stirring over there," said Lieutenant Laroche grimly.

Adam narrowed his eyes, concentrating. In the distance, behind the British parapets, shadows were shifting. There was no doubt anymore.

"I see it. Looks like they're about to launch their assault. Are the men ready?"

"As ready as they are every day, sir."

"Then let's show them our courage."

No more words were spoken. Only precise gestures, tense glances checking equipment one last time, and a few nervous movements.

Then, a little before ten in the morning, the British officers gave the order for the assault on the fort after a long and intense bombardment that had ultimately caused surprisingly little destruction.

From his post, Adam could see the redcoats emerging from their trenches on Île Longue with perfect clarity. They were so close, yet they seemed so confident!

The redcoats were immediately met with fire from the French cannons perched on the ramparts of Fort Bourbon. There was a deadly crossfire across the entire central part of the island, from the Long Pont to the Petit Pont.

Fortunately for the British, they had found useful shelter in the ruins of the abandoned buildings. They had taken full advantage of this weakness to dig trenches that spread from the Long Pont like a spider's web.

French cannonballs crashed down with a roar, tearing up fountains of earth and hurling debris ten meters into the air.

From the fort, the artillerymen did their best to eliminate as many of the elusive enemies as possible.

"Fire!" Adam commanded, lowering his arm in a swift motion along with his fellow officers.

A volley cracked through the air like the burst of a machine gun, and dozens of red-coated men collapsed into the dry grass.

Adam was hit full in the face by a wave of smoke laden with burnt powder particles, stinging his eyes. The wind was blowing the smoke directly toward him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Fortunately, it did not take long for the opaque curtain to dissipate.

Quickly and with impressive precision, his men lowered their weapons in accordance with his orders. In a clear and powerful voice, he called out the steps for reloading their muskets one by one.

Across the field, the redcoats had formed into tight ranks. They stood like a brick wall.

"Remove the ramrod! Pack the charge!" Adam recited, his voice growing increasingly tense as he anxiously watched the men opposite him take up firing positions in three ranks.

Fuck! They're about to fire!

"Replace the ramrod—!"

Too late!

Instinctively, Adam shut his eyes as he saw a British officer give the order to fire.

They were just eighty meters apart.

At this distance, musket fire was extremely dangerous—closer than the usual ranges in pitched battles. Troops typically exchanged volleys at a hundred meters, sometimes even a hundred and fifty, to avoid excessive casualties.

Firing at eighty meters was still reasonable, but any closer—below fifty meters—and a bayonet charge was preferred to break the enemy's lines.

The deafening roar of musket fire shook the air like rolling thunder, and several men in his company, including Lieutenant Laroche, collapsed with cries of pain.

Most were merely wounded. But not the brave Lieutenant Yves Laroche.

A musket ball had struck him square in the chest, killing him almost instantly.

He dropped to his knees, one trembling hand clutching his chest, then slumped forward, his face turned slightly to the side. His lips parted as if to call for help, but nothing came—only the last breath of air left in his lungs.

His eyes quickly lost their light as life drained from his body.

Bastards!

"Take aim! Fire!" Adam roared, his gaze burning with rage.

He rushed through the steps, urging his men to give these damned Englishmen a taste of their own medicine. Breaking protocol, he grabbed a musket that had fallen at his feet, shouldered it, and fired alongside his soldiers.

The musket's original owner—like poor Laroche—had no further use for it, having taken a ball squarely in the forehead.

The British ranks suffered a massacre. The French bullets tore through the first line, leaving gaping holes in the formation—but not enough to break them.

Almost immediately, soldiers from the rear ranks stepped forward, seamlessly closing the gaps. The volley had seemed utterly useless.

At that moment, a large group of enemy troops rushed onto the Petit Pont.

"There they are! Get ready to hold them back!"

It wasn't Adam who had shouted, but another officer serving under Captain Voyer. Adam wasn't stationed directly in front of the bridge—he was positioned slightly to the left.

His immediate concern wasn't this assault but bracing for the next enemy volley.

Indeed, the redcoats still stood before him, motionless and perfectly aligned.

The moment they finished reloading, they took up firing positions once more.

Adam heard the bullets whistling around him. By some miracle, none found their mark. Even after all the battles he'd fought, it was still terrifying.

That sound—like the buzzing of a swarm of hornets. You could hear it from afar. Menacing, distant, unseen.

There was no dodging bullets, just as there was no fleeing from a hornet's sting.

Adam glanced around and saw more of his men writhing in agony on the ground.

To his left, he spotted a soldier nicknamed "Buttercup" for his golden hair clutching his right arm, his face contorted in pain.

The captain reached into the satchel of a fallen soldier and grabbed another paper cartridge, reloading his musket with remarkable speed.

Then, to the surprise of everyone—his own men and the enemy alike—he ordered them to fire on the redcoats advancing over the Petit Pont.

They were so close, so vulnerable. Adam judged them to be a far better target than the men ahead, who were more distant yet just as threatening.

"Fire!"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

On the wooden bridge spanning that section of the river, it was a bloodbath. More than twenty men fell at once under the barrage from Boucher's company.

And that was without counting the other companies that had also targeted the soldiers, who were completely exposed on the flanks.

It was a slaughter.

Yet the redcoats kept surging forward.

Wave after wave, they pressed on until the French efforts seemed utterly in vain.

Finally, they reached the French line, entrenched behind a high embankment blocking the way.

Hand-to-hand combat erupted at that point, brutal as the clash of two bears or two ferocious lions.

The English found themselves face-to-face with a wall of bayonets, unable to advance a single step further. Packed tightly together, they formed a dense scarlet mass atop the bridge.

The French gunners took aim and fired without mercy, even if it meant shattering the very bridge they had built themselves.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Above Adam, thick clouds of white smoke billowed, and great splashes erupted from the water below. The cannonballs, fired from the two guns on the fort and another on the demi-lune, tore through the air, ripping apart the unfortunate soldiers caught in their path and smashing through the wooden planks of the bridge.

Horrified screams echoed across the Petit Pont as mutilated bodies tumbled into the cold river.

For a moment, Adam thought he saw the water turn red—but perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Among the French ranks, including within Adam's own company, a great cheer erupted.

But the euphoria was short-lived.

Across from them, the British had already finished reloading.

A cold drop of sweat ran down Adam's back.

Whether from nerves, sheer bad luck, or the shock following the bombardment, most of the enemy's shots missed their mark.

Adam felt his coat fabric twitch, as if someone had pinched and tugged at it. Glancing down, he saw a hole—a musket ball had passed clean through, just fifteen centimeters from his left knee.

A neat, round hole. Big enough to slide a finger through.

He clenched his teeth, imagining what might have happened.

Despite their rigorous training, the French soldiers were slower at reloading. Their muskets, absurdly long and cumbersome, took almost a full minute more to prepare.

This time, when they fired, their volley struck true—at least ten men fell.

Among them was their captain.

A lead ball had slammed straight into his belly.

The officer, a stout man with freshly shaven rosy cheeks and a round double chin, stumbled backward, a pudgy hand flying to his wound.

He stared in horror at the blood on his fingers, then his eyes rolled back. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto his backside before being dragged away by a young, slender sub-officer with the face of a storybook prince.

The loss of their captain threw the unit into disarray, though command immediately passed to the second-in-command.

He was a man of average height, somewhere between thirty-five and forty, with a round face and the beginnings of a double chin well on its way to matching that of his superior.

He exuded no authority, looking utterly overwhelmed by the chaos around him. His shifty gaze—made all the more unsettled by a slight outward strabismus in his right eye—darted frantically between his comrades, the bridge, the fort, the enemy, and his own men.

This man, clearly no great warrior, was the son of a respectable baronet and a member of Parliament.

He had no place on a battlefield.

He would have been far more at home in a plush London parlor, a glass of port in hand, or on horseback, surrounded by hounds in some peaceful English forest.

But not here.

Not in hell.