Chaos

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Minutes rushed by at an insane speed, swallowed by the chaos of battle. No one even noticed when noon arrived.

Adrenaline numbed the soldiers' bodies, suppressing hunger and thirst. Only exhaustion remained, building up like water behind a dam.

The risk, as commanders knew from both ancient texts and their own experience, was failing to account for this factor during combat. In the worst-case scenario, it could lead to the annihilation of an entire army.

An exhausted army was as useless as one without ammunition.

Those standing directly in front of the Petit Pont were the most exposed to this danger, as holding back a frenzied enemy was infinitely more draining than simply firing at them over and over again.

Adam's company was called in to relieve another unit that had reached its limits, and thanks to Captain Briscard's careful planning, the transition went smoothly.

Adam should have set aside his musket and drawn his fine sword—the one he had won by defeating a British officer. Unfortunately, he had lost it during the capture of Île Longue.

He was truly saddened by that.

It was a good sword, and a beautiful one, with an elegant guard. It had also been a cherished trophy.

"Don't let them advance! Hold the line!"

Adam's voice, hoarse from shouting, sounded more like a harsh croak. He had no choice but to strain his vocal cords just to be heard over the deafening battle.

His throat was dry and irritated, mostly due to the thick smoke that constantly enveloped them.

He would have given anything for just a sip of ice-cold water.

And now, with midday upon them, the heat was becoming unbearable. Where they stood, there was no shade at all.

For the hundredth time, he ran his tongue over his lips, but it brought no relief. They were so dry that he felt as if he were licking cardboard, coated with the taste of gunpowder and ash.

"Rhaaa!"

Holding his musket high above his head like a whaler raising his harpoon, Adam violently drove his bayonet into an enemy's chest, reaching over the shoulder of Soldier Tournier.

The British soldier, whose features Adam couldn't make out from this angle, widened his eyes in shock before collapsing onto the embankment in front of the Petit Pont. He joined the growing pile of bodies, trampled underfoot by the soldiers surging forward behind him.

It was pure chaos.

More often than not, the British leaped off the bridge a few meters before reaching land, attempting to outflank the bayonet wall blocking their way.

But the human barrier wasn't small—it stretched and shifted, adapting to their movements. This forced them to wade through the Hudson River for longer.

Soaked up to their waists, weighed down by their waterlogged uniforms, the redcoats struggled to advance, making easy targets for the entrenched French.

They looked utterly miserable, and yet they kept jumping from the bridge.

The Petit Pont had become a never-ending corridor of death.

Despite the gaping holes left by French cannon fire, despite the bodies piling up on the wooden planks, enemy soldiers kept coming, pushed forward by the mass behind them. Many stumbled or slipped on the blood-soaked bridge and tumbled pitifully into the river.

As they waited for their turn to fight, they were constantly shot at from both flanks.

They were like cattle being led to the slaughter, suffering heavy losses, and their officers barely even noticed in the chaos.

This battlefield was the worst possible ground for them.

Without Robert Rogers' rangers, they never would have been able to drive the French from Île Longue—at least, not so quickly. But here, in front of the fort, their advance was crashing against a wall.

There was no grace in this fight, no elegant strategy, no refined maneuvers or brilliant tactics.

It felt like they had been thrown back to the time of knights. Not the noble, chivalrous kind—but brutes, clad in iron, hammering away at each other relentlessly until sheer exhaustion made further fighting impossible.

Suddenly, a cry pierced through the chaos in front of Adam.

"No!" Soldier Tournier shouted as he lost his balance.

While trying to push back an enemy, he had suddenly tripped over the lifeless leg of a fallen British soldier.

At that exact moment, his opponent was shoved forward by a comrade behind him.

Adam saw it all unfold in front of him, as if in slow motion.

Instinctively, Adam reacted, trying to stop his subordinate from falling by offering his body as support. The captain immediately felt a force pushing him backward.

He couldn't see the expression on Tournier's face, but he imagined the panic he must have felt. He could feel his heart pounding furiously in his chest and his muscles trembling.

Under the enemy's pressure, Tournier was at serious risk of ending up with a piece of steel in his gut—or somewhere worse.

One might have thought the Englishman was throwing himself into the Frenchman's arms for a kiss if not for the look of surprise plastered on his otherwise unremarkable face.

"Shit! Help!" Adam shouted, struggling more and more.

Without much thought, he placed his musket horizontally between Tournier and the enemy to create a barrier between them, but he quickly realized his efforts wouldn't be enough.

Behind the Englishman, the pressure was immense.

It was starting to look a lot like a rugby scrum—only far more chaotic.

"Push!" Adam roared as he felt his strength leaving him.

With the help of Private Petit and a few others, they managed to hold the line for a few more moments, but all it did was increase the crushing pressure on the soldiers caught in the middle.

Finally, like a giant house of cards with a weak foundation, the formation collapsed, and everyone fell. There were no words to properly describe this ridiculous scene.

Soldiers piled on top of one another in a chaotic tangle of arms, legs, and muskets. For those trapped at the bottom of this impressive heap of bodies, it was absolute hell.

They were stuck, unable to move, defend themselves, or even breathe.

The French were the first to react, driving their bayonets into every redcoat on the ground. They were defenseless, easy prey.

This swift action prevented a disaster and eliminated a large number of enemy soldiers in mere seconds. It also preserved the bayonet wall in front of the Petit Pont.

However, Adam found himself crushed under the weight of his own men, with Private Tournier lying right on top of him—thankfully still alive and unharmed.

"Y-you're too damn heavy! Fuck, you're crushing my balls with your elbow! Get up! Shit!"

Private Tournier, his face now as red as a British uniform, scrambled to his feet in a panic, pushing off the first thing he could find. A new cry of pain immediately echoed in his ears.

"You idiot! Stop leaning on me!"

A searing bolt of pain shot through Adam's lower abdomen, like someone had just smashed his nuts with a hammer. A wave of nausea rolled through him, twisting his stomach.

His face twisted in agony, Tournier got up and hurried back to his position, doing his best to avoid the murderous glare of his superior.

Internally, he winced.

Son of a bitch! He nearly blew my balls off with his elbow! Fuck, that hurts!

His anger simmered, but this was no time to dwell on such a minor incident. They were still fighting. Still dying.

The chaos intensified.

Adam forced himself back into position, ignoring the throbbing pain still radiating from his groin. There was no room for complaints in the middle of battle.

Bayonets clashed continuously, producing an earsplitting noise that set his teeth on edge. The oppressive, grating sound nearly drowned out the cries of pain and rage all around him.

The stench of blood, sweat, gunpowder, and death filled his nose—but he also caught the scent of mud and piss.

In such conditions, no one could judge another for pissing themselves—or worse. Anyone who claimed they had never felt fear on the battlefield was either a madman or a liar.

Not shitting oneself, especially in the face of death, was common enough—but no one ever mentioned it in reports or newspapers. They preferred to speak of bravery.

Despite the staggering British losses—something that must have been incredibly frustrating for their officers given their numerical superiority—they did not weaken.

They persisted.

They refused to give up.

They refused to take even a single step back.

Their stubbornness bordered on madness.

They pressed on relentlessly, attacking like rabid dogs.

You lunatics! Do you have no fear of death?!

The pressure was immense—barely bearable. Adam could feel the breaking point approaching, that moment when a front held together by sheer willpower alone would finally collapse at the first crack.

Suddenly, a great alarmed cry rang out to the south—to Adam's left.

"WATCH OUT! REDCOATS COMING THROUGH THE DEMI-LUNE!"

At once, the fragile balance that had been so painfully maintained around the Petit Pont shattered.

It was like someone had thrown a massive weight onto one side of an old, carefully balanced scale.

A violent shiver ran down Adam's spine, from his feet to the base of his skull.

Everyone here understood that they now had to retreat without wasting any time. The French units stationed there should have been better informed about the enemy's advance from this side.

For one reason or another, they had all ended up in great danger.

"Shit! Already?!" Adam realized as he saw the left flank, the most exposed to danger, quickly falling back toward the ramp leading to the demi-lune. "Everyone, prepare to retreat!"

With each passing second, the danger grew.

The withdrawal of the left flank naturally increased the pressure on those still holding the entrance to the Petit Pont. If they left now, they would have another enemy right on their heels.

It would be a massacre, so they had to proceed in an orderly fashion.

From the demi-lune, musket fire erupted. The redcoats approaching from the south were subjected to a relentless barrage, cutting down many as they scrambled into the deep and wide ditch surrounding the fort.

Despite their efforts, the redcoats eventually made their way around the imposing arrow-shaped obstacle.

A cannon positioned there only delayed the inevitable, spitting out a shot that obliterated ten men. Adam saw arms and legs flying in every direction.

The British hesitated for a split second, which allowed Adam and his men to retreat in relatively good order, followed closely—though they had not waited for them—by the right flank.

With the Petit Pont finally under their control, a massive wave of enemy soldiers poured across the river, gathering at the foot of Fort Bourbon.

Adam could feel bullets whizzing over his head.

Behind them, the red tide advanced inexorably. Their hate-filled cries echoed in the distance.

With all their hearts, they longed for the death of every Frenchman who had slain so many of their own. Their complete victory seemed inevitable, within reach.

But things could never be that simple: the fort, though damaged, was still standing.

French soldiers poured toward the demi-lune and were quickly guided by those already stationed there toward the stone bridge leading to the fort itself.

If the British wanted to take the stronghold from this angle, they would have to seize the demi-lune first.

"Reload your weapons!" ordered an officer, standing with his sword in hand among his men on the demi-lune. "Prepare to repel the invaders! Death to the English!"

"DEATH TO THE ENGLISH!" the French soldiers shouted in unison, despite their exhaustion, both physical and moral.

But the path was narrow, and many Frenchmen were desperate to find shelter within the fort. The rear of the column was soon overtaken, and the fighting continued there.

"Help! They're killing us!"

"Fire!"

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Adam and his men were not far from the top of the ramp, yet it seemed so distant. Adrenaline carried them forward, but it couldn't work miracles—they were at their limits.

Around them, men pushed and shoved, cursing like hardened sailors. They even fought amongst themselves for survival.

The sight filled Adam's heart with fury.

And then, finally, it erupted.

"BOUCHER COMPANY, HALT!"

It was more than a shout—it was a roar.

His men froze as if turned to stone. Even those from other companies paused their flight for a moment, trying to understand.

Surprised, all turned to him, waiting anxiously for orders from the young officer.

"Hold your position!" he continued, his voice clear and brooking no argument. "Form ranks, but leave a path for those coming up!"

Soldier Petit was the first to react and turned back. Clutching his weapon tightly, he asked no questions and took position, one knee on the ground, bayonet pointed forward.

He was soon joined by Soldier Tournier and the others. All were wounded, exhausted, covered in dust, blood, and sweat. But none hesitated.

Each of them knew this was a display of their courage.

Not one backed down, and not one pointed out that they were out of ammunition. They had a bayonet on the end of their muskets, and that was all they needed.

Quickly, a new wall of bayonets formed, nearly blocking the path to the top of the demi-lune.

Those who passed them felt more shame than gratitude. Head lowered, they climbed the ramp, not daring to meet the gaze of these brave men, ready to sacrifice themselves to ensure the retreat.

As for those who had been defending the demi-lune from the start, they felt nothing but pride. The pride of belonging to this army, of wearing this uniform.

A French officer, his face hollowed by exhaustion but his eyes burning with fire, barked at his men:

What are you waiting for?! For them to do all the work?! Reload those cannons!"

He pointed at a young soldier who had been turned into an artilleryman.

"You! Bring the grapeshot!"

The young soldier—he was barely more than a boy—jumped and ran toward a chest, returning with a strange cylindrical package. One could clearly make out the shape of several small balls held together by a brown cord under a canvas sack.

The whole thing was mounted on a wooden base.

It didn't take long before the package was rammed into the scorching metal tube along with a generous dose of black powder. The cannon was aimed directly at the base of the ramp.

"Fire!"

BOOM!

The shockwave of the explosion made the air tremble.

The grapeshot was unleashed in a deadly cone, instantly devastating the mass of redcoats gathered there. At this range, the effects of such ammunition were at their peak.

The small metal balls shot out in different directions upon leaving the cannon, spreading into a bloody fan over a wide area. They tore through flesh and shattered bones into a thousand pieces with a horrifying sound.

Had the cannon been positioned lower, the carnage would have been even worse.

The officer, however, was satisfied and immediately ordered another round of the same ammunition.

"Again! Pulverize them—leave nothing behind!"

The Englishmen below, even if they didn't understand the language, instinctively grasped the terrible meaning of this order. They all began to tremble, and many even started to retreat.

Adam saw the opportunity and didn't give his enemies time to recover.

"Close the ranks!" he ordered firmly, as if his energy had suddenly returned.

Immediately, the corridor in front of the redcoats tightened, and at the captain's command, Boucher's company took a step forward. The British soldiers were forced to step back, pushing those who had escaped the grapeshot at the bottom of the ramp into the line of fire.

Several lost their footing and tumbled heavily into the ditch.

Ahahahah! Serves you right, you bastards! You won't get through! Ahahah! All I need now is a wizard's hat, a magic staff, and a damn white beard, and I'd be Gandalf!

A voice above him suddenly pulled him out of his strange thoughts.

"Hey, Captain, you've done enough! Move back a little with your men! We can't support you from here!"

"Oh, understood! In good order! Third rank, guide the second! Fall back in line!"

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The British assault continued for several more hours, but whether at the demi-lune or elsewhere, they failed to make any real progress.

The redcoats did manage to set foot on the eastern rampart for three-quarters of an hour before being driven out by sabers and bayonets.

Although the British had succeeded in taking control of the Petit Pont, this victory did not erase the hundreds of dead they had lost to achieve it.

This siege was far from over, yet it had already cost the Crown nearly seven hundred brave soldiers!