The Price Of A Lost Bet

Hello! Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!

Thank you Kieran_Lynch, First_Time_***, Daoist397717, paffnytij, George_Bush_2910, Porthos10, Mium, Daoist0wZJRR, Ranger_Red, Black_Wolf_4935, AlexZero12, TheHumble_Dogge, Dekol347, Galan_05, and Shingle_Top for your support!

-----------------------------------------

The thaw François had hoped for had indeed come—but it hadn't lasted. Five days later, the temperatures had returned to normal, bringing back humidity, frozen mud, and the biting northern wind.

Thick gray clouds smothered the sunlight so thoroughly that it felt like evening, though it was only ten in the morning.

François had been forced to light several candles in his office just to see clearly.

Seated at his desk, a long quill in hand, he was planning the upcoming rounds at Fort Bourbon as well as the patrols in the surrounding area. The territory was vast, complex, and difficult to monitor effectively.

Fortunately, with an entire regiment at his disposal, he could at least control the main forest trails and the frozen rivers that looked like twisted veins.

The English were doing the same. But their priority wasn't just security.

They were mainly trying to stem a phenomenon as old as time: smuggling. It was omnipresent across the continent. François even wondered whether the majority of trade in the Ten Colonies didn't go through unofficial channels.

That was inevitable when imports were so heavily taxed.

Officially, the French and Spanish condemned such practices. Unofficially, they benefited from them.

The economic crisis gripping the British Crown gave its rivals a golden opportunity to sell cheap goods to the colonists—only slightly more expensive than for their own settlers.

The French had no trouble finding buyers for tea purchased in large quantities from China. By those same routes, and also by sea, they acquired goods produced in the Ten Colonies—cereals, sugar, textiles, paper, indigo, salt, tools and tobacco—at very attractive prices, even after being taxed by the governors of New France and Louisiana.

Everyone was profiting—except King George and his Parliament.

Quietly, these two empires were bleeding British finances. The quantities were small enough to evade customs officers, but constant. It was like a subtle poison being poured into the king's cup, day after day.

François set down his quill with a sigh. Slowly, he straightened up in his chair and looked over the document he had just completed.

"All right, this should do," he murmured.

His handwriting was fine, consistent, slightly slanted to the right. There was even a certain elegance in his loops.

Still, it didn't compare to Martin's handwriting, which could only be described as calligraphy. His letters all looked like love poems.

Knock knock.

"Come in."

A man pushed the door open, letting in a wave of cold air. He looked barely thirty, with a courteous, slightly oval face, a straight nose, and downturned eyes.

Ah—it's Philippe.

Philippe Coulon, his adjutant. He was the younger son of a seigneur established near Trois-Rivières and had served a bit during the last war in the Picardie Regiment.

Discharged after the Treaty of London, he had quickly joined the new Régiment de Nouvelle-Aquitaine, where he was promoted to captain. He still commanded his own company, in addition to assisting the major with administrative and logistical duties.

As major, François also commanded his own company—the third. The lieutenant colonel led the second, and the colonel commanded the first. A simple but effective structure.

"Pardon me, sir," said Philippe with a small salute. "The men you sent to investigate near Albany have returned."

François narrowed his eyes, then stood up.

"Very well. I'm curious to hear what they have to report."

The major adjusted his coat, placed his tricorne on his head, and left the long brick building on the northern side of the fort. The adjutant followed close behind.

On the parade ground, the reconnaissance squad was waiting, lined up as if for inspection. It was hard to tell what had happened just by looking at them.

None of them appear wounded or missing, François noted quickly.

Colonel de Faudoas appeared a moment later and stepped up beside François, casting a quick glance at the soldiers.

"Major," he said as he came alongside, "I see your men are back. Who was in command of the squad?"

"Corporal Ferrand, sir," François replied, subtly gesturing toward the man in question.

The corporal, standing to the right of the small group, didn't move.

"Very well. Have him report to my office. The others are to remain here and wait."

François Boucher de Montrouge gave a proper salute, then relayed the order. Immediately, he turned on his heel, followed closely by Corporal Ferrand. They entered the same building François had just left, though through a door slightly to the left.

Several candles were already burning there, casting broad flickering shadows on the brick walls. The colonel took his place behind a large dark wooden desk, his lieutenant colonel standing beside him.

François positioned himself across from the two officers, standing next to his corporal like a lawyer beside his client in court.

"Corporal Ferrand," said Colonel de Faudoas in a firm voice, "you were sent near Albany because our men had spotted suspicious activity. What did you find?"

The corporal, a well-built twenty-five-year-old with a steady gaze, straightened slightly.

"Colonel, we followed the scouts' directions and quickly found the trail left by a group of heavily laden individuals. They were easy to track. They were heading northwest, until they reached the Mohawk River. They then followed the river for three leagues before setting up camp. They were already gone when we arrived, but we caught up with them."

"Were they British soldiers?" asked the colonel, eyes fixed on a relatively detailed map.

"No, sir. Just settlers. About thirty of them, armed and equipped with tools. We even saw a dismantled plow."

A plow? I see. They never tire, do they?

François's face darkened, nearly threatening. So did the colonel's. This wasn't the first time.

British settlers had repeatedly tried to establish themselves in Iroquois territory, which was under French protection. It had started almost immediately after the signing of the Treaty of London.

"So, once again, illegal settlers," the colonel said coldly. "Did you try to confront them? Or block their advance?"

Corporal Ferrand slowly shook his head.

"No, sir. They were far too numerous. I… I thought it best not to risk a confrontation and returned to request your orders."

A brief silence followed. To his relief, Colonel de Faudoas did not seem displeased. He nodded slowly.

"You made the right decision. These people are truly… stubborn, convinced they are in the right. Of course, they are not… but they clearly don't care about treaties. There's no doubt they would have resisted."

The commander of Fort Bourbon paused for a few seconds, choosing his words carefully. Each one carried weight on the frontier.

"They're violating the Joint Proclamation. That makes them outlaws. The Iroquois have every right to drive them off their lands. But… thirty armed settlers? That could escalate. Major, since you know the Iroquois well, what's your opinion?"

François answered without hesitation. He already knew what might happen this time.

"Sir, with that many British settlers, the risk of a clash is very high. It seems obvious to me that the authorities in Albany are turning a blind eye. They may even be quietly encouraging these incursions, hoping for an escalation. In any case, I don't think we can remain idle."

The colonel nodded.

"What do you suggest?"

"An official protest to Albany is necessary. They are responsible for allowing those settlers through. But we must not wait for their action—we need to act first. I suggest sending a reinforced patrol to intercept the intruders and drive them back to their territory. If the Iroquois find them before we do, then we should assist them and, if possible, take over."

Monsieur de Faudoas frowned, but didn't object. Unfortunately, this was nothing new.

Between 1762 and 1765, he had lost count of how many times his men had been sent to drive off settlers trying to establish themselves illegally on Iroquois land.

All because the British Crown had foolishly promised its soldiers land it did not own during the last war.

London had bet on victory—and lost. Thousands of men were left cheated, holding worthless land titles for fertile plots west of the Appalachians, especially in the Ohio Valley.

Blood had quickly been shed, forcing the colonial governors—and then the kings of both powers—to make a firm decision: banning any settlement in territories officially recognized as belonging to native nations. That was the joint Franco-British Proclamation of August 19, 1762.

To ordinary British settlers, it was a new humiliation—proof that King George III was weak in the face of old Louis XV. To the veterans, it was a betrayal. Just like ceding the northern provinces to the French to recover Hanover.

The final betrayal.

Yet many of them had still tried to claim "their" land. Both the French and British armies had crushed that movement.

Even though such incursions had become rarer over the years, they still occurred—because the frontier was long, porous, and the sense of injustice ran deep.

The colonel stood and walked to the window.

"No one wants military escalation," he murmured. "Even though our finances are steadily improving, we are far from ready for a conflict with Great Britain."

He turned back to François, hands clasped behind his back.

"These settlers must be pushed back. Without bloodshed, if possible. One company may not be enough to force them to retreat. As a precaution, I will send two. Your company, Major—it has proven time and again its effectiveness in difficult terrain. You may choose the company that will accompany you."

He paused.

"In parallel, I will send someone to Chief Akwiratheka's village to inform him of the situation. He'll decide what to do and which villages to alert. The important thing is to show our Iroquois friends that we still take these intrusions seriously. That we are allies."

"At your orders!"

"Lieutenant-Colonel de Rouvroy, you will depart after Major Boucher de Montrouge for Albany. You will represent His Majesty. Be firm, but measured. We don't want a diplomatic incident—but they must understand that our patience has limits."

François and Corporal Ferrand left the office without a word. Their steps were heavy, their faces grave.

Peace felt terribly fragile—like ice on a lake at the end of winter.

A few gunshots could plunge the continent into fire and blood once again.

François had more than once believed that war was about to resume. Just like with the two settlers in his seigneury, peace between France and Great Britain could not last forever.

The hatred between the two nations ran too deep.

He could feel it—something was brewing.

Perhaps this handful of stubborn settlers would be the spark that ignited the powder keg? There was no way to know.

François pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. The cold suddenly felt sharper.

When he arrived at the center of the parade ground, his squad's soldiers hadn't moved. They were exactly as he had left them.

"Gentlemen, we're leaving on a mission," he began in a clear, firm voice, sharp as a musket shot. "I will prepare the necessary documents and request rations. Corporal, find Lieutenant Cartier. Our men are to gather here within the hour, ready to leave for a week. Then find Captain Delmas. Tell him to meet me in my office."

"At your orders, sir!"

It didn't take long for the two companies to be ready to leave. It wasn't the first time these soldiers had ventured into contested territory, between British and Mohawk lands.

Each man stood in silence, focused, in his place.

The major strode along the ranks with brisk steps, his face hardened by the cold and the weight of their mission.

"Captain Delmas, are your men ready?"

"Yes, sir. Equipment's been checked. All muskets are in good condition, and the cartridge boxes are full."

François nodded slowly. His gaze passed over his men, who looked as though they were preparing for an expedition deep into the British colonies.

Let's hope we won't need to use them.

The mere appearance of a French detachment was often enough to make intruders flee. But sometimes, it required a more forceful approach—firing into the air, or at their legs.

He glanced up at the top of the fort's walls, where the fleur-de-lys banner fluttered in the wind.

At that moment, a hooded figure emerged from the colonel's office. François recognized Father Joseph, a Jesuit missionary who played an essential role at the fort, particularly in relations with the Iroquois.

Unsurprisingly, he had been chosen to inform the Mohawks. François approached as the priest made his way toward the stables.

"Father Joseph, good morning."

"Major Boucher, good morning. Can I help you?"

"Not really. You're headed to Chief Akwiratheka's village?"

"That's right. Would you like me to deliver a message?"

"Yes, please, though I'm sure it's something you already intend to say. Tell him I'm being sent with nearly eighty men to drive the intruders off their lands, and that I hope he won't have to intervene. Also, tell him… ask him not to carry out his threat if they find them first."

Naturally, Father Joseph knew what Major Boucher de Montrouge was referring to.

All the tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy were angry with the British, who were unable to keep their settlers behind the agreed border. The Mohawks, being the most exposed, had run out of patience. Chief Akwiratheka and others from his village had threatened to send the next settlers back without their scalps if they were caught on Iroquois land.

"I will," the missionary replied simply, bowing slightly. "May God be with you, Major. I'll pray that you find them before the warriors do."

"And I'll pray that you manage to calm them, even if only a little."

A soldier brought the major's mare to him. Carmène was already saddled, her coat gleaming despite the cold.

François mounted his faithful steed and gave the order to move out. In a short column, riding two by two, the men left the safety of the fort and crossed Longue Island.

As soon as they reached the far side of the Hudson River, the detachment turned south.

François was the only one on horseback.

He took the lead.

The cold slowed their march. The snow, compact and frozen, crunched beneath their sturdy boots.

At times it absorbed all sound, and at others, it seemed to amplify even the faintest noise.

Few spoke.

They marched in this strange, muffled atmosphere for hours, resting very little, aware of how short the days were. They had to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall.

-----------------------------------------

They only stopped when the major judged it was time to set up camp. They were in the middle of nowhere, about eight or nine kilometers north of Stillwater, between a broad path and the Hudson River, whose banks were frozen over.

Moving a little off the road, they found a suitable clearing. There was a ruined cabin and a wide open space, probably an abandoned field. Saplings had begun to grow there.

In Stillwater itself, there was nothing but a British guard post. Its sole purpose was to monitor the river and the road, in order to alert Albany in case of an attack.

Naturally, François had no intention of passing through it. He planned to veer westward, away from the river, and reach the Mohawk River where the settlers had last been seen.

They quickly set up camp with the tents they had brought along. Each canvas had been folded tightly to fit in a bag along with the ropes and pegs. One tent was needed for every six men, so while one carried the canvas, the other five could carry blankets—precious in this season.

Night fell quickly after the camp was pitched, and the temperature dropped to freezing.

Around a small fire, its orange glow barely pushing back the darkness, the men had gathered as if worshipping some ancient idol. Some of them were singing softly, as people often did in the homes of New France during the winter.

In a pot suspended above the flames, potatoes were slowly cooking.

The previous summer's harvest had been excellent. The fields on Longue Island, south of the barracks, had produced tons of them.

Stored properly, they could last through the spring—provided they were protected from mold, larvae, and rats.

François, wrapped in a blue-grey cloak, had stepped a few paces away to study his map, which he had spread out over a tree stump under the light of a lantern. He traced the rivers with his finger, trying to estimate distances while silently cursing the absence of Google Earth or GPS.

Captain Delmas came to join him, holding two steaming mess tins.

He was a man in his thirties, like François—square-faced, rather handsome, with thick black eyebrows and dark eyes. He could easily pass for a Spaniard or a Portuguese.

"Sir," he said, holding one of the tins out, "I brought you something to eat."

François turned to his subordinate and gratefully accepted the tin.

"Thank you, Captain. Has everyone had their share?"

"Yes, sir. They've started eating."

The major simply nodded and put a piece of potato into his mouth.

Ah! Ah! That's hot!

He began breathing out quickly, trying to vent the heat that was burning his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

"Hot," he gasped, struggling not to spit out the precious food.

"They just came out of the pot."

With some difficulty, François swallowed the piece of potato and set his tin down on the map. His tongue felt numb, as if it had been anesthetized.

"Hmm. Do you think we'll find them tomorrow? The settlers?"

François shrugged at Delmas's question.

"Unlikely. They've probably moved since they were last seen. I imagine they followed the Mohawk River to stay near a water source. If we head southwest, we should reach it by tomorrow evening, roughly where our scouts spotted them. From there, we'll have to track them."

"Assuming it doesn't snow before then," the captain added, leaning in to study the map. "How far do you think they've gone?"

François thought for a moment and placed a finger on a part of the map that grew increasingly vague the farther it got from the Hudson River. The spot was roughly forty kilometers from Albany.

"Hard to say… Maybe around here? I'm sure we'll catch up. They're apparently heavily loaded, which will slow them down. And our men are used to this terrain now. What worries me is how they'll react."

"You think they'll shoot at us? But we outnumber them by far. They'd have to be mad."

"It only takes one fool, Captain, to start a war. If one of them fires first, we'll have no choice but to return fire, and it'll be a bloodbath. Albany will no doubt blame us. That's why the lieutenant colonel is on his way there."

"And if the Mohawks find them first?"

"That could be worse. The illegal settlers might think they stand a chance and cause heavy losses among the Iroquois. That would drive them to launch punitive raids against the British colonies—raids, massacres, destruction. We're lucky it hasn't already happened."

Delmas nodded slowly.

What François and many others feared most was a spiral of uncontrolled violence—just like what had happened between 1763 and 1766 with the New Frontier League. Veterans of the Six Years' War had banded together to forcibly settle on Indian lands, claiming that King George and Parliament had promised them these lands.

The Creeks and Cherokees, in particular, had seen many of their villages burned and their warriors killed. In response, they had attacked British forts and frontier towns. That had led all the governors to condemn such settlements as early as April 1762, followed by a joint proclamation from George III and Louis XV a few months later.

If I were the Iroquois, François thought, I'd have already crossed that line and burned Albany for its complicity. That must not happen.