Adam’s company had continued their training sessions, but for the soldiers, these sessions felt more like torture than actual military preparation.

From morning to night, day after day, they endured physical exercises, target shooting, charges against suspended sandbags, and repeated drills.

The major difference since the start of their grueling training was the presence of other companies. Those of Jean-Baptiste Gauthier, Albert Fontaine, André Louis, and Martin Morrel de Lusernes had joined them in what had become their little clearing.

In total, this brought their numbers to nearly one hundred and eighty men!

The forty recruits in Boucher’s company were both impressed and intimidated, especially since there was a glaring difference in skill levels.

Fortunately, the soldiers from the other companies were neither mean nor foolish. On the contrary, following the orders of their respective captains, they showed kindness to help raise the level of these “chicks” before they were sent to the battlefield.

Thanks to this guidance, their skills did improve, albeit over a short period. Still, it wasn’t enough for Adam, who burned with ambition. Almost daily, he shared his drive with his men to bolster their spirits.

They were so exhausted that they needed a purpose for everything they were doing. They were willing to suffer, but it had to be for a good reason. That’s why Adam told them, time and again, that they had to surpass their comrades if they wanted a chance to stand out in the upcoming battles.

On March 22, Adam informed them that it would be their last day in Halifax, as they would all board ships the next day. Three-quarters of these vessels were formerly British ships captured over the winter in the Atlantic by Monsieur de Roquefeuille.

There was no shortage of these, though most were medium- or small-tonnage merchant vessels. In the port and bay, there were brigs and schooners—what the English called “schooners”—but there were also warships.

These were few in number, as most had been sent to Louisbourg for repairs and study. Indeed, this was how the French Royal Navy often improved the quality of its ships.

The English built good ships, so capturing them was an excellent way to uncover their secrets. Otherwise, one could send spies to their shipyards, which, of course, every great nation did, though it required time and resources.

On March 23, at dawn, nearly the entire French army was assembled in Halifax. Marshal de Richelieu left only a thousand men behind to defend all of Acadia, relying heavily on the support of the numerous Indians who had settled in the region.

While the territory seemed secure militarily, the marshal was more concerned about the colonists, whose loyalty was naturally not guaranteed.

This thousand-strong force was to be fragmented into multiple units and dispersed among the coastal villages to maintain a French military presence in the area.

The port of Halifax was incredibly lively despite the early hour. It was seven o’clock, and the sun had yet to rise. However, the sky was vibrant on the horizon, signaling that dawn was near.

Adam stood there, motionless and silent, alongside his officers, waiting for instructions from the colonel, his lieutenant, and the major.

All around, thousands of soldiers were chatting amongst themselves in a continuous buzz, with only snippets of conversation standing out:

“Hey! How much longer do we have to wait?!”

“Damn it! Waking up this early was worth it, huh? Ugh, I just want to sleep! Just an hour!”

“…so I told her I wanted to spend the night with one girl, not five! Hell, in Germany, the girls were cheaper!”

“Because you paid for them? Ahaha! Why?! You just have to take them by force!”

“I need to go to the latrines! Sergeant? Do I have time for a quick trip?”

“No! You should’ve gone before!”

“But we haven’t moved for at least an hour!”

“Soldier! Is that alcohol? Put that away immediately, or you’ll be flogged!”

In stark contrast to these soldiers, who seemed as excited as children waiting in a never-ending line for a popular attraction at a large park, Adam’s men were strangely silent.

In reality, they were too tense to chatter or joke. Fear was plainly written on their strained faces.

Despite their efforts to hide their hands, Adam could see them trembling wildly, as if they were standing naked in the snow.

They’re scared to death… As they should be. I was like them once. You really can get used to anything, Adam thought, reflecting on all he had endured so far.

“Captain Boucher?” a voice suddenly called behind the officer, pulling him from his thoughts.

He turned and saw an unfamiliar officer of the same rank, apparently from another regiment. The man had an angular oval face, a long, narrow nose, and large eyes as dark as his tricorne.

“Yes?”

“Your company will board that ship. Are all your men present?”

“They are, sir. None are missing. We are forty in total.”

“Good. That’s perfect. It’s not very large, but all your men should fit aboard.”

Adam turned slightly toward the quay and spotted a modest two-masted schooner. As the captain had said, it was not an imposing vessel. Barely a dozen men seemed needed to sail it properly.

With its simple hull, adorned only with a black stripe at gunport level and its twelve cannons—six on each side—the ship seemed neither sturdy nor imposing. It was merely a toy compared to the Ocean, but it appeared swift and maneuverable, ideal for trade.

Its name, inscribed on both the bow and stern, was The Good Omen, though the name hadn’t brought good fortune to its previous crew.

It’s rather pretty, thought Adam as he imagined it slicing through the waves. I wonder how fast it is once all its sails are deployed?

“C-Captain? Are we… are we going to have to sail it?”

The question came from Private Petit, a young man similar in age and stature to Adam’s current body. He had broad shoulders and a neck that was both long and slender. A prominent blue vein was visible along the side, and his Adam’s apple protruded conspicuously, as if he’d swallowed a golf ball the wrong way.

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“Probably not,” the officer replied, shaking his head gently so as not to displace his white wig. “But it wouldn’t hurt to observe how the sailors operate it, just in case. Same for the cannons. They came in handy when we crossed the ocean last year.”

“R-really?!”

Private Petit, whose skin was naturally pale, turned even whiter at the thought of naval combat and having to climb the rigging. He was surely imagining dozens of cannonballs descending upon them to sink the ship. If they were to face a ship of the line, whether first or second rate, they truly wouldn’t stand a chance.

A modest frigate would more than suffice to send them to the bottom, as these ships were very swift and typically armed with around twenty cannons. Designed for hunting, frigates had little to fear from ships of higher rank.

“Don’t worry, soldier,” the captain said reassuringly. “We won’t be sailing alone. There will almost certainly be several warships escorting us. Now, get ready to board!”

At once, all the recruits within earshot felt a wave of relief wash over them. To them, the sea was an unknown and dangerous domain. They were far more familiar with solid ground, and for three-quarters of them, their livelihood had depended on the land before they signed up for this mission.

It took no more than a minute for this motley crew to board, but since the Duke of Richelieu was bringing nearly his entire army with him, dozens of ships like The Good Omen were needed. Naturally, given that Halifax’s port was not yet well-developed, the ships intended to serve as cargo vessels had to be loaded one by one—or nearly so.

The warships and trading vessels were prioritized as they offered more space. Equipment, on the other hand, had already been loaded in preparation for this day.

It took nearly a full day just to embark the entire French army and leave Halifax’s port. Finally, all the ships unfurled their sails—of various sizes and shapes—leaving behind the now French port, which gradually disappeared from view.

A steady wind blew from the east, still somewhat cool, a sign that spring had not fully set in.

Adam took a deep breath and positioned himself next to the captain of the ship, who was, in reality, merely a midshipman transferred from a warship positioned slightly ahead in this impressive fleet of several hundred sails.

Despite being only sixteen years old, the boy held the wheel firmly, as if his life depended on it, and seemed competent. Adam had been assured that the lad knew what he was doing, having spent several years aboard warships.

In a brief exchange, Adam learned that the boy had enlisted as a garde-marine before becoming an ensign in 1757. He was also surrounded by promising young officers and skilled sailors.

For them, this mission was a precious opportunity to gain experience and autonomy, as they found themselves effectively in command of a ship, even if it was a small one, incomparable to the vessels they would one day hope to lead.

“Captain,” Adam began without preamble, “do you know how long it will take us to reach our destination?”

The teenager, the same age as Adam before arriving in this body but who seemed far more mature, briefly glanced at his white-clad interlocutor before quickly returning his attention to what lay ahead and around them.

“I haven’t been informed of our destination,” he replied after a brief silence, “so I couldn’t estimate how long it will take. According to my father, it will take four or five days to round Acadia and cross the bay. After that, depending on where the marshal intends to strike, it’ll take longer.”

Adam simply nodded, as it was highly improbable that someone so young would be privy to the plans of the French army’s commander-in-chief in New France.

As a captain, Adam had only received scraps of information about what lay ahead. But scraps were better than nothing.

Adam’s light blue eyes rested on the horizon, a sharp line in the distance where the sea and sky—more gray than blue—met. Far off in that direction lay land: barely exploited English territories, much like those of New France.

On the other side, there was only the vast Atlantic Ocean.

Hmm… Looks like there’s heavy rain over there. I hope we won’t encounter bad weather during the crossing or the operation. It’s already going to be complicated enough.

“How long do you think it would take to reach Boston?”

“Boston?!”

The midshipman’s long, cavalry-saber-like brown eyebrow shot up dramatically as he fixed his passenger with astonishment.

From his perspective, this man was both his superior and his elder. Although they belonged to different branches of the military, enseigne de vaisseau de Coëtnempren de Kersaint could hardly show disrespect.

Though dressed similarly to his men, Adam displayed an elegant powdered wig that must have been quite costly and carried a remarkable sword, which had likely taken countless hours of work by a master blacksmith.

One could read the doubts on his face as soon as the name of the great British colonial city was mentioned, for he immediately assumed that this man with strikingly blue eyes had information that he did not.

"I’m just curious, that’s all," Adam responded quickly, realizing he had been too direct with this young boy who could have been an ordinary classmate in another life.

“I… I have no idea,” admitted the boy. “Uh… One moment, please. I think it’s marked on this map. Ah, here it is. Let’s see...”

Guy-Armand Simon de Coëtnempren de Kersaint, or simply Armand de Kersaint, leaned over a recent map—very different from the one shown to him by the Marquis de Bréhant as this one was more suited for sailors—and fiddled with a few wooden and metal instruments.

Adam watched him work in silence, waiting for the boy to complete his calculations.

"If this map is accurate," Armand de Kersaint said confidently after a few minutes, "Boston is about a week away from Halifax. Of course, many factors must be considered, such as winds, ocean currents, and the composition of the convoy. This timeframe could extend by two or three days if conditions are poor."

“I see. Thank you, Captain.”

The boy fixed Adam with a look, still filled with doubt, but eventually nodded.

It felt strange to him to be called by that rank, as he was acutely aware of his inexperience tied to his youth. He didn’t deserve to be addressed this way, just as a minor officer couldn’t rightly be called a general simply for leading a troop.

He was just a student learning his role as an officer. He had only just begun his long journey, one laid out by his father, Guy-François de Coëtnempren de Kersaint. The latter was a captain aboard the Intrépide.

From his perspective, and it was only logical, his father was the only one who truly deserved to be called "captain."

Yet this officer—an infantry captain—didn’t seem to mock him by using the title. In fact, he appeared to treat him as an equal.

Armand de Kersaint was unaware, as they hadn’t spoken enough to share their lives, but compared to him, he had a major advantage that placed him higher in the hierarchy: he was noble.

His father, Guy-François de Coëtnempren de Kersaint, was the Count of Kersaint. While they weren’t among the kingdom’s great nobles, bound by blood to the royal family, their lineage was ancient, tracing back to the Crusades!

Like the young Armand, the Count of Kersaint had joined the navy at a very young age. If all went as planned, he would one day become a ship's lieutenant, then captain. Perhaps, if he proved talented enough and no misfortune befell him, he might, after many years of service, be entrusted with commanding a squadron to face the English across the seas and secure trade routes.

For now, he was nothing more than a noble Breton son learning to command a ship.

“D-do you think we’re really going to Boston?” he finally asked, unable to keep his curiosity and anxiety bottled up any longer.

“That’s the Marshal’s objective,” Adam admitted, lowering his voice after ensuring no one was nearby. “But from what I know—and it’s all I know—his intention is not to attack the city head-on.”

“Phew!”

The young captain cracked a small smile of amusement as he watched the boy suddenly relax. From his perspective, it couldn’t be so complicated. After all, they had landed near Louisbourg while it was under siege, crushed the valiant British army, and later made a landing in winter to capture Halifax, which they had managed to do in less than a day.

The trainee naval officer seemed so terrified at the thought of attacking Boston that Adam found his reaction endearing.

What he didn’t know was that Boston, with its 15,000 inhabitants, was one of the most important cities in the British colonies, far more developed than Quebec or Montreal. While Philadelphia and New York were ahead, that didn’t mean Boston was to be taken lightly!

A high population also meant a significant garrison and well-equipped batteries.

The young de Kersaint had very good reasons to feel relieved.

Adam thought he saw in this boy a reflection of who he had been when he first awakened in this body, completely lost and terrified at the prospect of battle. He had changed so much in so little time that he felt like a completely different person.

This thought now terrified him more than the idea of killing strangers simply because they wore different uniforms and fought under another flag. He feared becoming unrecognizable when he finally returned home, to his own time, and that he wouldn’t be able to adjust to modern comfort—or even peace.

As though trying to reassure this younger version of himself, Adam couldn’t help but offer an encouraging word to the boy, who, like so many others, he felt shouldn’t be in a war zone.

“We’ll probably land in an undefended area, and you’ll likely depart right away to chase down English ships in these waters. I’m not sure what exactly the Marshal has planned, but you’ll probably be blockading Boston without getting close to it, so there’s no need to worry.”