Adam stood before Colonel de Bréhant in a house in Exeter. The main room was spacious but far inferior to the grand house the young captain had visited the day before.

All the houses in this village were now occupied by officers of the army, the finest one having naturally become the headquarters and the residence of the marshal.

Adam stood very straight, his black and gold tricorne tucked under his arm, waiting anxiously for his superior to address him.

Being summoned, he knew he would be reprimanded for his actions the day before. He had barely slept the previous night, troubled by what had happened and what he had almost done.

That old British settler from Portsmouth had killed one of his men, and yet he was still alive.

For hours, Adam had wrestled with the issue in his mind without reaching a satisfying conclusion.

He hadn’t killed the old man, so he hadn’t crossed the red line he had set for himself, but neither had he avenged his subordinate.

He knew his men were terribly divided. Most seemed to disagree with his decision, including his two lieutenants.

To them, this old man was, above all, an enemy—not just because he was a British settler but because he was armed. He should not have been treated any differently from a redcoat and should have been shot down like a dog.

Others, however, approved of the captain’s decision, believing that killing a civilian, even an armed one, was unacceptable because, deep down, he was only protecting his home. Certainly, they would have done exactly the same in the reverse situation.

Their parents would have done so, without a doubt.

The colonel let out a deep sigh as he set down the sheet of paper in his hands. It was Adam’s report, along with that of Captain Briscard, a man of the same generation as Captain Gilbert and Captain Fontaine.

Although Adam and Louis-Philippe Briscard were both captains, the latter outranked the former in seniority, which naturally made him the superior officer during the capture of Portsmouth.

“Captain Boucher, when I recommended you for your rank, I thought you were ready. I thought you could command a troop. Now, I have doubts. Tell me, Captain, did I make a mistake?”

“N-no, Colonel!”

“Yet one of your men is dead, and his killer is still alive. What message do you think this sends to your men?”

Adam tried not to avert his gaze but couldn’t help lowering his eyes under the overwhelming presence of his commander.

“Anyone who takes up arms against us is our enemy, correct?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“That this enemy may have good reasons to take up arms is irrelevant. What matters, Captain, are actions. This man was an enemy. He killed one of your soldiers and should have paid for his crime with his life. Your act of kindness, though noble, has sown discord within your unit.”

But… what else could I have done?! Burn him alive with his house?! Attack at the risk of losing another of my men?!

Adam remained silent and frowned slightly, allowing Colonel de Bréhant to imagine what his young subordinate was thinking.

“Captain, your duty is to fight and defend His Majesty’s interests. By refusing to do what was necessary, you showed weakness. Hesitation—a terrible evil with dire consequences—is something I shouldn’t have to explain to you after all we’ve endured since our departure. We teach our soldiers to be strong, not to falter when the time comes to attack. But what happens when the commander himself hesitates?”

The captain bit his lower lip and lowered his eyes and shoulders further, burdened by the reprimand.

“An army of sheep led by a lion is worth more than an army of lions led by a sheep, Captain. Keep that in mind. I don’t want to read this kind of report again. Am I understood?”

“Forgive me, Colonel. I…”

“I don’t want excuses, Captain. I want actions. I asked if I made myself clear.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Good. In that case, that will be all. You may go.”

Adam bowed with the respect owed to his superior and placed his tricorne back on his head before leaving the room.

His thoughts in turmoil, he stopped in front of the small wooden and stone house, facing the muddy street. It was so lively that one might have thought a fair was taking place in Exeter.

But there were only soldiers, and not a single woman in sight. As in Portsmouth, the inhabitants had fled at the sight of the French army. Those who had stayed—very few—had been driven out like beggars, forced to abandon all their belongings.

Adam, standing still as if petrified, felt like crying. Even though he had said he would no longer show weakness before the enemy, deep down, he still believed he had made the right choice.

It might not have been the right one for François Boucher’s career, but for Adam, who wanted to return to the 21st century without becoming a war criminal, what he had done was the only acceptable choice.

It was very strange because when P’tit Pol had been killed entering a house in Halifax, he hadn’t hesitated and had killed the attacker. Like this old man, it was just a civilian trying to defend his home.

So, what was the difference?

Had he not hesitated that day because he acted on impulse? Because it was P’tit Pol and not some low-ranking soldier whose story he only knew from reading his file? Because he had just come out of a battle, whereas here he had had time to think?

Perhaps he would have made a different choice if he hadn’t taken the time to reflect before acting?

Almost up until the last moment, he had intended to burn that beautiful house with its occupant inside.

This thought terrified him, as Adam sincerely believed he would never be capable of committing such a horrible crime. He wasn’t good at history, but he still had basic knowledge, particularly regarding the Second World War.

Was there a difference between what he had almost done and what the German army had done in Europe during those years?

The uniforms were different, as were the weapons and nationalities, but a war crime remained a war crime.

Yes, I definitely did the right thing. Never mind if I disappointed the colonel, as long as I can still look at myself in the mirror! I wouldn’t change a thing!

He only learned later that while he was speaking with Colonel de Bréhant, an assault had been launched on the large house at the southern edge of Portsmouth. The attack was commanded by Captain Briscard.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The old man had mounted a heroic but futile resistance, as he was killed within seconds. He managed to kill three men—one with a musket dating back to King George’s War from a window, and the other two with a pair of pistols while defending his room, the same room where he had bid farewell to his wife ten years earlier.

The old man, with his Santa Claus-like appearance, was not just an ordinary hunter; he was a former British army soldier who had fought the French as well as the Indians on the frontier during three wars.

***

The landing of French troops on the British shores of the American colonies had quickly been noticed and reported to local authorities. It was as if the French took perverse pleasure in flaunting their audacity, without even attempting to conceal their intentions.

Their methodical but slow advance spread panic among the colonists, from the Canadian border to the heart of Massachusetts, Maine, and New Hampshire. Colonists fled their farms and villages in droves, seeking refuge in the nearest towns.

The British colonies, though united under the Crown’s banner, operated as almost independent entities. Each governor ruled his province as a colonel would command his regiment, meticulously maintaining order and ensuring the prosperity of his territory.

Though they all shared a common army, recognizable by their famous red coats, this union was merely a façade. Divisions ran deep, and each province prioritized its own interests above all.

Some viewed this system as detrimental to the defense of these territories and advocated for a merger of the colonies, at least those in the north. But for the authorities, guardians of order on behalf of Parliament and His Majesty, this arrangement was necessary to control such a vast territory.

Thus, what happened in the north, from the southern provinces' perspective, was the north's problem.

Even if it were otherwise, they had their own issues, notably with the Spanish, who encouraged slaves in British territories to revolt and kill their masters. They even promised them freedom!

This insidious strategy was effective, and reports of bloody tragedies in Georgia plantations and even some in the Carolinas further north were becoming more frequent. Newspapers relayed horrific accounts of burned homes and massacred white families.

This forced masters to be harsher to deter their slaves from following suit, and it was said that in the countryside, it was not uncommon to see Black people executed to send a clear message. When a plantation rebelled and white blood was spilled, Black blood would soon flow.

All slaves who didn’t flee were immediately condemned, and an even more horrible fate awaited those who fled but were caught attempting to cross into Florida.

Despite the risks, increasing numbers tried their luck. Some even joined the Spanish army to exact revenge on plantation owners.

In the north, this issue didn’t exist, at least not yet, as France didn’t offer freedom to slaves in British territories.

In any case, there weren’t that many in the region.

The province of New Hampshire, separated from Massachusetts since 1741, wedged between this province, which sought nothing more than to absorb it, the wilderness, and New France, was on the front lines.

It had prospered at the expense of Indian peoples and its neighbors, notably the province of New York, its great rival.

The governor of New Hampshire was very proud of this. His name was Benning Wentworth, the son of John Wentworth, who had also been governor of this province in his time.

The son, like the father, was an ambitious man who didn’t hesitate to use his connections to enrich himself and favor his close allies.

This man, ruthless to his enemies, also made his friends tremble. Everyone knew that with him, the slightest mistake could be fatal. They could lose everything overnight, with just a snap of his fingers.

To stay in power and grow wealthy, one had to maintain good relations with this man, which meant always defending and serving his interests.

In neighboring provinces, people knew what he was doing, how he remained in power, and the harm he caused. But he gave the right people what they needed. The Crown was satisfied with the results, as the province prospered, and it benefited too.

With him in charge, the province was under control, which was why his methods were overlooked.

But the French had arrived on his turf, in his province, and threatened to take everything from him.

His anger was immense, all the more so because this wasn’t his first humiliation. The raids carried out by Marshal Richelieu, nicknamed the Old Rogue, had been a slap in the face that cost him dearly.

His outrageous actions had tarnished his prestige, but this time the threat seemed far graver. Villages under his jurisdiction were falling one after another, and his authority was faltering. Colonists now doubted his ability to defend them and began questioning his legitimacy.

Wentworth decided to take matters into his own hands and drive the invading army off his land without calling on other governors in the region, especially not those of New York and Massachusetts.

He mobilized all the redcoats stationed in his province, which he considered his personal guard.

But knowing this wouldn’t suffice, he called on militiamen and mercenaries to bolster his forces. Money, he believed, could solve any problem—it was just a matter of knowing who to pay and how much.

Under his command, they left Rumford on the morning of April 8 and headed toward Exeter. As his troop advanced, its ranks swelled, eventually surpassing two thousand men. Every village they passed through saw a few men join the effort to defend the province against the vile French.

But in Exeter, they found an army in formation, ready for battle, far larger than their own, and even equipped with artillery—a luxury he did not have. They even had a small cavalry unit!

He felt, as did the rest of his men, a tremendous pressure descend upon him. Yet, in his stubbornness, he decided to engage in battle anyway, as retreating would make him the laughingstock of the world.

***

“Fix bayonets!” Adam ordered, standing at the head of his troops in the front line.

With a tinge of anxiety, as this would be his first battle as a captain, he tightened his grip on the sword he had drawn.

The sound of drums and flutes carried on the wind, muffled in his ears as though played underwater. The wind was moderately strong, and the sky was uniformly gray, though it wasn’t raining—at least, not yet.

The regiment's flags, red with a white cross, fluttered and snapped nearby as they waited for the enemy to approach.

The terrain favored the French as long as they held their positions. In front of them lay a sort of hollow that would allow the French cavalry to wreak havoc as soon as the enemy descended into it, even though the height difference wasn’t significant.

The cannons had been positioned to strike the enemy no matter where they advanced. The officers adjusted their angles and opened fire on the marshal's order.

With remarkable precision, the cannonballs whistled through the air and landed with a tremendous crash among the enemy ranks.

Quickly, gaps appeared, and chaos ensued, but the enemy lines continued advancing.

As soon as the cannons were reloaded, still smoking, they fired again. The deafening blasts shook the air, sending chills down the spines of the young recruits behind Adam, and shortly after, loud screams echoed in the distance.

From where he stood, Adam could see bodies being shredded, smashed, pulverized. But the enemy was numerous and kept advancing, as they had no other choice.

The French didn’t need to move—they had the advantage. They only had to wait until the enemy was within musket range, which eventually happened.

“Prepare your weapons!”

Adam's soldiers took their positions as they had during drills, with the first rank kneeling and the two ranks behind standing upright.

Come on, don't fail me now!

"En joue!"

They raised their weapons in the direction of the enemy, who had just fired a volley.

"Fire!"

An impressive discharge echoed in Adam's right ear, and a thick white cloud formed, quickly carried away by the wind.

Adam and his soldiers noticed that two of their men were wounded, but none had died in this initial exchange. Both injured men had been hit by bullets, but the distance between the two forces was so great that their wounds could be considered minor.

With some time, they'll be back on their feet with only a small scar. They’ll have something to brag about, Adam thought as he issued the next orders.

After a moment, slightly longer than ideal despite their training—though still much improved compared to the beginning—their weapons were once again ready.

"En joue! Feu!"

Another round of gunfire rang out, and another white cloud of gunpowder residue formed in front of the barrels. With the enemy having moved closer to inflict more damage, they also suffered heavier losses.

The exchanges continued for several long minutes, after which there was a rotation. Adam’s company fell back, making room for a fresh unit.

Adam's soldiers were able to rest a bit and mentally prepare for what was to come.

They were shaken by what they had done; some even began to vomit.

It was natural, as they had just experienced their first taste of a battlefield. They had fired at living men, not innocent wooden and canvas targets.

Yet, in reality, this battle was not particularly impressive. Adam had seen battles in Europe involving far more soldiers, and veterans of the War of Austrian Succession had witnessed even greater ones, with lines stretching for kilometers.

For them, this battle was insignificant.

When it was once again Captain Boucher’s company’s turn to take the front line, the situation had drastically changed. The enemy was suffering heavy losses, partly because they were being hit by artillery fire from three directions.

Their lines were in complete disarray, and more than one unit had already fled after sustaining severe losses.

Eventually, the pressure became too much, and the enemy’s lines collapsed. Like hunting dogs, the small cavalry units commanded by Marshal de Richelieu descended upon them.

Meanwhile, the infantry lines advanced in good order, bayonets at the ready.

The enemy was defeated in less than four hours, leaving behind a significant number of dead and wounded. Governor Benning Wentworth was among them, struck by a cannonball in the chest after it had taken off the head of his horse.