Boston was under immense strain. The tension in the air was so thick it seemed to drive people mad.

As days passed, more and more colonists sought refuge in the large city. Some traveled great distances to escape the French.

They appeared so destitute that it would take a heart of stone to turn them away.

They sought safety, which was entirely natural, but Boston lacked vacant housing and was far from abundant in resources. The city quickly became overcrowded, plunging the newcomers into severe hardship.

Authorities did their best, but if nothing changed soon, they would quickly be overwhelmed by events.

George Townshend, the highest-ranking officer in the city, did what he could with resources he deemed insufficient to maintain order, increasing both day and night patrols.

Late, through refugees, he learned that the governor of New Hampshire, Benning Wentworth, had raised a substantial force to drive back or at least halt the French advance.

Unfortunately, Wentworth hadn’t coordinated with him.

They could have acted together, pooling their forces and strategizing.

Instead, Wentworth acted alone and failed alone. Reports indicated that the Battle of Exeter, as it was already being called, had turned into a massacre.

Witness accounts described how the fight quickly tilted in favor of the French, who had superior numbers.

The battlefield descended into chaos. Yet Wentworth had insisted on pressing forward.

A large number of soldiers and militiamen were killed or went missing. Townshend had no precise casualty figures yet, nor did he know Wentworth's fate.

Even before these grim reports arrived, Townshend had begun recruiting volunteers en masse.

By the time news of Wentworth’s defeat reached Boston, Townshend had gathered nearly three thousand men. Yet he didn’t intend to settle for such a small number.

Having recently arrived from Europe, his mindset remained shaped by European warfare. If he had to move, it would be with a force at least three times larger. Anything less would be laughable in his view; in Europe, wars were fought with armies of at least ten thousand men.

Major battles often involved tens of thousands!

From his office window, the British officer observed his soldiers and new recruits drilling. From a distance, they cut an impressive figure, but up close, it was clear many lacked proper training.

Still, given time, he was confident they could become real soldiers. The British Army was highly skilled, thanks largely to its ability to instill discipline.

His gaze shifted to the Union Jack flying proudly above the fort and the city. Slowly, his eyes drifted to the line ships anchored at the harbor's entrance.

“With so many ships, Boston is safe from the sea. It’s what’s happening on land that concerns me.”

“Sir? A new group of refugees arrived this morning. Mr. Scotts doesn’t know what to do with them; we have no more available housing.”

The officer’s face immediately darkened, for this man never ceased to complain or seek his intervention.

“Well, let them settle in the nearby villages.”

“But sir, they’re already being asked to take in more than they can handle.”

“Then send them farther! Dedham and Walpole can’t be less safe than Boston. If they want to go even farther, that’s their business! There’s more to this world than just Boston, for heaven’s sake! Why are they all coming here?!”

Of course, Townshend wasn’t expecting an answer; he already knew it. Boston was a large city situated on a well-fortified peninsula, protected by a wall of ships at sea.

Half of their naval cannons had been relocated to bolster the city’s ramparts and coastal batteries, but all the ocean-facing cannons remained in place.

“Sir! Urgent news!” Another soldier appeared at the office entrance. “The French have left Exeter and entered Hampton!”

“What?! Damnation! That’s only a day’s march away—two at most, if slowed by their equipment!”

“What are your orders, sir?”

“Accelerate the training and intensify recruitment! I’ll immediately draft a letter to the governors of Providence and Connecticut. They likely can’t help us, but they should be warned, just in case.”

***

Meanwhile, the French advanced slowly toward Boston, as if deliberately giving their enemy time to prepare.

The region’s civilians seized the opportunity, fleeing en masse to the south.

To prevent them from moving inland and to stir unrest among the British colonists there, numerous companies had been dispatched westward. Like a swarm of locusts, they destroyed everything in their path.

These units moved faster than the main army, ensuring the colonists fled toward Boston.

Adam learned that this was part of the marshal’s grand strategy.

Following a dirt road lost amid the trees, his company came across three isolated houses. Their presence could not go unnoticed.

The leader of this tiny community, a veteran of the last war rewarded with a small plot of land for his service, emerged from one house unarmed. With his hands visible, he approached the soldiers, only to freeze as they leveled their weapons at him.

He was a fairly tall man, thin and broad-shouldered, with long chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a long brown leather coat of good quality, but underneath were simple clothes. He frowned, but his gaze showed no hostility.

Adam approached, one hand on his sword, ready to draw it.

“What do you want? We don’t have much here, but we’re willing to share with you and your men if you leave us in peace.”

“I’m afraid, sir, that whatever you have, it won’t be enough. We have our orders.”

The settler frowned more deeply, and his gaze grew colder.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“You all need to leave this place immediately,” Adam said in fluent, proper English. “How many people live here?”

“There are six of us. My wife, my two youngest children. My eldest and his wife are here as well, along with my brother. He’s away at the moment, but—”

“When will he be back?” Adam interrupted, glancing toward the small wooden houses.

“I don’t know. He left at dawn. He could return in an hour or at nightfall, depending on what he catches.”

“He’s a hunter? So he’s armed.”

Though Adam had switched to French mid-sentence, the settler had perfectly understood what the young captain had said.

“Yes, Captain. You are a captain, aren’t you? We sell furs and meat in the nearest town.”

Adam noticed a curtain move in one of the houses and felt a cold bead of sweat run down his back. He had the distinct impression he was being watched down the barrel of a gun.

It reminded him immediately of the situation he had faced in Portsmouth.

“Are there weapons in any of these houses?” Adam asked slowly, his tone menacing. “If so, how many exactly?”

“Sir, please, they’re not weapons for war, but for hunting.”

“They are weapons. Bring everyone out, now. If I see even one weapon—”

The settler paled, clearly worried about his family’s safety, and pursed his lips in anger. Under the insistent gaze of the French captain and his tense soldiers, he retreated toward the nearest house.

He spoke loudly and clearly in his language.

The soldiers tensed even further, as English was completely unfamiliar to them. Adam was the only one who understood it.

A second voice, younger, responded to what the man in the long coat had said.

Then, a man emerged from the trees, armed with a long musket. He held small game in his left hand, but he dropped it immediately upon seeing the Frenchmen.

In a flash, he fired his weapon, aiming at the soldiers, who quickly took up defensive positions.

The distance wasn’t great, but the accuracy of such weapons was poor. Despite all the shots fired, not one hit the hunter, who seemed maddened by the presence of men in white uniforms.

The settler who had acted as the spokesman for the small community had disappeared into the first house, and another gunshot rang out.

Bang!

“Argh! I’m hit!”

“It’s Private Petit! He’s wounded in the leg!”

“Form three groups!” Adam shouted. “Lieutenant Marais! Handle that damn hunter! I’ll take care of the other shooter! Lieutenant Laroche, search that house! Be cautious—they’re probably armed!”

“Yes!”

“Understood!”

Thanks to their rigorous training, the soldiers quickly accomplished their tasks. The hunter, sheltered behind a massive fallen tree, was soon surrounded.

Adam entered the second house, the one facing the house the man in the leather coat had gone into.

With force, he entered, his men close behind, and heard a loud detonation.

Bam!

A bullet whizzed past his ear and shattered the wooden wall mere inches from his head.

When Adam pointed his pistol toward the staircase, the shooter had already disappeared.

“He’s upstairs! Be careful!”

Behind Adam, the soldiers barged in and moved a table to use as a shield. They positioned it facing the staircase.

Bang!

Another shot rang out as Adam and his men took cover behind the overturned table. The bullet struck the wood but didn’t penetrate it.

It reminded Adam once again of what had happened in Portsmouth and the harsh words of the colonel.

Damn it! Go!

Immediately, Adam leapt up and charged up the L-shaped staircase. His heavy, loud footsteps echoed like distant cannon fire.

He surprised the young man—nineteen or twenty at most—reloading his weapon.

The young man hadn’t had time to finish reloading, so he swung the musket like a baseball bat. Adam took the blow to the shoulder, letting out a loud cry of pain.

He stumbled to the side, allowing other soldiers to reach the upper floor of the small house. The young settler, whose face bore a striking resemblance to the man in the leather coat, didn’t have time to react this time and was shot in the chest.

A second soldier, overwhelmed by adrenaline and unaware of what he was doing, plunged his bayonet deep into the young man's stomach, killing him instantly.

Adam, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand, got up and cast a quick glance at the boy. His wide-open eyes stared blankly at the sturdy beams supporting the roof.

“Damn…” Adam murmured at the sight. “Is everyone all right?”

A loud, rage-filled scream suddenly erupted behind him. He turned, startled, to see a woman as young as the boy—his wife—charging toward him with a large hunting knife in hand.

Her expression mirrored that of the young girl who had tried to stab him and Martin Morrel de Lusernes back in Quebec.

Without thinking, Adam raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

A loud gunshot echoed, and the woman collapsed backward like a lifeless puppet. Her brown hair covered her face, which was turned to the side.

A dark stain quickly spread across her dress, making it seem as though her blood was black.

Adam’s lips began to tremble violently, and his eyes grew as round as marbles. Even though the woman had been armed and left him no choice, guilt surged through him.

No one would blame him, as he had done what was necessary, but he had just crossed a line he had sworn never to cross. Even in Hanover and Saxony, he had not killed civilians—except for the priest who had agreed to hear his confession.

He had threatened, struck, but never killed.

This was partly why he couldn’t bring himself to kill that old man in Portsmouth.

The colonel had made it clear he had acted poorly, and his two lieutenants had spoken to him about it afterward.

He let his arm, holding the smoking pistol, hang against his leg. Everyone seemed frozen in shock. Adam was the first to regain his senses.

“The fight isn’t over! Get downstairs and assist your comrades!” he shouted to snap his men out of it.

Immediately, everyone vanished. Adam glanced one last time at the woman lying on the floor.

Her abdomen, where the bullet had struck, was soaked in blood. It was only then that he noticed her belly was slightly rounded.

A hideous grimace spread across his face, which had turned whiter than his uniform. He hadn’t taken just one life—he had taken two.

In a fit of rage, he punched a wooden wall. The wall remained intact, but his hand cracked, though he felt no pain.

“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Adam screamed and swore, striking the wall repeatedly before storming down to the ground floor like a demon, his right hand badly injured.

Idiots! Fools! Why did you resist?! Why?! You just needed to leave! Shit!

By the time he stepped outside, it was already over. The hunter was dead, unlike the settler in the leather coat, his wife, and their two youngest children.

They were all dragged roughly in front of their house, threatened by very angry French soldiers.

Seeing that calm had been restored, Adam wiped his face and only approached after partially regaining his composure.

He positioned himself in front of the settler, whose swollen face was pressed to the ground as if he were prostrating himself. One eye was swollen shut where he’d been struck, but luckily, he hadn’t been hurt worse.

His wife and children sobbed nearby, begging the soldiers to stop hitting him.

Adam’s eyes were red, and in a terribly low voice, he addressed the settler who had failed—or refused—to prevent this tragedy.

“The young man who lived across the way—he was your son, wasn’t he? And that was his wife?”

“W-was?! W-what have you done?”

“They attacked us—with a musket and a knife…”

“No! No!”

The settler’s voice broke like a wave crashing against a rock, and tears streaked his mud-covered cheeks.

“We only wanted you to leave, not this.”

Adam stopped speaking, fearing he might reveal too much emotion.

“My condolences, sir. I’ll allow you to see them, as well as the other man—the hunter. You’ll be able to bury them, after which you will all leave.”

For the man and his family, it was as if the universe had collapsed. Trembling and staggering, he made his way to the second house, accompanied by three soldiers.

Meanwhile, Adam checked on his men, two of whom were wounded, in addition to Private Petit.

Fortunately, none of the injuries were serious. However, they would require care, as bullet wounds were not to be taken lightly, especially at that time. They could easily become infected, cause fever, and lead to death.

A loud cry of pain echoed from the house across the way, causing Adam’s soldiers to shudder and scaring off the birds that had returned after the fighting ended.

Adam, kneeling before Private Petit, made a tremendous effort not to show any emotion. His shoulders trembled slightly, but only for a second.

The next day, after passing through three villages and hamlets, Adam and his company returned to the main army. The young officer was then able to give his report to Colonel de Bréhant.

“I see. It’s a job well done. It’s unfortunate, but this is war. Tragedies like this are commonplace—we can’t do anything about it. At least you didn’t lose any men this time. This is how you should have acted in Portsmouth, Captain. Ah, this is why civilians shouldn’t have firearms, even for hunting.”

“Yes, Colonel. All the weapons have been confiscated and brought back. Here’s the inventory of what was collected since we left Exeter.”

“Let me see… Looks good. Who knows how many weapons are still circulating in this province? That’s why every settler must be seen as a threat. Show no leniency, stay vigilant, and don’t neglect training.”

“At your orders.”

“Our army will remain here for some time, but we’ll continue to send units into the surrounding area. Soon, our enemy won’t tolerate our presence and will march against us. Have your men ready. The Redcoats won’t underestimate us again and will come in force.”