Colonel de Bréhant had not been mistaken.

In Boston, Brigadier General George Townshend was under unimaginable pressure. The local civil authorities expected him to drive the French far from their province.

Indeed, the main French army had yet to cross the border between New Hampshire and Massachusetts. Yet, their mere presence was catastrophic for the colony.

Their presence was intolerable, a provocation that came at a great financial cost. Moreover, the constant influx of settlers fleeing from the north created considerable disorder, leading to severe shortages.

At first, the great city could manage to accept these refugees and even assist them in finding housing. But within days, Boston was teetering on the brink of collapse.

Before the crisis, Boston consumed a vast amount of food but managed thanks to a well-established trade network. Now, no ships were entering the port, and the supplies arriving over land were far from sufficient.

The governor and his advisors—prominent merchants whose fortunes had been built in one or two generations—demanded that the officer take his growing army and confront the French forces. Their pleas grew more fervent as word spread that the enemy had halted their advance but continued to perpetrate crimes with impunity.

Their infamous soldiers brazenly crossed the border to plunder and burn nearby farms and villages.

That afternoon, April 6th, Townshend received a fresh report on French movements.

This time, they had reached Salem—an audacious move, given that the small village lay a mere twenty kilometers from Boston.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before Governor Pownall paid him a visit.

As soon as Townshend saw him enter, as impeccably dressed as ever without being ostentatious, he unconsciously frowned but refrained from showing the man the door.

"Governor, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this time?"

“Sir, I am once again obliged to draw your attention to the dire situation our province is facing. Boston is directly threatened, and those cursed French ships patrol our waters as if they own them! Our economy is on the brink of collapse!”

“I understand, naturally,” the officer replied, shaking his head in frustration, “but what can I do? We don’t yet have enough soldiers, and they require proper training, which takes time.”

“But we no longer have time, sir. The French are at our gates!”

Townshend’s expression remained unchanged as he listened in silence to the politician's complaints, as he had done since his first day in the city. The governor had even opposed him when he billeted soldiers in private homes.

Yet, he had to admit the man was intelligent, far more capable than his predecessor, William Shirley.

The latter had departed for London in 1757 to defend himself against accusations of being directly responsible for the deaths of several hundred Acadians. Shirley had refused to let these forcibly displaced people disembark in his precious Boston, leaving them to languish aboard ships for three months in the dead of winter.

They had perished from cold, hunger, and disease, met with indifference.

“The French have been at our gates for days, Governor,” Townshend remarked with an unsettling calm, “and yet, Boston still stands.”

“Standing, yes, but if its economy dies, it will soon become a ghost town! People stay where there is a future, and as long as the French are here, that future remains under threat! Sir, how much longer will you let those wretched Frenchmen run amok on our lands? If you allow this to continue, I fear you may find yourself summoned to London.”

The officer’s face darkened instantly, and Pownall immediately realized his mistake. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet, yet the governor fought to show no signs of fear, determined to maintain his composure before this man who seemed to respect strength.

“Your concern for my career is most touching, Governor,” Townshend replied icily. “We are still recruiting, and your assistance has been invaluable, but volunteers are not exactly pouring in. We’ve been forced to conscript able-bodied young men. Soon, we will march on the enemy and destroy them.”

“You’re conscripting?” the politician spluttered. “Is that really necessary? I mean, I understand, but… isn’t it risky?”

“Don’t trouble yourself with that. I will handle it.”

“Hmm, very well. Still, time is of the essence. When do you plan to march?”

“In five days.”

“F-five days? A lot can happen in five days. The enemy could be bombarding us from Chelsea or Charlestown by then.”

“Naturally, we won’t allow that to happen. Is there anything else? I have much work to do, Governor.”

The politician offered a nervous smile, barely concealing his frustration.

“Yes, of course. I understand. I’ll leave you to your work. In the meantime, I’ll try to appease the Council.”

The brigadier general sighed with relief as the man left, but the peace didn’t last. Pownall returned the next day, and the day after that, growing increasingly insistent.

Finally, on April 9, 1759, upon learning that the French army had suddenly begun marching and had brought a large number of artillery pieces—seemingly confirming Governor Pownall’s fears—Brigadier General George Townshend left Boston at the head of an impressive force of just over six thousand men, roughly equal in number to the French if the reports were accurate, to prevent them from positioning themselves around the city with the intent of bombarding it.

***

The main army under Marshal de Richelieu had advanced rapidly, making no effort to conceal itself—quite the opposite—following the road leading directly to Boston.

They had crossed the Merrimack River at Salisbury using a wooden bridge they had built themselves, allowing for quick and efficient passage, and reached Ipswich, just fifteen kilometers further, in very little time.

Another fifteen kilometers brought them to the village of Salem, now deserted and partially destroyed by fire—the handiwork of Monsieur de Broglie’s men. It was only at this point that the marshal ordered the pace to slow.

By the end of the day, they had reached the village of Lynn, which its residents had also abandoned, though it had been left intact in accordance with the old marshal’s orders.

The place was charming.

Situated along the coast near a tranquil river, like so many in the region, it boasted beautiful forests and a fine plain, though there were few cultivated fields. Most notably, there was a raised area quickly designated as the site for the artillery.

The elevation difference between this point and the river to the southwest was roughly twenty meters. While this might not seem significant, in matters of artillery, every meter counted.

It could determine the range of these fearsome weapons and make them harder to destroy from a distance without requiring fortifications.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Soon after their arrival, as the cannons and mortars were being positioned, Adam was summoned to a meeting with the other captains of the Picardy Regiment. Naturally, the meeting was chaired by Monsieur le Marquis de Bréhant.

“Gentlemen, let us begin. The enemy is on the move and seems to be coming in considerable numbers. According to the spy we captured, we will likely face a force of five to six thousand men, equipped with artillery and cavalry. That being said, the majority of them are fresh recruits who have never fired their muskets with the intent of hitting a human being. In other words, they are not much better than militiamen.”

Adam and the others nodded, their expressions calm and serious.

Due to the late hour, several candles had been lit to illuminate the room. They were gathered in the main chamber of a humble house in Lynn.

The small yellow flames flickered, making a faint and soothing crackle, casting a gentle glow over the room. The assembled men looked like conspirators, secretly crafting a devious plan around the commanding figure whose face was partly obscured by shadow.

“The spy was unable to provide us with much information despite all our efforts, but it matters little. Our men are almost all veterans. They have faced situations most people cannot even imagine. This army marching against us may have a solid reputation, but so do we. I have confidence in each of you and rely on you for this new battle. Honor our flag, honor your uniform, and ensure that our regiment stands out from the others through its achievements.”

“Yes! We will not disappoint you!”

“They’ll learn to fear our colors!”

“Our regiment will cover itself in glory! The others won’t even have a chance to shine!”

“Haha, good. That’s what I wanted to hear. The marshal’s intent is to confront the enemy here, in this village called Lynn. Monsieur de Broglie will command the right flank, while we will take the left.”

At that moment, a loud cry echoed from the camp, startling more than one listener. It was distant and trailed off into a groan. Soon, a second scream followed, then a third.

Ah, Adam sighed, they’ve started torturing him again.

The man had been tortured for days. The brief journey between Exeter and Lynn had given him some respite to recover a little strength.

Soon, he’ll have no strength left to scream and beg for them to end it, thought the young man, trying to ignore the wails.

The marshal didn’t know if there was anything left to learn from him, but he wanted to be sure, which is why he hadn’t allowed him to die.

Adam was horrified by the marshal’s cruelty, but spies, though common, were tolerated by no one. Most enemy agents ended up at the end of a rope, though some could be turned and used as double agents.

This one wouldn’t get that chance.

At this rate, he’ll be dead before sunrise. I don’t even want to know what they’re doing to him!

“Focus, gentlemen,” said the colonel amidst the cries. “Here is the map we hastily sketched based on our observations. There are many wetlands west of this village, particularly near these rivers. The enemy will almost certainly come by the road, but they might also decide to take a detour and strike us from the northwest, here,” he explained, tracing his finger across the map depicting Lynn’s immediate surroundings.

Adam nodded as another cry arose from a barn on the outskirts of the village.

“Monsieur de Broglie,” the colonel continued, his voice clear and unshaken despite having to raise it above the screams, “will handle protecting this flank with part of our cavalry. Our responsibility will be to guard the road leading to Chelsea. We will be reinforced by four hundred men from the Burgundy Regiment.”

These reinforcements, from the regiment’s second battalion, had been stationed in Louisbourg since 1755, primarily tasked with defending the city. They comprised thirteen companies in total.

“This is how we will be deployed.”

The spy’s screams ceased for good two and a half hours later. His body was discarded outside the village like garbage, left to the flies and wild dogs.

As Adam left the meeting, he caught sight of a vague silhouette in the distance, resembling a heavy sausage being carried out of a barn by two soldiers barely visible under the moonlight. They looked like ghosts.

The young captain, exhausted, didn’t bother questioning the soldiers and headed straight to one of the buildings designated for officer lodging.

His steps were heavy, his mind elsewhere.

The day had been so long and grueling that he felt he could sleep for twelve hours—something he obviously wouldn’t be able to do.

He pushed open a wooden door and entered a simple stone building with thick wooden beams supporting a low ceiling. Though modest, the small house on the eastern edge of the village, a stone’s throw from the road to Salem, was remarkably well-maintained.

There was almost no dust and not a trace of cobwebs. Moreover, everything left behind was neatly arranged.

On the shelves and in the cupboards, empty spaces were visible. The residents had managed to take their most valuable possessions, though this didn’t mean there was nothing left to loot.

A soldier had accidentally discovered a hidden compartment beneath a floorboard containing a small chest with a few gold coins. Although the currency was English, gold was still gold. Adam had heard that a major brawl had broken out afterward, as several individuals claimed the treasure for themselves.

A massive yawn caught Adam off guard as he reached his room, cold and shrouded in darkness. It was so deep that it brought a small tear to his eye. Unfortunately, it also triggered a painful cramp in his neck.

“Damn it! Ah, you idiot!” Adam groaned as though struck by lightning.

He quickly placed a hand on his neck and began massaging it to ease the pain. It felt as if someone were pressing hard against the side of his throat. The pain was so intense he struggled to breathe.

When the cramp finally subsided, he spent several minutes fearing it might return.

Feeling even more exhausted, he sank heavily onto his bed—small and narrow but far more comfortable than a straw mattress. He began to think.

He thought about the next day, trying to mentally prepare himself.

It wouldn’t be his first battle, nor his first as a captain, yet he couldn’t shake the unease. Even though it might last only a few hours, the outcome could unfold in countless ways, depending on the decisions made.

Possibly, it would be his last. He could take a bullet, a saber strike, be trampled by a horse, or have a cannonball hit him square in the face—or perhaps a shard from one. He might die in a heroic bayonet charge or after prolonged suffering from his wounds.

It was with these morbid thoughts that he lay down to sleep.

Perhaps influenced by them, his dreams revolved around war. In truth, it was a memory—a fragment of one, to be exact—belonging to François.

It was the Battle of Hastenbeck—or rather, the little he’d witnessed before being wounded in the shoulder by a Hanoverian bullet and striking his head against a rock beneath the path his unit was carving to flank their opponent.

Thanks to this memory, he could see P’tit Pol’s face again.

Back then, not so long ago, they were the rookies—the new recruits who had never experienced the battlefield.

They laughed and exchanged crude jokes to mask their fear. Even Jean, a giant of a man, was terrified at the prospect of facing his first fight.

The eroded hills of the region, covered in tall trees, forced them to expend their precious strength just to travel a few kilometers.

In the preceding days, it had been very hot, but that morning, a fog so thick you could cut it with a knife hung over the landscape. The view was a monotonous gray, depressingly dull. Among the trees, the mist seemed lighter.

Through this fragment of memories, Adam could hear the heavy roars of the cannons—so many on both sides of the battlefield that the volleys never ceased. Under such conditions, hitting a target would be a matter of luck, if not a miracle.

Then they accidentally crossed paths with an enemy troop, likely positioned there to protect the Duke of Cumberland’s flank.

Adam—or rather François—had no time to take aim before he was struck. The memory was so vivid that Adam thought he felt François’ pain. His shoulder burned as if on fire. Then, he tripped over a large root protruding from the ground like a snake.

His fall mirrored François’ in every way, except here, his head struck the black rock where the young man had found, years later, the small watch François cherished.

It was with this final image that Adam awoke.

He felt as though he’d slept only an hour or two. He was even more tired than when he’d gone to bed.

The sun rose lazily, and the air was terribly fresh, slightly damp due to the heavy rain during the night.

The British army arrived around eight in the morning, refreshed after spending the night near the village of Malden, ten kilometers from Lyn.

After crossing the Pages and Lyn rivers—both thin due to low tide and minimal rainfall in recent days—their army took position in a very classical formation, facing the French army.

Less than nine hundred meters separated the two armies.

Adam, true to his post, positioned himself on the front line as ordered by the Marquis de Bréhant, between Martin Morrel de Lusernes’ company and Captain Alfonse Grosjean’s, from the Bourgogne regiment.

Unlike the men of the Picardie regiment, this battalion—representing half of the illustrious regiment—wore uniforms slightly different from the continental ones they would have worn in Europe.

Here, they donned the Canadian uniform. The difference was minimal: the edge of their tricornes was trimmed in white instead of gold, and their buttons were tin instead of copper.

The Picardie regiment had not switched uniforms due to negligence by the Secretary of State for the Navy. The current one was the fourth since the conflict began, following Mr. de Machault, Count d’Arnouville, until February 1757; Mr. de Moras until May 1758; and finally Mr. d’Espinchal until October 1758.

With luck, there would be no further changes until peace returned.

The current minister, Nicolas Berryer, Count de la Ferrière, was a very competent man, formerly a lieutenant general of police.

A sharp voice snapped nearby, reminding Adam it was not the time to compare uniforms.

Marshal de Richelieu reviewed his army, passing by Adam without stopping. He wore, as always, his fine cuirass over his elegant clothes and sat astride a magnificent horse with a shiny coat and bright eyes.

The horse seemed impatient, stamping the damp ground with its perfectly maintained hooves.

The duke whispered a few words to the colonel that Adam could not hear, then moved on to inspect the other companies positioned further north.

The lines were quickly adjusted to respond to the enemy’s formation, which naturally prompted the adversary to do the same.

Then, around nine o’clock, the cannons began their work.