The artillery exchange felt long and intense to the new recruits. It was as if both sides were having a discussion—or rather, an argument.

Adam had no trouble estimating the number of cannons the enemy had brought and pinpointing their locations. There were four on his side, three in the center, and three more to the north, opposite Monsieur de Broglie’s men.

Their roars were no less menacing than those of the French cannons. The enemy clearly had large-caliber guns, and it didn’t take long for blood to start flowing.

Adam saw a cannonball strike the damp ground about twenty meters away and bounce dangerously. Fortunately, the French hadn’t just waited for the enemy; they had prepared some fortifications.

This defensive line ran straight north, perpendicular to the coast, before veering obliquely to protect the northern flank.

The cannonball that had missed its mark eventually lost most of its momentum, but still had enough force to take off a leg—or worse—when it finally stopped against the steep embankment.

Adam had seen it coming and felt his body tremble, unable to evade it. By some stroke of luck, he was still alive. The cannonball made a dull thud as it struck the soft earth, like a heavy object falling.

The captain had seen his soldiers trembling in fear, but none of them moved—they weren’t allowed to.

He swallowed hard, hoping to be as fortunate during the next salvo. In the distance, he saw chunks of earth being thrown into the air, grass clumps flying everywhere. He hadn’t even seen or felt the cannonballs passing over his head.

With steady steps, the enemy began to advance, forming a long red line.

Not all the British troops were moving yet. For the moment, only Brigadier General Townshend’s right wing was advancing.

That didn’t mean nothing was happening elsewhere. In fact, on the other side of the battlefield, fighting had already begun.

A few British companies had tried to approach the French lines but were quickly spotted and blocked by an equal number of French soldiers. This happened even before the first cannon shots were fired.

Unable to advance, the Redcoats were forced to send in two additional companies to break the stalemate, and the French responded swiftly by doing the same.

Fighting in the middle of the trees meant artillery couldn’t be used to tip the balance in either side’s favor.

Meanwhile, the main forces of each army remained motionless, as though the two commanders were waiting for something. Since the battle had only just begun, they were still assessing their opponent.

Naturally, the marshal’s and brigadier general’s attention was mostly focused on where Adam was stationed, as that was where the first assault was taking place.

“They’re coming!” cried a sickly-looking officer. “Prepare to repel them!”

“Fire!”

The order to shoot came too early, and hundreds of muskets discharged toward the long scarlet line. It wasn’t decimated, as the distance between the two groups was still too great.

The Redcoats kept advancing. The muskets used by the English, shorter than the French muskets, had a more limited range.

“Hurry up and reload your weapons!” Adam shouted as he saw his men struggling with this seemingly simple task. “Tear the cartridge and pour the powder into the pan! Close the pan! Pour the rest of the powder into the barrel, grab the ramrod, and pack it down! Return the ramrod to its place!”

Adam’s clearly enumerated commands came in rapid succession, too fast for some soldiers to keep up—especially the slower ones. Soldier Tournier was consistently one or two steps behind but managed to load his weapon.

“Aim! Fire!”

A long series of detonations echoed in the wind, and several men collapsed on the other side. It was a modest number given the volume of shots fired, but it wasn’t a bad result either.

In seconds, the gaps in the enemy’s formation were filled, and they got into firing position.

A long white cloud formed in front of their weapons as they opened fire. Bullets whistled through the air, the earth flew up as they struck the embankment, and some men were hit.

Soldier Petit, though alive, fell to his knees clutching his blood-covered face. He was unlucky to have been gravely injured, yet lucky to be alive after such a wound. His left eye was hit.

“AAAAAAARGH! MY EYE! MY EYE! IT HURTS!”

His screams, resembling those of a spy under torture, sent chills through his comrades. Some of them had known him long before they enlisted.

Like Adam and his friends, this young man had joined the royal army with others. Those who ended up in Adam’s company saw their friend covered in blood and broke rank to help him.

“What are you doing?! Get back to your positions! Sergeant Aubert, take Soldier Petit to the rear!”

“Yes, sir!”

“What are you looking at?! Reload your weapons! Don’t let the enemy reload before you do!”

Adam’s men immediately resumed loading their muskets. Unfortunately, they weren’t fast enough. The enemy had already completed the steps required to reload their muskets.

It was clear they were excellent soldiers. A quick glance was enough to see these weren’t hastily recruited tavern-dwellers.

They had been rigorously trained to reload faster than their enemies. If the French could fire four times, they had to be able to fire six!

This same standard of excellence applied aboard their formidable ships. Having superior cannons alone wasn’t enough to win more naval battles—it also required highly skilled men.

A new volley echoed in front of Adam's troop, and the next moment, the French responded with a devastating salvo. Unlike their enemies, the English were fully exposed.

Even though it was still easy to miss a target at that distance, they managed to hit over a dozen opposing soldiers.

Through the smoke quickly dispersing, carried away by strong gusts of wind, Adam saw several bodies lying in the grass. Yet, the enemy lines held firm. It would take far more to break them in a conventional battle.

The sound of drums and flutes resumed, and the redcoats began to advance again—or at least partially, for those facing the second battalion of the Burgundy Regiment stayed in position, firing at the French soldiers.

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How far do they intend to go?! Adam wondered internally, unable to grasp the English strategy.

“Hurry up! Don’t let the enemy take position!”

Thankfully, unlike modern weapons, it wasn’t possible to reload while marching. A choice had to be made: either advance under enemy fire to deal more damage or fire while relying on the accuracy of one’s men.

Here, the redcoats seemed to have chosen the first option. Like dutiful soldiers, they marched steadily forward, bayonets at the ready.

The closer they came, the more nervous the recruits grew. The long line resembled an unstoppable wave. Finally, at less than seventy meters, the enemy stopped and took position.

“Aim! Fire!”

At that range, it was carnage. The enemy didn’t even have time to shoot as dozens of men fell as if struck by lightning.

It was a terrifying sight, even for veterans.

Yet, the British didn’t seem particularly shaken. They returned fire, and several brave French soldiers collapsed despite the cover of the embankment.

“Get a grip!” Adam shouted while reloading his smoking pistol. “As long as the enemy doesn’t retreat, reload and fire!”

The exchange of fire continued like this for an hour before the British began to pull back. They had stayed far longer than their comrades engaging the Burgundy Regiment. Adam couldn’t help but admire their courage.

They left behind numerous bodies, staining the soaked grass with red.

Indeed, it had started raining—cold, icy rain—but it didn’t deter the men from fighting.

Adam’s men cheered their victory, but their joy was short-lived as the British soon returned with fresh troops.

This new contingent, composed mostly of recruits, was of far inferior quality to the first, but they were still dangerous. Marching in tight ranks, they stepped over their comrades' bodies with discipline.

“Prepare your weapons! Aim!” Adam commanded, taking a firing stance. “Fire!”

A wall of lead flew toward the soldiers, who almost stoically absorbed the blow. Several men fell, including a captain wounded in the upper thigh.

A non-commissioned officer quickly came to his aid while his lieutenant took command.

The British were suffering heavy losses, but just as they were about to break, they were reinforced by fresh units that soon surged past them.

To the sound of flutes and drums, they marched swiftly, reaching the top of the embankment in no time.

“Defend the line!” Adam shouted at the top of his lungs, drawing his saber. “Push them back!”

Adam’s soldiers, terror filling their eyes, tightened their grips on their muskets and clumsily tried to form a bayonet wall.

The redcoats, though not particularly boastful, displayed immense bravery. Armed similarly, they quickly seized control of the embankment and began infiltrating French lines.

“Hold the line! Kill the enemy! Leave none standing! Don’t fall back!”

Adam’s cries were drowned out by the cacophony of the battlefield: shouts of rage, cries of pain, gunfire, cannon blasts, cries for help, clashing metal, and the steady beat of drums. His voice struggled to be heard above it all.

“Damn it! Reform the ranks!”

The pressure was too much for Adam’s men, who could only retreat in the face of such violent onslaught. Thankfully, their own reinforcements arrived—Captain André Louis’ company.

Adam ordered his men to fall back, allowing more redcoats to enter their defensive position but also enabling Captain André Louis’ soldiers to strike from the left.

Quickly, the enemy found themselves in grave trouble.

They lasted no more than a few minutes before being overwhelmed by Captain Grosjean’s men from the Burgundy Regiment.

“Now, push them back with all your might!”

Attacked from three sides and with the steep embankment at their backs, the British found themselves in dire peril. In disorder, they narrowly escaped death.

“Quick! Reload your weapons and fire while the enemy is within range! Fire at will!”

The second wave had been repelled, but the battle was far from over.

Meanwhile, as French artillery rained its terrible cannonballs upon the enemy lines, the bulk of the British army was engaging the troops commanded by the Count of Broglie.

What an extraordinary sight it was! So many men marching in unison under the explosions and a treacherous rain, amidst smoke, to the sound of drums and their banner fluttering in the wind!

When a projectile struck its mark, it sent massive amounts of earth and bloody flesh flying. Yet, the redcoats pressed forward.

They only stopped on the order of their officer and took up firing positions, so swift yet so elegant.

These were not mere recruits but well-trained men. They might not have been the best in His Majesty's service, but they were not far from it.

When they opened fire, it was as if a storm had been unleashed.

The French fell in great numbers, but the colonel's men were no amateurs either. They reformed their lines and returned fire.

This volley was not as deadly as the first, but it claimed the lives of many brave souls.

There were five powerful and deadly exchanges of fire, after which Broglie's men were forced to retreat. The English, having just fired, could only watch their enemy withdraw.

George Townshend saw this and ordered his men to advance in good order at a slow pace to conserve their strength.

For the artillerymen perched on the heights of Lyn, this was perfect, as their enemy was now more exposed. They adjusted their angles and fired together.

For the fresh recruits in the rear, it was as if hell had suddenly descended upon them.

By eleven o'clock, Adam and his comrades were attacked once more by a large group of enemies. Not all of them wore scarlet uniforms, as several militia regiments were among them.

It was clear their officer was trying to crush them with sheer numbers.

"Attention! They're coming! Show them what you're made of!"

The soldiers in Boucher's company were no longer as fearful as they had been at the beginning of the battle. They had grown accustomed to the sounds and smells of the battlefield.

"Take aim! Fire!"

A devastating volley cut down many redcoats in front of Adam's company, and the same happened across the battlefield.

This new assault was a painful failure for the British.

By noon, to the north, Broglie's troops, defeated by the regular British army, were replaced by fresh forces. From above, the French seemed to be in great difficulty, but Townshend failed to notice the French cavalry rapidly approaching, hidden behind Broglie's lines as they recovered their strength and prepared new paper cartridges.

They were hussars.

They took the redcoats by surprise, wreaking havoc in their ranks. Yet, barely had they killed a hundred men when they withdrew.

The redcoats had no time to form a square and mount an effective defense against the mounted, saber-wielding men.

Broglie's infantry, taking advantage of the chaos to advance, then positioned themselves and fired a terrible volley, creating multiple breaches.

By half-past one in the afternoon, another wave of enemies coming down the road from Chelsea to Lyn was repelled.

Adam had fallen back with his men to rest, replaced by Captain Fontaine's forces. Martin Morrel de Lusernes had also retreated, replaced by Captain André Louis.

Fontaine and Louis were fortunate, as they mostly faced fresh recruits and Massachusetts provincials. The poor men stood no chance and were annihilated when sent against their defenses.

Many lives were lost in vain on that long, dike-like earthwork. The cannons positioned there created carnage.

A British flag briefly flew where André Louis was stationed, but the unfortunate man holding it received a terrifying bayonet thrust to the groin. His scream was so piercing it chilled everyone within a hundred meters.

Shortly after two in the afternoon, Broglie's men managed to isolate Townshend's troops. They were trapped as if in a box. The only open side was covered by French artillery.

Part of the English artillery was captured by the hussars in a splendid charge, leaving Brigadier General Townshend without support.

Too late, he realized he had been ensnared.

He attempted a breakout with his men, striking hard against a broken unit. The redcoats killed indiscriminately, meeting little resistance, but soon ran into a wall of defenders.

Unable to advance and surrounded by enemies, those who had followed Townshend quickly found themselves in grave danger. If they didn't escape immediately, they would all be lost.

Their desperation turned into fury, giving them wings.

The British, like demons, used every ounce of their strength to kill and carve a path to freedom. The artillery could no longer reach them, nor could bullets, as they were too close to their enemies.

It was with swords and bayonets that they sought to forge an escape. Their bloodshot eyes resembled those of wild beasts sensing their end. This gave them a surge of strength, forcing the French to retreat.

The marshal could only bow to such ferocity, but there was a limit to what men could do. They might transform into bloodthirsty beasts, but they remained mortal.

Townshend, pierced through and through, finally fell, his shattered sword in hand.

The British quickly realized the battle was lost. To the north, large numbers surrendered, while to the south, they hastily retreated and crossed the Lyn River.

Adam and his men pursued the enemy despite their exhaustion. Every man in Adam's company felt as though they had been running for hours.

They were shocked by the sheer number of bodies lying in the grass. They were everywhere!

Some were incomplete. Near a crater left by a cannonball, Adam nearly tripped over a shoe still containing a foot. The rest lay a bit farther away.

They could not pursue their enemy for long and were forced to end the chase around half-past three.

Despite the heavy losses—nearly a thousand men—the marshal had just secured a great victory.

The road to Boston was open.