The inhabitants of Boston were trapped like rats in their city.

Even before Monsieur de Richelieu’s arrival, they had begun looting granaries and shops in panic, fearing a food shortage.

The remaining troops, few in number and poorly trained since the best elements had departed with Townshend, were incapable of maintaining order. It was chaos.

Insecurity reigned.

To make matters worse, the militiamen recruited by Governor Pownall and Brigadier General Townshend preferred to join the looters rather than restore order.

It was a disaster. Food was disappearing, and people were fighting fiercely among themselves to survive.

All of this was part of Richelieu’s plan. From the beginning of this operation, he had pushed the colonists to seek refuge in the city. He had even slowed his pace to encourage it.

The colonists had become a weapon. The governor had seen this problem coming but had realized the extent of the danger far too late.

When Richelieu positioned himself at the city’s entrance, it was too late. He could no longer drive all those people out of Boston.

***

The next morning, Adam was informed there would be no assault. Richelieu’s army would remain where it was, blocking the only land access to the city, which was also the only exit for the civilians trapped inside.

The marshal’s intention was to let the inhabitants dig their own graves by leaving them to stew in their city. With so many refugees, he had no doubt that within a week, someone would come begging him to lift the siege.

After all, a city of this size required an astronomical amount of food every day. Adding the army of refugees, the Massachusetts governor must have found himself in an untenable situation.

That did not mean the French soldiers would remain idle. Boston was surrounded by villages, likely brimming with supplies.

Adam was sent with his men to a small coastal village called Dorchester. It was located on a major road following the coastline leading to Cape Cod Bay.

Before leaving, he handed Colonel de Bréhant his written work, produced after his terrible waking nightmare. He hoped the colonel would read it in his absence and take his suggestions for improving the King’s armies seriously—or rather his infantry, since Adam knew nothing about cavalry, the navy, or artillery.

In Dorchester, Adam did not find much useful for Richelieu’s army, largely because it was not the best season for harvesting crops.

They took everything edible or valuable and left.

Another team, sent further south to Milton, was more fortunate and returned with two cows, six chickens, and a good quantity of spinach.

Unfortunately, Adam hated spinach. He would eat it, of course, if he had no other choice, but the taste and smell revolted him.

His mother sometimes made it because the rest of the family liked it, especially his father. His favorite was when his wife made it with cream.

They had tried to make Adam like this disgusting thing throughout most of his childhood before giving up when he was thirteen or fourteen. That may have been the greatest factor in his deep loathing for this plant, which looked like slimy, toxic seaweed when cooked.

When spinach was on the menu, Adam’s mother always prepared another dish for him—something simple and quick like pasta with ground beef, ham with mashed potatoes, or leftovers from the previous meal.

Anything was fine as long as it wasn’t spinach.

"Captain Boucher," said Lieutenant Colonel Lecornu shortly after their return to Roxbury, "Colonel de Bréhant wishes to speak with you about your proposals."

“Oh, very well. I’ll follow you. Hmm, Lieutenant Marais, I leave the company in your hands. Ensure they don’t scatter. Lieutenant Laroche, please prepare an inventory to send to the major.”

“At your orders!” the two officers replied in unison.

Adam nodded, satisfied, and followed the lieutenant colonel.

The latter’s pace was brisk, and because he had long strides—a natural result of his very tall stature—he was always ahead of Adam.

His face was narrow and long, like the rest of his body, as if he had been stretched. His gaze was sharp, at least as much as the major’s.

They quickly reached one of the finest houses in the village. The building was made of beautiful stone, and its slate roof featured a tall stone chimney.

The interior was silent, lit by a subdued sun filtered through thick clouds, fortunately easily dispersed by a gentle yet powerful wind.

The major led Adam upstairs via a narrow, well-made wooden staircase.

As he placed his foot on the first step, Adam noticed several notches in the wood on a dark wooden post supporting what must have been the most important beam of the house.

The words “Abi – 9 years old” were inscribed. Above it, “Abi – 10 years old,” and so on up to 15 years. Then, no more.

Adam placed a hand on the inscriptions, likely carved with a knife, and could easily imagine a child standing against the post, her back pressed to it, while her father marked her height so they could both see how much Abi had grown in a year.

Why were there no marks after fifteen? He didn’t know and probably never would.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the lieutenant colonel, who was waiting a few steps higher.

“Are you coming? The colonel is waiting.”

“Ah, um, my apologies. I’m coming.”

The officer said nothing and resumed his ascent until he reached the upper level, which was quite similar to the ground floor. Several paintings adorned the walls, although some were clearly missing.

The remaining paintings were quite beautiful, mostly depicting landscapes. Most of them portrayed the city of Boston: Boston from the sea, Boston under the snow, Boston's streets, a church... Adam was deeply impressed by the sheer talent on display.

He knew he was entirely incapable of creating anything like that, even with the finest brush and the best quality paint. Not for lack of trying, though. He had quickly realized he simply had no artistic talent.

His drawing skills weren’t much better.

KNOCK KNOCK

“Colonel, Captain Boucher has returned. He’s with me.”

“Perfect. Let him in,” came the voice of Monsieur de Bréhant from inside the study.

Adam entered the small office, which felt much darker than the main room on the lower level. He found the colonel seated behind a simple but well-crafted desk with several drawers.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The owner of the house had taken all their most important papers but had left behind many others, making it clear that the occupant had been a rather wealthy wool merchant.

Colonel de Bréhant did not stand to greet his subordinate, nor did he cease his work. He continued writing with the tip of a simple feather, white as snow, on an ordinary sheet of paper.

In the muffled silence of the room, the only sounds were the wind against the room’s single window, the subtle scratching of the quill on the paper, and occasionally the faint clink of the quill against a small glass inkwell as the excess ink was flicked away.

Finally, after a minute or so, the colonel stopped writing. Slowly, he stood up and turned to face the young man, maintaining a respectable distance between them.

Adam, having not been granted permission to speak, waited silently for his superior to address him.

Colonel de Bréhant then picked up a few sheets covered in writing that Adam immediately recognized as the documents he had submitted earlier that day. The colonel glanced at them vaguely, almost toying with them, before returning his gaze to Adam.

“Captain Boucher,” he said in an almost solemn tone, “I have read the documents you gave me this morning. I wasn’t expecting… this when I received them. Your ideas are… surprising. Very surprising, in fact. I wouldn’t have suspected this of you.”

He ran his fingers over the papers as if assessing their quality.

“Your ideas are both innovative and rather unrealistic,” he continued evenly. “But some of them warrant consideration, which is why I summoned you here.”

The marquis de Bréhant’s gaze shifted subtly, scrutinizing Adam as if trying to see through him. Adam stood motionless, his tricorne tucked under his arm.

“Let’s start with the use of muskets by officers. I don’t know if I should be surprised or not. In any case, this is an old debate. I’ve had many discussions on the matter, and while I’m not opposed to such a change, I doubt it will ever be widely implemented. You see, we nobles are tied to tradition. The use of polearms is part of a cherished heritage. We cannot cast it aside so easily, though there have been attempts. Did you know that this proposal was made and even accepted in the past, during the reign of the Sun King? It didn’t last long, however. Once peace returned after the War of the Spanish Succession, officers went back to their old weapons for reasons you seem to understand.”

Adam nodded subtly. He had outlined in his report the value of retaining these archaic weapons but had been clear that giving officers muskets would be preferable. A few additional muskets per company could make a difference.

“His Majesty is not strongly opposed to the use of muskets by officers, but many nobles would take offense. Of all the proposals you’ve made, this has the greatest chance of succeeding. Many great lords have been fighting for decades to reform our armies. Some are ambivalent and suggest keeping halberds and espontons for ceremonial purposes only.”

The colonel’s expression shifted again, becoming darker.

“But the rest of your proposals… I must admit, you lost me more than once. Let me explain why. Let’s start with the color of our uniforms. According to you, what purpose do they serve?”

“To distinguish armies from one another, as well as regiments.”

“That’s correct, but is it that simple?”

Adam didn’t have time to respond before the colonel continued.

“A uniform is a symbol. It represents the King’s authority. It must be beautiful so as not to tarnish his image and to encourage recruits to sign up. A fine uniform, when seen on someone, inspires us, Captain. It should make our hearts race when we see it on another and make us want to wear it ourselves. Changing its design is not a trivial matter, and altering the color even less so. Do you understand?”

He tapped the edge of the paper into which Adam had poured so much effort.

“You mention camouflage in your proposals. I understand where that comes from. The men in green, correct? And the Indians too, I suppose? But we are not like them! We wage war according to the rules! We may bend them occasionally, but it must not become a habit. Doing so would admit that we lack the courage or honor to confront our enemies conventionally.”

“Sir, if I may, it also takes courage to fight ‘unconventionally.’ We’ve done it many times, as have our enemies, both here and in Europe. War evolves with the means available, and one day, we will no longer fight in conventional ranks. Our uniforms, while beautiful, are impractical. Only in snow do we blend into the landscape. Otherwise, we are easy targets.”

“That’s what you wrote, and I’ll say it again, Captain: altering a uniform is not something to take lightly. However, in your text, you made a good point about creating separate uniforms for summer and winter. The English do it, so it makes sense. However, it would be costly.”

Adam concealed his disappointment, making a considerable effort to show no reaction. The colonel picked up the paper he had set on the desk, turned the first page, and looked up.

“Ah, yes. Since we’re on the topic of your uniform proposals—good heavens, can you tell me what you were thinking? Trousers? Really? Boots, I can understand. You want to better protect the men’s feet from cold and dampness, correct?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s also more practical. They cover and protect part of the legs, making gaiters unnecessary. Boots are also easier to put on, saving soldiers time when dressing. And trousers… well, they’re simply more beautiful and easier to wear than breeches.”

The colonel abruptly raised an eyebrow and nearly choked.

"Beautiful?! You call that beautiful? It’s a peasant’s outfit! If we allow our soldiers to wear breeches, it’s because they’re in fashion. All the aristocrats are dressed like this! That’s what’s beautiful!"

Adam had somewhat anticipated this reaction, but the colonel’s response was a bit more violent than expected.

"If I may, sir, could I show you what a soldier might look like if we follow my suggestions?"

The colonel, despite his feelings and hesitations, allowed the young captain to settle at his desk. However, he pushed aside the sensitive documents.

Adam grabbed a blank sheet and the quill pen the colonel had used to write his correspondence.

His strokes were quite clumsy, but a figure quickly began to take shape on the paper. The colonel watched him work, arms crossed over his chest and brows furrowed.

It depicted a standing man holding a musket at his side, barely recognizable. He wore tall boots that reached below the knee, with the trousers barely visible because of them. One might think he wore ordinary breeches ending at the knees.

Above that was a coat, almost unchanged except it seemed to close up to the waist and had a higher collar.

Quickly, the drawing became very unattractive as Adam added a kind of cuirass over the coat, similar to those worn by heavy cavalry. Finally, he added a modern helmet resembling those worn by Americans during World War II.

"Is this the helmet you mentioned in your text?" asked the colonel, astonished. "It’s... hideous!"

"Sir, with all due respect, a helmet can save a life. Tricorns may be fashionable at this time—I mean, today—but that hasn’t always been the case and won’t always be the case. There’s a reason for that. In the event of a blow, the soldier will be grateful to have protection. The tricorne is a hindrance for the soldier, especially when placing the musket on the shoulder. That’s why so many wear their tricorns askew."

"In the event of a blow? Captain, as you so aptly said, war is changing. It has changed. We are no longer in the time of Charlemagne or Saint Louis. We are civilized. We fight from a distance, in formation. The days of splitting skulls with swords and axes are behind us. While charges still occur, they rarely lead to hand-to-hand combat. Injuries to the top of the head are practically nonexistent. The Crown will never agree to fund these contraptions!"

The colonel’s tone was so firm that Adam knew it was no use insisting on this proposal. However, the colonel had just set up a perfect transition for his other idea, one he felt strongly about.

"In that case, sir, I’m sure His Majesty would agree to provide his troops with a cuirass, or at least a half-cuirass, to reduce combat losses."

Unfortunately, the colonel didn’t seem any more convinced.

"Captain Boucher, I admire your determination, but your ideas are impractical. Since you want to address this topic, let’s discuss it. Do you know how much a cuirass costs? Or the time it takes to produce one?"

"That’s nothing compared to the life of one of His Majesty’s subjects, sir!"

"That’s where you’re mistaken. His Majesty could not finance it, even if he wished to. But it wouldn’t even be useful."

"P-pardon?! Not useful?!"

"Lower your tone, Captain," the colonel said in a cold, sharp voice, his face hardening like stone. "I hold you in high regard, but don’t forget who you’re speaking to. I’m not your friend; I’m your superior."

"My apologies, Colonel. I... I got carried away."

"Hmm. As I was saying, it wouldn’t be a good investment, but not because His Majesty devalues the lives of his subjects. Have you ever seen what happens when a musket ball hits a cuirass?"

"N-no."

"The bullets go through. The shot has to be fired from a great distance or at a poor angle for the projectile not to penetrate. We equip our cuirassiers for additional protection, but that doesn’t make them invulnerable to bullets."

"Oh..." Adam’s voice was barely audible.

"That’s not all," the colonel continued. "If we equip our infantry with cuirasses, even just to protect their chests, it would weigh them down considerably. It’s not lightweight equipment. Our units’ mobility would be severely impacted, and our soldiers would tire faster, meaning we wouldn’t be able to react in time if a gap appeared in the enemy lines—or ours. There’s nothing but drawbacks to this proposal."

"I... I understand."

Adam lowered his head, deeply disappointed. He had genuinely believed he could modernize the French army. He might not have been able to create bulletproof vests, but he had assumed a simple cuirass could save lives.

The colonel sighed, his face softening.

"Don’t be too disheartened, Captain. You’re not actually the first to propose such an idea. More than one officer has sought solutions like yours to improve our army. It’s a commendable initiative and deserves recognition. Some of your suggestions may certainly be implemented. For instance, arming soldiers with short swords—it’s not a bad idea. Upon reflection, replacing shoes with boots isn’t a bad idea either. As for the uniform, I’m not sure. I rather like the collar."

"Thank you, sir."

"I’ll forward your ideas to the Marshal and the Court. I’ll include my comments and suggestions, but I can’t promise anything. If any are adopted, even one, it likely won’t be for months or even years. It’s possible this war will be over before you see the results."

"That doesn’t matter, sir. If I can contribute, I’ll be happy and honored."

"Good. Don’t let this discourage you, Captain. Initiatives like these are how we make progress, little by little. You’re dismissed."