The weather was cold and damp around Boston. The landscape surrounding the besieged British city was drenched in a gray hue. The sky, the land, the trees, the sea, the soldiers—everything was gray.

A dense drizzle had fallen over the region the previous evening, so thick it could easily be mistaken for a fog. It was an insidious, fine rain that seeped everywhere, chilling careless soldiers to the bone.

Naturally, the dirt roads had turned into veritable quagmires. This was good news for the French army, as it meant that any enemies likely en route to relieve Boston would be significantly slowed.

However, morale among the troops was not high. Everyone was waiting for the order to take the city so they could quickly loot Boston and leave the area.

Days had passed quickly since the start of this siege, with no major developments.

The French army remained there, strong and resolute, camping and occupying all the nearby villages. They guarded the entrance to the city so fiercely that not even a mouse could escape without being caught, while their ships kept a close watch over the harbor.

Occasionally, they fired cannons at the buildings closest to the port, as if to remind everyone that they were still there.

The nearby villages had been thoroughly looted and sometimes set on fire, but that was all the infantry had done. Not a single assault had taken place.

Gradually, boredom was settling in among the French.

Adam, his shoulders wrapped in a thick greatcoat and his tricorn firmly set on his head, walked briskly down a relatively wide street cluttered with military supplies. In this street, made muddy by the recent rains, countless footprints could be discerned despite the growing darkness.

His steps, weighed down by the mud clinging to his boots—now more brown than black—made an unpleasant squelching sound like a sponge being squeezed. He could feel the dampness seeping through the leather and chilling his feet.

After a few minutes, Adam stopped in front of a building with a small hanging basket of flowers in the summer and a large iron lantern emitting a flickering light.

The building was entirely stone, with two levels. Behind the few windows facing the street, a faint yellowish glow could be seen, along with some dancing shadows. Snatches of conversation and a few notes of music could also be heard.

As soon as he opened the door, Adam felt a wave of heat wash over him. If he had been wearing glasses, they would have immediately fogged up.

“Oh! The door! It’s cold out there!” grumbled a powerful voice near the entrance. It came from a carabineer wearing a flamboyantly colorful uniform and sporting a well-groomed brown mustache.

Adam hurried to close the door behind him and took a few steps into the inn, which was packed with people. The air was thick with the smell of men, tobacco, alcohol, and smoke.

Ugh, it doesn’t exactly smell like roses in here, thought the young captain, furrowing his brow.

The establishment had been quickly taken over by the officers of the army and was being used as a gathering place for drinking and eating. They also came to relax, chat, and play games. Here, two officers were playing chess; there, dice; and elsewhere, cards.

In one corner of the room, an elegant lieutenant-colonel was playing a piece Adam didn’t recognize, but it seemed to evoke a sense of nostalgia in those listening. Eyes closed, head slightly tilted to one side, the man seemed to be communicating with his instrument.

Not far from him, a major was reading a thick book, his brows slightly furrowed. So engrossed was he that he seemed unaware of the people coming and going or the surrounding noise.

Ordinary soldiers were not allowed in this building and had to make do with less comfortable shelters, such as barns—which was still better than nothing.

Adam elbowed his way forward and finally reached a wooden counter where he found Captain Fontaine and the others.

As expected, they were standing since all the chairs were occupied.

“Ah, François! We were wondering when you’d be back! Hm? Everything alright?”

“I’m freezing,” Adam grumbled. “What awful weather. I’d rather it froze than rained like this.”

“Absolutely agree!” Albert replied with a laugh. “Hey, you should leave your coat in the corner—you’ll roast alive.”

Adam noticed a corner where coats and greatcoats had been piled and went over to add his own before returning.

“So? Did you bring back anything interesting?” asked Captain Gauthier, swirling the wine in his half-empty glass.

“Not much. A good amount of flour. We found a mill. Oh, and we ran into a fairly large group of militiamen. They tried to defend it.”

“Really? How did that go?” Albert immediately asked, frowning, which instantly made him look several years older.

“Take a guess. Those militiamen didn’t know how to fight, so we slaughtered them. I just finished filing my report.”

Adam accepted a glass of Spanish wine, decent but unremarkable.

“Did you take any losses?” asked Captain Morrel de Lusernes, draining his glass. His serious expression made him seem older than he was, though his flushed cheeks betrayed that he’d had a bit too much to drink.

Adam answered as he took a sip from his glass.

“No, just some injuries.”

“Hmm, good to hear,” said André Louis, finishing his own drink in one gulp. “You were with another company, weren’t you? Briscard’s, right?”

“Yeah,” Adam replied, rubbing his left shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t like him much. He’s too… rigid.”

“Ha! He’s definitely not the guy you’d want to have a laugh with, but he’s a solid officer. Very competent and strict about discipline. Some people should take him as an example. Where were you, anyway?”

“I didn’t catch the name,” Adam admitted lightly, as if the detail was unimportant. “We found ourselves facing those guys, and Briscard—uh, Captain Briscard—didn’t try to negotiate. There were more of them than us—about a hundred, I think? Tsk, they really should’ve picked another enemy. They didn’t stand a chance.”

“A hundred? What were they planning to do with just that many?” Captain Fontaine asked incredulously. “Even if they outnumbered you, they should’ve known that a regular soldier is no match for a militiaman! It’s common sense! Why didn’t they retreat?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Yeah,” Adam sighed, “I know. They realized it too late. They started shooting while they were way too far away—much too far. Captain Briscard had us march on them, and when we were about 150 meters away—I mean, 20 perches—we started firing. It didn’t take long for them to grasp the difference in strength. By then, we’d had time to close in and flank them. Since we reloaded faster than they did, it was like they were facing an entire battalion.”

“Wow…”

“Were there any survivors?” asked Captain Gauthier, raising a large, calloused hand to signal for another bottle.

“A few managed to escape through the woods. Captain Briscard didn’t bother chasing them. Most fled, abandoning their weapons. Those who surrendered were taken prisoner. There were only about a dozen left. The ones who were too badly injured were finished off with bayonets.”

A heavy silence fell over the small group.

"I see," murmured Jean-Baptiste Gauthier, taking the precious bottle and filling his glass to the brim, spilling a few crimson drops on his fine white coat. "What a waste. People should know when they stand no chance of winning."

Adam could only nod. Naturally, he understood Gauthier wasn’t speaking solely about the militia but also the inhabitants trapped within the city of Boston.

Neither Gauthier nor the others doubted their chances of victory.

Indeed, while the French maintained their blockade of Boston and prevented reinforcements from approaching, the Bostonians were suffering in their city. Their misfortunes quickly became unbearable.

Shortages had begun even before Richelieu’s army arrived. Wealthy individuals had been able to make some preparations, but for the majority, every day was a fight for survival.

It hadn’t taken weeks for the first riots to erupt. By the second day, Boston was shaken by a powerful wave of unrest, demanding Governor Pownall negotiate with the French.

He had refused on the first day the unreasonable demands of the Marshal-Duke of Richelieu, who sought nothing less than the city’s complete surrender. After all, he did not want to meet the same fate as Monckton, who was derisively called "the Coward" everywhere for surrendering Nova Scotia to the French.

Pownall had been forced to use force to crush this movement, but it wasn’t enough, as protests and even attacks continued to multiply afterward.

Beyond hunger, epidemics of dysentery and typhus had broken out in several neighborhoods due to overcrowding and the unsanitary conditions of makeshift housing.

All of this pushed the good subjects of His Majesty to resort to extreme measures to survive.

It was said that a person could go thirty days without food, but there was a vast difference between what was technically possible and what was bearable. Parents couldn’t stand to see their children suffer from hunger, which was why the authorities had failed to establish an effective rationing system.

Food had disappeared within days.

Then, the Bostonians began seeking other sources of food. Animals in the city became prey—dogs, cats, chickens, rats.

It took just ten days of siege to turn these once brave and honorable colonists into rogues and desperate wretches into beasts.

Fortunately, there had been no reports of cannibalism—at least not yet. Colonists could still find food, prioritizing the wealthier homes.

Of course, the governor had been ruthless with those caught. Bostonians had witnessed more than thirty hangings in this short span of time.

While he still hoped the Royal Navy would come to their rescue, Governor Pownall knew that unless something changed, cases like these would continue to emerge.

The French, although positioned outside the city, were perfectly informed of the situation. Every night, they received fresh updates from deserters and escapees.

Their numbers grew as living conditions in Boston deteriorated. Soldiers and militiamen stationed at the crumbling walls guarding the isthmus connecting the city to the mainland were easily bribed, sometimes allowing entire families to slip through.

The governor eventually realized the situation and completely changed the guards at the city’s entrance. The French marshal thus lost his source of information.

"Hey, François?" Albert suddenly called out.

“Hmm?”

“We’re taking bets. How long do you think Boston will hold out?”

Adam raised an eyebrow but didn’t reprimand his friends, having done the same in the past.

“I don’t know. What did you all say?”

“We’ll tell you after. No influencing your guess,” Albert grinned.

The other captains nodded, their full attention on their young comrade.

“No idea…” Adam sighed, shrugging. “Less than two weeks?”

“You have to pick a number, or it’s no fun!” exclaimed Martin, his cheeks growing redder by the second.

“A number? Uh, nine?”

“Ah!” Martin cried joyfully, raising his glass. “I said the same thing!”

“Really?”

Adam didn’t seem as enthusiastic as Martin or even the other captains. Scratching his eyebrow, he asked what everyone else had predicted.

“Jean-Baptiste thinks they’ll hold out fifteen days,” André Louis replied. “I said twenty-one. Albert, just to annoy me, said twenty-two. So, you and Martin are at nine.”

“We can’t have the same!” Martin exclaimed, his balance wavering as his glass tipped precariously.

“You need to choose another!”

“Alright then, I’ll say ten days. Is that fine?”

“Perfect. So if the city surrenders in nine days or less, Martin wins. Between ten and fifteen days, Jean-Baptiste wins. If it’s before twenty-one but after fifteen, I win. If it’s after twenty-two, Albert wins. Everyone okay?”

“Yes!” Martin exclaimed energetically, nearly spilling the half-empty bottle.

“Fine,” Albert replied calmly.

“Agreed,” Jean-Baptiste said, crossing his broad arms.

“François?”

Adam saw they were all waiting for his response, so he nodded.

“Alright, but what’s the wager?”

“Ah, diantre! We didn’t tell him?” Jean-Baptiste smirked. “The winner gets to take one item from the others after the surrender!”

Adam hesitated, realizing the stakes weren’t trivial. During the plundering of Boston, they were bound to find valuables worth more than their meager wages.

“Hmm, that gives Albert an unfair advantage, don’t you think?” Adam said hesitantly.

“True!” Martin exclaimed, glaring accusingly at his comrade. “We need to limit him! No more than thirty days!”

“You’re too generous,” André chuckled. “But fine. If the city doesn’t fall within thirty days, there’s no winner or loser.”

Once everyone agreed, Albert wrote down the wager, sealing the deal.

But just as they raised their glasses, a man burst into the room, the wooden door slamming against the wall. The loud noise immediately caught everyone’s attention.

“An English squadron has been sighted! They’re sailing straight for us!”

“What?! How many ships?” someone shouted from near the open door, letting the room’s warmth escape.

“At least seven!”

A wave of relief washed over the assembly. Monsieur de Roquefeuil had more than enough ships of the line to defeat such a squadron. However, if it were reinforced, things could quickly turn complicated for the French.

***

At the same time, in the city of Boston, Governor Ponwall received a new report describing the dire state of the city. A house had been ransacked and stripped of its valuables, but more importantly, a significant stockpile of provisions had been discovered there.

Specifically, the looters had gotten their hands on a substantial quantity of food. Because they had come in great numbers, each had left with only small portions, leaving mere crumbs behind for the authorities who arrived too late.

“Damn it! Curse them! What were they thinking, hoarding all that food for themselves?! Did they really think no one would try to take it?! Fools!”

The governor’s anger was immense. Unfortunately, this case was not isolated. Sometimes, tragically, such incidents ended in bloodshed.

“If we had been in charge of those provisions, we could have rationed them and distributed them to those most in need! What a waste!”

His deputy, standing before the large desk covered with documents, wiped a bead of sweat from his exhausted brow.

“Sir, there are surely others hiding supplies in the city. If we delay too long, there will be more attacks. The people are growing more desperate and will take greater risks to fill their stomachs. They’ll also become more violent.”

“I know that well, but what can we do? Search every house? We don’t have enough men, and I hardly trust the ones we do have. The militia will be the first to help themselves.”

Knock, knock, knock.

A series of sharp knocks echoed at the door. Before the governor could respond, a short, stocky man burst in, giving a stiff military salute.

“Sir, one of our squadrons has appeared at the entrance to the harbor!”

“Really?!” the governor exclaimed, leaping from his chair.

“Yes, sir! Unfortunately, they couldn’t approach and had to turn back when they saw the enemy ships unfurling their sails.”

“Ah! I... I see. But if they’ve come, it means there’s hope! I’m sure they’ll return with reinforcements! Perhaps they’ll even bring troops numerous enough to drive away this army besieging us! Keep watching the horizon and notify me immediately of any changes!”

“At your orders, sir!”

“As for the food… So be it. Gather the men you trust and search every house and warehouse suspected of hoarding supplies. If you find suspicious quantities, seize everything in the name of His Majesty. We have no other choice; we must hold out until our reinforcements arrive! We’ll compensate them later.”