Adam looked up and spotted a small squirrel perched in the branches of one of those massive trees, curiously observing the small column of men walking along the peaceful dirt road that followed the Hudson River.

Its large dark eyes resembled tiny pearls, and its tail looked like a feather duster.

Quick as a flash, it disappeared among the leaves of the tree and didn’t reappear. Perhaps it would continue to watch them discreetly from another branch, or more likely, it would return to its life as a squirrel.

The company marched quietly under a bright sky, accompanied by a gentle breeze and the soothing sound of fresh water flowing not far to their left.

They were on the opposite side of the river from the fort they had left behind three hours earlier.

To their right, there was nothing but trees of various types and species, growing so close together that light struggled to pierce through the foliage, leaving the area dark and foreboding even during the hottest part of the day.

Adam lifted a half-full canteen to his lips and took a deep gulp of the cool river water. It wasn’t bad—in fact, it had nothing to envy compared to bottled water sold in supermarkets.

Sure, it was less clean, but it wouldn’t kill him. If it could, he would have been dead long ago.

Ah, that feels good. It’s starting to get warm.

Adam looked around and saw his men resting by the sides of the narrow road, which had naturally formed from constant use by men and carts. It wouldn’t take long for it to disappear if it stopped being used.

On his way out of Quebec, he had seen workers laying roughly cut stones. They hadn’t made much progress, but if the project was completed, trade in the region would become much easier.

By accident, he had learned that it was a project initiated by Sybrant Goosen van Schaick, Ryckje’s father and the former mayor of Albany.

From what he had seen, the workers seemed determined to do a good job, as they had begun by digging out the foundation so that the base would be domed, matching the shape of the future surface. The trench was only about thirty centimeters deep, but the engineers, working on the governor’s orders, seemed convinced it would be enough to ensure the road’s stability and quality.

Afterward, they placed large stones vertically, followed by several layers of increasingly smaller stones. As a result, these roads wouldn’t resemble Roman roads but more like wide gravel paths.

What had surprised Adam as he passed by the construction site was the width of the future road: it would be twenty feet wide, or about 6.5 meters! Additionally, on each side of the road, 6.5 meters from the edge, they were digging a ditch to drain rainwater.

It was a clever idea, as it allowed carts to pull over without blocking the road, but more importantly, it created a buffer zone between the road and the ditch.

These two wide strips of land were apparently common on large royal roads and were called "berms."

For now, they were building just one proper road between Quebec and Trois-Rivières. Still, it was an impressive project, spanning 120 kilometers!

From Adam’s perspective, it was more urgent to build a road of that quality between Fort Edward and Montreal, as the fort was far from the Saint Lawrence Valley, leaving it highly vulnerable to attacks.

Hmm, once Fort Edward—or rather, Fort Bourbon—has developed enough, we could even become self-sufficient. But for that, we’ll need settlers to farm the fields. Ah… so much to do… I’ll draft a new treaty anyway. What they do with it afterward isn’t my problem.

“Captain, the men have rested enough. We can get moving again.”

“Very well,” Adam replied calmly. “Form the column. We’re heading out. We’ll reach the area designated by the colonel in an hour. Everyone, stay alert.”

“At your orders!”

The small troop resumed their march, and as the young officer had predicted, they arrived at the spot indicated by the colonel.

Their enemy was reported to have been seen in the area but had not engaged in combat. Even though it was unlikely that the enemy was still lurking nearby, the colonel wanted to make sure and had sent Adam’s company to investigate.

They weren’t alone, as a second company, led by Albert Fontaine, was marching less than an hour behind them. This way, if they encountered trouble, they could call for reinforcements—and vice versa.

“Captain! Over here! We’ve found signs of recent movement!”

“What?!”

Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise and approached the trees lining the road. Indeed, several clues suggested that a group, rather than a lone individual, had passed through, perhaps to access the river, and it wasn’t the work of wild animals.

Okay, this is looking better than I expected. I didn’t think we’d find a trail so soon.

Adam thoughtfully examined the broken branches, trampled leaves, and a torn piece of green fabric caught on a bush covered in dark thorns. Then he turned to his lieutenants with a serious expression.

“Have the men prepare for combat. We’re heading into the forest. No one speaks. Let’s be as discreet as possible.”

Quickly, all the soldiers were informed of their commander’s orders and entered the forest one by one.

It was calm, silent, and peaceful. All that could be heard was the wind rustling the leaves, branches creaking against each other, and birdsong.

Following the trail wasn’t difficult—quite the opposite. It was as if an elephant had passed through, which was precisely what made Adam nervous.

Because he had already faced Rogers’s Rangers, he knew exactly what kind of enemy they were dealing with.

They were highly mobile, resourceful, even cunning, making intelligent use of the terrain to their advantage, especially when it was challenging. They practiced guerrilla warfare with remarkable efficiency. An enemy like this shouldn’t leave so many traces behind unless acting in haste.

Or perhaps it was intentional.

“Sir,” said a sergeant sent ahead to scout, “we’ve spotted a campsite a bit further. There are some soldiers in green uniforms, but no more than twenty of them.”

“I see. Thank you, Sergeant. Return to your men. Lieutenant Marais, Lieutenant Laroche, come with me. Let’s move to the front of the column.”

“At your orders,” the two men replied in unison.

The officers stepped over ferns and roots in their path, soon catching sight of the enemy campsite about two hundred and fifty meters away. It was in a sort of hollow surrounded by tall trees, not far from a small river.

The place was beautiful, but far from ideal for setting up camp. Heavy rain would risk flooding their tents. Worse, the camp was highly vulnerable to attacks from higher ground.

This doesn’t feel right. Too many things are off.

Adam observed the soldiers more closely. There were indeed about a dozen of them, but there could be more hidden in the tents.

“Captain, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“So do I, Marais,” Adam muttered, his eyes still fixed on the men in green.

He grimaced and asked his subordinates to estimate the distance between the two groups.

“If we want to hit them hard, we’d need to get closer—at least two hundred toises away.”

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Two hundred toises... Roughly one hundred meters. He’s right, but it feels too risky. I can’t shake the feeling something’s wrong.

“Hm?”

“Is something the matter, Lieutenant?” Adam asked, turning slightly toward Laroche.

“The enemy… Am I imagining it, or haven’t they moved since we started observing them?”

Adam raised an eyebrow and refocused on the campsite. Indeed, the men in green hadn’t moved an inch. No one was heading to the river, approaching the fire, or entering a tent. They weren’t doing anything but being there.

“This isn’t normal. None of it is. I think it’s a trap.”

“I agree. We should retreat carefully. If this is a trap, the enemy can’t be far and is likely watching us.”

Adam couldn’t help but glance at the nearby trees and bushes. He had an unpleasant feeling of being watched. He could almost sense a murderous intent targeting him.

“Let’s go. Absolute silence from everyone. I’ll personally deal with the first man who speaks without cause.”

“U-understood.”

“Form a line with wide spacing between each man,” Adam ordered in a firm, low voice. “I don’t want to risk being surrounded.”

The lieutenants nodded without question and relayed the orders to their sergeants. Soon, a long line of men formed amidst the trees.

The soldiers, their senses on high alert, began retreating slowly, gripping their long muskets with tense hands. The apparent calm of the forest now felt oppressive.

Every man reacted to the slightest sound, the faintest crack, imagining muskets where only broken branches lay scattered from winter storms.

Adam, despite his experience, was just as tense, with the added pressure of his rank weighing on him.

As they moved away from the fire and tents toward the road, a loud cry erupted to his right. Adam spun around to see one of his men, Private Tournier, stepping on a woven wooden panel covered in mud and leaves.

His foot broke through the panel, revealing one of the many hidden pits dug by the men in green to ambush careless French soldiers lured by the decoy camp.

Private Tournier’s right foot crushed the flat hat of a ranger hiding below, accidentally triggering the man’s musket. A shot rang out into the air.

“E-enemies! The enemies are here!”

Adam drew his pistol and aimed toward Tournier’s position. As the soldier lifted his leg, pulling the entire panel covering the pit along with it, a filthy head appeared.

The young captain pulled the trigger.

At that range, Adam couldn’t miss. The bullet pierced cleanly through the skull of the British ranger, who resembled a bandit. His head burst open on impact.

The entire sequence had taken only seconds at most.

The first gunshot, combined with Tournier’s cry, alerted Robert Rogers’ rangers, who realized it was time to spring their trap. Panels flew aside, and numerous soldiers with fearsome faces emerged like demons.

Adam noticed a bush rustle nearby, five or six meters to his left, and an impossibly gaunt man with wide, bulging eyes and a five-day beard appeared.

“Die!”

The man pointed his musket at Adam.

Adam unsheathed his sword and struck the musket barrel away. The shot fired but missed entirely.

In a swift, powerful motion, Adam swung his razor-sharp blade, bringing it down with full force on the man’s skull. The sound it made was strange—like striking a watermelon.

Warm blood splattered everywhere, and the man collapsed face-first into the dirt, his skull split open.

“Forward!” shouted Adam, using all his breath. “Get back to the road! Pair up and kill anyone in your way! Don’t let them surround you! Don’t slow down!”

To his left and right, he could hear his loyal lieutenants relaying his orders.

Thanks to their intensive training, Boucher’s company soldiers managed to escape the trap set by one of Robert Rogers’ dreaded officers. It was with immense relief that they reached the road, which now seemed like a promised land.

“What the hell are you doing, for God’s sake? Get to the other side of the road and into firing positions! First rank, lie down! Second and third ranks, kneel! Move it! Lieutenant Marais, is everyone accounted for?”

“I—I think so!”

“Count the men and see if anyone is seriously wounded!”

Rogers’ Rangers didn’t take long to reach the road. They stayed behind the last trees, using them as cover to fire at the French, who were no easy targets themselves.

Those in the first rank were well-protected from enemy bullets but had difficulty reloading their weapons in this position. Each step took significantly more time.

Adam noticed this quickly and ordered the first rank to pull back, keeping their heads low, and to extend the second line.

The exchange of fire was neither long nor particularly deadly. Adam didn’t lose a single man between the beginning of the skirmish and the arrival of Albert Fontaine’s company.

As soon as they arrived, the enemy began to retreat in good order. Adam realized too late that they had slipped away.

“Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, Captain! We only have injuries, no fatalities!”

The officer’s eyes fell on the right leg of Private Tournier. When he had crashed through the woven wooden panel camouflaging an enemy, he had injured himself and was bleeding heavily.

Blood had run down to his knee, and he hadn’t had time to assess the state of his leg. The poor boy’s face was as pale as his uniform.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I—I don’t know, Captain. I can’t think straight. I hardly feel anything right now, but when I calm down...”

“Private Petit, help Private Tournier clean the wound.”

“At your command, sir!” replied the soldier, now easily recognizable by his eyepatch.

Adam quickly looked away to avoid seeing his subordinate’s injury. He could only imagine it, and the thought revolted him—a rather ironic reaction, he knew, given that moments earlier, he had blown a man’s brains out with his pistol and split another’s skull with his sword.

“Captain Boucher,” Albert Fontaine called out as he arrived, dragging his entire company behind him, who had marched here at a rapid pace. “How are you?”

Adam ignored his friend’s formal tone and answered honestly.

“We got out of it without any losses. We were lucky. They tried to ambush us in the woods. Those bastards are sneakier than the Hanoverians. Thankfully, you weren’t far.”

“We’re here for that. Should we pursue them?”

“We can. I’ll back you with my able-bodied men, but they’ve got a head start. These guys are very mobile—they’re like Indians. They’ve got a fake camp about eight hundred toises to the north.”

“A fake camp? Let’s check it out! Forward!”

Naturally, there wasn’t a soul there. All they found was a half-extinguished fire, crudely pitched tents, and dummies dressed in green uniforms, which they collected to show to the colonel and the Marquis de Montcalm.

***

That evening, somewhere in the woods on the New York provincial border, a small fire crackled, casting a soft orange glow in the darkness. It popped and sizzled as it consumed dry wood, captivating the young man with the unsettling smile.

He held a long hunting knife in his hands, idly prodding the burning, cracked pieces of wood. Though he wasn’t particularly imposing in size or build, his shadow stretched behind him like a long black cape.

“Sir, Team A has returned. Decoy 1 didn’t work.”

“Neither did Decoy 2.”

“There was an exchange of fire at Decoy 3, and Team C lost about ten men, sir. The enemy didn’t fall for the trap.”

The reports came in one after another, none of them good.

Little by little, Robert Rogers’ face darkened, though his smile remained. The men in green began to tremble, for this man was unpredictable. No one could ever tell what he was thinking or what his next move would be.

“That’s quite a bit, isn’t it? Hmm, we’ll need to recruit a few more, but also improve the quality of the recruits.”

The men in green said nothing, showing no particular reaction to their leader’s calm acknowledgment of their losses.

“Ah… it seems our enemy is getting smarter,” the young man with the handsome face murmured. “Trapping them will be harder in the future. Good—it wouldn’t be any fun without a challenge.”

“Sir,” someone called out from the edge of the camp, “Team F has returned with a guest!”

Immediately, all eyes turned to the newcomers. They were shoving and roughing up a French soldier covered in dirt and dried blood.

His face was a disaster. His right eye, swollen and purple, was so puffed up that he couldn’t open it.

Robert Rogers rose slowly, still holding his knife, and walked straight toward the trembling young French soldier.

“Good evening. Hey, do you speak English?”

The man, terrified, shook his head.

“Oh, so you understand what I’m saying? Hey, you understand me, don’t you? Or do you take me for an idiot?” he said with a grin, running his knife over the disheveled Frenchman’s uniform until it reached his chin.

The Frenchman shook his head again, stammering a few words in French. Robert, who didn’t speak the language, called over one of his men—a tall, lean fellow with an impassive face.

“You’re going to answer all my questions, and then I’ll let you go. Agreed? First of all, I’ve heard a troop arrived at Fort Edward. How many men? Who’s in command? What kind of man is he? Are reinforcements coming? How long will they stay at Fort Edward? If you lie to me, well, I’ll take all the time I need to get my answers. Speak.”

It only took one attempt for him to get all the answers, but the quality of the information left much to be desired—the man knew next to nothing.

Robert Rogers stared at the French soldier for a long moment, barely blinking. It was as though he were looking at a toy.

The man felt horribly uneasy, though most of the men in green—those who had joined the group recently or hadn’t been around long enough to get used to their leader’s methods—weren’t in much better shape.

Rogers began playing with his knife again.

“You know,” he began, “I knew a guy once—a hunter—completely crazy. Bill Grey was his name. Hell of a hunter, no doubt about it, but he was obsessed with Indians. Their hunting methods, their rituals, but also their strange habit of scalping their enemies.”

The Frenchman didn’t understand a word and, with no one translating for him, remained silent, growing more and more uneasy.

“He couldn’t figure out how they did it, especially how they kept their victims alive. You’ve got to be really skilled with a knife for that. He figured that out quickly by practicing on animals. Eventually, he got good enough with his knife. Then he set himself another challenge—skinning an entire animal without killing it. It was even harder, but you know what? He got there, with time and plenty of practice. Then he gave himself a new challenge, and I think you can guess what that was, can’t you?”

“...“

"He didn’t succeed, and for good reason—we didn’t give him the time. We chased him down, then hanged him for murder. Hey, I’m not as skilled as that guy, but I wonder," he said, bringing his knife dangerously close to the Frenchman’s face, "if I could at least take your face off?"

With extreme delicacy, he brushed the soldier's forehead with the blade of his hunting knife, and the man started screaming. A thin trickle of blood began to run down.

"ARGH! AAAAARGH! Mercy! I’ve told you everything! You said you’d let me go if I told you everything! Aaaaaaaah! Let me go!"

The man screamed in his own language and thrashed about as Robert Rogers frowned and raised his blade.

"Hey, you’re moving too much. You want me to mess it up? You’ll be free, but first, I’m going to take your face, so don’t move. You want me to gouge an eye out? Hey, tie him up," he ordered in a calm, clear voice.

More screams echoed through the forest and went on for a long time, well into the night.