Adam returned to Fort Bourbon on August 8, exhausted, filthy, sticky, starving, and dejected. This fruitless hunt had left a terrible taste in his mouth—an acrid bitterness he couldn't shake.
He had believed—probably because things had been going well overall for his side—that this new operation would end in success. Everything seemed assured.They were more numerous, heavily armed, motivated, and on familiar ground.
And yet, Robert Rogers' rangers had slipped through their fingers after committing their crimes.
This failure felt like a hammer blow to the head, a brutal reminder of reality. Sometimes, things didn't go as planned. Sometimes, they could even turn into disaster, despite everything being in place for victory.
The English had learned this lesson well at Louisbourg and Fort Carillon. This time, it was the French who had to endure the cruel teaching. It was only through this humiliation that Adam realized nothing was set in stone.
When he crossed the heavy gates of Fort Bourbon, he found the stronghold on high alert—but thankfully, untouched. In his absence, nothing extraordinary had happened, yet the atmosphere had changed.
The air was no longer charged with the excitement of a victorious campaign, but with a tense, electric nervousness.
Near the bridge leading to Long Island, Adam and Jean-Baptiste Gauthier came across Albert Fontaine and the young Martin Morrel de Lusernes, who immediately asked him what had happened to put the garrison in such a state of vigilance.
"Ah, it's just that some redcoats came close to the fort this morning to observe our positions."
"Hmm? And that's what has them this nervous?" Captain Gauthier asked with a frown. "It's not the first time, though."
"I know, but there are a lot of new recruits. This will be their first siege. You have to understand them."
"Oh, that's true," Adam sighed, remembering that during the last siege, he had lost the company his former captain had painstakingly trained.
"A massive attack in the near future now seems highly likely," Albert muttered to himself as he turned toward the broad river leading to New York. "Our soldiers, including mine, are no longer wondering if Fort Bourbon will be besieged again, but when they'll see an enemy army set up around our walls. They're even making bets on it."
"That's not very kind to the new guys," Captain Gauthier chuckled. "They must be scared shitless."
"They'll get used to the feeling," Martin said with an eerie maturity. "We all do, when we're on the front lines."
"That's true," Albert agreed. "Then again, maybe we'll attack first. We send out scouts regularly, too."
"Hmpf! Well, I hope those sons of bitches are the ones shitting themselves, then!" Jean-Baptiste grumbled, crossing his arms.
"In my opinion," Adam said confidently, "we won't move. Look at our fort! We've improved it a lot! That gives us a clear advantage, so why give it up? All we have to do is wait for those damned redcoats to make their move."
"François is right," said André Louis suddenly as he arrived. "We're not going anywhere. We've been preparing for a siege for weeks; we're not going to throw all that away now. The English will come—it's a certainty. They want to retake this fort and push the border back to where it was. No, they won't stop at Lake George. If they can, they'll push all the way to Fort Carillon, then Montreal, and finally Quebec."
"Since we took this fort," Martin mused, "Fort Carillon has been nothing more than a waystation. It wouldn't hold for a single day."
"Then we just have to hold out here," Adam concluded.
The small group of friends had assessed the situation correctly: the British were indeed preparing for a major assault, and had been for months. They had been training relentlessly for this moment, slowly amassing an enormous stockpile of supplies and equipment to ensure they lacked nothing.
The only reason they had not yet attacked was that the officers on site believed that a larger number of trained soldiers was necessary to take down what was still, in their eyes, Fort Edward.
The need for reinforcements was even more pressing given that the fort had been significantly reinforced over the past year. The French had not been idle in preparation for this inevitable confrontation.
***
On August 8, long-awaited reinforcements finally arrived in the New World. King George II had not spared any resources, despite the many other regions requiring defense: six warships reached Philadelphia, escorted by a flock of seabirds, carrying nearly two thousand men on board.
These brave soldiers, who had traveled from afar to turn the tide of war on this wild continent—a financial abyss for some—were commanded by an old lieutenant general named James St Clair. The ships, meanwhile, were under the authority of Vice Admiral Knowles.
Both men would have preferred greater means for this crucial mission, but Britain had interests around the globe and other pressing operations.
When their squadron left southern England in June, a significant fleet had been sent to India in pursuit of a large French naval force, while another had been dispatched to strike somewhere along the French coast.
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St Clair and Knowles had not been informed of the exact details of these operations, nor did it truly matter. What did matter, however, was that due to this last endeavor—vigorously advocated by Minister Pitt—they had only two thousand men at their disposal, when they had initially requested five thousand!
All they could hope for now was that, with the forces available, they would be able to avenge the humiliation suffered on their own soil, particularly at Sheerness and Chatham—two human and material disasters.
Yet both officers understood why things had played out this way: sending a large force across this vast and unpredictable ocean was a logistical nightmare requiring months of preparation. Soldiers had to be assembled and equipped, military supplies gathered, sufficient provisions loaded for the journey, and appropriate ships—along with experienced crews—had to be secured.
Striking a French port, by contrast, was much simpler. It was like kicking down a detested neighbor's door to punch him in the face. Such operations required little time to plan and were swiftly executed, barring any unpleasant surprises.
Philadelphia was a large and beautiful city, but it had not been the fleet's intended destination. The squadron did not linger and soon set sail northward toward chaotic New York.
Propelled by favorable winds, their proud ships reached their destination on the morning of August 9, 1759. The imposing shadows of their towering sails were reflected in the clear waters of Upper Bay as sailors bustled about, reducing the canvas.
Above them, a few seabirds glided gracefully, occasionally letting out jubilant cries.
Slowly, the sails were furled, save for those needed for the final maneuvers. Sharp orders rang out, punctuated by curses, and the splendid warships began to slow.
To the left and right, several rivers emptied into the bay. New York sat on a long, broad island, bordered by the Hudson River to the west and the East River to the east.
From the sea, this remarkable city—occupying the southern tip of what was called either Manhattan or New York Island—seemed quite respectable. In fact, it appeared no different from the port towns of the Old World, as the Europeans often called their continent from this side of the Atlantic.
But once their ships were moored, Lieutenant General St Clair began to notice certain anomalies.
The old officer, seventy-one years of age, furrowed his thick, black eyebrows, where a few stray hairs, longer than the others, curled upwards. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied this unfamiliar landscape.
Taken separately, these details might not have raised any concern, but together, they formed an alarming picture.
"So, this is New York?" the man in his fine red-and-gold uniform murmured, standing just two steps from a pile of horse manure. "Good Lord, what a stench! What a miserable sight! It looks as though the city is under siege."
"I would say it resembles a city occupied by a foreign army," remarked Vice Admiral Knowles, stepping up beside him and raising to his nose a white embroidered handkerchief bearing his initials.
The old St Clair slowly nodded and watched as a militia paraded proudly down a nearby street before turning into another, wider and livelier avenue.
The people looked haggard, the streets were filthy, and the port was eerily quiet. It should have been teeming with goods and bustling with activity.
Most troubling of all, countless beggars with gaunt faces held out hands or bowls, pleading for mercy from passersby.
In short, New York seemed to be enduring a terrible crisis.
"We should go to the fort and meet the governor," Knowles suggested, pulling out a fine pocket watch.
With that, the two officers set off, accompanied by a handful of soldiers with stoic faces and well-kept uniforms. Even after such a long voyage, these men seemed in better condition than the redcoats they encountered along the way.
As they walked through the city, the two men took the opportunity to observe the streets and inhabitants, gauging the severity of the situation.
They had suspected that conditions would not be good after hearing of Boston's destruction—a catastrophe they had learned about on the eve of their departure—but they had not expected such levels of tension and squalor.
The massive investments poured into developing the colonies seemed to have been squandered or misappropriated.
The so-called "Boston refugees" had mostly settled in this large city, swelling New York's population in mere days from twenty-eight thousand—which was already considerable—to forty thousand!
This sudden influx of destitute souls, whom the city could not support, had thrown everything into disorder. Governor DeLancey had been forced to turn many away, sometimes by force, which had sparked widespread outrage.
A large portion of these refugees now lived on the outskirts of the city, to the north.
Over the past two months, they had built hundreds of tiny homes—though "shacks" would be a more accurate term—clinging to the city's edges. Despite their efforts, hygiene levels were abysmal, even alarming, and it seemed as though a single gust of wind could raze their fragile dwellings.
Because New York had no walls—it had never needed them, thanks to its advantageous geography—it had become increasingly difficult to distinguish refugees from the city's original inhabitants.
The refugees had made great efforts to build themselves a new home, as the vast majority of them did not want to return to the site of Boston, where they had experienced hunger, misery, and witnessed human savagery. Moreover, they all knew that now, all that remained there were ashes and ruins.
This settlement was poorly received by the city's inhabitants, who often blamed the refugees for their own problems, in addition to accusing them of cowardice in the face of the French.According to them, the people of Boston were the sole architects of their own misfortune.
The New York Gazette stated quite clearly that the city had not been taken by force but surrendered by its inhabitants to the French, who then methodically pillaged it before setting it ablaze with terrifying precision.
As they passed by, Knowles and St Clair caught snippets of conversation that left them speechless—it was as if these poor people, who had asked for nothing, were being treated like plague victims or lepers. People truly spoke of them as if they were a disease or vermin.
To feed themselves, it was true that these refugees had been forced to sell, at very low prices, the few possessions they had managed to bring with them. Many had been driven to begging or stealing, but to ostracize them all in such a manner was shocking.
When they finally arrived at Fort George, they were greeted by three corpses—hanged men—who had evidently been there for a day or two.
"Charming," murmured Knowles.
St Clair grimaced at the sight. It was not particularly unusual, as hanging was a common punishment, but he decided to intercept an officer who was leaving the fort in a hurry. The man noticed them approaching, offered a stiff salute, and was about to move on.
"Captain, a moment," said St Clair, his voice that of a perfect gentleman. "I am General James St Clair, and this is Vice-Admiral Knowles. We have just arrived from England."
"M-My General! My Admiral!" the officer exclaimed with sudden energy, saluting once more, this time more formally. "Welcome to New York! How may I assist you?"
St Clair cast a glance around before fixing his gaze on the officer, who seemed to be in his thirties.
"Thank you. We need to meet with Governor DeLancey. Is he here?"
"Yes, General. If you wish, I would be honored to escort you. This way, please. I will lead you to his office."
The lieutenant general gave a slight nod of gratitude and allowed the officer to guide them into the fort, a cold and unwelcoming place with its rigid military architecture.