On Sunday, August 19, 1759, in the mid-afternoon, a massive cloud of dust appeared on the horizon, rising from the southern road leading to Albany. It did not take long before the first red uniforms emerged.

The advanced defensive outposts had given way under pressure, though not without costing the eternal enemy of France a few men. They had also managed to slow them down slightly, but not as much as the skirmishers sent to harass this formidable foe.

They, too, had been forced to retreat to Fort Bourbon.

According to their reports, the approaching force numbered approximately three to four thousand men. They advanced in columns, marching in cadence, their weapons glinting under the sun as if made of gold, escorting heavy covered wagons loaded with all sorts of siege equipment.

In tense silence, the French watched this imposing sight, one that could not help but inspire admiration among the officers. Once again, the British army proved that, if it did not have the largest army in the world—a title that belonged to the French—it certainly had one of the most disciplined.

At the sound of drums, British officers gave their orders, deploying their formidable regiments in a crescent formation as they continued to arrive. Swiftly, they surrounded the fort, cutting it off completely.

They had, of course, ensured beforehand—by sending scouts—that no French or Indigenous forces were lurking nearby, ready to strike them from behind at the first opportunity.

Meanwhile, the French armed themselves and rushed to their positions.

Fortunately, the arrival of the redcoats had not taken anyone by surprise. Since spring, they had been closely monitoring everything happening in Albany.

Thus, all activity within the fort came to an abrupt halt—activities already reduced on this holy day, which had begun with a military mass—as the garrison sprang into action.

"Move! At the double! Get to your officers!" a sergeant shouted, urging his men forward.

"Everyone to their posts!"

"Prepare the cannons! Where are the gunners?!"

"They're coming!"

"Too slow! What are they waiting for? A formal invitation? Move faster! Bring the water buckets and get the artillery supplies out! Make sure everything is in order!"

"The cannons are secured, sir!"

At a quick pace and in tight columns, the soldiers swiftly reached the ramparts, efficiently taking their positions to greet the enemy army. Watching them, one could imagine they had rehearsed this operation endlessly for this very day.

Yet, the enemy troops did not advance. They merely took position, careful to remain out of range of the fearsome French cannons. They even began setting up their camp and digging their first entrenchments.

The French forces were divided into two distinct groups, each defending a different position. The first was stationed behind the tall wooden and earthen walls of Fort Bourbon. The second held Long Island.

The island was far too important to the defense of the fort to be abandoned to the enemy. However, the fort itself was too crucial to split the garrison evenly. The commanding officer, the Marquis de Bréhant—since Montcalm had left to seek reinforcements—had given very precise orders on the matter.

All the cannons were loaded, and the soldiers awaited only a single word to light the powder.

Behind them, assistants stood ready to reload the long, cold metal tubes, which would soon become as searing hot as a pan left on the fire.

Though it was a Sunday, waging war posed little moral dilemma—less so on this continent than in Europe.

According to Christian tradition, whether Catholic or Protestant, bloodshed was to be avoided on this sacred day. But in practice, commanders had no qualms about disregarding this custom when necessary.

Aware of this reality, the French soldiers—especially the young recruits—were tense.

However, the chances of an immediate assault were slim. A siege required patience—something Abercrombie had forgotten at Fort Carillon.

The British had just completed a long march and still needed to fully isolate the fort by constructing a proper defensive line. Moreover, they had to set up their camp.

The last British units were only now arriving with their cumbersome baggage and supply wagons.

Like the French, the enemy formation was divided into two sections: the first and largest positioned on this side of the Hudson River, facing the fort; the second on the opposite bank, directly across from the long wooden bridge leading to Long Island.

Adam and his company, along with others, were stationed there, guarding the bridge like a well-trained watchdog. Near him, several heavy and medium-caliber cannons were aimed in that direction.

The soldiers, dressed entirely in white, gripped their long muskets nervously, already picturing these dreadful weapons in action should the redcoats attempt to force their way across the narrow passage.

"They are numerous," murmured Lieutenant Laroche, standing firmly to the right of his captain.

"Obviously," Adam replied, his face stern. "They've had a year to prepare… Just like us."

"How many do you think they are?"

"Nine hundred, I’d say. A thousand, maybe? What do you think?"

Lieutenant Laroche thought for a moment, struggling to count the enemy ranks.

"I would have given a similar number," he said in a low tone, his gaze fixed on the red-coated men still arriving beneath an immense flag fluttering proudly in the wind.

Laroche glanced briefly at his officer. He found him strangely calm despite the situation. And yet, there was a significant disparity in forces here.

Indeed, the colonel had decided to keep most of his troops on the walls of the main fort.

Then, he turned his attention back to the men on the other side of the river.

"Captain, they don't seem to have artillery on that side."

"Hmmm, that does seem to be the case."

"You don’t seem convinced, sir."

Adam subtly tilted his head to the side, lost in thought. He remained silent for so long that his lieutenant thought he wasn’t going to answer.

"If I were them, I would concentrate my fire on the other side, but I would still keep some for this side as well. If they truly have no cannons, then they have no chance of crossing," Adam said confidently. "Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir," his loyal lieutenant replied after a sigh that seemed to dispel his doubts.

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"That’s why I believe they do have some. Perhaps they will arrive a bit later, once our enemies have properly settled in?"

Lieutenant Laroche slowly nodded, thinking that his captain was probably right. The redcoats wouldn’t launch an attack without artillery support.

His gaze fell on an imposing 24-pounder cannon to his left. Its massive muzzle was aimed directly at the entrance of the Long Bridge, slightly to the left so as not to damage the structure.

Like all the others, this cannon was mounted on a heavy wooden carriage reinforced with metal and positioned atop a long, wide flattened embankment. This embankment acted as a sort of walkway, giving those stationed there a slight height advantage.

Additionally, the soldiers had built a thick earth parapet along the entire length of the battery, separating the walkway from the river and leaving only a few openings to allow the cannons to fire.

Adam watched the British take their time getting into position. It was a provocation.

Bastards. Go ahead. Parade, enjoy yourselves. You won’t be so smug when we start firing at you.

"Captain, Lieutenant Marais is returning from Battery 1."

Adam indeed saw his other subordinate, the one he had sent to the other side of Long Island, running back.

"Captain, Captain Colmard reports that all his guns are ready. He also says the enemy artillery has begun to arrive, but it will likely take them a few days to set up their firing positions."

Adam turned and saw, two hundred meters away, Captain Colmard’s company forming a line along the river, where the eight guns of Battery No. 1 were positioned. There were heavy calibers there, including two 32-pounders meant to cover the road leading to Albany.

However, he couldn’t see much more. On the other side of the Hudson River, two kilometers from the walls of Fort Bourbon, the main British army looked like a mass of red.

Had Adam been at that battery with a spyglass, he could have seen the redcoats hard at work digging their first defensive line and setting up tents.

In a few days, their artillery would be launching their cursed cannonballs at Fort Bourbon’s walls from high artificial mounds.

The battery where Adam and his men were stationed was Battery No. 3, which had five guns, mostly 12-pounders. Between these two batteries was Battery No. 2, with four guns.

Thus, on Long Island, there were seventeen cannons.

The irony was that all these cannons had been taken from the enemy last year at the region’s forts, including Albany.

For now, they were useful because they had acquired a large stock of matching ammunition, but once that was depleted, they would become a burden—scrap metal to be melted down to cast new cannons in accordance with French standards.

"I see. Thank you, Lieutenant. You will inform the other captains. But before that, did he say anything else? Was he able to estimate the strength of their main army?"

"Oh, yes. He estimates them to be between three thousand eight hundred and four thousand five hundred. He can't be more precise. Captain Colmard also said he would do his best to assist us if needed. He is awaiting orders."

The lieutenant then appeared hesitant, uncertain.

"A problem, Lieutenant?"

"Hmm, it's… I don’t understand, Captain. Shouldn't we start firing?" asked Lieutenant Marais, casting a furtive glance at his comrade, Lieutenant Laroche, as if afraid he might mock him.

"No," Adam simply replied, shaking his head. "The fort hasn't started firing, nor have the other batteries, so we wait. Even though we’ve had time to prepare, our ammunition is precious. We need to make sure every shot counts."

The siege was only just beginning. If they used everything now, before their enemies had even gathered, it would be a massive waste.

The distance between the two camps wasn’t great. A cannonball could easily cover it, but Adam wasn’t sure they could hit effectively from here. Most obstacles had been removed to clear their line of fire. All the trees had been turned into logs and planks, which were then used to build the battery defenses and the structures on the island.

"Sir," said a non-commissioned officer with drooping eyes, "they’ve started digging on the other side of the Long Bridge."

It was simply the wooden bridge connecting Long Island to the bank opposite Fort Bourbon. A straightforward yet fitting name, considering it was one hundred and forty meters long!

As the man had said, the redcoats had indeed begun to dig.

"Captain, should we intervene?" asked Lieutenant Marais, struggling to hide his nervousness.

Adam didn’t answer immediately, simply observing the redcoats as they sliced through the dry, clay-rich soil with their iron shovels.

"Intervene? How? If we cross the river, we’ll become easy targets. As defenders, we have a huge advantage. We just have to hold this bridge. Our artillery should only be used if we’re certain we can inflict heavy losses on our enemies."

"So… we just let them do it?" Marais asked again, visibly disappointed.

"For now, yes. This siege is only beginning," Adam said, rubbing his left shoulder, which had been aching since he woke up. "We’ll take the time we need to reinforce our defenses," he added, glancing at the riverbanks. "Fortify the banks and keep an eye on our enemies. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

A few minutes later, three heavy detonations rang out behind them, shattering the silence. They were immediately followed by a long, shrill whistling sound. Then came more deafening blasts—sounds Adam knew all too well.

Adam spun around, just like every other soldier present, and saw long plumes of white smoke rising from the western wall of Fort Bourbon.

Seconds later, dull thuds and cries echoed from the other side of the Long Bridge. Adam turned again and saw the English stirring like ants at the entrance of their anthill, which had just been violently overturned.

Some of the fort’s artillery shots had certainly found their mark.

Unfortunately, at this distance, Adam couldn’t estimate their losses. All he could see was a massive flag fluttering amidst the debris.

However, after a brief moment, the commotion died down, and order was restored in the ranks.

Shortly after, a French non-commissioned officer arrived on Long Island, crossing the Small Bridge at a run, and reached Battery No. 1.

"E-excuse me," he gasped, out of breath. "Who… who is in charge here?"

All eyes turned to Adam, but he wasn’t in charge of this battery. Seven captains commanded the 250 men defending the Long Bridge.

Adam was neither the eldest nor the most senior.

He gestured toward a tall man with a slight belly and a large dark blemish on his left cheek—Captain Voyer.

Adam knew little about him, except that he had serious money troubles, largely because he was overly fond of drinking and gambling.

The non-commissioned officer saluted and immediately headed toward the man.

"Wait here," Adam murmured to his subordinates. "I’m going to see what’s going on."

With that, he approached Captain Voyer, who loomed over the young man, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

"Fine! Since those are the commander's orders, I'll do it," Voyer said in a dry tone, laced with a sort of disdainful weariness. "But don’t expect great results!"

"What’s going on?" Adam asked as soon as he arrived, getting ahead of the other captains who had also drawn closer.

"Ah, the colonel is asking why we haven’t started firing yet. I kindly explained to this whelp that hitting our target would be difficult from this angle and that it would be wiser to wait until our enemy gets closer to the bridge. He’s going to inform the colonel, but we’ll still have to fire a few shots."

Another captain, a stranger to Adam named Colin, spoke up, surprising him with his deep, resonant voice. He would have made an excellent singer in another life.

"If it’s just a few shots, is there really any need to make such a fuss? Let’s just say it’s our way of saluting those bastards."

Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise. If he had closed his eyes, he could have sworn this man was Black. He kept that thought to himself and remained silent, focusing instead on the conversation.

"We should only use reduced charges," suggested another captain, whose face was painfully ordinary. "No need to waste our powder. I propose a third of a charge."

"Hmm, it's a little late to change the charges," Voyer grumbled. "All our guns are already loaded and ready to fire. For the next shots, unless told otherwise, stick to charges at one-third the weight of your cannonballs."

Adam nodded and stepped away to return to his post. He immediately informed the gunners—ten per cannon—and the fuses were lit.

One after another, the English cannons positioned on what had once been Rogers Island opened fire, roughly aiming at enemy lines.

Their thunderous roars startled the young recruits, who still lacked experience.

Unsurprisingly, the first shots caused little physical damage to the enemy. Most cannonballs simply bounced into the soft earth, kicking up plumes of dust and debris.

However, from a psychological standpoint, it was unlikely the redcoats were still in the mood for laughter.

Ahah! Not so proud now, huh?! Who’s laughing now?

Adam didn’t see it, but the 24-pounder cannon next to him had just torn the head off a sergeant after ricocheting off a tree trunk. The same shot then severed the arm of a lowly soldier who had the misfortune of standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There was no further action that day.

The English did not make the mistake—or rather, the blunder—of foolishly charging the well-defended French lines.

The officers carefully reassessed the enemy’s strength and made a few adjustments.

By eight o’clock in the evening, the camps were set up. Whether on the eastern or western side of the Hudson River, the British made sure their tents were pitched in secured areas.

Near the fort, the redcoats did not occupy the same positions as in previous sieges. Long Island had been so extensively modified and fortified that they didn’t want to risk being bombarded in their sleep.

Instead, they had withdrawn further from the wide river.

On the other side, they had done the same, positioning themselves slightly higher up on the narrow path they had followed to get here—on slightly elevated terrain.

In both cases, they had done things properly. In a very short time, they had managed to erect makeshift palisades on an embankment behind a moderately deep ditch.

No doubt, in the coming days, they would improve their camp, making it cleaner, better organized, and more secure.

Ah… I hope this will be fine, Adam thought, running his fingers over the hilt of his sword. If only we had machine guns… or snipers. I would’ve picked off every single one of their officers, and that would be the end of them!

His gaze fell on the orange glows of the enemy camp.

Well, no point in whining about it—it won’t change a thing!