On July 10th, a splendid sun warmed the fragrant air of New France and made the La Chute River, linking Lake George to Lake Champlain, sparkle like a string of pearls.
While some stood guard around and above Fort Carillon, others were having fun chasing an olive-shaped ball, determined to drive it into the opposing camp. Their shouts and cheers could be heard from afar, so full of energy and motivation were the soldiers.
From the noise, it was easy to tell whether there had been a tackle, a foul, or a score.
Since discipline had not collapsed—in fact, it had improved since they began organizing daily matches—Marquis de Montcalm allowed his men this recreation. However, he remained vigilant, ensuring that no lapses occurred, and regularly received reports on enemy movements.
The British had retreated to nearby forts, particularly Fort Edward, located just twenty kilometers southeast of the southern tip of Lake George. Since the destruction of Fort William Henry, it had become the most significant British stronghold in the region.
It was their base of operations and an important storage site for military supplies and food. Of course, Abercrombie’s army had passed through there to attack.
That morning, just before noon, Marquis de Montcalm was set to receive a distinguished guest. He had been informed a few days earlier by a mounted messenger.
With some anxiety, he watched as the guest approached with his army.
Marshal Richelieu. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard many rumors about him. I hope everything goes well.
His army advanced slowly, for the old marshal had been told that the danger had passed.
***
By the time he arrived, the rugby match had ended, and all the players had changed into their uniforms. That included Adam, who sported a handsome bruise on his left cheek from a solid elbow blow.
Captain Gauthier had apologized more than once, and naturally, Adam had accepted, as he more than anyone else here knew how common injuries were. He had seen teeth fly, arms dislocate, bones break, and much more.
It was a sport he loved to watch on TV and had played a little in secondary school.
He had immense respect for professional players, whether they came from South Africa, England, Ireland, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, France, or elsewhere. For him, more than in any other sport, you could truly see the determination of the players. Even injured, they continued to play for the honor of their jersey.
Quickly, the officers gave their orders, and all the soldiers lined up outside the fort, as the parade ground wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone.
Adam, as commander of Gilbert’s company, though not officially holding the rank of captain, stood at the front, sword in hand. He then saw the marshal-duc arrive, riding a magnificent horse with a gleaming coat.
Monsieur the Marquis de Montcalm and Colonel de Bourlamaque came to meet him, dressed in ceremonial attire as splendid and brilliant as if they were presenting themselves at the French Court.
“Marshal, it is an honor to have you at our side!”
“Good day, you must be the commander of the New France troops, Monsieur de Montcalm?”
“Indeed, His Majesty entrusted me with this post,” replied the man, bowing respectfully to the marshal's title.
“I see. His Majesty sent me with troops freed in Europe after the capitulation of his enemies in Hanover, Brunswick, and Prussia. Though those enemies have been defeated, England remains a great threat.”
“Yes, sir. Fortunately, you were able to rescue Louisbourg in time, and we were also able to repel them here.”
“Indeed. Alas, we are threatened all over the world, and His Majesty needs a large number of soldiers to protect our coasts, as well as our trading posts in Africa, India, the sugar islands, and of course, New France as a whole. I have already sent a letter to His Majesty upon my arrival in Louisbourg, after being briefed on New France and its challenges. Perhaps His Majesty will be kind enough to lend an ear to my requests.”
“I sincerely hope so, for the salvation of New France, because despite this great victory, the enemy remains very powerful and can strike us anywhere. I have also written a letter to His Majesty to inform him of what happened ten days ago. You must have met my messenger.”
“Indeed. He briefly explained the situation. Ah, Marquis, you have worked hard and covered yourself in glory, but the enemy remains powerful. Therefore, we must weaken them as much as possible. Please, tell me, what do you plan to do next?”
Marquis de Montcalm flinched at the marshal’s words and suddenly had a bad feeling. However, he did his best not to show it.
“Sir, the Ohio Valley and the region around the Great Lakes cannot be defended, and there is nothing of real value there. The settlers are in the Saint Lawrence Valley, around Montreal, Trois-Rivières, Quebec, and Louisbourg. All those forts are no more than pinheads on a map. We placed soldiers there, telling them to protect trees, rocks, and rivers. Our men are dying for trees, rocks, and rivers, and can easily be bypassed or isolated. Therefore, I propose that when the enemy returns in large numbers, we abandon these forts and regions to concentrate our meager forces where they truly matter, so we can face the English with a chance of victory.”
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Adam, who could hear everything clearly, winced and saw the marshal-duc’s expression change. His muscles moved so subtly that it was hard to notice a shift, but to him, it was clear that what the marquis had just said had angered him.
“Monsieur de Montcalm,” the marshal said slowly and coldly, “we are in New France here, are we not? So we are in France, on the King’s lands, correct?”
“I… Yes, of course.”
“Imagine for a moment that you are in charge of troops on the continent and struggling to defend a sparsely populated, unprofitable border region for the king. Would you hand over your region to the enemy on a silver platter? Would you write to His Majesty and his ministers, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t defend all this land, so I will focus on a few towns’?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Then,” the old marshal spat, his anger increasingly visible in his voice and on his face, “why would you want to abandon and offer land to the enemy?”
“That… That’s not…”
“Marquis, just because we are in the colonies doesn’t mean I intend to defend them any less than Versailles. All the king’s lands have the same value, which means we, the king’s soldiers, have a duty to do everything in our power to preserve them. We can lose battles, we can die, but we cannot betray the king, the kingdom, and its subjects.”
Montcalm had had similar discussions with the governor several times, and they had never been able to agree, not even on how to conduct the war. According to Vaudreuil, the wealth of New France, meager though it may be, lay in the fur trade, and without the Great Lakes, it was impossible to make what was left of New France profitable.
The marquis of Montcalm let out a deep sigh.
“So, what do you propose, Your Excellency?”
From that point on, the hierarchy between the two men was clear. Proud though he was, Montcalm knew he was nothing compared to a marshal.
In any case, it was only a matter of time before he would be informed that he must fall under the authority of the Duke of Richelieu. It didn’t matter to him and could even be a good thing, as it might allow him to return to France, far from this mud and these savages, and reunite with his family and his estate in the south of the kingdom.
“It’s very simple,” the marshal said, regaining his calm with surprising ease, “we will continue to attack. From what I understand, your victories stem from the fact that your methods differ from those of Monsieur de Vaudreuil. But if your small troops face a regular army on open ground, they will be decimated. The ambushes you conduct here are effective against numerous and organized enemies because they are too rigid, too accustomed to pitched battles. I believe, marquis, that this is why Scotland has often been a problem for the English in the past. Therefore, their effectiveness should not be dismissed.”
The marquis grimaced but quickly swallowed his displeasure. He remained silent, letting the duke speak as he quickly reviewed the troops. He passed a few steps from Adam, who stood motionless like a statue.
“Their only problem,” he said, stopping in front of Captain Gauthier before turning to look at Montcalm, “is that they are only small victories, and small victories are forgotten over time. You burn one camp, another is rebuilt. It wastes the enemy’s time and energy, but that’s all. They remain strong and firmly entrenched where they are.”
He nodded and walked past the Berry, La Sarre, and Reine regiments, all carefully lined up like toy soldiers.
“Therefore,” he continued, “I propose practicing both methods at once. Carry out skirmishes of various sizes, but also large-scale attacks. Do you know where these English come from?”
“Where they come from? From Fort Edward, Your Excellency. It’s six lieues from Fort William Henry.”
“Fort William Henry? Ah, yes, the fort you destroyed. Good! The battle took place on July 8th, and it’s now the 18th. Their vigilance must have relaxed, and they are likely still occupied with tending to the wounded.”
“You…”
The marquis couldn’t finish his sentence, interrupted by his soldiers. Behind Adam, they had begun stomping the ground in rhythm with their muskets, which surprised him since no order had been given.
Yet it seemed premeditated.
BOM BOM BOM BOM BOM BOM BOM
The marshal smiled, never taking his eyes off his increasingly dismayed interlocutor. The men’s morale was so high that even Adam realized it was now impossible to dissuade them from going into battle. He even thought they were capable of assaulting a fort or even an enemy town.
The marquis could only submit.
Later, as the new arrivals rested outside the fort and prepared to set up camp, the seven captains and lieutenant of the Picardy regiment were received by the marshal and Monsieur de Bréhant, who remained their superior.
All were praised for their actions and bravery in battle. Surprisingly, but perhaps due to the scene earlier in front of Fort Carillon, the two officers seemed fully aware of Adam’s situation, including Captain Gilbert’s death. They even seemed aware of the rugby game.
He knows too much. With what happened earlier, it’s clear—one of them has been corresponding with the marshal and the colonel. It’s not a big deal, but... it’s unsettling.
During the discussion, the marshal and the colonel officially informed him that while he remained a lieutenant with the duties of an infantry captain for now, he would obtain that rank fully in time or if he distinguished himself further in future campaigns. He might even be mentioned in reports to be read by Louis XV and receive generous rewards.
The young man, shocked and full of ambition, thanked the old marshal and his colonel profusely, assuring them he would do his best to stand out and win great victories for the King in New France.
This… This is crazy! But why am I so happy?! Do I really want a promotion that badly?! My hands are shaking, and my heart… it’s about to explode!
Adam thought back to his previous promotions and what he had felt when he was able to buy a lieutenant's commission. The feeling that had taken hold of him then was joy. Pride. Satisfaction. Recognition.
And even though he had no interest in staying here, in this time, he burned with ambition.
Why am I like this? Have I always been this ambitious, or… is it because of François?
The more he thought about it, the more it seemed plausible to him. After all, he had gained, without knowing how, his fascinating ability to learn languages. As for his fear of heights, he wasn’t sure if it came from him or from François, since he had never been confronted with great heights in his previous life.
It’s possible, but not certain yet. It’s not something easily noticeable through dreams.
He still had them, playing out François’ life like a chaotic film, from his childhood to his fall at Hanstenbeck. The most recent one had been four days earlier, the day after the first rugby match in the world.
He had learned something interesting about the father of the original owner of this body: he too had served in the King’s armies. He had seen, or rather had seen François, very young at the time, rummaging through a chest hidden under his parents’ bed.
He had expected to find treasure, but what he discovered was military gear.
François had been so young then that he likely hadn’t understood what he had found, but to Adam, who had battlefield experience, it was clear. A British grenadier’s hat, a bayonet engraved with “Madras – September 21, 1746,” a powder horn, a small dark red wooden box with hand carvings, a cross, a medal celebrating the capture of Madras, and an old pair of shoes so worn out they would stir pity in anyone.
Before waking up, he had seen François’ father enter the room, catching the child red-handed and giving him a good scolding. Just before Father Boucher entered the room, little carefree François was holding the bayonet by the blade with his soft hands.
Surely his father had been terrified seeing him holding such a dangerous weapon.
What allowed Adam to not forget this dream and the memories it contained was a sensation of pain in his rear. He had naturally concluded that the memory of the spanking François had received that day had been deeply imprinted on this body.