"August 28, 1758.

The sky was overcast all day, and the air was heavy with humidity. It rained during the night, but nothing compared to the first night of this siege.

I had a restless sleep and woke up more tired than when I went to bed. At least, my cough seems to be subsiding, I think.

In the fort, the atmosphere isn’t very good. We hope for reinforcements, but we all know they won’t arrive anytime soon. On the first day, we sent a messenger to Montreal to inform the Marshal-Duke of Richelieu, but it will certainly take him a few more days to arrive.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have sent so many men north when we knew the enemy would try to drive us from this stronghold.

All we can do now is wait and tend to our wounded. As for the dead... There were too many to bury properly inside the fort. To avoid an outbreak, we were forced to burn them.

The soldiers were far more affected by this decision than I had expected. We hope that God will understand and welcome these brave souls nonetheless. We gathered the ashes and buried them as we did with our captain, Armand Gilbert, who died the day before the glorious Battle of Fort Carillon.

The ceremony was performed properly with the help of Brother Joseph. The poor man has spent the past three days offering prayers and giving last rites to our men on the verge of death.

Colonel Bourlamaque, wounded in the leg by an English bayonet, had to be amputated and is still fighting to stay alive. A terrible fever has gripped him, and everyone fears having to say goodbye. I don’t know much about him, but he’s a brave man.

We pray for him.

My wound, though painful, seems to be healing well. With time, I will feel nothing, as with the one on my temple, the one on my thigh, and the one on my shoulder. I’m starting to rack up quite a few. If this goes on, by the end of the war, I’ll have more scars than fingers.

The English are silent. It’s both reassuring and unnerving. Everyone wonders what they’re up to.

Not knowing is a form of torture.

Before, we could see them digging their cursed trenches. Now, there’s nothing. Maybe they’re as occupied as we are, tending to their wounded and honoring their dead.

I think they lost at least four hundred men during their assault on August 25th. They’ll think twice before attacking us like that again. But we must be wary. The enemy is cunning. At any moment, they could strike.

We are especially vigilant at night and on foggy days. We’re also attentive to any underground sounds: they might be trying to approach us by digging a tunnel to blow us up with barrels of gunpowder.

All this is exhausting and prevents us from getting proper rest. We barely dare to laugh.

These are my thoughts for today, and I realize I’m writing too much. I’ll have to buy a larger notebook if the war drags on. But putting my thoughts down on paper is quite relaxing. I should have started this sooner.”

Adam set down his pen, contemplated the page covered in fine lettering, and closed the small bottle of black ink, satisfied with his work.

He had started writing in his journal the day after the massive assault on this fort. He had seen Captain Fontaine doing it and decided to follow his example.

The young man had written a preamble detailing who he was, the reasons he was writing, and what he had done since the Battle of Hastenbeck. He was very serious about it and secretly hoped that his journal would serve a historian someday, helping them better understand the era.

But it was mainly for himself. He needed something to occupy his hands and mind other than his officer’s duties, the duties of a captain.

“Are you finished?” Martin Morrel de Lusernes asked as he sat down beside him.

“Yes, I’m done. Do you need something?”

The young man, not yet an adult, looked away, his ears and cheeks red as if he were ashamed of something. He seemed very hesitant, which was rather endearing.

“Well, I wanted to discuss something with you. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s about what you mentioned the other day about a leisure economy.”

“Oh, that.”

Martin nervously played with his hands, not daring to lift his eyes.

“I… I didn’t dare ask you more questions at the time, but I think your idea is very interesting. I’d like to discuss it further with you. You… you don’t mind, do you? If—if you’re busy…”

“I’m not busy, and I don’t mind at all. Which part would you like to start with?”

“Th-the development of beaches!”

Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise at such enthusiasm, but in a way, he could understand. The young Morrel de Lusernes came from a family of financiers. Economy had been their forte for generations.

For him, the innovative idea of exploiting coastlines for something other than fishing and shellfish harvesting was like a gold mine. At least, that’s how he perceived it, and he hoped that this discussion would give him a clearer idea of the potential scale of this opportunity.

“The beaches, then,” Adam said thoughtfully, trying to gather his thoughts based on his modern experience. “France has many beaches. Some are small, discreet, almost hidden among the rocks, while others are vast.”

Martin Morrel nodded eagerly, his eyes sparkling.

“Usually, beaches are seen as danger zones, aren’t they?”

“Y-yes! Because that’s where an enemy force would most likely land!”

“But what would happen if we turned these places into havens of peace, where people could rejuvenate, find solitude, and enjoy the fresh sea air? What if we showed people that coming to these places could improve their health?”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“The nobles and bourgeois would surely come at least once or twice a year to get a change of scenery!”

Adam nodded gently, but it wasn’t only the upper class he hoped to attract.

“They would buy or build fine houses in the nearby villages, which would then grow as their needs would have to be met. But maybe this would even reach the common people.”

“The common people too? How? Peasants have to work their land, and artisans need to craft their wares.”

The young man seemed truly unconvinced, which was understandable. Although there were many holidays throughout the year, not everyone had the means to take time off and travel long distances just to play in the waves.

Adam understood this all too well, after having spent so much time just trying to cover a few miles on foot.

“In that case, maybe we should allow the people a few days off. And we’d also need to improve the roads to make them solid. Paved roads.”

Young Morrel’s hands started trembling violently on his knees. He wasn’t entirely sure what granting everyone in His Majesty’s kingdom a few days off might entail, but he could immediately see the benefits for the entire realm if the roads were paved!

Adam watched him murmur inaudible words, eyes filled with excitement.

He imagined people and goods moving much faster, a thriving economy, and money filling the State’s coffers.

As for changing the image of beaches, that shift was already beginning thanks to ideas from certain doctors. They were at the dawn of seaside tourism. It was only a matter of time before it became the latest trend.

Even if young Captain Morrel de Lusernes wasn’t fully aware of this shift, he could grasp that developing these areas by changing their image would create a virtuous cycle! The mine seemed bottomless, and its gold unlimited!

“I’ll tell my father and uncle! I’m sure they’ll be very interested! What else? Ah, yes! Rugby! You mentioned spreading the sport and organizing competitions!”

Adam smiled even brighter than when he had talked about the beaches. As a rugby fan, he wanted to see this sport grow and spread to every continent.

He spoke about developing local teams and a national team, skipping over intermediate levels since he wasn’t sure what territorial divisions existed in France at that time. He mentioned matches between these teams, jerseys, and of course, stadiums filled with fans singing lively anthems together.

Martin Morrel de Lusernes’ hands trembled harder, and his breathing grew rapid. His eyes had widened to the size of marbles.

“D-do you think… it’s really possible? No, it is possible. It’s definitely possible, but… It-it will require a lot of money.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of fans. The money will certainly come from them. They could fund everything if it means watching epic matches between their team and others from different towns, and even from other countries.”

Although Lieutenant Boucher was using unfamiliar words like “fans” and “match” that seemed to spring from his imagination, young Captain Morrel strangely understood him.

“E-even the English?”

“Of course! Why limit ourselves to defeating them on battlefields? We could also humiliate them in a match, right? Haha!”

Martin Morrel de Lusernes couldn’t help but laugh out loud, picturing the scene. That would surely be worth seeing.

However, the work would be immense and would take decades for the sport to reach all the major cities in the kingdom and other European realms. Fortunately, there was no rush.

“No need to hurry,” the boy sighed, unable to hide his ambitions. “Let’s start with New France. Within a few months, it will reach the Old Continent, I’m certain. We can already start forming teams in each town, right?”

“Oh, yes. Once the siege is over, we could ask the marquis to help us promote the sport in Quebec and Montreal. Louisbourg too.”

“Hmm, if we invest now… hehehe!”

Adam watched with growing surprise as the young man shed all shyness. A huge smile spread across his face, and it was almost as if Adam could see a fierce hunger in his eyes.

Have I created a monster?

The thought crossed Adam’s mind but disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Like the previous nights, this one was very quiet. There were no attacks, no false alarms, not even a sound from the enemy camp.

But at the first light of dawn, Adam noticed a strange restlessness gradually overtaking the entire fort. Suddenly, his heart began to pound in his chest, his palms grew sweaty, and he felt as if his blood had turned to ice.

Unlike three days earlier, he was no longer so confident.

The violence of the battles had taken him by surprise.

“What’s happening?! An attack?!”

“The enemy! Th-they’re leaving! The English are breaking camp!”

W-what?!

Surprised, Adam climbed up onto the ramparts where hundreds of men had already gathered, struggling to make his way to observe the enemy camp.

Th-they’re really leaving?! They’re giving up?!

Adam was stunned by the sight before him; he hadn’t expected it. He thought the siege would last at least several more days, if not weeks!

Neither he nor his comrades or superiors could have known that what British officers had dismissed as a minor illness due to the drastic weather change on the second day was, in fact, an epidemic. It had spun out of control, infecting more soldiers each day.

On top of this, there were high casualties from the previous assault, a large number of wounded, a shortage of supplies, and, even more concerning, a severe supply issue. With Albany now a ghost town, all food had to come from villages and towns further south!

Their army lacked everything and had become so vulnerable that the English commander, Thomas Pownall, decided to lift the siege to avoid a major defeat.

“They’re retreating!”

“We won! We did it!”

“HURRAH! HURRAH! HURRAH! HURRAH!”

On the ramparts, the men expressed their joy. Their cries, louder than cannon fire, shook the sky and reached the British camp.

Adam, moved but hesitant to believe in this victory, held back from joining his brothers-in-arms in their cries of triumph. Tears brimming in his eyes, he clenched his fists, relieved that he wouldn’t have to face this terrifying enemy again.

Montcalm, his face closed off, appeared on the ramparts, joined by Colonel de Bréhant. With a coldness that contrasted with the men’s renewed energy, they observed the enemy’s positions through a spyglass but were unable to come to a decision.

Both officers, like others present in the fort, feared it might be a trap to lure them out of their stronghold.

The Marquis de Montcalm chose caution, as he had at Fort Carillon, deciding to observe closely for now and carefully watch the enemy’s movements.

One by one, the tents were taken down, and wagons were loaded, but the French commander couldn’t shake the doubt in his mind. Adam himself was uncertain of what to do.

There was too much uncertainty and too many places for an ambush. He especially distrusted those fearsome men in green, Rogers’ Rangers.

Ah, I’d love to go observe them more closely, but they’ve surely posted dozens, maybe hundreds, of scouts in those woods to cover their retreat! If we walk into an ambush, it’ll be a massacre!

He bit his lip, but stayed at his post without voicing an opinion. After all, he was no one in this army—not even a captain.

If captains like Gauthier, Fontaine, Morrel de Lusernes, Louis, and others didn’t dare voice an opinion, how could he?

Finally, around eleven o’clock, the English camp was completely dismantled, and a thick cloud of dust rose in the air. The redcoats were leaving.

But even by three in the afternoon, Montcalm hesitated to attack the British. Finally, around half-past four, he made a decision, likely motivated by fear of seeing his victory reduced or claimed by the Marshal de Richelieu.

Fortunately, the soldiers and officers hadn’t waited for orders to prepare. As soon as the command was given, the French army left the fort, leaving only a small garrison behind.

Everyone was tense as they followed the road leading to Albany, but there was no alert. According to the scouts, the British army had truly left, leaving nothing but some litter where they had camped.

Adam immediately felt a heavy weight lift off his shoulders.

He stood taller, and his gaze became clearer. His new sword, far too fine for his rank, swung against his thigh, and his steps matched the rhythm of his men’s.

He felt as if he were part of a parade.

Their march could be considered quick but not rushed, as Montcalm, despite sending scouts ahead, was still wary of a trap and didn’t want to tire out his men unnecessarily.

Hmm, we’re moving much faster than they are since we don’t have baggage. We’re catching up.

Unsurprisingly, gunfire broke out in the early evening at the head of the marching column. The scouts had engaged in combat with the British soldiers guarding the rear of their marching column. They were halfway between Fort Edward and the ruins of Fort Miller.

Montcalm ordered them to quicken the pace, and the French army obeyed, though grumbling; they had wanted to rest and start setting up camp before it got too dark.