September was well underway, and the weather had been more than favorable for the French as they worked to consolidate their new frontier fort at Fort Edward.

There had been a few long rainy days, but overall, the weather had been pleasant, sometimes even better than in August. By mid-September, the days were remarkably sunny, with temperatures easily exceeding 20 degrees Celsius.

However, it was undeniable that the air was gradually getting cooler. This was particularly noticeable in the evenings and early mornings when temperatures rarely exceeded 10 degrees.

Taking advantage of the favorable weather, the French had constructed a ravelin in front of the southern rampart. It was a simple defensive work shaped like a pointed arrow, separated from the fort by a deep ditch that one typically had to cross to enter the fort.

This ravelin, tall and equipped with five cannons seized in Albany, had the unique feature of not leading to a gate that opened onto the fort's central courtyard but instead directly to the rampart. Thus, to enter Fort Edward, one always had to pass through the ravelin located to the north of the fort.

It was the only access point.

Building the bridge had been a real challenge, but thanks to everyone’s efforts, it had been completed alongside the ravelin in less than ten days.

However, Marquis de Montcalm was not satisfied.

He was fully aware that a wooden construction like this was too fragile. If an enemy entered the ditch and took shelter behind its long, thick pillars, they could easily work to destroy them and completely isolate those stationed on the ravelin.

This is why the Marquis’s army was already preparing to replace the wooden bridge.

Adam looked on with a neutral expression as the military engineers studied the terrain and planned the work. They conversed among themselves, carrying an intimidating amount of documents and instruments.

Although the project was still in the planning phase, the officers had already set their soldiers to work. A quarry had been opened, and they had even begun extracting quality stone.

The problem was that no such stone could be found in the immediate vicinity of the fort. The area only had sand and clay due to the many rivers and the region’s climatic history.

They had therefore been forced to search farther afield, while ensuring they didn’t encroach on Indian territories. This additional constraint meant they had to look for resources 13 kilometers north of the fort, near the shores of Lake George.

To save time, the officers had ordered the soldiers to carve a new road through the forest, wide enough for carts to pass through. The samples they brought back greatly satisfied the chief engineer.

He was a 41-year-old man of average height, with a sun-tanned complexion from spending so much time outdoors. He had a dignified air and wore a captain’s uniform with elegance.

His name was Nicolas Sarrebourse de Pontleroy.

He was accompanied by another very talented engineer, slightly younger than him, named Michel Chartier de Lotbinière. This amiable and distinguished man was quite handsome despite his drooping nose.

While the two men cooperated well in front of Marquis de Montcalm, it didn’t take long for everyone to realize that they couldn’t stand each other.

Both worked exceptionally well, but in such different ways that each considered the other incompetent. While Marquis de Montcalm favored the former, Governor Rigaud de Vaudreuil preferred the latter.

In the end, Lotbinière had not been entrusted with the direction of this project, despite his extensive experience in such matters.

Whenever the two engineers were in the same place, the atmosphere became immediately unpleasant. Naturally, each blamed the other.

Tch, they’re at it again, picking at each other. What would it be like if the Marquis weren’t there to keep them in check?

It was barely hidden how much they despised each other. Their smiles were empty, and it was impossible not to notice that behind their polite tones lay a slew of thinly-veiled insults.

I hope this won’t hinder the project.

Adam walked away and found Captains André Louis and Albert Fontaine supervising a standard drill. Their soldiers marched together, and on the officers’ command, they stopped before forming a three-rank combat line.

Through frequent training together, the soldiers of these two companies cooperated seamlessly. They moved as one unit, even managing to anticipate their comrades’ and officers’ actions.

When ordered to turn, any gaps in the ranks were quickly corrected, and the formation returned to perfect order.

This level of competence was highly impressive and earned the envy and respect of other captains. Most men were not at this level.

Often, they resembled poor militiamen dragged onto the battlefield to fill ranks and extend lines. It was an age-old issue faced by rulers across Europe.

Louis XV had issued numerous regulations to bring order to his armies, starting with uniforms, but there was still work to be done. Adam was directly affected, as he, like his superiors, had a certain freedom regarding his equipment.

No one had objected when he picked up an enemy’s sword and made it his own, as well as a pistol.

Among higher-ranking officers, the differences were even more noticeable. They often allowed themselves to wear coats and tricorns outside of regulations, claiming their rank required more distinguished attire. As a result, there wasn’t really a uniform for colonels or generals—their only limit was the size of their purse.

Colonel de Bréhant, for example, wore an outfit similar to, but distinct from, Colonel du Hautoy, who commanded the Royal-Roussillon regiment. The rules seemed to apply only to regular soldiers and non-commissioned officers.

“François, you’re here. How are you?”

"Good, thank you. And you?"

"Same old routine. Just back from the quarry?"

"Yes. We've started working seriously. I think things will go well, though it’s a shame we can’t send more men."

"Well," Fontaine said, scratching his head, "that’s inevitable. We can’t afford to send too many of our soldiers there. We wouldn’t have enough men left here to deal with an attack from our enemies."

"Hmm, it’s surprising that the English have been so quiet lately," André-Louis commented, keeping an eye on his men.

"Well," Adam replied, "perhaps their last attempt discouraged them?"

The two captains didn’t look convinced, even though they wanted to believe it. After all, on this continent, every loss was costlier than in the Old World. For the French, the impact was even more painful due to the imbalance of forces.

"I’m not so sure. We suffered heavy losses chasing after them. That might encourage them to try again."

"What’s certain is that the marquis will hesitate the next time an opportunity arises."

Adam could only nod. When they had finally caught up to the British marching column, they had been attacked from all sides without being able to inflict significant losses on their enemy, who continued to retreat. Robert Rogers’ men had undoubtedly been the most problematic.

Stolen story; please report.

"At least now we’re a bit better prepared. We have the demi-lune, which will significantly reduce blind spots in the event of an assault."

The young lieutenant looked at the new defensive structure, which, like the rest of the fort, was made of earth and wood.

If we really want to do things right, we should build it with stone. Not just the demi-lune, but the entire fort.

"How long do you think it will take to build this bridge?

"No idea," the two captains replied. "Two months, maybe? Three at most? It depends on too many factors from what I’ve gathered."

"Hmm, André’s right. I’m no engineer, but it’s obvious that if we’re attacked every other day, have no one working at the quarry, or face supply issues, progress will be slow."

Adam knew nothing about building bridges or structures, even though he had helped construct the wooden bridge, but he could understand that.

He watched pensively as the first stone carts arrived and soldiers approached to unload them. For now, they were just large blocks, but once cut, they would be assembled to form a wide and solid bridge over the deep moat surrounding Fort Edward.

"Oh, that reminds me," André suddenly said, changing the subject, "Captain Gauthier was looking for you earlier. He wants to know when the next rugby match will be."

"Oh, um, I don’t know. Maybe this afternoon? I’ve made a new ball."

The previous one had ended up in a sorry state after being kicked and trampled by players burning with enthusiasm.

Rugby’s popularity was growing at Fort Edward, and from what Adam had heard, it had started appearing in Montreal and Quebec thanks to their comrades who had left with the Duke of Richelieu.

The duke had come to Fort Edward on September 3 with fifteen hundred men to assist the Marquis de Montcalm but had arrived too late for the battle. He had left part of his troops to help strengthen the fort and taken the rest to attack nearby English villages.

He moved from village to village like an old bandit, plundering and then burning them.

In a few weeks, his name had become as infamous as Montcalm’s, to the point where British settlers preferred to flee, abandoning all their belongings, rather than fall into his clutches. With him, all captives ended up deported to the heart of New France.

He was already making headlines in New York and Boston. One of their newspapers featured an engraving of him depicted as a monster carrying a gigantic sack over his shoulder, from which several hands protruded. In the background, a village was aflame, and columns of his cruel and unkempt soldiers proudly held the torches used to commit their misdeeds.

That afternoon was sunny, with a gentle breeze making the leaves in the trees dance. The scene would have been perfect for resting, isolating oneself, and meditating, if not for all the shouting near the fort.

The commotion had frightened off the more timid animals and drawn in the most curious soldiers.

"Come on! Run! To the right!"

"Here!"

The brown ball passed from hand to hand until it reached the edge of the field. The player who caught it, charging forward like a cannonball, couldn’t stop and raced like the wind. He sped past his teammates, searching for a way through his opponents while it still existed.

The opponents had followed the ball’s movements and quickly realized which player needed to be stopped.

Some thought it was too late; others believed there was still a chance to prevent the try.

The young player holding the ball skimmed the touchline, a simple taut rope, and nervously watched his opponents closing in dangerously as he ran. It would be close, but he could do it. He was certain.

But he underestimated one of the players, at least as agile as he was.

Adam propelled himself with all his strength, stretching his arms to grab even a leg.

Martin Morrel de Lusernes luckily saw him just in time and, against all odds, leapt like a rabbit, vaulting over his opponent. Adam had failed, and Martin continued his charge.

"No!"

A loud cry echoed through the air as Martin placed the ball behind the try line.

"Damn it! I was— I was this close!" Adam fumed, punching the ground in frustration.

“Nice try, kid,” said Captain Gauthier, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But he’s too fast, that one.”

“Y-yeah. We really need to stop him from gaining speed.”

On the field, the black-band team was celebrating another try—their third and the second by young Morrel de Lusernes. Adam’s team had only scored twice, leaving them behind.

“Fortunately, the game isn’t over yet! Come on! Quickly! Get up!”

Captain Gauthier, though covered in dirt, grass, sweat, and even a bit of blood from an elbow to the face, remained enthusiastic and tireless. Despite appearances, his stamina was remarkable.

But just as the ball was put back into play, loud cries erupted near the fort, drawing the attention of all the players and spectators.

“Help! Indians! They’re attacking us!”

Immediately, Adam grabbed his uniform and weapons, sprinting toward the fort. All the soldiers responded with the same urgency, but the fort wasn’t under attack—the target was the wagons returning from the quarry.

“To arms! Gilbert’s company, follow me!” Adam bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Fontaine’s company, assemble! Faster now!”

“Morrel de Lusernes’ company! Here!”

Quickly, a sizeable group was organized and set off along the path the soldiers had dug just days earlier. They were led by Colonel de Bréhant and Colonel du Hautoy.

Let’s hope we get there in time, Adam thought, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the backs of his comrades ahead.

The only sounds were the wind, the steady pounding of their boots against the dirt, and their rhythmic breathing. They ran at a good pace, naturally syncing their steps—no need for musical instruments to set the rhythm.

As the minutes dragged on, an oppressive tension enveloped the black-and-white column. Every face was serious and focused.

Finally, they reached the site of the attack, only six kilometers from the fort. The area was isolated—a perfect spot for an ambush. Everything was eerily silent. Even the wind seemed to have stopped blowing.

“Hold!

“Company, halt! Stay alert!

“Keep an eye on the woods!”

The trail was so quiet that Adam couldn’t help but shiver. The path rose slightly, and at the summit, the wagons came into view, motionless. The horses were gone.

Slowly, the French soldiers approached, taking in the carnage. Countless bodies littered the ground, stretching across several dozen meters.

The blood, mixed with dust, was dark but still warm. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder lingered, detectable even from a distance.

It was a scene of utter devastation.

Several arrows were embedded in the bodies and the wooden wagons. All the soldiers, except for the one who had come to raise the alarm, had been massacred.

Observing the positions of the corpses, one could easily imagine how the attack had unfolded. Some bore massive wounds—wounds that couldn’t have been inflicted by muskets, arrows, or knives.

The cuts were clean, deep, and so wide that Adam felt a wave of nausea. No one could survive such injuries.

This wasn’t done by a sword. It’s too deep. Whoever did this used their full strength.

The assailants hadn’t just killed the French soldiers—they’d taken the time to scalp them as well. It was a horrifying sight to behold.

“My God…” murmured a soldier near Adam, weaving among the corpses.

Some bodies were mutilated beyond recognition.

Adam’s gaze fell on a very young soldier, slumped against a wagon still full of its cargo. Two arrows were deeply embedded in his blood-soaked chest.

The hair on the top of his head had been entirely removed, exposing the bone beneath—a bright red more than white. The clean cut showed that whoever had done this hadn’t hesitated and had a razor-sharp blade.

Was this really the Mohawks’ doing?

He passed another soldier, who had apparently taken a tomahawk blow to the face. His jaw was shattered, along with half his skull. The man’s left eye hadn’t withstood the impact and hung limply against his crooked nose.

Adam couldn’t stop himself from vomiting and wasn’t alone in doing so.

“Stay calm,” said de Bréhant firmly. “Search for survivors and stay alert! The enemy could still be nearby!”

Despite the officer’s composed exterior, Adam could see fear in the brave man’s eyes. In Europe, it would have been unthinkable to witness something like this.

In war, many things were acceptable, but this? No. This was too inhuman, too barbaric. Perhaps the worst part was that these savages made no distinctions between enemies. A soldier was a soldier, regardless of rank, name, or wealth.

Even a colonel could meet the same fate.

“Search for tracks left by these bastards, but stay visible! No chasing after them!” ordered Colonel du Hautoy.

“C-c-colonel! I’ve found a survivor!”

The soldier who had spoken stood farther up the path, about fifteen meters beyond the last cart. An arrow was embedded in his back, but he was still breathing.

Both colonels rushed to him and knelt by his side. The soldier was a sergeant with a round face and a ruddy nose.

“We’re here, Sergeant. Everything will be all right,” Monsieur de Bréhant said softly.

“What happened? How many were there?” Monsieur de Hautoy asked from behind.

The man looked nervously at Colonel de Hautoy, his commanding officer, and struggled to open his mouth.

“Th-they appeared... like ghosts. We c-couldn’t... do anything. W-we tried... too many of them.”

The soldier’s voice was so faint that one almost had to press an ear to his lips to hear his testimony. He had lost a lot of blood—too much to survive. He likely knew this and was making his best effort to share what he had witnessed.

“I... tried t-to sound the alarm. C-couldn’t... Their leader... he was a monster... He... He... killed everyone... with axes. I...”

The two colonels saw that life had left him. His eyes, wide open, seemed to gaze at the blue sky and the treetops.

With care, Colonel Léopold Charles de Hautoy gently closed the man’s eyes. By some fortune, the Indians had not come to scalp him.

It was hard for any of them to imagine the horror of being scalped, the sensation of a blade wielded by a barbarian filled with hatred ripping away one’s scalp.

The French soldiers were furious, burning with a desire for vengeance. Yet the enemy was no longer there. Their bloodshot eyes fixed on the two colonels, as if threatening them to provide the opportunity for revenge or risk facing dire consequences themselves.

“C-colonel,” Adam stammered, pointing southwest and trying to maintain a neutral expression, “the enemy seems to have gone in that direction. Shall we follow their tracks?”

The Marquis de Bréhant looked around but quickly came to the conclusion that tracking them through the dense forest would be too dangerous.

“No, it’s too risky. Load the bodies onto the carts. We’ll haul them back to the fort.”

“At your orders,” the lieutenant replied calmly, spinning on his heel as if afraid to betray his true thoughts.

The men set to work in silence, their shoulders weighed down by sadness and anger. Adam did his best to mask his own turmoil, but there were limits to what a man could endure.

He struggled to reconcile the thought that the brave people he had met two weeks earlier could be the ones behind this massacre.

To the officers, this unthinkable act was a message: the lands wrested from the English belonged to the Mohawks.