The child brought back to Fort Edward glared at the French with such hatred that no one dared approach him.

Even bound, he did not lose his fiery spirit. He was like a feral wolf. Indeed, he growled and bared his teeth as if he truly intended to leap at their throats.

His dark eyes seemed to scream all his loathing.

Because he kept shouting in his incomprehensible language—words taken to be curses—he had been gagged and deprived of food. The officers thought they could wear him down this way, but after three days, he showed no signs of calming.

His cries echoed throughout the fort, preventing the soldiers from sleeping properly.

Growling like a beast, he was treated as one.

The Marquis de Montcalm, who had initially allowed the boy to stay in one of the garrison quarters, decided to have him tied to the mast flying the white French flag adorned with golden fleurs-de-lis.

Because he had chewed through the ropes to escape and return to his people, they quickly replaced them with heavy, cold chains.

The fort’s priest, Brother Joseph, had strongly opposed this barbaric practice, declaring that the boy was above all a victim of circumstance and could be civilized. He believed he could teach him the basics of French to facilitate communication and perhaps even instill moral and philosophical principles.

Optimistic and as stubborn as the marquis, Brother Joseph had been permitted to try. But the moment he removed the gag, the boy bit his hand deeply enough to draw blood.

The poor man screamed so loudly that everyone in the fort thought someone had been killed.

As a result, the child sat in the pouring rain, tied up like a dog, starving, and surrounded by strangers.

Adam watched the boy from a distance, hunched over like a miserable frog, while he himself stood warm and dry. His arms were crossed over his chest, his back pressed against a sturdy but damp wall.

The creak of a door behind him pulled him from his thoughts, though he hadn’t truly been thinking. He had simply become lost in the sight of the thin, drenched figure.

"Lieutenant Boucher? What are you doing here?"

"Brother Joseph. Uh, nothing in particular. Just getting some air. Are you going to try again?"

Adam glanced at the priest’s hands—one was bandaged, and the other held a blanket.

"I must. How could I sleep knowing that poor child is out here in this dreadful weather? Leaving him here… it was a stupid idea. He’ll get sick and die."

"You seem very concerned about his fate, Brother," Adam remarked after a brief pause, somewhat surprised.

"Isn’t that natural? Are we not all God’s creatures? That child is certainly as much a child of God as you or me. I don’t know if he’s baptized, but it’s my sacred duty to do everything I can to protect him."

"You’re a good man, Brother. Most people, when they extend a hand to help someone, don’t offer it a second time when it’s bitten."

The priest smiled softly, massaging his bandaged hand.

"I try to be, Lieutenant. I try. I can’t speak for most men, but I am responsible for my own actions. If I’m bitten once, twice, ten times—so be it. I must try to guide this boy toward the light, for that is my oath."

"Hmm... Does your hand hurt terribly?"

"It’s nothing. Others have suffered far more than me, both in body and spirit. Would you care to join me?"

"I suppose that’s a good idea. One never knows. Wait a moment; I’ll fetch my coat and tricorne."

Adam stepped inside the wooden barracks where the garrison spent half their time when not training. He returned moments later, dressed as if ready to brave a storm.

"All right. Let’s go."

The priest and the officer strode through the rain, greeting the sentries as they passed, until they reached the Royal Bastion. The boy hadn’t moved and was still firmly bound.

It was, however, clear that he had grown noticeably weaker since his arrival.

His long black hair, shining with rain, hung over his face like a curtain. Like a dog, he shook his head to fling away the wet strands covering his eyes.

Those eyes had lost little of their fire. Hatred still burned within them, waiting for the right moment to erupt like a firebomb.

"I’ve brought you a blanket," the priest said softly, addressing the child, who thrashed like a little demon, refusing to accept anything from these pale-skinned men. "Take it, my child," the priest added, his voice even gentler, his eyes brimming with kindness. "If you persist, you’ll fall ill. Do you understand?"

The boy, still gagged, didn’t reply. He simply stared at the priest as if daring him to set him free.

"I’m going to remove this gag," the priest warned confidently.

"Brother?! Do you want to be bitten again?"

"It’s all right, Lieutenant," the priest reassured him with a kind smile. "I’ll be careful."

"At least let me hold his head."

"Hmm, I’d prefer not to restrain him. He’s already tied up; that should be enough, don’t you think?"

Adam was skeptical but allowed the priest to proceed. He remained ready to intervene if necessary.

Cautiously, the priest removed the cloth from the boy’s mouth. The child fixed him with a gaze so intense it demanded respect. Thankfully, this time, he didn’t attempt to bite anyone.

He simply remained silent, continuing to stare at the priest.

"How are you since last time?" the priest tried, taking care to enunciate each word clearly.

".."

"You really hurt me, you know? I think I'll keep the marks of your teeth for a while."

He showed his bandaged hand, but the child showed no sign of guilt.

"I don't hold it against you, you know? Ah, you must be cold in this rain. It's better with the blanket, isn't it? Ahem, I am Brother Joseph. I introduced myself this morning, but… well, let's say the circumstances weren't ideal for getting acquainted."

The child said nothing, his dark eyes locked on him, full of defiance.

Brother Joseph sighed, his face filled with pity.

"You probably don't understand me, but that's okay. You know, there are many languages in the world. I only speak three myself. Would you like to try learning French? First of all, bonjour. Bon-jour. It’s a way to greet someone. Repeat after me: bonjour."

"…"

It’s a waste of time. He must not understand anything. We need an interpreter.

The child kept staring at the priest, and slowly, he opened his mouth.

"You will all die, Frenchmen. My father will come to save me, and he will spare none of you. This fort will burn, and all our warriors will be avenged." (in Iroquois)

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Adam and the priest raised an eyebrow in surprise at the child’s low, menacing voice. Although they didn’t understand a word of what he had said, it didn’t sound good. From their perspective, it was possible, even likely, that there had been some insults and curses mixed in.

"You know, we really don’t understand your words. You need to make an effort."

"Brother Joseph, do you think there’s a way to bring an Indian or a coureur de bois to Fort Edward to act as an interpreter?"

"Unfortunately, it would be useless. We would have already done so otherwise. The Iroquois have their own language, their own culture. There might even be several languages between each tribe. Did you know? Their confederation is made up of six tribes. They might have as much in common as we do with the English or Italians."

Adam curiously watched the child wrapped in his blanket, shivering in the rain.

The more he looked, the more he thought he saw, but perhaps it was just an impression, a younger version of Tayohseron. It might indeed have been just an impression since, when Adam had been in the Iroquois village, it had seemed to him that they all looked somewhat alike.

It’s probably just stronger with this boy.

"Brother, I’d like to try something."

"Oh? Well, go ahead."

The priest was curious, as he was aware this young man had spent a night with the enemy and returned unharmed.

Adam ignored his gaze and spoke clearly to the child.

"Kid, do you know someone named Tayohseron?"

The boy looked at the soldier with surprise, recognizing him as the one who had captured him. He had struck him violently in the face, and because of him, he had a nice bruise on his cheek.

"Tayohseron?" the boy repeated, his pronunciation slightly different from Adam’s.

"Yes, Tayohseron," confirmed the young lieutenant. "Do you know him?"

"How do you know Brother Tayohseron?! You! Has something happened to my brother?!"

"Hey, calm down, kid!"

The child suddenly became very agitated, which greatly unsettled the priest.

"What is happening? What did you say? Tayohseron? Who is Tayohseron? Why is he reacting like this?"

"I’m not sure, but I think they’re related. Maybe brothers. Tayohseron is one of the Mohawk chief’s sons."

"So this kid might be a son of that chief? I’ve heard rumors about him. Supposedly a great warrior, strong as a bull and tall as a mountain. But I’ve never met him. I did meet his predecessor, though. He was an old man, half-blind, but he was a great war leader. If this boy really is the son of the current chief…"

Adam and the priest turned their gaze back to the child, who wouldn’t calm down and kept speaking in his strange language.

"W-we’re in trouble, aren’t we?"

"N-no… it-it’ll be fine, my son," said the priest, turning slowly to the soldier. "I hope."

Unsurprisingly, the conversation with the child was one-sided. All they managed to get from the boy was his name. He was called Rawenniyo.

What was strange was that, although this boy seemed to know Tayohseron well, Adam hadn’t seen him in the village.

The priest and the young officer quickly reported their assumptions about the boy’s identity to the Marquis de Montcalm. While nothing was certain at this stage, better safe than sorry.

After that, the two men parted ways, and Adam returned to his quarters.

There were four in the fort. The two largest, facing each other and separated by the central square, could together house five hundred men. The other two, reserved for officers, were located to the north, on either side of the gate.

Although he was an officer, he was too low in the hierarchy to have his own room in one of these buildings. Even Captains Gauthier, Morrel de Lusernes, Fontaine, and Louis didn’t receive that privilege.

He had to sleep with the regular soldiers in one of the two barracks.

His was the largest building in the fort, nearly twenty meters long and six meters wide.

Three hundred men could reside there, but the cramped conditions made it impossible to enjoy the quality of the building constructed during the winter of 1755-1756. Not only was there no privacy, unlike the Indians' longhouses, but there was also a powerful smell of wet dog.

Outside, it was pouring rain. The downpour pounded on the roof with such intensity that one might have thought it was a hailstorm.

Adam immediately felt relieved not to be in the child’s place or spending the night under a tent that barely kept out the cold and damp.

The men busied themselves as best they could since it wasn’t that late yet. Some played cards, others dice, and a few even used the free time to sketch scenes from their daily lives.

He passed by one of them, who was putting the final touches on a charcoal drawing. It faithfully depicted a group of soldiers playing a game of checkers. The drawing included the two players and three spectators.

By the time the drawing had started, that game had already ended, and others had taken place. Yet in the soldier’s mind, every detail remained fresh and vivid. Carefully, he adjusted the shadows on the faces and clothing.

Adam admired his talent.

“The lieutenant’s here!”

“Finally!”

At once, several faces turned toward him, their eyes filled with anticipation.

“Easy, guys. At least let me take off my coat.”

“Hahaha!”

The men’s spirits brightened, and laughter echoed through the long building, where straw mattresses were lined up, separated by sacks and pairs of worn shoes.

Adam approached his mattress, empty and clean, and set down his things. Meanwhile, several dozen men began to gather around him.

As he settled in, a long sigh escaped his lips. Slowly, he surveyed the room, noticing that even those who hadn’t moved closer were leaning in to listen.

“All right, where was I? Ah, yes. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley had finally figured out that the evil Voldemort wanted to seize the Philosopher’s Stone. Realizing that the sinister Professor Snape was going to deliver it to him, the group decided to venture into the room guarded by Hagrid’s giant three-headed dog. Is that right?”

“Yes!” the soldiers replied, diving back into the incredible story of Harry Potter.

“Hmmm. The three young students, as stealthy as mice, climbed to the forbidden floors, carefully avoiding the patrols of the professors and the unsettling caretaker, Mr. Filch. Upon reaching the door, which was naturally locked, they prepared to confront the massive dog. Fortunately, they had come prepared. But as they opened the door, they were surprised to find the dog fast asleep. Near its ear, an enchanted harp played a soft melody, delightful to human ears and soothing to the enormous beast. Instantly, they understood that Snape had already taken action.”

“Oh!”

Adam smiled at his comrades’ reactions.

Although the protagonists were wizards—heretics from their point of view, which was highly unusual if not unheard of in an era where witches and sorcerers were considered evil beings—he had once again managed to captivate his audience.

Everyone listened intently.

With carefully timed pauses and a dynamic tone, he succeeded in recounting the first film of the well-known saga from his time, a classic, without making the soldiers uncomfortable. That in itself was a challenge.

Still, it seemed highly unlikely that he could make them sympathize with a vampire or a demon.

Perhaps it’s because the characters are children? he wondered.

“The three friends stood around the open trapdoor, hesitating, unsure of what awaited them below. Professor Snape was no ordinary teacher. He was a skilled wizard. After all, Hogwarts was a prestigious school. A lowly sorcerer couldn’t become a teacher there, let alone in charge of Potions.

The soldiers, listening with the focus of a congregation in a church, swallowed nervously, anticipating an epic confrontation. Being unaccustomed to such tales, they didn’t know what kind of fight to expect.

“Harry turned to his loyal friends—his first and only friends—and told them to wait for his signal before going down. He intended to go first, unwilling to see them in greater danger than himself. But as he spoke, he noticed something… strange. Slowly, he lifted his head.”

“W-what?!”

“What did he notice?”

“Without daring to move a muscle, he said to his friends, ‘Don’t you think it’s… suddenly quiet?’ Hermione realized it at the same time as Ron: the harp had stopped playing.”

“Oh no! Then that means…”

“The three-headed dog!”

“Yes,” Adam said in a voice so deep it sent shivers through his audience. “The three-headed dog. A massive shadow loomed over them, and a long string of slimy drool fell onto Ron’s shoulder, making him grimace at the thought of the monstrous beast eyeing him like a regular dog would a tasty treat.”

“Oh my God!”

“The three of them looked up and saw three pairs of eyes glaring at them with hostility. A low growl made them shudder. Harry shouted to Hermione and Ron, ‘Jump!’ before disappearing through the trapdoor. Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy and girl followed, leaving above them a furious dog growling over the intruders who had escaped under its nose.”

Adam continued his story with the same tone, surprising everyone when he revealed that the villain wasn’t Snape but the kind Professor Quirrell. This twist was followed by an even greater shock when he revealed that the murderer of Harry’s parents had been hiding all along on the back of Quirrell’s head, concealed under his purple turban.

From there, the story unfolded quickly, reaching its conclusion. The villain was defeated, but Adam took care to sow the seeds of doubt about Voldemort’s return—the very embodiment of an evil sorcerer.

And that’s another story finished. I guess I’ll have to tell them the sequel later. But I’m pretty pleased with myself—I wasn’t sure this one would resonate with them.

Adam smiled, quite satisfied.

His stories were as much a key to his popularity with the men as rugby was. Without these two tricks, he wasn’t sure he could have commanded Armand Gilbert’s company so effectively.

Although he’d spent more than a year on the battlefield, it was little compared to some of the company’s veterans. They all deserved to rise to higher ranks.

Not long after he finished his tale, the soldiers in the building went to bed, except for those assigned to guard the fort’s walls, and the candles were extinguished.

The barracks fell silent, and Adam lay down on his straw mattress, ignoring its discomfort.

Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t sleep, even after three hours in total darkness. The constant sound of rain reminded him that while he was warm and dry, a child was tied up outside, protected only by a thin wool blanket that must have been soaked through like a saturated sponge.

Fuck.

Muttering under his breath, Adam got up in the middle of the night, grabbing his coat and blanket.

Stupid brat. If he’d just behaved from the start, he’d be warm and dry right now. Little punk.

Walking briskly, he reached the boy, who trembled at the sight of him coming alone, his face set in a scowl.

As expected, the blanket had become useless in the relentless rain. He couldn’t untie the boy and take him into one of the fort’s buildings, but he could shelter him another way.

He yanked off the soaked blanket, now as heavy as lead, and roughly draped his own thick blanket and waterproof coat over the boy’s shoulders.

The young Indian stared at him in surprise, remaining silent until Adam walked away. The hatred in his eyes, though still present, seemed to burn a little less brightly.