A fine, deceptive rain had been falling over the Fort Edward region for several hours. It might have seemed insignificant, but in reality, it chilled the men to the bone as it seeped into everything and slowed their movements.

In the now-muddy ground, hundreds of footprints were clearly visible. At the center of the square, where the mud was thicker, the footprints were deeper. It was even possible to see strange marks, a sign that someone had slipped at that spot.

The temperatures had continued to drop, and the leaves kept falling. Soon, most of the surrounding trees would be bare.

Adam, his fingers trembling, struggled to warm up in the rain. Like his comrades, he was assigned to the construction of the stone bridge, which seemed to be progressing more slowly every day.

Yet, quality stone had begun arriving again from the quarry south of Lake George. The French remained extremely cautious, employing significant measures to prevent attacks.

For nearly two weeks, the Indians hadn’t launched a direct assault on Fort Edward. However, they had been highly active in the region.

Their most significant strike came on September 28th, about twelve kilometers north of the southern tip of Lake George. It was an ambush on a convoy of eight covered wagons carrying an enormous quantity of provisions for the Marquis de Montcalm’s troops.

The convoy was, of course, well-guarded, but the Mohawks were brave warriors. The disparity in strength didn’t faze them—quite the opposite.

They attacked with force and speed, like a bird of prey.

The French barely had time to realize what was happening before the assault was over. The problem was that the Indians didn’t stop at one attack. The convoy was ambushed four times, and each time, the French suffered heavy losses.

In the end, the Indians succeeded in overwhelming the escort and seizing the supplies meant for the King’s soldiers.

It wasn’t until many days later, when the much-anticipated convoy failed to arrive, that Montcalm realized it had been attacked.

All that was found were ashes and bodies, half-devoured by wolves.

“Watch out!”

“ARGH! My foot!”

“Good grief! Quick, someone help!”

“Aaaaah! It hurts! It hurts!”

“Don’t move! Help me lift this block!”

Another accident, and another injured man. This is our new routine.

Adam watched as a small group of soldiers gathered around the man whose foot had been crushed by a stone block. Luckily for him, it wasn’t a large block, but that didn’t mean it was light.

Lying in the mud, he clutched his face, contorted in pain.

His cries had drawn the attention of many soldiers turned laborers.

“Hey! Focus! We don’t need another accident!”

Adam quickly pulled himself together and focused on his own stone block. He and five others were behind a large cart loaded with stones that needed to be shaped before they could be used.

With care, Adam and his comrades lowered a new block, and with nothing but their own strength, they placed it with the others, about ten meters away. The stones formed a sort of small pyramid.

All the men are exhausted. No wonder the accidents keep happening. The weather, the lack of activity, the Indians, the labor they make us do... Morale is really low.

His gaze shifted to another part of the worksite, near the Hudson River. Two men were arguing and seemed on the verge of coming to blows.

“You’ve crossed the line, Monsieur de Lotbinière! Don’t forget your place!”

“I know my place, Monsieur de Pontleroy, and I’m telling you—you’ve made a mistake! Your calculations are wrong!”

“My calculations are wrong?! Do you even know what you’re talking about?! I never make calculation errors!”

“And yet, you’re wrong! If you continue like this, that mistake will only grow, and the structure will be unstable! I give it less than a year before it collapses!”

“Oh, that’s rich! Less than a year?! This bridge will stand for at least a hundred years! You know nothing! I’ve been studying construction far longer than you have!”

“That doesn’t matter! An idiot can study the art of war for fifty years, but he’ll never surpass a prodigy with just five or ten years!”

“Are you calling me an idiot?! You’ve gone too far! You’re only in your position because of your connections!”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, Monsieur! And understand this: no one supports a person who lacks talent! I learned everything from my teachers—great names, including my father-in-law, who is also your predecessor, Monsieur de Léry. If you continue to disrespect me, I’ll take it as an attack on him as well.”

“And what will you do, hmm? Challenge me to a duel?!”

“And why not?!”

The argument was turning dangerous. Monsieur de Montcalm intervened, stepping between the two men. Monsieur de Lotbinière was already removing his glove to throw it at the feet of his rival, Monsieur de Pontleroy, the chief engineer for New France.

"Enough! Your quarrels are harming the project and the morale of the men. Look around you! You’re making a spectacle of yourselves!"

"Marquis," said Monsieur de Pontleroy with a surprisingly courteous tone, "Monsieur de Lotbinière has clearly disrespected me and continually challenges my authority in front of my subordinates and your soldiers. How could I accept that? Would you accept being ridiculed by your officers?"

"That is not how it went, Marquis," retorted Michel Chartier de Lotbinière sharply. "I merely pointed out to Monsieur de Pontleroy that he had made a calculation error in one area, and if it isn’t quickly corrected, the integrity of the structure will be compromised in the short term."

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"And I pointed out to Monsieur de Lotbinière that my field experience ensures I don’t make those kinds of mistakes, which only a beginner could make."

"A mistake which, however, Monsieur de Pontleroy did make—likely because he is not accustomed to working on anything other than forts. Bridges are delicate constructions requiring particular attention, especially concerning arches and pillars."

"Building a fort is just as delicate, sir!"

"I said enough! You’re exhausting me, both of you!"

The Marquis’ voice cracked through the damp air, making all the men nearby tremble, Adam included. He suddenly felt the urge to step away, as though afraid of being caught in the officer’s wrath.

What a pair of children. Tch.

Adam clicked his tongue quietly and turned his back on the two engineers, trudging toward his comrades.

As much as the rain, what weakened their morale day by day was the lack of food. Rations had been instituted while they awaited new carts from Montreal.

The soldiers were more frustrated than angry because they believed they could find plenty of fresh food outside the fort. It was late in the season for wild fruits, but animals were abundant in the area.

Unfortunately, the Marquis remained firm and forbade anyone from leaving the fort.

Even though it was for everyone’s safety—given the known presence of enemy scouts—the soldiers struggled to accept it.

They wanted food, but they also wanted to fight. That, perhaps, was what surprised Adam most. It was as though an ordinary day had become, for the majority of the soldiers here, a wasted day.

In a way, he could understand. After all, they spent long hours each week training. A soldier who doesn’t fight felt, to them, as absurd as a sailor confined to the docks. Perhaps even more than that, it was the inability to avenge their fallen comrades that demoralized everyone.

This was the most logical explanation Adam could find to make sense of it all.

Soldiers deprived of action... Am I like that too?

Adam looked at his trembling hands.

It’s the cold... Just the cold... But... Ah, I don’t know what I want. Except a damn burger oozing with cheese... and some piping hot fries.

A nostalgic smile spread across his lips as he thought of good food. Bad for the body, good for the soul.

What we all need is some proper food! Enough to stuff ourselves!

Montcalm passed by him, looking fatigued, and was startled by the arrival of a rider. The mere sound of hooves splashing through the mud was enough to make him tremble, expecting an enemy to appear.

The soldier leapt from his steaming horse, clearly exhausted from his effort, and handed a message to the commander.

Immediately, everyone stiffened. They all expected bad news, as though the opposite wasn’t even an option.

"Thank you. Go rest. Good work," Montcalm said to the messenger before hastily opening the letter, dreading, as much as his men, news of the loss of a fort or a convoy.

The message consisted of just two pages. Adam couldn’t read the contents, but he could imagine them based on the recipient’s reaction.

The Marquis of Montcalm furrowed his brows, drawing the attention of Colonel de Bréhant and Hautoy, who were nearby supervising the construction.

"Bad news, sir?"

"Not the kind I was expecting, gentlemen. Marshal-duc will not be coming and will not send us additional troops—quite the opposite. He says he is heading north along the Connecticut River. When he wrote this message, he was at a fort he had just taken called Fort Putney, also known locally as Fort Hill."

"Oh…"

"So, he doesn’t intend to stay there? Will he at least leave a garrison?"

"Apparently not. He plans to follow the river for about fifteen lieues, then cross the mountains before it gets too cold and make his way to Fort Carillon. His intention is to head to Quebec afterward. As you might guess, this is connected to that other message I received eight days ago, which I shared with you. If the English truly plan to attack Louisbourg again, it’s better that he leaves now. However, it’s uncertain whether he’ll arrive in time, given how far he’s ventured into enemy territory."

"He’ll certainly need more men. Is that mentioned in his letter?"

"Indeed. He intends to take command of all the Picardie Regiment troops currently stationed at Fort Edward."

"That’s a significant portion of the garrison, sir. Is that wise?"

"We can certainly defend the fort without them, but it would undoubtedly be easier with your men, Colonel de Bréhant. Fortunately, the Marshal-duc won’t reach Fort Carillon anytime soon. That will give us time to advance the work in and around the fort."

"Has the identity of the commander targeting Louisbourg been confirmed?" asked Marquis de Bréhant gravely, gripping the hilt of his long, slender sword.

"I haven’t received any further letters on that matter," replied the Marquis of Montcalm. "But even if their commander is that young man, James Wolfe, we must remain vigilant. The approaching winter could embolden those damned English. If the Marshal-duc deems your presence necessary, there must be good reasons. He may even have more ambitious plans. For now, we should concern ourselves only with the English and Iroquois who threaten us."

“The ideal,” Colonel de Hautoy said with chilling calm, “would be for them to attack us now. It’s better than living in fear and anticipation.”

Adam walked away, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing, but inside his chest, his small heart was pounding wildly. His blood boiled, and his entire body seemed to overflow with energy.

Are we leaving?! At last! Are we going to serve under the Marshal-Duke again?! Amazing! Haha! That means I’ll see my friends again! Finally!

***

Meanwhile, in Albany—now a ghost town after the passage of the French troops—a significant meeting was taking place in the fort, as desolate as the rest of the small town.

The French, like the despicable thieves they were, had left them almost nothing. Anything that might have been useful had been stolen and sent north along with their hostages, whose fate remained unknown.

Thomas Pownall, the governor of the Province of Massachusetts, sat at a wide table as plain as the fort itself, nervously tapping his fingers while waiting for the other officers to arrive.

The room, made somewhat warm by a fire burning in the large hearth at the back of the room, opposite the entrance, contained only a few officers, among them Robert Rogers. Most of those present represented regular regiments, but there were also a few commanders of militia contingents.

However, the most important man in the room was not Governor Pownall but Brigadier General Forbes.

For a man in his fifties, his face remained remarkably smooth. His skin was pale, almost pearly, while his lips were redder than a woman’s. His eyes, however—like his eyebrows—were so dark one could drown in them.

“Must we wait much longer? What kind of manners are these?” the Brigadier General asked, his expression stern.

“Mr. Johnson shouldn’t be much longer. He’s traveling from far away.”

“As are we all, Governor. Our resources are limited. Our men eat every day.”

“Perhaps they encountered some difficulty along the way? Must we really wait for him and his ‘guest’?”

“It’s preferable, Mr. Grant. Every man counts, and these men know the region perfectly. I understand they achieved some success in the north, defeating the French with odds of one to four or five.”

“But at what cost?” grimaced an officer dressed entirely in red. “They fought like bandits! We cannot and must not emulate them. It would be dishonorable!”

“Dishonorable? Kukuku! That’s amusing, sir,” Robert Rogers retorted with a malicious smile, playing with a long knife. “What matters is winning battles, not losing them with honor. That didn’t work out for General Abercrombie. And where is he now? Oh, right. Dead.”

“That’s enough. Be quiet,” the Brigadier General ordered as he sat down beside the still-uneasy Governor. “We’ll wait another day or two, after which we’ll set out for Fort Edward.”

“That won’t be necessary, General. We’re here,” said a deep male voice from the far end of the room. “Apologies for the delay. We ran into some obstacles, but nothing that jeopardizes the operation.”

“Mr. Johnson, at last you’re here.”

The Brigadier General rose to greet the newcomer. He was a man in his forties with a good face—the face of someone respectable and trustworthy.

He greeted the men already in the room one by one, ignoring, as always, the curious looks at his attire. As usual, he wore a strange mix of European and Native American clothing, including a red cape adorned with intricate Iroquois designs.

“Allow me to introduce the Mohawk chief, Akwiratheka.”

All eyes were already on the massive man who had just entered the room.

He must have stood nearly two meters tall, his body as powerful as that of an ancient war god, though it was covered in dark tattoos of unknown meaning. Draped over his shoulders was a long cape similar to the superintendent’s, and most notably, his belt displayed numerous scalps.

As if to emphasize his muscles, he crossed his arms over his broad chest, causing the cape to lift and reveal two unusually large tomahawks.

His wolf-like eyes swept over the room, freezing every man in place. Each officer felt as though they were in the cage of a bear. Then, he turned to his English ally and said in his language, his voice so deep it resembled a growl:

“You told me we would meet warriors, but I see none. I am disappointed. Are these the allies you promised me?”