Adam stood on the southern ravelin of Fort Edward. This structure, to which he had contributed somewhat, had mainly served as a base for constructing the wooden bridge connecting it to the fort. It was solid and well-built.

The ravelin was a large triangular earthen and wooden structure equipped with heavy cannons. Like a fortress, it was fortified with merlons to provide cover for the defenders.

The young lieutenant stood between two merlons, observing the enemy through the embrasure as they settled comfortably in the same spot as the previous besiegers.

Fuck, we should’ve done something to stop them from setting up there. If only we’d had a bit more time...

Even though the garrison at Fort Edward hadn’t had time to degrade the terrain surrounding the fort, it was still wet enough to make life unpleasant for the redcoats. There was nothing but mud and wet grass.

“How many of them do you think there are?” asked a soldier with drooping eyes and a chin split like it had been struck by a sword.

“No idea. Four thousand, maybe?”

“More. Look behind those trees—it’s bustling.”

“Oh? Look, there are Indians with them!”

Adam turned in the direction pointed out by another soldier, a man barely meeting the army’s minimum height requirement, and frowned.

“Is that really surprising? They’re probably Iroquois. They’re allied with the British.”

“But there weren’t any last time.”

“Nor at Fort Edward or Fort Miller when we took them. In fact, we haven’t faced those savages alongside the redcoats since Fort Carillon.”

“Ah, that’s true! I hadn’t noticed!”

The lieutenant remained silent, but inwardly, he also realized this detail and wondered why the Iroquois hadn’t supported their allies when they’d needed help, yet had chosen to join them now.

The Iroquois are powerful, he thought. They’ve killed many of our men in recent days and weeks. They don’t need the English to weaken us. Perhaps they want to use their allies to defeat us at minimal cost. The redcoats likely want to do the same.

Under the curious and occasionally worried gazes of the French, the English established their camp out of cannon range. The cannons on the ravelin, being of English origin, were not of the same caliber as the other artillery. They required specific ammunition.

This was a logistical challenge, but fortunately, the officers had anticipated the issue, and every necessary projectile had been seized from Albany and other captured forts to support the siege.

The only thing they didn’t have in abundance was food.

“Huh?”

Adam tilted his head as he watched the redcoats continually improve their camp, surrounding it with a high embankment. Their flag fluttered proudly in the north wind, cracking like a whip on a southern plantation with every gust.

On the opposite side of the fort, along the road leading to the ruins of Fort William Henry, a similar setup was being constructed to isolate Fort Edward.

If he could turn into a bird and observe the interiors of these two fortifications, Adam would see that they were well-built and, with continued improvements, would soon be excellent. The British military engineers were taking every measure to prevent disease and provide their soldiers with decent living conditions during the siege.

They won’t attack today, Adam concluded. They’ll keep improving their positions and strengthening their supply lines.

Adam was not wrong.

No attack came for four days. The British position had grown so strong that attempting a sortie now would be considered risky at best.

They had cut down numerous trees and built sturdy shelters for their men and supplies to protect them from the rain. They had also dug approach trenches and communication lines, much like they had during the previous siege. Naturally, the old ones had been filled in.

On October 6, a little before seven in the morning, the English officers began aligning their soldiers in loose order to cover a wide area. The sound of drums, carried by the wind, reached the ears of the French.

Slowly, the Indians emerged from the woods, their bodies and faces painted in various colors. One of them stood out due to his size and build, even from a distance. He was like a hairless bear with long black hair flowing in the wind.

“Prepare yourselves! Check your cartridges and muskets!” Adam’s voice rang out over the fortifications, filling every man with a surge of energy.

Adam inspected his men, exchanging a few words with the gunners, who stood ready to fire. Discreetly, he glanced over his shoulder at the long wooden bridge, now dark and shiny from the rain. He could see an entire row of black tricorn hats and bayonets.

Down below, in the ditch, the foundations of a new bridge had been laid. They barely rose above ground level, but below the surface, they were deep, having been sunk into stable soil to ensure the stone bridge would stand firm over the long term.

The hardest part—building the two arches—was still ahead.

Well, at least we have an escape route if things go wrong. If the ravelin falls, we’ll just have to hold the bridge.

"We are ready!"

"Perfect! Mr. Marais, go inform Colonel de Bréhant that everything is in order! Tell him we are ready to shed our blood and that this demi-lune will not fall as long as a single one of us remains alive."

Adam, in truth, had no intention of taking things that far. His words were meant both to reassure his officer and to encourage his men. The worst thing that could happen in combat was for a unit to flee.

If nothing was done, panic could break out, causing the collapse of a line and turning the tide of battle in the enemy's favor. Retreat was acceptable; rout was not.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The first British volleys rose like a thunderous roar. Their cannons, strategically positioned on a high artificial mound, opened fire on the demi-lune and the southern rampart.

Cannonballs ricocheted off the wooden walls, behind which lay meters of packed earth and rubble.

With each impact, a spray of wood splinters flew in all directions, but the French, well-sheltered, held their positions.

Adam felt a deep vibration run through the ground beneath his boots. An English cannonball had struck a thick log, ripping away a chunk the size of two fists.

He felt every impact down to his bones, which shook him far more than the thought of facing the redcoats head-on. The cannonballs tore through the battlefield at such speed and with such force that he wouldn't even see death coming.

Before he could realize it, he might very well lose his head.

"Fire!"

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The demi-lune’s cannons, which seemed longer and slimmer than the French ones, fired in unison, shaking the young officer differently this time. The smoke, carried by the wind, rolled back toward them like a white wave.

Tss!

Adam grimaced as the acrid, burnt smell of the smoke hit his face. He was blinded, worse than if he were in a dense fog.

Fortunately, the cloud didn’t linger long over the rampart and was carried away.

The British had taken advantage of this moment to advance, and now they were reaching their trenches. The Indians seemed to be waiting for the right moment to launch their assault.

The French cannons roared and spat their deadly projectiles, but though they managed to kill a few enemies, it was far from enough. The British officers had minimized losses by digging zigzagging approach trenches. A cannonball might kill two or three men, but no more.

As soon as a man fell, he was immediately carried to the rear for treatment—or placed under a sheet if he had already joined the Almighty. Unflinching, the redcoats pressed on toward the fort.

Militiamen from New York, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts also stood firm against the French cannonballs. The New Yorkers were commanded by Colonel John Johnson, the New Hampshirites by Peter Gilman, and the Massachusetts men by Colonel Richard Gildley.

"Reload the cannons! Fire on the enemy lines, aim for the officers!" Adam shouted.

The demi-lune’s guns thundered once more, sending plumes of white smoke ahead of the grim-faced men. The cannonballs struck the enemy trenches, hurling mutilated bodies several meters into the air, but the British hardly seemed to react.

They kept advancing at the same pace. It was dangerous.

The Indians, led by a towering figure with a muscular frame and wielding two massive tomahawks, began to move, then broke into a run straight for the French positions. They let out primal cries and near-bestial howls that chilled the blood.

"Turn cannons three and four! Aim for the Indians!"

The Mohawks ran at a breakneck pace, leaping like hares, as though daring death itself. They quickly entered musket range.

"Fire!"

A long series of gunshots cracked across the demi-lune, and many Indians fell, but most managed to reach the deep ditch.

With terrifying agility, they began using the wooden bridge as a ladder. Helping one another, it didn’t take long for the first enemies to appear at the top of the demi-lune.

"Damn it! Hold your positions! Don’t abandon the cannons, no matter what! Gunners, keep firing! We’ll drive them back!"

Adam pointed his pistol at an Indian, likely in his thirties, and fired. The man took the bullet square in the head and fell into the void.

The sound of his skull cracking was horrific. At such close range, the bones were pulverized.

Quickly, Adam drew his sword and attacked an Indian trying to stand after climbing the bridge. He drove the blade into the man’s hand, eliciting a piercing scream as the man struggled to free himself.

Adam kicked him hard in the face, causing him to fall backward off the bridge.

With the sword still lodged in his hand, he couldn’t fall easily.

Before Adam’s eyes, blood gushed as the man’s muscles tore under the strain. Eventually, the hand was severed when the pressure became too much. The sword, still embedded in the wooden bridge, dripped with fresh blood as Adam stared in horror at the streak it left behind.

"Look out!"

A loud shout nearby snapped Adam out of his stupor.

Adam didn’t have time to react, and because of that, one of his comrades was killed right in front of him.

As if in slow motion, he saw the body of a young soldier collapse before his eyes. He could only see the soldier’s back and didn’t know his name.

The black tricorne fell a short distance away before being trampled by another soldier fighting to defend himself.

Adam’s gaze met that of the warrior who had struck the fatal blow. The man was the spitting image of his Mohawk friend Tayohseron, except older and more muscular. Most notably, he lacked the scar on his belly that Tayohseron bore.

Instead, he had two striking tattoos on each arm, which extended onto his chest.

The young lieutenant’s eyes fell on the tomahawk of the fierce-looking warrior, deeply embedded in the body of the French soldier. A long streak of red stretched from the blade as the man pulled his weapon free from the lifeless corpse.

The warrior’s gaze locked on Adam, leaving no doubt that he intended to make him his next victim. But Adam had no intention of dying that day.

With a swift motion, Adam’s blade sliced through the air, missing the warrior’s eyes by mere centimeters. The Mohawk leaned back just in time to avoid the attack.

But Adam wasn’t done. Summoning all his strength, he delivered a powerful kick to his adversary’s ribs—an ungraceful and dishonorable move for a French officer.

Unfamiliar with European fighting techniques, the warrior took the blow head-on, stumbling slightly but not enough to fall. Using his left arm, he blocked Adam’s leg and raised his other arm to strike with his bloodied tomahawk.

Seeing the imminent danger, Adam launched another attack with his sword. The blade pierced through the Mohawk’s muscular arm, causing the warrior’s eyes to widen in shock.

A loud cry escaped his lips.

The sword had sliced through muscle and scraped against bone. Helpless to stop it, the warrior dropped his weapon at his feet.

Fearing another attack, Adam quickly withdrew his sword and readied himself to strike again. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary. Realizing that continuing the fight in his condition would only lead to certain death, the Mohawk retreated.

As if his injury were trivial, the warrior used both his bloodied and uninjured arms to climb down from the demi-lune, leaving streaks of red on the damp wooden surface as he fled.

The battle raged for nearly four hours, but neither the redcoats nor their Mohawk allies succeeded in breaching the fort.

The rain intensified, making the fight increasingly difficult for both sides.

As if by mutual agreement, the two armies ceased combat for the day, uncertain if it would resume the following morning.

As soldiers and Indians withdrew, Adam brought their prisoner to the demi-lune and displayed him as a trophy before the Mohawks. The reaction was immediate; they grew restless and turned back as if preparing for another assault on the fort.

Adam couldn’t understand what the boy was shouting to his comrades, but it didn’t matter.

What mattered was making the Mohawks understand they had a hostage—an important one if Adam wasn’t mistaken.

“Father! Save me! I’m here! It’s me, Rawenniyo!” the boy cried out in Iroquois.

A massive warrior, built like an athlete or even a comic book character, leaped forward like a tiger, wielding two enormous tomahawks. He roared so loudly that his voice echoed throughout the fort.

“IF YOU TOUCH A HAIR ON MY SON’S HEAD, I’LL KILL YOU ALL! I’LL RIP OUT YOUR EYES, NOSE, AND EARS! I’LL CUT OFF YOUR LIMBS AND IMPALE YOU SO THE BIRDS CAN FEAST ON YOUR GUTS!”

Adam didn’t understand a single word of what this man—who now resembled a furious Hulk—was shouting, but he could make an educated guess.

Displaying the boy had been on his superiors’ orders. They wanted to sow confusion, force their enemies into mistakes. But Adam thought there was a better way.

Though he didn’t speak the Mohawk language fluently, his time with the fiery-tempered boy had allowed him to pick up a few words. It wasn’t enough for a conversation, but it might be enough to communicate with this man.

“YOU… WARRIORS… LEAVE… OR… CHILD… DIE!”

The Iroquois, including the Hulk-like warrior with the tomahawks, froze before erupting into a fury. They hurled countless insults and death threats at the French, particularly at the man holding their chief’s son hostage.

William Johnson had to intervene to prevent Chief Akwiratheka from acting alone. Eventually, the Iroquois withdrew to their main camp, but their anger was palpable.

Later that afternoon, a heated dispute erupted between the Mohawk chief and Brigadier General John Forbes.

Thanks to the efforts of Superintendent of Indian Affairs William Johnson, the conflict didn’t escalate further. An arrangement was made to offer the Mohawk chief a chance to recover his son, held hostage by the ruthless French.