Hello there!
Ouch! What a chapter! I hope you will like it!
Enjoy and thank you Mium, Porthos10, Ranger_Red, Dekol347, AlexZero12, George_Bush2910, Kieran_Lynch, Yako_3972 and Shingle_Top for the support!
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Splash! Splash! Splash!
Each step in the river sent up great icy splashes.
They moved in single file, soaked to the thighs, their feet frozen. Their breathing was short, but their pace steady.
As a precaution, each man held his musket high above the water, afraid to dampen the powder.
The four or five minutes of rest they had stolen earlier had barely been enough to catch their breath and reload.
They had been running for nearly forty minutes since the ambush.
The redcoats might have taken a moment to realize what had hit them... but there was no doubt now: the chase was on.
"Don't slow down!" Adam shouted, as much to encourage his men as to push himself. "Watch your footing!"
This wasn't a large river like the Hudson or the Mohawk, but it wasn't a stream either. A few meters wide, it was deep enough in the middle for the water to reach their knees.
The French hugged the riverbank, hoping to throw off their pursuers while avoiding the polished stones that lined the bottom.
Adam focused only on the path ahead. He was running for his life, a countdown ticking in his head.
"Just a bit farther! To the rocks, then we cross!"
They had only gone a little over two hundred meters through the river. With some luck, it would be enough to sow confusion.
When the English saw their tracks vanish at the river's edge and not reappear on the other side, they'd figure it out—but they'd hesitate.
If it made them waste time searching or split their forces, all the better. But would that be enough?
Even while fleeing, Adam was thinking.
We can't keep going like this... If we follow the river too far, we'll end up at Albany's gates. That's suicide.
He could already picture the worst: regular troops and armed militiamen surrounding them, capturing them… or worse.
Would death really be the worst?
He wasn't so sure. These English had suffered too many losses—not just these past weeks, but over the years. If they were caught, a swift end was far from guaranteed.
Don't think about that now! Not now! It's not over yet!
A soldier in his company slipped on a stone as smooth as polished gem and fell into the water.
Sergeant Hébert—"the Cannon"—grabbed him by the arm and yanked him upright with a single motion.
"Hey! Now's not the time for a bath, soldier!"
"S-sorry! I didn't mean to!" the soldier stammered, adjusting his soaked tricorne. "I—I slipped!"
"You'd better have! Now move!"
Adam didn't slow down. He didn't even look back.
Soon, they reached the dark rocks that formed a sort of natural bridge across the river.
Due to a drop in elevation, the current sped up from that point on.
The sound of rushing water, soothing in other circumstances, now felt distant—like an echo from the depths of a cave.
Around them, the forest was silent.
Every tree seemed to be watching, bearing witness to their every move.
Adam couldn't help but keep an eye on them, just in case an enemy lay hidden among the trunks, ready to shoot.
"One at a time! Be careful!"
We can't afford to waste a minute. But if someone falls and is swept away by the current…
The soldiers formed a human chain. One by one, with extreme caution, they all made it across without incident.
Not far off, the charred remains of a few ruined houses still stood, a reminder of Marshal de Richelieu's march during the siege of Albany.
No civilians had died; the inhabitants had fled into the city, hoping to escape the French.
Now, they were in Trois-Rivières, working the fields or helping build the road to Quebec.
"Captain," said the Cannon, catching up to Adam on the far side, "it's already getting dark. We… we won't reach the Mohawk River tonight."
Adam looked up at the sky, his face as dark as the clouds above. A raindrop landed near his left eye.
"I know," he said quietly, almost to himself. "We've got maybe two hours left before nightfall."
He glanced back the way they had come. There was nothing yet—but he knew the enemy could appear at any moment.
He added,
"The English will have caught up to us by then."
"Th-then what do we do?"
Adam glanced at his companions. They looked terrible—no better than he did.
Only eighteen of them remained, and lieutenants Marais, Leblanc, and Cornette were nowhere in sight.
All he could hope was that they were still together, and had managed to get just as far.
At least we haven't heard gunfire. That's reassuring.
"We can't head north, that's for sure. The Mohawk River is far too distant. If we keep following this river, we'll end up at Albany's doorstep. That's a death sentence. Obviously, going back is out of the question. So we have to move northeast to put some distance between us and the city, then cross the Hudson River. That's our only chance."
The sergeant, massive as an ox but far from stupid, immediately understood what his captain was trying to do. It made sense. Risky, but logical.
"Do you really think we'll make it out? We're deep in enemy territory, and Albany is just a stone's throw away. That detour you're suggesting… it might not be enough."
"We might run into patrols, yes," Adam admitted. "That's why we need to move fast. And carefully. The slightest mistake could cost us our lives."
"And if they catch up to us?"
"Then we won't have a choice. We'll have to fight… to the end. With any luck, we'll have time to find boats."
There was nothing more to say. Adam gave the signal, and the group moved on.
Fortunately, the terrain sloped gently downward, and the vegetation was thinning out.
Moving forward became easier—or at least, more bearable.
After twenty minutes or so, a shiver of hope spread through the ranks.
The Hudson River was there.
Wide, immense, majestic despite the weather—like a river of metal.
They could finally see it.
Some of the men stopped for a second, mesmerized as if seeing it for the first time. It meant salvation. A passage to freedom.
It felt as if, from this point onward, things would be all right.
Adam felt it too. Panting, he stared at it with emotion.
We're almost out of this hell… We can make it! We're really going to make it! Just a bit more!
They were only two kilometers and a half from Albany.
Along the wide road that ran beside the river, they could see a few wagons—but no military detachment. No patrols.
There it is. We just need to cross.
But the moment they had all been hoping for was also the one they feared.
The Hudson River was two hundred and fifty meters wide. Far too much to swim across.
And that wasn't even counting the water's temperature and the strength of the current.
Adam had taught his men what he could: how to float, how to stay calm, how to breathe, how to move forward without exhausting themselves—but that didn't make them good swimmers.
They wouldn't sink like stones. That was about it.
Things were even worse in André Louis' company. Not a single man could swim decently. He was the only one who might, just might, make it across.
A boat… We need a damn boat.
He thought of the Albany ferry. It connected the city to Green Bush, across the river, and to an estate farther north.
But of course, turning back in hopes of hijacking one of those ferries was out of the question.
They needed something here, now. A skiff, a canoe, a hollowed-out log—anything… for eighteen people.
They stopped at the edge of the forest. One step further, and they'd be in the open.
It was obvious this land belonged to someone. A forest never ended that abruptly unless it was shaped by man.
Across the road, a small farm.
The soldiers, disheveled, soaked, and at their limit, crouched among the underbrush and began to think.
"We don't have time to build a raft," Adam whispered. "One of these farms must have a boat or something. As long as it floats, it'll do."
Without much discussion, Adam gave his orders. Quickly but stealthily, the group moved toward a farm with several buildings, including a barn blackened by age, its roof patched up more than once.
The main house, modest but well-made and carefully maintained by the standards of the time, looked peaceful.
A warm light filtered through drawn curtains on the ground floor.
A thin white plume of smoke rose from the stone chimney—someone was cooking.
Maybe a thick, hearty soup.
The temptation to go knock on the door was strong, but the fear of Redcoats showing up was stronger still.
They scouted the area in silence, but found no boat.
Only an old horse, half-asleep and so worn out that even the army hadn't wanted him.
Then the rain grew heavier.
Hunched over as if carrying the weight of the world, Adam led what was left of his troop toward the next farm. He clenched his fists, praying silently for God's help to get them back to French territory.
In fact, it was more like two or three farms grouped together.
The layout hinted at a growing family—one house for the parents, another for the children once they'd come of age.
The intruders crept closer without a sound and listened.
A child was crying amid several voices.
Heavy footsteps echoed on a rustic wooden floor, and Adam melted into the shadows, his men frozen just behind him.
A door opened.
An elderly couple stepped out, laughing softly, bundled up in thick, dark wool coats.
They were speaking cheerfully, trading a few jokes in Dutch with a young couple still standing on the porch. The man, tall and broad, had the same build as the one who had remained at the door.
The older man simply had gray-white hair and a slightly rounder face.
Adam figured they were related. An ordinary family living a simple life.
The woman who had stayed on the porch beside her husband held a crying child in her arms, but they paid no attention to it.
Eventually, the older couple departed, waving one last time to the young couple on the porch. The young pair lingered for a moment, then went back inside. The door shut, followed by the sound of a bolt sliding into place.
"Wait until they're out of sight," Adam whispered, keeping an eye on the elderly couple heading toward the neighboring house. "Then we'll check out that building."
He pointed toward a modest shelter by the river. It wasn't exactly on the water, but close enough to spark some hope.
As soon as the couple disappeared from view, the French slipped out of hiding and hurried over to the small wooden structure. It wasn't large—just a few square meters—resting on deep stilts.
But what mattered was what it held.
"Bingo," Adam murmured with restrained joy.
Inside, in the dimness under a canvas, lay a long flat-bottomed wooden boat. It wasn't a beauty, but it looked sturdy. The oars were stored inside.
Perfect. With this weather, no one will see us.
"Hey, everyone—here's our ticket out! Let's get her into the water!"
The boat sat on a wooden cradle, held in place by two chocks and a rudimentary system of ropes and pulleys—likely designed so a single person could launch it. As long as they knew how to use it.
"Remove the chocks first—but carefully," Adam warned. "Be ready to hold her steady. Then, uh… release the tension in the ropes. Not all at once."
The soldiers got to work. Two at the rear, two at the front, the others on the sides.
They removed the chocks one by one, then started pulling at the ropes without fully understanding the mechanism. The boat began to move, to slide… then to tilt.
"Damn! She's tipping!" someone shouted.
"Hold her!" Adam cried.
The soldiers moved quickly and coordinated perfectly, pushing against the hull and pulling the suddenly taut ropes. If the boat were damaged now, it would be a disaster.
The vessel righted itself.
"Diable… thank God," Adam muttered, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand. "Alright, careful now. Let's move her slowly. Watch out not to get underneath."
Bit by bit, the boat left its shelter. The Frenchmen took every precaution, and once they were knee-deep in the river, it finally touched water.
Adam leaned in and checked the inside. No leaks.
Just as they were about to board, a shout made them all spin around in unison:
"Hey! That's my boat!"
A man appeared out of nowhere, holding a hunting musket. He charged toward them, furious, weapon raised.
"Take cover!" Adam ordered.
A shot rang out—then several more.
The farmer collapsed in the wet grass, hit twice. His smoking musket slipped from his hands.
Silence. Only the rain could be heard.
Shit.
"Did he hit anyone?" Adam asked nervously, turning to his men.
"No, we're good, Captain," replied a soldier nicknamed La Guigne (Unlucky). "Damn, that was close."
He picked up his tricorn and ran a finger through the neat little hole in the black felt.
"Real close."
Adam's eyes widened—so did everyone else's.
"Well then, I think we need to rethink your nickname, soldier. Bonne Etoile (Lucky Star) sounds more fitting."
The French smiled at the promotion and began boarding. Unfortunately, the boat wasn't large enough for everyone to sit comfortably.
Rather than making two trips, they chose to squeeze in tight.
***
At the same time, not far away.
"Did you hear that?!"
"It came from over there! That was a gunshot!"
"The enemy's close! We've got them now!"
Soaked to the bone, miserable as stray dogs, the redcoats surged forward, led by Joseph Brant. The exhaustion that had clung to them vanished the moment the shots rang out.
Hands clenched around weapons, grim expressions fixed to their faces, they looked like a pack of hunters driven to their limits by an elusive prey.
But now they had them.
Splash, splosh, splash, splosh!
The ground was soft beneath their shoes. It was getting darker, though not yet night. There was still more than enough light to put an end to this charade.
Their hunt couldn't be allowed to drag on another day. They wouldn't let it. It had to end now.
Seconds ticked by.
They passed a farmhouse whose door banged in the wind. A settler stood there, musket in hand, struggling to mentally prepare himself to use it against another human being.
As soon as he saw the redcoats approaching, he pointed with a trembling finger toward the neighboring plot. The soldiers ignored him and kept running.
When they reached the river, they found an empty shelter, its doors wide open, and about thirty meters away, an old man kneeling in the wet grass, tears streaming down his face. He held a young woman in his arms, collapsed with grief.
Her face twisted in agony, she couldn't speak. She had just lost her husband—the father of her only child.
He lay before her, growing cold. Blood stained his white shirt.
There was nothing more to be done.
Her father-in-law held her by the shoulder, supporting her even though his own grief was no less. His eyes red with sorrow, he looked up at the reinforcements, helpless.
"Where are they?" barked Brant, his voice commanding, devoid of empathy.
"They… They took my son's boat," the old man replied, pointing toward the river. "There. Over there."
Brant spun around and spotted a white shape on the water. Without waiting for an officer's command, he snapped:
"Form up! Aim for the boat!"
The men obeyed without hesitation, forming a line at the water's edge. They raised their muskets and fired in unison.
It was a hundred meters away.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
***
The bullets hissed around them like enraged wasps. One struck the rear of the boat with a sharp crack.
Splinters flew, but no cries of pain followed.
Silence. Only the lapping of water and the steady rain.
"Everyone okay?" Adam shouted, raising his head.
"Y-yeah!" answered a tense, uncertain voice.
Good! We got lucky!
"Don't stop rowing! We need more distance between us and them!"
The boat, though overloaded, was holding together. It wasn't meant for this many people, but it still floated.
The edges skimmed the choppy surface of the river. No sudden movements—it could spell disaster.
Plunk! Plunk! Plunk!
The oars dipped in unison, nudging the boat forward.
Meanwhile, behind them, the redcoats had already finished reloading.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The Frenchmen's hearts clenched at the sound of the gunfire. On reflex, they ducked their heads.
Around them, little splashes burst from the water like a sudden hailstorm.
"Argh!"
"Le Canon's hit!" someone cried out.
"Damn it! Is he okay?!" Adam shouted, not daring to move from his spot for fear of capsizing them.
"Y-yeah, it's nothing… Guh… Just a scratch. My shoulder."
"Congrats, that'll make a fine medal," Adam replied with a half-smile. "Hang in there. We'll take care of you once we're across. Keep rowing, the rest of you!"
With hearts pounding, the soldiers with oars resumed their effort.
They felt like they weren't making any progress, but each stroke put a little more distance between them and the shore.
***
On the bank, the redcoats reloaded again, helpless.
Brant watched, tense. His fingernails dug so deep into his palms that he began to bleed.
They realized the French had slipped away.
For now.