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The night was freezing.
It must have been four or five degrees below zero. The sky was perfectly clear, which didn't help.
Without any light pollution, one could admire the celestial dome in all its breathtaking purity, and the majestic Milky Way stretching like a long white scar across the darkness.
Adam, who had marveled at this splendor during his first year—brighter than any fireworks—no longer felt the same magic.
He supposed it was like someone who had won the lottery and eventually grew tired of gourmet meals.
A thin crescent moon hung above like a mocking smile, softly illuminating the battered walls of the fort with its pale light.
It was nearly three in the morning. Yet, on the parade ground, nearly two hundred men were assembled.
Not a word. Not a cough. Complete silence. Everyone knew what was at stake.
They were about to carry out what was commonly called a sortie. Their objective was simple: to disable the English cannons, even if only temporarily.
They would only have a few minutes. The longer they stayed, the higher the chances they would never return.
Adam passed a medium-sized militiaman whose face was hidden in the shadow of an old tricorne hat. Slung across his shoulder was a large brown satchel filled with nails and a hammer.
That's what they planned to use to sabotage the English cannons. No grenades, no barrels of powder.
By driving a nail into the cannon's touch hole, the enemy gunners would have no choice but to drill a new one through the metal. Once nailed shut, it was impossible to remove.
General Murray would likely be furious at being unable to use the guns at dawn—perhaps even for the entire day if luck was on their side. That would give the French all the time they needed to destroy the battery.
Adam reached the gate and exchanged a few quiet words with Captain Collet, the officer in charge of this high-risk operation. Not far away stood the Mi'kmaq warrior Tjenopitoqsit and the coureur des bois, Damien Leblé.
Jean Collet nodded and stepped aside to speak with Lieutenant Colonel de Trivio.
Adam waited. He saw the lieutenant colonel nod quietly, his serious face dimly lit by a small creaking lantern hanging from a crooked hook in a wooden beam.
Then, the gate opened. Slowly. Without a sound.
The men began to slip out—no drums, no torches.
Alright, here we go… it's now or never.
The group began to move. The silence was absolute.
Three columns formed naturally, without the need for a single order.
The plan had been discussed at length, and each man knew exactly what to do. The first team was led by Damien Leblé, the second by Jean Collet, and the third by Adam himself.
As soon as they were outside and in formation, they left the road and slipped into the tall grass—some of it as high as a standing man. Even in open ground, they could move unnoticed.
They skirted along the walls of the southwest bastion, then past the ruins of the western demi-lune.
Once they reached the tip, all three teams turned northwest—toward the English battery.
Adam felt like a predator in the savannah. The difference was that his prey wasn't harmless—and he was freezing.
He looked up. The moon, though thin, lit the landscape well enough to see clearly. Each man looked like a ghost in its pale light.
But what worried him most was something else.
Damn, I feel like I'm making a hell of a racket!
Each step crushed the frozen grass with a sharp crackle. Alone, he might have blended into the night. But with so many men…
We must sound like a herd. I have a bad feeling about this.
He held his breath and made every effort not to make a sound. It was like walking through a minefield.
Adam couldn't see the other teams, but he assumed each man was making the same effort.
All he hoped was that the columns were advancing at the same pace—and that none of them would be spotted too soon.
Slowly, they crept closer to the enemy guns.
From above, their tracks would have looked like three long black snakes crawling through the frost-covered grass, all converging on an unsuspecting prey.
It must be close now… very close. We'll have to be quick and efficient.
Adam tightened his grip on his musket. To avoid encumbering the soldiers—and to keep the bayonets from reflecting the moonlight—they had been left sheathed.
They would only be drawn at the first gunshot, which would also be the signal to retreat.
With a bit of luck, he thought like a prayer, we'll make it back without firing a single shot.
Adam tightened his grip on his weapon.
His ears alert, he listened to every rustle. A whisper reached him. Voices. Snatches of ordinary conversation—in English.
He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.
Adam raised a hand and turned to the men behind him. He lifted two fingers, then pointed them toward the ground.
He and his men crouched even lower in the wild grass. The earthwork was right there, just ahead—even if they couldn't see it.
Suddenly, a panicked voice rang out, exploding like a bomb.
"INTRUDERS! FRENCHMEN! FREN—"
Bang!
A gunshot shattered the night and cut the enemy sentry's cry short. But it was too late.
Adam shot to his feet, heart pounding, and shouted:
"We've been spotted! Forward! Attack!"
The stillness of the night shattered like glass. A roar rose from beyond the long mound as the French charged.
The earthen battery loomed ahead like a fortress. Adam ran around it, his column right behind, and began climbing the steep slope.
His shoes slipped, but he reached the top in seconds.
His eyes fell on a redcoat facing away, bathed in moonlight. Without thinking, he shouldered his musket, cocked it, aimed, and pulled the trigger—all in one motion.
Bang!
The soldier dropped to his knees and collapsed, never seeing the man who had shot him.
"Hurry! Spike the guns!"
Seconds flew by, speeding up with each heartbeat.
Finished or not, they had to be gone in under five minutes.
A soldier rushed to the nearest cannon, pulling from his satchel a long, blackened nail. He placed the tip over the touch hole, raised a hammer that looked absurdly small next to the massive cannon, and began to strike.
Bing! Bing! Bing!
The metallic clanging rang out amid the chaos.
Adam reloaded his musket, keeping an eye on the fight. Redcoats were approaching—fast and in numbers.
"Damn it! They're already here?!"
Something's wrong!
The British response was too quick. Their main camp was over a kilometer away—well out of mortar range.
Don't tell me…
"It's a trap!" he shouted. "They were waiting for us! Stop everything! Stop and fall back—now! The redcoats are coming!"
Adam aimed at an enemy soldier charging straight at him and shot him clean in the chest. Three more appeared behind him a second later.
Shit!
Bing!
"I said stop!" Adam roared at the soldier still hammering. "We're out of time! Fall back!"
In an instant, the scene turned chaotic. The last saboteurs dropped their tools and ran. One man behind Adam left a twisted nail half-buried and grabbed his musket.
He fired at a Virginian militiaman and turned on his heel.
Others, like Adam, stayed behind to cover the retreat.
But as he saw fewer and fewer Frenchmen remaining, and more redcoats pouring in, Adam began to fall back too. He drew a pistol, aimed at a grenadier built like an ancient oak, and blew a hole in his forehead.
Bang!
But more kept coming. Again and again.
It felt like they had awakened a monster.
Sh-shit… Everyone's pulled back? Then I need to get out of here too!
Adam turned and sprinted through the tall grass toward the fort. From here, it looked huge—and menacing.
Stealth was no longer an option.
He tore through the weeds like a bullet.
His sword beat furiously against his thigh on the left, and his cartridge box on the right. He ran full tilt, lungs burning with the icy air.
Out of the corner of his eye, on the left, he spotted Tjenopitoqsit—the tall warrior half-dressed in European clothing, half in traditional garb—gripping a tomahawk in his left hand and a musket in his right. He too was running like the wind.
Their eyes met for just a fraction of a second.
Then, a sharp crack. He fell and tumbled down.
"Tjenopitoqsit!"
Adam stopped dead in his tracks and turned back to help his friend.
"Me… hit…" the native murmured, lips trembling.
"I know! Hold on to me! I'm getting you out of here! We're both making it back!"
Adam strained every muscle to lift him, but Tjenopitoqsit was too heavy.
"I—I need your help, friend! Come on, just a little effort!"
Beneath his thick clothes, Tjenopitoqsit's wound was bleeding heavily. Slowly, the blood soaked through the fabric and reached his coat.
Adam, too tense, too focused, didn't notice.
He looped the Mi'kmaq's right arm over his shoulders and made another effort to lift him.
Gunfire crackled behind them—dozens of shots, closer and closer.
"Come on!"
Finally, Tjenopitoqsit managed to stand on his shaking legs.
"We… we have to reach the fort… so let's… move…"
Suddenly, Adam felt the Mi'kmaq's body spasm violently.
"Hurgh…"
His cry was faint, barely audible—but to Adam, it rang like a scream. Slowly, as if in slow motion, he turned his head toward his friend and felt him collapse.
Adam couldn't hold him up. They both went down.
The native, facedown in the dirt, stopped moving. Then stopped breathing.
Damn it! Bastards!
Adam felt tears sting his eyes. Helpless, he had no choice but to leave the Mi'kmaq's body behind and resume his run.
The walls of Fort Carillon seemed so close… and yet so far away.
Shtack!
A sharp pain seized his left leg. It was so sudden, so intense, it shut down all thought.
Adam stumbled forward a few more steps before realizing he'd been hit. His gaze dropped to his thigh.
What the hell…?
An arrowhead was sticking out. The projectile had pierced clean through.
Dizziness swept over him. His vision blurred. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like cannon fire.
Adam felt himself pitch forward, powerless to stop the fall.
"Hu-hurgh…"
A deep, guttural moan escaped his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on the long arrow.
To say it hurt was an understatement. It was pure agony. He couldn't even breathe.
Struggling, he moved his leg slightly to get a better look. He spotted black feathers at the end.
He wasn't a doctor, but something in him knew—pulling it out the wrong way would make things worse. Much worse. Somehow, he just knew.
I—I need to b-break the arrow.
He didn't even consider leaving it in place—though that would've been the smartest thing to do.
Gritting his teeth, Adam grabbed the arrow near the base. He pushed, trying to force it through a bit more.
"HU-HUUUURGH!"
He barely moved it a few centimeters, but the pain was unbearable. His breathing turned short and ragged.
Eyes shut tight, he screamed inwardly, trying to summon courage.
One hand on the shaft near the wound, the other at the tip—he forced it.
"HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAARGH!"
Crack!
A monstrous scream ripped through the night, through the musket fire—like a beast torn from hell.
It echoed all the way to the fort's ramparts.
Adam felt on the verge of blacking out. Numb with pain, he pulled out the first half and let it drop to the ground. Then, gripping the other end, he yanked.
The pain was indescribable. His mouth opened wide in a silent cry. Snot mixed with tears and saliva.
But he didn't scream.
He couldn't. His lungs weren't big enough to contain the full weight of his agony.
He collapsed to the ground, completely drained. The broken shaft, slick with blood, slipped from his fingers and rolled into the grass.
That's when a native appeared out of nowhere. His feet, wrapped in simple but comfortable moccasins, stopped right before trampling Adam's face.
Adam could barely lift his eyes.
A Mohawk stood before him. A face he thought he might have seen once—perhaps in Akwiratheka's village—but he couldn't be sure.
"Please… help me…" he murmured in Iroquois, barely audible.
Joseph Brant raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"You speak my tongue, French dog? Who gave you the right? You disgrace it by using it. For that, I'll cut it out—so you'll never defile it again. And then, I'll take your scalp."
The young Mohawk drew a large hunting knife and grabbed Adam's face roughly.
His fingers, sharp like claws, squeezed his jaw as if trying to crush it.
His eyes—cold, black, and pitiless—locked onto Adam's with glacial hatred as Adam writhed, struggling to escape.
Brant scowled and shifted position, planting his knees on Adam to pin him down.
He was crushing him.
Adam couldn't breathe.
"Don't struggle. You'll only make your death more painful."
The warrior's hand found Adam's tongue and yanked it out of his mouth.
His fingers felt like hooks.
With mounting horror, Adam saw the knife drawing closer.
His right hand broke free. Instinctively, he groped for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon.
His fingers found the tip of the broken arrow and seized it.
In a final act of desperation, Adam rammed it into the Indian's throat. He drove it deep—until his hand could push no further.
"HURGH?!"
Joseph Brant's eyes went wide. He stumbled back, clutching his bleeding throat.
Blood spurted between his fingers.
Adam watched him stagger, swaying like a drunk. Blood now spilled from his mouth.
His eyes, blazing with rage, locked once more on Adam. Brant raised his knife and lunged, determined to drag the Frenchman into death with him.
Adam barely had the strength to roll aside.
Joseph Brant collapsed. For a moment, he writhed like a wounded beast, choking on his own blood.
Lying on his back, he seemed to be battling some invisible foe.
Then, he stopped moving.
Adam, lying next to him, stared at the body with a conflicted expression. He didn't dare approach.
He remained still for a few seconds.
Somehow—he had no idea how—he found the strength to stand.
Limping, he made his way to the gates of the fort.
He was the last one to pass through them.
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The next morning, both camps awoke slowly, minds still haunted by the night's horrors.
The sortie—despite sabotaging several cannons and killing over thirty redcoats—had been a failure. A painful one, too: they had lost fifty-two men.
They had nearly lost a captain.
Just after dawn, a British officer once again approached under the protection of a white flag. Adam, unconscious, did not witness the encounter.
Lieutenant Colonel Jean-Baptiste de Trivio met the man and spoke at length with his British counterpart.
Upon returning, he gathered his officers, just as he had the day before, and shared with them General Murray's second offer.
The terms—only slightly more favorable than the first—were accepted.
And so, Fort Carillon fell to the British, on November 25th, 1761.
The French were granted the honors of war and allowed to withdraw—with weapons, flags, and baggage—to Montreal.
Adam didn't wake until it was time to depart.
From his bed, he saw through the window the flag of the Kingdom of France being lowered for the last time.
He felt his heart break, once again.
Less than an hour later, he was lying on a stretcher, passing through the gates of the fort.
On either side of the road, redcoats stood guard in a silent corridor of arms.
The French began to play a slow, solemn tune. A song intimately tied to their monarchy's glory and pride.
It was simply titled "Vive Henri IV."
With the fall of the fort, the road to the Saint Lawrence Valley now lay open.
Yet, given the lateness of the season, Murray chose to end the campaign there. It would resume after winter.
No reasonable officer would launch a new siege now, with December just around the corner.
Not everyone agreed with the decision—though they were few.
George Washington was one of them. And he made his displeasure clear.
In his eyes, this victory had brought Montreal within reach.
All they had to do, he said, was stretch out their hand and pluck the long-coveted fruit.
Murray did not listen. Not even when Washington threatened to resign.
So, Washington relinquished his command as colonel of the Virginia Provincials and left Murray's army on November 27th, amid general indifference.