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The French marched as fast as they could, without any certainty they were heading in the right direction.
In the forest, it was easy to get lost.
Gradually, the terrain became more difficult. They were now heading uphill.
They could have avoided the slope, but Adam had insisted—he wanted to gain height to get a better view of the area, to understand the topography before it was too late.
There was no path, no trail, nothing. They had to forge their own way through the undergrowth, which consumed an enormous amount of energy.
But they weren't all moving at the same pace.
Three groups had formed in the disordered column.
At the rear, Beau-Regard was limping and struggling to keep up—even with the last group.
A soldier named Duhamel, himself near exhaustion, was supporting him by the shoulder. He had taken over from another named Pocher more than an hour earlier.
Beau-Regard's ankle was no better. It was more swollen than the day before, as if it had absorbed all the surrounding humidity.
He was in terrible pain but showed almost no emotion. Screaming and whining had never helped anyone.
So he remained silent and kept moving.
Adam, in the lead group, was drenched in sweat, even though the temperature was steadily dropping.
The backs of his hands were scratched all over by brambles. The tiny cuts, insignificant compared to what he had been through, burned like lemon juice had been poured into them.
He tried his best to avoid them, but given how heavily he was loaded, it was extremely difficult.
From time to time, with small tricks, he wiped himself off on his grimy long coat to mop up at least a bit of his sweat. His efforts weren't really paying off.
Around him, most of his men had already given up their loot. To avoid slowing down too much, they had made that sacrifice.
It was mostly food, as weapons were too precious to abandon with an enemy at their heels.
It was no longer a doubt—it was a certainty. They had seen them, in the distance, moving as a dreadful scarlet column between the bare trees.
Ah... My legs... Why does this feel worse than Saxony? Old Richelieu didn't exactly go easy on us!
His legs felt so heavy. Each step required more effort than the last.
To give himself courage, he hummed inwardly. Without the Internet, music was rare—especially on the front line.
Phew! I miss YouTube! Ah, if only I had my playlist...
Despite the years, he remembered certain songs perfectly. They echoed in his mind like a distant memory.
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide,
no escape from reality
Open your eyes,
look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy,
I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go
Little high, little low
Any way the wind blows
doesn't really matter to me,
to me...
He could almost hear the instruments and the voices.
It was a timeless classic.
Queen. One of his favorite bands.
When he was bored, depressed, or lonely, he often found himself humming the most beautiful songs of that band.
It happened often, which was why he could never forget them.
Mama, just killed a man
Put a gun against his head,
pulled my trigger, now he's dead
Mama, life had just begun—
"H-huh?!"
Suddenly, right in the middle of his silent singing, Adam felt his shoes slip in the mud. His body pitched forward.
Adam's heart leapt in his chest, then clenched hard. He caught himself just in time.
No fall—just a serious scare.
At that moment, two memories overlapped, almost identical:
Johanna's hand in his during an innocent hike... and the burn of a bullet in his shoulder during a skirmish with the English and Hanoverians under Cumberland.
Then, his fall—long, dangerous—onto a massive black rock.
Not this time. Phew! That was close!
"Captain! The English! The English are here!"
The whole unit turned as one.
They were there, down below. Still out of musket range, but clearly visible. Their uniforms stood out starkly against the dull, lifeless landscape.
Behind the light infantry marched the fearsome grenadiers of the 27th Regiment. Their uniforms were of high quality, rich in detail. Majestic. Terrifying.
Tall white gaiters rising to mid-thigh, red breeches, red jackets, and red coats with the lower part folded up to ease movement. They were anything but inconspicuous.
They held their muskets high, and their swords—with hilts glinting like silver—beat furiously against their thighs. Their formidable weapons made it easy to forget the ridiculous hats they wore, which from a distance looked like colorful biscuit packets.
But when you saw them advancing like ravenous ogres, you quickly forgot their hats.
The French trembled.
Adam tore his gaze away from the redcoats and looked up at the path they had left to climb before reaching the summit of that ancient mountain.
We're close! C-could we face them here? Maybe? No—no, we have to try!
"Why are you stopping?! This is not the time! Keep moving!"
"You heard the captain! Move!"
Revived by desperate energy, the French redoubled their efforts. They helped each other and re-formed into a solid, united group.
Beau-Regard was not left behind—on the contrary. Supported by two men, he soon caught up with the rest of the troop.
The remainder of the loot was lost, but what was a little food compared to a life?
Finally, by mid-afternoon, they reached the summit.
Before them stretched more mountains—worn down, forested, identical to the one they had just climbed. The Hudson River was visible, and farther in the distance, the rooftops of Albany.
Behind them, the path they had carved looked like a long snake of mud and crushed grass. At the far end, it was almost possible to see the determined faces of the British.
Adam raised his arm and gave the order:
"Prepare for combat! Even if they're many, they don't have the advantage!"
Lieutenant Marais, panting, stepped up with a British musket in hand.
"Captain, are we… are we really holding this position?"
Adam locked eyes with him.
"Yes. We won't find a better one."
And indeed, it was an excellent position. The slope was steep. Very steep.
The British wouldn't be able to deploy properly and would wear themselves out just trying to get close. For the French, it would be like defending the walls of a fortress.
All Adam and his men had to do was hold. Hold, and shoot every Englishman who dared approach.
"Form ranks! Ready the muskets!"
Weapons were distributed. Each man had at least two muskets—most had three, all loaded and ready to fire.
Across the slope, the enemy commander appeared determined to crush them in a single blow.
Adam spotted him in the distance.
He didn't hesitate to test his opponent.
"Sir, I think they're in range!"
"First rank—fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
A thick white cloud rose in front of the French line. Down below, a hundred meters away, several redcoats collapsed in the mud.
Those lucky enough to survive the deadly volley stepped over their fallen comrades and kept climbing without slowing.
"Second rank—fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
More than a dozen men dropped, screaming. But the red wave still surged forward.
The dead became obstacles, and some men tripped. One of them toppled backward, rolled down several meters, and smashed his skull against a rock.
He didn't get back up.
"Third rank—fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
One after the other, the three ranks of soldiers opened fire on the enemy. Each volley was clear and precise, thanks to relentless training.
It all happened in an instant.
In a matter of seconds, the enemy commander had lost more than twenty men—killed and wounded—without firing a single shot. Luckily for him, the trees between the two forces served as good cover.
Certainly, in open ground, the losses would've been far greater.
Facing them, the Frenchmen who had just fired dropped their smoking muskets and picked up fresh ones, waiting at their feet.
The first rank got back into position amid the swirling smoke.
"Aim!"
The enemy was no more than eighty meters away.
And still, they kept coming.
Fear had no hold over them. Especially not those of the 27th Regiment. They were proud Irishmen.
The Enniskillen.
On Captain Boucher's order, the French fired again.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The redcoats took another volley, losing dozens of men in the blink of an eye.
But they did not waver. Instead, they kept advancing.
Finally, at seventy-five meters, they returned fire.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
They were so close.
"Aaargh!"
"I'm hit!"
"Help!"
"Reform the line!"
Despite their very advantageous position, several French soldiers collapsed. They were quickly dragged to the rear. But the line did not break, as the British officers had hoped.
Before them, the wall of muskets reformed.
Adam then saw a group of redcoats break off to the side, surely to look for another route.
Damn it! There's too many of them! It's endless!
In front of him, the red-coated soldiers gathered into a hideous mass. Far from the neat formations worthy of the Roman Empire.
Only those at the front could fire, which greatly limited their firepower. They tried, clumsily, to form a line.
Adam grabbed his third musket and lifted it to eye level.
Since abandoning his share of the loot, he felt like his arms were lighter. It was deeply unsettling.
His muscles were still tense.
Die!
He aimed at an enemy soldier who had just reached the front line.
The man raised his musket to fire, but Adam didn't give him the chance. He pulled the trigger, and the shot rang out instantly.
Bang!
The man in the red coat dropped his weapon, clutched his chest with a trembling hand, and stared in horror at the precious blood pouring out. His tricorne fell to the ground.
He dropped heavily to his knees as if his strength had been drained, then toppled sideways like a rag doll.
Already, another was taking his place. Same uniform. Nearly the same face.
They all looked alike. It was like fighting the same enemy over and over again.
As Adam reached for another cartridge in his pouch—since all his muskets were spent—the newcomer took aim.
Bang!
A bullet whistled past and struck a man less than twenty meters from Adam. It entered through his cheek and exited clean through the other side of his skull.
Shit! We're not going to make it!
His wide eyes scanned the scene, sliding over the faces of his comrades, fighting like madmen to live one more day.
The smoke clouded his vision. The air reeked of burnt powder. The metallic taste of blood clung to his tongue. Mud slid beneath his shoes. Screams and gunshots tore at his eardrums.
All his senses were exploding, plunging him into a trance-like state.
His heart pounded wildly. His blood boiled in his veins.
He felt like he was going insane.
Adam wanted to scream, to empty his lungs.
I don't want to die now!
He fired his musket at a redcoat who collapsed backward, a hole the size of a fingernail in the middle of his forehead. He vanished into the crowd as if swallowed by a shadowy hand.
"Captain!" a voice suddenly shouted beside him.
"What?!"
He turned. It was Lieutenant Bellemaison.
"There's too many! We won't be able to hold them off much longer!"
Adam bit his lip until it bled.
"I know! But what can we do now?"
A sergeant shouted:
"They're falling back!"
But the next moment, another voice rang out:
"Get ready! They're sending a second wave! Grenadiers incoming!"
Lieutenant Bellemaison's gaze didn't leave Adam. His face was grim, but in his eyes burned a strange fire.
"You must fall back, Captain, but some of us have to hold them off. A small group will be enough."
"What are you—"
"The company has to survive, Captain," he said firmly. "With its captain. And Louis's company too. He wouldn't want it to end like this. I'll stay."
Adam opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"There's no time to waste, Captain! When they're on us, it'll be too late!"
"You're going to die," Adam whispered.
"We'll all die if we don't do something. Being crushed together, or just a few of us... seems like an easy choice to me."
Adam lowered his head. His face hardened.
"You're really sure? It might not change anything."
"Why would I come to you if I wasn't sure, huh? At least we'll have tried."
He smiled—almost peacefully.
"Hey, Captain, I'll tell Captain Fontaine, Gauthier, and Louis that we really made those damned redcoats suffer."
Adam felt a tear coming, but choked it back before it could fall.
"You're insane."
"Just tell everyone we were brave—it sounds better. And that we died as heroes."
Adam grasped his lieutenant's forearm. They exchanged a long look.
"The greatest heroes," he swore.
Twenty men volunteered. Among them, Beau-Regard.
There were no emotional speeches, no goodbyes. Every second counted.
With a heavy heart, Adam led the others north, leaving behind a handful of madmen.
They were no more than a handful. Not even fifty.
***
The French had fought valiantly, but they could only delay the inevitable.
Despite their fierce resistance, they were wiped out.
The gunfire ceased, but the smell of powder lingered in the air.
Bodies lay scattered on the ground. No survivors.
"They really fought to the end... What a bunch of lunatics."
Major Massey emerged from a group of grenadiers and stopped where the French had made their final stand.
The Mohawks were already there.
While Joseph Brant studied the tracks in the mud, his companions moved silently among the bodies, bloodied knives in hand.
With his own eyes, Massey watched in horror as they grabbed their enemies by the hair and began to scalp them with practiced blades. Slowly, they worked the skin free from the skull.
As they performed their grim task, they murmured words in their incomprehensible language.
Though he formally condemned such acts, Massey didn't stop them. It was common—he knew that—and even encouraged to keep the Indians involved in the war.
Most officers looked away, some even justified the practice. Cannibalism and torture, however, were strictly condemned.
He grimaced and turned aside, jaw clenched, to join Joseph Brant.
"They split up, didn't they?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Cowards. After everything they've done, they don't even have the courage to face the consequences."
Brant raised his chin slightly. His gaze lingered on a soldier whose skull had been stripped clean.
"These ones weren't cowards. Thirty against five hundred. Who does that? They died to the last man. They're brave among the brave."
Major Massey narrowed his eyes and glanced at the four other Iroquois, their backs turned to him.
"Then why are they doing this?" he hissed in disgust. "They don't even respect the dead."
Joseph Brant didn't get angry. He knew their cultures were different. Misunderstandings were inevitable.
"Major, for a warrior, taking a scalp is proof of skill. Of worth. Try to understand. It's like a medal."
"A medal? More like a trophy. But I've heard there's also some religious meaning to it, am I wrong?"
Brant raised an eyebrow in surprise. Not all Europeans knew that.
"You're right. But that shouldn't bother you too much, should it? It's not your religion."
Massey gritted his teeth harder.
Even if it wasn't Christian, those savages were still trying to deny these men access to paradise. Whether it was their paradise didn't matter.
Just because one didn't believe in curses didn't mean one liked receiving them.
Brant, guessing his thoughts, added calmly:
"If it helps, think of it this way: they're doing it for the money. If they sell those scalps, they'll get a good price from the governor. Does that seem more honorable to you? You white men do far worse for money."
Massey looked away. He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking.
What did he know, and what gave him the right to judge? They were above such things!
Everything they did was out of necessity! The evil they committed was a necessary evil—for the good of the kingdom!
Fortunately, before the exchange could sour further, a firm voice interrupted them: Captain Cameron, one of Massey's most reliable officers.
"Major, we've suffered heavy losses. Many of our wounded are in critical condition."
Massey took a deep breath. He had seen the bodies on the way here.
"What are the numbers?"
"Thirty-four dead, sixty-two wounded—two may not survive the night."
Massey closed his eyes briefly, as if offering a prayer to the fallen. The figure was far higher than he had anticipated.
Then he turned to Brant.
"Can you estimate how far ahead they are?"
"About half an hour. But they'll move much faster now. We may not catch them—especially if you're dragging your wounded."
Massey thought for a moment, then nodded.
"I see. Captain Cameron, go with Mr. Brant and two of his men. Take eighty riflemen, fifty light infantry, and twenty grenadiers. That should be more than enough to crush them, and you won't be slowed down."
"At once, sir!" the officer replied with a crisp salute.
Joseph Brant simply nodded.
"We'll bring you good news soon."