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The ground seemed to tremble beneath the hurried footsteps of the French.
Trees rushed past like muddled thoughts. Birds perched on their branches watched the small band of soldiers with bewilderment, as though they were fleeing from a predator.
With each stride, the damp earth made a soft, muffled sound. But the crushed undergrowth and broken branches screamed.
It felt as though in this forest, they were the only sound.
They were fewer than fifty, and yet made such a racket one might think they were two hundred.
The fugitives had no idea how to move quietly—and no time to try.
Every second was a gift bought in blood by their brave comrades who remained behind on that wooded hilltop.
They knew that once the last man fell, the redcoats would come after them.
Adam and his men had inflicted too many losses on the British Crown. The English hated them—so much so that even that word felt inadequate. And they had every right to.
"Move! Faster!"
Adam's voice, strangled by exhaustion, barely carried.
His breath was short, his lungs on fire.
He was still running, though he had no idea how. He'd burned through every last drop of energy, like the rest of his men.
Those who stumbled somehow always found the strength to get back up. Perhaps that was the result of endless drills.
Now, they were grateful to have been pushed again and again to their limits.
Their muskets felt like they weighed a ton, and yet none let go. They clung to them as if they were cherished memories.
Adam glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing.
He couldn't trust his eyes, though. His vision was blurred by sweat running down from his scalp—and by exhaustion.
He didn't notice the large stone protruding from the earth like a shark's fin. He struck it hard, but felt no pain—only the jolt.
"Sh-shit!"
He fell, rolled, and rose again in one fluid motion, as though the tumble had been meticulously choreographed.
Adam didn't realize he had lost his tricorne.
His hair floated around his face in long, sticky strands. He couldn't have said when it had come undone.
At last, they stopped.
Just to catch their breath.
To make sure they were all still there.
The forest grew quiet once more, disturbed only by the ragged breathing of soldiers who looked like deserters.
Some collapsed to the ground; others leaned against moss-covered trees to keep from swaying. Private Tournier vomited everything in his stomach—which wasn't much.
He'd barely eaten that morning, and nothing since. They'd barely had anything to drink either.
Adam's throat was so dry that swallowing felt like grinding sandpaper. He would have dunked his head in the first river they found.
His legs weak as paper, he let his shoulder rest against a thick ivy-covered trunk, his head buzzing.
Ah… Ah… God… I-I can't… G-guh…
His head spun like he was drunk, so he slapped himself a few times.
Come on! Snap out of it! Wake up! Now's not the time to sleep!
"G-guys, w-we'll take a short break, just one minute. Then we move."
No one answered, but their silence said it all.
Lieutenants Marais, Cornette, and Leblanc approached.
"Sir, the men are exhausted," said Marais.
"We can't keep this up," added Cornette.
Leblanc said nothing, his face dark.
"I know. But we have no choice. We have to keep going—we have to live. For the ones still up there. We need to reach the Mohawk River. Once we're across, we'll be safe."
The lieutenants exchanged uneasy glances.
The Mohawk River, as its name implied, ran through Mohawk territory. It joined the Hudson north of Albany.
But it wasn't close.
They'd almost certainly be caught before reaching it.
"Captain," said Marais, "it'll take us hours to get there through the woods. The redcoats are probably in better shape than we are. They'll catch up."
Adam inhaled, trembling.
"T-then we change course. If we can't outrun them, maybe we can throw them off. Take a detour, reach the river farther upstream..."
Even as he said it, Adam knew it wouldn't work.
Cornette, a hardened veteran, had risen to his rank not through wealth or connections, but through effort and ability. He shook his head gravely.
"Captain Boucher, look behind us. Even a blind man could follow our trail. Our footprints are everywhere. Even if we change direction a thousand times, the English will have no trouble finding us."
Adam had no choice but to concede the point.
"What do you suggest, then, gentlemen?"
It was Lieutenant Leblanc who spoke next—a man in his forties who had retained the charm of his thirties. With a square jaw, brown hair, and striking blue-grey eyes, he looked like an American actor born in the wrong century.
In another era, he might have taken Hollywood by storm and driven many girls mad.
"Sir, we have a slight advantage over them. Let's use it to set an ambush. We have experience now. They won't expect us to go on the offensive."
Marais immediately followed up.
"Captain, we've lost a lot of weapons, but we still have enough for every man. More importantly, we still have ammunition. We can, and must, avenge our comrades."
Cornette nodded calmly.
"What Lieutenant Marais says is true, Captain. This move will also give us a bit of a break. A well-executed attack will create confusion. Then, we can resume our retreat to the river while the British tend to their wounds. Even if they come after us again, they'll have to proceed cautiously, which will slow them down."
Adam listened in silence, visualizing the scenario. Calculating risks, gains, potential losses, consequences—that was what it meant to command.
The more he thought about it, the more the plan appealed to him.
Hmm… they're right. If we keep going like this, we'll be crushed. Our lead can't be very large. If we use it like this… it shouldn't be a waste, I suppose?
"And where would we set this ambush?" he asked after a long pause.
"We passed a good spot about five minutes ago," Leblanc replied. "A small rise, just to the right."
Adam tried to recall it, but in vain. He hadn't noticed anything—just trees, endlessly. Old, young, all alike.
Really? If you say so…
"So we go back, then…"
"Sir," Marais cut in with enthusiasm, "it's a good idea. Our enemies will see our trail continue and assume we've gone further. They'll advance without suspecting we're waiting for them!"
"I understand. Hm… very well. Let's follow this plan."
The French doubled back, but without retracing their exact steps. They drew a wide arc before reaching the height Lieutenant Leblanc had mentioned.
It only rose about five meters above the path—but that was more than enough.
This is it? Not bad at all. It's like a balcony. The redcoats will be easy targets, and we'll be able to pull back quickly.
"Everyone, spread out and stay quiet. Reload your weapons and get some rest."
The soldiers nodded mechanically, their eyes hollow.
"When the redcoats pass, I'll give the signal. One volley only. Let every shot count, and let our friends be avenged!"
A flicker of light returned to their eyes, fragile as a candle's flame about to be snuffed out by a draft—but then it grew steadier, brighter.
Adam continued, louder:
"Today, we do not die! We live to tell what we have done and what we have seen! We'll laugh together at our enemies' misfortunes and drink to the memory of those who are no longer with us!"
He paused briefly.
"One shot, gentlemen. That's all I ask of you. We won't stay here any longer. One shot to show them we are not prey. Then we fall back. Once that's done, we head north. If we get separated, regroup at the meeting of the Mohawk and Hudson Rivers. We'll cross together—understood? Now, regain your strength!"
"Yes, Captain!" they answered in unison.
***
The company led by Captain Charles Henry Cameron was finally about to catch up with the small group of fugitives.
The path these men had taken was clear, rendering the handful of Iroquois accompanying them practically useless. All they had to do was follow the trail laid out before them.
Thanks to their overwhelming numerical superiority, the British had no doubt they would win. In open battle, victory would be a mere formality.
But they were in a foul mood.
To catch up, they had been forced to march at a punishing pace for over an hour.
Had those mad Frenchmen not held them up on the summit of that little wooded hill, this would've been over long ago.
Fortunately, the fugitives had carefully avoided high ground so as not to exhaust themselves too quickly.
This region had no shortage of elevation, but there were also plenty of relatively flat areas. The hills stood out like blemishes—isolated, awkward, like pimples on the skin of a teenager in the throes of acne.
They could thus cover miles while avoiding them altogether.
In that, they could be grateful: Captain Cameron and his men had no desire to amuse themselves scaling those worn-down hills one after the other.
The officer kept a stern expression, but inwardly he was elated. Soon, these French would be nothing more than a memory—and it would be thanks to him.
According to the major and the bodies left behind by the enemy, the bulk of that opposing force had managed to flee. As such, a share of the laurels would fall to him.
Of course, as a subordinate to Major Massey, most of the credit would go to the latter—but still! He would be the one to deal the final blow.
It was good for his career, which hadn't progressed in years.
Maybe I'll be a major before the war ends. Major Cameron. That sounds good.
A faint smile curled on his thin lips.
How many officers younger than he already bore higher ranks? The world was truly unjust.
Ah… If only I had been born into a wealthier family… Or better yet: if my parents had been noble! I would've started my career as a lieutenant, perhaps even as a captain! Climbing to the rank of major or even colonel would have been child's play!
Their own colonel was just one of many examples.
He was merely the son of a baronet, and yet, at only thirty-nine—Cameron's age—he was already a lieutenant-colonel! At fifty, he had reached the rank of full colonel!
Although he held the colonelcy of the 27th Regiment of Foot only as a replacement for Colonel Blakeney, the drunkard who'd died the previous year, he had in fact been promoted multiple times to even higher ranks!
That old man held the rank of lieutenant-general, just one step below General St Clair. He was well on his way to becoming a full general!
So unfair!And me? What will I have? Am I to die a major? When will fortune finally see fit to smile upon me?!
"Sir," Joseph Brant suddenly interrupted, "they're very close. The tracks are fresh."
Captain Cameron nodded without betraying the slightest emotion. He didn't even bother to reply.
He didn't like the man. A savage pretending to be one of them—civilized.
He irritated him to no end.
Though baptized, decently behaved, and fluent in English, he was still a savage. Spending so much time among Whites, he'd clearly forgotten his place in the world.
No matter his efforts, he would never change his blood or the color of his skin, nor could he surpass the limits of his inferior brain.
Look at him… playing in the mud. "They're very close. The tracks are fresh." Of course they are! We're moving faster than they are! I want this over with so I can report to the major. I only hope he won't downplay my contribution in front of the colonel and the general!
His legs were in tatters. Endurance had never been his strong suit.
Cameron much preferred command and logistics. His pride was his company—the most disciplined in the regiment.
Well, except for the grenadiers, those great hulking brutes carved from stone like Greek statues.
Since leaving Fort Edward, they had shown not the slightest sign of fatigue.
They were tireless monsters.
The ten assigned to him marched with steady, long strides, as if patrolling in front of a palace. On the battlefield, their mere presence was enough to force the enemy to rethink their strategy.
They were like heavy cavalry: lethally effective. Worth every shilling of their pay.
Charles Henry Cameron let out a deep sigh, though he couldn't say why.
Just then, the two Mohawks who had gone ahead to scout came running back. They exchanged a few quick words with Brant, who looked first surprised, then doubtful, then concerned.
Now what?
"Captain, the enemy—"
"FIRE!!!" (in French)
Before he could finish his sentence, a piercing cry, followed by a devastating volley, erupted on their right flank.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The blast was so close that dozens of men dropped at once, without a chance to react.
Oh no!
Cameron's eyes widened. Terror gripped him—and then a burning pain tore through him.
It was as if a blade heated white-hot had sliced through his body.
"ARGH!"
He clutched at his chest with a hand that had suddenly gone cold and collapsed heavily to one side.
A soldier saw him fall and rushed to his aid.
"I-I've been hit!"
"Captain! This way!"
The pain was overwhelming. It consumed every thought.
He barely noticed as someone hoisted him up and dragged him to safety behind a large flat rock. A second soldier quickly joined to help get him out of harm's way.
His men regained their composure and began firing back toward the trees. But the angle was terrible, and the thick vegetation posed a major obstacle.
"Your orders, Captain! What are your orders?!"
He struggled to gather his thoughts.
"D-don't be intimidated! It's only a handful of them! C-charge and k-kill every last one of them!"
***
François and his men had already taken flight.
With his unloaded musket in hand and dirt-caked fingers, he ran for his life.
The moment he saw that column, he knew they didn't stand a chance if they lingered in the area.
His legs moved as if by magic. Adam no longer seemed to be in control.
It was as though he were a mere witness to his own flight.
Around him, the men in white were running with the same desperate energy.
The few minutes of rest they had gotten before the redcoats' arrival had helped.
But they weren't superhuman. Their bodies had limits.
After about thirty minutes of intense running through trees and brush, they were forced to stop again.
Adam was bleeding from his cheek.
While running, he had been lashed by a thorn-covered branch, some of the thorns as long as a finger joint.
When he looked around, only about twenty of them were left.
***
At the same moment, Joseph Brant returned to the ambush site.
Fresh blood stained his face—but it wasn't his own.
He had caught up with an enemy who was slower than the rest, leapt on him, and stabbed him multiple times.
One of his fellow warriors, Ratonhnhaké:ton, had also taken one down, killing him with his tomahawk.
He had crossed paths with him just as he was finishing scalping the man. His face was entirely red.
Unfortunately, their other brother had been killed during the attack.
On the narrow path, dozens of bodies lay scattered.
The French had fired only once—but at close range.
Few had survived their wounds.
The rest could consider themselves lucky.
"Where's Captain Cameron?" Brant asked as he approached, his heart still pounding.
They simply pointed to a body.
"Damn…"
He turned toward the redcoats, whose morale was clearly broken.
"Who's in charge now?"
A lieutenant raised his hand.
"Me," he said with a weary voice. "Were you able to kill any of our enemies?"
"Of course," Brant replied sarcastically. "I killed them all with my bare hands, leaping from tree to tree."
The lieutenant frowned, clearly in no mood for jokes.
"How many?"
"Most of them escaped. I got one, and Ratonhnhaké:ton got another. Your men? I don't know."
"Two enemies killed… Two more found up there… And we've got forty-one dead and six wounded.
The major's going to be furious."
"Then we must keep pursuing," Brant said without hesitation.
The lieutenant didn't answer right away.
They had just lost a third of their force—an absolutely catastrophic number, completely unacceptable in any regular battle.
Even six percent losses were usually considered high.
But this—this had been an ambush.
A shameful, despicable attack. The kind pulled off by petty bandits, savages… or Scotsmen.
And yet, to turn back now…
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
He knew that while the casualties would fall on Captain Cameron's shoulders, the enemy's escape would be blamed on him.
"Fine," he said at last. "We keep going. Six men will stay here to tend to the wounded and watch over the dead. I… I'll write a report to inform the major of what happened and request reinforcements."