Hello!
Enjoy the new chapter!
Thank you Historyman_84, Galan_05, Daoist397717, lizeer, George_Bush_2910,Dekol347, Porthos10, AlexZero12, Mium, Shingle_Top and Ranger_Red for the support!
-----------------------------------------
The column of armed men advanced in silence, but inside Adam's mind, thoughts were racing loudly.
Walking at the head of the small group, he paid little attention to his surroundings.
It felt as though he were alone on this trail known only to Iroquois hunters.
His shoulders heavy, eyes fixed on the barely visible path lined with waist-high grass, he marched toward the territory that had once again fallen into English hands.
The cold November sunlight easily slipped between the bare branches of the towering trees.
It cast vast, intricate shadows on the ground, as if they all belonged to a single, monstrous tree.
The matriarch's words still echoed in his mind, like autumn rain falling on a canvas tent.
He had hoped so deeply, wanted so badly to believe there was still a path back to his home, his family, his friends, the world he had always known.
For four years, he had clung to that hope with desperate, almost childlike faith.
It was what had kept him going day after day, pushing forward one more step at a time.
Without that hope, he would have collapsed long ago.
But in hindsight—and thanks to his hour-long conversation with the matriarch—he had started to doubt.
Would he really have collapsed? Or would he have found the strength within himself to rise again, not to die in vain?
He had managed to accept that all of this was real, however absurd it might seem.
Time travel. It belonged in fiction. Not always good fiction.
He had quickly accepted his situation and his new identity.
Perhaps he could have accepted, right from the start, that there was no way back?
If this truly is my world now… then what am I supposed to do? No—before that… Who am I?
The fusion of his identity with François's had, strangely, been just as easily accepted.
And yet it raised a fundamental question: was he still Adam?
He couldn't be only Adam—that much was certain.
He remembered François's life as clearly as he remembered his own.
Those two lives didn't conflict. They intertwined like the branches of two trees that had grown side by side. The same went for their roots.
Their souls had always been one and the same.
The period when they had coexisted—or cohabited—had only been a transition.
They were one existence, but not one person. Each had lived their own life, which had led to two distinct personalities.
And like their soul, those personalities had finally merged into a single one—just as complex as any other.
Still… Am I more Adam, or more François?
The matriarch had told him that Adam had taken over, because he had arrived as François was dying.
He let out a deep sigh as he recalled the figure of François, whom he had met in that world of illusions—an eternity ago.
Now that we've fused… does that mean François's consciousness is completely gone? Is that what awaits me if I still try to return to the 21st century?
Adam clenched his hand around the strap of his musket, slung over his shoulder.
Will I, in turn, be absorbed by another version of me? Will my soul be destroyed? And this body—François's body—will it just… die?
There were too many unanswered questions. His head was spinning.
Adam had sought the matriarch's advice, and unsurprisingly, she had suggested he imitate the Great Peacemaker.
Ah… If my roots are here now, then why does it hurt so much?
Whatever choice he made, he would inevitably lose something.
In the worst case, he would lose everything: his family back in the 21st century, everyone he had met here… and himself.
Staying seemed the only safe path.
This world no longer felt so strange—he had friends… and Onatah.
Her face, her name, her lips returned to his mind again and again, as if she were there, invisible, holding his hand so he wouldn't forget.
He loved her.
He loved her like he had never loved anyone before.
All the girls he had known, seduced, then forgotten… None had ever made his heart beat the way she did.
Adam had spent so little time with her, and yet… every fiber of his being screamed that he could not live without her.
Even if he someday regained his old life—comfortable, predictable, boring—he would miss her deeply.
A bird suddenly flew out of a bush.
Everyone stopped, breath held, before relaxing when an Iroquois figure emerged.
Tayohseron and his comrades were currently serving as scouts.
Thanks to them, traveling through the forest had been surprisingly easy—almost like following a road.
After two and a half days, they reached the area of Fort Bourbon. Fort Edward, now.
It could barely be seen in the distance, between the trees.
It only took a few steps closer to see how much it had suffered.
If not for the number of redcoats, one might have thought it abandoned.
"Tayohseron," Adam said, "we should find a good place to ambush the redcoats. I know there are some good spots near the old Fort Miller. Can you find us a route?"
"Fort Miller," murmured the Iroquois, folding his arms. "I see. We'll guide you. But are you sure? That's quite close to the fort."
"Hmm," Adam nodded. "We just need to be fast. And it's not exactly next door either. At normal speed, it takes six hours to make the connection. Even if they double their pace, we'll have more than enough time to disappear."
Tayohseron nodded.
-----------------------------------------
Thanks to him and his comrades, the group had no trouble slipping past the English without being detected.
In the heavy silence of the forest, they made their way to the ruins of Fort Miller, burned to the ground by the army of Marshal-Duke de Richelieu. There, they reformed the column.
A few hundred meters ahead, they found an excellent spot to set up an ambush: a narrow defile between two wooded slopes.
When Tayohseron returned from scouting and announced the approach of a convoy with about twenty wagons, excitement spread like wildfire through the ranks—especially among the men of the Berry Regiment, hungry for action.
"Finally!"
"A convoy! Ahaha! We're going to crush them!"
"Hehe! They won't know what hit them! Hey, I hope they've got good food!"
"And good wine!"
"Silence in the ranks!" a sergeant shouted. "Where do you think you are?! Hurry up and check your weapons and cartridges!"
Adam smiled faintly at his men's enthusiasm.
He had grown used to this too: war, uniforms, looting, gunfire, screams, the sound of the morning drum, the sight of flags flapping in the wind, the smell of burnt powder.
He slowly shook his head and grew serious again.
"Tayohseron, were you able to assess the size of their escort? How many men, and what's their composition?"
The tall warrior, armed with a musket and a bow, scratched his head.
"We counted nearly a hundred and fifty enemies. Half of them weren't in uniform."
"Hmm, that's a lot, but not unexpected. If half are militiamen... Good. We can handle it."
"Yes. But we must leave no witnesses."
Adam nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on his men.
"I know. I'll be counting on your warriors, my brother."
A feral smile curled Tayohseron's lips.
"No problem. A man, even the fastest, is always slower than a deer... or an arrow."
Adam glanced sideways at the Mohawk warrior but said nothing. His heart quickly returned to a calm rhythm.
"Very well. As for the wounded, we'll disguise their injuries easily. However…"
He narrowed his eyes toward Tayohseron's companions inspecting their weapons.
"Don't worry, my brother," Tayohseron said, preempting Adam's request. "They understand why they can't take scalps. It's a shame, but if we do, it'll be like shouting to the world that we were here. We'll also make sure to recover every arrow we fire."
"Thank you."
Relieved, Adam returned to his officers to quickly issue the final instructions. Each company already knew its place.
Adam would be on the left side of the road with Jacques Collet's company. The other two would be on the opposite side. As for the Iroquois, they would be split into two groups on each flank.
Good, everything is ready. All that's missing is the enemy.
His eyes left the horizon and focused on the road beneath them. It looked as if a legendary warrior had slashed a hill open with a sword.
It was truly an ideal place to launch an attack. Once engaged, the English would be unable to maneuver. They could only form a back-to-back defense or flee.
Naturally, we won't let them, thought Adam as his gaze dropped to the long barrel of his musket. We must let no one escape and lose no one of our own. To do that, we have to end it quickly.
"They're coming!" someone shouted tensely among the pines.
In an instant, silence fell like a lead curtain. Everyone froze. The tension above the group rose another notch.
From the road, the French were invisible.
Adam pressed himself against a damp, nearly black tree trunk. He wedged the butt of his weapon against his shoulder and calmly took aim.
The first wagon appeared, its wheels creaking along the dirt path. It was pulled by two strong horses, one brown, the other gray speckled with white.
The driver sat on a wooden seat, lazily holding a whip like it was a fishing rod.
Behind him marched a line of redcoats on foot, walking casually as if strolling through a London park.
They seem so serene. So confident… Fools.
The wagons moved heavily. Some were drawn by one or two horses, but a few had four.
Most were covered with taut tarps, concealing their contents. It was impossible to tell what they were carrying.
But one thing was certain: the fifteen warriors provided by Akwiratheka would not be able to carry everything.
No doubt the great chief hadn't expected them to attack such a large convoy.
"FIRE!"
The command cracked like a whip and made everyone jump.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
A deafeningly brutal volley exploded on both sides of the road. Nearly a hundred and fifty shots rang out at once, shattering the forest's calm.
The effect was devastating.
The enemy, believing themselves safe, never expected to be struck at the very heart of their formation. Dozens of men collapsed without understanding what was happening, pierced at point-blank range.
At that distance, and thanks to their rigorous training, the French couldn't miss.It was a slaughter.
The British militiamen and regulars grabbed their weapons and fired blindly toward the trees, hitting nothing.
The French were already in cover, reloading. Within seconds, they were ready to fire again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Enemy morale plummeted as fast as their numbers. After only two volleys…
"Some are trying to run!"
No orders were needed—the Mohawks were already in motion.
***
Silent as shadows, swift as wind, they descended on the fleeing soldiers. The last to run and the slowest were naturally the first to fall.
Deep in the woods, their cries could barely be heard.
Tayohseron was chasing two men. His large, powerful hand grabbed the coat of the first and brought him down. In less than a second, his knife slid into the man's throat with a grotesque sound.
As the man—a militiaman—died at his feet, the tall warrior pulled an arrow from his quiver and placed it on his bow.
Without hesitation, he drew it and aimed at the back of the second man, running straight ahead.
At the last moment, he raised the bow slightly and loosed the arrow.
It followed a perfect arc and embedded itself deep in the man's back. He collapsed. Still alive, but the pain was unbearable—he could no longer run.
He crawled through moss, grass, nettles, and brambles. A long string of drool dripped from his mouth, twisted in terror.
He felt a presence behind him.
When he turned around, he saw the towering figure of the Mohawk. The warrior raised a tomahawk above his head, his eyes devoid of emotion.
"P-please!"
Splatch!
The Mohawks finished them all without a shred of mercy.
***
Tayohseron returned a few minutes later, not even out of breath. His companions weren't far behind.
The road had grown eerily quiet, and a strong scent of blood hung in the air. Bodies were strewn across dozens of meters.
Terrified horses had tried to flee the ambush, but in their panic, had blocked each other.
The column, orderly just moments earlier, was now a complete mess. One horse had even been struck in the throat by a stray bullet. The poor beast collapsed and died only after several long minutes.
Adam walked among the corpses, musket still in hand. He headed toward the returning Iroquois.
"Is everyone here?" he asked in their language.
"Yes, we're all here. No need to worry, you see? Those militiamen were so busy fleeing they forgot to defend themselves."
"Good," the young captain exhaled with genuine relief. "As you can see, we're done here."
Adam wiped his forehead with a sleeve, as if he had spent the morning chopping wood in the summer heat. He turned toward the wagons.
"As agreed, you may take whatever you want."
Tayohseron and the others grinned broadly and began to inspect the carts. They were overflowing with supplies: sacks of flour, barrels of lard, salted meats, biscuits, bread, alcohol, vegetables.
For a village like theirs, it was a true treasure.
But very quickly, a realization set in—they couldn't take everything unless they brought the carts themselves.
Of course, that was impossible. The forest paths were far too rough for wagons.
Even roads, in some conditions, could become impassable. And that was without mentioning the tracks they would leave behind. If they returned to their village with all those carts, they would be discovered immediately.
Even the worst tracker could follow a trail like that. But there was another solution.
"We'll take the horses and load them as much as possible," Tayohseron declared. "We won't be able to carry it all, but it's still better than hauling it by hand."
Adam tensed and winced.
While it had been agreed they could keep the spoils, nothing had been said about the horses.
He had planned to keep them—to equip at least part of his men. The fact that most of the animals lacked saddles didn't matter much to him.
At worst, like Tayohseron suggested, they could be used as pack animals.
A keen observer, the warrior noticed the change in his French brother's expression.
"You were planning to keep the horses?" he asked, without hostility.
"I… would've liked to, yes," Adam admitted with a sigh. "But…"
If it helps strengthen our alliance, reinforce our friendship… I suppose we'd better let them go this time?
"In that case," said the Mohawk warrior, "I'll only take ten. You can keep the rest."Adam raised an eyebrow.
"Are you sure?"
"Anyway," he said with a shrug, "there's only fifteen of us. It's already going to be a pain to bring them back to our place without dropping all our loot."
Adam hesitated for a second, then extended his hand.
"Alright, deal! We should start loading them up."
-----------------------------------------
The men got to work among the corpses. They tied, strapped, and distributed the sacks methodically.
Once the Mohawks were ready, they gave the French a brief nod and vanished into the trees.
Soon, the French were left alone with ten horses and carts still full of food.
Despite their efforts, the Mohawks had only been able to carry a fraction of the supplies.
Without delay, the French loaded the animals to a reasonable limit, making sure they could still move through the underbrush, and set the convoy on fire.
Then they too vanished in silence.
Naturally, it didn't take long for the news to reach General Murray.
***
The sun was slowly setting over Fort Edward, casting soft golden reflections over its battered ramparts.
The acrid smell of gunpowder, smoke, and blood had faded, but the scars from the shelling remained, like deep wounds freshly stitched up.
Even from a distance, the impact marks from the cannonballs were still visible.
General Murray, accompanied by his officers, was making his rounds and slightly regretted having been so ruthless.
Still, they would soon have all the time they needed to repair it.
Of course—provided His Majesty deemed it necessary.
In a few weeks at most, they would have enough supplies to march on Fort Carillon. He was also expecting reinforcements to make up for the October losses.
Once taken, Fort Edward would become nothing more than a secondary relay, a tiny dot on the long road to the frontier.
Hmm, even if it loses its role as a lock, this fort can't be left in this state. His Majesty will surely decide as soon as peace is signed.
Murray turned north and let the sun's rays brush against his age-lined face. They hardly warmed him, but it was still pleasant.
Fort William-Henry was much better positioned. If Montcalm hadn't destroyed it, we could have used it to prepare the invasion of New France.
A cry suddenly broke the calm.
"Smoke! There's smoke to the south!"
Murray turned and saw it too—a thin but clearly visible black streak rising on the horizon.
Who knows how long it had been there, right before their eyes?
At that moment, a rider burst through the fort gates at full gallop, covered in dust and pale-faced.
"A convoy's been attacked! Wh-where's General Murray?!"
Damn it!
Even on the far side of the fort, Murray heard it.
He descended briskly, jaw clenched, and reached the parade ground where the breathless rider was.
"General! I have a message for you, but—on the road near the ruins of Fort Muller, I saw smoke! One of our convoys has been attacked by the French!"
"Calm yourself!" the general barked. "How many were they?"
"I… don't know, sir. Th-they were already gone! Th-the whole escort was slaughtered!"
All fell silent—one could have heard a pin drop.
"The whole escort?" the old officer repeated. "How many losses?"
"At least a hundred! A massacre! I came straight away to warn you."
A chilling silence fell. Everyone was frozen.
Murray stood still, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. He bit the inside of his cheek until he bled.
His fury was immense, barely restrained.
He wanted to explode—destroy everything.
"Good God… What an outrage."
This kind of cowardly tactic… It's clearly the French again! How disgraceful! Miserable dogs! They have no honor whatsoever!
He wasn't thinking of Montcalm, whom he knew to be honorable and respectful of the rules, but rather of that small group Major Massey had been chasing for days.
Them again?! He told me they were no longer a threat! He was supposed to crush them!
He spun around, his features taut and eyes blazing.
"Where's Major Massey?!"
"Here, General."
"Doesn't this way of fighting seem familiar to you? It's those wretches you were meant to eliminate! I thought that business was over!"
Massey stood tall, though he lost some color.
"Sir, this kind of guerrilla warfare is indeed their tactic of choice, but there's no proof it's the same group."
"No proof?! Didn't some of them escape you—and that Brant of yours?!"
Massey wanted to defend himself, but he knew his general well—protesting would only make things worse.
It was true he hadn't killed them all.
"They may have regrouped. Perhaps they've even been reinforced."
"They must not be allowed to act with impunity! Now that we're no longer besieging Fort Edward, our hands are free! Hunt them down and destroy them once and for all, Major! Use all the men you need! Our supply line must be restored and secured. You!"
He turned again to the rider.
"Go back to Albany and… ah, give me some paper! I'll write a message for High Command. I want to be ready to strike Fort Carillon as soon as possible!"
The rider trembled and bowed, then seemed to recall something.
"Uh, General, I also have this for you."
He pulled a sealed envelope from his satchel and handed it to the officer.
Murray snatched it almost violently, broke the seal stamped with a coat of arms, and quickly unfolded the cream-colored paper.
His eyes were already scanning the lines.
His expression slowly changed.
The storm in his eyes faded, replaced by a strange gleam.
"Heh… Finally, some good news!"