Hello! Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
Thank you Porthos10, Mium, AlexZero12, Ranger_Red, Shingle_Top, Rain_1658, Dekol347, DX_2000, and Galan_05 for the support!
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There was, not far from the Hudson River, about ten kilometers north of Albany, a manor and several outbuildings.
Alas, all of it had been ruined by the passage of Marshal Duke de Richelieu's army in 1758.
The owner of the estate, Stephen van Rensselaer the Second, had escaped capture. When Albany fell, he had been near New York City on a business trip.
By the time he returned to his land—founded one hundred and thirty years earlier by his ancestor Kiliaen van Rensselaer—only ashes remained.
He had lost more than a roof and walls. He had lost a legacy. A heritage patiently built and enriched generation after generation by determined men willing to roll up their sleeves and pass on more than they had received.
It was a heavy responsibility for someone so young. He had been only five when his father died. He was nineteen now.
True to his character, and out of duty—both to those who had come before and those who would come after—he had done what was expected of him: he rolled up his sleeves.
Very slowly, for he had lost much of his wealth and most of his workers had been deported to New France, a new Rensselaer manor was beginning to take shape.
A structure was already rising, and the scale of the project was evident. A large quantity of building materials had been gathered and stored under cover.
It was in one of these shelters that Adam and his men had found refuge.
The place was cramped—less welcoming than a stable—but at least they were dry.
Outside, night had fallen, and a violent downpour raged. They were relieved to have found this place.
Unfortunately, they had no fire. Too risky. They feared discovery—and flight, again.
As soon as the tension eased, their bodies collapsed.
The air smelled of wet dog, sweat, and fresh wood, but no one complained. They were too exhausted to care, or even think.
They had barely made it here unseen.
Amid planks, ropes, toolboxes, and salvaged remnants from the old manor, they caught their breath. Some were already asleep.
Le Canon, shot during the river crossing, was finishing a makeshift surgery. Despite his inexperience, Adam had taken on the heavy responsibility.
By luck, they had found in the shelter—inside a blackened wooden chest beneath a heavy candlestick—several bottles of wine from Italy and elsewhere.
The brave sergeant had downed one himself, and another had been used to disinfect the wound.
But for instruments, Adam had to improvise with an unsterilized knife. Throughout the operation, he had followed the wounded man's instructions.
He had been lucky: the bullet hadn't shattered inside, nor struck bone or artery.
Adam was now finishing the stitches.
"Captain?" came a voice behind him, just as he wiped his forehead.
Adam turned slowly. It was a young soldier—the one who had stumbled into the river earlier that afternoon.
His face was drawn, a mix of worry and exhaustion that aged him terribly. It was as if he had gained twenty years in an instant.
"Will he make it?"
Adam nodded, not very confidently.
"I hope so. It's the first time I've done this… and without fire to heat the blade."
He looked again at the big man lying on his stomach. The area around the wound was red.
Strangely, despite the pain and the uncomfortable position, he had managed to fall asleep. Perhaps it was the wine?
"He's a strong man, in good health. His breathing's steady, no fever, no pus. I think… he'll make it. But I can't promise anything. We'll see tomorrow."
The young soldier lowered his head and fidgeted nervously with his tricorne.
"I see… I'll pray for him."
Me too, thought Adam. I don't want to watch another comrade die. Not again. Not like André.
He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder, his voice almost gentle.
"Go sleep. Tomorrow will be a rough day."
The boy—eighteen or nineteen, maybe—bit his lip.
"Do you… do you think the English will keep chasing us?"
Adam didn't answer right away. He listened to the rain hammering the shelter's roof and the sodden ground, then sighed.
"Probably. With a bit of luck, they'll leave us alone tonight. They'll likely need to regroup, wait for orders. Looking for us now, in the middle of the night, in this downpour… it'd be foolish. They'd wear themselves out. But still, we should stay alert."
Painfully, like an old man with rusty joints, the young officer got up and picked up his still-soaked coat.
He walked with dragging steps, careful not to wake anyone, and lay down a little ways off, between a pile of beams and some crates containing paintings.
He had barely glanced at them. One showed the manor before its destruction and its magnificent gardens.
Adam couldn't remember it. Back then, he had been setting fire to other houses on the opposite side of the river.
Now, wild grasses reigned, the trees were untrimmed, and the old manor looked like a blackened skeleton.
Good, he thought, rolling his coat into a makeshift pillow. We'll finally be able to rest. If all goes well, we'll rejoin the others tomorrow. And after that… I guess we should head toward Fort Bourbon.
He let out a long sigh—this one of relief—as his head sank into something soft and comforting.
Instantly, his muscles relaxed.
The ground didn't feel as hard anymore.
Without even realizing it, despite his resolve to stay alert, Adam fell into a deep sleep. His snores soon blended with the others'.
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The rain stopped around three thirty in the morning.
Nearly an hour before dawn, a hand gently shook Adam's shoulder. He jolted awake, eyes wide in the darkness, breath short, ready to leap.
"What?! What is it?!"
He scanned the surroundings, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. Several soldiers were already on their feet, looking ready to leave.
"Captain, wake up," La Coquette whispered. "Daylight's coming, and Marceau saw movement."
Adam's heart clenched.
"Redcoats?"
"No, sir. Settlers. We're on some kind of estate. They're building something."
Around him, the shelter was no longer silent. Men were moving about, speaking in hushed tones, checking their muskets and ammunition.
"Understood. We're pulling out. Now."
The soldier turned to go, but Adam stopped him with a gesture.
"Wait. How's Le Canon?"
"He's awake, Captain. He's even standing, over there."
He pointed to a group of five or six men near the entrance. The sergeant, taller than the others by a head, had put his bloodied shirt and grimy coat back on.
Adam hadn't expected to see him upright despite his wound. He couldn't help but admire such strength and determination.
He walked over.
"Sergeant, how are you feeling?"
The man saluted him respectfully.
"Much better, Captain. A good night's sleep was all I needed."
"Were you able to eat anything?"
"Yes, sir. I had a few biscuits left in my pockets. I shared with the men."
Adam nodded, relieved. He rummaged through his own pockets and pulled out two biscuits as hard as wood.
He brought one to his mouth and let it soften with his saliva. It had almost no flavor, maybe a hint of salt—but it was better than nothing.
He slipped the other into his right pocket. He had no idea when he might taste a proper meal again.
Five minutes later, the group left the shelter. They headed north, following the Hudson River, avoiding the road that veered slightly east.
It wasn't until an hour and a half later that they found signs of human life.
The houses here were scarce and far apart. The plots of land were vast. Nearly all were abandoned because of the French threat.
Marshal Duke of Richelieu's actions had left their mark.
Those who tried to escape by fleeing to Albany had ended up like the former mayor: deported. No wonder the countryside was empty.
They advanced without incident until they reached Green Island, a broad piece of land between the Hudson River and a secondary branch of the Mohawk.
They called it an island, but it was little more than a filled-in meander.
There were several like it in this stretch of the river, barely rising above the water. Just a geographical detail for the settlers, but for Adam and his group, it was a headache. They didn't know exactly where they were supposed to meet their companions.
Between the southern and northern tips of Green Island alone, there were three full kilometers.
Farther north, three kilometers away, the Mohawk joined the Hudson. That was probably where their companions were searching for them.
Damn it! I should've given clearer instructions... What an idiot!
"Captain," Sergeant Hébert—Le Canon—interrupted, "what now? Do we wait here?"
Adam shook his head.
"No. We're too close to Albany. I want us farther north. Where the two rivers truly meet. No matter which path the others took, they'll head there to find us."
"And if the English pick up our trail? Even if we avoided the roads, they've got Indians with them. We saw them during the ambush."
"I know. I saw them too. We killed one, but I think there were two more."
Adam paused.
"From now on, we cover our tracks."
"Yes, sir!"
October was on their side. Fallen leaves covered the ground.
By moving them carefully, they could hide their footprints.
The soldiers paid more attention to avoiding broken branches. Every movement became a strange choreography: slow, cautious gestures, as if every twig were laced with poison.
Adam led by example. He moved crouched low, as if creeping through a tunnel, gliding with the grace of a duck on a frozen lake.
He didn't know how skilled the enemy trackers were—but he didn't intend to take any chances.
It wasn't until around eleven o'clock that they finally reached the confluence.
The place was calm, silent, uninhabited. There weren't even any roads.
All they could hear was the lapping of water on the banks and the wind in the branches.
The French now had no clear objective other than to wait for their comrades. But how long would that take? They had no idea.
So they got to work. They cut damp branches and clumsily assembled them into makeshift shelters that vaguely resembled tents.
It was miserable, but like their meals, it was better than nothing.
The idea of spending the night here chilled their blood—especially if it rained again like the night before. They would surely all die of hypothermia.
While arranging the branches, Adam seriously considered moving his men, finding a house so they wouldn't have to live like cavemen. If he were to do it, it would be best to cross to the other side of the Hudson, north of the Mohawk River.
The place was called Half Moon, named after a ship of the Dutch East India Company that had reached the New York area in the early 17th century while searching for a route to Asia.
If we cross to the other side, we'll be safer—but what if we miss the others? What if they're already waiting for us? Rhaa! I don't know! What the hell am I supposed to do?!
He began nervously biting his nails, his gaze lost in the direction of the river. There were too many options, too many risks.
Maybe we should build a raft instead of shelters? Crossing now… might be the right thing to do.
The reason behind this thought was simple: that's what military convoys did when heading north.
On the other side was a good road leading straight to Fort Bourbon.
The Redcoats didn't just teleport there. They boarded long boats in Albany, designed to carry heavy loads, and disembarked at Half Moon, in a hamlet called Waterford.
From there, they would march and haul their goods and equipment in carts.
Suddenly, a sharp crack of branches echoed behind them. Everyone heard it and froze.
Shit! Someone's coming!
Like wild animals, they lunged for their weapons.
Click!
Adam cocked his musket and took aim. Around him, everyone did the same.
Their muskets were all trained on the thick bushes that formed a brownish wall around their camp.
Faces were tense, pale, jaws clenched and breaths held.
A figure appeared through the branches.
A mud-covered face.
A filthy coat.
A long musket held like a lucky charm.
A uniform more brown than white.
"Hu?"
"What?"
"Nine-Fingers?"
"Captain?"
Then other shapes emerged from the undergrowth, one by one. Lieutenant Marais's eyes widened in surprise when he saw Adam.
"Marais! Ahaha!"
"Captain!"
The two men embraced—an inconceivable gesture under other circumstances. They let their joy show freely, pushing protocol aside.
More men appeared, and the group quickly doubled in size.
"I'm so glad to see you! Where's Leblanc? And Cornette? Looks like some are missing."
"They're not with you? There were only eleven of us."
"Eleven? Oh…"
His smile faded.
Eleven… With us, that makes twenty-nine. So many are still missing… I hope the others made it.
"Right… Come, all of you. We don't have food to share, but we've almost finished the shelters. We were planning to wait for you here."
"It's a good spot," Marais admitted. "Isolated, but with a good view of the river. The problem is, if Lieutenants Leblanc and Cornette are waiting on the other side of those islands, we won't see them."
Adam slowly nodded in helpless agreement.
"I know. But I don't know what to do. I don't want to split the group, not now that we've just found each other."
Lieutenant Marais understood. It was a very complicated situation.
"Let's wait a day or two. Maybe they'll find us like we found you? If not… we'll see. We could try crossing that damned river and take our chances on the other side."
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That's what they did. On the morning of October 16th, under a thin, sticky drizzle, they boarded a raft made of whatever they could gather without taking too many risks.
It barely floated.
Reaching the center of the Hudson, it began to break apart. Each branch was used to keep the whole thing together.
This raft, pitiful as it was, fulfilled its mission. They landed silently at Half Moon and slipped at once into the woods, south of Waterford.
An hour later, the drizzle lifted. Through the mist, they could finally glimpse the rapids of the Mohawk River. The water—like the earth, the trees, and the sky—was a uniform gray, almost hostile.
The current was violent, dangerous. Adam wouldn't have risked it for anything in the world.
Not even the best swimmer on earth could have gone two meters without being swept away and smashed against the rocks.
"Do you see anything?" the captain asked, squinting.
"Nothing for now," Marais replied. "Maybe they're farther north?"
"We gave them days to reach the junction of the Mohawk and the Hudson. We waited two days on the other side. If they're not here... I fear they didn't make it."
Lieutenant Marais didn't answer. There was nothing to add.
"Maybe they're hiding in those woods," Adam muttered to himself. "Le Canon, send a few men down to the riverbank. Have them wave their coats or anything visible. No gunshots. I don't want to alert the redcoats."
The sergeant, still hampered by his injury but standing tall, saluted and carried out the order.
Two soldiers carefully descended over the rocks to the river's edge and began waving and shouting loudly. After a few minutes, several figures appeared on the opposite bank.
We found them! Finally, we found them! Hahaha!
The river was more than two hundred and fifty meters wide at that point. There were many rocks, giving the illusion one could cross on foot, but trying it would be riskier than sticking your head into a lion's jaws and hoping for a happy ending.
"Hey there!" someone on the other side called cheerfully. "How'd you end up over there?!"
"Haha! We crossed the Hudson River on a raft! The captain's with us!"
"Really?! We're with Lieutenants Leblanc and Cornette!"
"Come join us! It's better on this side!"
"Haha! I bet it is!"
Soon, everyone knew the others were alive.
"We'll try to cross a bit upstream! Before the falls!"
The falls they spoke of—called Cahoes Falls—were impassable, especially this time of year. Heavy rains in recent weeks had swollen the river so much that trying to cross would be suicide.
Leblanc and Cornette's men had no choice but to go around and look for a calmer passage.
With one group on each bank, they marched in the same direction, following the raging river.
Staying within sight of the other, they reached Cahoes Falls in twenty minutes.
It took them another hour to find a suitable crossing.
Though the river was just as wide as at its junction with the Hudson, the current was much weaker here.
Another piece of luck: abandoned houses provided enough planks and beams to build a decent raft.
Using their hands and some planks as paddles, they managed to cross without incident. As soon as they landed, they were welcomed like heroes.
Leblanc and Cornette clasped their superior's hand warmly, exchanging a few words, huge tired smiles on their faces.
"We were starting to think you'd been captured, Captain."
"Same here. Marais and I were seriously beginning to have doubts. We stumbled upon each other by miracle on the other side of the Hudson. Barely escaped disaster, I must admit. We stole a boat and narrowly avoided an enemy patrol."
"And that's what allowed us to cross safely," added Marais with a wry smile. "Even if it wasn't exactly a walk in the park, haha."
Leblanc had a wild beard and walked with a limp. Cornette's uniform was torn in many places, with a nasty scratch under his right eye stretching down to the bridge of his nose.
Everything about them showed they had suffered in recent days.
"I almost lost Canon, but other than that, we were lucky. And you?"
"We were relentlessly hunted by those dogs and forced to fight. We managed to push them back, but we suffered losses. There are only ten of us left."
"Ten, plus our twenty-nine, that makes thirty-nine. Out of the eighty we started with. What a tragedy."
"We're down to one company," sighed Cornette.
"There would be none left today without the sacrifice of our comrades," Adam said solemnly. "Let us not forget them."
All bowed their heads in a slow gesture, as if saluting the fallen.
"Well then," Adam continued with renewed strength, "now we must decide what to do. I'm thinking of heading back to Fort Bourbon. We've been gone for ages. I don't even know what day it is anymore."
"I agree. I think it's been about a month, give or take. Let's put more distance between us and Albany, and get closer to home. We can still assist the Marquis and our friends, if they haven't already driven off those damn redcoats."
"Then it's settled."
Around them, the soldiers exchanged relieved glances.
At last, they would return to friendly ground—far, far away from this endless hunt.