Thank you nameyelus, First_Time_****, Porthos10, Microraptor, ThisguyAEl, TheHumble_Dogge and Karantir_V for the support!
Well, that was a long chapter! I hope you will enjoy it!
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As the days passed, the temperatures in Louisbourg kept dropping. The locals, accustomed to the region's harsh winters, bundled up a bit more than usual but didn't seem overly bothered.
The newcomers, however, shivered in the cold. For them, it wasn't just a gradual decline—it felt as though the weather had leaped directly from October to January.
Adam and his companions tried to appear tough, unbothered like stoic monks, but in truth, they were struggling to keep from freezing. They seized every opportunity to warm themselves by a good fireplace, shielded from the near-constant wind blowing from the north and northeast.
Unfortunately, they weren't there as settlers but as soldiers. This meant they had to train rigorously outdoors, enduring the wind, rain, and even hail.
One such training session had just ended, and it had been so intense that Adam felt like he was suffocating in his uniform and the many layers of clothing underneath. A salty bead of sweat fell into his right eye, and a burning sensation instantly gripped him.
Despite rubbing his eye, the discomfort lingered.
Damn it, I must look like an idiot, he silently grumbled, keeping one eye closed. They're probably wondering what the hell I'm doing.
Albert Fontaine's company marched calmly in tight ranks across a long wooden bridge spanning the deep moat surrounding the city. The bridge was well-made, but the peeling paint in many places gave it an impression of being unreliable.
The small troop then passed through the Queen's Gate and entered the city.
Several buildings were under construction on either side of the street, but much work remained to be done.
Wood was the most commonly used material, and fortunately, there was no shortage of trees on the island. All it took was to cut down a few large trees, strip the branches, and shape the trunks into good planks and sturdy beams.
It might have seemed complicated—Adam certainly wouldn't know where to begin—but here, everyone appeared skilled in the craft. Of course, some were far better than others, but with patience, endurance, and a bit of ingenuity, even an ordinary person could build their home.
Adam had been amazed at the energy ordinary people could muster when it was for their own benefit. What surprised him even more, and seemed incomprehensible, was the absence of a church in Louisbourg.
What was lacking now, as the town teemed with workers, were tools. Saws and hammers were in the highest demand.
The houses currently being built all looked the same, resembling little more than shacks barely suitable for storing tools. That was Adam's honest opinion, being accustomed to solid concrete homes with large double-glazed windows.
But here, in this part of the New World, what they were building was considered entirely ordinary.
Still, there were stark disparities among the towns on this continent. From that perspective, Louisbourg seemed behind, especially when compared to giants like New York, where many brick houses had been constructed and the streets were paved.
There were indeed solid brick structures in this town, but making bricks took time and effort. The little that was produced—typically in the summer when bricks could dry in the sun—was reserved for the most important buildings and for chimneys in ordinary homes.
In recent days, the young lieutenant had thought long and hard, discussing his ideas with his friends. A preliminary plan had emerged to improve living conditions for locals, both in Louisbourg and elsewhere.
The idea was to build a massive workshop to produce hundreds of bricks daily, which could then be used to construct beautiful and sturdy homes that could withstand years, the climate, and even fire.
This idea was particularly appealing for Fort Edward, as it would be easy to source raw materials in the region. The soil, being highly clay-rich due to the many rivers, meant one could literally scoop up good-quality clay from the ground.
In fact, there was so much clay that it wasn't inconceivable to make the area the largest brick production site in New France! All that was needed was an initial investment to build storage facilities and kilns suitable for brick production.
Moreover, the kilns could eventually be built using the new bricks themselves!
Of course, many hands would be needed to extract the clay, transport it to the production site, remove undesirable elements like roots or dead leaves, mix it with sand into a homogeneous blend, mold the bricks, and finally dry and fire them. But if Fort Edward remained an important frontier fort, the soldiers could be tasked with developing the industry.
If this plan were approved, Adam had no doubt Fort Edward could one day become a significant and economically strategic location! A small town might even spring up there, and the fort could be equipped with proper ramparts!
Together, they had approached Colonel de Bréhant to share the idea. He found it somewhat intriguing and brought it up to the marshal-duke, who was unsure what to make of it and wrote to Governor Vaudreuil.
Adam had high hopes and thought that perhaps this idea could positively impact his career. For now, though, he had to wait, as it would take time for the letter to reach Quebec and for a reply to arrive.
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On Monday, November 13, 1758, under a light but icy rain, the frigate La Chèvre entered the port of Louisbourg.
The sailors quickly went to work, furling the few white sails that were still deployed.
The pilot skillfully guided the ship through the calm waters of the small harbor, maneuvering between anchored vessels. Soon, the frigate's heavy anchors were cast into the sea, sending up large splashes against the black-and-yellow hull.
Then, two muscular sailors threw ropes over the bulwarks, which were deftly caught by men on the docks.
Once La Chèvre was moored, a long, dark wooden gangway was installed to allow the sailors to disembark.
The captain, a gruff man in his fifties with gray eyes that reflected extensive experience at sea, stepped onto the gangway. It barely flexed under his weight as he began his descent. His tall black leather boots clapped loudly, like those of a general inspecting his troops.
Finally, after a long journey, he could set foot on land.
Above him, a few seabirds glided peacefully, letting out loud cries that sounded like mocking laughter.
With a brisk step, he crossed the port and entered a bustling Louisbourg, despite the weather.
When he had received his orders, he had departed from Quebec. He had sailed past Louisbourg but hadn't stopped. It had been at least a month since he last came to this city, and he immediately found it changed.
Yet, a month was little time. Years could pass without anything changing.
The captain furrowed his brow, two thick lines above his ash-grey eyes, from which a few stray, unusually long hairs protruded.
How has this city changed so much? Did something happen while I was away? Hmm? It looks like houses are being built everywhere.
Among the soldiers, the old captain noticed many settlers of all sexes and ages. Everyone seemed to be participating, even soldiers who weren't meant to stay. It was a curious sight, but he didn't slow his pace and continued toward Governor Drucourt's office.
The old captain presented himself at the entrance of the long stone building, pierced with multiple tall windows and smoking chimneys, and was quickly led to the office of the highest authority in the city.
He was in a meeting with Marshal-Duke Richelieu and several high-ranking officers. The meeting was interrupted, and he was allowed to deliver his report before these gentlemen.
"Governor, Marshal, gentlemen, I have just returned from my reconnaissance mission to Halifax."
"Ah, yes! We've been eagerly awaiting you, Captain," said Governor Drucourt enthusiastically, making a small gesture with his hand to invite the man closer. "Tell us everything."
"Yes. I approached as closely as possible without endangering my ship and crew. The English were none too pleased and fired their cannons, but fortunately, they were unable to hit us."
"Very well, very well! You did the right thing, Captain! Were you able to locate and count all their cannons?" asked the governor, pulling out a map.
"I believe I have a fairly precise idea, sir," replied the sailor, retrieving a small leather-bound notebook from the inner pocket of his coat.
He began describing in detail what he had seen, showing his sketches made under the threat of English artillery. Notes were quickly added here and there to the map, which became much more detailed in a short time.
Finally, the old marshal nodded in satisfaction.
"This is excellent work, Captain. This information will be invaluable. Gentlemen," he said, turning to his colonels, "alert your regiments: we will board every available ship in two days! In the meantime, we must draft a plan of attack!"
***
The massive fleet departed Louisbourg on the morning of November 16 instead of the 15 due to bad weather, arriving on the afternoon of November 23 at the entrance to Chebucto Harbour, or Halifax.
A few ships were well sheltered there, but the HMS Namur was absent as expected.
Admiral Boscawen had left weeks ago to return to England on the King's orders. After the disastrous summer in Louisbourg, he was to be replaced by another skilled officer, Sir Peter Parker, while Boscawen was tasked with securing the English Channel.
The odious French attack on southern English ports had shocked all of Europe, but for the English, it was an unspeakable humiliation.
Unfortunately, Admiral Parker and his squadron had not yet arrived in the New World.
In truth, they never would. His squadron had been caught in the terrifying storm observed from afar by Adam and his old friends.
The terrifying, imposing, majestic HMS Royal George, struck by lightning, lost its mainmast and sank instantly, taking several hundred brave sailors and as many soldiers destined to reinforce the northern colonies and Nova Scotia with it.
***
Halifax was weaker than ever. The causes were many, but analyzing them was now pointless. The focus was on dealing with the consequences.
From the shore, regular British army soldiers and hastily gathered militia watched as the French ships passed west of Red Island and Cornwallis Island (now McNabs Island) to approach the city.
Ignoring the numerous shots fired from the various forts and batteries guarding the harbor entrance, the formidable French vessels forced their way through and launched themselves, like sharks drawn to fresh blood, at the English ships.
The English ships had no time to react, not even to weigh anchor, leaving them defenseless.
Before their terrified eyes, they witnessed a massacre.
The French cannons, led by the Princess Amelia, suddenly opened fire on their hapless ships.
It was a one-sided battle.
Several ships were sunk before they could even offer any real resistance.
At the same time, reports reached Lieutenant-Governor Monckton, the highest-ranking officer on-site since the previous governor, taken by illness, had not been replaced, that enemy troops were landing at Pleasant Point, where the Sandwich River (or Hawk River) emptied into the sea.
"Sir! What are your orders?!"
"Send all our men! Every single one of them! Call on the civilians! Halifax must not fall!"
His face had turned so pale it seemed he had been bled excessively. His features, distorted by panic, screamed that he had already lost control of the situation.
From their vantage point, the two officers watched as one of their anchored ships, already engulfed in flames and visibly sinking, suddenly exploded, sending a shower of smoldering debris in all directions.
"Almighty God!" exclaimed the officer, his face etched with fear and surprise.
"Don't just stand there!" barked the lieutenant governor, spraying the officer with spittle. "Hurry! Every second counts!"
"A-a-as you command!"
The officer disappeared, leaving the lieutenant governor alone, his hands trembling like leaves. Despite the numerous forts surrounding Halifax, meant to defend the city against a land assault, he already knew all was lost, for they were virtually deserted.
A great number of his men had tragically perished under the orders of that madman James Wolfe, to whom Monckton nonetheless owed his life, as Wolfe had enabled his escape during the first assault on Louisbourg.
Monckton was in a desperate situation. He had relied on his enemy's wisdom not to launch an assault at this time of year, but the French had thought otherwise. They had left him no time to rebuild his forces.
Wisdom dictated that he not mount a futile resistance, but if he didn't offer at least some opposition to these damned French, his name would forever be stained with shame.
His eyes fixated on the French fleet ravaging his port and his ships, which were sinking faster and faster into the icy waters of the harbor. The waters were not deep enough to fully swallow the British warships; now, only the masts jutted above the surface.
***
At the same moment, south of Halifax, the French advanced rapidly, encountering no major obstacles.
Led by the marshal duke himself, clad in his gleaming cuirass, they stormed a small fort that quickly fell into their hands. The garrison had mounted a heroic resistance, but the disparity in strength was such that they could only buy a few minutes for their comrades elsewhere around Halifax.
With this outpost taken, the road to Halifax was now clear.
All the soldiers who tried to stop them inevitably fell in battle or retreated under the crushing pressure exerted by the French forces.
Adam marched briskly alongside his superior, Captain Fontaine, and used his pistol to shoot a redcoat who had appeared in his line of sight behind a massive tree with bare branches.
"Forward! Don't stop! Kill any armed Englishman!"
Behind him, a mass of soldiers, armed to the teeth, marched at a swift pace, as if on parade—minus the orderliness.
Bullets whizzed over their heads, and occasionally a cry of pain rang out amidst the sounds of footsteps and gunfire. But the French soldiers did not slow.
This is our victory; they should know when to admit defeat, Adam thought as he stepped over a body.
It wasn't a regular soldier but a militiaman, an ordinary man handed a weapon and ordered to die for His Majesty's glory.
"Hm?"
"Watch out! Enemies approaching!" someone shouted from the front of the formation.
"Form up! Three ranks!" Albert Fontaine immediately commanded. "Fire!"
Hundreds of musket shots erupted simultaneously, and dozens of men across the way fell as if struck by lightning.
Adam grimaced, ordering his subordinates to reload their muskets. Positioned on the flank but in the front line, he reloaded his own weapon, aiming it at the enemy lines and waiting for the captain's order.
"Fire!"
Another white plume spread from the long line of muskets, and more cries of agony resounded from the other side.
What a waste. They should just surrender.
The French continued their advance toward the city, surrounded by a deep ditch and a palisade. Five small forts encircled the area, but as the marshal had predicted, the two that could have posed a serious threat fired barely a shot.
"Forward! Today, Halifax falls! Take those forts!"
Behind Adam, the soldiers let out a thunderous cheer that shook the air.
The young officer was suddenly struck by a chilling shiver he could not explain.
***
Inside the small town, panic reigned. Only a handful of men remained—just enough to maintain order and protect the governor's residence.
The residents of Halifax, like Lieutenant Governor Monckton, knew all too well that they could not defend the town. They simply lacked the soldiers to do so.
As soon as they heard the story about a French frigate boldly sailing close a week earlier, as if to taunt them, they knew an attack was imminent. They were aware that the lieutenant governor had dispatched the HMS Pembroke to request reinforcements, but as far as they knew, no response had arrived.
For his part, Monckton understood that this small town—a dwarf compared to cities like Boston or New York—would fall within a day if it were attacked. That belief became an undeniable certainty when he saw numerous French sails covering the horizon.
The only reason the settlers hadn't descended into full panic earlier was the faint hope offered by the few warships anchored in the vast harbor behind Halifax. But now that those ships had all been lost, the people had no doubt about the town's grim fate.
Despair quickly gave way to madness. As Halifax teetered on the brink of falling, looting broke out.
Fools! Why are they doing this? Do they truly believe the French will let them keep the spoils of their looting? They should be using that energy to fight!
"Sir," a young officer burst into the room, "it's chaos out there! Several fires have been reported! We're running out of time! We have to leave!"
"And go where?!" retorted the lieutenant governor, his eyes red-rimmed. "And how?! The French control the harbor's entrance and have us surrounded! We have nowhere to flee!"
"Th-then, we must negotiate our surrender!"
Robert Monckton suddenly seemed to calm down, surprising the young officer. The lieutenant governor slowly nodded, resigned.
Fate had decidedly turned against them.
Seeing no escape for himself—or for the people of Halifax—Monckton left the building, escorted by a few soldiers they had managed to gather, and headed toward the palisade surrounding the town. Summoning all his courage, he faced a vastly superior enemy preparing for a general assault and signaled with a white flag that he wished to parley.
***
Adam heard Captain Fontaine's order and repeated it in turn.
The soldiers raised their smoking weapons, bayonets fixed at the ready. They stood poised to launch an assault on one of the forts surrounding Halifax.
At the foot of the fort, however, a white flag had been spotted.
The marshal-duke had granted the enemy commander's request, and the two men were about to meet outside the town under the wary gazes of surviving soldiers and a few militiamen struggling to resist fleeing in terror.
All were silent. The French ships, too, had ceased firing.
Lieutenant Governor Monckton stopped halfway and struck a pose, signaling that he would go no further. He wore his finest attire, his shoulders draped in a thick scarlet cape to ward off the cold.
His hands were clasped behind his back to hide his nervousness, but fearing he might offend his counterpart, he changed his stance. One hand rested on the gilded hilt of his sword while the other went to his hip, but deciding that made him seem impatient, he altered his pose again, keeping his left hand close to his body.
Very discreetly, he wiped his now-sweaty palm on his blue-and-gold coat. He didn't want the enemy commander to notice his unease if they happened to shake hands, though there was no reason to assume they would.
Behind him stood a boy of fifteen at most, his hair vividly red and his freckled face pale. He held the Union Jack as straight as he could, though Monckton noticed out of the corner of his eye that the boy was trembling with fear as if standing naked in the snow.
The lieutenant governor's attention returned to the approaching officer.
Unlike Monckton, this man wore a cuirass, giving the impression that, despite his advanced age, he was ready to draw his sword and strike him down. Monckton instantly regretted not donning similar armor, thinking it might have earned him greater respect in the negotiations.
Unfortunately, it was far too late for regrets.
The Marshal-Duke de Richelieu—the man who had seized Minorca, captured the King of Prussia, and saved Louisbourg the previous summer—now stood before him.
His gaze was so cold, so ruthless, that his eyes seemed to shine like a full moon. To Monckton, it felt like standing before an executioner.
"I… I am Robert Monckton, l-lieutenant governor of Nova Scotia," he finally stammered, praying he didn't stumble too much in front of this man.
The French officer did not respond immediately, merely observing the smaller, insignificant man before him, barely worthy of acknowledgment.
"I am the Marshal-Duke de Richelieu, commander of this army and all the troops of New France. You wish to negotiate?" he asked with undisguised contempt.
"Y-yes. For safe passage for myself, the townspeople, and the soldiers. I also request the honors of—"
"No."
Robert Monckton froze as if petrified by Medusa. His mind went utterly blank. He thought he had misheard.
"W-what?"
"I said no. There will be no honors of war. There are no soldiers left in your town—or barely any. Your ships lie at the bottom of your harbor, and you are on the brink of siege without the ability to resist. Surrender the town and hand over your weapons, and you will be treated properly as prisoners of war. Refuse, and you will all die here."