Thank you Hika, Microraptor, Mium, First_Time_****, Dekol347 and Porthos10 for the support!
Enjoy!
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A light wind blew continuously, bringing icy air to Nova Scotia.
The air was so cold it seemed capable of freezing everything solid.
The port of Halifax was not blocked by ice, but elsewhere, the sea had frozen over. That said, the ice was not thick enough to venture onto it.
Where there were waves, there was no ice, as its formation required calm waters.
Everything was silent in these winter landscapes, which seemed taken straight from a postcard. The only sound was the wind rustling through the branches, which, bare like emaciated arms, rubbed against each other.
This quiet was interrupted by a heavy, creaking noise as a foot sank deeply into the fresh snow forming a thick blanket over the ground.
It sounded as though someone was eating cereal, trying to make as much noise as possible.
A second step followed, and once again, the loud crunching sound echoed. It was impossible to go unnoticed making such noise.
The white coats blended perfectly into this landscape, though the tricorn hats stood out.
By contrast, red uniforms would have looked like lanterns in the dead of night. It would have been impossible to miss them if any were nearby, but there were none.
Surely, they were staying warm in their colonies, waiting for the right time to drive the French from what they considered their lands.
Behind the French soldiers, deep grooves in the snow stretched like a long serpent winding through trees and bushes. It would be easy to follow their trail, but if it snowed again as it had the past two days, it would only take a few hours for their tracks to disappear.
The tracks they were currently following did not belong to a man but to an animal. The beast was large and visibly heavy.
Adam carried a long musket like his comrades, which was unusual for a lieutenant, as his usual weapons were a pistol and a sword.
I think it's not far. Damn, I'm frozen to the bone!
Six men accompanied him, all survivors of Gilbert's company.
No one spoke for fear of ruining their efforts to bring fresh meat back to town.
Adam placed a gloved hand on a tree trunk. The animal had evidently stopped there.
The bark is damaged. And there are some hairs. I'm sure we're close.
"L-lieutenant, we're starting to get tired," one of the men said.
The officer looked at his men. The sled they were dragging behind them was empty.
"Do you really want to return empty-handed?"
The soldiers lowered their heads to avoid his gaze. It was clear they were tired, and he was too. But he didn't want to give up.
"No, sir."
"The animal isn't far. Just a little more patience."
The sergeant, whose flat face and red nose betrayed his exhaustion, held back from pointing out that this was the third time his officer had said that. He simply nodded and encouraged his comrades.
Their persistence paid off because, ten minutes later, they heard a loud noise resembling a human scream. It was a full-grown moose.
Its thick, brown fur seemed perfect for keeping out the cold. A bit of snow clung to its long coat, but it didn't seem to notice.
Perhaps the snow had fallen from a nearby tree branch when the animal brushed against it? With the recent snowstorms, the branches were heavy, often breaking under the weight.
I see it! There it is! It's huge!
Indeed, it was an impressive creature, a male judging by the antlers, which were vastly different from those of European deer.
This animal's antlers were disproportionately large, which must have been more of a hindrance than anything else. As the season progressed, it would become increasingly rare to see moose with their antlers, as they typically shed them in winter before regrowing them in spring.
It must be quite old.
Adam signaled with his hand, and his soldiers got into formation. Slowly, to minimize noise, they spread out, their weapons loaded and ready to fire.
The young lieutenant walked in the animal's tracks, which significantly reduced the effort needed to move forward and muffled the sound of his steps in the snow.
Like a ninja, he moved carefully, trying to make himself as small and quiet as possible. It was as if he were walking on a frozen lake, so cautious were his movements.
The distance isn't bad, but… I don't know. I'm not sure I can kill this thing from here.
He crept closer, stepping over a long, broken branch. He was now only a hundred meters from the animal.
Suddenly, the moose moved, and Adam stopped breathing.
The old moose's long ears perked up, clearly indicating that the animal was alert, even wary. Its short tail flicked through the air as if it were irritated.
It turned its head in the opposite direction, but its ears showed it was listening toward him.
Finally, it lowered its head and resumed digging through the snow in search of food.
Phew! It hasn't noticed us yet!
Adam took three more steps, nervous, his finger resting on the musket's trigger. The moose suddenly raised its head, its senses on full alert.
Damn! It's over!
Immediately, Adam raised his weapon and fired.
Bang!
He wasn't alone. All the soldiers reacted at the same moment, opening fire on the unfortunate beast, which had no time to flee.
Several lead balls struck the moose, wounding it deeply but not enough to kill it. The animal let out a cry and bolted, leaving behind a long red trail that turned pink as it mixed with the fresh snow.
"Damn it!"
"Calm down. It's not over yet. We can follow the trail."
"Benoît's right. It's badly hurt. Too bad we couldn't get closer."
"What's done is done," Adam muttered, letting out a long sigh, his breath forming a white plume in the freezing air. "It's not too bad. Shall we go?"
"Go back?!"
"I meant, shall we go after it?"
"Oh," the flat-faced sergeant responded, clearly disappointed.
The moose was seriously injured and losing a lot of blood, quickly exhausting itself. When Adam and his comrades finally caught up with it, the massive animal collapsed against an enormous pine tree.
The poor creature was still breathing, and its eyes reflected utter despair.
It's suffering.
Adam scratched his cheek and drew his pistol. Pressing the barrel to the animal's temple, between its eye and ear, he looked away as he pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The shot sounded deafening in the now oppressive silence. The moose was finally released from its suffering.
Adam found the moment odd. He had killed countless enemies, sometimes without feeling the slightest discomfort or guilt, yet here he couldn't help but look away. It was strange.
What does it matter? What difference does it make? he thought, brushing aside any further reflection.
"Well, now we can head back," Adam said, holstering his smoking weapon. "Bring the sled over."
Quickly, the enormous animal—easily weighing over 600 kilos—was loaded onto the sled, which suddenly seemed far too small. A good portion of the moose dragged in the snow.
But that didn't matter. The sled was just there to keep them from dragging their prey like trash.
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It took them a considerable amount of time to return to Halifax, and when they finally reached the small town bustling with French soldiers, they were warmly welcomed—not just by their company, but by all.
Everyone was already imagining feasting on fresh moose meat.
Ah, there's Jean over there. Jules and the others must be around, too. Hmm, I should go see them after I report to the captain.
Albert Fontaine was at the port, overseeing the unloading of cargo from a European ship that was supposed to reach the British colonies. The ship had been captured, along with others, by Roquefeuille's fleet, which was terrorizing the area.
By working as a group, nearly every ship ended up in their clutches. Surely, the major cities of the northern colonies—starting with Boston and New York—must be deeply worried.
Roquefeuille was like a great pirate of the past. It was a shame that, unlike those romanticized figures made famous by novels, movies, manga, comics, and video games, he didn't have his own flag. Adam had no doubt that it would soon be as recognizable as Jack Rackham's or Blackbeard's.
"François! Big news!"
"Oh? What happened? I haven't been away for long, have I?"
"Nothing bad! Quite the opposite—we've won another victory!"
"Really?" Adam said, surprised. "I thought everything was quiet this time of year. Montcalm?"
"No, it was at sea! Ahaha!"
Adam was momentarily stunned and then remembered that the war wasn't confined to North America.
"Where? And when?"
"Mid-November, from what I heard, near the African coast! We weren't the only ones involved in the battle, but who cares? It's as much our victory as it is Spain's!"
Ah, the Spanish! I'd completely forgotten about them!
"Come on, let's get out of the way."
Adam nodded and followed his captain and friend to a quieter spot away from the bustling crowd. They sat on crates, using a large barrel as a makeshift table.
"Apparently, the British had planned a major operation in the area. While we were sailing to the New World, they took Saint-Louis in Senegal, so they must've gotten some ideas. Anyway, they prepared a medium-sized fleet to seize more territories along the African coast. But they ran into problems! Ahaha!"
"W-what kind of problems? Stop laughing and spit it out!"
"Ahaha! Get this—two of their ships, including a warship—the HMS Lichfield, I think—ran aground on the Moroccan coast. And guess what? The Sultan didn't appreciate it, you see? So, he captured everyone and turned them into slaves!"
Wha—? I don't see what's so funny! Wait, what? The Moroccans enslaved the English prisoners? Is that even possible?! I thought it was the other way around!
Albert Fontaine, oblivious to his young friend's confusion, continued his tale.
"The English were stuck in place for a while, and as they resumed their journey to Funchal on Madeira Island, a possession of their Portuguese ally, they ran into a strong Spanish squadron! And, well, even though they were outnumbered, they managed to inflict heavy losses on the Spaniards! But then we arrived and changed the course of the battle! So, you could say it's our victory, haha!"
Adam was terrible at geography. He naturally knew where Morocco was and assumed Madeira Island was a bit farther south. If it was indeed a Portuguese possession, then the English would have a solid base in the area in case of trouble, or a resupply point for ventures farther south or even into another ocean, like the Indian Ocean.
"According to the English sailors Monsieur de Roquefeuille has just captured, the Royal Navy suffered heavy losses, and the blame fell squarely on King George's chief minister since he planned the operation. But that's not important. What is important is that we won! And that's not all!"
"What? There's more?"
"Yes, and the best part! Imagine this: we helped the Spaniards capture Madeira Island, which was their objective, and in return, they helped us retake Saint-Louis of Senegal! Ahaha! Apparently, Marshal de Conflans didn't even need their help because the locals revolted against the British occupiers as soon as they saw our fleet! We reclaimed our trading post without firing a single musket shot or cannonball! Ahaha! King George must be furious!"
Adam hesitated, unsure of how to react. He was genuinely glad his side had achieved such great victories, but part of him was worried.
Yes, King George must be furious. That's exactly what frightens me. They'll want revenge—not just for this but for what we're doing here too. The more victories we win, the more desperate they'll become. They've executed two admirals, haven't they? If they're capable of that, what will they do in the months ahead?
"You don't look too thrilled! Hey! This is our victory too! Come on! Ah, we need some wine to celebrate this!"
"It's not even eleven in the morning, you know?"
"Ah, hmm, right, fair enough. Let's wait until noon to toast to Saint-Louis of Senegal and the Spaniards!"
Adam managed a faint smile, which quickly faded. He was worrying too much about the future.
The English will probably send an army to crush us. The King of England seems like the kind of man who loses his temper easily. If this keeps up, he'll keep escalating until he can't afford to wage war anymore. But if we exhaust ourselves first, what will become of us?
Adam swallowed hard.
How much longer before I can go home? Will I even be able to find that damned watch after all this time? It feels like I've been here forever. I… I'm so… tired.
Feeling tears well up in his eyes, he quickly turned his back on his captain and hurried away, slipping into an empty alleyway.
The moment he was alone, large tears began to flow.
"I-I… I can't take it anymore… I… I have no strength left… I want to go home."
He slid down the dirty wall behind him, ending up sitting in the snow. Slowly, he drew his knees up and buried his face in his hands.
I want to go home! Mom, Dad! I miss you so much!
***
Adam had every reason to worry because, in England, even though the loss of Nova Scotia was not yet known, King George II already had plenty to be angry about. The loss of Admiral Parker and the precious HMS Royal George—the English equivalent in prestige to France's Soleil Royal—had been a tragedy.
When he was informed that a second squadron had been decisively defeated at sea, it was the last straw.
Seized by rage, he wrecked his office and cursed the name of William Pitt, whom he held entirely responsible.
According to the monarch, this humiliating failure could have been avoided if more ships had been allocated to Commodore Augustus Keppel. In his mind, one English ship was worth two French ships and three or four Spanish ones.
Unfortunately, ships didn't grow on trees, and many of his were needed to defend Britain's coasts.
Since the Prince of Soubise had ravaged the southern coast of England as far as Chatham, never had there been so many warships flying the British flag in the Channel.
George II also blamed the Duke of Newcastle, who had insisted on not weakening their naval forces in Europe.
In every dockyard, workers labored tirelessly to construct new warships. It took time and money—two things the king was running out of.
Despite old and new taxes, the coffers were draining at an alarming rate. The only consolation was that his rival, Louis XV of France, was in the same situation. Every report he received said the same thing.
And yet, France continued to arm itself. It was baffling.
By all the saints, if only I had more subjects to tax! And a compliant Parliament! Ah! What wouldn't I give for a Parliament as obedient to the Crown as in the days of the old kings! Why do they cause me so much trouble? These parliamentarians are more problematic than that dog!
His gaze fell on the latest intelligence report.
Fortunately, Newcastle still had agents in France. That fool Pitt! In his desperate attempt, he lost all his men and accomplished almost nothing!
The report was brief, stating that construction of a first-rate ship, begun in Brest in May 1758, was progressing well. The agent estimated it would be operational by 1761 or 1762, giving the Royal Navy enough time, perhaps, to sink every French ship at sea and force Louis XV to sign a peace treaty.
Once France was isolated, King George had no doubt that everything lost would be regained—and more. In the end, he would reclaim his precious Hanover.
I can't wait to see him grovel before me, begging for an end to hostilities. This is what happens when you don't know your place!
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A week later, he learned that Nova Scotia had fallen to the French.