Thank you Microraptor, Mium, ThisguyAEl, Dekol347, Ranger_Red, Porthos10, Galan_05, Shingle_Top for the support!
Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
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The sun was high in a radiant sky dotted with small white clouds resembling cotton balls.
Gradually, the air grew warmer, though it was far from the stifling heat Adam had experienced either in Germany or here in America.
A gentle breeze caressed his face, now devoid of all youthful features, inviting him to sit by the Saint Lawrence River under the shade of a large tree to rest.
The air smelled like spring.
If it weren't for all the soldiers around him, Adam might have thought that the war was far away, a feeling he had experienced many times before. War wasn't about shooting at each other every single day for months or even years, and thankfully so—otherwise, perhaps there would be no Englishmen or Frenchmen left standing to recount the horrors of this immense slaughter.
The kingdoms involved couldn't have kept up the pace anyway, as it would have required producing black powder and cannonballs in monstrous quantities. No army could sustain such a rhythm.
However, Adam had not taken a single moment for himself to rest since his return to Quebec. It had been six days.
His duties as an officer in the King's army kept him extremely busy. He had to ensure his men lacked nothing, especially in terms of equipment, participate in inspections and drills, keep the company's accounts, practice fencing, study complex texts on strategy and unit management, and so on.
Adam also had to prepare for his company's departure, scheduled for the day after tomorrow, along with the rest of his battalion, to respond to a request for reinforcements from Fort Edward.
Twenty-four hours never seemed enough to accomplish everything he had to do.
Yet that day, he had put everything on pause to visit Soldier Brochet at Quebec's general hospital.
After Brochet had been publicly flogged for his offense, Adam had immediately arranged for him to be sent to the hospital for treatment. His back was in such a state that his wounds risked becoming infected.
Even though Soldier Brochet had made a serious mistake, he certainly didn't deserve to be abandoned in a corner to die of gangrene.
Adam hoped he would be well cared for in the hospital, despite the meager resources available in those days.
On the way, he encountered young Martin Morrel de Lusernes, who decided to accompany him even though he had no reason to go there. Adam didn't question it further and let him come along, as his presence wasn't bothersome.
When the two young officers arrived, they noted that it was a beautiful stone building, much larger than it had been fifty years earlier. These expansions were necessary to aid all the region's needy, whether they were sick, injured, or simply too old.
It even had its own windmill to provide the Augustine nuns with freshly milled flour.
Adam and Martin greeted two middle-aged women wearing long white robes and black veils over their heads, with simple crosses hanging around their necks. Both appeared to be in their forties but were full of energy, carrying large baskets filled with clean sheets that still needed to be hung out to dry.
"Good morning. Uh, I'm Captain Boucher of the Picardie Regiment, and this is Captain Morrel de Lusernes. One of my men is being treated in your hospital. May I visit him?"
"Good morning, Captain," replied one of the nuns, a woman with a round, rosy face. "For visits, you'll need to speak to Sister Thérèse. She will certainly help you, but if she deems it better for her patient to rest, she will deny you access."
Adam nodded respectfully at these incredible women who dedicated their lives to others, often despite a dire lack of resources, and let them carry on with their work.
He followed them for a moment and entered the main building, the oldest part dating back to the founding of the first monastery in 1692. The place was austere, much like a humble country church, but clean and very well organized.
A few nuns moved about, bringing some life to the place.
"Psst, François?" Martin suddenly whispered.
"What?"
"Look over there. To your right."
"Hmm? Oh my God!"
Adam turned and saw from a distance a nun of stunning beauty. Only her face was clearly visible, as the rest was concealed under several layers of clothing and veils. Yet it was perfectly evident to the two young men that she had a dreamlike figure.
Her face was angelic, her skin radiant, her eyes large and bright like gems, and her lips resembled ripe fruit, bursting with sweetness and sunlight, inviting anyone looking at them to take a bite.
"She's breathtakingly beautiful," Adam whispered, fascinated by the nun's beauty.
"I'm sure her voice is heavenly too," Martin sighed. "God is both fortunate and cruel, having such beauty in His service. Poor us, mere mortals! If only I dared…"
"Stop it. They're nuns," Adam immediately reprimanded, though his gaze remained fixed on the woman as she disappeared up a wooden staircase.
Her every movement drew their eyes, even though she was only walking.
With so many layers of fabric on her, it was impossible to make out even the shadow of a curve. Yet the two young men, hypnotized, could only imagine what she was hiding.
"What a waste… I mean, what a shame," Martin murmured when she finally disappeared. "Such a beautiful woman."
"Are you done?" Adam asked impatiently, his cheeks as red as his friend's. "Let's find Sister Thérèse."
"For all we know, that might have been her. Hey, uh, maybe we should go upstairs to ask her?"
Adam was tempted, but before he could reply, a soft voice, almost a whisper, spoke behind them.
"May I help you, gentlemen?"
The two officers turned around and saw a woman dressed like all the other sisters. She was probably in her fifties and so small that from behind, one might mistake her for a child. She also appeared incredibly frail, as delicate as a twig.
Beside her, Adam and Martin looked like giants.
"Ah, um, it's just that..."
Martin turned redder than a tomato and struggled to find his words, worried that this sister, quieter than a mouse, had overheard him. Neither he nor Adam had noticed her approach.
Though she stood right in front of them, she seemed to radiate no presence at all.
"Forgive us, Sister," Adam said, trying to calm his racing heart. "We wish to visit a soldier who is likely in your hospital. He's part of my company. His name is Alphonse Brochet. We were told at the entrance to find Sister Thérèse to see if that would be possible."
"You're speaking to her. The soldier Brochet, you said? Isn't he the poor man who came to us three days ago with his back in shreds?"
"Y-yes, that's him."
"His injuries are severe. He'll need time, rest, and consistent care to recover."
"I understand. Um, can we see him?"
"How kind of you," the nun said sarcastically, frowning. "Ah, did you really have to beat him so harshly? His back looks like that of a slave."
Adam couldn't muster a reply, though inwardly he wanted to defend himself. He remained silent before this tiny woman.
"Very well, since you insist, follow me. He's in another wing, upstairs."
"Thank you, Sister."
The two officers followed Sister Thérèse to the upper level. A few moments later, they entered a long rectangular room bathed in light from numerous windows. The room was filled with beds, all occupied, arranged along both sides of the space.
Adam immediately noticed the strong, unpleasant smell that lingered in the air. A few sisters were present, attending to the patients and doing their best to make their stay as brief and bearable as possible.
The nuns were gentle, professional, and incredibly patient, even with the most uncooperative individuals. Some patients were in such severe pain that they resisted receiving their treatments.
Sister Thérèse stopped in front of a bed where a man lay on his stomach, exposing his injured back partially covered by bandages that clearly needed to be changed.
Adam's heart sank at the painful sight. He couldn't begin to imagine how much the man must be suffering.
"Mr. Brochet, you have visitors."
"H-hurgh, who is it?" the man groaned, turning slightly, trying not to strain his back.
"It's your officer and, um..."
"I'm not important," Martin interjected. "I'm just accompanying him."
"C-Captain?"
The soldier Brochet tried to turn further to see his officer, but as soon as he began the motion, a wave of immense pain overwhelmed him. It felt as though an open wound had been doused with salt and lemon juice.
"Don't move, soldier. You need to rest. H-how are you feeling?"
"I feel like nothing's changed, but they're taking good care of me, Captain."
Adam winced, regretting not having handled this more discreetly. He had done his duty, but it had led to something he hadn't wanted. Sometimes, he thought he could still hear the crack of a whip and the screams of pain.
He supposed it was the same for Soldier Brochet.
"We're doing our best," Sister Thérèse interjected softly. "But it's true that your recovery will take time, Mr. Brochet."
The nun turned to Adam, her face suddenly more severe.
"His injuries are especially deep in three areas. It's as if he was struck with one of your sabers! Those wounds will take longer to heal, but they'll all leave scars."
"I-I see..."
Ah... Thank goodness it was only twenty lashes and not more. I don't even want to imagine what would've happened if he'd been sent to the galleys.
"Hmm, it seems it's time to change his bandages. Excuse me, gentlemen," Sister Thérèse said, turning to another nun. "Sister Clarence, we need to clean Mr. Brochet's wounds and change his bandages. Ask Miss van Schaick to assist you."
"Yes, Sister Thérèse!" the nun promptly replied.
Adam raised an eyebrow at the mention of that name, trying to recall where he'd heard it before, and then it came to him.
Ah! That's the madwoman who tried to stab us last time we were in Quebec!
He wasn't mistaken. Soon, a young woman dressed like any ordinary Augustine appeared. She was also the nun who had caught their attention when they first entered the large building.
Adam couldn't help but gape as she approached, struck by how beautiful she was up close. Martin, standing a few steps behind him, reacted no differently and blushed furiously.
Now that she was there, Adam remembered that Ryckje van Schaick had been sentenced to forced labor and re-education with the Augustines of Quebec's General Hospital. He had to admit that the habit suited her.
Adam and Martin watched as the young woman got to work, starting to remove the old bandages from Soldier Brochet. Even though she had done this before, she couldn't help but grimace at the man's horrific wounds.
From her perspective, as well as Adam's and Martin's, the cream applied to the unfortunate man's injuries resembled pus. The smell was equally unpleasant.
What the hell is that smell?! What did they make that with?!
The sister and her young assistant were quite efficient despite Sister Thérèse's insistent gaze, and in no time, Soldier Brochet's back was cleaned, treated, and bandaged again.
Adam then noticed that throughout the whole process, his friend hadn't taken his eyes off the young Ryckje.
Wait, what? Martin?!
Ryckje van Schaick didn't even notice—or perhaps deliberately ignored—that Martin was watching her. She did her work and left once it was done.
She had said only three words throughout the process, in French, but with a strong accent that Adam found charming.
Adam and Martin left the hospital shortly after. As soon as they were outside, Adam turned to his friend, a mischievous grin on his lips.
"Hey, Martin, it seems you like the little English girl, huh? Hehe!" he teased in a mock-innocent tone.
Martin, who had been silent until then, froze in his tracks. His face, which had returned to calm after the hospital visit, flushed red again, making him resemble a peony.
"W-what?! W-what are you talking about?! N-not at all!" he stammered, waving his hands as if to dismiss the idea.
"Oh really? And here I thought you two would make a lovely couple," murmured Adam just loud enough for his friend to hear, savoring each word as if it were a delightful treat.
"R-really?!"
"Well, I must've been mistaken," continued the young officer with a light laugh. "I guess I could try my luck, then?"
"You?!" exclaimed Martin, his eyes widening like saucers.
By now, his face was more purple than red, giving him the appearance of a beetroot. His eyes shot daggers at his friend, who was clearly enjoying himself.
Adam, quite pleased with himself, began walking again, whistling a familiar tune that was decidedly out of place for the era.
"François!"
His friend turned back, laughter in his eyes, and flashed a dazzling smile.
"I'm joking, Martin. Haha, you should've seen your face. But seriously, don't wait too long, or someone else might beat you to it. Such a lovely young lady—she's probably stolen quite a few hearts since she arrived. Ah, but it's probably too late, isn't it? We're leaving Quebec in two days, and who knows when we'll be back?"
Martin muttered an indistinct response, his face still burning, while Adam, in high spirits, walked away whistling a rock tune.
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He made his way to the outskirts of the city, where Richelieu's army—or at least what was left of it after leaving nearly half its men in the south to maintain control over some of the English territories pillaged since the operation began—was camped.
Numerous tents were pitched there, and the air was filled with the delicious smell of frying food. Potatoes were growing in popularity, and Adam had heard that farmers were planning to plant more of them this year.
Fortunately, it wasn't a difficult crop—it just needed to be planted and left to grow quietly throughout the summer.
Not far from the camp, loud cheers and applause could be heard. A group of men was enjoying themselves on an open field, where a rugby match was in full swing, and as usual, a large crowd had gathered to watch and cheer them on.
Drawn by all the commotion, Adam slipped into the crowd and smiled as he watched them running around like madmen. One player passed close by, clutching a ball that didn't seem to belong to him.
With agility, he dodged a defender, skimming the edge of the field, and brought the precious ball into the opposing camp.
Watching them play, the young captain noticed a marked improvement in the quality of the game. Though it was still far from what one might see in modern competitions, it was undeniable that the players were getting better with practice: their passes were more precise, their movements more coordinated, and they had even started employing strategies to triumph.
Each man seemed to be finding his role according to his characteristics.
Well, it seems they're taking this game seriously, Adam thought with immense satisfaction.
He found himself imagining official matches between the cities of New France. Perhaps, before returning to Europe, he might witness a Montreal-Quebec game or even a Louisbourg-Halifax one?
He supposed it wasn't impossible that someday, when peace was restored between France and England, there could be great matches between their two nations.