Hello!
We are slowly coming closer of the end of volume 1!
Thank you Mium, Porthos10, lizeer, Ranger_Red and AlexZero12 for the support!
Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------
Martin Morrel de Lusernes and several other officers returned to their companies in the days that followed, without delay.
Those who had not yet left were finally able to enjoy their well-deserved rest, though they could never truly escape the front lines. Most, like Adam, went to Montreal.
Those who came back to the fort starting on November 2nd found a garrison in low spirits—and not just because of the miserable weather.
They had received grim news, three weeks after the fact: Monsieur de Roquefeuil's squadron had been defeated—crushed, even—on October 14th by a slightly larger force commanded by Vice Admiral Holburne.
Adam, like most of the men at Fort Bourbon, knew nothing of this man—his age, his career, his flagship. Nothing, or next to nothing.
And in the end, it didn't really matter.
What mattered was the account of the events.
Despite the senior officers' efforts to contain the story, it eventually reached the regular officers, then the non-commissioned officers, and finally the common soldiers. Once summarized, the account was rather simple.
The battle had reportedly been brutal, despite involving a relatively modest number of ships. It had taken place in rough seas and thick fog, somewhere between the ruins of Boston and what used to be Nova Scotia, now called Acadia.
The exact human losses were still unknown, but fortunately, Monsieur de Roquefeuil was not among the dead.
Still, it was a disaster that had cost the King six excellent ships, including two captured by the enemy.
His prized vessel, the Hector, which had so distinguished itself during the siege of Louisbourg in 1758, had sadly sunk after taking several broadsides below the waterline.
That English squadron had reportedly left England a week before the death of George II. It was hoped, therefore, that these were among the last decisions made by His late Majesty under the influence of William Pitt.
With any luck, the British colonies would receive no further reinforcements—or only minor ones—before the war ended.
That was the kind of thing men whispered to themselves to stay hopeful.
Receiving news of the world in dribs and drabs was exhausting. Every good report seemed to be crushed by bad news just days later.
Roquefeuil was viewed as a hero, on par with Marshal de Richelieu himself. His proud ships were seen as loyal and noble knights of His Majesty, delivering justice at sea by punishing the subjects of the vile British monarch.
Adam, as affected as his men, walked with his head low and feet dragging through the cold rain.
With his black tricorne pulled deep over his head and a brown cloak draped over his shoulders, he made his way toward the building reserved for officers—where they could gather, unwind, and share a drink or a harmless game.
That evening of November 12th, the place was lively but far from cheerful. Adam spotted several empty chairs, which surprised him given the awful weather.
Officers often came here whenever they could.
Adam had no trouble finding Martin. Since André and Jean-Baptiste had left that very morning, he was now the only close friend Adam still had at the fort.
He knew a number of officers, of course, but wasn't particularly close to any of them.
"Ah, François," Martin said, without warmth and without taking his eyes off the chessboard in front of him. "Sit down."
"Good evening, gentlemen," Adam said, without waiting for a response. "Who's winning?"
He removed his cloak and hung it on a hook.
"I think I've already lost," Martin grumbled, rubbing a tired hand across his furrowed brow. "I've sacrificed too many important pieces for nothing."
Adam glanced at the "graveyard" beside the board, and indeed, several of Martin's most valuable pieces were already gone—pieces he could definitely use now. His opponent, a man named Gilles Colmard, whom Adam had spoken to several times but still knew little about, had lost just as many pieces—but mostly pawns.
Time crawled by, and the situation steadily worsened for Martin. He lost a rook, then his last knight.
He shook his head and conceded—something Adam would've done too in his place. Still, the game had lasted a while, which was impressive in and of itself. Gilles Colmard was an excellent chess player.
Suddenly, the door burst open and a soaking wet man stepped inside, beaming.
"Great news, gentlemen! The Spanish have taken Jamaica!"
Everyone froze in astonishment, staring at the man as he made his way to the center of the room. He began to recount what he had heard in a rush.
His story was disjointed, but the conclusion was clear: their side had won another major victory.
Still, some officers remained skeptical.
"Th-they really managed that?" asked one, a pear-shaped man, visibly stunned.
"Hmmm. I don't think it's fake—too big a lie," replied another, sounding just as unconvinced.
"Could it be an exaggeration? After all… they are the Spanish."
To doubt a report just because it involved the Spanish might have sounded cruel, but the truth was their reputation wasn't exactly stellar—especially their navy, which was considered no match for the mighty British Royal Navy.
It was as if the Spanish Navy had ceased to evolve for the past fifty years. And now they were being told about an exceptional victory?
The officers couldn't help but doubt it.
"I swear it's true!" exclaimed the man who had launched this incredible piece of news as one might toss a grenade. "I heard Monsieur de Montcalm talking about it with Monsieur de Bréhant!"
"Hmm. I still think it's an exaggeration. Maybe the island of Jamaica is only partially under their control?"
"Um, where exactly is this island?" asked a rather young voice from the table behind Adam.
"A bit south of Cuba," Martin replied calmly and confidently. "I believe it's always been British."
"Cuba… Oh right. That's Spanish, isn't it?"
"That's right," confirmed Gilles Colmard while gathering up his chess pieces. "They also hold a good portion of the island of Hispaniola, next door. They occupy the south, and we hold the north."
Adam listened silently to the conversation unfolding around him. Everyone seemed to have something to say about the Spanish and the significance of this victory—if it was indeed complete.
"So… the English have lost Jamaica… Do they still have any sugar islands left?"
"Well, they still have the Bahamas and a few small islands to the east. But it's definitely a heavy blow for them."
"A very heavy one," added another with a serious look, as though those islands held no secrets from him.
Adam pressed his lips together, hesitating to ask the questions swirling in his mind. He didn't understand why these islands were so important.
To him, they were simply very pretty places with beautiful beaches and clear waters—perfect spots to retreat and relax, far from the bustle of cities. He supposed that in this century, they were just more wild and unspoiled than in his own time.
Fortunately, he had young Martin Morrel de Lusernes to teach him a few things. Since Martin came from a good family whose fortune was tied to commerce, Adam could ask him questions without fear of being judged.
In the meantime, he kept his ears open, trying to catch every bit of information he could.
"Apparently," said the officer who had made the announcement, "this is the work of the officer who helped us recapture Saint-Louis in Senegal. You know, the one we supported at Cape Verde."
"Oh! I remember! That feels like ages ago! So, after Cape Verde, he went to the Caribbean?"
"Yes! With his squadron, he supposedly launched an immediate attack on the island, taking advantage of the fact that the southern British colonies were already under attack by the Spanish Empire."
Adam frowned, struggling to piece together the context.
He did remember that the British colonies weren't just being attacked in the north by the French, but also in the south by the Spanish. The Spaniards, who held Florida, had even gone so far as to encourage enslaved people to flee and join them in exchange for their freedom.
This tactic, more than a policy, aimed to sow chaos among the English, and by all accounts, it had worked perfectly.
Almost immediately, it had triggered a spectacular wave of violence and brutal reprisals in North and South Carolina, as well as Georgia. The tragedy had reached its peak during the summer, around the time the siege of Fort Bourbon had begun.
So, the redcoats must've had to send reinforcements south, which weakened them in the Caribbean! I get it now!
The door to the building opened once more, and an old major limped in.
"No, that's not what happened," the officer growled. "May I?"
Space was quickly cleared for the elderly man. The one who had made the announcement stepped back, allowing the new arrival to speak where all could see and hear him.
"The Marquis asked me to share this great news with you. Here's what happened."
Everyone fell silent and leaned in, as the major didn't speak loudly and the rain tapping on the rooftop added to the din.
"The squadron of Andrés Reggio y Brachiforte, who assisted us in retaking our trading post in Senegal, didn't head straight for the Caribbean. He first went to the coasts of the southernmost British colonies—namely Georgia and South Carolina—to support the troops already stationed there. Their campaign in Georgia had met with great success, and they had pushed dangerously close to Charlestown. But when his squadron arrived, it was already too late: the Spaniards, under intense pressure by land and sea, had fallen back to Savannah. A siege was underway. He arrived just in time to prevent the English from retaking the city."
"O-oh really… So he only went to Jamaica afterward?" asked the officer who had stepped back earlier, his face slightly red.
"That's right," said the major softly, "passing through the Bahamas. He aimed to take Nassau, and thus control of the island of New Providence, but quickly had to change plans. Attacking Jamaica became his fallback option. The island is larger, but that also means the ports are farther apart."
"What a madman!"
"What courage!"
Despite all the prejudice that existed about the Spanish, one had to admit that this man, Andrés Reggio y Brachiforte, was as brave as they come. Perhaps even worthy of comparison to the old Marshal Richelieu.
All the officers' attention was now fixed on the man with tired features. He had drooping yet piercing eyes, a narrow mouth, a slightly hooked nose, and a forehead carved with deep wrinkles that looked like rivers.
No one was paying attention to the previous speaker anymore.
The major continued his account with such precision that one could almost believe he had just returned from the campaign himself.
"They arrived from the northwest, driving away all ships flying the British flag. The Spaniards immediately launched their attack, targeting a modest port called San Antonio. Naturally, the English had built a fort there to defend it, but it had suffered heavy damage over the years and through storms. They made the mistake of neglecting its upkeep: the Spanish commander used the same strategy as Monsieur le Minorcain and had his men climb the rocks. In a matter of hours, he had taken control of the port."
Adam could picture the scene perfectly. It must have been epic, worthy of a grand war film!
He had no idea what that fort looked like, nor what Spanish uniforms were like, but it didn't matter.
He could visualize a large stone fort overgrown with vines, riddled with cracks, and silhouettes climbing slowly like monkeys.
He could almost hear the English shouting orders and insults, trying desperately to stop their enemies from lowering their flag and raising their own.
And it wasn't just Adam—everyone in the room seemed caught in some kind of illusion.
The major continued.
"With reinforcements granted by the viceroy—or rather the one acting as viceroy until a proper replacement is appointed—he was able to build on his victory. They set out to attack Kingston, the most important city on the island. It could easily have turned into a disaster, but as it happens, the island was already in chaos even before the Spanish arrived. There are said to be over a hundred and thirty thousand slaves on that island, you see?"
"One hundred and thirty thousand?! That's massive! How could they possibly control that many slaves? They must have had a considerable force stationed there to prevent the masters from being massacred!"
"Not even," replied the old officer, shaking his head very subtly. "They used fear and kept the slaves divided between plantations to control them more easily. Only a small number managed to flee into the mountains. The soldiers couldn't stop them and barely managed to organize expeditions into the island's interior to hunt them down. It was mostly for show—to remind everyone who ruled the island."
"Well, it clearly wasn't enough."
Several officers nodded.
"Indeed," the major said in a low voice. "As soon as word of the Spanish arrival reached the city, the island all but erupted. The masters and the army were so busy trying to contain the slaves—who naturally went out of control—that they couldn't stop the landing. The Spanish advanced quickly, quarter by quarter, until they took the fort and the governor's mansion. In the end, as you've all heard, the island fell. There are surely pockets of resistance left, and perhaps the English will manage to retake the island before the war ends, but this is still a major victory."
The officers raised a toast to that.
They were proud of their ally. And doubly so, since one of the Spanish officers serving under Andrés Reggio y Brachiforte was, in fact, French.
His name was Jean-Just de Croÿ d'Havré. With the King of France's permission, he had entered the service of the King of Spain, Ferdinand VI.
This man, the younger son of the Duke of Havré, had immediately been made Count of Priego. He had been serving the Spanish crown for eighteen years and had since more than proven his loyalty.
Holding the rank of colonel, he had crossed into the New World with a sizeable force to defend the King's interests—currently Carlos III, the half-brother of Ferdinand VI, who had become King of Spain in August 1759. He was also expected to reinforce Spain's presence in the region whenever possible.
After all, from their point of view, the entire Caribbean Sea belonged to them by right. The Spanish were the first to discover those territories!
Of course, other colonial powers didn't quite share that perspective. But for all the officers gathered there, since Colonel de Croÿ d'Havré had been involved, Spain's brilliant victory in Jamaica was, in a way, also thanks to France.
-----------------------------------------
Two weeks later, other important news reached the fort—this time from farther away.
As the Marquis de Montcalm had gone to Quebec, it fell to Colonel de Bréhant to deliver the latest world news.
Outside, the rain had turned to hail, blanketing the ground and rooftops in white. The air was cold enough, but not yet the soil—everything would disappear within a few hours.
Inside the office, it was very dark, almost as if night had fallen, though there were still several hours of daylight left. Several candles had been lit, and a comforting fire crackled in the stone hearth at the far end of the room.
Everyone was silent, as if attending a wake. Adam could clearly hear the soothing crackle of dry wood in the fireplace, in between slow, steady breaths.
"Gentlemen," the colonel began, his face made ominous by the shadows cast across it, making him look sterner than he was, "I regret to inform you that Honfleur and Le Havre have been attacked."
A shiver passed through the assembly, and murmurs quickly broke the silence. Some had loved ones there. Others immediately thought of the logistical consequences—and the humiliation.
"The losses are significant. Many buildings were destroyed by cannon fire and flames. All ships that fell into enemy hands were systematically destroyed, and their crews taken prisoner. These operations were, it seems, planned long ago by Minister Pitt… but executed by General Jeffrey Amherst."
That name sent a chill through the wide room.
Adam, like most officers present, had not forgotten it. The man who had besieged Louisbourg before being captured and paraded back to France almost like a trophy.
The colonel could read the questions forming on his comrades' faces. He answered them before they could ask.
"His Majesty agreed to release that man in exchange for our sailors held captive in England—some of whom had been there since the war began. It's unfortunate, but that's how it is."
Adam felt a tightness in his throat. It felt like they had let a wolf go free to recover a few lambs. He grimaced.
"In retaliation," the colonel continued, cutting through the murmurs, "our navy attempted a similar operation on the English coast. The plan was already in motion, but the order came to advance the schedule to send a quick response to this aggression."
He searched for the right word, but found none better than the one on his mind to describe the outcome.
"It was a disaster. Again, the losses are heavy. We don't… We don't yet know how many men survived. The Regiment of Flanders, commanded by Monsieur de Belzunce… was almost entirely lost…"
A crushing silence fell.
Even the fireplace and the hail seemed stunned.
Adam swallowed hard as he imagined himself in their place. That had nearly been his fate on the road to Brest.
More than one man shed a tear, but the colonel remained firm. He cleared his throat and continued, his voice slightly hoarse.
"The second piece of news I have for you, gentlemen, concerns England. The grandson of George II has officially taken power and will be crowned in the coming months. He is only twenty-two, unmarried, and, of course, has no children. That will make him very malleable."
Several men nodded, and Adam imagined himself in the young monarch's shoes. They were about the same age—if one considered this body and not his original one.
He almost felt pity for him, as his grandfather had just handed him a burning hot potato.
"George III, in keeping with tradition, addressed his parliament and dismissed William Pitt."
A sigh of relief swept through the room like a draft of wind. But Colonel de Bréhant was not finished.
"He replaced him with a Scottish earl—John Stuart, with whom he is apparently very close."
An officer muttered:
"A Scot? That's new, isn't it? I thought the English didn't like them?"
"Indeed. According to our agents in London, voices are already rising in protest. We'll see how it plays out and how long he stays in office. In any case, he has secured additional funding to continue the war. The year 1761 promises to be… intense."
Adam looked around at the faces surrounding him. He could hardly imagine how it could be worse than this year or the one before.
Ah… That explains why I've been so tense lately… I'm sure a part of me already knew it would end like this.
But the colonel still wasn't finished.
"I have one more thing to announce, and then I'll let you go."
Adam shivered.
"Finally, we've learned that France, aided by the Dutch, has won major victories in the East Indies. Our two nations have agreed to drive out both the Portuguese and the British from the western coast of that vast territory and to share the trading posts seized from the enemy."
This time, the murmurs took a different tone. There was surprise, then doubt, and finally excitement.
It was almost as if the earlier announcements had been forgotten—but that was very likely the intended effect.
Adam felt the corners of his lips lifting gently. Shame flushed through him, but the smile didn't fade.
"One trading post after another," said the marquis, placing his hands firmly on his broad desk, "thanks to overwhelming force, reinforced by soldiers provided by our allies among the Indian princes, we have managed to push all the way up to Bombay and Surat!"
"By all the saints! Then…"
"Gentlemen, with their fall, Great Britain has just lost all access to the region's precious goods—and with that, a considerable source of revenue! I tell you, comrades, victory is near!"
A sudden cheer erupted to Adam's right, making him jump. It was quickly picked up by another officer, then by the whole assembly.
Adam remained silent for a moment, then allowed himself to be carried away by the wave.
"Long live de Conflans! Long live de Bussy! Long live the King! Long live France!"