Capítulo 116: The Grand Plan
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"Company, forward, march!"
Maintaining a tight formation, Adam's company—commonly referred to as Boucher's company rather than by its number—moved straight ahead.
The soldiers had learned to march together, which was easier said than done.
"Company, halt! About-turn, right!"
Immediately, gaps began to appear within the formation. These were eventually closed, but time was lost for such a simple maneuver.
"Prepare for the exercise!"
All the soldiers turned their heads—held high as if they were in the presence of a Marshal of France—toward their comrade on the right and straightened their posture.
"Move the musket to the sword side!"
Although they carried no swords, the soldiers obeyed, performing the action exactly as they had been taught, in four counts.
"Fix bayonets to the barrels!"
In three counts and a reasonable amount of time, the soldiers obeyed and waited for the next command.
"Carry arms! Right face! Left face! About-turn, right! About-turn, right!"
The soldiers followed the orders to the best of their ability, their officer playing the role of a major as if this were an inspection. Each movement was executed in three distinct counts.
Unfortunately, most of the recruits failed to perform well despite hours of practice. Soldier Tournier—though he was not alone—fumbled his steps, nearly losing his balance and stepping on his neighbor's foot.
Adam remained patient, knowing how much extraordinary precision was expected of them for something as basic as pivoting a formation.
"Raise arms!"
The soldiers lifted their weapons as if striking a pose with knights' swords, ensuring their hands were correctly positioned.
"Ready arms!"
As though they had all been wounded at once, the soldiers dropped to their right knees, slightly to the right and behind their left foot. They kept their torsos upright along with their weapons, which they loaded using their thumbs and index fingers.
Those in the second rank turned slightly, adjusting the position of their feet, with the right foot pulled back, as did the third rank. The soldiers in the two rear ranks loaded their weapons simultaneously.
"Present arms!" Adam called from the side, watching closely as his men, sweating like oxen after an intense endurance drill, performed the movements.
The soldiers lowered their weapons almost in unison, aiming at an invisible enemy. The butt of the musket rested on their right shoulders, while the barrels aligned perfectly with their comrades' positions.
They placed their right index fingers into what was called the "soûsgarde," the metal loop where the trigger was located.
Those in the first rank leaned slightly backward to avoid any allied injuries.
"Fire!"
As the command snapped out, around forty explosions erupted simultaneously in the small clearing. A thick white cloud formed in front of the inexperienced soldiers, who were hit directly in the face by the wind carrying it.
Some were overcome by violent coughing fits as they inhaled it.
Hmm, that wasn't too bad this time. They're moving better as a unit. Soon, we'll be able to accomplish something with them. Ah, they'll get used to that smell eventually.
"Put the hammer to rest!" Adam ordered—a command he had often heard himself, just like all the others given during this routine drill.
This simply meant they had to pull back the metal piece holding the flint, which created the spark necessary for ignition, so it could be used again.
"Take the cartridge!"
The soldiers, who had raised their weapons to comply with the previous command, grabbed a small paper cartridge from their cartridge boxes.
"Tear the cartridge with your teeth!"
"Damn it!"
"Silence in the ranks!"
"L-lieutenant! I… uh… I tore my cartridge. It's completely shredded, and I lost all my gunpowder."
The lieutenant took a large step forward, as if ready to pounce on him and devour him whole, and smacked the soldier's head hard enough to knock his tricorne off.
"Fool! Do you think this is a game?! Gunpowder is precious, and so is every cartridge! In battle, running out of ammunition can mean death! Don't let it happen again! Take another cartridge!"
"A-a-as you command!"
Soldier Tournier, red with shame, picked up his tricorne and placed it back on his head. Under the watchful and severe eyes of the officers, he timidly grabbed another cartridge as if it contained the deadliest poison and carefully brought it to the pan.
Adam looked up at the sky and gave the next order: "Amorçez!"
The soldiers began pouring black powder into the pan, then moved their right hands back behind the battery.
"Close the pan!"
The recruits obeyed, using their free fingers since they still held their open cartridge between their thumb and forefinger.
"Shift your weapons to the sword side!" Adam announced finally, signaling that the drill was nearing its end.
Quickly, the soldiers placed their muskets at their feet, barrels pointing toward the sky.
"Load the cartridge into the barrel! Draw the ramrod!"
These two commands were given rapidly, as Adam could feel time slipping away. They were already running very late.
"Ram it down! Return the ramrod to its place!"
As ordered, the soldiers used the long rod usually stored beneath the barrel to push the cartridge, containing most of the black powder, to the bottom of the weapon, then replaced it.
The muskets were once again ready for use.
"Carry your arms! Present arms! Carry arms! Shift your weapons to the sword side! Return the bayonet to its place! Join the right hand to the musket! Carry the musket! Hold the lockplate under the left arm! Carry the musket! Reverse the musket! Carry the musket! Shoulder arms! Rest on your musket! Ground arms!"
Adam turned to Lieutenant Marais, who held a small pocket watch in his palm.
"What's the time?"
"One minute and fifty-nine seconds," Marais replied.
That long?! Adam thought, shaking his head in frustration, though he had expected a dreadful result. Two minutes… Even with the additional movements beyond reloading, that was unacceptable! They'd taken at least twice as long as they should have.
Reloading for a single shot should take only thirty seconds. A beginner ought to manage it in no more than forty-five seconds, but because armies of this period relied on units rather than individuals, every man needed to be ready to fire simultaneously for an effective volley.
From the very start, these recruits had fallen behind. Soldier Tournier was just one example, but it wouldn't be fair to place the entire blame for this failure on him alone.
Adam remained silent, casting a chilling air over the assembled soldiers.
The troops felt ashamed, though they didn't fully understand their officer's anger. With a stern expression, Adam locked eyes with nearly every soldier under his command.
He could have yelled at them, insulted them, or ridiculed them with nicknames like "the slug," "the bug," or "the cripple." Instead, he stayed silent.
This heavy, almost oppressive silence was finally broken by Adam himself as he turned to Lieutenant Laroche.
"Lieutenant Laroche, you will give the orders from the beginning as I just did. Lieutenant Marais, watch the time. Soldier Petit, your weapon, please. And your bayonet."
The officers and soldiers looked on, confused, as their captain stepped to the side of Soldier Petit at the far left of the first rank. He respectfully took the soldier's weapon and briefly inspected it.
Satisfied, he turned to his lieutenants and nodded to signal that he was ready.
It was only then that the slower soldiers began to understand what their young captain intended to do—a demonstration.
"Prepare to execute the drill! Shift the musket to the sword side! Fix the bayonet to the barrel!"
Lieutenant Laroche called out the commands Adam had given just moments earlier, and Adam executed them with speed and precision. His movements were almost beautiful, though each was sharp and deliberate.
At every step and every action, Adam paused for a moment to ensure the officer leading the drill could see that each order had been carried out. Yet, it all felt fluid and natural.
It was as if the young officer was dancing with his musket.
"Fire!"
Adam pulled the trigger, and the mechanism engaged. The flint sparked a vivid yellow flash, igniting the black powder in the pan.
Thick, acrid white smoke billowed instantly, and within a second, the shot fired, delivering a powerful kick to his right shoulder.
Almost simultaneously with the lieutenant's next command, Adam began to move again, straightening his weapon with his back rigid, as though a board had been fixed to it.
He repeated the motions for the remaining orders until the command to return the bayonet came.
He secured it as best he could alongside his officer's sword.
"Reverse arms! Carry arms! Shoulder arms! Rest on your musket! Ground arms!"
Like a machine, Adam maneuvered the long-barreled musket and placed its butt gently on the cold, damp grass a few inches to the right of his right foot. He immediately let his left arm fall naturally at his side—not too stiff, not too limp.
The soldiers were struck silent, as impressed as if Jeanne d'Arc herself had arrived on a white horse clad in golden armor and bathed in divine light.
Adam, impassive as though he had done nothing extraordinary—and indeed, nothing superhuman had occurred—turned to his lieutenant.
"Lieutenant Marais? The time, please?"
"Forty-three seconds."
Each step had indeed taken only a few seconds. Reloading had been the longest part.
Adam returned the loaded musket and bayonet to Soldier Petit and stood before his troop.
"Here, gentlemen, is what we expect from you. With practice, you will achieve it. I know this because I have confidence in you. We will continue the exercises until you are no longer a burden to your comrades. Do not forget that in real conditions, if you fail to fire when the order is given because you haven't had time to reload, you jeopardize the entire frontline, or at least part of it."
Adam paused to give his men time to absorb this information, which they must not forget.
"If you fail to fire when ordered, it can also be seen as disobedience. In the worst-case scenario, you risk facing a military tribunal. You'll be lucky if they merely see you as incompetent. For your own sake, practice whenever you get the chance. Reduce your sleep hours if necessary."
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Later that day, while Adam was in Halifax exchanging a few words with Captain Albert Fontaine, an officer with a round face marked by an impressive and hideous scar on his left cheek—a remnant of a bullet wound from a pistol duel—came to fetch him.
Adam had seen him several times alongside Colonel de Bréhant, serving as his aide-de-camp.
"The colonel wants to speak with me?" Adam asked, surprised. "Did he… specify why?" he added with a hint of unease.
"No, he didn't. There's no need to worry; he didn't seem angry."
"Ah."
Adam sighed in relief, as ever since his promotion, he had feared having it taken away.
He politely bid farewell to his friend and followed the officer obediently to a building in the northern part of the town, near the always-bustling port thanks to the efforts of Monsieur de Roquefeuille, who remained very active in the region.
The two men climbed to the upper floor, which smelled of wood and smoke. The marquis, ever dignified in his movements and attire, was savoring a cup of hot chocolate—a luxury beverage requiring considerable effort to prepare and growing in popularity each day in Europe's great courts.
A powerful aroma wafted from the white porcelain cup, adorned with intricate painted details, a true work of art, and filled the room, immediately tempting Adam to take a sip.
Naturally, ever since inhabiting this body, he had not had the chance to taste even a morsel of chocolate.
"Captain Boucher, please come in. Have a seat."
"Thank you, Colonel."
"How are you? I haven't had the chance to speak with you since our return from Quebec."
"I'm doing well, thank you," Adam replied, hesitating slightly as he did not quite understand why his colonel had summoned him. He certainly didn't yet grasp that as a captain, he was now somewhat closer to his commanding officer.
"That's good. And your company? How are they progressing?"
"Slowly, sir, but they are progressing. We spend every available day conducting exercises."
"That's excellent. As long as they're progressing… Have you conducted drills with other companies so they won't be disoriented later when they have to cooperate with other units?"
"Not yet," Adam admitted honestly. "I think it's still too early. I don't know how they were trained before I was given command of these men, but they have many shortcomings. We've practically started from scratch."
"Hmm, that's what I suspected during the ceremony," the marquis acknowledged, sipping his drink. "I'm afraid we'll need to accelerate the training. Ask Captains Gauthier and Fontaine, for instance, to assist you."
"S-sir?"
He… really wants to do that?! They're not ready yet! They'll look like fools!
"The Marshal intends to launch an offensive across the bay, on the other side of Acadia—the Baie Françoise."
The colonel showed him an old-fashioned map of the region, beautiful and detailed despite the archaic technology.
In a corner of the map, at the bottom left, a short text explained what was depicted. The text was in English, but Adam could understand it perfectly. Apparently, it had been made two years earlier.
The territories were clearly represented and labeled, with special attention to the numerous rivers in the area. Halifax was, naturally, included, though no larger than a pinhead.
Nova Scotia, once again called Acadia, seemed so significant, so imposing on this map, yet in reality, it held little weight in the British colonies' economy. It was merely a tiny, wild piece of land seized from the French, where settlers had been placed and forts built for this war and those to come until the complete fall of New France—the grand objective of His Majesty and his minister, William Pitt.
"Excuse me, Colonel, but I don't see what you're calling Baie Françoise."
"Ah, of course. That's because it's an English map. They call it the Bay of Fundy. It's this body of water separating us from that small part of New England."
"I see. There are some villages along the coast and rivers. Is that the Marshal's objective?"
The colonel smiled strangely, as if he had been waiting for this question.
"Not exactly, but they are part of his grand plan. Almost all our forces will participate in this operation. These villages, if all goes according to plan, will come under our control. But the Marshal-Duke has a bigger target in mind. Do you see it?"
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting to be questioned in this manner. It was indeed unusual to include captains in grand discussions involving strategy, but some were veterans with rich experience of war and the field.
This was not Adam's case, yet the colonel seemed intent on testing him.
He looked at the map again, and gradually his eyes drifted westward, following the coast.
To the west of Nova Scotia were the British colonies. There seemed to be two provinces… Sagadahoc? I don't know… Sounds like an Indian name. Province of Massachusets? Province of Main? New Hamppshire and… Oh…
"Boston?"
The colonel's smile widened, his eyes narrowing, unaware that Adam was simply surprised at how far north this great American city was located.
"Indeed. We are going to attack Boston, but not head-on. We must, however, fight like demons to get there, so train your men accordingly so they don't ruin our plans, Captain."
"Y-yes, sir!"
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