Chapitre 100: The Old Rogue
Thank you Mium, Hydrogen8, Microraptor, Porthos10, DaoistDQ8t5A, George_Bush_2910, ThisguyAEl and TheHumble_Dogge for the support!
Here is a new chapter! I hope you will enjoy it!
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The troop personally commanded by Monsieur le Duc de Richelieu looked so worn out that one might have thought they had returned from hell. Every man wore a dreadful expression.
They were in as lamentable a state as their equipment. Some could barely walk, forced to make do with shoes split open at the toe, resembling the gaping maw of a crocodile.
When they were finally allowed to rest, almost all the soldiers, who looked like beggars, collapsed. They resembled puppets whose strings had been cut. Adam even saw several fall asleep immediately against a wall, clutching their muskets tightly.
He found his friends sitting on the ground against the main barracks. With permission from Captain Albert Fontaine, he went to join them.
Jean was the first to react.
He leapt to his feet and rushed toward his friend, whom he hadn't seen in so long.
"François! Ahaha! It's been ages!"
"Ah!"
Before Adam could react, he was lifted like a child by the burly man, who seemed more confined than ever in his uniform, now as gray as the sky after so many hardships.
Adam felt like he was in a car crusher. The powerful muscles of his friend squeezed him so tightly that his bones seemed on the verge of breaking. Fortunately, Jules intervened to rescue him.
"Jean, take it easy. Look at him, you're crushing him."
"Oops, sorry! Haha!"
Like an oversized child, Jean gave him a huge grin while still holding him close to his chest before finally setting him back on the ground.
"You really should be careful with your strength, Jean," Jules commented as he got up with difficulty, his legs visibly trembling. "One day, you might hurt someone without meaning to."
The big man lowered his gaze and wiped the silly grin off his face. He apologized again, more seriously this time.
"Hey, François. How are you?" he asked warmly, giving his friend a hug without trying to break all his bones.
"I'm alright. It's been a while. What's it been, a month?"
"A little more. We're already halfway through October."
"Goodness, that's right! Time flies so fast! Oh, happy belated birthday, by the way. Sorry for the delay."
"Haha! Thanks! Don't worry about it. It's not like you could send me a letter just for that. Ah, I feel old."
"Pfff! Hahaha! Old?! You're making me laugh! You're only twenty-one! If you feel old now, what'll it be when you're thirty?"
"You sound like my father," Jules chuckled.
Jules said it jokingly, but he truly felt old. He saw his friends aging visibly since the war began, and he had seen his reflection in a mirror. What he saw was no longer the charming young man who had enlisted in the King's army but a veteran already worn down.
What shocked him most were his eyes.
He found them darker and emptier, as if a light was missing behind his handsome brown eyes. Perhaps it was his innocence or naivety that he had lost.
Exactly one year ago, they were still in Saxony, and part of the Duke's army had been sent south to assist Prince de Soubise in his fight against the King of Prussia.
So many things had happened in just one year!
"There's a bit too much noise here. We can barely hear each other. How about we move somewhere else?"
"If you want," Jules agreed.
"But not too far. We're exhausted," whined P'tit Pol, who seemed to wake up.
Adam smiled and led his friends to a quieter corner of the fort. It was between the southern rampart and the munitions depot, near the ramp leading to the royal bastion.
The small group of friends formed an irregular circle and settled as comfortably as possible. Fortunately, even though the sky was overcast, it wasn't raining.
"So, what was it like, being in English territory?" Adam asked to restart the conversation.
"Well, not very different from here, I'd say," Louis replied, yawning loudly. "Trees, mud, a few settlers in houses that look like hunting cabins, and that's about it."
Charles nodded.
"When I see their villages, it feels like stepping back a century. Everything is so... rustic. The English settlers barely had anything of value."
"You pillaged them?" Adam asked, more out of curiosity than judgment.
He wasn't in a position to condemn them; in Germany, he had done plenty of pillaging, mainly to eat. More than once, he had been forced to be violent with locals to take eggs, chickens, or some grain.
"Of course!" Charles replied honestly, pulling out a cloth to clean his musket. "But honestly, they seemed poorer than our beggars back in France. We got a few nice trinkets, but that's it. We mostly took weapons, powder, and artillery pieces from a fort. What was it called again?"
"Who cares," Jean replied brusquely, crossing his arms over his chest, which immediately made Adam think of the massive Indian chief. "We besieged them and crushed them! We took everything we could, but there was too much stuff."
"Yes, I believe it was one of their forts dedicated to storing munitions and weapons for their other forts further north," Louis continued, recalling the scene. "When Monsieur the Duke of Richelieu saw that we couldn't take more, he ordered it to be set ablaze."
"Ahahah! If you had seen it, François! It was a massive fire! And when it reached the barrels of powder... Boom! Everything exploded! It was incredible! Even the Duke's horse got scared and almost threw him off! Bwahaha!"
Adam imagined the scene: a fort similar to Fort Edward engulfed in flames, surrounded by towering trees and enthusiastic soldiers, their faces illuminated by the blaze, guarding an immense war bounty. He pictured a tall column of orange and yellow flames, accompanied by an even taller column of ink-black smoke.
Finally, he imagined a massive fireball at the fort's center, shaking the ground and trees with an infernal roar.
If Fort Edward had fallen, I wonder if the English would have done the same? No, probably not. They'll certainly try to reclaim it next spring to then retake the southern shore of Lake George. They need that site to command their subsequent military operations or simply to hold the frontier.
"And the prisoners? What did you do with them?"
"Well, it's partly because—or thanks to them—that we turned back. I'm sure that if not for them, the old rogue would have taken us further south."
"The old rogue?"
Adam's friends, including P'tit Pol, who was half-asleep but apparently still following the conversation, smiled with a certain pride.
"That's the nickname we gave the Marshal. Apparently, the English call him that too. Anyway, we took so many prisoners in September—settlers and soldiers—that we could barely control them. So instead of releasing them, the Marshal decided to turn back."
"Yes, not to mention that we were too exhausted to continue. Look at us," Charles said, now cleaning the inside of his musket barrel. "We look like nothing. Have you seen our men's shoes? They're all damaged, barely usable!"
Adam had indeed noticed and felt sorry for them.
"Looks like it wasn't easy for you."
"Hmm, but if you want my honest opinion, that's not even why the old rogue pulled back. While we were pillaging one of their villages, one of the settlers mentioned hearing a rumor that they were planning to take Louisbourg before winter."
"Oh, that. I heard about it by accident," Adam recalled. "It's what the Duke wrote to Monsieur the Marquis de Montcalm. It's the remnants of the army we defeated at Louisbourg, I think, who want to try their luck again, isn't it?"
"I believe so," Jules confirmed, though he wasn't entirely sure. "Apparently, it caused a lot of stir in the colonies. Their failure, I mean. I think it's the capture of their general that hurt them the most."
"I hope he's rotting in a dungeon!" Jean spat, scowling furiously. "That's what they all deserve!"
"Impossible," Adam replied without hesitation, shaking his head. "He's a nobleman, English or not. We can't treat him poorly, because that would mean the English could do the same with our officers. If they go so far as to exchange gifts on the battlefield, it also means they treat each other with respect after the battle."
P'tit Pol lazily opened an eye and murmured, "I'm sure he's in a fine house, maybe even a castle, sleeping in a soft bed, drinking good wine, and eating better than us, the soldiers of France."
Adam nodded, imagining the poor enemy general in his gilded prison, surrounded by servants and fine furniture, while they, poor souls, waded through mud and ate whatever they could find.
"So the English are going to attack Louisbourg… We'll never make it in time. The journey is too long."
"I think so too, but we have to try," Jules said with conviction.
P'tit Pol frowned and made a face.
"Try what? It's already mid-October! The roads—if you can call them roads—are terrible, and we're all exhausted! If the redcoats really want to attack, it's now or never! After that, it'll be too late!"
"P'tit Pol is right," Louis said, shaking his head with a grim expression. "By the time we get there, it'll already be November. The city will probably have fallen."
"You too, Louis?!" Jean exclaimed, his face red with anger. "But you're all forgetting that a city doesn't fall just like that! Even when it was besieged by the British army last summer, it didn't fall easily! Maybe—no, I'm sure we'll arrive at just the right moment! Then we can cover ourselves in glory, earn promotions, and get a good meal!"
Adam raised a skeptical eyebrow but had to admit his close friend had a point. He was well aware that a siege could last weeks, even months. He had even heard of sieges that dragged on for years, though those must have been very rare.
Not all cities could hold out that long, with food supplies being limited. He also understood that health in a besieged place could play as decisive a role as morale, the number of soldiers, or the amount of gunpowder.
Finally, the strategies deployed by opposing generals had to be taken into account.
He didn't know what kind of man the new British commander would be, but if he were competent and determined enough, he could indeed take down a fortified city with a reduced number of soldiers in a short time.
Anything is possible. Everything will depend on our enemy. If he's a fool, so much the better. If he's a strategist… better not to think about it. What's certain, as Jules said, is that we have to try. Doing nothing is giving the enemy an advantage.
His gaze rested on the thick earthen walls of the fort, which had become as familiar to him as his own living room.
I just hope the English won't come back once they realize a significant part of the garrison is gone.
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The Duke's army didn't stay long at Fort Edward. Their lengthy detour had only been because the fort was under siege. Since that was no longer the case, the Duke could take the men he needed to reinforce and, if necessary, come to the aid of Louisbourg.
It was all the more pointless to linger here, as there was no food for him and his men. They rested for a single day, which passed in a blur, and at dawn on October 13, 1758, a strong force of nearly three thousand men departed Fort Edward.
Almost immediately, the frontier fort seemed calm, almost lifeless. Montcalm had to hold out with a reduced garrison but with the promise of soon receiving reinforcements recruited from the north. Volunteers had flocked to join the royal army following their successive victories.
For now, these recruits were still in training, but soon they would be ready to serve faithfully under the proud banner of the King of France.
By noon, Richelieu's troops reached the ruins of Fort William Henry and the provisional British camp that had been reduced to ashes. From that point onward, the journey became arduous, as there were no rafts this time to help them cross the lake. They were forced to follow the long body of water on foot, ascending and descending fortunately low hills.
It wasn't until late afternoon the next day that they arrived at Fort Carillon. Unlike Fort Edward, it had not changed since their last visit.
On the Duke's orders, several pieces of artillery and carts filled with supplies and equipment were taken. Most of the provisions came from pillaging English territory. However, no additional men were recruited there, as the fort already housed a small garrison.
Fort Carillon was no longer the southernmost French stronghold, relegating it to a mere relay point.
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Five days later, after an exhausting march along the Richelieu River—named not after the Marshal-Duke but after a fort named in honor of the Cardinal and minister of Louis XIII—they arrived near Montreal.
Knowing his army could not continue marching through the wilderness much longer, the Marshal allowed his men to rest for half a day. This might have seemed generous in his mind, but in reality, it was more cruel than denying them rest entirely.
It was like offering a glass of water to a man dying of thirst in the Sahara: it was what he wanted, but it could not satisfy him. Once the man emptied his glass, he could only look at the one who had given him the precious water and beg for more.
Adam saw discontent rise rapidly in the Duke's army and, naturally, alerted his captain. The captain had already noticed and had reported it to the high-ranking officers. But nothing could be done.
The afternoon passed so quickly that most men could do nothing but sleep. They weren't in Montreal itself but a few kilometers to the east, meaning there were no taverns or other forms of entertainment.
At best, there were farms where the men could eat fresh produce.
It was on this occasion that Adam discovered something scandalous.
"What?! You're feeding them to the animals?!"
"Well, yes? Why?"
"W-why?!"
Adam nearly choked on his own saliva and began coughing violently, drawing the attention of several comrades, including his friends.
"What's going on?" Louis asked, holding a small pot of fresh, still-warm milk.
"What's going on?! These fools have patates and are feeding them to their animals!"
"Patates?"
Everyone stared blankly at the young lieutenant and then at the strange, small, round root in his hands, covered in dirt and slightly yellow.
"They're not supposed to, right?" the farmer asked worriedly. "They won't get sick, will they? I started growing them two years ago, and it didn't seem to bother them. I know others who do the same."
Adam's eyes widened, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to cry. Thankfully, he wasn't the only one who knew that potatoes were edible for humans.
"Is that what you call 'cartouffles' in the north?" asked a soldier in his thirties or forties from Franche-Comté. "Where I'm from, we also feed them to animals, but sometimes we eat them when there's nothing else. We cook them in ashes, peel them, and eat them with pepper."
"You eat that?!" Charles choked out, disgusted. "But it grows underground!"
"So do carrots," the soldier immediately retorted, crossing his arms.
"S-so it's safe?" asked the farmer, now worried about his animals.
"Yes, yes. No problem. It's just that some people think they're bad, but that's nonsense. Some even say they cause the plague and other diseases. Don't listen to them."
Adam watched the conversation in astonishment, once again realizing how backward this world was.
How could potatoes make people sick? The plague? Ridiculous! If that were true, we'd all be dead by now!
"I'll show you a way to cook them!" Adam declared with rare determination. "They're delicious and very nutritious!"
"François?"
Ignoring the surprised looks from his friends, Adam grabbed several fine potatoes, peeled them, and tossed them into a large black pot of water. They lit a fire, and soon the water was boiling.
With the tip of a knife, he checked the cooking progress several times.
When satisfied, he removed the potatoes without wasting the hot water, which could be reused for another batch. He now had boiled potatoes, but he wasn't about to leave them plain.
With butter and a little salt, they're great, but I feel like making mashed potatoes.
Without mercy, he mashed the potatoes in a new container and added a splash of milk, a knob of butter, and a pinch of salt.
"The mash is ready!"
When he looked up, he saw a good thirty men gathered around the pot. Everyone wore the same expression: they were hungry and eager to try this dish.
Each man handed over his bowl, and in an instant, the pot was emptied. For everyone, even Adam, who was used to instant mashed potatoes that only needed hot milk, it was a revelation.
As with their brief rest, everyone looked at him unsatisfied, as if he hadn't made enough.
T-they wouldn't hit me if I don't make more, would they?
"I... I'll make more."
Everyone nodded like machines, and the farmer returned with more potatoes.
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On the morning of October 19, under clear, dry, and cool skies, they resumed their march, dragging their feet. It took them three more days to reach Quebec, only to be informed that it was no longer necessary to rush to Louisbourg.
L’AVIS DES CRÉATEURS 
Super_nugget
Super_nugget 1) "Patate" is a French slang term commonly used to refer to potatoes. "Cartouffle" is an old French word that has been completely forgotten in France but is used daily in German as "Kartoffel."
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2) Potatoes, originally from the Andes, were introduced to Europe at the end of the 16th century. Gaspard Bauhin, a professor of medicine at the University of Basel, described the plant in 1596 and noted that it was edible.
The potato was studied for its potential to feed people during times of scarcity and famine, but it struggled to gain popularity in France, especially in the north and the Paris region, due to its association with negative effects.
Many scientists worked to change this perception, and in France, much credit goes to the apothecary Antoine Parmentier (1737–1813), although he was not the only one.
During the Seven Years' War, while Parmentier was a prisoner in Germany, he discovered the potato and recognized its great potential.
He received numerous accolades for his research but is best remembered for his advocacy for potato cultivation, which was banned at the time of this story by the Parliament of Paris. His name remains well-known today and is associated with a dish made from potatoes.
However, other scientists of the era who, like Parmentier, sought to produce flour and bread from this root have largely been forgotten.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
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