Hello! Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
Thank you Microraptor, Elios_Kari, AlexZero12, Alan_Morvan, Ic2096, Porthos10, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Galan_05, Shingle_Top, Bellnconnue, , Mium, Yako_3972, RotePanda, and A_Revolving_Door for your support!
-----------------------------------------
François ultimately remained in Québec for five entire days.
Five long days spent almost entirely inside the small heated room assigned to him in one of the administrative buildings belonging to Fort Saint-Louis, writing line after line of the report demanded by Marshal de Contades. Searching for the right words, crossing sentences out, starting over.
He only left the room to get some fresh air in the courtyard and to eat with the other officers.
The work kept him occupied from morning until late in the evening, for he was eager to return to his family as soon as possible.
Every detail had to be recorded with precision: the meetings he had attended, the names overheard in taverns, the tensions between factions, the conversations caught in the streets of the city, the rumors circulating along the docks. Everything had to help those reading the report picture New York as it truly was in the year 1770.
As he wrote, he felt as though he were reliving his mission a second time.
It disturbed him even in his sleep. More than once, he awoke with a start, believing himself still in his room at the John Simmons Tavern and late to report to old Seamus Murphy's shop. It always took him several seconds to remember that he was in Québec, safe, at the heart of French territory.
When the report was finally complete, François read through it one last time despite the fatigue burning his eyes, then personally delivered it to Marshal de Contades. The marshal skimmed through it quickly, after which they held a brief discussion. He asked several additional questions before handing François various sealed documents intended for the intendancy and the command of Fort Bourbon.
François was also granted a full week of leave upon his arrival at the fort before resuming service with the New Aquitaine Regiment.
He did not doubt for a moment that his return was eagerly awaited.
When he and his guide had traveled back toward Québec after leaving the British colonies, they had not passed through Fort Bourbon. The detour would have cost them too much time.
Though he understood the decision perfectly, it had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could not stop thinking about Onatah's face and those of his two sons. Even a stop of only a few hours would have been enough for him.
But he was a soldier, and on a mission. His wishes and desires were not even secondary; they simply did not matter.
On October 18th, François finally left Québec aboard a large canoe loaded with food supplies, tools, blankets, and equipment destined for the forts in the south. The journey passed without incident.
They traveled up the Saint Lawrence beneath a low, heavy sky before turning into the Richelieu River. The paddlers rowed with remarkable efficiency, and by advancing in stages, they reached Fort Carillon, where they spent the night.
Activity there was less intense than it had once been, since the frontier had moved farther south, but the fort remained important for controlling the region and supplying nearby strongholds. François took a moment to quietly pay his respects at the place where so many comrades had fallen beneath English bullets many years earlier.
A large part of the cargo was left there to be redistributed according to very precise orders, after which the canoe resumed its journey toward the Saint-Michel Canal.
François could not help but observe at length the work that had been carried out around the old La Chute River. The rapids that had once made passage impossible had vanished, and the waters flowing from Lake George had been tamed. A simple lock system now allowed vessels to bypass the obstacle without forcing men to portage around the rapids on foot.
The king's engineers and the soldiers so often turned into laborers had done remarkable work, even if the project had cost more and taken longer than expected.
Several soldiers operating the locks allowed the large canoe to pass through and reach Lake George. The lake stretched out like a vast steel-gray expanse beneath a sky heavy with moisture. It was not raining for the moment, but François knew that could change at any time.
The familiar landscapes slowly passed around him. On one side lay French territory, and on the other the lands claimed by the Iroquois. Out of pragmatism, the French had accepted this division rather easily. Maintaining good relations with the Confederacy was well worth a few territorial concessions, especially since they had acquired immense former British lands farther east.
At the southern end of the lake stood Fort Montcalm, a recent but modest work compared to the imposing Fort Bourbon. It mainly served as a transit point for men, supplies, and equipment. A small harbor with three wooden piers extending into the clear waters of Lake George — which no one had bothered renaming — had been built there.
Not far away still stood the blackened, overgrown ruins of Fort William Henry.
The French had deliberately left them untouched to remind everyone of the great victory won there by the Marquis de Montcalm.
From that point onward, it was no longer possible to continue by canoe. François was given a sturdy brown horse and resumed the road leading southward.
On both sides of the road, trees had been cleared back several meters to prevent ambushes. Even so, the forest remained oppressive in places.
And just as he finally reached the borders of his seigneury, the rain began to fall again. At first only a few isolated drops, then a true downpour.
François pulled his tricorne lower over his head, careful not to damage his fine powdered wig. After so much time spent under a false identity, simply wearing his major's uniform again felt strange.
With the tip of a finger, he tugged lightly at the collar, which he found too tight.
The uniform was elegant, undeniably so, but after three months spent living like an ordinary British colonist, it made him feel as though he were trapped inside armor.
He let out a long sigh before raising his eyes toward the massive silhouette slowly emerging along the banks of the Hudson.
Fort Bourbon.
It had not changed during his absence, and even beneath the rain it commanded respect.
At the sight of it, François felt tension gradually leave his shoulders. From where he stood, he could clearly make out the mouths of the artillery pieces atop the solid brick ramparts. They resembled the watchful eyes of some monstrous beast guarding the frontier. The creature had many eyes, all staring in different directions at once. Nothing seemed capable of escaping its vigilance.
François presented himself at the main gate. There, the sentries recognized him immediately. After a few brief formalities, he was allowed inside.
Despite the weather, the interior was lively. Every man had something to do.
He led his mount to the stables, which were relatively spacious and well maintained, and entrusted the horse to one of the grooms before heading toward the building housing the commanding officer's office.
Colonel Bernard de Faudoas was there already, engaged in a long discussion with Lieutenant-Colonel de Rouvroy. Several documents lay spread across the heavy dark wooden desk separating them, barely illuminated by three half-melted candles.
They still had several matters to address before the end of the day: insufficient powder reserves, the discovery of a sentry drunk and asleep at his post, the awaited surgeon's report to be sent to Québec concerning a fever that had affected several soldiers in recent weeks but whose spread remained under control, and the project for a defensive line on the opposite side of the river to protect the small fort located there.
That project was making no progress, and it was not because of diplomacy with the Iroquois. The latter forbade French settlers from establishing themselves on their lands, but tolerated French activity there to a certain extent.
As so often, it was a matter of money.
Knock, knock.
"Enter," Marquis de Faudoas said firmly.
He slowly straightened in his chair — nothing compared to those furnishing Governor Vaudreuil's office — and suddenly felt a sharp twinge in the middle of his back. He grimaced faintly and shifted slightly, though the discomfort did not fade.
The door opened.
To his great surprise, his major appeared. For a second, his stern expression froze.
"Well now…"
He rose awkwardly to greet him, and his face relaxed. A faint breath escaped through his nose.
"We were beginning to think we would never see you again, Major. The soldiers speak of you often as well and keep wondering where you went. Hmm… Come in, and close the door behind you. This room is difficult enough to heat already."
François allowed himself a slight smile and obeyed. He stepped toward the center of the room and performed a formal salute, which both officers immediately returned.
"Has your… mission… been successful?" Faudoas asked cautiously.
The major immediately noticed the burning curiosity in both men's eyes. The colonel possessed almost no information regarding his major's recent activities, and his lieutenant-colonel even less. But they had had more than enough time to speculate.
"Yes, Colonel," François replied calmly. "I accomplished what was expected of me."
Victor Emmanuel de Rouvroy and Bernard de Faudoas were both dying to know more, but neither pressed further. They knew they would receive no satisfying answers.
François removed several carefully folded documents from the satchel hanging across his shoulder.
"I have several documents intended for you, Colonel."
François handed the papers to the colonel, who accepted them without a word. He took the first one, broke the wax seal, and quickly skimmed the few lines written inside. Naturally, he found none of the answers to his many questions.
His expression changed, and disappointment settled in.
"So you have been granted a week of leave beginning the moment you arrive at the fort… I see."
A faint, tired smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
"Your adjutant-major will be very unhappy to hear that. The poor man is drowning beneath paperwork arriving faster than it can be handled."
François pictured Captain Coulon trying to accomplish alone what the two of them normally managed together, sacrificing more and more sleep as the work piled up. He gently shook his head while adopting a falsely apologetic expression.
In truth, he could help him, but after months spent away from his lands and family, he fully intended to enjoy this well-earned week of rest down to the very last second.
"Has anything important happened during my absence?" he asked, changing the subject.
"A few small matters," the colonel replied. "Nothing dramatic. Minor annoyances, mostly. Ah, yes… A rugby competition will be held near Québec next summer. A very large competition, with a prize to be won."
François raised a surprised eyebrow. Yet he had no real reason to be surprised. In his mind, it had only been a matter of time before such an event was organized. Since the end of the Six Years' War, rugby had become extremely popular in New France and had even spread to France itself (though mostly through demonstrations meant to entertain the Court).
"Really? What is at stake?"
"Five thousand livres."
This time, François was genuinely stunned. That was more than he earned in an entire year on regular pay.
Even for a middling nobleman, it was a considerable sum.
"Five thousand…" he murmured enviously.
"Yes. Five thousand," the colonel repeated, almost amused by his reaction. "Governor Vaudreuil wants to turn it into a major event. He certainly will not do things halfway."
"I suppose so… But why a competition? I mean, the idea sounds excellent, but it feels rather sudden."
Faudoas opened a cabinet, pulled out a letter, and handed it to François.
"Read this and you will understand."
François accepted it and read carefully. He recognized the governor's elegant handwriting at once.
"Oh… So that's what this is about. I understand now."
He returned the letter to Marquis de Faudoas, who folded it neatly and placed it back where it belonged.
"Even if it is part of a strategy," the colonel continued, "the prize is real. It has even become a matter of prestige. Every team wants to prove to the world that they have the best players. We have our own team, of course, and it is far from poor, but the competition will be fierce."
"Will there be many participants?"
"With a first prize like this, there could hardly be otherwise. Certain cities — Montréal, Trois-Rivières, Québec, Halifax, or Louisbourg — will send several teams. But the ones who truly concern me… are the Mohawks."
François swallowed hard and immediately thought of Chief Akwiratheka. Even though the man was no longer young, he remained more than impressive: he was terrifying. A machine, a battering ram that nothing could stop once unleashed.
"T-the Mohawks are really going to send a team?"
Faudoas nodded slowly, his face darkening.
"Hmm. Chief Akwiratheka himself informed me that they would participate. He added… that his team would remind everyone that his people were the fiercest. He used a few expressions I shall not repeat here. You know him."
The major nodded.
"Will he participate?" he asked nervously.
"Thank God, no! However, his three sons will be on the field."
"Diable…"
Colonel de Faudoas could only nod gravely.
"Like their father… they are monsters…"
-----------------------------------------
François remained at Fort Bourbon a little longer, but refused to postpone his departure until the following morning. His estate was so close, and night had not yet fallen. Even if the road would be muddy, he would still have more than enough time to reach his manor before darkness settled completely.
Above all, he could no longer bear to wait before holding his wife in his arms again and kissing Pierre and Louis.
He left the fort beneath a lighter rain, mounted on a fresh horse and accompanied by a young man for reasons of both security and prestige.
Soon, they passed beyond the fort's firing and security perimeter and entered the still largely undeveloped lands of Montrouge. The inhabitants simply did not possess the manpower necessary to exploit such vast surfaces.
His own personal domain, twice the size of a normal censive, was no exception and remained largely covered with trees and thick brush. But things were changing.
Now, a stone wall clearly marked the boundaries of the property, and an orchard had begun to emerge behind the manor. It was still far too young to bear fruit, of course. But within a few years, it would produce fine apples and pears.
When his eyes settled upon the manor's sober façade and its smoking chimney, a warm sense of comfort spread through his chest. It resembled the feeling he had experienced upon seeing Fort Bourbon again, and yet it was also entirely different.
At last… It feels as though an eternity has passed.
He thought of his children's little faces. Had they changed during his absence?
His heart quickened, and unconsciously he urged his mount forward faster. The man accompanying him followed silently all the way to the estate's stables.
Before they even reached the building, a rough-faced man appeared and began running toward them, ignoring the rain and muddy puddles.
"My lord!"
François immediately recognized the Breton Yann Madec, the former servant who had served him in France and whom he had kept in his service. He himself had not changed much. Perhaps only his energy. He seemed happier, as though he had finally found meaning in his life.
"Good day, Monsieur Madec. I am happy to see you again."
The man stopped at a respectful distance and bowed deeply.
"I am also very happy to see you again, my lord. My family has been able to settle here, and we even possess land of our own to cultivate now! We shall remain forever indebted to you!"
François smiled, genuinely pleased to see such gratitude from this serious man.
"There is no need. As you have surely noticed, this land only waits to be worked. What you received was not merely a gift — it was a mission. The mission of making something of it."
"Yes, my lord!"
He briefly glanced at the soldier accompanying his master, though he paid him little attention.
"Your lady has also been very generous with us. Ah! She must not yet know of your return! I shall go inform her at once!"
But François stopped him with a simple gesture of the hand, gentle yet authoritative.
"That will not be necessary. I would rather surprise her."
"She will be so happy!"
François felt his heart beat even faster. It seemed ready to burst from his chest.
He dismissed the soldier, who led the horse back toward the fort, and headed without another second's delay toward the manor's front door, Yann Madec close behind him. A faint glow shone through the windows framing the entrance and from the children's room upstairs.
Each step he took felt larger than the last. He was almost running.
Madec leapt ahead to open the door for his lord.
The warmth of the hall greeted him like a caress. The air smelled of soup and smoked bacon.
Jeanne Bronchant stood near the entrance to the main room, while Onatah was occupied farther inside. Both women had their backs turned to him, but the young servant quickly noticed his presence.
She opened her mouth, but François motioned for silence.
The beautiful young woman bowed respectfully and watched her employer advance as quietly as possible. He walked straight toward Onatah, who still had no idea her husband had entered the room.
But suddenly, as though sensing danger approaching, she turned around. François froze, slightly disappointed at having been discovered before reaching his target.
Onatah's eyes widened. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
François smiled warmly.
"I am—"
He did not have time to finish. His wife threw herself into his arms, embracing him as though afraid he might vanish. François stiffened for a moment.
Then he buried his face in her long black hair, carefully braided.
He held her with infinite tenderness. Then he realized—
"I'm soaked…" he murmured without lifting his head.
Onatah did not move either.
"I do not care."
They remained that way for a long moment, motionless and silent in each other's arms. At that instant, nothing else seemed to matter. Yet there was something important he needed to say to his wife.
François slowly lifted his face and brought his lips close to Onatah's small warm ear.
"I'm home."
He felt his wife's embrace tighten, and suddenly she attacked his neck. It was somewhere between a kiss and a bite. Naturally, he let her do as she pleased.
Slowly, he let his hands glide across his wife's body. Her back, her hair, her hips.
Fortunately, Jeanne could see nothing from where she stood.
Onatah merely smiled. Years ago, she had decided to give everything to her man. Her entire body belonged to him. And the reverse was equally true.
Ignoring every convention, she returned François's gestures of affection.
Jeanne blushed violently and turned her eyes away in embarrassment.
At last, François and Onatah separated.
Only then could the lord of Montrouge truly admire his wife again. Her face was as perfect as he remembered, and her body as beautiful as on their last night together. But something had changed. A rounded shape showed beneath her dress.
Now it was François's turn to stare in shock. His eyes could not leave the curve.
Onatah smiled tenderly, took both of her husband's large hands, and gently placed them upon her stomach.
"I was wondering how I should tell you… But this way is nice as well."
François opened and closed his mouth several times before slowly lifting his eyes to meet his wife's. They had grown moist.
"We're going to have a baby…"
"Yes…"
She radiated happiness. No woman could have been more beautiful than she was in that moment.
"Are you happy?" she asked after a second of silence.
"I am mad with happiness. I am the happiest man alive!"
He embraced his wife again, though this time he was careful of Onatah's stomach. She giggled softly at the precautions he was taking. She was only halfway through the pregnancy. Her belly was not that large yet.
She leaned toward François's ear and whispered, almost slyly:
"It will be a girl."
François had no idea how she could possibly know such a thing. No technology existed that could reveal the sex of their child before birth.
"You seem very certain. Did the matriarch tell you so?"
"I simply feel it. It will be a girl."
Without moving away from his wife, he slid one hand down to her stomach. He could not possibly smile any wider.
"Then… she will be my little princess."