I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

"Prepare for battle! To arms!"

Though the cannons had not yet fallen silent, the crew of the Océan was already bracing for the next phase of the battle, which promised to be particularly violent in this area.

The air had grown heavier, and sailors were running in every direction under Adam's watchful eyes. Heavy crates were quickly brought up and unlocked, and as soon as they were opened, the young lieutenant realized they were about to distribute weapons to the entire crew. These crates were filled with boarding sabers, pistols, and small axes.

“Grab some weapons, come on! Don’t just stand there! You, take this!”

The boatswain and the sergeant of the Océan, the man in charge of the marines, swiftly handed out weapons to everyone without taking the time for any checks.

The soldiers of Marshal-Duke Richelieu, however, did not need these weapons, as they already had their own.

“Put on your gear and grab your muskets! Doesn’t matter if your coats aren’t buttoned! As soon as you’re armed, head to the deck!”

Adam, jostled around by his fellow sailors and soldiers, felt a cold bead of sweat run down his spine. Though it was sweltering here, his brain was telling him he was cold.

As soon as the word "boarding" had been uttered, countless epic scenes from movies, TV shows, and video games flooded his mind. Courage was often glorified in such moments, but after nearly a year in this century, he knew it couldn't possibly be that glorious.

“Oh shit! We’re… we’re really going to do this?!”

Alongside his comrades, he nervously put on his jacket and coat without bothering to button them, then jammed his tricorne firmly onto his head. Some of the others didn’t go as far as he did; they merely grabbed a weapon and hurried up to repel the enemy.

Fuck, my hands are shaking like crazy!

He punched the side of the ship near the open gunport and noticed that his hands had stopped trembling.

Good! That's better!

He then reached for a modest storage area and grabbed his weapons.

I can’t believe it… My first boarding!

Unlike when he was just a regular soldier, Adam no longer had a musket but a sword and a pistol. The same went for all higher-ranking officers. In both cases, his weapons were second-hand and of average, if not subpar, quality.

Before embarking for Brest, like with his clothes, he had acted in a hurry, which had cost him dearly.

With a firm hand, he gripped the hilt of his sword, which was incomparable to the ones carried by a count, duke, or prince. This would be the first time he used them in battle.

The sword was very plain, with no decoration. To protect his hand, there was only a mostly flat piece between the handle and the blade, and a curved bar that extended from there to the end of the nut-shaped pommel. The grip, or fusée, was quite narrow and uncomfortable, simply wrapped in a long brown cord.

The steel blade was equally simple and seemed to have served more than one person. It even had a few minor nicks, fortunately small, near the center of both edges.

Quite broad at the base, it seemed sturdy, which was why he had bought it. The others that had been offered were either too expensive or looked too fragile.

The entire weapon was a little less than a meter long, with the blade itself roughly seventy centimeters.

It’ll… it’ll be fine… Yeah, it’s… It’s just like a regular battle, but on a ship.

He took his short but hefty flintlock pistol and tucked it into his belt like a pirate. At that moment, he regretted not having a mirror to admire himself in.

I think I’ve got everything. Let’s go!

Adam circled around his still-hot, smoking cannon and took his place in the line to reach the upper deck. Everyone was heading into battle, even the coq, the cook, armed with a long knife that must have been at least twenty centimeters long.

The wooden stairs shook violently under the feet of the entire crew. It felt like there was an earthquake.

Above him, he could hear countless shouts and gunfire.

Shit, has the boarding already started?!

“Cough cough, are you alright, Lieutenant Boucher?”

“Captain!” Adam jumped as soon as he emerged from the lower deck. “I should be asking you that! You’re in no condition to fight!”

Captain Gilbert didn’t seem to be recovering, despite the weeks since he had caught a violent cold during their voyage through the terrible storm they had endured. He coughed constantly, sometimes so much it seemed he’d cough up his lungs.

More than once, Adam had seen him spit blood.

“As long as I can stand,” the officer replied with a weak smile, “I’ll continue to fulfill my duties as captain. Cough cough.”

Despite his doubts, Adam said nothing. He simply stared in silence at his superior, whose face looked alarming and whose eyes were bloodshot.

“Is your weapon loaded?” Gilbert asked, nodding toward Adam’s pistol.

“Y-yes!”

“Good. Then let’s go give those damned English a good thrashing.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna take them down, Assassin’s Creed Black Flag style!”

“Huh?”

Captain Gilbert looked at his lieutenant, who was brimming with strange determination, utterly confused as Adam drew his sword.

“If you say so, kid.”

In turn, he drew his sword and pistol.

The English had managed to board their ship and were fighting fiercely to secure a passage for their comrades.

While the soldiers wore their traditional red uniforms, making them easily identifiable, the sailors wore ordinary clothes. There was nothing to mark them as enemies.

Armed like them with sabers, muskets, knives, axes, and pistols, they injured and killed everyone in their path.

“Forward! Kill them all!”

The noise was terrible, and the fighting was frightening, even for Adam, who had been through hell in Prussia, Saxony, and Hanover. There was no order, no discipline, no volleys here.

People were just fighting to kill or avoid being killed.

“Aaaah!”

To muster courage, he let out a primal scream and charged at an enemy soldier who had just discharged his weapon at a comrade.

The Englishman, his face contorted with the rage to survive, only saw his attacker at the last moment as Adam raised his sword high. By reflex, he lifted his weapon to defend himself and successfully parried the blow.

Adam could have easily used his pistol to shoot him, but he only had one shot, so he decided to save it for later, in case he was in grave danger.

“Die!” spat the soldier in English, with an accent so thick only an Englishman could recognize it.

“I will not die today!” Adam replied in the same language, his accent terrible, using his meager knowledge of a language taught to young Frenchmen since elementary school.

Adam used his left hand, the one holding the pistol, to strike the Englishman in the face and drove his sword deep into the man’s chest.

Huh?

He was surprised at how easily his blade pierced the man’s body, and soon they were almost in each other’s arms. He could feel the man’s breath near his ear and saw the tip of his sword protruding from his back.

“Damn!”

Adam quickly stepped back, gripping the hilt of his sword, which came out just as easily. He watched as the soldier fell to his knees before collapsing onto the debris-strewn deck. The man was already dead.

“Don’t just stand there, kid! You’ve got to fight! Don’t stop!” shouted Michel Renier next to him, holding an axe covered in blood.

The tall sailor, shirtless to show off all his tattoos, dodged a saber blow and struck a nearby enemy in the face. His axe had no trouble sinking into the enemy's flesh, and the man collapsed immediately.

Unfortunately, Renier couldn’t avoid a musket shot fired from the HMS Princess Amelia. He was shot in the heart, and the brave sailor fell into a large pool of blood.

“Michel!”

Disoriented by the clash of weapons, the shouts, and the smoke, Adam had no time to mourn his comrade as a tall, slender man attacked him with a boarding saber.

Much thicker than his own sword, the blade of the saber looked very sturdy, built for combat. The hilt wrapped securely around the hand of its wielder.

“Raaaah!”

Luckily, this man didn’t seem much more experienced with the weapon than Adam was with his own. His movements, though quick, were wide and left plenty of openings.

Keeping a reasonable distance between them, Adam patiently waited for the English sailor to make a mistake so he could strike.

The man lunged forward, aiming for Adam’s chest, but hit nothing but air. Adam seized the moment and managed to wound him in the arm.

Slowly, a growing red stain appeared on the sailor’s shirt. Though far from fatal, the attack allowed Adam to gain the upper hand and strike a second time.

His blade accidentally slid along the English sailor’s saber and embedded itself deeply somewhere between his shoulder and neck, severing several important nerves and veins. The man immediately placed a panicked hand on the wound to slow the bleeding.

Adam used this moment to strike the man a third time, this time at the base of his neck. The wound was fatal.

Lying on his back, the sailor did everything he could to stop the bleeding, but it was futile, and blood began to pour from his mouth like a crimson river.

With all his willpower, Adam avoided looking into the man’s eyes, who surely had a family back in England.

Ugh! This is horrible!

He looked around, and the same scene was playing out everywhere.

Sailors and soldiers, whites and reds, were tearing at each other’s throats, strangling, shooting, and stabbing one another. Nothing made sense anymore.

It had become nothing but a bloody slaughter.

***

On the other side of HMS Princess Amelia, aboard Le Juste, François de Saint-Allouarn witnessed this unprecedented outburst of violence. French and English seemed to be competing to see who could be the most savage. He did not forget his role.

“Everyone aboard the enemy ship! Board them!”

The brave Bretons crossed from one ship to the other via large planks, taking advantage of the fact that the English were busy invading the deck of the French ship.

François and Rosmadec de Saint-Allouarn boarded HMS Princess Amelia, armed to the teeth. They each had more than one pistol on them to ensure they could take down enemies in rapid succession.

François held a pistol in each hand and had two more at his belt. As for Rosmadec, he had four pistols around his neck, like a necklace, in addition to the one in his left hand.

BANG BANG

François de Saint-Allouarn fired both pistols almost simultaneously at two English soldiers before dropping them like trash. He drew two new pistols, cocked them, and mercilessly shot two more soldiers who were advancing toward him and his brother, armed with long muskets.

Rosmadec, like a god of war, slit the throat of an enemy with his saber and dispatched a young English officer who was as well-armed as he was. Like his brother, he quickly pulled out one loaded pistol, then another, and yet another until all he had left was his saber.

François and Rosmadec exchanged a knowing look and a smile amidst the screams and smoke.

***

The English were very determined. Unfortunately for them, aboard L’Océan were several companies of well-trained soldiers who were eager to let off some steam after two months at sea.

The English faced an extraordinary, astonishing resistance.

Still holding a pistol in one hand and his sword in the other, Adam maintained a reasonable distance between himself and four enemies, one of whom seemed to be no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. They watched him, provoking him with their weapons and insults, but Adam didn’t move.

All of them were focused on the threatening pistol pointed at them.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah...”

Boom!

A man suddenly fell from the rigging and crashed just a few steps away from one of the men with a loud thud. Adam tried to attack but was quickly forced to retreat.

Damn it, I can’t get a single one! If this keeps up…

Suddenly, a man dressed in blue and gold, far better attired than the others, emerged and aimed a long, shiny pistol in Adam’s direction. Adam pointed his weapon back at him and squeezed the trigger first. The flint struck the pan, a bright spark appeared, and the shot fired almost immediately. The British officer, who couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, fell backward, a large hole in his left cheek, just near his nose.

As he died, he squeezed his trigger as well, and Adam barely heard the whistle of the bullet passing near his left ear.

Holy shit! I almost got hit by that!

His own pistol, purchased at a high price near Stade, fell heavily a few steps behind him. The smoking barrel of the weapon had exploded in his hand, leaving him in great pain.

Fuck! I blew up my hand!

A bit of blood trickled down his fingers where his skin had been torn. Fortunately, the injury wasn’t too serious.

“Come at me if you dare, you sack of shit! I’m waiting for you!”

Still very inexperienced with his sword, he made large, awkward movements.

An English sailor who got too close received a blow that left a deep, frightening gash on his right arm.

Adam didn’t even flinch and continued his erratic movements.

“Come on! Let’s see who’s the first to die! Raise your hand if you want to!”

At that moment, the crew of Le Juste arrived to the rescue.

The crew of HMS Princess Amelia quickly found themselves trapped between two crews and at least as many regular soldiers.

They had no choice but to surrender.

***

The capture of HMS Princess Amelia had a disastrous and unstoppable effect on the British fleet. More and more ships flying the British flag were retreating from the battle or surrendering.

The admiral himself, who had civilians on board, ordered the HMS Namur to fall back.

This battle was lost, which was all the more shameful for these proud officers since it was a naval battle, Britain’s greatest strength.

Admiral Boscawen realized he needed to completely reorganize his fleet if he wanted to defeat these French, who seemed to have turned into demons overnight.

Perhaps by sending a ship to Halifax, he could hope for reinforcements before the situation worsened?

Finally, after several hours of intense fighting, the French were able to shout victory.

“We’ve won again!”

“Hooray!”

“Long live the king!”

At the same time, aboard HMS Princess Amelia, the atmosphere was more than joyous—it was euphoric.

They had managed to defeat the mighty England on its favored terrain and had captured a splendid, almost brand-new ship that had been in service for only a year.

Commodore Durrel, Captain Bray, and the crew raised their hands to the sky, their weapons at their feet. The gigantic three-deck ship was smeared with blood, covered with bodies and debris, giving a good idea of the violence of the battle.

There was only one place where no one was laughing.

Two men, with very similar faces, were supporting each other as they walked shakily toward the mainmast. Their breaths were short, and their steps unsteady.

One of them, exhausted, collapsed onto the bloodstained deck, accompanied by his brother, who couldn’t hide his tears.

François de Saint-Allouarn leaned his back against a piece of wood and looked at the blue sky.

It’s a beautiful blue sky, he thought as he gazed above, his vision growing increasingly blurred.

He then looked at his chest.

His coat felt so heavy. The dark, almost black stain had grown larger.

I’m cold… Ah, it’s not so bad, but I would have preferred to be home in Brittany.

“F-François!”

“W-what?”

He could barely hear him. It was like having his head underwater. In fact, he could hardly hear anything. He saw colorful shapes moving everywhere, but all the sounds were muffled.

“François! Stay with me!”

“I-I’m here… I’m not going anywhere. I’m… fine, here.”

A faint smile appeared on his colorless face.

Rosmadec de Saint-Allouarn’s heart shattered at the sight, and an unending flow of tears poured out like a fountain.

“We… We’ll get you treated, okay?! So… So… Hold on! My brother! Big brother!”

“Ros…madec…”

“You’re going to survive, you hear me! You’ll be decorated! Received by the king! So, fight!”

The loyal second squeezed his brother’s hand tightly until he realized that François was gone.

“F-François?” Rosmadec said, looking through his tears at the peaceful face of his elder brother.

Amid all the noise, it was the silence of François de Saint-Allouarn that spoke the loudest.

***

Adam, still standing but as exhausted as if he had run a marathon, had crossed onto the English ship and was helping Captain de Saint-Allouarn’s men take possession of the vessel. Meanwhile, the rest of the squadron was trying to capture as many English ships as possible.

Some were lost for good, but there were still many ships left in Gabarus Bay. Seeing their squadron defeated, they panicked and tried desperately to escape the bay, fearing they’d be trapped like rats.

The French ships, too few in number to stop them, could only capture a handful.

As Monsieur de Roquefeuille had said, this naval battle marked a turning point in naval history and history in general. Over the next two centuries, many places, streets, and parks were named “Roquefeuille” or “Gabarus Bay” to celebrate this great victory.

That day, not only did they avoid death, but they also entered history and memory.