I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

A broad smile lit up Adam’s face as he saw his friends approaching. It was a genuine smile—they had been sorely missed. He hadn’t seen them for so long that it felt as though at least a year had passed since their last meeting and conversation.

This is crazy! I feel like I’ve known them forever! Haha! Should I be worried about that?

Their faces, though radiant with happiness at reuniting with their friend, had changed a great deal since they had set sail. All except for Jean looked exhausted. Jean, in fact, seemed to be in great shape, even more muscular than two months earlier.

“W-wait! Where... where is Louis?”

Immediately, a knot of anxiety formed in his throat. His fear was as real as the joy he felt at seeing his friends again. Naturally, he imagined the worst. Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last.

“Don’t worry, François. He’s coming. He was just helping a wounded man on the beach. What’s going on here?”

“Redcoats, a hundred toises away” (about two hundred meters), he said, pointing to the north.

The newcomers naturally placed themselves under Armand Gilbert’s command, as he seemed to be leading locally despite only holding the rank of captain. For reasons they couldn’t quite grasp, all the officers of the same rank treated him with respect, almost as if he were a colonel.

Under his orders, they formed a long line, three ranks deep.

“Cough cough ! Gentlemen, wait until they get closer.”

Aren’t they close enough already?!

“Wait for my command!”

There are so many of them!

“Hold on!”

Fuck! How many of these bastards are there?!

“Captain! They’ve started shooting at us! They’re taking position!”

“Now! Fire!”

Bang bang bang bang bang!

A deafening sound like a hundred loud cracks in a cathedral echoed in this place where there was absolutely nothing notable—not even a tree or a distinctive rock.

The enemy, who had fired first, hadn’t done so in an organized manner, which significantly reduced the effectiveness of their volley. Normally, they should have waited until they were all in position to fire as one and cause greater casualties among their opponents. Even so, their accuracy managed to take down several Frenchmen, including a lieutenant and a sergeant.

Unlike the English, who were too eager to kill Frenchmen, the French had returned fire as one. A long gray cloud immediately formed in front of their exhausted faces.

I’ve gotten used to this smell, it seems.

Adam felt his right arm tremble after firing his new pistol, which he had picked up on the deck of HMS Princess Amelia. Just by its appearance, he could tell it was of much higher quality.

This is a good pistol, thought Adam as he admired it briefly. Ah, crap! This isn’t the time! Quickly, before they finish reloading! Damn it! They’re still so many! I feel like we haven’t done anything!

He hurried to reload his weapon, which wasn’t much harder or different than reloading a musket.

As soon as he was done, he aimed it toward the enemy lines without really targeting anyone—after all, it wasn’t a precision weapon. With this kind of gun, you could miss a man in a duel!

Just a hundred meters away, several redcoats had fallen, just like some of their own men, but every gap in the line had been immediately filled. That’s what gave the terrifying impression that their volley had been completely ineffective.

“Fire!”

Bang bang bang bang bang!

It was as if a string of powerful firecrackers had been lit.

Ears ringing, Adam lowered his pistol. The shot hadn’t gone off, a much more frequent occurrence than one might imagine. Next to him, the muskets were being reloaded quickly, just like in training.

***

The exchange of fire, which somewhat resembled a polite conversation, was brief but cost the lives of many brave men on both sides. Bodies littered the ground amid the wild grasses and flowers—some clad in red coats, others in white.

It was easy to see where the lines had been drawn.

This conversation ended when the fearsome grenadiers of the Marine Regiment intervened. With bayonets and sabers, they charged the enemy, commanded by the former governor of Nova Scotia, Peregrine Hopson.

This officer, who had entered his sixties two years earlier, looked quite dignified and noble in his fine red coat, with a red sash across his chest. The old man, however, seemed a bit tight around the waist, as he loved food, especially dishes with rich sauces, a little too much.

“Damn it, not now!” he muttered, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

His eyes were red and stinging. It felt as though someone had poured lemon juice generously into both. He had started to cry uncontrollably. One hand pressed against his face, he staggered, trying not to alert his subordinates unnecessarily.

He wasn’t surprised by this attack, as it wasn’t the first time it had happened.

Unfortunately for him, this one was severe and struck at the worst possible moment. It led to his downfall, as during the charge, he was stabbed in the side by a bayonet, causing him to collapse heavily on his back. A second blow to the chest killed him swiftly, without him ever seeing the face of the man—actually, more of a boy—who had ended his life.

When this troop, still five hundred men strong, lost its commander, it descended into chaos.

Before long, some began to fall back or even run for their lives, accelerating its collapse. In this sector, the French held a strong numerical advantage, but across the battlefield, the overall advantage was clearly on the side of the English.

One unit after another, the British were being devoured.

***

When General Webb’s regiment, numbering over a thousand men, finally arrived, it was already too late to link up with Peregrine Hopson’s regiment, which had nearly ceased to exist.

“Get back in the fight! The general is counting on us!” he shouted with all his might, trying to rally Hopson’s men, who were fleeing like rabbits.

Damn it! If we don’t do something, our artillery is likely to fall into enemy hands! That would be a disaster! We need… we need to buy some time!

“We have to hold off these damned Frenchmen! Reform the ranks! You there, sound the drums!”

Daniel Webb, mounted on a fine gray horse that had made the journey with him from England, waved his silver sword overhead to rally his men.

“Three ranks! Close ranks! They must not advance any further, even if it costs us our blood!”

Despite his calls, many men chose the safer option, the easy way out—the option of cowardice.

By the blood of Christ! The cowards! They’re fleeing!

Fortunately, not all of them were like that. Many, mostly survivors from Hopson’s regiment, had returned to help their comrades push back the French. They were coming in from all directions, hands firmly gripping their muskets.

Webb was moved and relieved to see that there was still hope. Little by little, his line grew and stretched.

“Our allies will be here soon! We just need to hold a little longer! If we buy enough time, we’ll see those miserable worms fleeing into the sea to return to their ships!”

Though the situation looked bleak at the moment, the battle was far from lost. General Amherst had brought nearly fifteen thousand men for this siege! Even though they had since lost many to death, injury, or illness, they still had more than enough to fend off the enemy reinforcements.

Among the allies Daniel Webb awaited anxiously was the regiment commanded by Brigadier General Edward Whitmore. With the additional thousand men he’d gain with this young officer, he was confident they could hold back the tiny French army long enough to shift the balance of power.

God, let them arrive in time, or we’ll all die here! No retreat!

More than anyone here, Daniel Webb was ready to give his life for the Crown. His reputation was too tarnished to take another blow. It was only thanks to his connections that he had been able to secure such a high position in this army.

They won’t be able to call me a coward this time! If I must die, let it be with a sword in hand!

“Fire! Death to the French! No one retreats!”

***

The plains surrounding Louisbourg were a mix of marshes and scrub. There was very little elevation and no trees for cover.

Bang bang bang bang bang!

The English occupied the high ground, or at least the highest point in this sector. However, they were only about ten meters higher than their opponents.

This position offered a slight advantage to the defenders, but an advantage nonetheless.

Bang bang bang bang bang!

Marshal Richelieu’s troops, continuously reinforced by those disembarking from Duquesne de Menneville’s ships, formed a long line, three ranks deep, and had engaged in a traditional European-style battle. With no cavalry or artillery, the tactical options of both commanders were limited.

Bang bang bang bang bang!

On both sides, trumpets, flutes, and drums rang out as the flags of each kingdom and its regiments fluttered in the wind.

Whenever a soldier fell, he was immediately replaced, but gradually, holes began to appear in the formations. When the marshal judged that his army had inflicted enough losses on the enemy, he ordered the flanks, where the grenadiers were positioned, to charge. The center followed suit shortly after, with a calculated delay designed to crush the opposing formation.

The companies of Gilbert and his two old comrades, Albert Fontaine and André Louis, moved as one body. This showed how accustomed they were to drilling together. The soldiers knew each other well enough to want to stay and support their comrades, even under the greatest pressure.

Thanks to their rigorous training, stricter than in other companies and almost as intense as that of the grenadiers, under the influence of François Boucher/Adam, they covered the distance to the enemy faster than the others.

Unlike what usually happened, the enemy did not abandon their position. This was highly unusual, but it sometimes occurred when the defending force had no choice but to hold.

But just before the clash, only a few dozen meters from the enemy line, they stopped and took up firing positions. The English, who had prepared for hand-to-hand combat, were caught off guard, and the French opened fire. At that range, they wreaked havoc.

Before the smoke could even dissipate in the wind blowing in from the sea, they resumed their charge against a shocked and severely weakened enemy.

The drills and combat simulations paid off, as the enemy front quickly collapsed in that area. The three companies then moved behind the left wing to encircle as many adversaries as possible.

They could have stayed engaged, but the enemy still had superior numbers. They risked being flanked or attacked from behind. So, they created some distance between themselves and the enemy and reloaded their muskets.

“COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH ! Fire!”

Captain Gilbert’s condition seemed to deteriorate visibly. Despite his coughing fit and the powerful migraine that made him want to bash his head against a rock, he persisted in trying to lead his men.

Victory seemed near.

“Captain,” Adam firmly whispered into his ear, “you need to take care of yourself, or you’ll collapse from exhaustion!”

“I can… COUGH COUGH . Damn it! COUGH COUGH COUGH !”

The officer loudly cleared his throat and spat a slimy, blood-filled substance onto the dry grass.

“Ah… I can still hold on a little longer, lieutenant,” he resumed weakly, wiping his mouth. “Move the men a bit farther north and reform the ranks. That’ll relieve our other wing and force the enemy to retreat toward the marshes.”

Just then, a new enemy force, fresh and rested, appeared behind the companies of Gilbert, Fontaine, and Louis.

Damn it! This never ends!

The enemy reinforcements quickly formed a long line and began marching toward them at a fast pace.

“Look out! Enemy approaching! Quickly, finish routing these ones!” Adam shouted with all his strength. “Reform the ranks! Tight formation!”

Most of Webb’s men were fleeing, but a few refused to give up any ground. Led by Webb himself, wounded in the arm, they managed to hold their position until Whitmore’s men arrived. However, their collapse was imminent.

Whitmore quickly assessed the situation but realized he couldn’t fire from this side—there was too high a risk of hitting his allies from behind.

This constraint threw off the British officer, who decided to advance his men from the other side, where Adam was positioned.

Meanwhile, Adam had succeeded in pulling his men back and reforming a solid line. Reinforced by other companies and grenadiers, he now faced an enemy force easily twice their size.

They look like a brick wall!

Taking the place of Captain Gilbert, who had finally relinquished command to his lieutenant, Adam gave the order to assume firing positions.

The enemy is within range!

“First rank, fire!”

Bang bang bang bang bang!

A long series of shots rang out, and a thick cloud of smoke formed in front of the first rank of soldiers, preventing the men in the second and third ranks from seeing the enemy and thus aiming properly. If the first rank barely inflicted any damage, it was worse for the other two.

Seeing the problem, Adam decided to modify his orders.

This time, I’ll have them all fire together, even if it means we won’t be able to retaliate for a while.

Once the line that had just fired finished reloading, almost at the moment the enemy opened fire, Adam gave the order to aim, then lowered his arm, gripping his long sword tightly.

“FIRE!”

“FIRE!”

“FIRE!”

“FIRE!”

Several French officers shouted simultaneously.

With a loud crash filled with the familiar, powerful scent of burnt powder, nearly two hundred small lead balls flew toward the enemy line. After one or two seconds, Adam saw several red-coated men fall onto the grass, yellowed by the sun.

Many of the small lead balls had hit nothing, as the range of these weapons was as pitiful as their accuracy, especially compared to modern arms, but the objective was achieved.

A large number of redcoats had fallen, far more than the British officers and soldiers had expected.

This sowed chaos in their ranks.

On the contrary, it encouraged the French.

“Quickly!” Adam barked, surprising himself with his firmness. “Prepare your weapons! Open the pan! Take the cartridge! Tear the cartridge! Prime! Close the pan! Left arm to the side! Cartridge in the barrel! Take the ramrod! Ram down! Withdraw the ramrod! Replace the ramrod! Present your weapons! Prepare your weapons! Shoulder arms! FIRE!”

The steps for reloading a musket were listed and carried out quickly and efficiently by Gilbert’s company, just as with the others. Gilbert’s company was even a little faster.

In less than two minutes, their weapons were ready to fire again.

During that time, the enemy had managed to fire and hit a few brave French soldiers.

In response, an infernal rain of lead fell upon the redcoats.

In less than five minutes, several hundred shots were fired on this small patch of the battlefield.

After the thunder and smoke cleared, Adam could see the effects of the impressive volley. It had caused even more damage to the enemy than the previous one.

AHAHAHAHA! We got you good! Fuck you! Bastards! We’re going to…

Internally, Adam was exulting, cursing the enemy soldiers like a salty old sailor, even though they had done nothing to him personally. He didn’t know their names or their faces. But in his mind, they were the enemy to be brought down. After all, isn’t that the very definition of an enemy: a man to be killed?

Reinforced by the other companies that had finally routed Webb’s men, the order was given to charge the enemy with bayonets. Adam drew his sword and charged with his comrades at an enemy that had already begun to retreat.

“ARGH!”

A sudden pain in his thigh caught him by surprise during his charge, almost causing him to fall in front of all his men.

Ah, shit! It burns! Ah, it hurts like hell!

“Lieutenant! You’ve been hit!” Sergeant Laroche on his right called out, noticing Adam’s pain.

“I-I’m fine, Sergeant Laroche. I can still charge.”

Despite the searing pain, as though he’d been struck by a red-hot iron, Adam straightened up and continued his charge.

In the end, numerical superiority prevailed, and Whitmore’s force was repelled. His men and Webb’s survivors scattered, most heading north where the rest of the army was.

Marshal Richelieu’s troops were then able to seize the enemy artillery located just nearby and aimed it northward, where long columns of soldiers, resembling red snakes, could be seen approaching.

The French soldiers lined up the cannons, which the English hadn’t had the time or presence of mind to sabotage during their retreat, and loaded them quickly.

“FIRE AT WILL!”

Seconds later, large brown patches rose into the bright blue sky amidst the ranks of Forben’s and La Celle’s regiments. They had hit their target on the first shot. Soon, they also targeted the second American battalion under Colonel Robert Monckton.

Altogether, this enemy force numbered nearly two thousand seven hundred men.