I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

While the soldiers were relieved not to have to fight at night or the day after the battle, dissatisfaction slowly began to grow within Fort Carillon.

Instead of pursuing the fleeing enemy like a beaten dog, the Marquis de Montcalm's orders were to remain at Fort Carillon and strengthen their position in case General Abercrombie decided to attack again. He believed the chances were high since, despite the losses inflicted, the enemy still had numerical superiority.

Before the battle, they were outnumbered four to one. Nothing had really changed.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Morale was now much higher among the French. An intense flame burned in everyone's eyes.

After a few days of rest, if it could be called rest, the French soldiers found themselves eager for a fight without having an enemy to vent their frustration on. It was very frustrating, but the Marquis remained firm.

For him, the best course of action was to defend their position as they had the advantage of the terrain. If they left now, they would face a demoralized but reorganized enemy, likely ready to defend. The British would then have the advantage of numbers and terrain. In his view, a battle under those conditions would inevitably lead to defeat.

After five days, the Marquis de Montcalm had a clear idea of the toll of the July 8th battle: ninety-three killed and nearly two hundred fifty wounded. This didn’t include Captain Trépezet and his men, with the officer himself succumbing to his wound on the night of July 7th. In total, Montcalm had lost close to three hundred soldiers.

As for the redcoats, it had taken time to gather and count all the bodies. They had found one thousand two hundred eighty-eight corpses in total. This did not include the skirmish between Howe’s forces and Trépezet’s men. Although no enemy bodies were recovered, it was roughly estimated that Abercrombie had lost another hundred men.

The conversations around the campfires gave a good sense of the soldiers' mindset. Most shared stories of the battle, heroic feats, and fallen comrades, but one dangerous question was on everyone’s lips: “Why not finish them off?”

Adam, still a lieutenant but having to act as captain in place of Armand Gilbert, shared this frustration as well. He had been watching his men closely. Whether veterans or young recruits, they were at their peak, galvanized by victory and hungry for revenge.

Keeping them confined within the fort’s walls was like locking a pack of hungry wolves in a tight cage, with a piece of meat dangling above, ready to fall. Any small incident could ignite the powder.

That night, as he made his way to the Marquis’s office after inspecting the guard, he crossed paths with Captain Jean-Baptiste Gauthier, one of the most senior captains of the Picardy regiment, after Albert Fontaine and André Louis. Stocky and broad-shouldered, he had distinct features that made him resemble a bulldog.

He was just leaving the room. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and as he passed, Adam thought he heard a tongue click.

Adam turned, but saw nothing but the bulldog-headed captain’s back.

Tsk, what was that? Why doesn’t he like me? What did I ever do to him?

The young man turned back and knocked on Montcalm’s door. A voice responded from within, and he opened the heavy wooden door, resembling a dungeon door. Montcalm was examining a map, quill in hand. He looked tired, but his upright, imposing posture betrayed no hesitation. He gently nodded and placed his quill back in its pink marble inkwell.

“Marquis,” Adam said as he entered, “I’ve come to report after inspecting the guard. Everything is in order, but tension is rising among the men. They want to fight.”

Montcalm barely lifted his eyes from the map.

“I am well aware, lieutenant,” he replied calmly, before locking eyes with the young man standing before him.

He knew exactly who he was. He was Captain Gilbert’s lieutenant, the one who had died of illness just before the battle. Captain Gilbert had mentioned him briefly, but most of what he knew about this young man with the large scar above his eye came from the other captains. He was a commoner who had bought his commission with the money received for the ransom of the Prussian king and his younger brother.

Purchasing commissions was very common, so Montcalm showed no reaction when he learned how Adam had obtained his rank. However, he preferred experienced soldiers, which was quite natural. To him, this young man was not far from being a child, like Captain Martin Morrel de Lusernes, though the latter was only fifteen years old.

The only difference between these two was their blood. While Adam was a commoner, Martin was of noble birth. Lower nobility from the provinces, perhaps, but nobility nonetheless.

If he was to make Adam a full captain, he first needed to prove that he was worthy. Nobility was not a prerequisite for this rank, so it was possible, but command couldn’t be handed to just anyone, even in wartime.

In other words, this young man needed time to gain experience and opportunities to distinguish himself.

As he thought about this, Montcalm decided to test the young lieutenant a bit.

“The soldiers are restless and want to fight, that’s one thing. But you, lieutenant, what do you think? Should we fight?” he asked calmly, looking him straight in the eyes.

Adam hesitated, and it must have been visible in his trembling eyes.

What? Is he really asking me? Wait, he’s a marquis, right? Not just anyone! Should I tell him what I really think or what he wants to hear?

He took a deep breath.

“With all due respect, sir, if we wait too long, the enemy will reorganize or even receive reinforcements. But I think it’s too late now, even if they haven’t received additional troops. If we move now, we’ll simply lose our advantage. At the same time, they must still be treating their wounded, and their morale must still be low.”

“Hmm, you’re just weighing the pros and cons. You haven’t answered my question.”

Adam swallowed hard and thought faster.

"I think... we could harass our enemies with small attacks, but keep the bulk of our army here in case they decide to attack us?"

Montcalm crossed his fingers on his desk, studying his officer. Internally, he was conflicted because this was likely the kind of proposal Monsieur de Vaudreuil would suggest. While he considered it a perfectly viable option, it felt so distasteful, so unworthy of a respectable man like him, that he didn't want to implement it.

"Do you think that would be enough to calm the men, lieutenant? Do you think we're capable of withstanding another assault? Attacking now a defeated and humiliated enemy is the best way to provoke a violent reaction. And our enemy can't be so foolish as to simply charge like a mad dog at our defenses. He will bombard us and try to flank us," the marquis replied gently, but with a note of reproach in his voice.

Adam felt ashamed and immediately wished he could turn back time to give a different response.

"Forgive me, sir! I lacked foresight!"

The marquis ignored the boy's apology and leaned back in his chair.

"Let me ask you a question, Lieutenant Boucher. What would you prefer? A dazzling victory today and a possible humiliating defeat tomorrow, or a solid defensive position that could guarantee us a lasting triumph?"

Adam clenched his jaw, searching for words. Before he could respond, Montcalm continued.

"We've won a fine victory, but the war is far from over. Believe me, Abercrombie will return. Him or another. And when he does, we must be ready to face him, here, on this terrain that we know better than he does. For that, we need to further consolidate our position so that our enemy can find no weakness."

Silence fell in the room, illuminated only by a few candles. Adam realized then that, despite his firmness, Montcalm carried the weight of every decision like an invisible burden. He couldn’t simply give in to the soldiers' impulses. He had to think about the survival of the entire French military force.

Are we really that vulnerable? I... I thought we could push them back again, maybe two or three more times.

"I understand, my general," Adam finally said. "But if we are to stay here, we will need to channel the men's rage, or it could turn against us."

Montcalm nodded slowly.

"You're right. Go find Captain Fontaine and prepare an intensive training for the troops tomorrow. I will give the same order to Colonel Bourlamaque. The others will be used to reinforce patrols in the forest and to improve our defensive lines."

Adam saluted the officer respectfully before leaving the room, torn between relief and apprehension. He wondered if the men would understand the importance of restraint, or if the growing frustration might cause an explosion.

Outside, night had fallen. There was only a faint orange glow in the distance behind trees darker than ink. The sounds of the fort, mixed with the cries of nocturnal insects, seemed heavier, almost oppressive.

In the distance, in the darkness, the woods seemed more mysterious than ever. Every shadow became a potential enemy, every sound a warning signal. The enemy might still be there, waiting for the right moment to strike at their throats.

At dawn, a thick fog enveloped the surroundings of Fort Carillon, like an intangible grayish blanket. It clung to the trees, the abatis, the guards, and the buildings like a miser hoarding his gold.

The first light of dawn barely pierced through the damp mist. The calls of the changing guard could be heard, along with the unsettling sounds of the forest animals.

Adam was already awake, despite the short night, because he had much to do. He wondered how Captain Gilbert could manage to think of everything and accomplish in twenty-four hours all that needed to be done.

The young lieutenant had woken up with his mind troubled by the previous evening's exchange with Montcalm. Even though he kept telling himself he had done what was expected of him, a part of him kept replaying the conversation, trying to figure out what he could have said differently to get the best response.

He joined the other officers in the courtyard, discussing in low voices the training ordered by Montcalm. The soldiers were eating something light, as food was scarce at Fort Carillon. It had been true before they all arrived, and it was worse now. Slowly, they formed ranks, their impatience barely concealed.

Captain Fontaine greeted Adam as soon as he saw him arrive.

"Lieutenant Boucher, we were just finalizing the exercise we're going to put them through. But... what is that under your right arm?"

Adam looked at his creation. He wasn't very proud of the result, but it was the best he could manage with his limited skills. It looked like a roughly sewn leather ball, and it was fairly heavy.

"It's a trial... for today's exercise."

All the captains looked curiously at the brown ball Adam was holding, even Captain Gauthier with his bulldog face. The very young Captain Morrel de Lusernes seemed the most interested.

"I don't understand," he said, touching the ball. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Captain Fontaine asked me to find a way to exhaust the men to the point of making them forget that our enemies are so close, so I made a ball."

"A ball?" repeated the captains in unison, still not understanding—how could they—what their young colleague had in mind.

"I'm going to make them chase this ball, and, hopefully, they won’t think about fighting anymore."

"Ridiculous!" barked the bulldog-faced captain. "It's a waste of time, gentlemen! Let's resume where we left off."

"W-wait, Captain Gauthier! I... I want to know more! I mean, we can give it a chance, can't we?" said Captain Morrel de Lusernes, increasingly intrigued.

"I'm rather curious as well," said Captain Louis, running a few fingers through his fledgling beard.

"Me too," added Captain Fontaine with a sly smile.

"Tss! Do as you wish!" growled Captain Gauthier, likely unaware that his reaction made him look even more like a dog.

Captain Fontaine watched him walk away and winked at François/Adam.

"So? How do you want to do this?"

"First, we're going to need space. A lot of space. We'll head out of the fort and position ourselves between Fort Carillon and the abatis. Plus, it's relatively flat. That'll be perfect! Next, we’ll need to form two teams. Fifteen on each side with substitutes. The objective is simple: get the ball into the other team's camp, but there's a catch: you can't pass the ball to someone ahead of you. It has to be carried by hand, though you can kick it to make it move faster. And... um, oh yes! The most important thing, you can tackle the person carrying the ball, but only that person!"

"That’s... uh, that's a lot of rules, isn't it?" Albert Fontaine said hesitantly.

"Not at all! It’s really simple! A child could play it! Though it might get a bit violent..." Adam said, recalling the matches he’d seen on TV and in person.

"I think it's interesting! What do you call this exercise?"

"It’s called rugby!"

Quickly, they roughly marked the boundaries of a field and gathered the players... the soldiers, for a new exercise. The soldiers were unenthusiastic but approached and listened to the increasingly strange instructions.

In his corner, Captain Gauthier frowned, arms crossed, teeth clenched tighter than ever. A true bulldog face.

Half an hour later.

"RUN, YOU IDIOT! RUN! PASS THE BALL! TO THE RIGHT! NO! NOT HERE! THE OTHER ONE! HE WAS OPEN! MORBLEU!" Captain Gauthier erupted from the sidelines, his face redder than a British uniform.

He turned to a soldier getting ready to enter the field.

"Hey, you. I'm going in at the next try."

"B-but it’s my turn!"

"That’s why I’m telling you," the bulldog-faced captain growled, already removing his coat and tricorne.