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Adam carefully stepped aboard a sort of rustic boat, and as soon as he was on board, the boatman—bundled up like him to shield himself from the freezing rain—got to work.
He grabbed a pair of long oars and dipped them into the gray waters of the Saint Lawrence River. The small craft began to glide forward in silence.
It caused wide ripples that eventually faded away, carried off by the current.
The man—broad-shouldered, with powerful arms and a thick beard, his face partially hidden beneath a worn, wide-brimmed hat—didn't say a word. He simply kept his eyes fixed on their destination: the city of Montreal.
It looked tiny, insignificant, dwarfed by the vastness of the river. At that point, it stretched nearly a thousand meters across! One could almost question whether it was truly as strategic as people claimed.
Montreal isn't all that impressive. Or maybe it's just an impression? I hope so.
Halfway across, the rain grew heavier. The young officer squinted and clenched his fists, as if that would change anything. The downpour formed a thick curtain around them, so dense that at times, the city seemed to vanish entirely.
He had to strain his eyes to make out the rooftops of houses or the drenched treetops slowly losing their leaves.
Adam pulled his coat tighter around him—it was supposed to keep him dry, but despite his efforts, he was soaked through. His clothes clung to his skin.
With the tips of his fingers, he checked that the precious papers he had been given—and which he kept close—were still there and dry. Without them, he'd be in serious trouble.
Leave was exceedingly rare in armies of that era. Adam hadn't received any since his transmigration
That didn't mean he hadn't gotten any rest, but there was a major difference between simply resting between drills and temporarily leaving the glorious army of King Louis XV.
It had nearly become a joke when he had once tried to request leave to retrieve François's watch, lost at the Battle of Hastenbeck.
Even officers struggled to get approval—so as for ordinary soldiers… they could keep dreaming.
It required exceptional circumstances. And even then.
Even if both their parents were at death's door, there was no guarantee they would be granted the right to briefly return to civilian life.
Enlisting in the army was like chaining oneself to a new family—one's comrades and commander—for many long years.
In wartime, those chains tightened even more, because though the King of France had a vast army, he was constantly short of men.
Desertion, despite being punishable by death, was frequent. On top of that, illness and death were ever-present, leaving officers constantly complaining about their incomplete ranks.
Under such conditions, senior officers couldn't allow their men to leave—even for good reasons. The risk of them not returning was too great.
At Fort Bourbon, however, everyone had earned a break.
They had endured such hardship over the past few months—perhaps even since the previous year—that they now resembled walking shadows.
Sure, the good news from India helped keep morale at a decent level, but the exhaustion remained.
Thanks to the generosity of the Marquis de Montcalm, Adam and the other captains had been granted the right to withdraw for a short time.
They had to leave their companies in good hands, take turns, and return on schedule—under threat of severe punishment.
This favor had only been granted because the English threat had subsided for the time being—probably until the next spring.
Still, long absences were out of the question.
Adam had heard of and even seen certain high-ranking officers—those with big names, vast fortunes, and powerful friends—being granted leave of up to six months!
Even if they were stationed deep in Saxony, that was enough time to return to France, enjoy their estates, spend time at court, and still make it back to the front line.
Had he been given that much time, perhaps he could've boarded a ship and seen what France looked like in this era. Maybe he could've vanished—traveled discreetly?
But he had been given just three weeks. Not a day more.
He had accepted them with gratitude and set off for the great city of Montreal.
"We're there," the boatman finally grunted, as if it needed saying.
The lone passenger nodded absently and checked once more that his documents were secure. Then came a long, muffled scraping sound—the boat had touched land.
Adam could disembark safely.
Strictly speaking, they weren't in Montreal yet, but in a small village east of the city.
Adam grabbed his canvas bag, slung it over his right shoulder, and jumped out of the boat.
The fare had already been paid.
Without a word, he set off again.
The roads—or rather the trails—of New France had turned into sticky, slippery muck that trapped one's shoes with every step.
He felt like he was wading through a swamp.
Tss, damn road… the officer grumbled inwardly, thinking of the modern roads that wouldn't appear for many decades. How far along are they with the construction?
He was, of course, thinking of the workers he had seen laboring to modernize the colony's road network, starting with the Quebec–Trois-Rivières route.
Montreal would logically follow, but he had no illusions—he would never see the project completed.
Avoiding wide puddles that were relentlessly hammered by the falling rain, Adam finally reached the gates of the city overlooking the Saint Lawrence.
The stone wall surrounding it was modest—barely five meters high at most. It hardly seemed worthy of being called a "rampart."
It was clear, just by looking at it, that no one here expected a heavily armed enemy army to show up anytime soon.
After all, there were many forts between them and the English threat. They felt so safe they hadn't even bothered to raise the height of the walls.
At the beginning of the century, there had still only been a simple palisade here. That would've been fine a century or two earlier, but it was no longer suited to the times. This grotesque wall wasn't worth much more.
If this town were besieged, it would fall easily. They could at least make an effort...
Adam shook his head, sending a cascade of rainwater flowing from his black tricorne. It poured down in a thick stream before him, as if his hat were a pitcher.
He took the opportunity to glance around discreetly.
Hardly anyone was outside. Not surprising, given the weather. The townspeople must have been staying warm and dry indoors.
Adam suddenly shivered and started dreaming of a steaming bath, a crackling fire, and a hearty meal.
Unfortunately, he had a duty to fulfill before thinking of comfort. He had to present the documents signed by the general and Colonel de Bréhant—proof that he had not deserted but was here legally.
He hurried along the main street, passing what was locally referred to as the "arsenal." In reality, it was more like a warehouse with a few workshops for repairing and maintaining boats.
This so-called arsenal was so small it didn't hold a candle to what one could find in France. Brest had an arsenal, as did Bordeaux and Marseille.
Adam didn't even slow down. He passed it without paying the slightest attention, and when he walked past a modest religious building on his left called Bonsecours, he turned right to head toward what people commonly called "the citadel."
Like Montreal's arsenal, the name was grandiose and ridiculous, considering it was nothing more than a long fortified shed with a few cannons. It sat atop a high, likely artificial mound, overlooking the entire town, as modest as everything else here.
You only had to approach it to realize this citadel protected nothing and no one.
Wrapped in his cloak, which he struggled to keep closed, Adam followed the path to the small fortress's entrance and was greeted coldly by two sentries just as miserable as he was under the dreadful rain.
"Halt! Who goes there?!"
Adam used his free hand to lift his tricorne slightly and saw that the two men couldn't clearly identify him. He must have looked suspicious in their eyes.
The rain made a deafening noise as it pelted his oilcloth cloak, tricorne, and everything else exposed to the elements.
"Captain Boucher," he said in a loud, authoritative voice so he'd be heard and taken seriously by the two men, who didn't seem particularly sharp. "I'm from the Picardy Regiment under Colonel de Bréhant's command. I've come from Fort Bourbon with papers signed by him and by the Marquis de Montcalm. I wish to enter and present myself to your officer."
The two men, dressed in their colonial uniforms, straightened up and gave a stiff salute.
"He's not at the citadel, sir. You should go to the intendance. You'll likely find him there. Otherwise, ask for the intendant."
They pointed to a tall building facing the river, right on the main road.
Adam turned to look at the indicated place and nodded, a little disappointed. He returned their salute and added before leaving,
"Keep up the good work, gentlemen. Stay strong."
In a way, Adam was lucky. The intendance wasn't far from the citadel. It was also one of the most important buildings in the town, so it was easy to find.
It was where the intendant worked—the man tasked with enforcing law and order in the name of the governor and the King. Currently, the position was held by François Bigot, an intelligent and hardworking man highly esteemed by Monsieur de Montcalm.
His greatest flaw, however, was his excessive fondness for money. He used his position to enrich himself. Perhaps he would have been removed from office if he weren't so competent.
Hunched over, his tricorne pressed firmly onto his head, Adam continued on his way—only to discover too late that the small puddle in his path was actually quite deep.
"Shit!"
Too late. His foot disappeared entirely into the brown water.
He quickly yanked his left foot out of the puddle, but the damage was done. His toes had already been damp before; now it was worse.
"Fucking street!" Adam spat. "The least they could do is maintain it properly!"
Furious, he picked up his pace, feeling like his foot was stuck in a bucket of water. Soon, Adam found the building he was looking for.
It was well built—far better than that ridiculous citadel. Its gray facade looked a bit dreary, and a few slates were missing, but overall it seemed solid.
A soldier was standing guard at the entrance and let Adam pass without any trouble.
He pushed open the door, which creaked slightly, and stepped inside.
Soaked to the bone and chilled as if he'd spent the whole night outside, he took a few steps into the large building, which was surprisingly quiet. His footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden floor, so much so that he felt like he could be heard all the way upstairs.
Rainwater streamed down his cloak and dripped onto the floor, soon forming a large puddle at his feet.
Adam looked around.
Several candles had been lit—without them, it would have been nearly impossible to see, it was so dark inside. Daylight barely made it through the small windows facing the street.
The place had a bit of a bank or courthouse feel. The atmosphere was heavy, almost solemn.
His gaze wandered quickly across several large paintings hanging on the walls before settling on a discreet figure behind a small desk, lit only by a half-melted candle. The secretary was a terribly thin man with a bony, triangular face and eyes so lifeless he seemed to have given up all hope of ever knowing happiness.
Adam grimaced at the sight of him.
Wow... What's with that energy? This guy... you'd think he's about to hang himself! Should I... talk to him?
Their eyes met as the man slowly raised his head. Adam swallowed the wrong way and for a moment thought he was going to choke.
Cough, cough!
"Ahem, sorry to bother you, sir," he said, stepping closer and leaving behind a trail of water. "I don't have an appointment and I'm not sure who to speak to. I'm Captain Boucher, of the Picardy Regiment. I've been granted a three-week leave by my superiors..."
The man stared at him for a moment, his face as devoid of emotion as if it had been stripped from him, then placed his hands on his desk.
"Do you have your papers?"
"Um, yes, sir."
The secretary extended a long, slender hand and took the precious documents.
"Captain François Boucher, is that correct? Hmm... The document is properly dated and signed," he murmured, his thin lips barely moving.
He nodded and stood up slowly.
"One moment, please, Captain. I'll make some inquiries."
The man left his office and disappeared behind a heavy, dark—almost black—door, which closed behind him with a dull thud.
Adam was left alone for several minutes. All he could hear was the rain falling on the roof, the occasional footsteps above him, and the drip-drip of water at his feet.
At last, the depressive secretary returned with the documents Adam had managed to shield from the rain.
"Your leave is in order. You are relieved of your military duties until October 30th. You must rejoin your regiment by that date. Account for any travel delays. If you're late, you will be severely punished. Though you are exempt from service during this period, you remain subject to recall in case of serious threat. Finally, you are required to provide His Majesty with a new recruit."
"Yes, I understand. Thank you."
"Do you plan to stay in Montreal? If not, you must report to the intendance and inform us of your departure."
"It's fine. I don't plan to leave the city."
The man with the undertaker's face gave a slow nod. He continued in a dull, monotone voice:
"Very well. In that case, do you have any questions?"
"Um, no, I don't think... Oh, yes, about lodging..."
The depressive secretary slightly furrowed his brow and looked at Adam as if he'd just said something absurd.
"You'll have to find one on your own, Captain, and cover all expenses yourself."
Adam let out a deep sigh of frustration. Despite his rank, he didn't have much money to spare.
Almost all of it went to paying his men. And yet they expected him to use his meager savings just to get some rest.
Fucking bastards! They really have no heart, those assholes! After everything I've done for the King and the kingdom! The least they could do is pay for decent lodging and food!
He ran a tired hand over his face to calm himself, then asked the man where he might find a place to stay in Montreal.
The depressive secretary looked at him with dead-fish eyes, visibly annoyed.
"You could try asking Madame Boileau. She has a house farther up the city, between Château Vaudreuil and the Jesuit Garden. She rents rooms to travelers. It's the one with the missing shutter."
"I see. Thank you for your time, sir."
The man replied with a sort of low grunt and returned to whatever his work was. Without wasting another second, Adam left the building.
As soon as he opened the door, he realized the downpour had gotten worse—so much so that the street had turned into a muddy stream. He squinted.
"Shitty weather..."
The guard standing watch glanced at him sideways but didn't move.
If I wait a bit, maybe it'll ease up?
He waited a good five minutes at the entrance to the intendance building, sheltered from the deluge, until finally the rain began to let up. It was still raining, but at least it wasn't a total soaking anymore.
"Alright, this is the moment!"
Feet still drenched, he stepped into the main street that roughly followed the Saint Lawrence. When he reached Château Vaudreuil—a magnificent stone building built in the European style that commanded respect—he turned right onto the road leading to the Jesuit Garden.
He passed the splendid gardens of the château, and a little further on, Adam spotted a four-story stone house, counting the attic. Its façade had several windows framed by painted wooden shutters, but one of them had only a single shutter left. The black iron hinges of the other were still visible.
This must be it.
Knock knock knock.
Adam knocked on the door. A moment later, a large woman with such an enormous chest it looked almost artificial opened it. She had a plump neck, round rosy cheeks, slightly narrow eyes, and black hair crudely pinned in a bun.
"What is it?" she asked curtly.
"Good day, ma'am. Are you Madame Boileau?"
Her already unfriendly face turned even more suspicious.
"That depends. Who's asking?"
Charming. I'm not sure I want to stay here anymore. Ugh... but I don't know if there are any other rooms available...
"I'm Captain Boucher. I was just granted a leave. They told me at the intendance that you rent rooms?"
Her expression changed instantly, and a commercial smile spread across her red lips.
"Oh, but of course, sir. That's right! I just happen to have a room available! It's clean, bright, and has a lovely view of the river! It's only eighteen sols."
"P—per day?!"
"Of course, not per week!" the large woman huffed as if she'd been insulted. "Six more for meals, and another three for laundry."
That came to twenty-seven sols, or one livre and seven sols per day! For a soldier—even an officer—that wasn't a small amount, especially if he stayed for two weeks!
That's robbery! I hope the room's spotless and the food's amazing at that price! That's more than a third of my daily pay!
"You should decide quickly, sir," she added. "There aren't many places left in Montreal since they sent us those English prisoners of war. Even if they behave well, they take up a lot of space, if you know what I mean?"
"Ugh, fine. I'll take it."
"Wonderful! I can take your things, if you'd like."
Adam swung his large canvas bag over and handed it to his landlady.
"Those are my clothes. I've got civilian attire inside. I need to change first. I'll give you my uniform too, for cleaning."
"No problem, sir! It'll be good as new!"
"And I'll need a bath," Adam added. "Nice and hot, please, ma'am."
"I understand. I'll get everything ready for you. And you can call me Michelle."