I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

Hello! Here’s a new chapter!

But first, I need your input. As you read, you’ll likely see the direction I want to take with this story. I'm considering stepping away from the main character to depict this war from different fronts, which I feel is important for understanding the ending. I don’t want information to appear out of nowhere, as if pulled from a magician's hat, so I'm taking the time to focus on secondary characters. This approach may appeal to some, but not to everyone. Naturally, I want this story to resonate with as many readers as possible, so I’d love your opinion.

Should I:

A) Focus on the main character and leave aside what happens elsewhere

B) Continue as I am, developing secondary characters

C) Either option works for you

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On August 17, 1758, in the late afternoon, King Louis XV of France had not left his palace in Versailles. The heat outside was unbearable, so he hadn’t gone hunting that day.

Members of the court sought coolness, cautiously stepping out to stroll by the vast fountains and canals.

Unusually, the king had left his powdered wig on his desk, wearing only a simple white shirt—quite far from the extravagant attire of grand occasions. He lay peacefully on his side in his grand bed, absorbed in reading police reports on recent events in Paris.

Hunting, spending time with his mistresses, and reading these reports were his favorite activities. Madame de Pompadour, his favorite, listened to him recount one such sordid tale, seated on the left side of the grand bed, where rumpled sheets betrayed their recent activity.

“And so,” concluded the king, setting the paper down on the sweat-dampened sheets, “the murderer was caught that very night as he attempted to sell the stolen goods.”

"Well, Your Majesty, that was certainly the least entertaining case you’ve told me about. I thought there would be some twists."

"No exciting stories today, it seems. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Maybe, haha! Sire, what are you doing? You're tickling me!"

The king smiled, letting his fingers wander over the soft, warm skin of his mistress’s back before trying to pull her closer to him. Although they had made love a few hours earlier, the King of France wasn’t fully satisfied.

He wanted more.

Despite the passing years, his appetite for women had not waned much. This was originally why the queen, his wife, had allowed him to take mistresses.

Madame de Pompadour leaned back, and the king moved aside the police reports to kiss the beautiful woman whose beauty was beginning to fade. His lips met hers before trailing down to her neck and bare shoulder. She smelled of lavender and lilac—a scent she liked to wear for special occasions. It was a gift from the king, and needless to say, it was exorbitant, with the container itself worth a small fortune. It was made of crystal, heart-shaped with engraved details, its stopper in gold topped with a remarkable blue diamond, as deep as a summer sky.

The marquise’s soft laughter was interrupted by a sound at the door.

Knock knock

"Your Majesty, a letter from New France from Marshal Richelieu."

"Ahem, please excuse me, madame,” said the king, sitting up.

"It’s nothing, Your Majesty," replied the beautiful marquise with rosy cheeks and an enchanting voice. "I am at your service, as always."

Her delightful smile warmed the heart of the divinely appointed monarch every time they met. This was why he preferred spending time with her rather than anyone else.

He took the thick letter and broke the wax seal.

"Hmm…"

The King of France frowned at the first few words. Instantly, the marquise moved closer like a lioness and pressed her sensual body against his back. He could feel the warmth of her skin through his shirt and the softness of her generous breasts.

Two delicate hands, now showing the first signs of age, rested on his broad shoulders and began to massage him. In a few movements, the king felt his muscles relax, and a foolish smile formed on his lips.

"You seem troubled, my king," murmured the marquise close to his ear.

"Perhaps, yes," replied the king, struggling to stay focused.

"And what does the Marshal say?" asked the woman, ceasing to nibble his ear, an act that usually aroused the king.

Madame de Pompadour seemed as concerned as the king, but in truth, her feelings were quite different.

She had been on poor terms with the old Marshal of Richelieu since he refused to marry his son to the marquise’s daughter, Alexandrine, who had passed away four years ago at the tender age of nine. Since then, she had done everything to put distance between the marshal-duke and the king.

Sending him to the colonies was her doing.

She had whispered to the king that a brave and competent man like him shouldn’t be wasted on hunting down the remnants of a defeated army but should serve wherever His Majesty’s interests were threatened. The king had listened to her and chose him to reinforce Louisbourg and, more broadly, New France.

The marquise was very satisfied. While he was at the other end of the world, in wild lands populated by uncivilized natives where settlers lived in filth, her protégé, the Prince of Soubise, was covering himself in glory in Europe.

Well, that was a bit exaggerated, as he had not yet managed to defeat the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg and cross the English Channel for a raid on their shores. The Royal Navy was far too active in the area for now.

The marquise slid a hand into the wide collar of the king’s shirt and began to caress him. He let her, turning his head slightly to see her face, which he still found very pleasing.

"They arrived in time to prevent the fall of Louisbourg; Major General Amherst and many other officers have been captured, along with a good number of English ships."

"Really?" said the marquise, stopping her caresses for a moment in surprise.

Madame de Pompadour’s surprise was genuine. She hadn’t expected such results so soon after the marshal’s arrival in New France. Quickly, an affectionate smile formed on her scarlet lips.

"—Why are you so concerned, then, Your Majesty? Isn’t this a great victory you’ve won?"

"He also says that the English are continuously receiving troops and settlers, so much so that if we do nothing, England will reap all the benefits of these lands, driving France from the New World. He is therefore asking me to send men, both civilians and military, to further populate New France."

"It’s true that the difference in strength in the New World is not in our favor. I’ve heard that British colonial towns are so well-made they could pass for English cities."

"To attract settlers," Louis XV continued, "he advises me to send those with nothing to lose: the poor, criminals, and women of low virtue, as well as good and loyal subjects, promising them land and a tax exemption to encourage them to volunteer."

The king turned more towards his mistress, forcing her to withdraw her hand. He placed his hand on Madame de Pompadour's full, pale thigh.

"Should I agree? I need my ships and soldiers to wage war against England and protect my colonies, but I also need my people to fill the kingdom’s coffers! They certainly need it; I’ve almost spent all that we gained from the ransom of the King of Prussia, his brother, and his officers."

The marquise pondered for a moment, touching her long, slender finger to her cheek and tilting her head slightly.

"Hmm, I see. Well, allow me to offer my advice."

"Please do, my dear."

"Why is New France so important to you, my king?" she asked in a playful tone.

"Hmm? Well, because it prevents New England from further expanding westward, surely! There’s also the fur trade, but that’s becoming less and less profitable."

"Indeed, but that’s not all," she said teasingly, playing with her fingers on the arms of her royal lover. "New France is also a constant threat to His Majesty the King of England. He therefore has to station a large number of soldiers there to protect many of his towns and ports, correct?"

"Certainly, certainly," the king nodded.

"If we lose New France, England will not only gain a vast amount of untamed land, but more importantly, your rival will be able to deploy her troops elsewhere, in the sugar islands, for example, or on the African coasts. Or perhaps to carry out more landings on our shores."

"That would be a disaster! Without the sugar islands, I would lose a fortune, and without my African trading posts, I would lose my supply of slaves to operate the plantations. Not to mention I wouldn’t be able to sell them manufactured goods!"

"That’s why," she said, gently tapping the king’s nose, "they attacked us in Senegal, Your Majesty. They fear you and your power. They want to deprive you of resources and claim them for themselves. Where they attack you is an important place to defend."

"Indeed, they fear me," the king said with a certain pride.

"You have the largest land army in the world, much larger than that of the King of England. Use it to defend what the English covet. And strike wherever you can. That way, they will be engaged on all fronts. Soon, a squadron with Monsieur de Soubise on board will depart for England and burn one or two of their ports. They will then have to protect their precious island, which hasn’t truly been threatened since William the Conqueror."

As soon as that name was spoken, the king became pensive. He was a Frenchman, a Norman, who had conquered England in the Middle Ages through his military prowess! After Charlemagne, Julius Caesar, and Alexander the Great, he was his role model.

"So, your opinion is to agree to the request of the Marshal-Duke?"

"It would be in your best interest, my king," replied the marquise in a more serious tone, tucking a stray lock behind her rounded ear.

The aging king thought for a moment in silence before looking at his mistress with renewed determination.

"In that case, not only will I grant his requests, but I will go further!"

The marquise smiled warmly, thinking that in this way the Marshal would be tied up in New France for a few more years. She imagined him busy waging war all over a vast land covered with trees and half-naked natives.

But that message had not come alone. Another had arrived at the same time, concerning the squadron that had brought the news of Marshal de Richelieu’s victory.

The fleet of Count de Conflans, which was supposed to head to Rochefort, had ended up trapped in the Brest harbor, with access fiercely guarded by an English squadron commanded by the First Lord of the Admiralty, George Anson. But this blockade had been broken when the fleet returning from Louisbourg arrived and launched a surprise attack.

The British squadron, unprepared since the officers had recognized the ships in front, suffered heavy damage before retreating. Anson wasn’t as fortunate and went down with his ship.

"Good! This is excellent news! Now we have enough ships for a grand expedition! Monsieur de Soubise will be pleased to hear of my decision."

"Your Majesty?"

"I will order Monsieur de Conflans to sail towards Hanover with all the ships that returned from Louisbourg. They will transport Monsieur the Prince de Soubise to England! Ha! Those cursed English! It’s time to return the favor for Saint-Malo, Rochefort!"

The king then had a thought. It was connected to what the marquise had told him earlier.

Defend everything the English covet and prevent them from seizing resources.

He occasionally received news from the colonies, sometimes good, sometimes bad. The loss of the Senegal trading post had angered the monarch, as it was tied to the proper functioning of the sugar islands, extremely profitable despite fierce competition; however, the defeats in India had not greatly moved him.

The more he thought about his mistress’s words, the more he had the unsettling feeling he had made a mistake.

Perhaps we should fight a bit more in that part of the world to prevent the East Indies from falling too easily into English hands?

Even though he regularly sent men and ships, he had to admit that not everything was being done to prevent India from falling into the hands of his enemies. The defeat from the previous year, which he had heard about briefly between activities, now took on a new significance.

The king dressed hurriedly and requested to see his War Minister, Fouquet de Belle-Isle; the hefty Cardinal de Bernis, who handled foreign affairs; and his new Minister of the Navy, d'Epinchal, to share his grand plans for France and its colonies.

He also asked for his son and heir, Louis of France, to be present for his education as the future king of France. Though they didn’t agree on everything—far from it—he knew he could also count on him to provide a fresh perspective on thorny issues.

During this important meeting, Louis XV took the opportunity to announce a series of promotions following the events in New France. Monsieur de Roquefeuille was granted command of the warship Saint-Michel, a splendid sixty-four-gun vessel from 1741, along with a generous monetary reward. With Captain de Saint-Allouarn having died, the promotion was offered to his brother, Rosmadec de Saint-Allouarn, who thus became a ship captain in his turn.

Moreover, full authority over military affairs in New France was entrusted to Marshal de Richelieu, replacing the Marquis de Montcalm. However, the latter was not recalled to France.

Finally, His Majesty organized a grand celebration at Versailles. Music, a lavish feast, charming dances, and spectacular fireworks were presented to the court, once again proving that Louis XV’s court knew best how to celebrate.

The very next day, it was said in the corridors of the château that Madame de Pompadour appeared nearly ten years younger—not due to the French victory at Louisbourg, but because of the “promotion” of the Marshal-Duke of Richelieu.

She was likely already imagining the reaction of the old man upon discovering His Majesty’s order, condemning him to remain on the other side of the world until further notice, possibly until the end of this war.

***

While Versailles was celebrating, Fort Edward looked more like a massive construction site.

Soldiers in simple shirts were digging a huge trench all around the fort, so deep one might have thought that the Marquis de Montcalm intended to bury elephants there. With the extracted earth, other soldiers built a wide embankment whose sole function was to protect the fort and slow any potential enemy advances.

The work had begun immediately upon their triumphant return from Albany. Despite the week that had passed, Adam felt as if there was still everything left to do.

Ah, my back! I feel like I’m eighty years old!

He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. Despite the weather not being warm—only about fifteen degrees—the sky was overcast, with occasional comforting glimpses of the sun. At least it wasn’t raining, for now.

I-I think it’s deep enough, no?

The young man looked with some pride at their work. They needed a ladder just to get down to the bottom of the trench; it was that deep. But under the Marquis’s orders, they dug deeper on each side of the long pit to bury tree trunks for reinforcing the sides.

“It’s good!” someone above the young lieutenant called out. “Bring the tree!”

Slowly, the large piece of wood with all its branches trimmed was maneuvered into place. It took dozens of men to handle it, as it was incredibly heavy.

Adam watched as the tree’s end slipped into the gaping hole, sinking in nearly a meter and a half.

“Very good! Hold it steady! Keep it from moving while we secure it to the others!”

It joined the other felled trees already positioned side by side, forming an impressive wooden wall.

The smell of earth and freshly cut wood was so strong it drowned out all others. Adam could barely smell himself unless he literally put his nose right to his armpits.

His white shirt—now more brown than white—was soaked with sweat, especially around the chest, armpits, and back. It looked as though he’d jumped into the river with it on.

“L-Lieutenant, can… can we take a break?” a young soldier, seemingly around his own age, asked. He had a handsome face, a square jaw, a straight nose, and dark hair that fell over his eyes. His body was well-built, as if he frequented a gym.

Though the body Adam currently occupied was not bad, this young man’s body—a youth likely around seventeen—was in another league.

Damn, the more I look at him, the more he looks like a model! How can such a perfect body even exist? Even Louis is less handsome than him! Could he have had plastic surgery? No, that probably didn’t exist yet. Ah, nature truly is unfair!

“We took a break not long ago, Soldier Lambert. Just one more hour.”

“O-one hour?! Um, forgive me, Lieutenant. As you wish!”

The boy’s shoulders slumped as if a weight had been placed on them, and he returned to work silently with the others.

Adam picked up his shovel and got back to work himself, but he barely managed a single dig before the alarm sounded.

Wh-what? It’s…

“Watch out! The redcoats are coming! The redcoats are coming!”

Adam immediately dropped his shovel and turned to his men.

“Stop everything! Get out of the trench, quick!”

Being an officer, he couldn’t be the first to leave the trench. He ran to make sure no one was left behind before climbing up a simple wooden ladder, one of many that had been used to scale the fort walls on the night of its capture.

The enemy was still far off, but there was no doubt that this force had come to drive them from the fort.

They’d been spotted by the natives and the coureurs de bois long before the watchmen on top of the ramparts, who were already preparing the cannons.

Most of those seized at Albany were now on Rogers Island, where an earthen battery had been constructed at the southern tip to guard the river and the road.

“Captain Fontaine! Captain de Lusernes! Where is the enemy?” Adam asked as he entered the fort.

“Ah, Lieutenant Boucher! They’re only a lieue from here, following the road on this side of the river. They’ll be here soon.”

“A lieue…”

So, three or four kilometers. Depending on their march speed, they’ll be here in half an hour, an hour at most. That gives us time to prepare. Thank goodness they were spotted in time.