Chapter One

The sunlight cascaded down through the tree tops, leaving dappled marks as it rested upon the floor. The rich aromatic smells of the forest wafted around, vying for attention as the other senses were assaulted by the sounds of the rustling wind sweeping through the forest leaves, or the sounds of far off animals moving through the undergrowth.

Georges’ body slowly inched over the patch of ground he was occupying. He had been admiring the peacefulness of the forest, marvelling in its beauty as the smells of the crushed moss under his body added to the varying aromas contending for his appreciation. He loved the forest. This thought made him smile at the irony, considering he was in a profession which really should have had him far out to sea, or guarding some island. Instead, as he quietly thanked god, he was in the beautiful land of New France, free of all shackles of discipline, and able to experience the sights of the land around him.

The acrid stench of burning smoke now added its discordant perfume to the mix. Blowing on the wind to the north it pulled Georges back from his reverie. He glanced at his watch, impatient to get the job done.

A slight rustling noise behind him heralded the arrival of Louis. The man gently crawled up next to him and whispered into his ear

‘They are coming, 200 metres down the road’

Georges nodded the affirmative and gave the signal to his closest men, which was passed on down the line.

‘Louis, keep an eye on them, make sure you’re not seen, then link back up with Plasoa’

Louis gave a wry smile; ‘Am I ever seen’

With this he slinked back off into the wood, his pelted jacket mixed with foliage made him look as if he was a part of the forest itself, soon unable to identify him against the background.

You could hear them now advancing down the road. Their voices were distinguishable among the evening breeze. Boisterous and loud, their harsh noise breaking up the sweet sounds of the forest. Not much longer and they had come into view, a streaming column of around sixty militiamen, spreading along the road, irregularly clothed but all equipped with the same Brown Bess musket, sent to clear off the raiding party that had attacked the frontier that morning. Georges was irritated by their lack of professionalism, not even bothering to post sentries, they marched back in the evening believing their task to be complete, thinking only of warm food, a warm bed and a hearty wench or wife to keep them company. Did they not realise the forest was also a dangerous place.

For this was why he was here. He had done this trick many times before, though usually against his Indian enemies. They had come in the early morning, attacked the hamlet, burning the houses and moving on. His Indian allies had stayed to loot the settlement, carrying off any women who had survived the carnage. Georges had been happy to move on, leading his men and the Canadian militia further into the trees to wait for the relief. He did not like being around his Indian allies much, their war whooping and wanton slaughter of the defenceless people being incongruous to him. He was a professional, only committing aggression when it was necessary.

He was a part of the elite forces sent to New France to protect it from their English enemies, the Franches de la Marine. Not that they were an elite unit, most of his sister companies disliking the fierce nature of these colonies, not the fact that they were fare from civilisation. However, Georges’ company was the best, as he liked to think, having spent the best part of a year defending the forts of this ‘Ohio Country’. His company of men, forty strong, had become a rag tag bunch of experienced fighters, most having discarded their blue marine jackets, preferring the skins and pelts of the frontiersman, though Georges kept his for ceremonial occasions, not liking to forget who he truly was. Added to that was their assortment of arms, differing long rifles, Charleville muskets and many assorted knives and tomahawks, essential to a warrior’s profession amidst the woods of New France. Georges himself carried his long rifle bought from a trader in Kaintuckee. He was similarly kitted in frontiersman’s clothing though he kept his tricorne to signify his leading status. He also wore strong leather boots, bought after some severe haggling and far too much money, they he was willing to begrudge that they were worth every livre he spent, having held up through countless miles in all types of environment.

His pride however was his tomahawk and his long knife, more like a shot stout sword, the knife having been fashioned for him by his own instructions; both of which were invaluable to him in his profession.

His eyes now set upon the column. They had now walked fully into the trap they had set, the road narrowing at a defile where he and ten of his men, supported by ten Canadian militia were waiting on each side. After giving his signal to de la Valle, his marksmen, de la Valle trained his rifle on the officer and pulled the trigger. The flint cracked upon the pan, sparks lighting the powder and the rifle erupted into action, its sharp bang disrupting the militiamen’s jovial conversation. The officer went down, his head split open with the passage of the bullet. With this the rest of Georges’ men opened fire, hitting the centre of the column and panicking the militiamen below. The half in front fled up the road, the half at the back vainly attempted to fire back, some intelligently running to the edge of the wood for cover, some turning back for the smoking hamlet. Fifteen men were already down and the action was effectively over. With a cry my men swept down with their tomahawks, finishing off those who had been left behind, usually the more courageous men. One gave a good account of himself, brandishing his musket like a club, until a rifle bullet through his lung put him down.

The men had now begun to rummage through the enemy dead, while Georges posted pickets to harass the retreating enemy. It all only taken a minute but now the wood had returned to relative silence. Georges smiled at a job well done and turned to his men,

‘Let’s start back boys, good work’

The men grinned at their leader’s appreciation, some spattered with blood, some holding trophies.

Georges looked at his men and wondered how many more times would they be fighting in the coming years, with the British steadily enclosing on their lands.

With these men though, he silently admitted, how could Britain stop us?

They slinked back into the trees, steadily making their way back to the hamlet, the dead left to the expanse of forest, calm peaceful serenity returning in the blink of an eye.