I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The days passed quickly, and April arrived. Then came the time to depart.

François stood apart on the deck, careful not to get in the sailors' way, watching as Le Prince de Soubise unfurled its immense sails one by one. He had been waiting aboard for two days, keeping himself busy as best he could.

Orders were shouted, and the crew obeyed without complaint. They hauled on thick ropes and climbed up the rigging.

The wood began to creak, the pulleys groaned, and the ship slowly came alive—like a great beast awakening from slumber.

Little by little, they left behind the harbor and the comforting silhouette of the fortress.

A yawn crept up on François. His mouth started to open, sluggishly, for no apparent reason—and despite his effort to stop it, he couldn't.

"Bloody hell…"

Frustrated, he muttered a quiet curse through his teeth and let his hand fall against his thigh.

The air was sharp, almost freezing, but the sky was clear. A thin mist hovered above the waves, giving the sea the look of a vast steaming cauldron. The sun, barely risen, gilded the water's surface and the sails still damp with dew.

It was a magnificent sight—just for a moment, François felt as though he were leaving the real world behind and entering another, filled with fairies and magic.

He then sensed someone behind him. The shadow of Yann Madec stretched across the deck.

The major had easily secured a place for the man, since he was in his service—but it had been far more complicated for his family. After all, this was no ordinary ship, but a first-rate man-of-war.

Civilians normally had no business being aboard. A special authorization was required—either from the Secretary of the Navy, the Marquis de Choiseul, or from the Intendant of Brest, Baron de Nuits.

François had appealed to the latter to ensure the family would not be separated.

"This ship is enormous," Madec murmured, admiring the giant. "It's like a floating castle."

"It is one, Monsieur Madec. Made of oak, canvas, and hemp—but a castle all the same."

Le Prince de Soubise was indeed an impressive sight, especially with her sails fully deployed, though far from perfect.

Named after the war hero who had once terrified Britain with a daring raid on its ports, she had been built on the same design as the Royal Louis, which had burned at Brest in the final days of the Six Years' War. Alas, she inherited both its grandeur and its flaws.

Slow, heavy, and costly to arm, the vessel had never found its proper role within the fleet. To compensate for her sluggishness, nearly half of her artillery had been removed.

She now carried barely fifty guns.

From what I was told, François thought, this fortress is so poorly designed that it's unlikely to ever see real combat. What a waste. I suppose one could call it a beautiful failure.

Today, she was putting to sea out of necessity rather than glory. Her holds were packed with military supplies bound for the regiments of New France: weapons, tools, shoes, tricorns, tent canvas, musket flints, black powder, cannonballs, and brand-new uniforms.

Those uniforms marked a small revolution: gone was the heavy belt fastening the coat and bearing both sword and bayonet. From now on, a second crossbelt would intersect the cartridge box strap across the chest.

The tricorne would be turned up higher at the back, the coat open except at the collar, the facings more elegant, and the skirts neatly turned back to display a golden fleur-de-lis.

For the Regiment of New Aquitaine, the colors would not change—the uniform would remain white and blue, but brighter, more vivid.

And so, on April 7th, 1770, the mighty vessel Le Prince de Soubise cleared the Goulet of Brest, her silhouette formidable against the horizon. A long voyage had begun.

The rugged coastlines of Brittany soon vanished, and then there was nothing—nothing but the endless sea.

The ship followed the course set by her officers, and soon life aboard settled into a steady, almost mechanical rhythm.

Often, the cries of little Antoine broke the calm of the ship. Young Alexis, for his part, quickly grew restless within the confines of the vessel.

There was, unfortunately, little to be done.

François spent his days between the artillery officer's cabin and the quarterdeck, observing, listening, and occasionally jotting down notes in a small notebook.

His idea for a book on New France was slowly taking shape—but writing it was far less exciting than adapting a story to that era. It felt more like drafting a survival manual for hostile territory.

To clear his mind, he decided to introduce the people of this time to another masterpiece of cinema—the tale of a young man and a young woman, born to opposite worlds, who nonetheless find each other aboard a magnificent new ship, thought to be unsinkable.

Until it strikes an iceberg.

If my novel meets even half the success of that film, he thought, I'll never have to worry about money again. But nothing was certain.

One day, a storm struck them by surprise. Though less terrifying than the one that had nearly sent the Ocean to the bottom years before, it frightened everyone aboard.

The sailors took it as a good omen: if they had survived such a tempest, then surely God had decided to spare them.

And after three more weeks, the air grew warmer, and seabirds began to reappear around the ship. From the rigging, a cry rang out—

"Land ho!"

On May 17th, the wooded heights of New France finally came into view—dark and majestic beneath a radiant sun.

At the sight of them, François couldn't help but smile broadly.

He drew in a deep breath of the fresh northern air, tinged with sea spray.

How good it feels to be home.

The great warship continued on her course for several more days before dropping anchor near Anticosti Island, at the mouth of the vast St. Lawrence estuary.

To go any farther—especially up to Québec—was unthinkable for a vessel of her size, even under the best of conditions.

She would have run aground long before reaching the city.

The longboats were lowered, and the passengers were transferred to La Belle Poule, a graceful thirty-gun frigate commissioned in 1765.

A few days later, François, Yann Madec, and his family set foot in Québec.

Their steps rang on the damp cobblestones of the Upper Town, where a medley of smells hung in the air. Like the port below, the streets buzzed with activity.

It didn't take long for the old governor, de Vaudreuil, to learn of Major Boucher de Montrouge's return.

As François was preparing to leave the city to rejoin his regiment at Fort Bourbon—and to introduce Yann to his wife so she could oversee his family's settlement on the estate—a soldier came running toward them, breathless.

"M… Major! Major Boucher! W–wait!" he gasped, waving a folded paper in the air.

François turned sharply, as did Yann and his family. They were standing beside a small cart loaded with all their belongings—few enough, in truth.

The young man, a corporal with a flushed, sweat-covered face, stumbled over a loose cobblestone and fell headlong. He scrambled up at once, his uniform disheveled, and stopped in front of the major, snapping his heels together, chest heaving.

What now? An emergency?

"Yes?" François asked, his voice low but firm.

"A–a message, sir… an urgent message from the governor!"

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The corporal thrust the paper toward him with a trembling hand, as though desperate to be rid of something burning. François fixed him with a silent stare, then frowned.

"Stand up straight, Corporal. And fix that uniform."

His sharp tone made not only the corporal but also Madec's wife and children flinch. His blue eyes glinted like blades of ice.

The corporal stiffened and obeyed at once.

"M–my apologies, sir," he stammered, hastily straightening his coat.

"Good. Now, speak."

"The governor, sir—he's been informed of your return and requests your presence at the fort immediately."

François unfolded the note. Only a few lines, but written in the governor's own hand. He nodded.

Turning to Yann and his family, he said, "I'm sorry, but you heard him. I'll have to postpone our departure. Wait for me here—I won't be long."

"Yes, sir," Yann replied calmly. "We'll wait."

The major retraced his steps, escorted by the young corporal, following the long, bustling street that led to Fort Louis. Soldiers, laborers, and sailors filled the way, but François paid them no mind.

The sun was beginning to sink, casting amber and copper reflections across the façades. The St. Lawrence shimmered below like a wide river of gold.

At the entrance to the fort, the guard motioned for them to wait. After a brief exchange, a captain arrived and took over, leading François through corridors and stairways to Governor Vaudreuil's office.

Inside, the stately building contrasted sharply with the warm light outside. The air felt cooler—almost cold.

Upstairs, however, the temperature grew slightly warmer, perhaps thanks to the rugs, tapestries, grand paintings, and polished furniture in deep, rich tones. Their footsteps echoed like musket shots on the waxed floorboards.

Knock, knock, knock.

The captain stopped before a familiar door, rapped three times, and a deep voice that François recognized at once called from within:

"Enter."

"Governor," the captain announced, bowing deeply as he opened the door, "Major Boucher de Montrouge is here."

"Ah, very good," said the governor with restrained enthusiasm. "Show him in."

The captain turned, bowed again. François nodded and stepped inside. The door closed firmly behind him.

Governor Vaudreuil, older now but still alert, rose slowly and moved around his large desk.

Nearby, a tall man stood straight as a mast. He turned as François entered. His powdered wig was neatly styled, far less imposing than the governor's, and he wore a magnificent blue coat richly embroidered with gold.

François's arrival seemed to have interrupted his contemplation of the batteries and the river beyond.

The furniture hadn't changed since the major's last visit, but the governor looked more tired. His gaze had lost some of its spark, and François thought he could see new lines etched into that face worn down by the years.

"Major de Montrouge, come closer," said Vaudreuil in a voice that was firm yet kind. "Ah, it was about time you returned to New France."

"Your Excellency," François replied, bowing deeply. "The corporal you sent told me you wished to see me urgently. Has something happened?"

"Things happen every day, Major. Too many things. Some demand our full attention… and they have multiplied in recent months."

With an open gesture, he pointed to the man in blue who had also stepped toward the center of the room.

"You know Marshal de Contades, I presume?"

François turned toward the tall man. His bearing and piercing gaze were those of someone long accustomed to obedience. Even in a plainer uniform, he would have commanded attention.

"I haven't yet had the honor of speaking with the Marshal, but I have seen him on several occasions during his inspections at Fort Bourbon," François said evenly. "It is an honor to meet you, sir."

"The honor is mine, Major," Contades replied in the same tone. "I have read your record several times—it is… impressive for a man of your background."

"I have been lucky, sir."

The governor stepped beside the Marshal and fixed François with a strange glimmer in his eyes.

"Major," he began, "France triumphed a few years ago, but the peace that followed is fragile. Very fragile."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the large globe at the back of the room. It was already outdated after the latest discoveries in the Pacific.

"You know as well as I do—as we all do—that the English colonies to the south are restless. From New York to Charlestown, even in Philadelphia, the crowds are stirring. The papers speak of riots against the new laws and taxes imposed by London, of wild attacks and murders... And the pamphlets justifying those crimes multiply by the day."

"It's spoken of even here, in Quebec," added Contades, his face grave. "The colonists are uneasy and watch the situation with growing concern. At Versailles, some already fear it could ignite into something greater."

François nodded, thinking of the war of independence that was soon to come.

"I heard rumors in Paris. Has the situation deteriorated that much?"

"All this unrest comes from a handful of troublemakers," Contades asserted, "but their words and deeds are enough to make the Crown and certain members of Parliament question the loyalty of their colonies. Similar tensions exist in Ireland, Wales, and even England itself—but across the ocean, with such distance, the danger is far worse. We may be nearing a breaking point."

"For now, it's only a quarrel over taxes," the governor said, trying to downplay it. "At least, that's what our last report from our agent in New York suggested. But things could change—and quickly. That city lies at the heart of the unrest."

Our agent? So we have spies in the British colonies?

As if reading his thoughts, Vaudreuil continued calmly:

"It is only natural, as you can imagine, that we keep eyes and ears in the major cities of neighboring powers—enemy or ally alike. I've no doubt that the English, and perhaps even our Spanish friends, do the same here."

His tone grew graver, his gaze darker.

"Unfortunately, our man in New York was hanged. And the one in Philadelphia…"

"Let's just say he wasn't the most reliable," interrupted Contades, shaking his head. "An Englishman—well paid, but without conviction, like most of them. When he was discovered, he offered his services to the British Crown as a double agent. He was supposed to feed us false information, but when we uncovered his deception, he proposed to deceive them in turn—pretending to fulfill their orders while secretly sending us valuable intelligence."

Vaudreuil shrugged.

"In the end, neither they nor we knew which side he truly served. We ended our… collaboration. Naturally, he was hanged as well."

François's eyes widened slightly, but he remained silent. He already sensed where this was going, and his stomach tightened.

The Marshal resumed:

"So here we are, without an agent. And now, more than ever, we must know what's stirring in the south. Chaos breeds chaos—and fires do not stop at borders."

François felt both men's eyes fixed upon him. A cold sweat ran down his back, slithering along his spine like a snake.

I don't like this. I really don't like the way they're looking at me. Ah… damn it.

Contades turned toward the governor's desk and picked up a folder, waving it lightly before him like a fan.

"You speak English, do you not?"

"I… can manage. I mean, I can communicate, yes."

"It's rather more than that, according to Colonel de Faudoas's report. Don't be unnecessarily modest. Do you think you could… pass for an Englishman?"

The Marshal's gaze was so piercing that François couldn't hold it. He turned instead to the governor, who answered for him:

"He could easily. He also speaks a Germanic tongue—Hanoverian, I believe? Or Hessian? Or was it Saxon?"

"Better still," the Marshal concluded with a thin smile that made the major's heart tremble. "His Excellency has spoken most highly of you, and I see he was not exaggerating. You are the ideal candidate for the mission we have in mind, Major."

He set François's file on the desk and took up another, slimmer one. Inside, François glimpsed several pages covered in fine handwriting—some sealed with wax.

"We need a man who is loyal, educated, and capable of blending into the British colonies without drawing attention. Someone disciplined—able to observe and to judge."

François felt his jaw tighten. Every part of him screamed to refuse, to take the road south—to his family, to the peace he thought he had earned.

But another voice inside him whispered that he wouldn't. That he couldn't.

"You would be sent to New York," Vaudreuil explained. "Under a false identity, of course. Your task would be to observe troop movements, listen to rumors, and gauge the tension between the colonists and the Crown."

Contades tapped the thin dossier with his index finger.

"We must understand how the balance of power is shifting—if a rupture is near… and whether France might benefit from it."

"We are not asking you to take great risks," added the governor. "Only to observe and report whatever you deem useful. Nothing more."

A long silence followed.

Long enough for François to grasp the full weight of what was being asked of him. The mission was dangerous. If the English discovered him, the chances of avoiding the gallows were slim.

If they catch me, the rope's waiting. At best, they'll cut off my head. They must know that, surely?

He tried to remain composed, but a tremor betrayed him. The image of a gallows, a jeering crowd, and a masked executioner rose vividly before his eyes.

I won't die like that! I'd rather fall on the battlefield! Not like some criminal!

There was no glory in dying by execution. Such a death erased everything a man had achieved. Few ever managed to meet it with dignity.

No way I'll let my death become a spectacle!

François drew a sharp line between risking his life to defend his people, his land, or his king—and risking it for a few scraps of information.

But refuse? No. Not openly, at least. That would brand him a coward, and he was anything but.

For now, the mission was still a "proposal." But he knew that a refusal would carry heavy consequences for his career.

"We know what we are asking of you, Major," said the old governor slowly, his tone low, almost fatherly. "But you must understand—His Majesty, and New France itself, needs you. The King will not forget this."

François tensed further.

Oh, great. So that's how it is, huh?

Behind the governor's benevolent tone, he sensed manipulation. The message was clear.

So, as a loyal soldier, he thought, I'm supposed to go. Tss. They're not really giving me a choice, are they? The King will not forget… That also means they won't forgive me if I refuse.

"I understand, Your Excellency," he finally said, hiding his thoughts. "I will not disappoint His Majesty. I accept."

Vaudreuil's face lit up instantly.

"Excellent! I knew we could count on you! Remember—this is not deceit, but a noble mission in the service of peace. You will be the eyes and ears of the King."

"His Majesty is as just as Saint Louis himself," added Contades with a satisfied smile. "Expect a reward worthy of the risks you take: money, honor, land… Perhaps even a promotion to lieutenant colonel upon your return. Who knows—your title may even become hereditary."

François kept his comments to himself; neither man would have appreciated them.

Fine words, fine promises—but nothing written in stone.

"When must I leave? And for how long?" he asked, stifling the sigh of a condemned man.

"Three months," Contades replied, adjusting a sleeve of his elegant coat. "That should suffice to gather the information we require, and to build a credible cover. Any longer would be too risky. You will depart by week's end, once you have memorized every detail of this dossier—your false identity and your background."

Oh… so they've already decided everything? I don't even get to choose my fake name? What a shame. I'd have asked to be called… I don't know, Bruce Wayne or Tom Cruise. No—Bond. James Bond. Ah, what a waste.

They handed him a series of documents, and as his eyes fell upon them, one name caught his attention.

"James Woods?" he asked, glancing up at the two men. "Who is that?"

"Until this mission is deemed a success," Contades declared, "that will be you. Now, let us explain how things will proceed. Naturally, secrecy is paramount."

François hesitated a moment, then drew a deep breath.

"W-wait, Your Excellency… I understand everything you've said, but… I haven't seen my wife and children for almost a year. May I at least see them before I leave?"

Marshal de Contades narrowed his eyes and turned to the governor. He knew that François's wife was no ordinary woman.

And besides, he was aware that the mission's success would depend, in part, on the young man's peace of mind.

The old governor gave a discreet nod.

"Very well. I will allow it. But you may tell them nothing of your mission. Your colonel will receive only a partial report, so choose your words carefully. You will remain at Fort Bourbon for only three days, then return to Quebec without delay. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes! Thank you, Your Excellency!" François replied, relieved—but still tense.