I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The Governor Vaudreuil, Marshal de Contades, and François had remained shut away for several hours in the vast study, and no one dared knock at the door.

Behind that closed door, they had discussed at length the most sensitive aspects of a mission in which the slightest mistake could prove costly — how he would reach New York, if God willed it, how he would blend in without arousing suspicion, and above all, what was expected of him.

François was not merely to gather intelligence for three months and then leave. He was to find reliable men on the spot, capable of discreetly serving the interests of the King of France.

In the British colonies, and especially in New York, the economy was in such dire condition that many thought it would be easy to find weak-willed individuals. In Contades' words, misery bends loyalties.

When one stands at the edge of a cliff, it takes little to make a pact with the enemy — or even with the Devil himself.

All François had to do was identify men capable of keeping their mouths shut and following orders in exchange for a few coins of gold. If possible, he was to build two independent networks, each unaware of the other's existence, so that the fall of one would not bring down the second.

The intelligence file entrusted to the young major — that of the man he was to become, James Woods — was disturbingly detailed. As François read through it, he could not tell whether it described a real man or an elaborate fabrication.

One thing was certain: time and great effort had been spent constructing this dossier — likely over several months.

Everything was there.

His birthplace, date of baptism, the names and occupations of his parents, his friends, his apprenticeship, his master's identity, the parish he attended, every address he had lived at, his first job, the port of embarkation, the name of the ship that had brought him to the New World, and much more.

The list of details to memorize seemed endless.

Before departure, all of it had to be engraved in his memory — along with a thousand other facts: the price of bread and wine, how a British province or colonial assembly functioned, the rights and duties of a colonist, and even the common forms of address and politeness.

It was not enough to pretend to be an English colonist; he had to become one — down to the smallest, most trivial gesture.

This was precisely why European governments, in most cases, relied on locals for espionage. For a little money — or, more rarely, for the thrill of adventure — some would betray their country without a second thought.

Such spies were unreliable and often quickly discovered. Yet governments kept using them; if they failed, their employers lost little.

François remembered the man who had been hanged in Brest shortly before his own departure — an ordinary fellow promised wealth and glory. He had received neither.

His adventure had lasted only two weeks: drunk on the fortune he had been paid — a fortune for him — he had gone drinking in a tavern and, in his foolishness, asked a patron where he might buy a complete map of Brest's defenses.

Even as the noose was placed around his neck, he had believed his employer would intervene to save him.

It was rare for a man to be sent on such a mission into enemy territory when he was of the same nationality as those who hired him. In Brest, over the last two years, there had been only three attempts. Three merchant ships, supposedly neutral, had tried to enter the port claiming damage or commercial errands.

Each time, the authorities had been warned in advance that a disguised British officer was aboard; each time, entry had been denied.

But never had an Englishman tried to pass himself off as a Frenchman in one of Louis XV's ports — his accent would have betrayed him at once.

François, however, worried less about his language than about his manners: his body's habits, his way of walking, drinking, or addressing others. A single detail could be enough to doom him.

He recalled a film from his former life, set during the Second World War — American agents infiltrated in Germany had been exposed by a simple gesture, by ordering in a New York fashion instead of a Munich one.

Perhaps the scene was exaggerated, but he had no desire to test it himself.

Time was running short.

François left Quebec as soon as he could, after telling Yann Madec only that he had to ride ahead. Yann's family would follow later, more slowly, with a cart carrying their few belongings.

François had promised that once they reached Montrouge, they would be warmly received.

Alone on horseback, the major took only a few days to reach the region of Fort Bourbon, almost unchanged since his departure the previous summer.

Upon his arrival, he immediately presented himself before Colonel de Faudoas, carrying several documents — one of them bearing both the marshal's and the governor's signatures.

"You're… leaving on a mission?" the colonel asked after reading them. "And I'm not to know more than what's written here?"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel. Those are my orders."

Faudoas raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. François could read his unease.

The officer held back the many questions that rose to his lips, reread the message more slowly, then folded it.

"In that case, there's no point insisting."

With a near-theatrical gesture, he held the paper above a half-burned candle. The flame caught, browned the edge, and then consumed it.

The paper twisted, blackened, and vanished in silence. François watched it burn, his face expressionless.

"Three days, then," the colonel said in a measured tone. "Your adjutant won't be pleased to hear that."

François smiled faintly.

"How have things been here?"

"We've managed as best we could," Faudoas replied. "But your absence was felt. Can you at least tell me how long you'll be away?"

"…"

The colonel raised his hand.

"Forget it. I'll find out when you return. We'll continue as we did during your leave. But you'll have plenty of work waiting for you when you come back."

"I'm sorry," said the major, bowing slightly.

"Why? Those are orders. We go where we're told to go, and we do what we're told to do. That's a soldier's life."

The colonel stood and extended his hand, his tone softening.

"Go on now. Go see your wife and children."

François didn't need to be told twice. He left the fort with quick steps, heart racing, and spurred his tired horse down the road toward his estate.

Soon, he saw the long stone wall that marked his property and, beyond it, the comforting silhouette of his manor house. A thin trail of white smoke rose from the tall stone chimney.

Near the entrance, Onatah stood with Pierre and Louis. The children had grown; their features were more defined. They looked more like François now, though their dark skin and hair still came from their mother.

She lifted her head, startled, at the sound of the approaching rider. François leapt from his saddle, and before she could say a word, he was upon her.

"W–what?!" she barely had time to cry before he swept her up as lightly as a feather.

He began to spin, faster and faster, like a top.

"Ahhh!"

She shouted in his ear, but François didn't let her go right away.

"Hey, I just saved your life!" he laughed.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

It had all happened so quickly, but Onatah had already recognized her husband. No one but him would have been bold—or foolish—enough to pull such a stunt.

She had counted the days since his departure and had waited impatiently for his return, but she hadn't expected it so soon. Yet it was really him. She could never forget the strength of his arms, the warmth of his breath, or the tenderness in his voice.

"Idiot! Put me down!" she protested, blushing as red as a sugared strawberry, clutching his clothes with all her strength to keep from falling.

"I'm a hero. I just kept you from falling."

"N–nonsense!" retorted the beautiful Mohawk woman, unable to keep from smiling.

The children, both startled and delighted, ran toward them with outstretched arms, eager for their turn.

"Me too! Me too!" they cried, jumping up and down.

François made sure they didn't get caught by accident, then gently set his wife down. He grabbed Pierre and Louis—one in each arm—and began spinning again.

"I missed you so much, my little ones! Ready for takeoff? Vroooom! Vroooom!"

Their laughter rang out, clear and bright, mingling with the cooling breeze. He only stopped when he realized he could barely keep his balance, as though he had been drinking too much.

He set them down clumsily, then dropped heavily onto the grass, resting his back against the soft earth.

Onatah stood before him, hands on her hips, wearing a mock-stern expression.

"What a way to come home! Don't you have something to say?"

François lifted his head with effort, eyes warm, savoring the moment like a ripe fruit.

"I'm home," he said affectionately. "I missed you all."

The mask of annoyance melted instantly. The enchanting Mohawk woman stepped forward and, without the slightest hesitation, climbed onto her husband's lap and kissed him deeply. François let her do as she pleased and returned her love.

The children, meanwhile, made faces and covered their eyes, squealing in exaggerated disgust.

"Ewwww!" they chorused.

At last, their lips parted.

"We missed you too," Onatah whispered with all her love.

A discreet cough made them both startle. Jeanne Brochant stood near the doorway, watching the scene with a mix of embarrassment, tenderness, amusement—and just a hint of jealousy. At twenty-four, she still had no husband of her own.

François hadn't even noticed her when he arrived; all his attention had been for his beloved wife and precious children.

"Good day, monsieur," she said, bowing politely. "Welcome home."

François smiled, his cheeks faintly flushed, and stood up. Still a little dizzy, he straightened his coat and returned her courtesy with a nod.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Jeanne. Has everything gone well in my absence?"

"Yes, sir. New families have settled here, the church is finally completed, and the rugby field is a great success—among the men of the regiment as well as our young tenants."

The lord of Montrouge nodded, proud and content to see his lands thriving.

"Perfect," he said, nodding several times before turning to his wife. "Besides, I've recruited someone in France. He came over with his family to New France. His wife and two children. I promised them a plot of land."

"That won't be a problem," she replied without hesitation. "There are still some available. Where are they?"

"I went ahead to arrive faster. They should be here in a few days."

François hesitated. The words he had to say already weighed on his heart. Three days. Three short days and he would have to leave.

Do I tell her now? I don't want to see her smile fade.

At that thought his smile vanished and sorrow filled his eyes. Onatah, who knew her husband well, noticed and gently tapped his cheek.

"Is something wrong?"

His chest tightened. He felt as if he were abandoning her forever.

I suppose it's better to say it now.

He looked at the children, who were clearly beginning to sense that something was amiss. He drew a deep breath.

"Let's go for a walk," he said in an unexpectedly low voice. "Mademoiselle Brochant, would you mind watching the children for a moment, please?"

The young woman, surprised, asked no questions and nodded. Onatah, brows knit, also fell silent.

She took her husband's hand and together they followed a little path lined with flowering shrubs. The light breeze stirred the branches and the lively leaves.

When they were far enough away, Onatah stopped, planted herself before him, and tenderly took both his hands in hers. Behind the simple gesture, François could read all the young woman's worry.

"What is it?" she asked, voice controlled but tense. "You're acting strangely, and it worries me."

François weighed his words. His throat was tight and his thoughts tumbled in his head like debris in a tornado.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Onatah's gaze bore into his—so intense, so deep that he felt he might drown in it. He pressed his lips together and confessed.

"The truth," he said, voice choked, "is that I won't be able to stay long. I've been sent on a mission."

Onatah's expression changed instantly. François felt his wife's hands clamp down on his. Her long, slim fingers closed like an eagle's talons on prey.

"What?!"

Her voice snapped like a gunshot and broke at the end.

"Leave? Again? You've only just arrived!"

"I learned not long after we reached Quebec," the officer replied, eyes full of disappointment, while stroking the back of Onatah's hands with his thumbs. "I begged for a chance to see you before I left. I was granted three days."

Onatah began to tremble violently—not with fear, but with anger. Her jaw clenched, her teeth ground, and her eyes flamed.

"That will not happen! I will not allow it!" she exclaimed, switching into her native tongue, her voice vibrating.

François held her despite her instinctive refusal to be restrained; he was much stronger, but there was no brutality. He was only trying to calm the storm.

"Onatah," he whispered in the same language, close to her ear, "I am your husband but I am also a soldier. When I'm given a mission, I must carry it out. Even if I dislike it, even if it takes me far from home, even if it's dangerous."

"Dangerous?! Tell me—where are they sending you?!"

She had jerked her head up so sharply she nearly struck his chin. François did not answer immediately, which only made the Indian beauty angrier.

"And if you die?"

The question came blunt, merciless. It struck his heart like the tip of an arrow.

"If you die far from here, what will become of our children?"

Her trembling grew stronger. Tears streamed down her hot face. She could hardly make out her husband's features through the blur in her eyes.

"Where are they sending you?" she repeated in French, quieter but more threatening.

"I'm sorry," François managed to say without loosening his embrace, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I cannot tell you… It's a secret mission. Believe me, if I could have refused, I would have."

His voice was hoarse with emotion. He hesitated a moment, then added:

"Know this… it's for the good of New France. For us, for your father's village, and for the Haudenosaunee."

"I will complain to the governor," she breathed, eyes reddened with anger.

François forced a hollow smile.

"He's involved."

"In that case… I'll complain to my father."

François flinched at the thought of the towering Mohawk chief, that bear-like warrior—unpredictable. He adored his daughter; if he learned she had wept because of Vaudreuil or Contades, how would he react?

He immediately thought of everything that had been done these past years to draw the Iroquois closer to the French—to steer them away from the English.

"P-please, don't do it. I'll get into trouble. We could all get into trouble."

Onatah looked at him, a shadow of defiance in her eyes.

"I won't let you go until I know where you're going. Or you must take me with you."

"That's not possible. You know that. I'm sorry."

Onatah released François's hands, but her anger remained immense. Fists clenched, she stared at her husband with such intensity she could have pierced him.

France and Great Britain were at peace—for the moment at least. Even though the first tried to make itself forgotten, everyone knew the continent might soon be aflame again.

"You're not leaving for a war," she said slowly, not taking her eyes off him. "This isn't an escort or resupply mission, otherwise you'd have told me. And you're not returning to France. Tell me: what kind of mission did the governor give you?"

Her tone was sharp and cutting as a saber. He felt his body stiffen. He would have preferred to face an enemy patrol than this black look. He wanted to speak, not lie. Never. The truth burned on his lips.

She will not yield, he thought. Oh, damn it.

He finally murmured, "I was ordered to say nothing, so please—don't tell anyone what I'm about to say. Okay?"

She nodded and François exhaled.

"It's an observation mission… and persuasion."

Onatah raised a skeptical eyebrow but let him continue. In a low voice, barely audible, François went on:

"The governor and Marshal de Contades want me to go into the British colonies. They need someone there to report faithfully on what's happening. But I mustn't stay long. I have to do this, recruit locals, and come back. That's it."

Onatah's face froze, then hardened.

"You have to go into English territory?" she asked, stunned.

"Yes."

She stepped back as if struck and moved into the shadow of a pine.

"But… why you? Because you speak English? Isn't there anyone else?"

"They trust me, Onatah. They know I'm loyal and reliable. And my English isn't just good—it's excellent."

François smiled with pride, perhaps a touch of arrogance.

"If I succeed, they'll see how useful I am. And the king will notice me. It'll be good for me, but also for our family. Imagine… if he made me a real noble? Not just a personal favor, but a hereditary title! Our children's future would be practically secured. The risks I take now, they won't have to take. The road will be paved for them!"

The more he spoke, the more enthusiastic he sounded. He had seemingly forgotten the veiled threats about his career in the governor's office. But Onatah did not flinch. She was like a stone.

She knew her husband's ambition, but to accept such a risky mission… She understood, but she disapproved. Among the Mohawks courage was prized, but there was a difference between bravery and recklessness. How many had died from confusing the two?

"You say they trust you," she said coldly, "but from my point of view they are only using you. They exploit your talents."

François did not react as much as she had hoped. He merely shrugged.

"Kings use their generals, generals their colonels, colonels their captains, captains their soldiers. Aren't we all used by someone? If we aren't, we're useless, valueless. Why keep a tool like that, then?"

This time Onatah said nothing; her jaw remained clenched. François took the chance to explain, without going into particulars, how his interview with the two great men had gone: the dossier they'd given him, the documents he would have to carry, and the little improvisation test they'd put him through.

He told her how he'd had to play a part, invent a life, answer quickly and impress them with his composure.

He added with a smile, "They tested me. To see if I could lie, defend myself. And I did fairly well: I… presented myself under another identity."

Onatah flinched and went pale.

"W-what did you say?" she breathed, voice trembling, fearing he had dared reveal his original identity.

He gave a short, almost nervous laugh, which only increased her anxiety.

"I told a story," he explained. "A plausible, ordinary life. Nothing more," he said, savoring her reactions. "They liked, I think, my certainty."

Onatah let out a long, liberating sigh of relief.

Luckily, her husband was not foolish enough to pass the truth off as a lie. In other circumstances perhaps he might have risked it—for the challenge or the irony. But not this time.

Before a marshal and a governor, and with such a complex mission ahead, he had not even thought of introducing himself as Adam, the time-traveler from the twenty-first century.

At the end of that interview, Marshal de Contades had seemed very pleased and better understood why Governor Vaudreuil held him in high regard. François was relieved to have done what he did.

He hoped that at the end of the mission the illustrious man would look upon him more favorably, which might allow him to reach much higher ranks in the future.

"Three months, then," Onatah murmured at last. "But I'll give you an order too. Your life must come first. Whatever happens, whatever it costs—you will come back. Understood?"

François stepped forward and planted a tender kiss on his wife's lips.

"I am at your orders, madam."