I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The next morning, François woke earlier than usual to resume his study of the James Woods file.

According to the documents he was to hand partly back to Governor Vaudreuil and Marshal de Contades before leaving on his mission, the man had been born on June 13, 1735, in Portsmouth, southern England. The age matched well enough — that meant he would be thirty-four years old.

He was the son of Henry Woods, born in London on September 21, 1711, and Elizabeth Flemming, born February 2, 1713, in Portsmouth — both now deceased.

James came from a family of cloth merchants. He had spent his childhood learning the trade from his parents before being sent, at fifteen, to his maternal uncle Olliver Flemming, a merchant established in Bremen. There, he made himself known among the local traders and built a few connections.

But the war — and above all the successive French victories — had severely disrupted English trade on the continent. He had therefore returned to England in 1757.

Back in Portsmouth, he helped his parents keep their failing business alive. Then, one evening in a tavern, drink led him to make a mistake: he enlisted in King George II's army. A common mistake for many men of his time.

After a brief training, he was embarked at the end of August to take part in the attack on the French coast. Saint-Malo was the target.

Repelled by a swift counterattack, the British had to re-embark in haste. Woods was wounded at Saint-Cast on September 11, 1758, and had limped slightly ever since.

Upon returning to civilian life, he tried to revive the family business — in vain. His mother died of illness in 1763, and after an unsuccessful stay in Hanover, the business finally collapsed under the weight of taxes in 1768. Henry Woods died the following year.

Ruined, without family or prospects, James decided to try his luck in the colonies. He boarded The Gallant, a merchant ship commanded by Robert Harris.

As he read through this remarkably detailed file, François wondered more than once how the governor and the marshal had managed to assemble so many official documents and pieces of information. Names, dates, addresses — everything looked authentic.

This miserable biography seemed plausible, yet it could become a problem. British authorities, if diligent, might well try to verify some of it.

Wait a minute, he thought. My mission is only supposed to last three months. By the time they check all that, I'll already be back, right?

He couldn't help but smile.

For once, the century's technological backwardness worked in his favor.

If the British had possessed digital databases and instant correspondence with London, Plymouth, or Bremen — like in the twenty-first century — this mission would have been utterly impossible.

All right, all that's left is to memorize everything…

He froze, frowning at the papers.

Damn it, how am I supposed to remember all this? They're insane! I'd need, I don't know, a whole month!

François scratched the back of his head vigorously, sending a few lice flying. Even though he was far stricter about hygiene than most, he couldn't entirely escape the little beasts.

Filthy things… he muttered inwardly.

He tried to crush one that was hopping across a page covered in fine handwriting, but it escaped.

Ah… if only I could take all this with me! I could keep studying it during the voyage.

In the governor's office, it had been explained that everything had already been arranged.

The merchant ship The Gallant, which was to bring James Woods to the New World, would simulate damage at sea before being towed to the mouth of the Saint Lawrence. King George III's spies in Quebec would undoubtedly learn of it and report it to their superiors, but they would not notice that one passenger had discreetly boarded during the towing.

When François had asked whether the crew was trustworthy — the obvious weak point of such an audacious plan — he was assured that every man, especially the captain, had been generously bribed. Moreover, The Gallant belonged to a smuggling network that quietly supplied British colonies with French goods.

In case of betrayal, their fate would be swiftly settled: smugglers were not in high favor with the British authorities, especially now that the Crown was desperately trying to refill its treasury and fund the rearmament of the Royal Navy.

It was mid-morning when the manor received a visitor.

Onatah had told him about it the day before: during his absence, she had hired a young unemployed clerk to give their eldest son, Pierre, a proper education.

This decision had not been made lightly. Before François's departure for France, they had discussed it at length: Pierre was to learn grammar, mathematics, history, geography, and later, logic, philosophy, and, if possible, music.

The young man had come from Montreal and would live on-site to teach the child every weekday. François only hoped he would prove worthy of the agreed salary: six hundred and fifty livres a year, a considerable sum for a position that offered little hope of building a reputation at the far edge of New France.

The tutor was to complement the parish priest of Fort Bourbon, who had already visited several times to teach Pierre Christian morals, writing, Latin, and history. He came two or three times a week.

The good man was remarkably patient and pedagogical. He asked only a symbolic payment, often replaced by a few sacks of flour, some meat, or a bottle of wine.

Onatah herself completed their son's education by passing on the values of her people, her knowledge of nature, and the stories of the elders.

Looks like the tutor has arrived, François thought. I'll go meet him… and see how he works. If he's no good, I'll send him back to Montreal.

François would have had no qualms about dismissing him if he judged his teaching to be mediocre. This was about his beloved son, about his future.

He carefully put his papers away, locked them in a drawer, slipped the small iron key into his pocket, and left the study.

If I'm to pay a fortune for a tutor, even if it won't ruin me, I want him to be competent.

The Boucher de Montrouge family could afford the expense, and it was necessary. Fortunately, François, as a major, was well paid.

His annual salary was nearly four thousand livres, a paltry sum compared to what the lieutenant-colonel and colonel earned. The former made twice his pay, the latter three times.

Walking with slow, heavy steps, he reached the ground floor and discovered in the main room a slender young man with a narrow face framed by dark hair and deep circles under his eyes, as though he hadn't slept in days.

He wore a dark coat — simple but relatively clean despite the journey — white stockings, and clutched against him a thick brown leather satchel that looked quite heavy.

At the sight of the master of the house — impressive in his fine attire — the young man bowed so low that his satchel nearly slipped from his grasp.

"Good morning, my lord! I am Romain Gaston, pleased to make your acquaintance!"

The Seigneur of Montrouge stepped forward and extended his hand. The young clerk hesitated, clearly surprised by the gesture, it was rare for nobles to offer a handshake to men of his standing.

At last, he extended a long, slender hand, which was immediately engulfed in the major's firm grip.

"Uh? M-my lord?"

François gave a cold smile.

"François Boucher de Montrouge. Pleased to meet you," he said, tightening his grip slightly. The young man, easily ten years his junior, winced.

Clearly, he's never done a day of hard work in his life.

"My wife spoke to me about you," François continued, "but I hope you understand I have a few reservations. I will be attending your first lessons. I expect you to do well."

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He released the clerk's hand, which Romain discreetly massaged before straightening, his face a shade paler. He tried to conceal his discomfort, but he was a poor actor.

His eyes betrayed his fear.

No strength in his arms, no fire in his gaze. I wouldn't want him in my regiment. Still, he's only a pen-pusher. I think he's understood that it would be unwise to give less than his best.

Onatah had witnessed the exchange but showed no reaction. She was far too used to seeing her father test his interlocutors — this mild show of authority seemed gentle by comparison.

The young man spoke again, his voice trembling yet polite:

"Ah... hum, y-yes, of course, I understand, my lord," he stammered. "If you allow, I would like to begin today. It will help me assess your son's level and adapt my lessons accordingly."

François nodded slowly, folding his arms without realizing he was mimicking Chief Akwiratheka's posture.

"Very well," he said. "Let's see how you do."

He gestured for the young man to follow him to Pierre's room, where the boy stood nervously by his small desk. Mademoiselle Jeanne had clearly prepared him for the arrival of his new master.

As soon as the adults entered the bright little room, the boy eyed the stranger uneasily, torn between curiosity and apprehension. He feared the man might be strict and scold him at the slightest mistake.

"Pierre," said François in a dignified tone that left no room for negotiation, "this is your new teacher, Monsieur Gaston. He will teach you what you need to know to become an educated man."

The boy bowed, as he had been taught, and murmured almost in a whisper:

"Nice to meet you, sir. Please, teach me all these things."

Surprised by the child's good manners, Romain Gaston couldn't help but cast a quick glance toward his new employer before refocusing on his pupil. He gave a short nod and returned the bow.

"Pleased to meet you as well."

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a few neatly folded sheets and a small Latin grammar book.

"Good. Sit down. Let's see what you already know. Do you know your alphabet?"

"Yes, sir. My father made me learn it."

"Excellent. Here's some paper. I see you have ink and a quill — perfect. Can you write the letters?"

Pierre obeyed. He held the quill a bit awkwardly, probably too tightly, and began writing on the sheet in front of him. He was concentrating hard, which made Onatah, standing by the door with her husband, smile softly.

The lines lacked steadiness, the loops were uneven, and the letters leaned oddly, but they were all there. Romain Gaston nodded, satisfied.

"Very good. Now, can you write your first name?"

The boy nodded eagerly and complied, leaning farther and farther forward until his ear was nearly resting on the desk. The tutor cleared his throat and gently placed his hands on the boy's shoulders to straighten him.

"Sit up straight. If you keep that up, you'll end up under the table."

Pierre chuckled softly, realizing that, indeed, he had adopted quite the strange posture for writing.
François watched in silence, but inwardly, he was thinking of his own childhood, in another life.

Classrooms. Rows of desks. The smell of marker ink. The teacher coming to fetch them in the playground after recess. The bell's ringing, and the blaring fire alarm during drills. The line in front of the dining hall. The punishments, too.

He couldn't remember his first words, but he still retained fragments of his earliest school memories. He remembered a teacher—her name escaped him—with a thick mane of wavy hair that reminded him of a bundle of hay. She also wore large round glasses that made her eyes look enormous.

She had been very kind, and he seemed to recall that she often took care of him, even though there were many children in the class. It was with her that he had learned to write, to count, and to draw straight lines with a ruler.

Strange, he thought. That young man reminds me of her.

"Very good," said the tutor after a pause. "We'll work on forming the letters faster, and making them prettier. It's important to have good handwriting. Did you know that? You can learn a great deal about a person just by looking at how they write. Tell me, can you read?"

"I… I've started, but I find it hard."

"Don't worry. I'm here to help you improve. It's perfectly normal to struggle at your age. Do you read handwritten or printed texts?"

"Both, sir. Mother makes me read stories, and monsieur the priest makes me read the Bible."

"The priest?" asked the teacher, turning to the parents.

Onatah answered first, with a gentle smile.

"The priest of Fort Bourbon. We asked him to come to the manor to share his knowledge with our son. But he can't always make the trip, which is why we needed someone available."

"And capable of teaching what he cannot," added François. "You know Latin, don't you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"That's good. Then Pierre will benefit from both your teachings."

Romain Gaston nodded lightly.

"That is indeed important," confirmed the clerk, turning toward the boy who was watching him closely. "Hum… Latin is the language of the ancient Romans, but also of the holy texts. It's a foundation for understanding our own tongue… and those of our neighbors: Spanish, Italian, Portuguese. Learning this complex language will open the doors to all the others."

François felt his shoulders relax. Despite his nervousness, the young man's tone carried something reassuring.

"You speak well, Monsieur Gaston," he said after a moment. "You studied in Montreal?"

"Yes, my lord. I was clerk to a notary there. But business was poor, and I lost my position. When I learned, by chance, that you were looking for a tutor, I seized the opportunity. I hope I'll be worthy of your trust."

The major studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod.

"We'll see about that. Your work here is only beginning. I don't expect miracles, but I do expect results. I want my son to make progress."

He narrowed his eyes; his gaze grew sharper.

"And I hope you won't regret coming all the way out here. We are rather far from everything."

The young man lowered his eyes, visibly uncomfortable.

Indeed, the place was far removed from the Saint Lawrence Valley. He found it difficult to understand why anyone would choose to settle so far from the three great cities—Quebec, Trois-Rivières, and Montreal.

But he needed money.

"I won't regret it," he said at last. "I'll do my best to meet your expectations… and go beyond them."

Taking advantage of a pause, Onatah spoke, her tone gentle but firm:

"Monsieur Gaston, my son must also learn to know nature and the plants. That's important here. I'm counting on you to make sure he spends time outdoors."

The young clerk hesitated for a second, then answered politely:

"Of course, madam. I'll keep that in mind."

François stepped away from the wall he'd been leaning against and approached his son, who looked up at him.

"I still have much work to do, Pierre. I'm counting on you to listen carefully to your teacher. I'll come back later to see how things are going."

He turned toward his wife.

"Onatah, let's leave them to their work."

"See you later, my son. Listen well and do your best."

"Yes, Mother."

The two adults left the room and closed the door gently behind them. In the narrow corridor, their footsteps echoed for a few moments before silence fell again.

"That young man seems perfectly suitable to me," said Onatah as she drew closer to François.

"He does, yes. We'll see if he can stand life at Montrouge. He may soon tire of the isolation and ask to leave."

"That would be unfortunate," she agreed, "but it's possible. We'll have to make him want to stay. Especially if we want him to take charge of Louis's education later."

François raised an eyebrow but said nothing, for he knew she was right.

They would need someone reliable for the long term, at least eight years. Once Louis was old enough, he would probably be sent to a Jesuit college, in Quebec or Montreal, to deepen the knowledge he had gained under Romain Gaston's care.

That option, also considered for Pierre, was far from pleasing to Onatah, yet it seemed the best choice for their sons' future.

The other possibility was for them to join the cadets at Fort Bourbon, where they would receive a military education and perhaps one day become officers or royal engineers. But once again, Onatah didn't like that idea.

They still had time, of course, but it was something they needed to start thinking about.

François also had to think about the future of the seigneury itself. Watching the young man teach his son had made him reflect on the youth of Montrouge—still few in number, but full of promise.

"What do you think?" asked Onatah suddenly, giving him a gentle nudge with her shoulder.

"About that young clerk? It's still too soon to form an opinion, but… from what I've seen, he seems competent. I only hope he can keep Pierre in line. That boy can be stubborn as a mule when he doesn't want to do something."

"He doesn't get that from me," Onatah replied at once, a teasing smile at the corner of her lips, though inwardly she thought of her brothers, who were every bit the same. "But when he truly wants to learn or understand something, he never gives up."

François could only agree.

"Monsieur Gaston seems diligent enough. Still, we'll have to make sure he remembers his place when I'm away."

"His place?" repeated the Iroquois beauty, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear.

"Yes. Even if he's housed and fed at the manor, he mustn't forget that he serves our family, he's not our guest."

Onatah raised an eyebrow, half amused, half provocative.

"What are you afraid of? Hehe."

François stared at her, then, realizing the innuendo, rolled his eyes.

"If he ever tries anything with you, I know there'll be no warning, and no second chance. May God have mercy on his soul… No, seriously, I just don't want him imagining himself more important than he is, or meddling in matters that don't concern him."

"You're starting to sound like a colonel," Onatah chuckled.

"Maybe," François admitted with a light laugh.

"You know…" she began thoughtfully, "I've been thinking about something. Actually, I've been thinking about it for a while."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"If this gentleman is to stay here for several years, why shouldn't he also teach the other children of the seigneury?"

François froze. He had thought about it himself while watching the man interact with his son, but he hadn't expected his wife to bring it up so directly.

"You mean… the censitaires' children?"

"Yes. Some are around Pierre's age. They're destined to grow up together, even if their roles will be different. Why shouldn't they learn together?"

The major fell silent for a moment, thoughtful, picturing a school on his lands. The idea seemed noble, generous, even beautiful, but also ambitious.

"It would be good, I don't deny that," he said at last. "In fact, I'd like to include the girls too. But you know how people are. Many will frown upon it. Some parents will fear losing helping hands for the fields, or that once their children learn to read and write, they'll want to leave for the cities. Others might feel insulted."

Onatah crossed her arms.

"So what then? We leave them in ignorance? If the tenants' children learn to read and write, they'll understand the world better, and how to make it better. Maybe they'll understand each other better too. They won't just be neighbors anymore, but companions."

François sighed softly.

"I know. You're right in principle. But for that, we'll need books, paper, higher pay for the tutor, and time. Come spring, the parents will want their children in the fields. That leaves only winter."

"That's better than nothing, isn't it?"

"And where would they go?"

"We'll build a structure large enough to hold them all. Perhaps near the church? Monsieur the priest would surely be happy to share his knowledge, even if only the basics. And as for books… we could ask the governor. I think it's fair to say he owes you a favor, considering what you're about to do."

François burst out laughing.

"You're incredible. To hear you talk, one would think everything could be solved with a snap of the fingers."

"No," she replied calmly, her eyes shining with quiet determination, "but if we never start, nothing will ever change. People will come to understand that it's in everyone's best interest. Knowing how to read and count is always useful, and it's a step toward a better future."

François looked at her for a long time, full of admiration—and perhaps a little more in love.

"All right. Let's do it. But I insist, the girls must have their place there too. Even if that displeases some, including the priest."