I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The more hours passed, the further the convoy drifted from land. Soon, it would be too late to attempt desertion.

This thought haunted young Hippolyte, better known as P’tit Pol.

He didn’t want to abandon his friends, knowing he would disappoint them all immensely if he crossed that line, but he also didn’t want to go to the New World.

The rumor had spread like wildfire in a dry forest and had naturally reached his ears.

It came from Jean, his friend, who had accidentally overheard this information while near two naval cadets—two boys, no more than fifteen or sixteen, who were being trained aboard the Foudroyant to become good officers—as they spoke about their mission.

Jean couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and within just a few hours, the entire crew was informed.

I want to go back to Corbie, P’tit Pol lamented silently in his small hammock, tears welling up in his eyes. I don’t want to go there!

The small redhead, who despite the years still hadn’t grown any taller, bit his lower lip hard, tortured by his thoughts.

He adored his friends, with whom he had spent so much time, long before joining the regiment of the Marquis de Bréhant, but the past few months had been so difficult that he deeply regretted following them into this madness.

Never had he suffered as much as he had since the previous summer. His feet had been bloodied from walking the roads of Hanover; he had almost died more than once, he had fainted from heat, he had been so cold that he wanted to plunge his hands into a fire, he had been hungrier than ever before, and now they were ordering him to cross an ocean!

Why?! Why should I endure all these things? It was a mistake! I should never have signed up!

Hippolyte had learned to fear the sea. He had the English to thank for that because the small merchant ship he had boarded in Stade to return to Brest had narrowly escaped being blown to pieces by enemy cannons in the Channel.

When they had encountered a British squadron for the second time, they had been chased by a dozen warships, each carrying dozens of cannons! Compared to them, they were nothing more than defenseless children. They didn’t even have a single cannon to fight back!

All he could do at that moment was pray, and he had done so with exceptional fervor.

While he had survived, not everyone had been so lucky.

Since that day, he had been plagued by nightmares about the sea. He saw himself once again aboard a fragile ship, lost at sea with no land in sight, targeted by those massive ships bristling with black cannons.

Most of the time, he woke up in terror, but sometimes, he saw his ship riddled with holes, its mast breaking, and he saw himself falling into the sea.

When that happened, he imagined himself thrashing about wildly, flailing his arms in all directions, desperately trying to grab hold of something, anything, to keep his head above water.

But he found nothing. He would then cry out for help, in vain. Saltwater would begin to fill his mouth, and he would see himself sinking beneath the surface, plunging like a stone.

Engulfed in growing darkness, he would lose all sense of up and down.

In the end, he saw himself dying, alone, in terrifying silence.

Wh-what if we sail into a storm?! What if we encounter a sea monster?!

He thought back to a story a veteran sailor had shared with them two days earlier. The man, a southerner named Joseph, had told them such a wild tale that most of the soldiers hadn’t taken him seriously. But P’tit Pol believed the man was telling the truth.

With his melodious accent, typical of people from that region, Joseph had recounted one of his voyages in the Atlantic. At that time, the War of Austrian Succession hadn’t yet broken out, but tensions were already high. Every kingdom had been preparing for years, sending ships all over the world to maintain a presence in the islands, trading posts, and colonies.

One day, their ship had crossed paths with one of these monsters.

When someone asked if it was the size of a horse, the sailor burst out laughing and calmly stated that the creature was the size of his ship!

Not only was the beast enormous, but there were several of them, swimming in a group!

Fortunately, these sea monsters hadn’t tried to sink them. They had merely swum by, peacefully spouting water from their backs or the tops of their heads before disappearing.

The sailor hadn’t seen much of these massive creatures, far too large to be called “fish,” although they had fins. His officer had said they were whales and that one had to be very careful around them because there had been cases where ships had sunk after colliding with one.

While many soldiers had laughed upon hearing the story, P’tit Pol had trembled with fear. For him, it was hard to believe that God could have created an animal so large and so dangerous!

But what P’tit Pol feared most wasn’t these monsters.

If we really go to the New World, we might all get killed and eaten by the savages who live there! It’s madness!

He rolled over in his hammock, imagining the inhabitants of that vast land. Despite the French, English, Spanish, and Portuguese presence, he had been told that there were still many nearly naked savages who fought with primitive weapons.

Rumors aboard the Foudroyant said that the locals were worse than animals. They were said to have sharp teeth to eat raw meat, with their favorite being, of course, human flesh; and they supposedly drank fresh blood at every meal.

If we’re unlucky enough to fall into their hands, will they eat us alive or after slitting our throats?

These were the kinds of questions that made him increasingly reflect on his next move.

Finally, he made his decision.

In the dead of night, while everyone was deeply asleep, P’tit Pol slipped out of his hammock. On tiptoe, he weaved between the hammocks of his comrades, which swayed in rhythm. The deck was unstable as the sea was rather rough that night.

With difficulty, he made his way to the upper deck, straining his eyes to see anything in the darkness. The moon was barely visible through the thick clouds, appearing and disappearing like a ghost within seconds.

The only sources of light were a few lanterns placed at strategic points.

On the inky sea, a few silhouettes could be seen, mostly thanks to the large white sails. In the night, these ships were mere shadows resembling specters. Every sound seemed amplified.

He could hear snatches of conversation from the soldiers and sailors on watch, tasked with keeping an eye on the ship and its surroundings during the night. Of course, they weren’t expected to stay awake all night, as that would be the quickest way to cause an accident.

They would be relieved in an hour, not before, by a new shift.

This is the best time, I think, the young man thought, slipping behind three large barrels to avoid the gaze of these men.

Quietly, he risked a glance but saw nothing unusual.

He made himself as small as a mouse and advanced slowly, checking after nearly every step that no one was looking his way. If he was spotted now, he could claim he’d come up for some air, but the further he went, the harder it would be to explain himself.

The worst that could happen was being caught while trying to launch a small boat. No excuse could save his life then, for desertion was not tolerated in any army or any kingdom. The rope would likely be his punishment.

As he thought about this, a pang of doubt and regret pierced his heart.

Is this really a good idea? No, it can’t be a good idea. I don’t even know how far we’ve drifted from the coast. I... I should just go back to sleep... I guess.

“HEY! YOU THERE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

Loud shouts made him jump, and his heart clenched. It was more than his heart; it felt like a giant hand had grabbed all his organs and squeezed them.

Oh no!

He froze and said nothing.

Soon, more shouts echoed across the deck, and the alarm rang out. People started waking up below deck, and soon dozens of them were gathered on the main deck.

Squadron commander Duquesne de Menneville and Colonel de Bréhant emerged from the aft castle, as they had the privilege of cabins and bunks, unlike the rest of the crew, and rushed to the front of the crowd to see what was happening.

Several soldiers surrounded a young man, an infantry soldier as indicated by his uniform, preventing him from fleeing.

He looked young, and in his eyes, one could read sheer terror.

“What is going on here?!"

"My lord, we caught this man trying to desert. He was releasing a boat."

"What?! ”

Despite the darkness, the squadron commander’s anger was clearly visible on his face. The lanterns' glow cast frightening shadows on his features, making him resemble a demon.

“M-my lord, that’s… that’s not it!"

"Enough! You disgrace yourself! No need to lie! Put him in irons, we’ll deal with him in daylight. Everyone, return to your bunks immediately!”

His voice cracked like thunder, pushing everyone to return below deck.

Trembling all over, P’tit Pol blended into the crowd and went back to bed. Luckily, no one had noticed that he was on deck before the others or realized what his true intentions had been.

In silence, he lay in his hammock, his thoughts more agitated than ever. His heart was pounding so hard it was driving him mad. Though relieved he hadn’t been caught, he couldn’t close his eyes all night.

Four hours later, the sun timidly appeared on the horizon.

The sky was clear, but a gentle wind whistled, propelling the ships in the squadron forward at a good pace. None of the vessels had strayed from their course during the night.

Before breakfast was even served, the entire crew was gathered on deck. Everyone knew what had happened during the night and had an idea of what was coming next.

They fetched the soldier who had tried to desert. His hands were bound, and his expression spoke volumes about his state of mind. He knew what he had done and that he would be punished. However, he was young. If the squadron commander decided to be lenient, he might survive. Perhaps.

“Gentlemen,” Michel-Ange Duquesne de Menneville said in a loud voice, “something very serious happened this morning, around two o’clock. This man, this soldier whom we thought was our comrade, decided it would be a good idea to abandon us and tried to escape on one of our boats. This kind of behavior is unacceptable and unjustifiable!”

The officer swept his steely gaze over the assembled men without stopping on anyone in particular, but P’tit Pol shuddered when his eyes passed over him.

“When we are at sea, we form a family. In a family, certain behaviors are absolutely forbidden. Only by upholding this can we move forward. What this young man did is nothing less than an act of cowardice and betrayal. Like a thief, he acted in the night. On top of that, attempting to take a boat is an extremely serious offense, as each one is more precious than gold in the event of a shipwreck. Losing even one can have immense and terrible consequences. These two vile and criminal acts must be punished with the utmost severity, which is why I, Michel-Ange Duquesne, Marquis de Menneville, sentence you to death by hanging. Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”

“I-I… No, sir,” stammered the young soldier, as white as snow, knowing that nothing could save his life now.

Slowly, the man was led to the fore topmast of the ship. A soldier as tall and strong as Jean rolled a large oak barrel and placed it under a yardarm. A long rope was threaded through a pulley, and a noose was tied and positioned before the condemned man's eyes.

He trembled atop the barrel.

Above his head, a wide white sail flapped in the wind. The wood of the hull creaked, and one could clearly hear the sound of the waves being split by the Foudroyant as it sailed. The seabirds circling the large ship looked like vultures around a corpse in the desert.

Slowly, the rope was placed around his neck. The deserter’s lips moved slightly, but it was impossible to tell if he was trembling or praying.

P’tit Pol looked all around, hoping that someone—anyone—would speak up to defend the man, but all he saw were stern faces. Some clenched their jaws and chose to look away.

Nothing was different from what he had seen in Hanover, as this wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed someone being hanged for desertion.

Strangely, this punishment, which was meant to serve as a warning, never seemed to truly deter soldiers in the long run. There were always some, consumed by despair, who tried their luck, thinking they would manage to escape and disappear.

W-why? Why do they keep hanging men who no longer have the strength to fight when it doesn’t work?! Why don’t they just let them go?!

He quickly wiped away a tear that was about to spill from his left eye. Although he didn’t know this man, he knew that it could have been him.

This isn’t justice—it’s cruelty!

Finally, they kicked the barrel out from under him, and the soldier fell into the void.

The fall hadn’t been brutal enough to break his neck, so he struggled for several long minutes, kicking frantically, until he stopped moving altogether. His face became grotesque, twisted in pain and asphyxiation. By the end, it had turned a purplish color, and a large vein had bulged in the middle of his forehead.

P’tit Pol couldn’t look away and only lowered his eyes at the very end, when it was over.

“Hoist him higher,” the squadron commander ordered. “Let everyone see, and may no one forget what happens to cowards and traitors. Now, return below and fold up your hammocks. We will distribute food as usual.”