A/N – to clarify, I have referenced the word 'negro' in this chapter purely for historical and fictional purposes. I do not any way intend to cause any offense. I also do not condone, support and defend slavery of any race, religion or gender (okay, legal disclaimer stuff done).

Thank you to Lacontreras for your review! Puffgirl, you too!

This is a slow chapter, things get more interesting later on!


Late February, 1757

Fort Carillon, New York, America.

Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young. Louis-Gaston de Montcalm could think of no better words coming to mind as he eyed the seasoned savage who stood before him. Though he would never admit it, he felt wary, cagey even. He had been instructed by his father to escort the chief to the general's personal quarters and wait for his arrival. Truthfully, Gaston found the task entirely disagreeable. Even though the French employed numerous natives in their service -coaxing them with promises of trade and trinkets- Gaston found their presence utterly unpleasant. Particularly this one; the Huron who stood before him. He recalled the redskin's name was Magua, or something along those lines. It was a rough, guttural name, it matched him perfectly. Gaston avoided using it when possible. Some of the officers had simply began referring to him as The Wily Fox. A title which was well earned; the warrior was known for his cunning and veracious temperament. Though his father protested time and again the natives were their allies, Gaston held them all equally in discontent. He still remembered his first battle with them serving on his flanks. Their wretched screaming ringing in his ears; like beasts they launched themselves into the fray of battle, with no battle formation or organisation. They simply advanced and overwhelmed the stationary British soldiers. From his mount, Gaston watched on as the savages wrecked bloody havoc on the frontline. When the lull of battle took hold, the devils partook in morbid trophy taking. Corpses were robbed and mutilated. The sight had sickened him. One warrior had even dared to approach Gaston, brandishing a fresh, bloody scalp; Gaston wanted to shoot the fiend in his smug, grinning face. By some miracle of God, he had stayed his hand and turned away from the gruesome display.

War was best left to civilised men; there were certain rules, traditions which aught to be upheld. How could savages, with no sense of honour, dare to think they could fight beside him as an equal?

Reminding himself of the vicious horrors the Hurons were capable of inflicting, Gaston began to scrutinize the War Chief with suspicion. At first glance, he estimated the wiry looking Huron was at least ten years older than him, taking him into his thirties. It was his face which created the impression. The angular planes of his leathery features were weathered, yet still set firm in an expression of stoic readiness; his was the face of a veteran. He had a tall build; though Gaston hated to admit it, but the Huron was most certainly taller than him. The red dyed roach -adorned with one stray feather- added an additional couple of inches. The rest of his attire was equally outlandish to Gaston. The Huron wore a pair of traditional buckskins, decoratively beaded with fine, bright detail. The dark colouration matched that of his winter moccasins. Numerous strings of beads were strung around his neck and upper arms, which were fixed in place by bands of engraved silver. No doubt trinkets and tokens he had acquired through his exploits. Slung over one arm was his rifle whilst his tomahawk rested in the crook of his exposed elbow. Despite the luxury of a large inverted bear skin pelt slung around his body and back, the Huron had the audacity to have his entire torso utterly exposed, with no shirt or any other decent covering. Magua must have sensed Gaston's scathing scrutiny; he daringly met his gaze, as if challenging the eldest son of de Montcalm. Under their intensity, Gaston grudgingly looked away. Staring into the Huron's dead eyes was like staring into the abyss of Hell. The longer he held the gaze, the deeper he feared he'd be pulled in.

Neither said a word to each other. They simply waited in tense silence. From the corner of his eye, Gaston watched as Magua surveyed the room -as he always did-. Even though he had been in Montcalm's personal quarters many times before, Magua still studied its content with avid detail. The general often moved from fort to fort, doing inspections and briefing his men on recent updates. He only took a select few items with him when he travelled; Magua could only assume these were de Montcalm's most reassured luxuries. A crystal tumbler set was always present, with a bottle of fine cognac waiting. The blend was dry and powerful, overwhelming to some. De Montcalm always liked to finish his tiresome days with a healthy sig before an evening meal. And he would only eat his meals off the finest porcelain china. Magua eyed the ceramic floral place setting at the desk, scoffing at such feminine designs. Such delicate looking things were best favoured by women, not men of war.

But something else on the desk caught Magau's eye. It always did. De Montcalm had a string of framed, miniature paintings lined up meticulously on the side of his desk, though some were oddly face down. But it was the painting in the largest frame which always held most of his attention. From the position of the frame -first and foremost, on the centre edge of the desk- Magua could only assume the woman was Montcalm's wife and mother of his children, given there were three young girls painted within her maternal embrace. She was admittedly a beautiful woman, with dark, bewitching eyes. Her hair, however, was a peculiar mass of white curls; littered with pearls. Magua noticed many of French sported this queer look, though he never thought much of it. None the less, he continued to admire the moderate painting. Despite the obvious dissimilarities, the old soul could not help by reminisce about his own wife and children, now absent from his life. He had kept no tokens of their existence; the pain of remembrance was too great.

Despite his innocent musings, Magua's close assessments seemed to have caused offense.

As General de Montcalm opened the door to his quarters, Gaston advanced upon Magua, baring his teeth in a vicious snarl, "Avert your eyes, heathen. That is my mother you are leering at."

Magua cast a scathing glare over his shoulder though his expression betrayed nothing. Instead, his directed his gaze to that of the elder de Montcalm, who seemed somewhat bemused with his son.

"Gaston, there is no need for such hostiles. Magua is our friend. Nay, he is our brother. We welcome him with open arms."

Yet the very thought sickened the young man. "You may break bread and share wine with this savage but I-"

"Gaston!" The sheer volume of his father's tone silenced any further comments. He didn't even look at his son when he began issuing orders from the cover of his room divider. "You are dismissed. Ensure the guards are on their rounds and issue orders for troops to mobilise when our reinforcements arrive."

Though somewhat placated, Gaston yielded. "Yes, General."

Despite the degree of familiarity his father used at times, he still expected absolute professionalism from his subordinates, even if they were his own sons. In the presence of others, certain expectations were to be held.

But despite his father's strict instructions, Gaston once again approached the Huron. In a hushed, but harsh tone, he intended to make his opinion known. "Listen and listen well, red man. You are no brother of mine."

Magua did not waver. He was not easily intimidated, and his unhunched posture showed it. "Paleface pup took words out of Magua's mouth."

Marquis de Montcalm returned to them, having discarded his military overcoat and jacket. He looked more comfortable now, clad only in his linen, ruffled blouse and winter thick birches. The vicious exchange had apparently escaped his ear. He regarded his still present son with an expression of vexation and shooed him away, rather firmly. "I said you were dismissed. You know I hate to repeat my orders."

The sulking, young man did not answer, perhaps fearing his tone would reflect all too clearly the slight frustration he harboured. Instead, he popped a stiff salute and promptly marched out, closing the door as he did so. Gaston may have inherited his father's charismatic zealous for conflict but he mostly did not garner de Montcalm's delicate art of finesse. Magua had watched the icy exchange in silence, as he always did. He was always watching. He observed the palefaces whenever he could, hoping to gauge their behaviour and perhaps, in time, predict it. But sometimes he found the white man to be as fickle as the water flowing through the great rivers; their moods and mind forever shifting. Magua learnt long ago not to take anything at face value, especially when dealing with the accursed pale race. Though he had to admit, de Montcalm was one of the more trustworthy men he had encountered, even if -at times- the pale eyed general spoke with the two tongues of the serpent.

The General made his way to the cognac and poured a generous serving, "Do forgive my son. Truly I thought I taught him better. This damned war has changed him." Out of politeness, he offered Magua a glass, knowing it would be declined.

The Huron chief had not touched the white man's firewater since his time in service to the British. And he swore he would never touch it again. The very thought invoked memories of pain and humiliation. His flesh whipped raw and bloody; it burned like hellish flames, just like whisky when it hit the back of his throat.

Magua tried to distract himself, before the thoughts grew too heavy, "War changes many."

"Ah, it's sad but true. I was once young and handsome. And now…well." De Montcalm's attempt was humour was only met with silence. The general looked over the rim of his cognac crustal and regarded Magua's stoic expression with a keen eye. De Montcalm was not the only one who noticed subtle ticks. "But I sense you are not here to exchange pleasantries and merriment, my friend."

Magua's eyes narrowed. So, the old General could be a wily fox too. "French calls themselves Magua's brothers, yet no brother of Hurons would delay war and deny Magua that which is rightly his."

"Magua, you must understand…" de Montcalm sat himself behind at his desk, waiting for his meal to arrive shortly. "This is winter has been particularly harsh on our soldiers; even the British have dug in till spring. And they are used to bad weather!"

The General's timing was impeccable; a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of his personal attendant, carrying his meal serving on a prepared platter. The dark coloration of his skin ascertained his mixed heritage. The boy was no more than an adolescent, but he wasn't a servant; he was a slave. Such a sight was not uncommon, especially amongst the French officers. There was no point trying to discourage de Montcalm and his men from the practice. The luxury of ownership was a norm; Magua had seen many slaves before, the sight was nothing new. Judging from the clean clothes and the boy's unfrighten nature, the slave was moderately well cared by the general. Magua had seen others in similar situations who were far worse. Many tribes took slaves and captives, including the Hurons. It was simply an unpleasant fact of life. But Magua did scoff; despite their enslavement and use of the Negro people, the French preached piously against white captive taking, claiming it was barbaric and indecent, an affront before their God. Yet again the pale faces spoke with twisted tongues. They would gladly make slaves of others, yet cower at the thought of their own subservience.

From Magua's past experiences, he deducted palefaces made poor slaves anyway. Many were utterly useless at the essentials; like children, a white captive had to be shown the simplest of tasks; tanning an animal hide, erecting a longhouse – some didn't even know how to prepare rabbits for roasting. Their maker had made them flawed and weak, lazy and idle. No wonder they favoured negro slaves. It spared their indolence. But -Magua noted- De Montcalm was cunning, he chose a rather young boy to instruct and train. By the time the child slave reached adulthood, his servile life would be all he'd ever know. Chances are he'd never run away. Never seek freedom.

And for that, Magua pitied him.

"Trust me, Magua. I assure you, when Spring comes, we will be more than ready to win this war." De Montcalm readied himself for his meal, dismissing the black child with a well-practiced gesture. He stabbed his silver utensil into the succulent meat joint, savouring its tenderness. "As we speak, our enforcements are on the move. They should arrive any day now, if they make good time."

The Huron chief frowned at this news. It was not exactly what he wanted to hear. More palefaces. More trespassers on his fathers' ancestral lands. He had hoped this war would depopulate the white infestation. Yet where one dies, five more seem to spawn to take this place. Their numbers seemed never-ending, whereas Magua's tribe was slowly -but surely- dwindling. Trade with the whites was unfair and biased; rifles and gunpowder was in greater demand, yet their cost was greater than their worth. A beaver pelt was more than enough for a rifle, now the price had been inflated to three. But without rifles, Huron could not hunt for their families. The game in the forest was becoming more scarce; his warriors continued to face great danger as they encroached further into enemy territories. They had only survived this winter on the goodwill of the French; next winter may not be as favourable. It all depended on the changing moods of the palefaces. Magua had a duty to his people, he had to ensure the French kept their word. Even if it meant living amongst them, just to keep an eye on their activities.

"Magua will stay at fort for the rest of the winter." He resisted the urge to smirk when de Montcalm nearly choked on his supper. "Does this displease you, brother?"

The general gulped his drink to clear his throat. Schooling his expression, he assumed an air of indifference, though the tense tick in his jaw implied different. "Of course not, my friend. I would be honoured to house one of the mighty Hurons great chiefs. Please, make yourself at home."

His answer seemed to have been satisfactory; Magua left de Montcalm to finish his meal in peace. The general had even been generous enough to offer Magua a private room in the fort's inner fortifications, but Magua refused. He did not like the enclosing walls of the wooden camp; he felt like a fox, trapped in a tightened snare. He was born in the forest, so he would sleep in the forest. And perhaps, one day, he would die in the forest. The circle of nature was a source of comfort; where many feared death, true warriors embraced it like an old friend. But this winter would not claim Magua; the worst of the winter was drawing it to an end. Soon spring would come. Making a camp of his own within the cover of the forest, just within sight of the fort Magua watched and waited as the world went by. Every morning, he would greet the sun with prayer and thanks. Winter was a time of hardship, it humbled even great chiefs, reminding them that even they are but mortal men.

Perched in his usual spot along the trail, Magua smoked his tobacco in front of a small fire, mulling over his recent actions as he watched the coming and goings of the fort from afar. Though he would have preferred to be with his people, he felt confident they were -for the time being- safe from danger. Their enemies were many, but winter was surprisingly a time of peace, even between warring tribes. Travel through the snow was difficult and, unless necessary, was avoided. Even the greatest hunter could not avoid tracks in snow. The white man didn't even bother to hide his tracks. The trail leading to the fort was marred with foot imprints and disturbances in the snow. The French warriors moved like a loud, great mass. They thundered through the forest with drums, with commanders hollered commands and orders. Magua heard the advancing troops before he even saw them. The commanding officer, a bolstering capitaine, was especially loud, numbering the marching pace as they advanced towards the fort.

The officer, mounted on a fair stallion battling its shivering legs through the snow, sighted Magua at his makeshift camp. He instantly cast him a withering look. Magua returned it. It was a look he'd often seen thrown his way, by soldiers and officers alike. Despite de Montcalm's impassioned assurances, Magua was no more welcomed amongst their ranks than he was welcomed amongst the Seneca or Mohicans. Magua quickly shrugged off the officer's distain. His attention was drawn elsewhere – to a figure trailing behind the rest.

One soldier seemed to have lagged far behind the column of blue coats, struggling on the uneven snow; his haggard breaths visible in the cold, freezing air. His absence did not go unnoticed; the officer in command cantered his horse around and hollered at him, "Sergeant, what in the name of God are you doing breaking ranks? You should remain by your officer's side when marching."

"I thought I'd better cover the rear, Capitaine Rousseau. Keeping a look out." The young man's shrill voice echoed over the frozen trail. He hastened towards the officer, taking advantage of the halted party. Perhaps he had merely loitered his pace and now fraught to catch up.

The Capitaine rounded his horse, "We're safe here, Sergeant. This is French controlled territory."

"there is no excuse for negligence or complacency, sir. You never know how treacherous those British swine can be." As if proving his point, the blue coated soldier unslung his rifle whilst still trying to ease his labouring breaths. He then gestured to the fort, seeking the relief of shelter. "Until our French flag flies above our heads, we are never safe."

Capitaine Rousseau paused for a moment, as if taken back by his words. Slight admiration bled into his tone, though he attempted to hide it. "Duly noted, sergeant-?"

"Beaumont, sir." The Sergeant adjusted his frost covered cap, peeking below its visage before quickly looking away. He missed the Capitaine's look of peculiarity and instead focused on the tantalizing glow of a nearby fire - and the figure sitting beside it. Upon sighting Magua -clad in his bearskin pelt-, Sergeant Beaumont instantly pointed his rifle in fright, obvious taken by the Huron's fiendish appearance, red roach and all. "Dear Lord!"

Capitaine Rousseau's horse reared at the sudden violate action, almost throwing the officer off his saddle. The beast was only calmed by the soothing hush of his rider. "At ease, Sergeant! At ease!" He gestured for the young, rash man to lower his weapon. "That man is one of our scouts. Do not shoot!"

"That is a man?" Beaumont seemed bewildered at the sight of the wild man sat by the fire. His voice sounded almost breathless. "He looks more like a beast."

Rousseau nodded, clearly understanding the young man's apparent fear. "Ah, I take it it's your first posting in these colonies? Take a good look, Sergeant. He's a Huron Indian. A savage redskin. But don't let the General hear you saying that. Tends to upset them for some reason"

Magua spat at the ground aside him, subtly displaying his distaste for their words. They spoke their words so brazenly, they obviously thought he could not understand them. Capitaine Rousseau did not look in the least bit apologetic. Instead, he gently nudged his horse forward, taking up the command position once more.

The red man's gesture was not lost on the lingering Sergeant Beaumont. Clearly unimpressed, a grimace tugged at the portion of his exposed features but Magua's expression offered no apology. When the pale face did not initially move, Magua slowly stood, taking a menacing step forward. It sent the Sergeant skittering back, much to Magua's amusement. He openly laughed as Beaumont scurried to catch up once more with the arriving blue column soldiers. Magua's dark eyes followed them until marched through the mouth of the fort.

French or British; all white men were the same. They looked down on Magua.

Magua spat on the frozen ground again; the bitter tang of discernment tasted too foul for his content. He left the area instantly, seeking to purge himself of the encounter. He entered the deeper recesses of the forest, walking aimlessly, without a purpose. He did not return till early the next day.


The next day...

The fort was a hive of activity. The reinforcements coming to relieve the prior troops were warmly welcomed. Soon General de Montcalm and his men would be marching off to a new fort and begin preparations for the next phase of the war. The officers were hopeful, so far they had a string of victories over the British. If the tide of war continued to favour the French, the war would be over sooner than expected. The reinforcements were cutting around the fort, getting to grips with the patrols, procedures and daily maintenance of the fort. Four new bastions had been built to accommodate the growing size of the fort, though it was not the most strategic fort given its sheer size and possible weakness against direct canon fire. For the time being, it was being used as a gathering point for French forces to weather the passing winter.

An officer called out to one of the passing patrols. "Sergeant Beaumont, front and centre!"

The Sergeant quickly broke from the leading rank and was lead into the officers' main tent, though he seemed reluctant at first to follow.

Capitaine Rousseau was there to greet him as the pair entered the Lieutenant General's command post. "General de Montcalm, this was the sergeant I was telling you about."

General de Montcalm, sat the main table, paused his work. Numerous maps and charts were spread across the table surface, with various annotations and markers made. "Ah. Captaine Rousseau says you're a diligent man. I could use someone like you in my own detachment"

Beaumont popped a timid, but firm salute. "T-thank you, Lieutenant-General." The young man seemed humble, if not slightly bashful. He kept his head respectfully low, he gaze affixed to the ground.

Major Louis-Gaston de Montcalm, standing to the right of his father, couldn't help but notice Beaumont's unintentional offense. He was willing to give the young, inexperienced man a chance to correct himself, but he had yet to do so. "Sergeant, you are in the presence of officers!" he barked "Have some respect and remove your cap!"

But the soldier seemed to hesitate, perhaps startled by Major de Montcalm's abrupt order. Some watched with some sympathy. The young man was visibly shaking, perhaps still frozen from the freezing snow which covered his coat and caked his boots. His hand rested on his cap, but he made no immediate move to take it off. His fingers stabbed desperately into its velvet material but he would not take it off. Perhaps being before so many important officers had scared him stiff. This was not General de Montcalm main base of operations; many were surprised when he rerouted his troops here for the winter. Needless to say, there were a few left stunned by his presence at the fort at first. Fort Carillion did not have the most advantageous positioning of the French fort, but with its heavy fortifications, it settled as a winter shelter.

Gaston de Montcalm, however, was not empathetic. A slight to his father was a slight to him. "Remove your cap, Sergeant! Or lose your rank!"

"Montcalm!" An ominous voice broke the awkwardness of the gathering, stealing the attention away from the quaking sergeant. It was loud and portentous, like thunder.

General de Montcalm rose from his seat at the desk, surprised by the sudden intrusion. "Magua?"

He wondered where the Huron had got to over the past recent days. Patrolmen had said his makeshift camp had been abandoned for some time. Yet now he stood before de Montcalm and his officers, unapologetic at his rather abrupt intrusion.

Gaston was equally bemused. "What is the meaning of this? You were not invited in, redskin!"

Yet despite his harsh words, he was ignored. Magua simply marched forward towards the main table, shouldering Sergeant Beaumont out of the way. "Magua sighted Seneca scouts"

General de Montcalm's eyes darkened with seriousness. "Seneca? They are allied with the British, yes?"

"What on earth are they doing so close to our borders?" Capitaine Rousseau thought aloud.

Other officers chimed in, offering their opinion in a hectic mutter.

"Perhaps they are merely passing through."

"Or perhaps they are spying on us. There could be British soldiers trailing not too far behind. General, we cannot let this go uninvestigated."

De Montcalm did not hesitate; he turned to the Huron chief, "I agree. Magua, will you be able to track them?"

The Huron replied with a stoic nod, turning to leave without a formal dismissal.

Until a familiar voice spoke. "General, allow me to accompany him." Sergeant Beaumont stepped forward, though still kept his gaze respectfully to the ground.

Officer and soldiers alike paused as the sudden bravery of the sergeant (or at least what they assumed was bravery.) Some had looks of dubious arresting confidence, whilst looked more belated than productive.

The young man seemed stumped for a moment, as if trying to think of an answer himself. "If there are indeed British forces travelling with these Seneca, I will be able to better identify their military force than the scout. It would give us a more accurate idea."

Capitaine Rousseau hesitated, torn between reprimanding the young man -who still have not removed his cap- and supporting him. Though somewhat foolish, he had a point. In the heat of the moment, he decided "The sergeant makes a fair point, General."

"Blackhairs will slow Magua down."

He was clearly referring to Beaumont's low tied dark hair, but the sergeant did not falter at the nickname, daresay he even used it. He snapped back at the Huron with an urgent hiss, "Blackhairs will keep up!"

Blue eyes flashed from underneath his cap taking Magua aback for a moment. At a glance, the sergeant seemed much younger than Magua originally thought. This only furthered his vexation; he did not need an inexperienced paleface following him through the forest like some lost mongrel. This ploy required stealth and subtly. Beaumont had already proved on the trail he had none of these traits.

But de Montcalm had come to a choice. "Very well. Track this Seneca party, observe British movements -if any- but do not engage. We do not have the soldiers nor the ammunitions to waste on a dog fight." He directed his instructions more to Sergeant Beaumont than Magua.

When Magua made a move to protest, de Montcalm silenced him with a veiled flattery. "You are a trusted and dear friend, Magua. I would hate for you to lose your scalp to a Seneca knife."

Magua cast a scathing glare aside of Sergeant Beaumont, looking seemingly unimpressed. "If we are caught because of Blackhairs, Magua will not be only one losing scalp."

The fear on Beaumont's face was evident. Nonetheless, he quickly fled the tent, saluting once more the Lieutenant General and attending officers

Capitaine Rousseau followed soon after, calling out to him. "Sergeant Beaumont. Wait."

Beaumont paused, half way through prepping his kit. His rifle only partially slung in proper position; gradually it was slipping out of his icy grasp. But Beaumont acknowledged his superior with a respectful nod, looking attentive, if not slightly flustered. "Capitaine."

Capitaine Rousseau eyed the rifle in his possession, looking somewhat unconvinced with its performance. "Go to the storeman, instruct them to issue you with a pistol under my name."

"But, sir! A pistol is only fit for an officer."

The capitaine chuckled. Despite Beaumont's rank, he seemed so innocent and childish. Most assuredly his rank had been bought by a wealthy relative. But Rousseau liked him; perhaps with time and some mentoring, the young man would become a productive subordinate. "With enemies all around you, sergeant"- Rousseau hawk like eyes drifted to Magua lingering nearby- "You need all the protection you can get. Have it returned when you come back."

The young man finally raised his head, meeting his gaze. "Thank you, Capitaine"

Rousseau watched Beamount rush off to the stores; he was slightly taken back. The sergeant had a fetching pair of blue eyes; they looked familiar but he couldn't quite place them. Something about Beaumont was conversant, and yet, not. It was a perplexing sensation, one Capitaine Rousseau was not accustomed to. Shaking off the uncomfortable sensation, Rousseau directed his gaze back to the Huron lurking nearby.

He was abrupt and abrasive when calling him over. "Scout. A word."

Magua, at first, did not move from his position. It was as if he was actively defying Rousseau, making some sort of point. In doing so, the Capitaine was forced to approach him instead. He then berated himself for looking weak. Letting the indigitation seethe in his tone, he spoke "I expect Sergeant Beaumont to return safely to this fort, alive and well. Is that understood? I have already lost good men; I will not lose another."

The Huron stared at him for some time, even leaning in ever so slightly. It was unnerving to say the least but Rousseau remained stood rigid. In this battle of wills, he could not lose. It was no lie, he did not trust this Huron. Several men had died suspiciously when he was in the near vicinity. Rousseau had no doubt he was somehow involved. Filthy, red skinned savages. He had half a mind to accompany Sergeant Beaumont on this trek but knew it would not be proper procedure. Officers did not go galivanting off into the wilderness, chasing heathens and devils. If there was a British patrol and he was captured, he could be ransomed and returned to France in disgrace.

"What is this look in your eye Magua sees, Capitaine? Magua has not seen it before." The Huron's rough voice drew his attention, though the words meaning were lost on him.

Rousseau ignored his comments, "If you don't come back with Sergeant Beaumont, don't bother coming back at all."

With that, the hawk eyed Capitaine marched off, leaving Magua to wait -impatiently- for Sergeant Beaumont to return from stores.


The pair left the fort by noon, when the sun was at its peak. Neverhteless, the temperature was still freezing.

Magua has discarded his thick bearskin and opted for a tunic like shirt. He carried little else than his weapons, intending on travelling light, vying for speed. But the bumbling sergeant slowed him down -as he had protested. Magua lost count of the number of times Beaumont stumbled; he was an utterly clumsy fool, tripping over his own feet and heavy kit.

Amongst Magua's people, a warrior rose through the ranks due to ability and skill, experience and victories. But Magua did not see the same system in the French army. He had seen fools become leaders purely on the pedigree of their birth; he had heard the Beaumont name before and wondered if perhaps this sergeant only received his rank because of it. The man clearly had no basic tracking or hunting skills, or even soldier skills for that matter. He was clearly unfit to travel such long, traversing distances. At times he would insist on stopping for a rest, greedily drink from streams, even taking a mouthful of snow just to quench his exhaustion. But Magua never stopped, he continued, letting Beaumont lout behind. He soon came running when the Huron went too far out of sight. This continued for what seemed like hours. Magua never faltered.

Beaumont must have been thirsty again, his voice sounded dry like a husk as he spoke. "We have been walking for hours. Where exactly did you see this Seneca?"

Magua did not bother responding to him. He remained focused on the coming trail. He knew what he saw; a Senca scout had been through the territory, skulking through the trees and underbrush. Magua had watched from afar for some time before he was swallowed up amongst the tree line. But where there was one, there was sure to be many more, possibly even a war party. But why? This was Huron land, lands which had been hard won through war and bloodshed. A Seneca scouting party could be interpreted as a declaration of war. But what was their goal? The only thing of importance Magua could think of was the river crossing. When the waters were frozen in winter, the narrow gap formed a thick bridge of ice, essentially creating a gateway for the adjacent tribes, the Mohawks, Abenaki and Oneida. Perhaps the Seneca and Mohawk were meeting, reaffirming allegiances. Either way, it could prove disadvantageous to both the Hurons and the French. Magua kept scanning the landscape, waiting for an unnatural shape to break the landscape. The Seneca scout Magua had spotted looked like a young man, perhaps no longer than what he assumed Beaumont was aged. Perhaps if he subdued the young man he could force some answers out of him.

He was so focused on his inner musings, Magua almost missed more of Beaumont's prominent nagging. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Whole forest is listening to you, Blackhairs." Magua grumbled, the hackles on his neck raising. "Which means Seneca are listening too."

He suddenly came to a stop, crouching low to the ground, rifle at the ready.

"What are you-"

Magua slapped his hand over the Sergeant's mouth, silencing him.

Cantering his head forward, his gaze was fixed on the clearing before them. Sure enough, after a moment of anxious waiting, a figure rose of cover. Magua crouched lower to the floor, pulling Beaumont to the dirt floor with him. The Huron recognised his enemy almost instantly; he was most definitely a Seneca brave. The feathered headpiece and tribal body markings confirmed it. He seemed to be making camp, settling his weapons and applies down on the ground. It was the perfect moment to strike.

Like a master instructing his dog, Magua gestured for Beaumont to remain where he was, in silence. Magua, on the other hand, would advance on the enemy. The Sergeant shook his head but Magua did not heed him. Crawling along the forest floor, he edged closer, inch by inch, drawing his tomahawk.

"Look out!" A shot was fired. A Seneca warrior tumbled away from, clutching his arm in pain. Blood seeped from the small flesh wound. The warrior lifted his gaze to Beaumont, his lips pulled back in snarl, baring his head. It was a savage expression, promising retribution. The sergeant seemed to instantly regret the moment of panicked folly, as soon as he scrambled for cover multiple shots rang out, fired in his direction. Despite the Sergeant's foolishness and poor shooting, it distracted the enemy long enough for Magua to shift away from his previous position.

Taking cover behind the treeline, finally Magua returned fire, though he cursed fiercely when he spotted the useless sergeant cowering nearby. Instead of firing back, he had dropped the pistol where he last stood and now sat curled up for protection behind a large trunk of a tree. As Magua had thought, the Sergeant was more trouble than assistance. The sooner Beaumont was out of the way, the sooner Magua could confront their attackers on an even field. He gestured wildly at the white idiot, his face contorted with directed aggression. Over the sounds of flying bullets, he shouted repeated, "Run, Blackhairs. Run fast!" until finally, on shaky legs, Beaumont staggered to his feet and made a move.

A shot rang out.

It striking the tree close beside the young Frenchman's head, clicking the side of his cap. The wood splintered and cracked, sending fragments flying.

Sergeant Beaumont fell to the ground with a heavy thud; lifeless.


A/N – I have so much planned for this story and it's really annoying because all the exciting stuff happens in the later chapters! So stay tuned! Rate and review! I need your opinions!

This is going to be a slow building story, there is actually a lot I have planned, I don't want to rush through the story, so bare with me and stay tuned!

(yes, Sergeant Beaumont is Oylmpe! I know it's not entirely clear but wait out! )