Hello! Here is the final chapter of this volume: The Six Years' War! I hope you enjoy it!
Thank you to each and every one of you for your support throughout this journey. Your encouragement truly helped me to keep going and inspired me to make this story better.
As requested by a reader, I'll be releasing a special chapter summarizing the differences between historical reality and this fictional version.
Though it's far from perfect—and any historian specializing in the period would surely find much to critique—I've done my best to make this story as plausible as possible.
I've seen that others have also tried to imagine alternate histories for this pivotal era, particularly on YouTube. I encourage you to check out their work.
The beauty of alternate history is that, even starting from the same premise, you can explore countless different paths.
On that note, I'll leave you here—and I'll see you soon for new adventures.
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Jean Collet had been generous when he estimated they would have to wait a year before being released.
Adam's company, then garrisoned at Fort Bourbon, was called to Quebec on July 24, 1762, by order of Colonel de Bréhant.
Adam and his men gathered their belongings and set off. They reached the city on August 8, late in the morning.
The final stretch of the journey had turned out to be surprisingly comfortable: the royal road linking Trois-Rivières to Quebec was finally complete. The transition had been almost abrupt, from a bumpy dirt path to a wide, well-maintained gravel road, bordered on each side by a neatly trimmed ditch.
It was called the Van Schaick Road.
As soon as they passed through the gates of Quebec, the company was struck by the city's liveliness. Bathed in a soft golden light, the heart of New France pulsed with joyful fever, as though it had just awakened from a long and bitter winter.
The streets were teeming with people: soldiers in uniform laughed heartily as they walked in small groups, women in light dresses moved between the market stalls, arms full of provisions, and children darted between passersby's legs, shrieking as they ran.
Merchants, stationed in front of their shops, shouted to attract customers, though many passersby were clearly distracted—perhaps by the daring necklines of a few provocatively dressed prostitutes.
Down at the lower town's docks, it was even more chaotic. Orders flew in all directions as the King's ships, anchored mid-river, were being loaded—the water gleaming like topaz.
Their departure seemed imminent.
So the soldiers made the most of it, savoring every second in the city. The taverns were overwhelmed, struggling to keep up.
Around a corner, not far from the fort, Adam spotted Martin—with none other than Ryckje Van Schaick on his arm.
He hadn't seen her since that distant day he had accompanied Martin to the Hôpital général. Unlike back then, she no longer wore her religious habit.
Smiling broadly, Adam hurried toward the two young people, who looked very much like a couple.
"Martin!"
"François! I was starting to worry you wouldn't make it in time!"
"I just arrived with my men," Adam replied.
He inclined his head politely and respectfully to the young woman.
"Mademoiselle Van Schaick."
She returned the greeting with grace and a faint smile.
"Captain, I'm happy to see you again."
Adam widened his eyes, surprised both by her transformation and by the quality of her French.
She had a slight accent, but to him, it only added to her charm.
"My word! You speak our language remarkably well now!"
"I learned a lot from the Augustinian sisters at the Hôpital général… and from Monsieur de Lusernes's letters," she replied.
Her cheeks flushed at once, which made both Adam and Martin smile wider.
"But… forgive me, Miss Van Schaick—what are you still doing in New France? Weren't you released along with the other… prisoners of war?"
"Miss Van Schaick was released," Martin cut in, noticing his friend's discomfort, "as was her family. But they decided to stay. As did many of Albany's residents, actually."
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked at the young woman, radiant like a sunbeam or a summer flower.
A single glance was enough to see she was thriving—and certainly not staying against her will.
"I see. Well, I'm glad to hear it. His British Majesty has surely lost one of his most precious subjects, then."
Martin suddenly turned bright red.
"Hey! Miss Van Schaick wasn't just one of his most precious subjects! She was the most beautiful! And now… she's the most beautiful in all of France!"
Ryckje instantly turned redder than a tomato and gave Martin a gentle smack on the arm, visibly embarrassed.
Adam laughed to himself.
They're adorable, those two!
"I'm sincerely happy to see you both so happy."
Martin glanced at Adam's company, still waiting in perfect formation a short distance away.
"You're going to see the colonel?"
"Yes. His letter said I was to report to the fort."
"Hmm… must be about our departure. We're scheduled to leave on August 18. I hope we'll be on the same ship. I'm supposed to board the Alcide."
Adam nodded.
"Undoubtedly."
Adam turned again to Ryckje.
"And you, Miss Van Schaick? What are your plans?"
He cast a quick glance at Martin, who didn't seem worried.
"I'm leaving as well," she replied, her eyes shining. "On a merchant ship that's supposed to set sail the same day. My parents gave me permission."
"I'm going to introduce her to my parents," added Martin seriously. "I hope they'll accept her. If they don't, even though it would sadden me, I'll marry her without their blessing."
He gently squeezed Ryckje's hand. Their eyes met and lingered, full of simple, genuine tenderness.
"Oh! That reminds me!" Martin suddenly said, completely changing the subject. "I received a reply from my father about Beauty and the Beast. It's been accepted and will be published! Congratulations!"
"Congratulations," Ryckje echoed, her voice soft and sincere.
Adam's heart leapt in his chest. His eyes began to sting.
"I—I'm going to be published? For real?"
"Yes! And I'll be the first to buy a copy for my library. Uh, though, as you probably guessed, your other manuscript was rejected. The one about pirates and a curse."
Adam shrugged and shook his head as if it didn't matter.
"Don't worry about it. I expected that."
"The censors returned the manuscript with their comments. I'll give it to you tonight, if you'd like. But don't let it discourage you."
Adam chuckled softly.
"Ahah, I don't intend to. It's just one story—I've got plenty more! In fact, I've just finished a new manuscript."
"Already?! You never stop! You'll have to let me read it! What's it called?"
"The Lion King. Hmm, I'm sorry, Martin, Miss Van Schaick, but I must report my arrival and present myself at the fort."
With some regret, Adam took his leave, his heart light.
He led his company toward the fort's entrance, where a few soldiers in colonial uniform stood guard.
After a brief identity check, he was promptly escorted to the upper floors. His men remained in formation in the courtyard.
He climbed the broad stone steps, his uniform still dusty from the long journey. The city's bustle faded behind him, muffled by thick walls, replaced by an almost monastic silence.
Feeling a strange heaviness in his chest, Adam followed an officer—his uniform neatly brushed—up to a door he recognized at once. Behind it lay the grand room where he had once received his captain's rank.
His guide adjusted his coat with a mechanical gesture, then knocked twice.
Knock, knock.
From inside, a deep, slightly dry voice called out—not that of Monsieur de Bréhant.
"What is it?"
"My lord, Captain Boucher of the Picardy Regiment. The Marquis de Bréhant summoned him to the fort."
A brief silence, then the voice returned.
"Let him in."
The officer straightened, back rigid as a blade, and stepped aside to let Adam enter.
At once, Adam was dazzled by the daylight pouring through the large windows on the far side of the room. The polished wooden floor shone like metal.
He advanced, increasingly nervous.
The Marquis de Bréhant stood there, straight, silent, and dignified behind a long table covered with a white cloth. Two silver candlesticks and several documents lay upon it. But Governor de Vaudreuil was also present.
W-what? T-the governor is here too?
The door shut behind him, and the room became as silent as a church on Sunday. Only the steady ticking of a heavy clock echoed in the oppressive emptiness.
The governor, wearing a large powdered wig, was dressed in a luxurious brown coat with silver buttons, a wide sky-blue ribbon across his chest.
Beside him, Monsieur de Bréhant wore his uniform, immaculate as ever.
Adam immediately regretted not having taken time to make himself more presentable.
"Captain Boucher, step forward," said Monsieur de Bréhant calmly.
Gulp!
Nervously, Adam took a few steps forward.
Clack, clack, clack.
Each step he took on the floor echoed like a musket shot.
He glanced back and forth between the two men, searching for a clue, some sign of support. Yet he couldn't think of any mistake he might have made.
"Captain," Monsieur de Bréhant resumed. "I have your file here. It details your journey since the day you joined my regiment as a simple soldier. This six-year war has brought you many distinguished actions. These merits have been conveyed to His Majesty. The governor and I both believe you can still be of great use to him."
Adam's eyes widened in surprise. His hands quickly turned clammy, and his heart began to pound.
But it wasn't his place to speak.
"His Majesty," the colonel continued, lifting a document bearing the royal coat of arms, "is most pleased. And in his good pleasure, he has chosen to reward you. Since the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, a soldier may be elevated to the rank of Knight of the Order of Saint Louis for his merits, regardless of birth."
He paused, weighing his words carefully.
"The conditions are strict for receiving such an honor, and under the 1750 ordinance, you do not technically meet them. You have only recently become an officer, and although your few years of service have been during wartime, and despite having been wounded on multiple occasions, that alone would not normally be enough to warrant this distinction."
The colonel picked up a document and a small box containing a magnificent cross.
"However, thanks to our support—and in his great generosity—His Majesty has chosen to make an exception."
The colonel walked around the table and drew his sword, which he laid ceremoniously on Adam's shoulders, like in the days of chivalry.
"You are now a Knight of the Order of Saint Louis. This title grants you certain privileges, such as exemption from the taille. However, be aware that this does not make you a nobleman. If your descendants earn the same honor, then they may become noble. Be worthy of this trust."
"Th-thank you so much!" Adam stammered, bowing deeply, his heart racing, overwhelmed by a burning pride and a sudden desire to achieve even more to earn further recognition.
But Monsieur de Bréhant wasn't finished. He took up a second document.
"That's not all. As you know, the king intends to reform his armies. We've recently received some details: our regiment will not be directly affected and will retain its four battalions. Its ranks will be replenished with men from other units. Some, like the Berry Regiment, will simply be disbanded. This will inevitably lead to overcrowding on the Old Continent."
He paused again—longer this time—as if to lend greater weight to what came next.
"His Majesty, in his infinite wisdom, plans to create new regiments specifically for defending the colonies of the New World. These regiments will require soldiers—preferably native to the land, more inclined to defend it—and, of course, capable officers."
The elderly Governor de Vaudreuil then spoke, his gaze fixed intently on Adam.
"New France still suffers from a poor reputation. For many officers, being posted here is more of a punishment than an honor. Young nobles dream of glory… but few are willing to spend years in this place."
Immediately, Adam thought of the Marquis de Montcalm—surely the most eager of them all to return to France.
Vaudreuil fell silent and took a few sips of ruby-colored wine. Adam tensed like a bowstring. He wanted to press them, to wrench the rest of it from their lips.
And the two men seemed to savor this effect.
"That is why," the old man resumed, "His Majesty, Monsieur de Bréhant, and I have a proposal for you: if you agree to remain in New France for a time, you will retain your rank and be better positioned to one day be promoted to a higher one in one of these new regiments. You will receive the appropriate training. In return, you will be required to commit for a period of fifteen years."
F-fifteen years?! They want me to stay in America for fifteen more years?!
Adam's breath quickened involuntarily. He didn't dare speak. His heart thundered like a war drum.
"Naturally," the colonel added in a calming tone, "you are free to refuse this offer and return to France. You have more than earned some rest after serving the Crown so faithfully."
He let his words settle, soothing the young captain who looked about ready to bolt.
"However, if you choose to stay… and if you hope one day to climb even higher, you'll need a title. A true noble title."
At that, he lifted another document. The paper looked thicker, the seal more prominent, its value greater than gold. Adam stared at it as if it were a treasure.
A slight smile formed on the Marquis's lips.
"His Majesty has reviewed your file with the utmost care. It was strengthened by our letters and reports. And it is by his own hand that this document was signed… elevating you to the rank of écuyer."
A hush fell instantly.
Adam felt dizzy. His heart skipped a beat. His fingers began to tremble.
A noble title.
Not hereditary. Not accompanied by land or lavish incomes—but a title all the same.
If he accepted it, he would join the ranks of society's elite. A tiny fraction of the French population—and even rarer still in New France, where people intentionally had few children.
The colonel resumed, still in that calm, almost fatherly tone.
"True, this title is not hereditary. But understand the generosity of this offer. Many would kill for such an opportunity. It may never come again. This title, though personal, could be your first step. It opens the door to higher ranks. And if His Majesty sees fit, one day, your children could inherit a true name."
Governor de Vaudreuil raised his glass of wine, gently swirling it between his fingers before taking a small sip.
"Monsieur de Bréhant is right," the governor said slowly. "This title will open many doors for you. But I would like to add another honor."
He set down his glass with a faint clink.
"This title is not tied to a fief in France. However, as governor, I have the authority to offer you, in the name of the King, a seigneury in New France. Naturally, you would have responsibilities—to develop it, administer it, and defend it if necessary. You could build a residence there, have servants, welcome censitaires, and exercise your rights. You would choose the location, give it a name, and bear that name yourself."
He folded his hands before him.
"This is what we offer you: a future, a title, a land."
"What do you say, Captain?"
Adam, mouth agape and eyes wide, felt as if he were being pulled into a whirlwind. His jaw had dropped so far he could've swallowed a cannonball.
W-wait… What?!
When he arrived in Quebec, he'd expected a debriefing, maybe a reprimand, possibly a new mission.
But this?
The world around him seemed to freeze.
They… are offering me nobility? And land on top of that?
It was so sudden, so overwhelming! He felt as though he were dreaming. Part of him feared it was all some elaborate joke.
But they were dead serious.
I… I could rise even higher in rank?!
What he felt at that moment couldn't be described. New words would have to be invented. His emotions were a whirlwind—a tornado inside his head.
Thinking was nearly impossible. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
He thought of his home, his parents, of that ridiculously faint hope of seeing his family again.
Then he thought of Onatah.
Her gaze. Her voice. The softness of her skin. The warmth of her lips.
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August 18th — the day of departure.
The entire Picardy Regiment had gathered in the lower town of Quebec. They were preparing to board, just as others had done before them.
The locals who had been recruited to complete the regiment's ranks were also there—not to leave, but to bid farewell to their brothers in arms.
They had been discharged, sent back to civilian life. Perhaps some of them would reenlist when the new regiments were formed?
It was said one of these might be called the Regiment of Acadia, to be based in Louisbourg or maybe Halifax. For now, it was all just rumors.
Adam, in full uniform, clean-shaven and polished like a new coin, made his way toward the crowded docks. It would take time to load everyone aboard.
He headed toward his dear childhood friends—Jean, Jules, Charles, and Louis—whom he'd been overjoyed to reunite with on his first day in the city. All had risen through the ranks, and Louis now held the highest with his fine lieutenant's epaulettes.
But they were no longer the same boys they had once been. They had changed—almost beyond recognition.
Louis, once the most handsome among them, now bore a long scar down his left cheek, the mark of a bayonet strike that had nearly cost him his life. It stretched from the corner of his lips to his ear.
He was in love, desperate to return to France and reunite with Anne-Sophie, whom he had never stopped loving.
Charles seemed tougher, more mature. He exuded a striking martial presence—no doubt shaped by years of serving under Marshal-Duke de Richelieu.
Jules, by contrast, bore the scars of time and battle. His furrowed brow, his eyes, his long silences—more than any of them, he had been marked by the pain of losing his comrades.
Under Richelieu, he had watched many of them fall.
As for Jean, he had simply kept getting stronger. He looked ready to burst out of his uniform at any moment.
They moved a little away from the dock to find some privacy.
One by one, Adam embraced them tightly. They had shared time, laughter, and conversation—but the day had come too quickly.
Now it was time to part ways—and perhaps say goodbye for good.
"Are you really sure, François?" Louis asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Yes. I'm sure. I've thought it through."
A figure silently approached the group—a Mohawk woman of striking beauty. As soon as she arrived, she wrapped herself around Adam's arm, as if to stop him from flying away.
"It's all right, Louis," said Jules with a broad, if slightly melancholy, smile. "As you can see, our friend is in good hands."
"I'm so jealous," Jean grumbled, his shoulders sagging and eyes glistening. "Why doesn't anyone come stop me? I could be convinced to stay…"
The group smiled as they watched Jean sulking like a child. But they all agreed with him. François was definitely a lucky man.
How could anyone give up such beauty? That Iroquois woman was worth more than all the noble titles and all the lands of the New World.
Some soldiers began to board the rowboats to return to their anchored ship.
"Well then," sighed Jules, "my lord chevalier… looks like it's time. We're going to miss you."
"Yes," confirmed Charles in a choked voice, tears threatening to rise. "But we'll write to you. And you'd better write to us often."
"And if you can," added Louis, "come visit us in Corbie, all right? We'd be honored to welcome a nobleman into our homes and toast with him while reminiscing about the old days."
"I will. I promise," Adam replied softly, moved.
As for Jean, he was now crying like a big, very big baby.
Adam then pulled a carefully folded letter from his coat.
"This is… um… Can I trust you with this? It's for my parents…"
Charles took the letter respectfully and carefully slipped it into his belongings.
"It'll reach them. Don't worry."
"And… tell Little Pol's parents… tell them I'm really sorry… and that my heart is with them. That I'll never forget him, and… that not a day goes by without me thinking of him. I miss him so much."
"We'll tell them," Jules whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder as tears started to form in his own eyes.
Everyone nodded. They embraced one last time. Then they parted ways.
Adam remained there on the dock for a long while. Onatah was still by his side, holding onto his arm.
She had come all the way here to stop him, ready to block his path if necessary. She had been so afraid of arriving too late.
But she hadn't needed to convince him. He had already made his choice.
Out on the vast river, the ships unfurled their sails. Slowly, the ship carrying all his friends drifted away. A little further along, L'Alcide, aboard which were Jean-Baptiste Gauthier, Martin Morrel de Lusernes, Lieutenant Marais, and so many others.
Ah. Truly a chapter closing…
He turned his gaze away and lowered his eyes to admire the perfect face of the woman standing beside him. A smile formed on his lips.
And another chapter beginning.
"Shall we go?" she whispered softly near his ear in a mesmerizing voice, her eyes sparkling like a starry night.
"Yes," Adam replied, intertwining his fingers with hers. "Let's go."
And without looking back, he turned his back on the river.
***
A rainy October day, in a modest home in Corbie, a man and a woman were reading a letter they no longer expected, tears in their eyes.
The woman's tears fell on the paper like the rain outside. The letter was gripped tightly by the man, his lips trembling with emotion.
Here's what the letter said:
"My dearest father, my dearest mother,
I finally take up the pen to write you these few words.
I don't know if they'll ever reach you, or how many months it will take. But I want to believe that one day, you'll read them.
First, I ask your forgiveness for my silence. I can only imagine how much it must have weighed on your hearts.
Forgive me, too, for the son I was. I don't think I was the son you deserved.
I left so quickly, without even saying a word for all you had given me—no thank you, no sign of gratitude or appreciation. Only much later did I realize how lucky I was to have you as my parents.
But life here has changed me. The war, the woods, hunger, fear, my comrades. All of it has shaped me, and I believe I can say today, without pride, that I've become a man. Perhaps even a good man—someone who won't bring you shame.
I'm well, don't worry. I've suffered, stumbled more than once, but each time I got back up. My name is respected. I command. I care for my men as I care for myself, and I try to be fair.
They even say the King will soon ennoble me—for services rendered to France and to better serve his interests and those of the kingdom.
It feels unreal… and yet, it's true.
But more than honors, it's what I've learned that matters. I've learned the value of a word, the importance of honor, what courage really is, the fragility of life, the blessing of a fire to warm yourself by at night, a meal in your bowl, and a roof over your head. I've also learned humility—what it means to be responsible for someone.
And what it means to love.
Because yes, I have found love. A simple, strong, sincere love.
She is everything one could hope for: gentle, proud, brave, honest.Life without her is impossible.
I know you hoped for my return. I hope for it too, with all my heart. I want to tell you all this and more, to introduce her to you. But that won't be happening just yet.
My place is here.
But I haven't forgotten you. Every time I close my eyes, I see your faces again. That's what helped me hold on when the world became too heavy.
Take care of yourselves, and know that your son loves you—more than he ever knew himself.
Your son,
François,
Infantry captain, soon to be squire and knight… and finally, a man."
The paper trembled in Mr. Boucher's hands. And despite the tears he held back, a smile finally crossed his face.
***
At that very moment, in London, the mood was just as miserable as the weather.
Rain fell in a fine, relentless drizzle. It seeped into everything, chilling to the bone even the rare passersby.
The capital hadn't exploded—not yet—but it oozed fear, shame, and anger.
People muttered openly in the streets, in taverns, and in drawing rooms. And the name on everyone's lips, the one blamed for bleeding the empire dry, was his:
William Pitt.
Even though one of his ilk—James Wolfe—had been made into a tragic hero, it didn't change the harsh reality faced by the subjects of King George III.
The East Indies had fallen, along with them a vast and precious source of revenue. And while the loss of wild lands in the New World may have been less painful to some, it was no less humiliating.
So many efforts had been made to hold on to them.
So much money wasted, so many men killed, and so many fine ships lost!
It was a bitter humiliation.
Unfold a map, and Britain looked smaller now. Less dominant.
And the State's coffers were empty.
In just a few years, Britain's debt had soared from 73 million pounds to 145 million. Naturally, someone would have to pay.
Major cuts were already being planned—at the expense of the army and the Royal Navy. But France was more powerful than ever. So the government dared not cut too deeply there, and instead sought money elsewhere. More cuts would follow, but everyone knew that wouldn't be enough.
New taxes were inevitable.
Alas for the people of Great Britain, those taxes couldn't fall solely on the colonies of the New World—even if they were an easy target for blame. Parliament intended for everyone to pay.
A first tax on sugar had been passed in April 1762, followed by one on tea in July. Rumors whispered that tobacco would be next—followed closely by paper.
And some even spoke of taxing printed texts and images… and cotton.
The most radical proposals—which could well ignite a firestorm—involved taxing all of His Majesty's subjects based on income. In other words, simply living on British soil might soon come with a price.
For now, these were only discussions. But William Pitt knew that within a few years—two or three at most—these proposals would be put forward in Parliament in all seriousness. Once it became clear that other measures wouldn't be enough to fill the abyss.
Parliament and the Crown were desperate, like a condemned man with the rope already around his neck.
And that frightened him deeply. He feared an all-out blaze.
London, Bristol, Cambridge, Dublin, and Edinburgh were already powder kegs.
Riots broke out daily, and each time, they were crushed in blood.
If those taxes were passed, he feared the worst.
But he hadn't forgotten the colonies. He knew a few moderate voices in Parliament shared his concerns, worried about what might happen if things were handled poorly.
Unfortunately, they were in the minority. In Parliament, many insisted that it was up to the colonists—those ungrateful, half-savage ingrates—to shoulder the bulk of the fiscal burden. After all, wasn't the debt incurred primarily to defend them?
And those voices were loud.
Lord Bute—John Stuart—had had the good sense to resign as soon as the peace treaty was signed, sparing himself much of the people's wrath.
He had chosen to withdraw completely from political life, to the great sorrow of the young monarch George III.
Pitt knew he had retired to his estate in Lutton, in the south of England, to devote himself to botany—a passion he shared with young Queen Charlotte.
But for him, things had been different.
He had been thrown out—cast aside like a beggar.
It had happened swiftly and without resistance, for he had lost the support of the people. He was hated—more than the king himself.
If one believed the caricatures, he was the great villain of the tale—the one who had misled His Majesty and brought ruin to the realm.
On that damp afternoon, he wandered aimlessly and without escort. He walked the cold, grim streets like a shadow.
As if the rain and chill could no longer touch him. He stopped for a moment beneath an archway and drew a deep breath of fresh air.
His eyes scanned the rooftops and smoking chimneys of Westminster—more sullen and decayed than he remembered. Perhaps his vision was clearer now simply because he was on foot, not riding in a carriage.
The rain intensified, yet instead of staying sheltered, he chose to walk on.
His footsteps barely echoed on the uneven, slick cobblestones.
The clouds had darkened the sky so deeply it already seemed like night. Pitt did not see the shadow that emerged from an alleyway—nor did he hear, soon enough, the footsteps behind him.
Before he could turn, an awful pain struck him—a blow that pierced straight through him. In his shock, he did not even cry out.
He simply felt his lungs empty in an instant.
He turned, disbelieving.
A man dressed in black stood before him, his face twisted by hate, his eyes gleaming, a bloodied knife in his hand. His blood.
Before Pitt realized, other figures had appeared around him. More knives flashed.
They fell upon him together, stabbing furiously. Even when he collapsed into the mud and filth, they did not stop—not until they were satisfied.
Not a word, not a cry, not even a curse.
One after another, they spat in his face as he bled out. Then they quietly slipped away, without a word, as though justice had been served.
His body was not found until the next morning.
There were forty-eight wounds.
The investigation failed to identify the assailants—to the great despair of his widow, Lady Hester Pitt, Countess of Chatham, and mother of five children, the youngest only three years old.
He was buried discreetly a few days later in the cemetery of Bunhill Fields—but that same night, his body was exhumed and sold to a London anatomist.
For a mere—but generous to a gravedigger—two pounds. Forty shillings.
The newspapers scarcely mentioned it.
***
Three months later, on January 21st, 1763, in a splendid but deathly silent house on Berkeley Square, a shot rang out.
A man sat alone in the middle of his drawing room, desperately empty.
Marks on the walls told of paintings, hunting trophies, and mirrors once hanging there.
All gone.
Debt collectors had passed through and seized everything—paintings, chandeliers, carpets, candlesticks, wardrobes, clocks, busts, fine fabrics, jewels, tables, and every other piece of furniture.
Robert Clive, whose name had become synonymous with shame—though he had once been among the most powerful men in India—was beginning to grow cold.
The pistol he had managed to keep lay on the floor, still smoking.
On the ceiling and across the west wall, great crimson splashes spoke of the violence of his death.
Seated on the only chair left to him, he now stared into the void.
He had sought to escape disgrace and dishonor.
But at the very instant the bullet tore through his skull, he understood something terrible:
His name would live on.
As the man who lost India for the British Crown.