Singapore was their last stop before Hong Kong. The port swarmed with activity, a mixture of Chinese junks, British steamers, Arab dhows. The air was saturated with humidity and exotic smells: spices, incense, dried fish, tropical fruits. For most of the French soldiers, this was their first contact with the Orient, and they wandered through the narrow streets with the amazed eyes of children discovering a New World.

Montauban took advantage of this to meet French merchants established in the region. These men, who lived in Asia, had an intimate knowledge of the Chinese situation.

In a private salon of a colonial hotel, he conversed with a certain Monsieur Dufresne, a silk trader who did business with Canton.

"Mon général, you cannot imagine the state of chaos reigning in China right now. The Qing empire is being eaten away from within. The Taiping rebellion has caused hundreds of thousands of deaths. The southern provinces are in civil war. Emperor Hien-Fung is weak, manipulated by incompetent advisers."

"Which should facilitate our task, no?"

Dufresne shook his head vehemently.

"Don't be mistaken. An empire in decomposition is more dangerous than a strong empire. Because it has nothing left to lose. Because the usual rules no longer apply. I've seen dreadful things these past years. Entire villages massacred, families decimated. Violence has reached unimaginable levels."

"Will the Chinese fight?"

"Oh yes, they'll fight. Not in a conventional manner, perhaps. But they'll fight. And if you reach Beijing, if you threaten the heart of the empire…"

"Speak frankly, Monsieur Dufresne. What do you fear?"

The merchant crushed his cigar in an ashtray.

"I fear you'll unleash a force that no one can control. The Chinese have a tenacious memory. If you humiliate their emperor, if you desecrate their sacred places, if you pillage their treasures… they'll never forget it. And we, French who live here, who do business with them, we'll pay the price for generations."

Montauban left this interview troubled. Dufresne's words resonated in his mind, joining his wife's concerns, Delmas's doubts, his own questions. But it was too late to turn back. The die were cast, the troops en route. All that remained was for him to do his best so that this campaign ended in the most honorable manner possible.

In mid-February, after more than two months of crossing, the coasts of Hong Kong appeared on the horizon. Green hills stood out against a limpid blue sky. The port teemed with British ships, their flags snapping in the wind. General Grant's fleet was there, imposing, threatening.

When L'Impératrice Eugénie dropped anchor in the roadstead, a British launch approached. On board, an officer in scarlet uniform who introduced himself as Major Worthington, General Grant's aide-de-camp.

"General de Montauban, General Grant presents his compliments and invites you to a planning meeting tomorrow morning aboard HMS Furious. Lord Elgin will also be present."

Montauban nodded stiffly. The moment he dreaded had arrived. He would have to collaborate closely with these English he didn't know, share with them the dangers and perhaps also the responsibilities of decisions he disapproved of.

That night, unable to find sleep, he wrote to Louise:

"My dear Louise,

We have arrived in Hong Kong after a crossing that seemed interminable to me. The men are well, morale is good. Tomorrow, I will meet the English to establish our campaign plan.

I often think of you, of our daughters. Of Paris which is so far away, so different from this Orient where we find ourselves. Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here, why I accepted this mission. And then I remember that I'm a soldier, that my duty is to serve the Emperor.

You told me, before my departure, that you feared I would lose something of myself in this campaign. I laughed, with that masculine peculiarity that refuses to listen to feminine intuitions. But perhaps you were right. I feel that things are happening within me that I cannot fully understand.

Pray for us, my sweet. Pray that we remain men of honor, whatever happens. Your husband who loves you, Charles"

He sealed the letter, knowing it would take months to reach Paris, that Louise would read it when perhaps everything would be over. But writing did him good, created a tenuous link with this world he had left behind.

The First Battles

The next day's meeting was everything Montauban had feared. In the spacious cabin of HMS Furious, the British flagship, about twenty English and French officers crowded around a vast table where a map of the Tientsin region was displayed.

General Grant was a man of tall stature and curt manners. Lord Elgin, the British plenipotentiary, was shorter, rounder, but his piercing gaze and cutting voice revealed a dominating personality.

"Gentlemen," Elgin began in English before repeating in approximate French, "we are here to avenge the affront the Chinese inflicted on us last year. This time, there will be no failure. We will take the Dagu forts, we will go up the Pei-Ho to Tientsin, and if necessary, we will march on Beijing. The Chinese emperor will sign the treaty, or we will make him sign it by force."

Montauban politely waited for the end of the speech, then intervened.

"Lord Elgin, I believe a frontal attack on the Dagu forts would be a strategic error. The Chinese have reinforced their defenses. They're expecting us. I propose we land further north, at Peh-Tang, and take the forts from behind."

The British officers exchanged glances where could be read their opinion of these French who pretended to give them strategy lessons.

Grant leaned over the map, studied the position of Peh-Tang, then raised his head.

"General de Montauban, your suggestion has merit. But it also presents risks. Peh-Tang is twenty kilometers to the north. That means a march through hostile territory, without naval cover."

"I know. But it's preferable to a frontal assault that would cost hundreds of lives."

Elgin intervened, his voice charged with impatience.

"General, we're not afraid of combat. British honor demands that we confront the enemy where he challenges us."

"Honor doesn't demand suicide. I won't sacrifice my men to satisfy an abstract principle."

The French and English measured each other with their gazes, each entrenched in their positions. It was Baron Gros who tempered the situation.

"Gentlemen, we are allies in this enterprise. Our objectives are the same: to force China to respect the treaties. The means of achieving this can be the subject of reasonable discussion. I propose that we study both options in detail, that we evaluate their respective advantages and risks, and that we make a common decision based on military logic rather than national pride."

Spirits calmed. The discussion resumed, more technical, less impassioned. Maps were unrolled, calculations made, scenarios envisioned.

After three hours of debate, a compromise was found. The allied forces would land at Peh-Tang, as Montauban wished, but part of the British fleet would conduct a demonstration before the Dagu forts to fix the Chinese defenders' attention.

When the meeting ended, Montauban went out on deck with a mixed feeling. He had won on the essential point, but at the price of lasting tension with the British. Grant had looked at him with a new coldness, and Elgin hadn't even deigned to shake his hand on leaving.

Baron Gros found him a few moments later, an enigmatic smile on his lips.

"You made enemies today, mon général."

"I don't care. What matters is my men. Their lives are worth more than Lord Elgin's friendship."

"Noble sentiment. But we're going to have to live with these people for months. This coldness could complicate many things."

Montauban shrugged and fixed on the Hong Kong harbor extending before them, a human anthill where Chinese, Europeans, Malays mingled in an incessant commercial ballet.

"The English will eventually understand that I'm right. When we've taken the forts without excessive losses, they'll forget their resentment."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they'll seek to make up for it later, to take revenge on our prudence through excessive audacity. The British sometimes have unpredictable reactions when their pride is wounded."

These prophetic words would mark Montauban for a long time. But for now, he had other concerns. Preparations for the landing, logistical organization, coordination with different army corps. The time for reflection was over. That of action was approaching.

Intensive preparations began rapidly. French troops trained on Hong Kong's beaches, simulating landings, testing their equipment in the stifling heat and crushing humidity. Many soldiers fell ill, struck by tropical fevers or dysenteries that decimated the ranks as surely as a battle.

Sergeant Beaumont, with his section, participated in these daily exercises. The recruits had matured during the crossing, their features had lost that adolescent roundness. They were men, or at least what came closest to it.

One evening, as they bivouacked on a beach, Beaumont gathered his section.

"Listen to me well, lads. In a few days, we'll embark for real. We'll go north, and there, we're going to fight. It won't be like the exercises. There will be blood, fear, chaos. Some of you will die. That's the reality of war, and I'm not going to lie to you by saying otherwise."

The silence was total. Even the insects seemed to be waiting. Dubois, the soldier who had suffered so much from seasickness, asked in a trembling voice:

"Sergeant, how do we avoid being afraid?"

Beaumont stared at him before responding.

"We can't. Fear is always there. Even for me, after twenty years of service. Even for the general. What matters isn't not being afraid. It's doing your duty despite the fear. Staying at your post. Protecting the comrade next to you. That's being a soldier."

"And if we find ourselves face to face with a Chinese? If we have to kill him?"

"You'll kill him. Because otherwise, he'll kill you. There are no scruples in a battle. There's only survival."

Corporal Leroux, who had listened in silence, intervened.

"They say the Chinese mutilate their prisoners. That they cut off their heads and plant them on spikes."

"Latrine nonsense. The Chinese are men like us. They're afraid like us, they suffer like us, they die like us. Don't dehumanize them by imagining horrors. That only serves to justify our own atrocities."

The conversation drifted to other subjects, lighter ones. The soldiers spoke of their families, their villages, what they would do when they returned to France. Beaumont let them dream, knowing that these dreams were sometimes the only thing that kept a man alive in the darkest moments.

But not all would return. Some of these faces he saw would soon disappear, carried away by a bullet, a disease, or by war's cruel chance.

The departure took place in early July. An imposing fleet of French and British ships left Hong Kong heading north. The troop transports were escorted by frigates, their cannons pointed toward the horizon like so many promises of violence.

On the deck of L'Impératrice Eugénie, Montauban watched the port recede. Delmas stood at his side, silent. Between them, a new complicity had developed, born of these nocturnal conversations where they shared their doubts and hopes.

"Are you ready, Captain?"

"As much as one can be, mon général. I've thought about what you told me. About the nature of the expedition, about what awaits us. I've tried to prepare myself mentally."

"And?"

"I don't know if it's possible to prepare for certain things. There are situations where all our principles, all our convictions are put to the test. I pray to have the strength to remain faithful to what I believe."

"We all pray for that. But sometimes, war changes us despite ourselves. I've seen good men become cruel, honorable men commit infamy. Not by choice, but because circumstances drove them to it. Be vigilant, Delmas. Stay conscious of your actions. That's the only thing I can advise you."

The fleet progressed northward, following the Chinese coast. The days succeeded each other in growing tension. The soldiers checked their weapons, sharpened their bayonets, perhaps wrote their last letter. The atmosphere was electric, charged with that waiting that precedes major events.

On August 1, 1860, the coasts of Peh-Tang appeared on the horizon. A deserted beach, bordered by dunes and marshes. No visible fortification, no sign of Chinese military presence. Montauban's plan seemed to be working.

The landing began at dawn. Launches went back and forth between the ships and the beach, transporting men, horses, cannons, ammunition, provisions. A complex ballet, orchestrated with precision by naval officers. The French landed to the north, the British to the south, each contingent marking its territory.

Montauban was among the first to set foot on land. His boots sank into the wet sand, and for the first time in months, he felt beneath his feet the solidity of earth that didn't move. This forgotten sensation reminded him that he had become a land soldier again, that his natural element was commanding men on a battlefield, not living in the confined space of a ship.

"Establish a security perimeter. Send scouts toward the interior. I want to know if the Chinese are waiting for us somewhere."

The following hours were a whirlwind of activity. The troops deployed, established a camp, dug trenches. Cannons were set up in battery, pointed toward the interior. A defensive line took shape, transforming this deserted beach into a fortified position.

Evening was falling when the first scouts returned. Their report confirmed what Montauban hoped: the Chinese had not anticipated a landing at this location. The Dagu forts, about twenty kilometers to the south, concentrated all their forces.

"We've won our first advantage. Tomorrow, we'll begin our march toward the forts. We'll take them from behind and take our first step toward victory."

The dawn of August 2 rose in a thick mist that enveloped the encampment. The soldiers emerged from their tents, numb from an agitated night. The heat was already overwhelming despite the early hour, and humidity stuck to uniforms like a second skin.

The general inspected the troops with a critical eye. Features were tense, but determined. These men who had crossed half the world were ready to fight.

Grant arrived on horseback, surrounded by his officers. His meeting with Montauban was cordial, but cold. The two men greeted each other stiffly, exchanged a few words about the weather and logistics, then separated to rejoin their respective troops.

"He still doesn't like us," remarked Delmas who had witnessed the scene.

"It doesn't matter whether he likes me or not. What matters is that he does his job."

The column set out around nine o'clock. Ten thousand French to the north, twelve thousand British to the south, progressing in parallel through a landscape of rice paddies and deserted villages. Chinese peasants had fled at the approach of the foreign army, abandoning their houses, their crops, sometimes even their livestock.

The desertion of the countryside created a troubling, ghostly atmosphere. The soldiers marched in relative calm, disturbed only by the pounding of boots, the clinking of weapons, the orders shouted by officers. In the sky, crows wheeled, black sentinels perhaps announcing the carnage to come.

Sergeant Beaumont marched at the head of his section, scanning the horizon with vigilance. His years of campaigning in Algeria had taught him to read the signs of danger: a movement in the tall grass, a suspicious reflection, a too-deep silence. For now, nothing indicated an enemy presence, but he remained on guard.

"Sergeant, why are all these villages empty? Where have the people gone?"

"They fled. What civilians do when two armies prepare to confront each other. They know nothing good will come of our presence."

"But we mean them no harm. We're here for their emperor, not for them."

"You think the peasants make that distinction? To them, we're foreign invaders. Round-eyed devils who come from the other end of the world to sow chaos. And you know what? They're not wrong."

The conversation ceased when an officer galloped up the column, shouting orders. The march accelerated. Scouts had spotted Chinese troop movements a few kilometers away. The enemy knew they were there.

The first contact occurred in mid-afternoon. The French column emerged from a copse and found itself facing a plain where a Chinese army was deployed. Thousands of soldiers in colorful uniforms, banners snapping in the wind, drums beating a menacing cadence.

Montauban raised his hand, and the entire column stopped. He examined the enemy disposition with attention. The Chinese were numerous, perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand men, but their formation seemed disorganized. Compact masses of infantry, a few pieces of artillery of ancient design, Tartar cavalry on the flanks.

"They want to prevent us from reaching the forts. Vain attempt. They know they're going to lose."

"Perhaps. But desperate men can be formidable."

Montauban turned toward Favier.

"Deploy the artillery on that ridge. I want you to start showering them as soon as we're in position. The infantry will advance in waves, maintaining cohesion. No unnecessary heroics."

Orders were transmitted. The French army deployed with parade precision. Cannons were set up in battery, infantry battalions formed perfect lines, skirmishers took position in the vanguard.

On their side, the Chinese remained motionless, as if petrified by this demonstration of military discipline. Their drums continued to beat, their banners to flutter, but one could sense a hesitation, an uncertainty in the face of this war machine setting itself up before them.

Baron Gros, who had stayed back with non-combatant elements, joined Montauban.

"Mon général, perhaps we should attempt a negotiation? Avoid useless bloodshed?"

"They chose to bar our way. They know the consequences."