Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

Chapter 42: The Noble Fight?

18th March, 1778
Charleston, South Carolina

Five years, four months.

It was only five years since Tom had come here, though it seemed in many ways a lifetime. He had to close his eyes to remember the faces of his family, and only in particularly lucid dreams could he remember his friends, or the factory where he worked, or the house he'd grown up in. Another layer back lay his school and classmates, or even daily life. Every month the memories grew just a little dimmer, and Tom dreaded the day he'd forget entirely. It seemed somehow a crime.

Jessie he never forgot though. Oh, sometimes her memory would leave him alone for a day, or even a week if it was really busy, but she'd always return...sometimes when he least expected it.

"...and the weather is especially fine today, sir," offered Sam, a tall servant of fifty, as he patiently worked on the Heyward's queue. His hair extended to between his shoulder blades, and it was held together with a thick black ribbon. "Couldn't ask for finer to start a journey."

Tom nodded distantly. It'd been a day just like this when he'd met Jessie at a fair. Well, maybe a little danker - it was London after all.

"And don't you worry about a thing here, sir. People generally leave us alone right 'nuf. They don't want to cross you, sir. Not after you put a hole through Master Rutledge's house!"

"That was an accident." Tom looked up in the mirror sharply.

"Of course it was, sir," the servant returned smoothly. "Everyone knows you wouldn't do that on purpose, but still it makes them think twice and for that we're grateful."

"That reminds me," Heyward reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "I want you to go north. Anywhere. Norfolk, Richmond, Baltimore."

"For what, sir?"

"I don't want you here if the Brits get around us. You don't know what it's like out there, it's going to be a bloodbath."

"Bless you!" Sam laughed. "If the British do come, I'm one of the safest men in town!"

"How so?" Tom turned curiously as his servant reached for his powdered wig. By one of those freaks of fashion history, this also had a ponytail.

"Well, I suppose word will come out anyway, sir. The governor of Georgia, Mister Howe? He says any man who crosses the line and fights for him will both be freed if they need it and receive land in the bargain. At worst they'd make me join them. Not that I would want to, mind."

"Why not?" Heyward frowned at the mirror, adjusted the wig. He looked like a giant version of one of those puffs Jessie would use for makeup on top of an army uniform. Perfect.

Sam stiffened slightly and looked down. "... It doesn't matter sir, really."

"Try me." Powder on his hands. Christ, what an odious custom...

"Well, sir." He hesitated. "Sir, if I may... it don't really signify. If I stay here, well sometimes it's not much ... sometimes it's right hard, but maybe that's God's way of testing me and my family. I don't know, surely. Here I know everyone though, and there are good times too. If I go with them, then it won't really be much different. I wouldn't ever be a gentleman, either I could make the land work and everyone would always be saying I only got it for turning coat, or I wouldn't in which case I'm right back where I started. Either way people wouldn't treat me much different you know. The British say they're better, but until a few years ago we were British, sir. I don't see it makes much odds."

"But you could go home. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Home....what is home, sir?" Sam tilted his head to the side, then frowned and adjusted Tom's coat. "I been here so long, I don't remember where I came from. And I've been here so long, everyone I know, everyone I care for ... is here. Everything I want is here. Oh, there might be a thing or two I'd see different - for my son's sake, not mine - but that'll come in time. You know the line about the grass being greener, sir."

Heyward nodded. Put his hat on his wig, pondered not for the last time how ridiculous he looked. "I wonder if it's settling, though."

"Yes, sir," Sam answered instantly. Then, "If I may though, I've found that sometimes surviving is noble enough for one lifetime."

Which was fair enough, Heyward reasoned. Surviving and playing the game was one of the main reasons he kept up this charade. That and he had little better to do. "Just remember, if it gets .. difficult, get out. I don't want you trapped if the English get past us."

"Of course, sir. Shall I send for your horse?"

As Sam left, the door slammed open and someone hurtled up the steps. He burst in and crouched there, breathing hard. "I wasn't sure I'd catch you!"

"John? What are you doing here?" Tom frowned at the boy's army uniform.

"I'm going with you!"

"You are?" Heyward arched his brows. The two had spoken little more than pleasantries throughout the winter, the one uncertain of what to say, the other thinking hard.

"Aye! I mean, if I can." John blinked. "I want to reenlist."

"You do?" Tom shook his head to ward off the reply. "John....Are you sure about this?"

Preston nodded sharply. "The war's going to come to me whether I want it to or not. I might as well meet it head on."

Tom frowned. His ward's early performance hadn't exactly been stellar. "And Cassie?" he asked pointedly. He hated poking at the wound, but he had to know....

John hesitated. "Gone," he answered in a monotone. "And....nothing I can do about that." He looked up and bit his lip, hard. "So...all I can do is keep going, right?"

Tom snorted softly, still thinking of his own girl. "That's about it," he agreed quietly. John's eyes widened at the emotion in his voice. "Keep going and ... it doesn't go away. It becomes bearable though."

"All the more reason for me to come with you."

"Just...be sure. We're two months away from a major war .... everything we've done up to now is a child's tricks comparatively. It may be something we're not able to finish."

"I'm ready."

I hope so.

Storey: I hope everyone's ready too! The actual war should start after two more updates.

jwolf: When I was writing it I also noted the similarities between Sam's situation and Tom's. I think it definitely weighs on him. As for John... time will tell. I think he's better than he was, but given an opportunity to do something brave, or foolish (or freakish) I think he may be in trouble.

Judge: I'm not fond of ponytails either, but it seems to have been the military custom. Ponytails on wigs though? Ack!

TreizeV: See Draco Rexus.

Draco Rexus: Yep! Now I don't feel completely silly for that cartoon.
Back in '74 I'd done a cartoon allegedly from Philadelphia protesting the Iroquois War. It featured PacMan and a ghost from the video game of the early 80s. Asteroids was from the late 70s, in it you were trying to break up asteroids with your guns, preferably without being smashed by the debris. Something like Congress.

Stuyvesant: If you ever find out, then they've already lost.

Stay tuned.

Machiavellian: So am I. I just hope the AI agrees with us. I think my deception (keeping everyone off the border until the last minute) may have worked too well.

Chapter 43: Diplomatic Insult

1st April, 1778
London, England, Great Britain


"My lord will see you now." The servant, a thin man dressed in blue with a powdered wig smiled politely as Henry Stewart rose. The mansion was huge, the waiting room alone dwarfed his chambers in Charleston, and despite the urgency of his business Stewart eyed the paintings, the sculpture, even the brass - bordered tables enviously. What he wouldn't give to have a place like this, to have servants at his beck and call, rather than this life in the shadows.

His shoes clicked loudly as he followed the man to an ornate oak door some eight feet high. The servant knocked, then opened the door at the loud "Enter!"

George Sackville-Germaine, Secretary of State for the (American) Colonies, was a stout, well-built man in his early sixties. While age had compromised his sight, so he was obliged to wear thick, horn-rimmed glasses that made his eyes appear to bulge, Sackville was in fine shape and could easily have crushed both men should he choose. A veteran of two wars, a cavalry officer and infantry general, he became well-known for his demanding (and losing) a scandalous court martial in 1760. He looked up with his bulging, piercing gaze as Stewart made his leg.

"You may go," he dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand, still staring hard at the intelligence officer. "Now, Mister Stewart. Well? Sit down, that's a good fellow. What is so bloody important that you traveled across half the world to see me, eh?"

Stewart sat and looked around carefully. He found what he expected, near perfect order, a typical military man's office. Shelves lined the room with various treatises and histories - all English - and the man's saber hung proudly from the wall to Stewart's right along with several regimental symbols he didn't recognize. To the left a large globe - inaccurate even by current standards, but from the scratch marks along the axis at each pole well used. He lingered on that for a moment then turned back. "My Lord. It is good of you to see me on such short notice."

"Yes, Mister Stewart. I think we can dispense with the pleasantries don't you?" He didn't know what this man wanted, or why he refused to deal with the undersecretaries. If this was some primitive attempt at currying favor, Stewart was in for a surprise. As it turned out, he would have been more pleased if it had been.

"Yes, sir. I come to speak to you about the state of the American colonies ... or more fully His Majesty's Army's preparations. They are completely inadequate, sir."

"Inadequate?" Sackville warned quietly. "The army's movements are by my hand, Mister Stewart."

I know, you fat sack of lard. "Then perhaps you can enlighten me why Colonel Exeter's men have been pulled out of Savannah, and indeed why the entire American/British border has been denuded. You - we are going to be attacked!"

"By who? The Americans?" Sackville sniffed. "Those country clowns can not fight off our garrisons, forget a true army with a right man leading them like Governor Howe or Baron Amherst. No, sir. I find you've not minded the political situation."

"You mean the fact the north's been fighting for a year now?"

"Pray do not be impertinent, sir. The rabble managed to form an alliance with France, Spain, and two minor German states. When war does break out again, and I do not doubt you that it will, it is in Europe the principal battles will be fought. The army has been pulled back to deal with the real threat first, to force them to sue for peace and win concessions, and then we can whip them into submission."

"The rabble as you so eloquently put it," Stewart answered hotly, "have over a hundred thousand men under arms! More than enough to take our cities and kick us out of North America entirely!" Fool!

"Stuff Mister Stewart! Did you ever serve in the military?"

"Of course not. I have something under my hat besides a hairpiece!"

"I did not think so," Sackville snorted, ignoring the jab entirely. "The Army teaches fortitude, sir. It teaches you patience as well. The good British soldier does not panic at the first hint of trouble."

"I am not panicking. I am saying...."

"Mister Stewart." Sackville glared across the desk. "Mister Stewart, since you are in intelligence you should know what they did all of last year. Reorganizing. Moving their own army up and down the bloody continent because they couldn't decide where everyone belonged. Their 'Congress' is made up on republicans and, by your own dispatches, frequently and violently disagree. I would not doubt they call each other out over where to meet for lunch! And do you know what the latest dispatch says? Do you? Here it is." He pulled it out of a pile of papers. 'Army dispersed for winter.' Their soldiers are now completely undisciplined, completely used to home life, and completely unsuited to the kind of campaign you are dreaming up on their behalf. They should no trouble themselves with politics and government, which they do not understand, and if they do trouble themselves with war - at which they're even worse - then perhaps I will arm all the wives and whores of your Savannah so that it will be a fair fight! No sir, let me finish. Admiral Howe is in the roads with one hundred-eighty ships. He is more than capable of strangling their trade and transporting any man we need to finish this, but dealing with the true threats - France and Spain - take no uncertain priority. Indeed, our plan is to intimidate them out of war before it begins so we may deal with the American question at our leisure."

"You're a fool!" Stewart shouted, leaping to his feet. "You are not there, how could you know what they're about? Yes, their Congress bickers and shouts, but they agree on one thing - they agree on handing you your head! Their men may not be polished, but they learn very quickly. In '73 they held us to a draw with thirty thousand men, now they've nearly quadrupled that while you've pulled everyone back! It is going to be a massacre!"

Sackville-Germaine, already growing intolerant, stopped listening after the first sentence. "Fool!? God damn your impertinence, sir! Do you realize who you are speaking to? I am the Secretary of State for the Colonies and I will not be talked to in this matter by a common nobody who does not have the honor to serve, the courage to fight, or the bowels to do anything above board rather than skulking around behind peoples' back like a rogue and a thief! Georgia was founded as a penal colony, sir, and I see the manner of her creatures has not improved in the past fifty years! Go, get out of my office! Your superiors and I will be having a long conversation. Good day, sir!"

"We will see about that!" Stewart raged, rising and stomping out the door. The fool. The arrogant, pompous son of a bitch. He was throwing away their one chance to stop the rebellion, their one chance at restoring Britain's place in the sun. More importantly, he was throwing away Stewart's one chance to see his family again.

"Where to, sir?" asked the coachman diffidently, nervously. Henry's face was bright red, savage.

"The dock master so I can get the ______ out of this city!" Stewart roared. "No, wait. Wait." He thought quickly, then nodded decisively. "You...London has thief-takers, right?"

"Why..of course, sir. Do you need to see a magistrate?"

"No." Thief-takers originated sometime in the late seventeenth century when London began offering rewards - bounties actually - for arrests to deal with crumbling law and order. Their income was often supplemented by rewards from the victims themselves. Someone who knew the basics of investigation and apprehension could live reasonably well. Starting in 1739 they started congregating at... "Bow Street. Take me to Bow Street."

"Yes, sir!" The coach driver nickered at his horses, who obediently trotted forward.

If Stewart remembered his history, thief-takers often crossed the line into the underworld. They needed contacts to make their arrests, and they were known for 'making deals' - arresting the wrong person perhaps, or cutting the thief in on the reward for returned stolen items... Stewart needed someone good at breaking and entering.

Less than a week later George Sackville-Germaine, Secretary of State for the Colonies, was garroted to death in his house. Thief-takers quickly seized the criminal, who given the choice between mercy and torment admitted he was in America's pay. The public outcry was enormous.

Unfortunately, by the time Lord North and parliament found a replacement, it was too late.

Chapter 44: Symphony of Fire

I fly alone, leaving this darkness now, forever.
The memories of children and the wisdom of many lives burns deep in me.
Where will the light go to? Where will the light go to?
Is this deliverance? Is it the end?
- Blind Guardian, "Lost in the Twilight Hall"

21st May, 1778
Wilmington, North Carolina

"Good morning, Sergeant."

"Sir!" John Preston leapt to his feet and saluted. His men followed suit, their game abandoned. One of them, a young private, tried to slip something into his pocket. Gravity and the folds of his uniform betrayed him though, and with a soft click they rolled to Captain Hawke's feet.

"What are these, Sergeant?" he asked mildly.

Preston flushed. "Dice, sir."

"Are you aware of the punishment for gambling, Sergeant Preston?"

"Oh, we weren't gambling!" another private assured him anxiously. "We was just passing the time, sir. Things being quiet and all."

Preston half-turned. "Quiet, Richards!" he hissed.

Hawkes frowned. "Sergeant, walk with me."

Sigh. "Yes sir."

The two men paced across the camping grounds for the First South Carolina Horse. Tents formed a perfect square with the colonel and captains in the middle. Men talked quietly around the dormant campfires, while some tried unsuccessfully to rest. Almost immediately after revelry General Lincoln had brought together his brigade commanders. They in turn cancelled training immediately and pulled together all the colonels. Colonels to captains, and now the captains to their various squads. There was a general buzz in the air. Was it time? Were they marching? Were they ready? Where the hell were the British?

"Sergeant," Hawkes began. He was of average height, but thin. So thin there were rumors he'd suffered some wasting disease in his youth - but a vigorous enough man for all that. "Sergeant, I believe I've always told you that a commander is responsible for the conduct of his men under arms."

John gritted his teeth and sighed again. "Yes, sir. But, sir. If I may, Richards spoke the truth. We weren't gambling. Everyone's well....nervous, we were trying to keep busy."

Hawkes turned and waved his hand. "I wasn't referring to that, though I assume it won't become a habit. No, there is another matter between us. You mentioned your men are nervous. Why?"

"Well, sir. We know something is happening. The rumor is we have orders to march on Savannah, sir."

"Who told you that?" Hawkes asked sharply.

"The cook."

The captain cursed under his breath. "Well then..." He chuckled. "...He is correct. Wish us joy, we're finally going to give the British the thrashing they've so greatly earned."

John smiled slightly, elation and excitement battling reasonable dread. "Yes, sir."

"Sergeant, the reason your men are nervous is because you are nervous. No, stay," he held up a hand against the inevitable protest, "there is no shame in that. However, my other sergeants have picked up a skill you're still learning, and I would like you to attend closely."

"Sir?"

"They can act, sir. They can, bluntly, lie at command. They maintain an Olympian calm, and therefore the men are reassured. I do not need to tell you that war is a brutal thing ... and I assure you, engaging in a mass battle with thousands of men on a side, cannon firing over your head, and soldiers quite earnestly trying to drain your life's blood with musket and bayonet is nothing short of terrifying. There will come a time when not you, but your people will want to run. They will see a friend pistoled to death and want to save their skin, to see their wives and sweethearts and mothers one more time. Every instinct will tell them to flee, and all they will have to keep them on this side of sanity is you. You'll need to care for them now, that is what a man in your position does." Hawkes arched his brow and studied Preston closely. "Do you understand?"

Captain Hawkes could have gone on. He could've said he knew damn well what happened in New York - and he really didn't care so long as Preston did his duty today. Reminding him of his failings would serve nothing though, while reminding him of his responsibilities might save him. Hawkes had seen more than one irresponsible waste of flesh magically transform into a brilliant parent when they had something to care about besides their own doubts and fears. Plus, John wasn't the only one getting this speech.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Preston flushed. "I didn't realize...it was obvious."

"Carry on, Sergeant. Get your men ready to march." Meanwhile, he added in an undertone, I'm going to go skin the cook.
----------------

Just under two miles away, Thomas Heyward rode back and forth on a great yellow-brown steed with the unlikely name of 'Sweety.' Sweety had conspired to bite a stableboy's hand, then bolt through the door and lead two entire artillery companies on a race through the fields just two nights ago. She hated the bit, which unknown to anyone there chafed at her sensitive gums. She despised the cannon: Her former owner, a dullard of a farmer, seemed to think firing a rifle just behind her ears was great fun. Sweety's only saving grace was she was addicted to sugar, and willing to go quite far out of her way for a cube or two.

The horse stopped abruptly behind Gun # 5 and bobbed its head up and down to a private tune. Tom took the moment to stretch and look around. Guns 1-3 and 6 were already hitched, while # 4 was limbered and waiting for its horses. The scene, as men wrestled with cannon, magazine boxes, and wagons carrying enough powder and shot to destroy a small city was nothing short of chaos, and only one step from Bedlam. It was a controlled chaos though, not unlike a factory trying to finish a last minute order, and it was a pleasure to watch.

At least, Tom thought as a limbered cannon from the Second Virginia Artillery decided to visit an infantry regiment by rolling down a hill sans horses or men, they weren't doing that bad.

"Colonel? How are we doing?" General Steving rode up on a great black stallion. Sweety decided he was cute and sidestepped over without so much as a 'by your leave.'

"Oh...an hour, sir. Half if my men may ride in the wagons for a bit when we start, this is very physical labor."

"Indeed." Steving nodded gravely, satisfied. "Very good, Colonel. I will return when it's time. It will probably be at least an hour." He stopped and set his jaw. "Colonel, what is your horse doing?"

Heyward looked down to see Sweety nuzzling the stallion. He growled and jerked her head away.

Bastard!
---------------------------

Wethersfield, Connecticut

"Harding!?"

"Cornet, sir!" Wesley turned as Cornet Waymouth walked up. With the last minute restructuring they'd both been transferred to General Arnold's army. Their mission would be to ride into New Brunswick and see what trouble they could cause.

"Let me see. Oh, this won't do, son." Waymouth shook his head and buttoned Harding's coat for him. By force.

"It's tight," Wesley wheezed.

"You have only yourself to blame. I am not the one who gained two stone over the winter. Now you look the proper officer."

"Aye, sir."

Waymouth gripped his shoulders and smiled, an amiable wolf who's learned the shepherd is sleeping in. "Are you ready, son?"
-----------------------------------

Richmond, Virginia

"Ready, sir!" Dieter von Zahringen saluted crisply. He was in his best uniform, blue with a yellow band running from left shoulder to right hip. On his left hip was a cavalry saber that originally belonged to his grandfather, called "Lion's Bane" in English after a long forgotten skirmish with the Palatinat.

General Washington nodded distantly. Washington was naturally aloof and always preoccupied, looking ahead several moves ahead with uncanny accuracy. He didn't like what he saw though - which was no British army. None. Either all the scouts failed spectacularly - or they just weren't there. Without knowing where the enemy army was, he couldn't predict the upcoming war and he found this uncertainty decidedly unpleasant.

For von Zahringen this was an intensely personal war for reasons buried deep. Dieter's father, the Margrave of Baden-Baden and Baden-Durlach, had sent his oldest son to Paris and Oxford for an education under the reasonable assumption that the heir to the throne needed to be ready.

Dieter intended to prove the younger son wasn't exactly worthless either....
-----------------------------------

Saint Augustine, Florida

"You're certain?"

"Yes, there's no mistake."

"Fine. Get out." Henry Stewart turned his back on the messenger and stared out the window of the ancient fort. The Americans had rolled the dice. They were moving from their internal positions to the border, and had no reason to stop there. Now with these fools in charge. Savannah would put up more of a fight if he had let Germaine arm the whores. Nothing stood between them and York, Montreal, Quebec and Halifax. Nothing. Fools. Arrogant fools.

Still, there was more than one way to fight a war.

Very well you bastards. Show me what you've got.

J. Passepartout: Yep, unless they're hiding the early going should be straight forward.

Machiavellian: The alliances just prior to the war (I haven't actually triggered it yet) are as follows:

France, Spain, the Palatinat, Helvetia, Baden and the United States
* France is at war with the Dakota, Spain with the Navajo.

versus

England, Shawnee, Hessen, Portugal, Denmark and Prussia
* Denmark is a British vassal.

There is a third major alliance in Europe worth mentioning - Austria, Naples, Cologne, Netherlands, Wurzburg and Modena. They're currently at war with Venice and Russia, while Naples is having a separate fight with the Papacy.

TreizeV: AWFULLY empty. I'm wondering if I stumbled onto an exploit. I kept my troops one province away from the front lines figuring the AI might 'calm down' and send everyone home. It worked better than I thought. I don't know where the English armies are, but they're sure not on my border! Maybe they're in Montreal waiting for me to get saucy, maybe the AI did what I did and is trying to trick me. That would be a shock! Admiral Howe and his armada are missing also....

Draco Rexus: The balloon is up!

Judge: Oh, they're out there somewhere. Maybe Germaine was right and they're planning to invade France?

Judas Maccabeus: Oh, it'll get messy. Even if the British Army doesn't show up, Stewart's going to make bloody well sure this gets messy.