Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

Draco Rexus: It ends our attention to the northern campaign. There's one more battle I could write about, but it was even more pitiful than this one. The post after this one will summarize things nicely.

We have one more look at the south, then it's time for the final major battlefield of the War of Martyred Trees :rofl: : Philadelphia.

Stuyvesant: Well, that was less intentional. They're in a forest. The Loyalist really had two choices: Hit a soldier, hit a tree. He chose badly.

And no...no tradepost burning. I agree that's a nice harassment tactic, but I was building up my warscore so the British would get the hint. (You lose the warscore for any TPs you burn.)

Corruption: Yes you are! Or just start reading from here, and sooner or later you'll meet all the major characters.

Storey: Lessee...
I have a spreadsheet for who's in Congress (and how long they're available, when they retire/die, etc.) I only look at it when I'm preparing a Congress scene though.

Other than that...notes on the action, and far too much thinking through different possibilities in my mind. Honestly I don't keep enough notes for something this huge, I'm constantly picking through this very thread finding out minor details like "Who's Preston's assistant again?" and so forth.

The major characters I have a pretty good grip on. Assuming nothing changes...and it has innumerable times already...I know what should happen to them. It helps if my main characters travel together also, like John and Tom

------------------

I've now played through the end of this second war, which will coincidentally end Part II of this AAR (which I believe will have four parts.) The computer threw me....a fairly major curveball, but I think I can make it work. That's the nice thing about this being an AAR rather than a 'regular' story - the game's thrown enough oddities at me to keep the story constantly changing. Sure, I could ignore the game (and have on minor points), but that's no fun.

(Of course, sometimes it's a headache trying to get the plot moving again when the game just derailed you. Exeter's completely trashing the south in 1779, for example, was completely unexpected. But it made for a better villian, and maybe even a better story.

-= 95 =-​

4 September, 1781
Near Pensacola, West Florida


"Good morning, General."

"Good morning, sir!" Benjamin Lincoln fell in next to his commander and together they walked the encampment followed by two guards.

"Any word from our friend?" Thomas Heyward paused and looked at the distant trees, wondering if one of them held an assassin with a rifle.

"No, sir. As I mentioned yesterday I believe he's given up the ghost. There's been no sign of him since we arrived here."

"No, General." Tom shook his head. "He's out there somewhere. I can feel him."

"Of course." Lincoln frowned. "Sir, I should advise you that Generals Allen and Steving are reporting dissension in the ranks."

"They're hot and sick, General. We're in a swamp and it's late summer."

"Yes sir. I mean...no, sir." Lincoln turned. "Sir, the men wonder why we wait here when we should be attacking Mobile. General Steving in particular asked me to advise you that the men are tired of waiting." He indicated the distant Escambia River. "If we defeat General Arslan, then maybe we can go home."

Heyward clasped his hands behind his back and regarded the man coldly. "Is that your opinion also, General?"

"I....Yes, sir. I have word the northern army's moving on Ticonderoga and Canada, the men believe we've stalled. Even Colonel Preston had time to sweep the east coast and catch us."

"I will not fight General Arslan."

"Why?" Lincoln demanded sharply. "No man here can call you a coward, yet here you won't fight. What are people to think? I can tell you what they're saying!"

"You are being indiscreet, General." Heyward's eyes were like two black pits. He turned to his guards. "Leave us."

The sergeant paused. "But...But sir, my orders are...."

"Is everyone defying me today? Leave!" Once they were alone he turned back on Lincoln. "Unlike some people in this army I see no honor in needless butchery."

"What are you implying?" Lincoln demanded.

"Oh come, General. Exeter hurt you a few years ago and you want revenge. You wouldn't be the first man to get a thrill from killing someone."

"General Heyward!" Lincoln glared around the encampment. Several nearby men had assumed wooden 'know-nothing' expressions. "General," he hissed. "You have no cause to speak to me this way."

"Do I not? I know damn well you and Steving and Allen meet behind my back, and..."

"You are being paranoid, sir. I am advising you we have a problem." Lincoln glared around again. The nearest men took the hint and left.

"I am not attacking an army, with equal numbers, across the West Florida swamps if there's another way. Arslan is contained, that's enough."

"It is not, sir."

"What are you saying? You want my command?"

"If I wanted your command," Lincoln hissed, "I would have it. We are a long way from Charleston, sir."

"If this is your idea of a threat, sir..."

At that moment General Steving appeared and gripped both men's shoulders. "Gentlemen, may I suggest we take this elsewhere?"

"This is a warning, sir," Lincoln ignored the Virginian's presence. "If you wish to spend hours mumbling about symbols and greater enemies, then that is your lookout but this army is mine. We came here to do a job, and we will do it."

"You are crossing that river with this army over my dead body."

Lincoln's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "That would be regrettable. Sir."

"Gentlemen!" Steving snapped. He turned to Heyward. "Sir, there's a man to see you. We believe he's a partisan leader from Mobile."
-----------------------------------

"I am sorry, my friend. I do not recognize this." Dieter von Zahringen, a/k/a 'Le Lion' passed the battered slip of paper with its bent cross back.

Tom sighed. "Someone has to."

"I make no doubt." The Badener studied his friend closely. "I understand you've had some trouble. Did my messenger arrive in time?"

"Not in time, no. A few days later." Heyward nodded, remembering the Cherokee who'd come to the American camp two days after the battle to warn about Stewart. "I appreciate your trying though."

"Not at all. I cannot tell you how much of an assistance these Creek and Cherokee have been to me. As near as I can tell they truly just want to be left alone. I can respect that." Baden was in much the same position, facing annexation by France, Austria and sometimes even Bavaria. "It is much the same with the United States, wanting little more than to not have to fear her neighbors. I believe once this war is behind us your country and theirs can become good friends."

Heyward thought of Edward Rutledge and smiled faintly. "I doubt it."

"I would regret that." Von Zahringen sipped at something that might have been wine once, and made a face. "Forgive me my friend, but this is..."

"I know. We don't get much wine out here."

"I suppose that is true. All the more reason to come to Mobile! There you will see a tavern..."

"Et tu, Brute?"

"Pardon?"

"You think I should attack also?"

"There is no reason not to. The city is undefended, except for some forts of course."

Tom furrowed his brow in confusion. "What about Arslan?"

"What of him? Oh, did I not tell you? General Arslan took his entire army and struck into Creek territory to find...well, me." The Badener grinned. "All they'll find is a French garrison and native tribesmen of course. No, my friend. Again, excepting some forts and any reinforcements - the pirates your people hired for the Gulf appear to be pro-British I'm afraid - the city is quite open."

Tom considered. He might be able to satisfy that warmonger Lincoln, and still spare any Brits for when the Nazis finally made their move. "You will stay with us, of course?"

"I will not." Von Zahringen shook his head and smiled. "If you can handle Mobile I think I will introduce le Lion to the coast between New Orleans and your army and discourage the British further. I dare say we about have this war wrapped up." The Badener sighed. "It's almost a shame."

"What? Why?"

"I've become used to playing the renegade."

Judas Maccabeus: Hmm...was it common knowledge in the 1940s that it was an (East) Indian symbol? Even if that's true, I don't know how many would be in the southeastern US in 1781.

J. Passepartout: Uhm...nope, General Arslan is not an 11th century sultan :rofl:

Draco Rexus: As Stuyvesant guessed, Tom doesn't realize how strong an ally America can be if it gets its act together. Plus, he's rather obsessed right now. You're right though, he's losing it and he's very close to losing his command.

Stuyvesant: Hm, I probably could have named Arslan better - but I introduced him back in Chapter 75. It was a little late to change names Anyway no. My plot's rather weird, but teleporting in historical characters is a little over the top.

Though that could be a fun AAR. "Oh my God, it's Attila the Hun!"
"What? Didn't we beat him last week?"
"No, that was Genghis Khan!"

As for AI curve ball, it's beginning right about now.

-= 96 =-​

25 September, 1781
Halifax, Nova Scotia


Wolfe's Inn, named for the heroic general slain on the Plains of Abraham outside Quebec during the Seven Years War, was a popular attraction for officers of the powerful North American squadron. Not a day passed where the common room wasn't filled with the blue, white and gold of the Royal Navy, or the red of their marines and those in charge of the six thousand defending Halifax from American incursion. Captain John Andre didn't look out of place here therefore, and none took notice when he first bought a drink to steel his nerves, then silently ascend the stairs.

Captain Andre was one of those rare men that spymasters love: Smart of course, quiet and discreet. Most importantly Andre could memorize and process details and observations. A few hours unguarded conversation could say much about a person and what they wanted. It was Andre's continued, accurate, insistence that loyalist fervor along New York's Hudson River valley still ran high that explained the continued 'unofficial' militia raids deep into their heartland.

Just as useful from a spymaster's view, Andre could be charming when he chose. He knew how to put someone at ease which allowed for easier discussions. He loved art. He loved debate, so long as he didn't need to commit himself. A perfect operative, even in an unofficial capacity.

"Yes?" A door opened at Andre's knock and a hotel servant looked up anxiously.

"Is Mrs. Foster in?" Andre reached into his purse and pulled out a small card.

The servant read the major's name. "Yes, sir. Please come with me."

He followed her through an opulent common room - drapes, paintings, a polished table made of a wood Andre couldn't identify, and the scent of .. lilacs? The servant led him into Foster's bedroom then left, smiling and closing the door behind her. Andre arched his eyebrow curiously.

Anne Foster was tall and thin, with curly blond hair. Like Andre she'd learned long ago how to charm people and put them at ease. She'd quickly learned three things that spurred her career with the Foreign Office. First, men seemed to respect and admire (and leave alone!) women who were married, which explained the junior operative pretending to be her husband. Second, few men considered a woman threatening unless she were unusually catty or aggressive. Third, people always assumed the worst. She stood now, peering over the buildings of Halifax in a flowing blue dress with gloves like she planned to go to a party.

"Ma'am?" Andre bowed and she turned.

"Good morning, Captain." She smiled and indicated a chair against the wall. "Please have a seat. Would you like a drink?"

Andre could be rakish when he chose, but a married woman's lair was a little beyond his depth, especially when he'd expected business. "Please." While she poured from a crystal decanter he looked around. More oppulence, easily the equal of his father's house earned through a lifetime of mercantile activities. The scent of lilacs was stronger here.

Anne leaned close as she handed him his drink.

"Ma'am, this is ...irregular," he murmured.

"Don't be foolish, Captain." She smiled to take the sting from her words and walked to her window. "You were observed coming up. There is a devillish American in the square now taking notes." She smiled down at the fool before firmly pulling the curtains closed. "So long as he thinks we are intriguing against Mister Foster, then they will not suspect our true purpose."

"Of course." Captain Andre downed his drink in one gulp and studied her closely. Straight backed, like a tree...rigid. Perhaps even paranoid, even now her eyes darted back and forth as if she expected another devillish American to pop out of her closet. "I was told you required my services."

She regarded him sharply. "Yes. How much do you know of what is happening at home?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. News is slow in coming here."

"As I suspected." She pulled another chair and sat across from him, almost knee to knee. "Lord North's government fell earlier this year. The Marquis of Rockingham and his Whigs are in power."

"The king must be furious." Though staunch supporters of the Hannoverians in general, the Whigs spoke out constantly against the current wars. They'd also made many enemies by insisting parliament needed reforming.

"The king has not been well. Anyway, that is not our concern. We have a new mandate, and that is to end this war while leaving Britain's honor intact."

"That may prove difficult." Andre sipped at his empty glass, frowned and put it aside. "Word from the south is General Arslan and their Heyward are stalemated in West Florida. Arnold's expected to intercept another of our 'raids' near Saratoga, and they have another army marching through New Hampshire. Raiders have captured all the Hudson Bay and Labrador territories. New Brunswick has of course been in enemy hands for years."

"It would be difficult if we didn't have someone inside the Continental Congress."

"What!? Who!?"

"You."
----------------

12 October, 1781
Portsmouth, New Hampshire


"Good morning, Mister Andrews." Meshech Weare, President (Governor) of New Hampshire shook his hand warmly. "I hope you were not inconvenienced. I only arrived in town this morning."

"Not at all." Andre smiled. "I understand you were in Dover?"

"Yes, sir. A niggling little case, both lawyers are quite .. active and energetic, I assure you." This seemed to vex Weare, who looked away. "It is my court, however," he swore. After a moment he smiled wanly. "But enough of that. It is not often we hear from the western towns. What can I do for you?"

Andre studied the man closely. "I do not need to tell you that the western settlements are... concerned about the degree of power focused on the coast."

"Yes," Weare frowned. "And I think a seasonal meeting in Concord is quite enough to satisfy them. It is natural law that most of our people live on the coast." At one point between wars the towns along the Connecticut River valley threatened secession, claiming the coastal communities dominated the state. It took several concessions to win them back.

"Oh, I agree entirely, sir. However I respectfully submit that were I to be nominated, and with God's blessing accepted to Congress, then their argument has no further bearing."

"And help your career at the same time, Mister Andrews?" Weare closed one eye and studied him sidelong.

Andre shrugged. "I have an eye on my own interests, certainly. However, I see no reason we cannot help each other. You want the inland settlements to let you get on with business. I can help with that."

"Perhaps." Weare frowned. "So you do not think Mister Peabody answers?" Nathaniel Peabody had represented New Hampshire for two years.

"I say nothing against Colonel Peabody. However, he's from Plaistow. Plaistow is too close to the coast, it does not answer back home."

"Where is home anyway?"

"Bennington."

"In the Green Mountains?" Weare gaped. "But that's in New York!"

"By order of the king," Andre replied. "However there are many in Ver-mont who do not accept this. I do not need to tell you the king's word is void. New York is unable to defend herself, let alone us ... and they treat us as, well, a colony. You have been generous enough to see me. Were I to travel to New York, even if I avoided raiders it would be weeks before I saw even a minor functionary. I promise nothing mind you, but I dare say there are those who would happily discuss joining up with a state willing to treat us as a partner, and not as a possession."

Weare narrowed his gaze. Irritating the arrogant, often whiny New York representatives who showed up in Portsmouth to make demands had definite appeal.

"Your plan interests me, Mister Andrews. I want you to come to dinner tonight. There are some people I want you to meet."

Judas Maccabeus: Perhaps someone will recognize it then.

Draco Rexus: It gets worse. The crap's about to hit the fan.

Dead William: Actually Zahringen has a name: 'Le Lion.' If he starts calling himself the Fox he's gonna make Zorro fans mad.

Stuyvesant: Hmm..no, no rebellion...though it's safe to say New York and New Hampshire are going to be very angry with each other soon.

Samuel Clemens: Mm...well, I guess the biggest hole in your idea is Heyward doesn't have the authority to declare war, and I can't see him convincing anyone that jumping the BWB's a good idea. Further, the American navy is very small, currently insufficent to even chase the pirates away from their shores. Third unless he's specifically targetting someone's ancestors, he should be trying to destroy Prussia.

-= 97 =-​

13 December, 1781
South of Allentown, Pennsylvania


Pennsylvania in the waning days of autumn: Cold and crisp, but no snow. The road to Philadelphia, packed dirt criss-crossed with ruts from a thousand wagons and covered with brown, orange and yellow leaves that crinkled and snapped with each hoofbeat. Occasionally children would rush to greet the two travelers, or farmers who recognized what they were about would nod in respect. With only one year's break, Reverend John Witherspoon had ridden the lonely miles from Trenton to Philadelphia every December and by now he was as certain a sign of winter as the promise of snow in the grey clouds and moisture filled air.

"I'm sorry, but I must rest." Witherspoon wasn't quite sixty, but years of political wrangling had taken their toll. His breath came in short rasps and he shielded his nose and mouth against the cold blasts.

"Of course." The second traveler led his companion off the road. Together they dismounted, and while he gathered wood Witherspoon rummaged through his pack for some tea.

"It must be a terrible burden to travel with me. You must be with child to get to Philadelphia. I know I was the first time I went there."

"You are no burden at all." 'Jonathan Andrews,' the new delegate from New Hampshire, struck his flint over a few dried leaves once, twice. The leaves caught, then almost reluctantly the wood. Witherspoon gratefully moved closer to the flame, filled his kettle with water and began heating it. "I've enjoyed our conversations considerably." I've learned so much, my friend.

Witherspoon smiled grimly. "You would have arrived days ago without me."

"A few days makes no odds. We should arrive tomorrow anyway, don't you think?"

"I believe so." As the reverend drank his tea they talked of politics and religion, justice and honor, gardens and love, and of course the war quickly approaching its fourth year. "There are days I wonder if it will end in my lifetime," Witherspoon commented.

"It will." Captain Andre smiled over his tea.

"You sound certain."

"I have faith." Andre made the sign of the cross and it was Witherspoon's turn to smile. "Plus, I have some..news from Britain. I believe their government will make us an offer soon. A generous offer," he added. Now that I know what you blokes want.

"Camp, ho!"

Andre looked up to see two scruffy men approaching leading horses of their own. Armed, Andre noted immediately, with a pistol in their belts and a knife. "Wait here," he ordered Witherspoon tersely.

"But..."

The British captain stood wordlessly and walked towards the pair. "Good evening, gentlemen."

"Evenin'! We were hopin' to share the fire. I hope you don't mind." One of the men smiled while his partner moved to Andre's side. He turned slightly so both men were in his field of vision again.

"It is always good to meet fellow travelers," Andre replied neutrally. "Where do you come from?"

The pair exchanged a look. "Philadelphia!"

"Your horses are remarkably fresh for the ride up."

They exchanged another look. "This one has good eyes!" chortled the first.

"He does," agreed the second.

You are left handed, Andre noted. I will have to put you down first.

"Who's there?" Witherspoon called from the camp just out of sight.

"What's that?" demanded the first.

"My father," Andre replied coldly. "He is very ill, so you'll forgive me if I decline."

"Oh? C'mon down, father! Unless you want your boy to get it!" He reached for his pistol, but Captain Andre was ready. He opened his coat, pulled out his gun. The first levelled his pistol and fired, a hasty panicked shot into a tree P). Andre fired, one down. The second had drawn his gun, but was searching the ridgeline for Andre's "father." Saw something behind the spy, paled. Andre kicked his knee and punched him in the nose. The second one fell. Andre picked up the man's gun, levelled it.

"Don't. Please!"

"Andrews!"

"In the name of the king, I find you guilty of brigandage," Andre whispered automatically and fired. A sudden bang, sulphurous fumes, the grainy taste of saltpetre, and silence.

"The king?" Witherspoon asked softly behind him. The spy turned violently. Damn! He'd forgotten the old man! The reverend was out of breath from his rush to help and sat down heavily. "You aren't from New Hampshire, are you?"

"No." Andre frowned at the ground..

"You're English."

"Yes."

"Then what are you doing here? Really?"

He shrugged and sat down, automatically cleaning the thief's pistol. "Just what it looks like, Reverend. I'm joining your congress."

"To sabotage us?"

"No, actually." 'Andrews' looked up and met the man's gaze. "If you must know I'm there to help pave the way for peace. A simple vote and we can end this war. Then as soon as I may, I'm going home."

"And you think this...mission of yours is going to help us build a sense of trust?"

"Trust is secondary in politics, you know that." Absently Andre ripped open one of his own cartridges and began reloading the gun. "After last February's attempt at peace failed, it seemed we needed an advocate within your ranks. Your Congress is too radical to be expected to act reasonably, and thus unreasonable methods must be employed." He added a pistol ball and rammed it home. "Think about it: All this fighting, over land. It's rather strange."

"This isn't about land, this is about freedom!"

"Of course it is." Andre held the gun loosely and regarded Witherspoon. "And that is why your .. companions went to such extremes to resolve this peacefully. No sir, they couldn't wait to start fighting. Or shall I remind you who declared war on whom in '78? You're not going to tell me that was about freedom."

"It was about our right to thrive and expand. Am I to believe Britain would have just handed over what we needed?"

"Of course not." Andre sniffed. "We would have demanded and taken concessions. But don't you think we would have tried to avoid this?"

They were silent for several long, miserable moments. Finally Witherspoon sighed. "What happens now?"

"My mission's unchanged," the spy answered softly.

"I see." Another pause. "You know I can't not say anything."

"Of course not."

"Then you're going to shoot me?"

"Yes." Captain Andre levelled the loaded pistol.

He didn't know if he expected the priest to beg or curse, but instead Witherspoon calmly looked into his eyes. "Death to tyrants," he replied quietly.

The gun fired.

As the darkness claimed Reverend Witherspoon at last, he heard the rustle and crumple of leaves, felt a raindrop, then: "I will make sure this wasn't for naught."