Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

Draco Rexus: A sort-of ally. She feels she has a debt to repay, and really has nothing else to do at this point.

J. Passepartout: She still might. Anything can happen in this AAR :X

Plushie: Hm, Middletown is distinctly listed on a 1780 map. Perhaps.

Fulcrumvale: Well..yes. He would've done well to not leave the army a few months ago too

Judas Maccabeus: Probable :X

Chief Ragusa: Somehow I think Black's not going to want to explain himself to Congress. I suspect the political fur is about to fly.

Lordling: Hi! Thanks and welcome!

You're right: Bast and Black have millennia of experience on him. On the other hand his human soul gives him an advantage... if he can reconcile the two. He's currently in control, but only by a thread: He has two distinct 'personalities' and it wouldn't take much for them to come to the fore and for him to slip entirely.

Pennsylvania
September 1784


Phillip Waymouth's boarding rooms in Philadelphia; the sitting area filled with stuffed chairs of all colors borrowed from neighboring apartments for the occasion preventing an easy walk. In one of these chairs sat Wesley Harding hunched over a draughts board. His brow furrowed and from three feet away Major Andre could see the vein on his temple throbbing.

"It is uncommon hot," Harding complained. He loosened his neck cloth and scratched at the stump of his arm, which had begun to sweat.

"Take your time!" Andre lounged, one arm draped over the back and watched his opponent closely. For all intents and purposes a triple jump ended the game three turns ago. He wondered how long it would take him to concede.

"All right," Harding announced. "I'll move..."

He swung his head to the door, having heard the key slip in. It opened and Andre leapt to his feet, scattering pieces everywhere. "Christ!"

"I'm happy to see you as well, Major," Foster said with a smirk and a curtsy. She slipped to one aside to allow the two men to enter.

"What the..." Andre caught himself. "What is she doing here!?"

"She's my guest," Waymouth said firmly, closing the door. "You would do well to remember that."

"But she's... God's blood man!"

"She's what, Major? A spy?" She smiled.

Having recovered most of the pieces, Harding rose and bowed. "Have we met?"

"No," Andre growled. "You were away. Anne Foster, Cornet Harding, American Army."

"Your servant."

Foster's smile became more genuine. "Likewise."

"Let's get down to business. Ma'am? Sit here. General? Good." He frowned. "First I think Major Andre should repeat his findings for those not at Congress today."

Harding's eyes widened as he spoke. "Can Governor Moultrie do that?"

"Son, Governor Moultrie can do whatever he wants," Waymouth answered. "The question is what we do about it."

"That is why I have to go," Tom said.

"Go? You can't go!" Andre said. "Your trial's not over!"

"Do you really think you'll get a satisfactory answer from Charleston?"

"That's not the point!"

"What is the point, Major?" Foster asked. "You know as well as I that even with Pinckney compromised this trial could go badly. His desertion charge was dropped because everyone was angry and in shock. Nothing prevents them from trying him again once they've recovered. It will take weeks to get a reply from Carolina, weeks to rationally decide he's expendable!"

"Expendable?" Harding echoed.

"Meaning she thinks they might punish him anyway," Waymouth said. "Ma'am, I believe you underestimate the caliber of men we're dealing with."

She lifted her chin. "That would be difficult."

"Nonetheless, I think General Heyward's right about leaving."

"Mister Waymouth..."

"Major, I don't pretend to know what this is all about, but if Governor Moultrie's willing to blackmail a delegate to Congress we have a bigger problem than I thought. Sometimes in a war you need to gamble if you want to win."

Andre sighed and looked at Harding. The young Cornet looked like he'd been pole axed. No help there. "Fine. What do I have to do?"

"Go home," Tom said. "Tell the Foreign Office people were getting suspicious, but get out of here. If anyone outside of this room ever finds out Britain's had a man in Congress all this time, then we'll turn into a police state."

Andre wasn't sure he knew a police state entailed, but it sounded bad. And he could go home! "Just like that?"

"Not quite. Tell them what you've seen and heard." Tom wanted Britain ready, able and above all willing if this turned ugly.

"I already have." He smiled.

"You can borrow my horse," Wesley said suddenly, looking up. All eyes turned to him. "If you're leaving, then the constables will be after you, right? You need to be miles away by morning."

Heyward nodded. "Thank you."

"I want him back when this is over!"

I hope to oblige you. Tom glanced at Waymouth. "You'll cover me?"

He nodded. "As long as I can."

"Mrs. Foster, will you help him?"

"No," she said. "I'm going with you." Everyone stared. "You need protecting."

Andre laughed. "You? Protect him? God, woman, weeks ago you tried to kill him!"

"I know..."

"Ma'am, a word with you?" Tom led her aside. "I need you here."

"I want to help."

"You are helping." He leaned closer. "Considering how you came to us in Trenton I'm guessing you can't go home. Am I right?"

Tears sprung into her eyes and she looked away. "You are cruel, General," she hissed.

"You can find a new life here. Start over." He glanced at Waymouth. "If this gets ugly, I need someone skilled in intrigue here in Philadelphia. He's Army. He's too direct."

"You're Army!"

He smirked. "We both know better."

"What are you?" she demanded softly.

Before he could reply someone knocked on the door. Waymouth jumped to his feet. "That should be Captain Jones. He wanted to see General Heyward."

"Me?" Tom walked over as the door opened. Jones walked in, sweating in full dress uniform. "Captain, it's good to see you again."

"General." He smiled. "Gentlemen, lady." He bowed at Foster. "General, I'm on the wing: New orders to patrol for raiders near Bermuda. Before I left though, I felt it my duty to give you this."

Heyward furrowed his brow and opened the old Charleston newspaper.

SAVANNAH, Ga.
In the predawn hours of the 30th, Miss Anne Whiting was slain at Pelton's Boarding House on George Street. Miss Whiting was found in the company of Mister Malcolm Kelleher, a known agent of His Majesty's Colonial Office and fled to Georgia with Maj.Gen. Thomas Heyward following his attempted murder of Mister Edward Rutledge and subsequent defection.

"I'm very sorry, General. I hoped...what I mean, is that it didn't seem right to distract you in the middle of your trial."

"General? Are you all right, sir?" Waymouth asked. He looked ghastly.

Heyward folded the paper and paced to the window.

Following Mister Rutledge's guidance, Col. Jonathan Preston infiltrated Savannah to capture the Major General. Having apparently learned of his deliverance to Halifax, there to coordinate with enemies of America, British authorities believe Col. Preston exacted vengeance in our name and ensured Miss Whiting could not compromise us further. For this he has our eternal gratitude.

Jones shook his head. "I'm sorry." He turned to leave.

"Captain."

He turned. "Yes, sir?"

"Are you returning to Charleston?" No hint of emotion.

"I can stop there on the way back. Why?"

Tom clasped his hands behind his back. "Please tell Colonel Preston that the next time I see him..." He turned, and for a moment Jones would have sworn his eyes were jet black, "...I am going to kill him."

Fulcrumvale: No, that's very bad.

Chief Ragusa: Hmm...they wouldn't. All 'eternal gratitude' tells him is a Carolina paper wrote it. Naturally the Carolina paper could be lying...

J. Passepartout: ...except they aren't. It's true Heyward would suspect the press is being manipulated, and that kernel of doubt may prove vital. The problem is if he picks up a Savannah paper it's going to say the exact same thing: John IS their number one suspect.

Draco Rexus: Hm.... I like that. Untidy. I think I'll add it to my sig.

Tom is indeed wavering. He's very unstable right now. One minute his control is nigh on perfect, the next...natch. For him this is more than a quest for control over his new powers, but control over his own mind. Hopefully time will help him along.

J. Passepartout: What a good idea. Let's hope Waymouth and Foster think of it!

South Carolina
September 1784


Cassandra Preston paused at the bottom of the stairs, a thoughtful frown on her face as she watched John, dressed in a frilled white shirt and pants, wrestle with his neckcloth by a mirror. He looked worn and old, like her father had once life finally beat him down. He grunted, pulled, and a flaw in his knot choked him. He ripped the cloth away.

"Give it to me," she commanded, stepping forward with arm outstretched.

He turned like a child caught in mischief. "Cassie, I thought you were up with Chris."

"I was." She took the cloth, wrapped it around his neck and worked, biting her tongue as she concentrated. John looked away and sighed.

"What's troubling you?"

"Oh, nothing. Ack!"

"Sorry." She loosened the cloth and smirked. "Let's try that again. What's troubling you?"

"Cassie..." He shook his head. "I'm just tired."

That much was the truth. They met almost nightly now and each meeting drained a little more of his spirit and hope for Carolina.

She looked up. "There's more, isn't there?"

"Give it here." John took back control and turned to the looking glass.

Cassie huffed. "It's the Patriot's League isn't it!? That's where you're going!"

"Yes." He frowned at his reflection. Close enough. "Where's my jacket?" He turned for the door.

She took his arm. He hung his head and shuddered.

"Johnny?"

"I don't know how long I can keep doing this," he said in a hard tone. Maybe Tom had the right idea after all: Just run, go somewhere and get out of the way. Of course, he couldn't do that.

"What do they want you to do?"

"Oh, you know, good of the state and all that." He laughed and sniffed. "Christiana must be protected, right?"

"From who?" He pulled his arm away. "Johnny!"

"I'll be back late," he said without turning. "Don't wait up." He slung his coat over his shoulder and trudged out.
-----------------

"John." Black looked up from the podium. "I am pleased you could join us."

"I was with my wife."

Three men, not the entire League but its inner core, sat in the front pew of St. Michael's Church and regarded him as he walked down the center aisle. He scowled at them.

Mister Sparrow smirked. "And how is she, the delectable creature?"

Preston lunged across, grabbed his neckcloth and thrust him in the air. "What the devil do you mean by that!?"

Sparrow gurgled and clawed at Preston's grip.

And this, Black thought, is why I like him. Entertainment value. "John, I believe you've made your point. He's turning purple, sir."

Preston threw him into the pew.

Sparrow gasped and rubbed his throat. This was the second time Preston laid his hands on him. "You will pay for this!" he gasped.

"Name the time and place."

"John, have a seat. We have much to cover." Black paused. "I am happy to see your fighting spirit is intact, sir, but let's put it to use against our enemies, shall we?"

"What news from Philadelphia?" one asked. Preston looked at him, a tall man of about thirty in a dusty civilian black coat.

"Gentlemen, this is Mr. Butler from New Bern, North Carolina representing their interests in our program."

"This is a South Carolina matter," the last man interjected with a slight Irish drawl: Thomas Marshal, the Port Master. "No disrespect to the gentleman, in course."

"If Carolina is to come together," Black retorted, "then our interests and theirs must become one and the same. To answer your question, we have no word from Philadelphia. We expect a positive response within days, or we Carolinans will see to our own affairs."

John watched them talk, reflecting how much Moultrie resembled Rutledge in so many ways. He found it unsettling. Perhaps high office did something to a man. If so, he never wanted it.

Perhaps that was why Malcolm Coleridge, the reverend at St. Michael's, no longer stayed for their meetings.

Sparrow argued for tighter controls. The Post-Courier, after being burnt once and reopened by Moultrie, began a running dialogue not far from righteous indignation. Moultrie called it ingratitude, but in truth the newspaper's editor, Mark Pratchett, was only doing what every other editor in the new United States was: Questioning and demanding answers.

John expected nothing more from the older, limp wristed banker with a deaf wife and no children despite many, many attempts. "What's wrong, Sparrow? Afraid of a little criticism?"

"A little criticism...," Sparrow began.

"A little criticism is one thing, John," Moultrie answered, smiling. "However where is the line between criticism and sedition? We agree that it's all right to question in a respectful, constructive way but there comes a time when such can only do harm to the nation. By attacking your leaders, you undermine the very fabric of society. Suppose Mister Pratchett's rhetoric succeeds and that he is able to advance his own dissident platform. Suppose the people lose respect for us. Do you think they will keep obeying laws they do not care for? Do you think they will want to serve in your Guard or the militia? And who, sir, do you suppose will follow us? Who will want to open themselves up to the sting of Mr. Pratchett's lash by representing the state?"

"Of course." As he said it though, John's eyes narrowed. That was almost the opposite of what Moultrie said only a few months ago. "A man of rightful conduct should not fear criticism, Colonel. He knows his intention is honorable, and he alone is fit to judge whether he erred."

Then he stiffened and looked around. Were they alone? Yes.. John looked up in the rafters. Nothing. He would swear they were being...

"Did you hear me, John?"

"Eh? No, my mind was elsewhere."

Moultrie smiled tightly. "Kindly give us your full attention. Mister Sparrow is right. I think it's time for us to deal with Mister Pratchett in a manner that leaves no doubt."
---------

Twenty feet behind him a figure in black crouched in the shadows of the hall leading towards the church hall and Coleridge's office.

No....I don't think so.

Lordling: I'm not sure if John's catching on so much as he's realizing Carolina can do a lot better in leaders than he's been seeing. At any rate the fact he's not blindly following is promising.

Chief Ragusa: Nope, it's not Tom. You're right, Sparrow's not far from a 'fatal' error.

J. Passepartout: Nope, not Bast. See my comment to Stuyvesant I have read parts of Director's Frontier and enjoyed it.

Actually if we're talking about the same official... he's more in the 'good' Moultrie's camp. Though he has accused the media of bias more than thrice, it's obvious he doesn't care about other's criticism because he's sure he's right. That's the weakness in Moultrie's argument: You can think you're right and so dismiss criticism...but still be wrong.

Fulcrumvale: Mayhaps

Stuyvesant: Foster is sort of lost right now. Like Tom said, she can't go home for obvious reasons and, as you say, she's looking for a way to survive. She's also somewhat grateful that he took care of her insanity and doesn't know what to make of it.

Hopefully Tom will figure out Preston's not guilty. Hopefully when they meet it won't turn into another argument. If they can ever actually talk about what's been happening they'd make a pretty god team.

And nope, not Bast. Remember these 'angels' seem able to detect each other: Gabriel sensed Bast, Black sensed Wasp, and I think Tom once 'almost' sensed Black after his change. If the crouching figure was an angel, Black would have detected her instantly. In fact, the crouching figure is human...which is exactly why Black had no chance of sensing he was being watched.

South Carolina
September 1784


"I hope she doesn't worry," John Preston said. He stood in the wide entry hall of the armory looking through the barrel of his pistol. Crud. Literally. He took a small brush and rammed it down.

"Your wife, sir?" asked his second for tonight's operation, Sergeant Callahan, a short, fat veteran of the last two wars. Like Preston he dressed in the blue and red of the Carolina Guard, pouring powder into his own pistol. He would've been happier with a musket, but they already had three riflemen. Anyway if there was any violence, it would be thrashing the apprentice, no more.

"Yes. She don't like that I'm out so late these days."

"Women," Callahan muttered. He'd never married, and everything he heard suggested he'd made the right choice. Of course having a warm, willing companion in your bed did have its advantages. "Maybe she misses you."

Preston caught the inflection and frowned. "Are the men ready?"

"Aye, sir. They're waiting outside."

Preston began loading his pistol. "Tell them I'll be right out. Remind them the apprentice is to be unharmed. Stop him if he tries to intervene, but don't hurt him."
------------

The nights were always worst for Mark Pratchett. Sleeping alone after fifteen years of marriage just didn't feel natural. At least twice a night he'd reach over and find...nothing, just a cold sheet and pillow. He'd make a forlorn attempt at mastering himself, failing as often as not, and hope God was taking care of her, that she was happy.

It didn't help that Nate, his apprentice, was an insomniac. He heard the boy bumping around downstairs either tinkering with the press or struggling his way through yesterday's paper. He'd be near worthless tomorrow, God rot him, but he could still turn a crank and that's he really needed to do.

Pratchett heard a sharp clunk from the balcony window overlooking his small yard and grumbled. "Princess, is that you?"

No, stupid human. I'm right here, thought the cat nestled against his knee.

He reached down and awkwardly pet the animal, then lay back and closed his eyes. "Mary, I wish you were here..."

The balcony window unlatched with an unmistakable rattle. Pratchett sat up. "Who's there!?"
------------

"Shall I send men to the back?" asked Callahan. The five soldiers moved quickly, but quietly through the streets of Charleston towards their objective, boots rapping on cobblestone. A cool breeze hinted at an early autumn.

"No," John said. "There should be no problem." And if we're really lucky he'll escape in the confusion. "Have the men cover the door, and you and I will knock."

"Aye, sir." Callahan pointed. "Looks like Pratchett is already awake."

John nodded at the flickering lamplight in his window. "Let's go." Fly, fool!
----------

The balcony door slid open and in the dim starlight Pratchett barely made out a man shaped outline. He yelped and reached for his drawer, for his pistol.

The figure bounded across the room and grabbed his wrist. "I'm not here to hurt you."

That voice, that smell. "You're a woman!"

"Sh. Listen: The Carolina Guard is coming to arrest you for sedition. They will be here any minute."

"They wouldn't dare!" hissed Pratchett. Whoever she was, she wore a black cap and some cloth over nose and mouth, black shirt and breeches. "Who are you?"

"A friend."

"Friends don't break into my house! Na...!"

She smothered his scream and forced him back so his head rapped on the wall. "Do you want to be captured, fool?"

"They wouldn't dare," Pratchett repeated. "Can you imagine the uproar if that happened?"

"Even if Moultrie ordered it?"

"Moultrie!?"

"Shh..."

A boy's voice. "Master? Did you call?"

"Yes!" the editor called. "Go..."

A loud knock downstairs interrupted him. "Open in the name of the Carolina Guard!"

Pratchett froze. "Oh my God."

"Tell him to stall. Get dressed. We're going."
---------

"Shall we break the door down?" Callahan asked eagerly.

"Not yet." John paused, then thumped on the door again. "Open up!"

A dog barked, and a lamp lit - in the next house over - and a balcony door opened. "Who goes there!?" a voice demanded.

"Carolina Guard!" John shouted. "Go to sleep!"

The click and snap of multiple latches, and Pratchett's door opened to reveal a young man of perhaps eleven years. He trembled, somewhere between excitement and fear. "Yes?"

"Take us to your master," Preston demanded. Callahan pushed past them both and entered, pistol drawn.

"My master is sleeping," Nate squeaked, backing up to block the stairs. "Come back tomorrow!"

"We'll see him now!" Callahan barked. Tears sprang in the boy's eyes, but he held his ground. "You little cur!" He backhanded the boy.

"Sergeant!" John snapped. "Stand down!"

Nate scrambled back, clutching the red imprint on his face. "Master! They're on the stairs!"
--------

The black-clad woman shoved Pratchett's desk chair under his door jamb. "Let's go!"

"Nate..."

"They won't hurt him. Come on!" She opened the balcony doors wide and looked around. No sign of guards. She leapt on the balcony ledge, grabbed the edge of his roof and, grunting, shoved herself over. "Come on!"

"I don't..." Pratchett stood on the ledge, but grew dizzy as he looked down. "Help!" He instinctively lunged up and she grabbed his wrist. For a long moment he dangled there as she grunted, using both hands to hold him and shingles rattling among them. "Grab the roof! Hurry! Up!"

"There he is!" a musketeer on the ground, attracted by the noise, called. "Get the colonel. You there! Stop or I'll shoot!"

The woman reached down, grabbed his belt and hauled Pratchett up. He lay there panting.

"We have to move!"

"Just a moment!"

"We don't have a..."

The musketeer fired, a flash in the dark and whistling as a hail of shingles fell around them. A distant voice, Preston: "Cease fire!"

The editor leapt to his feet. "We're trapped!"

"Not yet. Follow me!" The woman sprinted towards the edge of the roof, towards another house.

"Oh my God!" He followed.
----------

"Sir!" the musketeer snapped to attention. "He's on the roof, and there's another one too!"

"Eh?" No way Nate could have gotten past them. "Who!?"

"I don't know, sir!"

"No more firing! We want him alive, him and his friend!" Preston looked up and drew his pistol. He hoped Pratchett escaped, but who the hell was this person?

"He's jumping!"
----------

This part of Charleston was built like most colonial cities, with narrow streets and smaller alleys. She cleared the alley with feet to spare and landed on both hands and one knee. Pratchett landed next to her on his face.

"Who the devil is out there!" shouted someone from the balcony window.

"Come on!" she snapped, rising to her feet and charging across this roof too.

"Oh my God."

Two houses. Three. A fence defied John and the others. They hurried to the street, but were already over a house behind, and in this failing light...

"They're approaching King Street!" shouted Callahan from behind. "They're trapped!"

Preston nodded. No man alive could jump over an entire street. He saw movement on the last roof. Too bad, it was a noble effort. "We want them alive!" he reminded them.
----------

Pratchett stumbled and fell to his knees, heaving. "We're trapped!" he gasped.

"Not quite yet." She hadn't expected the Carolina Guard to move so fast. What to do? She could see them running towards the house. "Stay down!" She considered, then nodded. "Give me your shirt."

"My dear lady, I..."

"We don't have time to argue!"

Reluctantly he obeyed and the woman grimaced. Pratchett's skin was pasty white from too many days indoors, visible in starlight. "Try to stay out of sight." She threw his shirt over her shoulders, then took off...in the opposite direction!
-----------

Preston skidded to a stop as Pratchett leapt a roof...towards them! "They're doubling back!" he shouted.

Callahan heaved for a moment and nodded grimly. The three musketeers exchanged looks, then took off in pursuit.

John alone noticed the faint gleam of skin on the last house. He smirked. Well played. "Wait for me!"