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Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

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Haha Preston's lost his marbles! along with the majority of the respect i had for him as a character ;) oh well. Good to know that Rutledge keeps Heyward busy ;) despite what you say, i still consider him a good villain :D

keep up th good work!
 
Hear hear! Well spoken! Go ahead and do what you need to do to make your story flow the way you want it... just keep up with the updates! :cool:
 
Those are nice custom events -- nothing really major, but they go very nicely (for obvious reasons) with the game and story as you have laid them out.

I wish I could do something like this but I have been too intimidated to try any scripting.

Good work with the story, which is shaping up as a masterpiece. No kidding, you've got a real gem here. Bravo!
 
Just caught up with your story. Excellent introduction to the story and you have managed to keep a high level after that too. Highly interesting :)
 
Machiavellian: Hopefully this next post helps with Heyward's plan. :)

Storey: Hopefully that gets answered too! Right now there's very little he can do, but Tom plans to have a long 'chat' with Rutledge at some future date. This isn't over yet.

TreizeV: I shouldn't say this, but Rutledge is turning into one of my favorite characters. He always has some fresh trick up his sleeve. ;)

zacharym87: Thanks!

Draco Rexus: Fair enough. New update on the way :D

jwolf: Well, I'm actually with you. Scripting events really intimidate me, especially since the ones I wrote above aren't triggering quite right yet. That's one of the reasons I'm keeping the values small, I don't want to start a chain of in-game events I can't stop if need be. The other is there are events out there, which for historical reasons really alter the way a game plays..such as the Chinese revolts or the Austrian annexations. I want to stay away from anything severe since I don't want my game play determined by how well or badly I can script an event. Plus, that's cheating. :)

Judge: Thank you and welcome!
 
Chapter 39: The Last Thing I Ever Do.

25th October, 1777
Wilmington, North Carolina


The cat drank blood that day.

General Steving might find the Army an honorable profession, but it seemed to Heyward, in full dress uniform, hat under his arm, watching gravely as the cat of nine tails fell again and again, that he was in the minority. Drunkenness, disobedience, sullenness, contempt - Lincoln's Army was having a very bad day.

Though perhaps it wasn't all the men's fault. You couldn't fault someone for not knowing their duty, though such things as the brawl that broke out in the Second North Carolina Horse and the collision between two infantry regiments practicing a simple march-step defied easy explanation. He glanced sideways at Steving, whose face was dark with anger.

"Seven months, sir?" whispered his major gravely between sentences.

"Seven months, Mister Kiernan." Seven months until the Redcoats died laughing...

No, they didn't know their duty. This became increasingly clear now that the veterans of the early campaigns were overborne by raw recruits...though perhaps 'recruit' wasn't the proper term. Tom was alone there in having read the Articles of Confederation and they were clear: Congress asked each state for a certain number of troops, and it was up to each state to comply...or not if they felt it was unreasonable. The larger states - Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia - easily filled even very severe quotas with enlistees eager for glory or adventure. Other states, such as the Carolinas, shrugged and emptied their gaols. It seemed Mary-land won this particular bout though: "Can't spare anyone, so sorry."

After the defaulters were brought to the light, as it were, came the Articles of War - or more correctly the Articles of War according to Congress as of September 1776. Brigadier General Steving read these in a loud, displeased voice. After talking to his colonels he'd expected trouble, though perhaps nothing quite this unholy.

"It is earnestly recommended to all officers and soldiers diligently to attend divine service....."

"Whatsoever non-commissioned officer or soldier shall use any profane oath or execration, shall incur the penalties expressed in the foregoing article; and if a commissioned officer be thus guilty..."

"Whatsoever officer of soldier shall presume to use traitorous or disrespectful words against the authority of the United States in Congress assembled, or the legislature of any of the United States in which he may be quartered .... shall suffer such punishment as shall be indicted upon him by the sentence of a court-martial."

"Any officer or soldier who shall behave himself with contempt or disrespect towards the general, or other commander in chief of the forces of the United States, or shall speak words tending to his hurt or dishonor, shall be punished according to the nature of his offense..."

"Any officer or soldier who shall begin, excite, cause or join in any mutiny or sedition.....on any pretense whatsoever, shall suffer death, or such other punishment as by a court-martial...."

"Any officer or soldier who shall strike his superior officer, or draw, or shall lift up any weapon, or offer any violence against him ... or shall disobey any lawful command ... shall suffer death, or such other punishment as shall, according to the nature of his offense..."

"Such other punishment according to the nature of his offense as determined by court-martial." That statement rang so often through the Articles that Heyward's attention drifted, wondering not for the first nor last time just how he'd wound up among these men who knew nothing about 'Great Wars' or Hitler. The Luftwaffe and H-bombs, too, belonged to the far future. Those first years he'd woken up every day expecting to find himself at Stonehenge, or perhaps his flat, or even a hospital for he'd surely gone mad with grief. Day after day the chance this was some wild delusion grew less, and day after day the twin questions grew in his mind: Why? Just as importantly, How and Who?

No clues, alas. The only man who even suspected something was wrong was Edward Rutledge, and he assumed Tom was a British spy - or worse some common trash coming it too high by stealing a gentleman's place. For five years now he'd pondered the question, and still the answers eluded him. "Why" depended entirely on "Who" of course.

God? Tom remembered that bitter night when the abyss and eternal silence looked so inviting, begging to see his love one last time - but Jessie hadn't come, and anyway this seemed a rather round-about way of granting a wish. Anyway, after six years of fighting the Nazis he didn't really believe anymore. The Devil then? Well, these colonies struggling for freedom certainly weren't heaven, but they weren't hell either. He'd met some good people here, had some good times...

That pretty much cleared the supernatural front unless there really was some magic in old Stonehenge. Said magic would belong to thousand-year dead druids though, or if you believed tales perhaps the fae. Neither one really had cause to care for North America. That made no sense either.

So back to "Why." His only possible hint, flimsy at that, was he'd apparently been riding to join Congress when ... whatever ... happened. Joining Congress implied his ... predecessor ... was pro-independence.

Heyward loved England. He'd grown up believing she was irreproachable, and in his heart he still knew this to be true. However, he also believed ... he had to believe ... he was here for a reason, that some random energy discharge hadn't transported him through time just to prove it could be done. There was a reason he was here, and it had something to do with the freedom of this fledgling nation. Further, since the Revolution had failed where he came from, each American success smashed the timeline where Jessie died just a little more. So, he defended them. At least until he found some answers.

"Perhaps there are none," Major Kiernan offered.

"Eh!? What was that?"

"General Steving, I think he's run out of articles." Kiernan stared up at his colonel, a short, round-headed, curly-haired man in his early twenties. Kiernan was a gentleman's son who'd earned his rank by connections, but at least he wasn't a complete blockhead. Plus, said father served in the South Carolina assembly and Tom would need them to return to Congress. It was only in Congress he could do something about that sanctimonious son of a bitch. Serving in the Army during a war might help also...

The soldiers grimly returned to their cannon pointed more or less at the distant trees. Tom saw a shadow in his command tent and patted Kiernan on the shoulder. "If you can get our guns to that ridge," he pointed, "we'll get a few rounds off and let them have some practice." Plus, for some reason the loud bang, the recoil of the gun and the heady smell of gunpowder made them feel more energized, happier. He only hoped that held true when they finally found someone to fight.

While limbering the cannon for transport, number nine's wheel inexplicably failed again leading to a good deal of swearing (suppressed as Kiernan ran over) and more labor as men struggled to reattach the wheel and, yet again, stare at the axle to guess why the cap wouldn't hold. Tom saw none of this for he had ducked his head under the canvas flap. His guest jumped to his feet.

"Herr von Zahringen. It is good to see you! How come you here?" For a dread moment he thought it was John again...

"Colonel now, my friend," he smiled. "I am now an attache to your General Washington. It merely formalizes what I have done for Congress all along, travel from army to army and report on the state of affairs as you know. You would not believe the discreditable shuffling my friend, how so many men could have forgotten the basics of their trade while marching up and down this land defies the mind, and I tell you true - some of those in other armies belong in a pensioner's hospital, not an army! I do not need to tell you, sir, how much all this relocation has cost the government either. I understand the mint in Philadelphia is publishing all sorts of letters of credit, promises against the future if you will. Already the bankers are looking askance."

"Well...colonel. I'm sure it's only a temporary measure." So much for a balanced budget. Let me guess, the states are skipping on their taxes again...

"I'm sure it is. I dare hope so also, for your sake. I may say one thing for these changes however, it confounds our enemies as much as it does our allies. The English are pulling troops from the border, I don't think they know what we're about."

"That makes all of us." Tom smiled.

"May I ask how your...friend does? The boy from New York?"

"John." Heyward sighed. "He... He's not doing well. I thought time would soften the blow but he's given to reflection...brooding. His father was moderately wealthy and there are servants to run his father's house, so he spends his days .... well, not doing much." Frankly it baffled him. Tom learnt very quickly what eighteenth century medicine said about depression, and he'd just as quickly rejected it. He thought John just needed time to work things out and he'd come around. Heyward sighed. "He talks to no one. He sees no one. I come when I can get away, but with all these transfers that's less and less frequently, and he doesn't even want to see me when I'm there."

Heyward sounded rather melancholy himself, dejected. von Zahringen bit back what he was thinking and instead said: "I will be passing through there. There's an ugly rumor about Georgia I contracted to check out. Do you have a message?"

"No......no, sir." Tom shook his head. "There's nothing I can say that will help."

The Badenite shook his head and stared at the table. You are wrong, my friend, he thought. But do not worry, I will deliver the message you want to send but can't. An extra day costs us little, we still have some time before the fire starts.
 
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Chapter 40: More Answers.

31st October, 1777
Savannah, Georgia Province
British North America

"And so, sir, I would value your opinion."

"Certainly. Kill them. Immediately."

Patrick Walker looked up from his notes slowly. He was a young man, recently promoted to his current role as head of naval intelligence for the southern colonies. He stared across the desk at its owner, into cold, even inimical eyes. "But sir," he began slowly. "We don't know that they're double agents."

"We cannot afford to take the risk, Mister Walker." Henry Stewart carefully balanced a knife between two fingers as he spoke. "I do not need to tell you that this entire North American fiasco has made us the laughing stock of the world. The American intelligence service consists of neophytes, but they are not stupid, sir. They know we have withdrawn our troops and wonder why. Their one admiral, a man named Jones," Stewart ignored the question of why they had an admiral with no war fleet and continued, "has an accurate list of Admiral Howe's squadron as of six months ago, down to the signaling tenders. We cannot take the chance that your intelligence net has been compromised. Take care of it."

"Sir," Walker frowned. He knew he'd have to get his hands dirty some day, but he never thought it'd be so soon...or with so little proof. "Sir, both these men have families. I really don't think they'd turn against us. I would really like to be certain before we terminate their employment."

"You do what you want," Stewart answered coldly. With a quick flick of his wrist the knife spun end over end, missing Walker by an inch as it sailed into the door with a solid thud. "Just remember, if anything goes wrong, if any secrets reach the American ears, they will ask me what happened. And I will tell them Mister Walker said he had concerns about two agents, and though I advised him on how to close the security breach he refused. I wonder what happens next."

Walker flushed. He hated threats as much as the next man. It was credible, though. Stewart had a way of making people disappear, and a complaint for the governor's ears was well within his ability. "I will take what you say under advisement," he answered stiffly.

"Do that. I would hate for your daughter to lose her father because of a simple error. Such a pretty child. How old is she? Six?"

"What do you know of my daughter, sir?" demanded Walker. Threatening him was one thing, commenting on his child was another.

"Oh nothing, sir," answered Stewart with a smile. What was it Sun Tzu said? Make your enemy angry..? "Nothing special. Nothing I don't know about every single person in this God forsaken swamp."

Walker caught the emphasis. Frowned. "Aye," he grunted.

"Very good Mister Walker. Let me know if I can be of further assistance."

Fool, he thought as Walker left. Doesn't he know what's at stake? This entire ________ war could depend on one secret, one army's movements. And London sends some guy with weak bowels and a ________ conscience. What the ______?

"It's strange you should object to double agents." The door to his private chambers his private chambers! opened, revealing a man Stewart nicknamed 'Black.' His dress - black coat, black waistcoast, black breeches and polished, buckled shoes explained the nickname, though it defied his grey hair fading to white as well as his pale skin. Despite this he looked about thirty, slim with full lips women found attractive for a reason Stewart had never figured out. He leant on a slim black cane for effect, though both knew he didn't need it.

"How did you get in there?" he demanded. "The windows are sealed!"

"Oh Henry, Henry." He tsked. "You should know that's no barrier to me. I come and go where I please. What's it been now, a few weeks?"

"Five years. I've been in this ____hole for five years."

"Already? Yes, I suppose so. Time does fly my friend, as you know better than anyone here." The stranger paced across the room, sitting and crossing his legs. "How are you, Henry? You seem ... unhappy."

"What do you want?"

"Well," he brushed his nails on the lapel of his coat, "I do admit I was curious why you failed." He glanced up at Stewart, his eyes almost jet black.

"I haven't failed. There's been a delay, that's all."

"The United States still exists. I call that a failure. You were supposed to stop their revolt before they became independent."

"I did everything I could!" Stewart slumped in his chair. "The British had some forty or fifty thousand men, but the colonials made peace too fast! We didn't have time to finish them off, then the ________ Frenchies recognized them and we had to respect the truce."

"We?" The stranger chuckled. "You actually think you're one of them now, don't you?"

"No! I..."

"You really identify with these people. You're growing soft, Henry." The stranger stood. "I don't like soft."

"I am not! I'll take care of it, I just need some more time!"

"Time. Your time is running out, Henry. There will be one more chance to stop the Americans. If you fail then everything we know will change."

Stewart knew this. Everything in the future changing might not be such a bad thing, really.

The stranger sensed his hesitation. "Using Mister Walker's family against him was a useful trick, Henry. I wonder what made you think of it? I wonder just what would happen to your wife and your daughter if you keep displeasing us?"

"Damn you!"

"Who shall damn me, Henry? God? God is dead. We dragged Him screaming to the altar, bound His arms and legs, then ripped His heart out. Think about this: Would you rather stay here with these primitives knowing just how horribly your family paid for your crimes? Or would you rather see them again and find what happiness you can?" Black smiled, he knew he'd won. He always won. "You also need to be aware, Henry, that you are not the only one from the future. The Americans have one too, that is how you were thwarted. You must find him and kill him."

"Who?" Stewart asked numbly.

"You're the intelligence expert, Henry. You tell me." He smiled. "This war or never, Henry."

"Okay."

"Okay, what?" The stranger headed for Stewart's private chambers again.

"Okay...Sir."

"Heil Hitler." Black saluted, then left.
---------------------------

Stewart slumped in his chair and poured himself a drink. A big drink. Then he just drank from the bottle. "God," he whispered. "Help me."

In the next room the stranger smiled. It was useful for Stewart to think he was a Nazi, what better way of controlling a man than playing on his fears? He'd better succeed. America had to fail. World War Two had to turn into a nuclear holocaust. The world had to destroy itself in fire.

Or else.
 
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Well it seems the Nazis are spreading throughout the forum. :D I have to admit you fooled me with this information. It certainly opens up the story to go in almost any direction. :cool:


Joe
 
First, a quick apology. I realized this morning that my editing just wasn't up to par last night and I've made a lot of corrections. If something confused you last night, it might be worth a re-read. :(

Judas Maccabeus: Yes, everything is going on the line VERY shortly. Let's just hope I remember how to play the position once I restart. :cool:

Languish: Thank you and welcome!

Judge: Yes, the war should be ugly. I don't think the AI knows that yet though. ;)

jwolf: Thank you! Pretty much all the major characters should be in place now (though more seem to crop up all the time.)

Storey: I know, what's with the Nazis lately? Actually if you read closely, "Black" thinks it's useful for Stewart to THINK he's one. 1946 Germany can't time travel any more than 1946 Britain could - and they certainly wouldn't want the world destroyed. ;)
 
Whoa that was nuts, a nazi?! :eek:

Btw, for some reason your nazi villain reminds me of that gas mask guy from Hellboy. Simply badass :D can't wait to see what you have in store for our heroes ;)

wickedcoolstuff_1803_21058038
 
Judas Maccabeus: Yes, plenty of questions. :D

TreizeV: Hmm....well, I promise you it's not him. :)
 
Chapter 41: Awakening

6th November, 1777
Charleston, South Carolina

"Master Preston, please?" Dieter von Zahringen studied a black woman who must have weighed fifteen stone (210 lb, 95 kg). She wore a simple pale blue dress with a white apron and white kerchief.

She studied him with sad brown eyes. "I'm very sorry, sir, but Master Preston is not seeing ... Sir!?" This as the German pushed past her into the main hall.

"Where is he?" he snapped.

"Sir, I beg pardon if I was not clear." She indeed sounded apprehensive. "Master Preston is unwell, he bids..."

"Bedroom? Well enough." von Zahringen climbed the stairs. The Badenite (1) opened his black coat as he climbed, the wind outside was fierce.

"Sir!? Sir, please, I cannot..."

"I need a basin of water and a straight-edge," he barked in a voice meant to carry over thundering muskets. "I will also need boiling coffee if you have it, bread and cheese." von Zahringen turned away from her astonished, dismayed expression.

"Oh dear, oh dear," she bustled into the kitchen. She couldn't come out of this unscathed. If she defied the stranger - the white stranger - and he had legitimate business, she could expect punishment. On the other hand, if he wasn't welcome she had failed to help her master, and that wouldn't do either. Not that Preston was given to punishments, he was far too lost in his own torpor. The outdoor slaves believed he'd been cursed, or infected with some wasting disease. She cried out at the shot overhead.

John lay, somewhere in a nightmare involving Cassie and a rapacious British soldier, when his door slammed. Martha? No, the stride was wrong. Quick, sharp. He opened his eyes long enough to see a dark shape dart across his room, then suddenly he went blind.

"Wake up, boy." von Zahringen turned from the open curtains and seized the boy bodily, pulling him to the ground covers and all. "It is mid-morning."

"Who the devil?" Preston's eyes finally focused as he glared upwards. "I remember you, you were in New York!"

"Yes. I come with a message from your friends. You've curled up and died long enough, it's time to get back to business."

"Who sent you? Heyward? That son of a bitch will..." John jumped to his feet, glaring.

"That son of a bitch has saved you from more pain and humiliation than you can possibly imagine. So did your cornet, for that matter, and you've paid them back by this?" He glanced around the room, not exactly in military order. "It is time to stop feeling bad and get on with it. Every able-bodied man in this country is gearing for war, and..."

"I don't care."

The Badenite paused. Shrugged. "Very well." He drew his pistol and pointed it at John's heart.

"What are you doing!?"

"If you are prepared to lay down and die," von Zahringen snarled, "then I may as well help you. Your friends will be sad, but at least then they can stop living in the past as well."

"You're bluffing."

He turned his pistol to the open window and fired. Before Preston could react, the German had drawn his other pistol. "Let us try this one more time."

"Master Preston!" Martha ran up the stairs, heaving her fifteen stone with surprising agility. "Are you al....EEEE!!!!" She stared wide-eyed at the pistol.

"Leave us!" the German roared.

"Sir?"

John licked his lips, staring at the barrel. "Martha....Get the constable, tell him..."

"Contact the constable and I will finish my mission before you return, madam. I am from the Army, and this man is a defaulter. Do you know the penalty for interfering with the Army, madam? Five hundred lashes - if you're lucky." He hated intimidating her. There was no honor in striking at someone who couldn't fight back. von Zahringen was out of options however, and nodded slightly as Martha's eyes sank to the floor. She left sadly. Definitely no way to win.

"Now then. Are you that certain you want to die?"

"I don't know what makes you think you can come here," John began harshly, " scare my servants, draw a pistol in MY house! I don't care who sent you, you're ridiculous!"

Anger. Anger was better than torpor, but still a cover. The German sniffed. "What do you care? You're already prepared to die."

"I didn't say that!"

Dieter said nothing. He simply waited.

"I mean... look, I need time, that's all."

"Time. That is where your friend - and mine too - made his error. Time only works if you have something important enough to stave off the grief. Otherwise you brood. Brooding just magnifies the loss, and soon you start blaming others for what they could have done." He uncocked his pistol and put it away. "Then you start blaming yourself, then you stop trying."

"Leave me alone."

"I cannot. Too many people are counting on your return. Not to mention it is your duty."

"Duty?" John howled, whirling. "Duty? Do you know where duty got me? This! If I had gone against my duty maybe I could have found her! Maybe she'd be alive! Maybe we'd be....."

"Maybes solve nothing, boy. Didn't your father teach you anything?"

"Leave my father out of this!"

"I've heard about him you know. At least he was willing to die free, rather than feel sorry for himself because some things one has to fight for."

"You don't know anything! I could have saved him! I went there to save him! Instead..." Preston stared out the window stubbornly.

"No one could have saved him," von Zahringen answered, not ungently. "God called him home. You do believe in God, don't you?" Preston nodded sullenly. "Then you know there was a reason. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. It happened. Don't dishonor his memory and your woman's by giving up now. You're needed, now more than ever."

Martha appeared in the doorway, trembling, with the basin and straight-edge.

"Haven't you read the news? The British are coming. And we're not ready." He walked to Preston's desk and held up the paper.

philedit77.txt

By the same author as the first one on page 1 or 2. :)

---------------
(1) Okay Judas, I've been guessing. Maybe you know. Is it Badenite? Badener? Badenian?
 
It appears, from what I have seen, that Badenite is the word an english speaking person could use, and Badener is what someone speaking in German would use.

Good update, by the way. I like our Badenite/er more every time you mention him.
 
J. Passepartout: Another possibility for English: Badenese. :( After I started thinking about this I realized English is extremely inconsistent about this. Given they're a German state, I'm leaning towards Badener now.
Thanks!!
 
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