Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

[coz1]

Calling CatKnight...calling CatKnight...hello?

RL getting in the way? Hope to get an update to this excellent AAR soon!

I agree. Don't leave us hanging for too long (though I am one to talk. )

 

[unmerged(28944)]

Aye, I was wondering why I hadn't seen a new post from Cat.... I dare say I truly hope RL doesn't put to much of a hamper on dear Cat.

 

[Stuyvesant]

Let me add to the chorus: hope you can update soon, CatKnight! I've been without a Resurrection: Rebirth fix for almost two weeks now, I'm all settled in in St Paul and I'd like to complete the picture with more on Heyward's adventures!

 

[Samuel Clemens]

Let me add to the chorus: hope you can update soon, CatKnight! I've been without a Resurrection: Rebirth fix for almost two weeks now, I'm all settled in in St Paul and I'd like to complete the picture with more on Heyward's adventures!

St Paul, really? Awesome. Another joins the Minnesota fold.

Hope everything's all right, CK, so while I'm anxious to see what happens to Heyward next, I'll be one of the few to actually say take your time if RL issues are more important right now (though we all mean it even if we don't say it).

 

[Machiavellian]

It seems that Catknight has been away as well. I hope that he returns soon, I was expecting at least two new updates to read.

 

[CatKnight]

"The phoenix is a mythic bird of surpassing beauty, large as an eagle, that soars triumphant, reborn, from the ashes of defeat and destruction. It can neither be diminished nor destroyed. With its plumes of brilliant scarlet and glowing gold, it represents new life in numerous cultures. Ancient tombs unearthed in Egypt have images of the phoenix rising from a bed of flames.

The rebirth of the phoenix symbolizes the resurrection of man. Down through the ages, it has also come to represent divine power, royalty, and survival against all odds. Over and over again, the magnificent bird bests its enemies and takes flight, whole again, from the embers of ruin."

I'm starting to think someone doesn't want me to finish this AAR. They're going to be disappointed..

I want to apologize to everyone. All sorts of things happened - RL decided to kick me somewhere unpleasant, something happened to either this site or my computer and I couldn't get in for the longest time, and.... well, a lot. I never forgot about this AAR though, or your kind attentions, so l'm happy to finally be able to come back and see what's been happening. I've truly missed you all.

Now then, where were we....?

 

[CatKnight]

-= 88 =-​

18 April, 1781
Charleston, South Carolina

No son, it's only beginning....

Warm, soft hands slid up John Preston's bare back. Fingers traced his ribs, and thumbs firmly kneaded the hollow of his back.

"What are you doing, Cassie?" he asked softly.

"Hush." She kissed him on the back of his neck then bit his ear gently followed by a sharp nip. He yelped and tried to twist around, but she gripped his upper arms tightly and kissed his throat.

Preston arched his neck, his breath quickening which only encouraged her. She bit gently and hugged him close so he could feel her breasts hot against his back. He growled instinctively, twisted around and pulled her across his lap. He cradled her head and cupped her chin, leaned down, kissing her fiercely. She responded immediately, His hand slipped past her throat and chest, squeezing her breast gently. Cassie gripped his arm tightly but didn't stop him, instead arching her neck as he nipped and kissed her throat. He could feel her heart hammering, her panted gasps. "Johnny....Johnny....Jo..."

"COLONEL PRESTON, WAKE UP!"

Preston jerked upright in bed. Morning. Morning, he was alone, and his head pounded. "Hell and Death!" he cried indignantly. "Who's there!??"

The door opened and Jacob poked his head in, a tall, thin slave of about thirty. "I beg pardon, sir, but Miss Rafferty is downstairs!"

"Cassie!?" John leapt out of bed and looked around for his clothes. "Why didn't you wake me!?"

"I..." I just did. "Beg pardon, sir."

"We'll deal with this later. Where are my clothes?" Preston tore about. "What the devil did you do with my clothes!?"

"They're there, sir." Jacob pointed.

"Fine. Now, I need my washbasin, shaving kit and....get my chamber pot! And..."

----------

"Here's your tea, miss."

"Thank you, Martha." Cassie reached up and took the delicate cup and plate from her, trying not to smile and failing. John's roaring and crashing about could be heard through the house. "When did Colonel Preston get home?"

"Miss? Oh..." Despite weighing over two hundred pounds, Martha tended to be shy, especially around white people. Rafferty had never been unkind however. "...after midnight."

"Drinking with his friends?" Now she did smile.

"I...believe so."

"Then I imagine he has quite a headache," Upstairs something crashed, unleashing a fresh volley of curses no gentlelady should ever have to hear, which is to say Cassie knew them all.

Martha smiled back, then quickly looked down to hide it. "Perhaps," she agreed softly. In truth she was just happy she wasn't Jacob right about now.

Hurtling steps, like an elephant or herd of buffalo that stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. A moment later Preston descended slowly, straight backed, absently jerking his vest into place. "Miss Rafferty," he began formally. "A good morning to you."

"Colonel Preston," she answered, rising. "I hope I see you well?" His eyes were bloodshot, and it looked like he'd tried to shave with a medieval battleaxe. She stifled a chuckle.

"What's so funny?" John asked suspiciously, taking her hand and bowing slightly.

"Oh nothing, John. Nothing at...," She laughed harder. She didn't want to, but he looked so...

"What!?"

"Uh.." Cassie looked up, blushing and grinning. "Martha was telling me a joke."

"Was she?" Preston turned on the appalled slave.

"Yes...yes sir."

"She's a rare one for wit," Jacob added in a monotone behind him.

"Let's hear it then!"

Martha regarded the trio with dismay.

"I will tell you on the way," Cassie answered, stepping between them. "You were to go riding with me this morning, you haven't forgotten, have you?" She looked down shyly, knowing that would drive any question of jokes from his mind.

"No, of course not. Been looking forward to it. Most happy, I just need to..." Her glances might make him forget about Martha's funny bone, but nothing could stop his stomach which made its presence known with a painful lurch. He looked at the kitchen hopefully.

"I packed a lunch," Cassie replied firmly. "Come."

They rode for some time, away from town so no one would see his face, stopping at a clearing near a brook along the Post Road. She spread out a table cloth and they sat. While she passed out their lunch John regarded her attentively, dressed in a tan riding outfit.

"Is Mister and Mrs. Rutledge still treating you well?" he asked finally.

"Hm? Oh, yes." She smiled. "Mrs. Rutledge continues to school me on etiquette and manners, assures me going to your house alone is quite improper, and these rides are worse by far. Says she cannot answer for any rumors that start, that if I am not careful I will have a reputation for a tramp, and..."

"I will kill anyone who calls you a tramp," he swore darkly.

"I'm quite capable of caring for myself, John Preston," she answered sharply. Then, after a moment, "She's only trying to warn us."

"Damn her. Ow!" He rubbed his thigh where she'd smacked him.

"The Rutledges have been kind to me, Johnny...and you. What do you think would happen if they asked me to leave, hm?" She shook her head sharply at the prospect.

"You could stay with me."

"Oh yes! A woman living without escort under her fiance's roof. Tramp would be the least of your worries then!"

"Since when did you give a damn what others thought?" he demanded petulantly. He bit viciously into his sandwich, then drank a swig of...something. Juice?

"Since I agreed to marry into one of the most renowned families in South Carolina," she regarded him somberly. "You may not like it Johnny, but you know how important reputation is."

"And who told you this? Mrs. Rutledge?"

"Is there something wrong with wanting to be respectable?"

"Is this you talking or her? Perhaps I should be courting her!"

"You are a stubborn, pig headed brute, John Preston!"

Preston sighed and rubbed his forehead. Damn headache.

She leaned close and continued softly. "You know something of my life, Johnny. You know...my father and I went to York. I...I don't know if I can ever talk about that, John, I know you're wondering... but what's important is I'm not going back."

"To York? That's fine, but..."

"To that kind of life. And if that means I need to play whatever social games they play here, that's what I'll do..."

"Like when you knocked me down when I saw you again?"

"Last time. I did not knock you down. You tripped."

Another long pause. "Are you marrying me just to avoid whatever was in York?" he asked in a low tone.

"Don't ever call me that again," she warned softly.

"What!?"

"Someone who marries for money or privilege is a...."

"I didn't call you that," John snapped. "I just...you just said you weren't going back, and..."

"And I won't be the cause of your family's fall!"

"You could never..."

"And neither will you. And if that means we have to play nice when it comes to appearances, then that is what we're going to do! I love you, John Preston, but you know nothing about how the world works."

"Oh? Please, do tell."

"Someone's coming."

"What!?"

"Hush!"

Preston looked around sharply. He heard nothing, saw nothing. "Cassie..."

"Shh!"

A moment later he heard it too, a horse at full gallop coming from Charleston. "So? It's a road. We're not doing anything."

"He's coming for you."

"What..." Before he could finish an army soldier in blue and white galloped around a turn in the road. He spotted them immediately and trotted up.

"Colonel...Preston?" The messenger stared at Preston's botched shaving attempt and looked over quickly. "Miss Rafferty? A good afternoon to you both. Your slaves said you might have gone this way."

"Well, you found us," John growled, rising. "What is it?"

"Orders, sir!" The messenger handed over a packet.

"Orders? I'm on leave!"

"Sorry, sir."

Preston tore the seal and read:

On behalf of General Thomas Heyward, Commanding, United States Fifth Army to Colonel John Preston, Sir:

You are hereby ordered and directed to return to Saint Augustine immediately upon receipt of this message there to receive further orders from the officer in charge of said army I have the honor to command.

Signed by General Benjamin Lincoln, Acting Commander, United States Fifth Army on the Eleventh Day of April, 1781

"Hell and death," Preston swore.

The messenger glanced at Rafferty, flushed and looked down.

"Do you know what these say?"

"Not precisely, sir. Only that I am to carry you to a waiting tender. Another officer is arranging for your personal effects now."

So soon? "No...I mean, you can go."

"But sir, I'm commissioned to..."

"Go! Tell the tender captain with my compliments I will join him by sunset."

"But... I mean, yes sir. Yes sir!" The messenger galloped off.

Cassandra rose and gripped his arm. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "That you have to go, I mean."

John shook his head and turned. "So am I. And about...everything, but how did you know he was coming?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes I get a feeling. I'm almost never wrong. Woman's intuition?" She tweaked his vest. "I thought we'd have more time."

"So did I." Damn Heyward. Couldn't even do his own butcher's work, made Lincoln do it. Acting Commander my...

"Don't look so angry. We still have this afternoon." Tentatively she wrapped her arms around him and hugged tightly, trying to keep the fear and worry back.

"Wouldn't it be more proper for me to head back now?" he asked a little cynically.

"You know nothing, John Preston." She kissed him lightly, then led him back to their picnic.

 

[Stuyvesant]

You're alive and posting! Nice way to end my Sunday, reading a new update on Resurrection. I was particularly pleased with the sequence of John's lustful dream, the rude awakening and his clumsy, hungover attempts at getting presentable.

Does you posting mean that your real life issues have been resolved for the time being? Can we look forward to a faster pace of updating than in the last two months? Regardless, good to see you back writing, CatKnight.

 

[J. Passepartout]

Yes, does this mean we will have regular postings?

I liked the first sequence, I knew it was too good to be true. Preston is still a bit of a jerk, though. Drunk and whining about orders.

 

[Dead William]

I agree with Stuyvesant, welcome back. And John should sober up and get a grip on himself! The drunken lout!

 

[LewsTherin]

A routine check of my subscriptions reveals an update from CatKnight! The day has been made!

What a way to wake up from such a pleasant dream...and before it could progress. Oh well, such is life, I guess...

I, too, hope for more regular updates.

 

[unmerged(10971)]

Okay, CatKnight, just because I often update irregularly doesn't mean you can.

In any case, though, nice to see Preston's still his normal, irresponsible self.

 

[unmerged(28944)]

Oh happy days, Catknight as returned!

Like everybody else, it seems that John has continued to be his immature self. Oh, won't he feel a wee bit guilty when he returns to St. Augustine to see what Tom has to had to deal with since John left.... won't that be a nice scene to read.

 

[CatKnight]

Stuyvesant: My real life issues should be resolved for now. God save there's no repeat any time soon. As for my updating pace ... well, see for yourself!

J. Passepartout: Preston definitely has a petulant streak he'll need to deal with someday.

Dead William: Welcome to the show. John get a grip? Hm... maybe some day.

LewsTherin: Well, I should be able to beat one post every two months from here out. From reading other threads I've concluded that part of it was the server issues Paradox has been having. Hopefully that's about to be taken care of.

Judas Maccabeus: But...that's not fair!

Draco Rexus: Well, John's back....and he is definitely in for a surprise. Being knifed, smacked on the head and finding out your enemies are going nearly two hundred years out of their way to kill you does things to a person...

 

[CatKnight]

-= 89 =-​

23 April, 1781
Saint Augustine, East Florida


The Castillo de San Marco, or Fort Saint Mark, could clearly be seen from the deck of the USS Charlotte, a six-gun brig whose entire military career consisted of running up and down the Atlantic coast from Williamsburg to Saint Augustine while fleeing pirates twice and three times their strength. Colonel John Preston, United States Army stood near the ship's bow glaring resentfully at the stars and stripes flying over the city.

The son of a bitch had purposefully waited until he'd gone. John had lived in a disease infested swamp for nearly a year, and when it finally came time for the glory did he get to join in? Of course not. Why not send for him a day or two earlier, then they could have stormed the garrison together? Or, having failed in that courtesy, why call him back early at all? He could still be seeing Cassie....

Damn him. Well, maybe he saved me some stragglers. It didn't help that some assassin had tried to kill Tom, which made Preston uneasy though he didn't know why. Benjamin Lincoln had written that letter. General Lincoln, the man who systematically lost his entire army in what would have to go down as one of the great blunders in military history.

"God save he wasn't in charge when we did attack Saint Augustine," he muttered. "I might be the Army of the South."

"Sir?" The ship's commander, a very young man named Colebridge, walked to him. "Sir, we should be landing in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Captain." Preston frowned at him. "Were you here for the battle?"

"No, sir. We left the day after General Heyward was stabbed."

"Did anyone mention why it was so important I return?"

Colebridge's eyes widened slightly. "No, sir. I assumed it was because you and the general are friends, and you would want to be here if God called him home."

"Of course." Which was true, actually ... but damn the man's timing needed work. "A grievous wound then?"

"We didn't have the details when I left, sir. The men thought so."

Well, that might explain the attack then. If Heyward was out, and Lincoln had simply superseded him... that could hardly be Tom's fault could it?

"By the mark, three!" warned the leadsman, pulling his weight out of the water. Even a brig could run aground if it wasn't careful.

"Take us into the channel!" Colebridge called to his ship's master, who nodded.

--------

"Colonel Preston." General Lincoln returned his salute. "It's good to have you back. Please walk with me."

Preston shouldered his pack. "Yes, sir. And...congratulations on your promotion, sir."

"Eh?" Lincoln looked at the boy like he'd run mad. "Oh! No, that was temporary. General Heyward's resumed command of the army."

"Thank God."

"Of course," the general agreed cooly, trying to decide if he'd just been snubbed or not. "General Heyward is waiting for you as we speak."

"I heard there was some trouble."

"Yes. Mister Stewart is proving quite stubborn. He actually stole a rifle and shot at the fort the other day. He seems desperate - very strange in an assassin. I would have expected more...planning? But General Heyward is quite safe I assure you. It seems being stabbed does wonders for one's reputation." Lincoln smiled grimly. The man was on his sickbed and he still gets credit for the victory.

"Halt and identify yourself!" cried someone at the fort as they approached. John noted with surprise there were no less than six muskets trained on the pair from the ramparts.

"General Lincoln and Colonel Preston!"

"Terrier!"

"Chaucer!"

"Proceed, friend." Their challenger said no more.

"As I was saying," Lincoln noted wryly, "he is quite safe." Once they were inside the ancient stone halls though, his voice softened. "Be careful in there, Colonel."

"Sir?"

"General Heyward is...not himself."

Preston's heart chilled. He gripped Lincoln's elbow and turned to face him. "What do you mean?"

Lincoln sighed, baffled. "I'm not sure. He took a few blows to the head, he's acting a little...unusual. Perhaps I'd be the same if someone was devoted to killing me. Just...be careful." They walked into a sitting room with two more guards. "I'll wait here, Colonel."

The guards saluted as Preston passed and he stepped into a small office, undecorated except for a painting of the Duke of Marlborough during the War of the Austrian Succession. He found Tom standing, facing a window looking out on the swamps north of the city.

"Should you be standing there?" he asked. "I hear someone tried to shoot you with a rifle."

Tom didn't answer for a few seconds, then: "Good morning, Colonel."

Fine, I can do formal. "Sir." Preston saluted. "Colonel Preston reporting as ordered."

"Good. Have a seat." Still Heyward didn't turn, and the chill in John's heart increased. He sat numbly.

"It is a fine day, is it not?" Tom asked.

"It is." At least it was as fine as the weather could get in this infernal swamp. Eighty degrees on Fahrenheit's scale, and humidity nearing 100%. "General...Tom, are you alright?"

"Yes." It didn't sound like they were even in the same reality, let alone in the same room. "Though there has been some trouble. Did they tell you?"

"Yes, sir...which is why I don't think standing by that window is smart."

"Stewart can't hit me here."

John paused. "I...think he can."

"No. The land for a mile around is clear. He cannot hit me from beyond a mile."

"Beg pardon, sir, but some rifles have exceptional range. I don't know about a mile, but..."

"Not accurately, Colonel." Tom sighed, almost as if disappointed. "Not accurately. Your weapons are primitive. A single window in a fort from a mile away. No, I think not."

"My...?" Preston looked down. Lincoln's right. You're not well? "Can...I help you?" he finally asked lamely, hating how it sounded.

"Yes. I want you to take whatever horsemen you think sufficient, and sweep along the Florida coast. There are some trading outposts south of here, I want you to capture them."

"You don't want me to look for this Stewart fellow?"

"No. I suspect Mister Stewart is already doomed. He's trying too hard."

"You're the General of the Army of the South, he obviously thinks that..."

"He doesn't care about that. This is personal."

Preston paused. "So you know him?"

Pause. "Who?"

"Stewart!"

"No. But he has a master, one who will be displeased. That is why he keeps coming back. A trained assassin would be foolish to try again after failing. Plus, he's English."

A British assassin being English made perfect sense to John. He lowered his gaze.

"The trading outposts will be sufficient. No unneccessary brutality however. We're trying to force them to the peace table, that's it. Don't destroy the outposts, don't kill anyone you don't have to. We have to end this war soon so we can concentrate on the real enemy."

Preston shook his head. The British were the ones who killed his father and nearly took Cassie as well. "What real enemy? Tom, what are you trying to say?"

Now Heyward did turn and regarded his former ward darkly. He opened his desk and pulled out a slip of paper. "Have you seen this anywhere?" he demanded fiercely.

John stared at the cross with its arms bent at right angles. "No....?"

"Good." Tom took back his paper and sat heavily. "If you ever see anyone with it, kill them immediately. Don't ask questions, just shoot."

"But wh...?"

"Just do it!"

"Alright!" Preston leaned back, shaken by the naked hate in Heyward's voice. You poor bastard, what in hell did he do to you?

Heyward nodded. "Good." Once again he sounded distant. Tired and old. "Take the rest of the day to reacquaint yourself with your command...tomorrow's soon enough."

"Yes sir." He rose and saluted, then turned for the door.

"John."

"Yes?"

"Is your friend alright? The one we thought had died?"

"Cassie?" Preston flushed. "She's prime."

"You're lucky," Tom sighed. "Don't waste it."

True to his word, General Lincoln was waiting when Preston walked out. "What do you make of him?" he asked once they were outside.

"This Stewart fellow did something to him," John swore. "Half the time he's not there, then he starts raving about 'real enemies.'"

"I know. He gets better once you go along with his delusion. The surgeon thinks there might be some kind of pressure on his brain and wants to trepan him. So far I've resisted since he seems lucid enough less this one point of his. I've seen men get banged about and act a little strange, then snap out of it like it never happened." A trepan was a surgeon's tool not unlike a drill designed to bore a hole through the patient's skull. It was rarely used outside of life or death situations, since as a general rule the odds were against the patient surviving the procedure. "Did he show you that paper of his? The one with the bent cross?"

"Yes," John shook his head. "I wonder what it means..."

 

[Stuyvesant]

Another update! Great! Poor Heyward is a mess. And if he doesn't pull himself together quickly, he'll lose whatever influence he has with the Americans. They're going to think he's just plain crazy. And if that happens, he'll never have a chance to fight the Nazis from the past he inhabits.

"No. But he has a master, one who will be displeased. That is why he keeps coming back. A trained assassin would be foolish to try again after failing. Plus, he's English."

A British assassin being English made perfect sense to John. He lowered his gaze.

I liked that last sentence. With that, as well as with showing the swastika drawing, you do a great job of showing how Heyward is drifting away from what the Americans will consider normal behaviour. He is probably a bigger danger to himself right now than Stewart is. And then there's the specter of trepaning... Let me think for a while, see if I can come up with a suitably bad pun on Heyward "losing his head".

 

[unmerged(15337)]

For the love of God, please spare Heyward from 18th century colonial medicine! The poor man has suffered too badly as it is!

This was a great update and I truly enjoyed sensing Preston's attitude changing as he began the conversation with Heyward.

 

[Dead William]

Trepanning. I wouldn't recommend it. I did like John's sudden case of the shakes when he saw Heyward. Let's just hope they both can get their act together. Otherwise things might get even uglier.... It would be a shame if America lost its last, best chance at freedom.

Are you going to make tom a Historical leader or haven't you decided yet?

 

[unmerged(28944)]

Great update! I'm like everybody else, I'm hoping that Tom get's his head squared away before he get's lined up for the trepanning table!

Meanwhile, how goes the war in the north?

 

[Storey]

It's not looking good for Heyward. I haven't a clue where you're headed with this, which is good. Still I wonder who is more desperate Heyward or Stewart? The pressure they are both under must be adding to the feeling of being completely out of time and place. Good to see you posting again.

Joe