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Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

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You mean the site makes your 'ead 'urt? Mine too - jargon is jargon no matter how interesting.


'Gentleman Johnny' gets one right, eh? He always was almost as brilliant as he thought himself to be. :) I really liked the dialog in this one, and the sly understated way that Burgoyne made use of potential leaks in his own camp by keeping his true plans to himself while pretending to casually disclose his intentions. I'd be interested in knowing if there really was a spy in Crawford's camp or if Burgoyne dropped that to start a witch-hunt.

Tough defeat for the liberators of Georgia.

With so many little factions and interested parties I think it will be extremely hard for anyone to exercise any degree of control over the situation, especially so with Washington inconveniently gone. He would have been a moderating influence through personal example, as he was in 'our' timeline. I suspect Mr Black will come to find that his 'puppets' will disappoint. If obedient, they'll show no initiative; if they exercise initiative they'll not be obedient. Tyranny is such hard work!

Time for the twelve states to provide some more 'covert' assistance? Something along the lines of the 'filibustiers' of pre-Civil War America or the various 'volunteer' formations that fought in the Spanish Civil War. Guerilla wars are effective so long as they cost less to sponsor than to counter.
 
I must protest about the cruel punishment of the poor willow tree! :D

Poor little rebellion getting smacked about by Gentleman Johnny... almost makes my heart bleed. Almost.
 
J. Passepartout: Yes..... PETW(*) sent me a sharp letter today. I was mortified!

I've not seen The Devil's Disciple. I did read up a little on General Burgoyne before posting. Any similarities in personality are well... a pleasant surprise ;)

As for Crawford knowing Black, that is interesting. Of course, Crawford doesn't know Black's taken over Rutledge.

* People for the Ethical Treatment of Willows

carlec: Thanks!

jwolf: Okay, I repent! My apologies to the willow!

John has to get home first, but he's trying. Tender words of love.... well, we know he's capable of it. We also know he has the savoir faire of a goat...

coz1: Hm, I thought I had, but looking over my records apparently not. Anyway yep, it's not a mistake. Crawford knows Black. How much he knows is the question. :)

Director: Burgoyne really did have a spy. To raise a five thousand man army from a group of raiders I figured Crawford pretty much had to open the gates. I guessed the odds of the British army having a better intelligence system and rolled. (I seem to do a lot of die rolling lately. Hmm.)

The site I read on Burgoyne described him as brave, courageous, with the skills of a courtier. He was also good at tactics. It doesn't appear to have been his fault the historical New York campaign of 1777 went bad. On the other hand, the site suggested he was bad at keeping secrets - hence Crawford's spy - and tended to be prideful and not likely to tell his subordinates what he was thinking - hence the sudden change in plan that led to his victory. If you look at McMillan's reaction to the change or the British captain who ended up fighting Crawford's entire army, you'll see 'my' Burgoyne just didn't bother telling people what they didn't need to know.

You're right though, Mister Black is not going to like this. Poor guy.

Draco Rexus: Almost. :) I don't know, between you and Director I'm starting to suspect Burgoyne has a secret following. I may have to keep him around. :)
 
-= 123 =-​

October 1783
Georgia


The Pirate's House in Savannah stood on the eastern edge of town, not far from the docks and warehouses that connected Georgia with the rest of the world. It was a smoky, dim lit place that smelled of salt and fish, mostly filled with sailors and captains willing to overlook little things like the law when it came to the sharply contested American border. For John Preston it was like coming home - to a nightmare. Ten years ago he'd been in this very common room with Tom Heyward plotting how to free his father, a rescue attempt that failed.

"Major." Preston swirled his drink, a sort of salty tasting beer, in its mug. There were other inns and tavern houses in Savannah, many others, but the Pirate's House offered some anonymity. The very air, the excited whispers and enthusiastic shouts of the men around him, screamed skullduggery. What was one more plot? "The men know the plan?"

"The captains do." March huddled over his drink. His father owned a huge plantation near the North Carolina border and he fully expected to return to a life of ease when this was over. This Pirate's House was the worst place he'd been in by so very far... March expected someone would try to mug him at any second.

"The captains." Preston frowned and pushed his drink aside. "So they know where to find every single one of their men in this town? I don't."

"T'isn't hard. Savannah's not that large. Anyway, our people will figure it out soon enough."

"About the time they do." He indicated the room with his eyes. "There will be trouble."

"I know," March admitted. "The men know. If we tried to deprive them their drink or women though, they would probably try to string us both."

"Aye, and it would look too suspicious. Well, I think we can wait until morning. No later, though. With any luck we can...Hey!"

March lashed out like a viper, seizing the upper arm of a dirty boy. He rose, ripped his purse out of the child's hands and shook him violently. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "What the bloody hell do you think...?"

"No harm done," Preston stood as several sailors turned to the altercation. "You have your purse, let him go."

"Try to rob me?" March shrieked, the boy gasping and crying in his grip. "I'll flay you!"

A seaman nodded to his companions at another table, and as a body they rose.

"Put him down!" John snapped.

"Sorry, guv'nor!"

"Ho now, you heard the lad!" a sailor protested.

"You want him?" March snapped. "Have him!" He flung the child across the room. The rest of the room leapt to their feet.

John drew his pistol and pointed it at the closest sailor. Something in his fierce glare and pock-marked face made them pause. Blindly, with his left hand, Preston dropped a few coins from March's purse on the table and seized the rest. "We're going," he told March.

His major glared at Preston, suddenly realized his danger, paled and stormed out. John followed a second later, trying to cover the entire common room with one pistol. I hate this town!

Pursued by jeers and catcalls, the two Americans paced up the steep hill to Savannah proper. It'd been built on a man-made plateau, and once they were over the crest they might as well have been in another town. People walked back and forth along the streets, talking animatedly. The British, it seemed, were near complete surrender. There would be a battle at Saint Augustine that would settle their hash. Some said it'd already been won. After that, with control of Georgia and East Florida they could either join America or even stay independent.

My God, I guessed wrong, Preston thought. Well, it wasn't too late. He could say he came here to receive orders, then turn right around and get back to Florida. Crawford wouldn't trust him, but John didn't trust Crawford. How could he have possibly won? Luck? Skill? Determination?

"Propaganda?"

"Eh?"

"I said, do you think it's propaganda?" March asked.

Preston laughed. "A free republic? Lie?" He bowed at a startled woman. His dirty, patched, non-descript clothes earned many frowns as they walked, but he paid no mind. That must be it. I hope so. He would be perfectly happy to see Georgia free, but if Crawford won....

"Mister Preston!"

John whirled, hand on his pistol. Though the American presence in Georgia was a secret, it wasn't a very good one. Not with five hundred men in town, not with so many drinking. He relaxed as a black coated civilian stopped and bowed. "John Preston?"

"Yes?"

"President's compliments to John Preston, and would appreciate seeing him at nine tomorrow morning at the State House."

"Did the president say what he wanted?"

"Not in so many words, sir." The civilian stepped forward and spoke softly. "I believe he's concerned your men are so far north."

"I see." John glanced at March, who shrugged. "Compliments, and I look forward to it."

Preston stared after the man's back as he departed. "If I go," he said aloud, "he will expect us to turn around. I wouldn't be surprised if he was already writing Rutledge. He'd probably push us to fly the American colors too."

"Yes."

"And if I don't, then it's obvious we're not working with them anymore and there will be a riot."

"Yes."

"Either way our involvement becomes clear."

"Yes."

"We should never have come to Savannah."

"No."

Preston glared at March, working out the numbers in his mind. The odds Crawford had won his battle against this Burgoyne. The odds the Georgian President would try to make them stay - by force. The odds of fighting half the town if word spread of their defection.

"We'll have to move tonight."
----------------

Savannah was a small city. There were only so many places the American raiders could go for rest and comfort, and word quickly spread from captain to sergeant. An intrepid few sensed trouble and left early. Another handful were already too far gone in drink to care. The rest nodded at claps to their shoulder, laughed with their mates in a dozen taverns and made their way to stable yards in twos and fours.

Savannah was also late to bed, and the passage of so many men could not escape detection. At a little before eleven o'clock John Preston emerged onto the town square followed by fifty men. More spilled out to his flanks and behind, effectively dominating every street. Windows opened, people peered out and somberly watched their advance through the town. Where are they going? some wondered, but where else would he be going in the middle of the night?

John Wereat, President of the Free Georgia Republic, reached the same conclusion. He stood on a redoubt guarding Savannah's western flank and watched as half a regiment flowed through his town and turned towards him. So, they hadn't had the stomach after all. Unfortunate. Lyman Hall had been right: Georgia couldn't count on the American states for anything.

"Lights!" he called, and the system of walls and trenches first built by then Governor Howe after the revolution shone with lanterns and torches. One hundred thirty men, the entire Savannah garrison and all loyal to the Republic and Crawford's raiders, raised muskets while two four-pound cannon slowly turned. Wereat's eyes narrowed. Preston would turn around, or he'd learn the price of using and discarding Georgian blood so freely.
-------------------

"Halt!" Preston cried, scanning the redoubt. He waved his sword over his head. "Deploy! Line! Deploy! What the devil?" He shouted the last as something shattered at his horse's hooves. He glared at the buildings behind him, at the slowly gathering crowd on his flank. Frustrated, angry, scared men and boys. "Steady!" he shouted as the line formed. "Don't let them provoke you!"

One boy, braver than most, slapped at a horse's flanks. The steed reared, the crowd fell back.

"We have to go!" March shouted.

"Forward, ho!"

Grimly they advanced in three lines. More catcalls and jeers. Something hard struck Preston's back. He grit his teeth. "Don't retaliate! Don't..."

Another horse reared. Someone's pistol fired and someone screamed. The crowd surged and Preston's line imploded as men turned on this new threat. Two or three muskets from the redoubt fired. More shots, this from the wild melee between townsman and cavalry.

"No! Stop!" John shouted to be heard above the din, but fear and desperation trumped discipline as shouts and clanging medal filled the air. He whirled, sword drawn to fend off a burly laborer. Little light, certainly no order and he had only fractions of a second to decide if that shape passing under his gaze was friendly or hostile, a threat or someone caught in the middle. Something large - a cudgel? - smashed into his leg. Preston slashed violently. Someone screamed. There was his trumpeter! John plucked the instrument from around his neck and blasted four quick bursts, two notes each. Retreat! He whirled and charged away, still blasting. First a handful, then the remainder surged after him. The townsfolk shouted after them.
--------------------

One hundred fifty yards away, Wereat glared at them. So now they wanted to slaughter his people? Fine, on their own head be it. "Open fire!"
--------------------

Preston didn't even hear the muskets, not with his heart pounding in his ears and the continued trumpet blasts. Nor did any shots come near them. Not at this range, at this speed in the dark. He could see their pinpricks of light though, and there was no doubting the roaring cannon. Somewhere behind him horses and men screamed, but no one stopped. A minute later his horse clattered over the bridge and so into South Carolina and safety.
 
Things don't seem to be going all that well for Preston... mayhap a bit of his growing up process? Why am I still hoping for that from him? I must be the eternal optimist, eh? :D
 
I admit I'm kind of lost in all the intrigue. I'm guessing that Preston was set up, ultimately on orders from Black, and Crawford and/or Hall were ordered to kill him. Am I at all close, or just in the lunatic fringe? :wacko: And was it just Preston himself who escaped into South Carolina, or did the bulk of his force make it as well?
 
Georgia seems a nasty place to be at present. And John should never, ever visit Savannah again. It simply does not agree with him. ;)
 
In a short few days, the rebellion in Georgia seems to have collapsed almost completely: Preston has pulled out his troops (Gasp! The boy is showing some sense!), the British have thrashed the pre-Klan something good, a willow in New York got it (again... Kudos for working that into the story)

John changing his mind, no longer obsessed with killing the British, showed promise for the future. The British/raider battle was a dramatic scene and a vivid illustration that large-scale battle is something different than small-scale raiding. By the way, 'general' Crawford, with his pseudo-intellectual rationalizing of mass-murdering civilians, is quite distasteful to me. I can see how he would have good relations with Black: the man is the kind of homicidal, self-righteous idiot Black can always use.

The most telling scene was Preston's retreat from Savannah. Sneaking out his troops at night, getting caught in a deadly skirmish with the very people he came to help throw off the British 'yoke', finally being fired on by the very troops he was supposed to support... I just find that scene very symbolic: it shows how the hopes of these Georgian 'liberators' were dashed on all sides: beaten by the British, abandoned by the Americans...

My guess would be that there was no conspiracy to kill Preston - yet. I figure it was just Crawford informing President Wereat (were-rat?) of John's 'treason' once he realized the Americans weren't marching on Saint Augustine. As to the future, however... Black is not going to be happy with John disobeying his orders.
 
J. Passepartout: I feel bad for Lyman Hall, especially since he'll die in 1784 as per history. Hall to me represents the average Georgian: They feel, with some justification, abandoned by the Americans and they've obviously alienated the British every way they could think of. Their future now is rather bleak. The EU2 English AI seems to agree - Burgoyne's army seems to be in Savannah for the long haul.

Draco Rexus: Yes, definitely an optimist. :)

jwolf: Most of Preston's force made it back to South Carolina. As for the intrigue, Stuyvesant guessed right: Crawford was prepared to let the Americans take the bulk of the casualties in his fight, but he wasn't actively seeking their death. Wereat's motive pretty much boiled down to revenge and pride: He feels, as many Georgians do in this AAR, that the Americans pretty much used them. He wanted to show that this was unacceptable. If Preston had surrendered or turned around, Wereat would've happily let him do so - but once the riot in town began, he really had no choice.

coz1: Mm..John would agree with you. Savannah and he just don't get along.

Stuyvesant: Thanks tot he rebel AI, the Georgia rebellion is pretty much over. (Attack a neighboring province with an army and general in it. Ack!)

You guessed right as to the motive of the Georgians in Savannah. They were desperate and somewhat angry, and now they have no choice but to capitulate as Burgoyne marches north. As I said, I expect life in Savannah to be quite difficult for awhile.

This is one of those examples where game play trumps - or at least changes the story. Black had plans for Georgia, now they're dashed. You're right, he is VERY unhappy with John Preston.

Oh, as for Wereat - he was a real person...though I also thought of 'were-rat' when I saw his name.
 
-= 124 =-​

October 1783
South Carolina


The crunch-crunch of leather on gravel, over a thousand men marching in what could best be described as a hybrid between column and mob was the first thing to greet Colonel John Preston as his exhausted, harried riders approached the outlying plantations around Charleston. Nervous, uncertain commanders screaming orders in a futile attempt to establish discipline in untrained, underpaid men with little or no uniform, little or no supplies, and fowling pieces far better suited to kill duck or deer than man. John wondered if this is what it'd been like for the soldiers in 1772, when Americans threw everything up to and including chamber pots into the fray in a desperate effort to slow the British advance, let alone halt it,

"Colonel." He exchanged salutes with one of the said uncertain, screaming commanders. Far too young to be a colonel. Far too young to be a soldier. Were those freckles? "What are they?"

"Fresh recruits from Charleston and Beaufort, if you please," the boy answered nervously.

"I don't please." Preston's frown deepened as a soldier stumbled into his mate, inducing a shoving match until a third man wearing sergeant's stripes shoved them apart. "How long have you been training them?"

"Three weeks, sir."

"And this is the best..." John's eyes narrowed. "How long have you been in the army?"

The boy flushed. "Five weeks, sir."

A colonel in five weeks? What the devil? "Where are the more experienced officers?"

"They're in Cherokee country sir, or here with you no doubt. The Patriots League stripped Carolina bare. Sent all the experienced men to the field and raised everyone else besides. There's barely a man in Charleston now, sir, 'less he be sick or old, or part of the Guard of course."

Preston froze. "You mean there are more men like.... more men training?"

"Aye, sir."

"And they're all like this?"

The boy flushed again. "What's wrong with my men?" he demanded.

Preston snorted. "I've seen more order out of slaves in the fields!"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but..."

"Denied."

"...but if you think you can do better, then I for one am happy to let you try. Sir."

"You may get your chance, Colonel." Preston glared at the passing men, many of whom now openly glared back. "Ridiculous." He shook his head and turned to Major March. "Come on, I have a sudden urge to find whoever's in charge of this joke and throttle them."

The cavalrymen galloped on. As they approached the forts flanking Charleston on the landward side, March rode up to him. "Colonel? Have you noticed?"

Preston had been lost in his own thoughts, half on Cassie and half wondering what in God's name the Patriots League was doing to his state. "Noticed what?"

"The fields, sir."

John glanced around him. "I see nothing, except maybe they're late with the fall crops."

"That's just it, sir. Where are the slaves?"
--------------------------

Five hundred cavalrymen fleeing across the Savannah River with cannon firing to their rear could not escape notice, nor could those same five hundred passing through the forts and checkpoints into Charleston itself. Cassandra Preston stared at her reflection in the mirror, carefully brushing her long hair. "How do you think he'll react?" she asked Martha, her huge house servant, for the third time.

Martha smiled, her white teeth flashing in the light. She liked Cassie, and she loved children. Privately she could take or leave her master, but perhaps a child would soften him some. "He'll love the baby. Don't you worry none." She held up a pink dress questioningly.

"It makes me look fat," Cassie sighed. Frankly, everything made her look fat and she had no idea how to tie even a sash around her massive stomach to hold a dress in place.

Martha held up a sky blue dress. This too was rejected on the same grounds. "Master will be home soon, ma'am. You don' want to appear to him in your shift."

Cassie sniffed and picked up a long discarded pale green gown. "Let's try this."

Fifteen minutes later she received word that her husband was almost home. She took a last look in the mirror, sighed at her stomach, pat it gently and walked outside.
---------------------------

John spotted Cassie by the door. The warm, loving smile froze on his face when he saw she was carrying herself oddly, and her dress didn't seem to quite fit. Was she ill? Then he noticed her belly. What the devil had they fed her?? Wait, the way she was holding her stomach, almost protecting it. Could she be..? The smile resumed.

That smile reassured Cassie. He looked the same as he usually did, somewhat disheveled and pockmarked from a cannon going off in his face some years ago. He looked unkempt and tired, but perhaps there was something different about his eyes - a fraction calmer. Maybe this sidelight to his career had been good for him. Maybe everything would be alright after all. "Colonel Preston," she began formally. "Welcome home."

"Cassie!" His smile continued to widen of its own accord and his eyes lit up. A warm glow began somewhere in his heart and spread, and he no longer cared about incompetent armies or failed missions in God forsaken swamps. A child! Maybe a boy, though even a girl would do for a start! How grand! He searched for something to say, was momentarily puzzled he could think of nothing, and settled on the first thought that appeared:

"Is it mine?"

For a second he didn't realize what happened. Cassie's eyes widened, she gasped and paled like a corpse. Behind her Martha's jaw dropped and she looked down quickly. John heard March hiss behind him.

Cassie stood, stunned. What could she possibly say? In front of his servants? In front of that officer of his? How much did he know? Everything, apparently! She spun away and fled into the house.

"Mistress!" Martha cried, hurtling after her.

No, this was wrong! Wrong! What in hell is wrong with me? John vaulted off his horse and chased after the women. "Cassie! Wait!"

March stared after them, still taking it all in. There was nothing he could do, nothing to do really, and he was suddenly extremely tired. "I need a drink," he told his horse dryly, turned and left.
------------------------------------

"Cassie!" John charged into his own house, past a handful of puzzled, worried house servants who had been waiting for a more formal review and presentation. He heard something slam and crash from the kitchen and burst through the dining room. Martha stood there, facing the kitchen door, her brown eyes wide and trembling hands covering her mouth.

"Is she in there?" Preston demanded, stalking past her.

"You don' want to go in there, master!" Instinctively she seized his elbow, grasped her error as he glowered at her and released him quickly, looking at the floor.

"Go with the others," John growled. He turned and opened the door. His wife had apparently poured a glass of water and stood by the cupboards, trembling. The floor crunched as Preston stepped on a shattered bowl. "Cassie," he began. "I'm..."

She whirled on him, glaring across the battered preparation table at her husband. "Get out of here!" she screamed, throwing the glass at him.

John ducked as glass shards exploded over his head. "Cassie!" he called. "I..."

The cup hit him in the chest. He caught it and slapped it onto the table. "Cassandra Preston!"

If that was meant to intimidate her, it failed. "I hate you!" she cried, closing her fist around a skillet and throwing that at him. "Stubborn, pigheaded coxcomb!" Another cup followed, "Churl! Bastard!" She found a plate.

"Stop! That was my..." The plate shattered on the wall behind him. "...mother's. Come on, Cassie!" He circled around the table.

She seized a two-pronged meat fork. "I hate you!" she snarled, lunging.

John caught her wrist, spun her around and pinned her arms with a bear hug. She screamed and thrashed, but he tightened his embrace. She fell to her knees, sobbing bitterly. He knelt next to her, still holding her and buried his face in the back of her neck. "I'm sorry," he murmured over and over. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry."

He was still holding her when he heard a voice outside arguing with Martha. She murmured something in a low tone. The newcomer's voice rose in anger, and John distinctly heard the slap of flesh on flesh and a sob. A moment later a young man walked in wearing the blue and white of the American army, and a red sash marking him as a Carolina Guardsman. He walked around the table and saluted. "Sir! Mister Rutledge requests your presence immediately."

Why did Cassie suddenly go rigid in his arms? He looked up. "I'm a bit busy. Compliments, and I will see him in the morning."

"Mister Rutledge requests your presence now, sir."

"Rutledge can wait!" John snapped. "Now get out of my house!"

The Guardsman hesitated. He had no idea what to do with a refusal.

"Go! And the next time you feel the need to strike my property, Lieutenant, you will answer to me!"
 
Wow! John manages to combine gained maturity with about the worst possible greeting he could possibly have made. Although he does at least partially redeem himself with his apologies and dismissal of the officer.

"Is it mine?"... :rofl: Oh, man...oh, man...what was he thinking? I guess I can't completely blame him given past events but still, what an idiot!
 
Firstly, I would like to say that if you are several months pregnant, of course you look fat, but it is generally possible to discern between fat women and heavily pregnant women.

Secondly... Preston deserves Cassie's reaction. He also deserves to be shot, although I will allow a mere flesh wound, rather than the fatal wound he would have received if he had not changed his posture immediately.
 
I have to admit I never thought Preston would make such a colossal blunder. Is it mine? Oh, brother! That is the faux pax of all time!

On the other hand, after he said that and Cassie fled into the house, she was thinking How much did he know? so maybe there is something going on after all? :wacko:

So what happened to the slaves? Into a concentration camp, or forced labor in some kind of war factory? It really doesn't make sense economically to use them in any way other than what they were doing before.
 
I think Preston meant what he asked, whether he realizes it or not. After all, Cassie has not been the most...shall we say...chaste woman in the world. And hints are suggested that she has continued in that. The question is with who? I wonder if Black is involved.
 
Preston... is without a doubt the stupidest man in this AAR (and I mean stoopidest! :wacko: ). At least he had the common sense (and bravery) to walk into hell to confront his wife's righteous anger, and somewhat survive.

That being said, I do believe that I liked the response he gave to the messenger-boy/boot-licker that was sent to fetch him for Rutledge/Black, although I do belive that Rutledge/Black will be a bit put out by the response, eh? :eek:
 
Draco Rexus said:
Preston... is without a doubt the stupidest man in this AAR (and I mean stoopidest! :wacko: ).
Click to expand...

I see little has changed while I was gone. :D

Well, certainly an interesting update, although it looks like I have some catching up to do. And I'll echo Draco that Preston's remark there was pretty stupid. He deserves all the glass shards showered upon him he gets. ;)
 
First of all I would like to say that it is good to see John revert to the idiot he really is. :D However I must protest! Just when I was going to write him off he offers a gleam of hope by telling Mister Rutledge to cool his heels. ;) Problem is the you know what is about to hit the fan. It will be very interesting to see how John handles Rutledge's fury.

Joe
 
I was looking over your replies to our comments immediately preceding the most recent update, and I thought to myself that gameplay trumping the story is a good thing for the story. You can have Black rant and rave and build up suspense for his next plot, and in the mean time he is actually weaker.
 
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