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Resurrection: Rebirth of the United States

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I was wondering how Tom was going to get out of his difficult situation in Georgia but this took me by surprise. With a woman of Anne Foster’s caliber I not surprised that Tom has been whisked away before he knew what was happening. At least he’s taking his situation in stride. But what is Foster’s ultimate game? Is it still the ruin of America? And if so why the great interest in Tom? So will Miss Whiting and John end up being the odd couple that comes to Tom’s rescue? Enough questions. Welcome back Cat! Hope you’ve had time to look around Oregon.

Joe
 
Welcome back, o Feline Equistrian!

A fine couple of updates to bring back the memories and to stir the blood once more with the Resurrection.

DW
 
coz1 said:
One wonders if Heyward might not actually join with Foster to bring down Black. There would be some irony in the fact that he is back fighting for Great Britain.
Click to expand...

Actually, this might even make sense from a gameplay point of view. TriezeV did the same thing in his Victoria AAR where he alternated between the Union and Confederacy, building each one up to impressive strength before switching to the weaker side.

I confess I don't recall Anne Foster from earlier in the story. But she does not sound like a friendly person at all. Tom may long for the "good old days" when he only had to confront Black! :eek:

I wonder if Cassie still has any contacts in Canada. She and Foster have the same kind of "school of hard knocks" background. It would be interesting to see an encounter between them.
 
J. Passepartout: You're pretty much on mark. Yep, she's legitimate -but also interperting her authority as broadly as humanly possible.

Stuyvesant: Oh, John and Anne Whiting are still out there. Tom didn't resist to avoid problems in Georgia, but it's certainly not over yet. And thanks! You're the first to remember my bday :)

coz1: Heyward joining with Foster. Hmm....that'd take some doing, though the AAR's certainly taken weirder turns.

Draco Rexus: Welcome back!

Mettermrck: Well, Tom has to be polite right now unless he wants to end up in irons. Doesn't mean he has to like it though!

Fiftypence: Now that's true: Black's going to have a lot of trouble finding him NOW. Though as Stuyvesant says, it gives him more time for his own plans.

LewsTherin: True. Foster is expecting Tom to roll over, perhaps after some coercion. Tom has far nastier things that want him dead, she's going to have trouble intimidating him.

Storey: And a good point. We'll see that Tom was whisked away fairly quickly. He didn't have TIME to do much in the way of resistance. Foster's hoping the shock will work in her favor - and if it irritated Malcolm Kelleher, so much the better. :)

Dead William: Thanks and welcome back!

jwolf: We only saw Foster twice before: First when 'recruiting' Andre into being the New Hampshire delegate/spy, and second when negotiating the final peace treaty ending the second British war. And yes. I doubt it'll happen, but it would be VERY amusing to see her go up against Cassie Preston.
 
-= 149 =-​

May 1784
HMS Reliance

Thomas Heyward sat in the maintop, staring over the endless sea, a deep blue fading in the distance so one could not be sure where it ended and the sky began. The wind whistled gently through the rigging, and the sails flapped overhead in the fresh, cool Atlantic breeze. Below he could see sailors moving on deck. sweeping, polishing or perpetually checking the ropes that bound mast and sail. Few sailors now, as the shrill bosun's whistle had just summoned most of them to dinner. Sometimes one would point at him,

Lieutenant Marshal was having a bad day: Captain Bristol had been unbearable ever since leaving port and now demanded his ship polished to an unholy gleam. Marshal, then, was only too happy to let Tom have a sailor to help him into the tops. It certainly did no harm - Britain's only enemy at the moment was Poland, and it would be very strange if the Poles had an Atlantic squadron. There wasn't much harm this American could do the ship from there. Best of all, it kept him out of everyone's way. The only real danger was him falling forty-seven feet to his destruction, but Heyward seemed to mind the safety rails around his platform and so could be left in peace.

It was therefore from this lofty perch that Tom contemplated what was happening around him. It didn't take much perception to realize it was Foster who led this little expedition. Bristol's miserable attempts to be hospitable, matched with his growing rage towards subordinates spoke volumes. Nor did it take much to guess what Foster wanted of him. Seperating him from Anne Whiting, effectively making her a hostage, had been a nice touch.

Not that he had any intent of playing the double-agent. He didn't know what version of Great Britain she grew up in, but it wasn't his and he owed it no loyalty. They'd kidnapped him, and despite Bristol's misery were acting quite dishonorably. Shockingly so. He'd kept his calm in Georgia, surrounded by four soldiers, partially because 'his' Anne was there and could wind up in the middle of a scuffle, partially because it would have done no good whatsoever, and partially because he was still weak.

Tom gingerly touched his chest, recently only so much destroyed tissue. He was healing though. Further, he was starting to have...

Someone cleared his throat behind Tom. He turned to see a sailor poking his head over the rim. "Captain's compliments, sir, and will you come to dinner?"

Dinner, along the low, long table of the captain's cabin. Here, at least, Bristol seemed more content though his smile froze whenever Anne Foster spoke. She sat on his right, apparently demure but actually watching Heyward closely. The steward came in with plates full of broiled fish, bread, jam and some vegetable that had sat in a barrel since Jamaica and now defied easy identification.

They talked as companionably as the situation would allow: How good it was to be at sea. The strange creatures to be found at sea. How did General Heyward enjoy being in the top? Very well, thank you. Foster's expression changed when she found out where the tops were. What were tops? she asked. Horror. Dismay. She insisted he must not go up there, that he could get hurt.

Tom bowed coldly, but Captain Bristol had enough and turned to face her. "General Heyward may go anywhere on this ship he pleases. He is my guest. I will carry him there myself if he requires it of me."

"You forget yourself, captain." Foster spoke softly, but her eyes stabbed daggers. Oaf. Did he not know you didn't bicker in front of the enemy? She whirled on Heyward before Bristol could retort. "Why did you turn?"

Tom's brows shot up and he carefully put down his napkin. "I beg your pardon?"

"Turn, sir. You are not a boy, you were clearly born an Englishman. Why did you betray your king?"

Well, you see the Nazis dropped an atom bomb on London, and suddenly I found myself here. Tom cleared his throat to buy himself time.

"Come now, Mrs. Foster," Bristol stepped in. "We can hardly call upon a guest to defend himself."

"Can we not? General Heyward has much to answer for." She glared at the two.

Bristol shook his head. "That is in the past. There is a treaty. The war is over. What's done is done."

"I would like to see you say that to the thousands who died, sir."

"You must forgive her, captain," Tom replied coldly, returning her glare. "She obviously does not understand these things." Two could play this game.

"That's right," muttered the steward, who covered his commentary with a coughing fit.

Foster hated being condescended to. She flushed and opened her mouth, but no. Clearly she was being ganged up on. The two men had provoked her. Well played, very well played. Time for a change in tactics: Divide and conquer. Foster stared at her plate. "No," she sniffled. "Perhaps I don't. I was merely....curious. I had hoped....but no, I beg your pardon." Foster stood quickly, nearly cracking her head on the beam and averted her eyes.

"Come ma'am," Adam said awkwardly. "No one meant anything, I am sure."

"I am not!" she cried, staring at Tom like he was mad. "I..No, sir. I will leave you gentlemen to speak freely. Please excuse me!" She fled up the stairs. Bristol and Heyward exchanged incredulous glances.
 
Well played, indeed. This woman is no slouch in the "womanly" department, if you know what I mean. A tough character beneath her female visage.
 
I would think Ms. Foster's act would be more convincing if she hadn't so thoroughly subordinated the captain to her will before. True, there are a lot of expectations of 'womanly' behaviour that she can use to her advantage (playing the 'tender', 'emotional', 'frail' woman), but honestly, who's going to believe her after seeing what a cold-hearted creature she truly is?

I guess that, apart from the captain, not too many people are aware of her true position and might. Still, I can't see how her little charade is going to make much of an impact on Heyward or captain Bristol.
 
Now I really wonder about Foster, and I have no idea where she is going with this. When she asked Heyward why he "turned" did she mean that he was just one of thousands of American rebels, or does she know of his real past somehow? :confused:

It is nice how you have painted the interactions aboard ship. Captain Bristol is able to fulfill Foster's orders to the letter and still thwart her at key moments. He's sharp.
 
CatKnight: I've read a lot of AARs, but I've never read anything so well written. With some "filing off of the serial numbers" and a couple of extra pairs of editorial eyes, this stuff'd be publishable. Really. I have a budget for this kind of stuff, and I don't think I'm the only person who thinks so. Of course, you may well already produce even better writing for a living. ;)
 
coz1: Foster is definitely a tough one, and has more than one trick up her sleeve.

Stuyvesant: Oh you're right. Bristol and Tom should definitely know better, having seen her darker side. Still, they have to be careful: Being too aggressive with a woman, especially playing the 'poor little ol' me' card, has consequences. At this point Capt. Bristol just wants them both to leave - preferably by ship, though that's not mandatory right now.

jwolf: I don't know if Capt. Bristol is sharp so much as he's reaching the limit of his endurance. He's supposed to be master of the ship, and now there's this woman telling him what to do, an 'American' he really should be civil to, and he's sailing a thousand miles off his station. He's not happy.

J. Passepartout: I feel bad for Bristol. He's really in a no-win situation. He feels (with some reason) he's done something dishonorable, but he really had no choice.

LM+: Thanks! I'm proud of this AAR, now about five times longer than the longest story I've written elsewhere. I've always held back from trying to get published after a few minor short story attempts a decade ago, mainly because I felt I didn't have the patience. Resurrection's taught me a lot about patience. :) Anyway, sit back and enjoy the ride!

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

OH! I keep forgetting!

While I was busy offline, I found a game called 'NationStates'. To make a long story short, you're the ruler of a country and your rating is determined by how you react to certain issues.

Our old friend has a nation. It started as a theocracy, but with the recent defeat of capitalism it's heading quickly towards a bovine communist republic.

The Bovine Republic of Peperna the Holy Cow
 
-= 150 =-​

May 1784
HMS Reliance

reliance6hm.jpg

HMS Reliance on patrol.


Thomas Heyward left his breakfast half eaten and almost ran on deck. This might have gone well despite his inexperience at sea if Reliance had not chosen that moment to momentarily yield to the Atlantic current and yaw ten degrees to port. He lost his footing and fell. Three sailors rushed to pick him up.

"You must mind your step, sir!" One bawled in his ear, speaking slowly so as not to confuse the poor landsman. "The brig has a - tendency - to - roll!" He shrank from Tom's icy stare as his mates shook silently with laughter. The bosun frowned at them and the trio went back to work.

Tom didn't mean to be ungrateful. The crew had been more than kind, and if he thought them a little strange no doubt the feeling was mutual. As for Captain Bristol, no doubt he wanted to make the best out of a bad situation, and no doubt it was far better than what the hands or even officers ate ... but he hated fish. Rather, he liked it once and awhile but not for every single God damned meal. It turned out to be one of the few things he had in common with that Foster women. He half expected Bristol to sprout gills. Indeed, if he saw just one more fish this morning he would be violently...

"Thar she blows!" bellowed the lookout, naval discipline going by the wayside. "Whale off the starboard bow!"

"Silence!" roared a midshipman half his height and maybe a third his age, his high pitched voice breaking with the effort.

Tom felt someone's gaze on him, and turning found Anne Foster sitting in the captain's chair, carried onto the quarterdeck for this purpose. It looked ludicrous, her on her ornate, lovingly polished throne while the men around here tried to ignore her intrusion, do their job, and treat her properly at the same time. Still, Reliance was rather small, perhaps eighty feet from bow to stern, and there weren't that many places she could sit.

"General Heyward!" she called. "Come, join me! Now, don't give me that expression. It is not kind to carry grudges."

Tom frowned. The quarterdeck currently sported the master, a man at the wheel, a marine by the hourglass and bell, and the little midshipman. He doubted he'd fit. Nonetheless he mounted the steps and bowed. "Good morning."

"Good morning, General." She actually smiled. "Tired of fish as well, I see? It is a terrible bore, and I don't care to know what spices that steward uses."

The midshipman, whose breakfast had consisted of ship's biscuit dipped in grog, salt pork and something the surgeon insisted was green and leafy despite appearances glared at her back.

"I merely came up for air," Tom replied. "Pardon me."

"Off to your platform again?" She craned her head to peer at the maintop. "It seems very high up."

"You get used to it, and a sailor usually helps me up and down. Ma'am." He bowed again and turned.

"General, wait! We have not had a chance to speak. Do be civil."

Heyward studied her, wondered if she was schizophrenic, dismissed it. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Anything, General." She considered. "Were you born in England or the colonies?"

That seemed harmless enough. "England. Bristol."

"Really?" Foster quickly looked down at her lap. That's not what my files say, sir. What is amiss? "I'm from St. Giles, myself. I've never been to western England. There must be quite a few Irish papists about."

"No doubt," Tom answered cooly. He'd sensed the change in tone and grasped his error. "I have not been to London in ... a long time. How did you leave it?"

"Quite well. The Whigs are in power now, of course. Are, or should I say were you a Whig, general?"

Tom shook his head. "I never involved myself in politics before the...before the war."

"Oh. Well, it is a terrible bore as you well know." She smiled sweetly. "Is that why you left Congress?"

"It was..." Tom's gaze narrowed. "You seem to know quite a bit about me. I am at a disadvantage."

She opened her arms wide and lifted her chin. "What do you want to know?"

Let's start with what in hell you're about, Tom thought. "Alright. Why Halifax?"

"I'm sorry, I thought Captain Bristol explained that. We felt the cold air would revive..."

"I do not appreciate deception."

She glared for a moment before remembering to be shocked. Her eyes widened. "Why General, I do not know..."

"Good morning," Captain Bristol said brusquely. Having his guests leave in mid-meal was just bad form and the steward was obviously experimenting with Indian spices again. He bowed to them, then continued on his way. Everyone shifted automatically to the other side of the quarterdeck.

"Pardon me, ma'am," Tom said, "but it is a bit crowded here and I should let the crew do their work." He retreated for the maintop to think.
-------------

Georgia

savannahhome6pr.jpg


"You must not give up, ma'am." Malcolm Kelleher paused to refill their tea. "Everything will work out, I do assure you."

He sat in the common room of the boarding house where Anne Whiting rented a room while waiting for word of Tom's fate. It was tasteful, in an understated fashion Malcolm thought of as 'middle class pragmatic.' A piano sat in one corner, and paintings of various scenes adorned the walls. The tables were oak or mahogany, the chairs cushioned with pillows. A fireplace sat, forlorn, waiting for the coming winter.

Anne studied her cup. She wasn't sure what to make of Kelleher. She knew he worked for Burgoyne and no doubt hoped to get some shred of information out of her, but he'd also been very kind since soldiers came in and seized Tom, bundling him onto a ship for Canada. "I just don't understand," she said for perhaps the twentieth time in three days. "If there were questions..."

Kelleher leaned back but said nothing. He knew the trick about seperating people as well as any.

"Is he a prisoner?" she asked, also for perhaps the twentieth time.

"No, ma'am. General Heyward is our guest, I assure you. He will not be mistreated." I hope. "She did not say so, but I fancy Mrs. Foster had intelligence about Mr. Rutledge's actions in Carolina and thought to get General Heyward away." A lie, but the truth would do no one any good.

"If so, why not take me with him?" Her eyes met his, searching.

"I do not know, ma'am. Now please, drink. I would be sorry if you grew ill pining."

"I don't pine, Mr. Kelleher. Not anymore." She smiled sadly.

They talked amiably about the flowers in bloom, the places to visit in town and those to avoid at all cost.

"There will be a play on Saturday," Kelleher said. "A troupe of actors from I believe Lancaster. Governor Burgoyne invited them, he loves the arts. Would you care to go?"

Anne flushed, her jaw dropping slightly. "Are you...asking me to go with you? Sir, I don't know what you may think of me, but..."

"No, no." Kelleher held up his hand and smiled. "Nothing of the sort. However it seems you could use a distraction, and you would not be the only lady there without ... the only lady who does not require escort. I believe you would enjoy it."

Whiting relaxed. "I shall consider it."

"Good." Kelleher glanced at the wall clock. "And now, ma'am, if you will forgive me I must attend to my duties. Good evening to you." He bowed.

Anne Whiting escorted him out, cleaned their cups and put the tea set away. Tom hadn't fought the British soldiers, hadn't even acted surprised. It was almost as if he knew they were coming. She hoped he was alright, for now she could do nothing but wait.

She walked upstairs with a candle and into her room. Closing the door, she lit her lamp and blew out the candle, then turned. And screamed.

"WHERE IS HE?"
 
She glared for a moment before remembering to be shocked. Her eyes widened. "Why General, I do not know..."
Click to expand...
Another moment where Foster chooses poorly. Tom has her pegged as an adversary and yet she keeps trying to play the frail, sweet woman. Unless her ways of persuading Heyward include violence, I think she will not be able to get him to co-operate. Unless she can find a way to convince him that helping her means harming Black.

"Good morning," Captain Bristol said brusquely. Having his guests leave in mid-meal was just bad form and the steward was obviously experimenting with Indian spices again.
Click to expand...
Can't really say why, but I found this line funny. It seems to suggest something funny, without coming right out and saying it. Whatever, it made me smile.
 
J. Passepartout: Hmm...good instincts! Read on.

Stuyvesant: Right. Foster's trying to change tactics, but Heyward's already figured out what she's about. It's going to be hard for her to 'play nice.' I'm glad you caught the humor in the last post. I enjoyed writing that part. :)

JWolf: Yes. Foster's not making much headway with Tom. I guess when you have an angel who wants you dead, intelligence agents just don't matter. :)
 
-= 151 =-​

May 1784
Georgia

"WHERE IS HE?"

Anne Whiting's hand came to her mouth of its own accord, her right still held the lamp. "Colonel Preston! What are you doing here!?"

John strode across her bedroom, from the small window he'd climbed through past bed and armoire and stopped in front of her near the writing desk. Dirt covered his face, hands and clothing, the result of days trailing a British squad through the Georgian swamps. Georgia. He hated the filthy little state, with its mosquitos and marsh gas, unbearable heat and of course Brits.

"I said, where is he!?"

"Mrs. Whiting!" Doctor Bradley, her neighbor, knocked insistently. "Are you alright in there?" Anne turned to the door.

John gripped her wrist, hard. "Send him away," he snarled.

"Colonel..," she began sharply, then stopped. Doctor Bradley was in his fifties. If Preston was in a violent mood... "Alright." He let her go.

Anne opened the door and met Bradley's concerned gaze. "Doctor?"

"I heard you scream." He tried to peer past her into the room. "Is something wrong?"

"No, doctor. I thought I saw something, but it was only the shadows cast by my lamp and the curtains of an open window."

"Are you certain?" he asked, looking into her face.

"Truly, doctor. Twas only a fright." She smiled and started to close the door.

"The past few days have been hard on you," Bradley interjected. "I will prescribe some laudanum to help you rest."

"That is very kind, doctor. Later perhaps? I will stop by when I am ready for bed. Good night, sir." She shut the door and rested her head on its frame.

"Where is Tom?" Preston growled.

Anne whirled on him. "You are ridiculous! To come into a woman's room unannounced! Where did you grow up, sir, to treat others so poorly? Why a little dog would be more considerate! This is inconsiderate, sir. Wrong! What do you think you are about?" She shoved past him to her writing desk and put the lamp down.

"I'll ask the questions here," John retorted. "Be happy I'm not here to...hell!" This as Anne turned back, holding her pen knife high. "Put that down, woman!"

"Animal! I can not believe you! Get out of here, what do you mean by this..." Her vocabulary spent, she repeated herself. "You are ridiculous!"

"I want to know where Tom is, and I'm not leaving until you tell me!"

"You will leave now, sir!" She slashed at him overhand. He caught her wrist in his fist and twisted. She cried out and dropped the knife.

Preston flung her at the bed and folded his arms. "Are you done?" he asked.

"Get out!"

"Where's Tom?"

"Gone! You'll not find him!" She laughed harshly. "You'll not be killing him today."

"Kill him?" John demanded. "I don't want to kill him!"

"Arrest him, then."

"I am trying to avoid that. Damn it, woman, I'm the best friend he has right now."

"You?" Anne laughed again. "My word, I didn't realize things were that bad."

"They're not good." He stalked towards her. "Now where did he go?"

"I don't know!" She lifted her chin. "The British took him!"

John stopped in mid-stride, his eyes widened. "Wh..What?"

"They took him on a ship! I hope you can swim, Colonel!"

"But why?"

"Maybe to get him away from you, sir! God knows I tried!"

Heavy pounding on her door. Bradley's voice: "Ma'am? I've brought the porter! I heard shouting!"

"Please open the door, Mrs. Whiting," called another voice.

"In here!" she called.

John cursed, and as her door splintered inward under the shoulder of the beefy porter, he threw himself through her window, caught himself on the oak branch resting against the house, and so down to his horse and away riding fast. No one pursued.

Tom. With the British. The same British who killed his father. John couldn't believe it. He rode steadily away from Savannah, a town which had repeatedly done its best to destroy him, along the road towards Brunswick, his mind working very fast.

It certainly made sense that Whiting would think he was there to kill or arrest Tom. Tom must have known he was coming, had arranged to get away. Why would the British want to protect him though? Unless...unless they made a deal with him. An American general willing to sell information would certainly be worth protecting.

Two miles outside town, John met up with his small group gathered around a campfire in the grassland just off road. He thought too many people entering Savannah at once, given current tensions, would draw too much attention. At the camp, Castor wrote in his diary, while two privates played some game involving dice. Private Craig had speared some small bird on a stick and held it over the flame. All stood at his approach.

"Did you find him, sir?" asked Castor. "Sir?" he repeated, as John tied his horse and pushed past the group to his small pile of belongings.

Rutledge was right. Tom had betrayed them all.
 
Dammit Preston! Why the hell don't you listen for a freakin' change! Anne said the British took Tom not that Tom went with the British!

Oh why am I wasting my time?

Great set of updates, Cat. I do agree that this Foster woman has got to change tracts with Tom or she is going to clue him in to her reasons, and that's just gonna make Tom even more difficult to get info from.

And then there's poor Tom. What the hell is he gonna be able to do all the way up in Halifax? Why, start another revolution of course! :D
 
John, John, John, John, John, John, John...

My goodness what a dope.

Vann
 
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