Well, at least von Zähringen is okay now. When the "shot rang out", I was afraid it might be the end of our German friend...
-
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Well, I see we've gone from following our brave but foolish young adventurer to following our brave but foolish not so young adventurer. 
Cool in any event.
When does dear Exeter finally meet up with The Echota and will it be the battle he thinks it's going to be?
Cool in any event. When does dear Exeter finally meet up with The Echota and will it be the battle he thinks it's going to be?
Zacharym87: Hm, maybe I should ask you to write the descriptions then!
Judas Maccabeus: I wouldn't kill your officer! Yet.
Draco Rexus: Oh Exeter will meet them very, very soon.
Judas Maccabeus: I wouldn't kill your officer!
Yet. Draco Rexus: Oh Exeter will meet them very, very soon.
Chapter 28: Deliverance
20th June, 1776
St. George's Parish, Georgia Province (British occupied)
"Didn't we just leave this party?" Tom groused. He walked carefully down the path that ran along the Savannah River - carefully because any sudden exertion made his chest explode in pain. He had two cracked ribs - indeed, this now made twice he was wandering injured through the swamps of Georgia. If it wouldn't make that pompous ass Rutledge smile, he'd tell the Brits they could keep it.
Mosquitoes, more mosquitoes, and a stench that finally, mercifully clogged his nose so Tom couldn't smell a thing was his memory of the last two weeks as they angled out of Cherokee Territory, over the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, and into....a bog. They'd finally intercepted the road south of Augusta on a particularly damp evening and spent the night there, gasping and trying to draw in the unbreathable air. Now they paced southward, desperately avoiding any attention from the occasional British patrol, looking for .. a way across the river into South Carolina. A ferry, a rowboat, even a ford would answer, but no. The British stopped the first once the borders were established, the second was at best unlikely, and if there were any fords - they didn't know of them.
On the other hand, while the foursome did earn the occasional wondrous eye, no one saw fit to pursue their curiosity. The Indian woman had gone back to her people, and the two soldiers had shed their uniforms. von Zahringen was finally convinced to abandon his as well, though that took some work as he passionately swore in English, French and German. They did not look like the escaped remnants of an illegal American assault, but like losers of a mud fight.
"Just a few more miles, sir," said Wesley with false cheer. He was also very tired, and wished Heyward would just shut up. He wasn't helping.
"We're running out of province," Tom retorted. "I don't want to end up in Savannah."
"Could we not go there, then just walk over the bridge? We would not be recognized," von Zahringen offered.
"I doubt it."
"He's right," Sergeant Waymouth added. "There would be questions we cannot answer. Not to mention our rifles are French made, we can't explain that away if they notice."
"Tell me again how we wound up on the wrong side of the river!?"
"It was the fastest way out of their lands," Wesley replied shortly. "Even if we do get caught, I'd rather it be by the Brits than the Cherokee."
"I'm never coming back to this place."
The three soldiers exchanged a glance. Waymouth pointed to a copse of long-leafed pines by the roadside and they nodded. "Come my friend," von Zahringen offered. "It is time to rest."
"I thought we had miles to go."
"Later. Now we rest."
As Tom slumped gratefully on a rock and the Badenite checked the bandage, the sergeant took Wesley aside. "He's getting worse."
"I think it's the fever."
"How in hell did he get a fever? I checked, there's no open wound by his ribs."
Wesley shrugged. "Insects? Illness? Bad blood? I'm not a physician."
The sergeant nodded shortly. "We need to get him across tonight. Whatever it is, I don't think all this walking is doing him any good."
"Maybe a horse...?"
"Might help, but he needs to rest. And we need to make a report."
"What's the plan?"
Waymouth nodded grimly. "I heard some people talking... How well do you swim?"
---------
As it turned out, Wesley Harding was a very good swimmer, and his bulk only served to help him stay afloat. While by no possible stretch a universal trait of folk from Newport, Rhode Island, the fact his home town was on an island convinced him to learn at an early age. He spent many days at Easton's Pond on the outskirts of town, dodging chores and wiling away sunny afternoons.
The Savannah River bore as much resemblance to Easton's Pond as it did the Great South Sea. It was much warmer, and somewhat murkier with green, slimy 'something' on the surface near shore that smelled rotten. Despite this, the river flowed quickly and he struggled for each of the five hundred plus yards to the other shore, where he stood dripping.
The plan was simple enough. While the ferries weren't running anymore, the boats still had to exist somewhere - rather than risk destruction or confiscation, probably hidden somewhere on the Carolina side of the river. They'd just passed the former site of Burton's Ferry, which meant the boat had to be around here.
Somewhere.
He crept along the river, his only companion the occasional wild whoop of a lonely crane who, by some failing of instinct, had not followed his flock north for the summer and still wondered where they went.
Indeed, the night was unnaturally quiet. Unnaturally...
"....leave?"
"Tonight?"
"Of course tonight, Stewart. Sooner you're over the line, happier we both are."
"Oh. Let me get my lantern."
"Hurry back. Moon rises at half-past ten."
Wesley carefully headed towards the voices, through the darkness. He parted some tall grass, and there they were: Two men, one walking away. The other stood on a rowboat loaded with boxes bobbing peacefully on a creek. Smugglers, no doubt. The craft was small, but it would do. It would do nicely.
He waited until the other man was some distance off and started creeping forward. A renegade twig betrayed him with a loud snap and the pilot turned. He had a lantern of his own, thank you. And a pistol. "Who's there!?" he demanded.
Wesley was unarmed except for a knife. He grit his teeth and stepped into the light. "Hello."
The rogue's eyes widened in surprise. "Who the devil are you?"
"A man in need of a boat."
"What?" He aimed the pistol at Wesley's head. It didn't waver. "Bugger off!"
"We can pay."
The smuggler squinted. "Pay...for what?"
-----------------
Stewart frowned at his companion as they rowed across the river. He was a tall man, of average build with greasy black hair and a hawk's nose. "I don't recall agreeing to this," he told the pilot coldly.
"I didn't ask. You'll get across, leave the rest to me."
Stewart frowned deeper. "Who are your companions, sir? Perhaps I know them."
Wesley doubted this very strongly. Smugglers. As a merchant's son he was obliged to dislike them very much indeed. Of course, that would mean hating about half of Newport. "They're from up north."
"Oh? Norfolk? Baltimore? Philadelphia?"
"Up. North."
Stewart shrugged and privately mused while Harding turned away. Too many questions, and no safe answers. They were rowing back into enemy territory, and there was no telling where either of these men stood. 'Probably for themselves,' he reflected silently.
A sharp bump and the boat landed. Stewart leapt nimbly out, and without so much as a backwards glance vanished into the night.
"Interesting people you deal with," Wesley remarked.
The pilot stared at Wesley, smirking. "That's for certain."
20th June, 1776
St. George's Parish, Georgia Province (British occupied)
"Didn't we just leave this party?" Tom groused. He walked carefully down the path that ran along the Savannah River - carefully because any sudden exertion made his chest explode in pain. He had two cracked ribs - indeed, this now made twice he was wandering injured through the swamps of Georgia. If it wouldn't make that pompous ass Rutledge smile, he'd tell the Brits they could keep it.
Mosquitoes, more mosquitoes, and a stench that finally, mercifully clogged his nose so Tom couldn't smell a thing was his memory of the last two weeks as they angled out of Cherokee Territory, over the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, and into....a bog. They'd finally intercepted the road south of Augusta on a particularly damp evening and spent the night there, gasping and trying to draw in the unbreathable air. Now they paced southward, desperately avoiding any attention from the occasional British patrol, looking for .. a way across the river into South Carolina. A ferry, a rowboat, even a ford would answer, but no. The British stopped the first once the borders were established, the second was at best unlikely, and if there were any fords - they didn't know of them.
On the other hand, while the foursome did earn the occasional wondrous eye, no one saw fit to pursue their curiosity. The Indian woman had gone back to her people, and the two soldiers had shed their uniforms. von Zahringen was finally convinced to abandon his as well, though that took some work as he passionately swore in English, French and German. They did not look like the escaped remnants of an illegal American assault, but like losers of a mud fight.
"Just a few more miles, sir," said Wesley with false cheer. He was also very tired, and wished Heyward would just shut up. He wasn't helping.
"We're running out of province," Tom retorted. "I don't want to end up in Savannah."
"Could we not go there, then just walk over the bridge? We would not be recognized," von Zahringen offered.
"I doubt it."
"He's right," Sergeant Waymouth added. "There would be questions we cannot answer. Not to mention our rifles are French made, we can't explain that away if they notice."
"Tell me again how we wound up on the wrong side of the river!?"
"It was the fastest way out of their lands," Wesley replied shortly. "Even if we do get caught, I'd rather it be by the Brits than the Cherokee."
"I'm never coming back to this place."
The three soldiers exchanged a glance. Waymouth pointed to a copse of long-leafed pines by the roadside and they nodded. "Come my friend," von Zahringen offered. "It is time to rest."
"I thought we had miles to go."
"Later. Now we rest."
As Tom slumped gratefully on a rock and the Badenite checked the bandage, the sergeant took Wesley aside. "He's getting worse."
"I think it's the fever."
"How in hell did he get a fever? I checked, there's no open wound by his ribs."
Wesley shrugged. "Insects? Illness? Bad blood? I'm not a physician."
The sergeant nodded shortly. "We need to get him across tonight. Whatever it is, I don't think all this walking is doing him any good."
"Maybe a horse...?"
"Might help, but he needs to rest. And we need to make a report."
"What's the plan?"
Waymouth nodded grimly. "I heard some people talking... How well do you swim?"
---------
As it turned out, Wesley Harding was a very good swimmer, and his bulk only served to help him stay afloat. While by no possible stretch a universal trait of folk from Newport, Rhode Island, the fact his home town was on an island convinced him to learn at an early age. He spent many days at Easton's Pond on the outskirts of town, dodging chores and wiling away sunny afternoons.
The Savannah River bore as much resemblance to Easton's Pond as it did the Great South Sea. It was much warmer, and somewhat murkier with green, slimy 'something' on the surface near shore that smelled rotten. Despite this, the river flowed quickly and he struggled for each of the five hundred plus yards to the other shore, where he stood dripping.
The plan was simple enough. While the ferries weren't running anymore, the boats still had to exist somewhere - rather than risk destruction or confiscation, probably hidden somewhere on the Carolina side of the river. They'd just passed the former site of Burton's Ferry, which meant the boat had to be around here.
Somewhere.
He crept along the river, his only companion the occasional wild whoop of a lonely crane who, by some failing of instinct, had not followed his flock north for the summer and still wondered where they went.
Indeed, the night was unnaturally quiet. Unnaturally...
"....leave?"
"Tonight?"
"Of course tonight, Stewart. Sooner you're over the line, happier we both are."
"Oh. Let me get my lantern."
"Hurry back. Moon rises at half-past ten."
Wesley carefully headed towards the voices, through the darkness. He parted some tall grass, and there they were: Two men, one walking away. The other stood on a rowboat loaded with boxes bobbing peacefully on a creek. Smugglers, no doubt. The craft was small, but it would do. It would do nicely.
He waited until the other man was some distance off and started creeping forward. A renegade twig betrayed him with a loud snap and the pilot turned. He had a lantern of his own, thank you. And a pistol. "Who's there!?" he demanded.
Wesley was unarmed except for a knife. He grit his teeth and stepped into the light. "Hello."
The rogue's eyes widened in surprise. "Who the devil are you?"
"A man in need of a boat."
"What?" He aimed the pistol at Wesley's head. It didn't waver. "Bugger off!"
"We can pay."
The smuggler squinted. "Pay...for what?"
-----------------
Stewart frowned at his companion as they rowed across the river. He was a tall man, of average build with greasy black hair and a hawk's nose. "I don't recall agreeing to this," he told the pilot coldly.
"I didn't ask. You'll get across, leave the rest to me."
Stewart frowned deeper. "Who are your companions, sir? Perhaps I know them."
Wesley doubted this very strongly. Smugglers. As a merchant's son he was obliged to dislike them very much indeed. Of course, that would mean hating about half of Newport. "They're from up north."
"Oh? Norfolk? Baltimore? Philadelphia?"
"Up. North."
Stewart shrugged and privately mused while Harding turned away. Too many questions, and no safe answers. They were rowing back into enemy territory, and there was no telling where either of these men stood. 'Probably for themselves,' he reflected silently.
A sharp bump and the boat landed. Stewart leapt nimbly out, and without so much as a backwards glance vanished into the night.
"Interesting people you deal with," Wesley remarked.
The pilot stared at Wesley, smirking. "That's for certain."
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Very shady people he seems to deal with, there.
Hopefully they don't doublecross the trio and hand them over to the british.
Hopefully they don't doublecross the trio and hand them over to the british.
Chapter 29: Judgement Day
7th August, 1776
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
"Thank you, Mister Heyward." John Hancock, President of the United States Congress, nodded. "We are also pleased to see you recovered." By the time he'd finally made it back to the city Tom had been pale and not entirely coherent. It'd taken the better part of two weeks to rebuild what had happened. Hancock shook his head at the sudden clamor of questions. "No, gentlemen. Let us hear the rest of this tale first, then we may worry about details. Captain Wolf?"
Josiah Wolf didn't meet Heyward's eyes as he was sworn in and sat awkwardly.
"What was your last assignment, Captain?"
"I was attached to Colonel Exeter's command by the North Carolina assembly."
"Is Mister Heyward's testimony correct to the best of your knowledge?"
Wolf hesitated. He believed Mister Heyward may have overstated a few points regarding Indian abuse, but there was no misrepresentation therein. Hancock asked what happened after they parted company.
"It was about the sixth or seventh that we finally found the Echota at the southern edge of the mountains. We were surprised to learn they had a fairly large settlement - perhaps three or four thousand - and fortifications."
"Fortifications, sir?" asked Joseph Hewes, blinking.
"Aye, sir. Though I may say, nothing in the modern taste. Mostly earthen breastworks, spear hedges to repel cavalry and the like, though they did have a cannon - French built, bronzework. We hazarded they received it during the French and Indian War."
"Operational?"
"Yes and no. It worked well enough, but they seemed puzzled how to use it. Their reload rate was antediluvian."
"Colonel Exeter ordered an attack then?"
"Yes, sir. As Mister Heyward surmised, we were suffering from a high rate of desertion at that point so he believed there was not a minute to lose. We attempted a parley as a ruse de guerre, but they must have had wind of our intentions for they clubbed him to death and threw his body over their wall for us to find."
"There," Rutledge sniffed. "That is an Indian for you. Full of guile and treachery, no honor, and brutal."
"Captain Wolf," asked a delegate. "If they had accepted your parley and sent a representative, what would you have done?"
"Taken him captive to try and secure the town's surrender, or at least make them hesitate."
Hancock blinked. "Continue."
Wolf considered. The 'truth' was worth a full pardon to him: He had nothing to hide now. "The next morning Colonel Exeter had us attack in an envelopment. In that there are two wings, in this case commanded by Captain Jenkins on the right and myself on the left, and a vanguard. Colonel Exeter attempted to force their entrance while we scaled the walls. We didn't expect such defenses sir, so we had no artillery."
"Indians better equipped than our men at arms," swore the Maryland delegate.
"When we return we will be sure to give them artillery - and we thank Captain Wolf for his intelligence," Rutledge sniffed.
This brought the expected uproar. Going back? Says who? Rutledge might see himself hanged first. But then, Indians this well equipped on the border was a very serious matter, might it not be better to take the matter in hand now?
"Quiet, God rot you all!" bellowed Hancock. "I have met children who could not hold a candle to you for pure noise! If this wrangling speaks for the tenor of future Congresses then we are damned I tell you! Captain Wolf, please forgive the interruptions and continue."
The room silenced. Wolf blushed, trying to hide his amusement. "Yes, sir. Mm...Ah, the attack. Well, we swarmed early in the morning. Their warriors were vastly outnumbered, but they fought well. Every time we attacked the walls they shot us off with muskets and bows, and those that fell on their side were cut up something cruel. Say what you like about the Indians, they are vicious when cornered. Their cannon fired twice at Colonel Exeter's men as they burst through the gate. The first time was with a standard ball, perhaps 18 pounder. The second was with grapeshot - or rather, every single rock they could find."
Grapeshot, simply put, was a large number of smaller balls as opposed to one large one. The cannon's range was crippled, but its killing power increased exponentially. In effect, it turned the cannon into a shotgun, and its effect on a tightly packed group of men was devastating.
"By perhaps ten or eleven in the morning, I had finally placed some of my better shooters on their wall where they fired into the compound. I specifically told them to concentrate on anyone who looked important - anyone giving orders, shamans, chiefs and the like. Colonel Exeter was fiercely contested at the gate and Captain Jenkins couldn't establish a foothold. Finally the Colonel ordered a retreat. From an initial strength of 3,765 we lost 100 killed, captured and wounded. From an estimated starting strength of 800 braves, they also lost perhaps 100. The cries of their prisoners kept us awake most of the night."
"Savages! Unthinking..."
"I think it drove the colonel somewhat mad. The next day he ordered another assault. We tried to tell him the men weren't ready, they were tired from marching and a little shaken but he was immune to reason. I believe he took their actions as personal effrontery. We attacked again ... and again ... and again. Wave after wave. Captain Jenkins' men were taken out early, they simply couldn't make it to the wall. The colonel tried again and again, but every time it turned into man on man, it was butchery." Wolf shuddered at the memory, fifty or more Americans with bayonets vanishing in a wave of blood under tomahawks, spears, knives, even a sword. "We did the best if you choose to call it that," he added grimly. We made it over the wall, we made it into the city on the last wave. I'm sure, I'm so sure we could have broken them if we could have made just one more charge, or fired just one more volley before they were on us. I swear to you gentlemen, it was so close I could taste it. But no....first the men to my left were gone. Then my right. Then they were everywhere and we were retreating, a step, a yard, two yards, then in flight. My flag bearer went down with a spear to the back, a young boy.... my entire command, slaughtered around me..." Wolf faltered. It was ten seconds before he spoke again, and then in a cold, matter of fact voice: "Our losses: 1,784. Estimated theirs at 400."
"Good God!"
"Slaughtered, like animals!"
Even Tom paled. He'd expected a shambles, but nothing quite so unholy as this.
"And still Colonel Exeter wanted to attack," Wolf continued. "He represented to us we still had 1,800 men, and they couldn't have more than 300. The odds were in our favor some six to one, whereas before it'd been only four. Even Jenkins seemed to go along with it, but I reported the men were one step from mutiny, which was the truth. If we attacked again, they would surely hang us all. He agreed to wait for just a little while he said. On the fifteenth we finally convinced him to withdraw."
"Why did you not press the attack? Six to one seems like reasonable odds, Captain." Hewes frowned. "It sounds like you snatched defeat from the jaws of victory."
There was some rumbling about this. Tactics, the prescribed advantage one needed to storm a city, how much more favorable to simply kill some Indians, morale, the effects of morale on the soldier, discipline, order. Captain Wolf might continue his story.
"The men were exhausted, sir, and their morale was not recovering. Most were ready to desert before the attacks, and with the prospect of easy... reward... (so picky these gentlemen were about the word 'loot') gone they didn't want to fight further. We had entered Cherokee Country with six thousand men, and now we couldn't muster two. Further, our scouts reported incoming reinforcements, so we pulled out. It made little difference. We left the way we came, traveling through the Appalachians to avoid British territory, and learned that a very large body ... over fifteen thousand ... all the braves in the Cherokee nation, were in pursuit. We attempted to divert eastward, but they simply know the land better than us. On the third of July they forced a battle. They attacked in three directions, three distinct waves mimicking our own envelopment trick. It was....it wasn't even a battle, sir. We fired. We kept firing, they kept coming. They were like ants, they didn't even bother firing back. They swarmed us. Most of our men didn't have time to even try to run. I managed to break out with what men I could - they chased me all the way to General Lincoln's camp before they gave up, sneaking ahead of us in the night and ambushing us as we marched. I saw the colonel running on the horse he ... acquired from Mister Heyward. I don't think Jenkins made it."
"How many men made it out, Captain Wolf?"
"Including myself, sir .... seventy-five. Seventy-six if the colonel escaped as well."
"Thank you, Captain. Please go to the waiting room, someone will be with you anon."
What followed was a very serious debate where fear reigned over reason. Whether this expedition was justified wasn't the issue. The fact was, they'd lost. They'd lost horribly. A pack of savages had first outlasted, then outmaneuvered an expeditionary force.
"We have to go back, and we have to go back now!" Hewes shouted. "There are sixteen thousand savages on the border, and even if they weren't going to attack before - and they were - now we can expect them across the line at any moment!"
"They have done nothing but defend themselves," retorted the New York delegate. "If they were rough about it, it doesn't sound like we were very gentle with them. Nay. No one here will argue they are equals, but it is very true that our French allies had something of a rapport with them. I say we ask them to mediate for us, we win them to our side, and...."
"You cannot reason with them," protested Reverend Witherspoon of New Jersey. "They don't even believe in God."
When the day ended the vote was nine to four, even Doctor Hall of Georgia was alarmed. They would wait until the English were chastised, it was agreed. But then, the Cherokee would pay for the four to six thousand men they'd slain.
------------------
"Mister Heyward, sir." Rutledge walked to him and bowed. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, I thank you," Tom glared.
"I hope you do not mind our decision about your Cherokee friends?"
"Not at all. I simply want the British to fall first."
"Fall is it? That will take some doing, sir."
Heyward smiled coldly. "You are correct, I misspoke."
"You do that frequently." Rutledge paused, reached into his pocket and drew a letter. "This came for you while you were gone."
"The seal's broken."
"Yes, I beg pardon." He didn't sound sorry. "It came with dispatches for me, I was not aware of its content until I opened it."
Tom glared again and opened the letter. It was from the South Carolina Assembly. It thanked him for his years of hard work in Congress, but assured him he was no longer required. He looked up. "Bastard."
"I beg pardon?"
"You know what this says!"
"I do not," Rutledge replied coyly.
"I'm being replaced."
"Oh, that." Now he sounded bored. "Yes, that was in my dispatch as well. I suppose they were tired of you failing to look after Carolinan interests."
"Bastard!"
"Now now, sir. You're repeating yourself, that is not a good sign. Do not despair however, I know a man like you will want to serve his country in any capacity. I pulled a few strings - called in a few favors? - on your behalf, and you will be pleased I think. The Assembly does not want to appear ungrateful for your help." Edward Rutledge ignored the suspicious frown. "Given you now have military experience, I thought you would like to be part of the division that now needs reforming to take back Georgia. You have expressed particular interest in that province, especially recently. How does colonel of artillery sound?"
Troop movements, June-July 1776
7th August, 1776
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
"Thank you, Mister Heyward." John Hancock, President of the United States Congress, nodded. "We are also pleased to see you recovered." By the time he'd finally made it back to the city Tom had been pale and not entirely coherent. It'd taken the better part of two weeks to rebuild what had happened. Hancock shook his head at the sudden clamor of questions. "No, gentlemen. Let us hear the rest of this tale first, then we may worry about details. Captain Wolf?"
Josiah Wolf didn't meet Heyward's eyes as he was sworn in and sat awkwardly.
"What was your last assignment, Captain?"
"I was attached to Colonel Exeter's command by the North Carolina assembly."
"Is Mister Heyward's testimony correct to the best of your knowledge?"
Wolf hesitated. He believed Mister Heyward may have overstated a few points regarding Indian abuse, but there was no misrepresentation therein. Hancock asked what happened after they parted company.
"It was about the sixth or seventh that we finally found the Echota at the southern edge of the mountains. We were surprised to learn they had a fairly large settlement - perhaps three or four thousand - and fortifications."
"Fortifications, sir?" asked Joseph Hewes, blinking.
"Aye, sir. Though I may say, nothing in the modern taste. Mostly earthen breastworks, spear hedges to repel cavalry and the like, though they did have a cannon - French built, bronzework. We hazarded they received it during the French and Indian War."
"Operational?"
"Yes and no. It worked well enough, but they seemed puzzled how to use it. Their reload rate was antediluvian."
"Colonel Exeter ordered an attack then?"
"Yes, sir. As Mister Heyward surmised, we were suffering from a high rate of desertion at that point so he believed there was not a minute to lose. We attempted a parley as a ruse de guerre, but they must have had wind of our intentions for they clubbed him to death and threw his body over their wall for us to find."
"There," Rutledge sniffed. "That is an Indian for you. Full of guile and treachery, no honor, and brutal."
"Captain Wolf," asked a delegate. "If they had accepted your parley and sent a representative, what would you have done?"
"Taken him captive to try and secure the town's surrender, or at least make them hesitate."
Hancock blinked. "Continue."
Wolf considered. The 'truth' was worth a full pardon to him: He had nothing to hide now. "The next morning Colonel Exeter had us attack in an envelopment. In that there are two wings, in this case commanded by Captain Jenkins on the right and myself on the left, and a vanguard. Colonel Exeter attempted to force their entrance while we scaled the walls. We didn't expect such defenses sir, so we had no artillery."
"Indians better equipped than our men at arms," swore the Maryland delegate.
"When we return we will be sure to give them artillery - and we thank Captain Wolf for his intelligence," Rutledge sniffed.
This brought the expected uproar. Going back? Says who? Rutledge might see himself hanged first. But then, Indians this well equipped on the border was a very serious matter, might it not be better to take the matter in hand now?
"Quiet, God rot you all!" bellowed Hancock. "I have met children who could not hold a candle to you for pure noise! If this wrangling speaks for the tenor of future Congresses then we are damned I tell you! Captain Wolf, please forgive the interruptions and continue."
The room silenced. Wolf blushed, trying to hide his amusement. "Yes, sir. Mm...Ah, the attack. Well, we swarmed early in the morning. Their warriors were vastly outnumbered, but they fought well. Every time we attacked the walls they shot us off with muskets and bows, and those that fell on their side were cut up something cruel. Say what you like about the Indians, they are vicious when cornered. Their cannon fired twice at Colonel Exeter's men as they burst through the gate. The first time was with a standard ball, perhaps 18 pounder. The second was with grapeshot - or rather, every single rock they could find."
Grapeshot, simply put, was a large number of smaller balls as opposed to one large one. The cannon's range was crippled, but its killing power increased exponentially. In effect, it turned the cannon into a shotgun, and its effect on a tightly packed group of men was devastating.
"By perhaps ten or eleven in the morning, I had finally placed some of my better shooters on their wall where they fired into the compound. I specifically told them to concentrate on anyone who looked important - anyone giving orders, shamans, chiefs and the like. Colonel Exeter was fiercely contested at the gate and Captain Jenkins couldn't establish a foothold. Finally the Colonel ordered a retreat. From an initial strength of 3,765 we lost 100 killed, captured and wounded. From an estimated starting strength of 800 braves, they also lost perhaps 100. The cries of their prisoners kept us awake most of the night."
"Savages! Unthinking..."
"I think it drove the colonel somewhat mad. The next day he ordered another assault. We tried to tell him the men weren't ready, they were tired from marching and a little shaken but he was immune to reason. I believe he took their actions as personal effrontery. We attacked again ... and again ... and again. Wave after wave. Captain Jenkins' men were taken out early, they simply couldn't make it to the wall. The colonel tried again and again, but every time it turned into man on man, it was butchery." Wolf shuddered at the memory, fifty or more Americans with bayonets vanishing in a wave of blood under tomahawks, spears, knives, even a sword. "We did the best if you choose to call it that," he added grimly. We made it over the wall, we made it into the city on the last wave. I'm sure, I'm so sure we could have broken them if we could have made just one more charge, or fired just one more volley before they were on us. I swear to you gentlemen, it was so close I could taste it. But no....first the men to my left were gone. Then my right. Then they were everywhere and we were retreating, a step, a yard, two yards, then in flight. My flag bearer went down with a spear to the back, a young boy.... my entire command, slaughtered around me..." Wolf faltered. It was ten seconds before he spoke again, and then in a cold, matter of fact voice: "Our losses: 1,784. Estimated theirs at 400."
"Good God!"
"Slaughtered, like animals!"
Even Tom paled. He'd expected a shambles, but nothing quite so unholy as this.
"And still Colonel Exeter wanted to attack," Wolf continued. "He represented to us we still had 1,800 men, and they couldn't have more than 300. The odds were in our favor some six to one, whereas before it'd been only four. Even Jenkins seemed to go along with it, but I reported the men were one step from mutiny, which was the truth. If we attacked again, they would surely hang us all. He agreed to wait for just a little while he said. On the fifteenth we finally convinced him to withdraw."
"Why did you not press the attack? Six to one seems like reasonable odds, Captain." Hewes frowned. "It sounds like you snatched defeat from the jaws of victory."
There was some rumbling about this. Tactics, the prescribed advantage one needed to storm a city, how much more favorable to simply kill some Indians, morale, the effects of morale on the soldier, discipline, order. Captain Wolf might continue his story.
"The men were exhausted, sir, and their morale was not recovering. Most were ready to desert before the attacks, and with the prospect of easy... reward... (so picky these gentlemen were about the word 'loot') gone they didn't want to fight further. We had entered Cherokee Country with six thousand men, and now we couldn't muster two. Further, our scouts reported incoming reinforcements, so we pulled out. It made little difference. We left the way we came, traveling through the Appalachians to avoid British territory, and learned that a very large body ... over fifteen thousand ... all the braves in the Cherokee nation, were in pursuit. We attempted to divert eastward, but they simply know the land better than us. On the third of July they forced a battle. They attacked in three directions, three distinct waves mimicking our own envelopment trick. It was....it wasn't even a battle, sir. We fired. We kept firing, they kept coming. They were like ants, they didn't even bother firing back. They swarmed us. Most of our men didn't have time to even try to run. I managed to break out with what men I could - they chased me all the way to General Lincoln's camp before they gave up, sneaking ahead of us in the night and ambushing us as we marched. I saw the colonel running on the horse he ... acquired from Mister Heyward. I don't think Jenkins made it."
"How many men made it out, Captain Wolf?"
"Including myself, sir .... seventy-five. Seventy-six if the colonel escaped as well."
"Thank you, Captain. Please go to the waiting room, someone will be with you anon."
What followed was a very serious debate where fear reigned over reason. Whether this expedition was justified wasn't the issue. The fact was, they'd lost. They'd lost horribly. A pack of savages had first outlasted, then outmaneuvered an expeditionary force.
"We have to go back, and we have to go back now!" Hewes shouted. "There are sixteen thousand savages on the border, and even if they weren't going to attack before - and they were - now we can expect them across the line at any moment!"
"They have done nothing but defend themselves," retorted the New York delegate. "If they were rough about it, it doesn't sound like we were very gentle with them. Nay. No one here will argue they are equals, but it is very true that our French allies had something of a rapport with them. I say we ask them to mediate for us, we win them to our side, and...."
"You cannot reason with them," protested Reverend Witherspoon of New Jersey. "They don't even believe in God."
When the day ended the vote was nine to four, even Doctor Hall of Georgia was alarmed. They would wait until the English were chastised, it was agreed. But then, the Cherokee would pay for the four to six thousand men they'd slain.
------------------
"Mister Heyward, sir." Rutledge walked to him and bowed. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, I thank you," Tom glared.
"I hope you do not mind our decision about your Cherokee friends?"
"Not at all. I simply want the British to fall first."
"Fall is it? That will take some doing, sir."
Heyward smiled coldly. "You are correct, I misspoke."
"You do that frequently." Rutledge paused, reached into his pocket and drew a letter. "This came for you while you were gone."
"The seal's broken."
"Yes, I beg pardon." He didn't sound sorry. "It came with dispatches for me, I was not aware of its content until I opened it."
Tom glared again and opened the letter. It was from the South Carolina Assembly. It thanked him for his years of hard work in Congress, but assured him he was no longer required. He looked up. "Bastard."
"I beg pardon?"
"You know what this says!"
"I do not," Rutledge replied coyly.
"I'm being replaced."
"Oh, that." Now he sounded bored. "Yes, that was in my dispatch as well. I suppose they were tired of you failing to look after Carolinan interests."
"Bastard!"
"Now now, sir. You're repeating yourself, that is not a good sign. Do not despair however, I know a man like you will want to serve his country in any capacity. I pulled a few strings - called in a few favors? - on your behalf, and you will be pleased I think. The Assembly does not want to appear ungrateful for your help." Edward Rutledge ignored the suspicious frown. "Given you now have military experience, I thought you would like to be part of the division that now needs reforming to take back Georgia. You have expressed particular interest in that province, especially recently. How does colonel of artillery sound?"
Troop movements, June-July 1776
Ach! That bastard Rutledge! Someone needs to put a mini-ball in his kneecap!
You know, I'd almost like to see the British come in and sack South Carolina, just to punish Rutledge. I'm not sure which would be better for him, the shot to the knee or the pillaging of his home state.... hey, why not both? If he can arrange for Tom to get assigned to an artillery unit, why can't Tom shame him into taking an infantry unit to lead? Interesting possibility, eh?
Okay... so how goes life for our young hero up north?
You know, I'd almost like to see the British come in and sack South Carolina, just to punish Rutledge. I'm not sure which would be better for him, the shot to the knee or the pillaging of his home state.... hey, why not both? If he can arrange for Tom to get assigned to an artillery unit, why can't Tom shame him into taking an infantry unit to lead? Interesting possibility, eh?
Okay... so how goes life for our young hero up north?
Poor Tom he gets outmaneuvered and almost loses his life only to get outmaneuvered again and end up in the Artillery. Sounds like the Indians were a little farther along tech wise than I would have expected. Well written with all the multiple characters and scenes.
Joe
Sounds like the Indians were a little farther along tech wise than I would have expected. Well written with all the multiple characters and scenes.Joe
Incredible story catknight! I say Tom bags that Edward Rutledge and tie him in a potato sack on the Cherokee border that should teach em. In any case continue! I so enojy the aristocratic type villains
that should teach em. In any case continue! I so enojy the aristocratic type villains
J. Passepartout: Very shady. And we aren't done with them yet, as you'll see soon enough.
Draco Rexus: Hmm, very interesting idea... Hmm....
Storey: I don't understand how EU2 handles the Indians myself. If you go through the GC, assuming they aren't run by players or something else seriously impacts play, they'll come out about Land Tech 3 or 4. In the 1773 scenario they start at 15....which means early cannon. I guess I can 'ignore' the fortifications question as the price of making the game work, but put together it really puts a different spin on the Indian Wars.
TreizeV: Hmm, leaving him in a sack on the Cherokee border is also appealing. So many plans, so little time...
Draco Rexus: Hmm, very interesting idea... Hmm....
Storey: I don't understand how EU2 handles the Indians myself. If you go through the GC, assuming they aren't run by players or something else seriously impacts play, they'll come out about Land Tech 3 or 4. In the 1773 scenario they start at 15....which means early cannon. I guess I can 'ignore' the fortifications question as the price of making the game work, but put together it really puts a different spin on the Indian Wars.
TreizeV: Hmm, leaving him in a sack on the Cherokee border is also appealing. So many plans, so little time...
Chapter 30: Postal Services
2nd November, 1776
Allenstown, Pennsylvania
John Preston rode tensely along the highway along the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border, heading for the New York/Canadian border. Time was against him. Actually, orders were not entirely with him either, but there he had room to maneuver. First though, he had to get to New York. Fortunately it was raining today, fortunately because that meant he had the road to himself, and therefore although every second, every minute was worth a king's ransom, he could spare some of it to think. It had begun almost as soon as he returned.
----------
April 16. Philadelphia.
Cassie:
I made it back yesterday. Tom was furious, he demanded to know where I'd gone and what I was doing. He's actually a good guy but he fusses worse than my ma did. I told him what for. Somehow I don't think he'd like this any more than your pa.
Your Sergeant Daniels is persistent, I must admit that. He chased me into upstate New York near Saratoga before I shook him entirely. I ended up catching a transport in Connecticut to get home.
I think you would like Philadelphia. It can get cold in winter, at least for me - but I guess it gets colder where you are. Everyone is always busy here, having somewhere to be or someone to be with. I can't really go into details, but I hope I can take you here one day.
The messenger can be relied upon, he's a scout with the American army. Please write back. I am, your obedient, faithful servant.
------------------
June 2.
John:
I'm happy you made it back safely. Father's been in a rare passion since you left, he is suspicious of everyone now. Your man barely escaped a beating because he hesitated before toasting the King's health. It is not safe for you now, I beg you not to come. Father says our King will take the rebels to task, but I am not so sure. The soldiers seem nervous. I hear of troop movements in Canada, but I haven't seen any. I also hear other things, like two-hundred ship fleets in the Atlantic, but I don't believe that either. That many ships, apparently just cruising? How absurd. I think our King has better things to do with the money.
Father also says we should go to London. Have no fear though. The truth is we don't have the money. Montreal and Quebec are also out of the question - he doesn't speak the language and he hates the French almost as much as he hates you. He's getting desperate. He's ugly when he drinks. I am well though, he doesn't touch me - so don't you worry. Please write when you can. You may want to send another man though, father is already suspicious.
I am...
---------------------------
August 5. Philadelphia.
Cassie:
I am so happy you weren't here the past few months. Tom was in a foul mood (again,) and this time he had good reason! There was some trouble to the south with the Cherokee - again I can't say anything. Later, I promise, when all these politics are out of our way I'll tell you everything. It involved some friends of mine though, and Tom had to go after them.
He expected me to sit here on my duff while he rode around the countryside. Right. While he was busy dealing with the problems I visited some friends of mine. The long and short of it is, one of our armies repositioned to the general area where the Cherokee live. It's a good thing, as our problem turned very bad. If it wasn't for General Lincoln, I don't think anyone would have made it..
Tom came home a little less than two weeks ago barely coherent. A local surgeon said he'd picked up one of "those swamp diseases they have in the south," whatever that means. My dear, if I may dare to use such a term of affection, I come from the south and I assure you it isn't that bad. Warmer than you are used to maybe, but the trees and plants grow all year 'round. They don't shrivel and die, or turn to barren sticks like "in the north." Anyway, they leeched him and kept him quiet and he came around soon enough. He meets with the Congress in a few days, hopefully we can put all this behind us.
How do you like my new messenger? Try not to be alarmed by his color. I'm hoping your father will mistake him for someone's servant, or perhaps a 'runaway' hiding behind British lines. I remembered the Virginia governor promised to emancipate all the blacks if they'd fight for him in the war.
How are things there? Is it safe to come back? I have to see you.
I am, your faithful, obedient...
--------------------------------
And that was it until early October, when a grey-colored, muddy, exhausted man stumbled through the door with the grim news. Gone.
"I came as quickly as I could," he explained. "I didn't have to stay long, thank God. Most of Poplar Ridge is gone, packed up - though the fort is still manned. Your friend and her family are gone."
"Gone? Gone where!?" John wanted to shake the man, but it wouldn't do any good. He glared and turned away, clenching and unclenching his fist.
"I don't know. We have spies at Fort Niagara, they may have seen something. You'd have to ask them."
"Niagara? Yes! Go, talk to them."
The scout shook his head. "Those men report to Captain Donnelly, who runs the garrison by the Shawnee/Iroquois border. Perhaps he sent dispatches.....?" He didn't hold out much hope. A tiny village was not worth risking the cover of those men at Niagara. They had probably silently watched as the band of refugees passed through.
John slammed his fist against the mantle.
"I'm sorry."
And that probably should have been it, if one last letter hadn't made its way to the lonely house in Philadelphia.
----------------------
October 30, 1776 - at Wilmington, North Carolina
Sir:
By the authority granted me by the United States Army, you are hereby requested and directed to repair to White Plains, New York. There you will report to the officer on duty, and there take upon yourself the role of cavalryman and junior officer in the force commanded by General Casimir Pulaski, and undertake whatsoever duties he sees fit, including but not limited to the role of forward scout and infiltrator for the United States forces employed and to be employed in that arena. Fail in this duty at your peril.
Signed,
Thomas Heyward, Colonel
United States Army
PS: This is all the help I can provide. The rest is up to you. Don't let her get away - you'll never forgive yourself. Trust me.
PPS: Did you really think I wouldn't find out?
-------------------------
"Thank you," John whispered as he continued riding.
2nd November, 1776
Allenstown, Pennsylvania
John Preston rode tensely along the highway along the Pennsylvania/New Jersey border, heading for the New York/Canadian border. Time was against him. Actually, orders were not entirely with him either, but there he had room to maneuver. First though, he had to get to New York. Fortunately it was raining today, fortunately because that meant he had the road to himself, and therefore although every second, every minute was worth a king's ransom, he could spare some of it to think. It had begun almost as soon as he returned.
----------
April 16. Philadelphia.
Cassie:
I made it back yesterday. Tom was furious, he demanded to know where I'd gone and what I was doing. He's actually a good guy but he fusses worse than my ma did. I told him what for. Somehow I don't think he'd like this any more than your pa.
Your Sergeant Daniels is persistent, I must admit that. He chased me into upstate New York near Saratoga before I shook him entirely. I ended up catching a transport in Connecticut to get home.
I think you would like Philadelphia. It can get cold in winter, at least for me - but I guess it gets colder where you are. Everyone is always busy here, having somewhere to be or someone to be with. I can't really go into details, but I hope I can take you here one day.
The messenger can be relied upon, he's a scout with the American army. Please write back. I am, your obedient, faithful servant.
------------------
June 2.
John:
I'm happy you made it back safely. Father's been in a rare passion since you left, he is suspicious of everyone now. Your man barely escaped a beating because he hesitated before toasting the King's health. It is not safe for you now, I beg you not to come. Father says our King will take the rebels to task, but I am not so sure. The soldiers seem nervous. I hear of troop movements in Canada, but I haven't seen any. I also hear other things, like two-hundred ship fleets in the Atlantic, but I don't believe that either. That many ships, apparently just cruising? How absurd. I think our King has better things to do with the money.
Father also says we should go to London. Have no fear though. The truth is we don't have the money. Montreal and Quebec are also out of the question - he doesn't speak the language and he hates the French almost as much as he hates you. He's getting desperate. He's ugly when he drinks. I am well though, he doesn't touch me - so don't you worry. Please write when you can. You may want to send another man though, father is already suspicious.
I am...
---------------------------
August 5. Philadelphia.
Cassie:
I am so happy you weren't here the past few months. Tom was in a foul mood (again,) and this time he had good reason! There was some trouble to the south with the Cherokee - again I can't say anything. Later, I promise, when all these politics are out of our way I'll tell you everything. It involved some friends of mine though, and Tom had to go after them.
He expected me to sit here on my duff while he rode around the countryside. Right. While he was busy dealing with the problems I visited some friends of mine. The long and short of it is, one of our armies repositioned to the general area where the Cherokee live. It's a good thing, as our problem turned very bad. If it wasn't for General Lincoln, I don't think anyone would have made it..
Tom came home a little less than two weeks ago barely coherent. A local surgeon said he'd picked up one of "those swamp diseases they have in the south," whatever that means. My dear, if I may dare to use such a term of affection, I come from the south and I assure you it isn't that bad. Warmer than you are used to maybe, but the trees and plants grow all year 'round. They don't shrivel and die, or turn to barren sticks like "in the north." Anyway, they leeched him and kept him quiet and he came around soon enough. He meets with the Congress in a few days, hopefully we can put all this behind us.
How do you like my new messenger? Try not to be alarmed by his color. I'm hoping your father will mistake him for someone's servant, or perhaps a 'runaway' hiding behind British lines. I remembered the Virginia governor promised to emancipate all the blacks if they'd fight for him in the war.
How are things there? Is it safe to come back? I have to see you.
I am, your faithful, obedient...
--------------------------------
And that was it until early October, when a grey-colored, muddy, exhausted man stumbled through the door with the grim news. Gone.
"I came as quickly as I could," he explained. "I didn't have to stay long, thank God. Most of Poplar Ridge is gone, packed up - though the fort is still manned. Your friend and her family are gone."
"Gone? Gone where!?" John wanted to shake the man, but it wouldn't do any good. He glared and turned away, clenching and unclenching his fist.
"I don't know. We have spies at Fort Niagara, they may have seen something. You'd have to ask them."
"Niagara? Yes! Go, talk to them."
The scout shook his head. "Those men report to Captain Donnelly, who runs the garrison by the Shawnee/Iroquois border. Perhaps he sent dispatches.....?" He didn't hold out much hope. A tiny village was not worth risking the cover of those men at Niagara. They had probably silently watched as the band of refugees passed through.
John slammed his fist against the mantle.
"I'm sorry."
And that probably should have been it, if one last letter hadn't made its way to the lonely house in Philadelphia.
----------------------
October 30, 1776 - at Wilmington, North Carolina
Sir:
By the authority granted me by the United States Army, you are hereby requested and directed to repair to White Plains, New York. There you will report to the officer on duty, and there take upon yourself the role of cavalryman and junior officer in the force commanded by General Casimir Pulaski, and undertake whatsoever duties he sees fit, including but not limited to the role of forward scout and infiltrator for the United States forces employed and to be employed in that arena. Fail in this duty at your peril.
Signed,
Thomas Heyward, Colonel
United States Army
PS: This is all the help I can provide. The rest is up to you. Don't let her get away - you'll never forgive yourself. Trust me.
PPS: Did you really think I wouldn't find out?
-------------------------
"Thank you," John whispered as he continued riding.
Some excellent updates, particularly the ones with the Cherokee. I finally got all caught up and look forward to future updates.
Well, now I know what our young and brave, but foolish Mr. Preston has been up to while Tom was galavanting around in the South!
So what's next on the agenda??? Another push to get the Brits out of North America? Hope it works, I just finished playing this scenario and had no luck in giving the Brits the boot from North America... close but not close enough. Hopefully you'll have a bit better luck (and/or more skill), eh?
So what's next on the agenda??? Another push to get the Brits out of North America? Hope it works, I just finished playing this scenario and had no luck in giving the Brits the boot from North America... close but not close enough.
Hopefully you'll have a bit better luck (and/or more skill), eh?
Just a quick note: The next chapter may be a little delayed.
The DSL connection I use apparently was fried in a lightning storm Wednesday evening (US Eastern), but hopefully it should be back up in the next day or three.
See you then!
The DSL connection I use apparently was fried in a lightning storm Wednesday evening (US Eastern), but hopefully it should be back up in the next day or three.
See you then!
And that, my friends, is why lightning is bad.
So, strange movements in the north. Okay, not exactly strange, but annoying for more than one person.
So, strange movements in the north. Okay, not exactly strange, but annoying for more than one person.
Aye, lightning bad. No DSL very bad. But having to wait for the next chapter, very, VERY bad!
I'm thinking that the movements in the North are more ominous for Britain than strange.... and I canna wait to read of the dropping of the hammer!
But having to wait for the next chapter, very, VERY bad! I'm thinking that the movements in the North are more ominous for Britain than strange.... and I canna wait to read of the dropping of the hammer!
Chapter 31: "Sale Coup"
22nd November, 1776
HMS Proteus, Long Island Sound
Malcolm Avery, Captain of His Majesty's Ship 'Proteus,' woke with the starboard watch hours before dawn at the first bell, or at four in the morning. Yes, there was Saturn just poking her head over the horizon with Spica only a few degrees of arc ahead. If the Royal Astronomical Society had anything to say about it, his chronometers were correct to the minute.
(Yes, I like astronomy. How'd you guess?)
There were none of the usual friendly calls as the watches changed, no quick witticisms. All could feel the loom of the Rhode Island shore as surely as they felt their own breath. The sailors knew the subtle changes in current and tide, the little capers of the sea that told them when land was nearby. These weren't friendly shores, and though they didn't know Captain Avery's mission, they knew that couldn't be too friendly either.
Proteus was a twenty-eight gun frigate, French-built in 1743 and captured during the Seven Years War. If she chose Proteus could fire a broadside of one-hundred sixty-four pounds (74 kg) of metal at three-hundred fifty four miles (574 km) per hour, enough to claw any ship except perhaps a man of war. Those cannon wouldn't be used today though, not unless something went horribly wrong.
Ships would get torn up, however.
His first lieutenant, Scott McAdams, paced to his captain and removed his hat. "Coursers only since yesterday dusk," he reported softly, "log has shown one or two knots all night. Heading north by northwest."
Avery nodded, pausing to stare hard at the master's board where the hourly speed of the vessel was tallied. Perhaps...sixteen miles since sunset. Yes, they should be very close now.
As if in answer, the lookout called down softly. "On deck, sir. Sir, light two points to starboard."
"Check it out, McAdams."
The lieutenant climbed into the rigging, his lanky frame stalking up the rope like a monkey or a particularly long spider. A few moments later, his voice filtered down. "Sir, I think it's the Beavertail" Beavertail Lighthouse, at the entrance to Narrangasset Bay. Perfect. With the help of soundings taken just before the war, they should be able to sneak almost into Newport itself, except....
"How far?"
It was hard to say without a point of reference and fog gathering over the land, but McAdams dared to venture a mile, no more.
Running blind into an enemy port was not Avery's idea of courage. "Bring us about a mile windward of the lighthouse," he told the master softly. "No closer."
"Under Breton Point's guns," he warned, even as he spun the wheel to comply.
"If we do this right, they'll be too busy to care." He frowned. That was, of course, the great gaping hole in Admiral Howe's plan. Newport was well defended, and time was an issue. Perhaps it'd be better to wait a day...? No. The admiral had chosen this day with special care. Avery wasn't sure he agreed with the reasoning - but he hadn't been asked either.
McAdams jumped down to the deck. "Shall I prepare our gift?"
"Aye." Avery frowned. He meant to ask his lieutenant if he was sure he wanted to do this ... but manners and breeding stopped him. Such a question could be taken as a reflection. "Once you're prepared, stop by my cabin." With a last glance at the approaching lighthouse, he went below.
Below, in a somewhat spacious (considering he commanded a sixth rate) cabin, wood polished to an almost brass-like hue and meticulously clean, he spread out a map of the bay. Their initial plan, to navigate by Vega which was to rise in less than an hour, was out with the fog. McAdams would need to know just when to turn, and how far. He was still working on these when his lieutenant knocked.
"Come in, sir. Come in. Amos! Amos there!" He nodded at his steward. "Wine there, and two glasses." Once his servant was off, he turned back to McAdams. "How is she?"
"Prime. Feisty is as ready as she can be." Feisty was an ancient, ironsick sloop converted for one last mission. She'd escorted Proteus these last days under a junior lieutenant. Even now foretopmen swarmed her thin masts, making sure all was in readiness.
"I've been working on your course." Avery pushed the map across the table. "With the fog rising up I thought you should keep it simple. No fancy maneuvering, just straight at them."
"That brings us very close to the Newport Battery," the lieutenant said after a minute. "They can't miss."
"I know it's a risk, but it can't be helped. Fine fools we'd look, were your men to get turned around without knowing."
"Perhaps if we cut the arc here?"
"No, sir. That will bring you too far north. We can't have a chance wind having you miss the harbor entirely."
Scott McAdams grimaced. His captain demanded obedience, rightfully so, but usually he let officers have their way on semi-independent campaigns. Does he think I'm no seaman? he wondered. Or is he nervous about something?
Malcolm Avery was nervous, but not because he doubted his lieutenant. There were a hundred things that could go wrong, each more embarrassing and career damaging than the last. It also upset his sense of honor that there were no warships in Newport harbor. Indeed, the Americans still had no navy other than a few revenue cutters, and showed no interest in building one. Unnatural. If something went wrong, if this plan of the admiral's failed at the hands of republicans, civilians without the decency to even bother building a real warship to try the fortune of their flags, why...
On his ship (at least for the next hour or so,) McAdams looked up and down her deck. Fifteen men, abominably under strength if Feisty were to get in a fight now, especially since she carried no guns, but that wasn't the plan. It would be enough . He saluted his captain one more time, looking up at the frigate's quarterdeck from his own. "Permission to part company?"
"Granted," Avery returned the salute. "Happy returns."
HMS Feisty ghosted silently into the bay. McAdams manned the wheel himself. Most of the stars had vanished with the growing fog, but Polaris, the North Star, still hung one point to port. Beavertail Light fell to stern, and between the two he could approximate his location. At a given point he gently turned the ship another point, due north-northeast now.
Silence. Silence except for the occasional cry of a seagull up too early. The men were quiet, they knew this was risky. They were threading their way between three forts under a press of sail that couldn't help but be noticed as the faintest white glimmer on the rippling ocean. Any minute now they expected the flash from on high, not unlike lightning, then the all engulfing roar, the thunderous splash. Newport Battery used twenty-four pounder cannon, more than enough to destroy Feisty in one, two hits. Instinctively Scott looked behind him for the reassuring presence of Proteus, but the frigate ran with no lights to avoid detection. She was nothing now, not even a shadow.
"Sir," the lookout called softly. "We're coming on the battery." The hill overlooking Newport harbor was huge, and he'd seen its looming shape through the mist.
"Aye." McAdams turned the ship slightly away from the battery. No challenge from the forts, no thunder nor fire. Despite this good fortune time was slowly, inexorably turning against them now. Even now the mist was starting to lighten somewhere beyond the fort, it had to be around five bells, or six in the morning. "Alright gentlemen, we've taken her as far as we can." He still spoke in a whisper. "Make all sail, everything she'll safely bear."
Feisty slowly and gracefully unfurled sail after sail. Now every minute bought their enterprise another four hundred feet and the harbor, their goal, was a ghost of darkness in the steadily lightening mist. A ship under full sail, though, is a difficult thing to miss, and their luck had to run out. It did. Newport Battery didn't even bother asking for identification, no merchant ship would be approaching at this hour. It fired a single gun, the ball splashing into the water some distance ahead. An ultimatum.
No need for silence now. "All hands," McAdams roared. "All hands, through the sallies!" Special openings had been cut into Feisty's quarters for precisely this purpose. "Into the boats, there you go!" He belayed the wheel into position and stepped below, into the cargo hold full of cloth and other combustibles, all smothered by lamp oil. For a moment he listened to the rushing water beneath her hull, and then this was overwhelmed, swallowed by the hot, angry rush of flame as the lieutenant tossed a torch into the mess.
Smoke already streamed through the open hatchways as he leapt into the boat. "Now men," he called. "Pull for all your worth!"
No fools at Newport, nor at Dumpling Rock. They saw the problem at the same instant, when Feisty abruptly erupted in flame as it continued streaking towards the mass of docked ships. They were slow though, perhaps because it took some time to rouse their mates, and as McAdams and his men fled for the safety of the frigate, now trading potshots with Brenton Point, Feisty continued to fulfill her last mission, a Royal Navy ship to the bitter end.
"And a good Thanksgiving to the rest of you baked beans!" called one of the sailors happily.
-------------
In Philadelphia, a week later, the British ambassador listened patiently to the angry complaint of his counterpart. "You destroyed eighteen ships, sir! EIGHTEEN! What the devil are your men at? Are you trying to provoke us!?"
"Of course not," assured the ambassador. He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "As I explained oh.. a year ago? It IS unfortunate when renegades violate the laws of war and take matters into their own hands, don't you agree? We will, of course, turn over those responsible. If we can find them."
22nd November, 1776
HMS Proteus, Long Island Sound
Malcolm Avery, Captain of His Majesty's Ship 'Proteus,' woke with the starboard watch hours before dawn at the first bell, or at four in the morning. Yes, there was Saturn just poking her head over the horizon with Spica only a few degrees of arc ahead. If the Royal Astronomical Society had anything to say about it, his chronometers were correct to the minute.
(Yes, I like astronomy. How'd you guess?)
There were none of the usual friendly calls as the watches changed, no quick witticisms. All could feel the loom of the Rhode Island shore as surely as they felt their own breath. The sailors knew the subtle changes in current and tide, the little capers of the sea that told them when land was nearby. These weren't friendly shores, and though they didn't know Captain Avery's mission, they knew that couldn't be too friendly either.
Proteus was a twenty-eight gun frigate, French-built in 1743 and captured during the Seven Years War. If she chose Proteus could fire a broadside of one-hundred sixty-four pounds (74 kg) of metal at three-hundred fifty four miles (574 km) per hour, enough to claw any ship except perhaps a man of war. Those cannon wouldn't be used today though, not unless something went horribly wrong.
Ships would get torn up, however.
His first lieutenant, Scott McAdams, paced to his captain and removed his hat. "Coursers only since yesterday dusk," he reported softly, "log has shown one or two knots all night. Heading north by northwest."
Avery nodded, pausing to stare hard at the master's board where the hourly speed of the vessel was tallied. Perhaps...sixteen miles since sunset. Yes, they should be very close now.
As if in answer, the lookout called down softly. "On deck, sir. Sir, light two points to starboard."
"Check it out, McAdams."
The lieutenant climbed into the rigging, his lanky frame stalking up the rope like a monkey or a particularly long spider. A few moments later, his voice filtered down. "Sir, I think it's the Beavertail" Beavertail Lighthouse, at the entrance to Narrangasset Bay. Perfect. With the help of soundings taken just before the war, they should be able to sneak almost into Newport itself, except....
"How far?"
It was hard to say without a point of reference and fog gathering over the land, but McAdams dared to venture a mile, no more.
Running blind into an enemy port was not Avery's idea of courage. "Bring us about a mile windward of the lighthouse," he told the master softly. "No closer."
"Under Breton Point's guns," he warned, even as he spun the wheel to comply.
"If we do this right, they'll be too busy to care." He frowned. That was, of course, the great gaping hole in Admiral Howe's plan. Newport was well defended, and time was an issue. Perhaps it'd be better to wait a day...? No. The admiral had chosen this day with special care. Avery wasn't sure he agreed with the reasoning - but he hadn't been asked either.
McAdams jumped down to the deck. "Shall I prepare our gift?"
"Aye." Avery frowned. He meant to ask his lieutenant if he was sure he wanted to do this ... but manners and breeding stopped him. Such a question could be taken as a reflection. "Once you're prepared, stop by my cabin." With a last glance at the approaching lighthouse, he went below.
Below, in a somewhat spacious (considering he commanded a sixth rate) cabin, wood polished to an almost brass-like hue and meticulously clean, he spread out a map of the bay. Their initial plan, to navigate by Vega which was to rise in less than an hour, was out with the fog. McAdams would need to know just when to turn, and how far. He was still working on these when his lieutenant knocked.
"Come in, sir. Come in. Amos! Amos there!" He nodded at his steward. "Wine there, and two glasses." Once his servant was off, he turned back to McAdams. "How is she?"
"Prime. Feisty is as ready as she can be." Feisty was an ancient, ironsick sloop converted for one last mission. She'd escorted Proteus these last days under a junior lieutenant. Even now foretopmen swarmed her thin masts, making sure all was in readiness.
"I've been working on your course." Avery pushed the map across the table. "With the fog rising up I thought you should keep it simple. No fancy maneuvering, just straight at them."
"That brings us very close to the Newport Battery," the lieutenant said after a minute. "They can't miss."
"I know it's a risk, but it can't be helped. Fine fools we'd look, were your men to get turned around without knowing."
"Perhaps if we cut the arc here?"
"No, sir. That will bring you too far north. We can't have a chance wind having you miss the harbor entirely."
Scott McAdams grimaced. His captain demanded obedience, rightfully so, but usually he let officers have their way on semi-independent campaigns. Does he think I'm no seaman? he wondered. Or is he nervous about something?
Malcolm Avery was nervous, but not because he doubted his lieutenant. There were a hundred things that could go wrong, each more embarrassing and career damaging than the last. It also upset his sense of honor that there were no warships in Newport harbor. Indeed, the Americans still had no navy other than a few revenue cutters, and showed no interest in building one. Unnatural. If something went wrong, if this plan of the admiral's failed at the hands of republicans, civilians without the decency to even bother building a real warship to try the fortune of their flags, why...
On his ship (at least for the next hour or so,) McAdams looked up and down her deck. Fifteen men, abominably under strength if Feisty were to get in a fight now, especially since she carried no guns, but that wasn't the plan. It would be enough . He saluted his captain one more time, looking up at the frigate's quarterdeck from his own. "Permission to part company?"
"Granted," Avery returned the salute. "Happy returns."
HMS Feisty ghosted silently into the bay. McAdams manned the wheel himself. Most of the stars had vanished with the growing fog, but Polaris, the North Star, still hung one point to port. Beavertail Light fell to stern, and between the two he could approximate his location. At a given point he gently turned the ship another point, due north-northeast now.
Silence. Silence except for the occasional cry of a seagull up too early. The men were quiet, they knew this was risky. They were threading their way between three forts under a press of sail that couldn't help but be noticed as the faintest white glimmer on the rippling ocean. Any minute now they expected the flash from on high, not unlike lightning, then the all engulfing roar, the thunderous splash. Newport Battery used twenty-four pounder cannon, more than enough to destroy Feisty in one, two hits. Instinctively Scott looked behind him for the reassuring presence of Proteus, but the frigate ran with no lights to avoid detection. She was nothing now, not even a shadow.
"Sir," the lookout called softly. "We're coming on the battery." The hill overlooking Newport harbor was huge, and he'd seen its looming shape through the mist.
"Aye." McAdams turned the ship slightly away from the battery. No challenge from the forts, no thunder nor fire. Despite this good fortune time was slowly, inexorably turning against them now. Even now the mist was starting to lighten somewhere beyond the fort, it had to be around five bells, or six in the morning. "Alright gentlemen, we've taken her as far as we can." He still spoke in a whisper. "Make all sail, everything she'll safely bear."
Feisty slowly and gracefully unfurled sail after sail. Now every minute bought their enterprise another four hundred feet and the harbor, their goal, was a ghost of darkness in the steadily lightening mist. A ship under full sail, though, is a difficult thing to miss, and their luck had to run out. It did. Newport Battery didn't even bother asking for identification, no merchant ship would be approaching at this hour. It fired a single gun, the ball splashing into the water some distance ahead. An ultimatum.
No need for silence now. "All hands," McAdams roared. "All hands, through the sallies!" Special openings had been cut into Feisty's quarters for precisely this purpose. "Into the boats, there you go!" He belayed the wheel into position and stepped below, into the cargo hold full of cloth and other combustibles, all smothered by lamp oil. For a moment he listened to the rushing water beneath her hull, and then this was overwhelmed, swallowed by the hot, angry rush of flame as the lieutenant tossed a torch into the mess.
Smoke already streamed through the open hatchways as he leapt into the boat. "Now men," he called. "Pull for all your worth!"
No fools at Newport, nor at Dumpling Rock. They saw the problem at the same instant, when Feisty abruptly erupted in flame as it continued streaking towards the mass of docked ships. They were slow though, perhaps because it took some time to rouse their mates, and as McAdams and his men fled for the safety of the frigate, now trading potshots with Brenton Point, Feisty continued to fulfill her last mission, a Royal Navy ship to the bitter end.
"And a good Thanksgiving to the rest of you baked beans!" called one of the sailors happily.
-------------
In Philadelphia, a week later, the British ambassador listened patiently to the angry complaint of his counterpart. "You destroyed eighteen ships, sir! EIGHTEEN! What the devil are your men at? Are you trying to provoke us!?"
"Of course not," assured the ambassador. He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "As I explained oh.. a year ago? It IS unfortunate when renegades violate the laws of war and take matters into their own hands, don't you agree? We will, of course, turn over those responsible. If we can find them."
Machiavellian: Thank you, and welcome back! As you see the politics are starting to get weird again. I'm not sure all my characters want to wait for 1778 to have their rematch. Eep.
Draco Rexus: Yep, we're getting there! Actually my goal stated in the beginning was to get as close to the 'actual' American border as possible (nicely simulated by my cores for a good part of the way.) If they want to stay in Canada, that's fine. If Canada wants to join me, that's fine too. There were provisions for them in the Articles of Confederation after all! Of course when the fight does start I'll be invading Canada full-bore to force a favorable peace.
J. Passepartout: Lightning very bad. And yes, annoying movements to the north.
Draco Rexus: Er...ominous, right! Ominous!
Draco Rexus: Yep, we're getting there! Actually my goal stated in the beginning was to get as close to the 'actual' American border as possible (nicely simulated by my cores for a good part of the way.) If they want to stay in Canada, that's fine. If Canada wants to join me, that's fine too. There were provisions for them in the Articles of Confederation after all! Of course when the fight does start I'll be invading Canada full-bore to force a favorable peace.
J. Passepartout: Lightning very bad. And yes, annoying movements to the north.
Draco Rexus: Er...ominous, right! Ominous!
Aha for once I guessed right. I started off thinking it was a fireship but you had me second guessing with the remark that the "Americans still had no navy".
Joe
Joe