Before the Arrival:
Arthur Smith, for all his wishful thinking and the tense relationship he harbored with both his mind and the crown he served, would never have considered himself a traitor. The very idea seemed alien to him, despite the tangled circumstances of his life. He had once worn the uniform of the Royal Navy with pride, rising to the rank of lieutenant at an age most men could only dream of. He had fought the Crown's enemies, weathered storms and battles, and had done his duty with the conviction of a man who believed in his cause. And then...
the incident. The moment that shattered his promising career, that nearly saw him swinging from the gallows if not for his grandfather and uncle, who had pulled him from the noose's shadow and brought him to North America, to Philidelphia, to his greatest friend Dr. Franklin. In the years that followed, they made sure he learned the ways of commerce and the sea anew, making him an accomplished sailor and a captain in his own right. But the stain of that past never fully washed away.
Perhaps that was why, after so long, he could believe what he was doing.
Yet for all of it—his moral compass twisting under the weight of the choices he had made and the ones forced upon him—he had never surrendered the idea that he had done his duty. That thought alone kept him tethered to some sense of honor. It was probably why, now as he sailed toward Boston under the fluttering banner of rebellion, commanding a frigate with a captured merchantman in tow, he felt no conflict in his heart. The merchantman, filled to the brim with stolen supplies and goods purchased through the generosity of his "friends" in this new and glorious cause, was evidence enough of where his loyalties now lay. Still, in his own mind, he was doing his duty—as much to himself as to anyone else. Perhaps duty could wear many faces, even one the Crown would see as a betrayal.
Beside him, Roberts, his first officer and oldest companion, stood with a pipe between his teeth, sending thin curls of smoke into the air. The scent of it curled around Arthur, gnawing at the edges of his patience. Smoke always carried memories of battle—the acrid taste of powder, the burnt stench of charred wood, and the screams that lingered after the cannon fire ceased. He clenched his jaw, doing his best to focus on the horizon, though it seemed to press in closer with each breath.
"Somethin's on your mind," Roberts said, as if reading his thoughts. "So speak it."
Arthur turned, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the smoldering pipe. "Why are you smoking on my ship?" His voice was low but carried a growl. "I could have you flogged for that."
Roberts grinned around the pipe, unfazed by the threat. He took a long drag and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. "You won't," he replied calmly. "Because something else is eating at you, Captain. You can threaten me all you like, but I've known you long enough to know when your mind is chewing itself up. It's those thoughts that'll lead you to make mistakes." He leaned back, exhaling slowly. "So, say it, before they sink us both."
Arthur's fists clenched at his sides, but Roberts wasn't wrong. There was a storm in his mind, one that had been brewing for weeks. Now, with the latest news from Boston, that storm had finally broken. Reports of a great battle near Charlestown reached them—fighting on a hill called Breed's, or was it Bunker Hill? The stories were already tangled in confusion, he had heard that the Rebels of the Army of Observation were thrown from the ground, but the regulars had taken horrendous losses. He had heard others that the Fortifications held and the Army of Observation had held the field, despite casualties. Another story said that nothing really happened and the skirmishes continued.
"What do you think we'll see when we get there, with these supplies?" Arthur asked, his voice taut, as if bracing himself for what lay ahead.
Roberts, as always, was nonchalant. He scoffed, blowing another plume of smoke into the brisk sea air. "A rabble, perhaps. Half-starved, half-trained, and desperate for anything we can give them. But I imagine they'll enjoy seeing a captain of the Royal Navy who's put the Crown in its place."
Arthur shook his head. "We don't stand a chance against even a third-rate ship-of-the-line, much less whatever the hell that is actually in Boston. We don't have the guns, Roberts. We barely have the powder to keep us armed through a skirmish. And if we are boarded, we'll all die."
"That doesn't matter," Roberts replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Think about the Regulars' position. They're trapped, boxed in on every side by rebels and militia, with nothing but the sea to retreat to. Now, what do you suppose will go through their minds if they see a fully armed warship heading into the harbor, or the surrounding fields and harbors, harassing their ships?" He smirked, the idea of it igniting something in his eyes. "Even if we can't outgun them, they don't know that. To them, seeing one of their own warships on the side of the enemy, even a frigate like ours, will rattle them. Maybe make them think twice about their situation."
"Or they discover us," Roberts shrugged, ever the pragmatist. "Then we fight and die, same as any man worth his salt, be remembered as heroes. But we don't sit on the sidelines while others are out there fighting for something. Thats why we're doing this, aren't we?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. That was the heart of it, wasn't it? The reason they were here, risking life and limb, was not just for survival but for something greater—though Arthur wasn't sure yet what that "something" was. A sense of duty? Revenge? Redemption? It wasn't clear. What was clear, however, was that they were committed. He had crossed a line so many years ago, and now there was no going back.
He glanced at Roberts, who was watching him carefully. "And if we survive?" Arthur asked.
Roberts grinned, stubbing out his pipe against the rail. "Then we'll have done what no one thought we could—deliver a blow to the Royal Navy and stand among the rebels as heroes."
Heroes. The word felt strange on Arthur's tongue. But maybe he might enjoy it. If he could live long enough to enjoy it.
AN:
@Duke William of I bring another omake for the grind stone.
And if you ask Nicely, I might do another Liberty Kids one for you.
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