A Rangers Return:
(Robert Rogers POV)
The rum in Robert Rogers' hand felt like a poor substitute for what he truly desired—redemption, purpose, maybe even a clear head for once. He took another drink, barely tasting it, as the talk around the tavern drifted to the fools fighting the King and his men near Boston. Madmen, the lot of them. He didn't need to be reminded of what they were fighting for, nor did he care much. What mattered now was the coin he didn't have, and the future he wasn't sure he could afford.
Once, he had fought for King and country. He had outfitted his own men, built a reputation as one of the finest officers in North American warfare. His treatises on ranging and frontier combat were read by soldiers on both sides of the Atlantic. He had fame, yes—but no fortune. That had slipped away, like so much else in his life. Now, all that remained were debts, stacked higher than the years he had left to pay them. The war had not brought him the glory he sought, but ruin.
Rogers leaned back, staring into the swirling liquid in his cup. He'd gone to England to clear his name, to rid himself of the mounting debts and earn the King's favor. He had managed to publish his journals, even staged a play about his exploits. And for his trouble, he had received titles, positions, and hollow rewards. Yet, despite all the trappings of success, there was no satisfaction. He returned to America, expecting to pick up the pieces of his life, only to find that everything had already gone to hell.
And Thomas Gage—Gage was a name that soured his mood further. The man despised him, always had, ever since the war. Rogers couldn't recall all the details, not clearly, not through the haze of drink. But he knew Gage had wanted him gone, and the vindictive bastard had made sure Rogers was sidelined. When he heard from old war comrades that Gage had let the colonies slip through his fingers, Rogers found a dark pleasure in it. Boston under siege, provincial rebels daring to defy the Crown—it was almost amusing. But amusement didn't pay debts, nor did it erase the growing sense that Rogers was a man lost at sea.
Three years in England, pleading with the King and Parliament for vindication had left him more exhausted than triumphant. Now, rumors swirled like smoke on a battlefield. Some young officer had picked up his manual on ranging, trying to recreate Rogers' Rangers for the rebel cause. That stung, to think that his life's work might be used against the Crown. Worse still, when Rogers had written to Gage offering his services to put down the insurrection, he'd received no response. Not even a dismissal.
Then, came the final insult, word that Gage had branded him a traitor for some crime he didn't even know existed. A warrant for his arrest was issued, and British troops had come looking for him. He had escaped, of course—Rogers always knew how to vanish when the need arose. He'd fled through the wilderness, just like in the old days, riding down to Newport on a borrowed horse, where he now found himself nursing rum and resentment.
Traitor, was he? Well, perhaps it was time to embrace that label. The Crown had abandoned him, the men he once led were scattered, and his reputation was in tatters. The rebels? They might offer him something if only a place to belong once again. He had nothing else left to lose. His wife, bless her, was still trying to support him, and for her sake, he fought against the bottle's hold. But he knew he was slipping. One more failure and the drink would claim him for good.
So, he had written again. This time, not to Gage, but to the rebel leader—Washington. Offering his services, offering the skills that had once made him famous. Offering whatever he had left.
As Rogers downed the last of the rum, he wished, not for the first time, that he could believe this wasn't just another act of desperation. He had been many things in his life—soldier, ranger, hero, and now, perhaps, a traitor. But what gnawed at him most was the fear that, in the end, all he would be remembered as was a failure.
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And then came Moses Michael Hayes, that kind-hearted soul who'd been letting Robert Rogers sleep in his shop. Hayes, patient as ever, helped him nurse his wounded pride and even covered his tab when Rogers could no longer manage it himself. This evening, though, the air was thick with tension as Hayes stepped in, accompanied by a tall, broad-shouldered man.
Arthur Smith—the pirate, the fool, the man whose name now lit up every port as someone to be hunted. The Royal Navy was after him, and he had been chased across the seas for daring to defy the Crown. He wore his long, blonde hair with defiant pride, and the red and blue coat of a man who had seen more battles than most. His eyes, though, carried a scornful sneer as they landed on the drunken mess before him.
"This is who you want me to help escape with you? A drunk?" Arthur's voice cut through the dim room, sharp and unforgiving.
At the insult, Rogers staggered to his feet, face flushed with a mix of anger and alcohol. "I'm no more drunk than you, boy!" he snarled, though the words slurred, and a hiccup broke his bravado. He swayed dangerously, nearly losing his footing before Moses caught him, gently easing him back into the chair. Rogers, breathless and defeated, muttered, "Thank you, Moses."
Arthur shot an unimpressed glance at Moses, raising an eyebrow. "Who is that?" he asked, his tone dripping with disdain. "Some member of your temple that needs rescuing?"
Moses, ever composed, shook his head. "That," he said, nodding toward Rogers, "is Robert Rogers. Founder and commander of Rogers' Rangers during the French and Indian War."
For a moment, Arthur stared, the weight of that name seemingly lost on him. His brow furrowed. "Who?"
Rogers, despite his drunken state, managed a growl. "I killed more savages before you left your mother's teat, boy. Fought the French when they came knocking."
Arthur didn't miss a beat, his gaze hardening. "And now you're rotting in a tavern, drinking yourself to death." He turned to Moses, his patience visibly wearing thin. "Why the hell should I waste my time on this man?"
Moses reached into his coat, producing a folded letter, its edges worn from being handled so many times. The sight of it caught Rogers' eye, and desperation flared in his chest. He lunged forward, grasping at it, but his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor, heaving as the contents of his stomach spilled across the floorboards.
Shame washed over him as he lay there, broken and filthy. "That's mine," he croaked, eyes wide and wild, pleading. The letter, though unsent, was his last tether to hope. It was the only thing that made him wake up every day, even if he barely remembered why anymore. "That's mine."
Moses knelt beside him, holding the letter just out of reach. "It is yours," he said gently, "and I'll give it to you—if you come with me to Boston. You can hand it to General Washington personally."
Rogers' breath caught. "Washington?" The name seemed to jolt something deep within him, but it was fleeting, overwhelmed by the sickening weight of failure that hung over his life like a storm cloud.
"And," Moses added, his voice firmer now, "you'll stop drinking."
Rogers laughed bitterly, the sound raw and hollow. "Stop drinking?" he echoed, the absurdity of the request almost comical. "I can't stop drinking. God himself couldn't make me stop." He shook his head, a wretched smile on his face. "The drink's all I have left. It's the only thing I'm any good at anymore."
He slumped back, defeated. "I'm a shit man, a piss-poor husband, and a worse father." His voice cracked, eyes misting over as he stared at the floor. "The only thing I was ever good at was being a soldier."
Moses didn't waver. He simply extended the letter toward Rogers, the words still unspoken, but heavy with promise. "Then be a soldier again," he said quietly. "For one last time."
Rogers stared at the letter, his hands shaking as he reached for it. It felt like a lifeline, a second chance that he didn't deserve but desperately needed. Could he still be that man? Could he find redemption in the eyes of Washington, or had the world already forgotten him, just as he feared?
With trembling fingers, he took the letter. Maybe, just maybe, this was the only way to prove to himself—and to everyone else—that Robert Rogers wasn't done yet.
Arthur Smith cursed under his breath, every word laced with bitter frustration. "Fine," he spat, pacing the cramped room with clenched fists, his coat swishing behind him. "A Jew and a drunk are joining me on my ship. Oh, that's just bloody well fine! Fantastic, really!" His voice rose with every syllable, the sarcasm thick. He turned toward Moses, eyes burning with a mixture of disbelief and exasperation.
His pacing quickened, boots thudding against the wooden floor as if each step could somehow shake loose the absurdity of the situation. "Oh no, of course not. Here I am," he continued, gesturing wildly, "loading everything one man owns into the hold of my warship, with this half-mad soldier and his broken bottle dreams and a man you only met today paying off your repairs. And what am I doing? Oh, nothing much, just sailing to bloody Boston while every Royal Navy ship this side of the Atlantic is gunning for me."
He stopped, his chest heaving as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. His voice dropped, a low growl that barely masked his fury. "This is madness, Moses. Absolute madness. Do you even realize what you're asking?"
Moses remained calm, his eyes steady on Arthur. "You agreed to help. You owe me that much for repairing your ship."
Arthur then sighed. "Fine, load him up, and be quick about it. We need to get sailing before the Royal Navy decides that Newport is a perfect outpost for them."
And then the men were off to the Mars Hope. And Robert Rogers wondered that maybe... just maybe, he could find something worth living for.
AN:
We interrupt your Arthur Smith pirate adventures for Robert Rogers drunken adventures.
To prevent him from getting arrested by Washington forces he is now under the care of Arthur Smith...
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Gaius is perfectly fine, however.
