And the battles of Bunker Hill has ended in a American win. A pretty damn good win at that. Close to a thousand men lost, wounded or captured during the two battles that included losing a General. While still holding the hills that are gonna be even more fortified I imagine. Drilling the men and now bloodied is a good start. Probably not a win to get foreign support but it's gonna make the British take this seriously.
"We have it in our power to begin the world over again."
–Thomas Paine, Common Sense
[X] Dr. Warren is right. A sixth of our men are dead, dying, and wounded, the Royal Navy is still bombarding us, and the Redcoats outnumber us four to one. Let them retreat and lick their wounds; the taste of blood will be all the more sour. (Will end the Battle of Bunker Hill)
June 17, 1775
Breed's Hill, Charlestown Peninsula
"Dr. Warren," Halbert called out to said doctor, who paused in his wrestle with Stark. "How many casualties do we have?"
"Roughly a hundred, both dead and wounded," Dr. Warren sighed with regret as he let go of Stark, who quickly unruffled his coat. "Perhaps a little less."
Quickly doing some math in his head, Halbert's eyes widened before he slowly turned to face Colonel Bridge and shook his head.
"That's a sixth of our men, sir" he somberly stated as he ran a hand through his hair, the dried blood on it coarsely rubbing against his scalp. "I cannot, in good conscience, suggest we chase after the Redcoats. Not to mention they outnumber us still and still have their ships ready to blast us to pieces."
A cannonball exploded just in front of the two officers, further punctuating Halbert's point as Colonel Bridge flinched away from the dirt and smoke.
"It's too risky, sir," Major Halbert stated with finality as he brushed some dirt off of his shoulder.
Colonel Bridge, taking a deep breath to calm himself down, pondered on Halbert's advice. Lightly tapping his chin, Bridge came to a verdict.
"Hold your positions, men," he cried aloud, with there being a considerable noise of disappointment among the men. "We've already won; let the Redcoats snakes slither off and lick their wounds, the taste of blood will only be more humiliating to them."
Even though there were many grumblers and complainers among the soldiers, Stark among them as he stalked off, the air of victorious glee could not be beaten down in the men as they obeyed Bridge's orders.
"Major, go help Dr. Warren with our wounded," Colonel Bridge ordered.
"Right away, sir," Halbert nodded as he ran towards the doctor in question.
"Thank you for your words to the colonel, Major," the grateful Dr. Warren said as they walked toward the impromptu field hospital the doctor had set up. Some men were set up against trees and fortifications while in a hastily set-up tent, a man screamed as his arm was quickly sawed off.
"I simply stated the obvious and logical, sir," Halbert simply responded.
Dr. Warren simply laughed. "If only that approach worked more often. Now, we need water and shelter for the men. The sun is beating down on us, and I am most afraid of it killing our weaker patients..."
Two Regiments of Foot–the 22nd and the 52nd–lost the King's Colors in the confusion that was the rout at Breed's Hill. The first is particularly embarrassing as it's acting Colonel is one Thomas Gage.
The Battle of Bunker Hill, more widely known as the Battle of Breed's Hill, has been an unmitigated disaster for the British and an egg in the face of His Majesty's military. Almost a third of their forces have been wounded, killed, or captured, with barely any casualties inflicted on the Americans to show and Breed's Hill still standing strong and defying them. Political intrigue has begun within the British High Command in order to determine who will be their Atlas in bearing the blame of the disaster. Major General William Howe and Governor Thomas Gage have conspired to lay all the blame on Major General Henry Clinton, while Clinton insists that the deceased Lt. Colonel Francis Smith's conduct was the reason for this mess. The Loyalists and British soldiers in Boston are distraught and demoralized after such a humiliating defeat, resulting in an upgraded -30 malus for all rolls made by the British for the duration of the Siege of Boston.
Meanwhile, the Americans are utterly ecstatic at the news of this crushing victory, with many Loyalists and men on the fence transforming into committed Patriots. Perhaps this dream of an American nation isn't just a flight of fantasy, after all. Maybe they really could have their own nation. The Patriots are also more than willing to shower the men who defended Breed's Hill with all the praise and love they can possibly give, the fort in question being nicknamed the "Bastion of Liberty". The following four men in particular have received national praise and commendations for their conduct.
Colonel William Prescott, despite his nonexistent role during June 17, has been nationally lauded as the hero of the hour for his heroic defense of Breed's Hill and audacious counterattack that resulted in almost an entire British assault force being captured. Some romantics even argue that had he not captured the landing party, the events of June 17 might have swung in favor of the British. Already, there are rumors of Colonel Prescott being possibly promoted to General Prescott by the Continental Congress.
Colonel Ebenezer Bridge and Major Jonathan Barclay Halbert have also been widely praised for their stalwart defense of Breed's Hill on June 17th, with the latter also receiving infamy of the good kind for uttering, "Only fire when you see the whites of their eyes!" Some have criticized the colonel for not attempting to destroy the British like Colonel Prescott did, but those voices have been drowned out under the far louder and far more numerous voices praising them. The now Lt. Colonel Halbert has become a slowly rising star within the Army of Observation.
Finally, Dr. Joseph Warren has been praised for his civic virtue, for fighting on the front lines as a common soldier, and for bravely tending to the wounded while under heavy enemy fire. "Unfortunately" for the good doctor, his actions have only further convinced the Continental Congress that he deserves his position as Major General, and they will insist that he acts more like one lest he die in battle.
The Army of Observation gains a +15 Bonus for all rolls during the Siege of Boston. +6 Relations with all who have also participated in the Battle of Breed's Hill, +3 Relations with those who weren't there.
Stat Points Gained
1D5+2 = 1+2 = 3 Stat Points (Of course this is the one time you roll low...)
Thankfully, there have been no more stupidly weird and one-sided rolls that make me want to tear my hair out or wish to drink like SageOfEyes does (I'm a sober guy through and through).
Oh, and you'll be able to apply those Stat Points you earned... after the Boarding Action update has been posted.
Revolutionary Fun Fact–A dog owned by General William Howe got lost during the Battle of Germantown and ran away to the Americans. When George Washington discovered the dog and found out who its owner was on the collar, he promptly had the dog returned to Howe.
Well some are upset for not attacking but I'd say it was the right choice. The artillery was gonna be a problem if we left the defenses. The difference being the first attack was much smaller than the second attack.
On the bright side everyone who was fighting is getting national praise. Prescott possibly getting a promotion. Halbert to Lieutenant Colonel and rising fame in the army. Colonel Bridge getting praise but no mention of a promotion. Though Doctor Warren be forced into a promotion.
Now there is the blame game going on in the British camp. Clinton is trying to blame the person who died for the lose. If anything Francis Smith was probably one of the few who did a good job this battle. While William Howe and Thomas Gage trying to blame Clinton.
It's not really a promotion if Dr. Warren already had it. It's more of Congress and the Army heavily insisting that Dr. Warren stop serving at the frontlines like a common soldier, they don't want him to become a martyr.
Exactly. British outnumbered with less support for the first battle. Second is very different. British outnumbered us and had artillery support. You know what they say about a cornered animal. Didn't even need to be all the British troops just enough for a fighting retreat. Besides the low causality numbers might be the best thing about the victory Strategically.
The British somehow managed to lose less men than the OTL but boy were the people and flags that they lost more humiliating. Also the fact that they lost all that and routed off the field.
The British somehow managed to lose less men than the OTL but boy were the people and flags that they lost more humiliating. Also the fact that they lost all that and routed off the field.
Good to see the American dream becoming more of a reality quicker.
Do note however, that there is still no Declaration of independence and some among the Patriots hope for reconciliation with Great Britain. Congress awaits an answer to the Olive Branch Petition.
Man those relationship gains are very beautiful to look at. Prescott is very much gonna like Halbert it seems seeing he was the highest one before this battle. Does the General count as part battle of Breeds Hill or nah?
Beautiful to see. Everyone in the army at least respects Halberts skill and dedication to the cause if not already like him. Helps that he fought, had good ideas along with a great organizer and drilling the men into a decent force. Know they can count on him to do a task.
So, uh, I made a mistake regarding Francis Smith. He was not a Major General at this point and only a Lt. Colonel, so I'll have to make some adjustments.
James Hiller was still haunted by the sickening sights he had witnessed at Breed's Hill. No matter how many times he put pen to paper, trying to make sense of the "great victory" that had unfolded, he couldn't shake the screams from his mind. The battle had been chaos—artillery shaking the very earth, men falling left and right, and yet, somehow, through all of it, his singular focus had been on reporting. He was not a soldier. He had not fought. His role was different. He was an observer, a witness to the horror.
But now, sitting in the relative quiet of the camp, pen in hand, he wrestled with what he had seen. Horror that no words could truly capture, and yet he had to try. He had a duty to the people of Philadelphia, to the readers of the Gazette. If he was honest with himself, he knew that what he was writing had the potential to change the course of history. And it was up to him to choose the words that would make the readers understand the gravity of it all. He just wished he was able to.
Dr. Franklin's words echoed in his mind: If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing. James had always preferred the writing part. And now, after everything, the weight of that responsibility was bearing down on him.
Sarah would claim otherwise, but she wasn't here right now. She was too busy helping Dr. Warren with his papers and his dispatches… and helping the men with their injuries.
But his focus was continually broken by Henri, who was busily chasing after more food. "Come on, James, they have roast beef!" Henri exclaimed, his mouth already half-full as he pointed excitedly toward Halbert's Company. "Have you ever had this kind of roast beef before? It's flavorful and delicious! Go get your second serving so I can eat it!"
James didn't look up, his pen scratching against the paper as he carefully placed the final punctuation on his latest piece. "No, Henri, I haven't, because I'm working."
"Aww, but I want more!" Henri complained, his voice full of exaggerated disappointment.
Before James could respond, a sudden eruption of cheers rose from the camp, a wave of excited shouts sweeping through the ranks like wildfire. He looked up, startled, as soldiers pointed toward the horizon.
A ship was approaching, its sails full and proud, but something about it was unfamiliar. It wasn't flying the colors of the Royal Navy. No, it was something else entirely—an unmistakable flag, one that caused the entire camp to erupt into even louder cheers. The Join or Die banner, Franklin's famous political cartoon-turned-symbol, now fluttered boldly above the ship. The image of the segmented snake, each piece labeled with the colonies' names, was a call for unity in the face of tyranny.
"It's the Mars Hope!" James gasped, his pulse quickening.
He set down his papers and ran—no, sprinted—down the hill toward the beach where the ship had begun to anchor. A second vessel was following close behind, a captured merchantman brimming with supplies. Barrels of gunpowder and crates of foodstuffs were already being offloaded, and the entire camp was buzzing with excitement. This wasn't just any ship—this was Arthur's ship.
James could see Arthur now, standing on the shore, barking orders as his crew worked feverishly. But something was different. Arthur, the man who had once been so at home in Dr. Franklin's print shop, looked utterly exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn and pale, as if he hadn't slept in days. But there was relief in his posture, the kind of relief that comes only when you've made it through something harrowing and found safe harbor.
"Arthur!" James shouted as he raced toward the beach, his heart pounding in his chest. Arthur's eyes locked on him, and for a moment, disbelief flashed across his face. Then, it was quickly replaced by joy.
"James! Henri!" Arthur shouted back, his voice cracking with a mix of emotions as he caught James in a fierce embrace, spinning him around before setting him back down. Then Henri knocked both of them over.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, his tone half-scolding, half-relieved as he got his young friends off of him. "Don't you know there's a siege going on?"
James laughed breathlessly, stepping back to take in the sight of his old friend. "I could say the same thing to you! You told me you'd be helping Dr. Franklin at the Congress, and now here you are, sailing into a war zone!"
At the mention of Dr. Franklin, Arthur's expression faltered. A shadow passed over his face, as though the very name stirred something he didn't want to discuss. His smile became thin, forced, and then he quickly changed the subject. "Come aboard, James. We need to talk."
---
As James stepped into Arthur's cabin, the familiar space felt… different. The room still held the essence of the Arthur he had known—bookshelves lined with volumes of books of adventures, stories, and histories, a few personal trinkets from past adventures, he even saw the stuffed hawk he got from Havana, and a cluttered desk where maps and charts were strewn about haphazardly. Yet, something was off. The ship itself seemed alive, brimming with purpose, but the cannons, so many more than James remembered, gave it a warlike edge he hadn't seen before.
Arthur's presence dominated the space, and James couldn't help but feel small like he had entered a world he didn't fully understand. The Arthur he had known, the one who had worked tirelessly alongside Dr. Franklin, seemed to have retreated, buried beneath the weight of command and the demands of war. James noticed a tremor in his own hand, a lingering sign of the horrors he had witnessed at Breed's Hill.
"You're shaking," Arthur observed quietly, his voice steady. "Did you fight in the battle?"
James shook his head, the tremor intensifying as the memories surged back. "No, I didn't fight… but I saw it. I saw things I can't stop seeing."
Arthur held out his own hand, palm up, steady as the calmest sea. "Give me your hand, James. Tell me what you saw."
James hesitated, then took Arthur's hand, his grip firm yet gentle. As he began to speak, the words tumbled out in a flood—he described the cannon fire, the deafening explosions, the men crying out in agony, some shot, others stabbed, all desperate. He saw men, barely older than he was, with blank, lifeless eyes, staring through him as if accusing him of something he couldn't name. The cries for mothers, for God, for friends echoed in his ears even now, days later. "Will it ever stop?" James asked, his voice barely above a whisper as Arthur finally let go.
Arthur sighed deeply, his expression unreadable. "It will, with time," he said. "You'll come to realize that what you witnessed is part of the territory in war. You'll make peace with it, or at least, you'll learn to live with it. The hardest part isn't seeing the death, James. It's understanding that you'll see it again. Over and over." He paused, looking down at the maps on his desk as though they offered some escape. "God above, I swore I'd never fight in a war again after what I went through. Yet here we are."
Arthur sat down heavily, the weight of his own experiences bearing down on him. "Just know this, James. If you keep going down this path, if you stay a witness to this war, you'll see horrors that no one else will ever truly understand, even myself. The kind of things that'll stay with you long after the battles are over. But that's what it means to be here, now. You have to decide if you're strong enough for it."
James swallowed hard, but his resolve stiffened. "We have a duty, Arthur. As journalists, as witnesses. We have to tell people the truth. That's what Franklin said, isn't it? 'To write something worth reading or do something worth writing about.'"
Arthur let out a low laugh, a spark of the man James once knew flickering back to life for a moment. "Oh, Dr. Franklin always had a lot of clever things to say. He always did. Probably why he wrote it all down."
Their moment of reflection was interrupted by the door swinging open. Henri, ever exuberant, burst into the cabin carrying a plate of hardtack and a tankard of grog. "Arthur! Your food is terrible!" he complained, his face scrunched in exaggerated disgust. "Tack and grog are all you've got, and here we are in the middle of the countryside, full of plentiful food! Surely, you could have gotten us something better by now."
At that, Arthur's serious expression softened, and the smile James knew so well finally returned, if only for a brief moment. "You always were hard to please, Henri," Arthur said with a chuckle. "But war doesn't exactly leave room for luxuries."
Henri groaned dramatically, plopping the plate down on Arthur's desk. "Well, when we're done with this war, I'm expecting a feast. A real one!"
Arthur shook his head, but there was warmth in his gaze now, a fleeting reprieve from the chaos around them. For a moment, it was like old times, the three of them, together, before this war had changed everything. Though if only Sarah and Moses and Dr. Franklin were here. then things would be better.
"Alright, let's go find something worthy of Henri's bottomless stomach then." Arthur said his smile, small, and thin, but real, and genuine.
AN: This is meant to be taking place in turn 3.
@Duke William of, another liberty kids omake, this time staring James, mostly, and Henri.
I don't really have a great but specific reward to give to this omake (unlike the Benedict Arnold omake), so I shall instead have it be a +10 to any Action of Magoose's choice on Turn III. (Any action part of the winning plan, of course.)
"I have not yet begun to fight."
–John Paul Jones, Battle of Flamborough Head
June 31, 1775
Coast of Boston Harbor, Massachusetts
Jonathan Halbert stood gazing out at the Boston Harbor, the distant fog curling over the water as ships bobbed in the distance, their sails barely visible in the murky light. He was lost in thought when the sound of footsteps and hurried breathing broke through the quiet. Turning, he saw several men approaching, the most harried among them a young private, clearly out of breath, clutching a crumpled letter in his hand.
"Um, Major—sorry, Colonel Halbert?" the private stammered, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool air. His uniform was slightly disheveled as if he'd been running all morning.
John eyed him, barely masking his impatience. "What is it, private?"
"New companies have arrived from Marblehead, sir, and uh… Colonel Prescott requests that you straighten them out," the private said, swallowing nervously as he handed over the letter.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. Colonel William Prescott. Ever since the battle, Prescott had been using him to whip the militia into shape. While the Lt. Colonel spent his days drilling unruly recruits and imposing order, Prescott, now somewhat of a hero, seemed to have elevated himself to more important tasks—like strategizing with General Putnam and Artemas Ward, coordinating supplies, and crafting plans for the next move. While the rational part of him knew that these new responsibilities showed the trust and respect Colonel Prescott had for him, the other part grumbled at being treated as some sort of errand boy.
There was an idea nagging at the back of Jonathan's mind, a solution to the ever-present problems they faced, but it slipped away before he could grasp it fully.
Wait.
"Did you say Marblehead?" he asked, his voice sharpening with interest.
"Yes, sir," the private replied quickly. "A Colonel Glover's brought in men—mostly fishermen, sir. He's formed a unit of them."
Fishermen. Jonathan's mind snapped into focus. That's exactly what they needed.
Without another word, Jonathan snatched the letter from the private, leaving it unopened in his hand as he turned on his heel. His boots hit the ground hard as he broke into a run, heading toward the Neck where the Marblehead men were likely assembling. His mind raced faster than his legs, already strategizing how to best put these fishermen to work.
The private watched him go, bewildered by the sudden change in pace. The letter still fluttering in his hand, Jonathan disappeared into the hills, heading straight for the men who could make his plan a reality.
|==================================|
John Glover was not wearing a uniform. In fact, most of his men weren't, save for a few worn armbands to distinguish them as soldiers on their side. A small part of Halbert chuckled that at least they seemed less out of place than his fellow Virginians. As Halbert approached the gathering, Glover's men stood at attention with a rough sort of discipline, though their commander's expression was one of clear disdain.
"Dammit all," Glover grumbled, folding his arms. "I was expecting Colonel Prescott or General Ward."
"They're otherwise occupied," Halbert replied evenly, stepping forward. "You'll have to make do with me, Jonathan Halbert. Lieutenant Colonel."
Glover's eyes narrowed, unimpressed. "Seems we're not worth the time, lads," he muttered, loud enough for his men to hear. A few chuckled in response, their laughter tinged with bitterness.
"These men are fishermen by trade, Halbert. They know the waters better than any land-bound soldier, yet here we sit—waiting. It's enough to make a man question what we're even doing here."
Halbert squared his shoulders, unwilling to rise to the bait. "Breed's Hill was a victory," he countered. "That's kept the British quiet for now. It'll be some time before they strike again. We need men like yours to hold the lines."
"How many men do you have in your company?" he added, changing the subject to what really mattered.
"About five hundred," Glover replied curtly. "A few stragglers still tying up loose ends—getting our ships in order. But we're ready to fight."
Halbert glanced over the assembled men, assessing them. They were a motley crew, hardened by years at sea, their hands rough, their faces lined by salt and wind. What struck him most, however, was the diversity among them—particularly the number of Black men in their ranks. His eyes narrowed, and before he could stop himself, he let out a disapproving scoff.
"Are those… Negroes the slaves of your men?" His voice dripped with distaste. He had seen it before, some officers brought their slaves to war for personal service, a crude extension of their privileges.
Glover's reaction was immediate and fierce. His eyes blazed as his fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, Halbert thought the man might strike him. "These men," Glover spat, "are free men who've joined the cause, same as any other." His voice was firm, conviction ringing through each word. "If your Virginian sensibilities can't stomach that, then we'll take our men and go home. Every last one of us."
The sheer force of Glover's indignation caught Halbert off guard. He'd heard of such things, free Black men fighting in the colonies' militias, but to see it here, in the raw, in the midst of a regiment, was something else. For a moment, he stood there, weighing his response, but he knew better than to press the matter further.
Instead, he nodded stiffly. "Your men know the waters, you say?" He redirected the conversation, steering it back to the task at hand. "Then we've got work to do."
|==================================|
"I sincerely apologize, I meant no disrespect to your men," Halbert said quietly, standing in Glover's cramped, makeshift tent. The canvas walls flapped slightly in the breeze, but inside it felt thick with tension. "I just wanted to be certain that no slaves would be serving in this army. There's been talk—rumors, really—that General Ward is considering recruiting free men of color into the regiments. Some say he might even offer freedom to any enslaved men who join the cause. And if officers brought their slaves, well..."
Glover's expression didn't soften. He stood tall, arms crossed, his gaze hard as he scrutinized Halbert's words. "Well, I hope you can convince him of that boon," Glover replied, his voice still edged with the indignation from their earlier exchange. "Because I won't abandon my men—not for anything."
Halbert shifted slightly, the weight of the moment pressing on him. He wasn't here to argue over policies or politics, not now. There was something far more immediate that required Glover's attention. "I understand. Now, I've asked you here, Colonel, because I need men capable of more than just standing in a line and firing muskets."
Glover raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "So why am I here talking to you and not the generals, if it's all so important?"
Halbert's face remained unreadable as he took a step closer. "Because I need men who can row across an open harbor on a moonlit night and help me blow up a Royal Navy ship."
For a split second, there was silence, only the distant murmur of the camp outside. Then, Glover erupted in laughter, the sound booming out of him like a man who'd just heard the best joke of his life. He laughed so hard he nearly doubled over, his breath coming in gasps as he tried to regain control.
"Oh, God! Blow up a Royal Navy ship? That's rich!" Glover continued laughing for what felt like an eternity before finally catching his breath. He wiped a tear from his eye and looked at Halbert with incredulity. "Come now, Colonel, tell me what you really want my men to do."
But Halbert remained stone-faced, his gaze unwavering, not a hint of humor in his eyes. He wasn't joking.
Glover's laughter died in his throat as he stared at Halbert, realization dawning on him slowly, like the first glimmer of light before a storm. "Good God," he muttered, his voice now low and serious. "You're not joking."
"No," Halbert said simply, his tone as hard as iron. "I'm not."
"You want to take out a Royal Navy ship," Glover finally said, more a statement than a question. "In the dead of night. And you think my men are the ones for the job?"
"I do," Halbert replied without a hint of hesitation. "Your men know the waters better than any other in these colonies—by your own admission, no less. They can get us close, unseen, and strike before the British have a clue what's coming. If we pull this off, it'll cripple their naval presence and change the course of this siege."
Glover's amused facade dropped, replaced by the hard focus of a man preparing for something deadly serious. He let out a long sigh, finally accepting the gravity of what Halbert was proposing. "What's the target?" he asked, his voice flat and businesslike.
Halbert reached into his coat and withdrew a small figurine, setting it down on the rough table between them. "HMS Lively," he said evenly, as though they were discussing nothing more dangerous than the weather. "One of their faster frigates. Her marines were sent ashore to assault Breed's Hill, and the ship's been left with a skeleton crew after the casualties they took. Most nights, her captain and most of the remaining crew disembark to sleep in Boston, leaving her with just a watch of ten men and an officer. They leave the ship at 7 o'clock sharp, every night, and they have been for the past two weeks. That gives us the perfect window."
Glover studied the figurine with narrowed eyes. "And the plan?"
"We row across the harbor," Halbert explained, his voice quiet but intense. "Board the Lively, take the watch prisoner, plant explosives, and then row like hell before anyone even knows we're there. If all goes well, the ship will be nothing but splinters before sunrise."
Glover remained silent for a long moment, staring at the crude model of the Lively as if willing it to reveal all its secrets. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he spoke. "Has anyone ever told you that you're completely fucking mad?"
Halbert allowed a small, grim smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "More than once," he said. "Mostly back when I used my family's money to free slaves, then hired those same men to work for wages and made a profit doing it."
Glover blinked, surprised by the admission, but the surprise quickly gave way to a wry grin. "You're a peculiar bastard, Halbert."
"I've been called worse," Halbert replied, his tone deadpan. "But madness has its uses. Especially when the enemy thinks they have you figured out."
Glover rubbed the back of his neck, still digesting the audacity of the plan. "Blowing up a frigate under the nose of the Royal Navy… If it works, you'll go down in history. If it doesn't, we'll be hanging from British gallows by the end of the week."
"I'm not planning on hanging," Halbert said, his eyes hard as steel. "And if you and your men are as good as I've heard as rowers and fishermen, we won't be."
Glover let out a deep breath, weighing the odds. "Alright, Colonel. I'll give you my men. But if this goes sideways, and I'm stuck in some British cell to be executed, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Halbert smiled faintly. "Fair enough," he said, extending his hand. "But if we pull this off, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing we hit the British where it hurts. And that's a victory worth any risk."
Glover then took some ale and cheered. "To mad fucking bastards."
|==================================|
That night...
Halbert had been right—John Glover's men were exceptional seamen, as skilled with oars as they were with sails. They had come prepared, too, hauling several rowboats all the way from Marblehead to Boston, anticipating they'd be called upon for a mission just like this. What they hadn't expected was how quickly that purpose would change.
Now, under Halbert's command, they rowed silently across the harbor, their boats cutting through the water with barely a ripple. It was 8 o'clock, and the conditions couldn't have been more perfect. Where Halbert had feared the moon would betray them, casting their shadows across the water for the British to see, the opposite had occurred. The sky was completely dark, clouds had swallowed the moon, plunging the night into an inky blackness that felt almost impenetrable. The water was still as glass, reflecting nothing but the abyss above.
Halbert sat near the prow of one of the rowboats, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His mind raced, though outwardly he remained composed. There were only two boats—twenty men in total. That would have to be enough. It had to be. There was no turning back now, no room for second thoughts. If they failed, they wouldn't just be captured—they'd be executed for treason, hung like common criminals.
He glanced at Glover, who was rowing in a quiet, steady rhythm with the others. The Marblehead men moved as if they were born to it, their strokes smooth, synchronized. They knew the harbor, the tides, and the night in ways no soldier ever could. But even Glover's confidence couldn't quell the tension that gripped Halbert's chest as they neared their target.
Ahead, the silhouette of HMS Lively came into view, her dark form barely visible against the horizon. The frigate was listing slightly to one side, swaying gently with the tide, a shadow of its usual imposing presence. Just as Halbert had predicted, there were no signs of activity—no lanterns, no shouting from the decks. Only the quiet creaking of wood and the occasional lapping of water against the hull.
Ten men. That's all they'd left to guard her. The rest, as Halbert had known, were ashore in Boston, likely unaware of the fate creeping toward them through the night.
Halbert's grip tightened around his sword hilt as they closed in. The plan was simple: get aboard, take the watch by surprise, disable them before they could raise an alarm, and plant the explosives. But simple didn't mean easy. One wrong move, one misplaced step, and they'd be overwhelmed by reinforcements from the town before they could even light the fuse.
The rowboats glided up alongside the Lively, her hull towering above them like the side of a fortress. Halbert motioned for silence, and the oars ceased their rhythmic splashing. The men held their breath as they came to a stop beneath the frigate's gunports. Aiming carefully, Glover's men began to toss and hook ropes to the side of the ship, preparing to climb.
Halbert looked up, the looming figure of the Lively seeming to dare him to make the first move. His heart pounded in his chest as he gave the signal. One by one, the men began to scale the ropes, disappearing into the shadow of the ship's side. The climb was slow, and deliberate, every movement measured to avoid making a sound. Halbert followed, his mind focused on the task at hand.
They were aboard the Lively now, their boots making barely a whisper on the deck. The watch was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, it seemed as if the ship were entirely deserted. Then, from behind the forecastle, Halbert saw the faintest glow of a lantern and heard the low murmur of voices.
The ten men gathered near the stern, entirely unaware that death had crept aboard their ship. Their laughter and the clink of bottles were the only sounds breaking the quiet night. Oblivious. Perfect.
Halbert drew his sword in one smooth motion, catching Glover's eye, giving a silent nod. Together, they moved forward with lethal intent, their men following closely behind, muskets and blades drawn and ready. The British sailors—drunk and complacent—never saw them coming.
"Gentlemen," Halbert said softly, his voice carrying an edge of dangerous amusement as the tip of his sword poked a man in the arm. The startled sailors froze, their eyes wide with fear as they saw the weapons aimed at them. Rifles, swords, and cold stares surrounded them. It was over before it had begun. "I am Lt. Colonel Jonathan Halbert, and these fine gentlemen are my friends from Marblehead."
Glover stepped forward, his grin wide and wild. "We're pirates now, boys!" he said with unrestrained excitement. "Secure their weapons."
His men, like wolves on the hunt, quickly disarmed the British sailors, stripping them of their pistols and cutlasses. The sailors offered no resistance, too shocked and too drunk to put up a fight. One of Glover's men looked to the hold where the ship's armory lay stocked with more firearms and ammunition.
"Shouldn't we take the weapons from the hull?" he asked, eyes gleaming with the prospect of more spoils.
Halbert shook his head, his gaze fixed on the task at hand. "That's not our objective," he said sharply. "Get the explosives ready."
The men nodded, their focus returning to the plan. They worked with swift precision, expertly placing the barrels of gunpowder along the ship's weak points. The Lively was old, its hull sturdy but weathered. A well-placed blast would tear it apart like kindling.
As they worked, one of the younger soldiers glanced nervously at the captured British crew. "What about the prisoners?"
Halbert's smirk returned as he reached for one of the British officer's pistols, the cold metal heavy in his hand. "Get in your boats," he said coolly to the captured men, motioning toward the small dinghies tied to the Lively's side. "Row toward Boston."
The British officer, pale and sweating, tried to muster some semblance of defiance. "You'll die," he muttered, his voice trembling. "This is suicide."
Halbert leaned in close, his voice low and calm. "Perhaps," he said, locking eyes with the terrified officer. "But this ship is going to be destroyed, and you wouldn't want to burn alive, would you?"
The officer's defiance crumbled as he gulped, his throat dry. With no other options, he and his men scrambled into the boats, their drunken bravado replaced by fear. Glover's men forced them to disembark, watching as they fumbled with the oars and began rowing toward the faint glow of Boston's distant lights.
Glover chuckled, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You want them to bring reinforcements?"
Halbert's eyes gleamed in the dim light of the lanterns. "If this explosion damages another ship when it goes off, well… I won't be blaming them for their own stupidity."
The plan was moving like clockwork. With the prisoners out of the way, Halbert and Glover's men finished setting the charges and the fuses. They moved with the quiet efficiency of seasoned men, each one knowing their role in this dangerous game.
Finally, the moment came. The fuses were laid, snaking across the deck like black serpents ready to strike. Halbert knelt by the gunpowder barrel, striking flint to steel. The fuse caught, and a small flame began to crawl along the length of the cord.
They hurried back to the rowboats, the night's silence swallowing their movements as the flicker of the fuse slowly ate its way toward the deadly payload. Halbert, seated at the front of the boat, counted in his head. One breath. Two breaths. Time stretched as they rowed away from the Lively, every second feeling like an eternity.
"Did you measure the fuse right?" Glover incredulously asked after a moment. "No, scratch, that did you actually light the fuse?"
"Yes," Halbert replied indignantly. "Why the hell would you ask that?!"
"Then why hasn't there been an-?"
Then, with a sudden, deafening roar, the night was torn apart.
The explosion ripped through the air, a blinding flash of fire and shattered wood as the Lively was consumed in a violent inferno. The blast echoed across the harbor, the shockwave sending ripples across the water. Flames leaped skyward, illuminating the surrounding ships and casting the harbor in a flickering orange glow. Pieces of the frigate were thrown into the air, raining down in fiery arcs, while the remains of the hull splintered and groaned under the force of the blast before slowly going below the harbor. For a moment, Halbert thought he would be tossed overboard as the blast rocked the boat, but strong hands of one of the soldiers kept him from being thrown.
After giving the soldier a thankful nod, Halbert glanced over his shoulder, watching the destruction unfold with grim satisfaction. The Lively was gone, obliterated in a single, brilliant moment of chaos. And as the burning wreckage began to sink into the harbor, he could already see both the literal and figurative ripples spreading—the panic spreading among the nearby British ships.
"Well," Glover said, breathless with exhilaration. "That ought to get their attention."
Halbert nodded his face expressionless save for the faintest glint of triumph in his eyes. "Let's hope it does."
|==================================|
General George Washington, newly appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, struggled to calm down his horse as he watched an explosion light up Boston Harbor a distance away. His aides likewise had troubles reining in their steeds, but Washington paid no heed as he was transfixed by the oddly beautiful sight, barely making out the silhouette of a ship in the fire as it began to sink.
"By God, sir," one of his aides cried out in equal parts awe, shock, and confusion. "What on earth was that?!"
Washington had no response at the moment, his eyes wide and breath taken away.
"I don't quite know, Lieutenant," he finally stated after he had recovered his ability to speak, his lips slightly curling upwards. "But whatever it was, it is a beacon that will shine for all the colonies to see."
Rewards:
The HMS Lively has been completely destroyed, sent to the bottom of the Boston Harbor in a fiery blaze. The British High Command have collectively blown a fuse at this point, with the ten crewmembers on the HMS Lively being court-martialed for allowing yet another humiliation. Panic has swept through the city of Boston as many no longer feel safe after the HMS Lively was blown to smithereens just a short distance away. The malus suffered by the British has been raised to -40.
A timer has set in. Starting with Turn III, the British will roll six times to determine what happens next. If they fail (0-30 is a fail) 3 rolls, they will attempt to evacuate the city. 4 failed rolls, the British army will attempt to abandon Boston and flee, leaving the Loyalists to whatever fate they might receive. 5-6 failed rolls, and they surrender completely.
Once word returns to England, well... It's not going to be a good day either in King George's court or in Parliament.
Jonathan Barclay Halbert (yet again) and the 21st Massachusetts Regiment have become national heroes for their daring raid on the HMS Lively. The public and politicians adore them as scrappy underdogs who have struck at the great British leviathan from underneath its nose. Halbert is becoming something of a household name around Massachusetts and Virginia, with his family receiving a level of prestige for having raised such a fine war hero. The Patriot newspapers have affectionately dubbed the Virginian "Mad John". Less enamored Loyalists have slandered Halbert as "The Devil".
The military are more conflicted. The common soldier and lower officers idolize Halbert as the perfect soldier and a man after their own heart. The higher-ranked soldiers, while appreciative of the effectiveness and initiative displayed by Halbert, aren't too amused by him not going through the proper channels and receiving permission for doing so. +2 Relations with all Military relationships. Lt. Colonel John Glover and the 21st Massachusetts Regiment, however, have been convinced that Halbert is more than alright. +6 Relations with John Glover.
Lt. Colonel John Glover: (31/50) Though you had a rough first meeting, Glover has been impressed by your audacious ideas and personal bravery. In his words, "You're one clever son of a bitch."
George Washington looks upon the testimonies and reports on Lt. Colonel Halbert and finds himself impressed.
Stat Points Gained
1D3+3 = 3+3 => 6! ( )
To be voted on in Turn III.
Author's Notes:
Special, special thanks to @Magoose for writing the vast majority of this interlude. Let's all give him a warm applause and thanks for his writing!
Revolutionary Fun Fact–Captain John Parker, the man who led the Minutemen in the Battle of Lexington, was literally dying of consumption (known now as tuberculosis) as he took to the battlefield. He would die three months after the aformentioned battle on September 17, 1775.
Oh shit we're going to end the revolution very quickly if the British fail their rolls which would make Great Britain a laughing stock to the point that King George would actually go through his abdication that he did in the OTL but was told off by his supporters
Yeah can see why the British in Boston would be panicking. Thought they were safe in the city. Halbert just proved that isn't the case. Hurting the Royal Navy is always a plus. And yeah nor surprised Halbert is getting popular in Virginia and Massachusetts. Even got the British to notice Halbert and even gave him a nickname.
I wonder if Washington will form an Army Rangers like unit. Tip of the spear with a semi independent command structure to avoid ruffling feathers of upper brass
I wonder if Washington will form an Army Rangers like unit. Tip of the spear with a semi independent command structure to avoid ruffling feathers of upper brass
British soldiers, officers and Generals would probably not have nice things to say about Halbert. Always involved in their problems in siege of Boston. Probably say his mother is a hamster.
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