4. Soldiers in the 7th Continental Regiment and their views on their new commanding officer Jonathan Halbert.
The New Boss, Different From Old Boss:
The 7th Continental Regiment, drawn primarily from the rugged hills and towns of Massachusetts's outer countryside, was not a famous unit. They lacked the celebrated prestige of the Marbleheaders, those fearless seamen who had blown apart the HMS Lively with unmatched precision despite the madness of their own commanders. Nor were they counted among the ranks of the seasoned companies that had fought in the ferocious second phase of Bunker Hill, standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Bridge and Halbert, making their mark in the annals of glory.
Instead, these men were the unsung heroes of a different battle. It was during the brutal first assault, when Clinton's column advanced with disciplined resolve, that the 7th earned their place in the army. As the red-coated "lobsterbacks" stormed forward, the men of the 7th did what others could not they turned the tide, capturing scores of British soldiers and hauling them back through the smoky, blood-soaked fields. The victory was theirs, though it was a quieter triumph, one not spoken of in the same reverent tones as the stand at Breeds Hill.
No, they had not fought on that sacred ground where men stared into the whites of their enemies' eyes and felt the earth tremble beneath the weight of battle. There was no baptism in blood and glory for the 7th that day, no moment of exaltation to write home about. But they had fought, and they had won, even if their victory was carried out in the shadow of more renowned names.
Colonel Prescott had led them well. His presence was steady, his commands clear, but now, as the regiment stood on the brink of a new campaign, they found themselves under the hand of a new commander, one whom Prescott chose personally. Uncertainty gnawed at many of them like a slow burn. Who was this man, and could he lead them through the fires to come?
Rumors were as common as the smoke that curled from a soldier's pipe, and like all great things, men talked. Around the crackling fire, weary faces gathered, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and amusement as the whispers spread.
One soldier leaned in, puffing slowly on his pipe as he spoke, his voice low. "I heard there's a new colonel coming to take command. Some Major who impressed the General—one of those Virginians that Washington favors."
The words drifted through the air like embers, catching the attention of those nearby. It made sense, after all. Washington had been reshuffling the Army for weeks now, reorganizing the ranks in preparation for the battles to come. Colonels were being promoted to generals, some demoted to majors or captains, and men who had never before held command found themselves thrust into leadership. It had stirred up a fair bit of anger among the ranks—pride wounded, ambitions crushed—but because General Ward was making the announcements, and the orders bore the approval of company commanders, the discontent simmered quietly. Fewer men dared voice their grievances openly, though the tension lingered just beneath the surface.
A second soldier, resting against a tree, joined the conversation. "I heard Dr. Warren is forming a regiment of his own," he said with a grin, his tone lighter. "For his personal command, no less."
The mention of Dr. Joseph Warren, brought a few smirks. Deputy to General Washington by an act of a congress that didn't seem to do anything but impose upon them, Warren had reluctantly accepted the title of general, though it was no secret he detested the rank and wanted nothing to do with it for strategy and tactics. The man was a healer at heart, overseeing the Army's medical staff and hospital corps, but the prospect of command clearly didn't sit well with him. Some said he yearned to fight as a common soldier, to feel the weight of a musket in his hands and stand shoulder to shoulder with the men in the dirt. It was an odd thing, to have a general who wished to be a private.
"Horsedung," the first soldier muttered, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I heard Warren turned down command because he reckoned he'd get us all killed. Said he knew more about stitching us up than leading us into battle."
A ripple of laughter broke through the camp, though it was a weary sort of humor. They all knew Warren wasn't wrong. The battlefield was no place for the faint of heart, and though the men respected the doctor, they didn't much fancy the idea of following him into the maw of war. Better to have him tending to the wounded, keeping death at bay than leading them headlong into its jaws.
"Gentlemen."
The voice cut through the murmurs like a sharp wind, and the soldiers around the fire snapped to attention, recognizing the figure approaching. There, before them, stood none other than John Halbert—hero of Bunker Hill, the man who had earned the nickname "Mad John" for his fearless, borderline reckless actions in battle and in daring plans and raids. This was the man who had orchestrated the destruction of the HMS Lively, which the fireball that engulfed the night sky was a spectacle to behold. And, perhaps most famously, he was the only officer brazen enough to stand up to General Washington himself over a matter no one fully understood. Somehow, he had walked away from that confrontation with little more than a stern talking-to, unscathed and as untouchable as ever.
The soldiers straightened further, saluting quickly, though one of them—the one still holding his pipe—fumbled with it, coughing as he tried to compose himself. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, awkwardly stowing the pipe behind his back.
Halbert's eyes gleamed with amusement, and a knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Gossiping?" he asked, his tone more teasing than accusatory.
The soldier cleared his throat, glancing around as if hoping for some support from his comrades. "Uh, nothing seditious, sir. Just... wondering who our new commander is," he admitted, his voice a bit nervous. "We don't really know."
Halbert's smile widened, a flash of white beneath the shadow of his weathered face. He exuded a calm confidence, the kind that comes from men who've seen hell up close and walked away with the devil's grin. "Well," he said, folding his arms across his broad chest, "you're in luck."
The soldiers looked at each other, curiosity stirring.
"Get your men into parade formation," Halbert continued, his voice carrying a weight of authority, though still tinged with that playful edge. "You're about to meet him shortly."
For a moment, the men were frozen, the realization sinking in. Then, with a flurry of motion, they moved to obey. Their casual posture dissolved into disciplined haste as orders were barked, and boots thudded against the ground. The campfire was swiftly abandoned, and the soldiers hurried into ranks, their earlier banter forgotten in the rush to prepare.
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"Lt. Colonel Jonathan Halbert will be taking command of the regiment," General Prescott announced, his voice warm and steady as he addressed his men. A smile played on his weathered face, the kind of smile that came from years of hard-earned wisdom. "You all know of his actions as well as any man in this army, and truth be told, when I informed General Washington of my choice, he urged me to reconsider. He wanted me to place another man in command, someone perhaps more measured, more traditional."
Prescott paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "But I told him no. I told him, 'If I'm going to be running recruitment parties for replacements and begging Congress for the supplies we need… then I want the maddest bastard in the whole army to lead you.'" He looked out over the men, eyes gleaming with conviction as the men let out a small chuckle. "Because despite his madness, I know he'll do everything in his power to get you home to your families. And you, in turn, will fight to do the same for him."
With that, General Prescott saluted, a gesture both respectful and reassuring. The men stood at ease as Halbert, their new commander, exchanged a few words with Prescott. Even from a distance, the camaraderie between them was clear. They trusted one another.
Among the ranks, whispers began to ripple.
"Halbert's our colonel now… he's a Virginian?" one soldier muttered under his breath.
"Seems the rumors were true," another replied. "But that man knows how to fight. I heard his company was one of the fiercest at Breeds Hill."
A third soldier, standing just ahead, hushed them. "He's going to get us all killed, mark my words. He's got a taste for glory, that one."
"But hasn't he lost fewer men than most?" a younger soldier countered. "I heard his company only lost ten, and they were all wounded, not dead. And he was right in the thick of it."
Before anyone could respond, a sharp command rang out: "Regiment, attention!"
The men snapped to order, their chatter falling silent as their new colonel—Lt. Colonel Halbert—stood before them. He stepped onto a small chair to elevate himself, surveying his regiment with a keen, calculating gaze. His presence was commanding, even as a wry smile played at the edge of his lips.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice steady but charged with intensity. "I know many of you are whispering, wondering who I am and what I'll do. No doubt, you've heard tales of my so-called exploits and might wish for another man in my place. Perhaps someone who would demand no more than your duty, allowing you to fight within the bounds of expectation, nothing more. And that, gentlemen, would indeed keep you safe. Safe enough."
He let the words linger, pacing slightly as he addressed the regiment, his tone shifting from calm to something more impassioned.
"But I ask you for more. This regiment has already felt the tip of the spear of the Regular forces and you did not falter! You did not flee when the world would not have blamed you for it. You stood, and you fought, taking the battle to the enemy when others might have broken."
Halbert's eyes scanned the rows of men, his voice growing sharper, louder, and with more conviction. "You are not an undisciplined mob, as some might say. No, you are simply untrained, unaware of your true potential as soldiers. That is why I am here, why I am giving you this choice. If you choose to stay, you will be trained—brutally so. Your officers will train you, your sergeants will train you, and I will train you. Because I intend for this regiment to be ready when the Regulars come again. And they will come." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"I want them to run from you, as they once did. I believe every man here has the potential to become legends, like Rogers' Rangers back in the French and Indian War, men whose names will be spoken of for generations to come."
Halbert stepped down from the chair, his gaze hardening. "But I will not keep men here who do not wish to be. This training will be harsh. The battles ahead will be fiercer. If you do not want this—if you think you cannot endure it—say you will not and fall out of formation, and no shame will be upon you. Those who wish to stay, step forward. But do not make your decision lightly. For those who remain, I expect nothing less than everything being given to this cause, and this army."
Silence fell over the regiment. No one moved. The weight of Halbert's challenge hung in the air like the gathering clouds of a coming storm. Each man stood rooted in place, unwilling to be the first to break.
Then, slowly, one man stepped forward. "Well, I'll be the first, and the only one if you cowards keep gawking," he said with a grin. He reached into his coat, pulled out a pipe, and lit it with deliberate calm. "If the colonel doesn't mind me smoking in celebration?"
Halbert's stern expression cracked into a smile. "Carry on."
The man grinned wider, taking a long puff, and for a moment, the tension broke. Then, one by one, more soldiers stepped forward. In pairs and trios, then in larger groups. Slowly, the entire regiment moved, until all had stepped forward.
Every man stood before their new commander, their choice made.
Halbert nodded approvingly. "Good."
AN: I spent way to long on this one, for really no god damn reason.
It just took a life of its own.
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