Old Friends and Comrades:
(William Stark POV)
William Stark surveyed the camp with a deep sense of frustration. The men were sprawled about in various states of relaxation, some laughing, others simply lying on the ground, soaking in the moment of respite. The triumph was over, and to many of them, so was the war. They lounged without any sense of drill or discipline, convinced that their part in the grand rebellion was complete, that victory had been won. Stark shook his head. If he were a more optimistic man, one who had not already seen the horrors of war firsthand, he might have shared their sentiment. Perhaps, like them, he would have been eager to return home.
But Stark was not such a man.
He had fought with Rogers' Rangers during the French and Indian War, and that experience had left him with a brutal understanding of how wars truly unfolded. He knew that a single victory, no matter how significant, was never the end. Wars were not won in moments but in grueling, drawn-out campaigns. And once news of this setback reached London, there would be no question about it: they would try again. The British could not afford to appear weak, and their pride would not tolerate such a failure. The men lounging in the camp didn't see that. But Stark did, and it gnawed at him.
Adding to his frustration was the knowledge that he was still outranked by the likes of Putnam and his brother John. Stark had been senior in experience, especially in the rugged combat of the Rangers, but Putnam had been first to secure a higher post, and John, being older, had managed to maneuver his way into a colonelcy. Stark didn't resent them, not exactly—he knew how the system worked. He had his rank, and if nothing else, he had learned patience in war. Halbert, as much as he respected him and his accomplishments... was getting in his way.
But what caught Stark truly off guard that day was the sight of the Mars Hope docked in Boston Harbor, unloading its cargo. From his position, he watched as a familiar figure stumbled down the gangplank, barely able to keep his feet beneath him. The man lurched, then stopped suddenly to vomit over the side.
Robert Rogers.
Stark's eyes narrowed, disbelief running through him. Rogers? The legendary commander of Rogers' Rangers, the man who had taught Stark so much about war, was now here—staggering off a ship like a common drunk. The sight was almost too much, too wild, too staggering to the imagination to comprehend. Rogers had been a figure of respect, even awe, during the French and Indian War. He had led men through some of the most dangerous missions, teaching them to survive in the harsh wilderness, ambushing French forces, and outwitting even the fiercest warriors who had them dead to rights many times.
And now, here he was, barely able to stand.
Stark clenched his jaw, feeling a rush of mixed emotions. Pity, disappointment, and somewhere deep beneath it all, a flicker of hope. Despite his sorry state, Rogers was still Rogers. And if the man was here, there had to be more to the story. Perhaps, just perhaps, Rogers still had some fight left in him.
This was something Putnam and John would need to hear about immediately. Rogers, the man who had once been a legend, was back, and if he was to serve with them again, things were about to get very interesting indeed.
Stark allowed himself the briefest of smiles before setting off to find his superiors. Whatever Rogers' current state, his presence could change everything.
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The three of them had finally gathered at Putnam's tent, standing around the great Robert Rogers, who lay sprawled on the ground, crying in his sleep. His sobbing was pitiful, punctuated by bursts of unintelligible muttering. "I told you, not now!" he barked suddenly, his voice thick with contempt and sorrow. The words tumbled out, soaked in misery as if dredged from some deep, unspoken well of pain.
Rogers, once a towering figure of command and courage, was a shadow of the man they had known. He had been carried through the streets of Boston, too drunk to stand, and now lay in the dirt, tears streaming down his face even as he slept.
William Stark, for all his toughness, felt the slightest twinge of pity. But as he glanced at Putnam and John, he saw only disappointment and anger in their faces.
"What the hell is wrong with him?" Putnam swore, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air, the sharp scent of his cigar cutting through the musty smell of the tent. He looked down at Rogers with the contempt of a man who hated to see weakness. "He's been crying like a child.
Crying, for God's sake."
"He's drunk," John Stark said flatly, stating what was already obvious to all of them.
That much was clear, but the real question was why. The last time they had seen Rogers, before they'd all gone their separate ways, he'd been on the verge of success. He was about to marry the woman he loved, and had hatched a plan to enter the fur trade—an idea that promised wealth and prestige. He had seemed, for all intents and purposes, a man on the rise.
"How the hell did it come to this?" Putnam muttered. "He was about to be rich. Married, business lined up, all set to make a fortune."
Rogers stirred on the ground, mumbling under his breath. "Fucking traitor… no-good debtor… traitor…" he slurred, before letting out a long, belching sigh and rolling over, his face pressed into the earth.
Putnam frowned. "Traitor? What the hell is he talking about?"
"He spent a good while in London, trying to deal with his debts," John said. "Maybe he's talking about that. Could be he's calling someone there a traitor… or maybe that's what he is now." John's voice was laced with disdain, though there was a glimmer of curiosity behind his words.
William, for his part, had had enough of the endless chatter. He stepped forward, impatient, and grabbed Rogers by the collar, hauling the man up into a sitting position. "Well, I for one can't stand this shit," William spat, before slapping Rogers hard across the face. "Get up, old man!"
Rogers' eyes fluttered open, blinking in confusion. His face twisted in a grimace, and for a moment, a flicker of the old fire seemed to return. "I should stab you bastards where you stand…" he growled, his hand instinctively reaching for his side where his sword would've been.
But then he stopped, squinting at the faces in front of him. First at Putnam, then John, then William. His eyes widened as recognition dawned. "Israel? Johnny? Willie…" he rasped, his voice raw. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision and make sense of his surroundings. "Where am I?"
"Putnam's tent," John replied curtly, crossing his arms. "What about you, old man? What the hell happened to you?"
Rogers slumped back, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, not from drunkenness now, but from something deeper. Shame, maybe. Regret. "Everything," he muttered. "Everything happened. Lost it all. The wife, the trade… London… Gage… It's all gone to hell." He lifted his head, bloodshot eyes staring into the distance. "I… I was going to be someone. You know? Thought I had it all figured out. And then... Iy just couldn't stop it. The debts, the failures. One after the other."
Putnam sneered, though there was a hint of sadness in his expression. "So what? You just crawled into a bottle and stay there? That's the mighty Robert Rogers now?"
"I've been fighting my whole damn life," Rogers said bitterly. "First the French, then the Indians, then London and their damn courts... and now I'm supposed to fight again? For what? So they can throw me away when they're done?" He let out a harsh, broken laugh. "Maybe I'm a traitor. Maybe I'm worse. I don't know anymore."
William stared down at Rogers, his heart heavy. This wasn't the man he had once admired—the sharp, cunning ranger who had taught them how to survive. This was a man who had lost everything, drowning in his failures. But even still, there was something left in him. There had to be.
Rogers drifted back into unconsciousness, his body slumping like a dead weight. The three men exchanged uneasy glances before William, with a half-grin, broke the silence. "I'm going through his pockets," he announced, already kneeling down by the drunk man's side.
"He was our commander!" John hissed in protest. "Show some bloody respect!"
Putnam chuckled, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Until he sobers up, he's not much of anything. If anything, he deserves what's coming to him."
William smirked as he began rifling through Rogers' pockets, his hands deftly checking for anything of interest. It was mostly a mess—bits of lint, a broken button, some loose coins, but then his fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of paper. Pulling it free, he realized it was a letter, sealed but worn as if it had been carried around for days, maybe weeks.
A letter addressed to General Washington.
The moment William saw the name on the envelope, something clicked. His eyes darted between the letter and the slumped figure of Rogers, and then, all at once, understanding dawned.
"Oh God," Putnam groaned, rubbing his temples as he set his cigar aside. "He expected to join the army... and meet with Washington... like this?"
William's brow furrowed as he carefully opened the letter. His curiosity got the better of him, and he felt a pang of guilt before unfolding the paper. "I don't think Washington's going to like what he has to say," William muttered as his eyes scanned the page. Rogers' handwriting was shaky, almost desperate, the words filled with a pleading tone that didn't quite match the proud ranger they once knew. "He's begging. He's really begging, like this is his last chance."
"Read it," Putnam growled, leaning in, his scowl deepening.
William cleared his throat and read aloud. The letter detailed Rogers' situation—his debts, the slander against him, and his desire to serve the rebel cause. Rogers was asking for a chance, any chance, to redeem himself. But the most damning part came near the end, where Rogers revealed that he'd narrowly escaped an arrest ordered by none other than Thomas Gage... for treason.
Putnam's eyes widened. "Treason? He doesn't even look like he can stand up, much less plot treason."
"Maybe it's not what he did," John mused, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Maybe it's because of his reputation. Gage has never like him for the way Rogers led his Rangers, the autonomy he had and when he was a royal governor. If there's one thing Gage hates, it's someone who was an upstart and didn't respect him."
"Doesn't matter what Gage thinks," William said, folding the letter back up. "Washington's the one who'll make that call now. But if Rogers shows up in front of him like this... he won't even get the chance."
Putnam shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He'll be lucky if Washington doesn't have him arrested on the spot."
"What do we do?" John asked, his voice low.
William's jaw tightened. "We get him cleaned up. Make sure he's sober enough to stand when the time comes. Rogers might be a wreck, but if he has any fight left in him, Washington might still see something worth saving."
Putnam nodded, though he didn't look hopeful. "He better. Or else Rogers is finished for good."
AN: Another Robert Rogers omake, this time from one of his comrades from the war.
I really want that man to join the army!
)
)
Those sharp (heh) eyed may know where he's from. 
