I actually have William as being slightly positive of Halbert, so I'd recommend you change this line to something else. Something like, "While it irked William that a man as green and reckless as Halbert was higher ranked than him, Congress would recognize his own competence soon enough and give him his due." Maybe, I dunno.
Fun Fact for those who don't know, Gage really did attempt to unsubstantially arrest Rogers for treason IOTL, and he really did not like the guy either. So if you feel a bit bad for Gage, here's a reassurance you don't have to.
Scheduled vote count started by Duke William of on Oct 23, 2024 at 8:29 PM, finished with 57 posts and 13 votes.
[X] Hearts and Minds: Washington has put Halbert in charge of restoring order to Boston, keeping the populace from harassing the soldiers and vice-versa.
[X] Hearts and Minds: Washington has put Halbert in charge nod restoring order to Boston, Keeping the people from harassing the soldiers and vice versa
[X] What We Fight For: Washington has asked that Halbert help with the re-enlistment problems, possibly keeping the army from disintegrating right after the victory of Boston.
Perhaps by befriending those in Quebec we can use them to drum up some French support, I still think we need a European alliance if we're to punt the British navy. Especially seeing as the Spanish somehow hate us even more then irl.
Perhaps by befriending those in Quebec we can use them to drum up some French support, I still think we need a European alliance if we're to punt the British navy. Especially seeing as the Spanish somehow hate us even more then irl.
Update will have to be delayed, I'm afraid. Just got back from a memorial service, and I have a busy week ahead of me. Thank you for patiently waiting.
Update will have to be delayed, I'm afraid. Just got back from a memorial service, and I have a busy week ahead of me. Thank you for patiently waiting.
Henry Simmerson was, in a word, exasperated. The endless delays—one after another—since the grand departure of the Great King's Army towards Halifax grated on his patience. He'd had visions of glory, swift and dashing campaigns, led by the likes of the indomitable John Burgoyne. Simmerson admired Burgoyne's flair and gallant reputation and had spent much time, perhaps too much time, attempting to emulate him. His cousin Banstre had made his opinions on the matter quite clear: Henry was focusing too hard on appearances and not enough on the practical realities of managing his unit.
"Give it a rest, Henry," Banstre had said. "You don't get a command simply by wearing it well."
And maybe Banstre had a point—after all, he was a Colonel and had earned every inch of his rank the hard way. As the senior officer, Banstre's counsel was not so easily ignored, even if Henry might have preferred otherwise. Still, in Simmerson's mind, the endless tedium of administrative tasks and soldierly minutiae was best left to the sergeants. Such work was beneath an officer's dignity. But his cousin insisted, and reluctantly, he had to accept it.
More galling, though, were the troops themselves. The men under his command were the very dregs of military society. They were a brutal, brawling, and sullen lot, more given to their cups than their duty. Drunken scuffles were routine, and each payday saw them squandering the King's shilling on petty indulgences. They were a blight, he thought bitterly, on the image of the soldierly ideal he so ardently admired.
So he would change that, by doing many of the duties he needed to do so that they could get the most prestigious spot on the campaign ahead!
And that would mean that these men would need to be flogged into submission. He would need to drill them, and drill them hard! He had people he wanted to impress.
---------------
The men stood miserably in formation under the relentless drizzle of the morning rain, a bedraggled, half-wilted line of soldiers who could barely hold themselves upright. It was a sight that turned Henry Simmerson's stomach. They'd been out until all hours, squandering their coin and honor in the taverns, drunk on the King's Shilling they'd earned for a soldier's work but had yet to do. Today, they would pay for their insolence. He intended to drill the debauchery out of them with all the rigor his rank could muster. Turning to the next page in the drill manual, he lifted his voice over the rain.
"Drunkenness is a sin in this army, men," he barked, the words cutting through the damp morning air. "And it is a sin that shall be answered with drill! Consider this your atonement—one hour for every pint, and by God, I saw some of you last night empty enough mugs to last us through winter!"
The men shifted and grumbled, half-hearing his words through the fog in their heads. They had expected little more than a few stinging words for their revelry, but Simmerson's tone told them otherwise. They looked to the sergeant beside him, hoping for leniency, but even he looked grimly resolved, recognizing Simmerson's seriousness.
"Lieutenant," the sergeant ventured cautiously, "I hope you don't mind me saying, but the lads are—"
"Drunk as debtors on reprieve!" Simmerson snapped, his gaze cold and unyielding. "I know exactly what manner of rabble they are, Sergeant. They're a disgrace! But I'll not coddle them, nor handle this with a soft hand, as your previous lieutenant must have to make this group such a sorry lot. They'll sweat this out and not see a drop of a drink they have not earned! They are soldiers of the King's Army, and I will make them the greatest the Empire has ever seen, God willing!"
The sergeant looked down, grimly nodding. It was clear Simmerson would brook no compromise. And he liked it. "At least make sure we have a doctor on hand."
"I shall have a doctor on hand to tend them if they collapse under the lash, Sergeant!" Simmerson's voice boomed across the field. "If these men fail to drill to my satisfaction, they'll feel every ounce of the discipline they so clearly lack!" He gave a nod of contempt before holding up the manual again. "Now, we begin as all things good begin, with dressing and covering! Get in line, straighten yourselves, and present your muskets—let me see if you can manage that much!"
The men scrambled into position, aligning their bodies with unsteady focus, rain streaming down their faces as they raised their muskets. To Simmerson's satisfaction, they presented their weapons well enough, each musket clean and well-oiled despite the rain's battering. Still, Simmerson narrowed his eyes. They held their rifles not with pride, he thought bitterly, but with the practiced hand of men more fearful of their equipment than of their duty.
"Keeping the King's muskets polished doesn't make you soldiers!" he shouted, a sneer twisting his lips. "It only shows you're afraid of losing your equipment! Do you think that earns you reprieve? No! Not on my watch. Today, you'll learn discipline." He took a sharp breath, letting the words simmer in the wet, oppressive silence. "We're going to parade, men—double-time, around the camp! And we won't stop until I say so. Quick march!"
He set them off, his voice relentless as the men shuffled into a run, water splashing underfoot, fatigue already setting in. Simmerson felt his own stomach churn with hunger, but he pressed it down. These men would feel every pang of exhaustion and hunger before he permitted themselves even a single meal. He would mold this unit, he swore it, into the finest in the King's Army.
"Peace is a journey of a thousand miles and it must be taken one step at a time." –Lyndon B. Johnson
[X] Hearts and Minds: Washington has put Halbert in charge nod restoring order to Boston, Keeping the people from harassing the soldiers and vice versa
[X] Freedom
January 22, 1776
Boston, Massachusetts
Pacifcation of Boston
1D100 = 81+20+5 => Art!Crit! 106
Inside the home of one Henry Lloyd, a Loyalist merchant who had fled from the city even before the Siege of Boston, Brigadier General Jonathan Halbert of the Continental Army spent the minutes leading to midnight poring over the many papers strewn on the beautifully carved table. Lists of soldiers, maps of Boston's layout, and reports sent in from various officers about the state of Boston were all present on it. Dim, flickering candles provided the only light in the room as he held one closer to the paper he was currently reading. He had been tasked with the great responsibility of keeping the peace in Boston and ensuring good order among both the civilians and soldiers by General Washington, and Halbert was keen to add one more accomplished task to his personal list.
"Some tea, sir," his faithful aide Tommy walked into the room with a cup of said drink–carefully holding it so it didn't spill–and Halbert nodded gratefully as he placed the candle back down on the table before accepting the cup. "Thank you, Tommy," Halbert said as he lightly blowed on the tea, its surface rippling from his breath, before taking a sip. Both its taste and smell rejuvenated him, and he let out a contented noise as warmth spread through his body.
"You'll need to get the locals involved," Tommy stated, causing Halbert to pause his second sip and turn to his aide.
"I beg your pardon?"
Tommy shrugged. "If you don't get the locals to cooperate with you, you might as well try to herd feral cats. Even then, the damn cats aren't able to shoot muskets."
"I know that," Halbert replied with a grunt of mild frustration. "The problem is that the vast majority of the locals are not... keen on our presence."
"No shit, sir."
Halbert sighed at Tommy's everlasting lack of tact or manners. Really, he was going to need to bring the boy to his mother at one point or another; with a wet sponge in her hand, she'd clean his tongue out in less than minute. "I am meeting with officers and city leaders to see what the best course to take is; I am, however, open to any suggestions you might have."
Tommy paused at that, stroking his chin as he looked over the reports. "Well, the patrols should be at least three to four men strong. Not too little that they'd be overwhelmed by any sneaky fucker with a shank, but not too many that we look like we're trying to flood the city. Soft show of force and all that. And we especially need the street urchins on our side."
An eyebrow rose as Halbert let out a hum of thoughtful consideration. "I presume that this is not just a sentimental pursuit."
"No, sir, though it does play a part," Tommy admitted with little shame. "Give them food and a roof over their head, and they'll jump and bark as much as you ask. And I don't know about you, but scamps like them make for pretty good informants."
"And what happens if these informants take our food and money and run," Halbert asked.
Tommy then smirked. "They won't; I'll see to it personally."
Halbert blinked. "...Don't kill anyone."
"Lord above, sir, of course not! What do you think I am, some crazed lunatic thirsty for blood? I'll merely talk to them."
"...That still does not give me much confidence."
Tommy simply cackled at his general's expense.
January 30, 1776
Boston, Massachusetts
Walking through Boston felt like traversing a deserted landscape, despite the bustling city around him. Halbert's men were scattered across the streets, patrolling and keeping order, though it often felt like they were little more than statues in uniform. Their presence was enough to maintain a fragile calm, but beneath the surface, discipline was unraveling faster than yarn ball in the paws of a feral cat. Some had slipped into taverns, seeking solace in ale and spirits they hadn't tasted in months. He allowed it on occasion—after all, these men needed some relief from the weariness of war. But relief had a cost.
The growing lack of discipline gnawed at him. He, Tommy, and the rest of his subordinates couldn't be everywhere at once, watching over each and every one of the thousands of civilians or soldiers tasked with protecting them. Yet it wasn't just the Bostonians Halbert worried about—it was his own men.
Resentment simmered and boiled among them, hardened by almost a year of deployment with little pay and torn with no news from their families. Many had long ceased to care about the war they had been thrust into, their minds focused only on survival until their enlistments expired. Halbert could feel their frustration turning from inward turmoil to outward explosions. Too many soldiers had begun to lash out, taking their frustrations out on the very people they were meant to protect. He'd already had to step in to prevent a few from assaulting citizens over perceived slights.
And today, it was worse.
As he rode through the cobbled streets, Halbert spotted a commotion ahead—a young soldier grappling with an elderly man–his face wrinkled and gnarled and his whiskers silver gray–who clung desperately to a small box, his eyes wide with desperate panic. Halbert's gut clenched as he spurred his horse Freedom forward, dismounting swiftly.
"Please stop!" the old man cried, dropping to his knees as the soldier yanked the box away. The glint of silverware spilled from the soldier's grip—a fortune in the right hands. Gold inlays glistened on the edges, a pristine set clearly belonging to some aristocrat's dining table. Halbert's blood boiled at the sight.
"Why should I?" the soldier spat, his voice rising in anger. "My family's lost everything, and I'm rotting here while they suffer! I can't go back with nothing—I won't!" His voice cracked with desperation, and the anguish in his eyes was unmistakable. "I refuse to go to prison for debts. I won't let them starve!"
Halbert's voice rang out, sharp and cold as steel. "What is the meaning of this?"
The soldier stiffened jankily, his eyes going wide with the sudden realization of who had just spoken. "General!" He dropped the silverware, snapping to attention, his posture rigid as fear replaced his defiance. "I was—"
"Was what, private?" Halbert snapped as stepping closer, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "A thief? Brigand? You disgrace your uniform and your fellow soldiers with this behavior."
The old man trembled beside him before inching forward to gather the fallen silverware, his hands unwillingly shaking as he reached for the scattered spoons and forks. Halbert's gaze never left the soldier, hard green eyes staring into fearful blue eyes.
"Do you think that because you're far from home, you can act as you please?" Halbert's voice was low, but each word was a blade. "I know you've been separated from your family and that you've suffered. But these people are not your enemies. They are not conquered subjects for you to steal from. They are your countrymen, and they deserve the same respect and dignity that your uniform grants you. Do you think your family would approve of your blood money?"
The soldier's face flushed red with shame, his eyes fixed on the ground. Halbert allowed the silence to hang heavy before speaking again.
"What is your name, soldier," Halbert demanded curtly.
"P-private Harold Auburn, s-sir," the soldier stuttered back.
"Be thankful I don't have you flogged or thrown in the stocks, Private Auburn. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind."
The soldier didn't hesitate. He bolted, his boots pounding the street as if hell itself were nipping at his heels. The old man slowly stood up, clutching his reclaimed silverware tightly to his breast, his breath still uneven.
"God bless you, sir," he whispered, his voice shaky with relief. "God bless you."
Halbert nodded, his gaze softening for a moment. "Are you alright?"
The old man spat on the ground, his wrinkled face twisting with anger. "Thugs, the lot of them. All those damned soldiers from Washington's army."
He paused, eyeing Halbert's uniform, and suspicious anxiety clouded his eyes once he realized that Halbert was one of those damned soldiers. "What about you, then? Here to steal from me yourself?"
Halbert met his gaze evenly but not harhly. "No, sir. I'm merely here to maintain law and order. If it would be fine with you, I will escort you home."
The man regarded with him thoughtful distrust, still unsure as to the character of Halbert. After a while, however, the distrust slowly fled from his eyes. "I will take your offer, kind sir."
February 3, 1776
Boston, Massachusetts
First Lieutenant Tommy Navarre of the Continental Army was typically a cool, calculated figure when he wasn't drunk. Or his normal self. He had to be if he wanted to survive. A street rat like him, somehow elevated to a gentleman's rank, was not a role anyone would've pegged him for. Tommy had always been a fighter, a thief, and an all-around scoundrel—the kind of wretch who, in any other time, might have found himself in the stocks or dangling from the gallows for his crimes.
But this wasn't any other time. The Continental Army needed fighters, thieves, and killers—men of scrappy wit and cunning, unbound by convention or conscience. And so, by sheer necessity and perhaps a bit of fate, Tommy had risen to a station far above his birth. Close ties with a certain Jonathan Halbert had even given him a gentleman's rank, a feat that seemed more surreal with each passing day.
He was only sixteen, nearly seventeen, and an officer expected to lead men into battle. Not really, an aide-de-camp had to do more boring things like paperwork, but it was practically the same thing. The transformation was dizzying. Boston, under siege for over a year now, felt like a memory. And here he was, returning as if he had never left, yet utterly changed—a soldier in a crisp uniform with polished buttons, a sword he'd stol–strategically transferred the equipment to another location from an unwitting officer, and the wild look of a youth who had grown far older than his years.
But beneath the finery, he was still Tommy Navarre. The same old Tommy who'd give you one new shiny pence in exchange for two old rusty pence.
"Thief! Thief!" A woman's frantic scream snapped him from his thoughts, and Tommy turned to see a young man bolting down an alley, his form disappearing into the crowded streets and the street cart filled with bags of apples was conveniently missing one.
He sighed, taking in the sloppy scene. Mid-morning, broad daylight, far too many witnesses, and the stealing of a whole bag instead of one or two apples which wouldn't be missed. The amateur was even dressed conspicuously, too much like… Tobias?
Tommy felt a surge of disbelief. Tobias was supposed to be with his family in Rhode Island, safely removed from Boston's turmoil. What was he doing back here? Ignoring the woman's wails, Tommy took off after the thief, his mind buzzing with questions. Tobias was quick and clever, sure, but he lacked Tommy's somewhat discipline and patience, a failing that would always land him in trouble. Tommy had tried to show him a few tricks, teach him the art of finesse, but apparently, Tobias had ignored more than he'd learned.
Sure enough, Tobias was attempting to slip through the crowd when a flash of steel caught Tommy's eye. A knife glinted as Tobias whirled, eyes hard and desperate.
"Alright, Continental bastard," Tobias snarled, "hand over that—"
Tommy broke into a grin, pistol drawn and already aimed. "Good on you, Toby. Didn't think you'd ever be quick enough to get the jump on me, but fuck me, I guess."
Tobias faltered, and the knife lowered. "Tommy?"
"Come on, let's go have a right and proper talk," Tommy said, gesturing with the pistol. "Preferably without any blades between us."
Tobias hesitated but sheathed his knife, his face softening into a wary grin, as he looked at the bag of apples. "What the hell are you doing here? Last I saw, you'd swiped that officer's sword and tore off like a fox from hounds."
"Got damn lucky, got out," Tommy replied with a shrug, suddenly aware of just how far he'd come since that night. "Joined the army. They figured they could use a few local thugs."
"You're an officer."
Tommy shrugged, feeling the weight of the sword at his side. "Stranger things have happened." He grabbed Tobias by the arm and guided him into a narrow alley, then sat him down against the damp, ivy-covered stone. "Why the bloody hell are you here? You were supposed to be up in Rhode Island."
Tobias' face hardened, his gaze darkening. "Father was killed by some loyalist pickets. They were searching for something—never found it—but when they came across our money and silver, they shot him. Then my mother, my sisters… all gone in one night. I tried to stop them. I did. But they… stabbed me." Tobias lifted his shirt, revealing a mess of jagged scars, each a violent line of red against pale skin. Bayonet thrusts or knife wounds—it hardly mattered. He had twenty or more, each one marking a point where death had grazed him and moved on. "Some rider found me, carried me to his home in Lexington, stitched me up, helped bury what was left of my family. After that, I wandered for a bit, picked up work on a farm… and then came back to Boston. I had unfinished business."
Tommy leaned back, exhaling. He had seen Boston tear people apart before, but hearing this… This felt different. "How did you get back into the city?"
Tobias gave a bitter chuckle. "Just another scraggly kid, begging for a scrap of mercy. I told the Army enough of the truth to look pathetic and pitiful—a lone survivor of a Continental raid. They figured I was a new recruit. Slipped away one night, found a few familiar faces around town, and we set to work. Stole a few things, and found some papers for the rebel cause. Thought I'd taste a bit of revenge."
"But that was before the siege ended. Now, with things changing, why are you still stealing? Why take from the ordinary folks?"
Tobias' eyes flickered. "Because I want to. I want to hurt those Loyalist bastards the same way they gutted my family."
Tommy crossed his arms, brow furrowed. "Toby, this isn't justice for what they did to your family. This is just you hurting people like they did. You're not even hurting the right people; if you were, you'd be back in Rhode Island."
Tobias clenched his fists, the shadows of old rage and pain tightening his face. "And joining Washington's army is supposed to make that difference? Just another uniform, but this time the 'right' color?" His voice was thick with sarcasm. "I want their heads, Tommy. Their silver, their lives. They stole mine, and I'll take theirs."
"And you can do that, but you have to do it the right way," Tommy said evenly, watching Tobias' expression carefully.
Tobias spat at the ground. "Look at you, preaching honor. Since when does Tommy Navarre give a damn about noble causes? You used to steal from anyone, everyone. What's made you start picking your marks now, all high and mighty?"
Tommy paused before sighing, the sharp edge in Tobias' words cutting deep. Yeah, he'd beena wrong'un, hadn't he? After a moment, he leaned closer. "Because I'm doing it for the right reasons now, Toby. Stealing from apple vendors, hurting elderly women—that's not justice. That's the work of cowards who couldn't be bothered to go against people stronger than them. Cowards like the ones who butchered your family."
Tobias caught the meaning in Tommy's stare, his gaze drifting reluctantly to the apples he'd swiped. "I—"
"—am not a coward," Tommy finished for him, crossing his arms. He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you're looking to prove me wrong?"
Tobias let out a heavy sigh, glancing away. "I… don't have anywhere else to go."
"Then follow me." Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Washington's army could use local toughs with a knack for survival. The sort who can keep themselves in one piece and spot trouble before it finds them." He paused, nodding to the basket of apples. "But first… the apples."
Tobias gave him a sidelong grin, some of his old mischief slipping back. "Oh, you're paying for them, that's what you mean. You're the officer here, after all," he winked.
Tommy shook his head, chuckling, but his hand was already dipping into his pocket. "One step at a time, Toby. You think officers are made of coin?" He tossed a few coppers to the stall keeper who, after a reproachful glare, accepted the payment with a muttered thanks.
"Only the ones I stole from."
With a quick elbow to Tobias's side in order to shut up the cheeky bastard, Tommy was quick with a lie to the woman. She fortunately didn't seem to recognize Tobias with him, meaning, despite Tommy's worries, that he was a little bit better then he thought.
February 19, 1776
Boston, Massachusetts
"Congress has request your presence in Philadelphia, General Halbert."
Results: Boston, while still tense and weary, has become far more peaceful. The Loyalists have begrudgingly accepted the Patriot presence in the city, and Halbert, despite his initial reputation, has established himself as a fair and just man. Boston is not under threat of a counter-rebellion by the Loyalists.
Congress and George Washington are both pleased by Halbert's success, though this time Halbert doesn't get any fame from this unglamorous and "mundane" work. Halbert has been requested to head to Philadelphia at the most convenient time. (I.E., next Turn.)
Secret Roll Made...
+4 Relations with George Washington.
Author's Notes:
As promised, here's the roll to see if Rogers joins the Continental Army.
1D100 = 32+15 => 47
Washington is not too keen on allowing Rogers into the Continental Army despite the help from his friends and a genuine attempt by Rogers to clean himself up. The idea isn't completely dismissed, however, so there is still a chance later on.
Thanks again to @Magoose for helping with this update. Also, next update shall have the European reactions. Get ready for some more emotes to the Tally.
Revolutionary Fun Fact–No fact this time, but a question instead.
Who is an American not considered a Founding Father you think should be considered as one? For me, it's Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island. He was practically the father of the idea of religious freedom as we know it in modern terms, and he was very based in his views on treating Native Americans fairly. And he wasn't even some big liberal atheist thinker of the Enlightenment like Voltaire or Rousseau but a devout Puritan instead.
Who is an American not considered a Founding Father you think should be considered as one? For me, it's Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island. He was practically the father of the idea of religious freedom as we know it in modern terms, and he was very based in his views on treating Native Americans fairly. And he wasn't even some big liberal atheist thinker of the Enlightenment like Voltaire or Rousseau but a devout Puritan instead.
If we're talking about the people who could be considered a founding father
William Penn.
Sure he is the founder of Pennsylvania, a based individual in his own right, and was one of the few people in history that the United States gave honorary citizenship to after he died...
But he never really got his laurels and his dream died after he did. Which is a shame.
e Continental Army despite the help from his friends and a genuine attempt by Rogers to clean himself up. The idea isn't completely dismissed, however, so there is still a chance later on.
)
)
