Arrogance and Empire - An Alternate 7 Years War Novel - Part 5 - 1778

[Alt History Buff]

All,

This is a continuation of my previous TL based upon an alternate 7 Years War.

Largely, these "chapters" are in novel format rather than the historical chronical format I tend to use with my TL's.

Since the TL is so extensive, I break them up into book-sized novels based upon the year (otherwise, I'd be at chapter 630 and page 1804 by now) Someday, after heavy, heavy proofreading and rewrites, I may try to self-publish so any constructive criticism upon writing style, historical accuracy, flow, dialogue, etc would be appreciated.

Key POD's from the 5 Years' War (Book 1):
1. Great Britain wins "5 Years War" in North America (including Louisiana) but the Prussian/Hanoverian alliance sees the dismemberment of Prussia by her neighbors (and relegation to 3rd tier status) and seizure of Hanover by France.
2. Peter III regains his heritage in Holstein but gets overthrown in Russia. He later assumes the throne of Sweden.
3. Two fictional diseases - the Bleeding Death (akin to Ebola) and African Death (akin to AIDS) - ravage the world, with Africa as the epicenter. The slave trade effectively dies by the mid-1760's. This has a particularly terrible effect on large concentrations of men hailing from different regions...like soldiers and sailors who also enjoy the odd prostitute.
4. Great Britain's normal sources for "hired" mercenaries - Hesse, etc - are forbidden by treaty to lease Regiments of experienced sailors. This would cause a major handicap to the British war effort for the first year or two of the American Revolutionary War.
5. Robert Clive's exploitation of Bengal lead to a rebellion which evicts Britain from Bengal. This leads to the Circars and Madras falling to France and their allies.
6. Most of the French residents of Quebec are evicted after the "5 Years War" by a vengeful Britain and America but the Acadian population is largely intact.
7. With Britain's greater success in the 5 Years War in the Americas (seizing Louisiana and Guadeloupe in addition to OTL gains), the French and Spanish are increasingly nervous about the potential for British Hegemony in the west.
8. OTL crisis in the Falklands (OTL Spain backed down) and Corsica (OTL Britain backed down) flare up in violence.
9. Spanish/Portuguese rivalry continues in South America. However, in this TL, Portugal is successful in gaining British assistance due to increased importance of Portugal to maintaining British naval hegemony in the Mediterranean (Minorca is not returned to Britain after 5 Years War and Corsican-British alliance is firmer, thus contributing to the crisis). Great Britain offers modest support in Portugal and the Banda Oriental.

Key POD's from Alternate Revolutionary War (Books 2 to 4)
1. Robert Clive immigrates to Massachusetts in disgrace and eventually joins rebels.
2. "Continental" Congress becomes "Columbian" Congress and United States of America becomes United States of Columbia.
3. Shortage of British troops in the Americas leads to easy rebel seizures from Quebec to Savannah.
4. Through 1776 and 1777, most of the fighting takes place in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania (similar to OTL).
5. French Nova Scotia throws off the British with French and Columbian aid and returns as the colony of Acadia.
6. Gibraltar falls in 1777 after a massive land and sea siege. Great Britain loses only base in the Mediterranean.
7. Portugal's King demands British aid in border conflict in South America. King George agrees and Montevideo taken. However, Portugal, facing invasion from Spain and France, exit the war. In OTL, Great Britain offered little to no help to their longtime ally.
8. French direct financial aid given to Columbia a year earlier than OTL in 1776 and French troops/naval support a year earlier in 1777.
9. The fictional "Bleeding Death" and "African Death" claim thousands of military lives and tens of thousands of civilians, cutting off the slave trade.
10. Robert Clive is captured by the British in November, 1777. Numerous high-ranking British and American generals are killed in combat from 1776 to 1777.
11. By the end of 1777, Great Britain's North American empire has been reduced to e "Royal Islands" of Manhattan, Staten Island, "Nassau" Island (Long Island), Newfoundland, Bermuda and most of the West Indies.
12. Spain and the United States of Columbia, while co-belligerents against Britain and mutually allied with France, have yet to sign an alliance.
13. King Carlos III's heir in Naples, Prince Ferdinand, dies in December 1777 of Bleeding Death, leaving the King to seek to merge Naples/Sicily to Spain once again for his son, Infante Carlos, despite this being against previous European diplomatic convention.
14. King Louis XVI's brother, Louis Stanislas Xavier, who nominally ruled Hanover after the Electorate was seized in 1759, dies of African Death in December of 1777.
15. The childless Maximilian Joseph of Bavaria dies as in OTL in December of 1777 of Smallpox. Numerous potential inheritors take notice.

Key characters:
"Historical" Characters:
George Washington - the one-armed 2nd in command of the Columbian Army who struggles to keep the Army together and support his alcoholic and drug-using superior , Robert Clive.
Benjamin Franklin - perhaps the most powerful voice in the Columbian Congress.
Thomas Knowlton - Columbian spymaster (I admit I'm still writing these chapters).
Benedict Arnold - a hard-fighting Columbian General
William and Alexander Macomb - American businessmen and traders

Lord North - First Lord of the Treasury and nominal head of the British government.
Lord Germain - Colonial Secretary and defacto Briton in charge of the war effort. Still recovering from his disgrace in the past war.
Thomas Gage - initial British commander-in-chief in America in 1775.
Richard Howe - later British commander-in-chief in America from 1776
James Wolfe - British General
Henry Clinton - British General
James Cornwallis - British General
John Andre - British officer
Thomas Hutchinson - Loyalist Governor of Massachusetts
William Franklin - Loyalist Governor of New Jersey and son of Benjamin Franklin
David Ochterlony - Boston-born officer in bankrupt East India Company
William Draper - Aging British General
Lord Downe - British General (killed in 7 Years' War OTL)
Marquis de Pombal - Prime Minister of Portugal
Duke de Belle-Isle - French General (killed in 7 Years' War OTL)


Fictional Characters:
Marcus Hayes - new immigrant to America and friend of Benedict Arnold
Henri Dejardins - French Canadian evicted from Laval with his family to the Maritimes
Klaus Durrenmatt - German immigrant soldier in "Free" Georgia
Private Sean Campbell - Scottish soldier in the Black Watch Regiment
Sergeant Kevin Giggs - Welsh soldier in 23rd Regiment
Bess Williams - camp woman in the British Army
Caleb Horn, freeborn Black Loyalist from New York, and member of the Ethiopian Regiment
Evander, an escaped Virginia Slave, member of the Ethiopian Regiment

​

​

Arrogance and Empire: An Alternative 7 Years War Timeline​

Arrogance and Empire: An Alternate 7 Years Novel - Part 2 - 1765-1775​

Arrogance and Empire - An alternate 7 Years War Timeline - Part 3 - 1776​

Arrogance and Empire - An Alternative 7 Years War Novel - Part 4 - 1777

I appreciate any readers of my previous chapters (see links below of the 7 Years War novel and the first two books of the following American Revolutionary War). This will be the 4th chapter of 5. Unlike previous timeline's, these are intended to read as more of a novel in the Turtledove mode...

www.alternatehistory.com

 

[Alt History Buff]

January, 1778

New York

As the first streams of dim illumination crept between the handsome curtains of the fine New York townhouse, General Henry Clinton groaned in contentment. Fortunately, the servants had properly stoked the fires through the night and the coal-burning stove in the corner continued to emit an adequate degree of warmth. The former owner of the lodgings must have indeed taken great pride in the workmanship, truly it is a fine home, Clinton mused, wondering if the exiled merchant regretted his decision to turn against the King. At least Clinton benefited from the handsome townhome's well-crafted elegance.

Pushing the heavy blanket aside with a sigh, Clinton portly naked form promptly shivered as he rushed for his robes. Normally, his butler would have gently knocked upon his door with a summons for breakfast but the discrete, long-time servant knew well enough not to disturb his master when entertaining a visitor. Reaching for his breaches, Clinton gazed upon the youthful outline still curled into the blankets, only a faint rustling lending evidence of consciousness. The aging soldier smiled in grim satisfaction at his own vigor at the unexpected pleasures of last night.

"Morning already?" inquired a drowsy, musical voice, slightly muffled.

"I fear so, duty calls."

"Quite, quite," his companion muttered, slowly rolling out of bed to seek out the clothing so casually tossed upon the floor the night before.

Clinton leaned back into an opulent chair. Fortunately, his servant had placed a fresh pair of socks and a laundered shirt next to the polished mahogany armoire. Grunting slightly, the General somehow managed to apply his socks and gaiters without taking an eye off the well-toned form of his lover dressing.

Buttoning up his shirt, Major John Andre turned to his superior officer with a sly smile and intoned, "Thank you for your…hospitality…last night, sir. I fear that returning to my lodging in the unpleasant climate might have damaged my health."

Henry Clinton chuckled. If nothing else, the cultured young fellow knew well how to put one at ease. Like his manservant, John Andre was discretion incarnate. Not that the rising officer required a reminder to keep certain…affairs…to himself. Clinton suspected more than a few members of Parliament had buggered the stable boy at one point or another. Provided one maintained his prudence, such matters rarely reached the light of day. Fortunately, the boredom of the remarkably swift six-week voyage to America had been punctuated by a young Ensign eager to ingratiate himself to the Major General.

"How have your lodgings been, Major?" Clinton added conversationally as he reached for his waistcoat. "I recall that the owners of your own townhome have returned from Philadelphia."

"The Shippens?" Andre replied easily, a mild smile spreading across his features. "Yes, delightful people, quite loyal to the King. To their detriment, really. Their family is native to Philadelphia, this Manhattan townhome merely available for extended stays in New York.

"When General Howe, well, Lord Howe now, I suppose. When Lord Howe reached the gates of Philadelphia, the Shippens vociferously proclaimed their allegiance to the crown. They'd sought out other suppressed loyalists in order to welcome the King's Men back into their city. Regrettably, when Lord Howe was repulsed by the French, the Shippens' less devoted neighbors reacted with characteristic repression. The Shippen family home and warehouses were confiscated for his "treason". Really, the man was lucky to escape Philadelphia with his life."

"And their daughter? What was her name?”

Andre smiled, “Peggy. Lovely girl, I should admit.”

“Thinking of marrying her, are you?” the General inquired indifferently, buttoning up his waistcoat. Every year, the damnable thing grew ever snugger.

“I can’t think of why she would,” Andre laughed self-deprecatingly as he tugged on his boots. “Surely such an august family might do better for their prized daughter than a Major of modest means.”

Clinton frowned. “In my youth, every family of station in New York fell over themselves presenting their daughters at the appearance of a British officer, regardless his fortune. Even the faintest association with the mother country raised their status in the community.”

“That was during an age when British officers were somewhat a rare commodity upon these shores and the fortunes of esteemed colonial families remained intact,” Andre reminded, throwing his coat over his arm. “The value of a British commission is somewhat devalued these days, what with a thousand officers prowling the city in search of companionship.

“Besides, marrying for class or title is unquestionably of secondary importance in the minds of once-prosperous colonials presiding over the ashes of their trading empires or watching from afar as Patriot Committees confiscate their estates. No, General, I fear wealth trumps rank every time. I daresay Mr. Shippen would prefer the most uncouth bumpkin over an English officer should the bumpkin’s manors and domains still be under the protection of His Majesty’s flag…or whichever flag flew.”

As an afterthought, Andre conceded, “Though having become acquainted with Ms. Shippen, I hesitate to put anything past her charms. A colonel or a Baronet are surely not beyond the lady’s ambition.”

Fatigued with the mundane gossip (Clinton had not felt the urge for a young lady’s presence since the lamentable passing of his dear wife. He’d preferred other fare in his advancing years), the New Yorker grumbled, “Well, I suppose I’d best be off to His Lordship’s office for another round. Do you know that damnable man is still refusing my requisitions for the Highlanders and other senior Regiments? How the hell am I going to reconquer Virginia if Howe releases only his castoff Loyalist Regiments to do the job?!”

As the heavy coats warmed his bones against the northern winter’s chill, the General’s ire threatened to overheat. Lord Howe steadfastly refused to relinquish the flower of his regiments for the southern campaign. Not that the man had any intention of using them for any military purpose whatsoever in New York. So discouraged by the setbacks of the previous year, Howe proclaimed no intention to renew the offensive against the “overwhelming numbers” of the combined French and Columbian armies entrenched along the mainland. Clinton fervently prayed the idiot’s replacement arrived upon these shores soon. Both Germain and the King had long since tired of the man’s timidity.

“Don’t begrudge the man for sparing his finest Regiments,” Andre reminded cautiously, “Recall that Burgoyne’s quixotic flight of fancy to the Mohawk resulted in the cream of our forces squatting in Columbian prisoner of war camps. And, really, some of those Loyalist Regiments have been embodied for two years and I’d rate them superior to the newly raised formations you described in England.”

Clinton’s jaw dropped. “You actually compare the mutinous scum masquerading as “Loyalists” to be the equal of the most dismal unit of the British or Irish Establishment? Major, do you not recall the riots and mass desertions of the previous months?”

Andre winced. Spurred by wild rumors of forced amalgamation into British units or transfer to the “living death” of the West Indies, several Regiments of the American Establishment mutinied in response. Even those Americans sworn to serve the crown abhorred the discipline of the regular army and resisted even the most modest attempts to force them into line. An entire garrison on Staten Island mutinied and threatened to execute their British-born officers should the order to draft the colonials into British units not be repudiated at once. Hundreds simply deserted their posts, crossing the narrow river ways to the mainland without a backward glance. The 3Rd American Regiment of the Provincial Line actually engaged in a pitched battle with the 48th Regiment, the unit dispatched to suppress the insurrection.

Even more humiliating was the reaction of the 6th American Regiment upon receiving word that their formation had been allocated to Generals Agnew and Medow’s expedition to the West Indies. Disconsolate at the loss of so many of his finest soldiers in the campaigns of 1777, Lord Howe demanded that some of the four thousand men earmarked for the conquest of St. Lucia be drawn from the Loyalist formations as well. The 6th Regiment’s reaction was so rancorous that Agnew had been forced to disarm the Americans and place them under a Marine guard on the transport ship. Regrettably, the precautions hadn’t been sufficient to prevent the natives from hurling the inadequate number of Marines overboard into the freezing waters and commanding the terrified crew to raise anchor and sail the vessel into a nearby mainland inlet so the vile cowards (along with most of the transport’s crew) might cravenly abandon their King in his time of need.

Lord Howe forswore replacing the deserters with other Loyalist formations and the bulk of the fleet sailed the following week, almost to a man the King’s regulars. To Clinton, it had been another demonstration of Howe’s incapacity. Naturally, the soon-to-be-replaced commander-in-chief demanded that Clinton’s force to Virginia contain a greater-than-expected flavor of Loyalist units. Clinton acceded only with the greatest reluctance.

Recalling his momentary superior, Clinton inquired, “Are you still planning that absurd ball for His Lordship’s sending off?”

“The Mischianza? Of course, I’ve already arranged the jousting tournaments and a pair of bands. The banquet should be quite spectacular.

Andre served the General in numerous capacities, including taking a greater hand in intelligence gathering as well as the inevitable mountain of paperwork. Naturally, the refined junior officer also migrated into the unofficial role of social director for the gentry. Rumor had it that Andre spent more time collecting pretty loyalist girls for officers’ balls than a Madame organizing her whores. The Major might even be in the running for Adjutant-General should Colonel Abercrombie depart these shores.

“Mmmm,” Clinton mumbled, “Perhaps I might have more use for you that His Lordship. Would you care to be on my staff?”

Andre, at last fully clothed, smiled at his senior officer and retorted, “General, I believe I spent a significant portion of last evening on your staff.”

With a tight salute, Major Andre turned and departed for his duties. Clinton sighed. It was a pity the handsome young fellow would be at such a distance. The campaign in Virginia promised to be quite arduous, regardless of what the idiot Lord Germain surmised.

“Every colonial appearing Parliament has testified that the south is the Achilles heel of the rebellion. The Southerners are Loyal and await only the presence of the King’s Men to publicly renew their devotion!” Germain virtually shrieked at Clinton’s royal reception.

The man’s reputation for cowardice warranted a certain level of contempt from the professional soldier but the increasingly shrill contention that most colonists desire even the basest level of reapproachment with the mother country was patently absurd. This was the same claim the fool made when troops were first sent to Boston. It is only a few troublemakers; the masses have not lost faith in the King in Parliament! Then it was the remainder of New England who would surely not rebel like the Boston hotheads. Then, without a doubt, the middle colonies of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania would never forsake their sovereign as did the whole of New England. The Privy Council had been wrong on each occasion. Would, by sheer happenstance, North’s Ministry be proven correct regarding the southern colonies?

Clinton certainly held serious reservations. As such, the General requested license to provide the only incentive available to him that would ensure adequate enlistment under the King’s Colors. Naturally, Lord Sandwich, Lord Germain, Lord North and the other imbeciles of the Ministry approved without objection, clearly not comprehending that such an audacious policy would permanently undermine any shred of loyalty amongst the southern aristocracy. As a native New Yorker, Clinton comprehended all too well the visceral dread clawing in every southern heart at the policy the General intended to pursue. The paltry six thousand British regulars so grudgingly granted by Lord Howe could not seriously hope to occupy such a vast area as Germain envisioned. And unlike the Colonial Secretary, Clinton had no intention of resting the success of his campaign upon colonial loyalty.

No, the New Yorker grasped in a manner that no true Englishman could that only a “revolutionary” strategy might overturn the cancerous insurrection poisoning America’s shores. In the fields and kitchens of the southern plantations lay the material necessary to counter the insidious rebellion, only if it could be tapped.

By the express written approval of the King in Parliament, General Henry Clinton would levy the oppressed peoples of the South by offering what the high-minded hypocrites infesting the rebel Congress repeatedly bleated as a justification for treason.

Freedom.

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1778

London

Despondent, the First Lord bowed humbly before his monarch’s throne and replied, “No, Your Majesty, I fear that our agents hold no hope whatsoever that the Americans can be dissuaded from this alliance with our pernicious foes. The Carlisle Commission assures us that no reconciliation short of total destruction of their armies can alter the rebel’s course. Perhaps not even then.”

Unusually somber, George III intoned, “Then that is what we must do. However, we have come to believe that the current direction of the war must be altered if we are to be assured of victory.”

At last, a rare lucid day, Lord North breathed. He’s actually being reasonable.

Jeffrey Amherst, recently appointed to the long vacant position of Commander in Chief of all British forces stepped forward. The tall, spare sexagenarian offered in his somewhat nasally tone, “The Privy Council and I share your thoughts, Your Majesty, and have designed a strategy intended to utilize this nation’s strengths to full advantage.”

In the short time since Amherst’s appointment, Lord North’s opinion of the man had grown by the day. Though hardly a military genius of the first order, Amherst’s clarity of thought and lack of personal agenda aided greatly in healing the rifts among the fractured Privy Council. Even Lord Germain, who failed so dismally in setting policy for the war effort, welcomed the esteemed General’s involvement if only to mitigate his own incompetence.

Amherst gestured towards an expansive map of the western world constructed for the King’s benefit, continuing, “This, Your Majesty, represents the disposition of Britain’s forces. The red circles indicate British regiments, and the red triangles symbolize the locations of our ships of the line whilst their blue counterparts represent our French, Spanish and rebel enemies.”

The First Lord of the Treasury had helped Amherst prepare the presentation according to his superior knowledge of the King’s moods and eccentricities. Though intelligent and occasionally even insightful in his opinions, the King’s single-mindedness frequently vexed his Privy Council to no end. North considered it vital that His Majesty support this new strategy else the war may be lost.

“As you can see,” Amherst nodded towards the America’s, “the crème of Britain’s Army remains in New York. This includes the majority of our regulars.”

North was relieved that the King declined to throw another tantrum over the humiliating defeats in Nova Scotia, Florida, the Hudson and Philadelphia. In recent months, barely a single briefing passed without some sort of outburst over the tragedies befalling the British Army in America (or what was left of it).

“Our capability to reinforce North America remains limited though adequate supplies continue to flow. Fortunately, I believe that General Clinton’s, and his subordinates General Wolfe and General Cornwallis, campaign to the south may find significant resources in Virginia to burgeon his forces.”

“Understand, sir,” the King reminded, “That I have complete faith in my Generals to do what is necessary to secure the required manpower. I don’t care if Clinton frees every slave in the colonies, or none of them, as he might see fit. Free reign to seize property, to imprison suspected rebels and burn the very land beneath their feet is given in subduing these traitors. North America is to be returned to our control by any means at hand.”

Amherst managed to retain his bland expression, albeit with a hard glint in this eye. The previous year, Amherst had been offered, almost commanded to accept really, the office which General Howe tenuously held. Through the years following the late war, Amherst served in military and political capacities in the colonies including as Governor of Quebec, Governor of Virginia and Supreme Commander of North America. In recognition to his victories over the French (in a war where so many others failed their King), the General was raised to a peerage as Baron Amherst of Holmesdale. With remarkable skill, the new peer sailed the stormy diplomatic waters of Parliament and even became something of a colonial expert based on his intimate and moderately amicable relations with so many American officials. In reality, Amherst loathed North America with all his heart, both the dismal weather and the intransigent, contrary natives who so vexed his later years on that continent. The General would resign his commission and profitable office in a heartbeat before being compelled to set foot upon those discordant shores again.

“I quite agree,” Amherst returned his sovereign’s comment easily, “however, the Navy is not being properly utilized for this task. The French continue to provide supply and funds to the rebels at will. The Royal Navy’s superior numbers and seamanship can decisively swing the balance in our favor.”

Gesturing again towards the map, Amherst noted, “The French West Indies are ripe for the plucking. For two years, the enemy have harassed Guadeloupe, Jamaica and Barbados. Now, it is our turn to advance.”

“Remember, Sire,” North inserted helpfully, “that the value of trade with the West Indies greatly exceeds that of mainland North America.”

Scowling at the interruption, George III replied acidly, “We are aware of that, sir.”

Ignoring the minor spat, Amherst continued, “These islands remain vulnerable to an invasion of only a few thousand soldiers, provided that the Navy establishes local superiority. Should we be successful, the inveterate French and Spanish might even be encouraged to withdraw from the conflict so we might concentrate on the rebels without distraction.”

For the first time, the normally stoic General looked nervous. A few weeks before, Amherst tentatively offered the proposal of abandoning the American War to concentrate on the conquest of the West Indies and Louisiana. The King’s swift response concluded any further discussion on that subject. Despite the lack of progress and spiraling debt, the American war continued.

North agreed with this in principle. He could hardly blame the King for refusing to voluntarily give up the majority of his domains (what King could?). However, the First Lord of the Treasury privately voiced his frustration at the treasure and blood expended when modest tokens of reconciliation that might have prevented this dismal situation over the years were rejected out of hand. After nearly three years of bloodshed, the colonies appeared determined to win independence or face destruction, leaving Great Britain no recourse to simply reverse the policies that had so offended the rebellious North Americans.

“And does this not leave Britain open to invasion?” The King inquired.

“Not at all,” Amherst replied without hesitation. “The Royal Navy rules the channel and always will.”

North noted that the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Sandwich, flinched slightly but remained otherwise silent. He’d agreed to the strategy as did Barrington, Germain and North. All consented to allow the General to present to the King without contradiction. In truth, North legitimately concurred that the change of tactics provided the best hope of success. Certainly, an invasion of France or Spain was out of the question. Even a repeat of the doomed invasion of Gibraltar remained unfeasible, all that campaign accomplished was wasting naval and army forces better used in North America (several of the regiments allocated for Gibraltar’s recovery were already reassigned to Clinton, who sailed on the last tide of November with his meager reinforcements). Without the dispatch of significant resources along the Indian subcontinent, any battles there would prove pointless. No, holding the line in North America while driving the Franco-Spanish alliance out of the priceless West Indies appeared the best course.

Judging his General for a long instant throughout which Amherst met his stare with equanimity, the King smiled slightly and nodded, “Very well, General. I approve your strategy. Should Parliament voice concerns, inform them you have my full support.”

Though the King required additional explanations (he even added a few salient ideas), his enthusiasm only grew. When the King retired for his tea, the helm of Great Britain remained firmly under the hands of the ministry.

On the whole, it was a good day.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1778

Paris

The elderly Minister of War grinned a warm greeting to his colleague as the comte de Vergennes exited His Majesty’s private offices. The duc de Choiseul had no particular business with Louis XVI today but felt compelled to await the outcome of Vergennes audience. After all, de Choiseul had assisted Vergennes in the Treaty of Madrid’s laborious negotiations and His Majesty might request the War Minister’s opinion.

Vergennes, visibly fatigued by the interview, managed a weary nod and gestured the duc towards his own offices. Their clacking heels reverberating along the expansive marble hallways, the pair marched in companionable silence, not desirous that the ubiquitous courtiers or staff bustling about might eavesdrop. The Ministry’s opponents were multiplying by the hour as the nation’s treasury dwindled under the weight of the American and African campaigns.

De Choiseul made no attempt to intrude upon the rare moment of tranquility, enjoying the leisurely stroll down the Hall of Mirrors. The comedic actions of a trio of servants caught his eye. Evidently, a sparrow or some such managed to steal into the palace and plumped itself down upon the framed portrait of Louis XIV. The old minister squinted and noted, to his intense amusement, the bird had voided itself down the late King’s shoulder. Apoplectic, the servants waved a broom up towards the animal in a vain attempt to drive off the despoiling intruder.

It was quite possibly the most hilarious scene de Choiseul had witnessed in some time.

Presently, the pair reached Vergennes’ offices, fortunately not the identical suite occupied by de Choiseul only a few years prior when he was Chief Minister and Vergennes little more than an Ambassador to the Vienna Court. Lamentably, de Choiseul lost a power struggle under the late King and found himself exiled from court. Vergennes later alighted to the highest office and, surprisingly, acceded to de Choiseul’s reinstatement as War Minister. Their politics common, only the uncommon step of receiving a potential rival into the government was remarked upon. However, Vergennes was in favor and de Choiseul had long since lost his taste the highest office. Though a few years older, Vergennes’ health remained vigorous while de Choiseul’s languished with age. A common objective, stymying Britain’s rise to global hegemony, united the French bureaucrats.

Vergennes waved off the omnipresent army of clerks and adjutants clamoring for his attention and slammed his office door shut behind him. Should any servants misread the signal, de Choiseul doubted they’d remain employed for long. The old man knew the rigors of being the King’s favorite well.

“How bad?”

Vergennes waved de Choiseul into a comfortable chair opposite the expansive desk dominating the tastefully decorated chamber before collapsing into his own seat.

“Remember how we bemoaned the arduous task of corralling the King for a few moments of government business?

“My God, how I miss those days.”

De Choiseul laughed. If Vergennes believed Louis XVI was difficult to pin down for a consultation, he should have served under the boy King’s grandfather. The duc said as much.

“At least under the late King, we might accomplish some business with the Queen or his mistresses. Under our present sovereign, I suppose I’d have to butter up his horse to get anything done.”

The War Minister guffawed. It sounded like a blessing the de Choiseul hadn’t been required at this audience.

“Oh, is His Majesty actually paying attention to his Kingdom this week? Maybe we should find him a new hobby to distract him?”

Vergennes frowned. “I know you are joking, Your Lordship, but you may be on to something. We know the man likes clock repair and key-making. Maybe we can get the King interested in, oh, I don’t know, perhaps mapmaking. I yearn for the day that the King would comply with every request just to get us away from him.”

“Those were indeed simpler times. May I assume His Majesty objected to the proposed Treaty?”

Vergennes leapt to his feet, well, rose as quickly as a man his age could in a fit of agitation.

“My god, de Choiseul, I discussed this with the man a dozen times!” He thundered. “Minorca has been a thorn in our relations with Spain since the last war, King Carlos ever whining of returning this “Lost Jewel of Aragon” without which his Empire is incomplete.”

His eyes misty, the War Minister whispered, “Upon the completion of the Five Years’ War, and Spain’s wretched performance at sea, it seemed obvious that our Bourbon ally could not be trusted in preventing the Island to falling back into British hands. I had hoped offering up Louisiana to Spain might help mend any ill will between the Bourbon monarchies. Louisiana, trapped between New Spain and vibrant British colonies, was certainly no use to us and I thought King Carlos may find some purpose…”

“It was a reasonable compromise, de Choiseul. I don’t blame you for striking the Devil’s Bargain. Louisiana was of no conceivable value to France while Spain might use the territory as additional buffer between the British colonies and their own. But Spanish pride, damnable Spanish pride, couldn’t handle the implied insult.”

“Spain has since rebuilt their navy into something halfway respectable,” de Choiseul conceded. “The Conquest of Gibraltar proved our ally’s mettle. Given Britain’s relationship with Lisbon lay in tatters, there is no longer reason to fear British aggression in the Mediterranean. It is more than fair to return Minorca to her rightful master at this point.”

“I don’t bemoan the loss, de Choiseul,” Vergennes settled down again. “I merely fear that, having achieved his territorial objectives, King Charles, or Carlos, whatever he likes, might see no advantage in maintaining our alliance. A most unsettling idea given that, for the first time in decades, Spain is an ally worth having!”

This could hardly be denied. In the late war against the British-Prussian alliance, de Choiseul and his master, Louis XV, hoped that Spain’s Navy might reverse Britain’s onslaught in the Americas. Instead, Spain proved more of an anchor, pilfering French resources to augment its own feeble war effort. By the conclusion of that conflict, most impartial observers opined that Spain’s era as a major power had passed. Akin to the Dutch Republic, the Iberians discovered themselves permanently relegated to second tier status. King Charles’ reforms, however, appear to have reversed this decay judging from the impressive Spanish feats by land and sea.

“No doubt, Vergennes,” de Choiseul agreed consolingly. “However, denying King Charles his prize might permanently tear asunder the Family Compact, and we must not have that, if only to prevent any potential British and Spanish reapproachment.”

“Tell that to the King! It took me hours to convince the boy that Minorca’s only profit to France was keeping it away from Britain! Getting Louisiana back justifies the exchange.”

“Of all the matters for His Majesty to dig in his heels! Why on earth…”

A swift pattering on the door interrupted de Choiseul. Vergennes’ face darkened. It was unwise to irritate a man of his rank unnecessarily. The Chief Minister had plainly expressed his desire for privacy. Nevertheless, a nearly apoplectic aide sprinted in at Vergennes bellicose command. De Choiseul didn’t recognize the young man, probably the latest in a long line of young gentry seeking advancement in Foreign Service.

“Well, what is it?!” demanded Vergennes, his normally stark features animated.

“A dispatch from our Ambassador in Munich, Your Lordship, quite urgent,” the boy stammered.

Vergennes snatched the parcel and ripped asunder the casing to access the parchment within.

“It damn well better be….”

An abrupt silence enveloped the spacious office. After a few moments, Vergennes tore his gaze from the dispatch, belatedly recognized the unfortunate aide awaited orders, and waved the poor fellow out. Vergennes sank into his chair.

“Duke Maximillian of Bavaria is dead. Suddenly, by smallpox, or maybe that Bleeding Death hell. Rumors are flying that the Dowager-Empress intends to claim the Electorate of Bavaria for herself.”

De Choiseul stared for a long moment, attempting to summon appropriate words before giving up and simply murmuring, “Oh, hell. Not another Succession Crisis. Not again.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1778

Savannah

The USS Sloop-of-War Concord slipped into the harbor of Savannah, the four warships to arrive in the past two weeks. Captain Marcus Hayes did not require a pilot to navigate the sandbars of the fine harbor. The sailor familiarized himself with her nuances the previous year during the expedition of the 1st and 2nd Georgia regiments to seize St. Augustine.

“I have to admit,” an elegant Carolinian accent interrupted his thoughts. General Robert Howe of the Columbian Army somehow entered the enclosed cockpit Hayes constructed about the wheel. He never saw the point of suffering from the wind, rain and sun while steering a ship. “I entertained hopes never to return to Georgia. But a command is a command.”

The twenty-eight-year-old sailor turned and nodded towards the General, a square-jawed, middling height man of some forty-six years. The two could not be more different. The scion of North and South Carolinian gentry, Howe had served in the colonial assembly and high-ranking government positions since he came of age. An English-born indentured servant a decade prior, Hayes had been fortunate in his choice of masters. Benedict Arnold opened the youth’s eyes to the world and eventually made Hayes his partner upon the energetic Connecticut man’s many ventures. Arnold’s heroic death defending the gates of Philadelphia remained an open wound. As Arnold served Columbia on land, Hayes volunteered at sea. Still, the two formed a friendship based upon mutual respect and common ambitions.

“Yes, General,” Hayes nodded. While the North Carolinian sought martial glory, Hayes desired revenge upon the Crown for the death of his friend. “However, an independent theater command is hardly anything to sneeze at. Congress approved your proposal to strike upon King George’s patrimony. We should be grateful.”

Howe nodded, “I am, Hayes, truly. But the closer we approach Savannah, the reality of our task embeds ever deeper into my mind. Does the reward truly merit the risk?”

“What is the alternative?” Hayes demanded, nodding for the lieutenant to furl the sails. “Allow his forces to attack US at his leisure?”

“No,” the sailor opined, “Let us finally take the fight to King George.”

“Hmm,” the soldier replied vaguely. “I suspect we shall find out. But defeating the enemy on land is but the least of our worries. It shall be your task to driving the most powerful navy on earth from the sea.”

Howe clasped Hayes on the shoulder. “But, of course, I am sure you shall find glorious success. Now, let us see to the condition of the 1st and 2nd Georgia.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1778

Morristown, NJ

George Washington, acting commander of the Columbian Army, followed the Columbian Army’s Surgeon General, Joseph Warren, into the makeshift hospital. Rows of the afflicted were segregated by disease.

“The smallpox vaccine has proven effective,” Warren explained. “We have had…perhaps half a dozen cases in the past month. Consumption, of course, is tougher to tell. It can have so many symptoms…”

Orderlies, both women and men, black and white, young and old, tended the sick of the Columbian Army. Washington admired their dedication and compassion. The Virginian could not imagine summoning the courage to serve in their stead. Presently, the Boston doctor led the General to the rear of the building where those stricken by the most horrific of the 18th century plagues, the Bleeding Death.

“In truth,” Warren was saying, “I am shocked that the epidemics have not proven MORE contagious. But the disease tends to die down a bit in the winter. Still, over 30 men in the past two weeks have somehow contracted the Bleeding Death despite strict quarantine…”

Washington had heard it all before. In the wake of the 5 Years’ War, the African Death (also known as the Sailor’s Death) emerged from the Dark Continent’s slave ships and spread throughout the colonies from Brazil to Virginia. Generally believed to be sexually transmitted, the African Death proliferated in whorehouses and took a terrible toll upon sailors worldwide as the pox slowly destroyed the joints and muscle tissue of the infected. Painful infirmity, then death, followed with a few years.

The Bleeding Death was incomparably worse. Believed transferred akin to influenza and consumption, the Bleeding Death acted swiftly, leading to agonizing delirium and grotesque bleeding from the eyes, nose, ears and fingers. Eventually, the tormented drowned in their own blood. Very, very few recovered. Cleanliness, good health and swift quarantine was the best weapon against the Bleeding Death.

“I don’t know what to say, General,” Warren shook his head. “There had been no cases among the civilians in Morristown. Somehow, they just cropped up in this new batch of recruits.” The only saving grace of the Bleeding Death was it developed so rapidly that quarantining was at least possible.

Washington sighed, taking in the stench and hopelessness of the doomed souls within the darkened room. A handful of nurses and orderlies sought to ease their pain. Presumably, these people were among the rare survivors of past epidemics. The General couldn’t imagine anyone else volunteering.

“If something isn’t done, Warren,” Washington muttered as he turned to the exit and the crisp January air. Snow crunched under his boots. “Recruitment will continue to suffer. Only twelve thousand regulars were embodied in the Central States over the winter…and between desertion, enlistments running out and these plagues, I doubt we’ll have ten by the end of February. Calls for volunteers have been sent out but initial results…even accounting for unprecedented bonuses…have been poor.”

“The Bleeding Death is widely viewed as the primary reason.”

Washington feared for his cause for he was certain Great Britain had yet to come to terms with the loss of their colonies.

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1778

New York

Lord William could still hear the diddy, penned by some rebel propagandist and apparently distributed across the colonies in record time. So popular was “the Ballad of Lord Howe and Mrs. Loring” that even British regulars were apparently singing it upon the campfires.

Sir William he,
Snug as a flee
Lay all this time a snoring,

Nor dreamed of harm
As he lay warm
in bed with Mrs. Loring!

So entranced was he
that Howe sought another’s she
rather than seek battle,

Paid well by the Army coffers
Joshua Loring hangs repast
Upon the Jersey’s mast!



The chant managed to encapsulate Howe’s sloth to seek battle with his apparent exchange of a wife’s favors for a lucrative Royal commission…which Joshua Loring apparently used to pilfer the nation’s coffers and condemn American prisoners to hideous death in the prison hulks. Upon their daring nighttime seizure of the Jersey and two other prison hulks, the unfortunate Joshua Loring was hanged from the mast of the HMS Jersey by the very men who'd suffered in the holds. The whole of the colonies were outraged…and fairly, Howe judged. Even those pressing for the harshest of measures against the rebels were revolted by the accusations made all the worse for being accurate.

No doubt this ditty…and the ensuing accusation…was flying across the Atlantic by now. Given King George’s famously upright personal life, it is unlikely His Majesty will take kindly to such scandal.

Having known King George III since boyhood, Howe could readily imagine the King’s disgust.

And his own personal dishonor matching his professional failure.

The previous week, a fast mail package arrived informing Howe of his imminent recall upon the arrival of Generals Keppel and Eliott. Lord Germain also made clear that General Clinton was to be granted whatever he desired…up to 6000 British regulars and 4000 Loyalists…for his spring campaign to Virginia.

Exhausted and despondent, Howe had largely ceased caring. The loss of these soldiers would effectively hinder any significant operations by his own forces centered upon the “Royal Islands”, as they were called, of Manhattan, Staten and Nassau (Long) Islands.

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1778

London

“..but, Your Majesty, I must protest! This is in all violation of civilized warfare…”

George III looked askance of Jeffrey Amherst, his normally bulbous eyes bulging wider than normal. “Civilized?! General, are you mad?! These are not righteous enemies! They are traitors! Robert Clive and Charles Lee aren’t even colonists! They are deserters from our army who sold their services to the enemies of their own country! Not only are they to be hanged but we deeply desire to see them drawn and quartered!”

Seeing Amherst’s ashen expression, Lord North attempted to intervene on the soldier’s behalf, “You Majesty, I must express my support for what Amherst’s point. Should the execution of captured officers become the acceptable conduct…”

“Officers!” the British monarch screamed, spittle spraying haphazardly from his mouth, “These are not officers! How many times must we tell you that! Traitors are hanged, not granted pardon!”

“Well said, Your Majesty,” Germain inserted with a snide glance at North.

“The execution of the ringleaders will remind the colonists of their place. Lord Germain, issue the orders to General Keppel immediately! I want Clive and Lee hanged the day of its receipt!”

“At once, Your Majesty!”

While North paled before the monarch’s fury, Amherst’ visage reddened in rage and humiliation at this conduct. Through clenched teeth, he muttered, “Your Majesty, this is an unconscionable act, not to mention an inept one. Lord Germain,” the Colonial Secretary’s name came out as a curse, “had likewise informed Your Majesty that previous harsh measures would bring the colonies to heel. To my understanding, this had yet to occur. Irrespective of the political consequences, surely you see that British officers in colonial captivity, Generals Burgoyne and Prescott chief among them, will pay the price for your actions…”

“Enough, you coward!” Bellowed the outraged monarch, his eyes slightly unfocused, “Obey my command or resign your commission! I will have no more disloyalty from the likes of you!”

Fists shaking in fury, Amherst managed to retort through clenched teeth, “Very well, Your Majesty, you shall have my commission before the day is out.”

Without waiting for a formal dismissal, Jeffrey Amherst turned on his heel, showing his monarch his back for a long second while his comrades gasped in horror at the monumental lapse in etiquette. Pausing long enough to allow the insult to sink in, Amherst stalked out of the audience without a rearward glance.

George III glowered at the retreating figure until the soldier exited his private chamber. Turning his outraged gaze upon the squirming North, the King managed to stammer, “Lord North…see to it that every office held by General…no…Mr. Amherst and his family are offered to a loyal subject to the British throne.”

“Lord Germain, see to the communication of my orders to General Keppel. I want Clive and Lee hanged before sunset on the day he receives his instructions.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” the spineless toady managed to squeak. North gazed upon the Colonial Secretary with contempt but managed to bow as the King of Great Britain, Ireland and a rapidly diminishing portion of America stalked away from his government.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1778

New York City

Bracing himself against the cold, William Franklin stepped down from his coach as the Negro driver, a freedman once owned by a Patriot burgher along the Hudson, huddled against the frigid December breeze by wrapping his thick coat around a slim frame. Jerrod might not be the brightest servant William had ever employed but the middle-aged official declined to complain. For the past three years, the former governor of New Jersey suffered financial calamity and personal humiliation as he was ousted from his rightful appointed office and shipped into exile devoid of his considerable monetary accumulations. Arriving in New York City, only the gratitude and generosity of his King provided avenues for William, the former Royal Governor of New Jersey, to slowly reclaim his fortune. Now, flush with profitable offices of Lieutenant Governor of New York, a member of the Board of Associated Loyalists and various judicial assignments (and the opportunity to exploit the commissions within), the Pennsylvania-born Loyalist could finally afford more appropriate housing and a stable of servants to support his modest needs.

However, the loss of his appointed offices, commissions, property and businesses in New Jersey still haunted William day and night. Dreams of a swift and triumphant British reconquest of North America dissolved at the military campaigns of past years slowed to an arduous crawl. 1777 proved particularly miserable and humiliating for the King’s Men. Barely eighteen months removed from the seditious “Columbian Congress’” Declaration of Independence against their rightful sovereign, General Howe’s disastrous tour of duty in America receives one setback after another.

First, General Carleton’s command of four thousand soldiers in Nova Scotia surrendered at last to the French, Acadian and rebel army besieging it.

Then, General Burgoyne’s campaign to reconquer Quebec found the pompous twit cut off from reinforcements and forced to surrender north of Albany. To this day, William couldn’t comprehend the strategic rationale involved. Burgoyne had offhanded explained that he could “relieve” Nova Scotia as well as “cut off” New England from the remainder of the colonies. Though how either objective was accomplished by a six-hundred-mile sortie through western forests was beyond William’s military comprehension. What the colonial understood implicitly was that barely one man in five of the seven-thousand-man expedition returned, mostly by escaping from lax Columbian captivity. The remainder marched into rebel prison camps.

Even General Clinton’s seaborne invasion of South Carolina in early 1776 concluded in humiliating fashion, with the two dozen vessels of his armada failing to even grace Charleston’s shores.

As deeply embarrassing the experience must have been for the General, little compared to Clinton’s mortification upon discovery in Britain that Howe’s allies in Parliament rather unsuccessfully attempted to affix blame for his failure to conquer Philadelphia to losing the preponderance of his British regulars to Clinton and Burgoyne’s failed offensives. Though William’s arithmetic was sound enough to count the dwindling number of soldiers Howe retained in New York, the shameless sacrifice of his own nominal subordinates smacked of cowardice and self-interest. Clinton was outraged to learn of the charges Howe’s leveled against him in Parliament and swiftly turned to his own considerable support to return Howe’s volleys. Since Clinton’s return, the pair of soldiers could barely abide each other’s presence. The British Army entered winter quarters in 1777 on the recently coined “Royal Islands” of New York without a single redcoat garrisoning the mainland of America.

Fortunately, the arrival of winter did offer enough respite from the encroaching rebel horde to plot the next offensive. With twenty-five thousand able-bodied soldiers available, the British Army was not finished yet. Since Clinton’s return from Britain in December with five thousand reinforcements (he’d personally sailed to London to defend his actions in South Carolina), the English officer worked feverously to assemble and supply another mighty convoy. A week prior, the last of six thousand miserable King’s Men marched onto the drafty vessels and set sail upon an unseasonably sunny and warm January day, their destination unknown. Loyalist Regiments of the American Establishment would soon follow.

The streets of New York veritably buzzed with rampant speculation as the invasion fleet’s objective. Gossipy merchants swore that Boston, the heart of the rebellion, would soon be reconquered. Victuals whispered of rumors that the fleet sailed further North to Canada and would soon pluck Quebec and Montreal from rebel hands. Privately, William wagered ten pounds with a friend that Philadelphia, the rebel capital, had been targeted, this time invading by sea.

All of this flashed through William’s mind as he descended from his coach and swiftly entered the Supreme Commander of North American force’s headquarters. The property of the City of New York, the sprawling building once housed dozens of hardworking accountants and clerks who now gave way to their military counterparts. Handing his coat to an elderly servant, William hurried through the chilly confines of Howe’s headquarters towards the General’s favored conference room. He sighed in relief upon entering the wide, drafty chamber and noting the Commander-in-Chief had yet to join the dozen other military and civilian officials in attendance. Most milled around in anticipation for an explanation of Howe’s sudden summons. Many, he noted, wore the now standard powdered wigs and other regalia so fashionable even among the Loyalist lower classes. In the past, only special occasions merited this finery as daily wear of such garments were impractical. However, the rebel dogma prohibiting wearing the symbol of Britannia reinforced the Loyalists’ intention to don the messy and troublesome accoutrement (much to William’s loathing) at every conceivable opportunity.

Recognizing Governor Tryon conversing to the military Governor of New York City, General James Robertson, William rubbed his palms together to return some warmth to his arthritic hands and stepped forward. Robertson nodded while Tryon smiled warmly, “William! I see the old boy has mustered you out into this fine weather as well!”

William returned the smile wryly, noting several lamps illuminating the conference room despite the early hour. An oppressive overcast of dismally gray clouds staved off even the slightest cheer from the sun. It took the official a few seconds to recall the last time a warm burst of sunlight set upon his face.

“Too true, Governor Tryon, far too true,” Leaning forward, he inquired, “Any further rumors of this latest missive? I’m already arranging the additional supplies General Clinton requisitioned to the docks.”

Robertson smirked slightly before returning, “Sometimes senior officers must conceal certain information in order to sow confusion among the enemy. I’m sure the General will disseminate such intelligence as needed.”

After two years of reading Robertson’s moods, William restrained a smile. He suspected the soldier simply had no idea as to the recently departed General Clinton’s destination nor any comprehensive insight on Howe’s intentions of the his subordinate’s recent demand for a stockpile of supplies. Howe intended another convoy to support Clinton’s mysterious mission, that was to be sure. Again, William recalled the ten-pound note placed upon the destination with his colleague and imagined the bill in his pocket already.

Please, he thought, let it be Philadelphia. Give my dear father a shock that he wouldn’t soon forget.

“I expect General Howe intends another conquest,” offered Tryon, not bothered by adding to the idle speculation, “if he’d wanted to reinforce Clinton’s command with additional soldiers, they would have sailed together.”

William considered this for a moment before conceding the point. There was no obvious reason why Howe would send two separate fleets to the same target. Besides, Howe and Clinton’s recent acrimony effectively prohibited much more than the most desultory communication between the pair. Certainly, Howe would not weaken his own forces in favor of Clinton without direct orders from the war office. And the politically powerful Howe rarely received direct orders from anyone.

Presently, the Commander-in-Chief entered the room to a smattering of greetings. His adjutants in tow, Howe slipped into a chair behind the large desk strategically placed in the center of the wide room. Twenty chairs rested a discrete distance away which Howe wordlessly nodded his key military and civilian subordinates to sit. An aide laid a few parchments before him, which William found slightly odd. He had presumed this council had been called to discuss the campaign but typically the detail-oriented officer provided a wealth of documentation to discuss the particulars, not to mention the obligatory horde of officers. If anything, the normally impressive figure appeared drawn and tired as if fatigued by the string of defeats. A small kernel of doubt shivered up William’s spine. Stubbornly, he banished the thought as he concentrated on Howe’s words.

“Friends, gentlemen,” the English aristocrat began as the room quieted respectfully, “I thank you for your swift attendance. As you all know, General Clinton sailed a week ago on an unspecified campaign. The objective had been kept secret in order to prevent the rebels from preparing for Clinton’s landing. Now that a full week has passed, I see no harm in offering my key subordinates the details.”

William closed his eyes and prayed, Let it be Philadelphia. Or New Jersey. Either would hasten my return to the Governor’s office.

“Clinton’s target,” Howe concluded with a grimace, “is Virginia.”

A shocked silence shot through the room. Howe waited for the statement to sink in to one and all before continuing, “General Clinton will invade via the Chesapeake Bay, specifically the port of Hampton Roads, and liberate eastern Virginia from the rebels. Once that colony is again in British hands, the General’s next objective will be selected as he recruits thousands of volunteers. Apparently, the War Department and the King have been convinced that a host of Loyalists exist in the south read to flock to King George’s flag.”

Again, the Briton allowed the import of this information to digest throughout his dumbfounded council. By his tone, William doubted Howe believed the Virginians would take to the King’s colors any more fervently than the consistently disobedient northerners.

Finally, one officer stood and inquired, “General, Virginia is hundreds of miles to the south. Surely, General Clinton cannot be expected to support you in any way for a campaign near New York.”

Pursing his lips to hide his obvious distaste for the development, Howe remained ramrod straight in his chair. Gazing in the officer’s eyes, he managed to evenly reply, “No, Major Andrews, I expect no coordination whatsoever from General Clinton this year. He will have operational autonomy on a local basis. In fact, many of his supplies will be shipped to Virginia directly from Britain, bypassing New York completely.”

Mentally calculating, William realized this left Howe with only twenty thousand soldiers, many far too ill to serve, his weakest force in three years. Unable to restrain himself, Franklin rose to his feet and inquired with a trace of desperation, “General, with the loss of so many soldiers, how does this affect your preparations for the 1778 campaign? Do you still plan to invade New Jersey?”

“Surely,” another officer interjected, “The five thousand men you’ve ordered prepared to sail are the vanguard of another, more local, offensive.”

That imprudent officer wilted under Howe’s glare as the General chided, “I suggest you keep such speculation to yourself in the future, Captain Lords!”

With a heavy sigh, Howe nevertheless restrained his anger and answered the question, “I have indeed ordered the provisioning of twenty cargo ships and assorted supply vessels for the purpose of transporting three thousand British regulars. Unfortunately, those regiments are not to be utilized in North America…or at least the mainland. Per my orders from London, five thousand able-bodied Regulars are to be detached from my command and shipped without delay to garrison various islands the West Indies.”

At this, all decorum vanished as a dozen voices cried out in mutual objection. Howe listened stone-faced to the complaints for a few seconds before slamming his open palm upon the desk. Immediately, order was restored, and the chagrined officers and civilians returned to their seats. Howe waited another minute as the silence deepened before continuing in a low voice, “Lord Germain issued the order with the full support of the King. Recall that North America is not Britain’s only battleground. Neither His Majesty….nor I….will brook any such dissent or insubordination on the matter.”

It took a long moment before another officer would inquire with exaggerated courtesy, “General, might we look forward to reinforcements from Britain any time soon?”

Fatigue playing across his face, Howe managed to reply evenly, “Nothing of significance. Virtually all those long-standing professional Regiments have been shipped to America or the West Indies already. Britain and Ireland have been left dangerously exposed in order to support the war effort here. Most of the newly raised units are being garrisoned to protect the Home Isles. Beyond a Regiment or two, I expect very little strengthening of our position through this year’s campaign season.”

Now addressing the silent room, the General reminded, “As stands, the Army of New York will soon consist of approximately ten thousand soldiers of the British and Irish Establishment, with perhaps ten thousand of the locally raised Loyalist units. According to the (medical office), only nine thousand or so will be physically capable of campaigning as the War Department demanded that no invalids be present in Clinton’s Army or on the ships bound for the West Indies. We are left with the thousands who are suffering from Gonorrhea, Syphilis, the African Death, the Bleeding Death, Smallpox and the other assorted afflictions.”

“Therefore a disproportionate number of our remaining men are disabled through disease or prior wounds. Nearly half of the able-bodied are untried Loyalist units or newly raised Regiments from Britain bearing little more experience than rebel militia. With so few men, I cannot properly defend New York as well as launch an invasion, be it to Connecticut, northern New York or New Jersey. I fear that the Army of New York has been left a withered husk protected mainly by gallant guns of our Navy,” he concluded with more than a trace of bitterness.

“Indeed, General Clinton has requested…and will receive per the Ministry…the use of further Loyalist Regiments upon the return of our transports from Virginia not to exceed four thousand men of his choosing.”

For an interminable period, no one in the room commented in recognition that re-conquest of the north was on indefinite hold. King George’s slim hopes for restoring his fragile Empire now rested upon the six thousand soldiers sailing south under Clinton to Virginia and the few thousand of the Provincial Line of the American Establishment to follow.

“Also, I would inform you all that His Majesty has deemed it proper to recall me to Britain upon the arrival of my appointed replacement, General William Keppel. I have no doubt that the Army of New York, both British and American Establishments, not to mention the Board of Associated Loyalists, will serve him as well as you have me.”

For the life of him, William Franklin could not swear if Howe was being sarcastic or not.

"Also, I would announce that Admiral Parker has been reassigned and Admiral Augustus Keppel will assume command of the North American station. That is all."

With that, Howe nodded and stalked out of the room.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1778

London

“Damn all Dutchmen to hell,” muttered Sandwich as he ponderously entered His Majesty’s closet.

The intelligence from the continent could hardly be more disastrous.

Just when that idiot Germain and I had developed some level of rapport, this occurs!

The relationship between the Secretary of the Colonies and the First Lord of the Admiralty had long been terse, the conflicting aims of their various departments ensuring a struggle for power over the war effort. Of course, the former’s abject lack of personal charm and tact didn’t help matters as requests for naval assistance swiftly degenerated into base commands. Certainly, Sandwich had no intention of subordinating himself to Germain or encouraging his Admirals to accept direct orders from the local commanders. After all, Great Britain is a nation of sailors, not soldiers! Any power struggle inevitably must be won by the Navy. The fact that both administrators supported the King’s demands for vigorous suppression of the rebellion did little to bring the pair closer.

However, the unfortunate alliance of France and Spain demanded a greater level of cooperation between the senior and junior services, if only to shut up the rest of the Privy Council. Germain conceded that at least some portion of the Navy must remain in European and West Indian waters, as opposed to his long-held assumption that the entirety of the navy should be put at his disposal in blockading America’s harbors. Sandwiches’ caustic retort that perhaps a few ships might be retained to prevent the French army from rowing casually across the channel won the day within the Council. Naturally, the insufferable Germain surrendered in ill grace. The regrettable news from the Continent now threatened to exacerbate the burden of the already over-stretched Royal Navy beyond the breaking point.

Naturally, the hyperactive Colonial Secretary already arrived within the His Majesty’s Closet, his pacing boots wearing a hole in the plush rug adjacent the elongated council table. The bloated waste of space, Lord North, slouched in a chair nearby. How the living hell the First Lord of the Treasury maintained his office was simply beyond the Earl. Was it really that hard to bully Parliament in line for a few extra taxes? By North’s histrionics over the London markets, one would think the sky was falling.

“Is it true?” Germain demanded without preamble, reminding Sandwich why he despised his erstwhile ally.

Taking his time in settling into a seat, Sandwich laid a handful of parchments upon the table.

“A communication seized from a Dutch vessel sailing from St. Petersburg. Feel free to peruse at your leisure, Lord Germain,” Sandwich countered calmly, knowing a composed response would ruffle Germain even more. “It seems that not only has the Netherlands formally requested membership in Catherine’s “League of Armed Neutrality”, but the Czarina intends to supply pressure upon Denmark and Sweden to acquiesce.”

North, miserable coward that he was, visibly paled. Predictably, the little toad squeaked, “Surely His Majesty cannot be expected to wage war upon those nations as well…”

“Of course not!” Germain interrupted snidely, glowering at the First Lord of the Treasury. “However…well, it isn’t as if any of these nations possess a navy of importance.”

Even Sandwich was taken aback, swiftly countering, “That is irrelevant, Lord Germain and you well know it. The mere loss of military goods, of tar, hemp and timber, acquired from the Baltic would cripple the Royal Navy!”

“And the loss of trade” North interjected, “with the markets of the colonies close, Spanish America cut off, not to mention that of Southern Europe since the fall of Gibraltar…”

Germain resumed his pacing, contemptuously cutting off Lord North, “Pray, sir, I have no intention of waging war on the Czarina or upon Scandinavia.”

North exhaled in relief before the Colonial Secretary continued, “However, we must declare war upon the Netherlands without delay, before the Dutch sign a treaty of alliance with Russia!”

“Hmmmm,” Sandwich nodded slowly, much to North’s horror, “In truth, assuming that the League do not support the Dutch posthumous the declaration of war, this might actually reduce our labors at sea. The Dutch have supplied much of the rebel war material via Sint Eustatius. By allowing us to seize that island…”

Germain strolled over to a nearby fireplace, his eyes gazing into the flames.

“And I imagine that blockading the Dutch coast shall be significantly easier…and less consumptive of resources…than chasing their ships throughout the Atlantic.”

“And His Majesty has consented to maintaining a larger force near the home isles,” Sandwich noted, a trace of ire in his voice. Germain had pressured for a tighter blockade of America’s coastline, regardless of the threat of France and Spain.

North simply could not comprehend the blasé indifference of his colleagues. “Lord Sandwich, have you not stated many times that the Dutch Navy consists of twenty ships-of-the-line?!”

“No, Lord North,” Sandwich yawned, “I stated the Dutch Navy consists of twenty undermanned ships-of-the-line in dismal repair, pitifully organized, the Republic is but a shell of its’ former self.”

Germain turned, his cold eyes locked upon the First Lord of the Admiralty, pleased that this ally and rival agreed for once, “Yes, Lord Sandwich, it is time to gamble.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1778

Savannah

Captain Hans Durrenmatt managed to restrain his laughter as his father, Klaus, donned officer’s garb for the first time in his life. Now into his fifties, the former Hanoverian sergeant turned Georgian farmer experienced events he’d never imagined: owning a huge quantity of land, siring a large family and now…

Officer? The idea seemed strange for the long-time sergeant in service of the Electorate of Hanover, the Colony of Georgia and later the State of Georgia. Barely literate, of no bloodline and certainly not a gentleman, Klaus Durrenmatt was happy to serve in the ranks. But the death of so many officers of the 1st Georgia Regiment in the past year’s campaign to conquer St. Augustine…and the subsequent resignation of many others…left the Colonel no choice but to promote several competent non-coms to officer ranks.

“Really, father,” his son Hans tittered merrily, his accent entirely Columbian as opposed to the elder’s still-strong German brogue, “It suits you!”

Having been well-educated by his stepmother’s family, Hans had been granted a lieutenancy in 1776 and a Captaincy the previous month. Though Klaus repeatedly threatened to strangle his son…quite publicly, it may be added…at least Hans had upheld the family honor in St. Augustine. That gave the boy a stay of execution in his father’s book.

Still disgusted that the 1st Company’s Lieutenant resigned out of “horror” at the toll disease took upon the Regiment, Klaus agreed to the promotion if only to keep another dilettante from command. Unlike European armies comprised of hordes of peasants commanded by social superiors, many of the officers within the 1st and 2nd Georgia were simple farmers like Durrenmatt. Others were shopkeepers, pastors, and tradesmen. Any Continental officer would be horrified.

“I suppose it vil do,” Klaus nodded. His wife, Hans’ stepmother, seemed to enjoy the sight of her husband in officer’s garb. At least, he assumed so given the rather rigorous carnal adventure Mildred initiated the previous night. Marrying a redheaded Scotswoman occasionally had its perks.

“Come, father,” Hans laughed, gesturing towards the stable, “Let us be off to Savannah. I understand General Howe is finally prepared to divulge the objective of our upcoming campaign.”

“Hmmm,” Durrenmatt nodded. Father and son took to the stables. While serving in Florida, Mildred purchased a pair of young foals from the neighbors. The beasts were utterly worthless for farm work, just the kind of indulgence officers utilized on campaign. Of course, the impending campaign would most likely require naval transit so Durrenmatt agreed to “lease” the animals to friends in Savannah until the officers returned.

“Have you visited little Klaus this week, father?” Hans inquired, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Though Klaus doted on his first grandchild, the circumstances of the lad’s birth had been…problematic. Hans’ brother, Michael, secretly maintained an affair with his stepsister, apparently for years. When Helen’s aged spouse expired, she wasted not a single week in marrying Michael…and declaring Michael the father of her then-unborn child.

“Ya,” the patriarch nodded, pride in his voice. While Mildred was mortified at the actions of her daughter and stepson, Klaus saw no reason to ban the child from his household. “He grow like weed.”

“Indeed, father,” the Captain replied.

The two continued in companionable silence until reaching Savannah. General Robert Howe (apparently no relation to the “bad” Howe in New York) had solicited volunteers from the 1st and 2nd Georgia Regiments for an upcoming campaign of guarded nature. Both father and son offered their service as did much of the two Regiments of the Georgia line. Soon, they would find out if the somewhat theatrical precautions were worth the effort.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1778

North Atlantic, east of New York Harbor

Bilah was quite certain was she…and her two sisters…were going to die. That the fellow passengers and crew of the cargo and transport ship “Lucky” was going to die with them under the ravaging blows of the North Atlantic gale was an afterthought.

Bilah (known as Bet to her father/master) clutched desperately to the hammock in which she’d slumbered away as much of the day as possible these past two months as the Lucky escaped from British Honduras where the eighteen-year-old’s father/master had dragged Bilah, her Ashanti-born mother and two sisters so he may have some comfort while overseeing his timber-cutting plantation along the Belize River. Despite the ongoing rivalry and contradictory claims to the coast of Central America, the Spanish only periodically challenged the British Mahogany settlements.

Unlike the other slaves of the settlement, the caramel-skinned Bilah and her sisters, Sena and Dibb (Bet, Sukey and Hannah to their father), were not expected to labor upon the land. Instead, they were sentenced to a “life of ease” as a Fancy Girl, typically mixed-race women servings as mistresses and housemaids throughout the southern colonies. Many slave-owners tended to set free their bastard half-breed children when they came of age…but not Harold Parker.

Their father, a tall, handsome white man of North Carolina, bore striking blue eyes and fair hair. Their mother, Mima (Mary to her “lover”), had been sold as a girl by her tribal owner along the Gold Coast as prices for slaves rapidly increased. Though her skin tone resembled pure ebony, the petite Mima appealed to Harold Parker and bore him five children, the three sisters the only to survive. Well-established in the southern plantation mindset and aghast at the thought of setting even his own daughters free, Parker assured his children that he would find them “proper” masters who would care for them as well as he had their mother. There would be no laboring in the fields for the trio of strikingly pretty mulattos.

Of course, mother is no longer available to “thank” him for his good treatment, the young woman bitterly contemplated. Within a month of arrival to the Belize River, Mima contracted some fever and expired within days. Parker banished his beloved to a mud hut, commanding his daughters to care for the woman. He even refused to attend Mima’s unceremonious internment in the local slave’s cemetery, leaving his daughters to prep their mother for eternity and intern her body in alien ground.

The following day, the Spanish made their presence known. While Bilah knew little of geography, she was literate upon her mother’s insistence and was able to pass the time of the long journey from North Carolina to the Belize looking at various maps borrowed from a black sailor. The slave-girl was surprised to discover the enormity of Spain’s possessions in the New World. Exactly how King George was allowed to plant a colony of several thousand settlers (mostly slaves) amid the huge expanse of New Spain was simply beyond her. Why didn’t the Spanish march in their thousands…or millions…upon the Belize and simply evict the British interlopers?

Well, presently, that is exactly what the Spanish did.

A dozen warships and transports arrived at the mouth of the Belize, discharging hundreds of soldiers to seize the colony. While still outnumbered, the Spanish nevertheless took the town with ease as British slaves were less than inclined to fight for their masters. Indeed, hundreds of timber cutters promptly rebelled and threw their lot in with the Spanish.

In less than a day, the surrounded British agreed to surrender…lest the slaves tear them apart. During this time, Parker kept close watch upon his daughter-slaves, feared they may also flee to the dubious safety of the Spanish now arming the timber-cutters. Indeed, the fortyish North Carolinian took the unprecedented step of putting his own daughters in chains as the British governor negotiated with the Spanish.

The terms would prove harsh. The three hundred British whites would be allowed to return to British territory upon three transports vessels at anchor with all personal possessions. The timber-cutters would remain free under Spanish protection and the valuable stores of mahogany in the warehouses and sitting in the holds of the cargo ships (the ships also being confiscated). Having little choice, the British agreed but demanded that the personal servants of the citizens remained with their masters. Disinterested in a few cooks and maids, the Spanish commander agreed but granted only twenty-four hours for the British to board and sail for home. Thus, the three hundred Britons and fifty-six slaves would witness the British Ensign lowered over Belize Town in favor of King Carlos’ flag as they sailed east to Kingston for supplies. Here the British reorganized. One vessel remained in Jamaica, one sailed for Briton herself and the last for New York.

Harold Parker was not a man of strong political belief. However, he made the mistake of publicly endorsing the King’s prerogative one night in 1775 and was eventually forced from his home. With his plantation in North Carolina confiscated, his slaves sold at auction and his house burned to the ground, Parker and his household (mostly slaves) sailed to his property in Antigua where they awaited the inevitable victory of Royal forces over the rebels. Three years later, the war continued and Parker, nearly bankrupt, sold his dilapidated sugar plantation in Antigua (down to ten healthy slaves) and gambled his fortune upon the mahogany trade in Belize.

Having nowhere else to go after the Spanish evicted his timber operation, Parker determined to voyage to New York to seek Royal redress of his situation. With only a few dozen pounds sterling to his name along with some jewelry and other family valuables, the planter prayed salvation may be found in New York.

Then the winter gale fell upon the “Lucky”. Within hours, a dozen leaks emerged throughout the hull as the Lucky was tossed upon the lonely waves. Stout men pumped the bilge day and night…but still the water in the hold rose. Bilah’s sisters wailed in terror from the confines of their tiny cabin. On more than one occasion, the girl feared the ship would capsize.

Finally, after nearly forty hours of continuous terror, a shout emerged from the decks.

“Land! By God’s grace, I see land!”

The Lucky lumbered towards the coast and jabbering voices from the deck spoke of “Nassau Island” or “Long Island”. The sisters thought they’d been saved…until yet another shout emerged.

“Abandon ship! To the longboats! Abandon ship!”

Hardly a sailor, the eldest sister grasped Sena and Dibb, shouting, “We must make for the deck!”

“But…massa forbade us to leave this room save for the necessaries!” Sena objected. The sixteen-year-old middle sister was widely considered the prettiest, being tall with waving hair and the lightest of complexions. She was also, in Bilah’s opinion, dumb as a fencepost.

“He’s not coming back for US!” Bilah shouted in Sena’s face. Grasping the hand of the fourteen-year-old Dibb, Bilah commanded her sisters to follow.

Dibb, having been weeping for hours, demanded, “But what of massa’s baggage…?”

Utterly exasperated, Bilah pulled her sisters towards the stairs toward the deck, “If he was coming back fo’ us, he would already be here!”

Finally arriving upon the tossing deck, the sisters were promptly drenched in icy seawater as a wave crested over the railing. The sensation was akin to a cold slap across the face. Thought it was still daytime, she presumed, the black sky and torrential rain extinguished most illumination. As Bilah suspected, several longboats had already been lowered into the water. She was absolutely certain her father-master was on one of them.

Sheets of rain obscuring her sight, the young woman turned about frantically, screaming, “Please help us! Please…!”

Like an angel of deliverance, a battered old sailor emerged from the gloom and grasped Sena’s arm. “For God’s sake, girls,” he shouted frantically, “where have ye been? We have but one launch left!”

Within moments, the man lifted the girls over the side into a rickety looking launch. For the first time, Bilah was able to discern the shape of land, perhaps a mile or so in the distance. Chopping waves bounced up and down between the ship and coast. No details of the sanctuary were obvious. Was there a beach…or deadly shoals ready to tear the lurching boat as it neared shore?

The trio of sisters huddled at the bottom of the crowded longboat with twelve sailors, the last men to abandon the Lucky. They witnessed the level of water rising by the moment, threatening to swamp the vessel. Presently, one of the sailors shouted, “Damn ye, girls, don’t ye see the water?! Bail for yer lives, bail for yer lives!”

Handing a bucket, Bilah frantically began scooping up the water concentrating within the boat and tossing it over the side. For once, the terrified and shivering Sena and Dibb did not require instruction and commenced mimicking their older sister with cupped hands.

Little by little, the sailors and passengers lost the water with the water level. Bilah could only pray they reached land before the boat was fully inundated and sank below the frigid waters of the Atlantic.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1778

Off the coast of New York

The British transport Liverpool had departed from Cork in the company of two frigates and half a dozen other vessels organized into an impromptu convoy. Naturally, should a French naval formation of strength come upon the transports and cargo ships, the two frigates would hardly provide much protection but against French or American privateers, they should suffice.

Unfortunately, Liverpool’s convoy encountered a dismal February gale, scattering the British vessels over the course of several days. Ultimately, the Liverpool’s skipper announced the sighting of land (their course kept only by compass as the absolute overcast prevented any comprehensive navigation). Her foremast cracked in the storm, the captain relied upon the mainmast to tug the vessel to harbor.

Unfortunately for the sailor, his crew and his passengers, the “harbor” was not New York Harbor…but Boston. An America frigate emerged from the gloom as the Liverpool sought sanctuary of land. With only a few swivel guns upon deck, the Captain opted against offering resistance, the American ship’s stout timbers and two dozen cannon ensuring such defiance both futile and foolish.

The Captain struck her colors and lowered her sails in preparation of boarding. Presently, two longboats bearing dozens of rebel sailors and marines tied along the now stationary British transport and alighted to her deck. After days of near-continuous rainfall, the skies miraculously opened up.

Their commander, a short and pudgy man, stepped forward towards his British counterpart, tipped his hat as he bowed and intoned, “Captain Edward Whipple, United States of Columbia Navy, sir.”

The English Captain bit down a sharp remark and replied with false courtesy, “Captain James Smythe of the transport Liverpool, sir.”

“By order of the Columbian Congress, I declare your vessel seized. Cooperate and no harm shall come to you, your crew or your passengers.”

“I…understand, sir.”

With that, Whipple turned his attention to sailors and passengers witnessing the shocking event of a British vessel being taken by rebels. Spying two older men amid several scarlet-clad British soldiers, Whipple inquired, “And who are you gentlemen?”

The first sighed, looked briefly at his companion before turning back to Whipple, and replied through gritted teeth, “General William Keppel, commander of His Majesty’s army in North America. This is General George Eliott and our staff.”

Whipple blinked, briefly wondered if this was some sort of jest before bowing again.

“Much delighted to make your acquaintance as well, sir.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1778

Fort Howe, northern Manhattan

“Sir!” Colonel Dalrymple cried out, sprinting through the halls of Fort Howe in search of his commander’s office. General James Grant had been effectively exiled to this remote outpost for months as relations between he and General Howe deteriorated. Breaking into Grant’s office without bothering to knock, the out-of-breath Dalrymple announced, “Correspondence from Britain!”

“Hmm,” the aging office grunted, his desk a mass of paperwork relating to the hundreds of prisoners huddled in makeshift huts throughout the grounds. Given the rebel naval incapacity, a direct assault on Manhattan was thought unlikely so General Howe agreed to turn his namesake fortification into a prison camp when the floating hulks in Brooklyn became overcrowded. The Scot was absolutely certain Howe intended this as an insult. Ignoring the gaff of etiquette, Grant demanded, “What is so bloody important, Dalyrmple, about a new dispatch from Britain? Is His Majesty sending another 20,000 troops or just demanding an accounting of why America hasn’t been crushed?”

Grinning from ear to ear, Dalrymple waved a document before his commander, “Oh, I think that you may enjoy this, sir!”

With a sigh, Grant poked the embers of the “Franklin” stove near his desk which kept the ghastly February cold from entering his sanctuary before begrudgingly grasping the correspondence. Within moments, Grant’s eyes widened.

“My God, explicit orders from Germain himself!” the soldier wondered. “And actually competent at that. Will wonders never cease?”

Grant’s ruddy complexion turned even brighter red as the General turned his gaze back to Dalrymple and demanded, “What says Howe to this?”

Dalrymple was nominally William Howe’s staff officer but the Englishman had tired of the Scot’s petitions for battlefield commands, promotions, autonomy and, most of all, pleas for a more aggressive and assertive prosecution of the war against the rebels.

Still grinning, Dalrymple replied, “His Lordship is inspecting the fortifications of Nassau Island this week, sir,” he reminded. “As you are second-in-command on Manhattan, I naturally reported to you first!”

Finally, even Grant’s harsh and resentful mien failed, “Well, the Colonial Secretary’s orders are quite direct, are they not, Dalrymple? No reason why we should delay?”

“I should think not, General, I should think not.”

Later:

“Well, naturally, Major,” General Charles Lee of the Columbian Army lectured to the collection of British junior officers serving as his jailors, “The rebellion was never capable…or intended…of overthrowing His Majesty’s dominion over the colonies. Indeed, the exact opposite. The true nature of the…troubles…lay between Parliament and the regional Assemblies. Once that is resolved…”

For the past several months, Charles Lee had been comfortably housed in Fort Howe’s officer’s quarters adjacent British counterparts. He dined with his fellow Englishman and lived in some style. Unlike General Robert Clive, himself imprisoned on the premises, Lee was given a great deal of latitude by his jailors and even was escorted on outings to dine with locals or do a bit of shopping.

Since his capture in what the British called the “Philadelphia Campaign”, Lee had openly espoused a reapproachment between King and colonies, even divulging certain weaknesses in the Columbian Army…as part of his lectures to the note-taking British officers. Lee particularly enjoyed pointing out the inadequacy of various colonial officers as opposed to his own levels of skill, courage and professionalism.

So wrapped up in his harangues upon the Columbian Army’s inability to appreciate his contributions that Lee was slow to notice General Clive being escorted into the dining room where lunch was being served. Only when he noted the sudden silent pall in the room did Lee glance behind and spy his nominal commander’s entrance. Irritated that he was no longer the center of attention, Lee nevertheless begrudgingly rose to his feet and gave a short bow.

“General Clive, you look….” Ghastly was the word he would normally choose for such a visage. Rumors of Clive’s abuse of whisky and laudanum were obvious accurate given the man’s rumpled and indifferent state. Indeed, Lee could not swear that Clive even recognized his subordinate.

“Lee…” Clive finally summoned the will to look at his fellow Englishman. “Why have I been summoned here?”

Confused, the junior man knitted his brows. Clive always took his meals in his cell. Indeed, Lee was uncertain if Clive had been allowed OUT of his cell in months.

Presently, General James Grant, with whom Lee had the pleasure of several interviews over the past months in which the Scot inquired in some detail upon the supply, training and billeting situation of the Columbian Army, and Colonel Dalrymple arrived. The dozen or so British junior officers promptly rose to their feet. Grant ignored them all and turned his sights upon Clive and Lee.

“Robert Clive and Charles Lee…” he began.

“General Charles Lee,” the Englishman corrected hotly.

“No, not General, not anything,” Grant replied. “You are both traitors to your King and bear no rank in an army His Majesty recognizes.”

The Scot gestured towards some papers in his hands, “Per the judgement of Lord Germain, His Majesty’s Secretary of the Colonies, you are both condemned to death upon the gallows for treason.”

Lee’s faced paled several shades before he managed to sputter, “General…General….this is…infamous…unjust….we are prisoners of war…”

“No,” Grant grinned. “You are traitors and will be given a traitor’s death.”

He turned to Clive, who remained almost insensible to the events, apparently having difficulty keeping his feet. Clive swayed slightly. “What say you, Clive. Any objections?”

For a moment, the clouds in Clive’s eyes dissipated. He took a long glance at the British officer before replying in what only could be called “bored equanimity” to an impartial observer, “Are you doing this now or do I have time for a nap?”

Even Grant, who had long espoused harsher treatment of rebel soldiers and civilians, was taken aback by the utter sense of…disinterest…Clive exhibited to the situation. Finally, the Scot replied, “No, turncoat, you do not. You…and Lee…will be taken to the gallows at once.”

Clive nodded vaguely…and his eyes promptly lost focus again. After a few moments, Grant realized Clive had nothing more to say. He then ordered the guards to escort the silent Clive and loudly protesting Lee towards the hangman’s noose waiting in the courtyard.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1778

New York City, southern Manhattan

William Franklin yielded his time to the elderly Scot to his left and sank back into his chair. His ample belly grumbled as his colleague for the Loyalist Committee’s Sub-Committee for Agricultural Localization droned on through his normal lunch hour. Though Franklin had enthusiastically supported the idea of increasing local food production (certainly the ruinously expensive transport of food and other basic goods could not continue indefinitely), the implementation remained elusive.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of local farmers in New York, New Jersey and Connecticut had abandoned (or been removed from) their land due to the war. General Howe's logical recommendation to offer the homesteads to the surge of Loyalist refugees arriving on the Islands appeared sensible in theory but proved thoroughly impractical in practice. Many of the exiles were wealthy merchants, planters and bureaucrats lacking aptitude or inclination to take up the plough. As such, food remained in tight supply even for the upper classes, a situation made worse by the occasional plundering tactics of the army. Though General Howe prided himself on the army's honesty and restraint, the Loyalist Committee continued to be deluged daily by dozens of complaints of theft by common soldiers and past due receipts extended by the commissariat. Expecting the large standing army to confiscate any goods on hand, many farmers surreptitiously rowed their crops across the river to enemy camps. Franklin sighed and wished that he and his colleagues had shown more restraint in expelling suspected rebel farmers from Long Island and the other bastions of British control. Even the most rabid rebels rarely restricted the sale of goods to the British if payment in hard coin was promptly provided.

As the Scot droned on about controls on the price of grain to the Army and Navy, Franklin's devotion to the subject matter waned. His mind drifting, Franklin thought back to the unpleasant scene at the ball hosted the previous night by Colonel Fitzhume's wife. Amid the surprising splendor of the Colonel's mansion (he'd learned later that the young officer issued from a prosperous family), the crème of New York society danced and gossiped with abandon as the northern winter appeared ready to fade into an early spring. The gradually warming weather oversaw the barest hint of buds on the barren trees in the Fitzhume's garden. None of the attendees cared as the promise of spring banished the dreary hopelessness of the miserable winter. As typical, Franklin found the hospitality inviting and swiftly engaged several young ladies in conversation. He'd even managed to entice one particularly pretty woman from South Carolina into having tea with him the following Wednesday.

However, the evening was briefly marred upon the arrival of the Stratford family, who fled the previous September from their native Connecticut. The patriarch, a portly and genial fellow of perhaps fifty years leaned forwards obsequiously when speaking to the British gentry, escorted his wife and two sons to the ball.

In truth, Franklin was at a loss when Mr. Stratford lit up upon the sight of the former Governor and raced across the room to shake Franklin's hand, "Mr. Franklin, how do you do again, sir? Always a pleasure."

Feigning recognition, he replied, "Oh, well, I cannot complain. Far too much work to do, as you can imagine."

"I could hardly disagree, Mr. Franklin," Gesturing towards his family, Stratford added, "We are finally settled into our new lodgings. Thank you again for providing them."

Finally, Franklin placed the fellow. Stratford and his clan had been evicted by the rebels from their northern Connecticut business for harboring Loyalist sympathies. Appearing before the Loyalist Committee last fall, Franklin recommended offering one of the confiscated townhomes in Manhattan for the devoted merchant and his family until his own lands and property could be recovered.

"Of course, Mr. Stratford, I am so pleased." Turning to his companion, Franklin introduced politely, "This is Governor Tryon. I believe he was occupied by his military duties at the time you and I last met."

Tryon nodded politely but with little interest. Loyalists by the thousands petitioned the Committee for reimbursement of lost property and pleaded for relief. Franklin certainly could not remember one in ten of those beseeching the Loyalist Committee.

However, Stratford plowed ahead, "Of course, the eminent Governor Tryon! Allow me to introduce my wife, Emily, and our sons Jacob and Eli."

Emily, a handsome woman of her husband's vintage, curtsied. The sons, Franklin estimated at nineteen and twenty-two years of age and obviously possessing the husky strength of youth, glared at the Englishman with unadulterated loathing. The elder merely curled up his lip in disgust while the younger actually took a threatening step forward and growled, "Ah, of course, Governor Tryon. Your reputation precedes you. I understand that you have burned half of Connecticut in devotion to your duties. Such a shining example of British nobility."

"I can't imagine why the colonies haven't rushed back into our Mad King's embrace," echoed his brother Jacob, the words dripping with contemptuous sarcasm.

As neither brother bothered to control their voices, the bustling din echoing throughout the stately mansion dropped off precipitately as the occupants looked on in embarrassment. Pleadingly, the father scolded, "Jacob, Eli, remember yourselves! Apologize to the Governor at once!"

"I will do no such thing!" the younger cried. Gesturing towards the stunned aristocrat, his voice boiled over in cold fury, "This miserable wretch has raped, murdered and pilfered across our home county and you do nothing but grovel before him? If you wish to snivel at this pirate's feet, father, you may do so but I will not pretend this parasite is any less a tyrant that his worthless King!"

Several women in attendance gasped at the treasonous words while a number of soldiers stepped forward to deal with the impudent youth. However, Tryon, his face a mask of outraged fury, hissed, "Careful, boy. There are still berths available on the prison hulks. I suggest you apologize to our hosts and remove yourself from my sight before I forget your father's loyalty and.."

Tryon's head snapped back as the youngest Stratford backhanded the Englishman to the ground. The youth, his face turned crimson in rage, stood over the shocked official and bellicosely shouted, "Meet me at dawn, if you can summon the courage, and we shall let our blades decide the matter. Or are you a coward?"

Appearing from nowhere, a quartet of redcoats seized the boys who strained mightily against their captors while the father begged Tryon for forgiveness. Shaking off the elder Stratford's helping hands, the Governor unsteadily rose to his feet and stared daggers at the boys. Several officers and an assortment of officials promptly strode forward to decry the boy's conduct and vowed to provide evidence as to the assault. The pair were led away while the younger continued to hurl abuse and challenges towards the Governor. The shattered father and weeping mother followed.

I suppose I shall be acting as Magistrate, Franklin thought as he returned to the present moment. Unfortunately, the elderly Scot had yet to bring his enduring monologue on grain price controls to fruition.

Franklin wondered why one incident, one of thousands taking place every day in the colonies, continued to haunt him. Finally, he decided upon the obvious rift between father and sons. The conflict between the two generations of Stratfords reminded Franklin uneasily of the final confrontation between another father and son. Despite spending the majority of younger Franklin's life as inseparable companions, Benjamin and William simply could not, would not, accept the other's position as anything beneath the complete contravention of their staunchly held ideals. The elder considered William's continued Loyalty to King George as accepting the despotism of a foreign tyrant over North America. William refused to consider Benjamin's dishonorable treason as anything beyond a conniving contravention of the British law and order which brought both the colonies and the Franklin family such prosperity. Did the old fool truly believe anything the provinces could cobble together would improve upon the world’s most just and democratic system of government?

Presently, the reedy-voiced Scot completed his monotone and resumed his seat to the immense relief of his colleagues. Not wishing to extend the day's labors, the Committee for Agricultural Localization voted upon the proposed resolutions (which had been agreed upon hours before) and sent it to General Robertson, the Commandant of New York City, for approval. Though Franklin knew that Governor Tryon loathed the situation, the military Governor truly ruled New York these days and Robertson now approved all such legislation in lieu of the nominal civilian authority.

Franklin gratefully gathered his coat, offered his good will to his associates, and bid them good night. Tomorrow he would stand as judge before the Stratford boys, and he suspected it would be a long day.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March 1778

New York City

"Your face is so drawn, William, what troubles you?"

Sir William Howe, now Lord Howe upon the inheritance of the Viscountcy once borne by his grandfather, father and elder brother, gazed up from the bottomless pile of dispatches so thoughtfully delivered by one of his overzealous aides and met his mistress' eyes as she sat knitting before the drawing room's sputtering fire. The flickering blaze emitted only a mild radiance before the premature February dusk. Even a General must economize with firewood during these dark times. Howe recalled full well the hideous sight of dozens of stiff bodies carted from the canvass-town long-since sprung up among the desolated wastes left behind by the great New York fire of 1776. Victims of the wretched February cold, the General spared no effort in obtaining fuel from any source within reach. Unfortunately, civilians continued to perish at despairingly high rates as providing for the army by necessity was Howe's priority.

Elizabeth Loring continued to don black mourning clothes a full month after her husband's execution. Though installed nearly two years ago as Howe's mistress for all to see, the young woman was still required to follow the forms expected of a widow. Long since inoculated from the slights and whispered derisions of the couple's illicit and public relationship, the ridicule and, in some cases, open anger, had escalated to such an extent that Elizabeth probably welcomed the socially obligated seclusion of a woman mourning her husband. Even the most ardent Loyalists had been astonished and repulsed at the publication of Joshua Loring's grotesque embezzlement of funds earmarked for the sustenance of rebel prisoners of war. Capturing the Commissary of Prisoners upon one of the prison ships was bad enough. Capturing Loring with the ledgers proving his every misdeed, including several letters in the Bostonian's own hand detailing the additional profits to be made by starving the miserable rebel prisoners in the dank and drafty holds of the rotting hulks was vastly worse.

The Columbian Congress certainly didn't miss a beat in exposing the admittedly revolting corruption to the world. Much of the neutral population of America was incensed of the licentiousness at the expense of the bedraggled Columbian soldiers chained to the hulls. The propaganda victory handed to the rebels proved abjectly staggering. It didn't help that the idiot actually recorded his projections of the expected death rate based on various levels of misappropriation of His Majesty's funds. Even if the colonials hadn't hanged Loring (justifiably) as a murderer, he would have faced a Parliamentary Committee for finesse. Naturally, the disclosure of Loring's deeds brought into stark relief his "arrangement" with one William Howe for the lease of his wife as the General's mistress. Once only the target of mild derision, Howe undoubtedly faced his own inquiry before his peers for the General’s part in the ugly drama.

Unfortunately, the Englishman could hardly verbalize the obvious to his mistress, now presumably shunned by much of her cherished society. Elizabeth was relegated to doting on her two young children, who were barely acquainted with their late father anyway.

"Whatever troubles me, Elizabeth? The war, always the war," Howe lied easily, gesturing towards unsteady pile of parchments cluttering his desk. "The official orders have arrived from London approval the drafting of the understrength Regiments."

Elizabeth frowned, clearly not understanding. Howe explained with a sigh, filled with bitter regret, "When a Regiment has been…reduced…by battle and disease to the extent that it is no longer a viable for war, it is common to draft its common ranks into another Regiment so they might continue to serve the King. The officers, sergeants and musicians then return to the mother country to raise and train the Regiment anew, a process most likely to take years.

"It is a most bitter day. A man's Regiment is his family, it is most disheartening to all, be it the commanding officer or the meanest private, to effectively wipe it from existence. Officers commanding the same men for half a lifetime are forced to watch them remove their Regimental signets, only to be replaced with another's. Friends are separated, never to meet again."

Howe drifted off for a moment before continuing, "Morale is shattered, of course, especially whenever Highlanders are involved. Proud men all, justifiably proud of their Regiments, but often attached to their kilts. Well, the Black Watch and the Royal Highland Emigrants are slated for drafting. Fortunately, their ranks will be absorbed into the 71st of Foot, another Highland Regiment bearing the Scottish kilt. With luck, there will be no riots this time."

Howe turned his attention to his Adjutant's report, absently rambling, "The 42nd, 23rd and 29th. Ah, good, solid Regiments but were hit quite badly by disease. Their recruiting sergeants in Britain failed to enlist adequate replacements. The Highlanders were cut to pieces before Philadelphia. The 2nd of Foot of the King's German Legion will be amalgamated into the 1st, much as the Legion’s 2nd Cavalry will be merged into the 1st Cavalry. A terrible shame, I tell you. Fine soldiers, the Hanoverians, the last of King George's ancestral legacy who followed their officers into exile from Germany. There won't be any replacements, I can tell you that.

"Of course, we can't draft the hired German Regiments. The contracts with their sovereigns prohibit it. The Mechlenbergers and Waldeckers were the equal of any British unit, I'd swear to it. I lost so many during the Philadelphia campaign that the remnants will be relegated to garrison duty. Pity the hired troops from the other German petty states aren't remotely as competent. Honestly, sometimes I think it might serve His Majesty better to transfer these Ansbachers and Wurttburgers to the enemy, let them undermine Washington for a while with their antics…"

Lord Howe caught his lover's eye for a moment and abruptly recognized he was rambling. Apologizing with a rueful smile that momentarily softened his harsh, careworn features, Howe muttered, "Well, it’s a hard thing to wipe out Regiments with a swipe of a quill, dear heart. I can't help but think of 1775, when this war was going to last a few weeks and America would fly back to His Majesty's care. Who would have thought that day that the rebellion would last three more years, burying so many fine men so far from home?"

"Not I, I can assure you, William," Elizabeth mumbled, staring into the fire. Howe wondered if she was regretting the decisions made in Boston leading to her arrangement with an English soldier twice her age. Was she lamenting her lost husband and the simple but comfortable provincial life she might have experienced?

Though publicly scandalized as their open affair bore ever more scrutiny both in New York and abroad, Howe recognized that a path, long since thought closed, might have reopened in the shadow of this ongoing human tragedy. The soldier had occasionally considered marriage, despite its debilitating effect on a martial career (and visa versa). He'd even proposed to Francis Connolly a decade prior, though nothing ever came of it. The idea simply had never quite fit.

Now, however, with his career in tatters, recall and possibly court-martial imminent, perhaps it was time to reconsider his domestic situation. His brothers George and Richard had both expired before siring a male heir and William loathed the prospect of the extinction of the hard-won family Viscountcy on the Irish Peerage for lack of a son. Elizabeth had privately miscarried a child the previous fall, obviously Howe's as the lady hadn't been touched by her husband in two years. But she had borne children before, a son and daughter now requiring a father. A marriage to Mrs. Loring might be considered scandalous but all such stigmas are short-lived. Buoyed by the wealth and connections of the Howe clan, any children produced by their union would still walk in the proper circles and have optimism for future political advancement. The pleasures of a pretty young wife would likely comfort the stricken soldier in his advancing years. Perhaps it was simply a matter of proper timing…

Wishing to divert the beautiful young woman from her ruminations, Howe complained as he shivered slightly as a cold draft slipped through the plywood, "And, of course, rather than providing adequate reinforcements, Lord Germain has seen fit to withdraw six of my finer Regiments for the West Indies. Three thousand men! Experienced ones too! Far more useful than the levies Germain is sending this spring…"

Howe's mild rant was interrupted by the loud clatter at the front door, raising the General's ire ever more. The guards posted outside his mansion knew well enough to bar any but his senior officers and adjutants. And those knew better than disturb their commander at home without cause so Howe retreated to his desk and allowed his servants to greet his visitor or receive the dispatch, whatever the case may be.

With an irritable grimace, Howe signed off on the transfer orders and associated provisions of the Regiments bound for the West Indies. The little islands were indeed invaluable for the taxes yielded on the sugar plantations but, in Howe's estimation, hardly compared to the long-term wealth of the vast North American mainland. Three thousand men might turn the tide in some future battle with the rebels. Was dominion over one or two flyspeck islands truly worth enfeebling the already reduced British Army facing the rebels? Making matters worse, the commanders selected for the expedition were among Howe's most prized. Brigadier Archibald Campbell was not only competent but a sorely needed voice of moderation among his contentious subordinates, as was Brigadier Medows. Colonels Garth and Agnew were superb soldiers in their own right. Howe would miss them dearly.

Why the hell couldn't Germain ship Grant out to the West Indies instead or, better yet, Henry Clinton? Shipping off to Virginia simply isn’t far enough away for that discordant buffoon, Howe thought discontentedly.

Presently, the sound of boots stomping up the stairs preceded a sharp knock on the drawing room door. Howe grunted, praying that the interruption was merely an overeager adjutant deeming a report too urgent to wait for the morning.

"Enter."

The Negro butler quietly opened the door and intoned, "Major Andre, Lord Howe."

"Thank you, Paul, that will be all."

The elderly Negro bowed slightly and stood aside to admit the handsome young Adjutant. By the officer's pale visage, Howe instantly recognized this wasn't yet another tedious report from Newfoundland or Long Island.

Well, I know that I'm going to be recalled, Germain already wrote of Keppel’s impending arrival…and intelligence arrived in the form of American newspapers of the General’s capture at sea.

Since New York isn't likely being invaded and I have no more brothers in America to mourn, what could possibly dampen my mood further?

Andre cleared his throat and solemnly stated without preamble, "Lord Howe, I fear I bear ill tidings. Generals Keppel and Eliott have been executed by order of the Columbian Congress this past Saturday in retaliation for the previous "assassination” of the Columbian Generals Robert Clive and Charles Lee."

For a long moment, Howe stood silent. Though mortified at his imminent recall, the Englishman had at least been emotionally prepared for defending his conduct before the inevitable Parliamentary inquiry and presumed court-martial. Upon learning of his chosen successor's chance capture at sea the previous December, Howe had been baffled as to how to proceed. Lord Germain's explicit orders demanded him to remain on station until Keppel arrived. Howe's request for instructions would likely fail to arrive until late summer given the distances between New York and London.

Damn you, James Grant! You know full well I would never have executed Lee and Clive, no matter Germain's orders! You waited until I was off on that fool's errand in Brooklyn to march those men to the gallows! We could have traded them for Keppel and Eliott and I would be liberated of these dismal shores by now!

Executing two prisoners of war, taken honorably in battle, did precious little to cow the rebels despite His Majesty's evident belief to the contrary. By all accounts, the Columbian Army was being flooded with outraged volunteers, eager to avenge their fallen heroes. Even the dysfunctional Columbian Congress used the ill-advised act to levy additional taxes previously forbidden by their constituent states, now suddenly eager to fund an army adequate to avenge the martyrs of the rebellion.

Now two gentlemen who had never set foot upon these shores have suffered for your stupidity! Howe cursed the damnable Ministry in London. Tell me, Germain, what do I do now?! What will you do with your own martyrs?!

William Howe's caustic thoughts received no response beyond the howling wind of the New York winter evening. Abandoned and virtually disowned by his superiors, the Englishman contemplated the interminable limbo beckoning before him, unable to materially affect the dying embers of a wretched war but barred from returning home to certain censure by his peers.

Belatedly recognizing that Major Andre continued to await his response, Howe thought for a long moment as to the distasteful direction the war had taken. Never one to feign that warfare was remotely civilized, the Englishman nevertheless adamantly espoused the notion that certain rules must apply in order to prevent the conflict from descending into barbarity. Forbearing flagrant murder of officers taken honorably in battle was perhaps the most central tenet of polite warfare.

Considering his options, Howe turned to his subordinate, "Major, in the morning, select an officer to row over to Sandy Hook with a flag of truce. I shall prepare a letter to General Washington requesting a parlay. If there is anyone who can halt this insanity on his side, it is him. Perhaps if we meet face to face, we might come to some accommodation preventing further episodes …"

The soldier trailed off, ignoring Andre's shocked expression at the very notion of acknowledging a rebel General's rank and position so directly. For his part, Howe no longer cared. The expected campaign to suppress a rebellion within a few weeks suffered a gruesome death at the Battle of Boston. The rebels declared their independence and formed their own nation. Soldiers could not afford to prevaricate with diplomatic niceties as a politician observing critically from the sidelines might. Good men were dying pointless deaths according to the callous dictates of distant functionaries in Philadelphia and London.

His own position long since undermined, Lord Howe was determined to expend every effort to shield the brave officers and soldiers made victims by their own government's indifference.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March 1778

Vienna

“…for the love of God, Joseph,” Dowager Empress of the Holy Roman, Archduchess of Austria, Queen of Hungary, Bohemia, and myriad other states, extolled in abject exasperation, “now is the time for Firmness! With proper resolution, the Electorate shall be ours!!”

Obviously irritated at the condescension, the Emperor Joseph II turned his back and exited his mother’s private office expeditiously as possible. Equally annoyed at her heir’s prevarication, the Dowager-Empress allowed him to depart without an attempt at reconciliation.

Must all of my children be disappointments?!

Marie Theresa leaned back into her opulent chair, waving away an assortment of adjutants and advisors eager for her time. Endless audiences with falsely obsequious foreign ambassadors and yet another row with her son left the Habsburg monarch feeling every moment her six decades, not to mention the sixteen pregnancies. Precisely how Maria Theresa yet lived never ceased to astonish the Dowager-Empress.

Though never hesitant to acknowledge her heir’s intellectual superiority, Joseph sadly lacked the famous Habsburg tenacity, not to mention common sense. His father, God rest dear Francis’ soul, was much the same way. Always so full of ideas, yet so terribly lacking in pragmatism. Though nominally her co-regent, the Dowager-Empress seldom allowed her son’s modernistic views to influence the vast and diverse domains of the Habsburg Hereditary lands. The boy could govern as he pleased when she was dead. Maria Theresa sympathized with Joseph’s frustration. Her son’s succession to his late father’s office of Holy Roman Emperor, a purely symbolic office in this age, bestowed prestige upon her heir but little real power. However, the heiress of Austrian Monarchy held no intention of yielding her own God-granted prerogative to Joseph a moment before the maker called her home.

Still, it would be pleasant if a single afternoon might pass between quarrels.

Unlike her son, Marie Theresa recognized the incredible opportunity at hand to expand the Hereditary Lands in Germany, generally the most developed economy east of France. She recalled the Europe of her youth, a continent consigned to endless warfare between a half-dozen equally matched combatants and dozens more secondary powers constantly shifting alliances. Typically, blood-soaked wars concluded with little to no result for any party beyond universal bankruptcy and mutual humiliation.

Joseph grew up on the aftermath of the Silesian War, or Five Years’ War, as other nations apparently designated the hideous conflict. Within that half-decade, the old “Balance of Power” permanently shifted. The upstart Kingdom of Prussia, Austria’s primary adversary in dominating the Holy Roman Empire, was dismembered upon the evil little Frederick II’s suicide, his witless nephew inheriting only the stem state of Brandenburg. George II of Great Britain and the Electorate of Hanover found himself expelled from his ancestral German homeland. Though Hanover was itself of modest pretension, the little German state provided a disproportionate number of soldiers for British causes, for both locally raised and those hired from neighboring Principalities. While some Britons rejoiced over this enforced separation from continental commitments, no doubt George II’s grandson sorely missed his capacity to hire Protestant soldiers on short notice. George III’s campaign in the American colonies evidently went poorly.

With the once-influential Dutch Republic, Kingdom of Portugal and Ottoman Empire in obvious decay and decline, power shifted dangerously to a handful of continental nations. Though disturbed by these changes to the old order, Maria Theresa conceded her own Empire benefited handsomely for it. Silesia, stolen by the evil Prussian brute Frederick I upon Maria Theresa’s ascension to her many thrones, was now safety returned to Habsburg dominion, Frederick II dead by his own hand. Absent a significant rival within the Holy Roman Empire, her family’s influence, long on the wane, resurged. Provided that peace was kept with France, Austria’s position remained secure.

Her withered fist striking the table, Maria Theresa muttered, “Why must I always be the only man in the family?!”

With the childless Elector of Bavaria finally summoned home by God, his lecherous nitwit of a kinsman, Prince-Elector Charles Theodore of the Palatinate, stood poised in succession. The Habsburg prerogative to Bavaria was weak, no doubt weaker than other claimants. In a bygone era, such a crisis might spur a conflict spanning the whole of Europe. However, the Tsarina Catherine was fixated on internal reforms and the inevitable wars with the fading Ottomans, disinterested in potentially expensive campaigns on the continent. The Bourbon powers of France and Spain now concentrated on the far-off expanses of America. Charles Theodore might find himself friendless in asserting this claim, unfathomable in ages past.

Of course, my spineless son still cannot summon the audacity to act!

The Empress had one additional card to play and she bore no intention of withholding it. Maria Theresa snatched a quill, dabbed it daintily into the ink, and composed a letter to her impotent wretch of a son-in-law.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March, 1778

Brooklyn, western Nassau Island

Over the course of the past week, the three mulatto sisters - Bilah, Sena and Dibb – attempted to reconcile themselves to their new situation upon their leaking longboat reaching glorious dry land. Of the other three launches abandoning the transport vessel Lucky, none similarly reached shore…including the one bearing the father-master of the three girls.

Fourteen survivors of the Lucky, mostly sailors, and all suffering from hypothermia, nevertheless threw themselves upon the beach of the southern Nassau Island cove and thanked God for their deliverance. They may all have succumbed to the elements had not several local fishermen gathered the sodden survivors up and escorted them indoors. None of them even lost any fingers or toes.

After nearly a full day’s slumber, the sailors…and slaves…marched westwards for Brooklyn through what some of the former described as an “uncommonly” moderate winter day in New York…meaning it was above freezing. Some sort of report must be filed with the local authorities, the exhausted and emotionally spent sisters gathered.

The road along the southern coast of Nassau was sodden with the dampness of melting snow. Fortunately, the sisters had been wearing shoes upon the Lucky and did not have to trod to Brooklyn barefoot.

Presently, the sisters began to fall a bit behind the men. Bilah, the eldest quietly turned to Sena and Dibb, admonished, “Whatever happens, do not tell ANYONE what is sewn into your petticoats.”

Prior to departing Belize, their father-master bid Bilah to sew the last of his hard currency as well as a few jewels into the petticoats of the girls. Despite the terms of surrender, Harold Parker rather suspected some enterprising Spanish soldier or sailor would frisk the British down to seize any property of value. This proved correct as Parker was relieved of several items. However, the more amorous frisking of his daughters led to no further discoveries. Several pounds stirling in gold and silver, the jewels inherited from Parker’s mother and a few other baubles remained intact within their clothing.

With Parker dead, Bilah knew this was the only realistic resource to keep her sisters alive.

Presently, one of the elder sailors dropped back towards the sisters. Bilah recognized him as the same man who ordered them to the Lucky’s longboat, saving their lives. She’d never asked his name.

Drifting back along the road, the man nodded for the eldest sister to join him as he avoided several huge puddles. His own shoes had long since split and assorted rags tied the leather to his feet.

“Do ye know what awaits us in Brooklyn, lass?” He muttered in what Bilah recognized as a Scottish accent.

“No,” she replied safely.

“Slaves fleeing rebel masters are freed in British-controlled territory,” he murmured, keeping his voice down. “But those held by Loyalists…are not.”

Bilah suspected as much. “You mean…”

“Ye and yer sisters will be seized by the government and returned to yer master’s relatives…or just sold for His Majesty.”

Having lived the entirety of her life in North Carolina, Antigua and now a bit in Belize, the eighteen-year-old girl knew nothing but plantation chattel slavery. But she knew that such bondage was less common in the north. Indeed, gazing upon the lush…and frigid…forests of Nassau Island, she doubted any crops with which she had familiarity could be grown in such conditions. Slavery existed in the north…but not the need for large quantities of labor.

“In New York City, over on the island of Manhattan, the Government is receiving runaway rebel slaves and granting them freedom. Menfolk are preferred, of course, so they can join th’ army. But women are freed too. There is talk that freed slaves are even going to be given land here on Nassau…or the mainland when the war is over.”

Bilah nodded slowly as he continued, “When ye reach Brooklyn, they will ask of your master. If ye tell them Parker was a Loyalist…”

Her eyes narrowed. The sailor recognized she understood. “Naturally, we…the sailors…cannot lie to the King’s servants. We must tell the truth. But if ye…and yer sisters…are not with us when we arrived….there is nothing for us to say.”

“What must we do?” Bilah inquired desperately.

“On Manhattan, the southern tip, is the town of New York. If you can make yer way there, ask who takes names for the Book of Negroes. Tell them you escaped north by land. Many slaves have been carried away from Virginia in the past weeks, so many the King’s servants cannae keep track. Tell them you ran from a rebel master in Virginia. Make up false names, git yer names in the book of Negroes. Odds are ye will never meet someone ye once knew.”

“How do we get there?”

The old sailor nodded towards his mates. “It is another ten miles to Brooklyn. We will stop for the night soon as we find a barn. See to it that ye and yer sisters keep walking after we fall asleep. There are ferries between Brooklyn and New York every morning at dawn. Be on one of them.”

For a long moment, Bilah kept her silence. Finally, she felt compelled to ask, “Why do you tell me this?”

The sailor grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “I came to America thirty years past as an indentured servant…a slave by another name. For seven years I labored for a cruel master. No man…or woman…should endure such hardship and humiliation.” He gestured towards his companions and tapped the pack carrying his meager belongings. “I have two bottles of rum here and will share with my mates tonight. Between the long walk today and the headache tomorrow, no one will miss ye. Indeed, I doubt we shall wake until noon.”

With that, the sailor nodded once more and slowly rejoined his companions.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March 1778

New York

Ensconced in the tribunal's center seat (in lieu of Governor Tryon who surprisingly recused himself from presiding over his own assailant), William Franklin received the last of the monotonous testimonies, that of a British Captain dressed in his resplendent formal garb.

Captain Hurley, frocked in the traditional red jacket with his regimental black facing and white cross-belts, completed his somewhat rambling dialogue in a clipped Northumbrian accent, "Upon insulting the Governor again by his absurd challenge to a duel, the miscreant juvenile struck the Governor in the most cowardly off fashions and advanced threateningly. It was at this time that the guard belatedly did their duty in apprehending the criminal."

Franklin noted one of the guards flanking the suspect stiffen before recognizing the Corporal as among the arresting soldiers. The Pennsylvanian suspected that British upper class condescension must wear upon the low-born of the Isles as much as it had the colonists. From the stands, Governor Tryon sat stewing along the benches, obviously expecting a favorable verdict to the insolent youths who accosted him.

"Thank you, Captain Hurley, that will be all," Franklin concluded gratefully. In truth, the court hardly required a dozen witnesses to a crime two out of the three judges observed in person. The Stratford brothers declined any form of defense beyond calling again upon Tryon to face either of them in a duel (which Tryon caustically replied from the gallery that gentlemen are not obliged to face their inferiors in such a manner). The only true matter under debate was the level of punishment.

Franklin informed the court that the tribunal would require time to consult and led his bored compatriots into a small storeroom behind the makeshift courthouse (the original having been burned to the ground the previous year under suspicious circumstances). Closing the door, one of his colleagues, Colonel Huffard of the 10th Regiment (was it?) who sat in judgement in Tryon’s place, moaned, "William, what is the point of this? The lads are plainly guilty. We should have concluded this by lunch."

The third official, Cyrus Gains, an elderly English-born New Yorker who migrated to the colonies forty years prior to earn his fortune in the fur trade, glanced around at the gloomy storeroom and grumbled, "Just hang the scum and be done with it."

"Cyrus, that would hardly be appropriate for a simple assault charge," the Colonel retorted. “Just sentence them to five hundred lashes and two years imprisonment on the boats. Better yet, offer to suspend the latter sentence if they enlist in the British Army. Perhaps King George might even get something useful out of this monumental waste of time."

"Bah," the older merchant snorted, "why not reward them with a whore and a dram of whiskey for their insolence? But if that is what you want, I'll concur."

"The second boy, the older one," William reminded, "did not assault Tryon in any manner. His sentence should be lighter."

Exasperated, Huffard consented, "Fine, let us conclude this trial and allow me to return to duty. My Regiment will likely be dispatched soon and I have too many issues of real consequence to see too. Five hundred lashes for impertinence only and not a single strike less, perhaps two hundred if he also enlists. Offer the same opportunity to redeem himself to the younger but not a reduction in lashes. The idea of two years in those floating hells should inspire some loyalty."

With that, the soldier opened the door and reentered the courtroom, the merchant in tow. William exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment before joining them. Though disgusted at the blatant disrespect the brothers offered one of King George's officials, he did not wish the youth's hanged. During the days of civilian administration, such an insult to an appointee usually passed without retribution. Even the slap might escape retribution. However, New York was now ruled by martial law and the principles of due process were routinely bypassed by the occupying army. In truth, William despised the state of affairs but could find no one else to blame but the rebels. Had they only bowed to the King's reasonable demands of their wallets and perceived liberties, these types of trials could have been avoided completely. Confident in the rightness of his authority and self-satisfied that his decision still offered more mercy than the boys deserved, William joined his fellows in the courtroom.

As he sat, the gentle din silenced as the court settled. The scribe promptly raised a quill to record the verdict. Raising his voice, William spoke chidingly to the two youths whose shoddy appearance clearly indicated that the previous week's residence in prison offered few comforts, "Jacob and Eli Stratford, for the contemptible actions in which you have engaged on the day of February fifteeth, this lawful court has reached the following verdicts:

"Jacob Stratford," addressing the elder, "This court finds you guilty of affray & battery. For these crimes you are sentenced to five hundred lashes to take place within three days. This sentence will be reduced to two hundred should you agree to enlist in the British Army under terms to be dictated by the Recruiting Sergeant."

"Eli Stratford," nodding to the younger, "This court finds you guilty of affray, battery and assaulting one of His Majesty's appointed officials. You are sentence to five hundred lashes and two years imprisonment. In the spirit of mercy, the court will suspend the sentence of two year's imprisonment upon your enlistment in the British Army."

Now directing the question to both, William attempted to ignore the infuriated glared cast upon him by the affronted Governor Tryon and inquired, "Jacob Stratford, do you agree to enlist in His Majesty's Army and attempt to atone for your crimes by doing your patriotic duty?"

Teeth bared, Jacob Stratford managed to snarl, "I'd die before I defile my nation by wearing the color of a tyrant and his lackeys. Furthermore, I refuse to acknowledge your authority to stand in judgement over a citizen of Connecticut. Columbia is no longer British territory."

The boy's mother, watching in horror as the verdict was reached, swooned as her anxious husband attempted to console her.

"Another one hundred lashes for contempt of court," the Colonel replied savagely, clearly regretting his earlier mercy.

William waited a moment for the courtroom silenced before inquiring with growing irritation, "Eli Stratford, do you chose to enlist in His Majesty's Army in order to be spared your sentence?"

His own pending sentence far more perilous than his brother, the younger Stratford nevertheless managed to shake his head and answer in a slightly quivering voice, "I will not be party to the oppression of my own people by foreign invaders. God save the Columbian Congress."

"Another one hundred lashes for him as well," Huffard demanded. William found no incentive to contradict the soldier.

William gaveled the proceedings to a close. Swiftly, the courtroom emptied as the soldiers escorted the prisoners to the wooden poll upon which the army routinely lashed its own men. In the past, such sentences typically got bogged down in appeals and disciplinarian actions tended to take weeks. Under martial law, thankfully less time was wasted. Within minutes, William Franklin found himself alone in the courtroom as the gallery departed to witness the spectacle. More than a few bled to death on the post upon implementation of a five hundred lash sentence.

Alone at last, William wondered at the depth of hatred he encountered even in Loyalist bastions like New York. He had served the King's colors in Canada during the previous war (in a limited way) and for years afterward in government. He understood the immense burden which Great Britain carried in defending the Empire. The mighty Navy protecting the waves carried enormous costs as well as the relatively modest army. Having seen the oppressive tax burden placed upon the impoverished and predominantly disenfranchised populace of the home Isles, the relatively slight tax levies upon the colonies looked nearly benign in comparison.

Do they not know the carefree life of leisure Great Britain has offered them? William thought. I've seen the true oppression by dictatorial Kings abroad. I've seen true exploitation. Do they truly believe that whomever the colonies would choose to make their King would treat them with more consideration and forbearance than George III?

Disgusted and ashamed by the ingratitude of the colonies, William gathered his papers, nodded to the clerk (the only person remaining in the room) and set out for home. He didn't bother to join the crowd at the post. The thought of witnessing such punitive actions always repulsed him. However, William's thoughts continued to drift back to the young brothers. Presently, he realized why.

The elder Stratford, though a man of obviously limited capacity, retained his loyalty for the King even into exile from Connecticut. His sons, despite joining their father in New York, obviously harbored equally strong rebel inclinations (choosing prison rather than the King's Schilling certainly proved that). The break between the generations reminded William of the fracture with his own father.

Despite Benjamin Franklin's high-profile position in the traitor government (as William tended to call the rebels whenever his father was specifically mentioned), relatively few Loyalists held his father's political leanings against him. The majority simply wished to know more about the famous genius whom so charmed England these many years. A few anecdotes of homespun wisdom frequently left his audience laughing. However, the shame of his own sire rebelling against the King whom had given them both so much grated upon William to the point that he simply refused to discuss anything about the man in public.

Passing the familiar butcher shop and haberdashery which sat conveniently at the intersection of his own residential street, William turned north towards past the row of wealthy townhouses that led to his own home.

As he inserted the key to his front door, William's mind still drifted back to the origin of this insane rebellion.

All this for forty thousand pounds a year in tea taxes?

 

[Alt History Buff]

March 1778

New Jersey

Despite the momentous occasion, Lord Howe found the steady rhythm of the oars slicing into the slow, smooth waters of the Hudson soothing enough to lull him to sleep. The slight skiff, crewed by four senior sailors of the Royal Navy glancing nervously over their shoulders as they rowed, as if the looming expanse of the mainland was inviting them to their doom. Even at two hundred yards to shore, the dozens of blue-clad forms poised upon the rugged New Jersey coast facing New York were quite distinctive. Though the sailors exhibited a certain degree of anxiety, the charges maintained the standard equanimity befitting their rank and class.

The ice had retreated somewhat over the previous week, though the sailors took care to avoid the handful of clumps bobbing about. Howe knew the Hudson estuary could be treacherous, the often-swift current changing directions without warning or apparent logic. Heavily clothed to ward off the frigid cold emanating from the water, the soldiers each delivered a silent prayer of thanks for the unexpected break in the weather that exchanged the expected gloom for an unseasonably cheery and morning. Birds chirped in the background, perhaps anticipating a premature spring with as much eagerness as their human neighbors. By all accounts, the winter of 1777/1778 had been the worst in memory and Howe suspected that it had not quite released its skeletal grip upon America.

John Andre, the junior officer squinted towards shore, "Well, I believe those wagering on our arrest might prove disappointed. There are only a handful of common ranks, looks more like an honor guard.”

“Did you truly believe otherwise, Major?” Howe mumbled absently, his eyes gazing across the craggily beach. “Well, I suppose you would have to know the man. George Washington possesses a rather overdeveloped sense of honor. He would never betray a truce in such a perfidious manner.”

“The gentleman’s reputation would lead me to believe no, General.” Archibald Campbell tended to speak in slow, deliberate sentences, echoing his methodical personality. Destined for the West Indies, Howe would miss the unusually thoughtful and introspective officer.

The trio of officers was resplendent in formal garb. The field jackets worn daily were replaced by the still-gleaming scarlet parade uniforms, boots polished to a blinding shine. Even the immensely wealthy and socially conscious Lord Howe donned slightly worn garments on everyday duty. The cost of princely accoutrements was largely irrelevant but the interval between requisition and delivery of a new uniform from Britain often exceeded six months. One did not exhaust his finery by common usage.

Presently, the skiff reached the New Jersey shoreline and the three officers alighted onto the mainland for the first time in months. A sizable white stone prevented the trio from dampening the boots their servants had polished to a lustrous shine. A handsome young officer in Columbian blue stepped forward.

“General Howe, I am Major Aaron Burr of the Columbian Army. General Washington requested that I escort your party to a small cottage requisitioned for your audience.”

Andre stiffened slightly, perceiving the rebel officer’s description of the summit as an “audience” as somewhat impertinent. For his part, Howe expressed no hint of umbrage. An experienced veteran of Parliamentary artifices and diplomatic stratagems, the Englishman recognized the intricate dance of wordplay as merely the first step of any negotiation. The young man was clearly attempting to establish the high ground, much to Howe’s amusement. The soldier merely nodded in a stately fashion and gestured for Burr to lead, a slight smirk attempting to creep across his features.

“My aides, Brigadier General Archibald Campbell, and Major John Andre.”

“A pleasure, Gentlemen.” Burr replied in a polite, almost aristocratic cadence, his accent hinting at a northern colonial upbringing. Obviously educated, the young soldier carried himself with a remarkable self-confidence halting just short of open arrogance. A keen intellect danced behind the dark eyes, taking in every expression and gesture of his adversaries while maintaining a studied bland expression. If anything, Burr reminded the General of John Andre.

The rebel turned and trod steadily into the haphazard cluster of trees, some evergreens maintaining their thick coats, still covered in receding snow, while the barren trunks of the oaks and maples reached their gnarled fingers skyward as if praying the mild weather continues and buds might soon sprout the length of their branches. The handful of sentries guarding the trail gazed curiously at the passing enemy soldiers, clearly lacking the discipline of established British regiments. Howe considered inquiring as to the location of the cottage but kept his tongue, his subordinates following his orders for silence unless given leave.

Two hundred paces through shallow drifts of snow and sodden mud brought the British officers into a clearing dominated by a cozy log cottage. A pair of large windowpanes had at some point been incorporated into the façade as the titleholder attained a higher level of prosperity. In the background, dozens of acres of farmland broke into the sparse forest, awaiting the summer planting. Two sergeants bookended the entrance while a pair of junior officers stood at attention, their youthful features temporarily gazing intently upon the visitors. The uniforms were slightly shabby, obviously for lack of a good London tailor.

Neither spoke, Burr merely nodding meaningfully as he approached. One of the soldiers hurried into the cabin, obviously reporting the arrival of Howe’s party. Burr unconsciously slowed his pace, allowing for his comrade to return. By the time Howe finished sidestepping a series of expansive mud puddles, the fellow had emerged again.

Burr announced smoothly, without preamble, “General Howe, Brigadier Campbell and Major Andre have arrived to consult with the Lieutenant General.”

The younger man nodded, swallowing slightly while holding the door open, “Very well, Major, you may enter.”

“Please follow, General Howe.”

Burr ducked beneath the low threshold, gesturing for Howe and his aides to follow. Grateful that the howling gust of bitter wind sweeping across the clearing had courteously waited for Howe to reach safety, the General folded himself over and entered, escaping the blinding blue sky for the dark confines of the cabin. A pleasant wall of warm, stall air immediately hit his nostrils, spiced with a hint of smoke. The roaring fire in the hearth was a welcome sight though Howe’s eyes were drawn by the three figures standing adjacent a sturdy wooden table, the only furniture in the room omitting the six chairs arrayed around it.

As his eyes swiftly adjusted to the gloom, Howe noted the windows were assisted by several pulsing lamps and the crackling fire in illuminating the cabin’s great room. The tall figure in the middle beckoned, “Pray, enter, General Howe. Allow my servant to collect your cloaks. Sammy?”

Presently, a Negro emerged from a hidden alcove behind the hearth to gather the soldier’s heavy garments, receiving a gracious thank you from the General. Disappearing as quickly as he arrived, the Negro left the British alone with their rebel counterparts. Atthat, George Washington stepped forward and William Howe gazed upon his enemy and onetime friend, separated by eighteen years. Atypically, the tall Englishman was forced to look upward. At roughly six foot, two inches, Washington stood a few inches taller, though the march of time had robbed the Virginian of much of his powerful build. Not his presence, though, Howe realized, taking in the almost innate bearing of authority.

Not for the first time, Howe considered Washington as one would look into a mirror. Tall, gangly, with a large sloping nose, one might mistake the pair as relations. The empty right sleeve of Washington’s jacket was buttoned unobtrusively to the jacket as Howe recalled the tales of Washington’s heroism at the Monongahela to save General Braddock’s life. Both the battle and Washington’s right arm were lost but this did little to hinder the Virginian’s ambition. Within months, the slightly vainglorious youth was again commanding the Virginia Regiment against the French, agitating for ever greater rank and social approbation with a determination bordering on obsessive.

Searching Washington’s face, Howe detected few hints of the resolute young colonial and his unwavering (and somewhat vulgar) drive for advancement. In his place was left a vastly more mature individual, retaining his uncompromising determination, but lacking the self-seeking avarice of his youth. In maturity one might only glean from experience, George Washington had emerged as a true leader of men, one dedicated to his chosen cause, not his own welfare.

And this is the man that the King in Parliament chose to alienate? Howe considered with bitter regret, cursing how such a remarkable man, flush with pride at being British, might have been driven to consider rebellion the preferred alternative to colonial status.

Gesturing towards his companions, Washington introduced the older man, whom Howe estimated to be in his mid-thirties, “Brigadier Thomas Knowlton, and this is Major Alexander Hamilton.”

Knowlton? Howe considered, eying the stoic mask of the older man. Ah, yes, the spymaster. And Hamilton is one of Washington’s closest aides. Same ranks as my own, naturally, at least Washington isn’t playing power games.

“This is Brigadier General Archibald Campbell and this is…” While the Englishman introduced his own party, he inspected the younger man. Hamilton had the reputation as a competent and intelligent adjutant despite his youth. Unlike the deliberate cloak of calm presented by the senior Columbian officers, the junior virtually vibrated with energy, perhaps Washington had erred in including Hamilton in his entourage.

The prologue complete, Washington gestured towards the table, devoid of anything beyond two lamps, six crystal cups and a bottle of what appeared to be sherry. No elaborate military banquet today, eh, George? Obviously, the man does not intend to tarry the afternoon.

Gauging his counterpart’s mood, Howe stepped towards the center chair and descended upon the hard seat. His aides promptly followed as the Columbian’s circled the table for the three chairs opposite the Briton’s, each settling down facing his comparable rank.

“Sherry, General Howe?” Washington pointed towards the lonely bottle. “The journey must have been bitterly cold.”

“Not so bad, George, I believe that we are more than comfortable, thank you. And may you and I, recalling the friendships of our youth, bypass the formality? Pray recall that I was once William to you.” Howe hoped that Washington was not offended at the attempt at familiarity.

“That was a very long time ago…William. My condolences upon the loss of your brother. I believe his desire for peace with the King’s former colonies was sincere.”

Slightly disconcerted that Washington retained his professional detachment, Howe inquired, “Have you received word of the arrival of the Carlisle Commission in Philadelphia?”

Washington nodded. Howe continued, “It is the King’s hope that Lord Carlisle’s offer of limited American self-government shall bring the cycle of mutual recrimination to a close and that the colonies and mother country might soon reconcile, these lands returning to honorable English Law and King George’s embrace.”

Washington’s cold eyes melted somewhat, thought Howe detected that pity generated the thaw, not the prospect of a return to His Majesty’s affection.

“You…cannot be serious, William. Columbia has already achieved “self-government” by our own determination. By what process does the King’s opinion on the subject alter that fact?”

Howe had anticipated numerous responses from the Virginian: eagerness, trepidation, indignation. He had not expected open contempt bordering on amusement.

With a hint of anger, Howe retorted, “The King is sovereign…”

“As long as the people recognize that fact, William,” Washington interrupted. “Surely you see that George III’s “embrace” has been rejected. Do you truly believe that, after three years of war, the United States shall summarily deliver up their freedom to the very crown which attempted to subjugate them?”

Washington leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight, “William, I have no doubt that, three years past, the colonies would have drained the contents of their wine cellars toasting the King in Parliament had His Majesty granted America Home Rule in 1775. Of course, that could never happen, could it, William?

“Parliament had no intention whatsoever of releasing their grip upon the colonies, not while possessing the haughty assumption that domination over the colonies might be retained by means of force. Only upon the edifying lesson that Britain’s power is finite has the King in Parliament so graciously consented to offering limited natural rights to those who have already seized them for themselves without restriction.”

The younger officer, Hamilton, appeared ready to applaud. Howe ignored this and countered, “The British Army and Royal Navy yet have much to say on that matter, George. Perhaps Congress might bear a differing view once the full scope of His Majesty’s offer is considered.”

Again, Washington’s drawn features crinkled into an almost condescending empathy, “Do you know the basis of British law, William?

“It is faith,” the Virginian replied to his own question. “Faith that your government officials shall not utilize their positions of trust to exploit the people. Parliament betrayed their own laws in order to maintain their parasitic hold on the colonies.”

“The King guarantees British freedom,” Howe countered. “King George…”

“…publicly proclaimed that he shall raze America’s coastline, destroy unarmed coastal villages, towns and cities, reduce these lands to utter waste in order to maintain his domination over my people,” Washington interrupted again, with rising heat. “Do you truly believe that any Columbian would allow such a man to possess a scrap of influence over their lives?

“No, William. I find it highly unlikely that any accord proffered by such men, men of such avarice, such grotesque perfidy, shall be received with enthusiasm by Congress.”

William Howe sat in silence, digesting the blunt, but largely expected, denunciation. The war continued to grind on, the expected British victory proving elusive. Now, with France and Spain firmly in the enemy camp…

“Why did you agree to serve, William, to suppress by force the very liberties you claimed to cherish?” the rebel General inquired, startling his counterpart. “You vowed before Parliament, before the applauding crowds of your electorate, that you should never take up arms for such a cause?

“Yet the moment the King offered command, you sprinted towards the nearest transport to America.”

Bristling, Howe managed to regain his composure long enough to reply, “I feared the odious name of backwardness should I fail to serve my country in distress.”

“Some gentlemen recall their responsibilities of their station and do not shirk from obligations to the King. One must consider duty preeminent to the idealism of baying radicals,” Andre interrupted, earning a sharp glower from his commander for speaking out of turn.

“I quite agree, Major,” Hamilton snapped, fury evident upon his features. “It takes a rare man to summarily discard his espoused principles like the nightsoil from his chamber-pot in order to guarantee his station and fortune. My commander, of course, nefariously opted for the latter. General Washington risked his position and property in favor of his ideals.

“Tell me, Major Andre, which General is more meritorious of devotion, yours or mine?”

Andre stumbled to his feet, hand upon his scabbard.

“Sit down, Major Andre, and be silent!” Howe bellowed towards Andre, irritated at the ill-discipline, just as Washington growled into Hamilton’s ear, “That shall be quite enough, Alexander!”

Faced with the indignation of their superiors, the Majors resumed their seats. Howe noticed absently that the sherry had yet to be poured and deemed the meeting unlikely to follow the ancient forms of military etiquette anyway.

“George…General Washington...I fear that you quite underestimate the resolve of the King in Parliament to regain these colonies.”

“General Howe,” the Virginian countered, “I believe that is what Thomas Gage claimed in 1775. Yet, here I am, conversing pleasantly with the only three free servants of King George presently upon the soil of the United States of Columbia from Quebec to the tip of East Florida, men granted that freedom only at my sufferance.”

Washington leaned forward, “We have made for ourselves a new nation, one that has left behind the hypocritical and self-serving practices of the King in Parliament. We shall never place faith in such institutions again. And His Majesty’s has singularly failed to enforce his “legal” right to subjugate these lands. Perhaps George III might do well to consider that his voracious lust for power may cost him what little is left of the British Empire, if not Britain itself.”

“You refer to the supposed French and Spanish menace to the British Isles?” Now it was Howe who sounded amused. “Your allies overestimate their capacity and I remain astonished that your Congress is gullible enough to believe the Papist nations shall not turn on you at an opportune time.”

“And what of your allies, General Howe?” Washington’s voice was sardonic to the extreme. “Ah, yes, you have none, only paid hirelings. Have you found any other neutral German petty princes inclined to sell the lives of their miserable subjects to reconquer King George’s lost domains? Perhaps Russia might still be persuaded to accept enough coin to fight your civil war for you.”

Howe blanched but managed to hold his tongue. Washington’s barbs stung all the more for being accurate. The Englishman, much like North’s Ministry, had failed to anticipate the open revulsion amongst the colonists for the dispatch of foreigners to America. Given the paucity of Britons inclined to enlist for an unpopular war, the contracts were necessary but undoubtedly diminished the affection for the King in the minds of many provincials.

Somehow, Howe retained his temper long enough to return to the original topic of negotiation, “We shall…see as to the final disposition of this war, General Washington, but not today. Today, I requested this parlay to address the distressing treatment of prisoners, not the least of which the execution of senior officers on both sides. General Campbell has composed a proposal to mitigate the abuses that have become common place. Might he present it?”

Campbell swiftly produced a packet of documents, handing them to his counterpart, the similarly silent General Knowlton. The Brigadier promptly opened the rolled parchments and presented the first to his commander.

Without preamble, the Scot summarized, “As soldiers, the treatment of prisoners of war is a matter of honor and justice. Both parties have failed to abide by the accepted conventions. It is my hope that such injustices might be prevented in the future.

“General Howe has agreed that the prison hulks shall be mothballed, no Columbian prisoners shall be chained in such wretched conditions again. Prison camps shall be constructed at once throughout the territories under His Majesty’s control. Proper cabins, firewood, and victuals shall be provided without further…hindrance.”

Washington, his lone arm attempting to prevent the first page from rolling, gazed upward and inquiring with false equanimity, “You refer to Joshua Loring’s…mismanagement…which resulted in the systematic murder of thousands of Columbian prisoners of war? Mrs. Loring’s husband?”

The open scorn could be tangibly grasped. Howe repressed a flinch. The Englishman couldn’t even bring himself to protest Loring’s execution, the odious man’s guilt was apparent for all to see.

Campbell, for his part, did not rise to the bait, his clipped Scottish accent elaborating, “I refer to all singular failures to care for prisoners, including the Columbian Army’s decision to place much of General Burgoyne’s army within the Simsbury copper mines and others upon the same hulks captured from His Majesty. The General succumbed within weeks. By this agreement, only prisoners who attempt to escape or effect violence upon their guards will be in chains. Greater access to the prisoners shall be granted by both parties.”

“And the executions of Generals Clive and Lee?”

“Were never authorized by me and would not have occurred had I been present.” This time it was Howe that answered. “The…executions…of Keppel and Eliott were equally uncalled for and dishonorable.”

Campbell continued, gesturing towards the second page, “Officers shall be granted greater liberty, execution only reserved for violators of parole or spies.”

The Scottish Brigadier elaborated on several points, in each case expressing his apprehension for the welfare of all prisoners. Howe vowed to use his vice-regal powers without delay to effect the changes, assuring Washington that proper camps should be constructed by May while provisions and medical treatment shall no longer be intercepted by a corrupt civilian commissary. The Columbian confessed that he lacked such authority but vowed to press the matter with Congress. The Virginian even graciously complimented Campbell’s exertions after the fall campaigns of 1777 to expedite the exchange of wounded. Many hundreds of lives were undoubtedly saved through the Scot’s industry and compassion.

Presently, the audience concluded, having discussed nothing further than the management of prisoners. Howe was slightly surprised that Washington failed to inquire about Henry Clinton’s conspicuous departure by sea in January with a disconcerting amount of Howe’s army, the operation handled under an unprecedented cloud of secrecy. All but the most senior officers were unaware of the destination prior to embarkation. The Englishman assumed that this implied either Washington’s spies already learned of Clinton’s true destination or that the Virginian simply held no desire to illuminate his ignorance at the British Army’s movements.

Or perhaps, George believed that Campbell’s impending mission to reinforce the West Indies to be Clinton’s? If so, the good rebel shall be quite flustered to receive the report of British troops billeted in Mt. Vernon.

You claim that America has rejected His Majesty’s embrace, George?

The war in the North may have degenerated into a stalemate but let us see how Virginia holds against Henry Clinton.