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

[Alt History Buff]

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 than a timeline that reads more as a history book (this happened, thus these things occurred.​

Key POD's:
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.
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".
7. With Britain's greater success in the 5 Years War in the Americas, 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 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

All, If you took the time to read my two previous novels (links below), much appreciated. https://www.alternatehistory.com/forum/threads/arrogance-and-empire-an-alternative-7-years-war-timeline.523847/...

www.alternatehistory.com

 

[Alt History Buff]

January, 1777

Morristown, NJ

“…and, while the Columbian Army may have lost several thousand soldiers after the expiration of their contracts, I am pleased that that well over half our experienced men elected to re-enlist for two years or the duration of the conflict,” Major General George Washington announced with satisfaction to the assembled senior officers. “With seven thousand veteran regulars, training of recruits will be far easier than last year.”

Upon the conclusion of the campaign season of 1776, the dissolution of the Columbian Army was a true threat with so few men under contract going forward. Dismally paid and provisioned for, only the patriotism and self-sacrifice of the Columbian soldier maintained the army’s existence.

Though French gold and supplies certainly helped, Washington silently conceded.

Commissary-General Nathanial Greene nodded and echoed the Virginian’s unspoken thoughts, “Fortunately, the hard coin provided by His Most Christian Majesty, Louis XVI, has allowed adequate victuals, perhaps for the first time. Our warehouses are now filled with grain and venders are even beginning to accept credit!”

For the year-and-half-long existence of the Columbian Army, the nation’s defenders had been poorly served by their country (and colonies prior to the Declaration of Independence). At least for now, adequate food, clothing and shelter were being provided even if pay continued to be distributed in state script of dubious value or some sort of voucher offered by the nation, usually promise of land grants to the west.

“I am pleased that the incidence of Bleeding Death and other ailments may soon decrease,” offered the Surgeon General, Joseph Warren. Like Greene, Doctor Warren desired a combat command but the always egregious threat of disease to large concentrations of men hailing from large geographic distances demanded the most experienced man to confront the internal threat. Warren, like Greene, acceded to Washington’s request with grace and did yeoman’s work reducing the incidence rate of Typhoid, smallpox, chicken pox, influenza and the ghastly introductions of Bleeding Death and African Death. “If General McDougall,” Warren gestured to the New York-born Quartermaster-General, “continues to provide improved lodgings, I feel that my quarantine procedures will significantly reduce incidence of disease.”

Warren had been instrumental in both inoculating the army with smallpox vaccines as well as swiftly removing infected soldiers from close quarters. Even with these efforts, the army lost nearly 2000 soldiers to disease in the past year and a half alone. And this excluded the militia. In hindsight, it was something of a miracle that these numbers weren’t higher.

“We shall do our best, General Warren,” McDougall amicably replied. Beyond seeing the quartering of the troops, McDougall was frequently assigned to Philadelphia to plead the army’s case to Congress.

“Recruiting has reportedly gone well in the past weeks,” Washington continued.

“Perhaps your Christmas campaign to regain New Jersey may have had something to do with that,” McDougall interrupted playfully. While General Clive received the public acclaim, it had really been Washington who planned and executed the reconquest of New Jersey.

Waving this aside with his left hand, the only one left after having lost the other at the Monongahela in the previous war, the Virginian modestly returned to topic, “Several thousand volunteers have already stepped forward to replace those soldiers electing to return home. By spring, I would estimate at least 15,000 men in camp.”

“Two thirds of those untrained,” Charles Lee inserted sourly, again dampening the mood. The English-born soldier’s service had been gladly received at the commencement of the war. But the man’s pessimism, rudeness and poor hygiene rapidly wore upon his comrades. After a poor performance at Perth Amboy, Lee hadn’t even been assigned a command in the Winter Campaign.

“Yes, that is correct, General,” Washington conceded evening, reminding himself not to be baited. “Fortunately, the British Army is similarly stressed. With an estimated 18,000 British and German Regulars assigned in the New York area through the end of 1777, General Knowlton’s agents and our best estimates conclude that the enemy has lost over a third of these to battle, disease and capture. 12,000 men is not overly daunting given the number required to garrison New York and the huge scale of lands King George wishes to reconquer.”

Lee, however, would not leave well enough alone, “Of course, that also implies that King George will not be dispatching additional soldiers to America in the spring. Does General Knowlton not also state that the British are recruiting heavily, with a call for 50,000 more soldiers?”

Exhausted with the man’s attitude, the senior officer replied, “Yes, General, that is true. However, the King will not be dispatching tens of thousands of men to America while at war with France and Spain. Most of these men will undoubtedly remain in Britain and Ireland to protect the coast. King George is also reportedly sending additional soldiers to the West Indies, the Banda Oriental and Portugal. We will NOT see 50,000 British regulars arrive this spring!”

With that, Washington added pointedly, “MOVING ON……though Mr. Franklin has been dispatched to France to formalize our alliance, I fear that significant naval support is unlikely in the near future. Naturally, this reduces our ability to act as aggressor against Manhattan, Staten and Long Islands as the Royal Navy controls the waters.”

“I dislike the idea of waiting for…”

“Where is Clive?”

Lee’s interruption brought a murmur of disapproval from the assembled officers. Lord Stirling scowled at Lee while John Sullivan plainly struggled to hold his tongue. Apparently, Lee’s unprofessionalism was winning few friends in his campaign to usurp Washington as second-in-command of the Columbian Army. Indeed, Lee had even publicly opined HE should replace Clive.

Washington barely maintained his composure, “As…I…stated…before, General Lee, our commander is ill and requested that I lead the Council of War until he regains his vigor…”. The senior officer’s scowl received nothing more eloquent than Lee slouching insolently down his chair.

And this man sought to displace not only me but General Clive as well? The General thought in exasperation. Between his manners and appalling grooming, Lee’s little cabal of admirers must be shrinking by the moment.

“Now, as I was stating before,” Washington continued, “the lack of a true navy, beyond a few vessels purchased by Congress…makes an invasion of the islands impractical. However, General Arnold will be reviewing the feasibility of a strike on Long Island while on leave in Connecticut. Until then, I fear that the General Howe will maintain the initiative for the foreseeable future and….”

 

[Alt History Buff]

January, 1777


Savannah

Sergeant Klaus Durrenmatt grimaced as the latest recruits into the 1st Georgia Regiment of the Columbian Army stumbled and bumbled about the sodden drilling field. So, does no one in this colony…er…state…know their left from their right?

The Hanoverian-born soldier served George II in his homeland in the previous war. With the Electorate now under the rule of the King of France’s brother, thousands of German soldiers like Durrenmatt had accepted the Trustee Georgia’s offer of free transport to America…if only to get the redundant Germans from British soil. Many other Protestant Germans followed suit over the years and nearly a fifth of Georgia’s 80,000 strong population spoke German as their mother tongue.

Despite his gratitude for King George’s transport to a “free domain”, Durrenmatt eventually threw in with the rebels and offered his services to the Columbian Army. Given the dismal performance of these recruits, a motley collection of Scots, Germans and Negros, a skilled sergeant was an absolutely necessary.

“Sergeant!”

The harsh, Scottish brogue announced the arrival of Durrenmatt’s father-in-law, who also happened to be the 1st Company’s commander, Captain Archie Brody. The Scottish-born Pastor had never taken to his Lutheran son-in-law, but Durrenmatt detected no particular animosity in Brody’s strict discipline. Brody treated everyone with equal contempt.

“Da, Captain,” Durrenmatt managed to reply evenly, standing at attention. At least I don’t have to answer to Hans. That would be too humiliating.

Hans Durrenmatt had somehow finagled a Lieutenant’s commission in the same Regiment. Fortunately, the younger man commanded 3rd Company and the elder was not in his direct authority.

“How soon shall these men be ready to join their Companies?”

Would a year do? Durrenmatt though acerbically, knowing that this was something of a fantasy. Once a man could march in a straight line, he tended to be ushered into the ranks. Instead, the Sergeant inquired, “Would anod’er week be acceptable, Captain?”

Surprisingly, Brody didn’t spew out one of his unreasonable tirades, “Yes, but nae more. The Colonel will be making an announcement soon. These men,” he gestured to the fifty or so new recruits to the Columbian Army, “will be joining the ranks for our next campaign.”

“And where will we march, sir?” Durrenmatt inquired.

The elder Scot squinted at his son-in-law and retorted, “That is nae for you to know now, Sergeant. Ye will be informed soon enough.”

“Da, I mean, Yes, sir,” the Sergeant answered in disappointment. Durrenmatt had served in the Hanoverian Army for over a decade. Exactly how the Pastor merited an officer’s commission for anything beyond social standing was beyond the German. But he was also soldier enough never to let such words pass his lips. After all, his son was made a Lieutenant largely due to his education…provided incidentally by Hans’ step-grandfather, Archie Brody.

The Captain nodded and stomped through the January mud before turning over his shoulder, “Seven days, Sergeant, and not a day more.”

“Da, sir.”

Durrenmatt returned his gaze to the raw volunteers tripping over their own feet. The Hanoverian rather doubted that the Columbian Army was rushing to get these men into garrison duty. For the past weeks, supplies had been consolidated and a call for militia on three-month contracts dispatched. Unless Savannah was to be attacked, this indicated that much of the nation’s military strength in Georgia was soon to be on the march.

Exactly where, the Sergeant couldn’t say. The Indians to the west had been largely quiet and cooperative. There seemed no reason to march into the mountains. He supposed that the 1st and 2nd Georgia Regiments might march north to help protect Charleston, the largest city in the southern states…something the “Free State” of Georgia (the word “Free” highlighted in official documents to reflect the state’s anti-slavery inclination) would oppose given the frequent antagonism with their northern neighbors. While the Columbian Army Regiments may follow such orders, it was doubtful the militia would.

That left marching south into sparsely populated…and British occupied…East and West Florida. Seized from Spain in the previous war, Florida remained an empty, pestilential hell which attracted few settlers. Had the African and Bleeding Death not effectively cut off the slave trade, it was possible more Britons may have taken up residence.

As best Durrenmatt knew, the British fortifications in St. Augustine, Pensacola and Mobile bore light garrisons, maybe a few hundred soldiers apiece. Viewed as “punishment” duty due to the high incidence of disease and lack of diversion, morale tended to be low in such isolation. However, any invasion would be an arduous trek across primordial wilderness and swamp and the besiegers already exhausted and low on supplies upon arrival. Such campaigns were also far better taken in the winter…before mosquito season places an army under risk of Yellow Fever, Malaria, etc.

Already regretting enlisting in this cause, the Sergeant returned to his duties, as all soldiers are expected to do. In that, Brody was right. Durrenmatt would be informed of the upcoming campaign only when deemed necessary…and not before.

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1777

Halifax, “French” Nova Scotia (Acadia)

Grumbling, Henri Dejardins pulled out his last few copper coins and placed them on the bar. Eyes gleaming, the bartender shouted back towards the kitchen in broken French. The New Englander's wife, a pretty and trim local girl over twenty years the tavern owner's junior, acknowledged him and promptly brought out a stout bowl filled to the rim with mouthwatering stew. She placed a generous loaf of bread alongside it and smiled as Dejardins inhaled the sweet fragrance.

"Marie, you are indeed a godsend," offered the Acadian with a smile. "No wonder Eric wasted so little time marrying you."

As Marie blushed at the flattery, Eric Conrad wandered back with Dejardins' change. The proprietor of the Halifax Inn replied with pride, "Yes, I'd say three months was long enough to realize I'd found a good thing."

With a gentle pat on the rear from her husband, Marie Conrad ducked back into the kitchen feigning anger at his presumption. Watching her leave, the Rhode Islander heaved a sigh as he turned back to Dejardins and said, "Never really expected to marry, Henri. But now I see what I've been missing all these years. Seems I'd been wasting my time."

The proprietor wandered off to allow Dejardins to eat in peace. As typical, Conrad's French grammar was acceptable but the British colonist simply mangled the accent. Conrad, of medium height and some forty years, with his prominent nose and receding hairline, could only be considered handsome by his own mother. But the fellow did exude a certain conviviality that drew people to him, a task difficult for an English-speaker in Halifax.

Eric Conrad arrived on these shores a decade and a half earlier after Acadia had been conquered by Britain. Rightfully doubtful of the loyalty of the Franco-phone population given that many of them, like Dejardins, had been forcibly exiled from Quebec, the British sought to plant a colony of their own people on the peninsula. Finding a natural harbor which remarkably hadn't been settled to any great extent, the British government named it Halifax after some British noble or other and sought to land English-speaking pioneers to dilute the pro-French sentiment. The settlement failed miserably as the thousands of families failed to materialize after the promised government funds were withdrawn. Barely a hundred settlers arrived upon these shores and most quickly opted to emigrate southward or westward to the British colonies.

However, the location was sound for a town and many of the displaced Quebecers and other Acadians moved to tame the lands surrounding Halifax harbor. A wealthy fishing industry soon cultivated a thriving town attracting trade with British colonial neighbors. Several of these traders, like Eric Conrad, moved their operations to Halifax permanently. Quickly, the Rhode Island merchant formed a thriving business in exporting the city's catch to the West Indies and the British colonies. Expanding his enterprise, Conrad also built the Halifax Inn in order to serve the thirsty fisherman who brought their catch to his drying house down the street.

Conrad avoided popular resentment or retaliation by the French population by ardently supporting the rebellion in the British colonies and encouraging Acadia to do the same. Most of the patrons of the Halifax Inn had heard Conrad's stories at one time or another of the "damn British" that were taxing his export business into oblivion (though his obvious prosperity spoke otherwise) and how he creatively had been avoiding the tariffs. In fact, virtually the only thing that could rile the amiable merchant was referring to him as British.

In the end, the local population embraced the Rhode Islander as wholeheartedly and warmly as he did them. Eric Conrad was accepted as a local and his opinion valued. When the question of joining their southern neighbors in rebellion arose, he challenged his French neighbors to prove their valor. Conrad backed up his enthusiasm by arranging for powder to be delivered to the militia from Rhode Island sources. The donation of that very powder had sustained Dejardins' militia unit for their first few months of the insurrection.

This crossed Dejardins' mind as he finished his meal. The typically lively tavern exuded a rare quiet given the time of day. Most patrons didn't arrive until dinner. Certainly, the cold of the winter day kept some indoors as well. However, Dejardins' wasn't looking for company when he'd opted to brave the weather that afternoon to wander into town. For the most part, Dejardins' simply longed for a home cooked meal. His mother had passed the previous winter, outlasting his crotchety grandfather by a year. Lacking tenants, the modest farm on the outskirts of town soon collapsed into ruin. After being temporarily discharged from the militia to save rations over the frigid northern winter, Dejardins arrived home far too late for planting, he'd simply picked whatever late fruit his apple and pear trees offered and proceeded to hunt and smoke every animal he'd come into contact with. Unfortunately, those rations would barely last until spring. Dejardins might survive the winter but he'd be thinner for it.

Seeing that Dejardins had finished, Conrad returned with a smile and cleaned up the bowl, "All filled up, Henri?"

"Ah, Eric," Dejardins said with satisfaction as he rubbed his full stomach, "You are truly a lucky man to have a wife such as Marie."

"Truer words were never spoken, Henri," the innkeeper confirmed, "I'll see you in a few days?"

Sighing, Dejardins admitted, "I'm afraid you have my last coin. I never received the entirety of my arrears from the militia and, of course, I had no harvest to sell."

Frowning, Conrad thought for a moment, "You know, Henri, I could use someone over at the smokehouse a couple days a week when the fleets come in. This isn't the best season but they're still bringing in enough surplus to do some drying and salt-curing. Come to think of it, I've got a few odd jobs that could stand to be done around here as well. Can't pay much mind you, but I'll keep you fed until spring."

Grateful, Henri Dejardins shook the merchant's hand and said, "Eric, I've never wanted to kiss a Brit..er, a Rhode Islander."

Waving him off, Conrad replied, "If I can help an Acadian soldier, I'll do so. Come by tomorrow at noon. Oh, make it eleven. Marie's sister is coming by to do some baking. A lot of my customers make special trips to taste her cakes and pies."

Raising his eyebrows, Dejardins said thoughtfully, "Sister, eh? And can cook as well?"

Laughing, the middle-aged innkeeper and merchant waved the Acadian out of his tavern.

Dejardins retreated into the embrace of the Acadian winter, wondering when his militia unit would be recalled to the field. Throughout 1776, the Acadians had pressed the British garrisons from the countryside. The arrival of French regulars only expedited the retreat of King George’s regulars. Now, only two major fortifications along the northern coast of the Peninsula flew the British ensign. When the weather finally broke (usually in April this far north), Dejardins was intent on being present when the British surrendered to their age-old French and Acadian enemies.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1777

Manhattan

The tall, broad form of Sergeant Kevin Giggs for the 23rd of Foot, the Royal Welch Fusiliers, spasmed painfully, forcing the soldier to straighten out in the tiny bed requisitioned from somewhere in Manhattan. The faint odor of smoke hinted that the bed was recovered from one of the many homes burned in the Great Manhattan Fire of 1776, which claimed a fifth the city.

What mattered most to the Welsh Sergeant was the fact that he had to effectively sleep in the fetal position to fit. Like clockwork, Giggs awoke to complaining hamstrings forced into contortions by the child-sized bed. Occasionally, the soldier determined to sleep upon the frigid floor of the New York mansion seized from rebel sympathizers.

As returning to slumber was impossible, Giggs stumbled to his feet. The thin panes of the window bore witness to the first rays of dawn of a cloudless, no doubt freezing, January day in New York. Giggs pulled on his boots, reached for his jacket and pulled aside the privacy tarp entitled to him by his rank. The expansive parlor where the “Patriot” former owners had once held parties now accommodated six British soldiers. Fourteen others resided elsewhere in the dwelling.

Giggs nudged the Corporal awake. With a grunt, the non-com accepted the dawn and requirement to rise. The Sergeant heard the Corporal’s admonishment for the house to awaken for a new day even as he retreated out the back door to the privy. The 1st Company of the Royal Welch Fusiliers was on guard duty today…and officers tended towards displeasure when their charges don’t show up on time.

At least it isn’t night duty, Giggs groused, knowing his subordinates were doing the same. The rough drench of the privy was shallower than typical as the ground remained ice solid. Nose crinkling at the stench, the Sergeant determined to assign four men to painstakingly carve out another trench that afternoon so this one may be covered. Open latrines were breeding grounds for dysentery and other contagions as the Regimental surgeon continues to harp upon.

The sergeant’s ill mood had taken a permanent bent. As one of the most prestigious Regiments in the army, the 23rd proudly led the British Army into battle in Concord, Breed’s Hill, New Brunswick and the Wilderness…and suffered accordingly. Dispatched to America with five companies of the Fusiliers, mostly at full strength of 100 men each, the Regiment was decimated suffering over 200 combat casualties and another 50 to disease. Several dozen remained in American prison camps, assuming they still lived though rumors of a prisoner exchange remained rife.

The five Companies now averaged but 40 men apiece even with a few dozen reinforcements from Britain. It was a sad, piteous ruin of a proud regiment. Two years of war with the colonials in conjunction with the ever-present threat of disease reduced the Fusiliers to a shadow of her former glory.

Giggs prayed 1777 would prove more auspicious for the Regiment and King George III. However, lady luck had not recently shown the British Army any favors as the King’s Men in North America were relegated to a few isolated islands and remote fortifications. If word of the government’s intent to forgo any future negotiation with the rebels was accurate…this could be a very, very long war.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1777

Bombay

Freshly minted Lieutenant David Ochterlony struggled to keep up with his diminutive superior, Colonel Thomas Jones, as the pair stomped loudly through the echoing chambers among the grim shadows of Bombay Castle. Grown organically throughout the centuries by Portuguese and later British residents, the ancient stone structure served less as a military fortification in the modern age than the seat of the Governor of Bombay and the Supreme Council.

Ochterlony only visited the center of government of the Bombay Islands on two prior occasions, initially upon discharging from the rickety East Indiaman upon Bombay Island’s shores and secondly when formally receiving his commission as Ensign in the British East India Company Army. As the Army barracks and offices were spread throughout the city, there seemed no reason why a junior officer would drop by the Governor’s office for a cup of tea. Brigadier General John Clavering was reportedly a popular commander and administrator. Since the Company’s effective bankruptcy, the Council itself was largely powerless as its original function was to oversee the trade and profitability of the company. King George III’s concerns trended towards security, thus the augmented authority of the nominal Commander-in-Chief of the British East India Company Army to civil duties previously beyond his realm. In his dual capacity as Governor-General, Clavering retained oversight on trade and diplomacy as well as martial matters.

Fortunately, the towering ceilings of the fortification allowed greater flow of air and kept the murky facility at tolerable levels of heat. Nevertheless, sweat dripped from Ochterlony’s brow, the young officer wiping it away with a backward sweep of his cocked hat. A duffel stuffed with parchment, quills and ink remained clenched in his other hand. When summoned to the Governor-General, Colonel Adams preferred to bring along a competent aide to take careful notes and, evidently, Ochterlony was his new favorite. Not that the young Bostonian minded. Among the first promoted to Lieutenant from his class of Cadets, Adams’ patronage extended even to arranging his young officer to cohabitate with his own mistress’ younger sister, a favor for which Ochterlony would forever be grateful.

General John Clavering’s private offices proved a whirlwind of activity. The Englishman stood behind his desk, his coat sensibly draped over his chair rather than his slender frame, as his rapidly fired orders to a bevy of adjutants and aides. Ochterlony recognized several as East India Company officers of various ranks, the now standard blue facings on their lapels distinguishing them from the handful of British Regulars on hand, mainly those serving in the three British Artillery Companies King George dispatched to defend this pestilential yet profitable outpost of the Empire. The majority of the participants in this bureaucratic dance were civilian factors seeing to the business of trade, huge ledgers of God-knows-what clutched in their arms.

“…how does His Majesty expect us to remain solvent without this cash flow?!” A fat old accountant virtually shrieked. “We were utterly dependent upon the interest payments…”

“The Nawab hasn’t made an interest payment in two years!” Another countered. “I’m more interested in how quickly the Company…well, the Crown….WHICHEVER…can start collecting taxes…”

Spying his officers, the General virtually shouted, “ENOUGH! That will be all for the morning. Let us discuss this again in the afternoon. Perhaps more information will be available then.”

The dismissal was evident to the other officers present but the civilian factors required Clavering’s aides to shoo them out the door. The General fixed his gaze upon the Colonel. Sensing his cue, Ochterlony pulled out the quill and ink and rested the parchment upon a nearby table. Adams brought the junior officer to take notes. Thus, take notes, Ochterlony would do.

“Great Christ, Adams, I hate those damned accountants,” Clavering grumbled as he collapsed back into his chair.

Hiding a smirk, the short, stout Colonel remained at semi-attention despite the private audience with a superior officer he’d long considered a friend. Adams did not move to remove his jacket. Even in the shaded confines of Bombay Castle, the heat reached oppressive levels if one did not deign to make allowances to local climate. A handful of adjutants continued to flitter around, depositing what Ochterlony presumed to be dispatches from London, requisitions, correspondence with local potentates and the myriad of reports incumbent upon administrators of complex postings.

“What has occurred, General?” A long-serving soldier, Adams seldom tiptoed around the point.

“Where to begin, Adams?” Clavering sighed. “The war in America continues. Apparently, the French are arming the colonies to the teeth. William Howe commands the Army, in case you didn’t know. Should be ten to fifteen thousand King’s Men in America by now, maybe more.”

Adams’ bushy eyebrows rose, “So many? Just for a minor colonial rebellion?”

Clavering snarled, virtually spitting. “Minor?! For god’s sake, man, this has moved beyond Boston and a few colonial cities! The King’s Men have been evicted from the entire coast of America from Quebec to Savannah!”

Adams’ jaw dropped in what Ochterlony presumed was a mirror of his own visage. Yes, Ochterlony knew Boston’s discontent spread throughout the entirety of New England and the Stamp Act and Sugar Act were not popular anywhere. Boston Harbor was not the only body of water embittered by huge quantities of Indian tea. But for the rebellion to spread so far, so fast? How was this possible?

“Quebec?” Adams virtually shrieked. “How the hell did Quebec fall? It took a damned army to claim it from Montcalm!”

“Apparently, Massachusetts sent an army, or what passes for one. The fall of the greatest fortification in North America may have been expedited by the lack of a significant garrison and the fact that the locals opened the damned gates for the Americans, or Columbians, whatever this little rebellious cult may call themselves.”

“Quebec,” Adams repeated, abandoning his stoic, attentive stance and pacing about the room. “How is this possible? How could the Army be so incompetent?”

“There were Loyalists throughout the colonies,” Clavering replied grimly, “particularly in the southern colonies. But they were defeated piecemeal as they didn’t have an iota of support from the mother country. Hell, maybe we deserve to lose the colonies.”

If the two Englishmen were shocked, Ochterlony was stunned. The Boston-born youth witnessed the anger and resentment endemic to the colonies at the high-handed treatment by the metropolis. But Ochterlony always assumed that a peaceful, face-saving compromise would be found, the army reportedly dispatched under General Howe never intended for use other than negotiating leverage. Breed’s Hill and Dorchester Heights in 1775 put an end to that theory and the dispatch of so many British Regulars to America left the soldier fearful of his family’s safety. That the virtual entirety of America would similarly rise up in revolt shocked even Ochterlony to the core. At least with the British withdrawal from Boston, the Lieutenant’s home would not face imminent reprisal. There was still a chance of a negotiated solution before the King’s Men scour the rebellion from the Atlantic shores. Restoring control over the port of New York, and possibly Quebec or Charleston, would no doubt be the King’s priorities over the cold northern harbor in Massachusetts.

Up until that point, Ochterlony’s greatest fear was that the unrest would hamper the delivery of remittances from his father. Now the youthful officer wondered if he would ever see a packet again. Fortunately, his recent promotion, and the minor increased subsidy in salary, would allow the Lieutenant to retain his private quarters and mistress in comfort. God knew Lila comforted him on a nightly basis.

“It won’t come to that, General,” Adams comforted the obviously distressed superior officer. Despite the reverses of the previous war in Bengal and Germany, British supremacy in America had been the Empire’s only saving grace. “His Majesty will not lose his colonies.”

“Well, Howe has been given an impressive force despite those Regiments the King dispatched to the Americas South to support the Portuguese against Spanish aggression,” Clavering nodded. “With luck, after a whipping or two on the battlefield, the farmers will come to their senses and return to due obedience to the King.”

Ochterlony knew enough not to visually bristle at the contemptuous dismissal of his countrymen as “farmers”, a common slight as most Englishmen viewed colonists as country bumpkins. Few of his colleagues uttered a word regarding the Lieutenant’s origins, most probably assuming the rebellion would have been crushed by now. Disturbed, Ochterlony realized the worst may yet come.

“Well, that wasn’t the reason I summoned you, Adams. Well, at least not the primary one,” the General gestured towards a stack of post, piled high upon his desk. “The fat old Nawab of Arcot has finally admitted he cannot possibly pay off his debts. In fairness, the man is doing the honorable thing and offering to remit his bills in another manner.”

Furrowing his brow, Adams inquired, “He actually agreed to your proposal?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t have believed it either. But his correspondence to the King has resulted in an agreement. For cancellation of his debts to the East India Company, the Nawab of Arcot formally ceded the territory of Madurai to the Company.”

As Ochterlony hastily scribbled his notes, the young officer feverishly thought back to the myriad discussions regarding Britain’s few allies on the continent. The Nawab of Arcot directly or indirectly through arcane feudal obligations ruled much of the southeastern coast of the subcontinent. Ambitious for more power, the Nawab spent the past two decades borrowing from the Company to fund his assaults on the plague-infested lands of his vassals and neighbors. Though he succeeded as often as he failed, the cumulative debts placed the Nawab in greater and greater disadvantage. Perhaps his finest achievement was securing the command of Madurai, a territory near the southern tip of India. For him to simply hand over the fruit of his labors for so many years to the British East India Company must be mortifying. However, the man’s obligations must be enormous by now, far too much for the Company to simply write off. Indeed, the interest payments alone helped keep the bankrupt organization afloat, often subsidizing the taxes and tariffs on trade in order to maintain the Company Army. The complaining Factor’s wails about the loss of these regular payments for the past few years suddenly came into focus. No doubt, the Nawab had spent that much time in negotiation with Clavering’s superiors in London for the discharge of his debt.

“Amazing,” Adams intoned. “At least with Bengal, Clive had to conquer. It never crossed my mind that the subcontinent could simply be…bought.”

“Yes, it may have made the eviction from Bengal unnecessary,” Clavering set back in his chair, nodding as another aide swept in and dumped yet another load of dispatched upon the General’s desk. Ochterlony continued to scratch notes onto his parchment, uncertain of what to summarize. With Adams, it was best to simply record everything one heard.

“There is more. Naturally, the Crown desires reliable forces in Madurai. The Surat Regiments will be expanding to an additional Battalion each and dispatching them to Madurai. Apparently, the King has also deigned to issue the 37th of Foot to India.”

Adams brow raised and Clavering nodded, “Yes, the first line Regiment in India in over a decade. Quite the honor, really, though I suspect it shall be severely understrength the day she lands in Madurai and more so in the following months as the men acclimate or die.”

“No doubt, sir.”

“More importantly, Adams,” the General sighed. “His Majesty has appointed a new Commander-in-Chief of India and he shall not be me. The latest dispatches do not state whom this shall be but that the gentlemen shall sail to India…well, he probably sailed months ago.”

Clavering bore nominal authority over the semi-independent British factory at Surat and the smaller, lightly protected trading forts along the west coast of India and those of the Carnatic. That he rarely enforced such authority on local commanders did not matter. Clavering had been subordinated to another man and that could not help but be received as a reprimand or token of lack of confidence.

Attempting to put a cheery face on the unspoken backhand to Clavering’s pride, Adams assured him, “I have no doubt that our new Commander-in-Chief shall take station in Madurai. I suspect your daily duties shall not differ greatly.”

“Hmmm, yes, I suppose,” the General replied grudgingly, his eyes cast out the office’s windows. “But we have our orders as well. The Marathas have been getting uppity lately, especially concerning our…pensioner…here in Bombay. I’ve been ordered to keep the peace with the Peshwa no matter the cost.

“Apparently, the Frenchies and Spanish have caused enough indigestion over the past years in London that the potential for war approaches daily with both powers. Though I loathe the expedience, the Colonial Office wants to remove any conceivable thorns in our relationship with His Imperial Eminence, the Peshwa of the Maratha Confederacy, Emperor of the Mughals or whatever Vishwarao’s titles are these days.”

Clavering reached across his desk and gathered up a series of rolled parchments, obviously orders.

“Unfortunately, the duty of delivering our Pensioner to the Emperor falls to you now that Forde is laid up with malaria. Go to Poonah. Keep the peace with the Marathas. Some of the southern Kingdoms will not appreciate Britain assuming command of Madurai, notably Mysore. The last thing we need is the greatest power in India dispatching a hundred thousand soldiers to Surat or Bombay and wipe us as thoroughly from the west coast of the subcontinent as France and Bengal did the east coast in the last war.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1777

Rio de Janeiro

“…and we shall take great comfort in the myriad manners in which His Serene Highness, Count Wilhelm of Schaumburg-Lippe, has enriched the armed forces of his adopted country.”

Major General William Draper knew Viscount Downe in passing but had no occasion for extended intercourse. Like any soldier, Draper recognized and conceded the fellow’s military expertise, and the political classes may recall his modest contributions to Parliament prior to inheriting his father’s Peerage. Of average height and build, the sixtyish Briton represented the typical poise of the aristocracy.

What Lord Downe was emphatically not was an orator. A soldier by choice, the Lieutenant General eulogized his superior officer in the most stilted of terms, emphasizing the soldier but not the man. Count Lippe was a remarkable tactician and strategist, but surely there could be some words as to his character?

The great man’s passing was infinitely regrettable. In the face of losing his little German principality twenty years past to the ravenous hordes of Britain’s continental enemies, the nobleman exhibited no note of vituperation towards George II of Great Britain for his role in initiating the Five Years’ War. The Count lost his patrimony, but the British King sacrificed his beloved Hanover in the same peace. Even when the gleeful victors arbitrarily handed over the tiny German County of Lippe to the French King, Lippe made no objection. He was childless, his line doomed to end, and the cousins destined to inherit Schaumburg-Lippe were compensated by the Holy Roman Emperor with an even larger territory confiscated from lands once pledged to Frederick the Fool of Prussia.

If rumors were to be believed, Count Lippe even wrote the Emperor a polite letter of gratitude for not disinheriting his cousins. While other exiled Princes feasted off the British public’s largesse, the House of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel most prominently, and routinely embarrassed George III with their outrageous antics, Lippe merely offered his service to his host in any manner the King of Britain should desire as Lippe “had no other occupation at the moment”.

Surely, that counts for more than a tedious narrative on Count Lippe’s contribution to the British Army’s regulation on billeting!

Lippe was granted command of the expedition to the Banda Oriental (Eastern Bank) of South America where the Spanish and Portuguese Empires had long contested the border. As Britain’s sole remaining ally, King Joseph of Portugal demanded assistance else his British “brother” could expect no succor from Portugal in his own war with Spain and France. Having braved the rigors of the Atlantic crossing in late 1776, Count Lippe swiftly disembarked upon arrival in Rio de Janeiro and proceeded to whip the Portuguese Army forces on hand into some semblance of shape. It turns out the fellow had plenty of time as, evidently, the Spanish and Portuguese Chief Ministers were discussing a peaceful settlement to the dispute, much to the annoyance of every Briton present. King George had generously provided several British Regiments and a flotilla of warships to the King of Portugal to settle the long-standing quarrel between the Iberians regarding the borders of New Spain and Brazil. Now, Joseph decided to “negotiate” behind his ally’s back? The Portuguese contingent, intended to provide the bulk of the campaign’s victuals and transports, were ordered to halt any offensive actions until all diplomatic options were exhausted.

For months, the increasingly irate British forces camped under the pestilential tropical sun, hundreds of soldiers sickening and dying. Meanwhile, who knew what preparations the Spaniards were making in expectation of an assault? How many would die for this diplomatic folly?

The very day a dispatch arrived from Lisbon authorizing commencement of hostilities, Count Lippe succumbed to illness. Long since exhausted and depressed by the loss of his homeland, Lippe was in ill health, three months at sea having done nothing alleviate this, nor did six months in the tropics. Yet even approaching death, Lippe fulfilled to his duty. The wretched collection of Portuguese Regiments and Brazilian colonial militia now resembled soldiers, provisions stockpiled, and ships seized for transport. On the verge of the belated commencement of the campaign, the old German left his mortal coil, leaving the dour Lord Downe in command.

Only this impromptu service in honor of the late Count held the fleet for another day. Dozens of senior officers, British and Portuguese, Army and Navy, alighted a hill overlooking the sea to pay their respects. Sweat drenched most of the men present, a fact of life near the equator. Oddly, the Count was nowhere to be seen. Declining to be buried locally, the German was currently en route back to Britain, his body lodged into a barrel of rum to stymy decay. Draper was not certain if the latest lord of Lippe would allow his predecessor’s corpse to be buried in his native soil, but the soldier prayed so. The man merited that final dignity.

Still, Draper could not stifle the image of some sailor mistakenly distributing the rum barrel for sale and a London pub discovering a grizzly corpse pickling within. Stranger things had happened.

Thankfully, Lorde Downe’s somewhat affected but sincere speech on Count Lippe’s virtues drew to its belabored conclusion, much to the relief of all present. The sun continued to beat down upon the frustrated officers, no less irate at Downe dragging them up this hill to receive his odd martial sermon than the distraction from their duty. Lippe was dead, Downe now commanded.

Could we not get on with the war?

Though the sky remained steadily blue, there must have been a few clouds above as a momentary sprinkle dowsed the soldiers’ heads. Even Admiral Hood, on good terms with the late General, appeared dismayed at the squandered time. Presently, Lord Downe nodded and announced the departure of the combined fleets two days hence.

At last, Draper considered with relish. The war may begin.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1777

New York

Groaning in abject rapture, Sean Campbell climaxed, releasing his seed into the panting girl writhing beneath. Gasping for air, the Scot rolled his bulk off of the petite form below him and moved to wrap Mairi’s trembling form in the blankets Helen had so considerately provided for her young friend’s illicit liaison in the cavernous stable. Mairi giggled slightest, shivering in the sudden cold as a gust of wind sliced through an unseen gap between the solid planks lining the walls, and snuggled closer to her lover, her naked form glistening with sweat. Like a fretful mother, Campbell dabbed at the perspiration at once, fearing the girl might catch a chill. Ignoring his protective efforts, Mairi McGill shifted the blankets over both their naked bodies, an immediate respite from the sudden chill following the completion of their latest round of exertions.

“God bless Helen,” Mairi giggled, her raven hair strewn haphazardly about her face, “We might have frozen to death after the second time.”

Campbell chuckled, pleased to have survived a third round with his voracious companion, and gazed about the barn. A handful of animals munched on various forms of feed in the stalls but the huge bale of hay upon which the lovers lay satisfied and spent offered a measure of privacy from the livestock’s dull eyes. God bless Helen, indeed. The twenty-year-old’s parents had graciously taken winter in England, leaving their lively daughter a free rein to run her own affairs. With only a pair of discrete servants, Helen Mays gently encouraged her young friend Mairi McGill to take advantage of the unprecedented freedom with “her soldier” during the lady’s thrice-weekly “luncheons”. Mairi’s father, naturally, had no idea of his daughter’s true intentions when she announced her latest visit to Helen. Evidently, the elder Scot never noticed that his youngest daughter’s visits to her friend Helen mystifyingly coincided with his part-time employee’s days off.

The only true hindrance to their encounters occurred when Mairi’s elder sisters demanded to know why Helen only invited Mairi to visit. Irritated, Mairi managed to wrangle an invitation to the Elizabeth and Sarah on Friday’s only, explaining that “Helen has hardly been given the funds to entertain the whole of New York. Don’t embarrass her by forcing my friend to admit such a private condition!” Shamed by their younger sister, the other McGill women promptly withdrew their protests and made no further note of the matter, which served Campbell’s purposes to no end. Though only actually working three afternoons a week, Campbell claimed to his officer (whom, naturally, demanded a percentage of his salary to look the other way) that the ropemaker demanded his fellow Scot every day.

“So what shall ye tell Helen this evening, eh?” Campbell inquired playfully, eying the girl’s milky skin for a moment before throwing an old but clean horse blanket over their intertwined forms. Both shivered slightly as their body temperatures rose. “Did the British army provide ye with what you were seeking, my dear?”

Mairi giggled again, embarrassed she’d let slip Helen’s demand to know what Scotsmen really have under those kilts. “Enough to keep me coming back for more, Sean!”

Both lovers broke into laughter, the motion doing interesting things to their mingling bodies. Though of significantly higher station than the common Scottish peasant girls of his home village, Campbell found Mairi’s embrace of the physical quite enlightening. After weeks of careful efforts to insinuate himself into her life at every opportunity (with the watchful glare of Mr. McGill ever present), the soldier finally found a moment alone to confess his feeling for the girl, expecting a swift termination of his employment as a result. Stunningly, Mairi had thrown herself into his arms and whispered instructions of where they might meet in secret. And so, throughout the depths of the New York winter, Sean Campbell discovered a most profound new manner of keeping properly warm. In the afterglow, the pair would often speak of the future and the past.

Unexpectedly, during their first, fumbling foray into the haystack, Campbell determined he hadn’t been the first man to escort Mairi McGill into its pleasures. Laughing at his astonished face, the girl admitted her curiosity at THE ACT had gotten the best of her and a childhood friend had taken her virginity the previous year (and his, as Mairi conjectured by her friend’s lack of skill). If anything, this spurred the Scotsman to expend every effort to make his lover forget the fellow’s name. After this first rendezvous, Mairi whispered in Campbell ear that he’d not only achieved that task but, for a moment, she’d forgotten her own. In the soft, firm contours of Mairi McGill’s body, Sean Campbell found the comfort he’d never truly experienced in the arms of the dried out tarts he’d occasionally conserved the funds to call upon. Certainly, Mairi’s exuberant embrace overwhelmed the memories disinterested whores raising their skirts and urging the soldier to do his business so they might seek out another client.

Occasionally, the couple discussed their future, though in his heart of hearts, Campbell could not imagine a day when the ropemaker would tolerate any daughter of his to marry a common soldier. Nor could the Scot blame him. Though not of the first rank, the McGills were still several stations above an enlisted man, largely trapped in the army for life. And Sean would never countenance the thought of the delicate girl living the harsh life of a Regimental wife, living in tents and raising money for her husband by sewing or cooking for the officers. No, Mairi could be expected to find a clerk or a merchant or even a junior officer seeking a wife of quality, if not a massive dowry. The ropewalk was not prospering in time of war and the family fortunes declined by the day without a steady source of hemp. Most of McGill’s laborers had moved on to the army or some other field of endeavor, leaving McGill willing to continue to employ a part time soldier. Obsessed with the man’s daughter, the younger Scot determined never to offer a hint of trouble to his employer, earning the occasional compliment from McGill, a rarity for the stolid and stern ropemaker.

In turn, Mairi, unique among her sisters, never bemoaned his father’s prohibition to socialize with British officers. McGill, like so many Scots, had never forgiven the English massacres during the Jacobite Uprising, despite being a staunch supporter of the Protestant King. So much of the land had been destroyed, subjugated by English carpetbaggers, and left to ruin. The depravations of the British Army in his adopted land, along with continued lewd comments directed towards his daughters by British officers, left the Scot’s temper near its breaking point. When a British Major, a fat fellow from Ulster named Marsters, arrived at the ropewalk bearing a wagon of baggage and an official writ from the Military Governor to house the officer free of charge, Campbell had been convinced the elder Scot would cut the man down then and there. With admirable (and unexpected) restraint, McGill welcomed the officer into his home with a warning that, should the soldier’s hands ever stray in the direction of Mrs. McGill or his daughters, the Major might find his throat slit in his sleep. Visibly paling, the unwelcome guest nodded and followed the growling ropemaker toward his home.

“And he never has!” Mairi stifled a giggle, “Though he might have been caught staring admiringly at my brother once or twice!”

“Well, aye imagine ye father hadn’t thought of that!”

The couple stifled their laughter, noting the setting sun. The expected time for a visit to a friend’s parlor for lunch and tea had long since elapsed and Mairi would likely have to explain the extended absence to her mother. Campbell wrapped his tartan properly and pulled on his shirt as the wind beat a somber note upon the sturdy frame of the barn. With a heavy heart, Campbell watched his lover dress, fearing the return of Helen Mays’ parents in the summer would put end to the finest moments of his life. With a longing glance as she straightened her shawl, Mairi leaned down to kiss her soldier and promised to return in two days and slipped away to bid goodbye to her friend (and possibly gossip on Campbell’s performance), leaving the Corporal to his thoughts. As always upon separation from Mairi, his mood abruptly turned gloomy for even the promise of a swift reunion proved little comfort.

I simply cannot provide her with what she deserves, he considered for the thousandth time. The army has become my prison and I shall be trapped to my dying day.

In the despondency of his inevitable separation from Mairi McGill, even his long-harbored fears of castration at the hands of her father loomed not so heavy in the comparison. As the soldier pulled on his stockings, Campbell momentarily recalled the rumors of Columbian offers of free land on the frontier for those British soldiers deserting their Regiments. The prospect had always struck the Scot as contemptible but, if Mairi McGill were the prize….

Campbell determinedly pushed those thoughts away. Scots do not abandon their comrades like the spineless English or insufferable Irish, that had been drilled into him since birth. Though impoverished as the British regular might be, his was an honorable profession, one gloried throughout the highlands. Deserters deserved the most brutal of punitive measures, the most bottomless of scorn. As it was, Sean Campbell sat silently in the Mays’ barn for a very long time, listening to the solemn whistle of the winter winds.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1777

Paris

Since the arrival of Benjamin Franklin and Arthur Lee upon French shores in late December, the three-man American Mission to Versailles (including Silas Deane, who had remained in Paris throughout 1776) spent the January negotiating with Vergennes and de Choiseul. Given the ease at which the French Ministers agreed to most of the American terms, Franklin assumed that King Louis’ men were prepared for his projected Treaty.

Unfortunately, the French were NOT willing to accede to American provisos regarding Louis’ ascendancy over Acadia…or even full French recognition of American hegemony over New Orleans. THOSE portions of the Treaty were left deliberately vague.

But Franklin received more promises of desperately required hard currency, munitions, muskets, cannon, textiles, and other materials of war. The Columbian drove a hard bargain, though the process took several weeks. Foreseeing victory, the aged Philadelphian would turn many of the “loans” to “gifts” while also receiving French assurances of direct military support in the form of a Division of French forces and, more importantly, a squadron of French Naval vessels to counteract the British domination at sea.

“You know what this means, Benjamin,” Deane grinned playfully as the trio exited Versailles, “You get to travel…once again…across the Atlantic to present the Treaty to Congress!”

“Don’t be absurd, Silas,” the elder man retorted. “I just spent two months at sea…that brings me to SIX over the past calendar year. You return the Treaty of Paris to Congress.”

The Virginian Arthur Lee inserted mildly, “I am afraid he is right, Benjamin. You were the lead negotiator…and the most respected man in the United States of Columbia. Not everyone will be pleased with the Treaty. To ensure its passage, you must be present to vouch for it personally in Congress. Neither Silas nor I will do.”

“But…but…” Franklin whined, “I just GOT to Paris. I had hoped to remain for several years at least…”

“Such is the responsibility you bear, Ben,” Deane smugly retorted. “Arthur misses home, so he will be carrying a copy upon a separate ship on the chance yours will be intercepted. King Louis has been kind enough to provide several fast clippers for our use…which will also carry some badly required munitions and funds. I suggest that we…meaning you…take advantage of this before His Most Christian Majesty changes his Royal Mind.”

Utterly despondent at the idea of abandoning Paris once more, the Pennsylvanian did as his friend’s bid and prepared for yet another eight-week crossing of the Atlantic.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1777

Savannah

General Robert Howe ordered the 1st Georgia onto the makeshift parade grounds. Under an early spring squall, the soldiers were required to stand at attention as their commander made the following announcement:

“Noble men of the 1st Georgia, with our fellows of the 2nd Georgia, and a large body of militia, will soon embark upon a great crusade to liberate St. Augustine, East Florida from the forces of His Majesty, King George III of Great Britain…”

The remainder of Howe’s speech was immediately drawn out as the 1st Georgia erupted into spontaneous, euphoric celebration. For the past six months, the Georgians had arduously trained in order to turn the two local regiments into functional soldiery. Now, Georgia was rejoining the War of Independence for the first time since politely escorting Governor Wright to the docks of Savannah.

Sergeant Klaus Durrenmatt was more than a little disgusted at the lack of discipline though the German noted that General Howe indulgently allowed the Georgians their celebrations. Presently, his son, Lieutenant Hans Durrenmatt arrived at his father’s side and stage-whispered, “It seems that the Durrenmatt men return to war, father, at last. How do you think we will fare?”

Irritated by the younger man’s jubilation, the veteran snapped, “I ‘tink a fifth these men will die of disease in the next six months…and I give even odds of even REACHING St. Augustine. Perhaps when this war over, you will give up your youthful fantasies regarding the “charm” of combat. It nothing but death…as you will learn.”

Vexed by his father’s unnecessarily sharp retort, Hans riposted, “If you are such a pacifistic bent, father, why do you not merely join the Quakers or Mennonites and leave soldiering to me?”

“Because my idiot son need looking after, that is why.”

With that, the Lieutenant turned on his heel and stalked off.


March, 1777

Off the coast of the Carnatic - Southeastern India

The French East India Company beat the British to the punch. Having received the news of the formal concession of Madurai, a minor province in southern India, by the Nawab of the Carnatic to King George, the French East India Company, duly supported by the French Navy, immediately attacked all British possessions along the Carnatic. French land forces in the Circars to the north slowly gathered as diplomats urgently dispatched pleas for assistance to the local Indian princes for military assistance. Neither the Nizam of Hyderabad, an old French ally, nor the Maratha Empire expressed any overt amount of interest in the remote territory.

Sultan Haider Ali of Mysore, however, proved much more amenable. Long an enemy of the British, the Sultan could not abide such a valuable strip of land falling into the hands of the British East India Company, be that establishment in bankruptcy or not. That the incompetent British puppet, the Nawab, did not realize that Haider Ali would never allow this travesty to occur eloquently proved the man’s incapacity. But the fat Nawab could be dealt with later.

Even as war raged at sea, the Sultan order his son to gather up Mysore’s plague-depleted forces. Negotiations with the French proceeded smoothly. By spring, the forces of Mysore and the French East India Company were already in motion even as the British Commander-in-Chief of India arrived directly in the Carnatic.

General Alexander Massey, a stoutly-built Scot, found the Nawab in a terrible state, rambling about impending doom and vast armies on the march. Already disgusted with his “ally”, Massey prepared for war, praying reinforcements arrived in short order.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March 1777

Lisbon

The Marquis de Pombal struggled to conceal his anxiety from atop the rocky outcropping overlooking Lisbon’s sprawling harbor as the British officer jabbered away in his vulgar Germanic language. The harsh inflections of English, German and Dutch always seemed so guttural compared to the melodic elegance of Portuguese, as evidenced by the translator. Pombal was only half-listening to either of the twits. The message was obvious, anyway, even had Pombal not spoken near-perfect English. This was an ultimatum, really there was no other word for it, reciprocity for services rendered by the Briton’s country on behalf of Portugal.

Less than a year prior, Pombal urgently requested British assistance to recover some border territory in southern Brazil from encroaching Spaniards. The land itself had proven of little value but the hope remained of future benefit. Further, this might be the Spanish King’s first step toward seizing the whole of Brazil, the wealth of which effectively funded the entire Portuguese Empire. Such border disputes were common and often remained entirely local, allowing the respective mother countries to remain in relative peace. His age-old British allies, though mired in their own colonial rebellion, grudgingly consented to provide ships and soldiers to assist King Joseph. The pestilence-driven collapse of Brazil’s economy sapped the colony’s capacity to defend itself, leaving Pombal with no recourse. The idea of Spanish hegemony over the Americas…and the potential of Portuguese support for a Spanish blockade of Gibraltar, forced George III’s hand.

Witnessing the dozen British warships congregating within the open expanses of Lisbon’s busy harbor, towering timber masts a veritable forest emerging from the azure water, the Portuguese Secretary of State recognized the enormity of his error. With more Royal Navy vessels sure to arrive in short order, Pombal’s breath constricted as he desperately sought a way out of his predicament.

Only a few hundred miles to the south, the bulk of the Spanish fleet, along with the French Mediterranean squadron, blockaded the peninsula of Gibraltar, the symbol of British naval superiority even as tens of thousands of Spanish and French soldiers invested the landward side. A tiny outcropping jutting towards Africa, Britain’s seizure near a century ago grated on Spanish national honor. Despite a half-dozen attempts to regain the stronghold in as many wars, the British never relinquished it, giving their Navy a commanding base at the gates of the Mediterranean. This display of martial power assured Portuguese Kings for generations of the wisdom of this alliance.

Britain now requested (i.e. demanded) Portuguese assistance in retaining it. Beyond granting unfettered use of his nation’s fine harbors as bases, the British Admiral expected the whole of the Portuguese fleet at his side when the British fleet sailed to relieve the fortress. Naturally, the Spanish and French Ambassadors threatened grave consequences for this folly. Great Britain, while often supreme at sea, maintained a small army currently occupied in suppressing their colonial rebellion. Yes, Spain and France had played their hand quite well, indeed. In the past, the British Kings took advantage of their enemies’ commitments on the continent to aggrandize colonial empires. Apparently, the Bourbon powers had finally learned this lesson and exploited British obligations abroad to eject King George from the Continent. Spain and France’s armies were enormous and much, much closer to Portugal’s borders than any British support. Pombal also could guess as to the performance of the undertrained and poorly equipped Portuguese Army should Spanish soldiers cross the frontier.

In hindsight, Pombal would have preferred to take Portugal’s chances alone against Spain the Americas south. Now, the conflict may breach Portuguese borders.

Ah, King Joseph, how I’ve failed you!

 

[Alt History Buff]

1777 - March

Halifax

Still stinking of fish, Henri Dejardins cursed as he continued to soap himself off in the back corner of Eric Conrad's smokehouse. Though the heat from the flames shed enough warmth throughout the solid structure that Dejardins didn't shiver as he washed, the smell of fish, salt and smoke pervaded his every pore. Realizing that he would not get any cleaner, the Acadian reached for the spare set of clothing he'd collected before arriving at the smokehouse that morning. Smoothing out his Sunday shirt and breeches, Henri concluded that he was as presentable as he was ever likely to get.

Collecting his tricorne and coat, Dejardins braced himself before returning to the streets of Halifax. Exiting the building, he was pleasantly surprised by the absence of the bone-chilling cold Acadians had long since accustomed themselves to in March. Without any discernable breeze blowing up from the Atlantic, the bright sun offered a desperately needed source of cheer for the winter-bound citizens of Halifax. The ground, frozen only a few days ago, yielded to his weight as mud oozed alongside his freshly polished boots. The snow was in full retreat, leaving only a few isolated mounds here and there.

While the winter of 1777 failed to match its predecessor in intensity, no one referred to it as mild. Dejardins would have no complaints if mother nature took pity on the miserable inhabitants of Acadia and offered them an early spring. The young man sniffed momentarily at this clothing and frowned as he discerned some lingering fish scent. However, the cheer of the day reflected itself in the gaily painted homes and shops of Halifax. Approaching the Halifax Inn, Dejardins straightened his clothing once more and entered the establishment. At once, he inhaled deeply as the heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread and stew permeated the Inn.

As he peered around the common area, he noted few patrons present, the dinner hour still hours away. Most of the fishermen had yet to return from their long voyages to the Atlantic’s fertile fishing grounds and business always suffered in mid-week. To the rear, Dejardins overheard several voices muttering angrily. Recognizing some of the voices, he was certain that Eric Conrad's was among them. However, the two figures busily occupied with polishing the Inn’s utensils soon captured his attention. Inhaling deeply, Dejardins dodged through the various tables that littered the floor and approached the two petite forms.

Tipping his hat, the Acadian offered as politely as he could manage, "Marie, Estelle, I hope you are well."

Both women smiled warmly at him. Dejardins was pleased to note a slight blush on Estelle's face. Her older sister smirked a bit in amusement and inquired, "Would you care for some stew, Henri? Estelle cooked a kettle this morning."

"Thank you kindly, Marie, that would be divine," Dejardins managed to return as he attempted not to stare at Estelle who had demurely returned to the polishing.

With a knowing smile, Marie retreated to the kitchen, leaving the others to chat. Estelle pointedly didn't look at Dejardins as she asked coyly, "And how are you, Henri? A little early in the day for dinner, is it not?"

Estelle favored her older sister's pale complexion and delicate features. Her long black hair, typically tied into a simple bun, contrasted with the dark blue eyes that frequently caused Dejardins forget his own name. Trim and petite like her sister, the soft-spoken nineteen-year-old girl had infatuated Dejardins from the start.

"I confess sometimes I come in simply for the company, Estelle," he managed to choke out. While some considered his features handsome, Dejardins’ humble upbringing hadn’t provided the polish necessary for formal town courting rituals. Fortunately, Estelle preferred directness over elegance and refinement.

"Dejardins!!" came a bellow from the back rooms. Nearly jumping out of his skin, the Acadian turned to find Paul Gaston bearing down on him from one of the back rooms. Over fifty-years-old, age hadn’t slowed the strapping farmer a whit.

The younger man immediately checked to make sure he had maintained a respectable distance from Estelle as he greeted his senior in a tone he hoped would be construed as courteous but not obsequious, "Mr. Gaston, good day to you. I thought I'd stop by and sample a taste of Marie and Estelle's cuisine. Care to join me for an ale?"

The hulking farmer, who reached Dejardins' height but nearly twice his girth, replied with a grunt, "Yes, that would be fine, Henri. I notice you've been stopping by quite often, especially when my daughter is here."

The elder Acadian settled at a nearby table and shouted for two mugs. With a polite nod to Estelle, Dejardins dropped into a chair opposite him. With a clattering racket, Gaston dropped his heavy wooden walking stick on the table and peered back towards the bar to ensure that Eric Conrad moved to obey his command. Dejardins noted the Rhode Islander failing to stifle his laughter as he approached a barrel behind the counter. Few people managed to remain un-intimidated by the imperious Paul Gaston. Conrad was one of them. Dejardins suspected that was one of the reasons why the two were close enough for Gaston to permit his elder daughter to marry a "damn Brit".

Still staring impatiently at the bar for his ale, Gaston inquired, "So answer me, boy! Are you coming in just for the food?"

Off-put by the blunt question, Dejardins stuttered, "Er, no, Mr. Gaston, I do not. I….rather enjoy my rare moments with Estelle whom I've grown quite fond of."

"Well, obviously, boy!" the older man retorted as he finally turned his attention on the nervous youth. "Any idiot can see that! Do you not think I pay careful attention to who my daughter speaks with?"

Dejardins sneaked a glance towards the bar to spy Estelle staring at them in absolute mortification at her father's gruff behavior. For his part, Eric Conrad could no longer conceal his laugher at the scene. However, Dejardins knew the older man well enough to let him rant. A French patriot from the previous war, Gaston fought as a volunteer in the Quebec militia. Like Dejardins, Gaston suffered the loss of his family farm outside Montreal when the treacherous British expelled the French from Canada. In the decade since, Gaston cut yet another prosperous farm out of the Acadian wilderness with the help of his three sons and two daughters.

"Yes, sir….I mean, no, sir! I couldn't imagine you doing anything else," Dejardins replied hoping the verbal barrage would end.

Instead, the older man just tapped his walking stick in an almost loving manner. Nervously, Dejardins recalled the occasion a few weeks prior when an inebriated fisherman imprudently attempted to take liberties with Estelle as she attempted to serve his table. Dejardins leapt up to her defense immediately, however his assistance hadn't been necessary. The sailor never saw the blow coming from behind. Incensed at the disrespectful behavior towards his daughter, the outraged father brained the drunken fool with the same stout cane Gaston now lovingly caressed. Any thoughts Dejardins might have had of enticing Estelle into an illicit encounter died that moment. The sailor had yet to return to employment, his cracked skull surely entrusted to his mother’s care for the foreseeable future.

"Well, of course not," Gaston agreed as if no other possible response existed. Dejardins was rescued momentarily as the still-chuckling proprietor delivered a pair of overflowing mugs to his father-in-law. Conrad favored the young man with a wink and returned to his work.

Taking a large swig, the elder man inquired as he sampled the flavor on his palate, "So, Henri Dejardins, what are your plans with that farm of yours? I've been out there several times, you know."

Surprised by the change of subject, Dejardins' mind raced. After their expulsion from Canada and the murder of his father, the family quickly settled upon a promising site for a farm. Though much of Acadia's soil was rocky, a few natural meadows presented themselves. Given the massive amount of manpower and hours required to clear an acre of forest, the family considered themselves lucky to find terrain that allowed the opportunity for immediate farming. After building a comfortable log cabin, the thin sides of a plank house would not do in the northern winters, they'd set upon planting fruit trees and growing enough wheat to feed themselves. After a few years of arduous toil, the farm prospered.

"No, sir," Dejardins responded wondering at Gaston's intentions, "Though I understand that one of your sons has recently purchased the property adjacent to my homestead."

Nodding, Gaston turned his full attention on the younger man, "I saw that your fields lay fallow, have been for a while."

Speculating that Gaston was concerned about his prospects, Dejardins reminded him, "Only for a year, sir. I tended that farm with my late mother and grandfather for half my life. I'd never abandon it. I lost the last growing season only because I fought in the militia at Fort Edward and Fort Anne. As soon as the war is over, I shall return to the soil."

"And this year?" Gaston pressed pointedly "Will you be planting come spring?"

Though he knew that the larger man would expect any prospective son-in-law to be financially stable, Dejardins was obligated to answered forthrightly, "Probably not, Mr. Gaston. Not while the British still walk freely Acadian soil. I won't lay down my musket until they are gone forever, especially after enticing so many friends and neighbors into the new Halifax Company. I cannot, in good conscience, abandon them before the war is won."

For a long moment, Gaston regarded the younger man silently. Suspecting that he just destroyed his chances with Estelle, Dejardins lowered his gaze to reach for his mug. The warm amber ale hadn't even passed his throat before a savage blow landed across his back. Head snapping forward, the Acadian gagged and gasped for air as the ale regurgitated through Dejardins' mouth and nose. Through tear-streamed eyes, Dejardins looked up to see the older man looking down upon him, an unaccustomed smile on his lips. Gaston's fist continued to pound the stricken Acadian on the back.

"Well said, my boy, well said," the beaming man bellowed, "I can't tell you how many of our own people I've wanted to tear in half for putting their own self-interest before their country. It's good to find an actual patriot!"

Through his inarticulate choking rasps, Dejardins managed to smile.


Later:


Gazing at his reflection in tavern window, Henri Dejardins nodded in satisfaction at the figure he cut. His white breeches, with matching the vest and coat, had been properly mended and bleached. After a good resoling and polishing, his boots could pass as new. The heavy pack hung over his back was held firmly in place by double straps crisscrossing his chest. Ostensibly requisitioned for him during his prior year's service in the militia, Dejardins had conveniently forgotten to return the durable bag after his discharge. The pack contained a spare shirt and a few other personal items. A canteen and powder horn slung around his waist.

Peering especially close, Dejardins admired the closely cropped beard that had grown in nicely over the past several months. Upon receiving Paul Gaston's official blessing to court his daughter, Dejardins doted on the young woman as often as he deemed proper. During one evening stroll through Halifax, Estelle mentioned offhandedly that she found beards rather dashing. Naturally, to please her, Dejardins immediately ceased shaving. Soon thereafter, he was rewarded with a passable beard which he kept nattily trimmed.

Nodding once more in approval at his reflection, the newly minted Lieutenant Henri Dejardins of the 1st Halifax Company strutted down the street toward the gathering place that Captain Moreau had ordered the volunteers to meet. Upon opting to reenlist for another year's service, Dejardins pressed several of the growing community's civic leaders to help organize and fund a full company of Acadian regulars for the campaign against the British forts to the north. Dozens of local men had in fact volunteered the previous year. However, they had been forced to travel to other towns in hopes of joining a regiment. Dejardins called upon the community's pride to aid their countrymen in their struggles.

Surprisingly, the city fathers had listened and agreed to guarantee wages for up to one hundred men. While General Leduc had expansively vowed to subsidize their Acadian allies by reimbursing their officer's salaries and enlisted men's wages with French gold, far too many soldiers, including Dejardins, had never received the promised arrears and presumably never would. With the encouragement of so many leading citizens, Dejardins personally recruited the majority of the hundred-man company. Jacque Moreau, an experienced veteran of the last war and a wealthy fisherman, was promptly selected as Captain. Then, to Dejardins' shock, he found himself appointed Moreau's Lieutenant.

"Well, why not, Dejardins?" snapped Moreau impatiently. "You demanded the formation of the Halifax Company. You recruited and enlisted the majority of the men. You served as sergeant at both Fort Edward and Fort Anne. Your family was among the first residents of this area and no one has forgotten your father's murder by the damned lobsters! Who the hell else should be Lieutenant?"

Eric Conrad added, "Its true, Henri. There isn't a single local resident with recent experience as an officer, or even in your case, as a non-com, except Marcel Leclerc. And he remained with his own Company over the winter. We're all certain that you are up to the task. Just remember that the men under your command volunteered in part because they were impressed by your passionate call to arms. Remind them everyday of their duty and they will follow you anywhere."

Reluctantly, Dejardins accepted the commission at their city council's encouragement though he wondered upon his suitability for the rank. Henri had never been formally educated. Most of his schooling came thanks to his mother's strict tutelage and grandfather's love of French history. His letters were adequate, and he had nearly memorized the few books - a tome of poetry, a history of France and its culture, and the family bible – that his schooled grandfather bequeathed him (during the winter months, there was very little else for a semi-literate Acadian to do while trapped indoors). But his arithmetic was nearly non-existent, his knowledge of war limited and the Acadian worried if he had the social standing required to lead men. Upon greater reflection, he'd been on the verge of surrendering his commission when he'd joined the Gaston's for dinner that night. The elder Gaston swept his son-in-law up into bone crushing bear hug upon learning the news. However, it was the tears of adoration and pride that welled from Estelle's eyes that eliminated any thoughts of resignation.

That very night, Dejardins officially requested Estelle's hand in marriage. Both father and daughter joyously consented. With a vow that she would wait for his return, Dejardins practically skipped on this way home that evening. It was only later that he realized that consummation of the marriage would have to wait until the war ended. The newly commissioned officer fervently prayed he lived that long.

These thoughts scurrying about his troubled mind, Dejardins drifted back to the words his old friend Marcel confided to him the preceding year when queried how one behaved like an officer. Marcel thought for a moment and said, "Officers don't always know everything, Henri. Sometimes you just have to follow your common sense and hope it’s the right thing."

"You see," he continued, "it’s important to just make a decision, even if it may turn out to be the wrong one at the time. Do you attack or retreat? Make the decision. Do you whip the deserter or offer him up to company punishment? Make the decision. As long as the men think that you have a grasp on a situation, they will follow. The worst thing you can do is hesitate. Soldiers smell fear and indecision. Do you think all those times that I ordered the squad into the forests that I knew exactly when the British patrol was coming by?"

"And that's just in battle." Marcel concluded, "At camp, your main task is ensuring that the needs of the men are met. Are the latrines dug properly? Is the shelter and victuals adequate? You can't ever stop looking after your men, even when it's their own stupid behavior that is putting them in jeopardy. I always remember one thing – that I'm in command. Obedience to officers is expected, not requested. If they didn't want to follow orders, they shouldn't have picked up the musket. Act like you are entitled to command and you'll be respected. Remember that you exist to safeguard your men and you'll be loved."

Still uncertain, Dejardins straightened his shoulders and vowed to look the part even if he didn't feel of officer caliber. He might me the most ignorant and incompetent officer in history, but he'd damn well pretend he deserved the rank. Those thoughts in mind, Dejardins marched into town to report to his Captain.

 

[Alt History Buff]

April 1777

Philadelphia

“…where some within these walls view the alliance as a measure of our weakness, it shall prove to be a wellspring of strength. With French support, the British may be permanently isolated upon the islands of New York until time comes when the Columbian Army is prepared to invade…”.

“Are you insane?!” Bellowed one particularly anti-Catholic member of Congress. While several adherents to Papism represented that body, there remained no shortfall of horror at the concept of inviting a Catholic Army to Columbian shores.

John Adams, who had spent much of the past three weeks since Franklin alighted upon Pennsylvanian soil with the proposed Treaty of Alliance in hand, was getting very tired of being interrupted by anti-Catholic bigots.

“No, my esteemed colleague,” Adams retorted heatedly, “I fear I am quite sane. Sane enough to comprehend that 20,000 British regulars…and perhaps another 10,000 armed Loyalists…billet less than a hundred miles north of Philadelphia. And I can guarantee you, regard of our religion, that they would be happy to march on this city so I suggest we stop WASTING TIME and ratify this treaty so our French friends may arrive swiftly and keep George III from occupying THIS CITY!”

John Hancock, elected President of the Continental Congress, would finally bring down his gavel to restore order, “Thank you for your contribution, gentlemen,” the tall, elegant Bostonian intoned. “I fear that we have debated the subject from every conceivable angle and must agree that the time for a vote is at hand. Let us recess for two hours and return for the formal vote approving or disapproving the Treaty.”

Exhausted with the ordeal and annoyed at the time wasted in pointless debate, Adams collapsed into his chair as his colleagues filed out of the room, several still arguing.

“You formulated your arguments well, John,” the genteel voice of Benjamin Franklin intoned, somehow maintaining a trace of amusement. “The vote will not be close.”

“I shouldn’t have had to spend three weeks debating the obvious, Franklin,” the Massachusetts man replied in typical ill-humor. Franklin suspected it was the man’s standard response to adversity.

The elder man lowered himself into the seat opposite Adams and counseled, “Every great endeavor requires a thorough discussion, even when the final result is obvious to one and all. In two hours, we’ll find something else to argue about.”

“What is this “we”, Franklin?” Adams replied, though his words were without heat. “All you did was speak for ten minutes. I’m the one who had to argue the Treaty point by point with every damn fool in Congress so no one tries to make alternations necessitating sending it back to Paris. That would put off significant French assistance for at least a year…assuming King Louis doesn’t merely give up the idea of alliance.”

“And a fine job you did, John,” the Pennsylvanian answered, taking no offense. “What you do may be less glorious than Clive or Washington but equally necessary to the success of our cause. Always remember that.”

“I shall try, Franklin.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

April 1777

San Roque, Andalusia, north of Gibraltar

Louis-Marie Fouquet, Duc de Belle-Isle had not sought this assignment…but was intent on serving King Louis XVI to the best of his abilities. When the monarch himself demands your service…well, at least Belle-Isle was able to arrange his old friend from the African Campaigns, General Alejandro O’Reilly, to command the Spanish contingent.

Twenty years reducing the Muslim strongholds of Africa at the head of a coalition of Catholic countries lent Belle-Isle the experience necessary to assault, besiege or otherwise take the mighty bastion of Gibraltar. Southern Spain shared much in common with North Africa. Adapting to the climate would not be difficult…seizing that ROCK would be difficult.

From his temporary quarters in San Roque, a few miles north of Gibraltar, Belle-Isle frequently stared for hours as the impenetrable block of stone emerged from the sea. Beyond sailing past once or twice, Belle-Isle never took the time to appreciate the very imperiousness of the mountain. The Spanish were colossally stupid to allow the British to seize such a vital strongpoint in the War of Spanish Succession.

A knock on the door and his adjutant granted entrance to O’Reilly. Belle-Isle rose from his desk to greet his friend, “Alejandro! How was Madrid?”

The Irish-descended Spaniard was ushered into a seat as Belle-Isle poured both a glass of wine. Settled in, O’Reilly responded, “Not well, Louis.” Twenty years wiping out Maghreb Kingdoms eliminated any requirement for formality between old friends. “King Carlos was pleased that you gained his brother King Louis XVI’s agreement to forestall the proposed invasion of Britain…”

“Idiotic,” the Frenchman shook his head, sniffing the bouquet of the wine. “The French Navy is not remotely capable of crossing the Channel…”

O’Reilly nodded, “Agreed. King Louis’ Navy is far better utilized blockading Gibraltar or challenging the Royal Navy in the Americas. However…”

“However?”

“King Carlos is less than pleased at your peremptory dispatch of so much of our joint army.”

Belle-Isle’s eyebrows rose, “I would assume that he would be pleased. More soldiers, both French and Spanish, would be available for the Portugal Campaign. Here…” the Frenchman gestured towards the Rock of Gibraltar, “additional forces would be no particular use. Ten thousand Spanish and eight thousand French would only get in one another’s way, consume precious supplies and probably expedite the spread of disease. If there is one thing we learned conquering Africa, Alejandro, it is never waste resources.”

O’Reilly nodded, took a long sip of wine, and concluded, “Perhaps, Louis, but the manner in which you did so ruffled some feathers among the General Staff.”

“They’ll get over it,” Belle-Isle suggested indifferently. “Having eighteen thousand men or eight thousand is no difference in taking that rock. It can’t be taken by land. Only with naval superiority can we starve them out. One relief shipment, even as little as one cargo ship, pushes back any chance of seizing Gibraltar for months, a full convoy for a year. Massing the French and Spanish fleets is the only option.”

“The British are reportingly massing their fleet in Lisbon.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve done nothing in San Roque to prevent the British from landing supplies.”

“Correct. With time, we might affect British resupply from land but that will take months to dig the mortar trenches far enough forward to reach the Gibraltar Harbors,” Belle-Isle replied calmly. “Until then, the battle is with the Navies. Now we can only wait."

Gibraltar

General James Murray had little luck in assignments. He’d spent years in America (what a hellhole THAT was) and now stuck in this hideously boring posting.

Upon learning of the formal declarations of war, the commander of the Gibraltar garrison knew that a full-scale blockade and siege was only a matter of time.

That time had come. Provisions were already in short supply when the French and Spanish fleets assembled off of the Rock. Murray assumed that meant the Royal Navy would be arriving soon to relieve his garrison of 3000…preferably before scurvy decimated his command.

In truth, the British General was not worried. This was the Royal Navy…surely they could brush aside mere French and Spanish sailors.


Lisbon

Bowing, virtually groveling on the floor, the old Marquis de Pombal backed out of his master’s private chamber, King Joseph’s shrill shrieks still echoing across the marble floor.

The worst had occurred. Even as the British fleet consolidated in Lisbon for an effort to relieve Gibraltar, thousands of Spanish soldiers crossed the Duero River, now marching virtually unopposed towards the beautiful northern city of Porto. Another force seized the powerful border fortress of Almeida, which his incompetent Generals considered nigh impregnable, with almost contemptuous ease.

Pombal’s protests to the Spanish Ambassador fell on deaf ears.

A Declaration of War? The bastard replied sardonically. Sir, we have been at war for over a year! Why pretend otherwise?

Pleas to Britain for reinforcements to King Joseph’s shamefully incompetent forces resulted in only a confused inquiry as to why the Spanish Ambassador has not been expelled from the nation and an offhand promise to offer some senior officers to assume command of the pitiful Portuguese Army. The British Admiral (still awaiting the entirety of his fleet) also brushed aside questions as to why King George’s mere “colonial revolt” was still raging after two years and absorbing every British resource. As best Pombal could tell, the British Army had been expelled from America nigh as thoroughly as Europe.

My god, Pombal thought in desperation as he fled his own King’s displeasure, the damned British can’t even protect themselves! How can I expect them to defend Portugal?!

 

[Alt History Buff]

April 1777

Manhattan

William Howe gritted his teeth at his nominal subordinate's latest "requisition" as the staff officer delivering it, Major Andre, feigned polite obliviousness to his commander's distress. Ever since his return from London, the preening peacock “Gentleman” Johnny Burgoyne had repeatedly waived his orders in Howe's face, demanding the cream of his commander's army to be roused from their winter quarters for the summer assault on Quebec, much to the detriment of Howe's own plans for a strike against the rebel capital of Philadelphia. Naturally, Major General Burgoyne repeatedly pointed out the key phrase "supple and healthy soldiers only, not deficient in vigor", effectively excluding the ill and wounded which often shored up the numbers of their Regiments. For each man deemed "unsuitable", another able body must take his place. Worse, Lord Germaine granted Burgoyne priority over the veteran units of the British establishment, for "inexperienced and barely disciplined men", such as the Loyalist Regiments, were not to be considered for the campaign. Burgoyne graciously left the half-trained Loyalists, a growing portion of the army after the northern disasters of 1775 and the inconclusive victories of 1776, to Howe. His orders explicit, the Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty's forces in North America impotently watched his subordinate pluck the flower his army for the idiotic northern campaign.

Not that Howe particularly dissented with the campaign objective, far from it. With the fall of Montreal and Quebec, the scattered western forts along the Great Lakes and the Mississippi River had been completely cut off, one after another taken by the rebels or simply abandoned for lack of provisions. Several officers, mortified at being forced to desert their posts, managed to march the ravenous scarecrows of their commands into New York over the past year, often after herculean efforts to avoid rebel patrols. Perhaps even more essentially, the shocking collapse of the northern district effectively pacified the Iroquois Confederacy, held to greatly prefer the King's rule over the land-hungry Columbians. Even plagued by the hideous Bleeding Death epidemic of the past two decades, the northern tribes cast a tremendous shadow over the trembling colonial settlers.

No, the strategic objective didn't raise doubts nearly as much as the operational plan. Rather than utilizing the power of the British navy, which still maintained domination over the western Atlantic, to sail up the St. Lawrence and assault Quebec directly, Burgoyne somehow convinced the Ministry that marching hundreds of miles through primordial forest would be safer by avoiding any possibility of a collision with the French Navy. While such concerns were not without merit, Howe was certain that the aggressive General lacked any real comprehension of the logistical nightmare inherent in a long march through the North American wilderness. Howe, along with his late elder brother, Augustus, participated in the hellish trek north to conquer the Quebec and Montreal from the French in the previous war while Burgoyne served in the relatively civilized campaigns of Europe. Though his subordinate garnered a reputation for innovation and audacity which Howe heartily approved, the man knew little of the frontier beyond the sedate boundaries of Boston and New York.

Burgoyne's more recent demand, forwarded by an apologetic Major Andre, included the addition of the locally raised 4th Artillery Battalion. Howe took a long moment to rein in his anger before replying, "Major, please inform General Burgoyne that the 4th shall be put at his disposal, as will the required teamsters. However, inform the gentleman that no further resources shall be available, as he has now officially exceeded seven thousand experienced soldiers for his campaign."

"Yes, sir," Andre bowed, relieved that Howe apparently didn't intend to vent his frustrations upon him and departed to draft the orders for the Howe's signature.

In the meantime, the Commander-in-Chief turned his thoughts back to his own offensive southwards. It would have to start late, given the preponderance of supplies available must go to Burgoyne's army. It would take months to summon a similar reserve of munitions and victuals. But even an August march should ensure the conquest of Philadelphia long before the first frost. Howe shuffled through his reports, verifying the current assignments of every regiment and company under his command. Even with the reinforcements summoned over the winter from England (rumored to be 5000 men en route), his army lent the appearance of an empty shell. Battle, disease and desertion devastated even the King’s forces over the past two years, even in victory. Excluding the minimal garrison to defend the islands off New York, the disease-stricken and the newly raised Loyalist Regiments largely too unskilled to be useful, Howe doubted he could march more than ten thousand able-bodied men for Philadelphia.

With Burgoyne’s quixotic trek north splitting the Columbian Army’s resources, that should still be enough for Howe to take the capital and end the war.

 

[Alt History Buff]

April, 1777

Poonah

Lieutenant David Ochterlony couldn’t help but gasp at the surroundings of the Peshwa’s capital of Poonah, where urban slums mixed with palatial luxury, the tantalizing scent of curry added to the ill-defined slurry that embodied so much of Indian cuisine. Constructed at the confluence of four local rivers, the bustling city exceeded any the provincial soldier from Massachusetts had ever witnessed, save London herself. Ever since the warrior chieftains of the Maratha Confederacy, the Peshwas, elected to make this once-backwater city their capital, Poonah had prospered under their patronage.

Named an adjutant for their mission to the court of the Marathas, the young officer followed Colonels Francis Forde and Thomas Adams about like a puppy, the host of translators, factors, soldiers and one prisoner trailing behind as the party broached the gates of Poonah to witness her innumerable temples to exotic gods, traverse dozens of stone bridges over minor rivers and gape at the wonders of a truly alien city. Even Ochterlony’s experience upon the seven islands of Bombay did little to prepare him for the overwhelming assault on the senses. In what must be a common sight throughout the subcontinent, the American spied wagons bearing the dead under sheets, no doubt bound for some internment or immolation. The odd pagan religion of Hindustan demanded much in the way of funereal writs and Ochterlony recognized that contact with plague-stricken dead was not the safest of professions. Pungent spices emerging from the cooking pots mixed with the acrid stench of raw sewage endemic to all cities created an odd mixture of enchantment and distaste in the young officer.

Recognizing that his attention was wandering, Ochterlony belatedly turned his gaze towards his destination. Colonel Adams had personally selected the young officer to serve as an adjutant for this mission and Ochterlony did not intend to let his patron down. Adams was intended to lead the expedition as Forde had been ill with Malaria. Fortunately, the Irishman recovered and was able to make the trek as well.

Emerging from the distance was what could only be the Shaniwar Wada, the seat of the Maratha Empire. The ominous fortification lacked any of the elegance or romances of much of the Mughal or Maratha architecture. Serving warlords for decades rather than Emperors, the massive stone fortress revealed a more pragmatic and martial origin. Fleetingly, Ochterlony wondered as to the glories of the old Mughal capital of Delhi and if the rumored palaces and temples of that faded city still stood.

When Vishwasrao, the son of the Peshwa warlord, was formally deposited upon the Peacock Throne upon the Mughal Emperor being cast aside after the victorious Battle of Panipat, the Maratha Confederacy slowly coalesced into a unified authority over the past decades even as the entire subcontinent languished under the yoke of repeated epidemics. The nominal Chhattrapati of Satara, the token Maratha Emperor entirely beholden to the Peshwa anyway, was “encouraged” to name Vishwasrao as his successor, thus eliminating even that perfunctory check on Peshwa power. The old Mughal Imperial capital of Delhi and the nominal Chhattrapati capital of Satara were abandoned by the new Mughal Emperor and Maratha Chhattapati and left to decay in neglect. Poonah represented the new Hindustan, not those obsolete burgs. The pseudo-independent regional Maratha chiefs slowly bowed to this new authority even as their capacity to resist Vishwasrao’s will waned with the expansion of the god-awful African and Bleeding Death epidemics, both ravaging the countryside and withered the Princes’ capacity to resist. Only the Peshwa/Chhattrapati/Emperor, utilizing resources from numerous feudal subjects, was capable of dispatching armies throughout an Empire now dominating most of the subcontinent and now stretched from the Punjab to Awadh to Hyderabad, the term “Confederacy” falling into disuse as a result.

With the power of the Durrani Afghans checked by internal strife, the eastern powers of Awadh and Bengal withdrawn, Hyderabad in turmoil and Mysore at odds with the British, the Maratha Chhattrapati could concentrate upon maintaining power over his own sprawling lands in this time of malady-driven crisis. If was off the coast of this geographically vast and demographically incalculable state that the pitiful British trading outposts quivered for fear of attracting the behemoth’s attention. While the idea of a Briton groveling at the feet of an eastern potentate turned Ochterlony’s stomach, the young officer kept such thoughts to himself. Wiser and more experienced heads than he deemed this embassy a prudent course.

Approaching the ominous wooden gates of the fortress, a dozen bored guards snapped to attention, no doubt transfixed at the appearance of so many white faces. Most of the trading nations would have residents in Poonah serving as Ambassadors but such embassies would be nominal in number, certainly no arriving at the head of a fifty-man column. A brightly attired officer shouted a challenge as his subordinates raised weapons. Calmly, Colonel Forde, the senior officer, raised his hand for the column to stop. By the time the older man dismounted his horse, a translator rushed forward to his side.

“By the grace of King George III of Great Britain, I have been dispatched to the glorious court of His Imperial Majesty….” The honorifics went on for quite some time. Ochterlony wondered how often titles were simply invented by bored courtiers to annoy visiting dignitaries. Forde’s vague Irish brogue, sapped of its normal potency by years of service in England and India, was repeated in the high-pitched, burbling cadence of the Marati language. Privately, the young officer compared the local speech to the sing-song nonsense often uttered by mothers to sooth their infants. Ochterlony once made that mistake of pointing this out to his Bibi, Lila. His mistress was not amused and, though she carried out his carnal requests later than night, the soldier belatedly recognized that her performance was not up to its normal snuff. In recent months, the Lieutenant had taken to learning a bit of Marati and Hindi but Ochterlony could only make out one word in twenty of the jabbering translator’s dialogue.

“…and, as a symbol of the esteem in which His Majesty, King George III, holds his brother, the Chhattrapati and Peshwa of the Marathas, we return this prisoner to face justice…”

At that, the Maratha officer stalked away from Forde towards the sullenly silent prisoner, now on his final procession. Bound to his sturdy mare, the Maratha glared down upon the grinning officer. Recognition crossed his flabby features and he turned back towards his subordinates and barked out a sharp laugh followed by yet another burst of chatter. The mood lightened immediately, and the officer reached up to slap the prisoner across the face, an act of contempt rather than violence. At once, the officer returned to his post and gestured the British party through the gates, a junior officer ordered to guide them into the massive courtyard. Servants raced forward to grasp reins and guide the exhausted horses to water and fodder. The party’s minor baggage train was looked after by trusted men as the British were ushered through some internal doors into the relatively cool of the palatial inner sanctum. Gaily attired couriers and noblemen stared at the blue-clad East India Company officers even as the Chhattrapati’s servants offered refreshments, towels with which to wipe the sweat from the visitors’ collective brow and anything else that may make the Peshwa/Chhattrapati’s guests welcome.

Refusing most of the boons, though several soldiers took the occasion to answer the call of nature, the Britons were ushered through an exotic and luxurious series of hallways and opulent chambers. Intricate mosaic tiles, polished to a shine, reflected the gleam of hundreds of overhead chandeliers. Rugs by Persian masters challenged elegant tapestries for the attention. Vibrant frescoes lined the walls, alternating with hand-carved wooden columns, each telling the story of some Hindu epic. Ochterlony doubted that even George III lived in the midst of such splendor. Others were less impressed.

“Garish, isn’t it,” Forde muttered out of the side of his mouth as the Britons were led into the throne-room of the leader of the Maratha Empire. “The Mughals, damn them, were backwards but at least they were tasteful about their opulence. These Marathas are merely pale shadows of the Mughal Court, like that song about the American bumpkin imagining himself a Macaroni.” Adams stifled a laugh, glancing about to make sure his friend had not been overheard by anyone of importance.

Presently, the party was brought before the Peshwa/Chhattrapati himself taking a central position in what Ochterlony took as a reception room, surrounded by pillows and plush divans rather than entrenched upon some uncomfortable-looking throne. Dozens of bureaucrats, couriers and assorted hangers-on lurked about the expansive room. The Britons could not have been made to wait fifteen minutes. Evidently, the Chhattrapati was not one to play power games by forcing foreign embassies to await his condescension. By Ochterlony’s eye, the leader of the Maratha Empire appeared fortyish, plump without being fat, and quite handsome by Indian standards.

Gesturing for the junior officers to hold back, the Colonels and their translator appeared the Royal Person upon the Chamberlain’s beckon. Fortunately, the assorted court apparently knew to shut up when the Chhattrapati spoke. With a disarming smile, the Indian gestured for his guests to sit among the mountain of cushions as he took a puff of his hookah.

“My most honorable of friends,” the Maratha began, his words echoed in English by a native translator. “Please express my most sincere gratitude to my brother King George for returning the traitor to his rightful place.”

“Honored Chhattrapati,” Forde replied, his own translator at work. “King George receives your solicitations with warmth and friendship. I can only apologize that the matter took so long to come to light.”

The prisoner, no doubt now rotting in some malarial cell of the palace, was the Chhattrapati’s uncle, an odious would-be usurper named Raghunath Rao. Apparently, Britain was not the only country to suffer the machinations of the “evil uncle” plotting to murder and plunder his nephew’s throne. Britain had her Richard III and India, evidently, spewed forth Raghunath Rao. Despite receiving multiple pardons for his incompetently managed insurrections, the man exhausted the Chhattrapati’s patience after plotting with the Nizam of Hyderabad, various Maratha princes and, briefly, with the British East India Company. Fortunately, the Directors swiftly realized their folly in attempting to overthrow the Chhattrapati with this oaf and quietly negotiated a compromise: the Company would retain her privileges in the Empire and Raghunath would live on as a Company Pensioner in Surat. Unfortunately, the fellow never learned his lesson and Company officials later determined that that man was now seeking to ally himself with the Portuguese, a concept even the green Ochterlony thought idiotic. Portugal was hardly a global power in the modern age and could not possibly provide any support in substance for Raghunath’s rebellion. The Accord broken, the British East India Company was left with no choice but hand the old exile over to his nephew. The soldier doubted the man would survive the week.

Vishwasrao nodded sagely, his smile disarming, “Only a fool could comprehend the actions of a fool, thus I fear not one man in the Empire could see such treachery afoot. It is with gratitude that I receive this…malcontent…for proper and long overdue justice.”

Translation was a tricky business. Somehow a thirty-second speech emerged from the translator in ten seconds. Ochterlony wondered how much was left out by the low-caste fellows, what deliberately left unsaid. With a start, the soldier realized that, with a word or absence of such, a mere servant may alter the path of nations.

The orgy of mutual compliments continued for some time, batted back and forth like a tennis ball. Eventually, the Chhattrapati waved forward a document. Gesturing towards it, Vishwasrao nodded, “Please accept this gift of trade as a token of my esteem to the servants of the King of the British,” the oriental potentate pronounced through his interpreter. “And the King’s request for a resident in Poonah is similarly approved. Indeed, I have even arranged for quarters should the gentleman not find others to his liking.”

Forde bowed deeply, uttering his own gratitude. However, he may have genuflected too soon.

“I have been informed of an interesting development,” the Chhattrapati murmured. “It seems our subject, the Nawab of the Carnatic, has seen fit to dispense with some southern territories in Madurai to your King.”

Even from this distance, Ochterlony noted Forde blanch slightly. Though many of the stronger kingdoms of the subcontinent – Awadh, Bengal, Hyderabad and Mysore – effectively declared independence from the Mughal Empire after its fall to Vishwasrao, the Marathas never officially recognized them as such. Indeed, only the devastation of the Bleeding Death and African Death epidemics likely stayed the Emperor’s hand in bringing these prodigal Kinglings to due obedience. With a start, Ochterlony wondered if George III viewed the American rebellion in the same manner.

“Does King George’s subjects not realize that any such territorial concessions must be approved by the Chhattrapati?”

For perhaps the first time in their year-long acquaintance, Francis Forde appeared at a loss for words. He finally managed to stammer that, indeed, Britain recognized the Maratha claims, though he stopped short of explicitly conceding them. Instead, the Irishman clumsily attempted to maneuver the Chhattrapati to bless the sale of the province. Cannily, the Maratha did no such thing. However, he did not go so far as to condemn the transaction. No doubt Vishwasrao’s support would hinge upon future British conduct. Everything the East India Company possessed, including Maratha tolerance of British administration of Surat and the seven islands of Bombay, may be revoked upon the whim of this man. Without stating as such, Vishwasrao had neatly backed the East India Company into a corner. Weakened by defeat in Bengal and hindered by the pestilential climate to significant augmentation of their forces, the Company would exist only by Maratha sufferance. Already occupied by America’s rebellion and apparently war with Spain and France, King George to engage in hostilities with the massive Maratha Empire was suicide.

Did the French beat us to the Chhattrapati that he could so easily outmaneuver us? Ochterlony wondered.

Presently, the audience concluded, the Indian prince returned to his harem or wherever he desired. The shaken Englishmen were escorted from the Shaniwar Wada, reunited with their horses, and directed to the quarters appointed to the newly approved British Resident. This proved to be an old Mosque, apparently utilized recently as a stable.

“Is he trying to gag us with horseshit, Adams?” Forde grumbled.

Adams gazed up at the structure, a vast building no doubt opulent at its peak. Unfortunately, like most of the elegant Mughal mosques, this one had been stripped bare of the lovingly crafted gold leaf, marble or anything else of value that once adorned the vandalized walls. Most of the subcontinent, perhaps over nine-tenths, remained Hindu in faith. Yet, the Muslim Mughals dominated India for centuries. Most the great states no longer under Maratha control – Awadh, Hyderabad, Mysore, Arcot – remained under domination by the former servants of the Mughal Empire. Ochterlony wondered how much longer the increasingly intolerant Hindustan would tolerate this state of affairs. Hundreds of minor Muslim princes had been evicted from their thrones, the radical Hindu warriors gleefully repaying generations of oppressions, be they perceived or real. Certainly, the remaining Muslim Nawabs and Nizams surely quaked for fear of a holy war they could not possibly win. Had it not been for the plagues, the whole of India may have been under Vishwasrao’s command.

“Ignore the insult, Forde,” Adams replied. “Have someone get a shovel and the place will make a suitable embassy in a few weeks. Don’t rise to the bait.”

Dodging mounds of horse manure, Ochterlony bore witness to the humiliating end of a once-mighty power. What happened to the Muslim minority throughout the new Maratha Empire? Surely, they had not been forced to convert to Hinduism? Mass slaughter? There had been evidence that this suppression or pillage of visible Muslim temples was common in some districts, if not official imperial policy. Were the Islamics still allowed their prayers? Or could their pleas to God only issue forth in the privacy of their homes? Would Islam prove as reviled throughout Hindustan as Catholicism in Britain?

Ochterlonly suspected the British may find themselves evicted from the subcontinent with far greater ease than tens of millions of Muslims.

That thought sent a chill down his spine.

 

[Alt History Buff]

May, 1777

Banda Oriental

Major General Henry Pleydell Dawnay, Viscount Downe, muttered in approval as the Royal Navy’s bombardment reached a crescendo. Of average height, the Irish Lord’s thin, bony face bore few distinguishing beyond the stereotypical weak English chin. The deck of the HMS Barfleur reverberated with the constant thrum of the barrage. Downe pitied the miserable Spaniards garrisoning the ramshackle fortification on Santa Catarina Island. Precisely why the enemy commander opted to situate so near the water was beyond the Anglo-Irishman’s ken. Several suitable locations, adequately elevated enough to avoid naval fire, were readily apparent even at a single glance.

The slight fall (no, spring, Downe reminded himself of his orientation from the equator) crisp to the morning air would soon dissipate under the oppressive Brazilian sun. There was nothing resembling an English winter in these parts, even so far south as the little island. Still, anything was preferable to the diseased hell of Sao Paulo. With luck, his little force would be nearer the Rio de la Plata by summer and avoid the worst of the southern pestilence season.

Passing the spyglass to his companion, Downe commented amicably, “Your lads are doing quite the job, Hood. I expect my regiments shall not be required for anything more strenuous than assisting these Spaniards to pack!”

Admiral Samuel Hood laughed, accepting the proffered spyglass. Long of face and chin, the sailor was of Downe’s vintage, perhaps fifty some years, though Downe hadn’t asked the exact quantity. The scuttlebutt implied that Hood was near retirement, or the permanent sinecure of a land posting. Downe assumed this to be the same thing for a sailing man. Though something of a rarity in British history, the senior and junior services had cooperated splendidly on this endeavor. Much like the soldier, Hood immersed himself in his command upon receiving authority to initiate hostilities, valuing solid logistical and supply work as highly as naval tactics. Downe had seldom encountered a more well-rounded officer. Acknowledging neither service was capable of contributing to the campaign without the full support of the other, an easy collaboration was formed between the two commanders that trended towards friendship. Downe was nominally in overall command but consulted Hood regularly.

“I would not be surprised at all, Downe, should the fellows surrender their little shack of a fortress before your troops reach soil…oh, my, I might take to gypsy card-reading as a hobby! I do believe that I see a white flag!”

Both officers chuckled as Hood called out the signal to ceasefire. The ill-fated defense had been doomed to fail from the start. Without the benefit of naval support, Santa Catarina Island would fall. Some idiot Spanish General, though it may have been a politician playing at General, deemed it wise to deposit a few hundred Spanish and Rio Platen soldiers on an island off the coast of Rio Grande do Sol, hundreds of miles north of any defensible Spanish position…and then promptly withdrew any naval support. These poor bastards had effectively been marooned. The Portuguese hardly required British assistance in dealing with this collection of lost souls.

“Well,” Downe grumbled good naturedly, “what do you think, Hood? Offer them parole or send them to Sao Paolo in chains?”

Hood shook his head, gesturing towards his office his offices. The pair turned their backs on the now-concluded battle. Both officers hoped the enemy’s bold, and brief, show of defiance to retain some semblance of martial pride didn’t cost any Spaniards their lives. “I don’t see the point, Downe. These fellows know they were dumped here in an impossible position. I doubt overly many would willingly serve their country again after such a betrayal. Give them parole provided they return to the Rio de la Plata and not to the disputed territories.”

“I quite agree,” the soldier nodded, ducking between scampering seamen before entering Hood’s comfortable but cramped wardroom. The complexities of a sailing ship as large as the Barfleur never ceased to astonish the landsman. “This whole exercise was a waste of powder. Clearly, those lads never stood a chance at holding such a northerly position.”

Several adjutants, representing both services, skittered about a collection of maps spread across a narrow conference table. Downe congratulated himself for choosing an army life over the navy. Though his sea legs developed well enough, the tight confines would drive him mad.

Alexander Hood, Captain of the vessel and, not coincidently, the Admiral’s brother, nodded towards the table, “Our scouts returned this morning. Neither of the frigates encountered Spanish warships until reaching Rio Grande de San Pedro. At least a dozen of King Carlos’ vessels lay in anchor, apparently relinquishing the initiative to us.”

The town of Rio Grande de San Pedro, until recently, had been generally considered as the southern limit of the accepted “Portuguese” South America just as the Rio Plata River was long conceded as “Spanish”. The Banda Oriental border territory east of the Uruguay River, largely unpopulated beyond a few illegal trading towns, was the longtime sore spot between the two empires. Still, no major conflict had brewed for a generation. Spain’s intrusion into the indisputably Brazilian northern territory broke the uneasy peace.

“Ah, welcome back, Lieutenant,” the Admiral exclaimed. Downe recognized one of the officers dispatched to scout the coast, a talented young Lieutenant named…oh, hell what was it? Downe assumed he must have rowed over from one of the other ships during the bombardment of Santa Catarina.

The slight young officer bowed. Downe recalled Hood raving about the fellow’s potential. The soldier knew a protégé when he saw one. Gesturing towards a stack of parchments, “Thank you, Admiral. I have a full report…”

“Yes, yes,” Hood interrupted, “I’ll read in detail later but summarize for the General and myself, please. General Dawnay must deal with our friends on shore.”

“Of course, sir,” the Lieutenant nodded before ploughing forward in a refreshingly concise manner. “Your Lordship, though our voyage was uncontested, it was not uneventful. Anchored off Rio Grande de Sao Pedro are at least a dozen Spanish warships. From a distance, I would estimate a half-dozen first or second raters, and perhaps as many third or fourth-raters, though one or two of these may have been simply frigates. I took careful notes of the quantity of guns so perhaps we might speculate on the identity of the ships themselves. We dared only approach so closely.”

Hood waved off the semi-apology. Downe appreciated a man who didn’t waste time on pointless recriminations. The General interrupted, “What of the defenses on land?”

Without missing a beat, the sailor replied with a gesture towards his report, “Naturally, I could not hazard a guess at quantity of defenders from such a distance. However, I did make sketches of the fortifications within view. I would not deem them insurmountable.”

The Admiral nodded approvingly as Downe chuckled, “Excellent, Lieutenant, thank you. We’ll review again tomorrow. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir, there was one other incident of note. We intercepted a Spanish trader, originally departed from Spain, then sailing south from Havana to Buenos Aires with an odd assortment of rum, tobacco and trinkets. As the vessel was somewhat ramshackle and carried no valuable cargo of martial note, we determined not to interrupt our mission to take her as a prize. We seized what quantities our own ship could carry of the lightest and most valuable cargo and released the sailors.”

“Wise,” Captain hood commented as his brother nodded in support.

“However, she did bear some interesting…dispatches…from Cadiz though I pray they might be exaggerations. They claim that Spain and France have besieged Gibraltar by both land and sea.”

Stunned silence filled the congested wardroom. The Rock of Gibraltar? The enduring symbol of British invincibility at sea? Surely, it cannot be! After the loss of the fine naval base on Minorca in the last war against the French, Britain’s Naval and merchant fleets possessed few such strongholds in the Mediterranean worthy of the name.

“Were there no British vessels to repel this blockade, Lieutenant?” The Admiral demanded.

The young officer, obviously uncomfortable with his commander’s scathing inquiry, nodded solemnly.

“Evidently so, sir. The papers referred to the “cowardly flight of the British Navy” after a few French salvoes, though this may be propaganda…or wishful thinking. It seems that rumors of Gibraltar’s besiegement were true.”

Several junior officers growled at the implication but held their tongues. Downe turned to his comrade and muttered, “It was the colonists, Admiral. If our attention had not been so focused on the troubles in America, the damned French and Spaniards would never dare attempt such an action.”

The Lieutenant cleared his throat meaningfully. Receiving his superior’s curt nod, the young man continued, “Also, Sirs, we discovered another piece of disquieting news.”

“Good God, more?!”

“We interviewed several of the Spanish crewmen quite thoroughly, Admiral, and seized their manifests and logbooks. Without any undue physicality, virtually every sailor confessed that the cargo they bore from Spain was two hundred barrels of French-produced gunpowder…destined for Charlestown, South Carolina.”

A long silence ensued before a junior officer muttered, “Without a Declaration of War? And the French and Spaniards deem Britain to be perfidious!”

 

[Alt History Buff]

May 1777

London

His final breath rasping through his sunken chest, the proud Briton managed to utter, “Go now, leave your dying father and go to the defense of your country.”

Manfully, the twenty-one-year-old swallowed his tears, not desiring for his father’s last sight to see his eldest son blubbering. He’d worn his newly purchased Captain’s uniform in the 47th of Foot in hopes that the sight my brighten his father’s spirits. In the background, his brother once again started reading Homer to their insensate patriarch, aptly, the passage on the death of Hector. William was, by far, the brighter of the two and breathed new life Homer’s great work, almost as if willing similar energy into their fading father.

It took several minutes before the elder realized that William Pitt, the Great Commoner, whose hand the eldest brother grasped, had expired into the great beyond. John Pitt somberly informed his younger brother than no further words were necessary, and the pair quietly raised the sheet over their father’s head.

For the next two weeks, the brothers received letters of sympathy and accolades for their father. Buried with due pomp and circumstance, the great statesman was ceremonially buried in Westminster Abbey, the King and his Ministers in attendance granting Pitt the approbation he seldom received from his sovereign in life.

Though widely considered a long-time friend of the colonies and a proponent of a peaceful solution to the rebellion, William Pitt would never countenance the severing of ties from the mother country. Mindful of his father’s last words, John Pitt donned his uniform and set sail at the next opportunity for America. The 47th of Foot had been assigned to General Burgoyne’s campaign to reclaim the bountiful Hudson Valley from Albany, to Lake Champlain, even as far north as Quebec.

John Pitt intended to be present with his Regiment for what would no doubt be a successful conclusion to the war.

He was certain his father would be proud.

 

[Alt History Buff]

Bombay, India, Year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-Seven

My loving father,

…….I cannot explain adequately describe the sheer magnitude of the splendors of Poonah, which so puts Bombay to shame, much as London outshines our little provincial town of Boston….

Lieutenant David Ochterlony paused in his letter home. Did his dismissal of Boston as a center for culture sound oddly denigrating? Ochterlony feared so. His father, God bless him, had somehow managed to dispatch funds to an agent in France, who in turn somehow managed to pass it along to the East India Company offices in London. These modest payments, were gratefully received by the soldier. His stipend in the Army, recently augmented to a Lieutenant’s commission, barely covered his expenses. The ten pounds sterling, though a minor remission compared to what some counterparts routinely received from home, kept the officer in his comfortable quarters with his soft, willing Bibi.

And at what a price, Ochterlony sighed, his slender figure stretching back against the firm spine of the chair, his hands automatically replacing the quill into the ink bottle. Only May, the summer humidity of Bombay permanently affixed his shirt to his perspiring flesh, the vaulted ceilings and pleasant cross-breeze of the Arabian Sea doing little to actually stymy his discomfort.

The Lieutenant shook his head. That Father would expend such effort to deliver this modest bounty across two oceans to preserve Ochterlony’s financial well-being was touching enough. That he would do so given his own mercantile calamities was downright heart-wrenching. The rebellion continued without halt when Father dispatched this letter over eight months prior, the fall campaign season in New York apparently going well for King and Country. Though Father was not by nature a political man, the younger Ochterlony could sense his frustration at the continued impasse devastating trade. His normal avenues for income stymied by the Royal Navy’s pseudo-blockades and the formal British boycott of American goods (and American boycott of British goods), the merchant was forced to close shop and reallocate his family and resources towards the plebian occupation of water merchant. Boston, as did every other town of note, suffered from rancid harbors, spoiled wells and polluted streams. No residents desiring to live, or at least void bowels in a regular manner, would drink deeply from such sources. Instead, water intended for human consumption arrived at the hands of venders laboriously lugging barrels of the precious liquid in from safer, cleaner sources in the country. While steadily profitable, such a concession must be galling to a man once a leading merchant in the provincial capital.

The outcome of the New York campaign had yet to reach India. However, the initial victories by General Howe indicated that he may well have crushed the Columbian Army by now and perhaps the colonies well along the way to negotiating pardons from the King’s representatives. The latest dispatches from London arrived but a week earlier trumpeting the reconquest of Long Island and Staten Island. Some of Octherlony’s comrades, unfamiliar with the sheer expanses of America, inquired if that meant the war was over. The Bostonian wasn’t so convinced, even should the gossip of victories ring true. Would Georgia, Massachusetts, Virginia and Quebec surrender simply because a few thousand troops conquered New York? Ochterlony had his doubts. How many King’s Men would be necessary to occupy the colonies from Montreal to Savannah?

Ochterlony suspected George III lacked adequate manpower to force the issue in more than a few cities. Only by mutual reconciliation could the colonies return to His Majesty’s embrace. If the rumors of George III dispatching foreign mercenaries to America were true, how likely was such a reunion? Even the elder Ochterlony, with the air of detachment common to his writing style, could not disguise his revulsion as this development and the ire raised by colonials of any province.

If the French were to enter the war as an ally of the colonials…

Ochterlony sighed, wondering why he bothered writing the letter given no medium for delivery now existed. Father might have been able to contort a delivery of his own dispatch to London via France. However, the younger Ochterlony could hardly ship the note to Paris with a request to pass it on to the East India Company. That would be moronic even without the threat of war with France. Yet, somehow, the mere act of composing brought the soldier closer to home. He elected to return to this section later.

Instead, the soldier described the circumstances of his promotion. Three more companies for the Bombay Grenadier Regiment had been authorized by the Colonial Secretary, now nominally commanded (officially “advised”) the East India Company until proper compensation to the stockholders made such pretexts obsolete. Theoretically, this would result in nine additional officers – an Ensign, Lieutenant and Captain per company. However, the British East India Company was notoriously parsimonious when it came to salaries and happily left many positions empty to save a few pence. Upon bankruptcy and the Company army transferring to the Colonial Secretary’s command, the situation improved somewhat and most positions were ordered to be filled….if suitable gentlemen were to be engaged. Naturally, the plague infested Seven Islands of Bombay (and the rest of the British India Company’s factories, for that matter) proved less than popular among Britons. Even the frequent solicitation of foreigners for commissions did little to stem the continuous losses. In the past year alone, four officers in the regiment died of one ailment or another while two more departed for home, happy to see the shore recede from the decks of their deliverance.

Ochterlony recounted his promotion to Lieutenant, his disappointment that the ceremony consisted as little more than Colonel Adams handing him a parchment detailing his commission as Lieutenant. His duties changed not at all. The Lieutenant spent more time in headquarters acting as a clerk than drilling his Company. Still, it was something. Colonels Forde and Adams speculated that most Company Army men went from “Gentleman Volunteer” to Ensign to Lieutenant to Captain within a few years, even without the potential opportunity for war. Should conflict with France resume…?

Ochterlony shook his head and continued.

The matter of filling the ranks remains quite vexing. The Bombay Grenadiers, I must say proudly, is the only “European” regiment in the British East India Company Army. We use British nomenclature in ranks – Ensign, Captain, Major, etc – rather than the Indian variants utilized in other regiments where I would be deemed a “Jemadar” rather than a Lieutenant. However, I must confess that the Grenadiers is a mongrel Regiment, not racially European at all. Topasses, that is half-breed Indian Christians from Portuguese Goa or Timor, Niggers freed from bondage, Europeans of any stripe hired off of trading ships or impressed by vague accusations of “vagrancy”. God knows there simply aren’t enough Britons around to fill out a full company much less the enhanced Regiment.

The Company Navy is no better. Though Bombay possesses two Regiments, the Seven Islands are better defended by the Navy. Having never desired to be a sailing man, the voyage from London proved me correct, I had rarely given a thought to the Navigation Acts. In the Royal Navy and the merchant fleet, it is considered illegal to possess more than a token number of Asiatics as crew. I witnessed many hundreds of these in the slums of London, mainly Muslim Indians or of the Dutch or Portuguese East Indies. With the African Death slaying so many sailors, the Company Navy makes no pretense of conforming to British law. By best estimation, at least three-quarters of the Company Navy are Asian with many Africans as well.

Indeed, an odd event recently despoiled a pleasant day just last Sunday. A Dutch ship, loaded with African slaves, foundered off the coast of Bombay. The Dutch, mind you, have long maintained a slave trade in these waters, though not of Africans. Most commonly, the slaves were Indians, mainly Hindus captured in the myriad wars by the Mughals. Evidently, slavery throughout Hindustan was not common prior to the emergence of the Musselmen from Persia and the Afghan Mountains so many centuries ago. Anyway, the African and Bleeding Death plagues slowed the slave trade in these waters as much as in America, though not ended it. The Africans were intended for Java, an island to the East but came upon harsh weather and were blown north nearly to our doorstep.

General Clavering, a practical man, seized the cargo, ship and even much of the crew as salvage! Like Company vessels, much of the crew were Lascars, the common title for Asiatic seamen. The crewmen were put to work upon EIC naval vessels or British trading ships, their freedom curtailed for a few years, really slaves in all but name themselves. The Africans were deemed British property and duly put to work. Mainly youngsters, both boys and girls, apparently intended to work the docks of Batavia or act as servants and mistresses of that similarly plague-stricken land, the strongest were impressed into the navy or army, the boys and girls “freed” to enjoy a life of servitude among the British households of Bombay. My own 4th Company received a full six Africans, mainly boys in their teens. None speak a word of English but, as you might expect, few of my charges did in the first place so I imagine the boys would fit right in. Certainly, the lads are better off than in the fields of Batavia where, if even humanly possible, the Bleeding Death takes an even greater toll than in India.

And the Africans are not the only new arrivals to be “liberated”. The Sultan of Mysore, a Muslim warlord ruling that largely Hindu state in south India in all but name, continues to enslave his Hindu enemies and sell the young and healthy to the Dutch to secure funds to ensure his primacy over his nominal master. Rumor has it that Haider Ali murdered his rightful King and replaced him with a more pliable puppet. Anyway, thousands of Indian slaves have been sold to various British, Dutch and Portuguese factories in India and the East Indies over the years and a recent shipment arrived in Bombay. Three hundred boys and girls, all wailing in anguish, were distributed for the most nominal of amounts. The other Regiment in Bombay, the 1st Maratha Light Infantry, were given first choice of the Hindu lads. The horrors of this dismal trade make me wonder if the Bleeding Death Epidemic was, in fact, issued by the Almighty to end such a trade.

Unfortunately, yet another epidemic spewed forth in the days after their arrival. Quarantine hospitals have been set up along several of the islands of the Bombay archipelago. One island is reserved for the African Death, another for the Bleeding Death, one for leprosy, another for cholera. It is said that only Bombay need be defended from an aggressor as each of the other surrounding islands are more than adequately protected by the plague-carriers endemic there. Naturally, dozens of the slaves, both African and Indian, were commanded into service as nurses to the afflicted, volunteers proving ever more difficult to procure on these colonies.

Dismayed by the bad tidings, Lieutenant David Ochterlony opted to put off rest of the letter for later. There was no need for haste. After all, the soldier possessed no method to deliver it until the rebellion was quashed or, improbably, succeeded.

 

[Alt History Buff]

May, 1777

Fort St. Marks, St. Augustine, East Florida

For the previous six weeks, the force of 1000 Columbian Regulars (600 from the 1st Georgia and 400 from the 2nd Georgia) as well as another 800 Georgia militia sailed down the coast of Georgia to St. Augustine, a small town of less than a thousand souls at the mouth of the Matanzas River in East Florida.

Despite the land being seized from Spain at the conclusion of the past war, the rapid expansion of Bleeding Death and African Death, indirectly halting the slave trade, prevented most British plans for the lands being implemented to any significant degree. With a population estimated at less than 5000 souls, many escaped slaves from the Carolinas, Florida remained unclaimed from nature.

Sergeant Klaus Durrenmatt of the 1st Company, 1st Georgia hated sailing. As a landsman, being jammed for days (or months as he experienced coming TO the new world with four young son) was not his idea of being fun. At it turned out, the distaste was genetic.

“…it be alright, Hans,” the Sergeant patted his son on the back as Lieutenant Hans Durrenmatt, of 3rd Company, vomited over the side. Hans had been a child during that dismal voyage from Europe and held no recollection of the crossing. “See, ve approach the Anastasia Island, the Matanzas River be just behind.”

Though only few hundred miles south, the voyage took nearly two weeks due to contrary winds repeatedly forcing the ships back out to sea…not counting the four weeks it had taken to load the supplies and soldiers upon the dozens of arduously collected transports and cargo vessels bearing the Georgians on the deeply risky cruise south in waters nominally dominated by the British. Reportedly, General Robert Howe (who Durrenmatt discovered was NOT related to the officer commanding the British in New York) considered marching to Florida but deemed this too time-consuming. He also debated waiting until Spain and/or France entered the war and was able to provide armed escorts.

Unwilling to wait for anything, Howe managed to strongarm enough local governments (South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia) into providing transport by sea.

“Still doesn’t have his sea legs, eh?” the ship’s master commented in a distinct English accent. “Some never get it.”

“Ya,” the elder Durrenmatt replied, “best he not join the Navy.”

Marcus Hayes appeared to the German as disconcertingly young to command a ship of any size, even the lightly armed sloop USS Concord. Only a few years older than Hans, the Captain commanded one of three armed vessels escorting the twelve transports and cargo ships. Desperate for space, several hundred members of the 1st Georgia had been assigned to the swift warships. Unfortunately, the ships-of-war were less than stable in the open water and Hans suffered accordingly.

“Well, Lieutenant,” Hayes smirked, “Your…discomfort…is almost over. Best of all, there appears to be no ships whatsoever off St. Augustine,” the sailor appeared surprised, though Klaus was uncertain why. St. Augustine was a remote and lightly populated outpost, hardly worth a defensive squadron. Maybe the young sailor was disappointed not to test his valor in combat. Young men were stupid that way.

As the Concord circled Anastasia Island, the crumbling edifice of Fort St. Marks emerged from the distance. An old star fort dominating the western shore of Matanzas Bay, the citadel represented the only significant defensive position in St. Augustine. While the American convoy anchored out of range of the bastion’s guns, the experienced Klaus Durrenmatt wondered as to the modest levels of activity detected throughout the ramparts.

No opposition emerged from the walls as the Columbians commenced the arduous task of rowing 2000 soldiers and hundreds of tons of associated war material ashore.