Near Smithport (Modern day Paragon City) 1780

The sun rose over the valley. The river, previously just a dark streak in the night lit by only the stars above, now looked like a red gash across the Earth.

Red like blood. The blood which was now seeping in to it.

Captain Samuel Morgan of the 7th Virginia regiment (Morgan's Riflemen, as they were more often known) ducked as a grapeshot whizzed over his head, only to ricochet off the stone walls of the church behind him. "Takes more than a damned lobsterback to kill me!" he called to his company, before getting back to loading his pistol.

He and five hundred men- five companies- of the 7th, backed up by a battery of guns and a battalion of the 1st New York regiment, had been holding a vital river crossing- he could never remember over which river- for two weeks now. The British had been furiously trying to cross, first in dribs and drabs, then in battalions. Each attempt had been met with failure, for the bridge a very defensible position. The church on the hill above it on the American side contained a church, a church which was a rifle's shot from the river. On both flanks were woodlands, where marksmen could be positioned to fire while relatively hidden. And the work of several engineers had cleared a good field of fire for the guns.

But now a whole brigade had arrived to attack. Cornwallis wanted the bridge badly, and so had committed five thousand redcoats and two gun batteries to it. Even men of the calibre of Morgan's rifles were struggling to fend off the enemy as they slowly- agonisingly slowly- climbed the bloody slope, across the bridge, through the volley fire of the New Yorkers, the sniping of the 7th, and the grapeshot of the guns, to win victory with their long steel blades.

The noise was like the largest firework display Morgan had ever attended. Muskets coughed out sulphurous powder smoke, rifles cracked and the 24 pound guns boomed, the noise echoing out over the valley like a large thunder storm. "Present arms! Fire!" officers of the New Yorkers and redcoats bellowed, and the swords swung down, the muskets slammed in to shoulders and the volleys crashed out. "And reload!" The rank, faces blackened by the powder smoke, shoulders bruised by the recoils of the muskets, would tear open the cartridge papers with their teeth, mouths dry with the thirst brought on by the gunpowder, and spit the bullets and powder in to the musket barrels, before ramming them down with their ramrods. Then the order would be given, the muskets would fire, or perhaps the musket flints would break and the gun would be rendered useless, and the process would begin again. It was war, tiring, brutal and harsh. But it was necessary. It was necessary for a man to do this again and again, four times a minute, so as the British would be forced all the way across the Atlantic back to London.

It was war, all right, Morgan thought.

And the Americans were losing.

The battalion of New Yorkers had formed a line of two ranks a hundred yards in front of the church, and that line had been engulfed by a great fog of powder smoke. The British were slowed by the bayonets on their muskets, which made it more difficult to use their ramrods, but unlike the Americans, their line was being reinforced by more and more men as they advanced up the hill, and that line was slowly spreading out to surround the shrinking New York battalion. And the British guns were hammering the Northerners. Morgan watched as a small knot of men fired a last volley before a shell everscated them with shrapnel. Moments later, the dull thud of the gun echoed loudly, above the musket fire and bellowed orders. The American guns responded, flaying the tightly compressed British with grapeshot, reducing whole companies to bloody shreds, and the rifles cracked from the church and woods, but it was still not enough. The American banners were twitching as musket balls hit them. The bandsmen had long stopped playing, but were now trying to tend to the wounded.

There was nothing to do now, Morgan decided. Except fight.

He swung up his pistol, levelled it at the cloud of smoke which was all he could see of the redcoats and pulled the trigger. The weapon bucked, and he fancied that he had hit an Englishman, though he couldn't tell through the smoke. He probably hadn't, anyway; pistols, even fine weapons built at Rappahannock forge like his own, only had a range of about ten yards. He then unslung his rifle, built at the same place as his pistol, took aim and fired again. The butt bruised his shoulder as it slammed back. He then ducked down and began to load both his weapons. His rifle, unlike a musket, could hit a target at one hundred paces, even if it took a long time to load. He remembered doing just that at recruiting. Men and officers alike had to hit a target at one hundred paces with the head of King George painted on it in one try if they wanted to join. Morgan had, and was now a Captain. He remembered the bloody fields of Saratoga where he had earned it, remembered Bemis Heights in particular. He had shot the enemy colonel, and as a result the enemy had promptly fled. Colonel Morgan had met him afterwards and gave him the rank and a company of troops to order about.

"Well done men! We're holding them now!" He called out encouragingly to his battered command. Nine men had been killed, and Lieutenant Denny was bleeding to death on a church pew, lying where he had fell. He grabbed a man by the elbow and pointed to a mounted redcoat officer. "Sergeant McKenzie! I want that bastard dead!"

"Sir!" McKenzie took aim and fired. When the smoke cleared, the officer was still standing, nonchalantly checking his watch. Morgan frowned. He didn't know how high up the man was, but the gold braid on his coat indicated some sort of importance. "Again man, again!" he called, tossing McKenzie his newly loaded rifle. "You did better than that on King George!" McKenzie obediently took aim and fired again. The officer remained stubbornly on his horse. Morgan thought he could see a flicker in the air where a bullet may have hit, but he couldn't be sure. That man was enjoying a huge run of good luck, he thought angrily. Or perhaps something else was at play. No one could hope to survive for long standing on horseback, wearing enough gold on his chest to be at least a brigadier or Christmas whore, in a musket duel.

A musket duel which now abruptly ended as the officer waved his sword at the remnants of the New Yorkers and shouted, "Charge!" The redcoats gave a "Huzzah!" and obeyed. And the Americans fled. The sight of the roaring, blade wielding men, made at least a foot taller by their shakoes, was too much for the already shaken, thirsty, deafened men. So they ran, along with the gunners. Not wanting their pieces to be captured, they hastily limbered up and galloped away.

"Pull back to the church! The church, damn you!" Colonel Lockhart ordered loudly from his position in the bell tower, and some obeyed, but most just kept running. The Colonel then ducked back as a bullet smacked in to the bell next to him, making it toll loudly. He was a large, crude looking man, son of a forge worker, but nevertheless could direct a battle just as well as plantation owner's sons like Morgan, of whom he was no relation.

"FIRE!" the officers bellowed, indicating the charging redcoats. Those of the New Yorkers who hadn't completely routed took up positions wherever they could find them in the increasingly crowded buildings. A volley lashed out at the lobsterbacks. Morgan made a quick calculation, and came to perhaps six hundred men, as even more crowded to the windows to fire a near constant fusillade of shots.

The redcoats pulled back before the fire.

And a bugle sounded.

Colonel Lockhart, from his vantage point at the bell tower, looked out to see what looked like a regiment of dragoons in the forest on his left. A stars and stripes banner waved defiantly in the sudden gust of wind. The regiment's Colonel saw Lockhart watching and waved. The Rifle's colonel waved his hat in response. Washington hadn't forgotten about his stand after all. "Come on, you rogues!" he called down to his men. "Show these flea bitten whoresons what it means to be a soldier. Fire at will!"

Then hell broke loose.

Historical note:

The real commander of the Virginia 11th was one Colonel Daniel Morgan, and his recruiting method laid down in the above chapter did really happen. There was also a Rappahannock forge. The nicknames given to the redcoats were also genuine.

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This is my first fanfic, so please review. Honestly it does get more "Superhero" later on.

Historical inaccuracies are my fault and mine alone.