Brigadier General Alexander Rupert Sewell, formerly of His Majesty's 47th regiment of foot, had always known himself to be a gifted man. His main gift was not dashing good looks, physical strength or even great mental aptitude; although in his own opinion he possessed all three. His career at Eton College had been far from stellar, but it had been most certainly somewhat eventful. This was because of his greatest gift.

He could talk to plants. Not only talk to them, but control them, even draw life force from them to sustain him. This ability had saved him from many an Indian bullet at Plassey and the Spanish at Manila. His uncle, an Anglican rector, had recognised this gift and had tried to beat it out of him. "No Godly man should have such power!" he had boomed before being "accidentally" impaled upon an Oak tree. Perhaps the old man was right. But it had been damned useful in any case. The ability had got him in to a society known as the Guides of fate, a group dedicated to aiding people with abilities similar to his own, apparently following a "grand plan." Whatever that plan was, the Guides of fate had helped Sewell rise through the ranks, and had given him a transfer to America and a Brigadier-General's rank in the army.

And now a regiment of American dragoons were in a forest, preparing to charge. Perfect. Sewell reached for the power.

One of his aides later commented that he thought the General was at prayer, such was his posture- stillness, closed eyes, hunched on his horse. That was until he saw what happened to the Dragoons in the forest.

Morgan cheered loudly as the dragoons prepared to charge. The bugle sounded, the sabres dropped to the lunge. The redcoats frantically formed square, the forward most ranks slamming their musket butts into the ground to make themselves impregnable to a cavalry charge. But they were now tightly packed, and the next volley of fire scythed through them. They began to shuffle away from the church. But then something made them stop. Come to think of it, just about everything had stopped, too. Even the cheering had died. Morgan stared at the forest.

For it had suddenly sprung to life. A huge, gnarled oak tree hauled a man off his horse and tore him in half before he even had time to scream. A pine seemed to fall over, crushing another half dozen under its weight. The horses screamed piteously. Some brave men hacked at the trees with their sabres or shot at them with carbines and pistols, but to no avail- the trees were too resilient to be taken down by anything short of cannon fire. The screams continued to echo loudly from the woods as they shattered the once proud regiment.

A few managed to escape on to the field where the main battle had been raging. Perhaps a company emerged, looking visibly ragged even from two hundred paces away. Most were bleeding, a few were horseless, but the colours still flew. If there was any consolation, Colonel Lockhart thought, it was that the attack had unsettled the British just as much as the Americans. Already, men could be seen running from the squares, and the monsters which were still shattering most of a whole regiment of horse.

But the battle could still be won.

The veteran colonel drew himself up, hoping that he had made the right decision. Then he roared, "Fix Bayonets! Prepare to charge!"

Below, Morgan stood for a moment, astonished at the order. The men around him also were, some wondering if the colonel had gone mad from the strain of battle. But the order came again, and this time from the ground floor. "Fix Bayonets! Fix them, damn you, or I'll fix you!" Colonel Thomas Lockhart drew his sabre. Morgan hastily did the same, at last understanding what was going on.

The British troops outside were still formed in square to tackle the cavalry which were circling around them in the field. They were probably as terrified as Morgan was, who had himself shuddered when confronted with supernatural forces. And the square formation reduced their firepower to a quarter of what it normally would be. If the British could be shaken enough, they would definitely run. And they would hopefully be pursued by the surviving cavalry.

Sewell wrenched himself out of his trance to see that his battle plan was slowly but surely collapsing. The woods had come alive, but some of the cavalry had escaped. His men's squares had been hammered by musketry. And now they would probably be swept aside by the charge which was now forming up just outside the church, a long musket's shot away from his redcoats. A volley crashed out and perhaps five blasted patriots fell. And then…

"Charge! Charge, you dogs, charge!" A colonel roared, brandishing his sword at the foe. And, like hounds unleashed, the White coated troops charged. They were roaring, savage looking men, made black by powder smoke. Sewell could hear a cavalry trumpet ordering another charge. The harsh music chilled his heart. "48th! Avenge your dead! Avenge Van Statten! Charge!" A voice called. Hooves thundered. And the redcoats began to shuffle back, fumbling with their muskets, trying to get away from the bloodthirsty Americans and the walking, killing trees.

They had held on beyond all expectations. They had unflinchingly walked through cannon and musket fire, they had almost captured the church, and would have after one last push. But the combined charge was too much for them. Any reasonable commander would have ordered a ceasefire and surrendered there and then.

But Sewell was not that commander. "No!" He roared, defiantly. "No! I am a man of power!" He cackled manically, felt the energy coursing through him as he prepared one last spell. "I will not be beaten by weaker, lesser men!" He drew a brace of pistols. "Hold the line, damn you!" He called to a fleeing officer, He shot the man through the heart when he kept running. "And you!" He blew a sergeant's head off with his next shot. The spell was now ready. He gave one last triumphant laugh as he prepared it, the energy drawn from every plant around him, every blade of grass, every tree. All was ready for a blast which would shatter the church, the fleeing men, the Americans, everything that had caused him pain.

Then a pistol banged.

Sewell's last sight was of a tall American officer, pistol in hand, standing over him, a hulking sergeant by his side. He went to his grave knowing that they would die.

Tentatively, Morgan lowered his gun. He went up to the dead officer, drew his sabre and stabbed down, just in case. Beside him, Sergeant McKenzie offered a prayer for his soul. He too stabbed down with his bayonet. But before either man could withdraw his blade, green arcs of… something crackled through the air. "What the hell-" Morgan exclaimed. McKenzie swore loudly, just before the man's corpse seemed to explode, with an incandescent, green glow.

And then everything went black. Captain Samuel Morgan and Sergeant Abraham McKenzie were then hurled away. From the past, through the present, and in to the future.

In to History.

Now, with Morgan's first encounter with the unnatural, the proper adventure can begin.

Please review! And I'm sorry about the length.