June 17, 1775
Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony
Battle of Bunker Hill
America felt the repeat mechanics of pressing a shovel into the dirt and lifting it to build the fortifications burning in his muscles. The wall on Breed's Hill would be vital. He could see the outline of Bunker Hill against the night sky. They had started there, but Colonel Prescott and decided it was undefensible.
The moon was almost to the western sky, but no light yet creeped from the east. America figured it a couple hours before dawn. He'd felt the eyes of the British watching him all night. They had been occupying Boston for too long. America hoped this would make some progress towards liberating them. He knew they were out there somewhere, England's commanders - Howe, Clinton, Burgoyne and Gage. They were tired of being harried in Boston and wanted to take the fight to the "rebels". I won't let you. America thought as he pushed his shovel back into the dirt.
Thunder boomed.
America looked up, startled. There was no sign of a storm.
The cannon ball struck the earth far away from the line sending up clods of dirt and unfortunate plants. A clean miss. For safety, the men digging the earthworks ducked behind them, listening to the cannon echoing off the water from one of the many ships in the harbor. None of them made it to the line and they were silenced.
Probably ruined some Lord's beauty sleep, America considered, falling back into the work with single mindedness. As the sun began to rise he felt a shift. Prescott had ordered men to extend the breastwork towards the east. America saw the problem now, in the daylight. Without defending the sides, they could easily be flanked by British troops. Apparently, Prescott had decided the east side of the hill more defensible than the west. They likely didn't have time to protect both sides. He continued to work.
The first chirps of a marching song came ghost-like to his ears. A cold chill of something coming for him. When the lines appeared he felt his heart beat faster, not making any effort to match the steadiness of the drums that brought the scarlet mass surging towards them. America was not the only one peering over the wall, watching the soldiers arrange themselves into battalions and lines. The Continental officers moved back and forth along the lines of militiamen urging them to wait for orders to fire. Tiredness from the sleepless night had driven him to lean back on the wall, exhaustion taking over him, his musket cradled against his shoulder.
"Jones! Wake up!" said another soldier. America blinked the sleep out of his eyes, pops of gunfire had started from nearby Charlestown. Smoke caught in his nose, but he couldn't see what was going on from his position.
"What's happening?" America looked up and could see the smoke drifting out to sea.
"The bloody backs set fire to the town to drive out our men. Sounds like a lot of the lobsters went down before the sharpshooters had to flee." America nodded. "Captain Prescott thinks they'll make an attempt from that side."
They had been waiting for this moment since daybreak, waiting for the Lords to decide how they were going to attack since their volleys from the sea were ineffective. America could see the few American troops that had ended up on Bunker Hill, they had arrived late and had gone there by mistake in the dark.
The sun was hot on the back of his neck. America could see the swirl of redcoats in the distance, arching from the direction of the town as well as across the field in front of the earth works. There were so many of them! He tried to remember if there had been this many soldiers on any of the battlefields he'd seen. Well, England never let you on the main fields, so how would you know? he asked himself. The soldiers were advancing now, only a matter of time.
"Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes!" came a shout from somewhere down the line.
It was time to hold fast.
Order came in a flurry, not all of them registering in America's ears as the sound from the incoming troops clashed with the noise from their own ranks. The fifes especially seemed to want to drill sound into his head. That damn song. America knew it would be ringing in his ears even after this battle was over. Words he wanted to say to England welled into the forefront of him mind.
You think you can just make a show of force with all your fine generals and bright uniforms. It won't make me back down. I'm not just some subject to shine your shoes and watch the rear forts when you take all the glory. I risked my neck under your flag! I make a lot of the things that keeps your country afloat! I've as much right to dignity as you! I have my own flag now. You will see me as an equal!
Pop! A musket went off somewhere to his left and was immediately followed by a shout to hold. They needed to wait for effective range.
With the beat of a drum and blast of smoke, a return volley came from the British line. America barely heard the impact of the balls making it into the earthwork. They were too far away, they may as well have thrown pebbles across the field.
"Hold!"
The British ranks advanced. He watched at how fast they reloaded their muskets, England had taught him to do it just that way. America swallowed. They were coming into range.
The smoke burned his eyes when he heard the order to fire, the hodgepodge of rifles and muskets sending up smoke as the snapping gunpowder propelled the ordinance towards the men across the field.
America reminded himself that he'd been in battle before. Seen men killed and wounded, some in situations far more horrible than open battle. He heard stories from England his entire life, although the elder nation had certainly glossed over things until America had come to learn of war at first hand. However, in the moment where the British line faltered, America could only imagine England in those men's places, stumbling and falling with a musket ball in his gut.
His hands shook. He felt the surge of excitement from the men around him, the British seemed to be drawing back. It wasn't orderly like he would have expected, the men in the infantry didn't want to face another volley from a secured position. America watched, hoping they would draw back. Draw back all the way to their ships and sail back to England to tell him that America wasn't going to bend to force. But no, they were simply reforming the lines to march again. He reloaded, trying to disconnect the memory from the task. He shouldered his musket again and pointed it across, firing again when he was ordered.
Another retreat. In the clearing smoke America could see the British fallen, the more mobile men trying to make their way off the field to boats that would carry them back into the relative safety of Boston. How many were there? He didn't want to count but knew it had to be hundreds. Hundreds of men killed in two volleys not including the wounded that could not get to their feet. America hunkered down behind the redoubt squeezing his eyes shut. England… try to understand. Don't make me do this… I won't stop.
There seemed to be some sort of noise from the back of the colonial ranks, but America couldn't seem to get his legs under him to find out. He heard something about reinforcement from Bunker Hill, but he didn't really see any.
Nearby, America could see Colonel Prescott watching the men across the field through his spy glass. "They are going to make a charge." he said to himself at first. He looked down and had caught America's eye. The change in Prescott's face made America's heart hurt as the man turned away and began preparing the men for that inevitability. America knew why he'd looked worried and then hardened into resolve. They didn't have the ammunition to keep the British forces back. They would have to fire all they had left and then try to hold the ground hand to hand.
America got to work fixing his bayonet to the end of his musket so that it wouldn't come loose. He was one of the few men doing so, the rest didn't have anything other than a simple knife in their pockets and those knives were not designed to stab into human flesh.
His task done, America leaned up and looked over the edge of the redoubt. He's not really out there. He said to himself over and over. He knew that England was in his home. If he was there he would have known it.
The British reformed at their end of the field, marching towards them again. America saw them fall along their lines once they came into range, but the line kept coming. Instinctively, he reached into his cartridge bag and his fingers met nothing. His hand scrambled for a ball. It was empty.
Wide-eyed, he realized he wasn't the only one.
"Hold the line!" The order didn't stop some men and America couldn't say that he blamed them. A bayonet flashed past his face as the first British soldiers hit the redoubt climbing over the earthen wall to attack the Continentals hand to hand.
America held off the one attacking him as best he could, trying to ignore the sound of steel piercing flesh that brought back awful memories of the French and Indian War. The other man's hand shot out and grabbed him hard by the arm trying to pin him to the ground. That action confused America. Why not just try to kill me?
A feeling passed through him. It wasn't a human that had gotten a hold of him, it was another nation! America struggled, knocking off the other's hat, revealing his face. For a sickening moment he was certain it was England.
But he wasn't. There were slight differences in his face and coloring. "Who are you?" America demanded, still trying to get loose.
"Don't worry about that now, lad. Your big brother wants to see you."
Boom!
The cannon blast sent them flying and America hit the ground hard, coughing in the dirt. As soon as he got his limbs under him he had one thing on his mind - escape.
The militia was falling back in waves, one after the other using what little ammunition they had left to the stem the tide. America helped what wounded men he could and it twisted his heart to realize he couldn't save them all.
In the safety of Cambridge, America felt he could finally breathe. He learned later that day in the end it was four hundred wounded, five out of six cannons lost, and about a hundred dead. He wondered how many England had lost…
That made him think of the strange nation that looked similar to England, but wasn't him. Who was he?
June 6, 1775
London, England
"Good God!" England stood up from his desk and came around wanting to offer something to Wales as he came into the room. He looked frightful, his uniform torn and his face burned, still covered with blood and dirt. England hadn't expected him to be back, his brother had obviously used magic to travel back so quickly. The news had to be dire.
Wales walked right past him towards one of the chairs, pulling the silver gorget from his neck and tossing it in England's direction. It hit the floor with a clatter that made England wince. He scooped it up and sat it on his desk.
"There's over eight hundred dead, more wounded, probably about a hundred officers killed." Wales said, without any preamble. He leaned over and began rummaging in the drawer of the side table where England kept odds and ends.
England's mouth went dry. "How?" The word fell out of his mouth and Wales twisted in the chair. He offered him a sardonic smile.
"How do you think? It was obviously a battle. Just because you didn't expect him to fight doesn't change that he did. Do you have anything to drink?"
England took the opportunity to turn away and go to the pitcher on his desk. It was filled with beer and, for good measure, he went to the cupboard behind his desk and found a dusty bottle of whiskey. He tried to compose his face before going back to where Wales sat, using one of the handkerchiefs he'd found in the drawer to wipe his face. He couldn't even make sense of it as he sat down in the other chair across from Wales.
"I saw your boy by the way. Ulster is right, he doesn't look anything like you. A bonnie fighter though, he did get that from you. I probably could have gotten him if not for a poorly aimed cannon. Don't know if it was ours or his."
England swallowed at the idea that America had been hit by a cannon blast and may look as bad as Wales. "How did he look, when you caught sight of him?"
"Defiant, but scared out of his wits. I think he thought I was you for a moment when I got hold of him. The only reason his soldiers stopped fighting is they ran out of ammunition and had to retreat. If you keep the blockade on him you'll likely get him to stop. Just another uprising to stomp under your boot." Wales made the comment offhand, but England felt that he'd punched him in the stomach. He wondered whether his brothers delighted in composing sentences that hurt. Wales didn't look sorry at all. "I'll leave you to decide what you would like to do next shall I?"
England gave him a dismissive wave. It wasn't until Wales' footsteps had faded and the door shut that England realized he'd taken the bottle of whiskey. "Damn." England said and got up to ring for a servant to bring him another bottle.
He sat down behind his desk, wishing that the old stone would offer some wisdom. He wrapped his arms around his knees and pressed his face into his legs. He was trying to banish the picture in his mind of America bloodied from his own cannons.
"Why the bloody hell won't you stop! Foolish!" A litany of other words began to pour out of his mouth. America could do this because he protected him all those years and taught him. America could do this because he kept him from falling into France's hands. He was throwing it in his face! The sorrow turned to anger. "Perhaps you'll understand now that you are not my equal. I should have taught you that long ago." he said to his memory of the last time he'd been happy with the boy.
Suddenly he was struck by the first time America had trusted him, reaching out his small hands and calling him big brother.
It took draining the bottle of whiskey before he could get that image out of his head.
September 1, 1775
"We, your Majesty's faithful subjects of the colonies of new Hampshire, Massachusetts bay, Rhode island and Providence Plantations, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, the counties of New Castle, Kent, and Sussex, on Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina, in behalf of ourselves, and the inhabitants of these colonies, who have deputed us to represent them in general Congress, entreat your Majesty's gracious attention to this our humble petition."
To be honest England had dropped the document back to the wooden face of his desk with hopelessness. Two men by the names of Richard Penn and Arthur Lee had produced a copy of the document to the second Earl of Dartmouth about 10 days prior before producing the real one. However, George had refused to even look at the document. In less than kind words he had informed England that to look at such drivel from an illegitimate band of rebels in the colony was not fit for a King to waste his time on.
England had argued with George in what he knew was a futile effort from the get go. The man was in a huff about the way the colonists were behaving. Not that England could blame him, but at the same time, one often had to do things that they considered highly dislikeable. Such was life. Not more than once did England find himself pitying the middle aged king. The entirety of George's reign thus far had been littered with war and military strife. George had led England in its triumph during the Seven Years War, much to the personified nations delight. George III had made the UK the largest power house in all of North America and India. And now it seemed as if the colonies wanted to argue and complain. It was a lot for one man to handle, including the weight of his titles. His friend was formally known as George III King of Great Britain and Ireland, Duke and prince-elector of Brunswick-Luneburg of the Holy Roman Empire.
England rubbed his temple with a sigh. It was all too much to be focusing on this late at night. Even the candle to his right seemed to yawn and slump with fatigue. He found himself at a loss. He feared that if George refused to look at the document, that the colonies would fabricate their own answers from the King's lack of one, and England was certain that it would one that held no favor for the crown or parliament.
Rubbing his hands together he took a centering breath before pushing his chair back England go to his feet. He would deal more with this in the morning. Lifting up the candlestick, mindful of running wax, he left the study, heading for his private chambers. Private chambers huh….honestly he would prefer to be in the colonies. Helping America at this trying time. But he needed to be here for the both of them. That was a parent's job.
