Thank you guys for your continued support. We've now cleared over 4,200 views! That's incredible! There's a time jump from this chapter and the preceding one, now we'll be focusing on Major Haddock's attempts to destroy the rebellion and how Astrid's emotions will begin affecting her loyalties…

-Hawkfrost

Edit: My bad, totally forgot to identify who was speaking in the second part of this chapter

Boston 1770 (eight years ago)

Prologue

The Boston Massacre, as it was now called, was a deadly riot that occurred on the brisk early morning of March 5, some eight years ago, on King Street in Boston. It began as and should've stayed as a street brawl between American colonists and a lone British soldier. Instead, it quickly escalated into a chaotic, bloody slaughter. The conflict served to energize anti-English sentiment and paved the way for the war they were currently engaged in.

Tensions had already been running high in Boston in early 1770. The king had sent more than 2,000 soldiers "establish law and order" in a city occupied with more than 16,000 colonists. It was nothing more than a poorly concealed ruse, the soldier's true reasons for being there was to enforce Britain's tax laws. American colonists, with just cause, rebelled against the taxes they found repressive, rallying around the cry, "no taxation without representation." The words echoed off buildings and the cobbled pavement. It thrummed in harmony with thousands of beating hearts.

Skirmishes between colonists and soldiers – and between patriot colonists and colonists loyal to Britain (loyalists, as they were called by the Patriots) – were increasingly common. To protest taxes, patriots often vandalized stores selling British goods and intimidated store merchants and their customers. In turn, loyalist would ride up and tar and feather some poor farmer or beat down some poor sod crossing the street. This would enrage the patriots who would retaliate and so on and so on. This low-level violence should've served as a warning, but no one listened. Or rather, they were so preoccupied with their troubles they failed to notice the danger looming on the horizon. That danger made itself manifest on the morning of the 22nd of February.

On that day, a mob of Patriots attacked a known loyalist's store. Customs officer Ebenezer Richardson lived near the store and tried to break up the rock-pelting crowd by firing his gun through the window of his home. Good intentions unfortunate don't negate impact. His gunfire struck and killed an 11-year-old boy named Christopher Seider. Instead of causing the crowd to disperse he only succeeded in further enraging the Patriots. This set of a cycle of events that led to a fight breaking out between local workers and British soldiers. It ended without serious bloodshed but helped set the stage for the bloody incident that was yet to come.

So, there it was, the stage was set, and the actors were prepared. On the frigid, snowy evening of March 5, 1770, Private Hugh White was the only soldier guarding the King's money stored inside the Custom House on King Street. It wasn't long before angry colonists joined him and insulted him and threatened violence. They were angry and were looking for something, someone to vent it on. Who better than a soldier of the country they hated so much?

The crowd surged in on him, a thronging angry mass. Our poor private was overwhelmed and struck a colonist with his bayonet. In retaliation, the colonists pelted him with snowballs, ice, and stones, anything they could get their hands on. Bells started ringing throughout the town – usually a warning of fire – sending a mass of male colonists into the streets, making matters worse. As the assault on White continued, he eventually fell and called for reinforcements.

In response to White's plea and fearing mass riots and the loss of the King's money, Captain Thomas Preston arrived on the scene with several soldiers and took up a defensive position in front of the Custom House. Worried that bloodshed was inevitable, some colonists reportedly pleaded with the soldiers to hold their fire as others dared them to shoot. But it was too late, the play's ending was already set in stone, all that was left was for the audience to experience it. Preston later reported a colonist told him the protestors planned to "carry off White from his post and probably murder him." Whether that's true or not is of no concern all that matters is the Captain response to the warning.

The violence escalated, and the colonists struck the soldiers with clubs and sticks. Someone threw a glass lantern that caused a small fireball to flame up, further causing more chaos. The crowd pressed in more aggressively, they continued shouting, pushing, and hitting the soldiers. The soldiers themselves were shouting, to hold formation, for the crowd to disperse. In all this ruckus in all this fear and adrenaline, the unimaginable happened. A shot rang out. For a brief moment in time everything seemed to come to a standstill, for one moment, the crowd stopped. At that moment, Captain Preston's face went pale with the understanding of what would come next.

Then everything snapped back, once that first shot rang out, the soldiers followed suit, opening fire as well. In the shooting five colonists were killed and six were wounded. What happened next set the country on fire, Preston and his soldiers were arrested, and the propaganda machine had fun turning this engagement into a massacre. They perpetuated the notion that the British were slaughtering colonist at will. This whipped the entirety of the colony into a mad fever of rage and despair that demanded release. The papers printed illustrations of the shooting, it perpetuated the colonist as gentleman and the soldiers as vicious murders.

The trial that commenced served only to worsen the situation. Mr. John Adams was the attorney assigned to defend the men, and he did so saying he believed they deserved a fair trial. Maybe those men did, but the outcome did no good. When the colonies learned that the soldiers that had brutally murdered their countrymen were to walk free, all their anger and frustration returned. And what did Preston have to say about the dreadful affair? "None of them was a hero. The victims were troublemakers who got more than they deserved. The soldiers were professionals…who shouldn't have panicked. The whole thing shouldn't have happened."

Yes, Mr. Preston, the whole thing shouldn't have happened, but it had. And now here they were, eight years later, fighting this bloody war for independence. And it was not going well.

00000

Present Day

Early Winter

1778

Most of them here were young, boys really, some of them hadn't even been with a woman yet. But here they were, hundreds of miles from home sleeping in tents, marching hundreds of miles per week, living under the constant threat of attack and death. They did this all for freedom, freedom for themselves, freedom for their families, and freedom for their country. They had all suffered under the oppressive yoke of England in one way or the other, but unlike the cowards who were content to lick clean the boots of red coats, the so-called loyalist, these men had decided to fight back. Since that fateful day of April 18th, over three years ago, they had been fighting. They had done the unimaginable, they had taken on the most powerful military on the face of the planet, and won, that battle at least.

He hadn't been in the service for that battle, but he could remember with acuity how those who had fought retold the story. The tension at that time was palpable. It was felt by shop owners as they watched from their windows at the increased military presence. Blacksmiths, as they hammered away at their metals, the tension rising in harmony with each clang. Slowly, without it even really being noticed, the British began tightening their grip on the continent. Harbors were restricted, curfews were put into place, and the right to assemble was denied. The rules began to mount and so did the anger and hatred.

So, it began to take shape, on the night of April 18th, hundreds of British soldiers had marched onto Lexington in hopes of searching and destroying rebel arms. The battle that ensued was short and chaotic. Once the smoke cleared and the last shot rang out, the battlefield was littered with the corpses of nine and wounded. The redcoats then proceeded to torch everything in their path in the futile hopes to eliminate weapon caches. On the skirts of the town, what remained of the rebel force watched in mute horror as their homes and memories went up in cinders, the hungry flames lapping at everything in its ravenous path, while hoofbeats and the commands of officers echoed across the night.

So, here they were, again, freezing their asses off in this godforsaken stretch of land that was valley forge. None of them thought the war would be easily one, but they had assumed they would have the support of the people on their side. And to some extent, they did, but not nearly as much as they had hoped. General Clinton had driven them out of Philadelphia easily enough. And the defeats had kept coming, the entirety of the army was being pushed back on its heels. This army, the one under Washington's command, barely survived. The Brits had destroyed several of their food and munitions stocks in sweeping counter-offensive operations. What they couldn't salvage for themselves, they burned so as not to leave it for the British Army to capture. The fires didn't mix all that well with the lush dense forest and all the dead branches. It was said that some fires still burned even now. Mutiny wasn't unheard of and morale was at its lowest. Even he could hardly blame them, disease was common, most of them were poorly dressed for the biting cold, improper care of the dead left mass graves poorly dug and marked. Most of them were starving as well. Fighting around Philadelphia affected the supply routes, often the food perished before it arrived. And what little did make it through British blockades was rotting or just not enough to feed the living, let alone the wounded and sick.

They were all exhausted and pushed to the ragged edge of their endurance. The General was keeping them going through sheer force of will, but even he was beginning to look affected. There was a heaviness to his gait, tiredness behind the eyes, he hid it well. But it was there if you looked close enough. But it wasn't his job to mother hen the general, that had been made clear to him some months prior. Besides he had other things to worry about. As a major in Military Intelligence assigend to General Washington, he had much to keep him occupied. Major Benjamin Tallmadge, he liked the way it sounded when he introduced homself. Enough of that, back to work major. He was standing in front of a note that was delivered to him via one of his agents. After the contact he had sent personally had failed to return, he had debated what to do next. Ultimately it was decided for him to go personally, it was a major risk, but one he felt was needed. The rumors they were hearing, if true, would signify the end of the war. And not with an American victory. Despite the grimness of it all, he couldn't help smiling at the memory. What could he say, he was a sucker for blue eyes, and her's was the most irresistible, a dangerous and alluring shade of ice blue.

He had admired her from afar for years but did nothing. They were friends, and technically she was subordinate. But she was more than that, if he was being honest with himself, he loved her. He had for ages. So, when he had shown up that night and looked at her, her neck bruised, her hair wet hanging onto her shoulders, and her blue eyes brimmed with tears. He was helpless. They crossed the boundary and when it was all over, he was the happiest man alive, until the next morning. She was…distant, her mannerism and behavior were almost mechanistic. She had delivered a note she had found on the person of the soldier she had killed. It was nothing more than a few smudged words, but it linked perfectly with the suspicions they already had.

Major Haddock was attempting to undermine the war effort by pumping counterfeit money into circulation. The thought terrified him if the news becomes widespread the economy would fall apart. If the army couldn't purchase weapons and supplies, then they couldn't engage the British. If they couldn't pay the salaries of their soldiers, there wouldn't even be an army to buy supplies for. He looked at the map again and stared, the silent rage whipping through him. The counterfeiting was being done in New York, but there was nothing they could do. The British were firmly entrenched, like white on rice. All he could do was hope that she would do her part, the fate of the revolution now lies in her hands. She wouldn't let him down though, Astrid never had.