History Buffs Ye Be Warned: My knowledge of the Siege of Boston and Bunker Hill are pretty softcore and my military terminology/understanding of how ranks work is… well… to put it lightly, although I am plucky and adventury, I am NOT the very model of a modern Major General. Inaccuracies abound, but hopefully they are entertaining!

Word of my ambition spread like a wildfire after Andre left. Fighting past my first real wound was the hardest task to ever befall me, but I had little knowledge of what awaited me in Boston. The city seemed tolerable, at first. Large, crowded, a maze of winding streets that was nothing like the rural landscape that I preferred, but similar enough to New York that I knew what to expect. The raise in my pay enabled me to rent out a tiny room of my very own, far away from the discomforts of the barracks. Indeed, I believed that this small emblem of my advancement in the ranks from a nameless cadet to a commissioned lieutenant meant that my dreary days of training had reached an end. I even had a small platoon of new recruits who looked to me for answers and protection! But every one of these indications that I was heading towards smoother waters lost their worth only two days after my arrival in the city.

The letters were first; two seemingly insignificant notes that had been slipped beneath my door while I was away. The larger of them was from General Howe. I normally would have committed my full attention to it, but the telltale seal in royal blue wax on the back of the smaller letter diverted me. I traced the indention of the swan in flight and thought of how joyful Sylvia must have been to receive the composition that I had included for her in my most recent message. I cleared my writing desk of its clutter, namely, several rotations of the underclothing that I wore beneath my uniform and had been too busy (and lazy) to wash. This was done to make room for my violin's case while I played. Certainly, Sylvia would respond to the song that I had written for her with a song that she had written for me! Once the seal was broken, I found only a collection of words that pierced my heart with more ferocity and precision than any weapon ever could.

Cadet Bordon,

There is no easy way to inform you of my recent change of heart, but what may seem sudden at first was at work from the beginning of our courtship. It is no secret that you and I were ill-matched, and that Papa only asked that we attend the ball together so that all four of his daughters would have a gentleman to dance with. Everything that followed after that night is irrelevant and must be expunged from our memories. While there are many other considerations that played into this decision, sheer incompatibility is the reason why this letter shall be the last of our exchanges.

I was recently offered a proposal of marriage from a gentleman of my father's choosing. Well, I suppose he was of my choosing, too, because I accepted. It would be not only respectful, but proper for you to refrain entirely from writing to an engaged woman. Given where you come from, I doubt that you understand this and hopefully, hearing it from me will allow it to fully register in your mind. These words are painful to write on my end and I can only imagine how dreadful they must be for you to receive. But we must persevere. Compatibility, as you know, is mysterious. I did not expect such an agreement was in the making between Colonel Tarleton and my father. Nor did I believe that any woman would be a match for him besides Celeste.

I pray that these same wonderous forces weave their way into your life, too, and that you find a woman who is content with your lack of ambition and accomplishments.

Your Friend,

Sylvia

I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Silence was usually my solace but this time, it meant that I was alone with the pounding of my suffering heartbeats. The fire across the room grew in volume as it began to blaze. I took the letter and rolled it between my hands like dough. The ink smudged against my sweating palms, the paper warped into a nearly unrecognizable blob. Perhaps by destroying her words before they had time to sink in, they would never affect me. I would be able to return to the state that I was in before reading those words- those words that couldn't possibly have been written by Sylvia! I considered unraveling the letter and comparing what was left of her penmanship to an earlier note. Forgery from either her father or Nora was a possibility, especially if certain events came to light. But were either of them truly wicked enough to include the tidings of a false proposal? To Banastre Tarleton, of all people?!

When Sylvia told me that she loved me, I saw the truth of her words in her eyes. The admiration that she felt for me since childhood made perfect sense because I had watched it grow. I simply didn't have a name for it until at last she told me that it was love. Beyond words, I had felt nothing but raw honesty in her embrace, complete elation in her kiss and passion that had been perfectly tailored for my body and my soul those three glorious occasions that we became one. Banastre cheapened intimacy by treating it as nothing more than an indulgence. The thought that he would be the one to rename Sylvia, to possess her and to inevitably dishonor their marriage by laying with the first woman that he could find when Sylvia was out of sight sickened me. As rage built up inside of me, I threw the remains of the letter into the fire before I had time to make my comparison and learn whether or not it was as fraudulent as I had hoped it might be.

The tavern beckoned. I payed no mind to Howe's letter and kept it on my desk for later perusal. For now, my only objective was to find the strength to lace up my boots, walk several blocks and pour enough ale down my throat to rid my mind of Sylvia, my one and only love, bound forever to that adulterous imp. My single window, which usually overlooked a peaceful cobblestone street, sprung to life with a brilliant flash that filled even the darkest corner of the nearby alleyway. A sudden bang followed, trailed quickly by a barrage of cannon fire. The alter-ego that I had met during the ambush propelled my sluggish, heartbroken form into action. I grabbed hold of my musket and raced, bootless, down the stairs and into the street. It didn't take long to find my company, a good ten of whom were in my platoon. Each man bore a look of bewilderment and fear as they prepared to fire back at the ranks of rebels that were growing in levels in the outskirts of the city. They seemed to wait for my order to fire and even asked me, of all people, what was happening.

"I believe," I started, giving my men the most logical answer that I could find, "they are trapping us in the city."

If General Howe's letter had taken precedence over Sylvia's, I would have understood why everyone was suddenly so dependent on my judgement and knowledge (or rather, lack thereof). Furthermore, if the siege was my first test, then I had already fallen behind the clock and was tragically failing every question. The absence of my commander during this massive rebel uprising eventually made me desperate for answers that could only be found through the written word. I returned home some hours later with the unsettling knowledge that my men and I were now hostages. All that I could do was wait for whatever tactic Howe was devising- and wallow in the deep waves of anguish that Sylvia Ballard had carelessly thrust me into. Opening the second life-altering letter that had been delivered to my door on that fateful day would put more weight on my shoulders than I knew I had the capacity to hold. Nevertheless, I tore into it for the sake of remaining informed.

Lieutenant Bordon,

I apologize for my shortness with you the other day. Your promotion from cadet to a commissioned officer is a rarity, yes, but it was the result of the courage and leadership that you demonstrated during the ambush in New York. The willingness that you showed me towards your new assignment, having just arrived in Boston with an only passably healed wound, did not go unnoticed. Both Captain Greer and myself are impressed and frankly, elated to see such eagerness from a young loyalist. Captain Greer has requested that you serve as his second. This will make you not only responsible for your platoon, but the entire company in the event of a conflict. In addition, he would like your name to remain under consideration for future promotions. This is a great honor but also a tremendous responsibility. In short, it means that I will be watching you closely during your time in Boston.

Do not disappoint me,

General William Howe

I no longer wanted ale, I required it! Everyone else had retreated into their homes, some into the tavern, and the entire city was shaken and confused. I allowed the weight of my new responsibilities to crush the pain that Sylvia had left me with. I didn't want to sit around and wait for some order, I wanted to speak to either Captain Greer or General Howe. Or, at the very least, I longed to simply gain some sort of a connection with the other men in my company. It's curious, really, how a crisis strips a man of his indifference. Perhaps it was merely my new title that prompted me to speak with the others and learn their opinions. We did not feel the full impact until the Spring transitioned into Summer. My days were committed to my work. I thought of Sylvia, but only in the quiet of the night. Even if I had been able to write to the Ballards or to Banastre, my letters would have been halted before they could leave the city. Our decline into starvation and shortage of provisions did not go unnoticed by the Crown and we were supplied by sea. But the conditions that we lived under were dire and by June, Captain Greer and I received a much welcome call to fight the rebels formally.

I remained close to him on brief voyage from the harbor to Breed's Hill. Unsurprisingly, he talked while I listened. I knew that my instincts were likely to take over any of the knowledge of warfare that I had acquired and that my mind would soon be frantically searching for any final, pleasant memory of the woman who had broken my heart.

"General Howe thought it best to keep this from ye," the spidery Captain told me as we sat adjacent to one another, "but I will likely be returning to Scotland before the year runs out."

I nodded respectfully over the top of my musket. He could see even in the darkened hull that I was shaking in fear and he gave me a slight smile that I was undeserving of. "You will be dearly missed, Sir," I managed to whimper.

"The company will be under your command. Something pleasant for ye to think upon today..." He could tell that this conversation was doing more harm than good and in the name of pressure, he continued to taunt me. "It has a rather charming ring to it, don't ye think? 'Captain Bordon'. I bet your lassie back home would be impressed!"

Slowly, a drew in a deep breath of air and thanked Captain Greer for his words of encouragement. Although it was clear to me that the notion of titles and accomplishments would not bring Sylvia back to me. Nor would it keep me alive in the impending battle.

Another shortie. Having the drama with Sylvia, the Siege of Boston AND Bunker Hill all in the same chapter would have been overkill, so this is where I chopped it. Stay tuned! X