Author's Note: England and France left their countries before Canada took West Point. It's going to take them a while to reach the North American continent, so their segments will have to wait until next chapter.
In the meantime, Canada has a run-in with the Loyalist personification...
Canada ran into Hamilton's army not far south of Philadelphia. The fiery pain in Canada's body already indicated how dire the situation was; Hamilton's news merely confirmed it.
Hamilton invited Canada to the commander's pavilion to discuss the current situation, and possible plans.
"A combined force of Loyalist militia and British regulars drove us out of Virginia," Hamilton told Canada as the two sat down at the desk in the center of the pavilion. "They've been pursuing ever since. I think they intend to corner us in Philadelphia."
Canada grabbed one of Hamilton's maps and spread it across the table. A tense silence followed as both men stared intently at the map.
"Have you tried to repel them?"
"Several times," Hamilton replied grimly. "But my army lacks the strength. We were outnumbered to begin with, and we've taken heavy losses."
"But we can't afford to let them take Philadelphia," Canada said.
"What other option do we have?" Hamilton asked. "If we stay here, the army will be decimated."
"And if you keep fleeing, they'll run us all the way to New York!" Canada interrupted. "We must stop them before they advance any further."
Hamilton slammed his hands on the table.
"How do you suggest we do that?" he asked.
Canada took in a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. Tapping his index finger on the edge of the table, Canada glared at the map, thinking.
For a long time, nothing came to him. His mind was blank, bereft of a viable strategy. Only the two options he and Hamilton had already discussed presented themselves: stay, and lose the army in a futile attempt to defend Philadelphia; or, flee and lose the entire colonies of Maryland, Pennsylvania, and possibly Delaware to the British. It meant defeat either way.
Canada shook his head vigorously. There had to be another way.
"Send for reinforcements," Canada said. "Lafayette's in New York…"
"And leave the northern colonies undefended?" Hamilton asked.
"They won't be undefended. There are several regiments of militia from Halifax, Quebec, Massachusetts…"
"They are untrained and leaderless. They wouldn't even slow down a British offensive."
"It's all I've got."
Hamilton froze, regarding Canada with a shocked expression. Canada stared back, his face set with unwavering determination.
"You sound like you intend to try anyway," Hamilton said.
Canada inclined his head slowly. Hamilton leaned back in his chair, lowering his gaze to the map.
"I appreciate the confidence," Hamilton said, though his grim tone seemed to indicate otherwise. "But confidence by itself won't be enough."
Canada frowned. "I know."
Hamilton lifted his gaze back to Canada. For well over a minute, the tent was silent. Neither man moved.
"Fine."
Hamilton abruptly ended the tense silence and stood up, rolling the map up and putting it away.
"Ride back to New York, and bring back as many reinforcements as you can find," Hamilton commanded. "You have three days."
(-)
Canada's horse almost couldn't handle the strain of riding nonstop to New York at a full gallop. But Canada had been given such a small window of time to collect much-needed reinforcements that he had no other choice but to push the poor beast to its limits. Upon arriving in New York, Canada immediately met with Lafayette, and spent a very brief meeting trying to apprise the French general of the situation without collapsing from exhaustion. Fortunately, Canada retained enough strength to walk out of the meeting on his own two feet, and retire to the barracks, where he slept for several hours.
Just before the dawn of the following morning, however, Canada was up, gathering the reinforcements Lafayette had promised in yesterday's meeting. The French general had been unable to spare any of the men stationed at West Point, but by that afternoon, Canada had a regiment of New York militia ready to march.
But one regiment of untrained volunteers was not enough.
"Are there any more militia in the area?" Canada asked Lafayette.
"I've been promised reinforcements from as far north as Quebec and Massachusetts Bay," Lafayette replied. "But they won't arrive for at least five more days."
Canada hung his head, pulling on his hair in frustration. "That's not enough time… Please tell me there are more men nearby, that will be here today or tomorrow."
Lafayette looked thoughtful.
"New Jersey," he said. "I think there are some men coming from New Jersey."
"Good."
Canada left without another word.
The next morning, Canada led two regiments of militia – one from New York, the other from New Jersey – out of the New York colony at the crack of dawn, marching at a rapid pace towards Pennsylvania. Yet, for as much as Canada pushed the men, he still missed Hamilton's deadline. By nightfall, Canada's little army had not yet merged with Hamilton's, and Canada was forced to call a halt so the men could rest for the night.
Canada roused his men the next morning while it was still dark, and quickly got them on the move again. They merged with Hamilton's army late that afternoon. Canada went into his meeting with General Hamilton prepared to apologize profusely for being so late.
The apology never happened. Canada barely had time to even step inside the tent before Hamilton sent him right back out.
"I don't have time to berate you for being late," Hamilton said. "My scouts have reported Loyalist forces are advancing on us. We have to move."
"Where are we going?" Canada asked.
"The enemy has split its forces. The Loyalist militia is coming straight for us, but the British regulars are headed northwest. I think their general is using the militia as a decoy to distract us while the British march on Philadelphia. We need to stop them."
"Who? The militia, or the regulars?"
"Both. If we ignore the militia, they'll cut us down from behind before we catch the British."
"Sir, we can't engage both at once –"
"Take those reinforcements you brought, and stop the militia's advance. My men and I will handle the British."
"But you're outnumbered!"
"Not while their armies are split. We actually stand a slightly better chance this way."
At that, Canada fell silent. Hamilton had a point.
General and country parted ways, and the two armies prepared to march. Mounting his still-tired horse, Canada led his militia south, to where the Loyalist militia were reported to have been seen. Hamilton's army headed in the opposite direction.
Not long into the march, when Canada looked over his shoulder, the Continental Army had already disappeared from sight. He and the militia now marched alone in the Pennsylvania countryside. Canada rode at the forefront of his force, scanning the hills for signs of the enemy. At first, his searching came up empty. However, just when Canada was starting to believe he had been tricked, something appeared on the roadside on a distant hill.
"Halt!" Canada commanded. He reached for his spyglass in hopes of getting a closer look at whatever this was on the side of the road.
Canada's expression hardened, and his eyes flashed with newfound fury. That something turned out to be that young boy he met in Richmond; the same brat that had stolen four of Canada's colonies, and attacked two others.
The boy simply stood there, holding a gun – a rifle, specifically – that appeared to be much too big for him, yet he held it in one hand with the same ease that he might hold a small stick.
Where are your men? Canada wondered as he continued to watch the boy.
A company of militiamen marched into view, stopping several paces away from the boy, answering Canada's question. Canada quickly scanned the boy's force, attempting to estimate their numbers and compare it to his own strength.
I actually have superior numbers, Canada thought with surprise. He put the spyglass away.
"The enemy is over there!" Canada pointed. "Prepare to attack!"
The words had just barely left Canada's mouth, and both sides scrambled to get in position. Soldiers readied their muskets while continuing to march, until commanders on both sides called their men to halt, right as each side came into firing range of the other. One of the officers from the Loyalist force stepped forward.
"Rebels!" he shouted across the field. "This is your only warning! Lay down your arms, and you will not be harmed!"
Before any of his own officers could react, Canada rode ahead to meet the enemy officer. He dismounted and stood directly in front of him.
"Are you the commander of these men?" the officer asked.
"Yes," Canada replied. He stole a glance at the militia behind the officer, but did not see the boy anywhere.
As small as he is, he's probably hidden by the other soldiers, he thought. I'll find him soon enough, however.
"Will you lay down your arms and surrender?" the officer asked.
Canada returned his attention to the officer.
"No," he said bluntly. "But I will offer you the chance to lay down your arms. Surrender now, and I promise you no harm will come to your men."
The officer's earlier commanding demeanor faded. He did not speak, but shot Canada a disparaging glare before turning on his heel and signaling his men. Just like that, all hope of peaceful negotiation had vanished.
Canada jumped back on his horse and rode back behind his own lines, then promptly dismounted again, readying his musket. Someone yelled "Fire!" and both sides let off simultaneous volleys of musket fire. Screams of wounded soldiers joined the cacophony of gunfire just a split second later, and smoke quickly clouded the field.
Canada ran toward the front line, holding his musket up, ready for the second volley. The thirty second wait for his men to reload seemed to drag on and on, but finally, a voice yelled "Fire!" and the second volley flew into the enemy lines. Not two seconds later, the Loyalist militia returned the favor, their second volley ripping through the rebel front line – a few of the shots narrowly missing Canada.
After those two volleys, the battle fell into chaos. Smoke had so completely covered the middle of the field that it was nearly impossible to see either the rebel or Loyalist lines. Canada attempted to lead a bayonet charge, but only half his men followed him; the rest fell back. Some attempted a third volley, but a few simply fled the battle.
"Charge!" Canada yelled. He and his men ran head-on into the smoke, bayonets pointed directly ahead.
Canada's charge was abruptly interrupted when he slammed right into a Loyalist militiaman. Canada grunted in pain and surprise; both he and the militiaman had had their bayonets pointed in front of them, and so they had impaled each other.
Tightening his grip on his musket, Canada kicked his enemy in the stomach while simultaneously pulling his musket out of the man's chest. The Loyalist soldier was sent careening backwards, eventually collapsing in the bloodstained grass. He did not get back up. Canada, meanwhile, stumbled backward a few paces, but stopped himself and looked down to inspect his wound.
Damn it, I wasn't even fully healed from the wounds I got at West Point…
Most of the front of Canada's shirt was soaked in blood. Canada rested on hand on the wound itself, and swore loudly in French.
A chest wound. And a rather severe one, at that.
I can't keep making mistakes like this, he berated himself. It might be England's bayonet next time…
Gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the pain, Canada readied his musket and pressed forward again. He only covered a short distance, and then he stopped again, but not because someone had run into his bayonet.
A child-sized figure had appeared in the distance amid the smoke and chaos of the battle. It held a rifle much too big for it, yet it carried the weapon with ease.
Canada's heart plummeted.
Dear God, no… please not now…
Canada feverishly attempted to load his musket as quickly as he could. Unfortunately, his hands were slick with blood, he was growing lightheaded from blood loss, and his panicked motions only served to make his movements clumsy and unsuccessful. Alternating between cursing and praying, Canada fought to keep his trembling hands under control while he loaded his musket.
He finally loaded the musket, and he aimed it at the boy, right as the boy finally noticed Canada, and aimed his rifle at him.
Alfred, I –
Canada fired first. His shot struck the boy in the right shoulder, causing his arm to move such that his aim was thrown way off, and the boy's shot flew somewhere behind Canada, missing him completely. The boy cried out in pain, dropped his musket, and staggered backwards, clutching his wounded shoulder with the opposite arm.
On either side of Canada, rebel militia surged forward. Half of the Loyalist line had collapsed, and their men fled en masse. Loyalist officers struggled to hold the remaining half of the army intact, while Canada's rebels split up; some pursued the fleeing Loyalists, the rest pressed their attack on the half of the militia that still remained on the field. Canada took a moment to survey the rest of the field.
Both sides had taken heavy losses. The smoke from the beginning of the battle had faded, revealing a field strewn with dozens of casualties. What grass was visible under the mess of bodies had turned a dark shade of red.
"Ugh…"
Canada's heart raced. The boy's voice jolted Canada's attention back to himself, and his immediate situation.
The boy walked unsteadily towards his rifle. He all but collapsed beside it and reached for it, attempting to pick it up.
"No!"
Canada ran in almost drunken manner at the boy, attempted to swing his musket at him, but missed. His momentum carried him several more paces forward, and he accidentally crashed into the boy just as the boy was closing his hands around the rifle's grip. Both nations fell into the grass.
The boy screamed and punched Canada in the face with his left hand. Canada rolled to the side, his body pinning the boy's right arm to the ground. He tossed his musket aside and wrested the rifle from the boy's grip, then rose gingerly to his feet. As he held the rifle, Canada noticed something inscribed on the weapon's grip.
A name.
A.F. Jones.
Where did he get this?! Canada thought.
"Give that back!" the boy cried, pushing himself up onto his feet as well.
He seized the rifle before Canada could pull it out of reach, and pulled with all his might. When that failed, he tried kicking Canada in the knee. Canada's legs buckled, and he fell, but kept his death grip on the rifle. Giving a stronger tug on the rifle, Canada dragged the boy down into the grass as well.
"Let go! That's mine!"
Almost as if to actually obey the command, Canada relaxed and opened his left hand. The boy tried to pull the rifle out of Canada's other hand, but Canada reached forward, seized the boy's right arm and twisted it, and the boy let out a shrill scream of pain that made Canada flinch at the sound.
The boy dropped the rifle. Canada released the boy's arm. Picking up America's rifle, Canada rose slowly to his feet for the last time.
"I don't know where you got this, but it is not yours. It is my brother's," Canada said coldly.
"A.F. Jones is our brother?" the boy asked, propping himself up on his left arm, while his right arm hung uselessly at his side, bleeding and broken. "What is he?"
Canada stood absolutely still.
"Did you say 'our' brother?" he asked. "Who and what are you?"
"The part of these colonies that is still loyal to England!" the boy replied. He pointed an accusing finger at Canada. "And you are the rebel colonies, the so-called 'United States of America'…"
The boy trailed off, suddenly looking confused.
"So then who is A.F. Jones?" he asked.
Canada did not answer right away. His mind was still reeling from the shock of hearing this enemy personification claim to be his and America's brother.
"England doesn't tell you very much, does he?" Canada said finally.
"What do you mean?"
"I am not the United States of America. My brother Alfred was."
The boy blinked. "Was?"
Canada nodded. "He's dead now. England killed him, and gave the colonies to me."
"But people are saying the rebels are trying to create the 'United States' again," the boy said. "I thought that was you…"
"I'm not," Canada said flatly. "I'm not America. I actually used to be Canada, but I'm not that either. Not anymore. Not since Alfred died."
"Then what are you?"
Canada balked.
I don't know anymore. I stand for both, and yet I am neither…
"A new nation," Canada said. "That's… all you need to know."
With that, Canada slung America's rifle over his shoulder and turned around, heading back to his side of the battlefield.