[Current Balance: £709,747,891 3s. 6d.]
---
A month had passed since the Pennmere Gazette had sent shockwaves across the Atlantic. The declaration of independence was no longer just words on a page; it was a reality taking shape.
Everything was pure chaos. Britain was blindsided and humiliated. It wasn't just a rebellion, it was a total loss of the entire British colonial infrastructure in the New World. Britain's revenue was gone, mercantile control was severed, and global prestige was shattered.
In Philadelphia, the heart of this fledgling nation, a grand new structure had risen with impossible speed, a palace of white stone and stately columns that now served as the seat of government. It was officially named "Pennmere Palace," the home of the first king of the Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere.
Inside the palace's humongous war room, the atmosphere was filled with tension. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, illuminating a massive, circular table around which were gathered the military and political leaders of the new nation. Generals from Massachusetts, Virginia, and the Carolinas sat alongside shrewd Quaker politicians, their faces grim, their uniforms and simple coats were a sharp distinction.
Alaric was there, not as a general, but as something more. He sat in a high-backed chair, his crimson coat was a splash of vibrant color in the otherwise somber room. He was the leader of the "Vanguard," his elite task force, and his presence commanded a quiet, unnerving authority that even the most seasoned generals could not ignore. None of his family were present, not even Kassandra; this was a council of war.
'Tho it'd been better for Kassandra to be here… but she's well into her third trimester.'
The meeting was already in progress, the initial reports and logistical updates having been delivered. Now, they had reached the heart of the matter.
"Now, to our most important discussion," William Penn said, his voice calm and steady as he addressed the room from his position at the head of the table. He turned his gaze to the silent, platinum-blonde man. "Alaric, any news from Matteo's spy network about Britain's response?"
"Yes," Alaric nodded, his voice carrying easily across the large chamber without him needing to raise it. He remained seated, his towering frame already making him one of the most prominent figures in the room. He took a slow, deliberate sip of water before speaking, his blue eyes sweeping over the anxious faces of the generals.
"From what we could gather," he began, his tone even, almost conversational, "Britain's first move was not with cannons, but with words. They've resorted to religious propaganda, using their state church to brand Pennmere as a 'false theocracy founded by Quaker fanatics and warlocks.' They are declaring your actions heresy, using pamphlets, preachers, and the courts of Europe's conservative monarchies to turn public opinion against our kingdom."
A murmur of disgust went through the room.
"Furthermore," Alaric continued, his voice dropping slightly, becoming harder, "troops from Ireland and Britain were mobilized and shipped across the Atlantic days after they received news of the Gazette. Our intelligence confirms a force of approximately ten thousand men, there's also an additional support from experienced Hessian auxiliaries and several hardened Scottish Highland regiments."
The generals shifted in their seats, their expressions growing grimmer. Some of them looked at Alaric with a flicker of annoyance; his casual use of "your" when referring to Penn felt disrespectful, but they held their tongues as Alaric was once the apprentice of the King. Penn, for his part, seemed not to notice, his focus entirely on the intelligence being presented.
"...Then," a grizzled general from Boston finally asked, his voice a low growl, "how many men are we expecting to face in total? Ten… fifteen thousand?"
Alaric looked at the general, then his gaze moved slowly around the table, meeting the eyes of each man there before finally settling on Penn.
"Twenty thousand," he stated flatly.
The word fell into the room like a stone, the silence that followed was absolute. Eyes flicked from the maps spread across the table to each other, and then, inevitably, to the floor.
The air grew heavy, as if twenty thousand ghosts had just marched into the room and taken their places beside them. They had, at best, twelve thousand trained men in their own fledgling army. The promised support from New Spain was still months away from being fully realized. This was not a battle; it was a potential slaughter.
"Not to worry," Alaric's voice cut through the despairing silence, a calm, confident island in a sea of turmoil. He leaned forward, a faint, almost predatory smile on his lips. "Britain's primary strategy isn't a direct land invasion, not at first. What they want is a Royal Navy blockade. They intend to choke us. They will blockade our ports from Boston all the way down to Charleston, cutting off our trade, especially now that Spain is openly supporting us."
He paused, letting the strategic implication sink in. Then, his gaze locked onto Penn. "After this meeting, I would like to have a private conversation, if you permit it… Your Majesty."
The sudden, formal use of the title was a jolt. Penn's eyebrows rose slightly, but he nodded, intrigued by the shift in Alaric's demeanor.
An hour later, the war room was empty, save for two figures. Alaric stood before a massive, wall-sized map of the Americas and the Atlantic. Penn stood beside him, his own cigar sending a thin trail of smoke towards the high, vaulted ceiling.
"My clone in London has already sifted through the King's private war correspondence," Alaric said, his voice low and confident. "I know their deployments before their own generals do." He tapped a finger on the map. "The major naval battles will be here, in Chesapeake Bay, and here, off the coast of New York. They will also use the Caribbean sea lanes they still control to stage attacks, using their bases in Barbados and Jamaica."
"As expected," Penn nodded, his expression grim. "Three fronts. They hope to overwhelm us with size, not precision. But size won't win them a war they no longer understand."
"A war they no longer understand... I agree," Alaric chuckled, offering a second cigar to Penn, who accepted it after tossing the finished one. Alaric flicked his finger, and the tip of Penn's cigar instantly glowed red. "They won't understand how they will lose to a fledgling kingdom."
"...Seeing our strategists holding their breaths a while ago, you were the only one who was calm," Penn observed, shaking his head with a small, wry smile. "What is your plan, Alaric?"
Alaric took another long drag from his cigar, his eyes tracing the sea routes on the map. "Britain's plan is to send eight thousand men to secure Chesapeake Bay, and another eight thousand to blockade New York. The remaining four thousand will be split, two thousand each to reinforce Barbados and Jamaica and harass our Spanish allies." He looked at Penn. "If conditions are optimal, their main fleets will arrive in seven weeks."
He then laid out his own, audacious counter-strategy. "Send the bulk of our army, ten thousand men, to defend New York. Do not ask for support from New Spain for that front. Vanguard will handle the Caribbean. Reuben, Thulani, and the others will be more than enough to occupy Barbados and Jamaica on their own." He paused, his gaze turning to the vast blue expanse of the Chesapeake Bay on the map. "I will handle every ship they send there. And once I am finished, I will join the fight in New York."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"...Handle hundreds of ships on your own?" Penn finally said, his voice barely a whisper. He stared at Alaric, his eyes wide with a disbelief that bordered on terror. "Lad… I… I know you massacred two thousand men back in Bristol…"
"Don't you worry," Alaric grinned, the expression holding no humor, only a chilling certainty. "Be it on land or at sea, I am a one-man army."
"Don't pull my leg!" Penn's composure finally broke. He gripped Alaric's shoulder, his knuckles white. "This is war we're talking about! The lives of thousands, the fate of this new nation!"
"...Do you think I'm fooling around?" Alaric's gaze turned to ice. He met Penn's panicked eyes, and the air in the room seemed to freeze. "Have you ever seen me joke when it comes to serious matters?"
Penn's hand dropped from Alaric's shoulder. He stared, his mind flashing back through the years… the impossible healing, the effortless creation of the mansion, the casual display of power that had rejuvenated his own body. He remembered the massacre in Bristol, the quiet, absolute confidence of the man who had faced down an army and won.
A shaky, almost hysterical laugh escaped Penn's lips. "Hahahaha... no," he breathed, shaking his head as he stumbled back a step. "Damn... okay, damn..."
.
Consider buying me a coffee!
patreon.com/kulark
I'm uploading dozens of chapters ahead there!