---------
From the Brink
---------
Washington City was covered in a blanket of smoke. Nobody dared venture outside, as it was impossible to breathe. Nevertheless, the acrid smell still permeated everything and refused to give the citizens of the American capital any reprise.
From behind a closed window, Lincoln VII, King of the Americans, looked out over the city walls to where the Russian troops were burning his people’s crops and destroying the roads. He shook his head, trying to rid his senses of the burning smell. It would not leave. The door behind Lincoln opened, but he did not turn.
“What is it?” He asked. He was not surprised to hear his military advisor speak.
“Sire, Miami, Chicago, San Francisco, Niagara Falls and Grand River have fallen. Russian troops have also marched onto Atlanta, New York and…”
“…and Washington.” Lincoln finished for him. “I can see that.”
Lincoln turned to his advisor, the pain he was feeling was clearly evident.
“How did we get to such a predicament?” He asked. “Five hundred years ago, my ancestor Washington III defeated the Iroquois and kept the Russians at bay. Four hundred years ago, we went through a revolution that saw the first Lincoln made king. One hundred years ago, we were knocking on the gates of Moscow. Now, we stand on the brink.”
“Sire,” replied the advisor, “perhaps we should consider moving to Boston or Philadelphia?”
“No.” Lincoln replied quietly.
“But sire…” The advisor began.
“No buts.” Lincoln cut him off. “I’ve read the memoirs of Hiawatha. I refuse to flee from the greatest city in world and surrender it to the Russians.”
Lincoln looked sternly at his advisor.
“No.” He stated. “The American nation makes its stand here. We will not retreat. Our only direction is either forward or out. And if we go out, the Russians will pay an expensive price along the way.”
The military advisor nodded and made to leave. Lincoln called after him.
“Tell the foreign advisor I want to see him.”
The military advisor left, leaving Lincoln with his own thoughts, which he believed wasn’t such a good place to be. The tactical map showed a virtual nightmare. The Russians had counter-attacked the American invasion of a century ago with devastating precision. The failed attempt to capture Moscow by his ancestor Lincoln V had literally destroyed America’s offensive army. To make matters worse, the budget was nearly empty. This left his troops fighting with obsolete equipment. The only pikemen battalions were in Washington City. Every other city had to operate with spearmen that were grossly obsolete.
Lincoln’s musings were thankfully interrupted by the foreign advisor’s arrival. Lincoln nodded when he entered.
“How are our foreign affairs?” Lincoln asked without any preamble.
“Sire, it doesn’t look good.” The advisor replied. “Montezuma still refuses to enter into any agreement with us. Catherine doesn’t want to even hear us, but this if of no surprise. When the Russians are winning, they don’t want to talk to the people they are beating.”
“The Russians barely want to talk to anyone when they’re losing.” Lincoln observed. “What about the Greeks?”
“Alexander is still unsure. I doubt we’ll get any military help from them, but they may be interested in some trade.” The advisor reported.
“I didn’t expect too much militarily from the Greeks.” Lincoln said. “They’re still recovering from their war with the Germans.”
“Speaking off which,” continued the advisor, “the Germans are less than impressed that we are entering into negotiations with the Greeks.”
Lincoln sighed.
“I wish we didn’t have to be so submissive.” He said. “But assure the German envoy that we are not entering into any military alliances with the Greeks. We are merely discussing trade deals.”
“Yes sire.” The advisor replied.
“Ok, that is all.” Lincoln said. “I need to think.”
The advisor bowed and left. Lincoln turned to the window and continued to watch the Russians burning his country to the ground.
-----------
Charles Smith ducked under the cart as a group of Russian horsemen rode past him. That had been too close. Keeping to the shadow’s cast by the buildings of Chicago, Charles made his way through the back alleys towards the secret meeting spot. The 22-year old man was a member of the local resistance. Chicago had been occupied over a decade earlier and the resistance was still running strong.
Reaching his destination, he gave a quick series of knocks and was admitted. John Bailey looked at him.
“Were you followed?” He asked Charles.
“Apart from nearly being trampled by a group of horsemen, I didn’t see anybody else.” Charles replied.
“Did they see you?” John inquired.
“I doubt it. They were in a hurry to get somewhere.” Charles informed him.
“Good. Our distraction worked.” John flashed a quick smile. “We set fire to one of the Russian’s stables and stampeded the horses. Should give us some time to prepare things.”
John turned and headed down the stairs to the cellar where the other resistance fighters were waiting. They greeted Charles with smiles and welcoming words. Charles took his customary seat in the back corner. John moved to the front.
“Ok people.” He began. “Tonight is the night. Catherine’s rush to take Washington City has left our city with the bare minimum in defences. We will make them pay for it.”
Low cheers came from the gathered people. John smiled.
“At 2100, all of the resistance groups will rise as one and move towards Government House.” John described. “Our group has the western approach. We’re to keep the Russian soldiers back long enough for us to capture the Russian Governor. Our orders are to kill the Russian troops as reprisals for their murders of Chicago citizens. No mercy.”
The gathered members nodded. They wouldn’t have accepted any other order.
“Ok, here is the plan.” John outlined the roles that his resistance group would be having.
“Everybody got that?” He asked. Everybody nodded. “Ok, let’s get ready.”
-----------
Corporal Sergi Vladihov yawned as he walked through the streets of Chicago. Sergi had been a recruited ten years earlier as a Russian pikeman and had basically spent his entire career on police duties in Chicago. The job was boring. Horsemen or swordsmen suppressed any internal riots and the Americans hadn’t looked like reaching Chicago for nine years. He seriously doubted they would again.
Ten years of pointless sentry duty and foot patrols. There were definitely times when Sergi wished he had been recruited as swordsmen, and then he could have seen some action. He would be at the front attacking American cities, not guarding one.
Movement in the shadows caught his attention. He stopped and peered into the dark, but saw nothing. He shook his head. His imagination getting the better of him. He sighed. But just as he made to move away, he saw the moonlight glint off polished metal and heard the scrape of metal on stone.
“TO ARMS!!!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. It was the last thing he said. The arrow from the darkness hit him square on the chest and lifted him bodily and threw him two meters backwards. He knew he hit the pavement with a great deal of force, but all he could concentrate on was the pain in his chest.
As he lay there, the life slowly ebbing out of him, a face appeared over him. The man, an American, carried a longbow. He spoke, the words barely making it past the roaring in his ears.
“Your time has come.” The American said.
The American then pulled the arrow out of Sergi’s chest. Sergi’s vision exploded into stars then the pain fell away and darkness crept into his vision. As his breathing slowed, Sergi wished he hadn’t wanted to see action.
-----------
John Bailey rejoined the group, the bloody arrow in his hand.
“Well, looks like the plan didn’t make it past the first engagement.” Charles Smith commented wryly. “What do we do?”
“Continue on.” John replied. “This changes nothing. We were going to engage the enemy. We’re just going to do it earlier than expected.”
John checked around a corner.
“Ok, it’s clear.” He reported. “Move forward. We’ve got to get to the…”
John broke off as the clatter of hooves could be heard.
“Horsemen.” John cursed. “Pikes to the front. Wait for them to be on top of you.”
The resistance members carrying pikes moved forwards into doorways and shadows and waited. The group of horsemen came charging towards the fallen Russian corporal. All of a sudden, pikes blocked their passage. The screams of the riders and the noise made by horses were unmistakable. Even as the resistance members began to move away, two fell with arrows in their backs.
“We need to get to Government House NOW!” John shouted. “Before the entire city is awake.”
As Charles ran through the street with the group, the sound of trumpet could be heard, calling the Russians to arms. He cursed. It was too early. They rounded a corner straight into barrage of arrows. One arrow struck him in the left shoulder. Screaming, he fell back. The lifeless face of John Bailey fell beside him. That sight cut through the pain. Something stirred within him.
Gritting his teeth, he snapped the arrow shaft, only leaving a two-inch long protrusion. A primeval scream tore at his lungs as he charged the archers. They fired but nothing hit him. Before they could load for a second shot, he was amongst them, his sword flashing angrily through them.
Anger swelled within Charles. The visions of watching defenceless friends being cut down by the Russians flashed through his minds. The pain of watching his father die because he wouldn’t pay a Russian soldier to spare his life cursed through his veins. He no longer cared for himself. He only cared for vengeance. Like a rapier, he cut a swathe through the Russian ranks, closely followed by his fellow resistance members. Nobody was safe. The Russian soldiers fell back until the resistance fighters could see Government House. With his torn and blood-covered appearance, Charles looked like a wraith, as he gave no mercy to any Russians.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, but had in fact only been ten minutes, Charles was at the front door of Government House. Spread around him was Russian dead, intermingled with the resistance dead. For the first time, the two opposing sides were at peace with each other.
He kicked the door and it flew open. A sneer of contempt crossed his face. Only a fool wouldn’t barricade their door during a riot. He turned as he heard a growing noise behind him. Coming up the street were people in the thousands. Before them stumbled the defeated soldiers of the Russian garrison.
Charles charged into the house. Without hesitating, he ran upstairs. The Governor was standing calmly in his study looking out the window with the door open. Smiling calmly himself, Charles thrust his sword through the door. It came back with new blood on it. After withdrawing it fully, the dead body of the would-be ambusher fell to the floor. When Charles looked at the Governor, he was no longer so calm.
The Governor came flying out of the door of Government House ungracefully after Charles gave him a helping shove. He followed. Lined up in the city square were nearly seventy-five Russian soldiers, all bound and on their knees. Charles shoved the Governor towards his troops. He spoke.
“For crimes against the American people, I hereby sentence every Russian soldier and bureaucrat to death.” He paused. “OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!”
Screams filled the square as the citizens of Chicago mercilessly killed the Russians. Charles looked at a nearby man.
“I want the head of the governor sent to Catherine.” He ordered. “I want her to know that her and her ancestors have terrorized the American people for too long.”
The man nodded. With his job complete, Charles let the threatening blackness engulf him and he welcomed the painless dark.
-----------
Catherine stormed up and down the throne room in Moscow. Her military advisor stood meekly to the side.
“We lost Chicago?!?” She nearly screeched. “How did we lose Chicago?”
“Milady, the citizens staged a revolt and murdered our garrison and governor.” The advisor said, not sure if he wanted to mention the severed head of the governor that had informed them of the city’s loss.
“Well, I want it back!” Catherine ordered. “I will not tolerate an American owned city amongst my Empire.”
“Milady,” began the advisor, “the only place we can get the troops to take the city is from our assault on Washington or New York. We’re still trying to pacify San Francisco and Miami and our treasury is nearly emptying from upgrading our pikemen.”
“I don’t care.” Catherine said. “Washington can wait. Lincoln’s swordsmen are no match attacking my fortified pikemen and my spies inform me his treasury is even barer than ours. Every city of his we take, that reduces his production power. Every city he owns, it eventually costs us manpower to kill that infernal nation.”
“Should I withdraw swordsmen from the Washington attack?” The advisor asked.
“Use swordsmen and archers to retake Chicago.” Catherine ordered. “And this time I do not intend to bother keeping the city. Burn it.”
-----------
Lincoln watched with growing disbelief as six battalions of archers and swordsmen withdrew from the sieging army. What was going on? What did Catherine have in mind? The door behind him burst open, and his military advisor entered, a smile on his face.
“Sire, Chicago is ours.” He reported. Lincoln simply blinked.
“When did we decide to retake it?” He asked.
“We didn’t, sire,” continued the advisor, “the citizens did. I’ve just received word from a runner that the citizens lead a revolt seven days ago and took the city.”
Lincoln looked thoughtful.
“That might be why Catherine is withdrawing troops from the siege.” Lincoln said. “Because I can’t think of any other logical reason why she is doing it.
“Chicago could be in Russian hands again very soon unless something is done to avert this. What is the state of the Boston recruitment drive?”
“From all reports, it goes well.” Reported the adviser. “We currently have a pretty good sized army to go to war with.”
Lincoln looked at the numbers.
“Except that it’s not enough.” He stated. “Their pikemen are just too strong. Their horsemen are less of a threat now, but they can still be bothersome with their hit and run tactics. We need something else. We cannot hope to defeat the Russians in our current state.”
-----------
Charles Smith walked along the palisades Chicago. Over the first month, he had worked hard to organize the citizens into a standing army that could defend the city. Then he had thought of the next step. Every path he thought of moved to the same goal: the creation of an army to attack the Russians.
In his search for volunteers, he hadn’t found many people who wouldn’t say yes. And he had constructed an army of pikemen, longbowmen and catapults. Scouts had reported to him that the Russians were bringing troops to Chicago from the direction of Washington. But he was going to ensure that the Russians never made it to him.
That night, Charles stood in front of his army. Twelve battalions in total: three pikemen, seven longbowmen and two catapults. That left four battalions of pikemen protecting Chicago.
“We,” announced Charles, “are the hammer that America will use to strike back at Russia! We are the knife that will pierce their heart! We are the boulder that will crush their spirits.
“Tonight, we embark on a voyage none of us dreamed was possible a year ago. We have the chance to pay back the Russians ten fold for the pain and suffering that they have put our nation, our city and its people through.
“Tonight, we march towards Washington to attack our would-be attackers. Tonight, we begin the liberation of our country!”
The army before Charles erupted into cheers. Then it marched, and the city cheered for them.
From the Brink
---------
Washington City was covered in a blanket of smoke. Nobody dared venture outside, as it was impossible to breathe. Nevertheless, the acrid smell still permeated everything and refused to give the citizens of the American capital any reprise.
From behind a closed window, Lincoln VII, King of the Americans, looked out over the city walls to where the Russian troops were burning his people’s crops and destroying the roads. He shook his head, trying to rid his senses of the burning smell. It would not leave. The door behind Lincoln opened, but he did not turn.
“What is it?” He asked. He was not surprised to hear his military advisor speak.
“Sire, Miami, Chicago, San Francisco, Niagara Falls and Grand River have fallen. Russian troops have also marched onto Atlanta, New York and…”
“…and Washington.” Lincoln finished for him. “I can see that.”
Lincoln turned to his advisor, the pain he was feeling was clearly evident.
“How did we get to such a predicament?” He asked. “Five hundred years ago, my ancestor Washington III defeated the Iroquois and kept the Russians at bay. Four hundred years ago, we went through a revolution that saw the first Lincoln made king. One hundred years ago, we were knocking on the gates of Moscow. Now, we stand on the brink.”
“Sire,” replied the advisor, “perhaps we should consider moving to Boston or Philadelphia?”
“No.” Lincoln replied quietly.
“But sire…” The advisor began.
“No buts.” Lincoln cut him off. “I’ve read the memoirs of Hiawatha. I refuse to flee from the greatest city in world and surrender it to the Russians.”
Lincoln looked sternly at his advisor.
“No.” He stated. “The American nation makes its stand here. We will not retreat. Our only direction is either forward or out. And if we go out, the Russians will pay an expensive price along the way.”
The military advisor nodded and made to leave. Lincoln called after him.
“Tell the foreign advisor I want to see him.”
The military advisor left, leaving Lincoln with his own thoughts, which he believed wasn’t such a good place to be. The tactical map showed a virtual nightmare. The Russians had counter-attacked the American invasion of a century ago with devastating precision. The failed attempt to capture Moscow by his ancestor Lincoln V had literally destroyed America’s offensive army. To make matters worse, the budget was nearly empty. This left his troops fighting with obsolete equipment. The only pikemen battalions were in Washington City. Every other city had to operate with spearmen that were grossly obsolete.
Lincoln’s musings were thankfully interrupted by the foreign advisor’s arrival. Lincoln nodded when he entered.
“How are our foreign affairs?” Lincoln asked without any preamble.
“Sire, it doesn’t look good.” The advisor replied. “Montezuma still refuses to enter into any agreement with us. Catherine doesn’t want to even hear us, but this if of no surprise. When the Russians are winning, they don’t want to talk to the people they are beating.”
“The Russians barely want to talk to anyone when they’re losing.” Lincoln observed. “What about the Greeks?”
“Alexander is still unsure. I doubt we’ll get any military help from them, but they may be interested in some trade.” The advisor reported.
“I didn’t expect too much militarily from the Greeks.” Lincoln said. “They’re still recovering from their war with the Germans.”
“Speaking off which,” continued the advisor, “the Germans are less than impressed that we are entering into negotiations with the Greeks.”
Lincoln sighed.
“I wish we didn’t have to be so submissive.” He said. “But assure the German envoy that we are not entering into any military alliances with the Greeks. We are merely discussing trade deals.”
“Yes sire.” The advisor replied.
“Ok, that is all.” Lincoln said. “I need to think.”
The advisor bowed and left. Lincoln turned to the window and continued to watch the Russians burning his country to the ground.
-----------
Charles Smith ducked under the cart as a group of Russian horsemen rode past him. That had been too close. Keeping to the shadow’s cast by the buildings of Chicago, Charles made his way through the back alleys towards the secret meeting spot. The 22-year old man was a member of the local resistance. Chicago had been occupied over a decade earlier and the resistance was still running strong.
Reaching his destination, he gave a quick series of knocks and was admitted. John Bailey looked at him.
“Were you followed?” He asked Charles.
“Apart from nearly being trampled by a group of horsemen, I didn’t see anybody else.” Charles replied.
“Did they see you?” John inquired.
“I doubt it. They were in a hurry to get somewhere.” Charles informed him.
“Good. Our distraction worked.” John flashed a quick smile. “We set fire to one of the Russian’s stables and stampeded the horses. Should give us some time to prepare things.”
John turned and headed down the stairs to the cellar where the other resistance fighters were waiting. They greeted Charles with smiles and welcoming words. Charles took his customary seat in the back corner. John moved to the front.
“Ok people.” He began. “Tonight is the night. Catherine’s rush to take Washington City has left our city with the bare minimum in defences. We will make them pay for it.”
Low cheers came from the gathered people. John smiled.
“At 2100, all of the resistance groups will rise as one and move towards Government House.” John described. “Our group has the western approach. We’re to keep the Russian soldiers back long enough for us to capture the Russian Governor. Our orders are to kill the Russian troops as reprisals for their murders of Chicago citizens. No mercy.”
The gathered members nodded. They wouldn’t have accepted any other order.
“Ok, here is the plan.” John outlined the roles that his resistance group would be having.
“Everybody got that?” He asked. Everybody nodded. “Ok, let’s get ready.”
-----------
Corporal Sergi Vladihov yawned as he walked through the streets of Chicago. Sergi had been a recruited ten years earlier as a Russian pikeman and had basically spent his entire career on police duties in Chicago. The job was boring. Horsemen or swordsmen suppressed any internal riots and the Americans hadn’t looked like reaching Chicago for nine years. He seriously doubted they would again.
Ten years of pointless sentry duty and foot patrols. There were definitely times when Sergi wished he had been recruited as swordsmen, and then he could have seen some action. He would be at the front attacking American cities, not guarding one.
Movement in the shadows caught his attention. He stopped and peered into the dark, but saw nothing. He shook his head. His imagination getting the better of him. He sighed. But just as he made to move away, he saw the moonlight glint off polished metal and heard the scrape of metal on stone.
“TO ARMS!!!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. It was the last thing he said. The arrow from the darkness hit him square on the chest and lifted him bodily and threw him two meters backwards. He knew he hit the pavement with a great deal of force, but all he could concentrate on was the pain in his chest.
As he lay there, the life slowly ebbing out of him, a face appeared over him. The man, an American, carried a longbow. He spoke, the words barely making it past the roaring in his ears.
“Your time has come.” The American said.
The American then pulled the arrow out of Sergi’s chest. Sergi’s vision exploded into stars then the pain fell away and darkness crept into his vision. As his breathing slowed, Sergi wished he hadn’t wanted to see action.
-----------
John Bailey rejoined the group, the bloody arrow in his hand.
“Well, looks like the plan didn’t make it past the first engagement.” Charles Smith commented wryly. “What do we do?”
“Continue on.” John replied. “This changes nothing. We were going to engage the enemy. We’re just going to do it earlier than expected.”
John checked around a corner.
“Ok, it’s clear.” He reported. “Move forward. We’ve got to get to the…”
John broke off as the clatter of hooves could be heard.
“Horsemen.” John cursed. “Pikes to the front. Wait for them to be on top of you.”
The resistance members carrying pikes moved forwards into doorways and shadows and waited. The group of horsemen came charging towards the fallen Russian corporal. All of a sudden, pikes blocked their passage. The screams of the riders and the noise made by horses were unmistakable. Even as the resistance members began to move away, two fell with arrows in their backs.
“We need to get to Government House NOW!” John shouted. “Before the entire city is awake.”
As Charles ran through the street with the group, the sound of trumpet could be heard, calling the Russians to arms. He cursed. It was too early. They rounded a corner straight into barrage of arrows. One arrow struck him in the left shoulder. Screaming, he fell back. The lifeless face of John Bailey fell beside him. That sight cut through the pain. Something stirred within him.
Gritting his teeth, he snapped the arrow shaft, only leaving a two-inch long protrusion. A primeval scream tore at his lungs as he charged the archers. They fired but nothing hit him. Before they could load for a second shot, he was amongst them, his sword flashing angrily through them.
Anger swelled within Charles. The visions of watching defenceless friends being cut down by the Russians flashed through his minds. The pain of watching his father die because he wouldn’t pay a Russian soldier to spare his life cursed through his veins. He no longer cared for himself. He only cared for vengeance. Like a rapier, he cut a swathe through the Russian ranks, closely followed by his fellow resistance members. Nobody was safe. The Russian soldiers fell back until the resistance fighters could see Government House. With his torn and blood-covered appearance, Charles looked like a wraith, as he gave no mercy to any Russians.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, but had in fact only been ten minutes, Charles was at the front door of Government House. Spread around him was Russian dead, intermingled with the resistance dead. For the first time, the two opposing sides were at peace with each other.
He kicked the door and it flew open. A sneer of contempt crossed his face. Only a fool wouldn’t barricade their door during a riot. He turned as he heard a growing noise behind him. Coming up the street were people in the thousands. Before them stumbled the defeated soldiers of the Russian garrison.
Charles charged into the house. Without hesitating, he ran upstairs. The Governor was standing calmly in his study looking out the window with the door open. Smiling calmly himself, Charles thrust his sword through the door. It came back with new blood on it. After withdrawing it fully, the dead body of the would-be ambusher fell to the floor. When Charles looked at the Governor, he was no longer so calm.
The Governor came flying out of the door of Government House ungracefully after Charles gave him a helping shove. He followed. Lined up in the city square were nearly seventy-five Russian soldiers, all bound and on their knees. Charles shoved the Governor towards his troops. He spoke.
“For crimes against the American people, I hereby sentence every Russian soldier and bureaucrat to death.” He paused. “OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!”
Screams filled the square as the citizens of Chicago mercilessly killed the Russians. Charles looked at a nearby man.
“I want the head of the governor sent to Catherine.” He ordered. “I want her to know that her and her ancestors have terrorized the American people for too long.”
The man nodded. With his job complete, Charles let the threatening blackness engulf him and he welcomed the painless dark.
-----------
Catherine stormed up and down the throne room in Moscow. Her military advisor stood meekly to the side.
“We lost Chicago?!?” She nearly screeched. “How did we lose Chicago?”
“Milady, the citizens staged a revolt and murdered our garrison and governor.” The advisor said, not sure if he wanted to mention the severed head of the governor that had informed them of the city’s loss.
“Well, I want it back!” Catherine ordered. “I will not tolerate an American owned city amongst my Empire.”
“Milady,” began the advisor, “the only place we can get the troops to take the city is from our assault on Washington or New York. We’re still trying to pacify San Francisco and Miami and our treasury is nearly emptying from upgrading our pikemen.”
“I don’t care.” Catherine said. “Washington can wait. Lincoln’s swordsmen are no match attacking my fortified pikemen and my spies inform me his treasury is even barer than ours. Every city of his we take, that reduces his production power. Every city he owns, it eventually costs us manpower to kill that infernal nation.”
“Should I withdraw swordsmen from the Washington attack?” The advisor asked.
“Use swordsmen and archers to retake Chicago.” Catherine ordered. “And this time I do not intend to bother keeping the city. Burn it.”
-----------
Lincoln watched with growing disbelief as six battalions of archers and swordsmen withdrew from the sieging army. What was going on? What did Catherine have in mind? The door behind him burst open, and his military advisor entered, a smile on his face.
“Sire, Chicago is ours.” He reported. Lincoln simply blinked.
“When did we decide to retake it?” He asked.
“We didn’t, sire,” continued the advisor, “the citizens did. I’ve just received word from a runner that the citizens lead a revolt seven days ago and took the city.”
Lincoln looked thoughtful.
“That might be why Catherine is withdrawing troops from the siege.” Lincoln said. “Because I can’t think of any other logical reason why she is doing it.
“Chicago could be in Russian hands again very soon unless something is done to avert this. What is the state of the Boston recruitment drive?”
“From all reports, it goes well.” Reported the adviser. “We currently have a pretty good sized army to go to war with.”
Lincoln looked at the numbers.
“Except that it’s not enough.” He stated. “Their pikemen are just too strong. Their horsemen are less of a threat now, but they can still be bothersome with their hit and run tactics. We need something else. We cannot hope to defeat the Russians in our current state.”
-----------
Charles Smith walked along the palisades Chicago. Over the first month, he had worked hard to organize the citizens into a standing army that could defend the city. Then he had thought of the next step. Every path he thought of moved to the same goal: the creation of an army to attack the Russians.
In his search for volunteers, he hadn’t found many people who wouldn’t say yes. And he had constructed an army of pikemen, longbowmen and catapults. Scouts had reported to him that the Russians were bringing troops to Chicago from the direction of Washington. But he was going to ensure that the Russians never made it to him.
That night, Charles stood in front of his army. Twelve battalions in total: three pikemen, seven longbowmen and two catapults. That left four battalions of pikemen protecting Chicago.
“We,” announced Charles, “are the hammer that America will use to strike back at Russia! We are the knife that will pierce their heart! We are the boulder that will crush their spirits.
“Tonight, we embark on a voyage none of us dreamed was possible a year ago. We have the chance to pay back the Russians ten fold for the pain and suffering that they have put our nation, our city and its people through.
“Tonight, we march towards Washington to attack our would-be attackers. Tonight, we begin the liberation of our country!”
The army before Charles erupted into cheers. Then it marched, and the city cheered for them.
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