The British Expansion

[petey]

-- Chapter 1: The Outpost --

Peter paused and crouched down in the darkness. I bloody heard it that time, he thought - he wasn't alone in these woods. Ahead of him, maybe a hundred yards, something was there. The soft crunching of leaves underneath feet was coming closer. He remained still, not daring to even breathe, a shadow in the night. Whether it was a man or an animal, he couldn't tell - hopefully the latter, but that would be lucky, and his luck hadn't been any good at all lately. None of the other British sentries were in this area. If that's a man, he's bloody well French.

The footsteps came closer as Peter waited. Finally he saw it in the dim moonlight - a man's shape creeping through the forest. Peter knew he hadn't been seen yet, he'd been a poacher since he was a child and knew how to keep quiet in the woods - both to hide from the animals he was hunting and the guardsmen who had been hunting him. Of course, if I'm really as good as I bloody like to think I am, I wouldn't be here in the first place, he thought to himself. Duke Andrew's men had caught him crossing a field with one of the Duke's deers slung across his back. When the first arrow whistled past his head, he had decided against trying to run. The Duke gave him a stark choice - lose a hand or join Her Majesty's army. As he crouched alone in the darkness, he wondered whether he had chosen wrong.

Peter considered his options - the sentry post was a thousand yards behind him, barely a glimmer of flame through the trees. He knew better than to look back at it, that would ruin his night vision and leave him blind. He had been sent deeper into the woods to spy out anyone who tried to get close and his orders were to kill anyone who did. If he were to raise a shout, his comrades would come out and maybe the man in the woods would run off. Then again, maybe the man would try and kill him before the English soldiers could arrive. Peter had been trained in combat during his tenure in the army, but he knew his fighting skills were average at best and he had no desire to find out if this man was better.

Also, he could let the man go past. He was getting closer now and Peter could not see anyone else with him. A single man sneaking up through the woods meant a scout, not a raid. He could stay here silent in the darkness, the man would take a look at the English defenses and then leave. No one would even have to know that he'd been there. Of course, Peter had spotted him a hundred yards away, the French hadn't picked their best man for creeping through the woods. If another of the English sentries saw him, Captain Blake would ask how he had gotten so close without Peter seeing him.

Blake was the eldest son of an important Earl and made sure that none of his men ever forgot that fact. He despised what he called "the Trash of the Empire", men like Peter who had been sent to the army instead of a prison. It was his duty to make use of them, but he made it no secret that he did not like them. If this man got close to the sentry post without a cry being raised, Blake would see Peter hanged for cowardice. He hated his commanding officer, Yes, m'Lord, of course, m'Lord, may I wipe your bloody arse for you, m'Lord, he thought. There was nothing worse than having to cowtow to that noble git.

It's not like he could run off anywhere either, the town of Manchester was the only English settlement on this entire continent. There was nothing around them but the French, and although their two empires weren't officially at war, he didn't speak their language and there had been enough skirmishes between their respective troops that he didn't want to trust his lives to them. If he ran, he'd either be killed by the first Frenchmen he came across or by English troops who'd string him up as a deserter.

So, he was left to deal with this man on his own. There were no other Englishmen close enough to help him and he couldn't let the man get past. Peter didn't like the idea, but he really didn't feel that he had a choice. Silently, he slunk closer to the man. He stopped beside a tree, directly between the man and the English sentry post and crouched down behind it, just one more shadow in the woods at night. Leaving his sword sheathed at his side, he drew his hunting knife and waited. The trees grew close together here and it would be difficult to fight with a sword, the knife was a much better option ... At least that's what I bloody hope. As the man came closer, Peter could see him clearly, he hadn't even bothered to take off his French army uniform. Granted, the dark blue colour was suited to the forest at night, but still it wasn't very wise - if he was captured, he couldn't pretend to be a farmer that's lost his way, or something.

The Frenchman had his eyes on the English sentry fire in the distance as he crept forward. Looking at that light had blinded him to everything else in the night and Peter was just another shadow to him. He walked three feet from where Peter was crouching and didn't see a thing. The man had his knife out as well, it appeared that he had been taught the same thing about trying to fight with a sword in dense woods. As the Frenchman passed by, Peter stood up quietly behind him; the man never knew anyone was around until Peter's dagger slit his throat. Clamping his other hand over the man's mouth, Peter silently lowered him to the ground as the lifeblood spilled out and then the body was still.

It always amazed him how easy it was to kill a man. He done in a few of the French since being posted on this bloody continent and once a warden had come across him outside of Edinborough while he was staking a deer. Peter had an arrow drawn to put into the buck, but when the man called out for him to stop, he'd turned and fired it through his eye. Luckily the Duke's guardsmen who'd caught him poaching that time didn't know about that, or they'd have given him a rope, not a uniform.

Peter waited motionless, listening to the darkness. He didn't hear any other sounds, it seemed that he was right about this man being alone. He really was a bloody fool. He wiped his hands on the ground and tied a bandage around the dead man's still bleeding throat - he only had two changes of clothes and wanted as little blood to clean off as possible. Slinging the body over his shoulder, he headed back towards the English sentry post.

- - - - - -

"Captain, permission to enter."

Captain Richard Blake looked up from the maps he had been studying, annoyed at the interruption. He had asked not to be disturbed for the remainder of the night. There was important work to be done and he did not want to be bothered by the petty inconveniences his men continually thrust upon him. Whatever it was had better be important or he would make sure heads rolled on the morrow. "Come, " he responded.

His aide entered the tent and saluted sharply. "What is it you want, Corporal?" Blake asked tersely. Jackson was the younger son of a minor lordling and on his first assignment in Her Majesty's forces. Back in London society, they may have been acquaintences, but in the field, the boy was merely a Corporal and Blake himself a Captain; there was no need for familiarity between them.

"One of the outer sentries found a French infiltrator approaching the camp, sir" the Corporal replied. "He dispatched him and brought the body back."

"Very well, I'd best take a look." Blake said as he strode out of the tent, Jackson quickly leaping back to hold open the flap for him. Blake despised the men he put on duty as outer sentries. They were poachers and thieves, the rubbish of society that had found their way into Her Majesty's service, usually to escape the gallows for one crime or another. They were good at skulking around in the darkness, though - likely learned in alleyways while they were thieving from better men - so he posted them in the forest beyond the sentry fires, to give advance warning of anyone who tried to approach. His secret hope was that they would try to run off, as sometimes happened. There was a great deal of satisfaction in tracking down deserters and seeing them hanged.

A group of soldiers had gathered around the body of the French soldier, some of whom had already begun rifling through the pockets to see what they could steal off of the corpse. Vultures, all of them, Blake thought as he came forward. Fortunately, there were sturdier men in his command, as well, and a perimeter of archers and pikemen had been set up, in case any of the dead man's associates were in the area.

The soldiers moved back as Blake arrived to inspect the body. The fool had worn his French army uniform as he tried to spy on the English encampment. These people truly were without sense, it would only be a small matter for Her Majesty's armies to defeat them if it came to war. Being incorporated into the British Empire with all the benefits that entailed would likely be the best thing for the savage race. It was fortuitous for them that the English had come to this continent when they did.

"Who spotted this man?" Blake asked.

One of the soldiers stepped forward. Blake did not remember his name, not that that mattered, this trash he was forced to serve with were all alike.

"I did, m'Lord. Peter, of Edinborough," the man said, bowing his head.

Of Edinborough, Blake thought, the man names himself as if he thinks he's the Duke. He looked down at the dead body, seeing the slit throat. His second cousin Heather's fiancee had had his throat cut by highwaymen outside of Edinborough. Blake wondered whether this Peter had been one of them. Still, he had done good work in disposing of the French spy, so Blake consented to give him a congratulatory nod, which was likely more than someone like him deserved.

He turned to Corporal Jackson, "Dispatch some men to take this body west the the Gascon Hills. There have been reports of French outriders there and I want them to find this one's corpse, to teach them what happens when they do not give Her Majesty's forces a wide berth. At dawn, I want double the regular patrols to scour the area to ensure that none of this one's compatriots have remanined in the area." Jackson saluted and went about carrying out his orders.

War is coming, Blake thought as he returned to his tent. There was no doubt in his mind about it. The French and the English could not occupy the same land without it coming to bloodshed. That is why he had given his men the order to kill any Frenchman they saw, it was no less than these savages would do to any good Englishman. He was glad to have this assignment on the front lines, the better to prove his worth. He was in command of thieves and murderers, true, but a few victories should be easy against the sort of men the French could put in the field. After showing his valour on the battlefield, he would be given a more choice command, as befit his birth and station. The Queen would see that the proud Blake name still defended her Empire with honour.

He returned to the study of his maps, waiting for the day he would be given the command to attack. He knew he would not have to wait long.

[High Lord J]

Great job so far. As I voted for I am looking foward to the next chapter. Keep it up.

[The Bloody Baro]

Execellent! Let me guess the trash is gonna show that blake character that " It matters not of which one is born but what they chose to make of themselves. " Execellent story please continue.

[civman2000]

wow! Great characters !

[petey]

-- Chapter 2: Towards Paris --

Major Sir Richard Blake rode his stallion across the gangplank from the Man-'O-War. A lesser beast might have shied back when crossing over water, but his steed was a warhorse of proper English breeding, from the grand herds of Leicester, which for centuries had provided mounts for British kings; it did not even flinch as he took across. Blake felt he made a resplendent figure on it, as befit a man of his station. An honour guard of knights raised their lances in salute to their new commander as he entered the port of Marsailles. This is the command I was born for, Blake thought as he rode forward to the greeting party that awaited him. After four years of war, he had finally attained the position he merited.

One of the men came forward and gave Blake a sharp salute "Welcome to Marsailles, m'Lord. I have the honour to be Captain Michael York, Commander of the Harbour. I trust you had a pleasant journey from London?"

"Pleasant enough, Captain, and without incident. There are none who dare to challenge Her Majesty's navy," Blake replied politely.

"Not anymore, at any rate, m'Lord," York said, a little too familiarily for Blake's taste. "His Lordship has you posted in one of the city's mansions that was not too badly damaged during the invasion. He is dining with his officers tonight and asks that you join him after you've had a chance to settle in. I can see that your belongings are sent up there and Lieutenant Franklin there can escort you to your mansion to refresh yourself before this evening, if it pleases you, m'Lord." He nodded towards a young officer on the dock.

"Thank you, Captain, I appreciate your service. Lieutenant, lead the way."

When Blake arrived at his new quarters, the first thing he did was have the servants draw a hot bath, so that he could wash off the grime from the voyage. He lay back, relaxing in the water. His forces would move out from this city soon enough and there were few amenities in the field; he would enjoy those he had while the opportunity existed. My own battalion of knights, he thought. It had been a long enough road he'd travelled to finally arrive at this point.

Early in the war, he'd commanded a troop of soldiers around the city of Manchester, the only English city on this continent at the time. The French had objected to Her Majesty building it there, even though they had laid no true claim to the territory it had been on. With both English and French soldiers amassing in the area, the various skirmishes that had predictably broken out soon enough erupted into a full-scale war between the two empires. Blake had led many sorties against the DeNeuves, the French commander in the area. It was bloody battle, through dense forests and hills, neither side having much idea of where the opponent's forces were. The English army was superior, of course, and won the majority of the conflicts, though losses had been heavy. The French took their victories as well, though, the worst of which was when they found a way around Blake's men and attacked Manchester itself. With most of the army in the field, the city had been lightly defended and the French took it and razed it to the ground, killing many innocent and good Englishmen in the process.

Finally, however, the tide of destiny had been inevitable and the French were routed from the area, retreating further back into their own territory. New settlements were built where Manchester had once stood and Blake and the English army pursued the enemy back towards their cities, taking the war into the heart of the French lands. King Louis VII, the old French king, had realized his men were no match for the peerless English soldiers and could not fight them alone. His Majesty had not been much of a general, but he proved to be an astute politician, and that had almost saved his empire.

Louis had arranged a marriage pact between his heir, Charles, and Princess Lucinda, the eldest daughter of the Roman Caesar. With this alliance, the Caesar had sent in the Roman Legions to stand beside the French and to try and deny Her Majesty's forces their rightful conquest. With the additional troops, the French and Roman armies managed to stall the British advance and a stalemate ensued on the ground that lasted almost a year.

In the sea, however, the Romans made surprising gains. The Roman galleons sped through the North Ocean and many a hard fought battle was waged with the British navy. Some ships even made it to the shore of England and staged an assault on the city of Brighton. Reinforcements arrived before the city could fall and the invaders were cast back into the sea. While this naval battle was raging, British engineers, being the stout and hardy men they are, designed a new class of vessel, called the Man-O'-War. A fleet of these new craft were put under the command of Lord Admiral Phillip Nelson, and sent against the Caesar's forces. Nelson came from an old and honourable House (Blake himself had been at public school with one of the Admiral's grandsons) and he did his name proud. The Roman fleets were beaten back and their coastal cities bombed to rubble. Her Majesty had wisely decided not to send invasionary forces into the Caesar's territory, as she could ill afford to thin out her armies in France to open this new front.

With the Roman fleet beaten and the French never having had a navy to speak of, Britain controlled the seas and could land and attack wherever they pleased. Raiding parties were sent deep within French lands to harry the enemy armies and the French coastal cities began to fall. Queen Elizabeth took this opportunity to forge an alliance with the Indian emperor, Ghandi, whose lands lay on the far side of the Roman territory. Faced with the prospect of invasion by the Indians, who were said to ride massive elephants into battle, and a two-front war on either side of his Empire, Caesar extracated himself from his alliance with the French and sued for peace with the British. Blake was glad that his Queen had been able to get the Romans out of the war, but he still felt it was quite uncouth of them to abandon their commitments as they did. As the Legions departed the war, the French armies were left to stand alone.

While the English armies advanced, Blake found himself called back to London to prepare for his new command. He had covered himself in glory during his time in the field and was well received in the capitol. The rank of Major, which he had received as a field commission, was made permanent and he had been knighted for valour by Queen Elizabeth herself. His Lord Father made sure that all of British society heard of Blake's acheivements and even managed to arrange a betrothal for him with Elinor, the third daughter of the Duke of Edinborough. Meanwhile, the English assault continued and the great city of Marsailles fell to them, King Louis himself being killed during the invasion. That made his son Charles, newly divorced from the Roman princess, the leader of France. As there had not been an opportunity for an official coronation, Charles was properly titled Dauphin, not King.

Now Blake had arrived to take his command and join with Her Majety's forces as they prepared to strike inland towards Paris itself. That was said to be a magnificent city and the Hanging Gardens within were said to be a wonder of the world, comparable even to London's ancient Colossus, though Blake found that difficult to believe - French architects could not hope to match the skill of their English counterparts. Rising from his bath, Blake called for the servants to fetch his dress uniform so that he could prepare for his dinner with Lord Axworth, who had assumed the governorship of Marsailles now that it was in Brtish hands.

Though not as resplendant as the banquets in London hd been, Lord Axworth put on a feast far superior to what Blake remembered from his previous postings and he was once again glad to have risen to a level that suited him. The talk amongst the officers during the meal avoided mentioning the war, as was proper, but when they retired to the lounge afterwards for brandy and cigars, his fellows brought Blake up to date with the latest news from the various English fronts. While discussing various deployments with Major Malcolm, Blake overheard another of the officer's talk:

"... and the supply train almost made it into the city before the Duke arrived with his Outriders and set upon them, " Colonel Francis was saying. "The French tried ... "

"Pardon me, Colonel. I hate to interrupt, " Blake interrupted, "but I hardly think it's proper to call the man the Duke, whatever his men have named him. He is just a baseborn Sergeant with no claim to any titles at all."

"I beg to disagree, Major," Francis responded. "The man has earned himself whatever titles he likes through his actions in the field. His Outriders have hamstrung the French and Roman forces for the past couple of years and forced them to spread themselves out thinly enough to try and catch up to him that the victories we've won have been that much easier. Besides, the only reason he's only a Sergeant is because he didn't want to leave his men to return to London for Officer Training." It didn't surprise him that Francis had an opinion like this, he was a career military man of no important birth. Although he had gained his rank through his actions in the field, he was only a commoner and Blake really couldn't help but feel that the man didn't have a place amongst the worthy men in this room.

"I'm afraid that I'll have to agree with Major Blake on this one, Colonel," Lord Axworthy said before Blake had an opportunity to respond. Both men bowed their head politely to the Governor. "One cannot simply go around claiming whatever titles one wants when others have earned them through birth and breeding. He has won his victories in the field, along with many others, and those victories have been due to the support he has received from the rest of Her Majesty's forces. He should be a tad humbler about his accomplishments as befits one of his low standing. Besides, I understand he used to be a poacher before joining our cause and I fail to see how someone like that is deserving of any honours at all."

Blake was honoured to have the Governor agree with him. Axwell had once squired with Blake's own Lord Father, the Earl of Kent, in their youth and he was proud to have a man of such standing support his argument. Francis seemed to be about to say something else, but decided against contradicting the Governor and instead bowed out of the conversation, which Blake was greatful for as it gave him the opportunity to speak alone with his father's old friend.

As Blake rode back from the dinner, he once again reflected that this is what he was made for. Finally, he had himself a command alongside officers who were his peers, instead of the common trash he had been forced to serve with in his previous assignment. On the morrow, he would review his new troops and he had no doubt that the knights he had been put in charge of would be as noble and true defenders of Her Majesty's crown as he was himself.

Finally, I will be able to prove my true worth on the field, Blake thought. With real soldiers following him, instead of the scum he'd had before, the French would not be able to stand against him. Within a matter of weeks, they were due to march on Paris. He couldn't wait to show his new compatriots what he could do.

- - - - - -

"What's he saying?" Peter asked, looking down at the farmer who knelt before them. He'd tried to learn the French tongue during his time in this god-forsaken country, but the bloody language was just incomprehensible.

"He says French soldiers moved through here two days ago. A couple hundred horse and maybe a thousand foot, " one of his translators, Eric, said. Peter was glad some of his Outriders had a better gift with languages than he did. "Their Lord's banner was blue, with three white cats on it."

"Duprie, then," another man said. "They've come a long way." There were twenty horsemen gathered with Peter here listening to the French farmer, with more scouting around, in case any of the Frog soldiers decided to show up. This new Frog king was pulling everyone from miles around to help defend him in Paris.

The Frenchman jabbered on some more. "He wants to know about his daughter," Eric translated.

"Tell him his daughter's fine and she'll stay that way as long as he keeps giving us good information." Peter responded. His Outriders had a number of people throughout the countryside who gave them information about whatever the French army was doing in their area. Some of them did so willingly, some not so willingly - this man was one of the latter. One of his most successful strategies in recruiting such people was to raid a town and not burn, pillage and rape as he usually did, but leave the people be and only take a few of the young women. He's come back in the next few days and let their families know that the girls were fine and unharmed, just placed in a cell in one of the Outrider's camps. They would remain there safely so long as their families provided them with information about French troops. If they decided not to help, or gave bad information, the girl would be taken out of the cell and passed around to his men before being killed and dumped in the woods. It worked very effectively.

In truth, the Outriders didn't have any permanent camps they could build cells in, they were too mobile for something like that. Besides, the Frogs knew this land better than them and any permanent encampment would be found and destroyed quickly; he and his people had learned that lesson early. The girls that they took were raped and generally killed the first night, unless some of the men took a liking to her, in which case she'd be tied to a horse and brought along for a few days, until they got bored with her or found someone new. Then she'd get her throat slit and her body thrown in a ditch. No better than some bloody Frog ***** deserves, he thought.

"Rider coming in, Duke," one of his men said, pointing. Peter had gotten the name Duke from one of his old Captains. Apparently, the man had told another officer that Peter fancied himself to be the Duke of Edinborough. Where the useless git had gotten that idea was beyond him, but Peter liked it. He was an orphan and had no last name, so he'd started calling himself Peter Duke, mainly to spite the Captain. Once he'd joined the outriders, the name stuck and eventually became a title. Since the Duke of Edinborough was the reason he was in this bloody country in the first place, he found the whole thing very fitting.

"Take this Frog home, " he told Eric, motioning towards the farmer. They'd gotten enough out of the man and Eric had been around long enough to know that Peter meant that he should take him someplace quiet and cut his throat. It was never a good idea to leave the people they pulled this scam on alive for long. If they started talking about how they never saw their daughters again and others got word, no one would ever fall for it again. He rode towards the incoming rider to see what the news was, his men trailing behind.

"English knights coming in, Duke. Looks to be around a thousand of them." the rider told him. About bloody time, they were only supposed to be here a week ago, he thought. Other battalions were already in place and fighting the French armies. It was nice of this guy to finally show up.

"Who's in charge?" Peter asked.

"Don't recognize the banner, " the rider answered. "Red wolf on a green field. Probably some lordling they shipped in from London whose daddy wants him to play at war."

Red wolf on a green field? Peter thought. I don't bloody believe it. Hasn't anybody bothered to kill that **** yet "Come with me and bring your spyglass, " he said aloud. "I want to take a look at this."

When he got to the top of the hill where the English soldiers could be seen, he took the spyglass from his rider and looked to the head of the column of knights. He recognized the man leading them, on his new horse in his new shiny armour, looking as prissy as ever.

"You know who that is, Duke?" another man asked.

"Ya, I know him, " he answered. "That there is Richard Blake, the most useless git to ever serve in Her bloody Majesty's army. He was a Captain the last time I saw him, but knowing the morons we work for, they've likely made him a General by now." Peter shook his head, remembering what it was like to serve under the man. "The fool wouldn't know battle strategy if it came up and bit him in the ass. He had us running around blind in the woods for months chasing the French like a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off. The only reason any of us are alive is because the Frog commander was even more of an arse than he was and was doing the same with his troops. Nothing we could do about it either, as he'd hang anyone who questioned his orders. Once he took an entire division to chase some raiders and then their friends came in from behind and torched the whole town we were supposed to protect. Bloody ****."

Peter had been glad when Travers had gotten the OK to lead some of the men off to harry the French supply lines, which eventually led to the creation of the Outriders. Travers hadn't liked Peter much either, and though he wasn't a complete moron like Blake, Peter thought he'd do a better job himself. One night after Peter had led a small group of men to raid a nearby village, they'd circled around to where Travers was leading another raiding party and ambushed them. Peter put an arrow through Travers' chest himself and soon afterwards had taken over the whole troop. He had been tired of following other people's orders and felt it was his turn to take charge. All things considered, he thought he'd done a better job than anyone he'd ever worked for could have.

"Well, let's go say our hellos then, why don't we, " he said, kicking his horse's flanks to get it moving. His men formed up behind him and rode towards the incoming knights. They were barely two hundred yards for the column before they ran into the first scout. Man's bloody lucky we ain't French or the whole lot of these pretty knights would be dead by now, he thought to himself. But he'd dealt with enough of these lordlings that he just put on a wide smile and rode over to see Blake.

"Greetings, soldier, what is the news of this area?" Blake asked as Peter rode up. Look at that, he thought. A year I served with the man and he doesn't even know my face.

"No French in the area, m'Lord, " he said, with the smile still painted on his face. "Far as I know, the other battalions are in place around Paris and preparing to strike." I wish I did know of some Frogs in the area, so I could send you into a bloody ambush.

"Thank you, soldier, that will be all." Blake barely nodded at him as he continued riding past. The arse even has a better horse than me. One of his knights pulled Peter out of the way. He would have cut the man's throat there, but Blake had a thousand armoured knights with him and Peter only twenty of his Outriders.

Another day, you useless git. I'll make sure to find you. Peter wheeled his horse around and led his men back to the Outrider's camp. He hoped that Blake managed to survive the upcoming fight so that he'd be able to kill the man himself.

[History Guy]

Great stuff! And hey, who likes Frogs anyway?

[civman2000]

Peter reminds me of Patton in some other story...I think Ich Bin Ein Berliner, thought it might've been anther one.

[The Bloody Baro]

Very good plot. I espicially like the fact that you know that not all soldiers are noble and good. The world wouldn't be much fun if they were .

[High Lord J]

I thought you devolped Peter into a cold blooded killer way too fast. It feels like you skipped a part when you read the two chapters... Good writing though

[petey]

High Lord J,

I agree with you and was thinking the same thing when I wrote it. However, I was getting to the 20,000 character limit for the post, so I decided not to get into that.

Of course, I could have split it up into two posts, but I guess I wasn't clever enough to think of that at the time.

[High Lord J]

I suggest flashbacks in the next chapter. You don't start killing your commanders, raping and killing girls when you were scared to slit a enemy soldiers throat just a little while ago. Something must have caused it.

[Paddy]

I would like to have heard more of this

I would like to hear more from this author

Can someone track him down and bring him back please

Poly needs ya mate

[Jeremy 2.0]

And whatever happened to otu the cat?