Showing posts with label american revolution. Show all posts
Showing posts with label american revolution. Show all posts
Sunday, April 19, 2026
Sunday's Short Stack: Embers of the Revolution by Cameron Black
Embers of the Revolution is a gripping, slowburn gay romance set against the backdrop of Colonial America during the American Revolution. In a world torn by war and chaos, two soldiers—Nate and Eli—discover love and passion amid the violence and turmoil of the Revolutionary War.
When Nate, a young and determined soldier, crosses paths with Eli, a battle-hardened veteran of the Continental Army, their fates become intertwined in a way neither could have predicted. Both men carry the scars of war, emotionally and physically, and have learned to survive in a world where loyalty, honor, and survival often clash. But in each other, they find something they’ve both been missing: a bond deeper than the bloodshed surrounding them.
As the war rages on, the tension between Nate and Eli builds. The battlefield is a dangerous place, but it’s nothing compared to the emotional and physical pull between them. Will they give in to the undeniable chemistry that’s simmering between them? Or will the horrors of war tear them apart before they can truly understand the love they’ve found?
Set in the raw, turbulent days of the American Revolution, Embers of the Revolution explores themes of survival, loyalty, and identity in a time when the fight for freedom was as much about personal liberty as it was about the battle for a new nation. With sizzling chemistry, complex characters, and a slowburn romance that will keep readers on the edge of their seats, this novella is perfect for fans of historical LGBTQ+ fiction and passionate love stories.
Filled with moments of heart-pounding danger, quiet tenderness, and a slow, simmering romance that will tug at your heartstrings, Embers of the Revolution is more than just a story of war—it’s a story about finding love in the most unexpected places. Nate and Eli’s journey is one of survival, self-discovery, and ultimately, a hope for a future together despite the ravages of war.
In a world torn apart by revolution, can two men learn to trust in the one thing they’ve both been afraid of: love?
Perfect for readers who enjoy:
Steamy gay slowburn romance
Historical LGBTQ+ fiction
Sizzling chemistry and intense emotional connections
Stories set during the American Revolution
Themes of survival, identity, and finding love in a time of chaos
Romantic tales of war and redemption
Join Nate and Eli as they navigate the perilous battlefield, discover each other’s deepest vulnerabilities, and fight for the chance to build a life together in a world that wants to tear them apart. Embers of the Revolution is a must-read for those who love historical romances with a strong, emotional connection between two unforgettable characters.
As this is a short story I don't want to spoil anything so I'll keep this short.
There is a certain feeling of repetition here between Nate and Eli, lots "understanding", "you are not alone" and I can see where that might be a hiccup for some. I can't lie, there was more than once that I found myself saying internally "not again" BUT I also felt it represents the atmosphere of the battle, of war, how not everything is a quick fix, questions and answers sometimes keep coming back. So yes, it can be repetitive at times but its more than repeating phrases and dialogue, they help set the scene, complete the picture.
I wanted Nate and Eli to find their HEA but its not easy. Frankly, had it been easy it would have taken away from the story, given a sense of the author not respecting the era. The pacing in Embers of the Revolution actually shows the author does in fact respect history.
This is a new-to-me author which can be scary for some but I always find it adds an extra layer of adrenaline to the whole reading journey. I may not go and immediately devour the author's backlist but Cameron Black is definitely one I'll be adding to my authors-to-watch list.
Prologue
Massachusetts, June 1776
The air was thick with the smell of smoke, salt, and blood. Every inch of the ground seemed to tremble under the weight of war. Far off in the distance, the sound of cannon fire echoed like the rumbling of thunder, a reminder that the world was being torn apart, piece by piece, in the name of something as elusive as freedom. The flames that danced along the horizon reflected the burning anger of a people who had been pushed too far—who had endured too much—until their patience had finally broken.
Nathaniel Bennett stood at the edge of his family’s estate, the sprawling mansion that had once been a symbol of wealth and power, watching the chaos unfold just beyond the line of trees. His father had left earlier that day, escaping to safety with the rest of their loyalist allies in the town. His mother, fragile and nervous, had been hidden away in the house, as far from the violence as she could be. Nate had been left behind, a prisoner in his own home, his body a mere vessel to carry his thoughts—thoughts that had been spinning in a spiral of confusion, guilt, and longing.
The first gunshot had shattered the silence that had reigned over the estate for days. Then another, and another. The battle between the British forces and the Continental Army had begun in earnest, closer now than ever before. The shadows of soldiers in uniform rushed past him, their voices low and hurried, the determination in their movements betraying the fear that had to be simmering beneath their bravery. He felt the pulse of war, a thing foreign and wild, against the peace and privilege he had once known. There was no escaping it. The world had changed, and so had he.
Nathaniel’s fingers tightened around the letter he had been clutching for the past hour, the crumpled edges a reflection of the growing pressure on his chest. It was from his father, who had written in hasty script, urging him to come to his senses. His loyalty, once unquestionable, was now being tested in ways that threatened to tear apart the life he had been born into. The letter was clear: if Nate was going to survive this war, he would need to side with the British, to embrace the power and security his family had enjoyed for generations. He could not join the rebels, not if he wanted to keep his family safe, not if he wanted to preserve the wealth that had defined their name for so long.
But the more Nate read those words, the more they felt hollow, like a lifeline extended too far out of reach. His chest tightened, the war already digging into his very core. His heart rebelled against the thought of standing with the crown, not because he was a man of rebellious inclinations, but because something in him had already begun to crack.
In the distance, a soft rustling caught his attention—a sound almost too faint to hear, but unmistakable. His instincts flared. He wasn’t alone.
Turning his head, his gaze settled on the figure approaching from the woods, the man’s movements swift, yet deliberate. The stranger was dressed in the rough clothing of a soldier, the worn fabric betraying the exhaustion of someone who had been through hell and back. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that had long since fallen out of place, wild from battle. His face was weathered, covered in a few days’ worth of stubble, but it was the sharp, intelligent eyes that caught Nate’s attention. They were the color of deep forests after the storm, and they held a fire—uncompromising and untamable—that matched the very revolution tearing the world apart.
Nate’s breath caught. The man had the air of a fighter, of someone who had seen the worst of humanity, yet still believed in the possibility of something greater, something better. His pulse quickened as their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, elongating the space between them, until the silence between them was thick with questions unspoken, desires half-formed.
The man’s lips parted, as though he were about to speak, but before he could, the crack of a rifle’s shot sliced through the air.
Nate’s heart skipped a beat. The soldier didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached into the folds of his worn coat and pulled out a small rifle, leveling it quickly and skillfully at the tree line where the shot had come from. A blur of motion caught Nate’s eye, and before he could process what had happened, the figure was gone, a mere shadow moving fluidly through the trees.
It was the first time that day, perhaps the first time in his life, that he understood the weight of being caught in a war not of his making. The landscape around him had become a battlefield. What was once familiar, his childhood home, his father’s legacy—now felt like a cage, the walls closing in as the world descended into chaos.
Another sound reached his ears—this one unmistakably human, the crackling voice of a man who was not quite shouting, but whose words held an urgency. "You! There, on the hill!"
The soldier—no, the enemy—was closing in. Nate’s heart pounded, and his feet moved before his brain had fully registered what was happening. He ran. Faster than he ever had before, his heart hammering in his chest, his thoughts scattered like leaves caught in a gale.
It wasn’t long before he found himself at the edge of the estate, with nowhere to go but into the woods. And that’s when he heard it again—the voice. Not loud, not commanding, but firm, calm, and somehow, undeniably familiar.
"Get down!"
Nate froze. For a moment, the weight of the words caught him off guard, but before he could react, the soldier appeared beside him, moving with terrifying speed, knocking him to the ground. The scent of sweat and gunpowder filled Nate’s nostrils, and for the first time in his life, he was close to another man in a way he had never imagined—intimately, urgently, with a kind of shared knowledge that only existed between two soldiers on the cusp of life and death.
Their faces were inches apart now. Nate’s pulse was thundering, his mind scrambled by the nearness, by the heat of the man’s body pressed against his own. He could feel the warmth of the soldier’s breath on his skin, could almost taste the salt of the sweat on his forehead. It wasn’t just fear that stirred between them, it was something far more visceral—a hunger, a need that neither of them could name in the moment.
The soldier’s eyes never wavered, his focus absolute. “Stay down.”
And Nate did. His hands gripped the damp earth, his pulse quickening not just from the rush of the fight, but from the closeness, the tension between them that couldn’t be ignored.
The seconds stretched on, each one laden with the kind of intimacy that was forged in the fires of battle, the kind that happened when two men were forced to trust each other with their lives in a world that didn’t give them the space to live freely.
But it wasn’t just survival that was at stake anymore. It was something else—a question Nate hadn’t dared ask himself until that very moment. What if the revolution wasn’t just about freedom from tyranny?
What if it was also about something far more personal? What if it was about freedom to be something more—something honest?
The world around them roared, but in that instant, with the soldier’s breath soft against his ear, with the tension and heat building between them, Nate realized that the revolution was not only happening on the battlefield—it was happening inside him, too.
And as the rumble of distant cannons mingled with the sharp crack of musket fire, he knew that whatever happened next, he would never be the same.
The war had come to his doorstep.
And so, too, had the man who would change everything.
Cameron Black is an acclaimed author of gay romance novellas and short stories. With a passion for writing rich, emotional narratives, Cameron’s works explore themes of love, identity, and the complexities of human connection. A proud Yale alumni, Cameron's life experiences have been shaped by living in twelve different countries, offering a unique perspective that shines through in his stories. His historical gay romance series has garnered praise for its authentic portrayal of relationships and its immersive historical settings. Currently, Cameron is working on a number of exciting new novellas and a full-length novel, continuing to captivate readers with his heartfelt and captivating storytelling.
Thursday, April 16, 2026
⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan
Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.
•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.
The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.
Original Review April 2024:
Once again another new-to-me author. Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start. I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary War😉. Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.
So glad I did!
Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army. Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds. Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it. No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstances😉. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then? Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.
There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself. If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.
RATING:
Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.
Yorktown was just like any other engagement.
Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.
In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.
The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.
They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.
Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—
John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.
There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.
It moved, man-shaped.
The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.
All of them but him.
Damn it all to hell.
Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent.
Fight. Survive… Damn it.
There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.
The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.
John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.
It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike.
There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.
The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.
“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”
John refused to hear his words.
John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.
The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”
John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.
Ah, damn it.
This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.
It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.
“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”
For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.”
He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.
“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”
Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?
“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”
What the hell?
“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”
Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all.
He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.
“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”
There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.
“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.
“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”
Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.
“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”
Their weapons crossed again.
“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”
John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals.
There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.
He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.
The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”
John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”
“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”
“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”
Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…
And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket.
“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.”
A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.
“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”
John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.
It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.
The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”
He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.
“Go on,” the man said.
His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now.
A bugle sounded.
John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.
It was done. They’d won.
He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”
“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”
“What?” John stared at him.
“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”
“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.
“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.
They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.
Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.
He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.
He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?
“I can’t go back,” the man said again.
John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.
The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.
It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.
The man stared at it.
“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”
The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”
“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”
The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin.
John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.
Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”
The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.
Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”
John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.
John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”
He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.
He would never see the man again.
In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.
“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”
Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.
John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”
“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.
Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.
Once, the Worth family was one of the most respected in England.
Then the head of that family, the Earl of Chatford, was discovered to be the ringleader of a treasonous plot. He was stripped of his title and properties, and only escaped execution because he committed suicide. Anthony Worth, the eldest son, was also implicated--and while treason could not be proven, he was convicted of theft and ordered transported. That left the younger children--Judith, Camilla, Benedict, and Theresa--alone in the world, with no friends, no skills, no property, and no future.
Meanwhile, when Anthony Worth’s ship landed in Australia, he was no longer on board. He had vanished without a trace.
The Worth Saga is the story of the Worth family--all of them. I’m calling it the Worth Saga because while the series tells the story of the Worth family, not all the books in the series will be about Worth family members. It’s really the story of the Worth family, another family (not yet introduced), and a business conglomerate. Anything more would be spoilery.
There will be more books in the series than those listed above. She'll announce additional books as she finalize titles and covers.
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.
Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.
Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.
The Pursuit of . . . #2.5
The Worth Saga
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Sunday's Short Stack: The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan
Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.
•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.
The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.
Original Review April 2024:
Once again another new-to-me author. Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start. I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary War😉. Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.
So glad I did!
Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army. Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds. Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it. No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstances😉. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then? Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.
There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself. If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.
RATING:
Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.
Yorktown was just like any other engagement.
Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.
In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.
The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.
They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.
Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—
John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.
There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.
It moved, man-shaped.
The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.
All of them but him.
Damn it all to hell.
Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent.
Fight. Survive… Damn it.
There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.
The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.
John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.
It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike.
There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.
The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.
“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”
John refused to hear his words.
John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.
The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”
John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.
Ah, damn it.
This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.
It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.
“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”
For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.”
He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.
“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”
Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?
“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”
What the hell?
“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”
Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all.
He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.
“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”
There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.
“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.
“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”
Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.
“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”
Their weapons crossed again.
“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”
John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals.
There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.
He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.
The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”
John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”
“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”
“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”
Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…
And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket.
“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.”
A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.
“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”
John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.
It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.
The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”
He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.
“Go on,” the man said.
His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now.
A bugle sounded.
John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.
It was done. They’d won.
He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”
“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”
“What?” John stared at him.
“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”
“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.
“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.
They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.
Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.
He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.
He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?
“I can’t go back,” the man said again.
John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.
The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.
It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.
The man stared at it.
“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”
The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”
“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”
The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin.
John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.
Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”
The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.
Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”
John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.
John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”
He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.
He would never see the man again.
In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.
“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”
Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.
John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”
“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.
Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.
Once, the Worth family was one of the most respected in England.
Then the head of that family, the Earl of Chatford, was discovered to be the ringleader of a treasonous plot. He was stripped of his title and properties, and only escaped execution because he committed suicide. Anthony Worth, the eldest son, was also implicated--and while treason could not be proven, he was convicted of theft and ordered transported. That left the younger children--Judith, Camilla, Benedict, and Theresa--alone in the world, with no friends, no skills, no property, and no future.
Meanwhile, when Anthony Worth’s ship landed in Australia, he was no longer on board. He had vanished without a trace.
The Worth Saga is the story of the Worth family--all of them. I’m calling it the Worth Saga because while the series tells the story of the Worth family, not all the books in the series will be about Worth family members. It’s really the story of the Worth family, another family (not yet introduced), and a business conglomerate. Anything more would be spoilery.
There will be more books in the series than those listed above. She'll announce additional books as she finalize titles and covers.
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.
Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.
Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.
The Pursuit of . . . #2.5
The Worth Saga
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