Salem (OTL's Hattiesburg), Jefferson, the United States (Occupied by the Alliance)
November 12th, 1833 (7 days after D-Day)
Private Aston Davidson slid behind a crumbling wall and took a slight peek to see where the partisans were shooting from. His action was met with a shot landing too close to his head for comfort. He quickly ducked behind the barrier and shouted over the din of the gunfire, "They're in the bank building!"
"Keep your head down private!" His sergeant shouted, "Damn Negros and their rifles!"
The 4th (The King's Own) Regiment of Foot was clearing out the resistance fighters in the town of Salem, one of the biggest towns in the southern state called "Jefferson." The town itself was named after a Revolutionary War hero named Salem Poor, a Negro of all people. It was just one of many reminders that the United States had abandoned its white, British roots and pandered to Negros and Chinamen. Instead of restoring friendly relations with Britain, a country that had many things in common with the republic, America constantly interfered in Britain's business and always placed the Negros above its cousins across the Atlantic. While Private Davidson wasn't completely hostile to the United States, he was no fan of the young American nation. His feeling about the invasion was mixed, as he hated being shot at from five different directions by armed Americans. However, he was promised a raise along with the rest of the soldiers participating in the invasion (from one shilling to three shillings) along with a small slice of any loot the soldiers "liberated." It also helped that a majority of the people in the region were Negros, as he had no qualms shooting at them. And many British soldiers echoed his sentiment.
Unfortunately, this was one part of the job that he absolutely hated the most: conquering cities and clearing them.
After aiming carefully behind his shelter, the private fired his Nottingham Rifle towards the stone building that remained standing even after the British artillery bombardment of the settlement. The once-proud "Federal Bank of the United States" was now in partial ruins, though it looked much better than the numerous ruined buildings around it. He didn't bother to check if his shot landed and pulled out a paper cartridge to reload his rifle. He rotated the crank to open the chamber, pulled off the string of the cartridge, and poured the gunpowder into the chamber. Once the gunpowder was in place, he placed the cartridge paper on top of the gunpowder to use as wadding and placed the bullet into the chamber. Once that was complete, he fidgeted with the crank and adjusted the rear sight on his rifle. He laid down and aimed carefully before firing. This time, he was able to see an exposed Negro man brandishing a rifle go down right after his shot was fired, making him grin as he slapped another shot into his firearm, "I got one!"
"Shut your mush!"
The private wisely kept his mouth shut as he continued firing. He was one of the youngest members in the regiment, barely twenty years old. His backstory was all too common in the British Army; he was poor and was fed drinks by a recruiting sergeant in a pub, after which he took the King's shilling and enlisted once he realized he had nothing better to do. He was very fit despite his status, which allowed him to be waved into the Army with ease. And after a year of training, he was on American soil fighting for the glory of the British Empire, the King, and God.
A cheer from some of his fellow comrades shook Private Davidson from his thoughts and he turned to see a mortar team arrive. The mortar team quickly went to work and trained their 12-cm mortars towards the American refuge. Within minutes, several shells streaked into the sky and explosively struck the ground. Most of them missed their targets, as mortars were known to be fairly inaccurate. However, three of them struck the bank directly and caused a portion of the front wall to crumble. While the mortars were firing away, Private Davidson continued to fire his rifle, as he wanted to cut down as many defenders as he could before the inevitable charge.
Finally, after several rounds of shells, the bank collapsed entirely and panicked shouts erupted from the Yankees. The enlisted British soldier started to fix his bayonet even before he was ordered to do so and a minute later, the command he had been waiting for came.
"Charge!"
Private Davidson and dozens of others ran quietly towards the Negros with a neutral expression. If he had been on the other side of the charge, the private knew he would've been intimidated by a group of red-uniformed soldiers with stony faces. Surely, they would give up now?
In response to the British charge, the surviving defenders yelled out a strange sound: a mix of a yelp, a scream, and a war cry. Instead of running or surrendering, the outnumbered locals met the British charge with a charge of their own. It soon turned into chaos as British soldiers with bayonets battled with Negros armed with everything from bayonets to rubble.
"Get out of our town, damned lobsters!" A Negro screamed as he swung a rifle wildly towards Private Davidson's face.
The Brit ducked and thrust his rifle's bayonet towards the man's midsection, opening up a hole in the black man's stomach. The wounded lad landed on the floor hard, though he stayed alive and weakly attempted to hit the private with his rifle. The foot soldier frowned as he kicked away the man's firearm and ended his life with a stab to the neck. His mind barely processed the man's death as Private Davidson stopped a man that was charging at him with his rifle and slammed him in the head with the butt of the gun. The American crumpled and received a bayonet to the back.
Within fifteen minutes, the battle was over (or at least, in this part of the town). The dead bodies were counted and it was discovered that twenty British regulars had lost their lives in exchange for forty-five American lives. Most of the British casualties had been from the rifle exchange, as even non-military Americans owned excellent breechloading rifles. The fact that the civilians fought to the death and cost the lives of over a dozen British soldiers was sobering, but the private shelved the thought away as he knicked a golden necklace off of a dead body and pocketed it. He knew he would be punished if he was caught with the valuable, but he was aware that the others were doing it as well. And he already had a secure place where he could store his loot (as he had picked a few souvenirs already).
For the Empire, the King, and God? Those things were secondary. He was in it for the honors, the glory, and the money. Sure, Britain beating America in a war would make his heart swell a bit with pride. However, beating Americans senseless and being rewarded for it was much more motivating. And after this war was over, he was going to finish his seven years in the Army and return to Britain as a well-off man.
He just had to survive.
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AN: Nottingham Rifle is similar to the Kammerlader rifle. It can fire up to around 8-10 shots per minute.
Oh this Prick got a beating coming for him