"Harburne's Regiment of Marines."

 

(Lieutenant Roger Harburne, commander of the Regiment, (detachment), of Marines aboard the HMS Elysium, bound for reinforcing the garrison of Fort Hemmerly, and Port Dominion on the island of St. Albion.)

(Marines (along with a few attached regular Army troops), are on their way....)

Lieutenant Roger Harburne stands as a portrait of ambition sculpted in scarlet and silver braid—a man of order, intellect, and drive whose confidence teeters on the edge of hubris. Commanding a detachment of Marines aboard HMS Elysium, bound for the distant island of St. Albion, he approaches his first independent command with the fervor of one determined to carve his name into the rolls of His Majesty’s Navy. To his men and fellow officers, he is both inspiring and unnerving: the sort of commander whose discipline inspires excellence but whose pride might one day test the patience of fortune itself.

Every man under Harburne’s charge bears the mark of his method. Those he personally selected were molded into near reflections of their commander’s precision; those assigned to him unwillingly soon found themselves drilled until fatigue and form were indistinguishable. His detachment was said to march as one organism—a “machine oiled by sweat and discipline,” as an admiring sergeant once described it. 

Yet behind this visible mastery lies a man who chafes quietly at the injustice of his posting. To be dispatched to a humid colonial outpost to support regular army troops—rather than to take the fight to sea, where Marines truly belong—gnaws at his pride. Inwardly, he considers this island exile a test set by Providence or perhaps a chance to prove to the Admiralty that greater commands await him.

Harburne’s virtues are those of precision and will; his flaws, those of a man too aware of his own worth. Among his peers, he is whispered of as “too sure by half,” and yet none can deny his competence. His faith, such as it is, lies less in scripture than in powder and steel—tools he trusts more than priest or prayer. “God helps the man who strikes first,” he once said with a dry smile over his brandy.  

Once during an evening with others at a dinner party, he was asked about his thoughts on being an officer in the Marines and how it affected his faith in The Almighty. "A musket never lied to a man who handled it properly,” he was once overheard to say. Such pragmatism, though unorthodox, made him effective—if not always beloved.

And though his belief in the Almighty is not absent, it is thin, perfunctory—a polite bow before turning back to duty, drink, or a challenging came of cards.

He carries other indulgences with him: a fondness for perhaps an extra drink or two of brandy, or wine after long days at sea, an easy familiarity with the gaming table, and a fascination for women whose allure is as foreign as his next posting. In his private thoughts, he dreams of finding a lady of standing and wealth—an elegant match whose refinement might anchor his restless ambition and elevate him within English society.

Now, as HMS Elysium prepares to sail for St. Albion, Harburne views the voyage as more than a duty. To him, it is a crucible. He intends to prove that his hand—steady, disciplined, and unyielding—can turn even the most distant colonial command into a stage for glory. Whether his confidence will carry him to greatness or ruin remains unseen, but one truth stands clear: Roger Harburne is a man born to lead—and to be tested.

When he embarked aboard HMS Elysium bound for the distant colonial outpost of St. Albion, few could have foreseen that his name would come to figure prominently in the dispatches from that troubled island.