The Lone Sharpshooter

The Lone Sharpshooter is an article written by John Breasly about a sharpshooter in the British Army, under a special operations unit being used in an on-going war against Spain and it's ally (at the time), France. He operates mostly in the New World. While on a mission to assassinate a French commander holding a strong fort in the Louisiana territory, the sharpshooter is separated from his team, who are caught in a fire-fight off the coast of Florida. The sharpshooter must complete his task alone, if he wants the British to be able to succeed in entering Louisiana.
==Chapter I - Training==
I stood in the frigid cold of a small port in southern England.  Huddled together with forty other men, our instructor approached us.  A weathered man, standing just under two meters.  He adjusted his bicorne before addressing us.
"Alright, laddies, you've been selected for something important.  Let's hussle!  All hands on deck, get on that Indiaman now!" he shouted.  We rushed towards the East Indiaman at the dock, prepared to take up sailing positions.  I readied myself in the nest, and nodded to the navigator.  The gnarled captain walked aboard, and immediately approached the highest deck.  He stood there for a moment, observing everyone at their positions.  He fixed his bicorne, took one last look around, and yelled "Copenhagen!"
"Copenhagen!" the navigator repeated.  He yelled to the taskmasters, who ordered for the sails to be lowered.  Our normal process took place, and the HMS Mare hoisted anchor, plotting course for the capital of Denmark.  I took my spyglass, and watched our southern side, as I always did.  The Spanish are wild men, ruthless even.  I found what I expected: nothing.  I settled into the nest, and prepared for the journey.
We were a day in when I awoke to Matthias, a fellow midshipman, shaking me awake.  He informed me it was my shift to enter the nest again.  I groaned - tonight would be one of the coldest of our nights, from what this morning's conditions suggested.  I made my way up the long ladder, miserable.  I had just reached the top, when a brown speck along the horizon caught my eye.  I quickly unfastened my spyglass, and peered out.  A ship flying a tattered Union Jack painted with a broken skull was approaching, and fast.  Deadcoats.
"Ship ahoy!" I yelled, as I adjusted my compass to get an accurate coordinate as to where.  I read down the marking, and watched as the speedy ship approached.  I attempted to hail it, but the cannons at the bow thought otherwise.  They fired on the HMS Mare and I was knocked from the nest by the impact.  A spare bit of rigging proved to be my guardian angel as it caught my foot.  I quickly hoisted myself onto the wooden structure of the sail, and descended to the deck.  I positioned myself at the bow, yelling out angles for the cannons below deck.  Our broadside hit full swing into the dreadcoats.  Their ship, now damaged, returned decent fire onto us, disabling our forward sail.  I was practically kissing the wooden boards, praying the falling rigging did not harm me.  It crashed down into the water to my left, thankfully, and I stood once more.
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