For the Glory of the Crown: The Story of a Loyalist family

I'm writing a novel, it tells the tale of a family of United Empire Loyalists set during and after the American Revolutionary War and carrying on until the British burn the White House and Washington to the ground during the War of 1812. Please critique and offer suggestions.

Prologue

May 3rd, 1773

A kick sent him to the ground, musket butts smashed into his face, boots cracked his ribs. One brave Loyalist, against three murderous Whigs, or Revolutionaries. They bloodied his face, cracked his ribs and broke his bones with a barrage of bashes from their muskets, kicks and punches. One man, the leader, carried a cudgel and bloodied the Loyalist's face with it.
"Well, King's Man, what do you have to say know" The leader said, smiling wickedly and raising his club to threaten the poor Loyalist. He sniffed, wiped the blood from his nose and rose to his feet. A fire burned in his eyes, British courage. The Loyalist took a deep breath and he roared his last words.
"LONG LIVE THE KING!"

From around a corner of the street, 5 Loyalists ran to the aid of their friend and family. He lay prostrate in the middle of large square in New York, beside an old oak tree. They were too late. The defeated man had three musket wounds in his chest. The lead Loyalist ran to his father. He was a young man, 22, light brown hair and blue eyes, strong, tall and thin. A born leader, and a loyal subject of King George.
"Father" the young man cried out, sinking to his knees beside the dying Loyalist.
"John" gasped the father. "John, avenge me my son, and always remember where your loyalties lay" And with those words, a fierce Loyalist died, and the Revolution gained a sworn enemy.

Yeah, that's all I have so far.

its so beautiful you must carry on

You're kinda biased wouldn't you say? Says right there in your signature, English Until you Die. That's definetely a biased position

Edit:

Chapter I

December 30th, 1775, Quebec City

John Talbot looked out from the window of the Quebecois house on a Patriot column of about 400 soldiers advancing against a barricade manned by a battalion of 200 British Regulars. What the Patriots didn't know was that in the tall brick houses, tightly packed like sardines, there were hundreds of Loyalist Militia. In the house had had been assigned too there were 50 other Loyalists. He was on the bottom floor with 24 other loyalists, sitting just under the window, his Brown Bess musket loaded and ready. John had picked up the Brown Bess at Bunker Hill, along with the bayonet and it's sheath, which he wore on his belt, and the ammunitions box. He had got the whole set from a dead Redcoat. He also owned a large knife which was sheathed just next to his bayonet.

All was silence, but for the muffled crunch of the thick Northern snow under the American boots. And then, noise. There were battlecries as the Regulars suddenly charged forward with bayonets, and a barrage of aimed Musket fire exploded from the houses all around. John stood up, gritting his teeth and taking aim with his musket. He fired and the American colour sergeant fell to the ground, his blood staining the snow and the American flag that fell just beside him. With a war whoop, John reloaded, fixed his bayonet and charged out the door with the rest of his platoon. He quickly lunged and stabbed a Whig inbetween the shoulder blades. Whipping out his knife, his sliced through a charging Patriot's neck, blood splattering the snow as the jugulars were sliced open and the man choked in his own blood. John yanked his musket out of the Revolutionary's back and, bracing it against his hip, fired a shot into the gut of a Whig sergeant. With another war whoop, he cast his musket to the ground and pounced on another Whig. They struggled, rolling in the snow, hands punching and grasping for the throat while Americans were slaughtered and fell to the snow, dead, around them. Holding the man's throat in a vice like grip, John stabbed into the American's side again and again, shouting in his face every time till blood stained even his teeth. A battle madness was upon him, not unlike the battle madness that siezed the Ancient Gauls in combat. John stood, his opponent dead before him. The Americans were beat, hell, not beat, they were slaughtered. Everyone of them lay dead in the snow. The madness still holding him in it's grips, John dipped two fingers from either hand into the dead Patriot's slashed open throat, and used his blood to mark war paint onto his face. The Loyalist's all around him looked terrified as John did something even worse, Taking his knife, siezing the dead man's hair, John scalped the dead American. Placing the tuft of hair in a bag at his side. John grabbed his musket and reentered the house and sat down at his previous position while the Loyalist's prepared for another ambush.
"Avenge me... avenge me my son... avenge me" his father's last words echoed in John's mind.
"I will father, I will" he said to himself, reloading his gun.

Yeah, that's just the basics. I'll be adding a lot for the final version which I will send to a publisher.

Remove the avenge me stuff, man. That stuff is cliched. The rest is interesting - telling the story of the American War of Independence from a different viewpoint - but the avenge me stuff is

What? Vengeance for a dead family member is a classic theme. Vengeance is John Talbot's motivation, his father was beaten to death and shot three times by Patriot's, he seeks revenge, and in his seeking revenge he plunges deeper and deeper into madness. My story will be divided into three parts Revenge and Insanity, telling the story of John Talbot's the American War of Independence and his eventual descent into madness, New Beginnings which is about Isaac Talbot, the grandson of John, moving to Canada with his family to escape discrimination against Loyalists in the late 1700, early 1800s and Old Enemies, which is the last part, telling the tale of Arthur Talbot, a British soldier during the War of 1812 up until the Burning of Washington.

Chapter II

December 31st, 1775, Quebec

"John, wake up John" a voice penetrated John's sleep. Grumbling, the Loyalist opened up his eyes to see Lincoln. Lincoln was a British regular, and a friend of John. He was a tall, thing Irishman, with black hair and dark green eyes. Heavy drinker, but a good man and a good friend.
"They're coming, we're moving out to the South Wall" Lincoln said, before moving off to his battalion. Grumbling under his breath, John slung his musket over his shoulder and joined the column of Militia. as they moved.
'How many will die today? How many will I kill? Will I die myself? I've lost count of how many Rebels have died by my hand, but the number is certainly not high enough' John thought to himself and shook his head.

The boom of Cannon soon droned out all other noise as the British forces and Militia manned the walls. Before them, hundreds of Revolutionaries charged the walls, some carrying ladders, the flags of the Revolution fluttering in the wind. Immediately, the British let loose a volley of musket fire, mowing down dozens of Whigs. John cocked his musket, aimed and fired. He aimed every shot, this one took a private in the throat, the next took down a sergeant, and the next a corporal. And so it went on and on, the Americans coming, and the British firing. They were mowed down, cannons taking whole columns of men out. The carnage was terrible, the snow was stained crimson with the blood of America. The flag fell, only to be taken up by another Yankee, and then it fell again. They just kept coming. When they got closer, and they flung their ladders against the walls of Quebec, John got a glimpse of the slips of paper pinned to their hats, and what was written on them.
"Victory or Death" said the papers.
"Well, they're certainly not going to win" John said as he took another shot. Fixing his bayonet, he stabbed a Whig through the chest as he came up over the ramparts, the dead Rebel fell backwards down the ladder, knocking his compatriots off and down into the freezing snow as he did. Taking out his knife, he slashed a Revolutionary in the throat, blood from the jugulars squirting out at the man fell dead. And it went on and on and on. Another bloody day in the War of Independence. Another bloody day in the life of John Talbot,

The battle was over by noon, the snowdrifts already concealing hundreds of dead Americans. John knew this victory would not be enough for him, he would leave this militia, go south, find a new Loyalist militia where the fight was still on and his war would continue. He had heard that there were battles going on near New York, that would be his next destination.

Yeah, chapters will be longer in the final version.

of course im bloody biased lol.

have you got anything agaisnt it and your proud to be candian so arent you biased

also how can you cock a musket and were there even colour sergeants during then

The little bit on a musket that held the match, and later the flint, was called a cock. Pulling the cock back so it was ready to fire was called cocking your musket. That's why cocking is now a word meaning making a gun ready to fire. And i'm pretty sure there was a soldier assigned to guard the colours in armies during those times.

There have been colour guards since the Romans.