by Tony Roberts
* * *
Lynch scowled. He was not happy. In front of his stood three people, all of whom had newly arrived from England. Two were mere guards – the so-called Swords of God – and were therefore irrelevant to any conversation. They would obey a command. No, it was the third man who attracted all of Lynch’s displeasure; this man was neat, tidy, alert. His lean face possessed eyes as clear as any Lynch had seen, and were intelligent. A dangerous man. Not one to take lightly.
Whitby had been sent outside away from the hotel room as Lynch did not want the criminal to hear of any Brotherhood business. He had in his hand a letter from the Elder commanding him to co-operate with the bearer of the letter in every way.
“So,” Lynch said heavily, passing the letter back to the man, “the Elder has sent another messenger. The last one ended up skewered in the crypt of the local church here. I would have thought the presence of Longinus in Lynchburg would have brought the Elder himself here.”
“As you can see by his signature,” the new arrival, a man called John Fulton, replied, “he is a man of high profile in the world of politics and a visit here by this man would attract undue attention. Not to mention questions asked by the British parliament as to why he was here. He has however provided me with two of his inner guard here as you can see. They are well trained in all kinds of martial abilities and I am confident they can take care of the Beast. Now, where is he?”
“My information is that he is currently with the American army in Texas. Tensions are high with Mexico and it would appear war is imminent.”
“Just so,” Fulton agreed. “Therefore our two friends here shall enroll into the army and locate the Beast. Once that is done they shall keep close to him and once the war is over they shall bring him back to Virginia and then we shall end this messy business. I shall in the meantime go about recruiting a new cell here in Lynchburg and Richmond. You shall give me every detail of what has gone on since you came here, then once that has been done you are free to return to Philadelphia and resume your cover there. The Elder has decided to place all responsibility of this mission into my hands.”
Lynch was angry; he had done a fair amount of work and felt he’d received little support up to now and was being cast aside. “And Whitby? He knows too much about Longinus.”
Fulton’s mouth turned down. “That is your responsibility, acolyte Lynch. You hired him, you get rid of him.”
Lynch sat down. He had little choice but to comply. An order from the Elder was not one to defy, not unless you wanted your throat slit, and the two Swords of God standing there looked capable of doing that without a second’s thought. “Can our friends here not deal with that problem?”
Fulton glared. “Is such a small matter beyond your capabilities, acolyte? These two are trained assassins; a simple disposal is way beneath their capabilities. You, however, can prove your worth by performing this little task. See to it.”
“Very well, Brother Fulton, I shall take care of the matter.”
Fulton nodded. Now he could get down to business. “Tell me, where is the best place to buy coffins?”
“Coffins? Why on earth do you want one of those?”
Fulton didn’t have to explain himself but he decided Lynch would feel part of the grand plan if he was privy to the reasons why Fulton wanted a coffin. So he explained, and Lynch listened and nodded. Perhaps Fulton was the right man after all for this difficult job.
And listening to every word outside the room stood a very angry Whitby.
* * *
“Dig, dig, fucking dig,” Jimmy Mulherne complained, easing his aching back, “that’s all we bloody do!”
“Well building a fort is hard work, Jimmy,” Case said during taking a breather. He wiped his brow and eyed the growing structure. Two thousand soldiers toiled in the sun, constructing the four-sided fortification directly opposite Matamoros. “Soldiers have always dug, whether they needed it or not. Besides, I don’t want to think the Mexicans can cross the river here unopposed. Do you?”
“Ah, ye’ve got something there, Case,” Michael said, nodding.
Case thought that Taylor’s strategy was sound. Building a fort right where the Mexicans had a town would prevent them from crossing the river at this point; they’d have to go upstream somewhere and cross there, giving Taylor extra time to prepare his forces. But the longer they remained where they were facing each other, the longer the tensions between the various immigrant groups grew.
Case had seen how some of the Irish immigrants had been treated and a fair number of them had served in the British army in the past with all its harsh discipline; and they had come to America believing what they had heard about the freedom of choice and the opportunities available. It had come as a shock therefore when they found they were just as picked upon in the American army. Some had been whipped already for minor infractions; the Irish were always fighting, if not an enemy then amongst themselves. Others had been given the same punishment Case and Quinn had received back in Virginia, something they called ‘bucking and gagging’.
All this led to some disgruntled soldiers and one of their number, a former artilleryman called Riley, was stirring up discontent. Quinn had joined him and some of the others drifted to their group. Case thought they were best steered clear of. He could smell trouble that strong a mile off.
The fort was completed and the soldiers settled into a life facing the Mexicans. Despite the officers’ attentions, spies slipped across from both sides and the Mexicans discovered the differences between the Irish and their rivals. Being Catholic the Irish felt more affinity with their fellow Catholic Mexicans who promised them land and beautiful Mexican senoritas.
Quinn took up this promise and whispered into many Irish ears of the rewards waiting for them across the river. Case decided enough was enough and didn’t want Jimmy, Michael or any of his immediate comrades to be swayed by the temptations of Quinn’s words. He strode up to Quinn’s tent and ignored the hostile looks from some of the rough looking types hanging out around the fire burning next to the tent.
“Quinn, I don’t want you speaking about desertion to any of my platoon. You hear me?”
The rough soldiers sat or stood amazed. Nobody had dared before to even broach the subject, let alone order their spokesman to shut it. They all turned as one to look at Quinn’s tent as the flap flew aside and the burly Irishman emerged, shirt sleeves rolled up, a thunderous expression filling his reddened face.
“You fuckin’ eejit!” Quinn snapped, “keep yer voice down or you’ll bring trouble!”
“I am trouble, you dumb gobshyte” Case growled. “I hear you’ve been spreading talk to my friends. The last thing I want is for any of them to be influenced by your shit. You got it?”
“Don’t come here tellin’ me what to say” Quinn snarled, his fists bunching. “You shut up if you know what’s best!”
“Want the officers to find out about your seditious talk? You’ll hang, you know that! So if I catch any of you, and that includes all you no-hopers here, anywhere near my pals, then I’ll make sure what you’re planning gets around and before long you’ll all be twitching on the end of a rope.”
“Riley will get to hear of this” Quinn said.
“Screw Riley. And I’m surprised you’re in league with him. He’s ex-British army, just like me. You know that? Yes, you great stupid ox, he’s ex-Royal artillery. Ask him. So you still trust his words or is he just another fucking traitor to Ireland?”
Quinn looked fit to burst, he was that angry. Case spat at the ground in front of him and drew his finger across his throat. “Stay away or I’ll make sure you hang. All of you.” With that he turned and stamped off back through the camp to his platoon. Quinn stood there, purple with rage, trembling. He looked at his men, all waiting for his next few words. He muttered and eyed the back of the receding Case. “Get ready lads, I think we’ll have to act sooner rather than later. I’ll go speak to Riley.”
Case was not surprised a day or
two later to hear a number of the Irish contingent had deserted across the river to the Mexicans, Riley and Quinn amongst them. It made the other Irish look bad and the officers more edgy towards them. Case hoped that the army would get action soon or more might swim across the river and enjoy the whiskey, girls and promises of land Riley championed.
And before the end of April, all hell broke loose. Mexico declared war.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They marched up and down the road in between Port Isabel, their nearest supply base, and Fort Texas like bloody fools, or so Case said aloud to his comrades. All agreed. General Taylor was informed by his opposite number, General Arista – who had replaced the more irascible Ampudia – that they were at war and the Mexicans had marched away from Matamoros westwards.
They crossed the Rio Grande upstream and Taylor realized that Arista was trying to cut behind him and isolate his army with its back to the river. He left a small garrison at the fort and marched his men in a hurry northwards to intercept the Mexicans.
Only they weren’t to be found. A Texan Ranger galloped into camp one evening with news that Arista had in fact fooled Taylor and was besieging Fort Texas. So Taylor turned his men around and marched them back down the road towards trouble.
“Up and down this fucking road,” Case grumbled one evening, hanging his socks on a stick above a camp fire, “like a whore’s knickers.”
“I’d like company of one right now,” Jimmy added gloomily, stirring a rather unappetizing mush in the iron pot that hung suspended over another fire.
“What, a pair of knickers?” Michael said in surprise.
“No, ye fucking eejit,” a dark haired lanky man by the name of Dermot Hamilton replied, “a whore. I’d like lots of whores to ease me fucking aches and pains.”
“Ye’d get the fucking pox, ye Belfast shyte,” Michael retorted, grinning. “Yer cock’d rot off.”
“It’d beat marching up and down this road, so it would,” Hamilton said, lying back and staring up at the sky.
“A Mexican whore wouldn’t understand you anyway. You’d be asking for a fuck and she’d think you were asking for a pound of potatoes.” Berndt Feisler, one of the few German immigrants in the platoon, laughed at his own joke.
“And she’d understand ye?” Jimmy asked loudly. “One barked command from yer gob and she’d shit herself in fright, so she would. Ye Germans all sound like ye’ve got a gob full of phlegm. She’d not want to go near any of ye for fear of being spat to death!”
“Aw shut up the lot of you,” Kenny, an American from North Carolina, complained. “You’ll all be more worried fighting the Mexicans than their whores before long. Arista’s got six thousand troops waiting for us further south. Worry about them, not about getting their women underneath you.”
“If we’re strong enough to fight, that is,” Jimmy said, examining a slab of meat dubiously. “This smells like Case’s feet.”
“Test it, then,” Michael said.
Jimmy grunted, turned round and flung the meat at a rock by the roadside. The meat stuck.
“Leave it there,” they all chorused and turned back to face the stew with a less than enthusiastic air about them.
The next morning they marched again. Topping a rise in the ground they came face to face with Arista’s army, spread across the road a mile off. They were dug in on a ridge they called Palo Alto. To the right as the Americans looked on, the Mexican line was protected by a swamp and on the other flank stood a wooded hill. In the center, across the road, stood most of the infantry and all the artillery.
Taylor, well aware of the Mexican positions thanks to his scouts, yelled orders. Amongst the curses some coherent orders came out. The wagons to the rear were his worry so he diverted some of his troops to protect them. The 8th regiment he sent to the left with some artillery, while Major Ringgold and his cannon went to the right, guarded by the 5th. Case and his regiment were put in the center. “Typical,” he grumbled, “right in front of their damned cannon.”
Behind Case and his comrades the big guns, 18 pounders, were wheeled into position. General Taylor, still dressed like a down and outer, rode up and spat a yellow stream into the ground. “Okay boys,” he said, eyeing the Mexican lines, “here’s where we show these Mexicans how we American boys can fight!”
Case knew the Americans could fight; they’d kicked the British out of the thirteen colonies. The Irish could fight; they always fought. The Germans too, could fight. Case had been fighting for or against Germans even before he’d become immortal. He looked towards the distant mouths of the Mexican cannons and felt his mouth go dry. The last time he’d faced such things had been at Waterloo when he’d fought under the Union Flag of Britain. Strange that, he mused, he’d given his services to France and Napoleon for so long, but after the mess of the campaign into Russia and Napoleon’s callous abandonment of what remained of the Grande Armee in Lithuania, Case had vowed never again to fight for the Corsican.
So he’d rallied to the anti-Napoleon cause after news had come that Napoleon had escaped from Elba. And he’d stood in the British lines on top of that bloody ridge with the French cannons blasting the shit out of them; Wellington had probably saved them by ordering them to lie down, something you didn’t get much then. But the memories of that terrible bombardment for all those hours and the horrific injuries and deaths to left and right had left their mark in his mind.
Having a man next to you lose his head to a cannon ball wasn’t pleasant, and Case wondered what would happen to him if he was hit by one. Would his head continue to function, separated from his body? Would be live a tortured suspended existence without being able to move? The thoughts gave him the shivers.
One thing he did know however. If you saw a cannon ball approaching you it was heading right for you, so the obvious thing to do was to step aside just a couple of feet or to step forward. Chances were you’d be spared.
Michael fidgeted next to him, his fingers opening and closing around the musket he carried. Sweat formed along the young man’s brow and upper lip. “It’s okay, Michael, things will be okay once they get going. It’s the waiting that’s the worst, believe me.”
“You’ll watch out for me, Case?” Michael’s voice was shaky.
“Sure thing. Just stick close to me and you’ll be fine. Jimmy here’ll watch out for you too, won’t you?”
“Aye.” Jimmy wasn’t smiling and a tic in his right cheek betrayed the tension he was feeling.
Suddenly the enemy cannons barked and a mass of cannon balls hurtled towards them. “Damned fools are firing too far away to hurt us,” General Taylor noted and nodded towards his artillery captain. “Show ‘em how to shoot.”
The American battery replied, the noise deafening to the troops lined up in front of them. The shells fired from the US guns exploded amongst the Mexican lines and it seemed that the soldiers there shivered. In contrast the older Mexican guns only fired solid shot and these bounced harmlessly along the ground, losing speed as they went. One or two bounced past and a couple of American soldiers toppled over.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch any that come your way,” Case snapped, “even if they are rolling slowly! I’ve seen them take a man’s foot off.”
The Mexican soldiers advanced slowly, the tips of their bayonets glinting. “Load!” came the barked order. Case slammed the butt of his musket into the ground and reached into his pouch on his belt, pulling out the paper tube full of powder and one lead ball. He bit into the paper as did the others around him, and poured half of the powder into the barrel. Next the ball was dropped down and Case pulled the ramrod out of its slot beneath the barrel. He rammed the rod down into the smooth barrel and compacted the ball into the powder.
Replacing the ramrod he pulled the gun to his waist and cocked the hammer, locking it back in the firing position. He poured the remainder of the powder into the pan and looked left and right. The rest were only just cocking their pieces. Case had done this so many times before it was
second nature.
“Steady, boys,” Sergeant Mason said calmly from behind. He was similarly armed but stood back, watching his section. Lieutenant Bradman paced nervously up and down behind the platoon, hoping to God none of his men would panic. General Taylor was only a few yards away and that made Bradman doubly nervous.
The Mexican infantry advanced but the shells from the gunners was causing havoc, exploding on the ground or in the air around them. A fair number fell and the conscripted peasantry faltered. The Mexican gunners were still trying to reload after their first salvo, while the American guns were blasting away furiously. Against the unequal firepower the enemy infantry halted, then retreated.
“Whoo-hoo!” a soldier yelled, “those boys have had enough!”
“Hold your position!” Bradman shouted above the din of shellfire.
The soldiers stood and waited, muskets armed but not yet raised. The enemy infantry was still retreating, the artillery fire blasting chunks of earth and rock up all around them. Case relaxed. The Mexican artillery was poor and their second salvo was almost as ineffective as their first. They were firing too far away.
Suddenly a shout went up from the right. The Mexican dragoons were riding out towards Major Ringgold’s artillery battery, hoping to overrun them and flank the American position. Case watched as the guns fired swiftly, the new 6 pounder lightweight guns easily outranged anything the Mexicans had. The cavalry rode straight into a hailstorm of shellfire, decimating their ranks, and those unlucky to survive that received canister fire as they closed in on the Americans.
The Mexicans rode back, shattered.
Then Arista tried the other flank, with similar results. The rapid fire of the artillery blew huge holes through the ranks of Mexican cavalry, and the cream of the American army was more than a match for the cream of the Mexican. Smoke began spiraling up from the tinder dry grass as the incessant shell fire ignited it, and suddenly flames were leaping up across the battlefield, obscuring the field of fire.