by Tony Roberts
“They’re unloading a ship newly arrived from Southampton,” Ebenezer smiled. “They’ll be an hour or so yet. Uniforms, so I understand. This contract is utterly fantastic, Sir Richard, your contacts in Britain were spot on.”
“Naturally,” Sir Richard replied, studying the manifest lying on the desk, knowing full well the workforce were occupied. He’d chosen this particular time and day to visit Maplin, well aware that a ship of munitions had been due to dock at this time. “Hmm. Price of cloth has gone up. Pass the cost onto the army, they can afford the increase.”
“Of course, Sir Richard. How is Rose?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Coming along nicely. She’s turning into the perfect wife, you know.”
Ebenezer shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t have believed it, really. I thought she was dead set against you and you’d have a real struggle to get her to accept you.”
“It’s wonderful what becoming a mother does to a woman,” Sir Richard replied. “My son will grow up to be a fine outstanding man.”
“I’m sure he will, Sir Richard.” Maplin stood up and waited, unsure of what was going to happen next. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Sir Richard smiled. “Why yes, there is. Let me show you something.” The office was up above the main warehouse floor and looked down on a space packed with crates, bales and barrels, all full of the ordnance needed to prosecute a war. Powder, uniforms, belts, boots, muskets, balls, packs, bayonets and so on.
Here and there were clear spaces to enable these goods to be taken out to their distribution points and one such space stood directly below the staircase. Sir Richard stood at the top and looked down at the rows upon row of goods that came through the warehouse. Maplin joined him and looked down, not knowing what he was supposed to see. “What is it?”
“This,” Sir Richard said and struck Maplin hard on the head with his silver-tipped cane, knocking the merchant to his knees. A second blow pitched him forward off the platform and down through the thin, fragile rail to crash onto the floor twenty feet below. Sir Richard regarded the still form of Maplin for a moment, then sniffed, straightened his collar and descended the stairs, whistling to himself. He left the warehouse without a backward glance and got into his coach and rapped on the roof to tell the driver to set off. Sir Richard had an appointment at the club in downtown New York and an agreeable lunch.
As he passed through the neat streets of the city he smiled again. Now he would control the Maplin business entirely himself and funnel all profits into his bank and pay off those damned creditors. Sandwell Manor was saved, as was his son’s future.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The solitary cell at the bows was not the best accommodation Casca had ever been in. There was enough space to stretch his legs out, and if he so wished, he could stand with his head bent. But that was it. His bucket was changed once a day and his food put in at the same time. Every time two men covered him with loaded muskets and stern looks to their faces. He was chained to the wall behind and his arms could only reach as far as his lap and no further. He could feed himself – just. Every day before his food was left he received a beating with clubs and whips. He couldn’t ward off the blows, chained as he was, and each day his body slowly repaired the injuries, like a modern day Prometheus.
There were occasions his ribs were broken, and once his arm fractured; he had felt it. But the next day it was whole again and the beatings continued, the soldiers oblivious of the wounds Casca had received and moreover they cared not. They were dishing out pain and suffering to someone and they reveled in it; they were rough products of back streets of the worst slums of Britain’s cities, London, Bristol, Liverpool and York, and if they hadn’t been in the army they’d’ve been in prison or dead.
He lost track of the time he’d spent in the locker, for that was what it was in reality. The winter had come and gone. His legs got cramp and the small space hardly offered any room to turn round in. He complained but got more verbal and physical abuse. Once he had been allowed out but it only led to another beating as he tried to knock out the guards and had failed; his muscles were stiff and his timing was out. Since then they’d made sure he was sitting down when they opened the door.
Casca kicked at the door early on in his incarceration and had received a stern command to cease form the other side. The door was guarded at all times. He was stuck here until something changed it all. What that would be he didn’t know, but his many years had taught him patience. Until then he’d merely survive.
One day the door opened again and this time the guards stepped back and the jailer waved him out after unlocking his manacles. “Come on, filth, move it! The governor wants to see thee.”
Casca grumbled, rolled to his side and got unsteadily to his feet. The muscles, unused to such exertions for some time, protested and he walked out of the cubby hole with gritted teeth, fighting the pain. “Why does he want to see me, you faggot?” he said to the jailer. He always took the opportunity to insult the man.
“Shut up, filth, unless thee be otherwise commanded.” The jailer looked at Casca with loathing.
Casca sneered and followed him along the narrow corridor to the stern of the hulk. The smell of body odor and ordure filled the passage, and it was a blessed relief to pass by the side passage that led to the entryway. He looked wistfully to his right, hoping to be able to make a break for freedom, but his legs weren’t up to it, and two men stood behind him with loaded guns, and a further four men stood by the way out, similarly armed. Unless he wanted to be riddled with lead balls he’d best follow the jailer to whatever fate the governor had planned for him.
The governor was sat untidily behind his desk, the bottle of rum he’d been drinking in full sight. He’d obviously decided that his drinking was no longer a secret and he would openly carry on no matter who knew. His face was florid and his eyes red-rimmed. Casca thought he’d put on weight since he’d last seen him.
With him in the cabin were two men in British army uniforms, men he’d never seen before. One was a captain. Casca ignored them and switched his attention back to the governor, who was reading a letter that had been sealed with red wax.
“You’re in luck, Lonnergan,” the governor slurred. “Orders here from Sir Richard to release you into the care of Captain Overton here. It appears you’re to be exchanged.”
Casca looked at Overton again, this time with more interest. Curled fair colored hair peeked out from under his tricorn. His clear blue eyes regarded Casca in a neutral manner. He looked fairly fit and athletic without being exceptionally big or broad. He looked in his mid-thirties, a little old for a captain on active duty. The other man with him was a nondescript soldier. “Exchanged?”
“So it would seem. Sir Richard’s orders are quite clear. You’re a lucky man, Lonnergan.”
“Major Lonnergan, Captain,” Casca said.
“Hmph. Indeed,” the governor said grudgingly. “Glad to be shot of you, frankly. Troublemaker. He’s your responsibility now, Captain Overton.”
“Sir,” Overton saluted smartly. “Prisoner will come with me,” he addressed Casca for the first time, again in a neutral manner. Classic soldier type, Casca mused, orders to be followed to the letter. Probably crapped by the numbers. Casca gave the governor one last smirk of triumph before following Overton out into the passage, the soldier following, not too professionally. His gun was cradled loosely in his arms and there was no bayonet, strangely. Casca looked again and saw that the gun wasn’t cocked, nor did it look like it had been primed. He looked even closer and saw it was a Charleville musket, French issue. No British soldier would have one of those!
Casca now examined Overton with renewed interest. What was his unit? The uniform looked correct and shiny, but there were no unit insignia anywhere. He followed, his heart beating wildly. These weren’t proper British soldiers.
They marched off the hulk, past the four scruffy looking men on duty there. It was just as well that the men on duty here
were second rate soldiers. Someone with brains about them would surely have spotted the Charleville!
The sky was grey and a wind ruffled Casca’s hair and beard. He’d need a shave for sure when he got to wherever he was bound. If the two men were bogus, then how the devil did they get hold of a genuine Sir Richard Eley letter? Rose? Maybe Rose was something to do with this? Or perhaps Claire Kelly. No doubt all would become clear shortly.
His legs protested at the unaccustomed exercise and he hissed in pain as they walked along the grassy path towards New York city. They would have to cross over the river to Manhattan eventually, so they must have some sort of river transport waiting up ahead. He cleared his throat and called out to Overton. “Captain, who am I to be exchanged for?”
“You’ll be told of that when we get to our destination, Major,” Overton said over his shoulder. “I don’t know that information.”
“We’re going to meet Sir Richard?”
“Best watch your step, Major, it’s a little treacherous hereabouts.”
Casca lapsed into silence. Overton – if that were his real name – wasn’t going to tell him a great deal. They walked for ten minutes in silence save for their breathing and footfalls, and the creaking of leather boots. Then they came to the river and a small row boat moored to the bank.
Overton got in and grasped the oars. “Major, if you please?”
Casca climbed in awkwardly, and then the soldier did likewise. Casca could have overpowered Overton with one move and then taken out the soldier if he had chosen to, but he had a big feeling that these two guys weren’t genuine British soldiers. If it had been genuine there would have been far more than just the two to escort him.
The soldier sat in the bow, leaving Casca at the stern while Overton rowed. Another oddity. Overton would never have rowed if he’d been a British officer; the soldier would have done the donkey work. They didn’t cross directly over; rather they went upstream for a while before bumping into the opposite bank. The soldier nimbly sprang to the firm ground, secured the rope to a tree trunk and waited for Overton to join him, then Casca slowly got out, finding the aches and pains subsiding. His body working phenomenally fast to heal itself again.
There was a farmhouse a couple of hundred yards away and they skirted a copse of ash and found themselves on a rutted dirt track bordered by a white painted wooden fence that led to the farm. Cows grazed in fields and the barns looked in good repair. The wheel ruts were fresh and clearly this was a working farm.
Farm hands glanced at the three men incuriously and ignored them thereafter. It was as if this sort of thing was commonplace. The soldier opened the wooden door to the farmhouse and Overton preceded Casca into the stone flagged interior.
Casca looked round. It was a lived-in abode. Curtains hung by windows, tables had cloths upon them, there was a rug in the center of the room.
“Sit down, Major, please,” Overton said and walked through the room and out the other side, through an open door into a passageway. The soldier stood with arms folded, his gun resting against the wall, by the doorway. Footsteps heralded the return of Overton who came back in, his hat off. He grinned and went over to a dresser and picked up a plate of bread and cheese. Behind him came Claire Kelly. She smiled at the sight of Casca. “God ye look awful.”
“I feel much better than I look,” Casca grinned through his bushy beard. “Could do with a clean up and a wash.”
“Aye that ye need. I’ll see to it. Ye’ll have to stay here for a while till we get yer route back to Philadelphia worked out.”
Over the next few days Casca rested and recovered from his ordeal in the prison hulk. He shaved, cleaned himself up, and changed his old stinking clothes for a new set that Claire and the people on the farm provided. He also took to exercising to build his muscles back up again. These normally took the form of the old exercises Shiu Lao Tze had taught him all those centuries back on the ship that had taken them from Greece to Rome when they had formed their friendship.
He stretched, twisted and contorted himself into fantastic shapes and then exploded out into strikes against invisible opponents. It felt good again to do them, and the barn that had been pointed out by one of the work hands was a great place to do them in. The weather was warm with the approach of summer and so he often did them bare-chested, the sweat filming his torso.
One day he had gone through about two thirds of the exercises when he saw Captain Overton, or the man who called himself that, leaning against the entrance post with his arms folded, looking on with interest. Casca stopped, chest heaving, and regarded the man. “It’s alright,” Casca said between breaths, “I normally exercise like this.”
“Chinese, isn’t it?” Overton said, pushing away from the post and ambling into the barn.
Casca nodded. “You’ve seen these before?”
“In Japan – although it’s slightly different.”
Casca stopped and looked hard at Overton. “Japan? It’s a closed country – nobody is allowed in or out.”
Overton smiled. “Except for the Dutch at Desjima, and the Chinese and Dutch in Okinawa.”
“You’re Dutch?”
“My father was,” Overton said. “I grew up on Okinawa. He was an official in the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie. I had an interesting education. My mother died when I was young so father hired teachers to educate me, but since Dutch teachers were in short supply I sometimes had Japanese tutors. So I can speak fluent Japanese, and know of a few martial arts. When I saw you just now it took me back to my youth.”
Casca looked at Overton with interest. “So what happened in Okinawa?”
“Oh. Father got transferred back to the Netherlands. I didn’t want to go; ‘home’ wasn’t home to me, and father had gotten too used to the Keisis and I think was sent home in disgrace.”
“Keisis?”
“Japanese whores. I had no knowledge of them – I was too busy learning the arts of combat. Suddenly I was told to leave. Father and I had – a falling out. It ended with me vowing never to go to Amsterdam and I jumped ship in Colombo and made my way to Calcutta where I joined the British East India Company. I learned to speak English and then lost interest, then took a ship to New York about ten years ago and have been here ever since.”
Casca wiped his palms on his trousers. “I take it Overton isn’t your true name?”
Overton grinned. “It is now. My Dutch name was too hard to pronounce. So, I’ve never found anyone up to now who knew anything about the martial arts of the East; suddenly here you are. How about you teach me some of those moves I saw you doing, and I’ll show you some of what I learned in Okinawa?”
Casca pursed his lips. The offer was unique. He’d never really had come across anyone for centuries who was versed in unarmed combat, and here was an opportunity to learn some new stuff. He’d been in Japan for a couple of years back in the late twelfth century but hadn’t exactly been given the time to learn their combat arts. Then he’d been up to his neck on a civil war and had been dragged around the country by Jinto Muramasa. “Sure, sounds a fair deal. So what do you know?”
Overton slipped off his jacket and shirt. As he did so, he explained how he had come to learn martial arts. “Father used to visit the local villages, as much to enjoy the local girls as to trade. I used to go with him as far as the elders’ meeting house, and while he was off – visiting – I saw this new form of combat. Apparently the Chinese traders introduced it and the Japanese adapted it for their use.”
Casca was interested. “So it was a Chinese art?”
“Very much like your style, but it was adapted like I said. The locals learned it in secret as officials hated the idea of accepting foreign ideas. I don’t suppose you know how that is.”
“Oh, believe me, Overton, I do.” Casca had visions of being cast into the sea by the Minamoto.
Overton held Casca’s look for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, the locals referred to it as kara-te.”
“Open Hand?”
Casca switched to Japanese, wishing to use the language once more. He hadn’t done so for seven centuries and even though it had been so long, he found the words coming to him easily enough. Odd, but there again, a product of the Curse. Where others lost the use of a language over time, Casca somehow retained it. “I guess much of what I know is the same as what you do.”
“Probably,” Overton continued in Japanese, pleased to use the language of his youth. “But there must be a few subtle differences.” He stepped in front of Casca and bowed low. “I was taught to use my mind to control the body. It’s what the Japanese on Okinawa call Kata.”
Casca nodded. His time on Japan had only been a shade under two years and he’d not been subjected to any unarmed combat, but he understood a little of the Japanese mind and society. “Discipline of the mind and through it the body.”
“Hai. And we never initiate an attack; we always counter. Block, then strike.”
Overton went on to describe how muscle groups were focused on, particularly the abdominal ones. Casca knew what he meant. Much of the power originated from the abdomen, and he recalled the lessons of Shiu Lao Tze. There clearly was a common source of the two styles.
“Let’s see how good you are,” Casca said. He’d always been able to defeat any opponent using the way of the Open Hand. Now Overton may well be a more interesting adversary. Casca slipped into the Horse Stance. Overton stood slightly sideways on, his hands forward, palms open. Casca cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that stance?”
“Zanshin Kami. There are quite a few stances but I prefer this one to start with.”
Casca was impressed in the way Overton put things in a matter-of-fact way. He wasn’t boasting, it was just a statement of fact. And he sounded confident. Casca was warned. He suddenly swept into a foot strike, hoping to hook his foot behind Overton’s leg and up-end him. Overton blocked the leg with his left arm and lightning fast struck with his right aiming for Casca’s sternum.