Casca 38: The Continental

by Tony Roberts

  He didn’t have a musket but had been given a pistol. He disliked the weapon; it was terribly inaccurate and useless over a distance of ten yards. Since a soldier wielding a musket could kill at fifty, Casca wished he had a musket but Greene insisted his officers wore the appropriate weapons of their rank. He didn’t like majors armed like privates.

  The shooting increased for a few moments, then died off. Men looked at each other and fingered their muskets nervously. The first line had been carried. The undergrowth hid much and it was difficult to see what was moving through it. Casca could peer along the road, cutting a line through the woods, and spotted the few figures blocking the road of the second line. The British would be there very soon. Even as he thought of that, new discharges reached his ears and smoke could be seen rising up into the air through the trees and scrub. Red coated soldiers could be half seen trading shots with the Virginian militiamen, and the shooting spread left and right as more units came into contact with one another, three hundred yards distant. The continental army soldiers waited quietly, resting on one knee or in the shade of the trees, blending in with the undergrowth. They would be in cover while the British would be in the open, and hopefully tired and disordered after their battles in the woods.

  The sound of fighting went on and on. The militiamen were holding the British for longer than had been expected. Casca nodded in approval. This would work in their favor. The battle was going to Greene’s plan so far.

  In the woods Sir Richard was waving his 67th forward into the confusing melee amongst the tangle of bushes, shrubs and trees. The visibility changed from moment to moment, and ambush was not unexpected. The neat lines of the redcoats had broken up into small knots and opposing forces traded shots from behind trees at a suicidal distance.

  “Corporal, stay with me,” Sir Richard snapped, not wishing to be left exposed. Now was the chance he had to prove himself in battle. Lord Cornwallis was somewhere behind, riding his horse. Maybe he would come to his commander’s notice and gain favor with him, and a promotion and transfer to Horse Guards Parade. Who knows what happened in times of war?

  A rattle of shots made his ears cringe and something spat past his head, burying itself in a nearby tree. Two men to his left fell to the ground, one screaming in agony. McGinnes waved his men to kneel and load up. A small group of militiamen to their right and ahead had delivered a volley. Sir Richard took cover behind a tree and cocked his pistol. “Corporal, remove those scoundrels at once!”

  “Very good, sah,” McGinnes acknowledged. “You heard that officer, boys. Spread out and pin the buggers down. First Platoon, move left and shoot on their flank.”

  Sir Richard peered cautiously out from behind the trees as the two sides exchanged shots. The puffs of discharged gunpowder floated up through the woods, adding to the gloom. The leaves were yet to bud, it being March, but the thick stands of wood and the brush made visibility poor. The smoke wasn’t helping.

  A bullet cracked past his head, causing him to duck back rather rapidly. Cursing, he gripped his sword hilt and pistol butt tighter. The sooner McGinnes and his men sorted these damned rebels out the better. Then he could get forward at the proper soldiers the enemy had, not these part-timers. They didn’t even fight properly, skulking behind trees and fences. They should fight like men, out in the open trading shots like properly trained soldiers. A hanging was too good for these people.

  Casca listened as the shots went on, scattering left and right. He tried to follow the battle’s progress but it was impossible; some reports would suddenly stop in one place only to start up in others. It sounded like a series of small engagements scattered all over the woods. It wouldn’t suit the regulars of Cornwallis’ force, that was certain.

  The battalion of two lines fidgeted. They didn’t like this waiting; their compatriots were fighting hard in the trees, killing and being killed. They wanted to be there. “Steady, boys,” Casca said, walking in front of them. “Your time will come soon enough. You’ll get even with them. Fight like the devil; no mercy.”

  A few militiamen were beginning to trickle into the clearing. Eyes followed them and muzzles came up. Lips were licked and deep breaths taken by the Marylanders. To the left the other regiment of Marylanders readied themselves. The road passed close to their left flank, while over off to the left in the fields the American cavalry were massing, milling about and preparing to take on whoever came their way.

  So far the only men making their way across the fields were disorganized militiamen, some of them wounded. It told of the desperate fight in the woods, and with every minute more were appearing. It wouldn’t be long. The shots were dying down until only a few scattered and isolated exchanges came to Casca’s ears.

  In front the small unit of Continental artillery were hauling their guns across the clearing, hoping to get to the other side to assist their comrades in the coming fight, but just then the first redcoats appeared. “Stay still!” Casca snapped, crouching down. From where they were the British couldn’t see them, and they were heading down the road towards the guns and the other Maryland regiment standing on the rise behind them.

  Then more movement attracted their attention. From the right more men appeared, coming at them in a long skirmish line. Jaegers and light infantrymen. They had chased more militiamen out of the wood and now were drawing up ready to take on the retreating men in open terrain, something more to their liking. “Load,” Casca ordered, his eyes roving left and right, watching both set of enemy soldiers advancing. The ones ahead and slightly to the left were going to by-pass them, but those coming from the right were going to cross right in front of them. Time for a volley.

  The British came on, rapidly marching forward, faces fixed in determination. After the hold-up in the woods they were going to take it out on someone. The militiamen passed to the rear, some of them running, the fight knocked out of them, and up the slope came the Jaegers and light infantry.

  “Present!” Casca raised his saber, and two rows of men suddenly stood up, surprising the advancing redcoats. The range was forty yards, virtually point blank.

  “Fire!”

  A blast of shots shredded the British, knocking scores over and sending others staggering back down the slope. It had been like wheat before the scythe. “Reload!”

  Casca waved aside the cloud of white gunpowder discharge, holding his breath against the foul smell. The British line had staggered back and were now backing away down the hill, leaving a mass of dead, dying and wounded in their wake like a retreating tide.

  Off to the left the American guns had become the target for the other redcoat force who advanced rapidly, overwhelming the gunners, sending the survivors running full pelt along the road. The regiment to Casca’s left raised their muskets and sent a volley into the British ranks, cutting down dozens, but these men turned and advanced at the Marylanders. Guards! Casca’s gut tightened. This was one of the best units in the enemy army.

  Even as he watched the Guards stopped, formed two neat ranks and raised their weapons. The scarred eternal mercenary closed his eyes. He knew what was coming. There was an ear-splitting roar and screams came to him. He opened his eyes and saw blue coated bodies falling. The Marylanders had had enough. They staggered back and broke.

  “Damn,” Casca said. The American left had collapsed. Now the Guards were in a position to roll up the entire Continental army. He glanced behind at the men. They were looking for orders, eyes wide and tense. “Turn left,” Casca said calmly. He didn’t feel calm. What was needed now was a clear head and discipline. Would his men stand?

  “Two ranks, prepare to deliver volley fire.”

  The men turned, wheeling around their center. As they did so one of the colonel’s adjutants came running up. “Compliments of Colonel Gunby, Major. You are to engage the enemy.”

  “Just about to do so, sir. Please pass my compliments back to the Colonel.”

  The British were advancing past the reforming Marylanders, presenting their flank
. It was too good a target to miss. The Continental soldiers were well positioned, half hidden in the thickets and unnoticed by the Guards who were intent on securing the flank and chasing off the other regiment.

  “Present!” Casca watched as the soldiers marched in a rigid line past his shoulder. “Fire!”

  A series of sharp reports rolled out, smoke billowed up and men fell. Stunned, the Guards stopped, taken by surprise at the volley coming from the undergrowth. Casca pointed his saber at the Guards. “First Maryland Regiment, advance!”

  Now would be the real test. Casca marched in line with the front rank, stepping out of the undergrowth into the clearing towards the redcoats. The Guards, hardened professionals they were, were already turning to meet the new threat, despite their serious losses. Casca could see over the heads of the British, the American cavalry beginning to canter across the fields towards the other flank of the Guards. Casca grinned as he came on towards the enemy; now they would be caught between two attacks. With luck they would be annihilated.

  He checked the men were advancing in a neat line, and they were. Good. They stepped over the first of the fallen and came at the enemy, bayonets held before them. The Guards came at them, cheering, hoping to unnerve the Continental soldiers, but this time it didn’t work.

  Casca gripped his saber tightly and stood wide to receive the charge of a man coming at him, face fixed in a snarl, point of the bayonet bearing towards his chest. Casca half-turned, slashed down hard. The musket was knocked aside. Casca planted his right foot down hard. Up came the blade in the return sweep. The blade cut through the Guard’s throat, spraying blood out in a fountain. The man clutched the wound, dropped his gun and sank to the ground.

  Casca didn’t check him. He was dead, or would be in seconds. Another Guard came into his view, from behind a struggling pair of men. He saw Casca and lunged, hoping to add an officer to his history of kills. The former Roman legionary blocked the stab. He slapped the musket aside and stepped forward. Smoothly, without thinking, Casca slid the blade into the soldier’s gut and twisted viciously.

  The Guard screamed and forgot about the battle. He grabbed his ruined stomach and was allowed to fall to the churned up earth by Casca who jerked the blade free. Two. An officer stepped across Casca’s line of vision. He was a captain. Sabers met high. Casca pushed hard. The captain stepped back, then cut across the eternal mercenary’s line of advance, hoping to sever his arm from his shoulder. Casca turned to his left, met the blade in front of his chest. He actually saw sparks fly as the blades clashed.

  Using his shoulder, he barged the British captain back, gaining space. All around there were grunting, spitting, swearing, shouting men. Sounds of steel on steel, leather squeaking and bodies being cut or crushed filled the air. The sounds of horses came through to his ears and the unmistakable smell of animals added to the odor of the fight. He’d smelled horses in battle for centuries and didn’t need to see them to know they were around him.

  Casca slashed again. The British captain swung his sword desperately to stop his head being cut in two. This scar-faced American wasn’t fighting by any set of rules he’d seen or studied! Another heavy blow from out wide sent the captain staggering back, his cap falling off his head.

  A knot of struggling men fell between the two combatants and Casca had to step back, frustrated. The sound of thundering hoofs and the shrill sound of neighing horses came close to him and he turned. The American cavalry had cut through the melee and were turning to go through the British lines again. The crush of men spread. Desperation filled the faces of the Guards. They were caught in between two determined units of the enemy and they couldn’t disengage.

  Sir Richard Eley had come out of the woods with his men, having driven off the militiamen in the woods, and the situation ahead of him filled him with horror. The Guards were being crushed in front of his eyes, and if they went, then the Continental forces would turn on his regiment. He barked harshly at McGinnes, trying to get him to organize the tired and ragged troops into two lines. Alongside other British units had emerged onto the fields, including Cornwallis and his artillery.

  Sir Richard saw the flashing of sabers and his eyes followed the blade down the arm to the man wielding it. Even as he watched he saw the enemy officer cut down a soldier, the blow almost severing his arm. It had been a vicious, savage blow by a powerful man, and with a growing sense of disbelief he recognized the man. “Good grief – Lonnergan!”

  He saw his enemy at the head of blue-coated Continentals, massacring the elite Guards unit in front of him. Once the Guards were finished with, then Lonnergan would come straight for him and his foot soldiers. If they could defeat the Guards, then the 67th Foot would in turn be destroyed, and his career with it. The colors! Lonnergan must not get his hands on them.

  He turned to face his commanding officer. Lord Cornwallis was on a dragoon’s horse, having had his own beast shot out from under him back in the woods. “My Lord, you must save the Guards!”

  Cornwallis stared at the major of the 67th. “Sir Richard! Your men must help them! Send them in to assist before it’s too late.”

  Sir Richard took one look at the panorama unfolding ahead of him. “My Lord, there is no time! By the time we get there it will be all over. You must use the artillery to save your elite regiment!”

  Cornwallis looked aghast. “By God, are you serious, sir?”

  “Your Guards are being destroyed, my Lord. The colors will be lost! Act now!”

  Cornwallis looked at the visibly wavering Guards, then swung back to his artillery officer. “Load with grape!” he shouted, knowing he had but moments to make a decision.

  The cannons were set and the deadly load rammed into the muzzles. Sir Richard saw his nemesis cut down another and another. God, he would chop his way through to him! Damn the Guards, Lonnergan must die! “My Lord – you must act now!”

  “I know, Major. Stand fast and wait for my orders!” Cornwallis’ face reflected the desperate situation he was watching. “Gunners, shoot into the melee!”

  The gunnery officer looked at Cornwallis in shock. “Sir – there are our men there!”

  “I know – but if we do nothing the Guards are finished! Shoot, damn you, man!”

  The gunnery officer wanted to argue, but then saluted and swung round.

  Casca was cutting down soldier after soldier. The battle rage was upon him. The number of men around him meant nothing; to kill them was all that mattered. His arm was soaked in blood; his face was splattered and his coat had blood, gore and brains dripping down it. Behind him lay a path of death, formed by the bodies of the slain and the dying. Another man crossed his path and put up his musket to block the downward blow Casca made.

  All around him the struggling men fought, totally mixed up. The Guards were losing their cohesion and Casca felt that another minute or so would see them disintegrate.

  Then, suddenly there came a loud bang.

  The air was filled with ball bearings and scraps of metal flying through the ranks of men. Screams came from the wounded, while others just fell to the ground, their bodies ripped and shredded. Casca took a blow on the shoulder and was spun round. He struck the ground, landing on the still warm corpse of a redcoat, and a blue-coated figure toppled across his legs, blood pumping from a ragged tear in his throat. Things went dark for a moment, then his eyes cleared.

  The figure of Connors came across Casca’s vision, hatless, blood streaked across his face. “Sir! Sir! Are you alright?”

  Casca gritted his teeth. The pain was incredible. It felt like someone had torn his arm off. He looked down. The left sleeve was red and wet, and the cloth was torn where the projectile had ripped through it and torn his flesh. “What the heck happened?”

  “The British fired into the melee. It’s cut dozens of us down. The regiment is falling back. Come on, sir, we’ve got to go!”

  Casca was helped up, groggy. He must have blacked out. The Guards, or what was left of them, were fifty yards di
stant and still retreating. The two cannons that had caused the carnage were reloaded but the Continental ranks had scattered and the men were stumbling back towards the thickets and safety, all fight knocked out of them. As Casca got to his feet he glanced at the British lines.

  To see Sir Richard Eley glaring at him.

  Casca stiffened and stood for a moment, returning the look of hatred. Connors tried to pull him back but Casca wasn’t moving for the moment. Two pairs of eyes locked on each other over the field of death.

  “Damn you, Sir Richard,” Casca snarled through his agony. “I’ll kill you!”

  Sir Richard picked up the words and waved to McGinnes. “Prepare for volley fire. Those two rebel officers!”

  Connors tugged urgently at Casca’s good arm. “Sir! We’ve got to go!”

  Cursing Casca pointed at his enemy, blood dripping from the wound onto the earth. Then he turned and followed Connors back to the thicket.

  “Out of range, sah,” McGinnes commented.

  “Damn his eyes! The man has the luck of the devil!” Sir Richard threw his saber down in frustration.

  Casca looked in dismay at the bodies lying across their route. Many were moving feebly, crying for help, and others were crawling away from the scene of devastation. Connors knelt to help another of the badly wounded up. Casca clutched his injury and looked back at the field. Cornwallis was reorganizing his forces, and more were coming out of the woods to the left. The resolute British weren’t going to give up. Time to be out of there.