by Tony Roberts
The faint sounds of something being moved up ahead came to him and he winced. He glanced at Connors. “Hope the British sentries are asleep.”
Connors grinned sickly. He wanted to urinate. He was younger than many of the soldiers alongside and behind them, but he was damned if he was going to show he was frightened.
The soldiers, all waiting silently, most of them gripped a bundle of branches bound together. Fascines. They would be used to fill the ditch to enable them to climb over it and then up the sides of the redoubt, using the ladders those without fascines had. The air was heavy with expectation. Casca was convinced that their intent would be felt by the British in their redoubt. He looked up at the jagged edge. Somewhere up there Sir Richard was, and he was going to have him. He’d told the men earlier that day. Nobody was to harm a hair of the British officer; he was his and nobody else’s.
Up in the redoubt a sentry was wandering along the hard packed earthen floor, bored and cold. The route around the perimeter by the gun ports took him four minutes, dodging the men on duty stealing a nap or avoiding personal possessions that had been left lying about. There were three others doing the same thing, so that no place was without a sentry for more than a minute.
A sound came to the sentry and he cocked his head, slowing down, then stopping. What was that? Something out there? He leaned out and stared into the darkness. He could see little except the camp fires of the American and French soldiers. Immediately below the parapet it was shrouded completely in blackness. He cocked his head and listened intently. He was sure he had heard something.
Connors tugged on Casca’s sleeve. “Sir,” he whispered frantically, “that sentry’s heard them! He’s going to sound the alarm.”
Casca balled his fists and remained still. Although they were two hundred yards from the ditch, he didn’t want to make any undue sound. The dark shape of the sentry, his head a vaguely imagined feature amongst the uneven contours of the redoubt, went very still.
Casca put his mouth close to Connor’s ear. “Prepare the men – as quietly as you can. I have the feeling we’re going to have to rush across the open in a moment.” He tensed his legs underneath him, ready to spring forward. He heard the faint sounds of men readying themselves behind him as Connors alerted them, and he put his knees underneath him. The cold of the bare earth seeped through the cotton into his flesh. He sucked in his breath. He’d be warm enough in a minute or two.
A cry went up from the parapet. The sentry had seen something below.
“That’s it,” Casca said, “up! Come on!” He scrambled to his feet and ran hard for the bulk of the wall ahead of him. Pioneers were getting up and moving out of the way, having done some of their job. They waved the saber-carrying officer which route to take, away from the obstructions they hadn’t been able to clear. “Go tell the gunners to hold their fire!” Casca snapped to a captain as he rushed past him.
Shouting was coming from over the parapet and a torch came fluttering over the top to fall down the steep side into the ditch. Someone was lighting up the place. Clever bastard. But everything was double-edged and it now helped Casca see where the ditch began. Evil sharpened stakes protruded up from the ditch and from the lower part of the wall.
“Fascines!” Casca yelled, skidding to a halt at the ditch’s edge. Now only his men were with him, the pioneers having fled.
The first shot from above shattered the night. One of the men cried out and span round. His fascine tumbled to the ground, knocking over a man running close behind. “Second squad – covering fire!” Casca barked, kicking the bundle that had been dropped into the pit.
More bundles came flying through the air to bounce or fall into the ditch.
A second shot spat past Casca’s head. Then there came a deep throated boom! and pieces of grapeshot rattled past and struck four men. They were pitched backwards, all sporting head wounds. Lucky the gun hadn’t been able to depress any further or it would have sprayed right into the center of the mass of men milling at the foot of the wall.
Three ladders came forward through the night to smack into the parapet wood, and men immediately grabbed them and began scaling the rungs. Shots cracked out from the second squad, having passed their fascines onto their comrades, and splinters of wood came fluttering down onto Casca’s cap. The Eternal Mercenary took hold of the nearest ladder and pushed into a place to climb ahead of a private who wisely allowed him to do so without complaint.
Shots were now spitting past in both directions. A man appeared at the top of the embrasure the ladder Casca was on and sent his bayonet straight through the throat of the first American who got to the top. The man couldn’t scream as he fell, narrowly missing those still on the ladder. His throat was ruined. He vanished into the ditch.
A shot from one of the covering men took the redcoat through the forehead and the musket span lazily into the air and clattered noisily down to the foot of the wall. The British soldier fell backwards out of sight.
Casca pushed the man ahead of him impatiently. “Go on! Up!” He had his saber in one hand and almost had his head up the man’s ass in front of him. No time to dally; get up and over.
Another shot. The man ahead of Casca was sent violently backwards, and Casca helped him over his shoulder. No point in trying to stop him falling; the man had been hit and was beyond his help. Best to shove him out of the way rather than get entangled and leave himself a sitting duck.
Casca was now the front man and sprang up fast. No point in allowing the soldier up above to reload and pick him off at leisure. The defender saw him approach and thrust his bayonet at the climbing man. Casca desperately smashed the point aside with his saber, grabbed the ladder hard with his free hand and jammed his right boot up two more rungs. He then thrust himself upwards.
Casca’s head rose up to the level of the embrasure. The soldier swung a blow at him. Another block. Now Casca could spring forward into the redoubt. The soldier tried to block him. Nobody could shoot from below as they might hit their own man. Casca knew that but still felt utterly exposed as he teetered on the lip of the ladder and gun embrasure.
Behind the soldier a cannon was being loaded frantically. The bastards were loading grapeshot. It would shred him and the ladder. The Eternal Mercenary had no option but to attack. He swept his saber round in an arc, causing the soldier to back off hastily. Taking advantage of the space created, Casca jumped into the redoubt, onto the corpse of the redcoat that had been shot through the head.
What was going on with the other two ladders Casca didn’t know. He was purely concerned with what was ahead of him. A soldier and a gun with crew. Aware there was someone climbing up behind him, Casca pressed forward. Attack! A down slash at the soldier’s head was met by the musket held up high, so Casca used his boot into the crotch, sending the soldier groaning into a heap.
He saw the gunner reach for the smoldering fuse that would ignite the charge and cause mayhem, so he launched himself forward, clearing the muzzle and sliding along the barrel, saber upraised. It came down slicing across the surprised gunner’s throat. The man gargled and clutched his throat, sinking to the ground, the lit taper falling to the earth alongside him.
The two other crewmen closed in, one to either side. A painful blow to the shoulder hit Casca and he rolled to escape the follow-up. Staggering to his feet he gained seconds for himself with a wild side swipe. There was a quick assessment of the immediate environment. The torches that lit the interior of the redoubt allowed enough light to show there were redcoats coming from all directions to repel the break-in, especially from directly ahead.
Other than that Casca didn’t see anything of immediate interest.
A shot smashed into the earthworks to his right. Casca whirled. The two gunners weren’t armed with firearms, so someone else had fired. He couldn’t see who or from where. The nearest gunner, holding an iron wheel bar, swung it two-handed. Casca ducked hastily and the blow intended to smash his skull in passed by inches over his head. Casca
thrust forward, the steel of his saber sinking into the gunner’s guts. The man screamed horribly and as Casca wrenched the blade free, the man sank to his knees, clutching a slippery mess that threatened to ooze past his fingers.
The other was the rammer, and wielded his ram. But the man behind Casca had a free shot and the bullet took the loader in the chest. The man flung his arms up and toppled backwards, falling to the earth and lay there, kicking wildly in pain.
Two redcoats stopped advancing and raised their weapons. Casca cursed and stepped to one side. Three shots rang out. Two British and one American. Two men fell; the right hand redcoat and one of Casca’s men coming round the now abandoned cannon. The third shot missed.
Casca ran at the remaining redcoat who swung his musket butt in desperation. Casca deflected it up and sank his left fist into the man’s guts. The soldier doubled up. He’d never been hit that hard before. Retching loudly, he fell onto his side and tried not to throw up. Casca stamped on his head to make sure he didn’t get up again in a hurry.
Sir Richard Eley heard the shots and came to the doorway of his quarters. He saw Corporal McGinnes yelling orders at a squad of running redcoats, urging them to throw back the attacking Americans. “Corporal, what’s going on?”
McGinnes whirled and snapped a stiff salute. “Sah. Rebels swarming over the parapet to the west. Dozens of ‘em.”
Sir Richard buckled on his sword and stepped out onto the approach to the fortification. “I shall lead the counter attack. Go fetch reinforcements; hurry, man!”
McGinnes saluted again and vanished down the narrow pathway towards the main trench works. The redoubt was stuck out in front of them by a fair distance. There was just one route in and out from the British side.
Sir Richard gripped his sword and strode into the redoubt. Men were running to and fro, shouting and yelling. The baronet caught sight of dark coated Continentals climbing over the parapet in three places. He thrust his sword out to stop one running soldier passing him. “You, man! Shoot at the enemy. Right here!” He waved a second soldier over to him. “Here! Shoot to kill.”
The two soldiers and Sir Richard formed a steady knot of men to which the other redcoats gravitated. In moments Sir Richard had gathered twenty men. He organized them into two lines to volley fire, while other British soldiers still grappled with those Continentals who had managed to struggle past the now abandoned cannons.
Casca spotted the forming lines. Damn it! It looked like that bastard Major Eley was behind them. He swung round. The cannon that had been loaded with grapeshot was still there. He called to a knot of Americans to help him swing the gun round. Firing went on around them as the four men struggled with the heavy gun, lifting the carriage and pulling it away from the narrow embrasure and then round to face the opposite direction.
And then the American artillery opened up.
A shot screamed overhead to land on the far side, throwing up a gout of earth and shattered wood. Another shot plowed into the redoubt wall just to the left of Casca’s men, smashing one ladder and sending three men flying through the air with screams, their arms and legs wind-milling.
“You stupid bastards!” Casca screamed over his shoulder. “Stop firing!”
There was no way the gunners could hear him. Clearly the pioneers hadn’t been able to get the message through, or the gunnery commander was a stickler who was going to fire precisely when he’d been ordered to no matter what unless an order came to him formally cancelling it. Whatever the reason, the shots now rained down on the redoubt, sending men on both sides diving for cover.
Earth erupted as solid shot crashed into defenses, and then the mortars began finding the range. One sent a fountain of mud, blood and mangled limbs skywards. Someone screamed horribly and then abruptly ceased as a shot rang out. A cannon blew up as a mortar round landed on it, blowing the wheels off in two directions and sending the barrel spinning round like a compass gone mad.
Two men, unidentifiable as to what army they belonged to, flew up in different directions, their clothing shredded. Something landed next to Casca as he groveled in the dirt. He opened his eyes. An arm, severed at the elbow, denuded of any clothing. The bone showed through the strips of ripped flesh and blood oozed onto the thirsty earth.
He reached out, took hold of it and threw it over his shoulder. It was curiously light and soft. It gave him a slightly queasy feeling.
More crashes and bangs, and then he saw Sir Richard screaming at his men to get up and shoot. Casca cursed and looked round for the lit taper to fire the cannon. It had gone, blown away. The cannon next to him was useless.
As ten British soldiers got to their feet, muskets leveled, a mortar shot came fizzing out of the sky and landed plumb on one of the ammunition stocks to the side of the fortification. There came a blinding flash, a huge eruption and Casca, on one knee, was sent hurtling back against the wall of the redoubt with stunning force.
He sat against the side for a few seconds, shaking his ringing head, and gradually realized the artillery had stopped. Maybe the word had gotten through belatedly, or maybe the explosion had made them think the job had been done. Whatever, the noise had stopped, except for the crackling of flames, the soft sobs of wounded men, and scraping of survivors moving spasmodically.
Casca found he was still gripping his saber. He looked to his right. A man lying there, his face masked in blood, one eye visible staring into infinity. Connors. Must have caught the blast full on. Poor bastard knew nothing of it. Maybe just as well.
He got to his feet and faced where the British line had been forming. It was now a line of corpses or men out cold, except, inevitably, for Sir Richard. He was blackened, soiled and cut, but still alive and looking at Casca with an expression that bode no good.
Taking in a deep breath, Casca stepped forward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The crackling of the flames from the burning wood and the deep breathing of the two men were all that could be heard at that moment. Smoke drifted up into the sky, a sky backlit with the red of flames that were being blown this way and that, in whichever direction the winds wished.
Casca glanced once at the shattered redoubt to make sure nobody else was capable of interfering in his vengeance. If anyone so tried, they would die. Most of the redcoats lay still, their bodies smashed and broken by the force of the explosion, and two more lay ashen-faced and wracked with pain at the rear, more concerned with their wounds than to take much notice of the lone American officer with his saber facing the British Major similarly armed.
“So, Sir Richard,” Casca said softly, his voice reaching out clearly across the redoubt, “it’s come down to the two of us to sort out everything once and for all.”
“For once I agree with you, Lonnergan. For the life of me I cannot understand how you are still alive, but now I shall personally kill you myself. If you want a job done properly, I suppose one has to do it oneself.”
“You can try,” Casca said with steel in his voice, “but I doubt you’ll succeed. Better men than you have tried but they’ve all failed. Do your best – but don’t be surprised if I cut your damned evil head right off.”
“Outdo me at fencing?” Sir Richard scoffed. “I’ve trained for years – been taught by one of the best blade artists there was.”
Casca smiled ironically. Whereas the British officer may well have been taught by a trainer in some safe hall where rules ensured nobody died, Casca’s training had been in battle, where life was taken in wagon loads. Moreover, Casca had the advantage of having been taught at the gladiatorial school in Rome and then having to have fought at the Circus Maximus in front of baying Roman crowds. Who was the better trained?
“I won’t hold back, peasant,” Sir Richard promised.
“Neither will I,” the Eternal Mercenary replied and slashed at Sir Richard’s face.
The British officer parried, wincing at the force of the blow, but riposted automatically, as he had been taught. Sir Richard planted his feet
widely, one behind the other, one hand behind his back, and moved to the classic en garde position, his sword gripped low, the blade pointing up towards Casca’s chest.
“Very pretty,” Casca said in a mocking tone, and then slashed sideways, hoping to knock the sword aside and to finish off this irritating man once and for all. The blow was parried and the British officer stepped forward, lunging for Casca’s throat. The Eternal Mercenary dodged backwards, grimacing. Another thrust at Casca’s chest. This time it was met and the sharp retort of steel meeting steel rang out across the broken arena. Feint to the left, attack to the right. Casca had used that move many times to good effect in his life.
Sir Richard completed a crosse guard, contemptuously knocking the blow aside and lunged hard. Casca threw himself back, the tip of the blade just missing his face. “You move well,” Sir Richard said in a conversational manner, as if he were at the Blackfriars fencing school, commenting on an exhibition display.
“I’m not doing this for your benefit,” Casca said, wondering how he was going to break through the Britisher’s defense.
The Baronet smiled thinly and pressed forward, his blade seeking Casca’s face. A name popped into Casca’s mind, completely unbidden. Hrolvath. He had fenced with the long-dead Germanic mercenary in Constantinople centuries ago. Hrolvath had used a style like this.
Angrily, almost, Casca smashed the blade aside, but it was back in seconds, seeking out his soft flesh. A sudden sting down his cheek. Sir Richard had scored a hit with a flick of his wrist. But there was no gloating; he pressed on. Casca met the next blow high, then slammed the guard into Sir Richard’s face. He had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt in pain and stagger back. Blood began to flow from the knight’s nose. Sir Richard held his wounded face and examined the blood splattering onto his palm. “That wasn’t sporting,” he said thickly.