by Tony Roberts
Getts himself was stood near the table, dressed in the latest fashionable clothing. He had a buff plain coat that had a narrow collar, wide cuffs and large pocket flaps. Underneath the coat he wore a richly embroidered waistcoat and Casca could see a watch hanging from a golden chain affixed to it. His breeches were of the same color and from just below the knee white stockings went down to black shiny shoes with a large square silver buckle. On his head he wore the inevitable white short wig with curls. Casca could never see the point of this but fashions were fashions.
The servant who had escorted Casca bowed and backed out, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Getts smiled, a lined, swarthy face that crinkled into lines around the eyes. It would seem Getts smiled frequently. “Good evening, Mr. Long – or should I say Lonnergan? Are you settling in comfortably?”
“Fine thanks, Mr. Getts. Your house is pretty impressive.” Casca thought his simple clothing shabby in comparison.
“Yes, isn’t it? Rewards of serving in high positions. You might be wondering why I support people such as Mr. Lash and his cronies if I’m so well off.”
“Never crossed my mind, Mr. Getts,” Casca smirked.
Getts smiled again, appreciating the sarcasm. “The truth is I believe that the colonies have grown to a point they should decide their own fate, rather than follow the lead of London, thousands of miles away. I’ve been a merchant, but now am a politician, and I see the way ahead for the colonies is self-determination. Surely you can see that laws and policies decided here is far better than those determined by people who have never set foot on this soil?”
Casca shrugged. “Perhaps. Depends on what those who want independence really want, and what they see as the way to rule the colonies. It’s no good fighting to kick out one form of government only to replace it with something exactly the same. That way all those who give their lives will have done it for nothing.”
Getts leaned with one hand on the table. “I know a little of you. You’re a professional soldier, a man who’ll fight for anyone who’ll pay him enough.”
Casca shook his head. “Not entirely true, Mr. Getts. Money isn’t my sole motivation. I also at least like to think that the side I’m fighting for is the right side.” He quickly flicked through the album of history in his mind, seeing those he’d fought for over the past seventeen centuries. Some had been good, others bad. Some of those he’d fought for he’d regretted. He didn’t want to do that anymore if he could help it.
Getts nodded. “So would you side for liberty, freedom and self-determination over an autocratic form of government?”
Casca shrugged. Fine words from a politician. “One man’s freedom is another’s prison. It’s all down to a point of view. But rest assured, Mr. Getts, I’m fighting for the same side as you. It’s as much a personal reason as anything. I haven’t anything personally against the British government or King George, but I can see that the people here ought to have more say in how things are run, and if it needs a war to make them see that, then so be it.”
Getts beamed. “Splendid. This – ah – personal reason. I believe it’s what happened to you today? A trumped up scurrilous charge by Sir Richard Eley and Ebenezer Maplin, so I am told.”
Casca scowled. “First I knew about it was when I was arrested. Then a rush job through the court and there I was ready to be handed over to Sir Richard’s apes.”
“Indeed. I shall be talking to the Massachusetts Committee the next time we sit about this. I shall press for the removal of Thackeray.”
Casca shook his head. “I don’t think the Judge was to blame; it’s Maplin and that strutting peacock Sir Richard.”
“So why have they taken a dislike to you, Mr. Lonnergan?”
“Maplin’s daughter, Mr. Getts. I would appear to be a love rival to Sir Richard.”
Getts chuckled. “Ah of course. Well, we don’t look favorably on dueling, but perhaps you could settle the matter that way? Discreetly of course, and it would also remove one of the senior officers of the British garrison in Boston.”
Casca smiled, then shook his head. “I’d duel with a blade, but not pistols.”
Getts waved a hand in irritation. “Then ask to use the rapier. Sir Richard’s a gentleman, and no doubt is proficient with the weapon. Are you?”
Casca smiled. He’d practically been born with one in his hand. “A little. I may be able to hold my own.”
“Then that’s something for you to consider. However, in the meantime I want you to train my men in the use of the musket and how to fight. I want my company to be an elite force. There’s coming a time when we colonists will have to fight for our self-determination, mark my words, sir.”
Casca didn’t doubt it. He was dismissed and returned downstairs to the basement and finished his half eaten supper. He was pleased that Getts had seen fit to appoint him to the training of the men, and Lash would have to swallow that. It also meant a sergeant’s rank, something Casca was happy with. He’d got to that rank in the Prussian armies recently, and prior to that when fighting under the Duke of Marlborough at the start of the century – or John Churchill as he’d been before that brilliant victory at Blenheim – he’d also been sergeant. It seemed a natural rank for him.
With him were two fellow stable hands; the one called Will who had the birthmark on his chin, and a fellow called Jim Green, a tall fair haired man of about twenty years with a ready smile and a friendly demeanor. Oddly he and the dour Will had formed a strong friendship and were almost inseparable. Casca had formed a loose companionship with them due to him having to work alongside the two. They were both native born to the colonies and were supporters of the move to reduce political power from London and increase it locally.
Neither seemed to have had much martial training. Sure, they knew how to fire a musket, and Casca had found that the majority of folks in the colonies fell into that category. What they lacked was the military discipline they would need if they ever locked horns with the professional armies Britain could raise. Casca was reminded of an old saying from China; to lead untrained men into battle is to throw their lives away. Confucius, most probably. Casca couldn’t recall exactly. It might have been his long dead friend Shiu Lao Tze who first told him that.
“A penny?” Jim said suddenly.
Casca stopped playing with the small pewter spoon he was holding and cocked an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
“A penny for your thoughts, Case. You looked a thousand miles away.”
“Oh,” Casca laughed briefly. “My mind was on other things. How to train you lot into an effective fighting force.”
“We’ll be fine and dandy,” Jim said confidently. “My pa tells me the garrison in Boston mostly drinks and fights among itself.”
Casca laughed briefly, then became serious. “Jim, my lad, when you come up against those drunkard brawlers you’ll know a fight. Don’t be fooled by them; when it comes to war Britain finds the strength from somewhere to put out good fighting men. It ain’t going to be easy if it comes to a fight.”
“We outnumber them,” Jim persisted. “We’ll kick their butts out of Massachusetts and then after that all of the Americas. You mark my words.”
Casca toyed with the spoon. “We’ll see. I’ll want to see how good you really are with your shoulder arm. Mr. Getts has put me in charge of training you all.”
“Well that’s news!” Jim said and turned to the quiet Will. “You hear that, Will? Case here is going to train us how to shoot.”
“And stand and fight against the strongest army in the world.” Casca held Jim’s stare until the younger man turned away, unsettled by the intensity in Casca’s eyes. There was something in those light blue eyes that told him to be careful. There was a strength and depth in them he didn’t feel comfortable with.
Casca stood up and went over to the white sink against the far wall and washed the spoon. “See you boys in the morning. More mucking out of stables, I suppose?”
“Yep,” Jim grinned. “See ya tomorro
w, Case.”
Casca fumbled his way along the poorly lit passageway that ran under the house and found his room, a small single room with a single iron framed bed, a washbasin, a cupboard and a small chest for any spare clothes, not that he had any. He hadn’t much. He’d need to buy more clothes. The ones he was in would wear out fairly quickly with the manual work he was going to have to put in.
There was a single oil lamp on a shelf and he shook it. Empty. Cursing, Casca shut the door and blindly groped for the bed, finding it with his shin. Gratefully he removed his boots and slipped his bracers off his shoulders and sank onto the bed.
However, what sleep he was planning was interrupted a few minutes later by shouting and the tramp of boots. Military boots.
The British army had come visiting.
CHAPTER FOUR
Casca fumbled in the dark for his boots. There were shouts coming through the small skylight high in the wall, but with the darkness he couldn’t see anything. The sound of running feet came to him from the other side of the door and suddenly it crashed open, revealing a breathless James Lash holding an oil lamp. “Hurry! They’ll be down here in minutes!”
Casca needed no second bidding. Grabbing his thin coat he followed the urgently gesturing Lash back along the passageway and right down a smaller cross corridor. Dark doors dotted this passageway, leading to God knows what, but they ignored these and made their way to the bottom of a very narrow white painted stairway with a handrail and banisters. Lash made his way up making as little noise as possible, and Casca followed, peering up ahead of Lash, wondering why the soldiers had come.
Lash slowed, put his fingers to his lips and leaned against a wide door with four panels and a round knobbed handle. He listened for a few moments, then gingerly opened the door. Beyond was a carpeted passageway and Casca realized they were passing from the servants’ part of the house into the owners’. They came out onto a landing and Lash blew out the lamp.
Below, illuminated by the wall-mounted lamps of the hallway, four figures stood on the black and white parquet floor. Casca recognized the head of Getts. By his side was the butler and facing them two soldiers. One was a smooth skinned junior officer, someone Casca had never seen before. But he recognized the other without any trouble. Sergeant Purseman struck a discordant note with his disheveled appearance and ruined face, still swathed in sticking plaster. He was remaining silent, as was the butler, but Getts was berating the officer, a lieutenant by the name of Harries.
Harries was apologetic, holding his three-cornered black military tricorn under his armpit. His powdered wig was correct and very smart, and his black boots reflected the light of the lamps. “I’m sorry, Mr. Getts, but I’ve been ordered to check all residences outside Lincoln for the fugitive Cass Long. He’s a dangerous man, and was responsible for poor Sergeant Purseman’s injuries here.”
Getts briefly glanced at Purseman, then dismissed him as irrelevant. “And what is this fugitive Long allegedly guilty of, Lieutenant?”
“Theft, gun hoarding, resisting arrest, escaping from arrest, assault. He’s also accused of treason, Mr. Getts.”
Getts grunted. “He sounds a very dangerous man, this Long. How was he allowed to escape?”
“By using violence. He incapacitated two of my men whilst escaping. I must impress upon your good self to be aware of this man. He’s at large in this neighborhood and may be heading this way. I also believe he may be receiving help from seditious elements in the community.”
Getts waved a hand around the hallway. “As you can see, Lieutenant, he’s not here. If he does come this way, rest assured I’ll make sure he does not escape! What does he look like?”
Harries passed Getts a creased piece of paper. “We had a sketch made of him quickly this afternoon. He has a noticeable scar down his face, as you can see, and he’s very muscular. Light blue eyes. You must be very careful around him. Orders have been sent out for my men to shoot on sight.”
Getts looked up sharply. “Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. He could well be armed and poses a danger to the community.”
Getts passed the paper back to Harries. “I shall inform all my staff to be aware of this man. Thank you, that will be all.”
“I must insist on a search of the premises, Mr. Getts,” Harries said regretfully.
“This is outrageous!” Getts snapped. “As a member of colonial committee I shall bring this matter up at the next meeting, mark my words!”
Harries bowed slightly. “You may like to take the matter up directly with Sir Richard Eley if you wish; these are his orders.”
“Hah! Him!” Getts poured scorn on the name. “He’s been nothing but trouble since he’s arrived. I shall indeed speak to this Sir Richard and give him a piece of my mind!”
Harries nodded to Purseman. “Search the stables and rear of the building. Leave nothing unturned.”
“Sah,” Purseman grinned wolflishly. He vanished.
Lash nudged Casca and led the Eternal Mercenary silently across the landing at a crouch to the far end. Another corridor ran here along the other side of the house and at the far end was another staircase, a narrow one running down into darkness. Lash relit the lamp and led Casca down to the ground floor. There was a single door which Lash unlocked and stepped aside to allow Casca to pass. The darkness of the night awaited him. “Go down the lane you see ahead,” Lash said in a low, urgent voice. “Keep going until you get to a crossroads. There’ll be someone waiting for you there. Don’t stop and don’t make any noise until you get there. You’ll be taken somewhere safer than here.”
Casca didn’t stop to ask any questions. The sound of the British soldiers searching every nook and cranny was getting closer. Casca slipped out and made his way down the muddy track Lash had pointed out. The door shut behind him and Casca heard the bolt being slid back across.
The wind blew in the treetops as he stumbled half blindly down the rutted route. It must have been a frequently used route for wagons, as two wheel ruts were marked clearly and were about three inches deeper than the rest of the soggy soil. Casca was chilled but kept going. He didn’t want to get caught, and wondered how the hell Lash had managed to arrange a contact so damn quickly. Maybe he used a signal from the upper story. The rebels sometimes did that, Casca knew.
The lane curved to the right and Casca slipped a couple of times into the rut, swearing as the water in the bottom slopped over the top of his shoes and seeped into his stockings. They would be ruined by daybreak.
But Casca’s luck turned against him. There came a shout and a torch was thrust up into the air to his left. There was a field there with a barn and two soldiers had been searching it and had heard the squelch of Casca’s foot plunging into yet another rut. Uttering a low curse Casca pulled his foot out of the sucking mud, leaving his shoe behind, and limped on. Behind him the sound of the soldiers pushing through the undergrowth onto the path came to him and the light from the torch weakly illuminated the way ahead. At least Casca could now see the ruts.
His shadow cut across the path and he stumbled on, limping as his shoeless foot pushed into the mud again and again. He hoped there were none of the thousands of little stones in the area actually underfoot. A shot shattered the night and the lead ball smashed into a tree truck ahead of him. More shouts went up and Casca panted on, eyes wildly staring left and right.
Suddenly the crossroads was there. Casca desperately looked left and right and saw nobody. Damn Lash. The running noises behind him were getting closer and the light getting stronger.
Then, to his right, a whisper came to him. “Hurry! Over here!”
Needing no second urging, Casca plunged off to his right and a hand suddenly shot out of the undergrowth and pulled him through around the bole of a gnarled oak. A dark shape of a man, dressed in a cloak and sporting a three cornered hat, pushed him down so he squatted. Casca noticed he was holding a pistol.
The dark shape of the man put a finger to his lips and
the two held their breath as the soldiers reached the crossroads.
“Which way?” one asked with a Cockney accent Casca recognized from his time in London at the beginning of the century.
“Gawd knows, Pip,” a second voice, much more rustic, answered. “’Is Nibs won’t be ‘appy if us let ‘im go!”
“C’mon Jake,” Pip said, “you go right I’ll go left.”
“Wha’ iffn ‘ee wen’ ahead, like?”
“Then we’re fucked. Can’t go in two directions, can ya?”
“Ooh arr. Roite, I’ll go down ‘ere.” Jake pounded off past the two crouching men while Pip’s feet were heard vanishing off to the left.
Casca’s companion relaxed and put his head up slowly above the level of the hedgerow. “Good,” he whispered, “they’ve gone. Hurry, before the others get here. That shot would have alerted them all. I’ve got a couple of horses at the end of the field.”
“How did you know I’d be here tonight?” Casca demanded, following his savior across the earthy field. It was early spring and the crops would not yet be poking their heads up above the ground.
“I was told you’d be here by your friends. You’re hot property, Mr. Lonnergan. The Tories want you badly. I hear you fought your way out of the court hearing at the Congregational Church. Takes some courage to do that.”
Casca grinned to himself in the dark. His guide led him to the far side of the field where two horses were tethered to a fence and were happily chewing on the vegetation growing on an evergreen bush. There wasn’t much else around for them to eat. “Who are you?”