by Tony Roberts
His companion untied one horse and passed the reins to Casca. “Paul Revere. I’m to take you to a safe place away from the soldiers. Don’t worry, they won’t find you where you’ll be going. Here you’re too close to town.” He pushed his pistol back into his belt and took the second horse.
Casca mounted up. He’d often rode in his time but he never really got used to riding. He didn’t like riding if truth be told, which was why he never volunteered to join any cavalry unit. He was much happier on foot. Still, getting round on horseback beat stumbling through muddy lanes at night, particularly if he only had one shoe.
However, they were still not free from discovery, as a shout went up close by and Revere cursed and wheeled his horse and galloped at the fence, vaulting it easily. Casca went to follow but more shouts went up and a shot cracked through the night and passed close to him. The light from the discharging weapon showed Casca his enemies were close, too close, and he urged his mount to follow Revere who had once more drawn his pistol, and Casca thought he caught sight of a pale kerchief pulled up over the lower part of his face.
Coarse, raucous shouting was getting closer and answering voices could be heard to left and right. Only ahead, where Revere was impatiently waiting in the road beyond the fence, were there no shouts. Casca dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and it shot forward.
Things happened all at once. Another shout, clearly to order him to halt, came close by, and another shot came to him. He felt a stinging pain in his ribs as something punched him from behind. The horse reacted in fright and shied away from the fence. Casca, too busy trying to cope with his pain to hold onto the reins properly, was sent flying off the saddle and his head struck a fencepost very hard.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER FIVE
How long he was out for he didn’t know, but his return to awareness was slow and painful. His head hurt like hell and when he tried to put his hands to his face they were unable to go further than a few inches from his chest. Again they were shackled together.
“Lie still,” a curt authoritative voice commanded.
“My head,” Casca groaned.
“Shut up,” the reply came very quickly. “Or you’ll have more than your dumb head to worry about.”
Casca groaned and lay still for a moment, then recalled he’d been hit in the back. He wriggled on the – whatever he was lying on – and felt a soreness along the left side of his back. From the feel of it, the wound or injury didn’t seem too bad. Probably a glancing hit, fortunately. He wondered if Revere had gotten away.
The room he was in was gloomy but he could see daylight streaming through the dirty window panes on the other side of the room. There was one soldier stood by the single door and a second seated on a chipped and sad looking chair by the bunk Casca was strapped to.
The standing soldier left the room and a few moments later returned with a man Casca didn’t want to see; Sergeant Purseman. “Shut the door behind you, Gilchrist,” Purseman ordered the standing soldier, “and don’t let anyone in for the next few minutes.”
Gilchrist saluted and left once more. Purseman looked at the seated soldier. “Anyone teach you to stand up when a superior rank enters a room, Davis?”
Davis stood up sharply. “Sorry, Sarge.”
“You ain’t seen me in this room, ever, got that, Davis?”
“No Sarge. I mean, yes Sarge.”
Purseman grunted, then turned his attention to Casca. “Now, you filth, Long, you’re gonna get back what you dished out to me!”
Casca was strapped helplessly and could only ride the blows that rained down on him viciously, the furious sergeant pummeling him with left and right fists into his gut, face and chest. The pain redoubled with every blow. Purseman wasn’t a lightly built man, and he wasn’t holding back.
Casca tasted blood and his head was ringing from the effects of the fence post and Purseman. He tried to double up in pain as more than one blow sank into his midriff. Finally the punishment stopped and Purseman stood back, breathing heavily, a film of sweat on his brow.
“You damned pain,” Purseman snarled, “I’ve a good mind to have you whipped for what you did in Lincoln. Lucky for you Sir Richard wants you in Boston so we’re going to go for a little walk in the country. I want you on your feet and able to make it there. We’ve got this pretty little hulk a-waiting you in the Caribbean where you can sweat yourself stupid; that is if the fever don’t get you first!”
Casca was untied by Davis while Gilchrist came back in on Purseman’s command and covered Casca with his Brown Bess pressed into Casca’s jaw. His smile above the barrel wasn’t comforting. The bindings around his wrists remained and Casca was pushed ahead of Gilchrist out into a yard of some description. Discarded wagons stood forlornly to one side while an abandoned looking stable stood on the other. They had found a rough pair of shoes from somewhere and had put them on him, but they pinched and his feet would be sore from the rubbing before long.
More soldiers were lining up under the shouting of Purseman and Casca saw the lieutenant who had been questioning Getts the previous night. He wondered if Getts had been implicated in hiding Casca. There was no sign of anyone else. Harries, that was the lieutenant’s name, Casca recalled suddenly. His face was swelling up from Purseman’s tender ministrations and his gut was one swirling mass of agony. Casca wouldn’t be surprised if he’d piss blood.
“Stand still, filth!” Davis snapped, grabbing Casca by the fraying collar.
“Fuck off and die,” Casca slurred, spitting blood. He had a wild idea for a moment to spit into Davis’ face, hoping that the poison that his blood consisted of would kill the man, but that would cause more trouble than it was worth. He contented himself by spattering his mouth’s contents onto the ground.
“Shut up!” Davis yelled. “Harry, if he opens his gob once more smack him with your ‘Bess!”
Gilchrist grinned and tapped Casca around the neck with the muzzle of his musket.
Lieutenant Harries ambled over, concern on his face. “I say, what happened to you?” he asked Casca.
“Your soldiers take their job too seriously,” Casca mumbled with difficulty.
“Beg your pardon? What did he say, Davis?”
“He’s sorry he fell over back there in the cell, Sir!”
Harries tapped his white gloves into the palm of his hand. “Ah, well take better care in future, Long. Sir Richard wants you alive, not with a broken neck, you understand?”
Casca was too busy concentrating on his aches and pains to respond. The lieutenant sighed at his bad manners and turned away. Sergeant Purseman had yelled sufficiently at the soldiers to satisfy himself, and the ten red coated men were stood smartly enough for Harries to take over.
“Very good, Sergeant. Off we go then.” Casca was prodded into motion, preceding Davis and Gilchrist into the center of the ten others who split into two squads, five in front and five behind. Lieutenant Harries mounted a brown mare that had been standing by the abandoned stables and rode confidently at the head of the small column.
The road to Boston led through gently rolling countryside; fields stood to left and right and the road was bordered by stone walls. The road itself was a beaten earthen track, with two defined ruts where the wheels of the wagons and carts had rolled up and down. Casca stared at them, then ruefully smiled to himself. The width was something he was familiar with. Ever since the time of the Roman Empire, axle widths had been set for chariots, wagons and carts. Since Britain had been part of the Empire, they too had adopted this width, and when the British had expanded into the Americas, they brought this to the Colonies. So Casca was oddly comforted by this thought was he was led south eastwards towards the port of Boston and imprisonment.
He wondered what would now happen to Rose Maplin, that tall, fair skinned lass he’d enjoyed for the past twelve months or so. Clearly Sir Richard Eley and Rose’s father had in mind a marriage to the English Baronet. Maybe Rose would enjoy being inducted i
n to the minor nobility, but he doubted it. She was too independent minded to be forced into the restrictive world of those people.
From the little he knew of the British nobility, they were a class apart from the majority of the British people. Privileged, rich and exclusive, they ran the bourgeoning empire. They set the laws that ensured they gained from them rather than the general populace. It was one of the running sores here in the colonies that people were pushing to change. Used to fending for themselves, the colonists had grown used to running their own lives and resented interference from London.
Casca saw their point of view. Let the colonists decide their own fate. The British were sprawling all over the world now and defending the colonies was perhaps one place too many. He saw the opportunity for employment if this happened; independence came at a price. War. Something he was good at. Maybe other places in the world might follow suit.
He’d fought plenty of times for Britain or England in the past. Now it might be a time to fight against them. He knew their strengths and weaknesses. The trick was to get free and go to ground until the place broke out into open revolt.
The trees were beginning to bud and in a few weeks would be adorned with the new leaves of spring. The air was getting warmer. Time for war was coming. He had that feeling deep in his bones again. He wanted to be part of it. Damn the Curse.
Ahead the road turned a sharp right and went downhill. Perfect ambush point. He saw vague movements behind the trees and walls and tensed. His eyes went to his left and right. Davis was relaxed, his ‘Bess pointing straight up in the classic marching posture, while Gilchrist had his musket un-slung and pointing at Casca’s back, bayonet fixed. He was the one who would have to be taken care of.
Suddenly a horde of masked men sprang up from behind the walls and pointed their guns at the soldiers. “Halt!” one shouted, his voice muffled behind the cloth covering his mouth and nose. “Drop your weapons!”
Harries halted and stared, open-mouthed, while the soldiers stopped and looked to Harries for inspiration. Purseman snarled and began hauling his musket off his shoulder. Casca knew he had seconds to react. His pivoting fists swept round a half circle and sank into Gilchrist’s midriff, doubling him up in pain. Davis wasted too much time in firstly reacting to the attack, then in fumbling for his musket.
Casca’s second attack was sneaky, but he just didn’t have the time to be fanciful. His foot crashed up into Davis’ crotch and the soldier screwed his face up in agony and he slowly sank to the ground, clutching his family jewels.
At the same time one of the ambushers had walked up boldly behind Lieutenant Harries and had placed a pistol against his rib cage. “Tell your men to drop their weapons,” the man calmly said, “or you’ll be the first to die, followed by your men.”
Harries, halfway through pulling his saber out of his sheath, froze.
Casca had taken a step sideways towards the wall when Purseman blocked him, musket aimed directly at his chest. “One more step, boy, and I’ll blow a hole clean through you,” he promised, his teeth fixed in a grimace of hatred.
“Look behind you,” Casca replied. “You’ll be shot to pieces if you do.”
“At least I’ll have the pleasure in killing you,” Purseman said stubbornly.
“Tell him to drop it,” the ambusher pressing his pistol into Harries’ ribs said.
“Sergeant Purseman!” Harries barked fearfully, “let him go!”
Purseman swore softly. His face went red. Reluctantly, slowly, the muzzle lowered. Casca puffed out his cheeks. As he stepped past Purseman, the sergeant muttered just loud enough for Casca to hear. “I’ll find you, Long.”
Casca looked at the glowering Purseman, then made his way to where the waiting masked men stood. The man with the pistol demanded the keys to unlock Casca’s manacles, and Purseman threw them at Casca’s feet, his face thunderous. Casca unlocked his wrists and threw the manacles at Purseman’s feet. “Yours, I think?”
Purseman merely shot Casca a look that he hoped would strike him down on the spot.
“Grab their muskets, quick!” the pistol man snapped to the others. The British soldiers reluctantly watched as their guns were snatched and their new owners cleared from the road doubly quick. Casca had grabbed Purseman’s musket. The sergeant had held onto his gun but Casca’s open palm push against his still tender nose persuaded him to release it.
“You’ll all hang!” Harries shouted at their backs as the group made their escape in two directions. Casca was pointed in the direction of the pistol wielder and three others and he ran after them, heading for a line of trees in the distance. The British soldiers watched them go, unwilling to give chase. Harries decided it was best to continue to Boston and report to Sir Richard. No doubt the matter would have to be brought before the overall commander of the armed forces in the area, General Gage. It was his problem, not Harries’.
Casca caught up with the others close to the trees and they plunged down a narrow side track, running downhill towards a brook. They had to stop at the bottom to catch their breath. The four others pulled off their cloth masks and Casca recognized the pistol wielder as Paul Revere.
“Glad to see you,” Casca breathed, leaning against the stone side of the bridge that crossed the brook.
“Couldn’t let you be taken to Boston,” Revere panted. “I felt responsible. How’s your head? Thought you dead from the blow you took!”
“Tough skull,” Casca grinned.
“And the rest? Looks like you’ve been worked over.”
“Aye,” Casca nodded. The three others scowled as they heard about Purseman’s work. Casca shrugged. “That sergeant and me have some unfinished business. I bet we’ll meet again.”
“Most likely,” Revere nodded, “but for now you’ve got to disappear. The army will be mad as the devil about this. Lucky we have a good network of scouts and spies around here. They can’t leave Boston without us knowing. These guns will come in useful. We’re stockpiling them at Lexington, just in case.”
“You a Minuteman?” Casca asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Mr. Getts wants me to train the local unit.”
Revere stared at Casca for a moment. “You’re too recognizable, Long or Lonnergan or whatever your name is. You’ll be taken to a safe place to lie low and get that face sorted out. Maybe in a month or so, but it’s too risky to have your face shown around these parts at the moment.”
Casca shrugged. He was just glad to be free again. He followed Revere and the others over the bridge and along the lane towards some distant destination.
* * *
Later that evening in Boston, Sir Richard Eley stood in the comfort of his town house, listening to the report of his subordinate Harries with growing anger. It seemed no place was safe anymore beyond the confines of the town. And even within Boston itself people were mocking the soldiers, making comments and joking at their disorderliness and low pay. Morale was low.
After Harries had gone, Sir Richard called in Sergeant Purseman. Purseman stood in front of his commanding officer smartly, ramrod straight, his round stomach bulging against the straining buttons of his red jacket and the taut leather belt that held up his voluminous breeches. He sweated, waiting for what he was sure would be a dressing down.
Sir Richard stared long and hard at the twitching NCO, then slowly made his way over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a sherry. The finest Bristol sherry, made by those splendid Harveys. After appreciating the light brown colored drink in the light from the chandelier, he quaffed a mouthful and ran it round his mouth and tongue, savoring the sharp, stimulating taste, before consigning it to his gut, enjoying the spreading warmth it gave him.
“Sergeant Purseman,” he finally began, breaking the awkward silence. “You have not done all that well. I’m hugely disappointed with you.”
“Sah!” Purseman barked stiffly. He stared over Sir Richard’s shoulder into infinity, ignoring the Wedgewood pottery standing on the side dres
ser by the door. Such things meant little to him anyway.
“Twice this fellow Long has wriggled free of your clutches. I’m beginning to think you’re losing your touch. Perhaps a transfer to the West Indies might be in order?”
Purseman went pale. Even though the words may have been spoken softly, the menace behind them was clear. A posting to the Caribbean was almost equal to a death sentence. Those falling to the various diseases and ailments that came from those islands were invariably dead in no time. Nowhere else in the British Empire did soldiers fear a posting as much as the West Indies.
Sir Richard stepped forward slowly, a looming black cloud on Purseman’s horizon. “I am a reasonable man, Sergeant Purseman, and I recall with satisfaction the many times you have performed an admirable service for me, both here and back in England.” He paused, then reached inside a pocket set inside his jacket. He brought forth a small leather bag that clinked.
Purseman’s eyes swung to the bag, widening. The sound of money was unmistakable.
Sir Richard saw the reaction and smiled, an almost predatory one. He had the aptly-named Purseman where he wanted and it gave him a huge sense of pleasure. “Therefore I’m giving you one final chance. Now that this fellow Long is associated with rebels and stealing military ordnance, if he’s caught he’ll hang and nobody will argue. We don’t need to rely anymore on faked evidence. This is for you.” He tossed Purseman the bag.
The sergeant caught it and felt the hard discs of coins within. Sir Richard nodded in response to Purseman’s unspoken request to look inside, and the sergeant opened the leather tie at the neck and looked inside. Glittering gold, the sovereigns that met his eyes caused a weakness throughout his system, then a delicious, almost sexual feeling ran up and down his body. He had to physically stop himself drooling.
“Gold, Sergeant Purseman. Gold. It is yours. I trust you know what to do in return for this, ah, gift?”