The Minuteman

by Tony Roberts

  They both stood and Casca bowed, correctly as he’d seen others do in such situations. The niceties of social manners were mostly beyond him but it didn’t mean he couldn’t give them a try every so often. He just preferred to roll with a wench rather than share a cup of civilized tea with them. In fact, he wouldn’t have minded at all having a roll with Katherine if he’d not met her daughter. But he doubted the well-mannered woman would even consider such an act. Smiling to himself, he donned his hat and followed the stern looking Foster to the hall and out onto the stone steps that led down to the street.

  So he now had another good reason to rescue Rose. It seemed she was still with Ebenezer, and they were in Boston. He would have to return there shortly. But first he needed to blow out some tension. There was a tavern down by the docks called the Tun Tavern. He’d go there once he changed into more nondescript clothing and enjoy himself for a week or so before making the return journey to Boston and the war.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was February. The return journey had taken slightly longer than he’d planned because of the terrible state of the roads, and the fact he’d been distracted by events in the Tun Tavern. He had drank too much, sang too much and gotten to know the locals too damned much. His money had run out and that was when he’d decided to skip town before he got chased.

  His last few coins had gone on the fare and he’d sat in the carriage on the route back feeling ill for part of the way, and having to listen to the lectures from a parson on the evils of war, drink, money and women. To Casca that seemed to sum up his life. If the parson were right, then he wallowed in evil. So what? I’m a bad boy and I don’t care a damn.

  The camp was filthy and covered in mud and snow, mixed into a gluteus mess, half frozen and clumped in huge lumps on everyone’s footwear. Some of the old faces had gone, returned to their farms and homes, but Casca was greeted back with relief by both Major Harper and Lieutenant Wilson. Wilson had been run ragged by the unit and provisions had gone missing. Casca soon put an end to that business.

  “Right,” he barked, squelching in front of the ranks of men paraded in three neat rows. “As you can see I’m back, so no more taking it easy. Those of you who haven’t seen me before, I’m your commanding officer, Captain Lonnergan. We’re here to kick the Tories out of Boston so we can get on with running our own lives here without interference from London. That means we have to be patient and take our time. So no thinking it’ll be over in a few weeks. This will take months and need a professional army to do the job, and I’m going to make you move, act and talk like professionals. I’m an old hand at this war thing, so I’m the best kind of leader you can have.

  “Also I do not want to see anyone hanging round the camp stores unless you’ve got a reason to be there. If I catch any of you there without good reason, you’ll have me to answer to. From now it’s off limits to all of you unless you have an order saying otherwise. Got it?”

  “Sir,” the men answered.

  “Very well. Now we’ll see how beautiful you all are. I want an hour’s shooting practice on the range. Your sergeants will sort out the shooting rota. A prize of double rations to those who shoot the best.”

  The men grinned. The captain may be tough on them but he made damned sure they were looked after and it was known the men under him were regarded as being the best disciplined by the officers of the army. A few had resented the orders Casca had imposed, but he’d thrown them out in no time. Now he had men who wanted to be there and, so he hoped, would fight as he wanted; tough and fearless.

  * * *

  In Boston things were not looking good. The exceptionally cold winter had interfered with supplies and reinforcements, even causing the harbor to freeze over. The new man in charge, General William Howe, wanted to quit Boston but the weather prevented him from doing so. He would once the weather improved, but until then he maintained the garrison as best he could.

  Sir Richard Eley was not happy. The plans were to sail to Nova Scotia, but beyond that nothing had been decided. If he were to leave North America it would be a disaster for him. So much rested upon his financial plan with Ebenezer Maplin that to abandon it now would be certain bankruptcy for him.

  What he needed to do was to marry Rose and become Maplin’s heir. Then all he needed to do was to arrange Maplin’s demise and he would take over the mercantile business and save his perilous situation. But Maplin’s trading company would only survive if the war continued, for the contracts now in place meant that future supplies to the British army would be channeled through Maplin’s company, and bring him great wealth.

  Rose was being obstinate. She refused to speak to Sir Richard and barely to her father. Her confinement in Maplin’s house in Boston ate at her and she held out hopes that she would be freed. She had help from an unexpected quarter, however. One of the servants was a sympathizer with the rebellion and soon Rose and Tara, the girl in question, struck up a secret friendship and Tara agreed to smuggle a letter from Rose out of the house and get it to the rebel army lines where it would be passed to Case Lonnergan, as he was now calling himself.

  For Sir Richard, the delay in prosecuting the war frustrated him. He asked for, and was granted, an audience with General Howe at his headquarters on Beacon Hill. The grey, low clouds added to Sir Richard’s mood and he sourly entered Howe’s day room upon permission.

  He stood to attention, his cap tucked under his arm, until softly ordered to sit. “Tell me, Sir Richard, what is your appraisal of our situation here?”

  “General,” Sir Richard said slowly, “we’ve allowed the rebels to establish themselves on the hills and it would take a lot of men to dislodge them. I saw what happened at Breed’s Hill and if the rebels had been better disciplined, I doubt we would have taken it.”

  “My feelings exactly, Sir Richard.” Howe sat regarding his junior officer for a moment. He was florid, well-built and possessed large penetrating eyes and a big strong nose. Sir Richard was aware Howe was a Whig, and therefore suspect in being able to pursue an effective campaign. It would have been better to have appointed a Tory. This was the trouble in allowing MPs – Members of Parliament - a military command. It became too political. Sir Richard forgot, conveniently, that he had been an MP until losing his seat to a Whig a few years back. Howe leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Which is why our position here is untenable. The arrival of the rebel guns on the Dorchester Heights means they can now command the docks, something I can no longer ignore. Therefore as soon as the weather improves we will evacuate. We can no longer remain here.”

  “But General, the rebels could very well shoot upon the ships as we try to leave.” Sir Richard would have done precisely that.

  Howe smiled. “I have come to an arrangement with their commander, this Washington fellow,” he waved a dismissive hand. “Provided we do not burn the town we will be allowed to leave unmolested. Already I have arranged for the supplies to be separated into those which we can take with us and those which we cannot. I shall destroy those that I cannot take with me.”

  “Sir, please allow that task to fall to me,” Sir Richard begged. He already could see a profit to be made there. Maplin would be used as the intermediary.

  “I had you in mind, Sir Richard. Now, it has come to my attention you are in opposition to the evacuation plan I have in mind. Would you please do me the honor of advising me as to why?”

  “Yes, sir. We need a base to begin the counter attack against these rebels. To give everything up would hand the enemy the entire coast. We would then be at a severe disadvantage. I recommend New York, both as a port and a base. It’s large enough to take the navy and the army and is closer to their headquarters of Philadelphia. So why, sir, are you considering Nova Scotia? It’s the back of beyond!”

  “Fear not, Sir Richard. New York is on my mind too, but we do not yet have the men to carry out a successful landing, and our losses here thus far have not yet been made good. I understand the King is seeking assistance from his
German territories as recruiting in England and Ireland is somewhat slow. This is not a popular war at home, Sir Richard.”

  “Germans, sir?”

  “Yes. But not from Prussia. I understand they are resentful of us abandoning them during the last war. Fortunately the smaller German states – Hesse, Brunswick and the like – are poor and are willing to send men to us for a subsidy. But they will take time to arrive. In the meantime Boston has become untenable. The sooner we are away from here the better. I intend leaving next month, so prepare your men and property.”

  “Sir,” Sir Richard stood up, the interview at an end. He saluted, replaced his cap, and left. Already plans were forming in his mind. He needed to contact the rebels.

  * * *

  The night was dark. Men were moving quietly to their positions. Word had come that the British were going to try to attack unexpectedly at night, and as usual the spies in Boston had provided excellent intelligence. Casca and his men were directed to the frozen ground overlooking Back Bay, the ice-covered stretch of water separating Boston from the majority of Washington’s men, ready to give supporting fire should the British attack across there.

  The men crouched amongst the long grass, scrub and uneven ground, unable to dig due to the frozen earth, waiting with chattering teeth. If the garrison came forth they would be subject to a withering cross fire that surely would stop them dead in their tracks. Estimates were now that the British had between 6,000 and 10,000 men in Boston while Washington could count on 16,000. The numbers favored the American forces, but what would their training have done? Would they still waver should the outnumbered enemy get to them?

  Casca went from man to man, checking they were all fine and knew what they had to do. Their section of the line was along an inlet and a promontory, so it snaked in and then out. The ice faintly glowed in the night and anyone crossing over would appear as a dark shape against it.

  But Casca wasn’t looking in the right direction. Behind him Purseman was inching forward, a knife in his teeth. For weeks he’d watched and waited for an opportunity, dutifully going about his task as one of the neighboring units. He made sure he hadn’t been too close as Purseman was known by sight to Lonnergan. When the plans to deploy along the Back Bay had been revealed, Purseman had taken the opportunity to sneak away from his unit as they marched to their positions closer to the Dorchester Heights and had followed Casca until they had settled down. Now Purseman snaked forward, ready to take the man out. His job was simple; to kill him and bring some blood-stained evidence back to Sir Richard.

  The night was dark and the sergeant had difficulty in spotting Casca at first, but when his quarry set about checking each man, speaking to them in a low voice which Purseman picked up from his prone position on the icy frozen grass, he identified which dark shape he was. Purseman slid forward, gritting his teeth against the knife in the freezing temperature and shivering as it seeped through his jacket, shirt and vest as he slithered across the grass. His fingers were fairly numb but he still had to use his hands so he stopped and sucked on his dead fingers, trying to warm them up. This only served to make them feel even colder and he cursed under his breath.

  Now he was a matter of feet away as Casca came slowly from the right, having checked on another couple of men and was making his way to the next group, about twenty feet to the left. Purseman had come up against a stunted hawthorn tree and used it as cover. The two men to his left were hunched miserably against the cold and not looking behind them. Purseman transferred the knife to his right hand and slid into the hollow the two men were using.

  “Hey,” one of the men whispered furiously as Purseman landed on his foot. “What are you…?”

  He got no further as Purseman’s knife sliced through his throat, stopping any further noise. The man clutched his throat in shock, his eyes wide, and he slumped to the ground, shaking in reaction to his lifeblood pumping out over his jacket. The second man tried to swing his musket but Purseman was too close and was in any event plunging his knife upwards from the waist. The blade sank into the second man’s stomach, angling up, and Purseman clamped his left hand against the unfortunate’s mouth, throwing himself on top and holding him there by his sheer weight, pinning him as the knife blade sliced up into his heart.

  Purseman rolled off him and dragged him to the bottom of the hollow, then swiftly pulled the first man on top of him. Both were as good as dead. He wiped the blade on the jacket of one of them, which one he didn’t see and he didn’t in fact care, and crouched, waiting for the arrival of Casca.

  Casca came slowly, keeping an eye on the iced over waters below and to his right. He didn’t want to fall down the slope; it would alert the British and probably cause him some injury, quite possibly a serious one. Whatever the case, the watch would be a bust and he would probably be disciplined for carelessness. The next position for his men couldn’t be too far – he had told them to space themselves every ten yards or so. They hadn’t the men to cover every spare yard of soil so this was the best they could do.

  The smell of freshly spilt blood came to him as he reached the hollow, and his senses went into alert, but even as he smelt death one of the shapes in the hollow rose up and came for him, some kind of object in his right fist. Casca threw up an arm to both block and to strike the man, but even as his forearm crashed into the face of whoever it was, he felt a burning stinging pain all too familiar in his stomach and he realized he’d been stabbed. Roaring in pain and outrage, Casca struck out blindly, catching the man a second time with a backhanded blow under the jaw, sending the man staggering back.

  Waves of nausea and dizziness engulfed Casca and he fell over the soft, yielding body of a man lying at the bottom, legs flying up into the air. He lay there, unable to move, and saw a bulky shape he recognized. “Purseman,” he croaked.

  “Fuck off,” Purseman gasped and grabbed for Casca, blood oozing down his face from the blow on the nose he’d taken.

  “Captain?” someone called from the right. One of the men he’d just inspected had heard the yell and was coming to investigate.

  Purseman swore vilely under his breath. He knew he’d given his victim a killer blow. The man would just take a little time to die. Ripping off a button and a piece of jacket from Casca and stuffing it into his pouch on his belt, Purseman scrambled over the lip of the hollow and quickly slid down the steep slope towards the ice. The face of the small cliff was uneven and a projecting rock caught him painfully, knocking him up away from his handhold and he fell with a cry, landing heavily on the shore. His thigh took the brunt of the blow, a rock numbing him.

  “What the devil’s goin’ on?” a voice demanded from above.

  Purseman got to his hands and knees and cried out as a shaft of agony shot through his thigh. The bone felt as if it were broken, it hurt that much. He hopped onto one leg and bounded awkwardly around a couple of large boulders and made his way to the shoreline. Ice was everywhere and he slipped, falling heavily onto his side.

  Above him the man who’d challenged him snapped out something Purseman couldn’t quite catch and then a shot rang out, spitting close to his head and shattering into the ice ahead of him. The ice cracked and splintered and water spattered over Purseman’s face. Cursing loudly he rolled and scrambled to his feet. His thigh still hurt like hell but the shot had given him greater cause in getting away and staggered sideways away from the broken ice and across onto the frozen surface of the bay.

  More voices were sounding from above and torches were now being held high to illuminate the night. “There he is!” someone yelled and another shot rang out. Purseman ran for his life, slack-jawed, drooling in fear, eyes wide, seeking out any darkness on the surface that would betray open water.

  Ahead to his right more voices were heard, but these were from the British positions. “Who’s out there?”

  “Friend!” Purseman screamed, veering off to the right. “Sixty-seventh!”

  Behind him more men were leveling their muskets and loo
sing off shots into the night. Their vision was ruined by the flash of igniting gunpowder but they knew approximately where the fleeing man was and concentrated their shots in that area, determined on hitting whoever it was, not knowing who it was or why he was running. They all assumed he was a spy sending vital information to the enemy lines and had to be stopped at all costs.

  Bullets spat all round the portly Purseman and he ducked low as one or two came very close to his head. He kept on going, gibbering in terror, but suddenly he was sent pitching forward by a tremendous blow to his side. He landed heavily and slid a number of feet along the ice, screaming in pain.

  “Jesus,” someone said ahead of him, “they’ve hit the poor bastard. Hit them with that bloody cannon!”

  A deep boom rolled out ahead and above Purseman as he got up on one elbow and slid a knee underneath himself. He must get to Sir Richard. He must.

  The cannon shot smashed into the trees, sending many of the shooting rebels diving for cover. Enraged, they got up and poured more volleys at the distant positions, not realizing they had no chance of hitting anything.

  Purseman crawled across the freezing surface of the bay, whimpering in pain and gritting his teeth in determination. He had no idea how badly he was hurt, but he had a mission to carry out. Now gun-carrying men were coming for him from ahead, cautiously walking on the ice and watching ahead for anyone. Purseman called out feebly and flopped to the ice. The men got to him and examined him. “Cor strewth,” one exclaimed in a thick Cockney accent, “this blighter’s in a bad way!”

  “Get me to Sir Richard Eley, commander of the Sixty-Seventh,” Purseman panted. “It’s vital!”

  “Corporal?” the Cockney asked a second man.

  “Get him up,” the corporal ordered, “he must be a spy for our side.”