by Tony Roberts
“Sir, there are not sufficient entrenchments marked along the Brooklyn Heights or further to the east of Manhattan.”
“Indeed, Captain? Perhaps you share General Lee’s opinion that New York cannot be held against attack? Should General Washington be informed of your opinion?”
“Sir,” Casca looked the furious general in the eye. “I can advise you of my opinion, I cannot tell you. You asked for my opinion, I did not volunteer it. You are the commanding officer here and your word is final. All I can do is to give you my experienced view, and this is that these defenses are not going to be enough.” He stepped back and assumed a stiff formal pose again. To hell with Lord Hell and Damnation.
“Gentlemen,” Stirling leaned back and addressed his fellow officers. “We appear to have a man gifted with foresight amongst us.” The men around Stirling smiled. Casca sneered at them. Stirling continued. “Go take this map, Captain, and assess what is needed. Be aware that unless I approve of your amendments, what we are already building will remain so.”
“Thank you sir. I shall of course inform not only yourself but General Washington of my recommendations.”
“You can go in person to inform Congress if you so wish, Captain. I’m in command here, not Congress, not General Washington and certainly not yourself. Do you job Captain. You are dismissed.”
“Sir,” Casca saluted, folded the map and left, cursing under his breath. As he left a man shouted and Casca turned in surprise. A slim man with dark hair came bounding down the steps of the mansion house. He was dressed in a smart uniform of the Delaware regiment posted in New York. This regiment was one of the smartest in the Continental Army and clashed with the assortment of uniforms and colors displayed elsewhere. “Yes?”
“Captain Lonnergan, sir. I’m to accompany you on your tour of the defenses, compliments of Colonel Haslett.”
“And you are?”
“Private Peter Courtney, sir. I was an engineer before signing up.”
“Well, Private Courtney, it seems we have quite a job on our hands.”
Courtney nodded. “I helped in the original survey of the area. We made plenty of recommendations that were ignored. To be honest,” Courtney leaned closer, “one fort won’t make much difference. We need plenty more.”
“That’s what I thought, Private,” Casca agreed. “Come on, talking here ain’t going to help matters. You might be able to help me get around all the places. You know this area well?”
“Fairly well. We’ll need a boat, that’s for sure.”
Casca grinned. “Let’s go requisition one, shall we?”
Courtney smiled. “Down there,” he pointed along the East River, “there are jetties and plenty of boats. All sizes.”
They made their way to the waterfront and haggled with one of the skippers of a smallish ferry. They hired him for the day and he agreed to run them about the harbor area for a couple of shillings. Casca thought he was a part-time highwayman taken to the sea. Nonetheless, Casca now set about surveying the area, using his centuries’ experience to see whether New York was, in fact, defendable.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Halifax in Nova Scotia was windswept, bleak and cold. Rose hated it. She was sunk in her own pool of misery. Having been rudely and forcibly taken from Boston during the evacuation had been bad enough, but during the voyage north a smirking Sir Richard had taken her aside and presented her with a torn and bloodied piece of clothing with silver buttons on it.
He had told her in no uncertain terms that this had been her beloved’s before Sir Richard’s man had killed him, and torn the piece off his dead body as proof. Rose didn’t know for certain it to be true, for the clothing didn’t match Cass’s the last time she’d seen him. But there seemed to be no deception in Sir Richard’s face or voice. Her face had crumpled and she had fled to her room and cried for most of the voyage. Sir Richard had spent the time either in her father’s company or with the other officers, picking over the faults in their strategy.
General Howe was now making plans to attack and retake the important towns and cities, a move designed to drive the rebels from the centers of population and to split them in two. They felt confident of the plan, and hoped that it wouldn’t be too long before they put it in motion.
Sir Richard had planned with Ebenezer in setting up a center of trade in New York. It would be the perfect place, being the main port to receive trade from Britain and the continent. Army munitions and supplies would have to come to New York initially, so Maplin’s would be one of the main importers. Money would roll in. Ebenezer rubbed his hands together in glee. Now all that remained was for Sir Richard to marry Rose.
On their arrival in Halifax Sir Richard sought out the chief minister, a parson called Green, and browbeat him into agreeing to a marriage ceremony at the church, The Holy Nativity. So it was a week after arriving in Halifax that Rose was virtually frog-marched up the aisle by her father and made to stand next to Sir Richard. The ceremony was attended by officers of Sir Richard’s regiment and a few curious onlookers. The Maplins were not represented by anyone.
Rose kept her head bowed, listless and indifferent to what was going on. She had to be asked to speak up in response to the ceremonial parts requiring her to talk, and after a ring had been put on her finger by Sir Richard, a predatory smile on his face, they were declared man and wife. Rose kept her veil over her face, as much to hide her tears as anything else, and she was walked out of the church and under the twin rows of officers presenting their swords above their heads. Sir Richard smiled and took the congratulations from his fellow officers in good stead, and fended off questions as to Rose’s quietness as being the result of her overwhelmed by the whole occasion.
The newly married couple went to Sir Richard’s temporary quarters and Rose was taken upstairs. She stood silently in the bedroom while her husband took off his uniform. “Remove your dress, dear,” the Baronet said with irony, “or I shall do it for you and not care how it is done.”
“What are you going to do?” Rose asked in a small voice.
“Produce heirs; my title must live on, and you shall give me sons.”
“I shan’t! You shall not touch me!” she snapped, suddenly rebellious. There was only so much someone could take.
Sir Richard looked over her, his fists balled. “You are my wife – you have your marital duties to perform. This marriage will be consummated here and now!”
“They will not!” Rose shrieked.
Sir Richard’s backhander to her jaw sent her falling, and she was dragged to her feet and flung to the bed. Her dress was torn apart by the maniacal man and she raised her arms to fend him off, only to receive three hefty slaps across the face. She lay there, dazed, and felt her clothing torn off. She closed her eyes to what was going on and lay there, unresponsive.
Sir Richard didn’t give a damn whether she made a move or not. He was Ebenezer’s heir now and the only thing left was to father a son to carry on his title and name. This woman, who he cared little for, was to be the vessel for those plans. He didn’t care one bit whether she died in childbirth or not, only that he got a son. So he forced himself into her and sated his needs, pulling out angrily and dressing himself as soon as he’d finished.
“Get yourself made presentable, woman,” he ordered, “or I’ll beat you until you do. You will learn to be obedient. Remember your wedding vows. You are mine now so don’t forget it. You are my property.” With that he left, leaving Rose to curl up on the bed and cry herself to sleep.
* * *
Casca completed his survey of the land around New York’s harbor area, thanks to some pretty hard work by Pete Courtney. As they had made their way round Long Island and the plain to the north east of Manhattan, Casca had asked his companion about his life. Courtney had an interesting past. Born in Oxford, England, he’d traveled widely in his forty years, sailing the seas in the Royal Navy initially as a fifteen year old, then as a merchant seaman when he’d jumped ship in Calcutta. He’d been in the east for a
few years, shacking up with an Indian girl but his wanderlust had gotten the better of him and he’d sailed to the Spice Islands a few times, and found on his last return the girl had gone along with all his worldly possessions.
So Courtney had sailed west via southern Africa and ended up coming to America wanting a new life. It had given him something of a world wise view on matters and he was in no doubt as to where his sympathies lay. “I’ve had enough of the Old World,” he had said one time as they looked down on the land to the south of the Gowanus Heights. “Too many do’s and don’t’s. Here at least things are fresh and we can make our own rules. We don’t want some king making up laws that have nothing to do with us.”
“Lots of folk here have the same view,” Casca had replied, marking down a few notes on the map. “It’s all down to wanting a greater say in the everyday running of your lives.”
“And you?” Pete asked, “what do you think?”
“I think people ought to fight for what they believe in,” Casca said slowly. “And if it means war, then so be it. People have fought wars over all sorts of things in the past – religion, land, food, hell even women! Most of the time it’s for the benefit of someone else like a king, or emperor. Why not fight a war that benefits you directly? Makes more sense than fighting for someone else’s benefit – unless you get paid for it of course,” Casca had added with a wry smile. He’d done plenty of that.
“Mercenary work?” Pete had asked. “Not for me – I just want a life free of conflict – but I’m prepared to fight for that right. I’ve seen far too much over the world to want to go back to that kind of life. Some people live terrible lives. At least here I can determine what I do, so if some privileged monarch in Europe tries to take that from me they’ll have to kill me first.”
“Well that’s a possibility,” Casca had looked at Pete carefully. “Plenty have died that way before on a losing side. You prepared for that, Pete?”
“Better to have fought and lost than not to have fought at all, that’s what I say,” Pete had said, leaning on his musket. “But I can’t see us losing; there’s too many of us here and the Tories can’t keep on sending troops over here all that way and hope to keep the colonies. No matter how many battles they win, we’re here and they’re not. They’ll never win, in the end.”
Casca had to concede that point.
Now they had finished and were gratefully sinking an ale in Howard’s Inn, sited at the foot of Jamaica Pass that cut through the Gowanus Heights on Long Island. A wooded slope stood at the rear and crows were nesting in the trees. The inn consisted of a number of buildings, all of wood and a gaily painted sign outside declared ‘Shines for all’ with a rising sun as the symbol. They would drink their ales and then climb the pass back to the boat moored on the East River to the north-west. The main building had a huge overhanging sloped roof supported by wooden pillars and beams, so shaped to keep the winter snows away from the entrance.
“Do you think they’ll act on your recommendations, Captain?” Pete asked.
“I don’t know. That general Lord Stirling or whatever he wants to call himself seemed put out that I was here on Washington’s orders. I think he took it personally that his defensive measures are being checked on. But any commanding officer worth his salt would check, no matter what.”
“So do you think what we have is enough to stop an attack?”
“No.”
* * *
As expected Lord Stirling did nothing to change what was already there. A number of forts placed along the water’s edge on Long Island at Brooklyn and along the shore of New Jersey at a place called Paulus Hook weren’t going to stop an invasion force. The defending force badly needed Washington and his Continental Army down with them to allow enough men to guard all the bays and creeks that might be used. The problem was that it would be General Howe who chose where to land, not Washington or Lord Stirling. Casca’s main concern was from Long Island itself; the governmental forces could land anywhere on the huge island and then marshal their forces unopposed before marching on the rebel positions at the western end of the island.
It was how this position was defended would determine whether New York could be kept, and Casca privately believed that the preparations were insufficient. As summer approached more soldiers arrived and eventually Washington himself turned up, satisfied the Tories had gone from Boston and Massachusetts and not likely to return any time soon. One of his first moves was to appoint General Greene commander of the Long Island district and question Stirling over the defensive works he’d constructed. After thanking him he sent Stirling back to his unit, now part of General Sullivan’s division based in eastern Manhattan outside the city of New York itself.
Casca was sent for and questioned at length by Washington. Casca pointed out the deficiencies in defending the approach to the Brooklyn defenses, and indicated the Gowanus Heights were the best place to dig in and try to stop any advance from that direction. “The western side, ours, is gently sloped and long, while anyone approaching from the interior of Long Island which they will, of course, will have to try to force a steep slope heavily wooded. The terrain favors the defense, General.”
Washington nodded, poring over the map and noting Casca’s marks. His adjutants did likewise, making mental notes, ready for a reply to any question their commander may fire in their direction. “Very good, Captain, but at present I’m not sure whether the enemy will land there, or sail up the Hudson and land on Manhattan itself, or even here,” and pointed to the interior beyond Manhattan, “close to the White Plains. We haven’t the men to be everywhere at once in sufficient strength to deal with a determined landing, and my information is that Howe is amassing anything up to 35,000 men.”
“That’s an exaggeration, surely, sir,” Casca looked in surprise at the general.
“A possibility, yes, but the word is that King George has called upon his German allies to supplement his own forces, and there are German forces now with Howe.”
“Which German states, sir?” Casca asked sharply, causing Washington to look at him in surprise.
“Why do you ask, Captain?”
“Ah, I, ah, served with the Prussians in the European war a few years back and wouldn’t wish to face them in battle.”
“Rest assured, Captain, Prussia is not interested in our little war. They told the king to keep his war. I believe they are still sore at Britain’s callous abandonment of Prussia during that campaign once she had acquired what victories they wished for in India and the Americas. No, instead they have contingents from…. where from, Richard?” he asked one of his aides, standing just behind the seated general.
“Hesse and Brunswick, mostly, general.”
“There you are, Captain, so fear not about your former friends.”
Casca looked relieved, but not because he feared the Prussians, it was because he didn’t want the possibility of coming face to face with any of those he had befriended or served with over fifteen years ago. They would wonder why he showed no sign of aging. He didn’t want to go through all that again. It did get wearing with the centuries, and he didn’t want to have to move on until it was absolutely necessary. Besides, it was getting harder to settle into a new land these days; things were more organized and communications were improving all the time. Now there were customs and immigration officers springing up everywhere. Gone were the days you could just get on horseback and ride to a new place and settle in with no questions asked.
Casca was dismissed from the general’s presence with thanks for his hard work. He wondered whether Washington would take his recommendations seriously. Not that Casca regarded himself as an ‘expert’ in fortifications by any means, but centuries of experience had given him knowledge that transcended any qualification someone may wave at generals just to impress them.
The big change had been because of gunpowder; now forts were built with a glacis, a sloped ground leading up to lower and thicker walls designed to deflect cannon balls up and o
ver the actual buildings. There were star-shaped defenses and lots of money went into constructing them, but guns were constantly being improved as was the gunpowder, and it was a race to develop better defenses, rather like in the good old days of swords and armor. The English had the great bow, which had scared the pants off the French and Scots, and so armorers in those days did their best to design and make better and better plate armor, with ridges, increased thickness, and strengthened steel.
It was all for naught as the English bowman could still kill at half a mile with this weapon, and his personal memory of Agincourt came back to him with the French struggling uphill into a hail of arrows, staggering under the appalling storm to their deaths. Five thousand English and Welshmen loosing off death every five or six seconds, so that they could have three or four arrows in the air at any time.
Then someone had discovered you could train a man to use a gun in ten minutes rather than rely on twenty years to develop an effective bowman, and the days of the archer were numbered. Bows were still more accurate and had a longer range than muskets, but it was cheaper and easier this way, so no longer did you have ranks of Englishmen lining up to kill you at half a mile.
Damned good thing, too, seeing that the British were on their way to New York to argue possession with the rebels.
Casca had no illusions about holding onto it, if Washington’s estimates on the numbers available to the government forces were anything like the truth. Also the rude shock the British troops had been given at Boston would now have been taken on board and they would fully expect a real fight and ought to be prepared accordingly. Of course they might be led by idiots and morons and still think they were facing ignorant farmers and woodcutters. Casca didn’t think that would be the case, however.
He settled into his routine in patrolling the Brooklyn area. His superior officer, Major Harper, had set up his headquarters near Fort Stirling, a newly completed bastion named after Lord Stirling. Casca pulled a sour face. It had been just about the only meaningful contribution Lord Stirling had made before he’d been superseded by General Greene. Casca was part of Israel Putnam’s division and his forces were scattered across the southern tip of Manhattan Island and the shores to either side. Since Casca had helped to reconnoiter Long Island already, it was agreed to keep him there and to set up patrols.