by Tony Roberts
A few hours later, just as it was getting dark, they came for him and Casca got up, grumbling. He would learn his fate soon enough now.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There were five men standing in a group, and all turned to watch as Casca was escorted by the two guards into the hut. Harper was there, a smug expression on his face. Casca just wanted to wipe it off. A second man stepped forward to study him. It was General Israel Putnam, whom Casca recognized. White-haired, portly, and red-cheeked. He looked like a jolly fat uncle. Casca stood smartly to attention.
The other three were clearly staff officers of some note. Putnam stood with his hands behind his back. “So, Captain, I understand you’ve been guilty of some serious lack of discipline? We can’t have that, particularly when the enemy are about to do battle with us. What do you have to say in your defense?”
“Nothing, sir. I only took what action I deemed appropriate in the circumstances. General Sullivan will support me.”
“General Sullivan has been relieved of his duty as commander of forces on Long Island,” Putnam said. Casca flinched; it was like a dagger through his heart. The general noted his expression. “Indeed. General Washington decided that General Sullivan was not the best man for the job here and appointed me, as of this afternoon.”
“Then I have nothing to say, sir.”
Putnam sighed. “We need soldiers. Good soldiers preferably. But we cannot have men who disregard orders and their superiors. If we did then discipline would go to hell in a handcart in no time. I have little choice but to support Major Harper’s recommendation that you be relived of your commission.”
Casca said nothing, staring into infinity over Putnam’s shoulder.
Putnam wagged a finger at him. “You may wait outside under guard. I have to discuss certain matters with Major Harper here which are for his ears only.”
Casca was ushered out firmly and stood by the step next to the door, the two guards flanking him with bored expressions on their faces. They would much prefer to be doing something more interesting. After a few minutes Putnam and his three aides came out. Putnam took a good look around. “I hear you’ve been a busy man, making recommendations to my predecessors about the defenses here. Well don’t entertain such ideas with me. I have my own plans to defend this area and I won’t need your advice, Lonnergan. Now, I also hear you’re a pretty good soldier, and I have decided you’d be best employed as one.”
“General?”
Putnam smiled thinly. “Not as a rank-and-file soldier; I think you’d be excellent as a scout. Your skills could be best utilized in that manner. You will report directly to me. I want you to go and find out where the British are and how many are in each place. I must have some idea where they’re going to attack and with how many.”
The Eternal Mercenary puffed out his cheeks. Only a short while ago he was a captain. Now he was a mere scout with the rank of private. “Do I have a musket, sir?”
“And suitable equipment. Get kitted out at my depot back at Fort Greene.” Then the elderly general took Casca by the arm and led him away from the hut. He spoke in a low voice, his eyes kindly. “I think it better you keep clear of Major Harper, Lonnergan. I need people like you to fight and people like Harper to follow my orders. I can’t rely on Harper to do the right thing at the right time, but I do need a steady ship and the two of you arguing all the time won’t help any of us. I’m sorry it’s come to you losing your commission but in war promotions can come about just as easily. Keep on my right side, Lonnergan, and I’ll make sure you’re fine.”
“I just worry about the men, sir. I’ve trained them to fight the right way and I don’t like the prospect of them being led badly.”
“Leave your successor to me. I’ve given Major Harper plenty to do so he won’t have the time to worry about such things. Your men will be in good hands, believe me.”
Casca nodded. There wasn’t much he could do, in all honesty. He wanted to be able to do what he was best at; fighting. Harper was clearly intent on destroying him so the sooner he was away from the man the better. “Mind if I say goodbye to the men, sir?”
“Not at all. Go ahead. I’ll continue with my tour of the units so I’ll leave you to report to the depot, collect your equipment and start scouting. I’ll give you a note to the commissariat, hold on.” He beckoned one of his aides over and took a book from him, ripped out a page and scribbled on it with a quill, the ink being held by the aide. Clearly some sort of secretarial assistant, by the look of him. Casca took the note and passed by the camp to say his farewells.
The men and Lieutenant Wilson were disappointed to see Casca go and wished him well. Judging by their expressions Major Harper was going to have an awkward time. Good, a pox on him, Casca thought nastily. Now, freed from the shackles of responsibility, Casca felt much lighter in spirit. Perhaps Harper had done him a favor after all, the Eternal Mercenary mused as he made his way down the shaded track towards Fort Greene. Now he could get on with his personal vendetta against that bastard Sir Richard Eley.
Sir Richard was at that moment listening to the plan being outlined by his superior, Major-General James Grant. Their plan was to pin the American forces against their lines of defense and hook round the open end, the American left, and roll up their lines. If that failed, then a costly frontal assault would be the result, and after Boston none of the British wanted that.
Sir Richard’s men were part of the diversionary attack, to be launched against the enemy right close to the sea. Sir Richard was not pleased; he wanted to be in the group to make the break through. Still, there was opportunity – if the colonials broke then he and his men could run them down and slaughter them like the rabble they were.
They were to gather that evening and wait for the signal to attack on the morrow. No noise if at all possible. Sir Richard decided to write a letter as he got back to his tent. He sat and put his legs up on the foot stool and his servant pulled off the long leather boots. “Polish them well, Bradbury,” he ordered loftily, “I wish to look my best when leading the men into battle.”
“Very good, Sir Richard,” Bradbury bowed. “Your uniform will be brushed too and ready for you in the morning.”
“Good show, Bradbury. I wish to write to Lady Rose in Halifax. Prepare me writing paper and ink.”
Bradbury bowed again and fetched the items, then left to polish Sir Richard’s boots. The baronet eased off his jacket, finding it a little too warm in the August afternoon, and composed his letter in his white shirt and breeches. Now he was married to the heiress of the Maplin business, he could begin planning the untimely and unfortunate demise of Ebenezer Maplin, thus paving the way for him to take over the business empire.
But first a war must be won and a particularly loathsome man by the name of Lonnergan had to be taken care of. He decided he would ask Bradbury to sharpen his saber. A man of standing ought to take care of a lesser person with the sword. It was the only way to reinforce his position in society in the eyes of the lower classes. Teach the damned upstarts a lesson. Like most of his social class, he had taken plenty of lessons in fencing and was fairly adept at using his blade.
How he would think differently if he knew Lonnergan had been using a blade for seventeen centuries and had fought in the gladiatorial games in Rome was anyone’s guess, but perhaps in this instance ignorance was bliss.
* * *
Casca slid through the undergrowth, peering ahead in the gathering dark. Once more he was on his own, without a command. The last few hours seemed to go just how his life went. Up and down, up and down. One minute in charge of a body of men, the next the lowest of the low. He’d been a god, and a slave. Being busted down from captain was nothing in comparison. He grinned. Life could throw whatever it liked at him, he’d come through it all no matter what. He was still a soldier and that was what he loved.
He also would love to kill that stuffed shirt Sir Richard Eley. The next time he had the chance he would take it. Damn him and his marriage to R
ose; Rose would be a grieving widow for a day, then she could get on with her life and enjoy it away from the irritating swine. But first she would have to be found and rescued. Casca had the idea she would be drowning in the stuffy social circles of British officer’s wives.
A twig snapped ahead and he froze. Once again his mind was on other things and he nearly got his ass in a sling. Rebuking himself he cautiously lifted his head and saw a group of men crouched in the undergrowth, a few faint torches flickering amongst them. He held his breath in surprise. He’d stumbled upon a regiment, if he was any judge of numbers. And they weren’t out here enjoying the summer night air for nothing. It was an attack.
Sliding back slowly he retraced his route. If he made any noise he’d be caught and then he’d have no chance to alert the Americans up on the ridge behind him. He backtracked and cautiously slid into a ditch that ran along the side of the road that led up to the Heights and began crawling away from the waiting redcoat positions. He breathed shallowly, not wanting to make any undue noise, and slowly put more distance between him and the enemy.
But luck wasn’t on his side. A pair of boots suddenly appeared in front of him and a bayonet filled his vision. No American unit had those, except for a couple, and the boots were definitely British issue. Casca slowly raised his head and saw the dark shape of a British soldier standing above him. He could even make out the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. “Now what have we here?” the redcoat asked in an unmistakable Scots accent. “A snake in the grass?”
“Aw, shit,” Casca groaned softly.
The Scot chuckled. “Hey, Angus, I’ve got me one. Come here.”
Casca dropped his musket and sat up, glaring up at the soldier. A second shape came ambling over, weapon casually cradled in his arms. “What is it, Jock? Some queer beastie?”
“Aye,” Jock confirmed, keeping the point of his bayonet a few inches from Casca’s face. “A right queer one indeed. Right, Jimmy,” he said with some authority to Casca, “get up.”
“I’m not called Jimmy,” Casca growled, slowly getting to his feet.
“Oh, it speaks,” Angus said in mock surprise. “Perhaps an exhibit for the zoo?”
“Why don’t you fuck off?” Casca snapped.
“That’s nae way to speak tae us,” Jock growled. “Put ye hands on ye head and turn round.”
Casca went to put his hands up, then shot out his hands, knocking the musket aside and following up with a straight forearm blow to Jock’s jaw, sending his head snapping back with the force of the blow. Angus brought the muzzle of his musket up to aim at Casca but the Eternal Mercenary was already moving, half turning with one foot planted on the ground and swinging his other leg round and up, kicking the gun out of the surprised Scotsman’s hands. It went wheeling off into the night and Angus stood there gaping at his empty hands.
Wasting no time Casca slammed a fist into Angus’ gut and chopped hard down on his exposed neck, sending him crashing noisily to the ground. Jock was groaning, trying to get to his feet, and a few voices were enquiring about the commotion from the ranks of the nearby soldiers. Casca grabbed his musket and ran hard, not caring about staying quiet. Not for the first time he silently thanked the long dead Chinese sage Shiu Lao Tze for teaching him the moves of the Open Hand. It always surprised Europeans when he used it. Nobody had ever come across such moves before in this part of the world. There were advantages in living a long time.
Shouts came behind him and Casca kept on running, hoping nothing would trip him up. Whatever the unit was, it was posted almost at the foot of the ridge and had only a short distance to travel before it came into contact with the defenders. Casca wondered at there being no shots, and guessed the British didn’t want to give away their positions. They must be hoping that his word wouldn’t be believed.
He got to the climb and slowed, breathing hard. He looked around and saw nothing. There were lights here and there in the distance, but nothing that could be made out. The road up was a winding one and Casca made his way smartly up until a voice challenged him. Casca responded with the agreed password and he was quickly surrounded by soldiers. “Have a care,” Casca said urgently, “there’s an entire regiment of redcoats down there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they came up here at first light.”
“You joking?” one of the Americans asked.
“Go down yourself and find out if you don’t believe me. I only just got away.”
“How do we know you’re not a spy?” another asked suspiciously.
“I know the password. I’m working for General Putnam.”
The guards weren’t too sure but Casca didn’t look like a redcoat, so they did the next best thing and called the corporal to them who took Casca back to the unit headquarters at Cortelyou House. Casca insisted he be allowed to pass on a message to General Putnam and there was some delay before an irritable captain appeared, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What in the name of God is all this god damned noise?” he demanded, buttoning on his jacket.
“Captain,” Casca said patiently, “the British are massing for an attack down on the other side of the Heights and I need to get a message through to General Putnam.”
The captain wanted details, but once he’d heard enough, went into action. A message was quickly written and passed to the unit messenger who then vanished into the night. The captain regarded Casca grimly. “If what you say is right, then we’re in for a fight. What are your orders from your commanding officer?”
“That hasn’t been made clear,” Casca shrugged. “I’m a scout at present, and my job’s to bring to the general’s attention where the enemy is, and now I’ve done that, I’m at a loose end.”
“I could need every spare man,” the captain said. “How about attaching yourself here to us?”
“Why not, Captain?” Casca said. “But I could do with something to eat. I’m famished.”
The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. I’ll rustle up something for you. In the meantime I’ll alert the guard and double men on all road posts.”
Casca ate a hurried meal and then wandered out into the night. The stars were bright and the air warm and still. Still before the coming storm, probably. He cocked his head. “Is that shooting I hear?”
A guard came over, head tiled on one side. “You’re right – it’s coming from along the Heights – over by the Narrows Road. God! They’re coming!”
“Get everyone out of their beds,” Casca said quickly. He took a few steps along the road away from the house and listened again. Off along the ridge, closer to the sea, maybe a mile and a half away, someone was shooting. A night attack? Lots of men blundering around in the dark usually led to trouble. Friend could as easily shoot a friend as foe in the dark.
Men began gathering along the road, all staring into the night along the road towards the sound of firing. Then, abruptly, the sound ceased. “Sergeant,” the captain appeared, walking purposefully along the grass alongside the road. “Send a squad along the road towards the Red Lion Inn; it’s there I think the shooting is coming from. If they encounter anyone then they are to return here immediately.”
Casca raised his hand. “Sir, I know the road.”
The captain nodded. “Then lead the squad, but on no account get drawn into a fight.”
“Sir.”
Four men were volunteered by the sergeant and Casca led them along the Gowanus Road, skirting the woods and they began to smell the salt of the sea. They got as far as the point where the road ran almost along the coastline before they came upon a column of marching men. They were marching towards the ridge and it was soon learned that these were men of Lord Stirling’s command, sent by General Putnam to find out what was going on and to halt the British advance if there was indeed one.
More shooting erupted from ahead and the column broke up as men shouted orders. A sergeant saw them and demanded what in the name of hell they were doing there. Casca explained their orders, and the sergeant seemed to accept them. “We’ve
been told that an attack is going on ahead and we’re to stop it. Take care, they could be anywhere.”
Men dived off the road to left and right and vanished amongst the trees. Casca and the four others were left standing on their own. “What now?” one asked.
“We’ve been told to reach the Red Lion,” Casca replied, eyeing the now empty road, “so that’s what we’ll do. Best to load up first though, boys, just in case.”
The five loaded up, then they followed the unit up into the darkness of the woods. Here the starlight was blocked out and they found they had to rely on keeping to the road to make any progress. How the soldiers could find their way around the woods without any light was anyone’s guess. Casca would have bet that by morning a few would end up totally lost.
They could hear plenty of sound, though. Men blundering into each other and into trees, or falling down with a curse. A few torches were lit and the men made their way towards the nearest, glad to be able to see something at last. Casca and his men used the light to make their way up to the top of the ridge, and here they found the men of Lord Stirling’s command ready to fight. As Casca looked to move beyond them a lieutenant put out a hand. “No further, boys. The redcoats are coming. They’ve taken the Red Lion and the outposts and now we’re next. We’ll give them a fight they’ll remember!”
Casca stopped. “Thanks, Lieutenant.” He turned to the others. “Right, best get back to the House and tell the captain what’s going on. We’ve done what we’ve been asked to.”
The others muttered in agreement and they made their way back, but they’d got as far as the edge of the wood when all hell broke loose behind them. “Christ,” one of the men breathed, “sounds as if the entire army’s up there!”