by Tony Roberts
“Have the men hold their fire until the enemy’s across the river. No point in wasting ammunition.”
“Sir,” and he was gone.
A fire fight was developing off to the right and a couple of cannons were joining in, their deeper throaty roars adding to the lighter cracks of the musket discharges. Smoke billowed up from the fight, merging with the mist. He would have watched the fight develop if the figures coming at them from directly ahead hadn’t been there, but these were the ones he had to concentrate on.
These figures could be seen advancing through the fields towards the hill, the mist giving them a spectral aspect, wraiths coming at them from hell. It gave Casca the shivers. Too many times he’d had such dreams, dreams of those who’d died at his hands, or of those he’d loved who had gone to their graves, hundreds, perhaps a thousand years ago. They weren’t all pleasant ones, and many a morning he’d woken with sweat on his forehead and his heart pounding.
The colonel leaned forward against the hastily assembled palisade that formed the edge of the defenses on the prow of the hill and thumped the top. “Right, boys,” he said calmly but clearly, his voice carrying to all lined up to either side of him, grim but determined expressions on their faces. “Here they come. Get ready, but don’t fire until I give the command.”
Casca had a musket, a Charleville, and enough powder and lead balls for a sustained battle. He’d made sure of it. He looked left and right and nodded. “You heard the Colonel, guys. Stand steady and look to me. You’ll be fine.”
A few smiled sickly in return, and all began loading up, the ramrods rattling all along the line. The sound would have carried to the advancing soldiers below, surely. Off to the left, a cannon battery was loading up, the barrels being cranked down as low as they could go. The air was cold against the skin, and Casca’s breath billowed out in a white cloud ahead of him.
The hill was fairly steep and what vegetation that had been dotted along it had been removed, giving the defenders a clear field of fire. The advancing British troops had to cross the wide but shallow Bronx River, and Casca could now see that they were Hessians, garbed in blue coats with red facings and white jackets and pants, and knee-length black boots. On their heads they mostly wore high-peaked gold colored grenadier caps, which gave them an even taller appearance.
Casca had to admit they looked a magnificent sight as they began wading through the water, and the American skirmishers began to kneel in the waist-high grass of the meadow that lay in between the river and the hill, ready to shoot at the soldiers. The British sent in their own skirmishers ahead of the grenadiers to trade shots.
Casca finished loading and slid the barrel of his gun along the parapet and squinted down the sights, picking out a fairly big grenadier, clearly identifiable with his peaked cap with its gold colored frontage. Grenadiers were usually the bigger guys in the army. Casca had been one once, earlier that century before going to Jamaica when he’d gotten mixed up with Blackbeard and the lovely Michelle LeBeau and had enjoyed a brief fling with Katie Parnell.
Katie Parnell. The name popped unbidden into his mind, a sudden warm memory. Whatever had happened to her? Most likely she would be dead by now. He hoped she’d found a happy life after they’d parted.
The soldiers were still too far away to hit with any confidence, and Casca watched, fascinated, as the Hessians lifted their ammunition pouches up in one hand away from the water, carrying their muskets over their shoulders. The cannon off to the left opened up at them, showering the troops with canister shot, sending lead balls flying through the air. The watching Americans groaned in dismay as the artillery seemed to miss, but then a cheer went up as one of the colors fell, the pole it was hanging from shattered in the ensign’s hands, miraculously missing the man.
The skirmishers now traded shots, the Americans slowly giving ground, but their discharges ignited the dry grass and flames were soon springing up, the smoke adding to the confusion of the developing battle. Casca wet his lips and peered down the barrel. Still too far to guarantee a hit. He thought on Katie Parnell some more, remembering the way she’d made love to him. She had led, not him, and it had been one helluva experience.
The Hessians pressed on, their legs driving them up the steep grassy slope, on towards the American lines. Casca admired them, tough hard men, fighting for a foreign power, mercenaries like him. He felt an affinity for them as he waited for them to come into killing range. What did any of them fight for? An ideal? A flag? A king? Money? Glory? He sighed deeply and drew a long deliberate bead on a sword carrying officer, his tricorn dark in contrast with the shiny golden peaks of the grenadiers. He fought because that was what he did. Today he was fighting for an ideal, rather than a flag or a leader, although he’d done both in the past. Money, too, was a persuasive recruiter, but rarely did he consider glory reason enough to fight.
“Take careful aim,” he said to those on either side of him, and the feeling of men steeling themselves came over him almost like a wave. He could almost touch the air of determination, it was that strong. Here were men prepared to fight and kill for their beliefs. Idealism versus money. Who would win?
The colonel, armed only with sword, paused, judging the distance. Then he chopped the blade down dramatically. “Fire!” he shouted.
“Let them have it!” Casca added, and the hilltop erupted with smoke and the ear cringing crack of hundreds of barrels spewing lead balls at the advancing soldiers. Death spat down at the German soldiers, sending scores spinning or toppling to the ground, many rolling downhill with arms out flung, hindering those behind. The line shivered and paused, and men went down on one knee to load. Casca held his breath against the worst of the rotten egg smell of the black powder, then waved the smoke aside and peered at the man he’d shot at. The officer was hatless, on one knee, and clutching his side. Wounded.
“Reload!” Casca yelled. They wouldn’t be halted by one volley. Two more would do it. The rattling of ramrods filled the air and men fumbled with pounding hearts for the next paper charge. The cartridge case was flipped open, the paper grabbed, the top bitten off. Casca spat it out and poured most of the powder down the smoking barrel, then the ball followed. The ramrod went next, pounding the air out of the way and compacting powder and ball together, then the ramrod was slid back into its place. The Eternal Mercenary half-cocked the hammer, opening out the hole into the breech and poured the remainder of the powder into it, then fully cocked the hammer which caught with a click.
He brought the musket up to his shoulder and swiftly glanced left and right. The barrels were coming up raggedly, but most were up, a pleasing sight. Only a few were still being reloaded. He looked downhill and saw the Hessians had loaded too and were pressing on, trying to form a line under shrilly barked orders from their NCOs. Casca picked one of these men out, a corporal.
“Ready?” he called out. “Fire!”
Another air shattering volley echoed out from the top of Chatterton Hill and more Hessians staggered or fell face down, many writhing in agony. If they didn’t die from the shock of being hit, or from blood loss, then many would under the surgeon’s knife.
Casca’s target clutched his thigh and rolled onto his back. “Shit.” He peered at the sights of his musket and judged they were slightly out to the left. No time to adjust that now. “Reload!” he croaked, the powder having gotten into his mouth, leaving a foul taste. He spat some of it out but the taste remained. He’d need to drink after the battle.
The Hessians had now lined their guns up and blasted a volley out, but many of the balls went high, a few striking the palisade. One man close to Casca screamed and clutched his face before falling back to lie still. “Check him!” Casca pointed to a comrade of his close by. The man bent and placed a hand on his face, then turned round and shook his head, anger in his eyes. “Right – get back to killing them, lad.”
The man went back to his place and quickly reloaded. Another volley tore into the wavering Hessian lines and they were retrea
ting back down the hill, leaving at least fifty of their number behind. “Water!” Casca shouted. They’d be back pretty soon once their officers had gotten them rallied, and they’d be determined to avenge their friends’ lives.
A commissary boy came struggling past with a water bucket and Casca greedily grabbed the ladle and gulped the cool, welcome liquid into his throat, diluting the horrid taste of the black powder. The others crowded round to have a drink, then the water was gone, carrying onto the next unit. Casca pushed his hat back and took a long look downhill. The Hessians were milling around the banks of the Bronx River and were looking as if they were getting into some kind of order.
Once again Casca and the Delaware men lined themselves up against the parapet and readied themselves. If this was the enemy tactic then this would be like a duck shoot. Mindful of the lesson he’d experienced at Boston, Casca asked the men if their ammunition was plentiful. All nodded, their faces blackened, and they silently set to reloading and prepared for the second round of the battle.
It came soon enough. This time the British had brought up some artillery that began blasting away, but their target was off to the right, where the militia were, so Casca breathed a sigh of relief and got ready to take on the Hessians who were massing at the foot of the hill in bigger units. It looked like they were going to use sheer weight of numbers to drive them off the hill. He quickly counted the figures moving towards the river, and he guessed that there were around three to four thousand of them.
“Plenty to shoot at, boys,” Casca called out, “aim low, take as many of them out as you can. Reload quick; you’ll need to hit them hard and fast.”
The men grunted and aimed a touch lower. The Hessians roared and began their climb, drums and fifes accompanying their efforts. Bullets spat past the parapet and the Eternal Mercenary ducked as one cracked narrowly past his head. Then he drew a deliberate aim at a sergeant, and moved the barrel slightly to the left. The order to fire came and the volley shredded into the leading elements of the German troops, toppling more men to the bloodied slope. Casca’s target folded over, clutching his stomach, and lay where he’d fallen.
As he reloaded, Casca glanced downhill. “Get down, boys!” he shouted. Some of his men, startled, ducked in time just as a ferocious hail of shot tore into the palisade, sending chunks flying backwards to splatter onto the backs of the cowering men, but one or two took bullets in their chests or throats, sending showers of blood spattering onto the ground.
Cursing loudly, Casca got to his feet and aimed downhill. A Hessian soldier was climbing hard towards the top. Casca didn’t really have to aim that accurately. His shot took the man clean through the sternum and he was sent backwards, arms out flung, his musket wheeling lazily through the air. More shots spat past, and Casca reckoned they had mixed up their skirmishers with the line infantry with orders to pick off anyone who showed their heads.
“Independent fire!” he yelled, reloading.
The men grinned. This is what they were best at, picking off a target at their own pace. The Hessian soldiers staggered on bravely up the hill, but the deadly shooting of the defenders was taking a heavy toll on them. Casca knew they were brave and determined, but they hadn’t got close yet and it looked like this attack would wither away. Suddenly shouts rose up from the right and a mass of men came running towards them in a disordered line. “What?” Casca took a couple of steps to the rear and recognized them as the militia who were supposed to be holding the flank. Men ran through the ranks of the regulars, knocking a few aside in their haste. Casca grabbed one by the throat and pinned him against the parapet. “What the hell’s going on? Why are you all running?”
“We’ve been flanked!” the man shouted, his eyes wild. “The British have gotten round the rear!”
Casca cursed and released the man who scuttled off, leaving his musket lying in the ditch. The men were looking alarmed and edging backwards, the rate of fire dropping towards the wavering Hessians. “Stand fast!” Casca yelled, swinging left and right, watching to see if anyone was about to follow the routing irregulars. The colonel came running towards Casca. “Get your men out of here now, Captain,” he snapped, “the British have gotten onto the hill further back there and are going to roll us all up unless we move now!”
“Sir.” Casca waved at his anxious men. “Walk! Don’t run! Face the enemy, walk backwards! Form two lines!”
The men shuffled into two lines and began moving back away from the palisade, just as the Hessians reached the summit and began tearing the improvised barricades apart, anger on their faces. They wanted to get even for the losses they’d suffered on the way up. Casca swung his musket round and picked out one particularly burly man who was shredding the barricade close to him and sent the shot into his chest, pitching the man backwards. When the smoke cleared all that could be seen of him were his legs kicking spasmodically in the air in the man’s death throes.
More men came past, eyes showing the concern they felt, and shots were now coming from the right. The net was closing and only to the rear were there no shots. The other units were forming up at the summit along the road than ran west to east and down the hill to the bridge that crossed the Bronx River, and that was where the men were now being funneled, pressed by the Hessians to the left and the flanking British to the right. There was no support fire from the other American positions as Chatterton Hill was too isolated and the vulnerability of the position was now all too apparent.
Casca threw his musket aside and dragged out his saber. If there was to be any close quarter fighting then this was what he would use. He was much more at ease with it anyway. “Stand!” he snapped, seeing the Hessians gathering to open fire.
The two lines stopped and on his command leveled their muskets. “Both ranks, fire!”
The ear-splitting crack echoed out over the slopes and a huge cloud of discharged powder rose from the ranks. When it blew away the Hessian unit was gone, and all that remained were bodies or men slowly falling to the ground. The rest of the Hessians were now crouching behind the palisade and taking aim at the retreating Americans. One of Casca’s men suddenly screamed and span round, his chest a red smear, and crashed to the ground. Casca ran to him and turned him over. Wide open eyes and a white face tinged with black powder burns, but death came in many guises and Casca knew most of them intimately. One more casualty to record. He got to his feet. “Back, back!”
The Americans backed away, pursed by desultory shots from the Hessians, but nobody came after them. Losses had been too heavy for any pursuit. Two more of the retreating unit were hit, one of them through the head, the other through the shoulder. The wounded man was dragged back with the rest, the dead man left where he’d fallen.
Other units were shooting away at the flanking British, keeping them at arm’s length, and Casca and his men made their way downhill without any further incident to the bridge. The regimental commander was there with the rest of the regiment, and satisfied all were there who had survived the fight, ordered them across the bridge and to the rear of the soldiers guarding the bridge. Here there were plenty of men with cannons and if the British wanted to get over the river at this point, they’d have a big fight on their hands. There was also support here from neighboring units. The only disadvantage was that they were on low ground, dominated by the now lost Chatterton Hill. The British could post their artillery up on it and shoot down at anyone at their leisure. Casca couldn’t see how they could hold this position, and hoped Washington would see sense and get them out of there back to the second line of defenses a couple of miles further north.
* * *
Sir Richard Eley tapped his boots with his baton, watching as the Americans retreated from the hill. He was not in the front line of units, and chafed impatiently at being given the chance of coming to Howe’s notice. Promotion was another way of getting rich. The opportunities of higher rank were boundless, and war always accelerated promotions. Who knew when the next war would come? He would have to take
his chances as soon as possible. Trouble was, it needed fools above him to get killed and for him to prove himself in order to be considered. His colonel was an elderly, unimaginative clod more interested in the men looking like parade peacocks rather than fighting and winning battles.
His adjutant, a lean tall man with dark curly hair, noted Sir Richard’s irritated demeanor. “Sir, perhaps they’ll allow us to lead the next attack?”
Sir Richard snorted without amusement. “That is doubtful, Captain Harrington.” Unlike many of the officers, he refused to address his fellows by their first name. To him, they were still beneath him since he was titled and most of them were not. If he came across one who was titled he deferred to them according to their rank of nobility, rather than their military rank. To him, the army was a hobby. The serious issue was who was what title. Breeding was important, and no matter he had married the daughter of a commoner, she had one use only and that was to provide him with an heir and to carry on the lineage. Rose was now Baroness Eley of Sandwell and therefore would be treated as nobility. In time she’d learn to conduct herself accordingly, even if he had to take the rod to her. One can always train animals to behave, so to train humans ought to be simple. And even if they proved unable to learn, they could be broken.
She ought to be arriving in New York within the month and he could then get around to impregnating her, and to arrange a fatal accident to her father so he could inherit the lucrative business they had set up. The army would be supplied from the import business and after that, who knows? Perhaps the rest of New York could be dominated. Someone would need to run the city and the state, and why not him? He might be rich and powerful enough to come to the notice of King George eventually, and if that happened, who knew how far he could rise in society? He could eventually return to Britain and take up residence in London.
But for now he had to take care of matters in the Americas. “Captain Harrington, stand the men down. The colonials have run away yet again.”