by Tony Roberts
“Not in the slightest, Major,” Lowe said coolly. “I wanted to see you speak when Sir Richard was mentioned. It confirmed my suspicions. You hate him therefore you are prejudiced, and as such are not capable of making an objective decision. I therefore conclude that only I am capable of deciding and I recommend Sir Richard is informed. I shall write to him today.”
“Christ!” Casca exploded. “How can you bear such a pompous prig?” he said to Katherine. He stood up, facing a furious Lowe. “You bloody fool, you’ll bring nothing but trouble to this household.”
“Get out,” Lowe said in a strained voice. “You are no longer welcome here.”
“What about Miss Kelly here? If she’s a friend of the family then maybe she’s entitled to an opinion on this?”
“She hates the British and therefore is prejudiced,” Lowe said brusquely. “Now get out before I have you thrown out. Katherine, I forbid you to see this man again, or to speak to him.”
“Fuck off,” Casca snapped, then bowed to the women. “Sorry about that ladies, but he deserved it.” He got a look at Claire who was holding her sides in mirth. Katherine looked horrified and Rose was bursting into tears.
“If you set foot in this house ever again, Major, I shall see to it that you are disgraced and arrested. You can count on that.” Lowe’s voice was as frosty as his face was thunderous.
“I’d hate to be anywhere near you, Lowe. I don’t know who’s worse; you or that idiot Sir Richard. All I’ll say is that you won’t be able to talk your way out of whatever fix you’re getting yourself into. I’ll help you, Rose, and you, Katherine, from whatever mess he’s getting you into, but I won’t lift a finger to help you, Lowe. I really don’t know what Katherine sees in you, but that’s her business and not mine.” He put his hat back on. “Seems I wasted my time coming here. Ladies,” he bowed and left the room, seething. Pity Katherine and the other women were in the room or he’d’ve laid Lowe out.
He was shown out by the butler and stood on the steps awaiting his horse. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Claire. “Evening, Miss Kelly. Leaving as well?”
Claire grinned and slipped her hand through his arm. “Ye showed that eejit, didn’t ye?”
“Didn’t do any good; I’m worried it’s harmed my friendship with Rose and Katherine.”
Claire waved a languid hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that! Rose agrees with ye, so she does. Katherine’s stuck with him – she hasn’t a choice, has she? Without Lowe she’d be out on the streets. And a social woman like her needs his money to get by.”
“So what’s your story, then, Miss Kelly?”
“Call me Claire. Simple enough; dirt poor in Armagh. Told about starting a new life in America so I get money by selling poteen to the locals.”
Casca frowned. “Excuse me? Poteen?”
“Hah! Ye’d never pass as an Irishman. Poteen.” She pronounced it as ‘pocheen’. “Home-made liquor. Knocks over a bull, it’s that strong. The Brits have declared it illegal, so we make more of it than ever.”
“Sounds interesting,” Casca grinned. “So when did you get to America?”
“A few years ago. Found a husband – a rich man. He died.” Claire frowned for a moment. “Stupid accident – a machine thingy at his factory broke and killed him. Since then I’ve not done much, but socialize which is how I met Rose and Katherine.”
Casca grunted. His horse was brought to him. Claire sighed. “Beautiful animal. Is it yours?”
“No – it’s a fellow officer’s. I’m borrowing him. Know of a place for me to stay the night? I’m going to have to ride back to the army tomorrow.”
“Ye can stay at my place.” Claire saw his look and wagged her finger. “In a guest bedroom. I’m not that sort of girl, Major! Ye army people are all loin and no brain.”
Casca chuckled. He liked her. “Don’t worry, Claire, I’m not looking to seduce you. I was more concerned for your reputation.”
“That’s good of ye. Let me ride this beautiful animal to my place and I’ll cook ye a good Irish meal for supper.”
“Sounds a fair deal,” Casca said, and they left the grounds together.
* * *
Casca returned to the army, now camped at a place called Middlebrook, up on high ground so that Washington could keep a watchful eye on what the British did, and waited through the late spring and early summer as rumors and counter-rumors ran back and forth through the units. When would Howe make his move? A few scares had them marching back and forth across the countryside and all they got were blisters, worn uniforms and frayed tempers. No doubt time would tell as to where the British would make their move. Rumors were that the British may even sail south to the Carolinas. The Eternal Mercenary spent the time drilling and training his men, thanking whatever had caused Howe to delay his move. The more time he had to train his men, the better chance they had to take the regulars on. And when the time came, he was sure that the British would get a tough fight.
CHAPTER TWO
Casca and the army got the fight they had been waiting for eventually. The spies and messengers who regularly visited the camp informed Washington of General Howe’s movements. Early in June the shocking news came that Howe had crossed over from Staten Island to the New Jersey side, setting up a supply depot at a place called Perth Amboy, some miles to the south. The word passed down through the ranks that Howe had advanced to an area that favored the British tactics, hoping to draw Washington out onto open land so he could crush the Americans, but Washington was too canny to fall for that one.
Finally news came that Howe had given up trying to entice the Americans down from their perch and retreated back towards Perth Amboy. It was then that orders came to advance slowly, shadowing the retreating British. Casca and his men were part of Lord Stirling’s advance detachment that marched towards a small place called Woodbridge.
They numbered around 2,500 and before them the terrain sloped downwards, a collection of woodland and heavy scrub covering much of the land. Off to the left Casca could see the stretch of water that separated New Jersey from Staten Island. Somewhere behind them the rest of the army followed.
As the day came to a close, orders came to pitch camp. Casca looked over the terrain. There was a long, narrow rise that the brigade commander, Maxwell, had chosen. The road ran up and over it and down the far side. Further on there were two smaller hills next to each other, that the road ran in between, then vanished into the woodland. Casca’s immediate superior, Colonel Greystock, pointed out to him where to pitch camp for his men. Casca saluted and waved Captain Soderling and Lieutenant Connors to follow him. “Make sure there are pickets set up and a ditch dug around us.”
“But, sir,” Connors protested, “the men are tuckered out after today’s march.”
“I don’t want any slackness here, Lieutenant. They can rest once the ditch is dug. It’ll take them thirty minutes. They’ve all got iron spades, so start organizing them.”
“Sir,” Connors saluted and moved off, sighing.
“You’re being careful, sir.” Soderling was strictly neutral.
Casca clapped the man on the shoulder. “Captain, I’ve had plenty of experience in warfare and believe me, you wouldn’t credit the number of times a unit of mine has been saved at night because they built a camp properly.” He left Soderling to organize the pitching of the tents and stood at the edge of the hill, peering ahead into the woodland. The warmth of the summer rose from the land, bathing him, and the setting sun off to the west cast a golden glow on the scene. His eyes though were not seeing what lay before him, but rather of a time long gone, when he was part of the mighty Roman war machine, digging camps under the baleful eyes of his centurion. Any slacker or defaulter would have been whipped. It was common sense to erect a proper camp, as on many occasions it had saved them from a gruesome fate at night.
It was habit that he continued to insist on a proper perimeter being set for his units; no matter how many years had passed, he always made sure
that there was something dug and erected between his sleeping men and the outside world.
He was vindicated the following morning when shouts woke him just before dawn. Grabbing his jacket and pulling on his boots, he fumbled for his saber, lurched out of his tent and focused his eyes blearily on the cauldron of men stumbling out of their bivouacs. “Report!” he roared, hoping someone would have the sense to inform him what was going on.
“Sir!” a picket snapped smartly to attention before him. “The British are approaching from the south. Two columns, sir.”
“Very good. Go to your unit, Private.”
The soldier saluted and ran off, clutching his hat. Blazing torches were showing the men which way to go, and Casca shouted for his messenger and orderly to report to him immediately. He buttoned up his jacket as he walked towards the edge of the camp and watched with satisfaction as the New Jersey men got into two ranks, their bayonetted muskets at the ready. This was more like it, not like the previous year when they had virtually no bayonets!
Soderling and Connors arrived, Soderling cautious and sober while Connors was breathless with anticipation. “Numbers of the enemy, Captain?”
“Sir, it would appear General Howe is throwing the full weight of his army against us.”
“Is he, by God?” Casca replied, thinking furiously. Howe must have gotten good intelligence about the American movement, for he must have immediately decided to have a go at Lord Stirling’s exposed 2,500 men to have got here this early. It was a risky but acceptable move – destroy the advance guard of Washington’s army and you would secure a strategic victory. Casca looked ahead, to where the two small hills in front of them were seething with men. That was where the riflemen had camped and were now rushing to shoot at the as yet unseen British forces moving through the woods and along the road.
Casca looked along the line of men. Beyond his unit, three cannon were being wheeled into position, and the growing light of the new day showed more men beyond the guns lining up. Stirling was not going to be caught with his pants down.
“Sir, will we stand?” Connors asked, his eyes wide.
“Lieutenant, the British probably have got around three to four times our number. We hold this hill, but we can easily be outflanked. If it looks like they’ll do that, then we’ll have no option but to withdraw.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. That may mean to withdraw under fire, one of the most difficult maneuvers anyone could achieve. How would the new soldiers of his command cope with that? Could Lord Stirling manage that?
“Orderly,” Casca turned to a thin, worried looking man to his left. “My compliments to Lord Stirling. Inform him we are ready. Ask if he would be so kind as to provide me with an estimate of the British forces, their leaders and their dispositions.”
“Sir,” the orderly saluted and scribbled a message down, tore off the top sheet and passed it to the messenger who ran off into the distance.
The growing light now was enough for the torches to be extinguished and Casca thumped his chest, belched and began walking up and down in between the two lines of men. “Stay calm, you’re part of the best army in the thirteen colonies. General Washington’s eyes will be upon us all, so show him that you New Jersey boys can stand and fight. Wait on my command.”
There was not much else to do for the moment. He was hungry. Damned thoughtless of Howe to make his move before breakfast. No matter, like many men, he fought better on an empty stomach. Lack of food made him more bad tempered.
From the smaller hills ahead shots were now audible, and the gun smoke visible. Whatever was going on over there was hotting up, and the men alongside Casca began fidgeting nervously. Just then Lord Stirling came ambling up, accompanied by his staff, inspecting the units.
“Ah, the complimentary Major Lonnergan,” Stirling said gruffly. But there was a twinkle in his eye.
Casca grinned and saluted. “Sir. Any idea as to their strength?”
“Aye indeed. Two full columns of regulars, numbering about eleven thousand men. Lord Cornwallis is directly ahead of us and it is his men trading shots with Ottenden’s rifles there. I’m reliably informed that Howe is marching up through the woods off to the right along the road parallel to this one. We could very well be outflanked. If that looks like happening we’ll withdraw. I’ve sent word back to General Washington so he’ll be fully prepared if the British do break through here.”
“A delaying action, then, sir?”
“Correct, Major.” Stirling ambled forward and examined the ditch in front of him and the newly erected stake palisade. “Good work, Major.”
Casca saluted as Stirling made to walk off to the three guns. “Thank you, sir.”
Lieutenant Connors looked at the ditch and palisade with renewed interest. “Seems you were right, sir.”
“Lieutenant, I hope that you’ll be around me long enough to learn that whatever I do is for a good purpose. Now make sure we have sufficient supplies of ammunition and water.”
“Water, sir?”
Casca sighed. Exerting patience, he faced the young officer squarely. “Mister Connors, this is going to be your first battle. In battle, men work up a thirst like no other. It’s going to be hot work. Please arrange water to be available to the men when there’s an opportunity to take a drink.”
“Yes sir!” Connors saluted and scuttled off.
Soderling smiled briefly. “He’s young, sir. Good man, though.”
“Yes I agree, Captain. Now, let’s see what comes our way.”
The battle before them soon ended, with the outnumbered American riflemen streaming away from their positions. Some were limping, others had blood trickling down their faces. One of their junior officers saw Casca and saluted. “Sir, Hessian Jagers and Grenadiers coming your way.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Go get some water.”
Casca looked down the road and saw a line of blue and scarlet advancing. Far too many men for them to hope to hold. “Front line, present,” he said calmly.
The woods would make shooting that much more difficult. The front line of the New Jerseymen aimed at the Hessians who were slowly making their way through the trees and not foolishly marching in a straight line closely packed. Another few moments and they’d be within range……
Guns boomed from the hills just taken and shot crashed into the palisade further to the right where the American cannon were. The three guns shot back, smoke drifting up into the air. The sound made Casca’s eardrums cringe. One more glance ahead. “Fire!”
The air split apart with the crack of the volley and white smoke billowed up. The rotten egg smell of discharged black powder filled the senses. Casca hefted his own musket and watched as the enemy skipped from tree to tree, kneeling for a moment to discharge their firearm, then dodge and weave on some more. The volley fire from the New Jersey men had hit a couple but it hadn’t caused as much damage as he’d hoped.
Now shots were coming back their way. One man cried out and fell, blood staining his shoulder. “Get him out of here,” Casca snapped, and waved the men to take cover behind the flimsy looking palisade. No point in standing like parade soldiers; that would only get you shot. Casca loaded and knelt on the left hand end of the first rank.
More Hessians were trickling forward, shooting up at the men on the hill. Fortunately the angle of their shots went high most of the time, or struck the palisade. The cannons to the right boomed, their barrels depressed as low as they could go, but by the looks of things they were shooting high, too.
“I see Dragoons, sir,” Soderling commented, peering downhill, then ducking as a shot spat narrowly past his head.
Casca followed Soderling’s glance and saw vague shapes of horsemen moving through the undergrowth. Damn! That made a withdrawal that much more tricky. He turned and looked at Colonel Greystock. The order to retreat would come from him. “Keep shooting, boys,” the scarred warrior said. He had no illusions about them being able to hit many; it was just to keep their heads down and at arms’ len
gth.
A messenger came towards him, at a crouched run. “Colonel Greystock’s compliments, Major,” he said, “you are to effect a fighting withdrawal. Keep the enemy from closing on the rest of the regiment.”
“Very well, son.” Casca grumbled under his breath. Why them? “Boys, give them a volley, front rank, then run back to the rear of the hill. Rear rank, get ready to do the same on my command. Captain Soderling, you go with the front rank. Lieutenant, stay with me.”
He judged the moment, then nodded to the captain. Soderling gave the command and a volley crashed out. The front rank turned and slipped through the second rank, then pounded as hard as they could across the camp to the ditch on the far side.
Casca knelt and brought his musket up to his shoulder, aware that the second rank were now alongside him. “When I shoot, do likewise,” he said.
He got the feeling from the others of intent as they crouched behind the makeshift barrier. All before them the terrain was seemingly coming alive as Hessians and British soldiers came at them through the woods. Puffs of smoke punctuated the green and brown of the scenery, and the flat crack! of shots drowned out any other noise.
At any greater distance than a hundred yards it was useless to try to hit anything with their muskets, so he waited, aware that one or two of the men around him were trembling with impatience and tension. “Easy,” he said calmly and deeply. “Wait…”
The line of blue coated Hessians reached the bottom of the hill, many of them reloading. They weren’t hopeful of hitting anything, just hoping to keep the heads of the defenders down. One or two shots came close, their passage shattering the air around Casca’s ears, and he ducked involuntarily. One shot splintered the wood of the barricade and chips spun up and past his head. A spinning piece scored a line across his face, causing it to bleed.
He wiped the blood away sharply and drew a bead on a corporal who was waving his men on. “Now!” he shouted and squeezed his trigger. The butt kicked into his shoulder and smoke poured out of the barrel and pan, blinding him for a moment. Waving the smoke aside impatiently he peered down the slope. Three had been hit, including the man he’d aimed at, who was sinking down to his knees clutching his stomach. Casca had deliberately aimed low.