by Tony Roberts
Two guards stood to attention just behind Casca, smart and correct, but looked as though they knew what to do with their bayoneted muskets. Casca stood in his stained and soiled uniform, three day stubble and bruised face.
“Major Lonnergan,” the brigade-general began, looking up at him severely, his wig contrasting with his mahogany colored face. Clearly the man had spent plenty of time in the sun outdoors. “Fifth New Jersey regiment, Continental Army.”
“Correct, General.”
The British officer looked at Casca for a long moment, trying to give him an intimidating look, but this scruffy rebel wasn’t showing any sign of being overawed; in fact he was smiling in a way the brigade-general didn’t care too much for. “We have on record your word of parole from a Captain Addington. However I’m not convinced that you will refrain from trying to escape. I have here a letter from a man who knows you, Major.”
Casca had a sudden sinking feeling. “Who, General?”
“A Major Sir Richard Eley. In fact,” and the officer scanned the sheet in his hand, frowning severely, “he accuses you of a series of offenses, ranging from kidnapping to espionage. It would appear you are something of a nefarious character, Major.”
Casca smiled without humor and glanced out of the window. The view was of a garden and he caught sight of a bush-like tree growing with small leaves and white flowers. A memory tugged at the corner of his mind. Myrtle. He recalled wistfully that the Romans often used the flowers at weddings. The Romans. He was a Roman, he remembered sadly, and had outlived their empire, and the empires that had followed. He would probably outlive Britain.
“Something funny about that, Major?” the brigade-general’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“No – just an old memory.” What did this all matter? They would end up dust in the ground and he would carry on as before. It was just that he had to get his hands around Sir Richard Eley’s neck and strangle the life out of him. And rescue Rose once more from him.
“Hmph! Sir Richard is insistent that you be turned over to him.”
Casca pulled a face. How did that slug learn that he was here? Probably luck – he may well have seen him being escorted off the ship or seen his name on the list of prisoners. Sir Richard probably read the list as a matter of course. “He and I are not the best of friends, sir.”
“So it would seem. Do you have anyone willing to raise a sum for your release?”
“No sir.”
“As I thought,” the brigade-general pulled an expression of distaste. “No doubt you are a commoner raised to the rank of Major.”
“You’re right, there, General. I started as a sergeant.”
“What is the world coming to?” the brigade-general asked in disgust. “You can’t expect to get anywhere by raising the rabble to command!”
“Genghis Khan did,” Casca said before he could stop himself.
“Who? Genghis Khan? What the devil has he got to do with this war? He lived hundreds of years ago. Don’t be so damned impertinent, Major.”
You can’t argue with ignorance, Casca thought to himself and stared at the white wall behind the three seated men.
“Very well,” the British officer said heavily. “It would seem you have little value to us, either in financial terms or in intelligence. We shall place you in a holding house and see if your precious army is willing to exchange you for one of our officers they are holding at present. I’m afraid if nothing happens in three months I shall recommend you are turned over to Sir Richard’s keeping. He’s willing to pay for it, so he says, so who am I to argue? Rather that than the prison hulks along the East River.”
Casca was escorted out and led to a large house heavily guarded and barred, a virtual prison, but run with a degree of comfort and civility. Most of the men there were officers like himself, and all were confident of being exchanged or having someone pay for their release.
Over the next few weeks a few of the prisoners were indeed released and they never returned, but Casca knew deep down that his fate was already sealed. And so it came to pass, one day in October. The British guards led him out of the building to the same house he’d been questioned in, and this time instead of three men behind a desk, there were two officers in a different room, both sharing a drink and a chat. They turned at his entrance and Casca’s heart sank. One was indeed Sir Richard Eley.
“Ah,” he said, a predatory smile on his face. “At last. You look like a hobo, Lonnergan.”
“Major Lonnergan you windbag,” Casca snapped.
Sir Richard waved a lazy hand, “whatever. Lonnergan will suffice. I simply cannot be bothered to address you with your ludicrous and unmerited rank. I think I’ll take this rogue off your hands, Peregrine. Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll speak to Lord North about your kindness when I’m next in London.”
The other officer, a colonel, bowed in reply. “Thank you, Sir Richard, you’re too kind. Now, just a matter of signing this note agreeing to take Major Lonnergan off the army’s hands….”
And the two put their signatures on a yellowed parchment document which the colonel sealed theatrically and passed to a clerk hovering by his right elbow. The clerk vanished out of a second door. The two British officers shook hands and the colonel followed after the clerk, leaving Sir Richard with Casca and three armed guards.
“Lonnergan, meet Corporal McGinnes.”
Casca half turned to look at the chevron-wearing man to his left and got a blinding blow from a musket butt in the kidneys. Casca sank to his knees, the breath knocked out of him, shafts of pain coursing through his body. As he lay there on his hands and knees, trying to ride the waves of agony, he heard Sir Richard’s voice above him. “Now, now, Corporal McGinnes, that’s no way to become acquainted with Lonnergan.”
He wished all kinds of pain and ultimate death on the British officer, and his men, but for the moment he was powerless to do anything of the sort. Hands roughly hauled him up to his feet, the effort of which elicited a grunt of pain from the scarred eternal mercenary.
“I do believe you hurt him, Corporal,” Sir Richard said with disdain.
“Yes, sah,” McGinnes said in the neutral way that those of lesser ranks did to their superiors.
“Let’s hope it’s nothing trivial,” Sir Richard smiled.
Casca growled through the subsiding pain. “You’ll regret doing that.”
“Teach him manners, sah?”
Sir Richard regarded Casca for a moment, the way someone did an insect that momentarily attracted their attention. “No, Corporal, I wish for him to be able to walk out of this building. If he were incapacitated, there may be some whining Whig here that might become ridiculously distressed and make an unwelcome fuss. Time for issuing corrective punishment later. For now let us leave here and make our way to my mansion.”
“Sah!” McGinnes snapped smartly to attention, then waved at the two guards to closely escort Casca out of the building. Casca was firmly of the opinion that should Sir Richard order McGinnes to shit on the spot – he would.
With the baronet taking up the rear and McGinnes leading the way, they left the army headquarters and made their way down the streets of New York to a large house on the corner of two streets. Unbeknown to Casca, this had been the house that Pete Courtney had been to and had rescued Rose from, just before Sir Richard had killed him in cold blood on the banks of the Hudson in front of Casca’s eyes.
The two guards stood with bayonets pressing into Casca’s back while Sir Richard made himself comfortable in the study. He called for Rose to come to him and sat waiting in his upholstered chair, smiling wickedly. Casca looked about the room and wasn’t surprised at the décor. Typical upper class modern tastes. Pictures of hunting scenes, one of King George, a couple of unidentifiable persons. Wedgewood china, brandy decanters. A rich rug covering a fair portion of the huge floor space.
The door opened inwards and Rose appeared. She gasped at the sight of Casca standing there, dirty, unshaven, disheveled.
“Hello, Rose,” he smiled.
“Oh my God! Cass – Case, I mean! What are you doing here?”
“A guest of your loving husband,” Casca said ironically.
“Oh God – are you hurt?” Rose came up close to Casca, her eyes wide and shocked.
“Oh, how very, very touching,” Sir Richard said heavily. “A blessed reunion. But this time no abduction. I wanted you to see this rogue one last time before I send him to his final resting place.”
Rose turned in horror to her husband. “You’re not going to kill him!”
“I won’t need to,” the baronet smirked. “He’s going to a place that will do the job admirably for me. One of the prison hulks along the East River.”
“You can’t!” Rose said in dismay. “I’ve heard those places are deathtraps! Please, Richard, don’t!”
Sir Richard raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Oh? You are begging me, Rose?”
Rose nodded dumbly. “Please – I-I’ll be a good wife to you if you promise not to send him there.”
Sir Richard pursed his lips. “You promise that? Obedience, absolutely?”
Rose swallowed, hung her head and nodded. Casca sighed. “No, Rose, don’t be dumb – he’s as trustworthy as a scorpion with hemorrhoids.”
Sir Richard clicked his fingers, scowling. A musket butt struck Casca around the head, sending him to the rug. A boot was planted on his back and a bayonet pressed against his neck. Sir Richard stood up slowly and loomed over the shrinking Rose. “One word from me and he gets skewered here like a fish.”
“Please, Richard! I beg of you!” Rose wrung her hands in distress and sank to her knees.
“Really, Rose? Very well. I promise not to send him to the hulk nor kill him, as long as you be a good wife and mother to William George,” he said, emphasizing the name.
“I-I promise, Richard.”
“Say my boy’s name,” Sir Richard hissed.
“W-William George,” Rose said in a quiet, broken voice.
Sir Richard smiled widely. Now he had her. “That’s better. Stay there; you can begin to show me you’re sincere in a moment.” He looked across at McGinnes. “Take him out to the servant’s quarters and leave a guard at the door here. Nobody is to disturb us for the next few minutes.”
“Sah,” McGinnes snapped smartly and waved at the guards to take Casca out. Casca looked pityingly at Rose who had tears running down her face. She really believed she’d saved his life but consigned herself to slavery. Such a waste. He knew he’d have to somehow get her and her son out of there but how was the problem. The twin points of the bayonets pressed into his jacket and forced him to follow McGinnes out of the room.
One of the soldiers remained by the door in the corridor but McGinnes took his place behind Casca and brusquely ordered him to open the door along the corridor in the opposite wall to that of the study. A staircase wound down to the right and Casca went down, followed by the two soldiers. At the bottom, stone floored passages branched off to either side and sounds of activity came from the left and it was in this direction he was prodded.
As he reached a door which was tugged open by McGinnes, he caught sight of Claire Kelly coming along the corridor holding a basket of washed clothing. Their eyes met, both opening them wide in surprise. The soldier behind Casca pushed him roughly into the room and a solitary candle was lit and placed in an alcove by the door. The door was shut and a bolt slid across to lock it.
Up in the study Sir Richard slowly unfastened his breeches. “Now my dear, you shall show me just how dedicated a wife you are by satisfying my conjugal rights. Open your mouth.”
Rose shut her eyes, the tears running down her face, but she consoled herself as she took him into her mouth that she had saved the life of her former lover. With the pleasure she was giving Sir Richard, she hoped that his mood would be influenced enough to keep his word.
Sir Richard closed his eyes too, but not out of shame; he was enjoying the moment. Of course he would send Lonnergan to the hulk. Whatever his wife wished to believe was her own business. He’d tell her he had been exchanged and sent back to Philadelphia. As long as she believed he was still alive and obeyed him, that was all that mattered. He smiled widely.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The recollections faded in his mind and he found he was still there in the God-forsaken hulk along with the hundreds of other American prisoners. Coughing and sneezing, muttering and grumbling, farting and swearing. The chamber was full of such sounds. And the smell! Casca recalled his time on the slave galleys of Rome and the sweat of close-pressed humanity was like none other. The odors of piss, shit, vomit, rotting flesh and other unidentifiable smells he didn’t wish to think of.
The place would be hell in high summer. Lucky it was late autumn. He had that delight to look forward to. What did they say to him? He’d be allowed to live longer than expected so they could punish him for being a pain in the ass. Well, they’d have to work a miracle to kill him, so how long would they keep on giving him ‘special attention’ until they got bored or fed up and try their hardest to finish him off? And then surely they’d discover there was something definitely not right with him. Shit. He’d have to work out a way to die fairly quickly.
Maybe the trick he’d pulled on the Inquisition? Feigning his death by hanging. Now there was a trick and a half! Trouble was, he was too restricted to do that and there were too many around who’d stop him taking his own life.
Time would bring an opportunity, he knew. Then once he got away, what would he do? Rejoin the war? He thought it over. He’d hunt down Sir Richard and put him six feet under. No pussy-footing there. Kill him. He deserved to die.
The night ended and the door crashed open. Three soldiers came in, muskets at the ready, swearing loudly and cursing the prisoners. A couple more came in after them carrying a large wooden tub, then another followed holding a large ladle. “Breakfast!” this last man shouted. “Get yer bowls ready!”
“Bowls?” Casca asked, looking around. He looked at the man alongside him who’d spoken when he’d gotten there. “Do all of you have a bowl?”
“Yeah,” the man nodded, “you should have one, too. Not there?”
“No,” Casca said, feeling around the deck by his legs and buttocks. Nothing. He looked at the man on the other side. “You seen a bowl?”
“None of your business,” the man snapped.
Casca could see now he had two bowls. “One of those is mine. Hand it over.”
“What you gonna do about it?” the man snarled. “Screw yourself you dumb no-hoper!”
Casca got to his feet, finding the manacles allowed him to stand but go no further than two feet. It gave him enough space, however. His feet were free and he used them, stamping hard on the man’s knee. The prisoner screamed and clutched his injured limb, dropping both bowls. Casca bent down and grabbed the first.
Footsteps.
A blinding shaft of pain shot through his head, sending him to his knees. A hand grabbed him, pulling him up. As Casca whirled, a fist swinging, the butt of a musket struck him full in the face and a wooden club came down from high and crunched into his right shoulder. Casca fell back, striking his head on the wall and he slid to the deck, stunned. Feet kicked him repeatedly. A man appeared above him, spittle spraying from his lips. “No fighting here, filth! You start that sort of thing here and I’ll have you suspended in the bilges for a week!”
Casca doubled up, enduring the agony of the repeated blows.
“No food for this scum,” the jailer said. “He needs to be taught a lesson.” They moved on, after the slops that passed for food had been dumped into bowls – and in some instances onto the floor. Some had dripped onto the floor close to Casca’s face and he quickly grabbed the small puddle and, still grimacing in pain, sucked his fingers clean. It tasted of nothing: thin, tasteless gruel, but it would sustain him, that he knew.
The man who’d had taken his bowl sat fingering the slops into his mouth, glaring at Casca. In betwe
en mouthfuls he declared he’d teach Casca a lesson the moment the jailer and the soldiers were gone. From his awkward sitting position Casca guessed the man’s knee was giving him some discomfort. Good. Hope it hurts like hell.
Casca sat up, breathing hard. The throbbing in his jaw and shoulder competed as to which was hurting the most. In the end the flaring pain of his ribs joined in and his body ached from toe to top. Not the best way of getting acquainted with his new surroundings.
“Watch him,” Casca’s friendly neighbor said, jerking a thumb at the other man, “he did in the guy who was here until yesterday. Killed him over food.”
“You shut your mouth!” the angry man spat, globules of gruel spattering the floor. “You want to end up with a busted mouth?”
Casca sucked in a deep breath. “You shut your mouth, you dumb ass bastard, or you’ll be the one with a busted mouth. It’ll be a relief not to listen to your shit.”
Angry Man put his bowl down. “You god-damned son of a devil,” he said slowly, his hands forming claws, “I’m going to rip your face to pieces for that.”
The soldiers came back and stopped in front of them. The jailer stopped alongside. “You two – any more of that and I’ll have you whipped. Shut up and do as you’re told.” He looked at Casca. “You, I’m going to whip anyway. Orders.”
“Well if you’re going to whip me, you can fuck off you faggot,” Casca said, judging he might as well get a good insult in anyway. “You mincing dickless piece of filth.”
“By heavens, you’re in for a real piece of punishment!” The jailer stamped hard on the floor and balled his fists. “Take this insolent cur. It’s the cat ‘o nine tails for you!”
Casca was grabbed by the two soldiers and the jailer unlocked him from the wall bolt. He was hauled up and dragged struggling to the far wall where a space without any prisoner lay. Casca had wondered at that and now he found out this was where the punishment would be carried out. More wall bolts were here, quite a few, and his manacles were fixed to one above his head. His white shirt was torn from his back.