by Tony Roberts
That evening, as night fell and the cold wind of late winter or early spring, depending on whether one were looking back or forwards, blew through the trees with an eerie sound, a figure came creeping through the grounds to the summer house. Casca whirled at the sound of footsteps outside the door, and then the handle turned.
“Case Lonnergan?” a voice whispered urgently, “Paul Revere sent me. He wants to know what the hell’s going on.”
Casca stepped back and let the man in. He was dressed in a dark cape and a three cornered hat and in the dim light through the window looked like one of those highwaymen that plagued the roads of Britain. “William Vickery,” he introduced himself absently, looking round.
“They came yesterday and got Mr. Salisbury. Lucky I was out when they called,” Casca said. “Someone’s giving them information, I’m certain of it.”
“Yes we think so too. You know you’re one of the suspects?”
“Don’t be dumb,” Casca snapped, “they want me badly, and I’m scheduled for the noose if they do get their hands on me.”
Vickery made little comment on that. “You choose a strange place to hide, don’t you? Right in the back yard of one of the men supposedly behind your arrest.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, man,” Casca said with exasperation, “What better place than under their very noses, and besides, I’m seeing the daughter, and she’s the whole reason I’m in this mess to begin with. She was the one who sent the letter. And that’s another thing,” Casca said, “you got here quick. The letter must have only been sent a few hours ago.”
“It was handed to us this afternoon. We had an agent in Lexington at the time and luckily the letter was handed over to him. The postal service has people who are sympathetic to our cause.” Vickery smiled in the dark, only half of his face visible. “Paul decided things are too risky for him to come personally; you’re a dangerous man, Lonnergan. Whose side you’re on, we’ve yet to determine.”
“Well make your mind up one way or the other,” Casca snapped. “Either help me, or fuck off.”
“Language,” Vickery said. “Word is you’re interested in the guns we took from the army.”
“I was there when they were taken, Vickery.”
“Some of them. There are other muskets. You realize we’re not going to let you anywhere near them until your bona fides has been established?”
“So get to it then. I’m not going to hang about waiting for that bastard Purseman to find me and drag me off to the gallows.”
Vickery snorted. “That may take time. Stay here until we decide what to do with you.” With that he left and made his way over to the wall, using a handy tree to climb up and slide back over to the road outside. Casca ran hard for the wall once Vickery had vanished and clambered up the same way, pushing his head above the top of the wall in time to see Vickery riding off north, then taking a right hand turn eastwards. Wherever he was going, it wasn’t into Lexington.
Casca had a bad feeling, and decided to leave the grounds. Every time he’d sought help from the Minutemen, he’d been betrayed. He decided to spend the night and however long it was hidden away outside, watching the mansion.
He found a thicket a few yards off the road on the other side from the front of the mansion, and hunkered down to sleep for a few hours. The morning would bring developments, one way or the other.
When day did come, he discovered from his place of concealment that he could see the side wall where he and Vickery had made entry into the grounds, so he’d know if anyone came for him that way. Rose would find him gone and probably wonder if he’d been taken or left of his own volition. He regretted not leaving her a note but that was something he couldn’t afford to do.
It was mid-morning and his stomach beginning to complain when a detachment of soldiers came marching up the road, led by a smart looking Sir Richard on horseback. Casca recognized Sergeant Purseman behind him and the figures of Davis and Gilchrist not far behind him. They marched into the mansion grounds through the gateway and it was clear they were there not to wish Ebenezer Maplin a cheery good morning and join him in boiled eggs and bread for breakfast.
Casca swore under his breath. It was absolutely certain now that someone in the Minutemen was a traitor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ebenezer Maplin wasn’t usually disturbed from his breakfast, and woe betide anyone who did. This morning was an exception, however. Jenkins, the butler, informed Maplin that Sir Richard Eley was there together with a detachment of his infantry and that they were to apprehend the fugitive Cass Long.
Maplin left his eggs cooling on his plate and his napkin a crumpled, yolk-stained pile on the starched white tablecloth. Rose sat as if carved from stone, shock draining the color from her face, but her father didn’t notice, such was his hurry to see Sir Richard.
Their voices carried to Rose through the open door. “What are you doing here, Sir Richard? Cass Long? Here?”
“So I’m led to believe,” Sir Richard’s dull tone floated to her ears. “In the summer house. Can you please point this out to me?”
“The summer house?”
“Yes.” Sir Richard sounded impatient. “You do have one, don’t you, Ebenezer?”
“Well, yes, out in the grounds around the rear of the house. Rose uses it to paint.”
“Ah, very nice,” Sir Richard’s tone sent her hackles rising. Her pastime was dismissed with one patronizing phrase. “Please, Ebenezer? We don’t have much time.”
Footsteps faded down the passage to the study where, no doubt, the location of Cass’s hiding place was shown to the British officer. Rose felt sick. The voices rose again as the two men came walking back through the passage. “This won’t take long. Please stay indoors.” Sir Richard walked off, leaving her father to return to the dining room in something of a daze.
Rose stood, not wanting to eat anymore. “This is intolerable,” she said, “letting that boor in here. He doesn’t own this house!”
“Sir Richard is a valued guest, my dear,” Ebenezer said. Clearly he was dazed by events.
“Yours perhaps, father, but not mine! He has no respect for you or me, or anyone else for that matter!”
“He is to be your husband, Rose, so you had better start respecting him.”
“I’d rather die!” Rose stormed and brushed past her open-mouthed father. She ran up to her room, overlooking the rear, and despite her dread, watched through her window at the tableau that was unfolding below her.
The summer house, a hundred feet distant and on the edge of a growth of willows by the stream, was flanked on three sides by the soldiers. The overweight sergeant with them shouted at the house for Cass Long to surrender and come out with his hands up. Rose clutched her curtains in anxiety.
When no reply came, the sergeant barked a sharp order and the fifteen or so soldiers leveled their bayoneted muskets and pointed them straight at the summer house. Rose cried out as a rolling series of reports disturbed the morning air and smoke billowed up from the muzzles and pans of the guns, and lead balls smashed into the planking and window of the small house.
Soldiers then went to the door and, instead of using the handle like civilized people did, kicked it in and entered. Tears began to roll down Rose’s face. After a moment or so the soldiers re-emerged and spoke to the sergeant. No Cass came with them, or was dragged out. Clearly he wasn’t there. Rose bit her lip, hoping that he was in fact, gone. Maybe he’d had some warning? Maybe the letter she’d sent had saved him? Perhaps that was it. She felt a wave of hope and joy rise in her breast.
The soldiers formed into two lines and, led by the snarling sergeant, marched off out of sight. Rose ran out of her room and out onto the balcony of the landing and looked down to the hallway. Sir Richard and her father were there, arguing.
“My spy gave me precise information, Ebenezer. It was no lie. The fugitive was holed up here. This does not look good for you. I suggest you take more care and attention in future.”
“What about the da
mage to the summer house? It’ll cost hundreds of pounds to repair!”
“Then pay for it yourself. You make enough money from the profits of your business.” Sir Richard looked up at Rose. “My apologies, Miss Maplin,” he touched his hat, “an unpleasant business but your father is harboring enemies of the crown.”
Ebenezer spluttered in outrage. “Sir Richard! You are merely a guest of this house, I remind you of your manners!”
“And I remind you of your position. If you wish to remain a partner of our business enterprise, then your co-operation is required. Question your servants; they should know the goings on in your own home. Good day.” Sir Richard touched his hat to Rose once more, then turned his back on Ebenezer and walked off out of the house. Jenkins shut the door behind him and then came to wait obediently by Ebenezer, in case he was needed.
“What business enterprise, father?” Rose asked. She came slowly down the staircase.
“Oh,” Ebenezer waved his hand dismissively, “just a little agreement we have. Nothing to bother you with, daughter.”
Rose stopped. Her father was too preoccupied to speak with further. He was already on his way to his study. “Jenkins, I’ll have my newspaper and tea in the study. Breakfast is finished.”
“Very good, sir,” Jenkins replied drolly and turned away.
Rose pursed her lips. Nobody bothered to ask whether she wanted anything further. She flounced out of the house and made her way to the bullet riddled summer house. The window was shattered and many of the planks splintered and ruined. She felt tearful again. This was her refuge, her play house, her painting studio. It had been violated by those brutes, led by the insufferable Sir Richard.
“Made a mess, didn’t they?” Casca said from his position, sat atop the wall.
“Oh, God! Thank the lord you’re alive!” Rose breathed and ran to him as he jumped down to greet her.
“I had a gut feeling they’d be here. You see that ugly toad of a sergeant? He’s been after me for days. So far I’ve kept a step ahead of him.”
“I heard father and Sir Richard talking in the house.” Rose then told Casca everything she’d heard and seen.
Casca nodded. He was intrigued as to the business deal. It was clear he was mixed up in it somehow. “I’m going to have to stay clear of here. I saw the soldiers leave down the Boston road. They’re returning to barracks. Until of course they get the word where I am next. I’m tired of running; I want to fight.”
“I’m frightened, Cass. Case, sorry! Mother’s in Philadelphia, I think I’m going to stay with her a while. Father’s too mixed up with Sir Richard and his wish to marry me. I need to get away from here. What will happen to us?”
“I’ll sort this business out here, then come down to Philadelphia to see you. Where will you be staying?”
Rose told him her mother was staying with some lawyer by the name of Lowe, and Casca put it away in his head for future use. They embraced again, but as they did so, the thunderous expression on Ebenezer Maplin’s face looking on from the study bode ill for the two, as he gazed out at the tableau. It also told him who had helped Casca and why, and why Rose was defying his wish to marry her off to the baronet.
He returned to his desk and composed a letter to Sir Richard, then called Jenkins in to arrange for it to be delivered to Boston as soon as possible.
* * *
Casca made his way into Lexington, arriving at the square at around mid-day. He pondered on the question as to where the muskets would be stashed. It wouldn’t be in a house, that was for sure, for although they needed to be kept dry and oiled, and the powder free from damp, a house was too obvious. It would also need a fair amount of space and an easily accessible area to get them in and out. Also, Casca mused, it would have to be somewhere out of the sight of prying eyes. Even in radical Massachusetts there were those who remained loyal to the crown, either through conviction or bribery.
He guessed the places were likely to be farmsteads or taverns. There was only one person who could help him now, and that was Rob Groves. So once more he made his way to his friend’s house and knocked on the door. Elaine answered it with delight. “Oh, thank God you’re still alive!” She ushered Casca into the house and Rob, emerging from the kitchen, warmly greeted him.
They sat down together and the situation talked about. The townsfolk were all getting jumpy. Word was that a search for military supplies was going to take place in the next few days and the militia had scattered their stocks far and wide in smaller piles. The government was, as far as all were aware, ignorant of this fact. Rob passed Casca one of the Charleville muskets he was hiding under the floor in the kitchen. “Here, I think you’ll make good use of this. You can stay with us until this blows over. I don’t think anyone in Lexington will give you away to the soldiers.”
Casca thanked the couple. “I don’t know, Rob. Someone within the Minutemen ranks has been speaking into the filthy ears of Sir Richard. Everywhere I go they find out within hours. I’m keeping this quiet, though, and things should be safe.”
“If they come for you they’ll get more than they bargained for, that’s for sure,” Rob said and Elaine nodded. “We know when their patrols go out and go back.”
“Yeah,” Casca smiled, “the network of signals. I thought they only sounded when a large group left Boston?”
“Oh, that’s true, but we get people passing on messages when patrols make their way along the roads from Boston to Lexington, Lincoln or Concord. They won’t get their hands on any of the supplies, mark my words.”
Casca lifted the musket and studied it. It was clean and looked fine. “Powder? Musket balls?”
“In the pantry,” Elaine giggled. “Don’t mistake them for edibles!”
Casca chuckled. “I can’t thank you two enough, you know.”
He slept well that night, and nobody came to disturb him, but he had the musket propped against his bed post anyway, just in case. The next morning Casca shouldered his gun, fitted a powder horn over his left shoulder and fixed a musket ball pouch to his belt before leaving. He had someone to see.
There was a man called Samuel Adams who was well known to be a leader of the rebel movement who lived in Lexington, and Casca knew where he lived. He called upon him that day and was taken in and they talked for a while. Adams was a serious but courteous man, and promised Casca to look into the business of the informant. He also welcomed Casca to the ranks of the Minutemen, giving him a bell to sound the alarm should he ever require it. Adams was one of the members of the de-facto government of Massachusetts which was run from Concord, just up the road, under the presidency of a man by the name of John Hancock.
It was when Casca broached the subject of Sir Richard and Ebenezer Maplin that Adams’ face clouded. They were two people whom Adams and his associates had down as enemies. Maplin, it seemed, had avoided paying taxes on his imports and exports for the past year, and his profits were going through the roof. But instead of investing it in the local community, he was keeping it all to himself. Casca voiced concern over Rose, but Adams reassured him Rose was not considered in any unfavorable light. In fact, Maplin’s estranged wife, now living in Philadelphia, had volunteered information about Maplin’s shady dealings in the past. She had been forced to leave him due to her infidelity, but that was due to his love affair with money, according to her.
Casca couldn’t care less. His concern was for Rose. Adams once again promised Rose would be unharmed and he also offered to bring news of Rose’s safe journey to Philadelphia when he had it. Adams had to leave for Boston as there was some urgent business for him to attend to, but he handed Casca over to the local Minuteman captain, a man called Fisher. Fisher was thin, lugubrious and serious looking, but Casca soon discovered he had a dry sense of humor which belied his hang-dog expression.
Fisher took Casca to a firing range and after a few shots was satisfied Casca knew his business. “Do you know a man called James Lash?” Casca asked him.
“Yes, over in Linc
oln. One of Getts’ men, isn’t he?”
“Aye. When I asked to join their ranks as a trainer, he refused. He knows little about soldiering, from what I saw. Has he a reputation for being like that?”
“Like what?”
Casca shrugged. “Obstructionist. Turning down ideas that would help matters.”
“Don’t know the man, really. I can’t say. All I know of him is that he’s a radical civilian. Nothing to do with the militia. Most of us in the Minutemen are militiamen. There’s a few non militia members, but they’re mostly senior figures or they co-ordinate our orders and act as agents.”
“That’s what I thought,” Casca said. “Alright. Glad to be part of the Lexington Minutemen.”
Fisher smiled for a moment. “Glad to have you with us. Assembly point’s the Lexington Green. You hear the alarm, you get there like it was yesterday. Got it?”
“Sure thing, Captain.”
Casca returned to the Groves’, feeling much happier. Now he had a gun and belonged to a Minuteman company.
* * *
Sergeant Purseman was summoned again to Sir Richard’s house. Things hadn’t been easy over the past couple of days. The fruitless call out to arrest Cass Long had ended in yet another failure and then on the return to Boston there had been a full-on fist fight between two rival companies that had ended in two broken arms and five other men unfit for further duty for a while. The men were spoiling for a fight, and the jibes and mockery they had to endure from the Bostonians had left their tempers on a knife’s edge.
So Purseman was not in the best frame of mind when he arrived at Sir Richard’s. He stood correctly at attention until Sir Richard told him to stand easy. “I’ve been given a communiqué,” he brandished an expensive looking sheet of paper in the air, “which informs me that this felon Long was indeed at the residence of the Maplins.” He waited for Purseman to react, and Purseman realized after a few seconds that he was in fact supposed to. So he made some inarticulate sound of surprise.
Satisfied, Sir Richard continued. “Furthermore, it is the daughter who was hiding this felon. I shall take care of that issue. You, Sergeant, are to go to Lexington and wait in hiding there until you see Long. Then you are to complete our arrangement.”