Casca 36: The Minuteman

by Tony Roberts

  “Who is he, Captain?” one of the men, a Corporal Salter from Worcester, asked.

  A damned baronet, no less. As black-hearted as any devil I’ve met. Nobody shoots him, got it? He’s mine.”

  “Sure thing, sir,” Salter grinned. “He’s really a baronet?”

  “Aye. A couple of hundred years ago our kind would have been bowing and scraping to people like him.”

  Noises of derision came from the crouching Americans. They had been born free men in the Americas and they were damned if they were going to give up their freedom to people like Sir Richard Eley and King George. If necessary, they would die for their beliefs.

  The British infantry loaded up, their bayonets twinkling in the sun as their muskets moved in the air. Casca grimaced; once again they were short on bayonets and would have to keep the regulars at arms’ length if they were to have a chance.

  “Steady, boys,” Casca said to his platoon. “Don’t shoot until I give the order. Make every shot count. Aim at the stomach, not the head.” He loaded up too, his saber in its sheath by his side. He at least could fight hand to hand but his men couldn’t, so he would have to bear that in mind.

  Sir Richard snapped orders to his sergeants and the company spread out across the grass, presenting a wider front that outflanked the twenty men of Casca’s unit. Casca grunted in grudging approval; Sir Richard was no tactical novice. He may be an asshole but he was a clever one. That made him doubly dangerous.

  “By the line,” he heard a voice shout from the enemy line, “forward ten paces.”

  “Here they come, boys,” Casca said and knelt behind the ramshackle collection of wood and debris. It wouldn’t hold an attack up for very long. “One shot and then reload fast.”

  The line of muskets came up to face the silently advancing British soldiers, looking bigger in their red uniforms, which was precisely what they were designed for. They came to a halt and uttered a grunt and brought their weapons up. Casca centered his aim on the sergeant issuing the orders. Sir Richard was towards the rear, clever swine, so the NCO was the next best target. “Now!” he cried and squeezed the trigger. There was a flash from the pan, smoke billowed up and he felt the butt kick hard into his shoulder. The rotten egg smell of discharged powder filled his nostrils and a cloud of white smoke obscured his vision for a moment.

  As the smoke thinned he saw a number of soldiers staggering, falling or lying on the ground. But now they were faced by an enemy who had discharged their weapons and were defenseless for a few moments. There came a bark from the line, but not from the sergeant Casca had fired at. He was lying face up on the grass, his arm outflung. A roll of shots came from the line and smoke poured from the red line, and bullets crashed into the barricade, shredding the wood in scores of places. Five men were flung back and others cried out, clutching shoulder, arm or leg wounds.

  “Get the wounded and get out of here!” Casca yelled, realizing his small command would be overrun in moments.

  His men sprang back from the collapsing barricade and the hurt were picked up roughly and carried or dragged with them back along the road towards the line of hills and trees. Casca quickly checked two of the fallen but they were beyond help. He swung round and checked on the enemy. They were advancing on him bayonets wickedly gleaming, and the Eternal Mercenary decided to get out of there yesterday. Lucky there were no dragoons or his ass would have been theirs.

  He ran after the rearmost of his men, making sure none were in danger of being caught. Behind him the barricade was being torn down and smashed aside, and soldiers were kicking their way through, determined expressions on their faces. As he ran he reloaded, urging his men to do the same. Those not carrying or supporting a wounded comrade did so and knelt by the roadside, shooting individually at the half-hearted pursuit. The shots served to keep the enemy at bay and although a few shots came back at them, the range was such that the shots went wide or high.

  Casca watched as Sir Richard waved the men to stand back and he stood staring at the distant figure of Casca. The Eternal Mercenary waved once at him and made a gesture with his musket and then drew a finger across his throat. The baronet remained still, glaring at his enemy retreating into the woods, but at least he’d driven the reconnaissance back, even if it had cost him twelve casualties. He’d inflicted five deaths and another six or so casualties on the enemy, not a bad return for a morning’s work. He’d report to General Howe, making sure his part in a great victory was put down in writing. For now the wounded would have to be taken care of. He began to issue new orders to his men.

  Casca and his men paused for breath in the depths of the wood close to the summit of the ridge. Some American soldiers had come down the track, alerted by the shooting, and Casca briefly gave them a summary of what had gone on. “You think they’ll come up here, sir?” one of the soldiers asked nervously, his fingers opening and closing on the barrel of his musket.

  “No, not today, son. That was just a recon force. They just had more than we did. Keep an eye out though, we don’t want them coming up this pass. I’ll report to my superior and we’ll pass the word back that they’re down there in force.”

  He checked on the wounded. Three were fairly badly hurt; they would have to have operations to get the bullets dug out of them, not something that filled Casca with confidence. Two others were bloodied but relatively fine; their wounds had been superficial and were only bleeding badly, and once these had been bandaged up with strips of torn shirts they looked better. They then made their way back along the road, skirting the marshes and eventually got back to their camp. Casca turned the platoon over to the duty sergeant and went straight to Major Harper’s office. He barged in without knocking, outraging the adjutant who vainly tried to block him.

  “Sir,” Casca began breathlessly, “the British are in an advanced position along the Narrows Road. We fought a skirmish and sustained ten casualties…”

  Harper stopped whatever he had been writing and stared up at Casca sternly. “Captain,” he said softly, “please conduct yourself properly. This is not a tavern.”

  “What?” Casca could hardly believe his ears. “Major, sir, the enemy are on the other side of the Gowanus Heights. We have lost five dead and five wounded, sir.”

  Harper frowned. “I believe I asked you not to get into a fight. Numbers?”

  “A company, about eighty or ninety men, sir. We inflicted a dozen casualties on them, I think.”

  “And is this position open to them to advance upon us, Captain?”

  “No, sir. Lord Stirling’s men are defending the pass, as you know.”

  “Then, Captain, there’s no need for such excitement. I would much prefer you to present your report in a much calmer manner, if you please.”

  Casca looked at his commanding officer in disbelief. “Major, sir, this needs to be taken to General Sullivan immediately.”

  “I shall make my report to him in due course, rest assured, Captain. I thank you for your promptness, and now I suggest you go to your quarters. I specifically asked you not to get involved in a fight and men are dead or wounded. You appear to be overwrought. Perhaps action has pushed you too close to the edge? I wonder if your powers of command are affected by your excitement? You say five men were killed – if you’d shown a clearer head perhaps these men may not have been lost? I shall consider replacing you as captain if you continue to show such outbursts. You may go.”

  Casca stood, his mouth open. Slowly he shook his head and turned around. “We’ve got a war coming to us and you’re worried about the right way to enter your room. Shit.”

  Major Harper scowled at the scarred man’s back. He didn’t know why Lonnergan made him so irritated but he was determined to get rid of him. It wouldn’t do to have a subordinate who clearly believed himself better than his superior. The trouble was Harper had a gnawing feeling Lonnergan was a better soldier, but this would make Harper look bad and if a new America was coming Harper wanted to be someone of note in it, and people like
Lonnergan, while useful in gaining the new nation its life, were useless in times of peace and consequently needed to be gotten out of the way as fast as possible. It stood to reason therefore that Lonnergan and those like him should not gain positions of prominence so that they could be quickly and quietly pushed out of the way when peace came. Washington was another such man – a nuisance. The trouble was some idiot had made him general and that would make him difficult to put away somewhere out of the way when hostilities ended.

  People like himself, Harper believed, were the future, people versed in law and business. Soldiers had their uses but had to be controlled. Only those able to use words and wealth could properly shape society, a peaceful one where trade and law ruled. Soldiers should be put away in their place and only brought out when needed.

  Harper sighed and dipped his quill in the ink well. A new letter would have to be written. One that requested Lonnergan be posted elsewhere, to a quieter place. That way he could not show his martial qualities and regrettably come to the attention of the top people. Only by surrounding himself with people of lesser abilities than himself could Harper shine. So he began to compose his note to General Sullivan.

  Casca had no intention of allowing the fool Major to stick to his rigid protocol. Damn him and his rules. He strode quickly along the road towards Fort Greene. Casca smiled despite his mood. Every general seemed to want to name a fort after himself. Washington and Stirling had done the same already. Sullivan had only been in charge for a couple of days so it was too early for him to follow suit, but Casca guessed it wouldn’t be long before Fort Sullivan was built somewhere along the shoreline.

  Towards the shore the ground dropped away so that he had a good view of the waters through the trees as he hurried along the road. British ships dominated the bay and to him it was clear unless the Royal Navy was denied command of the sea, the fight for independence would be a hard and difficult journey.

  General Sullivan was more welcoming than Harper had been, and messengers were coming and going all the time from the command center. Soldiers were running here and there and it looked like a bee hive being disturbed. An adjutant asked Casca to wait for a moment and reported the arrival to Sullivan. Within moments Casca was sent for and he presented himself, saluting smartly to the general, who was seated behind his table flanked by papers, maps and staff officers. Sullivan was dressed, like almost every senior commanding officer, with a smartly buttoned breast coat underneath an overcoat with tassels on the shoulders and a brass gorget hanging around his neck. His face was dominated by a broad nose and piercing brown eyes, and a slight double chin spoke of a rich diet. “Captain. I understand you’ve been involved in some skirmish along the Narrows Road?”

  “Yes sir. We lost five men. The British had a dozen casualties all told.”

  “Show me where.” Sullivan waved a pudgy hand over the map of the area.

  Casca leaned over the map and orientated himself for a moment. He jabbed a finger down on the spot close to the Red Lion inn. “They had a company led by a Major Sir Richard Eley.”

  “You know him?” Sullivan asked sharply.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve – crossed before.”

  “I see.” Sullivan frowned and stared at the spot. “I have had reports of gunfire from that area. That must have been your fight. Have you reported this to your senior officer?”

  “First thing I did, sir. He – ah – has a less urgent manner than I do.” Casca smiled wryly.

  Sullivan chuckled briefly. “I shall await his report in that case. He may take umbrage of course that you showed such initiative.”

  Casca grinned. “I can handle it, sir.”

  Sullivan decided he liked the roguish looking man in front of him. “Captain Lonnergan, is it? Are you the same Captain Lonnergan who carried out a survey on behalf of General Washington?”

  “Sir.”

  “Ah. It seems you have a mixed reputation. Lord Stirling doesn’t think as highly of you as General Washington does.”

  Casca decided to smile. He didn’t know why but he had an impression Sullivan didn’t care too much for Stirling. “He didn’t sir. I recommended an improvement to the defenses along the Gowanus Heights rather than building more forts along the shoreline, sir. Since the British are already on Long Island I can’t see the point in building more sea defenses. We need to keep them from crossing the Heights.”

  “As it happens, Captain, I agree with you. I’d appreciate you showing me where you think we ought to concentrate our forces.”

  Casca leaned over once more and pointed to the Gowanus Heights. There were three roads that crossed over them; the westernmost one was the Narrows Road that came close to the shoreline and the Gowanus Creek. The creek ensured that no army could cross that point so the route through there was fairly narrow. More marshland and ponds served as extra defenses there. “This is the closest point to us here, and the most easily defended. Five hundred men could hold up ten times that number if they come at you from the road.”

  “And if they don’t, Captain?”

  Casca shrugged. “They’ll make one helluva noise crashing through the trees and bushes, and their formations will be broken up. The British prefer to fight in orderly lines so they can concentrate their fire. They don’t train their soldiers to be marksmen or to act as rangers.”

  “Agreed. What about elsewhere?”

  The central portion of the Heights was crossed by one road that passed close to a house on the top and then cut down behind any defenses that would be set up along the Narrows Road and came out close to the creek. “You’d have to block that road. What’s that house there, sir?”

  “Cortelyou House, so I believe.”

  “That should be made the local headquarters, sir. From there a local commander could co-ordinate both this road and the Narrows. You’d need more than a few hundred men to hold that pass.”

  Sullivan was impressed with Casca’s tactical grasp. This was a promising officer. “And beyond the ridge, along to our left flank?”

  Casca glanced across to where yet another road wriggled across the countryside and up the ridge. Two roads in fact converged on the other side and then crossed the Heights as one. “I’ve checked that personally, sir. There’s an inn at the foot of the pass, and this road, the Jamaica Road, needs to be secured. They could roll you up if they take that and cut off the entire defensive line. Your right is secure as it’s pinned to the shore, but your left is up in the air, if you excuse the expression, sir.”

  “I like it, Captain,” Sullivan grinned. “I think I’ll take a look myself tomorrow and make sure all those positions are manned adequately. The problem we have is a lack of men. General Washington still thinks the main British effort is going to be elsewhere.”

  Casca shook his head. “They’re here in force. I’ve no idea how many they do have here but to send out a company as a recon force tells me they have plenty more behind them.”

  “Our intelligence says at least nine thousand, Captain.”

  “Some diversionary force if it is one, sir.”

  “Agreed. Very well, Captain, thank you. Best you return to your unit. Who is your overall commanding officer?”

  “General Putnam, sir.”

  “Ah, yes of course. I’ll pass on my compliments to him about your actions.”

  “Thank you sir,” Casca saluted and left. He felt better after his meeting with Sullivan. At least the general looked as if he were going to do something rather than sit on his backside and wait. By the time he got back to the camp it was clear everyone was getting ready for battle. Gunpowder was being stockpiled as were muskets and boxes of bullets. The supply staff were working hard in getting the munitions out from the stores. Casca sought out Lieutenant Wilson. Wilson was looking harassed and was visibly relieved to see Casca. “Sir. All hell’s broken loose. We were looking for you.”

  “What’s up – King George is inspecting us?”

  Wilson looked at Casca sternly. “Sir – Major Harper wan
ts to see you in his quarters. I think he’s angry at you not being in camp.”

  Casca groaned. Harper was becoming a pain in the ass. He made his way to the command hut, irritated and hot. He badly wanted a drink. Harper was standing up and waved him in without hesitation. “I could have you court martialed, Captain, for going absent without permission from the camp.”

  “I was over at General Sullivan’s camp, sir.”

  “So I understand. Messengers travel faster than a man on foot, don’t they? You disobeyed my orders, Captain.”

  “I did not, Major,” Casca snapped. “I don’t recall you telling me not to go to General Sullivan’s camp.”

  Harper shook his head sadly. “Insubordinate as well as disobedient. I have enough to have you dismissed. Thank you, Captain. You are to be confined to your quarters until I receive a reply from General Putnam. I have recommended you be relieved of your duties. I doubt you would agree to serve in my unit so you may transfer to another unit but I do not wish for you to continue to serve under my command here.”

  Casca stood for a moment, his fists clenched. “It’s a pity you’re a Major. You’re an ass; the army needs proper soldiers, not fools who try to be. The British army is full of officers like you; if this army goes the same way we’ll lose this war.”

  Harper’s face darkened. “You’re only making things worse, Lonnergan. This unit cannot function with both of us in it.” He turned to the guards standing by the doorway. “Escort this man back to his tent.”

  The two guards came over, expressions of regret on their faces, their muskets unslung. Casca turned to face the first. “No need for those, boys. My gripe isn’t with you two. I’ll go.”

  Casca was escorted anyway as he made his way to his tent, muttering. Lieutenant Wilson was dismayed to hear of Casca’s fate. Casca clapped the young officer on the shoulder and congratulated him on taking over the company. He then stuffed what few possessions he had into his pack, before throwing himself onto his makeshift bed. He had little doubt Harper would get his way. The only bright note was that Casca had made a good impression with General Sullivan, and he would go over to him and request joining his unit.