by Tony Roberts
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.”
“Sir,” Harrington saluted and made his way to the sergeant-major to pass on the orders. Sir Richard walked slowly towards the colonel. “Sir, your orders?”
“Ah, Major,” the colonel rocked on his heels. He was slightly shorter than Sir Richard and was intimidated by the baronet, both by the height difference and the fact Sir Richard was a knight and had a title. He also didn’t like the haughty major. “We wait for Brigadier-General Leslie to order us to stand down. There may be a counter-attack.”
“That is extremely unlikely, Colonel,” Sir Richard said disdainfully. “The colonists are on the run and aren’t in a position to charge at us over the river. We have artillery here and they do not. Not even those amateurs are stupid enough to attack over a river into that!”
“Be that as it may, remain where you are until the orders are given.”
Sir Richard sighed, saluted, and sauntered back to his unit. “Bloody amateurs,” he commented on his return. “Captain Harrington, I fear for the future conduct of this campaign if we are to rely on men like General Howe and our colonel. We need men of action, decisive men.”
“Yes, sir.” Harrington didn’t give a damn but he’d agree with Sir Richard, even if he said the moon was made of green cheese. Harrington’s thoughts were already turning to that bottle of rum he had back at camp and the game of cards he was to play that evening with his friends.
As for Casca, he had thrown himself into a hastily erected tent to the rear of Purdy Hill, the next hill in line after Chatterton, and tried to relax after the day’s exertions. He was confident given the opportunity, the American army could stand up to the British, but they’d need better tactics and a better plan. Washington was still not quite there with his tactics and far too prone to leaving things too late. Hopefully he’d learn fast. One thing was certain, he’d have to win a fight sooner rather than later. Morale was shaky and it wouldn’t take too many more reverses to lose many of the men. They really needed a victory of some kind, any kind.
It was something Casca worried about until he fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Casca was called to General Washington’s new headquarters at Miller House, just in front of Miller Hill, two miles to the north of the original American line that had been abandoned after the loss of Chatterton Hill. Washington had seen sense and retreated to the second and final line of defense, and now the Americans were staring at the British who equally seemed unwilling to attack again.
The frost was widespread that morning, another indication that winter was not far off, and the campaigning season was winding down. “Sir?” he saluted on his arrival.
Washington looked up, his face drawn. The responsibility of command was weighing heavily on him, Casca judged. “Captain, read this.” He passed the Eternal Mercenary a letter. “It was brought to me this morning by dispatch rider.”
Casca read the letter and his face tightened. Rose had gone from Halifax by ship. The agents had tried to get to her but the British soldiers guarding her had been too many and the agents had had to report their failure. The last sentence had been their belief she was on her way to join Sir Richard in New York. “I’m sorry, Captain,” Washington said heavily, “but there seems little we can do for the moment.”
“If she’s coming to New York it ought to be easier to slip in there and get her out.”
“So it would seem, Captain, but I have far more pressing matters than to risk men on a rescue mission for one woman. We are to retreat across the Hudson; our position here is untenable. We will have to winter across the river and to protect Philadelphia.”
Casca shook his head slowly. “Sir, you wouldn’t need a huge number of men; I could slip into New York once Rose’s arrival was confirmed and get her out.”
“Out of the question,” Washington said firmly. “Your responsibility is now to train the men up to face the British in battle. We need men like you to give us a fighting chance.”
Casca saw the look on Washington’s face and those of the men around him, and decided it was best he kept quiet. But he certainly wouldn’t leave it at that. He wrote a letter to Philadelphia as soon as he was able to and then had to await the reply with growing impatience. During the ten days it took to arrive, Washington abandoned White Plains and split his army into three, sending units to defend the north and north-west, while he took 2,000 men, including Casca, across the Hudson River and down to Fort Lee, standing opposite Fort Washington. Casca doubted dividing the army was the best thing to do but Washington still didn’t know in which direction Howe would strike, if indeed he would do so before winter fully set in. Meanwhile the garrison at Fort Washington was increasingly isolated and likely to become the attention of the British forces now the rest of the territory east of the Hudson was clear of American forces.
When they got to Fort Lee Casca found a letter waiting for him. After being shown his quarters in the wood-built fort, he eagerly opened it, reading Katherine Maplin’s reply by candlelight. Katherine was in agreement with Casca’s offer to get Rose out of New York from under both Ebenezer’s and Sir Richard’s noses, but cautioned him that he was still under oath not to resume his affair with her.
The other piece of good news in the letter was that Katherine was providing him with the funds necessary to undertake the rescue. A contact would be turning up outside Fort Lee on the evening of December 4, in two days’ time, and Casca was to give him a password that was written in the letter. After his identity had been proven, the contact would then pass him the funds and then vanish. Casca was not to say anything else to the messenger.
All very secretive, but Katherine must have her reasons. Casca decided he’d best have a colleague with him and reckoned Pete Courtney would be the ideal man. The Delaware unit was still with them and so Casca sought him out and Pete was happy to come along. Camp life was full of boredom and with the winter closing in and frost becoming the norm, Pete jumped at the chance to do something different. Casca spoke to Pete’s lieutenant who was puzzled but let him go, but decided anyway to go and speak to his superior on the matter.
Casca had no idea he was doing this; he and Pete waited on the road to New Bridge, awaiting the contact from Katherine. It was cold and breezy, and the two hunkered down in the shelter of some trees by the roadside. They had a lantern to signal to the contact, and after a short wait they heard the sound of hooves on the road, so Casca stepped out, making sure Pete was hidden amongst the undergrowth, his musket loaded.
A single rider reined to a halt, his features hidden by a cloth covering his face and a hat overhanging his eyes. He wore a thick cloak and studied Casca for a moment. “You have a word for me?” he said in a deep muffled voice.
“Liberty,” Casca said, using the password Katherine had written.
The contact nodded and fished out from the saddlebag a large canvas bag. He allowed it to slide to the ground and turned away.
“Wait,” Casca said. “Anything else? No message?”
“It’s all in the bag,” the messenger said, then was gone, galloping off into the darkness.
Casca walked up to the bag and picked it up. Pete emerged from the undergrowth and cradled his musket casually in his arms. “That was brief,” he said.
“Aye. They’re taking no chances. Come on, let’s get back to the fort and see what’s in here.”
They took five minutes to get back and were shortly back in Casca’s quarters. The bag was upended and out fell a pistol, a small bag of powder and lead bullets, a bag of coins and a sealed letter. Casca examined the pistol first in surprise. The letter explained that it would be better to enter New York with a pistol concealed rather than carrying a musket that couldn’t easily be hidden. Casca had to concede that point.
Katherine said that she had written to Washington asking if Casca could attempt the rescue. She also said that t
here were a few people who could be trusted in New York and gave the names of two and their addresses. She also advised that it would be best if someone could get a job within the household of Sir Richard so as to pass the word when Rose arrived. What rescue plans there were would have to be Casca’s.
It all seemed simple enough but he was too experienced to know things ever went as smoothly as planned. He looked at Pete. “Fancy a job as a domestic servant?”
Pete snorted. “Why me?”
“I’m known to Sir Richard, and besides, do I look like a domestic? I need someone I can trust to be on the inside. You’re the best I’ve got. I’d like you to go across to New York, go to these addresses and make contact, then try to get a job in Sir Richard’s household – or if not persuade one of these contacts to do so.”
“Well, I can try,” Pete said slowly, his face unreadable. “But I doubt I’d be allowed to go. I’m hardly spy material and my commanding officer won’t take kindly to one of his men sneaking off to become one of the enemy’s servants!”
“We’ll see. If Washington’s been sent a letter he may authorize it.”
Casca sent Pete back to his unit, then went to see Washington. It took a little time as the general was busy but finally he was admitted into the inner sanctum. Maps were everywhere and adjutants scurrying to and fro in the lamplight. There seemed to be a feeling of urgency in everything that was being done.
“Yes, Captain. I understand you wish to see me on a matter of utmost urgency? Please be quick – I don’t have much time for non-military issues at present.”
“Sir. You have been sent a letter by Mrs. Maplin from Philadelphia.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Washington frowned irritably. “Damned woman pestering me. I presume in that case you are here in connection with her request?”
“Sir. Permission to mount a rescue of her daughter from Sir Richard when she arrives in New York.”
“Oh very well, if it means I can get a minute’s respite from all this!” Washington clicked his fingers and an adjutant placed a sheet of paper on his desk. The general dipped a quill into the ink on the desktop and hurriedly scribbled a note. He held it up to the light to examine it, and to allow the ink to dry, then passed it to Casca. “This authorizes you to requisition whatever equipment is necessary to cross over to New York and to undertake secret activities against the British. Satisfied?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now be gone and don’t come back unless it’s really important!”
Casca saluted and almost bounced from the room in pleasure. Now he had free rein to get Rose away from under that despicable man’s hands. All it needed was to plan the rescue. It all now depended on when Rose arrived in New York. He made his way over to the Delaware unit camp and sought out Pete Courtney. Pete was with a few of his buddies and on seeing Casca standing there at the edge of the camp light got up and came over, a look of concern on his face. “You’d best be on your guard, sir,” he said in a low voice, “my major isn’t that happy at you seconding me. It seems my company commander has complained.”
“I’ll deal with that, Pete. Grab your kit. You’re working to me now. Where is your major?”
“Over there, command tent. I’ll fetch my stuff. How long is it going to be?”
“Who knows?” Casca shrugged. “Maybe a couple of weeks.”
Pete nodded. “I’ll let my pals know I’ll be gone that long. Meet you back at the edge of the camp?”
“I won’t be very long.” Casca made his way over to the command tent and presented himself to the major. He was a severe looking man with bushy eyebrows. “Captain Lonnergan. I’ve heard about you, nothing good. You’re stealing one of my men from my command. I don’t like that.”
“Sir, authority from General Washington.” He presented the major with the letter he’d been given and the officer read it, angling it so the candlelight fell across the ink. He frowned, and passed the paper back to Casca. “It would appear you’ve got the authority. I shall of course register a complaint.”
“Please do, Major. By the time it’s considered I’ll be finished with Private Courtney.”
“You’re a cocky bastard, Captain. Get out of my sight.”
“Certainly sir,” Casca saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
Once back in the fort with Pete, the two discussed what to do. Courtney expressed his doubts about being able to infiltrate New York but Casca pointed out the majority of the British forces were converging on Fort Washington, leaving the city relatively ungarrisoned.
So it was a few nights later the two men made their way to the river’s edge opposite Manhattan Island and got into the row boat Casca had requisitioned and stowed on the bank in the undergrowth to hide it from any prying eyes from across the wide river. The cold wind cut through their clothing but the two men had other things to concern them than the temperature or the wind. They were dressed in dark clothing and muffled so that only their eyes showed. This was not only to protect them from the wind but also to make them as undetectable as possible.
Casca rowed while Pete sat still for’ard, the pistol Katherine had supplied tucked in his waistcoat. Pete had been supplied with civilian clothing thanks to the money Casca had been given and there were a few coins in his pocket. They had discussed Pete’s cover story and they had agreed that Pete would be someone looking for a position in a household as a butler. He had the addresses of Katherine’s contacts and would make his way there first.
Their landing spot was just to the north of New York itself, where the land began to rise. It had to be there as the cliffs that lined the river were too sheer and hazardous to attempt a climb in the dark. There may be patrols but Casca doubted there would be too many. Certainly guards would be dotted along the bank but with luck they would arrive undetected and Pete could then sneak off to New York and Casca return to the New Jersey shore and wait for Pete’s pre-arranged signal that Rose was with him. Casca had written a letter to Rose and Pete had it tucked in his waist coat. Both knew that if the British should find it and read it Pete was in deep weeds but the private was realistic enough to know being in the army in a war was just as likely to get him shot.
Despite the cold Casca was sweating by the time they neared the Manhattan shore. There were rocks dotting the banks and he slowed, Pete in the bow peering intently at the river in order to spot any hazards. He called out softly to Casca that one jagged boulder was dead ahead and so the boat was maneuvered round it and they scraped the side as they came to the bank. Pete nimbly leapt out and crouched down, staring anxiously into the darkness for any sign of movement. Nothing moved.
Off to the south the lights of the city could be seen, so Pete had no trouble in finding his way. He waved to Casca and the Eternal Mercenary back tracked out into the river, turned, and then began rowing back to the friendly side, hoping to hell Pete came through.
Courtney made his way up the bank and paused. Were there any soldiers close by? After a few moments he decided not, and began cautiously moving towards the lights of New York. There were fields to cross and fences and ditches and hedges to negotiate. Best not to try the road as that would almost certainly be watched. As Casca had said, the majority of the British troops were further north besieging Fort Washington, and so it was likely he could make his way unmolested into New York.
He was confident he could get into the city. He was a man of the world, having lived in many places and seen many different cultures. He wasn’t someone who’d never traveled outside his home town or village, and had seen more than most in his lifetime already.
He’d been reasonably well off, then broke again. He’d tried his hand at a fair few professions, so he was used to thinking on his feet, which was why perhaps Casca had picked him for the job. He didn’t mind, really; it was just another job and maybe at the end of it he’d find a place to settle down and make something of his life.
A couple of hours spent approaching the lights and carefully avoiding ditches and barriers brought h
im to the outskirts of the city, a farmstead and a few outbuildings with the first residential properties a few hundred yards beyond that. A track ran from the farm to the road and Pete could see a couple of soldiers miserably pacing to and fro by a burning brazier on the roadside. That was what passed for a check point and he easily circumvented it and finally got into New York undetected.
He peered at the streets and wondered where the contacts would be. He decided it best to go into the heart and begin his search after day break. By then other people would be moving around and he wouldn’t stand out suspiciously.
Casca made it back to the New Jersey shore and dragged the boat back up into the undergrowth. It would remain there until he needed it again. Not too far from the banks were a few buildings and he’d hired one of the cottages there for a few weeks which would serve as his temporary home until the rescue of Rose was concluded. He’d just have to wait now until he got the signal. Pete knew where the cottage was and would use a lantern with a pre-agreed series of flashes at midnight, the agreed time for each signal.
If it went more than a week without a signal then Casca would assume Pete had been taken captive. He hoped to hell a signal came before long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rose Eley stepped ashore onto the jetty and looked without enthusiasm at the buildings of New York. Nothing held any interest for her anymore, not since the day of her enforced wedding. Her father had become a stranger, a complicit conspirator in her imprisonment, and she hated him for what he was doing. To him she was merely a tool to bring him more wealth and another step up the social ladder towards God knows what. As for her husband, she had nothing repeatable to say about him.
The journey south from a chilly Halifax had been rough at times and she had been sea sick more than once. Consequently she was very pale and thin and listlessly waited for her father and the soldiers appointed by her husband to set off towards her new home, the residence of Sir Richard Eley, Baronet of Sandwell. She hated the title.