by Tony Roberts
Casca grinned. A regiment of a handful of men. The colors would remain, given to an ensign, and Casca would be the officer responsible for the colors. He’d heard of a color sergeant, but never before a color captain.
The new year saw the Americans take up defensive positions along a ridge to the north east of Trenton, to await the arrival of the British forces under Cornwallis who had, according to scouts, gathered at nearby Princeton. Casca and his small group were more or less integrated into the 1st Virginia Continentals, but they kept their separate identity thanks to the colors. The British arrival wasn’t long in coming and columns of men filtered into Trenton, coming under fire from the American defenders.
Casca and his men kept up a steady fire, retreating a few paces each time they fired. The orders were to cross the creek that ran to the south of the town and reform up on the southern bank. After crossing the bridge they were allowed to rest behind the lines and listened to the heavy exchange of fire between the other units and the British who gamely tried to cross but were thrown back by the determined fire.
Night came and Casca was summoned to a council of war called by Washington. The general welcomed them and stood behind a collapsible table upon which rested a map. “Gentlemen,” he began in a calm voice, “our situation is precarious to say the least. I have reliable intelligence that Cornwallis is intending to flank us on the morrow, and we do not have the men to both hold the front and contain a flanking maneuver. Therefore I have decided we shall make the flanking move, to march away from this position before we are taken, and to march on Princeton behind the enemy. It will compel them to retreat from this position to protect their rear.”
The officers looked at each other and looked surprised. Casca guessed it was better than staying where they were; they were outnumbered and outgunned and given time the British would make that count. Best to get out of there and to strike where they weren’t expecting it. They were to move almost at once, with no time to waste, if they were to get the twelve miles covered by daybreak.
Wheels were muffled, and men told be keep quiet, and in the chill of the night, they filed away, leaving a rearguard who were to keep the fires burning and to carry on digging the entrenchments to fool Cornwallis and his men. The route they were taking was across the front of the enemy positions and way beyond their left flank out into the open, along narrow roads skirting swamps and marshes.
In the dark it was easy to think things were there that weren’t, and the jittery men thought they saw enemy soldiers where there were none. Casca kept his small group together and even guided some of the men in neighboring units who had become detached from their officers. Thankfully the rain had ceased and once again it had gone cold, freezing the roads so the cannon could be moved without getting stuck in the mud.
They skirted a small settlement and swung north along another road. Casca felt cold and exhausted; the campaigning in the bitter depth of winter was taking its toll, and he wondered how the men were bearing up. They made their way stoicly, not saying anything, heads bowed.
The brigade was in the vanguard, so they had little worry about bumping into friendly units joining the column from other positions as they passed them. If they saw anyone, it was likely to be an enemy. One problem they did encounter though were tree stumps and roots. The area recently had been cleared when the road had been built, and more than once someone tripped and fell, uttering a muffled curse.
Casca was one of the leading men and he strained his eyes into the dark, hoping nothing cropped up to delay them. Then suddenly they came to a better laid road and with relief he and his men strode out with more confidence. The tree stumps were left behind.
“Steady, boys,” he said softly, and led them onwards. He had little idea when they were supposed to stop, and until Colonel Haslett gave the word, he’d carry on. The sky began to lighten with the approaching dawn, and the birds who had not fled south for the winter began to awaken, serenading the men making their silent and grim way northwards towards Princeton. Ahead they could see two buildings, set some distance apart. Off to the right was a stout square building, along the right hand fork of the split in the road just over a brook that was crossed by a bridge.
Colonel Haslett came forward and waved Casca to a halt. The men stopped and took a breather, looking out over the countryside. The building slightly to the left and ahead was a mill. Casca looked at the bridge and beckoned the colonel over to him. “I doubt this bridge will take the weight of the artillery, sir.”
Haslett peered over and nodded, his lips pressed together. “Yes, Captain, I fear you are right. We shall have to build a second bridge. I’ll send word back to the general. We’d best cross and secure the other side before someone notices us.”
Casca waved the vanguard over and the men took up positions in the undergrowth to either side of the junction. He was told Princeton was about two miles distant and so they kept as quiet as they could. As they waited, the rest of the column began to arrive, blowing clouds of condensation ahead of them. The squad of engineers began to assemble a bridge from salvaged pieces of wood, and Washington appeared, consulting with his brigade commanders.
“Captain, make for the mill and secure it,” Colonel Haslett said to Casca when he returned. “Our brigade is to form the left flank on the advance to Princeton. Good luck.”
Casca waved his men, made up of the Delaware remnants and a combination of Virginians and Marylanders, along the left hand fork and made their way towards the mill. A pale and watery sun rose as they continued along the road that quickly became flanked by rising ground, so that they were below the line of sight of anyone to left or right.
Colonel Haslett came riding up and leaned over to speak to Casca. “Captain, we’re to provide the blocking force both in and out of Princeton while General Sullivan’s force mounts the main attack on Princeton. We must stop the British from breaking through either in or out.”
“Yes, sir, understood.” He waved the men to follow him and they continued, reaching the mill and passing it. Beyond it the road joined the main one running from Trenton to Princeton, and if the main British army came marching up it would be from the left. The men pressed on to the right, and then came to a halt by General Mercer who came riding fast from behind and ordered the men to stop. “Men, the British have been sighted off to our right. We are to engage them. Load your weapons.”
Casca unslung his musket and loaded up along with the men. The time for stealth was past. Now was the time for action. They were still out of sight from the British, down in the sunken road, and their sudden appearance could cause the enemy some confusion. Mercer organized a small advance party of riflemen and supporting squads to lead the climb up the steeply wooded slope, and then the rest would follow, the artillerymen making best they could with the difficult terrain.
Casca waited until the vanguard had passed out of sight, then nodded to his men and they followed, grabbing tree roots and branches and pulling themselves up until they emerged onto open fields with a farm a short distance away. The British were off to the right and ahead, a sizeable force, and they clearly had been thrown by the sudden appearance of the Americans from the sunken road. They had been concentrating on the other force marching along the other road towards Princeton, but now saw the approaching brigade as the more immediate danger.
The redcoats dropped their packs and deployed fast, forming three lines. Off to the American left stood the farm and an orchard, and the fences and walls would form a decent defensive cover.
Mercer ordered the men to occupy the orchard and Casca broke into a run, urging the men with him to get there before the British who were also sending men to take control. The trouble was these were dragoons and their horses could move faster. The dragoons got there first and dismounted, throwing themselves into cover on the far side. A narrow gateway stood ahead of Casca and his men as they ran towards the fence on their side of the orchard, and they plunged through it and spread out into the orchard, just as the dragoo
ns opened fire.
Casca winced but saw the volley go high, much to his relief. He crashed shoulder first into an apple tree and slid down, taking cover. Alongside him his men tried to do likewise but there weren’t enough trees. “Take aim!” Casca yelled, pointing his musket in the direction of the dragoons.
His men aimed, and blasted a volley out from the edge of the orchard at the half seen dragoons. Casca reloaded, not sure whether he’d hit anyone, and settled himself more comfortably. He swung the barrel left and right, seeking a target. There! One dragoon ramming home a charge down his barrel. He squinted, held his breath, and fired. The discharged powder was waved away impatiently and Casca caught sight of the dragoon clutching his neck before falling out of sight.
More volleys from the Continentals drove the dragoons out of the orchard and Casca got to one knee and looked around. More British troops were arriving and the rest of the brigade was coming up to support Casca and his men. Mercer waved encouragement from his horse. One of the Virginian officers ordered his men to make ready, and Casca nodded to his men to do likewise. The advancing British were a mere forty yards distant, and a volley crashed out from the American lines into the redcoats, who fired back but their shot went high.
“Reload, prepare to volley fire again,” Casca cried, his mouth tasting foul from the acrid powder. He frantically reloaded, hoping his men got there first before the British. Two volleys from them had gone high; it was likely their next one wouldn’t. Casca centered his aim at a corporal, and when the order to fire came, squeezed his trigger and the musket recoiled into his shoulder, sending smoke billowing out.
The corporal was hit in the shoulder and his face screwed up, dropping his gun. Now the British fired again, and this time the lead bullets plowed into the American line, sending men toppling. The man next to Casca groaned and slid sideways, a red stain spreading against his chest. Casca grimaced and checked the man but he was beyond help.
“Look out, they’re coming at us!” someone shouted.
The Eternal Mercenary looked up and saw a line of grim-faced redcoats coming for them, bayonets fixed. Most of the Americans didn’t have them, and Mercer saw the danger. “Retreat! Retreat!” he yelled.
A pistol shot took his horse through the neck and it reared up, dumping the brigadier general onto the ground. As the men melted away in panic, Casca saw Colonel Haslett exclaim in dismay and run to assist Mercer, but the British got to him first, and when Mercer struck out with his saber, the soldiers ran him through repeatedly.
Haslett paused, then back tracked towards Casca who was edging backwards towards the gate. “Hold fast, men, don’t run!” Haslett cried out, then was taken in the back by a musket shot. The colonel pitched forward and lay ten feet from Casca, his eyes wide and unseeing.
The Eternal Mercenary gritted his teeth and retreated. Facing an entire regiment on his own wasn’t sensible, and the rest of the brigade had fled, streaming uphill towards the second farm a short distance away. Over to the left the American artillery was also being overrun and the British advancing on a wide front. Casca ran after his men, bellowing at them to stop and reform.
Just then a second American force appeared, advancing towards the redcoats, but the fleeing Continentals crashed into them, disrupting their lines. Casca shouted obscenities at the running men and caught up with the rearmost ones, cuffing the first around the neck and grabbing a second. “Stand here! Reload!”
He cut at an angle across the hill and seized a third by the coat. “Get over there! Stop running!”
The new American line included a couple of cannon and Casca shoved the three men over to the side of them. “Stand and guard the guns! I’m going to fetch the others.”
Casca’s yelling and the shouts of other officers brought some semblance back to the shattered brigade, and about a quarter of them reformed by the second farm, on either side of the guns. Now the guns began opening up at the British, and the two sides began trading shots. Casca knelt close to one of the cannon and reloaded, urging his few men to do the same. There was a lot of shooting going on to the right where a long line of redcoats were blasting away at the newly arrived American troops, and Casca could see the Americans edging backwards, bodies littering their retreat. “Hell, it’s down to us to hold the line here, boys,” he said, biting into another paper cartridge.
The British opposite the cannon stayed where they were, not wanting to get any closer to the deadly guns and their grapeshot. Casca waited, looking to see what would happen next. To his surprise he saw Washington emerge from over the hill to his right, leading a counter-attack. The redcoats sent a volley at him but the general emerged unscathed. “Right, boys, let’s go help the general,” Casca shouted, realizing belatedly he was the senior most surviving officer now of the men who remained with him.
He led his men downhill away from the guns, to a point on the extreme left of the new American lines. The soldiers there looked at them curiously, then went back to concentrating on loading up. Casca checked his twenty two men and formed them into two lines. “Stand ready, load up.”
The redcoats sent a volley rolling out, and a few Americans slumped to the ground, but then the order came from Washington to fire. A stream of shot smashed into the redcoats, cutting down dozens of them. Casca shot into the crowd, and guessed he may well have hit someone, but he couldn’t be sure.
Reload. Aim, fire. Close your eyes, wait till the cloud of smoke goes. Grab another cartridge. It became automatic, and he kept on loading and firing until the British line collapsed, unable to take the sustained fire any more. With a whoop of delight, the Americans surged forward to chase the British from the field. Casca was too tired to join in the chase, and watched as the remnants of the enemy fled in all directions, hotly pursued by the exultant militia and continentals.
“Still with us, Captain Lonnergan?” General Washington said suddenly alongside Casca, making him start.
Casca looked up at the American commander and saluted. “Yes, sir. Congratulations.”
“On what, this victory?”
“That and Trenton. It’s done the morale of the army wonders, sir.”
Washington chuckled for a moment. “I must be about my business, Captain, but I must tell you before I go to General Sullivan who is at this moment investing Princeton, that Rose made it safely to Philadelphia.”
“That’s good news, sir. Thank you for that.”
“And I have also received a letter from the British general, Howe, which requests the return of Sir Richard Eley’s wife. You may as well keep it; I have responded appropriately, saying it is none of my business. Good day, Captain; when you’re ready, march to Princeton. We’ve got plenty to do yet.”
“Yes, sir.” Casca sat down heavily on a broken open ammunition crate and opened the letter. It was written in beautiful script, flowing and neat. General Howe had been requested by Sir Richard Eley to ask General Washington to arrange the arrest of one Captain Case Lonnergan for abducting the wife of the baronet, and to ensure the safe return of Lady Eley.
Casca grinned tiredly. He had certainly stirred the bastard enough for him to complain to his commanding officer about it all. The great thing was that there was nothing Sir Richard could do as his wife was well away from him. “One day, you swine,” Casca promised to the wind, “one day.”
With a groan he got up and shouldered his musket. They’d won two victories back to back, and he wondered if it had turned the tide in their favor. Time would tell. The war was still there to be won, or lost.
He trudged down off the hill, stepping round the fallen, and made his way towards Princeton, whistling a tune to himself.
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 37 Roman Mercenary
A simple rescue mission, that’s what they said to Casca. But to the Eternal Mercenary it was anything but that. Recovering from the trauma of seeing his beloved Rome fall to the Goths, he’d taken on the first job that came his way in Gaul, to rescue a rich man’s beautiful daughter from a
barbarian occupied city.
Getting a group of mixed Roman and Germanic mercenaries to come with him on the mission was not difficult, given the gold promised in those times of uncertainty. What was difficult though was to find out which of his six companions was hiding an alternative agenda while travelling north to barbarian territory.
What was also hard was to avoid getting caught up in a dynastic squabble between the King of the Burgundians and one of his group, the son of a rival Burgundian noble. It would be a mission that would test Casca to the limit of his endurance and abilities.
For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net
The Barry Sadler website www.barrysadler.com
THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS
By Barry Sadler
Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary
Casca 2: God of Death
Casca 3: The Warlord
Casca 4: Panzer Soldier
Casca 5: The Barbarian
Casca 6: The Persian
Casca 7: The Damned
Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune
Casca 9: The Sentinel
Casca 10: The Conquistador
Casca 11: The Legionnaire
Casca 12: The African Mercenary
Casca 13: The Assassin
Casca 14: The Phoenix
Casca 15: The Pirate
Casca 16: Desert Mercenary
Casca 17: The Warrior
Casca 18: The Cursed
Casca 19: The Samurai
Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon
Casca 21: The Trench Soldier
Casca 22: The Mongol
By Tony Roberts
Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma
Casca 26: Johnny Reb
Casca 27: The Confederate
Casca 28: The Avenger
Casca 30: Napoleon’s Soldier
Casca 31: The Conqueror
Casca 32: The Anzac
Casca 34: Devil’s Horseman
Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood