Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma

by Tony Roberts

  What he really wanted to try out were the rifles that were coming into use with the new percussion caps, but this unit only had muskets. Still, he mused, it was a useful weapon to have and the drill targeted the men to be able to fire three times a minute. Having served in both French and British armies over the past fifty years, Case reckoned he was as proficient with the loading sequence as anyone. Then there was the bayonet; a nasty long piece of steel attached to the musket, and plenty of sessions were spent in the square practicing with it. Case knew this was no preparation for the real thing; bags of sand didn’t scream, spray blood over you or fight back. The Roman legionaries had had much better realistic preparation for battle.

  The uniform was of blue wool; jackets and trousers for the men were the same color but they had white webbing, criss-crossed over their jackets. On top of their head they wore flat round caps with small peaks and they carried cartridge cases on their belts. Pretty, Case thought, but these wore badly very quickly once they got campaigning. Hopefully they had an efficient commissariat; the British tended to have poor ones and many times he’d seen soldiers in battle dressed like vagabonds.

  Case wasn’t the best shot in the unit, but he knew he never would be; he had other skills he could call upon in a fight. He was fairly happy to be back in an army, knuckling down to the routine of daily life. He’d have been much happier but for Quinn and his buddies, and they went out of their way to make life awkward for him, but thanks to the threat of Lampeter’s punishments, they stopped short of actually harming him.

  Until, that was, when Quinn tried to kill him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They had been sent out from the barracks on a route march through the countryside. It was into the fall and leaves were spiraling lazily down onto the moist earth. The rains were frequent but this day was dry, and they had been given a route of march round the nearby road system and then across country back to camp. It was around ten miles or so and Lampeter reckoned the thirty men in the unit should do it in ten hours with a stop for midday meal.

  Lampeter set a brisk pace and the men, many of whom were unused to such exercise, particularly when carrying their firearm, ammunition, blanket, water jug and cooking utensils, struggled to keep up. Case found it not too difficult and was one of a few who showed no sign of distress. Before long the men were strung out in a long straggling line, mouths open, panting.

  Lampeter turned and scowled. “For God’s sake,” he growled impatiently, “this is a goddamned country walk compared to what you may be faced with in combat!”

  Quinn, predictably, was another who was managing to keep up and he sneered at the struggling men. “Ma’s boys, they are.”

  “Private Quinn, if I wanted your opinion I’d ask for it. Shut it!” Lampeter snapped. He began walking back along the line, using his stick to goad some of the more distressed to a faster pace. He turned and marched swiftly back to the front. “Privates Quinn, Lonnergan and Mulherne. You three set the pace. I want you to carry on till you get to the next building, three miles down the road. Stop there and break out rations.”

  “Yes sergeant,” Case saluted and jerked his head at the other two. “You heard him, let’s go.” They set off, Quinn scowling. Very soon only those three were together, the rest having dropped back, Lampeter cajoling and threatening them onwards, promising the stragglers no time to eat if they were late to the lunch stop.

  The country road wound along through tree-lined avenues, cutting through fields that had been harvested and were now bare. Every so often a ditch appeared, usually full of rainwater. Quinn looked round and, satisfied nobody else was near, stopped. He pulled out his ramrod and a lead ball. Case heard the metallic scrape and stopped, Mulherne stopping too, a puzzled look on his face.

  “What are you doing?” Case demanded as Quinn poured powder into his musket and then dropped the ball down the barrel. Quinn said nothing but the expression on his face was sufficient. Even Mulherne looked uncomfortable.

  “Ye think ye can shoot him and not get caught ye bloody fool?” Mulherne exclaimed, backing away from Case and towards Quinn.

  “Ye’re a witness to it,” Quinn said, ramming the ball down firmly. “He tried to kill me; I shot him in self defense. Ye understand ye bloody Kerry simpleton?”

  Case grabbed for his bayonet, hanging down his left hand thigh. Quinn had one shot and unless he hit fully square Case would have him. “You stupid bastard,” he said quickly, “I’m no Britisher! I deserted their army and if they find me I’m to be hanged. I’m American now; can’t you get that into your stupid head?”

  Quinn laughed unpleasantly. “Ye can’t talk ye’re way out of this Lonnergan. Ye’re a disgrace to any Irishman and I’m going to punish ye fer joining that despicable country’s army.” He leveled the musket and aimed at Case who was backing away. At a range of ten yards not even a musket could miss and Case braced himself for the numbing impact of the shot.

  But it never came. Mulherne stepped forward and knocked the barrel up with his own gun. The shot went high, startling a flock of crows which flew into the air, cawing raucously. “Ye stupid fuck!” Quinn screamed in fury.

  “I’ve saved ye from the hangman Quinn,” Mulherne snapped, his eyes on the road, expecting Lampeter to appear any moment. “I’m fed up with ye’re one-man crusade against Lonnergan here. He’s done nothing to deserve ye shootin’ him. If anyone’s a disgrace to Ireland, it’s ye, ye poxy Dubliner!”

  Case sheathed his bayonet and stepped forward, puffing out his cheeks. “Thanks, Mulherne.”

  “Jimmy Mulherne won’t stand fer murder,” he replied, grinning. “And I think ye’ve been wrongly picked on. I’ll not go along with Quinn’s games any more, nor will the boys. And Quinn, if ye try anything again, we’ll all know who did it and ye’ll not get away with it.”

  Quinn growled, muttering darkly, fingering his musket. Just then Lampeter appeared, his eyes wild. “Who fired that shot?”

  The three men eyed each other warily, aware of the sergeant’s growing impatience. Quinn held his breath, wondering what his fate would be if Lampeter found out he’d tried to shoot Lonnergan; he’d not thought out the consequences which was typical of him. Act first, think later. That had got him into trouble many times before and that was why he’d fled to America; he’d be hanged if he returned to Ireland.

  “Ah, sarge,” Case cleared his throat, feigning embarrassment, “I bet Quinn here he’d not hit any of those crows nesting in those trees over here.”

  Lampeter clearly didn’t believe him.

  “Ain’t that so, Jimmy?” Case grinned at his new friend.

  “Oh, yeah, so he did,” Mulherne nodded emphatically. “Couldn’t hit a bloody barn door, so Lonnergan said.”

  Quinn looked outraged for a moment before the realization came to him that the two were actually covering up for his action. Lampeter whirled on the red-faced man. “Quinn?”

  “Oh, yes, sergeant. I was so angry at his words I missed!”

  Lampeter placed his fists on his hips and eyed the three, clearly not satisfied. “Nobody fires without my permission, you get it?”

  “Yes, sarge,” the three chorused.

  “Right. Now get moving and set that camp up as I told you. The others are going to be a little behind you, so you’ll have time to set it up properly with no hurry. And I’ll want a decent mug of tea when I get there, got it?”

  “Sure thing sarge,” Case saluted and set off along the road again, the other two following after a moment’s hesitation. They had got out of Lampeter’s sight when Case whirled, grabbed a surprised Quinn and placed his bayonet against the big Irishman’s throat. “Now listen you lump of shit,” Case snarled, “I don’t take kindly to any asshole trying to put a shot into me. I’m sick of your attitude. You try to kill me one more time and I’ll skillet you with this, that I promise.”

  Quinn wriggled but the point of the bayonet pricked his skin and he tried to lean away from the length of steel. Mulherne put out a han
d to Case. “Hey, Case, let’s call it quits, yeah? I don’t like murder, and even though Quinn here deserves a good kicking he don’t deserve to be slaughtered like a pig right here.”

  Case nodded and pushed Quinn back, taking the bayonet away from his throat. “Just remember that Quinn. You try anything again and I’m going to be after your blood. Now let’s find that roadside hut or whatever it is.”

  Quinn said nothing but his eyes were full of dark hatred. He’d have to watch himself round Lonnergan now, especially that Mulherne had befriended him. That would make things difficult to take care of the bastard, but some how, some day, he’d get what he wanted. Case Lonnergan’s head on a platter.

  * * *

  Lynch had been busy. He’d taken up residence in the Richmond Hotel along Washington Street, preferring the comfort of the newly built hotel to the more Spartan surroundings offered by Father Sutton. Lynch dispensed with his dog collar and took on the persona of a well-to-do gentleman instead. In fact, it was what he was more at ease with rather than masquerading as a priest.

  His main task had been to track down Longinus. Whitby had supplied the low-down on where he was living and with whom, but there were rumors the Beast had gone away. Lynch found out from the hook-handed man that one of the McGuire girls was having a pre-marital affair with one of the neighboring German farmers and because of the scandal and the fact the Germans were Lutheran and the McGuires Catholic, both had become furtive about seeing each other, particularly, as Whitby delighted in telling Lynch, she was engaged to another man.

  Lynch suggested the two lovers come to the hotel to carry on their affair. What he wanted was to question the girl, and inviting her to carry on her carnal activities in private was as good a way of enticing her into his trap. So it was set up, and Hans arrived, shortly before Bridget. Lynch waited in the sitting room, reading the newspaper. He got signals from Whitby who was sat by the bar when the two arrived, and Whitby passed Hans the key and then when the girl arrived, informed her what room number it was.

  Lynch waited a few moments before folding the paper and rising. He nodded at Whitby who left swiftly. Lynch took his time, taking the stairs sedately, his long black silver-tipped cane in hand. He arrived outside the room and produced a duplicate key. He was as silent as he could be and the door opened, allowing the two men entry.

  The two lovers were on the bed going at it, as Whitby later remarked, like a couple of jack rabbits. Lynch looked at Whitby in feigned surprise. Whitby grinned and scratched his cheek with his hook. Bridget was making enough noise to drown out any sound of footfalls on the carpet and the two approached the grunting Hans from behind. Lynch paused, judged the right moment just before Hans was due to spill his seed into the mewling girl and brought his cane down on the head of the German with all his force.

  Hans collapsed across the girl, knocked clean out. Bridget clawed at his back and then opened her eyes in surprise as Hans didn’t react. She screamed as she caught sight of Whitby’s leering face and Lynch’s disapproving one. She frantically tried to push Hans off her but the dead weight of over two hundred pounds of inert bone and muscle proved beyond her ability to move.

  “Young lady, I wish to know the whereabouts of one Case Lonnergan who I believe lived at the same address as you until recently.” Lynch’s voice was soft and velvety but the menace was there. “Once you tell me you can go and never return here.”

  Bridget sobbed, still coming down from the peak of pleasure. Terror was replacing it and she huddled beneath the dead weight of Hans. Whitby licked the length of his hook and eyed her flesh with obvious lust. Lynch didn’t miss a trick.

  “Or do I allow my associate here to……. satisfy his pleasure with you?”

  “No!” she gasped, shrinking in fear.

  Lynch mildly observed Whitby who was feasting his eyes on her pale flesh. “Very well, Miss McGuire. Then I can assume you are willing to tell me where I can find this Case Lonnergan?”

  “He’s in the army!” she said quickly, holding onto the inert figure of her lover who was still out cold. Blood was trickling down from the wound in his scalp from the blow he’d received. “Some training fort near Petersburg!”

  “Well now,” Lynch smiled coldly, “thank you Miss McGuire. You’ve fulfilled your part of the bargain, I shall fulfill mine. You may dress and go. And please, do not ever return to this place ever again, or speak to me unless I ask you to. Do you understand?”

  “Yes!” she nodded emphatically. Whitby and Lynch hauled the unfortunate Hans off her, rolling him off the bed onto the floor with a crash. Bridget covered herself with one of the blankets and dashed behind the standing screens in the corner of the room, grabbing her discarded clothes on her way. The two men waited silently, listening to the struggles of the young woman as she dressed hurriedly. Bridget soon emerged, cheeks flushed. “What about Hans?” she asked.

  “Hans will come round soon enough. I think you should consider making your way home. You will not speak of this to anyone. You were never here and you never saw either this gentleman or myself.”

  Bridget nodded and was allowed to flee.

  Lynch then spoke to his associate. “I’d like you to inform the young lady’s fiancé of her….indiscretion and whom with. It would be amusing to see the outcome.”

  Whitby giggled evilly. “Sure thing, Mr. Lynch. Hopefully the O’Driscoll boy will kill this piece of shit and I can then have that bitch myself.”

  “Mr.Whitby, I think you ought to think more of getting your hand and hook on Longinus than on one girl. Wouldn’t you like to mete out pain and suffering to him each and every day? To repay him for what he’s done to you?”

  Whitby snarled and nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Lynch, I’d give him so much goddamned pain he’d regret ever seeing me.”

  “Then think of Prometheus and his punishment.”

  “Who the hell’s Prometheus?”

  Lynch sighed and faced the puzzled man. “A titan from Greek mythology. He gave the secret of fire to man and in punishment the gods chained him to a rock wall and every day an eagle flew down and devoured part of his liver. Of course, being a titan Prometheus was immortal, and every night his liver renewed itself, only for the punishment to begin again at daybreak. Longinus could be a modern day Prometheus and you the eagle.”

  “Hell yeah! I’d cut the fucker up bad and then the next day do it again!”

  Lynch smiled and turned away to look out of the window. Whitby was a fool, but a useful one to use at the present time. His hatred of Longinus made him a valuable ally. But once the Beast was in his clutches Whitby could be dispensed with. He’d decided against bringing the hooked criminal into the Brotherhood; Whitby was too much of a loose cannon and apt to do something stupid. So he’d not mentioned the Brotherhood, merely telling him of the remarkable life Longinus had and the fact he was being hunted by people like himself to rid the world of such an unnatural being. Whitby had swallowed the yarn eagerly, all too ready to believe anything bad about Longinus. The fact he’d survived a fatal shooting had helped convince Whitby.

  Lynch turned to survey the naked figure of Hans lying on the carpet. “Disgusting creature. Go fetch room service and have him thrown out onto the street.”

  “Sure thing,” Whitby grinned and left, leaving Lynch to ponder the news. So the Beast was once more in an army. That would make abducting him much more difficult. He’d better write to the Elder and ask for instructions. And ask for reinforcements. He could do little on his own.

  And when he got his reinforcements and instructions, Longinus would be taken and be a prisoner of the Brotherhood’s for eternity. He would not escape!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What a bloody hell-hole!” Jimmy Mulherne exclaimed, spying the row upon row of tents that came into view as the flat-bottomed boat nosed past the islands covering the bay and settlement of Corpus Christi.

  Case nodded and wiped his brow. Even though it was November the temperature was uncomfortably humid and warm.
Sweat covered their backs and armpits and the men were keen to get their uniforms off and soak themselves in the waters of the bay. No matter it was a murky brown color, it was water! They had completed their training and had been shipped to the coast and sent south by coaster round Florida and on to New Orleans. From there they’d transferred to this vessel, something that resembled a river boat, and had carried on west. Case had been along this route once before, and his mind had drifted back to the voyage of the Lida and the adventure hungry Vikings from Helsfjord.

  He knew from his previous trip that the land further west would change to scrubland and desert and wasn’t looking forward to that. He had frowned as the miles had been swallowed up. His guess was that they were off the coast of Texas and that meant one of two things; either the war had started or the US army was already in Texas ready for trouble.

  A few enquiries had soon got the answer; President Polk had ordered the commanding officer of the army detachment in New Orleans, Zachary Taylor, to advance into Texas just in case Mexico tried to bring the republic back under its wing. Taylor was now at Corpus Christi together with something like 3,500 men. Texas Ranger scouts had reported a Mexican army of some 6,000 not far away over the border.

  So now the men were watching the sea of tents come closer as their boat nosed towards the harbor. A small jetty stood proud of the flat shoreline and behind that stood a row of wooden huts. The majority of the tents were off to the right and soldiers could be seen marching or strolling through the camp. The land was flat for some distance inland before beginning to rise in a series of low rolling hills, with scattered trees and scrub dotted about.

  Off to the left the shoreline curved in a huge arc south, then south-east. Case grunted without humor. “Corpus Christi, huh?”

  “Aye,” Jimmy said. “Body of Christ.”

  “Fuck that,” another voice said in disgust. “Armpit more like.”