by Tony Roberts
“Yes, sir. So you think they’ll take the south route?”
Casca looked again at the map. The southern route was through better defensive terrain, where they could forage better and was furthest from the Continental Army. It would get them to the coast quicker, close to a place called Sandy Hook. “Yes, if I were Clinton, that’s the route I’d take.”
“I’ll go get ready. We should be on our way soon, sir, won’t we?”
“Probably. But don’t get all excited yet, Connors. Plenty of time.”
The young officer ran off eagerly. Captain Soderling came into Casca’s cabin. “He’s too much in a hurry,” the dour man commented.
“True, but he’s a good kid. Given time he may well make a decent officer.”
Soderling grunted. He changed the subject. “Is it true we’re going to pursue the British when they leave the city and attack? What about the civilians? They may be with the supply train.”
Casca nodded. “Word is they have requisitioned fifteen hundred wagons. It’s going to be a long, slow journey across country. Washington’s going to have the luxury of choosing when and where to attack – once he knows which route they’ll take.”
“And the unarmed civilians? I don’t want to shoot at them.”
“You and me both, Captain. Most of the loyalists sailed from Philadelphia harbor last week along with the families of the soldiers. They’ve got a few drovers and sutlers – and probably prostitutes – going with them but there won’t be that many women and children with them – if any at all. You can relax.” Casca privately was relieved about that, too. He never liked non-combatants getting caught up in the fighting. There had been too many instances where it had happened and it always made his blood boil to see children mercilessly cut down. Besides, men defending their loved ones under their noses fought like the devil and it made fighting that much harder.
It wasn’t long before the route Clinton and his men were taking became known. As expected it was the southerly route. At once units began packing up and marching out, taking nothing but their essentials. It was a race. The British had a head start but would be slowed down by their wagons. Washington sent a small force to reoccupy Philadelphia and marched the majority of his force east in heavy rain, leaving those too sick to march behind. Casca and his men were not in the vanguard and so they marched in the knowledge that if the British turned on their pursuers they’d hear it before they got into trouble.
Washington marched his army along the northern route, well away from the enemy, and crossed the Delaware and kept up a hard rate of march for two days before allowing the army to rest. Casca wondered whether the Continental Army would acquit itself well should they force the British to battle following von Steuben’s training.
Although it was now summer, the weather was poor, the rain lashing down on the camp. Tents were pitched once more and the men informed that they would remain there awhile, and would then set off towards the enemy once their position was known. Casca peered up into the sky and noticed that it was getting darker and darker. The birds had all gone quiet, too, and the men, one by one, came to stand in the clearing and look up in wonder.
The darkness was increasing, even though it was well into the day. Casca shut his eyes. An eclipse. There had been many he’d witnessed over the centuries, and people always liked to use them as omens, whether good or bad, whenever they had occurred. The men muttered and pointed up as the light faded. A babble of voices broke out. Many had never witnessed one before.
“It’s alright lads,” Casca said, his eyes snapping open, “it’ll last a few minutes then it’ll go. It’s just an eclipse.”
“You seen these before, sir?” Connors asked, close to Casca’s elbow. He seemed to want to be close to the major for reassurance.
Casca nodded. “Quite a few. Stand and watch.”
The eclipse slowly faded and the men breathed again. Even in these days of greater understanding, men’s superstitions still ran close to the surface. Casca smiled to himself.
It wasn’t long afterwards that Colonel Greystock came amongst them and detailed their line of march, using his map. They were to march south-east towards a place called Englishtown and trap the British there; Clinton was definitely making a break for the coast at Sandy Hook where ships were waiting for him and they now knew the roads he’d take.
The chase was on. They marched hard the next couple of days and the weather improved. The men wondered whether they’d catch the British. They desperately wanted to lock horns with the enemy, and some of the men were worried their quarry would slip through the net. Tiredness and blisters mattered not, neither did their deteriorating footwear. They wanted to show the British they could fight hard too.
They came to a halt at Englishtown and received their final orders. They were organized under General Lee’s command and put in Maxwell’s brigade once more. The landscape was made up of woodland with farms dotted about in between the clumps of trees. The land rose and fell gently and brooks and roads criss-crossed the terrain.
The British were retreating just to the south in a long, ragged column, stretched out for miles along the drying roads. The wagons and artillery had slowed them down and Lee was given orders by Washington to capture the rearguard that contained a huge amount of artillery. Casca organized his men into line and they marched off through the farmland alongside the other New Jersey units, crossing a brook via a stone bridge and then they turned south along the line of trees that marked the edge of a wood. It was early morning but already hot and the men marched in their shirts, sleeves rolled up.
Colonel Greystock ordered a halt by a crossroads. Casca stood by the roadside looking across the countryside. In the distance figures could be seen moving along a road – the British! Already the American troops were converging on them, but for some reason Casca and his men were ordered to stand fast. Connors fretted, tutting in frustration. “Why are we stood here, sir?”
“I imagine somebody has made the point that the British could turn round and hit our flanks. You see the way our units are heading for the rearguard?” Casca pointed through the fences and hedges to the half-seen soldiers making their way down towards the enemy. “Well our left flank is open and if Clinton turns round we could be in trouble.”
“If we’re quick we could easily win, sir.”
Soderling grunted from the other side of Casca. “Have you seen the mix-up on this road? They’ve made a mess of the marching order. I think that’s why we’ve halted. We’re in the wrong place.”
Casca privately agreed with Soderling. Other Continental units were marching past, sweating under the burning sun. Casca took his hat off and wiped his brow. Suddenly the sound of shots came to them and their ears pricked up and heads swung round. Smoke could be seen billowing up from the right. “Well,” Casca said, “it’s begun.”
They got their orders soon enough to move on, advancing uphill through orchards and along a dry road that produced huge amounts of dust. There was no way they’d now march upon the British undetected. They were hot and uncomfortable and covered in dust. Off to the right a collection of buildings came into view, wooden ones. Someone mentioned that they were the Monmouth Courthouse buildings.
The deeper throaty roar of cannons were now filling the air, and the smell of sweat increased as the men’s fear drive more adrenaline through their systems. They crossed another field and then came to a halt. Dust was rising off to the left and coming their way. Casca knew immediately what this was. “The British main column, boys. Take cover behind the fence and get ready.”
The unit lined up in two rows and loaded up. Colonel Greystock came up and issued unnecessary commands to do exactly what Casca had told them to do. The sound of tramping feet could clearly he heard now and shooting began erupting along the units off to the left.
Suddenly a column of men in red appeared ahead of them. They had clearly passed and not noticed the other side of the field had been occupied by the Continentals, and so they had turn
ed about and were coming to the aid of their comrades entangled further back.
“Front rank aim,” Casca said tensely. The British were grenadiers. It would be a hard battle. “Fire!”
The explosion of sound and smoke filled the air. Casca roared to the second rank to aim. Dimly seen figures could be seen pressing on through the smoke, bayonets wickedly glinting. They were too damned close! Someone hadn’t been fully alert. Casca stepped back. It was likely they had blundered into each other, not a hard feat given the undulating terrain and undergrowth, dust and high hedges. Friendly units could so easily be mistaken for the enemy and vice versa.
The rest of the brigade, luckily for them further back, were edging back, having seen that in fact it was an entire column advancing at them. The 5th were right in their path and on their own.
“Fire!” Casca barked and saw a volley of shots rip into the hedge, fence and red coated bodies, sending half a dozen men flying back. Most of the shots had gone too high, however. The unexpected appearance of the British had panicked the New Jerseymen. And now these big angry grenadiers were climbing through the hedge and fence, faces fixed with a furious intent, and were ready to mix it hand to hand.
Casca swung round. To the left the next company was falling back as yet another column came at them, turning their flank. Colonel Greystock was waving furiously at them to retreat to the farm behind them where they could at least make a stand. Shots rattled through the air and Greystock staggered, clutching his chest, and he dropped his sword.
“Colonel!” Casca shouted and ran to the stricken man.
“Get the men out of here, Major,” Greystock gasped, blood flecking his lips, looking at him through pain-wracked eyes.
Casca cursed and looked up. Two grenadiers were coming for him, bayonets thrusting forward. Casca sprang to his feet, his saber in his hand. He swept it in an arc and knocked the two muskets aside, planting his right foot firmly on the ground to the side of the groaning colonel. He cut back across his original line of attack and his blade scythed through the right hand grenadier’s chest, ripping the uniform apart and scoring deep into his muscles. The grenadier screamed and span round, falling to the ground.
His comrade swore and swung his musket, intending to catch Casca across the face with his bayonet but Casca ducked and slammed his blade up straight, sinking it into the soldier’s guts, the steel embedding itself into the luckless man’s body for over a foot. Casca braced his foot against the sinking man’s chest and wrenched the saber out.
“Soderling!” he yelled, “get the men out of here now!”
Soderling took over at once, seeing the hopelessness of the situation. Grenadiers were pouring through the wrecked hedge and fence, and forming up ready to deliver a volley. He urged them back through the hedge on the other side of the road. The Continental soldiers turned and crashed through the foliage.
Casca hacked down at another grenadier who came at him. The blow splintered the stock of the musket. It knocked the man back onto his ass. Winded, the man looked up in shock at the scar-faced officer roaring defiance and cleaving his blade through the air like some fearsome knight from a bygone age.
He had to give his men time to get clear. He charged the grenadiers, slicing through the nearest man’s collar. The blade stuck. Cursing, Casca swung his fist at the next who was turning round to shoot. The balled fist took the man across the jaw. The soldier’s eyes went wide and glazed over, blood filling his mouth. He toppled onto his injured colleague.
A third man jabbed at Casca who dodged the thrust, grabbed the musket and pulled hard. As the grenadier was jerked forward, Casca’s forehead smashed into the face of the man. There came a dull sickening thud and Casca felt a sharp severe pain across his head, and stepped back. The grenadier was sinking to his feet, a bubbling scream emitting through his fingers that were failing to prevent the blood spurting out of his ruined face.
“You fockin’ bastarrrrd!” a broad Scots voice came from the left.
Casca turned to face a big stubble-chinned man advancing on him. The musket swung and Casca flung up an arm in a reflex move and knocked it aside enough to prevent himself from being skewered. But the Scot brought the butt up and sank it into Casca’s gut. Blinding pain shot through the Eternal Mercenary’s body and he sank to his knees over Greystock’s prone figure.
The Scot wasn’t feeling charitable and brought the butt down across Casca’s head and the world exploded into bright lights, and then darkness plunged down and consumed him. Casca fell across Colonel Greystock and lay there, oblivious to the grenadiers that now surrounded him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The world gradually returned. Casca wished it didn’t do so with such agony. There was also the matter of a curious rumbling and a very uncomfortable rolling motion. He groaned and opened his eyes. He saw a plank wall in front of him. The world jolted and he was pitched against it. He wondered why he couldn’t put his hands out to stop himself, and then realized they were bound behind his back.
The rumbling continued. It filled his ears. His head struck a soft object behind him and he wondered what it was. He brought his knees up to his stomach, finding that his legs were also tied together, and tried to slide to a position that would allow him to get up.
Hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him roughly off the wagon, for that was what he had been in, and dragged him away from the road that it was traveling on. Casca staggered and would have fallen if not for the rough hands that supported him.
“Is he conscious?” a well-educated voice said from behind him.
Casca was still trying to come to terms with his throbbing headache and aching guts, and his legs were shaking. He wondered whether he’d see his breakfast again, but did his best to keep it down.
“Aye, sir,” one of the men holding him answered, his voice surly and resentful.
“Well turn him round then, man.”
Casca was hauled round and the world span. It was getting dark. Night was approaching and the British column was marching past, some men wounded. It appeared Washington’s attack hadn’t succeeded. Before him was a slim, neat and prim-looking officer holding a thin black cane.
“Captain Addington, 5th grenadier guards,” the man touched the tip of the cane to his forehead.
“Major Lonnergan,” Casca groaned, “5th New Jersey. Where are we?”
“On the road to the coast. Your chaps were jolly aggressive today, what?”
Casca blinked. Was this man for real? He decided he was, unfortunately. He looked at his bindings. “Why these?” he asked.
Addington frowned as if noticing these for the first time. “McGovern, why the ropes?”
McGovern grunted. “Sir. The prisoner killed two men and put three more out of action. One may die. We thought him too dangerous to be let free, sir.”
“He’s an officer, McGovern,” Addington objected. “Untie him.”
The soldier scowled but followed orders, using his bayonet. The grenadier stared deep into Casca’s eyes and didn’t like what he saw there. His stomach tightened. Letting this man loose was not a good idea. He stepped back and un-slung his musket.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary at all,” Addington said lazily. “If Major Lonnergan gives me his word he won’t escape, he can come with us on parole. Is that acceptable, old chap?”
Old chap? Casca supposed he was old. Seventeen centuries and seventy-odd years old in fact. “Sure, Captain. I won’t try to escape.” What the hell did it matter what he said? If he had the chance he would. But he looked at McGovern and knew the grenadier had other ideas. Maybe Casca had killed his buddies back there.
As they rejoined the column behind a rumbling cannon being pulled by two horses, Addington filled Casca in on what had happened. The American attack had foundered when Cornwallis’ column had turned back to assist Clinton and the rearguard, and the attack of Lee had been routed. But when the British tried to push the Americans back further the Continental Army had stood up to the at
tack and Clinton decided to pull back and not risk heavy losses.
So now they were headed east unmolested and heading for their transportation across the sound to New York, and Casca was a prisoner of war.
The night fell and the column ground to a halt. Casca was put with the other prisoners taken in the battle and guarded by glowering grenadiers. Addington had retired to the officer’s tents and so McGovern had roughly dragged Casca at musket point to the prisoner’s circle and fed and watered with the rest of them.
With so many men making sure nobody broke away escape was impossible so Casca hunkered down, warm enough under the summer sky, and concentrated on easing the dull pain in his head. He recalled being struck in the guts, so the blow on the head must have come when he was lying helpless. He wondered what had happened to Colonel Greystock, and if the rest of the men had gotten away.
The following day they were herded into a long straggling column, but Addington reappeared, fresh and clean-shaven after a hearty breakfast and wash, and took Casca aside, being content to walk with the man as they made their way to Sandy Hook. As his men had taken Lonnergan prisoner, he reasoned the American officer was his. Perhaps Lonnergan would net him some money?
Casca found the man irritating and his speech stilted and more than a little strange. It seemed he was trying to imitate the mannerisms of King George. Thankfully they got to the coast soon enough and the loading of men, equipment and supplies onto the ships took the attention of most of the men. Casca was put aboard a ship with the other prisoners and it was one of the first to sail to New York.
Oddly once they were ashore Casca was taken aside and marched to a large house in the middle of the city. As he was a reasonably senior officer he had been singled out for special interrogation. Two colonels and a brigadier-general sat behind a long desk in the modern house, the tall windows letting in plenty of light as they did these days, in contrast to what had come before. Advances in glass making had allowed for bigger windows. Plush drapes hung loose on either side of the window and Casca wondered just how much they would cost.
