by Tony Roberts
If he hadn’t been wary in the first place, Casca may well have been hit and knocked backwards. As it was, he was half expecting something, but not as fast or as fluid. Even so, he did succeed in sweeping Overton’s blow aside and counter with his left, aiming to neutralize the right arm with a numbing chop to the elbow.
Overton shifted his stance, drawing back onto his rear leg. Casca’s fingers passed through thin air. Gods, this guy’s fast! As Casca drew his arm back Overton pivoted and sent his right foot through the air right for Casca’s face.
The only thing Casca could do was to block. Any thought of an attack was out of the question. Overton span round and faced Casca once more, grinning. The bastard was actually grinning! “Good! You’re quite skilled, Lonnergan.” It was a compliment; he genuinely meant it. “Nice Jodan Uke. Although your feet are slightly too far apart and you wouldn’t be able to quickly counter with your own feet; I saw that and so could stand slightly further away out of your arm’s reach and strike with my feet.”
Casca looked at the Dutch-American with interest. “How about showing me?”
Overton nodded, pleased. He was enjoying this. It had been too long. “You’re right handed, yes? So you’d look to block with your hidari, the left, then counter with your right, migi. I tend to do a sequence, so after the Jodan Uke block, I’d use a Jodan Zuki to the jaw, then follow up with one to the sternum, a Chudan Zuki.”
“Right – but if the legs are not in the right position it affects the type of blow, yes?”
Overton nodded. “I looked at your stance and guessed you’d use something like a foot strike. You recovered fast. I countered almost as fast as I could, but I’m a little rusty having not used them for all these years.”
“Rusty? What the heck were you like before?”
“Oh, not bad,” Overton grinned. “Shall we both practice and hone our skills? I’d really appreciate a good workout.”
Casca chuckled. “Why not? It’ll do both of us good I think. I need to blow off some frustration anyway. I have the feeling you’ll be able to deal with that!”
Overton grinned. “Let’s see, shall we?”
And they spent the next thirty minutes sparring. Sweat dripped from their bodies, and although Casca ended up on the floor a few times, he did once catch Overton with a rib shot that surprised the Dutchman. He was complimentary on that and said it would teach him to be more careful in that particular area.
Both men were tired but pleased with the session. There were a few red welts on their skin but they would fade in a short time.
Claire called Casca to join her in the farmhouse. Overton slapped Casca on the back, and, breathing heavily, put his shirt back on. “Enjoyed that,” he said in between drawing in deep lungfuls of air. “We ought to do that again soon. Domo arigato gozaimashita!”
Casca nodded, although he didn’t know whether there’d be the time or opportunity. Besides, Claire looked grim-faced. Something was up. He made his way to the farmhouse, buttoning up his cotton shirt. He found Claire in the sitting room reading a letter. Wordlessly she passed him the message and watched as he read it.
Casca’s face went very still.
Sir Richard Eley had discovered that Casca had been sprung from the hulk and was even now sending men out to search for him and the fictitious Captain Overton.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“How the devil did he find out so damned fast?” Casca demanded.
“Luck,” Claire replied. “He’s been given orders to sail to the south and wanted to check that ye were dead, or if not, to make ye so. The governor then tell him surely ye were released on parole at Sir Richard’s request and that was when the whole thing went down, so it did.”
“Blast,” Casca said. He gave Claire the letter. “So Rose is under suspicion?”
“It won’t take that fool long to work out where the letter came from. Case, ye’ve got to get her out of that house fast. He’s off tomorrow to Savannah, so I’m told. He’ll want everything sorted out before then. He won’t want Rose and his boy in New York if ye’re out on the loose, will he now?”
“So get me to New York.” Casca knew he had to act now. There was no time. Claire called in Overton. The Dutch-American listened to the situation. He promised to arrange transport into the city and left.
Claire stood by the window, gazing out into the summer brightness. “I’ll have to leave soon for his house. I’m supposed to be seeing my sick mother but I’ve got to be back before long or they’ll get suspicious. I’ll go make sure Rose is ready and that everything is clear for ye to come get her. Overton will have the transport – ye’ll leave the same way as ye came. I’ll leave a door open around the back but I think ye’ll have to get a couple of Sir Richard’s soldiers out of the way. Can ye do that?”
Casca grunted in amusement. “I’m a soldier, Claire. Don’t ask silly questions.”
“No shooting. It’ll have to be quiet.”
Casca looked at his reddened hand. Maybe those new moves Overton had shown him might come in use sooner rather than later. “Leave it to me, Claire.”
He ate a small meal and Overton came in soon afterwards with details of how they’d get into New York. The farm often delivered foodstuffs to the market and this was how they got through the British lines. To the north of the city Washington had once again established an army and it wasn’t hard for the farm to get news through to the general. How much the British suspected wasn’t known, but it was certain that if Sir Richard knew the farm was involved there’d be soldiers all over them before they’d have a chance to say ‘revolution’.
Soldiers were scouring the grasslands and terrain close to the river, looking for clues or signs of the escape, but so far they hadn’t come any closer than two miles. Still, Casca thought bringing Rose and the child to the farm was a risky strategy. He was more for getting them through to Washington’s army. Overton pointed out that would need a ship to go upriver and they didn’t have a vessel big enough.
“Then ask Washington to lay one on.”
Overton grinned. “What – for one escaped officer and a woman and child? Can’t see him doing that! How would you pass through the British lines, anyway? You’d be shot at.”
Casca tapped the table impatiently. “I don’t know – but give me enough time and I’ll work something out.”
Overton threw Casca his hat. “We haven’t got any. We’ve got to go now. Miss Claire will be there by now and getting Rose ready to be rescued. The longer we wait the bigger the risk. And night will be on us soon enough. New York won’t let us in at night. Come on, the wagon’s got foodstuffs piled on the back.”
Grumbling, Casca followed Overton out to the yard. A single horse waited docilely, harnessed to a four-wheeled cart with piles of what looked like potatoes in sacks stacked in the back. “You going to hide Rose and the kid under those?”
Overton climbed up onto the driving board. “What do you take me for? Some of those sacks are dummies. We’ve done this plenty of times before.”
He drove the wagon out of the farm, Casca sat alongside Overton, and they made their way along a narrow dirt track to the main road that led to the ferry that would take them across to Manhattan. They reached the ferry, which was a large cargo boat and the way Overton maneuvered the wagon onto it gave Casca the impression he’d done this plenty of times before.
Soldiers were in evidence once they docked on the other side and Overton had encouraged the horse up and out of the ferry onto the cobbled streets. “Easy,” Overton said, an edge to his voice, “they won’t take much notice of us if we don’t act oddly. Just concentrate on looking ahead.”
Casca fretted; each minute that passed increased the chance Sir Richard would either discover Rose’s part in springing him from the hulk, or Rose would be removed to whatever ship would be taking her to Savannah.
Overton steered the wagon around the streets and along a side route away from the main thoroughfares. He halted by a long brick wall that had a few plant
s and grasses growing from the top. “Here. On the other side is Sir Richard’s residence. I can’t stay here too long in case someone spots me. Go in and get them and bring them back as quick as you can.”
“Don’t worry, Overton, I won’t hang about.”
“Good luck.”
Casca grabbed the top of the wall and hauled himself up from the back of the wagon. He could see into the long garden. There was a compost bin to one side, made up of three sides of poor quality wood and one open end. It looked full of rotting vegetation. Down the center of the garden ran a flagstone path and to either side of this the garden had been turned into a vegetable patch. Two soldiers sat smoking pipes by the compost bin. Casca cursed. There was nothing to it but to go at them fast and hard. They were twenty yards from him. Their muskets were propped up against the sides of the bin. It would take them time to react and Casca knew he had but one go at hitting them.
He pulled himself up and onto the top of the wall. The drop down the other side was ten feet or so, and he slid his feet over, then launched himself down, knees bent. He hit the dirt and rolled forward, springing up as he found his feet once more.
The two soldiers had their mouths open in shock, but they reacted fast. One turned to grab his musket a few feet from him while the other jumped up, knocking his stool backwards, fists bunched. He looked like a back street brawler; his build and broken nose said much about his background.
Casca ran hard for the two men. The brawler swung at him with a roundhouse move that would have taken his head off if it had connected, but the Eternal Mercenary had seen plenty of fights in his time and ducked out of the way. Planting his right foot forward he blocked the second punch, knocking it up out of the way with an Otoshi Uke move that Overton had shown him and followed up with another move that had been learned earlier that day; he sent a punch into the soldier’s chest – a Chudan Zuki. The soldier grimaced and sank to his knees, clutching his chest.
Not checking to see how he was, Casca went for the second man straight away. This one had grabbed his musket and was swinging it round, bayonet gleaming in the afternoon sun. Casca grabbed the barrel, stopping the move, and, using a Jodan Zuki blow, slammed his left fist against the soldier’s face, knocking it back sharply. A quick pull and the musket was out of the soldier’s hands. Casca threw it to one side and send a fist into the soldier’s gut, doubling him up.
Sounds of feet behind him warned him the brawler was up. Casca half turned and send a Kakato Geri kick into the brawler’s chest as he came at him again. The brawler groaned in pain and staggered back. A quick glance back. The second soldier was trying to get upright and not throw up. Casca scythed his right leg behind this one’s calves and upended him.
Brawler regained his balance and came at him once more, fists swinging, murder in his eyes. Two deflections opened the man up to Casca’s counter strike. He sent two viciously fast blows into the man’s face and throat and he sank to his knees, gargling in agony, clutching his throat. A final Kakato Geri kick to the jaw sent the man flat on his back.
He turned fast. The second soldier was scrambling away, trying to get to the house. Casca caught him, lifted him up and rammed him head first into the compost heap. Two punches to the kidneys and a further kick between the legs ended his interest in doing anything else other than coddling his injuries.
Casca dragged him out. The man’s face was wet and slimy, dripping with rotting plant matter and refuse from the kitchen. One solid punch to his face laid him out, and Casca dropped him to the path. One last check to satisfy both were out cold, and he bowed low ironically to them. “Domo arigato gozaimashita,” he said, breathing heavily. He then made his way to the door that was slightly ajar in the back of the house. He pushed it open gingerly and peered in.
Claire was standing at the far side of what was clearly a kitchen, by a door that led deeper into the house. She motioned for silence and waved him over to the door. Of the other servants there was no sign. Casca wondered where they were. Maybe time to ask Claire about that. She opened the door a few inches and pointed up a narrow staircase directly opposite. “Up there. That leads to the house. Ye’ll be in a corridor. Make yer way to the entrance lobby and then up the stairs. Rose is in the first room on the left. Watch out for the butler; he’s still here as are two soldiers out the front.”
“What about the other servants?”
“Either paid off or packed and aboard the ship in the harbor; its sailing this evening. We haven’t much time. Sir Richard is in a right ferment!”
“What about you? You can’t stay here.”
Claire nodded. “I’m coming with ye. I’ll get a ladder against the back wall. There’s one here against the outside wall. Now go!”
Casca patted her on the shoulder and ghosted through the passage and turned up the wooden staircase. A single oil lamp illuminated the way and his shadow grew large as he climbed towards the door at the top. From the other side light filtered through underneath the portal. Casca took hold of the handle and depressed it, stepping back as the door opened inwards.
A quick check left and right and he was into the corridor, a much plusher one than the one below. The entrance hall stood to the right and he made his way into this, noting the front door to the left. On the other side no doubt would be soldiers. Casca wasted no time and ran to the foot of the winding staircase and took the steps two at a time. The door Claire had pointed out was the first he came to and he knocked, then entered.
Rose had been sitting on the bed and she stood up in shock at Casca’s entrance. “Oh my God! Cass – Case. Oh thank God you’re here! My husband is threatening to kill all sorts of people about your escape! I’m scared!”
“Well let’s get you out of here. Where’s your son?”
“That nurse has got him. Next door. Sir Richard won’t let me near him.”
Casca grabbed Rose. “In that case you and I are going to get him now.”
“Don’t hurt her, Case. She’s only doing her job.”
Casca nodded and opened the door to the nursery without any hesitation. The door crashed open and a scene of cots, wooden child frames, letter blocks and a wheeled toy met his eyes. The nurse remained sat in her chair, shock on her face, while a toddler with dark curly hair was on the floor playing with two toy soldiers. Rose made for him and the nurse shot out of her chair. Casca grabbed the woman and propelled her back into the chair. “Stay there if you know what’s good for you, woman.”
The nurse said or did nothing. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Rose scooped up her son and hugged him tight.
“Come on, Rose, we’ve got to go,” Casca said and led her out of the room, shutting the door.
As they made their way down the stairs a figure came out of the side passage to the right. “What is going on here?” he demanded.
“It’s the butler, Bradbury!” Rose exclaimed.
“Get down to the kitchen,” Casca snapped and grabbed the butler by the throat. “You’re coming with us,” he said to the squirming Bradbury.
Rose went on ahead and Claire grabbed her, pushing her into the kitchen. Casca dragged a struggling Bradbury in with him and shut the door. “What do we do with this one?”
“He’s Sir Richard’s creature,” Claire spat. “He’ll tell him everything.”
Casca thrust the butler onto a chair. “You stay there! Claire, get Rose and the kid out – there’s a wagon over the wall at the back.”
Casca rummaged around for something to tie Bradbury to but while he was doing that the butler lunged out of the wooden chair and seized a kitchen knife. “You won’t get away with this!” he shouted and lunged at Casca.
The eternal mercenary saw it coming and dodged aside, arms up in the air. Then he brought one down and struck the butler hard on the jaw. Bradbury staggered back into the huge ceramic sink and his legs buckled, but he stayed up and slashed hard as Casca approached to finish him off. The blade cut through the air close to Casca’s face and he stepped back hard. Bradbury
lunged again, his knife point aimed for Casca’s face. The eternal mercenary retreated, looking for an opening. He took hold of a thick wooden rolling pin and swung at the butler. The club missed him by inches and Bradbury gritted his teeth and made to one side, towards the door.
Casca moved fast, intercepting him, but the knife blade passed close to his neck. The rolling pin came down hard and connected with Bradbury’s temple. There was a dull crack and the butler span round into the dresser by the doorway, and slowly slid to the ground, his eyes wide.
Casca looked down at his body, then at the rolling pin. Never killed anyone with one of these before. He threw the wooden implement down onto the corpse and followed the women out into the garden. The two soldiers he’d knocked out earlier were still where he’d left them. One was showing signs of coming round, so Casca whacked him again for good measure, then ran to the end where a ladder lay against the wall. Claire was at the top, Rose and the boy having already gone over the wall, and he waited until she’d gone over before scrambling up.
Kicking the ladder away from the wall, he jumped down onto the wagon which was full of people. Claire waved Rose and young Cass into the front alongside Overton, while she lifted two of the dummy sacks up and Casca burrowed into a small space just big enough for him and Claire. She wriggled in and the two of them lay together, wrapping their arms round one another in order to get comfortable.
The wagon jerked into motion and Claire looked at Casca, their eyes no more than three inches apart. “Keep yer hands where they are,” she said, a slight warning in her voice.
“I had no intention of them moving down to your ass,” he grinned.
Claire looked at him for a moment, then she chuckled. “Just remember that, Lonnergan.”
“The thought never entered my mind.”
Claire gave him a look that left him in no doubt she didn’t believe a single word. What was it about feisty women that appealed to him? He took his mind off things by going over what to do next. All well and good taking Rose and the boy, but there was no way they could stay at the farm; the British would be stung into action and nowhere would be left untouched. The guards at the city limits would report the passing of the wagon and occupants when pressed by their officers, and then it would only be a matter of time before even the bumbling officer upper class would realize they’d taken the ferry road.
