by Tony Roberts
He sighed. He was dangling from the web and the big black spider was closing in. “No, I have no alibi or witnesses.” He saw Maplin smile in triumph. Damn his heart to hell.
Judge Thackarey looked long and hard at Casca, then with an air of regret, picked up his gavel. “Then I can only conclude that you are indeed guilty of theft. Since the property is the military’s, and your crime is against the Crown, I am going to hand you over to the custody of Sir Richard. You will be taken to Boston and imprisoned there until a suitable sentence is handed out to you by military tribunal.” He banged his gavel and looked at Sir Richard. Hopefully that would be sufficient to keep him in his job.
The British officer nodded curtly and turned to Purseman. “Sergeant, escort the prisoner to the barrack gaol. I shall seek permission to sentence this man to the sugar cane plantations in Jamaica.”
Casca waited no longer. He swung his fists up in an arc and connected with the soldier to his left. Both fists sank into the starched white waistcoat over the man’s stomach and the soldier folded over and his breath exploded in one huge noise. Even as the luckless soldier was sinking to the floor, trying not to vomit, Casca sprang forward. Purseman turned to confront him, and Casca’s forehead slammed hard into the sergeant’s face. Casca saw stars but also had the satisfaction in hearing bone splintering.
Staggering away from the shocked figure of Sir Richard, Casca weaved his way unsteadily down the aisle, past shocked, staring white faces that shrank back from him, and through the open door into the early spring daylight. Three stone steps led down to the earthen road and Casca jumped them on one go. He turned and began racing hard for the edge of town.
Behind him he heard pounding feet. “Halt!” came the barked order which Casca ignored. He ran as fast as he could, handicapped by his wrists being shackled together. He wondered where the hell he could go now. He was an outlaw.
A shot smashed into a wall close to his head and he flinched. Those damned soldiers weren’t taking any chances. He ducked left and staggered against a plank wall and rebounded into the street. Ahead stood some stables, the door wide open. A couple of men were busy piling hay into a two wheeled cart with pitchforks, and a placid looking draft horse was yoked to it.
As Casca emerged from the street opposite, the two men beckoned to him urgently. “Quick, if you want to avoid being taken captive!” one of them hissed.
With nothing to lose, Casca came running over to them and was hauled up into the back of the cart and the next moment hay was thrown on top of him. “Lie still,” one of the two lean looking men advised him.
As Casca lay there more hay was thrown over him and he was now covered. A few moments later he heard the clattering of feet and voices. “You seen a fugitive, dressed in a light brown shirt and dull blue pants? Might have come running this way in the last few minutes.”
“Nope,” the man who’d advised him to keep quiet replied. “All been quiet here. If we see him we’ll tell you.”
“Damn and blast,” the searching voice said and footsteps were heard fading away.
“Stay there. We’re getting you out of town,” the helper said. “One sound and we’ll all be caught and probably hanged.”
A few moments later the cart jerked into motion and Casca was pitched back and forth amongst the hay as they trundled along the rutted earthen street. Hay kept on getting up his nose or in his mouth and he had to spit it out and rub his face more than once.
Eventually after about twenty minutes they stopped and the hay was brushed off him. Helping hands dragged him up and he scrambled to his feet and jumped down to the ground, hay still stuck in his clothing and hair.
James Lash stood in front of him, a pistol in his hand.
CHAPTER TWO
Lash waved Casca to walk ahead of him into a large country house set back from the road and surrounded by trees and shrubs. Like much of New England, the estate was surrounded by walls built of stone. The size of the rocks made Casca wince; it must have taken a long time to construct those. The estate was a fairly secluded place. Feeling like a prisoner, Casca did as he was told by Lash. The two who’d ridden the cart stepped into line, flanking him on either side. Neat.
The door was opened quickly by a shadowy figure from within and they passed into the house fairly rapidly. The interior was reasonably well to do and Casca’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Lash stuck the pistol in his belt and took hold of Casca’s arm, holding both hands up. “We’ll have to get these off. Nathan has a set of tools out by the barns.”
“Why help me?” Casca asked.
“Why shouldn’t we?” Lash replied. “We’ve got a common enemy and you’ve spoken out against the British rule here a few times. I don’t think you could survive very long without our help anyway.”
“Rebels eh?” Casca said. “Not the sort of place I’d associate with your likes.”
Lash studied Casca for a moment. “Not sure if that’s an insult or not, Long. One thing you got to get clear in your head; we say and you do. No clever stuff. I’ve asked around about you, I have.”
“Have you now?” Casca faced Lash. He wasn’t sure whether he liked him or not. “And what is it you’ve heard about me?”
“Interesting stuff. You’re good with the musket. You’ve done army stuff. But not here in the Colonies. You appeared one day a few years back and didn’t say much about yourself. But even I can see you’ve done military service. You shoot regularly and are one of the best shots in Lincoln. You can work with leather. You can shoe horses. You can even do a bit of smithing. In fact a bit of a jack of all trades.”
“So?”
“So you’re someone we could use. We’re forming a Minuteman company here.”
Casca looked interested. “What’s that?”
Lash nodded at the other men standing in the hallway, all listening to the conversation. There were even a couple on the staircase leaning over the white painted banister. “Men who would be ready for action in a minute. You drop everything if the call comes and you grab your weapon and go where you’re wanted.”
Casca thought that sounded good. “Good idea, but what if you’re scattered all over the county and you’re needed in strength in one place? That’d take a long time.”
Lash grinned. “We can raise nearly five hundred men in minutes. If more were needed then we’d know why; can you see the army getting five hundred men together anywhere without us knowing? They can’t scratch their asses without us finding out!”
Casca nodded. That was true. The redcoats were always very visible wherever they went and people could hardly miss them. As well as that their billets were only in a few places and if they went anywhere in strength outside Boston people would wonder why.
“So are you in?” Lash asked.
“I need to know what you hope to achieve,” Casca said. “If you’re just going to smash up the county then I’m not interested.”
The men made amused noises. Lash put his hands on his hips and glared at the scarred man. “You think we’re vagrants? This is our land, our country. We’re tired of obeying laws made thousands of miles away and paying taxes we have no say in. We’re going to force the government to repeal the taxes and give us a voice in our own affairs.”
“And if they refuse?” Casca said. He couldn’t see the Tory government agreeing to those demands for one minute.
“Then we rule ourselves. Simple.”
Casca whistled. Lash was one heck of a political animal. He was talking about revolution. “You’re thinking of taking on the British army? Are you mad? They whipped the French a few years back and they have funds to pay for mercenaries to reinforce the soldiers who are here already!”
“We’re not the French,” Lash snapped, his eyes flashing. “And we’d be fighting on our own soil. Do you know just how many are in the militia?”
“I do know as a matter of fact,” Casca said. “I’m part of it.”
“So I hear,” Lash nodded. “But you’ve no gun anymore. Sir Richa
rd and his men have ransacked your house.”
Casca sighed. “Seems I have no place to go to, have I? And talking of places, who the hell owns this pile? It’s too damned posh for the likes of you. No offense,” he added with a smile.
“None taken,” Lash said. He looked round at the ornate interior. “Local landlord, a Massachusetts man by the name of Samuel Getts. You might have heard of him?”
Casca nodded. The papers were full of him. “Advocates colonial control of taxes. Yes I know of him. Didn’t know he had a place here.”
“He pays for the Lincoln Minutemen Company. He’ll be your paymaster if you join. But be warned, the Tories will arrest you if they find out you belong to our organization.”
“I’m a wanted man anyway,” Casca said. “You were at the church.”
Lash smiled. “Yeah. Word is you bloodied a couple of soldiers. That true?”
“I think so. I was too busy trying to get away. Can you get these off?” He held up his manacles.
“If we do?”
“Then I’m in.”
The assembly of men relaxed and clapped. A couple slapped him on the back. Casca was taken out the back to a series of sheds and stables. One of the stable hands, a tall dark haired guy, produced a saw and a file and worked at the iron around Casca’s wrists. It took half an hour but finally he sawed through both and Casca gratefully stood there rubbing both wrists. Lash took him into one of the other barn-like buildings and beneath a pile of hay over by the far wall he revealed a plank floor. Pulling up one of these he revealed an oilskin and after unwrapping this, produced a Charleville musket.
Casca took it from Lash and examined it. The musket was slightly shorter than the British Brown Bess Casca had been used to in the recent past, being around 60 inches in length and weighing about 10 pounds. The calibre was smaller than the Brown Bess, too, so that the British .75 ball couldn’t be fitted to the .69 Charleville. The stock was of walnut, and the barrel was held into place by three bands, a much sturdier version than the Brown Bess which only had pins to hold the barrel in its place.
The ramrod underneath the barrel had a light button end, much smaller than some models he’d seen recently. It must be a more recent model. The French were forever altering the basic design.
“So what do I do in between using this?” Casca asked ironically.
Lash kicked a piece of earth across the ground. “You work here. Mr. Getts will need to see you first but you look tough enough to handle any of the manual jobs around here. You can’t go back to Lincoln as your face is known to the Tories. That Sir Richard was keen to have you locked up. Why would that be?”
“That’s between him and me,” Casca said.
Lash decided not to press matters. Something in the big scarred man’s tone warned him off. Instead he changed subject. “We need to change your name. Cass Long is a fugitive. Can you think of an alternative?”
Casca scratched his jaw. He needed a shave. “What about Case Lonnergan?”
“That sounds Irish but you don’t.”
“So what?” Casca shrugged. “If I say I was born here that makes it irrelevant.”
Lash had to accept the point. “Right, one last thing. You don’t go into Lincoln. I don’t want the British army finding out our base. We’ve worked hard at setting this up and Mr. Getts would be extremely angry. You stay here unless we tell you otherwise. Got it?”
Casca grinned. “Sure.” He had no intention of following that order. Rose would have to be reassured he was fine and besides, he didn’t want Sir Richard winning her hand.
Lash grunted. He wasn’t entirely taken in by the smile but there were enough people around to keep an eye on him.
Casca had a question of his own. “Who runs the Minutemen? I mean who commands?”
“Mr. Getts. He’s the colonel. I’m his aide.”
“No disrespect, Mr. Lash, but you don’t seem to be the military type. You done any soldiering?”
“So? How hard is it to shoot someone?”
Casca hefted the Charleville. “It’s too easy to kill someone, but what happens when you see a line of red ahead of you levelling their guns at you and your men? They’re damned disciplined and tough. You need me to teach these men how to be soldiers.”
Lash faced Casca. “So tell me, Mr. Lonnergan, what fighting have you done?”
“I fought for Prussia in the European war last decade. Plenty of killing went on there. Men had to learn to withstand sustained fire and casualties. In the end it came down to the side that stood the longest and shot the fastest. Anyone who broke and ran lost the battle.”
Lash grunted. “Fighting here will be different. We’re not in the open plains of Europe. Its trees, scrub and stone walls to hide behind here. Think a regiment of pretty soldiers can outshoot men hidden behind a stone wall?”
Casca looked at Lash, then the men listening in on them. “Maybe. But they’ll still need to learn how to stand and fire. The noise of a battle and the smoke is scary enough. What happens if you get flanked? Can you be confident your men can withdraw under fire in good order?”
“They’ll be fine,” Lash persisted. “Don’t go worrying them now!”
Casca pulled a face, then passed the musket back. “I don’t think you have any idea, Lash. You’re an agitator, not a soldier. You need soldiers to lead soldiers. And believe me, you’ll need them when the time comes to fight.”
Lash jerked his head in the direction of the stables. “Go with Will here, the stables need to be mucked out.”
Casca was led muttering to the stables by Will, a dour long-faced man with a dark birthmark on his jaw. Casca worried that Lash wasn’t preparing the Minutemen properly, but perhaps Getts would be more receptive.
* * *
Sir Richard was not a happy man. He stood watching with distaste as Sergeant Purseman’s broken nose was fixed by what passed in Lincoln as the local surgeon. Purseman’s formerly white breast was now almost as red as his jacket. The stocky NCO was seated on a chair, head bent back, holding himself still while the doctor wiped the worst of the blood from his face and applied a couple of splints to the crushed nose.
“Hurry up, man,” Sir Richard said with impatience, “you’re not sculpting a Michaelangelo here. The Sergeant is a tough man; he’ll survive.”
The doctor sighed. “I’m going as quick as I can, Sir Richard.”
The British officer slapped his thigh in irritation and peered through the window of the place he was in, Codman House, to the street outside. The other members of the squad he had in Lincoln were lounging by the door. One of them, the man who’d been struck in the court, was seated, still rubbing his sore midriff. He was angry with the ease at which the felon Long had managed to escape, incapacitating two of his men, and evading the clumsy efforts of the others. What could one expect of the lower classes anyway?
Finally Purseman got up and stood before Sir Richard, his nose hidden beneath a wad of cotton and sticking plaster. It looked grotesque, but Sir Richard was more pleased his sergeant was up on his feet again. Purseman saluted stiffly. Sir Richard touched the brim of his three cornered hat and surveyed the silent man. “Sergeant, today’s events were avoidable.”
“Sah!” Purseman’s voice sounded odd, since he couldn’t use his nasal cavity.
“I will expect you to locate this fellow Long and apprehend him once more.”
“Sah!”
“And if you have to use persuasive methods to gain information of his whereabouts….” he nodded to the sergeant.
“I understand, Sah!”
“And once this fellow Long falls into your hands, you are to deliver him to me as soon as possible.”
“Alive, Sah?”
“Alive, Sergeant. But of course that could mean not quite dead.”
Purseman broke into a wicked smile. “Understood, Sah.”
Sir Richard looked at Purseman. “I would fully understand you taking some, ah, suitable action on this Long chap for what he did to you toda
y.”
“Of course, Sah. I shan’t let you down.”
“Carry on, Sergeant,” Sir Richard tapped his hat again. Purseman saluted again, then stomped out of the surgery and began bellowing at the three soldiers waiting outside. Sir Richard turned to the surgeon, throwing him a silver George II penny. “For your time, doctor, and thank you.”
The doctor nodded and watched as the officer left. He studied the coin and pulled a face before pocketing it.
Outside Sir Richard waited until the escort was in a suitably smart order before giving the order to march off. He had a social appointment that evening and was determined not to miss it. This business was messy and inconvenient, but he would carry on regardless with his appointments. Best the mess was dealt with by Purseman.
The sergeant escorted Sir Richard to his carriage on the edge of town where two more soldiers had been guarding it, and the major climbed in and then rapped the roof, signalling to the coachman to drive off. The two horses jerked the coach into motion and Purseman was left with the three soldiers on the outskirts of Lincoln. “Right, boys, we got a criminal to catch. I don’t care how long it takes. You know his name. Ask about, get to know of his usual haunts, the place he works and the like, who knows him and so on. I’ll be in the tavern questioning the owner there. Now get to your business.”
Purseman winced as a shaft of pain shot through his face. He’d get this Long fellow if it were the last thing he did. He may be doing it under Sir Richard’s orders but he sure as hell wanted him for his own personal reasons now. And when he got his hands on him God help him.
CHAPTER THREE
That evening Casca was summoned from the basement where he was sharing a supper with the other stablehands and ground staff. He was escorted upstairs to the library, a spacious chamber with row upon row of leather bound books stacked in mahogany shelving around the walls and over the door. Plush green leather upholstered chairs stood on the green and cream colored carpet and in the center stood an oval shaped table, around which stood four of the new Thomas Chippendale chairs with the classical lyre-shaped backs. Casca knew little about values of such items but even he knew these were the height of fashion and would have cost Samuel Getts a fair amount of money. Getts, so it seemed, was very rich.
