The Minuteman

by Tony Roberts

  The British were coming.

  “Steady, boys.” He knelt behind the row of men now tensing. For most of them it would be their first action, and for a second Casca thought back to how he felt close to the Rhine when the Germanic tribesmen had attacked – his first combat action. He encouraged the men to hold their fire. All along the line facing the town muskets were loaded and then lowered to face the now advancing line of men.

  As they stumbled up the hill, avoiding the dips and holes, they became clearer and clearer. Casca deliberately forgot they were British and now recalled his recent action against the Austrians. The tactics would be similar. “Steady! Wait!”

  Other officers and NCOs were giving similar orders. The men shook and sweated, nervously watching as the line of soldiers neared. The commanding officer in the redoubt, Prescott, judged it was time. “Give it to them, boys!”

  Casca thought it was just a slight bit early, but there was nothing for it. “Now!” he yelled, even as the first shots crashed out downhill. The line of soldiers shivered and bodies began toppling to the ground like felled trees. The redcoats stopped and leveled their guns. Casca ducked. “Down!” he screamed.

  A volley crashed out and smashed into the earthworks or went high. Only one or two defenders were sent flying backwards under the impact of the lead balls to lie still or writhe about screaming in agony. “Reload!” Casca shouted.

  He’d not fired himself, so he now took up his place and aimed at an officer waving the soldiers on. As muskets came down to aim at the British, Casca closed one eye and drew a bead on the officer, holding his breath. As the volley rang out, he fired, feeling the musket kick into his shoulder. Smoke billowed up from the line of defenders and Casca half turned, wiping his eyes. Automatically he reloaded.

  When he turned to look at the enemy, the officer was no longer standing. He couldn’t see him as the soldiers had advanced but were slowing in face of the furious fire from the redoubt and breastwork to the left. Completely outgunned and in the open, the British turned and fled back down to the safety of Charlestown.

  Men began whooping in delight, raising their hats.

  “They’ll be back,” Casca warned them. “That’s just a taster!”

  The men reloaded and grimly went about their business of waiting for the next attack. It wasn’t long in coming. Casca saw movement to his right and saw the defenders who’d been crouching in and around the barns retreating up the hill, either towards them or past them up towards Bunker’s Hill. “Watch right,” he called out and slid the barrel of his Charleville across and peered down the hill in that direction. Slowly the tricorns and scarlet coats appeared from the haze and background, all with the long barreled Brown Bess muskets and fixed bayonets. They meant business alright. “Here they come,” he said, closing one eye and squinting down the sights.

  “They’re coming from this direction too!” someone further along the line to the left shouted. Shots began ringing out all along the redoubt’s parapets facing downhill, and smoke filled the air as musket after musket blasted away at the British stubbornly advancing up through the uneven terrain and clambering over the broken fencing towards the American lines.

  Casca cursed as the men around him fired too early. Their shots went high or wide. A couple found a target, more by luck than judgment, but the range they were shooting at was far too great. “Wait until you can pick out the whites of their eyes!” Casca yelled. “You’re shooting too damned early!”

  One of the men alongside him shot him an irritated look. “You concentrate on your own shootin’, Sergeant,” he said, his face blackened with powder, “an’ I’ll concentrate on mine.”

  Casca snarled and drew a bead on the nearest British soldier, a pike-carrying sergeant guarding the colors. He was encouraging the men around him to follow him up the slope to battle. He was sixty yards away and downhill. It was still a long shot but Casca was confident he could hit him. The musket he cradled was resting on the muddy parapet for added stability, and so Casca drew in his breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The butt kicked into his shoulder and a cloud of smoke filled the air around him. He waved it away impatiently, pulling up the musket ready to reload, but he stared downhill and saw the sergeant clutching his shoulder, screwing up his face and falling to his knees.

  More men passed him, their powdered wigs now visible. Shots were rattling out irregularly from the defensive line and a few soldiers were falling down, but more were pressing forward. Casca rammed another ball into the muzzle of his gun. “Hold your fire until I give the order to shoot!”

  The man next to him began to object again but a shot took off the top of his head, sending his hat spinning through the air. As he crashed back, his colleagues looked on aghast. Casca grabbed the shoulder of the nearest man. “Reload, and wait for my order!”

  The man, too shaken to argue, did so automatically. The men around him hurriedly reloaded and raised their muzzles at the line of British soldiers approaching. “Wait!” Casca snapped, finishing the reloading process himself and aiming at another sergeant. “Right boys, shoot!”

  A volley crashed out, this time taking a toll on the men closing in on them. Casca wiped his eyes and damned the smoke that came with every shot. It obscured too much of the battle. Modern warfare was getting too ahead of itself. Somebody needed to sort out this smoke problem fast. Men materialized out of the smoke, tall men, advancing with menacing intent, bayonets ready to rip open the guts of everyone they came up against. They’d lost plenty of comrades on the way up and were ready to exact a bitter revenge.

  “Reload!” Casca yelled, frantically ramming another lead ball down the black throat of his musket. The Americans alongside him were beginning to waver; shooting at long range against an enemy that wasn’t firing back was one thing, but coming face to face with hardened professionals who had murder in their eyes was another thing altogether. “Keep them off the ramparts!” he added loudly, slamming his ramrod down the barrel.

  A couple of British soldiers were already at the lip of the rampart and their expressions gave Casca no comfort. God help anyone who got in their way. Casca raised his musket and blasted away without aiming. The shot took one of the soldiers clean in the chest, the white starched jacket ripping open and a red stain appeared all round the black hole that had punched into the man. The Briton was sent flying backwards, his arms out-flung. Two more appeared, and one had seen Casca shoot his colleague.

  Americans ran to the redoubt edge and, using their muskets or spades, jabbed at the British soldiers gathering there, but sheer weight of numbers pushed them back. Suddenly men were turning and scrambling for the hill behind. Casca faced the soldier who had jumped into the redoubt and swung at him with his musket. The soldier knocked it aside and countered with his butt swinging for Casca’s jaw. The Eternal Mercenary dodged backwards, his head snapping back, and the butt flashed past him harmlessly.

  Casca now went on the attack. The butt of his musket scythed at the soldier’s throat and the man had to step back smartly, but Casca had anticipated this and was already stepping forward, swinging for the gut. The soldier stumbled back another step, his eyes wide in shock. He’d never faced anything like this before. A shot smashed close past his head but it had been aimed for someone else.

  Casca pressed forward, aware to either side there were British soldiers now where before there had been Americans. He knocked his opponent’s musket aside and slammed his butt into the man’s left arm, numbing him. As the soldier cried out and clutched his arm in pain, Casca backed off, aware he was almost surrounded.

  Another soldier turned to deal with him but Casca smashed the butt into his head, sending the soldier crashing to the churned up earth and Casca was suddenly free and heading for the hill, now full of fleeing men. The redoubt had been overrun in three directions and the defenders, flanked on both sides, had decided discretion was the better part of valor.

  Bodies littered the hill as the British shot into the backs of the fleeing m
en but Casca dodged from side to side, avoiding the scattered shots that came his way, finding his way mostly by feel because of the thick smoke. Panting hard, he reached the next line of defenses, a low stone wall and, beyond it, a few fences. Some reinforcements were knelt behind this and Casca joined them. “Get ready,” he advised them, “the soldiers are close behind.”

  “Can’t see much with this damned smoke,” one of the men commented. Their officer, a smartly dressed captain, snapped orders to load. Casca did so, deciding that to run away without putting up some kind of fight wasn’t in his nature. The raw relatively untrained men who’d been with him could be excused, but he had his professional pride.

  “Here they come, boys, make sure of your targets,” the captain said calmly, raising his saber in the air. Casca wondered idly if Captain Fisher had made it out safely, then the order came as the soldiers came into view. A volley crashed out and Casca once more tasted the rotten egg smell of burned powder.

  Spitting, grimacing, he began the reloading sequence. The soldiers ahead had vanished, but more came up and now they knelt and began shooting back. One man close to Casca suddenly fell backwards, clutching his shoulder, crying out in pain. Casca brought his musket back up and waited for the order to shoot again. Another volley roared out, and more soldiers fell onto the blood soaked slope. But more were arriving and the number of shots spitting past increased. Another of the defenders spun round and fell.

  “Right, boys, squads one and three drop back to the nearest fence,” the captain ordered. Casca went with these men as they had been the ones he was with. This captain sounded as though he knew his tactics. Casca reloaded and aimed at the space above the wall as the smoke dissipated once more. The remaining defenders turned and ran from the wall and a British soldier appeared, leveling his gun. Casca swung the barrel to the left and shot, taking the man through the stomach. The soldier screamed and folded over the top of the wall, writhing in agony, then he fell back and vanished from view.

  They traded shots again for a minute or two, then dropped back again. By holding up the British advance, they allowed many of the men on Bunker’s Hill to retreat along the neck and off the peninsula. Casca was one of the last to get away, the smoke from the guns hiding him from being shot. The British halted, knowing they couldn’t force the narrow neck. But they’d driven the rebellious militiamen off the Charlestown peninsula. Casca sat on a low wall, sucking in lungfuls of air, glad to have gotten away without a scratch.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sir Richard Eley presented himself to Rose Maplin the week following the battle. Although Sir Richard hadn’t been present at the battle, he was speaking as if he’d personally led the charge up the hill that had cost so many men. The fact he hadn’t a scratch while Boston was full of badly wounded men being treated or given the Last Rites gave doubt as to Sir Richard’s boasts, but nobody was going to argue the matter. Ebenezer Maplin himself was merely glad the rebels had been driven away. His business was suffering and he needed to sort things out quickly or else he might well go bankrupt, not something he wished for.

  His preoccupation left Sir Richard free to court Rose. Rose on her part hated being in Boston. She was trapped and there was no way out; the rebels had blockaded all routes to the mainland, so Boston and Charlestown were isolated British outposts. Talk was of London sending more soldiers, but since many were needed to garrison Ireland, it was likely the new men would be called from the King’s German territories – Hanover and Hesse to name but two. Sir Richard wasn’t pleased, but if he were to make a name for himself in this campaign, then he would need these men. He didn’t think they would be up to much, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Our wedding will be postponed until this matter is resolved, Rose,” Sir Richard said, holding the Meissen china tea cup and saucer primly as he sat upright in the Chippendale chair. Even if all were going to hell all around you, one must still be civilized, or so he maintained. The cup and saucer were beautifully decorated, a rim of gold above a wonderful depiction of birds and animals in a country scene. Meissen might not be British, but they made damned fine porcelain. No matter it was expensive, owning a set denoted great wealth.

  “I haven’t given my answer to your proposal, Sir Richard,” Rose countered. She had no intention of accepting it anyway.

  “Your father has,” Sir Richard stated. “You will return with me to London when I’m posted back to Britain and we will live in my family ancestral home in the Midlands. You will be happy there, away from these damned colonial upstarts and their silly ideas.”

  Rose’s cheeks burned red. She had many friends in Connecticut, many who had been born here and thought of them as sensible people. Sir Richard’s dismissive behavior only increased her intention of remaining in the colonies, if Sir Richard’s attitude was typical of the upper classes in Britain. She’d rather die than be suffocated by such people and their stuffy ways. “My father may give consent, but it is I who gives permission. After all, it is I whom you’re marrying, not my father.”

  Sir Richard smiled. It wasn’t an attractive smile. Rose’s hackles rose even higher. “You’re overwrought, Rose. All this is happening far too quickly. I know; in times of war things do get rushed or confused. But this matter should be over in a few months. A new general is on the way and once here will sort these upstarts out. A few hangings here and there and the rest will jump into line. I’ll make sure you and your father are safe, don’t worry.”

  Ebenezer came in, his wig slightly askew. He looked flustered. “The consignment from New York is held up. It was supposed to be shipped last week but this rebellion business has stopped it. It’s held up in the warehouses there. It’s very worrying!”

  “Worry not, my dear fellow,” Sir Richard stood up. “The British army will see to it that your shipment arrives here in due course. Now the danger to Boston harbor has been averted, ships will be able to go to and fro as normal. A quick demonstration against New York’s criminal rebels and they’ll see sense in not opposing the Royal Navy and the army.”

  “I wish I shared your optimism, Sir Richard,” Maplin said gloomily. “But have you seen the number of rebels camped outside Boston? Estimates say there’s around twenty thousand. It seems the whole country is up in arms, damn them. What am I going to do now?”

  Sir Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Move into munitions in the meantime. I’ll clear the way to deal only with your company, at, ah, favorable rates. Buy cheaply from Ireland – those rogues over there steal our garrisons blind and look to sell to anyone who is willing to pay for them – or from the factories in Britain. I’ll find out which ones are best. I’ll make sure you get the standard price from the governor here; he’ll be eager for supplies once we begin to teach these scoundrels a lesson.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Ebenezer queried. “What if we get caught?”

  “We won’t, Ebenezer, dear fellow; I’ll destroy any paperwork that incriminates us.”

  Rose was shocked at Sir Richard’s readiness to dive into underhand trade deals. It gave her more of an idea of what sort of man he was. She stood up, unable anymore to remain in the same room. “Excuse me, but as Sir Richard has just said, I’m a little upset what with the war and things. I’m going to my room.”

  Ebenezer looked a little concerned but Sir Richard held him by the arm. “She’s still holding out for that blasted Cass Long fellow.”

  Ebenezer sighed. “I’ll speak to her again, Sir Richard, but she’s headstrong.”

  “I’d hoped he’d been killed in the battle but he appears to have escaped. I read reports of a scarred man fighting up on Breed’s Hill for the rebels. He must be with the forces up there outside the city. It will make things easier for me – and you – if this man Long is taken care of.”

  “You mean…” Ebenezer Maplin leaned back and made sure Rose was nowhere in sight. “Kill him? I thought transportation was what we were going to do!”

  Sir Richard held Maplin tightly. “Now lis
ten. I’m putting myself at risk here for your business enterprises. You do your bit, I’ll do mine. I’ll take care of this Long fellow, as long as you persuade that girl of yours that marriage to me is best for her, you and your future. You want access to a wider trade opportunity? Then do as I ask.”

  Maplin paused, then nodded tightly. Murder wasn’t what he wanted to get mixed up with, and if Sir Richard was going to take care of that aspect, so much the better. Sir Richard relaxed and released the merchant. “I’ll return to the garrison now and make arrangements, both with Long and your business venture into munitions. I’ll send a list of companies to approach. Best you destroy it after reading it.”

  He left and inhaled deeply outside, placing his three cornered hat firmly on his powdered wig. Switching to munitions was a sound move, especially if war was going to be a long, drawn out affair. His bombastic bluster in the house was just a front – he knew it would be tough to fight the huge numbers of rebels, even though they weren’t trained. The losses the army had suffered across the water had shown that. Many of his fellow officers had been shocked at how tough it had been. Sir Richard smiled to himself. Maybe he could prolong the war with a few subtle changes of orders so that the munitions venture made more money.

  He strode off along the cobbled street, his cane striking the stones sharply. First, however, he would have to give Purseman more orders. He hoped the grotesque creature hadn’t drunk all the money away. If he had, then he would have to find another way of buying his way to the shore and access to the American camp.

  * * *

  Casca sought out Captain Fisher. Fisher had survived the battle, albeit with a couple of grazes and a cut arm, and now the officer sat on a collapsible stool writing to the families of those who had fallen on Breed’s Hill. Casca snapped a smart salute as he came up to him. Fisher looked up wearily. “Yes, Lonnergan?”