by Tony Roberts
He’d not always done that. Hindsight had taught him some of the wars he’d fought hadn’t been all that noble or ones to be proud of. Sometimes that hadn’t been clear until the war was won – or lost. He picked up his musket, a Charleville French-made gun. He looked down the barrel and grunted. Needed cleaning after the practice session that morning.
As he set about giving the barrel a clean out, using his own urine, he pondered on the letter he’d received earlier in the week. It was from Philadelphia, from Katherine Maplin, the mother of Rose, the woman who’d until recently been his lover. Rose had also been the target of a particularly nasty British officer, Sir Richard Eley, and he’d conspired with Rose’s father Ebenezer, estranged from Katherine, to convict Casca on a trumped-up charge. It had backfired but the tug-of-love had ended with Sir Richard stealing Rose, forcing a marriage upon her and by all accounts raping her.
Casca had gotten revenge by stealing Rose from him at New York and she had gone to her mother’s to recover from the ordeal. Now Katherine had written saying Rose was pregnant, carrying Sir Richard’s child. Or so it would appear. Casca pulled a face of distaste. Katherine had asked whether he believed the child was definitely Sir Richard’s. Casca knew damned well that Katherine was asking whether he’d been responsible. Some hope! Since the Curse, Casca had been barren; sterilized. He could father no child.
The dilemma was now whether to inform Sir Richard or not. Casca felt Sir Richard ought to jump into the Chesapeake while Rose wanted nothing to do with the man. Katherine was of the same mind but her lover, a solicitor by the name of James Lowe, felt the father should know by right. Katherine was being pressured to do ‘the right thing’.
Casca had written back saying he felt Sir Richard should be kept away as much as possible as he was clearly untrustworthy. The cold-bloodied murder of Pete Courtney came into his mind, and he gritted his teeth angrily. Somewhere in New York that black-hearted Sir Richard was at large, either in his home or at whatever barracks he was stationed. May the pox rot his gonads.
Pouring the blackened urine out of the barrel and shaking the gun sharply, he turned and looked at the shed. It was just about at the end of its useful life. A winter had wreaked enough damage upon it and it now leaked. He would be glad to leave it and get on with some serious campaigning. Hopefully he’d end up facing Sir Richard and put a lead ball between his eyes.
Since they’d gotten to Morristown after the euphoria of beating the Hessians and British at Trenton and Princeton, Casca had been moved to a command position with the New Jersey regiments and promoted to Major. Overall command was with Lord Stirling. He was a man who he’d clashed with previously, but had gradually earned his respect. He supposed that had begun at the fight at Cortelyou House over on Long Island when Stirling had saved most of his command with a suicidal stand against overwhelming odds. Stirling had been captured but then exchanged later on and had arrived over the winter.
Now it was time to see whether the New Jersey soldiers were in any kind of shape to start the new campaigning season. The weather was warming up fast; the ground was drying out and the days getting longer and longer.
Casca made his way over to the neat arrangement of huts and tents that marked the New Jersey brigade. Pots and cauldrons were on over fires warming an assortment of liquids and solids and the smell made Casca’s gut rumble. Two officers stood discussing something turned as Casca approached and snapped to attention.
“Sir!” the lieutenant, an absurdly young man by the name of Dave Connors saluted. He hailed from Newark and was about nineteen. He saw the war as an exciting adventure, one tinged with the romantic edge of freeing his homeland from a foreign power. Casca smiled wearily at the man and returned the salute, less sharply, of course. “At ease, Lieutenant. Captain,” he added, touching his hat to the other man, an older, slimmer and more experienced man called Wes Soderling. Soderling was of Swedish descent but had been born in the colonies. His father was a preacher and had tried to stop his son from joining up but Soderling wasn’t to be deterred and had risen rapidly up the ranks to captain. He had a good eye for terrain and a tactical ability that Casca appreciated.
“Morning, Sir,” Soderling nodded. “The men are in good spirits today. Are we going to march against the British?”
“That’s the idea,” Casca said, slinging his musket over his shoulder and surveying the men sat around their cooking pots. “That smell’s driving me crazy. What are they cooking?”
“Stew, Sir,” Connors replied, grinning. “The men want to march on full stomachs.”
“Not a bad idea, Lieutenant. Get the company officers to report to me here. I need to speak to you all.”
“Sir,” Connors saluted smartly and moved off to speak to a few men. Soderling scratched his jaw. “We’ve not really tested the men under combat conditions, yet, sir.”
“I’m aware of that, Captain. We’ll need to organize that when we get to where we’re going.”
“And where’s that, sir?”
Casca grinned. “Wait and see. Patience, Captain.”
In no time the company officers assembled before him. Casca put them at ease. “Word has come that the British are planning something big. We don’t know exactly what but General Howe is massing a large force over in New York and another army is apparently gathering in Quebec. Could be a pincer movement to cut the colonies in two. But we think Howe might look here, to Philadelphia. After all, taking the capital would be a coup for the British forces. So we’re off to the Delaware to the frontier to see what’s going on. Get the men roused after stew and in order. We march in one hour. Dismissed.”
The officers saluted and returned to their units. Casca rubbed his stomach. Damn it! “Captain Soderling, organize a damned share for me, will you?”
Soderling grinned and sauntered over to the nearest group of men, neatly dressed in the blue and white of the Continental Army. So different from the rag-tag of the Militia two years back. They were still short of decent uniforms, ironically they were mostly supplied from British firms. The French were giving them munitions and ordnance and there was a rumor that France was considering coming into the conflict on the side of the Americans. That would swing the balance of power alright; if the French could counter the British domination of the seas, then the war could be won.
Casca’s mind was full of the possibilities of taking the war to the British; if they could match them on a battlefield in a straight stand-up fight then it would be pretty well decided there and then.
One of the other changes for the better Washington had managed to get was the thorny issue of the signing-up period. Now new recruits were signing up for three years instead of one and that made matters that much easier in the planning of campaigns. You could now pretty much count on having the same people around at the end of the year as at the beginning, not counting battle casualties and illness.
Casca had finished his meal and was about to call the men to attention when a messenger arrived, red-faced and sweating in the sun. He’d run from brigade headquarters. “Major Lonnergan, Sir. Message from Lord Stirling.”
Casca took the paper and opened it, frowning. He was urgently requested to attend the divisional commander at headquarters. Sighing, Casca handed over the command to Soderling and followed the messenger back to the larger building that served as Stirling’s quarters.
Inside men were busy taking orders here and there, and Casca had to push past a couple of men arguing over the supply of corn bag to the troops. Chaos. Someone would sort it out, but not Casca. He was concerned as to why he had been summoned. It didn’t bode well. Usually it meant a problem that he was going to have to solve.
Lord Stirling sat behind his massive leather-bound desk and peered up at the newly arrived Major. He grunted and waved aside an orderly who had been pestering him about how many horses he wanted for his division on the march to the Delaware. “Go get as many as you can, man!” he snapped and waved him on his way. “Now, Major Lonnergan,” he said he
avily, searching amongst the pile of papers and ink pots on his desk. “Here I am trying to get my division into some sort of order and I get bothered by the General, asking if you can go to Philadelphia at short notice!”
“Philadelphia, sir?” Casca groaned inwardly. It could only have something to do with the matter of the pregnancy and Lowe’s argument to inform Sir Richard Eley.
“Yes,” Stirling looked under bushy eyebrows, his fleshy face filmed with sweat. “Some domestic issue that the General is keen to settle. I’m not best pleased, I can tell you, Major. Tell me, is it your usual manner to irritate your superiors?”
“Not if I can help it, sir.”
“Hmph!” Stirling scowled and then located the yellowed sheet and stared at it for a moment. “Yes. Lonnergan, I vividly recall you being damned impertinent in New York,” he said, his Scottish accent thickening the more stressed he became. “And then you were demoted to private. God knows why some fool thinks you’re worth a Majority,” he grumbled.
“General Washington, sir.”
“Yes, well there’s no need to demonstrate your impertinence so early in the day! I’ve got enough on my hands working out how many horses to take with me, let alone having one of my regimental commanders whisked off to hold hands with the General’s social acquaintances!”
“Believe me, sir, I’d rather the General do that.”
Lord Stirling’s lips twitched, which Casca guessed was akin to him throwing his head back violently and roaring with hysteria until his starched waistcoat burst asunder. The phrase dour Scot suited this man perfectly. “If you weren’t such a brave fellow and a damned good soldier I’d have you demoted again and put on picket duty permanently. Now take this and get out of my sight and sort this – domestic issue – out quickly and return to my command. I don’t think General Howe will put his invasion off until you return!”
“You could ask him, to, sir.” Casca saluted.
“Out!” Lord Stirling roared.
Casca grinned, turned smartly, and marched out of the office, aware his commander was glaring at him intently until he vanished. One of the aides to Lord Stirling tutted and leaned sideways. “You could put him on a charge for insubordination, Lord Stirling.”
Stirling grunted. “Colonel, I wish I had more men like him in my division. I think you’ll find that in a fight he’s the sort of man you’d want alongside you, not facing you. Now, do we have sufficient tents to put up when we get to the Delaware?”
Casca stepped out into the sunshine and read the letter. It was a thick sheet, and the address embossed at the top. Quality. It was Katherine’s and James Lowe’s address. The letter was from Katherine, asking General Washington to allow Casca – Case Lonnergan – to visit Philadelphia on an urgent important matter. She ended by assuring Washington he wouldn’t be required to be away for more than a day.
He didn’t have a horse, despite his elevation to Major, but managed to persuade one of his fellow officers to lend him his. The fellow concerned was recovering from a broken arm received after falling over during a night trip back from a friend’s hut. The fact he’d been drinking hadn’t been questioned, of course.
Casca rode easily to Philadelphia, traveling the forty miles in a day, arriving as the night was beginning to fall. The Lowe residence was in the affluent quarter of the city and Casca rode up to the entrance to the grounds of what was almost a mansion and knocked on the lodge. He knew what to expect from his only previous visit there, two years back.
He was allowed in and remounted, grunting with the effort. The ride up the drive to the porticoed entrance was short and as he came up to the steps that led to the paneled front door, a bewigged servant dressed in blue and white appeared and took the reins as Casca stiffly dismounted.
“Major Lonnergan,” Casca said, stretching his legs to ease the aches and pains. “Mr. Lowe and Mrs. Maplin are expecting me.”
“Very good, sir,” the servant replied and clicked his fingers to a stable boy who was waiting in the background. As the horse was led away, the servant led Casca up into the house. Once again Casca glanced around the interior, thinking to himself that a career in law paid well enough. The servant had left him in the hall to announce his arrival.
“Major!” a feminine voice broke through his thoughts. Casca turned to see the figure of Katherine Maplin gliding across the floor towards him. Casca grinned and held out his arms to greet her.
Katherine tutted, wagged her finger and held out her hand to him. “In society one does not engulf a woman,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.
Casca grumbled but kissed the top of her hand, squeezing it gently for a moment. Katherine arched her eyebrows, then smiled and turned back to the doorway she’d come from. “Come on in, Major, and behave yourself.”
“Badly?” Casca challenged her, a rakish leer on his face.
“Major, I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Mmmm,” Casca said and followed her, admiring the sway of her hips. Once again he reckoned he’d enjoy bedding the woman.
The room he was led into was the same one he’d been in two years previously when he’d shared a cup of tea with Katherine. Now there were others in the room and all stood as Casca was shown in. He took off his tricorn and stuck it under his arm. Three others were there, a man and two women. One of the women he knew well; Rose Maplin. She was heavily pregnant and the swelling in her tummy was very noticeable. “Case,” she smiled and waddled forward.
Casca kissed her cheek and stepped back, looking at her. “You look great,” he said. “Long to go?”
“Thank you,” Rose said. “The doctors think about two months and then that’s it.”
“A boy or a girl, do you think?”
“Oh, got to be boy, the way it kicks!”
Casca smiled and looked at the two others. One was a tall, burly man with deep brown eyes and thinning hair that had once been brown. Casca guessed he was about fifty-five or thereabouts. Nicotine-stained fingers and teeth. The smell of rich cigars lingered in the room and Casca glanced at a small side table upon which was an ashtray and the stub of a recently smoked cigar. “Lowe,” he said curtly, extending his hand sharply.
“Major Lonnergan, 5th Division,” Casca said equally curtly and broke the handshake as fast as he could. Lawyers made him feel very uneasy. He then looked at the last person in the room. A slim, dark haired woman with dark eyes and fair skin. She would be in her twenties.
“May I introduce Claire Kelly?” Lowe said, stepping aside and indicating the woman. “A friend of the family.” Casca thought he detected an edge to his voice and wondered why. Did he object to Claire’s presence?
“Mrs? Miss?”
“Miss,” Claire said, smiling.
“A friend?”
She looked at Rose. “We met a few months back. I’ve not been in Philadelphia long.” Irish accent.
“Recent immigrant, Miss Kelly?” Casca asked.
“From Armagh. You’re a soldier, then? Have you killed Brits?”
Casca thought over her words. “A few, yes.”
“Good,” she said forcefully.
Lowe cleared his throat. “Ah, its good of you to come so promptly, Major Lonnergan. As someone who knows Sir Richard Eley well, I would value your contribution to the discussion as to whether Rose here ought to advise him as to the imminent birth of his child.”
Casca sat down in a handy vacant chair and paused as he got used to the upholstered comfort on his back and buttocks. “I’d advise against it. The guy’s mad.”
“Is that a professional opinion?” Lowe asked.
God damned lawyers. “No, Mr. Lowe, except I’ve seen what he’s capable of and you have not.”
“Granted,” Lowe nodded, “however to deny a father’s right to know of his child’s existence is surely cruel. If you had a child you knew nothing about surely you would wish to know about them if the opportunity presented itself?”
“Depends.” Casca looked at Katherine. “I’d love a cu
p of tea, Katherine.”
Katherine tutted. “Oh, of course! I’m neglecting my guests. Harrison,” she called out, ringing a small bell that had been resting on her side table, “tea for five.”
A servant popped his head round the door, acknowledged and then disappeared. Claire looked at Casca closely. “Lonnergan’s an Irish name but you’re not Irish, are you?”
“No – I chose the name as an alias to escape being sent to prison by the British.”
Lowe coughed again. “Could we stick to the subject, please? Rose is confused as to what to do, given her condition…”
Rose looked up at him sharply. “I’m not, James, I know clearly what I wish to do!”
Lowe dismissed her protests with an impatient wave of his hand. “Pregnancy does lead to odd behavior. Your diet, for example. Potatoes and strawberries? Who would hear of such things? Your irrational outbursts? Rose, you’re not in full control of your emotions and I’m afraid I can only conclude that your judgment is compromised.”
Casca looked at Katherine who sat composed but the red spots on her cheeks gave away her feelings. He then glanced at Claire who was looking at him, not Lowe or Rose. She shook her head briefly. He grunted and looked up at Lowe. “I don’t think you’re being fair to Rose, Lowe. I’m not pregnant and I agree with Rose. So how will you dismiss my opinion?”
Rose covered her mouth and Katherine’s lips twitched. Claire put her head down but her shoulders shook. Lowe frowned and glared at Casca. “You’re emotionally overwrought at the thought of this Sir Richard being involved with Rose, a former lover of yours. I would argue most successfully in Court that you were not a fit man to give advice in this matter.”
“Two things, Lowe. One, we’re not in Court, and two, why the hell did you ask me to come if you already had decided I wasn’t fit to speak on this subject? You’ve wasted my time.”
