by Tony Roberts
Casca returned to his digging. It helped pass the time and keep him from worrying too much about Rose. She would be loath to move now she had a young baby, so if Philadelphia did fall to the British it was likely she would be at the mercy of her husband. Would Casca see her again? He hoped to hell Washington’s army could repel the full might of the British, but he still had doubt; they were still too raw and inexperienced. They had enthusiasm and resolve, yes, but they needed more than just those attributes.
Where they were digging would block the road from where the British had landed, at the head of the Elk River. If they wanted to get to Philadelphia they’d have to swing inland and risk being ambushed in the countryside and of course risk their supply lines.
Once he’d finished and washed most of the dirt and sweat from his body, he lay in his tent and thought awhile. Then he roused himself and began to compose a letter to Claire in the capital. With it he wrote a second letter, addressed to Rose, both congratulating her on the birth and asking what she intended doing now she was the mother of the next Baronet Sandwell. Legally the child was a future British noble and would therefore have to be made aware of the fact once he was old enough. Of course, should Sir Richard Eley meet with an untimely demise then the boy would be the Baronet Sandwell. What then? The estate would have to be looked after, certainly. Another thought struck him and he wrote a third letter, enclosing it with the others and sealed them in an envelope and then took it to the dispatch post that went into the city twice daily.
He waited for the replies over the next week or so. In the meantime Washington sent an advance party down to see what the British were doing, and were beaten back by overwhelming odds. Washington himself had gone there to look at things, and his face was grim when he got back. It was going to be a hard one, this.
Claire’s reply came back first, as he expected it to. She would pass on the other two letters and let him know when it was convenient to visit the house. But before any more decisions could be made the order came for the army to move.
Howe had advanced inland, threatening their flank.
CHAPTER FOUR
The New Jersey Brigade sat amongst the trees along the road that ran from Chester to the Brandywine Creek. They, along with the other units of Stirling’s division, were in reserve while the battle was being fought along the line of the creek, about a mile and a half to the south.
Casca relaxed as best he could, but he constantly looked along the road to the south where the sound of guns floated on the September breeze to his ears. He wanted to be part of the action rather than sitting round on his ass, but a reserve was there for good reasons. If the British threatened them in any manner from an unexpected direction, then the reserve would be sent there, or if some units on the front line looked as if they were too exhausted or being broken, then again the reserve would be called to fill the gap.
They had marched away from the Delaware a week ago and had marched into Birmingham County and told to prepare defenses along the Brandywine. If Howe wished to advance on Philadelphia from his new position, he’d have to cross the creek, and the steeply sided wooded slopes provided an excellent defensive position.
Using local guides and farmers for intelligence, Washington had put men on the likely crossing places and waited for Howe to make his move. It had come in the early hours of the 11th, with the American advance guards being pushed back by a substantial British force on the other side of the creek, and the army had been roused out of their slumbers to get ready.
So now the battle was hotting up, and so was the day. It was after midday and the fight had been going on for a few hours now. Nobody had come running in a panic so they could only assume things were going well and the British were being held.
“Major, sir,” Lieutenant Connors came up to Casca and saluted.
Casca groaned and heaved himself up off the ground. “Yes, Connors, what is it?”
“Sir, will we have to abandon Philadelphia if we are defeated today?”
Casca grunted. He’d thought Connors had been bringing some news. The kid was just nervous and wanted someone to talk to, that’s all. “Probably, Lieutenant. There’s nothing short of the Schuykill River to stop them once they get past this and if they do get to the Schuykill then they’d be able to lob shot into the city itself which wouldn’t be a good thing. We wouldn’t be able to hold on in that position.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to beat the British sir? I mean, this is the first big fight we’ve had with them, isn’t it?”
Casca nodded. Washington was giving his new Continental Army its baptism of fire here. Compared to this one the twin battles of Trenton and Princeton were skirmishes. There were thousands of men involved on each side – Howe’s entire force of fifteen thousand and Washington’s army of just under that. “If we stay where we are and they stay conveniently where they are then there’ll be no way they can cross. We’ve got all the fords along this stretch covered, or so I’m told, so unless they can do something unexpected, we can hold them off.”
Connors nodded and seemed happy, but Casca frowned and turned to look at the countryside again, but not this time to the south where the shooting was still going on, but to the west. From his hazy knowledge of the local geography the creek ran some way to the west with fords at irregular intervals. The terrain slowly climbed the further west it went and it became harder for an attacker to force his way through determined defense the deeper into the hills it went.
But memories of Long Island came back to haunt him. There the Americans had been careless and allowed Howe to flank them through the hills there, and he wondered if lightning could strike twice. He wondered if all the fords had been properly guarded far enough along to prevent Howe from pulling off the same trick again. He did seem to be battering away for a long time at the creek at a place called Chad’s Ford which was where the very road they were on at that moment crossed the creek.
Unsettled by his thoughts, Casca straightened his uniform and began making his way through the resting regiment, making sure the men were ready to move at a moment’s notice. There was a growing feeling the action would come their way soon enough.
Captain Soderling stood on the roadside drinking from a battered looking mug, his fair hair an easily identifiable feature. He was talking to another captain and Casca scratched his chin, undecided as to whether to alert him or not. He just had a growing feeling they were going to be called upon fairly soon. Howe’s persistence at the ford was ridiculous unless he had something else up his sleeve. And having faced his army before, a year ago, he had an idea as to how his mind worked.
Damn! He was certain Howe had pulled an outflanking trick on them again. He trotted over to the headquarters tent where Colonel Greystock was standing, his hands behind his back. Greystock was a tall, thin man with a lined face, a long straight nose and bushy eyebrows. He had a liking for cigars and Casca didn’t often see the man without one either clamped between his teeth or in his hand, sending a lazy spiral of smoke into the air. Casca had smoked a few in his time but generally went for the pipe, when he could be bothered to remember to get one.
“Ah, Major Lonnergan,” Greystock turned as he heard Casca approach. “Fine day for a battle, isn’t it?”
Not for those who get killed or maimed, Casca sourly thought, but snapped a smile onto his face. It wouldn’t do to annoy the man unnecessarily. “The men are enjoying the sun, sir.”
“Yes, soldiering is the best occupation a man can have!”
Casca wasn’t going to argue; he’d been a soldier since his seventeenth birthday, something like seventeen hundred and fifty years ago. He got sick of it every so often but always came back to it. After all, that was what he did. “Think we’ll see any action, Colonel? What’s the word from the other fords?”
Greystock laughed, showing tobacco stained teeth. “Oh, Major, stop worrying! General Washington has insisted all the fords in the vicinity are covered. Now, I insist that tonight after these – ah – proce
edings are over you share dinner with the other officers in my tent. We’ve not seen much of you, you know.” It was not so much an observation as an order. Casca groaned inside but saluted nonetheless and hoped to hell something went wrong to spoil the colonel’s plans.
Twenty minutes later Casca got his wishes. A messenger came galloping along the road from the direction of Washington’s command post and threw himself off his horse, and thrust a paper into the regimental commander’s hand. Greystock read it and frowned. Handing the paper to his aide he sighed and waved to the Majors to attend him. “Gentlemen, get the men ready for a forced march to Birmingham. It appears the British have forced the right flank and are at this moment marching to threaten our rear.”
Casca raced back to his command. I knew it! I knew that bastard had something up his sleeve! Roaring to Soderling and Connors to get the men into formation, he grabbed his pack, musket and ammunition pouch from his tent. His saber was already strapped to his belt. He was wondering where in the hell Birmingham was. No matter, someone would know. He was supposed to have a map somewhere.
“Captain Soderling, we’re to make our way to Birmingham. You have a map by any chance?”
“Yes, sir,” Soderling said, fishing into his hip pouch and producing a yellow piece of paper. “We have to march some two and a half miles to the west.” He looked troubled. “Sir, there’s no direct road from this point. We’ll have to go by a roundabout route.”
“Can we cut across country?”
“I’d say not – we’ll have to follow the rest of the brigade anyway, sir.”
“I know that, Captain!” Casca said acidly. “Don’t tell me the obvious. I wished to know so that I could perhaps advise the Colonel.”
Soderling stood stiffly to attention. “Colonel Greystock will follow the orders of the brigadier general, sir.”
“Knock off the parade soldier crap, Soderling,” Casca said. “And get the men marching after the others.” He nodded at the backs of the neighboring regiment who were marching off north-westwards along a side road that led to a small hamlet called Dilworth.
They marched rapidly, away from the sound of the guns, passing through a thick growth of trees that pressed in close to the road, startling birds out of their perches. Crossing another road they tramped along the dry, dusty road to Dilworth, then swung south and filed down a narrow route for another mile as far as a crossroads, then turned right and began picking up the pace.
Casca could sense the excitement rising as they neared the small town of Birmingham. The countryside was a mixture of fields and woodland. Farms were abundant here, but so were untamed groups of trees. Shooting could now be heard from ahead and the men tensed, knowing they were soon to be called into action.
Birmingham stood in a wide area of cleared forest with one road running through it westwards, and in that direction the red coated soldiers of Howe’s flanking force could be seen. It had taken Casca’s unit two and a quarter hours to march to the place, and they were sweating freely and breathing hard. The smell of unwashed bodies assailed Casca’s nostrils as the men came to a sudden halt on the high ground before the village and prepared themselves.
Casca ordered them into two lines, the first kneeling. Captain Soderling took command of the front row while Casca commanded the second. He stood on the extreme right, loading up, while Lieutenant Connors was on the other end, his saber in his sweaty and shaking hand.
“Get ready, boys, I expect the British will come at us pretty soon,” he said loudly but calmly. To his experienced eye he took in the valley the town was nestled in. The British would have to descend from their current positions up on the opposite side, march around Birmingham and come at them up the slope. They’d suffer. If they were raw troops they might well break. But if they had hard experienced men he knew it’d be tough. The British had some damned hard men and if they got at you you’d know you were in a fight. But then, many of the men facing them were British originally. So it was like against like.
After a short pause, in which Casca got the men to take a hasty drink, movement was seen from ahead and shouted out. Casca watched as the enemy split into two columns and began flowing downhill on either side of Birmingham. He admired the organic way they moved and was reminded of something he’d read a long time ago from Sun Tzu about how an army would be best to fight like water, following the flow of the land.
Now he saw the apparel of the men facing his unit. “Oh good,” he said aloud. “They’re sending their best against us, gentlemen. Grenadier Guards.”
Some of the men near him swallowed and went slightly pale. The bearskins of the British could be seen and even as the soldiers formed up into the attack line, the drums began rat-tat-tatting that familiar beat that got the blood coursing through veins. Oh we’re in for a fight today! Casca thought and looked along the line. The men were standing firm, waiting with grim faces for the enemy to close. Further over, beyond their regiment, the other New Jersey units were similarly preparing themselves. To Casca’s right other units were coming into position. It would be a hard battle for Birmingham Hill.
The British skirmishers were making their way through the town and clearing the defenders out of the place. As they came closer a battery of cannons to Casca’s left opened up, sending shot into the skirmishers. They took cover behind the walls of a church, then climbed it and ran to the foot of the hill so that the guns couldn’t hit them.
Opposite Casca the bearskinned grenadiers were advancing, their own skirmishers in front of them. All across the valley it seemed the land had come alive with redcoats, all marching towards the hill where the three brigades of Americans were positioned.
Drums beat, feet tramped, cannons boomed. Smoke filled the air. Fear trickled its way into the brains of men, fighting with discipline and determination. Now was the time that training and discipline told. “Front rank, present,” Casca said calmly as the grenadiers began to come up the hill. He knew only rapid and determined fire could stop these men. He’d fought with such men in the past. “Fire!”
An ear-splitting crack rent the air and flame shot out from hundreds of muzzles. Smoke issued from muzzles and pans, cloaking the rank in a ghostly nebulous cloud that rose into the air. Once again the familiar smell of discharged powder filled their senses. “Reload!” he heard Soderling order.
“Rear rank,” Casca said, and sensed the stiffening of arms along barrels. He himself took aim down his long barrel and centered his attention, as he always did, on an officer, leading his men up the hill, sword raised in the air. “Fire!” As he gave the command, he squeezed the trigger and felt his musket kick into his shoulder.
As the smoke from his shot dissipated he looked down the hill to see the officer unscathed, much to his chagrin. But then he noticed the ensign next to him sinking to the floor, clutching his ribs. Perhaps he’d hit the ensign? He didn’t know for certain. The British had lost a few, but not enough and now they were kneeling or lying prone on the grassy slope and beginning to shoot up at the American lines.
Sensible move. To remain stood up and advancing into the teeth of volley fire was suicide, even for the elite of the army. A man two down from Casca cried out and fell backwards. Casca saw his comrades turn to assist. “Remain in line,” he ordered, slipping back to check the man himself. “Keep on shooting down at the British!”
Chastened, the two men grimly reloaded. Casca knelt and checked the man. The bullet that had felled him had taken him in the throat. Casca knew death well enough. He returned to his position, biting a cartridge end off. The sound of shooting and the stinking white clouds were now running all along the ridge.
“Keep steady, keep shooting,” Casca said. The British were edging up the hill, shooting once, taking two steps up the hill, then throwing themselves down to reload while the men behind fired, then leapfrogged.
Casca kept his breath held for the next shot, determined not to miss this time. The officer was still unscathed, a captain, so he carefully took aim again, an
d this time was fiercely delighted to see that he’d hit the man. The captain went down slowly, keeling over backwards, dropping his sword.
Cries of men rent the air. The stinking rotten smell of the discharged powder overwhelmed any other smell. It was loud, it was claustrophobic; the smoke reduced Casca’s world to a few feet. The men to his left were mere shadows. The British ahead of him were getting more accurate. That probably meant they were getting closer. When the wind blew the smoke aside and he had a few moments of clear vision, he could see them pressing forward, despite leaving the slope littered with their fallen.
Another man of his unit, one in the front rank, suddenly jerked upright and crashed to the ground soundlessly. Damn! “Hold steady boys!” Casca yelled, having to do so to make himself heard. He loaded quickly. He needed to, for the grenadiers were gathering themselves for a charge. “Pick out the officers!” he ordered.
Shots spattered past his ears. The damned grenadiers were getting accurate. Two more of his men went down, both wounded. He glanced behind him and saw a few men staggering or crawling away from the ridge top, holding their wounds, and taking shelter in the woods behind them.
Another target presented itself to Casca. He rammed a ball down the muzzle, half-cocked the hammer, poured more powder into the pan and fully cocked the gun. He brought it to his shoulder and squinted down the sights, targeting a lieutenant who was encouraging his men up and at the men firing at them from the top.
Casca’s shot took the top of his head off and the officer fell backwards, his arms outstretched. Just then a volley from the grenadiers blasted past, sending leaves flying from branches, fountains of soil erupting from the ridge, and blood spraying as soft flesh was hit. Ten men fell, four never to move again, the rest writhing in pain.
Soderling came staggering up to him, blood running down his face. “We can’t hold them, sir!”
“We’ve got to,” Casca said grimly. “If we don’t then they’ll roll up the whole army.”
