by Tony Roberts
“Then I’m afraid that it will be impossible to see the general. He’s very busy with matters more urgent than your personal problems.” The adjutant smiled to rob any offense from his words.
“It wouldn’t take a few seconds to speak to the general.”
The adjutant smiled and said nothing. Casca sighed in exasperation. “He won’t be busy all day, Lieutenant. I’ll need to see him for perhaps two minutes.”
“Then it can’t be of much importance if it only requires that amount of time.”
“Look it concerns matters inside Philadelphia. The general’s attack may have to be altered if he sees the information within this letter.” Casca knew he was talking bullshit but he had to get past this flunkey.
The lieutenant sighed and picked up a quill and dipped it into a pot of ink on the desk. He began scribbling on a sheet of paper. “Stay here.” He got up and went through a door behind him and was gone for about five minutes, then he returned, a curious look on his face. “The general will see you now, Major, but be quick; time is short.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Casca acknowledged the adjutant’s salute and walked into the inner chamber, noting the blazing log fire at the rear. Washington was standing behind a huge table that was full of papers, maps and weights, and a whole array of officers were standing in various places around the room. They all appeared to have been talking until Casca entered the room.
“Major,” Washington said, his face serious, “I take it you have a matter of some importance I need to see?”
“Sir,” Casca walked up to the table and held out the letter from Claire. Washington took it and put on a pair of spectacles and began reading it. As he did, Casca looked down and saw a map of the British camp at Germantown, detailed with lots of notes as to dispositions and numbers of troops. He stared at the map in surprise for a moment.
“It would appear, Major, that you are fated to continually be mixed up in matters that ought not to concern you.” Washington smiled tiredly. He handed the letter back to Casca. “I am currently unable to do much about this matter, however. We have – other matters foremost in our minds, as you can see.”
“Yes, sir. An attack on the British camp.”
“Indeed; please keep this quiet for the time being; we are not the only people with spies, as you can well appreciate. Should my attack go to plan then the British will be forced to give up Philadelphia and we can see to your matter there and then. But as you can now appreciate, I also am kept updated as to events concerning my friends.”
“Sir.” Casca didn’t know what to say. The surprise of what he’d seen on the map had knocked him sideways for a moment, then he reasoned, why not? He actually smiled at Washington. “Sneaky, sir.”
Washington smiled briefly. “Do not worry yourself too much on this account. If I have need of you for anything I’ll send for you. You do understand?”
“Completely sir.”
Casca left, marveling at how perfectly matched the handwriting on the map had been to the writing on the letter Claire had sent him.
* * *
Three days after that Casca was at yet another camp, at a place called Skippack, a few miles closer to Philadelphia. Plans had been drawn up by the American command to attack the British army at their camp around Germantown, the hope was to shatter the British in an unexpected move and thus retake Philadelphia. Germantown was a mere eight miles north of the capital.
The attack was scheduled for the early morning of the fourth of October, and so preparations were made to get each unit fully supplied and ready for action over the next couple of days.
In Philadelphia there was an early morning encounter of a different type on Lemon Park. Smartly dressed men congregated in two separate groups, thirty yards apart. The morning was slightly misty, and chilly. Long coats and hats were much in evidence, one group wearing British military scarlet, the other civilian accoutrements of a variety of browns, greens and reds.
Sir Richard Eley stood facing the civilian group, contemptuously watching as they gathered and talked amongst themselves. Carriages had brought them to the green expanse on the south west edge of the city, and horses blew in the chill air, clouds of their breath cloaking their long noses.
Beside Eley were five men. Two were fellow officers, one a captain, the other a lieutenant. The captain was his second while the lieutenant was there as an observer. Lord Cornwallis had not been offically informed of the duel but nonetheless he’d found out and had sent the lieutenant to see what transpired. Cornwallis didn’t approve of dueling but Sir Richard’s business was his own and his social position meant Cornwallis didn’t wish to interfere. If the man got himself killed, then that was his own affair.
The other three were soldiers who were there to make sure the rules were followed and to carry the equipment Sir Richard needed; his saber, cloak and drinks to name but three.
Over on the civilian side James Lowe stood facing Sir Richard while speaking to his second. Lowe was wearing his best outfit so as to show the British he was confident of winning; his coat was of brown, the tails of which fell down to just below his knees. The sleeves were tighter than had been worn until recently, but this was the new fashion and Lowe was not one to ignore that; his position of prominence in Philadelphia society demanded it. Underneath that his waistcoat of dull green had a short ‘skirt’, and the buttons descended to just below his waist.
His breeches were of light brown and the stockings of white. His low shoes were of black with a large silver buckle, and upon his head he wore one of the newer style of beaver round crown hats, with a wide brim. It did help to shade the eyes better when the sun shone, particularly now in autumn when the sun was fairly low on the horizon for longer periods, or to keep the worse of the rain away from the face.
His saber was being carried by his second, a tall, fair skinned man, and three other men stood close by, all business associates of Lowe. A little further away a small group of people had gathered to watch the duel, curious onlookers who had got to hear of the affair.
Sir Richard unfastened his cloak and handed it to one of the three soldiers, then passed his coat to the man a few moments later. He strode forward a few yards and stood in an aggressive manner, glaring at his opponent. His second, the captain, walked over to Lowe’s group and requested that the duel start due to the pressing engagements Sir Richard had later that day.
Lowe’s second frowned and acknowledged that Mr. Lowe was ready, and then proceeded to drop a couple of handkerchiefs twenty feet apart. The captain did likewise so that the handkerchiefs formed a rough square. The duel would take place within the confines of this square. Stepping outside would constitute a breaking of the rules and whoever did so would be considered a coward.
Both men now took hold of their swords and, down to their waistcoats, faced each other within the square. The seconds stood close by, and the captain made sure each combatant had identical weapons and were not carrying any other weapon.
With that he stepped back and gave permission for the duel to commence.
They crossed sabers. The saber was a heavier blade than that usually used by those who dueled. Normally the lighter rapier was the weapon of choice but the military still stuck mostly to the saber. Lowe didn’t care which blade he used; he was versed in a variety of them, having practiced with anything from the foil to the saber in his time.
The very fact they were using the saber indicated they were serious about killing one another; the foil and rapier left smaller injuries and drawing of blood was usually the end of the duel. Honor went to whoever cut his opponent first. Not this time, though. This was a fight to the death.
Sir Richard sneered and flicked his blade once, striking Lowe’s. Lowe stepped back a pace and steadied himself. The British officer planted his left fist on his waist and made the first move, slashing down across Lowe from throat to hip. Lowe parried with a cross-wise move and countered, aiming to cut down the chest from sternum to crotch.
Sir Ric
hard had stepped back so the blade flashed harmlessly past. Now he moved forward once more. Planting his right foot forward he slashed down left and right in quick succession. Lowe met both blows above his shoulders and backhanded a cut that was intended to sever Sir Richard’s head. The Britisher slapped the cut aside and slammed his next blow down murderously hard, his eyes like flint.
Lowe parried and flinched; he’d never fought anyone before who had such malice and killing intent in him. The experience unnerved him somewhat. Heart pounding, Lowe attempted a crosswise cut from the shoulder on the right to the hip on the left. Sir Richard stood his ground and Lowe’s attack was blocked.
For a moment they stood almost touching, straining at each other, the sweat running down their faces; each able to smell the other’s clothes and what soap they’d used after the morning’s shave.
With a grunt Lowe pushed Sir Richard back. He stood for a moment, glaring at the mocking expression on the baronet’s face. “This is not a game, Sir Richard!”
“Of course,” Sir Richard replied. “But killing is such good sport, what?”
With that the duel was resumed. Lowe’s initial adrenaline had ebbed and his life as a lawyer was beginning to tell, whereas Sir Richard’s recent military exercises had toned his muscles up. His face now hardened and he went for the kill. Better to do it sooner rather than later and risk being seen by those who went out walking after breakfast.
Cut, slash. Lowe blocked the attack but he was tiring and the blade was getting heavy. Usually by now he’d ask for a breather and his adversary at the fencing club would step aside. He would get no such accommodation here.
Sir Richard pressed forward. A side blow was parried but the blade of Lowe was now low and not guarding his body. The baronet’s next attack went high and Lowe staggered back, off balance, as the tip of the saber narrowly flicked past his jaw. Lowe’s blade went out in a reflex ahead of his chest but Sir Richard was expecting it. His next attack was not a cut or slash, but a thrust, rapier style. The blade sank into Lowe’s chest and slid in to a depth of a foot. Sir Richard pulled the blade free sharply and watched as Lowe keeled over, dropping his blade, and then fell onto all fours, gasping in pain.
“My win,” Sir Richard said indifferently. “Naturally.” He turned away and passed his second the bloodied sword. “Clean this will you, Captain?”
“Sir,” the captain acknowledged. “What about him, sir?”
Sir Richard turned to see Lowe now lying on his side and his second and friends crowding around him. “He’ll die. I got his heart. End of matters here, don’t you think? Now, shall we go for a glass of port?”
As the British contingent made their way back to the horses that were being held by one of the soldiers, Lowe shuddered and breathed his last. His second and friends looked up in distress but they were being left to deal with the aftermath themselves. Somebody would have to go tell his household.
At that very moment his house was being visited by four scarlet-clad British soldiers. Corporal McGinnes and three very big soldiers stood before the door, the three soldiers armed with unloaded muskets but they did have bayonets fixed. McGinnes had his musket slung over his shoulder and he carried a stout looking wooden club. The door opened and the butler peered out apprehensively. All within the house were waiting for news of the duel. “Oh, I was expecting someone else,” the butler began and then was shoved aside rudely.
“Lead us to the child and Sir Richard’s wife,” McGinnes said roughly. He’d been in many brawls along the waterfront of Plymouth, and even along Union Street, that favorite haunt of the women of dubious morals that all sailors made for the moment they arrived from a voyage. So he knew how to cope with people.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,” the butler said.
“If you don’t my boys here will get them and we won’t care what we smash up. Ain’t that right, lads?”
The three others all grinned evilly, showing black teeth, gaps where none existed or chipped and slanting ones. It wasn’t an encouraging sight.
The butler paled and backed away. He called out to Katherine, hoping that she would be able at least to do something to stop them from smashing the place up. Katherine appeared very quickly from the study and came into the hallway slowly, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
Corporal McGinnes eyed her appreciatively. “Sir Richard’s orders ma’am. We’re to pick up his son and wife.”
“What’s happened this morning?” Katherine didn’t appear to have heard him. “The duel?”
“Your man is dead, ma’am.” McGinnes didn’t know whether he was or not. His commander’s orders had been fairly precise. “He’s now taking the child and woman. Orders. I’ve been told that if anyone tries to stop us we are to use force.”
Katherine only half heard him. She had gone pale and sank slowly into a nearby chair, hands to her face. “Oh, dear God! James!” she wailed.
McGinnes grinned and jerked his head to the three soldiers. “Let’s go find them. She ain’t gonna be any good for anything now she’s heard her man’s copped it.” They left Katherine with the butler in the hallway and began shoving open doors along the corridor. The second door opened to the study and McGinnes saw the two women and cradle there. “Ah! Here we are.”
“What are ye doing here?” Claire demanded, standing up.
“Get out of my way, you bog trotter,” McGinnes growled, pushing the outraged woman aside. “Lads, grab the other one and the kid.”
Rose struggled to her feet, screaming in protest as two tough hands grabbed her while the third picked up the cradle, looking uncertainly into the face of the child. Claire slapped McGinnes across the face but got more than she bargained for. The corporal pulled her arm up painfully and marched her to one of the chairs and thrust her down into it. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay there. I’ve served in Ireland and dealt with you lot plenty of times so I know what to do. Got it?”
“Bastard!” Claire glared up at him, her eyes wild and furious. “If I had a gun I’d shoot ye straight in the guts!”
“If you had a gun I’d blast a hole through your head faster than you could say Battle of the Boyne,” McGinnes replied, drawing another gasp of fury from the Irishwoman. He looked at Rose who was crying, struggling to no avail in the grip of the two men. “And you stop struggling or I’ll get the boys to truss you up and we’ll carry you to Sir Richard’s like a sack of spuds.” He looked at Claire. “You know all about spuds, don’t you?”
Claire’s reply was most unladylike and even caused McGinnes to pause for a moment.
“You swear as good as any trooper,” he said, then waved to the men to drag Rose out with them. The third man carried the cradle gingerly in their wake. “It’s a baby and a cradle, Givens,” McGinnes said testily. “Not a bone china set! Now step lively!”
Katherine was still sat weeping in her chair. Rose made another effort to twist free from the two men dragging her out. “Mother!”
Katherine looked up. She got to her feet. “Leave her alone, you beasts!”
McGinnes shoved her hard and she sat back down on the chair. “Stay out of this, lady, or you’ll get hurt.” He waved the men out, taking the protesting Rose and by now crying baby with them.
Claire came out of the study and comforted Katherine. “I’ll send word to Case Lonnergan,” she said.
“What can he do?” Katherine said through her tears. “James is dead!”
“We’ll get even with these bastards,” Claire breathed. “That swine can’t do this and get away with it.”
Katherine shook her head and sat there in utter misery. Her world had collapsed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A couple of mornings later Casca was also up and moving in the early dawn. Light was just breaking as they moved slowly and quietly into their positions. Washington had split the army into four separate columns and Casca and his men were in the second, designated to advance along the main road into Germantown and bloc
k the road while the main attack went on to their left.
Ahead of them was their objective but this morning they could see little; a thick fog had descended on them all, chill, eerie and reducing visibility to a few yards. Casca worried that the march to their positions would be delayed, since they couldn’t make as good a time as he’d hoped. The other columns would also have the same difficulty, and one good thing was that their approach would certainly be hidden from any British picket. The fog would also muffle and distort sound, making identifying where anything was that much more difficult.
Dawn was upon them and shooting was already coming from somewhere ahead. Rumor was that Howe hadn’t even fortified the camp, being confident that Washington’s men couldn’t launch such an attack; his complacency was about to be punished. Ahead were the men of Pennsylvania and they’d clearly run into the advance British pickets and were probably in the process of driving them back. It would also now alert the camp but that was something that couldn’t be helped. The fog would aid the approach of the other American forces, provided, Casca mused, they didn’t get lost.
He had the men walking in column close to one another. He kept on checking that nobody was dropping off at the back, and had Soderling there to make sure. Connors walked at the front of the column, following the 4th regiment ahead of them, while behind Soderling came men from North Carolina and the artillery, rumbling along the rutted, hard road surface. It wouldn’t be long before the surface became a morass with the autumn rains, so they had to make the most of the remaining campaigning season.
The men walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Some were praying under their breath to get through the day unscathed, so they could see once again their loved ones; sweethearts, wives, children. Mothers, fathers. Brothers, sisters. Family. Others harbored darker thoughts, those of a desire to get at their enemy and show them that this land was theirs and not that of someone thousands of miles away who had never even set foot on American soil. Whatever the rest thought, they were keeping it to themselves.
