by Tony Roberts
The jailer sucked in his breath through his teeth. He’d expected a reasonably flawless back, or at least one with one or maybe two blemishes. What greeted his eyes was a mutilated and savagely scarred map of pain and suffering. Whip scars, yes, but other scars of bullets, sword cuts and one or two others he had absolutely no idea what had caused them.
Casca chuckled. “You think your shitty little tickling is going to make any difference to me after what I’ve had in my past? Try it, pansy.”
“By perdition you’re a rum type, Lonnergan!” the jailer exclaimed, still staring at the scars on Casca’s back. “What happened to you?”
“Does it matter? War. Accidents.”
The jailer shook his head. “Nay, filth, you lie. I know injuries and wounds, and you’ve got many that are many years old. Whip marks too. A habitual trouble maker, perchance? Criminal? This needs to be shown to the governor.”
Casca was untied from the wall and dragged off by the soldiers. As he went, he thought of a former associate who had once launched into a rant against customs officials who had seized his boat at Weymouth. It had gone something like god-damn thy purblind eyes, O son of a devil incarnate. The jailer had spoken very much like that.
A few minutes later they were standing before the tired looking governor. Casca sized him up in seconds. A man disappointed with his life, believing he was destined for better things but probably not capable of them, or unlucky enough not to know the right people to arrange a cozy little number for him for life. So he was embittered and took out his frustrations on those beneath him who couldn’t fight back.
The governor heard out the jailer and ordered Casca turned round so he could see for himself. He hadn’t asked Casca to turn round; he’d ordered the soldiers to do it. Casca wasn’t a person, he was an object, not capable of speech or thought. Presented with the ruined back the governor sat back thoughtfully. “Sir Richard never mentioned this,” he said aloud, thinking. “No matter. Whip him anyway. He should be used to it, judging by his marks. Cat-o-nine tails. Twenty lashes.”
“Sir,” the jailer grinned.
The governor sighed and leaned back in his creaking chair after the detachment had left. Damned prisoners were far too much trouble. Better if they all died and then nobody would have to worry about them. He’d be free of this putrid job and be given some other much better job somewhere else. He reached for the dark bottle on his table and splashed a cupful of the strong-smelling rum into it. At least the empire had done something right when they’d begun to distil the sugar from the Indies. Rum. Thank God for something good in life.
When Casca was dragged back to his place against the bulkhead he was too much in pain to move. His back was afire. The friendly neighbor looked at him with sympathy but the man on the other side snickered. He got a kick for that from one of the soldiers.
Eventually Casca managed to get to his hands and knees and slide slowly against the wall. The pain nearly made him leap through the deck above but he was damned if he was going to let the others there see his back visibly heal. He was sick of having to try to explain such things away.
“Bastards, aren’t they?” the friendly guy said with feeling. “They deserve to lose this war. How is it going, anyway?”
Casca hissed away the worst of the pain, then replied. “They’ve abandoned Philadelphia. The army’s back in New York.”
“Yeah we heard the rumor. But is it true the Frenchies are in on our side?”
Casca nodded. “I can’t see the British keeping it up forever; even if they defeat Washington’s army the French will fight on. I can’t see us losing now.”
“No help from you,” the surly man on the other side sneered.
“Look, what’s your problem? You got a thorn bush up your ass or something?”
“What’s it to you?” the surly man snapped. “Leave me alone or I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
Casca snarled, as much in pain as with anything else. “When I get over this I’ll beat you half to death. I don’t want ear ache for the rest of my time here.”
“Careful,” the friendly guy said, “or they’ll whip you again. Name’s Rory Catterick, by the way. I’m from Maryland.”
“Case Lonnergan, from Massachusetts. I don’t care about the whip. I do care about having to put up with that bastard for the next year or so.”
Rory shook his head. “He’s been like that since he was put here last Spring. Hates everyone. I think he’s touched in the head,” he added quietly, nodding with emphasis.
Casca grunted. Just what he needed, someone insane next to him. Why did it always seem to happen to him? You would think with the number of people around that he’d end up with someone normal, but no, he got a full blown lunatic case. “What unit did he serve in?”
“He’s not saying,” Rory shrugged. “I don’t think he served in the army anyway. I think they locked him up here to get him off the streets of New York.”
“Shut up!” the surly man shouted. “Stop talking about me!”
Casca looked at him. He did look crazy; the eyes were wide and staring, his mouth was working hard and his face was twisted into a mask of fury, the blood pumping up into his head. Perhaps he was insane.
“If you don’t shut it, they’ll come for you,” Casca said seriously. “At night they’ll come for you and take you away. And God knows what they’ll do to you then.”
“Who will? You shut it!”
Casca tapped the side of his nose. “They’ll have a priest with them you know.”
“What? Why? What do you know? Tell me!”
“They’ll want to exorcise the devil. They always do that to people like you, you know. They use awful things to do it as well.” Casca turned away from the man and grinned at Rory, winking.
“What? Tell me! Tell me, you bastard!” the man shouted, saliva flying from his mouth. “You tell me or I’ll beat you to death, sure as hell I will!”
“You do that and I can’t tell you, can I?” Casca said, turning back. “They might even use goose eggs to do it, too.”
“Goose eggs? What the devil??” the man screamed, fear beginning to contort his face. “What will they do?”
“Chickens are the sign of the devil,” Casca said, nodding wisely. “You heard of the Satanist trials? They’ve always used chickens in sacrifice to the devil, so they won’t use chickens on you. No, it’s geese. It’ll be terrible, you know, I’ve seen those they’ve done it to and they’re never the same again.”
“Geese? I don’t like geese,” the man yelled, “making those god damned noises! They can’t do that to me!”
“Who’s to stop them?” Casca said reasonably. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see you gone this time tomorrow the way you’re going on and taken somewhere like some dark and cold church and strapped to the altar and smothered in goose egg yolks…..”
“Shut up!” the man screamed, terror in his eyes. “Don’t let them take me!”
Casca shrugged and turned away. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re just a pain in the ass to me. The way you behave it’d be a treat to see you gone.”
The madman gibbered, pulling at his manacles. “Let me out of here you bastards!” he shouted. “Nobody’s going to tie me down to an altar!”
Rory looked alarmed. “You’ve really gone and tipped him over the edge, Case. You’d better watch your back now.”
The madman shouted and raved, then began bashing his head against the bulkhead. This finally brought the soldiers in and it took three to pull the struggling man to his feet. He swore, cursed, kicked, bit and roared but finally they managed to unlock him from the bulkhead and drag him out, blood dripping from the man’s head and the bite wounds on the soldiers. The ravings ceased abruptly when one of the men slammed his gun butt into the already bloodied forehead of the madman.
There was an audible sigh of relief from the men lying there as the door shut and the sound of the man being dragged off faded. Some even laughed, probably the first time they’d done so since b
eing brought to the hulk. Casca guessed the man’s presence had been so dominating nobody else had been willing to say anything or challenge the man’s feelings.
An hour later the jailer appeared, escorted by two men. They stood above Casca, looking down at him with a decidedly displeased expression. “What the devil have thee been saying to him, Lonnergan?” the jailer demanded.
“None of your business, dog molester,” Casca said. “Now go screw some mongrel in the hold.”
The jailer gritted his teeth. “By heavens thee be a rum cove. It’ll be a delight to inflict more lashes upon thy person, by perdition.”
“Got permission to do so from your master, mongrel lover?”
The two soldiers behind Casca fought to keep the smiles from their face. Whether it was through the insults or the thought that Casca was going to be whipped he didn’t know. But the jailer then stepped back.
“We have a punishment for devils like thee. Thee shall spend thy time alone in a cell in the bows, by God. Each morning before thy meager meal I shall inflict God’s punishment upon thee.”
Casca chuckled. “You sorry idiot; you think what you do is God’s punishment? Ha! I know more about God’s punishment than you’ll ever know. Do your worst you child buggerer. Nothing you do will come close to what I’ve had to suffer in my life!”
The jailer kicked Casca out of frustration. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. Curtly signaling to the soldiers to unchain the scarred man, he stepped back and watched as Casca was pulled to his feet and shoved forward. The soldier slapped Casca across the back right where the whipping had been inflicted, and Casca roared in pain and fury, swinging round in reaction.
His fist caught the surprised soldier under the chin and he was lifted up off his feet. As the soldier crashed to the floor the second was swinging his bayonet round to skewer the prisoner, but Casca saw it coming and stepped aside smartly. His right fist swung round and connected with the man’s jaw, spinning him round and the man tumbled to the deck on top of his unconscious colleague.
Now with a musket in his hands Casca turned to face the jailer. The ratty little man shrieked and dived out of the way just as two more soldiers appeared, muskets leveled. Both discharged them. Incredibly both missed. Low quality soldiers. One shot went high, splintering the ceiling beam near Casca’s head, while the other took out one of the helpless prisoners off to the left. Casca squeezed the trigger and was rewarded with a dull click.
Cursing the fool soldier who’d not loaded the musket, he sprang at the two men, bayonet thrusting forward. He blocked the man on the right and swung the barrel round at the other. He was just about to drive his blade into the desperate man’s chest when a whip cracked and stinging pain exploded through his head.
He screamed and clutched his face. It felt like it was on fire. His musket fell to the floor and the two soldiers took their chances. One clubbed Casca across the jaw while the other kicked him between the legs. Casca went down and a flurry of blows rained down on him from the two soldiers and the jailer who had used his whip to good effect.
Curses poured out of their mouths and the blows continued. Casca curled up into a fetal ball and tried to ride the kicks, clubbing and spittle. More men came in, attracted by the noise, and finally an officer, a lieutenant with three days of stubble, an unfastened jacket, stained shirt and bloodshot eyes from a hangover, appeared. He barked at the men to stop and pick the prisoner up.
Casca was dragged off to the bows, his body throbbing all over, and thrown unceremoniously into the tiny space and the door locked.
He lay there in pitch blackness, trying not to think too much of his injuries or how long he’d have to stay there.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sir Richard Eley dressed at his bedside and looked down at the sobbing figure of Rose. He’d used her as a horse, whipping her as he’d ridden. By God, he’d break this filly in if it were the last thing he’d do. She was close to total submission, with just the faintest ember of fire left in her. Only when she was utterly obedient would be feel it were right to show her off to his social circle.
Throwing the whip onto her naked and marked back, he spoke to her coldly. “Tidy yourself up and clean the whip. I wouldn’t want to have to use a dirty one on you now, would I?”
“No,” Rose’s voice came through the pillow muffled. She’d used it to cut out the worst of her screams as Sir Richard had humped her from behind, whipping her thoroughly, shouting at her she was his and to enjoy the experience.
Because she’d been obedient in addressing his son by his ‘correct’ name and for not speaking up against him recently, he’d not tied her up so much when he’d used her in this manner. He smiled in satisfaction. Today he would take another step in realizing his dreams and plans. Only the other day he’d received another letter from those pestiferous lawyers in London demanding payment for the gambling losses he’d incurred prior to leaving for the Americas.
Well, soon he’d be able to pay his creditors off, may the pox claim them all.
He made his way down the stairs with a spring in his stride. He always felt elated after dominating his woman. It made the whole world feel so much better. He called Bradbury and the obsequious butler appeared. “Ah, Bradbury, there you are. Call my coach will you? I am going out.”
“Will you be gone long, Sir Richard?” Bradbury bowed.
“I may. Prepare dinner as usual. I shall be back in time for that. Eight?”
“As you wish, Sir Richard.” Bradbury bowed and backed away, then strode straight-backed across the hall to the servants’ quarters. Claire was there and watched as the thin butler passed, oblivious of her presence concealed in a doorway, peering out of a narrow crack. She had to see Rose. Sir Richard was busy examining his father’s portrait on the wall by the foot of the stairs and was blocking her route. Cursing the man, she hid in the darkened room and waited till Bradbury had returned and the two men had gone out of the front door to await the arrival of the carriage before gliding into the hall and up the stairs.
She knocked gently on the door and listened for Rose to speak. She only heard a muffled sobbing so she soundlessly turned the handle and slipped into the bedroom. Rose lay on the bed, face down, crying. Claire’s mouth set firm at the sight of the red welts across Rose’s back, and she sat on the edge of the bed next to her friend. “That bastard,” she breathed.
“Claire, I-I can’t stand much more of this,” Rose said, lifting her tear-stained face from her sodden pillow. “I’m going mad, I know I am.”
“I’ve got a plan to get back at that man,” Claire said. “There are people who would only be too pleased to help, and I’ve set up the perfect way to get back at him. But I need yer help.”
“What is it, Claire? I don’t want him finding out, he’ll hurt me even more and I don’t think I can take it!”
The Irishwoman gently squeezed Rose by the arm. “We just need a sheet of his headed paper and his signature ordering the release of Case Lonnergan from prison.”
“Prison? He’s in Philadelphia, surely!”
“That’s what that bastard wanted ye to believe. He’s in one of those damned hulks along the river here.”
Rose drew in a shuddering breath. “How do you know?”
Claire grimaced. “We’ve got someone in our pay on the inside, one of the guards. I asked him a little while back as I just didn’t trust that man Eley, and I got my suspicions confirmed in no time! They’ve got him in solitary confinement, so they have. Yer man the governor wants him dead – he’s some pal of Sir Richard, so he is.”
“Oh dear God, Claire, yes of course I’ll help! Tell me what you want. And get me out of here before I lose my mind!”
“I’ll bring Case here and he’ll sort that man out.”
Rose was in no condition to get dressed straight away so Claire sought out Sir Richard’s desk in his study, using Rose’s directions. Bradbury was back in the house but busy elsewhere and Claire hurriedly went through the desk, findin
g a sheet of headed paper and an envelope. Rose knew Sir Richard’s signature, having seen him write many letters, and it was distinctive if flamboyant, and she had little difficulty in reproducing it.
Following Claire’s dictation, Rose wrote a letter to the governor of HMS Jersey, stating Major Case Lonnergan was to be paroled as per the orders of the Hon. Lord Cornwallis. He was to be delivered into the hands of the escort led by a Captain Overton. Rose looked up in surprise. “Who is he?”
“One of my associates,” Claire smiled. “We’re taking a risk using all our people here in New York but this needs doing.”
“I’m grateful, Claire,” Rose said, and finished the letter.
Claire took it, waved it a little to dry the ink, then folded the letter into the envelope and sealed it, using a stick of wax she’s lifted from the desk and Sir Richard’s seal. Rose would return both. Claire slid the envelope under her dress and kissed Rose on the cheek. “Stay strong, Rose. It won’t be too long now.”
Rose sat on the bed and clasped her hands together, more in a way of prayer than anything else. Cass, her son, began crying in the nursery next room so she quickly slipped on her dress, hissing in pain, and walked stiffly to the room where the nurse was soothing the child. Rose held out her hands to take the boy, and the nurse let him run to his mother, watching carefully as per Sir Richard’s orders as to what Rose did and said, and ensuring she addressed him as William George.
Sir Richard, meanwhile, had arrived at the warehouse where Ebenezer Maplin was conducting his business. The munitions coming in from Britain flowed through the premises and was making Maplin very rich indeed. He was content. He received Sir Richard with surprise.
“This is unexpected, Sir Richard. I trust there is no bad news?”
“None at all, old boy,” the baronet smiled, looking around the warehouse. “Given the work force a day off?”
