The Continental

by Tony Roberts

  The day was warm and the insects buzzed past their heads as they pressed on breathlessly. Rose began to flag, having to carry her son, and Casca wordlessly took him and placed him on his shoulders. Cass wailed but Rose calmed him down, assuring him it was fine. They made better progress after that, following the dry mud track that wound its way through the countryside.

  Overton remained at the fork, priming his musket. He knew the area well and knew what he had to do. It was the early afternoon and if he managed to draw the British away from the route Casca and Rose had taken, he could give the two and the child a reasonable chance of getting away.

  Figures began appearing at the top of the path, half-seen silhouettes in the shade and undergrowth. Their red coats made them an easy target, though, and Overton raised his piece. He wasn’t concerned in hitting anything at that range; it was essential thought to get their attention. He squeezed the trigger.

  The shot shattered the peace. The bullet smashed into the bole of a tree near the leading troops and they ducked involuntarily, diving for cover behind nearby trees. Sir Richard came galloping up, roaring orders. McGinnes waved his men out into two wide arcs either side of the track and began descending towards the man shooting at them.

  Overton fired one more shot and retreated. The smoke was enough to betray his position. The track he was taking passed an open field and he ran hard, one hand on his hat, until the far side and knelt next to a wooden fence. Once again he reloaded, drawing in deep breaths, and when the British line appeared, shot at them, sending them diving for cover.

  Sir Richard barked another order. These damned defiant rebels would pay for their temerity. “I want that man caught and brought to me, do you hear, Corporal?”

  “Sah!” McGinnes said, then muttered bad temperedly. Damned officers, didn’t they know this would cause more casualties? Best to shoot the bugger and be damned with it. Then they could go back to barracks and enjoy a nice mug of rum.

  Casca listened to the shots and nodded in satisfaction. Overton was doing his job well; the sound of shooting was getting fainter. The pursuit was going away from them. He passed his water bottle to Rose who drank from it, then passed it to Cass who awkwardly guzzled a couple of mouthfuls. Casca tensed as some cold water poured down his neck but it helped cool him a little.

  They carried on. After a short walk they came to a fork and took the left hand one. The sky was beginning to cloud over and dark clouds gathered from the south west. “Looks like rain,” Casca commented, screwing up his face as he looked over Rose’s shoulder. “We’d best find shelter soon.” They carried on, but Casca was pleased the weather was turning, it would hamper further British efforts to find them.

  The land dropped ahead of them and they passed through more thick undergrowth, and then suddenly were out in open land. They could see the sound ahead that separated Long Island from the mainland, and a house stood not too far away. It looked empty, for nobody was moving about and no sign of any habitation met his eye.

  The day darkened and the first drops of rain fell, heavy and cold. Casca passed Cass back to Rose who wrapped him in her light coat, revealing her undergarments. The rain began to fall heavier and heavier, and they ran for the house. It took a few minutes but they were soaked by the time they got there. Fortunately there was a canopy over the doorway and they huddled there out of the rain, shivering.

  “This looks like the place.” Casca tried the door but it was locked. He looked about but nobody stirred, so he kicked hard and the door broke inwards, shuddering. They gratefully plunged into the dryness of the interior and Casca jammed the door shut with a stool.

  Cass was tired and damp. He was quite querulous and Rose tried to hush him up. “Try upstairs – there’s furnishings in the house so there may be a bed he can stretch out in,” Casca suggested, brushing the worst of the rainwater from his shoulders.

  Rose nodded and went upstairs with the boy. Casca checked downstairs and found a reasonably stocked kitchen that had pots, pans and utensils in cupboards, and a comfortable looking living room. There was no food, inevitably, but it looked like the place was regularly visited, for there was little dust and no cobwebs.

  He peeled off his shirt which was stuck to his skin and he found fire-lighting material, wood, paper and matches. By the time Rose reappeared, saying Cass had dropped off to sleep, he’d gotten fire going in the living room. Rose was shivering; her clothes were saturated and cold.

  “Here, get these off,” Casca said and helped her remove the wet clothes. She heisted a moment, then complied. There was a fairly big fur rug in the room and they dragged it closer to the fire so they could warm themselves. Casca arranged a wooden stand he found behind a chair close to the fire with their clothes hanging from it off to one side, and peeled off his trousers.

  They both looked at each other, naked, then as if on an unspoken word, took hold of each other and began kissing. Lying on the rug in front of the warm fire, they reacquainted themselves with each other’s body. Casca recalled for a moment Katherine’s request not to carry on his affair with Rose, but he had needs, like she did. Both knew the marriage to Sir Richard was as good as finished. Rose would never go back, and she would live in the wilds of the frontier rather than let the British baronet get his hands on Cass again. Casca was determined on killing Sir Richard and what happened after that nobody knew, but for now he wanted Rose and she wanted him.

  After the rough and thoughtless way she’d been treated by her husband, Casca’s expert lovemaking had Rose squealing in passion, and bit her lip to try to stop her screaming in pleasure. Casca grinned and put his finger to his lips – they didn’t want to wake little Cass up. “I can’t help it,” Rose said breathlessly, her eyes half glazed.

  Casca grabbed his belt, whipped it off his trousers and pressed it against her lips. Rose clamped her teeth on it and Casca resumed. Rose made muffled sounds against the leather and without meaning to, dribbled all over it as she was lost in a world of exquisite hedonism.

  As he rode within her Rose’s heels drummed on the rug, her hands opened and closed and she bit down hard on the belt as it thrashed about with every movement of her head. She screamed behind the leather, the material dampening down her noise, and outside the room little could be heard. The belt did its job.

  And so did Casca. Rose lay exhausted and satisfied in front of the fire, the flames casting light on her sweaty skin as Casca propped himself up on one elbow and looked down on her. It had been good; the time he’d spent in the hulk had given him plenty of thinking time and Rose’s charms had been one of the things he’d thought about. Quite a lot actually. So it had been a very fulfilling thing for him on the rug.

  “We’d best check to see if our clothes are dry,” Casca said quietly, smiling at her. “If Cass wakes up he’ll want you, and you’d best not go about the house with no clothes on.” He looked up at the window. Rain was still running down the glass. “I’ll keep the fire going until that stops, or until we go to bed. The British won’t see the smoke.”

  “Mmm,” Rose said, still coming down from her high. “It’s been a long time, Case. I don’t want to go back to him; I want to be with you.”

  “There’s a war on, Rose. I’m going to go back to it, and hopefully kill that swine of a husband of yours. Then you’ll have to think about young Cass’s future.”

  Rose looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean – Cass will be the next Baronet of Sandwell once Sir Richard dies. What will you do then?”

  “I don’t want anything to do with it,” she said.

  “You’d better think for your son’s future. What if he grows up and resents you not giving him the chance of inheriting the estate? What about those who work on it now? Who will take over the estate and their livelihoods? I have no idea how many people are involved but I’m willing to bet there’s quite a few involved. They’ll need looking after, as will the estate.”

  “I don’t want to get involved, Case!”

&n
bsp; “You might not, no. But your son is, like it or not. He’s the future.” Casca got up and checked the clothes. Dry, or virtually dry. He shrugged on his shirt and buttoned it up to his neck. It was warm against his skin and he paused for a moment, enjoying the sensation. “And the British will want an answer too. I bet there’s legal matters to think about. Cass is minor British nobility. You as his mother will have power of attorney or whatever it’s called until he comes of age. Bear all this in mind.”

  “Only if Sir Richard dies.”

  “Oh,” Casca nodded in emphasis. “He’s going to die alright.” He slipped on his trousers and picked up his belt, examining the teeth marks. “Heck, you chewed this well and good.”

  “I was occupied! Do you have to speak about Cass’s future right now?”

  Casca threw Rose her clothes. “Not if you don’t want to; I just don’t want you making your mind up about the future when nothing can be certain, especially in wartime.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Rose said, getting dressed. “Let’s go find some food; I’m hungry.”

  “Yes, I bet you’re hungry; all that exercise does work up an appetite.”

  Rose slapped Casca. “I wonder if that nice man Overton is alright?”

  Casca stopped and looked out of the window. “I sure as hell hope so, Rose. We owe him a lot.”

  Across Long Island to the south, the rain came down heavily across fields, trees, farms and a few dejected people making their way to the nearest shelter. These included the troops of soldiers under Sir Richard Eley, having chased the elusive figure of the lone man with the musket for hours. When the rain had come, the shooting had stopped and the misery had really begun.

  Their quarry had fled south eastwards, towards the sea, and despite fanning the men out into a wide arc, Sir Richard had not managed to close in on his target. Frustration had mounted and then, as it got towards dark, they suddenly lost contact. They searched for half an hour, but found nothing. “Damn it to hell!” Sir Richard exclaimed. “They’ve got clear away!”

  “We won’t be able to find anyone in this rain, or the dark, sah,” McGinnes pointed out, rainwater dripping from the forward point of his hat.

  “Of course,” the baronet snapped. “Back to the slopes; we’ll camp overnight in one of the buildings up there amongst the trees, and in the morning we’ll make a detailed search of all the farms and homesteads here. Leave no stone unturned, Corporal.”

  McGinnes saluted. It would be one hell of a bastard task.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Casca hardly slept that night; the wind and rain made enough noise to keep him wary in case anyone should creep up on them, although why anyone would be inclined to do so that night was beyond him. He also wanted to keep watch so that Rose and Cass, huddled together in one bed, could sleep safely knowing they were being watched over.

  He spent most of the night downstairs sat in a chair, his musket across his lap, his eyes tired but watchful. His thoughts were on what to do in the future; as always he had to plan on what to do once his time in this place was at an end. He’d been in Lincoln, Massachusetts for over ten years and he would never go back. He would be too ‘old’ to look the same anymore.

  Rose had known him for seven years now. He guessed they had maybe another three before she would begin to wonder why he never aged. His time with her was coming to an end. He would ensure she got back to Philadelphia and her mother, then go back to the war. It would probably be best that he saw the war to an end and then quit. He’d faked a death before and he’d probably do the same again. It was best that way – nobody would be left wondering where he was, and they could get on with their lives after a reasonable period of mourning.

  Casca disliked having people hanging onto him. It made them vulnerable – and him, too. The Brotherhood of the Lamb, those maniacs who persecuted him from time to time, would certainly kill anyone who got too close to him if they ever found out, so he made it his business to keep a low profile and sneak away before too permanent an attachment formed.

  There had been once, long ago, a family who had adopted his name and he’d looked upon them as his. He’d revisited the family members from time to time but as the centuries passed they became scattered and the branches died out one by one. Their name had changed, too, from the classic Latin to the Italian style, but as far as he knew there were maybe still some hanging around in southern Italy, living under the Spanish. They knew of the legend and of his existence, but they kept it a family secret and maybe now it was merely looked upon as a good old family tale. Who knew?

  Helsfjord had been another adopted home but that no longer existed. He had been remembered by descendants who had survived the fate of Helsfjord and his time with the Vikings had rekindled those halcyon years when he’d lived as Lord of that keep. Happier times.

  He sighed, wistfully. So many memories. The good ones merely served to remind him that all those he loved would pass on and die, and the bad ones could go to hell where they belonged.

  The rain had stopped with the coming of the new day and Casca knew they would have to move on and get away from the house. There was no food but there were some hedgerow plants he’d recognized the previous day around they could chew on for sustenance, like the garlic-tasting Jack by the Hedge and the lemony Wild Sorrel. Living as long as he did gave him an amazing amount of knowledge and he wondered sometimes how the hell he managed to retain so much. Perhaps the Curse was responsible. He knew that he never seemed to suffer the memory problems people tended to get as they grew older. His brain must be like a sponge.

  Rose got Cass ready and they set off as soon as they could, Casca in the lead, picking a few plants and herbs they could eat. Cass looked dubiously at a couple of the items but once Rose chewed on them and was pleasantly surprised, Cass followed suit. It wasn’t much but at least they were able to keep the worst of the hunger pains off.

  They headed north, towards the stretch of water that separated the island from the mainland, and the Continental Army lines. It was almost at the point where they were heading that the waters widened and the narrow waterway became a sea. Headlands jutted out and in between these were inlets, shelters for small vessels. Casca headed for the nearest of these, for he had seen a boathouse and surely there would be a boat they could take.

  The new day was promising to be warm and sunny, a contrast to the previous day. The smell of moist earth filled the air and they walked down a narrow earth track past clumps of long yellowing grass and the occasional oak or aspen. The breeze from the sea pushed into their faces and their mood was light. Cass once more was on Casca’s shoulders, the boy feeling more comfortable today on the big man. Rose smiled and chatted as she walked alongside them. Casca had told her that she was going to be taken to her mother in Philadelphia and she was happy enough with that. She did express a concern initially that the British may try to come again, but Casca shook his head.

  “They abandoned the city; they couldn’t hold onto it. They’ve retreated to a few strongholds and are now, so I’m told, concentrating further south. They haven’t the forces to hold everywhere and fight in more than one place. Philadelphia is safe, believe me.”

  “And the war?”

  Casca shrugged. “They’ve lost. It’s a matter of when the final act comes. They’ll never be able to defeat us now the French are on our side, and I hear the Spanish are making noises of joining us too. They’re hanging on out of sheer stubbornness.”

  Rose frowned. “But if they know they’ve lost, why don’t they give up?”

  “Pride? Wanting to hurt us some before going? Who knows. They can still cause a huge amount of damage.”

  They neared the boathouse and saw a man repairing a fence alongside it. Casca went up and hailed him. The man was a local and wanted nothing to do with the war. The British ran things on Long Island and he didn’t want to lose his home and livelihood, but when he saw Rose and Cass, standing hand in hand a little way behind, he changed his mind. One man armed co
uld look after himself, but a woman and child? He agreed to take them across for nothing, and the three were grateful.

  So they crossed slowly over to the mainland in the sun, a gentle and comfortable ending to a short but eventful time on the island.

  * * *

  Sir Richard rode on behind his men. The evening before his adjutant, the lieutenant, had opined that the mystery gunman had deliberately been luring them away from the true direction that they should have been looking in. Sir Richard had demanded an explanation, and the lieutenant had nervously pointed out that they’d only seen one man when they were looking for a woman and child, and no doubt a scarred man. The fact the man could have slipped away easily enough long before he did also showed he was toying with them.

  The more Sir Richard thought on it, the more it made sense. So that morning he sent the lieutenant off back along the same path as yesterday with a smaller group of men, while he took Corporal McGinnes and the rest along the other path. He didn’t want the bright and intelligent adjutant making him seem dim-witted, so he packed him off on what was probably a wild goose chase while he went on the more likely route. Damned clever people, they needed to be kept down out of harm’s way and, if possible, quiet. An office job in Whitehall beckoned for that man. Wouldn’t do to be left in charge of men – they might get ideas above their station.

  About mid-morning they came upon the fork. One of the men was a poacher in England, and knew a bit about tracking. He looked at the ground. “Looks like someone came this way yesterday before the rains. Can’t tell exactly how many but the ground is churned up here, see?” he pointed at the disturbed earth. The rain had softened the marks.

  “Which way, man?” Sir Richard demanded from the saddle.

  “Down towards the sea, sir.”

  “Corporal, take five men and make good speed. Find out what lies that way. Send a signal if you find anything. We’ll rest here.”