by Tony Roberts
Groaning, he assisted a man up to his feet who had a head wound, and the two staggered back to the American lines, all fight gone from their minds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lord Cornwallis’ desperate act had saved the battle but the Continental Army was still intact, and they marched away from the battlefield through the evening rain. Casca had assured Connors he would see the surgeon, and of course didn’t. He did reappear the next morning at camp with his arm in a sling, and informed the young captain that his arm was going to be fine but was too tender to touch.
Connors accepted it and gave Casca the total casualty list. Many militiamen had melted away and the army had shrunk by perhaps half. Their own regiment had suffered thirty killed and seventy wounded, a high number given they had about three hundred and fifty to begin with. Many of these had been when the British had fired into the melee, but Casca had to admit it had been the saving factor in the battle. He was frustrated in that he’d not got to grips with Sir Richard. The grapeshot had taken care of that.
When it became clear that the British had lost a quarter of their number the Continental Army began to creep back to recover the territory lost. Cornwallis no longer had the men to hold onto the hinterland.
For Casca though, the immediate result of the battle was a recall to Greene’s command post. Puzzled, he reported to the general who had passed the orders to him. Greene was sat in his office close to Troublesome Creek where his army was camped.
“Ah, Major Lonnergan. Sit down, I’ve been expecting you.”
Casca sat down and waited. His arm was still in a sling even though the wound had already cleared up, leaving a scar – yet another – to add to his impressive collection. He only wore the sling now to make everyone believe he was making a normal recovery. He found it irritating, not being able to use a perfectly functioning arm, but he had to keep up appearances.
Greene smiled tiredly. The strain of keeping an army together in the face of the elite of the British forces was telling. “General Washington has sent an urgent message for me to pass onto you. I don’t know why he pressed you upon my command last year, but I appreciate what you’ve done since coming here. However, things are moving behind the scenes, Major. I’m informed that the French are going to land an army in Virginia to assist us. What this message from Washington is I don’t know, and frankly I’m more than a little piqued that secret messages are being passed to one of my subordinates.”
“Don’t worry, sir, I’ve no idea why I’ve been sent this message either.”
Greene nodded. “No doubt there’s a good reason. I’ve written to the General informing him of your conduct at Guilford Courthouse. I don’t think he’ll get the dispatch for another few weeks.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Casca left the house and returned to his tent. The letter was dated two weeks previously, before the battle. Casca scanned the words and his heart weighed heavily in his chest. The legal tug of war between Sir Richard and Rose had reached an impasse. The British were demanding the boy be handed over to them in New York by August or they would advise the other diplomats currently courting the Americans of the conduct of the rebels. Washington stated it may not do too much damage but since the French were about to send soldiers, generals and supplies to assist in the war, it was desired that the business between him and Sir Richard should be concluded as swiftly as possible, lest it affect their sympathies.
The message was clear; go on and kill Sir Richard as fast as you can.
The one good thing was that Sir Richard was caught up in the maneuvering of Cornwallis’ army and wasn’t able to directly affect the negotiations. The spring was coming to an end and summer was approaching. The marches went on, and skirmishes and small battles punctuated the boredom and tiring cross-country marches. They crossed into Virginia and learned that the French were indeed bringing soldiers to help, commanded by Lafayette.
Greene turned south and Casca was one of the men who helped in clearing the state of all loyalist and British garrisons. When this was done Casca was sent back north to Virginia to join the forces there. Orders had come from high.
Washington finally stirred from New York, leaving a covering force to watch the British in New York, he marched south and his presence helped bottle Cornwallis against the coast, and finally the British were forced back into the port of Yorktown.
Washington summoned Casca to his quarters in the evening following his arrival. Casca was amazed at the numbers of troops at the camp. White-dressed French soldiers were everywhere, a reminder to Casca of the enemy he’d fought so many times in the past.
“Major, come in and sit down.” Washington was business-like and formal. Casca sat. This was going to be a serious matter, whatever it was.
“You and I have crossed one others’ path many times these past few years,” the general began, giving the scar-faced mercenary a long look. Casca couldn’t work out what emotion was behind the look. “You came out of nowhere, got mixed up with this Sir Richard Eley right at the start, and to be frank it’s plagued me and my army ever since.”
Casca remained silent. He really didn’t know where this was going.
Washington sighed and leaned back. He looked at his adjutant and fellow officers, gathered around their commander’s desk. “I hear of your good deeds, bravery, valor and downright recklessness. You’re also a pain in the butt to your superiors.”
“Yes, sir.”
Washington pulled a look of distaste ever so briefly. “Well, as I see things, you may not be a pain in my butt that much longer. We’ve got the British bottled up here and if they fail to supply Cornwallis he’ll have to surrender. And if that happens then they’ll have to give up; they won’t have the armed forces necessary to fight on.”
“Then why have you called me here tonight, sir?”
“To allow you to finish off this royal pain in the butt Sir Richard Eley. My spies tell me he’s been given command of one of the redoubts facing us. I would very much like you to command the Forlorn Hope for the attack which is to storm it and take it for me. Getting the redoubt out of my way allows me to threaten Yorktown with artillery. Cornwallis will have to surrender or be blown to pieces, supplies or not. While you are taking the redoubt you are to – ah – deal with Sir Richard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, Major,” Washington snapped. “I’m not doing it for your personal gratification. I have other reasons why I do not wish this individual to remain at large. I’m sure you understand?”
“Ah,” Casca nodded. The wider diplomatic world and possibly for his society friend Katherine. No words were necessary.
“And, Major, my orders to you will only mention commanding the Forlorn Hope with the intention of taking the redoubt. Again, I’m sure you will understand. You are now to return to your unit and select thirty men to take it. The rest of the assault troops will follow a minute or two after you, so you have that amount of time to find Sir Richard and deal with him. You will attack tomorrow after dark. Study the approaches to it well. We will lay down a three minute bombardment prior to your attack – don’t move forward until it’s finished.”
Casca smiled and stood up. “No sir.” He saluted.
Washington saluted back. “Good luck, Major.”
“Thank you, sir.” Casca left, thinking over what was needed. Attacking a redoubt was a hazardous business at the best of times. It would take a determined and well-coordinated assault to carry it off.
He took Connors with him and the two stood in one of the newly built trenches that were crawling across the countryside around the besieged town. There were perhaps three hundred and fifty yards from the trenches to the town. Before Yorktown stood the British trenches and redoubts, the land in front of the trenches stripped bare. It was now a tumbled mess of earth, ripped trees and scattered debris. All that would hamper progress but perhaps offer some little cover.
“There,” Casca pointed to a jagged mini-fort that jutted
up evilly just off to their right. “That is our objective. I want us to study it until it gets too dark; I don’t want us to get lost or find something blocking our route because we’ve not looked at where we’re going.”
“Looks pretty tough, sir.”
Casca nodded. “Aye, that it is. The gunners will do their best to blow the perimeter apart so we can get in. I’ll take the first squad; you command the second. It’ll be the rest of the assault troops’ job to lay down support fire so we can get to the top and get in. Once we’re in you follow. No hanging about, get up and run like the devil. Understand?”
Connors nodded, his face strained. “That ditch in front of it looks deep.”
“It is. We’ll take fascines and ladders with us. Get the men working on them tonight.”
Casca strained his eyes staring at the features of the redoubt. It was a huge circular construction of earth dotted with freshly cut trees and branches adding to the defenses; the wood was jutting out of the earth at ninety degrees, making a climb up the outside awkward. At the top more sawn branches stood, giving the defenders additional protection. The ditch at the bottom had been created when the earth had been dug. Just like the first castles in Britain, Casca mused. He had been one of the invading army under Duke William the Bastard of Normandy that had conquered England. When he’d been given the village of Stokeham and made Baron, he’d built one of the earthen castles that had been all the rage then. Looking at the redoubt in the fading October light he sighed in memory.
Soon it was too dark to see the outpost. Time to pick the men and plan the assault. It would be hard, and no doubt there would be losses – but the support fire ought to make their approach a little easier. If they could sneak in close enough to attack without drawing counter fire from the redoubt they might even be able to storm the top with no losses at all.
Casca smiled ironically to himself. Small chance of that.
* * *
As night fell Sir Richard toured the inside of the freshly constructed fortification. Lord Cornwallis had given him responsibility of commanding the redoubt as reward for his part in helping win the battle at Guilford Courthouse. Sir Richard wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or bad. They were now out on a limb in the front line and no doubt the rebels and their Frog allies would attack it soon. He had fifty men on duty at any one time with the rest no more than thirty seconds away in crude barracks that had been thrown up in the sides of the trenches, using spare earth as roofs and more of the cut down trees as walls, roof supports and floors.
Cannon stood at intervals poking out through embrasures and bags of earth had been placed around the fortification to separate each ‘sector’, so that if part of the redoubt was invaded, then men could turn and shoot on them from behind the bags in the other sections.
He decided that plenty of ammunition would be needed since he anticipated an attack very soon, so cannon balls and gunpowder were stockpiled close to each gun, and boxes of cartridges and more gunpowder placed at regular intervals for the infantry. He was very pleased with his efforts. He was additionally pleased that Cornwallis had recognized his work and he hoped now that this was the first step towards promotion and an eventual placement in Horse Guards Parade in London. Once there, the world was his oyster, so to speak.
There was just the matter of his son to sort out. His legal advisors had informed him by letter just the other day that matters had stalled because of the war and the difficulties due to the long distances and resultant communication problems from Sir Richard to New York.
Bah! Excuses. He had run out of patience. His latest letter, waiting to be sent by sea to New York, was instructing Jacquard to forward a list of complaints and a brief statement to the ambassadors of France and Spain about the kidnapping and the rebels’ tacit approval of the affair and their protection of the guilty party. Hopefully that would cause a whole range of problems between the ‘allies’. He sincerely hoped so. Even though the war was proving to be very profitable, what with the flow of guns, bullets and other war material through the warehouses in New York, he was beginning to tire of the whole damned affair.
The army should have beaten these upstarts by now but it seemed that whenever they had the chance, the blasted Whigs ruined things. They were either in charge of the army and messed up enormously, or they made such a fuss in Parliament that sensible decisions were overturned and damn’ fool orders were issued instead. What was needed was a good strong leader, both in Whitehall and here, to kick these seditious colonials back to the kennels where they deserved to grovel.
Whigs!
He stared out over the parapet into the night. The fires of the Franco-American army could be seen everywhere. There seemed thousands of them. All coming out of the woodwork now the proper masters of the Americas were hemmed in with their backs to the sea. Damn them all to hell.
Next to him Corporal McGinnes stood to attention. Two more soldiers stood behind, a little more slackly, thinking their commanding officer couldn’t see them in the half light of the redoubt. “There’s evil out there, Corporal,” Sir Richard said.
“Sah,” McGinnes had no idea what he was on about but acknowledged anyway. It was expected of him.
“The end of civilized society.”
“Sah.” McGinnes had little inkling of where this conversation was going. He was army, and it was his life until he died, got invalided out or retired. The first and last would be preferable to the middle option. At least if he retired he could end his days in a tavern retelling his stories to the youngsters who would in return for his slightly embellished tales buy him plenty of ale or rum. He would quite happily drink himself senseless.
“The lower classes deciding policies? Where ever did they get such foolish ideas? Most of them put milk in their cups before the tea. Bloody peasants.”
McGinnes remained silent. Probably the best response to Sir Richard’s last statement. As long as Sir Richard paid him well, gave him the occasional day’s leave to spend his cash in a nearby tavern or brothel and left him alone to run matters in the barracks, then he’d agree with Sir Richard, even to the clearly outrageous statement that Cornwall was a preferable place to Devon. Not that Sir Richard had ever said so; McGinnes thought his commander probably didn’t know where Cornwall was. If anyone else said Cornwall was a better place he’d beat them up. Twice.
“It’s all the Whigs’ fault,” Sir Richard said, turning away. He saw the two soldiers behind McGinnes. “Stand straight!”
The two soldiers snapped smartly to attention. McGinnes stiffened ramrod straight.
“Such slovenly behavior! Unforgivable! Corporal, sentry duty for these two wretches.”
“Sah.”
“Very good, Corporal. See to it that the redoubt is properly manned at all times, even at night. These unconventional rogues we’re fighting might even take it into their heads that night fighting is the fashion.”
“Yes, sah.” He snapped his heels together as Sir Richard strode past back towards his barracks. Once the major has vanished out of sight McGinnes turned round slowly and stared at the two silent figures highlighted from behind by the lights of Yorktown. “You ‘orrible pair, Curno and Mathieson. Call yourselves soldiers? A pair of wretches you are! You ‘eard the officer; sentry duty for you both. I’ll be back to keep an eye on you two, so don’t think of falling asleep. If I catch you nodding off I’ll have you cleaning the latrines for a month!”
The two soldiers remained silent, stood to attention. Their faces, what could be seen of them, reflected their dismay. McGinnes snarled at them to get marching, and the two men wheeled and set off in opposite directions. Satisfied, McGinnes chuckled and made his way back to his barracks – and a bottle of grog he’d liberated from a soldier who’d been disciplined last week.
Life was good for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Darkness fell. The men were ready. Casca lay on his belly, half out of the trench, leaning forwards towards the fortifications surrounding the redou
bt. Alongside him the members of the Forlorn Hope trembled with a mixture of anticipation, excitement, tension and fear.
The pioneers snaked forward, slithering through the grass, piles of disturbed earth and broken lengths of wood that lay everywhere. They were to clear the route for the Forlorn Hope, and once the redoubt had been stormed the rest of the regiment would charge into the breach and clear the fortification of any remaining British soldiers.
It seemed a simple plan, but it was fraught with dangers and unknowns. Anything could – and usually did – go wrong. Casca was armed with his saber, and in addition he had a knife in a sheath strapped to his right hip. No place for cumbersome muskets here, this would be a vicious hand to hand affair.
The air was chill and there was the possibility of rain. Casca could smell it. He wanted to get to the target before any downpour began, as the climb up could be made damned impossible with the slippery, sliding mud that would form, should the earthworks get wet.
Captain Connors swallowed and clamped his teeth together to prevent them from chattering. He was scared. But he knew that should he survive he could get promotion. The risks were great but the rewards greater. Besides, he was alongside his seemingly indestructible commanding officer. He glanced at the soldiers to either side. The men were silent or whispering prayers. They would follow their officers into hell.
Casca waited. The pioneers had a tough task. Clearing the way of obstructions would make noise, and a sentry just needed to hear something, challenge them, and raise the alarm for the game to be up. Then it would be, as someone recently said to him, shit or bust. The artillery were scheduled to lay down a bombardment once the pioneers got back on the redoubt itself, just to keep the heads of the British down while Casca and his men got to the base of the fortification, then they were to get up to the top the moment the barrage stopped.
Timing. Bound to be shot to fuck, Casca mused. He’d been around far too long to expect things to go to plan. The rim of the redoubt was faintly visible against the glow of Yorktown behind it, an evil, jagged silhouette that they had to capture. No different really to other sieges he’d been part of. Ctesiphon, Orleans, Ravenna, Rome, Jerusalem, Harfleur, Constantinople, Vienna….. they went on and on. Some he’d been attacking, some defending. Some he’d won, others he’d lost. It came down to the same thing; the soldiers would fight a pitiless hand to hand battle with no quarter asked for or given. Kill or be killed.
