by Tony Roberts
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #36 The Minuteman
Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder
Copyright © 2011 by Tony Roberts
Cover design by Greg Brantley
All Rights Reserved
Casca eBooks are for personal use of the original buyer only. All Casca eBooks are exclusive property of the publisher and/or the authors and are protected by copyright and other intellectual property laws. You may not modify, transmit, publish, participate in the transfer or sale of, reproduce, create derivative works from, distribute, perform, display, or in any way exploit, any of the content of our eBooks, in whole or in part. eBooks are NOT returnable.
BARRY SADLER
Barry Sadler was a legend amongst fighting men everywhere. A special forces and Vietnam veteran, he rose to fame with his hit song Ballad of the Green Berets and his phenomenally successful action adventure series Casca: The Eternal Mercenary, writing the first 22 novels in the series. He also wrote numerous military thrillers including Phu Nam, Seppuku, The Shooter and Run For The Sun.
His sudden and mysterious death in 1989 shocked the world, but the name of Barry Sadler will live forever through his dramatic and authentic novels.
TONY ROBERTS
Briton Tony Roberts, like Barry Sadler, was born in the month of November. A long-time fan of the Casca series, he started the Casca website www.casca.net in 2000 and through it established a world- wide network of fans and contacts. His life-long interest in history and writing gave him the chance to continue the Casca series when offered the post in 2005. His first novel, Halls of Montezuma, established him as a worthy successor to Barry Sadler as author of the Eternal Mercenary series.
Casca: The Minuteman is Roberts’ tenth Casca novel. He still lives in the city of his birth, Bristol, where he shares his home with his partner Jane and a tabby cat called Nero, and continues to run the popular Casca website, as well as fitting in time for a full-time job with the British Civil Service.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 37 Roman Mercenary
THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS
CHAPTER ONE
As far as impressive sights went, Casca reasoned, as he was led manacled and escorted by two stern looking scarlet-clad British soldiers, the black-garbed Judge Decimus Peregrine Thackarey disappointed him in the extreme.
Judge Thackarey was diminutive, short-sighted, and possessed a long, sharp nose and piercing blue eyes. His curled wig sat atop a balding pate, he sat awaiting Casca like some hungry spider watching its prey. The Congregational Church used as a Courthouse was packed with people, all focussing their attention on the scarred stocky man as he was marched smartly up to the table where Thackarey and two clerks sat behind.
Casca and the two men stood in a smart line waiting for the Judge to commence proceedings. Casca was already bored. He glanced over the shoulders of the British army privates and saw a few faces he recognized. One was Robert Groves, his neighbour and friend, fresh-faced and a man normally given to a cheerful disposition. Not today though. He shot a very concerned look towards his friend.
Not too far from Robert stood Ebenezer Maplin, the severe looking broad-jawed merchant who would dearly like to see Casca locked away for a long time. And then, over by the single door, the shadowy figure of James Lash, lean, angry, a tough looking guy.
There were a few others whose faces he recognized, but he was being barked at to face the Judge and so he slowly turned his attention back to the small man who would in a few minutes determine Casca’s future. At least for the next few years anyway. He still didn’t know exactly what he was here for, but his public comments about supporting the move for an independent nation in the Thirteen Colonies had hardly endeared him to the British Crown.
But here in Massachusetts there were many who wanted to break with the mother country. James Lash, for one. Casca knew him to be a political agitator, like many of the people in the hamlet of Lincoln. Lash and his cronies had campaigned for some time to gain support for the overthrow of British rule, and it seemed that the British government itself was trying its hardest to help by imposing taxes on the colonial states.
Casca couldn’t give a damn either way; if the British had to maintain a garrison in the Americas to protect their interests from the French or the Spanish, then it had to be paid for. But, as Casca had argued in the taverns recently, the danger from France and Spain had gone. The war between Britain and France had ended just over eleven years ago with a total British victory and now the people of the Thirteen Colonies felt there was no danger. If there were, then they themselves could take care of it. Casca was a member of the irregular Massachusetts militia, like many of his friends including Robert, and naturally he saw him and his comrades as an effective force that could keep the peace.
As for Ebenezer Maplin, the merchant just wanted Casca locked up because he was screwing Maplin’s daughter, Rose.
“The prisoner will confirm his name, address and place of birth to the Court,” one of the clerks droned out.
“They all know me so why should I?” Casca said. A ripple of amusement went through the assembled crowd.
Judge Thackarey was not amused, however. He peered down his long nose at Casca in disapproval. “The prisoner will not be flippant. You must show due respect to the Court.”
“Oh alright,” Casca said with exasperation. It was all a waste of time. He was already guilty and everyone knew it. All that remained to be determined was what he was guilty of. “Cass Long, King Street, Lincoln. Place of birth……” He hesitated. He was going to say Italy but he remembered in time that his identity – clearly not his real one – was that of an Englishman. He’d been born in the lands of Italy, true, but 1772 years previously, or as close as he could recall. He’d not celebrated his birthday for many centuries. It got a bit boring after a while. Anyway, he’d long forgotten the day, especially as they’d changed the calendar a while back during Pope Gregory XIII’s time.
So he quickly thought of a place in England he’d been to in the past. “Ah, Southampton, England.”
Judge Thackarey examined Casca carefully. Then, seemingly satisfied with the answer, waved the rest of those present to sit. Casca was pushed down into a rough chair that had been scraped across the bare wooden floor, and the two soldiers remained standing on either side of him. “Cass Long esquire,” the Judge said heavily, examining a sheet of paper. “You are charged with sedition and of plotting against the King. How do you answer?”
The assembled people muttered; this was something that took them all by surprise. Casca stared at Thackarey. “Who the hell said I have been doing that?”
“I�
��m asking the questions, Mr. Long!” Thackarey said, his voice acidic. “You will answer me.”
“Not guilty,” Casca snapped. “Am I permitted to have someone versed in law to speak for me?”
“If there’s anyone here you wish to speak on your behalf, then please advise the Court now,” Thackarey said wearily. He mentally damned the speed at which this trial had been arranged; of course Long should have been given access to a representative, but the powerful people after this man had made their point and money had changed hands. And besides, they knew of Thackarey’s little secret and if that got out then Middlesex County would be needing a new Judge.
Casca grunted. He had been thinking of a lawyer, not a commoner. Ah hell. I’m in a world of trouble. Let’s see where this goes. “Forget it, Judge. So what terrible plotting against good old George am I supposed to have done?”
“King George,” Thackarey scolded the irreverence in Casca’s tone. “Your King!”
“He isn’t my King,” Casca said before he could help himself.
The courthouse exploded into noise. Now he’d said it. Over by the door James Lash looked thoughtful. This man Long could be an interesting addition to the struggle for independence, he thought.
Thackarey rapped his gavel onto the pad, demanding, and after a moment or so, getting silence. “And whom exactly do you regard as being your King, Mr. Long?”
“Nobody.” Casca decided he’d damned himself in a Court of law so to hell with it. “I’m not in Europe. I’ve fought for kings and it’s gotten me nowhere, so here I am in the Colonies, answerable to nobody but myself and the good people here.”
Lash nodded. A few of those present applauded, and Thackarey frowned and peered through his glasses in a vain effort to see who it had been. The two soldiers twitched nervously. The mood of the people in the courthouse was becoming unsettling.
“Whatever your personal beliefs, Mr. Long,” the Judge said patiently, “you are still subject to the Crown. This is British territory, and if you reside here you are subject to British rule and law. And, may I remind you of your own admission; you are British born and therefore King George is your King, whether you like it or not!”
Casca looked away. He disliked being lectured to, particularly when it was by a pompous little squirt like Thackarey. His friend, Robert, was looking at him with increasing concern. Casca shook his head. He wouldn’t want Robert getting mixed up in whatever deep trouble was coming Casca’s way.
The Judge looked hard and long at the charges on the paper in front of him. Spurious and circumstantial as far as he could see. But when he looked into the eyes of Ebenezer Maplin, he saw the intent there, and the unspoken message: convict him or else your habits will become known to Governor Hutchinson. Thackarey sighed. He was in as much as a no-win situation as the poor devil in front of him. Damn Maplin and that bombastic Sir Richard Eley! Sir Richard had recently arrived from England and had become involved with the Maplins, and had recently decided to pursue Maplin’s daughter Rose with a view to making her his wife.
Maplin had found out that the prisoner, Long, had been seeing Rose behind his back and between him and Sir Richard both had conspired to trump up treason charges to get Long convicted. And they had used Thackarey’s Achilles heel to rope him in as an accomplice.
So, the unspoken message was clear; get Long out of the way so that Sir Richard could marry the comely Rose and cement a potential lucrative business partnership between Maplin and Eley. No doubt Maplin could see a knighthood in the distance. And poor Cass Long here was in the way.
“Mr. Long, you have been accused of conspiring against the King and his officers. You have been heard to speak out against British rule here in the Colonies. And evidence has been found to support these accusations.”
“What evidence?” Casca replied sceptically. He knew damned well there was none.
Thackarey sighed and nodded to a clerk standing near the exit. “Bring in the exhibits.”
The door opened and in came two more British soldiers carrying a box with the lid missing. Even from the front of the chamber Casca could see a number of muskets lying inside. The mutterings from the public grew as it was carried past them down the central aisle. Behind them came the tall, upright Major Sir Richard Eley, the Baronet Sandwell, gazing disdainfully at the people as he passed them. Dark haired, smooth skinned, clean shaven. He had the air of someone used to giving orders and expecting them to be carried out. Casca recognized him. Even though the Major was garrisoned at Boston, about twelve miles distant, he often visited Lexington where Maplin had his home. Rose had spoken of him too, saying the British officer had tried to be charming to her, and her father had encouraged her to respond to his friendliness.
Casca had hated the man on sight.
Now it was clear just what was happening. Casca pulled a face and looked away, staring instead at the coat of arms inset in the wall behind and above the Judge. Virtuus et industria it said around it. Latin. Another grimace. Why did they persist in using that dead language when they had their own? Seeing Latin only served to remind Casca of his origins and the world that was no more. It made him nostalgic and maudlin. He tired of the endless life he had to endure. Always having to move on and start anew every few years so that those he lived amongst didn’t get suspicious that he never aged or changed.
Thank the gods for wars. At least they brought about change and gave him the perfect excuse and cover to leave where he was and go somewhere else and settle down for a short while. And the fact he was a soldier, a warrior, meant wars were second nature to him.
He’d been living in Lincoln for ten years now and it was getting close to the time to leave. But the charms of Rose Maplin had delayed those plans and now he’d paid for it. The damned Major Sir blasted Richard bloody Eley had pissed in his soup, getting the hots for Rose. It was clear to him the English baronet had set him up and he was now heading for prison unless something came up in the next few minutes.
Not a likely occurrence.
It had been ten years or so since he’d last been in a war. Prussia had been a good paymaster but Frederick’s insistence on picking fights with everyone else in the vicinity had been wearing. Luckily their ally, Britain, had royally kicked France’s ass out of the water. Prussia hadn’t done too badly out of the war, unless you counted the thousands of dead soldiers.
The box was dumped on the polished wooden parquet floor and the Judge and the clerks looked into it. Gleaming Brown Bess muskets rested inside. British muskets of course. Casca smiled ironically. If he’d been smuggling guns into the colonies it would have been Charlevilles, French guns. Clearly the Brown Besses were plants. A clumsy mistake but Casca doubted the Judge or the people now goggling at the sight of the guns would know that.
“Amused, Mr. Long?” Thackarey quizzed him. “You recognize these?”
“Brown Bess muskets, Judge. British. Used by Sir Richard’s men.”
“Indeed?” Thackarey’s left eyebrow climbed up towards his wig. “These were found in your house.”
“Planted by Sir Richard’s men, clearly.” The public broke out into a buzz of astonishment. Thackarey rapped his gavel again.
Sir Richard faced Casca, disdain and hostility written across his face. “That is offensive, Sir! You are a varlet and rogue, and a seditious menace to the Crown!”
Casca smiled without humor, and looked over Sir Richard’s shoulder to where Ebenezer Maplin was seated. The merchant was glaring at Casca. Then Casca noticed that James Lash had vanished from his place by the door. He wondered where Lash had gone. Maybe to burn down a government building or two?
“There will be order!” Thackarey snapped. He dropped the papers he had onto the table. “When did these muskets vanish from your stores, Sir Richard?”
The British officer looked confused for a moment. “My sergeant will have that information; it was he who identified these as being from our stores.”
The Judge exercised a great degree of patience. “Then can y
our sergeant please come forward to give this evidence?”
Casca flexed his arms. He had no illusions about breaking the iron manacles around his wrists, but his legs were free and he could still use his head and if it came to it, his fists, provided the target was close. He’d have to make a break for it pretty soon, but how was he to get the irons off his wrists? The key was with the sergeant in question, a particularly repulsive and vile specimen who had arrested Casca that morning, descending on him without warning, aided by the two soldiers standing alongside him at that moment.
The sergeant was now treading heavily up the aisle, squat, broad, heavily jowled and unshaven. His stomach bulged and his arms swung wide as he marched. Not someone to mess about with.
Thackarey addressed the newcomer once he had stamped to a halt. “You are?”
“Sergeant Jacob Purseman, 67th Regiment of Foot, Your Honour!” The man practically shouted the response. Casca caught a waft of sweaty odor from him and Purseman almost nudged him out of the way.
“Sergeant Purseman, can you please inform the Court when these muskets went missing from your stores?”
“Yes Your Honour!” Purseman had a deep, throaty voice, clipped and clear. “Last Tuesday. The stores in Boston were broken into and two boxes of muskets stolen! One of these boxes is here at my feet, Your Honour!”
The people muttered amongst themselves. Casca gazed at the box. He’d never seen it before. He thought back to the previous Tuesday, and realized he could not give evidence where he had been, for that would put Rose right in trouble. He’d been humping her in one of the barns just down the road. It had been a wonderful evening, and now he saw the trap closing in on him. He stared at Maplin who was smiling in a particularly nasty way. The old sod knew. How he’d found out was anyone’s guess, but Rose not being there was worrying. Normally she came with her father when they were in Lincoln, or Boston. Damn.
“Mr. Long. Can you please tell the Court of your whereabouts last Tuesday?” Thackarey asked, and Casca felt his stomach drop and the chasm opening up in front of him. He knew and old man Maplin knew. For all he knew, Sir Richard knew and the grotesque smelly Purseman knew as well. But he couldn’t tell the people here, for it would smear her reputation forever. Anyway, if he did tell the truth well, Your Honour, I was diddling Rose Maplin’s arse to heaven and back, Maplin and Sir Richard would deny it and state quite clearly she had been with them in Lexington that evening and the felon Long was just spreading slanderous lies to save his own miserable skin.
