by Tony Roberts
Purseman knew what was being asked of him. There were some loose ends for him to ask, however. “Very good, Sah. May I ask when and where, Sah?”
“Fortunately there will shortly be a substantial expedition mounted by Sir William Gage. I am to accompany the 67th Foot on this expedition. Rest assured, Sergeant, Long will be drawn out like a mouse to cheese.” Sir Richard smiled in a predatory manner. “There is a good place of concealment on the north side of the Green; a house we own. You will go there this night, alone, so as not to attract any attention or suspicion, in civilian clothing, and wait for your moment.”
“Very good, Sah. What if I’m seen? Or perhaps caught?”
“Sergeant, you worry far too much,” Sir Richard said. “There will be enough confusion and noise to enable you to make good your escape. Return to Boston upon completion and you will be sufficiently rewarded.”
“Yes, Sah!” Purseman saluted and marched out, already planning on getting hold of suitable civilian clothing and food for the job.
Sir Richard dropped the letter from Maplin into the fire crackling behind him and smiled. Now he would have this persistent swine Long out of his hair and that would enable him to seal the deal with Maplin and his hugely profitable enterprise. Once married to his daughter Rose, and old man Maplin met with….. a regrettable accident, he would inherit via marriage the company and milk it dry, thus paying off his gambling debts and saving his family home in Warwickshire. He rubbed his hands in glee. It was beautiful how such plans came together.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Casca was woken in the early hours by Elaine Groves. “Cass – uh, Case, sorry. The alarm’s gone up! Everyone’s to assemble fully armed!”
“What?” Casca threw his legs out of bed and sat up. He rubbed his eyes. It had been yet another of those bad dreams, one where demonic Turks had been hacking his head off at the walls of Constantinople. It had never happened of course; he’d escaped from the doomed city intact, except for the mental scars that had never fully healed, but what else was new? “What alarm?” he demanded, snapping his bracers over his shoulders.
“There’s a large number of British soldiers coming from Boston. Word is they’re after the guns and supplies in Concord.”
“Damn it,” Casca muttered and shrugged on his jacket, then grabbed his musket and belt. “No breakfast I bet!” he grinned at her in the candlelight.
“I’ve made sandwiches; now go join Rob downstairs!”
Casca smiled his thanks and clumped down the wooden stairs to the porch. Rob greeted him and passed him a satchel with bulging contents. It seemed Elaine had been busy. “How long have you been awake?”
“Twenty minutes,” Rob said. “Let’s go, it’s almost light. They’ll be here pretty soon, so I hear. Everyone’s up in arms, seems like they’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. Old Harry Rivers came a-knockin’ and said some patrol on the Bay Road had arrested Paul Revere.”
Casca swore. A night patrol? That was damned unusual. Something big was up. He slung the satchel over his neck and checked he had powder and musket balls, then waved his farewell to Elaine and followed Rob down the road to Lexington, the false dawn in the sky. All around, lights were on in the houses, downstairs, and figures could be seen moving about.
As they arrived in the center, the local militia could be seen assembling. Rob pointed to the officer organizing them. “That’s Captain Parker; I’d best report to him.”
Casca stopped and cocked his head, listening. “I can hear the British soldiers coming down the road. Sounds like a lot of them. I don’t think you ought to be standing neat and pretty in the square like that, particularly if you’re thinking of trying to stop them.” He had a bad feeling about the whole affair; something was going to happen, he knew it in his bones.
Around the Green stood some of the more important buildings of Lexington, such as the school, the Meeting House and a tavern called Buckman’s. A few of the more affluent houses stood slightly back from these and Casca made his way over to the latter, intent on watching what was going to happen.
As he did so, a dark figure came riding up to him, his horse blowing hard. Casca saw in the growing light with surprise that it was Paul Revere. “I thought you captive!” Casca said.
“I was released; the idiots fell for a line I fed them. I’ve got little time to talk; they’re almost here. I’d best warn Hancock and Adams; they’re likely to take them prisoner!” and with that he rode off into town.
Casca slipped neatly down one side of the big Meeting House and crouched behind a water butt, his musket cradled in his lap, waiting. There was little point in loading his gun; the number of soldiers coming meant any show of force against them was akin to suicide – although he couldn’t die he couldn’t think of a suitable alternative word for it – and the few militiamen on the Green would be overwhelmed in no time.
A hundred yards further back, peering through the front window of one of the houses there, Sergeant Purseman could hardly believe his luck. There was Cass Long himself, with his back to him, a perfect target. The only thing was to get closer as the musket wasn’t that accurate and he needed to be half the distance before he could be sure of hitting him. He loaded his gun and then crept out of the house, licking his lips. It would be a duck shoot.
Casca heard the approaching soldiers clearly now, and so did the militiamen on the Green. They shuffled nervously and spread out, facing the approaching scarlet and white soldiers. The day was breaking now and Casca could see reasonably well. The soldiers were led by a captain on horseback and the British halted as they marched onto the Green. Words were shouted; the British demanding the militia surrender their arms, while Captain Parker refusing to do so, but he waved at his men to lower their guns and step back to allow the British passage.
Purseman came to a halt fifty yards from Casca’s back and knelt, giving his firearm a more stable platform. He centered his aim at Casca’s back, and drew in his breath, unaware of the tableau unfolding on the Green ahead of him; he could only see a fraction of it due to the bulk of the Meeting House.
Casca leaned out, trying to see what the militiamen were doing. As he did so a shot came smashing at him from behind, taking him in the shoulder, spinning him around, sending him falling against the butt and shaking it, despite it being full of rain water.
As he fell to the ground in pain, he heard a rattle of shots from the Green, and shouting and more noise. He scrabbled to all fours and reached for his gun with his left arm, the right being too engulfed in pain to be of any use.
Purseman swore loudly. He couldn’t believe he’d missed. The swine had moved just as he’d squeezed the trigger. He got up and frantically began reloading. Luckily the fool Long was still in shock and was too injured to use his gun by the looks of things.
Casca twisted and saw Purseman reloading. Damn him! He had no choice but to get out onto the Green, despite the fact there had been a volley of shots there seconds before. He staggered to his feet and weaved his way drunkenly along the gap in between the Meeting House and the Belfry and came out onto a smoke-shrouded place where bodies were lying. The British troops had fixed bayonets and had charged the militiamen and were forcing them off the Green. The officers were screaming at them to reform and withdraw from combat but they were being ignored. It was a free-for-all and the militiamen were losing badly.
Casca lurched to the right, away from the British troops, and staggered along the front of the Meeting House, needing to get away from the pursuing Purseman. The disguised sergeant had reached the Green and took a few seconds to take in the scene, before spotting Casca fleeing. He raised his musket, but in his civilian attire, was mistaken for yet another of the militiamen.
“Hey, you!” one of the officers shouted, pointing at him, “drop your musket and surrender!”
Purseman cursed his luck and rushed his shot, narrowly missing Casca, the bullet burying itself in a nearby tree. Casca flinched and zig-zagged, hoping to put Purseman off his aim further. The
fighting was now behind his left shoulder and he was increasing the distance between him and the soldiers with every pain-wracked step.
“Stop that man!” a British officer ordered his halberd-wielding sergeant, indicating Purseman. As the burly NCO came at Purseman, the disguised British soldier turned and fled, realizing he was now the hunted, rather than the hunter. At least he’d hurt Long and maybe the ball lodged in his shoulder would become infected.
Casca fell against a doorway and gripped his throbbing shoulder, face twisted with pain. Using the butt of the musket planted on the ground, he levered himself up again and staggered away from the road to Concord, deeper into the streets of Lexington. The noise of the fight had finished and he stopped, looking back at the road, and a few moments later saw the British column resuming their march under their flags, bound for the seat of the Massachusetts government.
He waited a few minutes after the last of them left the Green, then slowly stumbled back. The blood flow had stopped but the pain was agonizing. He guessed the ball had lodged against his shoulder blade. Every time he moved his right arm it sent waves of pain shooting up into his head. He felt dizzy and nauseous.
He came out onto the Green and saw men from both sides lying there or being tended. He ignored the few scarlet jacketed men; they were being tended by their own surgeons or colleagues. He saw around eight militiamen lying still on the grass and he walked up to them, hoping Rob wasn’t amongst them.
Just then he heard his friend’s voice. “Cass! You’re hurt!”
Casca turned in relief to see Rob loping towards him, black powder on his face. He looked in shock. To be honest, most of the militiamen still standing were in a similar state of mind. “Yeah, got a stray one,” he croaked. “What about you?”
“I’m fine.” But as Rob came up Casca could see he was shaking. Being charged by angry British soldiers armed with bayonets was a sobering experience. “But some of these poor devils aren’t.”
“So I see.” Casca was sweating with the pain and felt the dizziness engulfing him. He was dimly aware he was on his knees for some odd reason, then it all swirled and the sounds melded into one high pitched buzz like an angry swarm of bees and he fell face down onto the grass.
* * *
Consciousness returned slowly. He was lying on his back on a bed, he knew that much. The pain in his shoulder was still there but less intense. There was a smell of alcohol and his mouth felt like a flock of buzzards had nested in it overnight. Night? It was dark. It had been just after dawn when he’d been hit. Was it the following evening?
“Cass,” Elaine’s voice came to him and a smoothing cold wet cloth was draped over his forehead. It felt good. “Lie still; you’ve been badly hurt.”
“My arm?” he asked, flexing it. The pain increased. He relaxed with a sigh.
“I got the bullet out,” Elaine said, “and I’ve bandaged it. You didn’t lose a great deal of blood, but it was tough getting it out. Your skin was very tough.”
I bet it was, he thought to himself. “Elaine, burn the blood stained clothes and swabs, and wash the blood from whatever bowl you used thoroughly.” He was afraid that his poisonous blood would still be potent, even after surgery.
“Trust me to know how to do that, Cass,” she said.
“Yeah; I just don’t want you to get any infection. How’s Rob?”
“Downstairs talking to Captain Parker. There’s been a lot of fighting from Concord all the way back to Boston, and lots of men are dead.” She looked frightened. Casca wasn’t surprised; now there’d been fighting and killing, things would be different. There was a line that had been crossed, like the Rubicon of Caesar’s day – Casca smiled to himself despite his situation – and there now was no going back. Whatever had been the case existing in the Colonies up to that day, it would never be the same again.
Casca sat up, wincing at the pain. Elaine pushed him gently back down. “You’re going nowhere, Cass. Not with the loss of blood and that wound just having been patched up. Not that it’ll make any difference to your body – where did you get all those scars?”
“You know where I was before I came here – fighting in Europe. It was brutal there.”
“But some of them looked as though they’d be enough to kill anyone! And the number of knife wounds – I know what they look like, believe me. I’ve seen men hurt with axes and knives many times accidentally. You got those and worse! Someone set about you with an axe?”
Casca laughed it off. “No, bayonets can leave nasty marks, thankfully when they give you flesh wounds it looked worse than it is.” He remembered some of the marks of honor he’d received. Tezmec of the Teotecs had given him the chest wound, cutting out his heart on that damned pyramid. Then there were the battle wounds gained at such places as Tours or Hastings. Those frightening Huscarl battle axes could take a man’s head off with one swing.
Elaine wasn’t satisfied but she let it go. “I’ll send Rob up once he’s finished downstairs. I can see you won’t settle until you know what’s going on.”
She left with the bowl and stained bandages and after a few minutes Rob came up, relieved to see Casca conscious and sat up. “Hey, good to see you with us again! I was worried for a while back at the Green.”
“I’m tough; takes a lot to kill me,” Casca said lightly. “So tell me, what happened after I passed out?”
Rob went into some detail. The British had marched onto Concord but had met with some real resistance and had been forced back by the furious militia and Minutemen. Some houses had been burned and tales of atrocities had brought more running to defend the town. Finally the British had fought a withdrawal back to Boston. The dead had littered the road back, and it was clear the losses had been higher on the British side.
“What’s going on now, then, Rob?”
Rob shrugged. “Talk is of asking the Massachusetts Committee to make a decision. We’re worried the soldiers will return once they get themselves sorted out. At the moment there’s plenty of folks blocking all the roads out of Boston. Gage and his soldiers are stuck there, but we won’t be able to block them in forever.”
Casca nodded. Now the big decision would have to be made. What do the colonists do? Surrender the militia to the government and leave them defenseless and even more resentful, or decide to declare themselves no longer under governmental rule from London? “I’ve got to get back on my feet. You think the British will take this lying down? There’s going to be a war now. You need me to drill the lot of you. You’ll be massacred.”
“We fought them off today,” Rob countered proudly, “and they ran back to Boston with their tails between their legs. You should have seen it!”
“Yes, but you had surprise on your side. Now they know what’s what they’ll send reinforcements and come at you like a raging bull. You think you can stand up to them in a firefight? Trained professionals against farmers?” Someone had to get these people knocked into shape fast.
Rob slapped Casca’s leg. “You’ll be up in no time, showing us how to shoot those soldiers down like ducks.”
Casca smiled. He knew he would. It was just a case of explaining his miraculous recovery to Elaine. No matter, the need to start training the militia was more important.
The following day he was up, feeling much better but still stiff and sore. The news that morning was that the Massachusetts Provincial Congress was going to meet and discuss the events and advise the people what they had voted on later. Militiamen were arriving from neighboring Connecticut and New Hampshire to stiffen the ranks of the people already there boxing in the soldiers at Boston, and Casca took his musket and equipment, and made his way to the local mustering point. His newly washed and repaired clothing felt good as he walked alongside Rob.
He had white pants and a white underjacket, and over this a brown open-fronted coat that ran down to his thighs. White socks ran from just below his knees and his feet were comfortably enclosed in black shoes that ran up to his lower calves. On top of his head sa
t a black tricorn and his hair was the trendy collar length, tied at the back with a black ribbon. Very fetching, he thought with a glint in his eye.
He was aware of the air of excitement in the town as he made his way to the Meeting House. People were talking in groups on street corners and the militia men were clapped and cheered as they passed by. The feeling was of general relief that something had finally happened, although underneath it all was fear; fear of the reprisal and reaction, fear of a war that was almost certainly coming.
Casca was in no mood to be ordered and pushed about that morning. Purseman’s attempted assassination of him and the fact war was calling to his blood once more had gotten his adrenaline flowing, and not even Hancock or Adams themselves were going to stand in his way.
He pushed his way into the Meeting House, turning a few heads in annoyance, but Rob was with him and his unfamiliar face was allowed entry as a result, otherwise it was likely they would have stopped him. Sat behind the table in the foyer was Fisher, and Casca strode boldly up to him and slapped his palm down loudly on the top. Fisher jumped and stared up at him in surprise.
“Good morning, Captain Fisher. I’m here to train your men to fight a war. I’ve fought in Europe for the Prussians recently and am an experienced soldier, unlike most of your men. You’re going to need people like me. I know drill, tactics and what makes a man a soldier. You’ll need soldiers to fight soldiers. Have you had anyone else with my experience here today?”
Fisher sat back, staring at the looming man above him. He needed to get his thoughts together. The men standing in line all stared at the thickset man, and noted the scarred face, the tough look in his eyes, the confident way he sounded and looked. Almost without knowing it, they began to edge towards him, comforted by the words and appearance of a man who they instinctively believed would be the one to fight alongside in the coming conflict.
