by Tony Roberts
“Captain. The men need training desperately. Yesterday showed how unfit they are to face the British in battle. With a bit of discipline and order we could have held that redoubt.”
Fisher shook his head. “I can’t see how; there were too many of them.”
“All due respect, Captain, that’s garbage. We had more than enough to hold that line. There was precious little organization and the reserves retreated before they got involved. A few units stood and fought and if everyone had done the same….”
“Sergeant, we lost. Get used to it. They were better than us.”
“Only through training and organization. And our supply was handled appallingly. We were running out of bullets. The army needs a kick up its ass, from the top down.”
Fisher stood up, putting his quill down gently on the small table he’d been using as a rest. “Now listen, Sergeant. You get above yourself too much. Just because you’ve done more fighting than most of us doesn’t give you the right to ignore me. I’m your Captain. I was there, remember? I didn’t get these shaving this morning,” he pointed at his wounds. “I saw what happened. No amount of training could have stopped the British.”
“For God’s sake, Captain, you know damn’ little about soldiering! If you’re not prepared to listen to me I’ll go over your head. This is no place for amateurs like you. We need hard professionals to take the British on!”
“And you’re insubordinate, Sergeant! Remember your place, or I’ll have you demoted down to private!”
The shouting brought men gathering, interested in the argument. Others, smartly dressed and newly arrived, came sauntering over, interrupted in their examination of the men and camp, and wanting to know what the commotion was.
Casca was prepared to stand his ground. He saw the obdurate Fisher as one of the main problems with the new American forces. “Then demote me, sir, but it won’t stop the truth, and nothing will change until you start listening to people like me.”
Fisher went red in the face. Just then the new arrivals made their presence known. One of them, a burly man with a long brown light coat, sweating in the humid summer sun, wanted to know what was going on. Fisher stood smartly to attention. “General Ward, sir. This man is guilty of insubordinate behavior. I was about to put him on a charge.”
“Indeed?” General Ward surveyed Casca. Ward was heavily built and looked in bad health, breathing with effort. “Sergeant…?”
“Lonnergan, sir. I was pointing out to the captain here the shortcomings of the army and what was needed to correct them.”
General Ward looked at Casca with interest, then turned to Fisher. The men with Ward remained silent, awaiting the commander’s decision. Casca guessed his career was on the line. Aw shit, just go with the truth. If I’m to be busted down, I might as well have my say. Ward spoke to Fisher. “Captain, the army is in need of organizing. Many of the men who were here two days ago have returned to their homes. We cannot fight a war without a well-organized army. Your sergeant here appears to have grasped the fundamentals.”
“Sir, he believes only he can save the rebellion,” Fisher replied, eyeing Casca with resentment. “He has ideas above his station.”
Ward turned back to Casca. “Sergeant, what did you recommend to the Captain here?”
Casca told him. The soldiers standing around leaned on their muskets or tried to step closer to listen better. This was good. Ward nodded slightly, as if to himself. “Tell me, Sergeant, have you soldiered before? Held a command position?”
“Yes sir to both. Prussian army in Europe. And I’ve commanded.” Casca wasn’t going to say he once led an entire nation of Mesoamerican people or a province of China, or various units of Roman legionarys. That was sure to invite ridicule and trouble.
“I thought so,” Ward smiled. “As of this moment you’re a lieutenant. What is this unit, Captain?”
Fisher looked like he’d swallowed a burning coal. “Lexington Minutemen, sir.”
“This man is now Lieutenant Lonnergan of the Lexington Minutemen. He will be in charge of training and supply. He is to be given whatever he requires to carry out his duties.” He swung round to the men behind him. “Write out the necessary document for me to sign.”
Fisher, red-faced even more, stepped forward. “Sir, if I may speak?”
“Granted.”
“I will not serve if this man is an officer. I can only see problems if he is given such wide latitude in his duties. They would be incompatible with my position as his commanding officer.”
Ward looked surprised, then bowed once in concurrence. “Very well. As of this moment you are relieved of your command, Captain Fisher. You may return to your home with my thanks for your service these past few weeks. However, I need men who’ll get things done, not obstruct them. Lonnergan, you are hereby promoted to Captain in Mr. Fisher’s place. Your duties will remain the same, but you may appoint a lieutenant to assist in these duties.”
Casca smiled and saluted. Captain? That sounded great. Fisher looked as if he’d been hit over the head. Ward commented favorably on the appearance and conduct of the men watching and then continued on his way. Fisher slowly sat down and stared into space. Casca walked up to him. “Don’t take it too badly, Fisher, this wasn’t your field. I know the army and what needs to be done.”
“Damn you and your arrogance,” Fisher said with feeling. “I hope it kills you.”
“No chance, Mr. Fisher. Plenty have tried and failed.”
Fisher snarled and stood up abruptly. He grabbed his coat and stamped off. Casca went to the table and looked down at the paperwork. Half-finished letters of condolences to the families of those lost in the battle. Something he would have to complete. He looked round at the men. “Who’s up for a lieutenancy?”
The men smiled and a few jostled others. A couple were reluctant while three others jumped forward enthusiastically. Five takers. Casca faced them all. “Well, command is not as easy as receiving salutes. I’ll judge each of you over the next few days and see if you’re fit to do the job. I’ll let you know of my decision by the end of the week.”
The existing officers and NCOs of the unit began drifting towards Casca, wondering what new orders and schedules he’d be implementing, and how different it was likely to be from the departed Fisher.
Casca himself wondered what the devil had really happened over the past few minutes. One moment he’d been a sergeant, now he was a captain. Hell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was a dark night a week or so later when a small rowboat slipped away from Charlestown peninsula and drifted north silently, two men holding the oars waiting to help the vessel on its way. The rowlocks were muffled with cloth and all the three men in the boat were all dressed in black or similarly dark clothing. Dark cloth was pushed up over their faces so that only their eyes showed, and hats were tipped forward so that the eyes were in deep shadow.
The fact it was overcast and moonless helped enormously, although they’d waited for such a night before making their move. The one not rowing sat in the prow, watching ahead as they nosed into the Mystic River, standing to the north of the Charlestown peninsula. The north bank of the river was in rebel hands, and the three were very careful not to make any noise lest it attract attention. Their destination was a point along the north bank where someone would be waiting. The two rowers gently propelled the boat along and after perhaps ten nerve-wracking minutes a lantern suddenly shone out, waving to and fro.
The man in the prow whispered to the others to change direction, and the boat swung round and headed straight for the light. It was now resting on the ground, half covered with a cloth of some sort to keep the tell-tale glow down, but it was enough to see by. The low, marshy bank came into view and the man in the prow leaned on the rim of the boat and scrambled over into soggy ground. As soon as he had left the boat the two rowers backed away, turned about and made their way silently back to Charlestown, their mission done.
The arrival shook hands with
the man with the lantern and then was led along a narrow pathway through marsh, shrubs and long grass to a slight rise about five minutes’ walk from the river. The man holding the lantern turned and pulled down his face mask. “It’s safe enough to talk here if we’re careful,” he said.
“Good enough,” the other said. “How are things here?”
“Mad; everyone’s excited about defeating the army and think they’ve won a victory, despite being kicked off Breed’s Hill. What’s the new orders?”
“Sir Richard wants Long’s head. That’s why he sent me to oversee matters.”
“You’re hardly inconspicuous, Purseman,” the lantern man said. “How are you going to melt into the countryside? I hope you’re not wearing your sergeant’s uniform underneath that cloak.”
Purseman chuckled. “No chance. I’m as nondescript as you. I’m going to hole up in a house owned by a loyal citizen. I’ve got directions. It’s not too far from here. But we’re to find Long and kill him. I tried back in Lexington but missed. He’s got the luck of the devil.”
The lantern man sniffed, unimpressed. “Have you got any money? I’ll need some to get by.”
Purseman pulled a face but brought forth a small bag which chinked briefly. Lantern man quickly took it and pocketed the coins. Nodding, he put up the cloth over his face and resumed the walk, this time leading Purseman off at a tangent, leading him to the house Purseman had shown him on a small roughly drawn map.
* * *
The weeks had passed quickly. A new army commander had been appointed by Congress and had turned up to inspect the men and camps around Boston. He was a former officer of the Virginia militia called George Washington. There wasn’t much he had to do to change things, but his new circle of close advisors and subordinates got themselves a little more organized.
Casca on his part had sorted out the stashing of supplies, one of the biggest problems they’d suffered, into easily found and accessible piles. He appointed Lieutenant Wilson, the man he’d decided was most suitable to take up the position, as Chief of Supplies, and posted him to a tent close to the various stashes so that nobody felt they could help themselves without a requisition signed by their unit commander. The other change he’d made was to drill the men and smarten them up. He couldn’t do much about the continual problem of men returning to their homes, however, until someone high up changed the rules. The trouble was they wouldn’t get that many volunteers if they told them they had to serve long periods, particularly as the summer was coming to an end and the weather would soon turn.
Consequently the rebel army was running short on men and it was a worry that the besieged army may decide to break out. People in the colonies were still divided on whether to support the rebellion or to stay loyal to the crown. Further south there were more loyalists, and Casca wondered whether the crown would send an army there to divert the rebel army. With the seas under crown control, it was a matter of time before they landed somewhere else.
The rank of captain came easily to Casca. After all, he’d held most ranks in his time. It was just a matter of organization, that was all. Who had said that? Sun Tzu? The one bit he didn’t particularly like was the writing to the families of those killed. It had to be done these days, but he much preferred the old days when you campaigned, killed and burned, and then returned home and the buddies of the ones killed would comfort and inform the deceased’s family. He’d done that bit and now thought over what to do to keep the men busy. The worst thing for any soldier was to sit around idly. Boredom was the soldier’s biggest enemy. Idle hands make mischief.
Hadrian knew this more than anyone and had gotten the Roman army to build walls, roads and who knows what else. Some people thought it had been slave labor, but Casca knew all too well it had been the soldiers who’d done it.
Therefore he thought up some activities, from sending patrols out to find firewood and building material for temporary housing to digging proper latrine ditches and earthworks for protection. There were the usual grumbles but Casca told them it was necessary and for their own good; and besides, making temporary wooden shacks was better than relying on tents. Would they prefer to sleep in shacks when the rains came or leaky flappy canvas tents?
The matter of latrines was another pet hate of the men; all needed to go and the ground around the camp was likely to quickly become too foul to withstand, especially as the July sun was pretty hot and disease was another worry. So Casca got them to dig proper trenches and pits, and arranged for a handy water supply to help wash it away. The other company commanders followed suit once they saw the effectiveness of what had been done, and General Washington had sent Casca a note congratulating him. Casca had it pinned up on the lintel of his new wooden shack for all to see as they went past.
Even so, boredom was never far away. Those who had left workbenches or fields to fight now began to think again of these and began to drift away. Casca fumed; unless they got a proper army organized they’d have precious few left to fight should Gage decide to break out. Thankfully General Washington had the same sort of idea and called a meeting in early August to see what the general feeling was amongst the officers.
Casca was interested at the wide range of attitudes amongst the various officers there. Some were for carrying the war to the rest of the colonies, while others were prepared to let things rest and hope that now they’d shown their displeasure at the way things were done from London these would change. The one thing all agreed on was that they should have the say in how things were done and not London. The overall opinion was that if London gave them a say in how they ran their lives, they’d be happy to carry on as crown subjects.
Casca personally thought that things had gone too far for things to ever go back to what they had been before. An armed uprising against the king was treason. Either the British would have to crush the rebellion and impose an armed rule on the colonies, something they couldn’t possibly afford – after all the taxes that had caused so much resentment had been raised to pay for what soldiers they had garrisoned there – or they would cut their losses and allow the Thirteen Colonies to go their own way. Then there were the French, always watching and waiting in the wings; would they see this as a perfect opportunity to gain revenge for the beating they’d recently been handed in the war with the British? Would they intervene? If so, when? And what would they want in return?
General Washington brought news that Congress in Philadelphia wanted a more professional army and had given Washington the power to reorganize and train the collection of units around Boston. For that reason he had singled out Casca as one of those doing what he hoped to do. He looked around the sea of faces sat before him and saw Casca close to the entrance flap. “Captain Lonnergan; your methods of training soldiers is something I wish to extend to the rest of the army. You will brief the other company officers as to what you’re doing. I want the rest of you to adopt them. If there are any of you who can’t or won’t, then please come to me after this meeting and we’ll come to some accommodation about a change in company commander of your units.”
Eyes swiveled to regard Casca for a moment, and he grinned, his scar whitening. Then they lost interest in him and refocused on Washington. “Gentlemen, we have the Tories boxed in here, unable to break out. But I would like to hear what your thoughts are to finish matters here. The Tories don’t look like they’re going to give up any time soon.”
“We could bombard them, General. We have the advantage of height in some places.”
“True, Captain,” Washington didn’t know the name of the man who’d spoken. “But I want to avoid destroying property that belongs to us, or will do so in due course. Besides, we have the small matter of not owning any artillery currently in this location.” He smiled and the assembled men laughed briefly. “But I am informed that a number of guns have been seized at Fort Ticonderoga and I will press Congress to send them to me. We could perhaps bluff the enemy into surrendering Boston to us without a fight.”
; “The Dorchester Heights would be perfect for that, General,” another man spoke up.
Washington looked around to his aide-de-camp for clarification. The aide tapped a place on the map pinned to a board standing up behind Washington. The general nodded. “Perfect. Location agreed,” he said, “provided I inspect it first and don’t sink into the ground.” The men laughed again.
“What will we do with the prisoners, General?” a third officer enquired.
“Arrange for them to be returned to England. We don’t want them remaining here eating our rations do we?” Washington said. “Unless you’re feeling generous, Captain.” More laughter. Even the Captain concerned chuckled, then shook his head.
Afterwards Casca was surrounded by the other captains and asked for a training schedule. Casca invited all to watch the next session which was that afternoon. The men were used to the marching and weapons handling by this time, and their display went fairly smoothly. Having the right men in the right ranks helped too; sergeants and corporals generally ran the army. Having unsuitable NCOs was a recipe for disaster. No matter how poorly led men were, if they had decent NCOs then they had a chance. But if the NCOs were hopeless and disorganized and weak and soft, then discipline went and orders were not passed on to the men, even if there were good officers. Casca made sure the NCOs were competent and tough enough with the men without being too harsh.
He had thrown out two who had begun to show signs of enjoying punishing the men. The soldiers were mostly volunteers and if they got a sergeant or corporal who was a sadist, they’d have no men left. The usual practice was for the men to elect their NCOs, but that also left it open to men too popular because they were soft on the rank and file. Casca steered a middle ground, choosing a short list of ten he thought were suitable and asking the men to elect six from the list; three sergeants and three corporals. That way he preserved the involvement of the men in choosing who to fight for.
