by Tony Roberts
As he sat on his collapsible stool and tugged off his mud encrusted boots – the rains were frequent - he reflected on how different the revolutionary army was to the British or Prussian armies. He’d not fought for many European armies in recent years, and he had to go back nearly a hundred years when he’d been part of the Austrian army when they’d taken on the Ottomans. Armies had changed radically since then. General John Churchill’s reorganization of the English-British army at the beginning of the current century had left him with a lasting impression in the importance of supply and logistics. Churchill, later the Duke of Marlborough, had revolutionized warfare in that manner and had been partly responsible for the run of victories Casca had been part of against the French.
But as always, the British were not as good in peacetime. The hangers-on and careerists had wormed their way to the top and when the next big war had come with France, the British had been in a sorry state. Casca hadn’t fought for them in that war, choosing instead the militaristic Prussians. It had been another eye-opener. Very disciplined and working like a clock, the Prussians had been what Casca called ‘pretty parade soldiers’. Losses had been high but King Frederick had been a genius in other ways and always managed to come out on top despite the dead or wounded toll. Casca hadn’t really enjoyed that one. Standing forty paces from the enemy blasting away with massed ranks of muskets wasn’t his way of fighting. He much preferred getting in close and defeating an enemy one on one with a blade.
These days it was too much noise and smoke and tight disciplined ranks. If this was modern warfare they could keep it. So there was no way he’d return to the Prussian army, and the British were beset by moronic officers; the soldiers were tough and brave but by God their officers needed shooting.
He just hoped in this war the British didn’t get decent officers or the Colonists were in deep trouble.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The season went on. Nothing changed much in or outside Boston. Ships came and went, bringing more men and supplies from the Old World, and men came and went from the rebel army, now renamed the Continental Army. Washington wanted to get uniforms to replace the rag-tag assortment the men were wearing, and that provoked another outcry from some and more quit. They hadn’t picked on one army just to become their imitators, they said.
Casca shook his head; some people took their rights to freedom too damned far. No matter, enough remained and the new recruits kept up the numbers enough to keep things fairly comfortable. But the onset of autumn brought colder nights and thoughts of the coming winter. The besieging army would soon begin to suffer, Casca knew from experience. The periods of enlistment began to run out and men started to drift back to their homes, particularly as harvest time was due and the farms needed their help.
That meant more men had to be found or enlisted, and the recruiting officers were busy in the villages and towns up and down the colony. Purseman found it easy to get recruited and could pick and choose his unit. He had made his enquiries and tracked down Seth Fisher, once more a cobbler in his home town, Lincoln. Fisher had been in his workshop when Purseman had turned up early in September.
“You’re Seth Fisher, aren’t you?” Purseman said, entering the workshop, carrying a high boot with a ripped heel.
“I am. You got a broken heel there? I can fix that,” Fisher nodded at the boot.
“Thanks. Caught it climbing a fence, damn it,” Purseman grinned ruefully. “Weren’t you in the army recently? Thought you’d still be there.”
“Oh, did my bit; glad to be out of it to be honest.” Fisher took the boot and examined it critically. He turned round and searched his boxes for a set of nails.
“Someone told me you were captain. Odd thing to turn your back on, if I may be so bold to say so. If I were captain I’d stay in and collect the money.”
“A lot less dangerous working with shoes,” Fisher replied, shaking some nails out onto the worktable.
“I hear some guy with a scar got you booted out.” Purseman looked carefully at Fisher.
The cobbler paused, then looked up. “Who told you that? Folks ought to mind their own business.”
Purseman shrugged. “Word gets round a town, you know how it is. Some big guy, so they say. What was his name?”
“Lonnergan, if that’s any of your business, which it ain’t.”
“I heard his name was Long. Cass Long.”
“You must have heard wrong then,” Fisher said. “Case Lonnergan, now Captain Lonnergan. I’d prefer not to talk about it if that’s fine with you, sir. Now, can we get around to talking about my price for repairing this boot?”
“Your price?” Purseman said, unfastening his belt. “I got a couple of gold coins on me.”
Fisher looked up in surprise. “I haven’t got change out of those! You’ll have to get something smaller. This’ll only be a penny to do this.”
Purseman moved round the end of the table. “Well I do have this as payment,” he said and sprang forward, surprising Fisher, spinning him round with a meaty blow to the side of Fisher’s face. The belt went round the cobbler’s throat and Purseman rammed a knee into the man’s back, pulling the belt tight. As Fisher struggled, Purseman held him tight, gritting his teeth and shaking with the effort of it all. Fisher slowly sank to the dirty floorboards and Purseman released him, allowing his victim to fall into a heap.
As he refitted his belt, he checked on the motionless Fisher. There was no pulse. Nodding in satisfaction he slid around the table and left. The broken boot he cared nothing about, for it wasn’t his. With luck those who found the corpse might assume the owner of the boot was the perpetrator and waste time on him. He’d gotten what he’d came for and hadn’t been surprised at the change of name Long had made. He’d been told he may be under the new name but wanted to make sure from Fisher which one his prey was using. He looked out of the grimy window by the door and waited until a passer-by had gone before slipping out and making his way along the street and out of the town.
His next stop was the recruitment office in Lexington.
* * *
Casca was surprised to receive a note from his commanding officer asking if he was going to continue with his service or go at the end of his enlistment period. He had forgotten he had signed up the same as everyone. He had assumed that he’d be there as long as the war was going on. The weather was worsening and men were beginning to forage wider and wider for firewood and food. The area around Boston was becoming stripped. Against this the number of men drifting away was outstripping the recruits, so the number of men to warm and feed was dropping, at least.
“Sir, Captain Lonnergan reporting.” Casca stood smartly before Major Harper. They weren’t wearing similar uniforms which was normal in this army. Harper, a tall, bony-faced man, looked up. “Ah, yes, Captain. I understand your draft period is coming to an end. I would like you to stay on as men like you are hard to replace.”
“If I may, sir, I’d like to travel to Philadelphia to see somebody. I have to see her and if my enlistment period is coming to an end I thought I’d pop down there, see her, and then return. I’d be gone perhaps two months.”
Harper studied his subordinate for a moment. “Someone special, Lonnergan?”
Casca thought for a moment. “My girl’s mother, sir. I need to speak to her urgently.”
“I see. Well, it’s not as if there’s going to be any action any time soon, what with the British content to sit in Boston and we’re just as content to sit outside it. I’ll approve your leave as long as you don’t quit. I’ll need your signature on the renewal enlistment form of course.”
“Of course, sir.” Casca scribbled an unintelligible signature in the place provided at the bottom of the document. The quill scratched across the stiff parchment. “How will I get to Philadelphia, by the way, sir? I’ve never been there before.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You haven’t a horse, then.”
“No sir.”
Harper tapped his fingers on t
he table for a moment. “There’s a wagon or two that go somewhere on a daily basis. It’s part of the supply train that is run by the commissariat. Ask there; I’m sure they’ll be accommodating enough.”
“Thank you, sir.” Casca left and arranged with Lieutenant Wilson to take over in his absence, to continue with the daily routine and make sure the soldiers were occupied and didn’t get around to sitting about doing nothing. After that he took his pack, water bottle and officer’s saber but left behind his musket – it wasn’t really a captain’s weapon but he kept it in his tent anyway – and sauntered to the commissariat.
They did indeed have a supply wagon that left daily to return to the depot at Concord and from there Casca could get a commercial carriage to the south via Worcester, Hartford, Danbury and New York. So it wasn’t long before he was sat comfortably in a upholstered passenger carriage, sharing it with a parson, a merchant and his over-dressed wife, en route to New York. There he hitched a ride in another down to Philadelphia and was glad at the end of it to be able to stretch his legs. His officer’s uniform attracted interest and the citizens there kept on asking him what unit he was a part of and how were things going with Washington’s army. It appeared that people here believed that Washington was the only general whereas there were others just as capable with the Army of Observation such as Ward and Putnam.
Casca eventually got so tired of this he checked into a hotel and bought a change of clothing and gratefully walked the streets anonymously. He needed to find Rose’s mother. Not as easy as it seemed; he assumed she was still using her married name. He hadn’t thought of asking Rose what her maiden name had been and cursed himself for his carelessness. What he knew of her was that she had been a society girl so it was unlikely she was to be found in the seedier parts of the city. He recalled Rose telling him her mother was living with a man called Lowe.
His first stop was the city hall for a list of residents or births. It had started to rain so he ducked into the building and brushed the rain from his shoulders and made an appointment with the records office. It took most of the day but he finally tracked her down. She was still using her married name, which was a relief. Katherine Maplin lived in the richest part of town at the residence of one James Lowe, a lawyer. Casca pulled a face. He had an aversion to lawyers. Still, if he were to find out if Rose were there, he would have to visit them.
The following day, a dull, cold windswept late October day, he donned his captain’s uniform and arrived at the mansion – there was no other description for it – and rang the doorbell. A wigged butler answered and looked down his nose at Casca. “Yes? What is your business here?” he demanded with a sniff. He was placing Casca into some sort of social class. Strange how the British ailment of class consciousness was to be found here, but what else did he expect? Maybe the new rulers would change that if they held on. They were keen on asserting there was equality for all. Maybe that would sweep away this snobbery.
Casca announced himself curtly, one hand on the hilt of his saber.
The butler looked down at the gesture and smiled thinly. “Do you have a visiting card, sir?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah,” the butler said. Meaning you’re not fit to grace this place, Casca thought to himself.
“Look, Jeeves,” Casca growled, “I have to see Mrs. Maplin as a matter of urgency. Her daughter may be in danger.”
“Is that so, sir?” The butler clearly didn’t believe a word Casca said.
“Is her daughter here?”
“I’m not in a position to give you an answer sir. You will have to make an appointment.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Casca exploded and shoved the smartly dressed man aside and strode into the hallway, a clean neatly kept space with a shiny tiled floor, white painted woodwork and bannisters and pictures hanging from a picture rail, all showing severe looking gentlemen staring down in disapproval at Casca for such bad manners.
“Sir, you must leave now, or I will call out the master!”
“I’m not leaving until I’ve seen Katherine Maplin,” Casca stood his ground, glaring at the protesting butler. “And if you want me to leave, then you’ll have to try making me move yourself.”
The butler paled. “This is outrageous!” he said in a strained voice. Other faces had appeared from doorways in surprise at the noise and disturbance. Most of them were other servants but one was a well-dressed woman with a dress that had a starched bodice and a wide flowing lower portion. She was about forty years of age, Casca guessed, and still reasonably good looking.
“What’s the problem, Foster?” she asked.
“This – gentleman here, madam,” Foster replied. “I’m sorry but he insists on seeing you.”
“Does he indeed?” Katherine Maplin asked and began gliding down the staircase. There was no other word to describe the way she moved. As she neared Casca could see a resemblance to Rose in the eyes and mouth.
“What is your name?” she demanded of Casca as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Captain Lonnergan, ma’am. I know your daughter. I believe she may be in danger. Is she here?”
“No she is not. Why do you think she’s in danger?”
Casca began to tell her of the situation in Massachusetts but he was stopped by an upraised hand at the mention of Ebenezer. “We had better continue in the comfort of the drawing room, Captain. Please follow me. Foster, please bring tea.”
“Ma’am,” Foster bowed and vanished, but not without a long stare at Casca.
The drawing room was a typical chamber of the age. A carpet covered much of the floor except the edges, and long draped curtains hung down the tall windows that had wooden shutters folded into the sides. A chandelier hung from the ceiling and more paintings adorned the deep red wall. A harpsichord stood in one corner and more furniture stood around the edges except for a three piece suite of upholstered chairs and a settee close to the huge fireplace.
Above the fireplace there was a gap where a painting had until recently, judging by the color and condition of the wall, hung there. Probably of George III, Casca guessed.
“Now, Captain, the story, if you please.”
So Casca told her of the facts he felt she needed to know, including Sir Richard and Ebenezer’s roles in his arrest. Katherine listened politely, and the only interruption was the arrival of Foster with a beautiful tea service on a silver platter. Tea was poured and both sat upright on the edges of their respective chairs holding their cups and saucers. Very English, Casca thought to himself with amusement. He didn’t feel comfortable.
“My husband is a frightful Tory,” Katherine said, “and is very loyal to the crown and King George. As for me, my family are Americans and have been for a few generations now, and we tend towards the Whigs if anything. This was one of the differences between Ebenezer and myself. Alas, Ebenezer had the ear of the Governor and they got a judgment against me for adultery,” she said wryly. “I’m telling you nothing you couldn’t find out for yourself, Captain. My daughter was denied to me and I was more or less banished to Philadelphia. Not that I mind, of course, I’ve built a good life here, as you can see.”
“Yes, I got some idea of that,” Casca said, eyeing the décor.
Katherine smiled briefly. “I was hoping for a divorce so I could marry the good man who has taken me in here, but Ebenezer refuses out of spite. He knows I’m happy here but will not grant me what I wish for.”
“Did you hear from Rose at all?” Casca asked.
“Once or twice. Some of her letters got through to me although a number did not. She wished to come and live here, but I fear Ebenezer felt he would lose one of his bargaining tools over me if he allowed that. So I’m not at all surprised he was keen to marry her off to the first man that came along. Tell me, Captain, are you intending to marry my daughter?”
Casca paused. Marriage wasn’t something he normally considered, or even entered into. His condition was one hell of a block on that. He usua
lly was able to hang around any place for about ten to fifteen years, and then after that folk began to get suspicious that he didn’t age. What he normally got up to was to bed a wench or two, have fun for a few years, then move on. He couldn’t have children so he wouldn’t leave them holding the baby, so to speak, and it was best he moved on before they got a little suspicious. Most of the time he tried to avoid a relationship but there were times when it was impossible to ignore what came naturally and the little head overrode the big one. “Ma’am, I’m not the marrying kind. I’m an army man and go where my fate takes me. If your daughter wishes to come with me, then that’s her choice, but I won’t marry her or anyone.”
“How sad, Captain. A man should marry; it gives him something to fight for.”
Casca grinned. “I already have a cause ma’am; a free America. This is my fight.”
Katherine smiled slightly. “A noble cause, Captain. But I hope you understand when I say I will not countenance your continuing liaison with my daughter. No wonder Ebenezer tries to keep her away from you. But you can do me a service; get her away from him and that creature Sir Richard you have described and bring her to me. If you can do that you shall be rewarded, I promise you.”
Casca took a mouthful of the hot tea. That interested him. Maybe he could set up a life here in the colonies in the aftermath of the war, if that were possible. By a life, he thought of one reasonably well off rather than one existing at a subsistence level. Time he had some wealth, he believed. At least here a man could become someone through his own devices rather than be so blessed by birth only. “Ma’am, I shall do what I can. I believe Sir Richard has me earmarked for death. It will be an interesting battle of wits. To take away your daughter from under his wing would be an achievement indeed. I accept.”
Katherine inclined her head in thanks. “You know where I am; you may return here once my daughter is safe. You will earn my eternal gratitude and a tidy sum of money. Now, if you please, I have a busy schedule. You will be seen out by Foster. Thank you for coming, Captain.”
