by Tony Roberts
The soldiers awkwardly lifted Purseman who gasped in pain, then they half carried, half dragged him to the shore and a fort that stood close to the water’s edge. Purseman was taken to the infirmary, a small, primitive room with two bunks and bowls of evil smelling liquids on work surfaces. From the light of the candles it was clear Purseman was bleeding to death. “Get Sir Richard!” he breathed, staring up at the men.
The corporal snapped an order and a runner departed for Beacon Hill. Sir Richard was roused from his sleep and was about to tear into the adjutant who had done the deed when he was informed as to why he’d been woken. Sir Richard dragged on his uniform and strode sharply after the messenger, down the grassy slope to the fort by the water’s edge. His jacket hardly kept out the cold but Sir Richard didn’t notice.
He pushed his way through the crowd who had gathered outside the infirmary and turned to the duty corporal. “Get these people out of here; this is a matter of Crown Security.”
“Sah!” the corporal snapped a stiff salute and ushered the soldiers out and shut the door, leaving Sir Richard and Purseman alone. “Purseman!” Sir Richard whispered, bending low towards the ashen-faced man. “Can you hear me?”
The stricken man’s eyes fluttered open. A lop-sided smile passed across his face. “I got ‘im, Sir Richard,” he said with difficulty. “Long, ‘e’s dead.”
“Are you sure, Sergeant?” the Baronet leaned even closer, ignoring the smell from Purseman.
“In my pouch, sir – Long’s jacket buttons and a piece of ‘is coat…. I got ‘im in the guts with me knife….”
Sir Richard eagerly opened the pouch and pulled forth the bloodstained piece of cloth and a couple of buttons. “Well done, Sergeant! Well done!”
Purseman sighed and his tongue worked tiredly. He was getting weaker. “Sir, me wife – Molly – you’ll see she gets me money, will you, sir?”
“Of course, Sergeant, it’s the least I can do.” Sir Richard took the small bag of coins Purseman passed him, the remnants of what had been given to him a few months back.
“And me pension?”
“That, too, Sergeant. You’ll be remembered.”
Purseman smiled, drew in a deep breath, then relaxed, shuddering. He went still and Sir Richard was left standing by the side of a corpse. He looked down at the dead man, then at the bloodstained cloth in his hand. He swiftly put it in a pocket and stuffed the coin bag in another. He then opened the door. The men crowding in the passage outside were allowed back in. “He’s dead, Corporal,” Sir Richard commented. “Arrange for him to buried here.”
“Of course, sir. What name?”
“Prescott,” the Baronet said evenly. “Private. No next of kin.”
“Sir,” the corporal saluted.
Sir Richard returned the salute and left, crowing to himself in triumph. Damn Purseman’s pension, he’d merely state he had deserted and was never found. No trace of him would ever surface again. He’d keep the money; after all, it had been his in the first place. He could now go to Rose and present her with Long’s torn and bloodied jacket. There was nothing left now to stop her from marrying him. He walked back up to Beacon Hill in high spirits.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For Casca the pain was unendurable. He’d lain amongst the bodies of the two men for a fair amount of time until the excitement of the shooting had died down. He was curled up in a fetal ball, his hands clutched around his stomach, recalling the first wound he’d received at the hands of Sporus, his Decurion back in Jerusalem just after the Crucifixion. It was then that he first realized he couldn’t die. That terrible feeling engulfed him once more and he was shaking with the memory of it when men came flooding over the lip of the hollow.
“Good God!” one said, “there’s bodies everywhere here!”
Three, in fact. Hands grabbed the three and checked their state. Casca groaned and he was immediately released. “Captain Lonnergan? You hurt?”
Rather a dumb question, but understandable. Casca waved feebly. “A slight wound, boys. Just get me to my tent. Did the guy get away?”
“’Fraid so, sir,” one of the men said. “I think these two poor souls are dead. Who was it, do you know?”
“A British spy,” Casca gasped, trying to endure the waves of pain that flowed through his body. “Probably told his masters of our strength and positions.”
The men groaned in disappointment. “I think I shot him but I can’t be sure,” someone else piped up. “Then they began shooting back.”
“Yeah, that’s when I dove for cover!” the first man laughed. The rest grumbled in agreement.
More men were coming along the line. Shots were occasionally ringing out, fired by nervous sentries, and the officers were trying to get some semblance of order before somebody got shot by their own side. “Where’s Captain Lonnergan?” Major Harper asked, coming through the undergrowth, escorted by a few of his staff.
“Over here, sir. He’s hurt.”
“Captain?”
Casca waved for the men to put him down. He sat awkwardly, gritting his teeth. Major Harper loomed above him, half seen in the darkness. “What happened?”
“Sir. British spy broke through our lines, killing two of my men and wounding me before escaping. The men here tried to shoot him but we think he made it back to Boston.”
“Pity,” Harper said. “Names of the two dead? And you, Captain, how bad are you?”
“I’ll be fine by the morning. It’s more shock and being winded than anything serious.” He knew by morning the wound would be closed, if he were allowed to rest the remainder of the night. He ought to be able to get around without help by then. “I don’t know who got killed. Ask the duty sergeant, sir.”
“Very well. Go get some rest and I’ll get the surgeon to visit you.”
“I’ll visit the surgeon myself sir. I should be fine by morning.” He winced as a spasm of pain shot through him. He’d need help to get to his tent. Harper moved off, leaving Casca breathing in as deeply as he could, fighting the pain and waves of nausea. The internal mess left by Purseman’s blade would be healing but he wouldn’t be able to eat anything for a while, at least not until well into the next day. Every time he got wounded in the gut he threw up unless he didn’t eat. His body rejected food while it cured itself.
“Sergeant, get two men to assist me in returning to my tent,” he ordered quietly.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant saluted lazily.
Casca groaned and rocked back on his buttocks. If the British had hoped to launch a surprise attack then the noise and confusion that had accompanied Purseman’s break for Boston would have put an end to that, and it also gave away the fact the rebel forces were waiting for them. Damn that man Purseman! No doubt he would report to his master that he’d killed his quarry, and Sir Richard would now think Cass Long or Case Lonnergan out of his way. He would have to get into Boston somehow fairly soon and see if he could get to Rose.
In the event a few days later word came that Howe had evacuated Boston, using what transports he had, breaking out into the clear water and leaving some supplies and munitions behind in his haste to get away. Some of the forts were blown up but Boston was now free of the soldiers and Washington and his men wandered into the city, wondering what would happen now.
Casca was frustrated. His wound had nearly healed and he had reported back for action, much to Harper’s surprise. The men were in a celebratory mood but Casca couldn’t think of any reason to be happy. Rose had gone along with her father and Sir Richard to God knows where, and the Tory army was unbeaten. They’d be back somewhere soon, he had no doubt. And what of the rebel army? Men were still drifting away, and more went now that they had achieved what they saw as a victory. General Washington was heard to vent his frustrations at the ‘mercenary spirit’ of the men under his command, wishing they were forged into an effective fighting force, but every time he thought he was getting somewhere he lost more men who thought their job finished and quit. Getting men to s
ign on for more than twelve months at a time was like pulling teeth.
He visited Casca’s unit as part of his tour of the units and was once more impressed with Casca’s grasp of the military situation. Clearly this officer had done plenty of soldiering in the past. “Tell me, Captain,” he said while the two looked over the mess that had been left by the professional army before their evacuation, “if you were Howe, what would you do now?”
“Look to win the war quickly. Go somewhere that could be held much more easily, and be guaranteed of some local help. There’s as many people who support the Tories as the rebellion here in the colonies. Not all are as radical as Massachusetts.”
“And where would that be, in your opinion?”
“General, the obvious place is New York.” Casca looked to the south. “A big harbor, plenty of support further south, and the government forces in Quebec could push south down Lake Champlain and the Hudson and cut the colonies in two.”
“Agreed, Captain. Perhaps you ought to be a general?” Washington was smiling.
Casca grinned back. “Thank you sir. Would Congress approve the promotion?”
Washington chuckled. “No. I have plenty of generals at the moment anyway, ones with proven track records; Putnam, Heath, Spencer, Lee and so on. I’d be hard-pressed to find you a role. But if you don’t mind I’ll keep you in mind if I need some advice if we ever get bogged down into a situation.”
“Glad to help, General. What now here, sir?”
“Clean this mess up, sort what’s useable from the trash and take it. I’m reinforcing the New York garrison and may send you down there with your militiamen. I’d like you to take a look around and see where we can improve the defenses, if you feel that’s something you can do? I know General Lee is down there but I’d like a second opinion of the defenses. He may get on well with you, Captain. He likes the militia,” Washington said, a wry twist on his lips.
“Whereas you, sir, would prefer professionals and no others in your army,” Casca ventured.
“No offense to you, of course,” the general said, turning and looking Casca square in the face.
“None taken, sir. I actually agree with you on that, but while we have the militia as the biggest part of the army we must use them to the best of our ability. In time we may get enough hardened veterans to take on the enemy face to face, but not at the moment; they’d whip our asses.”
Washington chuckled again. “A necessity in these hard times. I can’t even get uniforms to equip the army with, or a standard musket. We have so many different types that take different sized musket balls, and we’re desperately short of bayonets. If the enemy army closes on my men it would be terrible. But what I have to battle the most is this ridiculous attitude of quitting after one year. You’re one of the few who’ve re-signed, and that I admire. I’m fighting with one hand tied behind my back and Congress is messing me about.”
“General, do you think we’ll go our own way eventually?”
Washington thought for a moment. “Yes, Captain, I really think we will. Its time for the colonies to stand on their own two feet; we’ve outgrown the nest and we don’t need mothering anymore. We’re grown up enough to make our own way on life now, and London is like an over-protective mother trying to stop us from leaving the nest. We’ve got to be able to develop and we won’t as long as we’re tied to the mother country.”
“People here are more self-sufficient, that’s for sure. They’re suited to the independent life, sir.”
“Indeed they are. We have to determine our own destiny and this is a fight I don’t intend losing. With more like you around, Captain, I’m sure we’ll come through eventually.”
Casca scratched his jaw. “It’ll be a long, hard fight and many will die in the process, general.”
“The sacrifice of our generation is necessary for the future ones to determine their own destiny, Captain. Freedom, liberty. As Thomas Jefferson told me a short while back, ‘I hold that the Tree of Liberty is well-watered with the blood of Patriots’. No more the dead hand of oppression. Don’t you agree?”
“All very well, general, but will we get a government that sticks to those noble ideals?”
Washington smiled and clapped Casca on the shoulder. “Of course! I know these men in Congress, people like Benjamin Franklin. He’s working on something this very moment.”
Casca smiled back automatically, but he was thinking of Rose. Where had she gone? He had promised Katherine in Philadelphia he’d deliver Rose to her, and at the moment he had no idea how he was going to live up to that. It ate at him.
A few days later he left Boston with his unit of Massachusetts Militiamen and marched south west via Concord and Hartford on towards New York. His was the advance party of what Washington had promised would be the gradual redeployment of the Continental Army, as it was now being called, from Boston to New York. It took twenty days to march the men the two hundred and fifty or so miles and by the time they approached New York they were pretty tired and looking forward to a billet and rest. They marched along the Boston Post Road, hugging the Long Island Sound, and then crossing the Bronx River, came to King’s Bridge that led to the island of Manhattan. The countryside here was a gently rolling series of hills dotted with trees and copses, and the frequent watercourses serviced an abundant wildlife. They crossed onto Manhattan and marched south down the long road to the city, sited at the southern tip of the island. The streets were wide and flanked by tall, imposing three and four storied stone and brick buildings, and they were impressed by the neat, tidy arrangements of the roads into a grid pattern.
The wide bay stretched out ahead and Casca could see ships plying to and fro, coming to the docks that stood on the left or ferrying people to east or west. Isolated houses stood across the water to Long Island amongst the thick growths of trees there. Casca’s professional eye took all this in as he led his company down to the barracks standing close to the waterfront by the docks. The officer in charge of the billeting was a tired looking New York Captain by the name of Klein, a German, judging by his name and accent, Casca thought.
“You will have to take your men around the rear and them there house,” Klein said slowly. “There is just enough space to them take. If Congress sends any more soldiers here they will have to find alternative accommodation. There just isn’t the space!”
“If the Tory government forces turn up there’ll be plenty more soldiers to find beds for,” Casca informed him. “General Washington is looking to bring the Continental Army down here shortly anyway, so if I were you, Captain, I’d start looking for other accommodation. We’re talking of about twenty thousand men.”
With that Casca marched his men off, leaving Klein looking even more harassed. The billets were small, Spartan but clean. He saw to the men being housed, four to a room on bunks arranged to either side of each room, then found his own room, and gratefully threw himself onto the single bunk standing there. Being an officer certainly had its advantages, no matter what army one fought in.
He had just about relaxed enough to ease the aches in his feet and calves when there came a knock on the door and Casca groaned, levering himself up into a sitting position on the bunk. “Come,” he said.
A young soldier appeared, looking a little apprehensive. “Captain Lonnergan?”
“That’s me, son. What can I do for you?”
“Sir. Compliments of General Alexander. You are to report to him at his headquarters immediately.”
“General Alexander?” Casca echoed. “Where’s General Lee?”
“Sir, General Lee had to go south to the Carolinas to fight an uprising by the Tories there. General Alexander is in charge now.”
Casca sighed and stood up. “Very well, son. Lead on.” He was led through the streets to a large mansion with smartly dressed guards in blue and white at the entrance. They were checked by the officer on duty and led into the inner sanctum where the young soldier reported he’d done his duty and was allowed to leave by Ale
xander. The new commander at New York was a smooth-faced man with a high, receding faintly red hairline, a strong jaw and piercing eyes. He was smartly attired and wore a white neck scarf. On the way over the young soldier had advised Casca to address Alexander as ‘Lord Stirling’, for that was what Alexander wished to be known as, claiming the title but having his claim rejected by the government in London.
Casca couldn’t care less if Alexander wanted to call himself Lord Beelzebub, Duke of Hell and Damnation. All he wanted was a commanding officer who knew what the hell he was about. He saluted smartly and stood at attention before the Scottish general.
“Relax, Captain,” Lord Stirling said gently. “We’re not in the Tory army here.”
“Sir,” Casca relaxed.
“I’m told General Washington himself appointed you to – help – with the defenses here in New York. Am I right?”
“Sir.”
Lord Stirling sighed and looked at his aides who remained impassive. “We already have made plans on fortifying the city from possible attack. Would you like to see them, Captain?” The tone was heavily sarcastic.
Casca decided to play things straight. “Sir, if you please.”
Stirling scowled at his impertinence. He did flick a hand at one of his officers who produced a large sheet of paper and placed it on the table in front of the general. “So, Captain, as you can see, plans are well under way. I doubt you can add anything to them.” It was a statement rather than a suggestion.
Casca eyed the penciled marks on the official map of the city, harbor and environs. It showed not only New York and Manhattan, but also Long Island, New Jersey and Staten Island. A single fort was marked on the Brooklyn Heights and two others along the Jersey shore and Manhattan. Lines of trenches were marked along the Brooklyn Heights and further east of Manhattan.
“I’m surprised that General Washington found it necessary to send an engineer to oversee works here, especially when we have plenty here ourselves.” Lord Stirling could be very acidic, Casca judged.
