by Tony Roberts
And not long afterwards a flotilla of warships appeared from the east and sailed into Long Island Sound and seemed to fill the sea. The British had arrived.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The big news after the arrival of the soldiers in the sound was that Congress had issued a Declaration of Independence. A messenger with copies arrived breathless from Philadelphia and passed them to General Washington, and then had copies pinned up all around New York and the text read out in public places. That caused a great deal of excitement and everyone had little else to talk about that day. It made a change from wondering when General Howe would move from Staten Island where he’d set up camp for all his soldiers after the voyage from Nova Scotia.
Casca knew there was no going back from that moment; it now was a fight to the bitter end. Up to that moment most people were fighting to have a bigger say in their lives, but it seemed the small group of radicals had their way and now wanted to break from the mother country. An interesting part of the declaration was the right to revolution. Much of the paper was a list of abuses by King George III and in a fit of patriotism, the citizens went to the statue of George at Bowling Green and tore it down, stating the statue would be melted down for lead balls to shoot back at his subjects. Casca thought that a good touch.
His thoughts now turned to more practical issues. When and where would the British – as he realized he should call them now as opposed to the Americans – land to try to wrest New York back for the King? Staten Island sat south of New York City, and they could go anywhere by ship that they chose. The Americans had no ships to speak of and they had tried to sink hulks in the waters to block any Royal Navy moves up to the city, but a couple of them had recently sailed past many fortified places and exchanged shots. It was clear they could land anywhere; New Jersey, Manhattan or Long Island, or even behind Manhattan near the White Plains, but Casca thought that too far and they’d be surrounded by enemy territory there.
If he were Howe, he’d seek to push in from the edges so as to have friendly territory behind him as he pushed on. Long Island seemed the best place because it was so big and there were plenty of bays and inlets to land troops. So he sent out more patrols on a daily basis to scour the area, to check that nobody had landed anywhere in the vicinity. Not that they wouldn’t notice; it seemed that the entire Royal Navy was anchored off Staten Island and it would be hard not to notice a landing somewhere along the coast. No, they would come at night.
Casca got fed up with waiting at the company headquarters and went out on patrol himself a few times. It was always the same; the trees, fields and hills were empty of enemy forces. What was Howe doing, sitting there on Staten Island? The longer he waited the more organized the American army got. Washington was constantly battering away at Congress, insisting they send munitions, supplies and money to build up the army. If they were to have a chance in defeating the British they had to have a large professional army, and at the moment they were still beset with the problem of men leaving at the end of their period of signing on.
The summer had come and the fields and woods were full of life. It seemed really strange that men would soon be killing each other in these very areas, but such had been the way of things for as long as Casca could remember. He idly cut aside some long grass with his officer’s sword, an item of equipment he’d recently acquired. Major Harper had tried to get Casca to part with his musket but Casca refused, saying he would have both; the sword was a old friend, the familiar feeling of a hilt in his hand bringing a smile to his lips, but he was practical enough to know these days death was dished out at range as well as at face to face, and he had no intention of getting into a fight and not being able to shoot at someone.
Major Harper in fact was having a problem with his captain. The man was an enigma; he knew soldiering and sometimes said things that no man ought to know. Tactics, strategy and just basic warfare he knew almost without thinking. Harper could see Lonnergan come out with a correct solution to a problem almost without thinking. He was an encyclopedia on war, and spoke of it sometimes as if he were an eyewitness of past battles. Lonnergan had smiled and explained he’d studied war in Prussia when staying in Berlin but Harper couldn’t see how anyone could amass such knowledge in even a man’s lifetime. But Lonnergan spoke fluent German, and this was useful for the few Germans in the unit who’d recently immigrated. Who was Lonnergan really? He said he had been born in Ireland but Harper, a Scot by birth, knew plenty of Irishmen and none looked or spoke like Lonnergan. He looked Italian, in fact.
Yes, an enigma, but a damned good man to have. Harper just had the impression Lonnergan could dispense with all those above him and fight the war single handed – and probably win – and was only tolerating him and the other officers out of a sense of good manners. Harper had read the report from Lord Stirling about Lonnergan which reinforced his thoughts about the man. Lonnergan did his own thing no matter what superior officers said, and the maddening thing was that Lonnergan was always right, damn his eyes. Lord Stirling’s complaints about the insubordinate manner of Lonnergan had been dismissed by Washington who clearly thought the captain could walk on water. Still, Harper was canny enough to allow Lonnergan enough slack to do his job; the men liked him and they were happy enough, and Harper used that to look good to his commanding officer, Colonel Holman. Holman reported to Brigade-Major Hopkins, and he reported to Brigadier-General John Fellows who in turn reported to Major-General Israel Putnam. All quite clear, and Lonnergan seemed to know that too, for whenever he spoke to Harper, he clearly followed the lines of command.
So Major Harper tolerated Captain Lonnergan, but retained his suspicions about him, not knowing exactly why he was suspicious of him. He was good, too good.
Casca was unaware of his commanding officer’s thoughts. He was busy checking on the dispositions of the unit and the neighboring units. It seemed things had been left to drift recently, owing to the confusion as to where Putnam’s area of responsibility ended and Greene’s began. Greene had also fallen ill which hadn’t helped things, and the brigade commanders had done nothing to help, relying on someone taking over to give them orders. Casca was worried this inactivity was leaving gaps that could be exploited.
He went out that morning to have a look for himself, taking five men with him, a corporal and four privates. They walked along a dirt track at the bottom of a shallow valley that led into the interior of Long Island, listening to the birds and the insects. Sweat beaded their foreheads in the heat. The heavy woolen clothing they wore was a little too thick for this time of year but there were no alternatives.
The thing that worried him the most were the passes through the Gowanus Heights. It would be fairly easy to post men there to block them but so far nobody had done much about them other than stick a few men there to keep a watch on them. If the British arrived in force they could force them and then they would be beyond the best natural defensive feature on Long Island. Much of the terrain was covered in woodland and only on the far side did the trees thin out into grasslands.
The air was heavy and oppressive; the humidity was bad and the men grumbled as they made their way along the dirt road. Casca got them to climb the long slope to the top of the heights and they looked down through the trees to the wooded plain before them. The sea glittered in the distance, a few miles to the south, and it all seemed peaceful. Casca’s main problem was to argue a build-up of the defenses here when Washington and the high command just didn’t know where and when Howe would make his move, and with how many. He could easily strike in two different places, given the numbers of men he reportedly had at his disposal.
Clouds were gathering from the sea and the Eternal Mercenary sniffed the air, looking up. He had a feeling bad weather was on the way, and said so to the others. The men muttered amongst themselves. They wanted to be back in their barracks before the weather broke. Casca took one last look over the countryside and turned about. He’d come this way again the next day. He definitely had a feeling
about Long Island; if he were the British this is where he’d come.
The storm broke that evening, a violent thunderstorm that lit up the night sky. There were repeated strikes on the ground and some men were even struck. The morning after Casca got up as usual and washed, shaved and ate a frugal breakfast. He was too keyed up to bother with a time consuming meal. Stuffing buttered bread and a hastily brewed cup of tea down his throat, he called out for the duty sergeant to assign him five men to accompany him on the patrol for the morning.
But as they emerged from the barracks there appeared a messenger on horseback, riding hard from the south. He spotted Casca and came to a sudden halt. “Sir! Sir! The British have landed!”
“Where, man?” Casca snapped, the tension snapping inside him.
“Gravesend and Denyse’s Ferry. Thousands of ‘em, sir!”
“Go to General Sullivan’s headquarters immediately, lad. It’s a mile down the road there at Fort Stirling,” Casca pointed down the road.
“Sir!” The messenger galloped off, leaving Casca and his men standing looking down the road towards the south.
“Sir, what do we do?” one of the men asked, his face strained.
“Rouse the men – all of them. I’m going to report to Major Harper. I want an inspection on my return. Corporal,” he addressed the non-commissioned officer with the soldiers, “make sure all have weapons, powder and musket balls.”
“Sir!” the corporal saluted and began barking orders to the nervous soldiers.
Casca made his way to Major Harper’s hut, a woodsman’s hut that had been appropriated at short notice. Major Harper was busy studying a list of equipment that his unit had been issued with and was frowning at the cost of it all. Somewhere savings would have to be made. He looked up irritably as Casca crashed in excitedly. “What’s the meaning of this, Captain?” he demanded.
“The British have landed south of us, sir. I’m assembling the men.”
“Who reported it, Captain?”
“A messenger on horseback, sir. He’s gone onto General Sullivan’s headquarters.”
Harper studied an impatient Casca before him. “I want you to take a small squad south and verify this messenger’s report, then return and report to me directly, do you understand?”
“Very good, sir.” Casca saluted and turned to go. Harper called him back. “Sir?”
“Do not engage the enemy if you do see them,” Harper waved a finger at him. “I want to know how many there are.”
“Of course, sir,” Casca nodded and ran back out of the hut, grumbling about being asked to do the obvious.
Casca came up to the assembled line of men, just twenty of them, including the corporal. He checked to make sure they were all armed and ready, then led them out of the camp and along the damp dirt road through the trees up the slope of the Gowanus Heights. He wanted to see if there were any enemy troops in the area before descending down to the plains beyond. Puddles lay in the road and to the side, and the air had that smell to it that you got just after rain; a fresh, moist earthy aroma.
They climbed rapidly, panting in the heat, and spread out at the top, peering through the leaves and foliage. Ahead stretched the plains of Long Island, woodland giving way to farmland, and then in the far distance, the sea. Ships could be seen at anchorage a long way off, and men could also be seen moving about in the far distance. Farmsteads were dotted about and fencing, hedges, copses and brooks all served to hide much of what may or may not be there.
Casca waved the men down the steeper slope on the far side and they emerged from the woods onto the farmland hesitantly. They knew enemy soldiers were up ahead somewhere. The Eternal Mercenary called them to a halt and tapped two men on the shoulders. “Go on ahead and scout; if you see anything get back here at once.”
Having a bad feeling he turned to the corporal. “Get the men to assemble a barricade across the road here. Grab what wood you can; there’s plenty of broken fencing about.”
“Sir,” the corporal replied and began directing the men to get one built. Casca walked on ahead a few yards, then stopped, tapping his musket stock thoughtfully. If there were thousands of British soldiers ahead, then some sort of noise or sign would surely be discernible.
The sound of the men putting up the barricade was too much and so he stepped along the road a little more. Grass grew long by the roadside and the plank fencing separated the fields from the road. Ahead the land dipped and a row of trees ran across his line of sight.
The two scouts were coming back at a run, hands on hats, casting glances back behind them every few seconds. Casca gritted his teeth. The enemy wasn’t far behind, if the scouts’ actions were anything to go by. “What do you see?” Casca asked as they came into hearing range.
“A company of redcoats, sir, coming along the road! About a hundred of them!”
“Damn,” Casca muttered. He turned to the rest of the men. “Get behind the barricade, now!”
The men stopped their work, grabbed their muskets and scuttled behind the hastily assembled barricade, a mass of planks, branches, trash and other odd assorted objects they had found by the roadside. They crouched, holding their breaths, and waited. Casca joined them and let the two scouts past him, then knelt on one knee by the edge of the road, on the end of the barricade, and peered down the barrel of his musket.
He saw the colors first; the flags fluttering high as the smartly marching soldiers advanced down the road. He slowly leveled his piece and trained it on the officer leading them, then lowered it in disbelief. It was Sir Richard Eley.
“Corporal, get a flag of truce raised. I want to talk to that officer.” He stood up, watching as the British came on, then saw Sir Richard recognize him and utter an exclamation. He raised his hand and the column began to slow and he stepped forward, his saber drawn, face showing shock.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sir Richard took a couple of slow steps forward, disbelief written all over his face. His saber hung loosely from his right hand, forgotten in the confusion running through the British officer’s mind. Casca stood still, watching his enemy approaching with a wary expression. His men stood ready behind him, sensing the tension between the two men. Even though the flag of truce flapped lazily above them, they would be prepared to open fire if anything happened.
The British troops watched too, waiting for something to happen.
“You’re supposed to be dead, Long,” Sir Richard growled, his face thunderous.
“You got it wrong, Major,” Casca addressed him by his military rank, not wishing to recognize his nobility. “And the name’s Lonnergan, not Long. Captain Lonnergan of the Massachusetts militia.”
“The militia,” Sir Richard sneered dismissively. “You make it sound as if it’s something important!”
“It is,” Casca countered, “and they’ll give your pretty boys a good hiding, Major. Where’s that bastard Sergeant Purseman?”
“That’s none of your business,” the Baronet said testily. “He’s elsewhere.” He studied Casca closely. “You have no uniform; how can you be treated as a Captain?”
“I have the rank, given to me by General Washington.”
Sir Richard laughed nastily. “General Washington? A failed militia captain, such as yourself? Well in that case we have nothing to fear if this is the caliber of your officer corps.”
“Don’t forget, Major, these men gave your regulars a bloody nose at Boston. I was there. Talking of Boston, what have you done with Rose?”
Sir Richard smiled evilly. “She is now Baroness Eley. We married in Halifax.”
Casca’s heart stopped for a moment, then painfully landed in his chest and resumed beating. “You – bastard,” he breathed.
“Hopefully she will be carrying my child. I’ll find out in due course. She believes you dead, Lonnergan.”
Sir Richard could be such a supercilious pompous patronizing swine, Casca mused. He could pour scorn and contempt in bucket loads just by using one word. “No doubt you
informed her of that, after being misinformed by Purseman. Well, Major, your tame sergeant messed up. I bet he told you just to cover up his failure.”
“He will suffer for that,” Sir Richard slapped the flat of his blade against his thigh. “But for now we have a little issue of our own to solve, don’t we? You’re outnumbered. Give up. I’ll spare you from the hangman’s noose if you give up now, but if you continue to oppose King George’s rule then you’ll all hang as traitors to the crown.”
“You heard we declared independence, Major? That means we’re no longer subjects of King George, may his gonads rot off.”
Sir Richard looked outraged. “Your Declaration of Independence isn’t fit for wiping my arse on it, Captain. Like your so-called rank, it’s a work of fiction. Nobody will take it seriously, the same as I don’t take your rank seriously. When we have won I’ll personally force you to eat that damned declaration before removing your head and having it mounted on the gates of my mansion.”
“You know what, Major, I think you and I are going to have a serious disagreement very soon. I think I’ll have to kill you, if only to save Rose from a life with you, you stuck-up upper class moron.”
“Peasant!” Sir Richard spat. “You should all be hung as an example to others of your kind. I think this discussion is at an end!” He turned round stiffly and stamped back to his waiting men.
Casca did likewise, his guts turning over with the news that Rose was married to that idiot. How would she regard him if he killed her husband? He might be doing her a favor, or he might not. He’d need to speak to her to find out, but it seemed she was in Halifax, wherever that was. “Take cover, men,” he said, ducking behind the hastily erected barricade. “I think the British are going to attack in a moment. I sort of irritated that strutting peacock.”
