Casca 36: The Minuteman

by Tony Roberts

  Casca cocked an ear. “A few regiments, probably. A couple of thousand men. Lord Stirling’s men will hold them off.” They began to make their way back to Cortelyou House but Casca began to look nervously to the right, where the ridge loomed, covered in trees. One of the men, a Pennsylvanian called Donny, frowned. “You seen something, Case?”

  “No, and that’s what’s worrying me,” Casca said and stopped. The others bunched around, looking at the thickset man. Casca nodded towards the silent trees to their right. “The British are on the other side of that, right? So why only attack in one place with a few thousand men? If you’ve got fifteen thousand, or however many it is, then surely you’ll let loose with a couple more thousand?”

  “Maybe they’re waiting to see how the fight back there goes,” Donny jerked a thumb behind him.

  “Hmmm,” Casca didn’t sound convinced. He wasn’t. Ahead, the road snaked along the edge of the woods as they skirted the ridge. The Cortelyou House was a quarter of a mile away. They could see the lights in the distance. Casca once again looked into the darkness. Morning wasn’t far off.

  “Maybe the redcoats don’t like the dark,” another of the group suggested. “We can’t fight in it, and I’m sure they can’t either.”

  “True,” Casca conceded, “but they’re fighting behind us, so why not elsewhere?” He led them on again, worrying. Suddenly the deeper throaty roar of artillery sounded from the fight and they all stopped and looked round. “This makes it serious,” he commented. “Artillery as well as regiments of men. They’re trying hard now.”

  “You think Lord Stirling’ll hold them, Case?” Donny asked nervously.

  “He ought to be able to; he’s got around fifteen hundred men by the looks of things. That number could hold off five times that given the defensive terrain here; this is why the generals have held the line at this point.”

  They hurried back, accompanied by the artillery noises now echoing all around the ridge. It probably could be heard as far as New York itself. The captain was waiting for them as they got back. Dawn was in the sky by then, and it was a relief to be able to make out some details at last. Casca gave a brief resume to the captain and then led the others to the water butt to slake their thirst.

  The men looked apprehensively to the far end of the ridge where smoke could now be seen in the early morning rising up above the trees. The fight was going strong but reassuringly it wasn’t moving. The Americans were holding firm. Casca still had a gnawing doubt in his guts and was about to ask to go scout down the ridge opposite when two shots rang out from the opposite direction. Heads swung in alarm and Casca ran round the house to stare along the ridge in the other direction.

  “What was that?” the captain demanded, running to join Casca.

  “Sounded like a signal, sir. Damn it!”

  “What?”

  “The British have flanked us – that attack was only a diversion. The real attack is coming from the other direction. They’ve crossed the ridge and we’re in danger of being cut off and surrounded.”

  The captain went pale and swung round, screaming for the sergeant to attend him. Almost simultaneously two men came running, almost spent, from the woods on the ridge. “Sir!” one panted, almost throwing up in exhaustion. “Redcoats a-comin’ through the woods. Hundreds of ‘em!”

  “Damn,” the captain growled. “Sergeant, send word to Lord Stirling; the Cortelyou House is under threat. His command is flanked.”

  Casca grabbed the breathless picket. “How far are they, man?”

  “Up the ridge. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  Casca turned to the captain. “Sir, permission to take twenty men to delay them. We’ve got a chance in the woods.”

  “Go – we need all the time we can get.”

  Casca called out to the sergeant to select twenty men to accompany him. The captain nodded as he went past, shouting to the corporal to organize the rest in two groups to stand along the road in the direction the two shots had come from. Casca’s twenty men came running, determined looks on their faces. This was going to be their first action for many of them, and they were determined to give a good account of themselves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The wood covered them as they made their way up silently, Casca putting his finger to his lips. The freshness of the morning air was full of the smell of earth, rotting vegetation and other scents of flowers and woodland plants. Suddenly movement could be seen ahead and the shapes of men materialized from the trees. Casca knelt and drew a bead on the front man. The gun kicked into his shoulder as he sent a lead ball flying at him, impacting in his chest, sending the red and blue coated figure flying backwards.

  Voices filled the woods and everyone dived for cover behind the nearest tree or log. Casca’s ears pricked up as he caught the language of the enemy. German. “Hey, guys,” he said to his men, “these are German soldiers. Watch them, they’re tough bastards.”

  Shots rang out and crashed through the foliage and sent splinters from tree trunks. Casca reloaded quickly, ramming the powder down the barrel and dropping a ball in after it, ramming down again. He twirled the ramrod, replaced it in the groove under the barrel, then poured the rest of the powder into the pan and cocked the hammer, squinting down the barrel, watching to see if anyone moved. Someone did, and Casca snapped off a shot that clipped the man on the shoulder, spinning him round and sending him crashing to the ground.

  More shots blasted from the twenty Americans, sending the Germans ducking behind their improvised cover. Casca pointed to the nearest of his colleagues. “Go back to the next tree and cover your buddy.”

  Once the Germans realized how few opposed them, they’d storm them. Now was the time for a fighting withdrawal. He pointed to another. “Drop back, cover your buddy, and repeat.”

  He knelt up on one knee, having reloaded, and fired at a German who was aiming at one of his men. The German flung up his arms and fell backwards. Casca ducked down and slid backwards from the tree, making for the next tree. Two shots spat close to his head and he rolled round the safety of the tree, thankful he’d not been hit.

  One of his men was nursing a bloodied arm. Casca jerked his head towards the house. “Go on, get out of here. Move it.” The man scuttled off downhill, unable to use his musket which had been dropped when he’d been hit.

  More shots came smashing through the woods. Casca reloaded, his heart beating fast. That was almost a full volley. Someone had gotten them organized fast. Time to retreat some more. “Get back to the next tree,” he snapped at the nearest man.

  While the man scampered through the undergrowth, Casca reloaded and glanced round the base of the tree. Men were advancing, bayonets fixed. Someone had worked out they were faced by just a few men. Casca slid onto his belly and squinted down the barrel. He picked out a sergeant, armed with a hatchet, and shot him coolly through the guts. The man went down screaming. No pain quite like a gut shot.

  He rolled onto his side, bent double, and sprang to his feet, pushing away with his left hand. A few shots came his way but they went high. He scampered to the next tree and leaned against it, frantically reloading. The air was full of shots, shouts and the hazy dissipating clouds of discharged smoke. The German soldiers were advancing with purpose downhill, one line advancing ten paces, coming to a halt, shouting with one voice, then firing. The next line, having reloaded, now came up, and repeated the actions of the first.

  It was getting hairy and Casca waved his men down towards the level ground and the clearing around Cortelyou House. Two of the men went down under the hail of shots but the rest made it, fleeing to the far side of the clearing.

  Casca spotted the captain, retreating past the house, his men giving way under the advance of more redcoats. They were coming from two directions and it was clear the American line further along the ridge had either collapsed, or more likely, given that no shots had been heard, it had never been there in the first place. Casca cursed. Damn the generals! After all that
had been said the Jamaica Pass had been left open. Someone had been very lax.

  “Lonnergan,” the captain said tensely, “retreat. We’re outnumbered.”

  “What about Lord Stirling’s men?”

  The captain pointed along the road. “Coming. We’re to get the hell out of here.”

  The men began to run along the road, then scattered to either side as a smart column of men dressed in light brown, blue and even red came marching up. Casca stopped and stared as he caught sight of bayonets. Were they British soldiers? No, the captain saluted a man on horseback and Casca recognized Lord Stirling. The Eternal Mercenary came trotting up and stood patiently while Lord Stirling and the captain exchanged a hurried number of words, before the captain and his men were waved off.

  Stirling now looked down at Casca and he started as he recognized the man standing before him, even with blackened skin from the discharge of his musket. “Captain Lonnergan, isn’t it?”

  “Sir, no longer a captain. I’ve been demoted. Ahead of you are two separate columns of the enemy and they’ve taken the house.”

  “So I understand. We must hold them off to enable the rest of my men to escape over the Gowanus Creek, Lonnergan.”

  “The road is cut?”

  “Sadly, yes. My Marylanders here will make a stand here.”

  Casca was appalled. “Sir, there are a couple of thousand enemy troops over by the house. Some of them are the King’s German troops.”

  “No matter, Lonnergan, Germans bleed just as much as Englishmen.”

  “Or Marylanders, sir.”

  Stirling fixed Casca with a fierce glare. “Tell me, Lonnergan, were you demoted through insubordination?”

  Casca nodded. “A difference with a major, sir.”

  “I’m not surprised. The orders are clear. To enable thirteen hundred men to escape, two hundred and fifty must make a stand. They will follow orders. Something you may learn from, Lonnergan.”

  Casca sighed. If a fight was to be made, then he wasn’t going to run. “Sir, permission to join the ranks.”

  Stirling looked surprised, then nodded. “You will follow the commands of Major Gist there,” he pointed to another man on horseback. “We will attack in two lines.”

  The men deployed in front of the now occupied house, a hundred yards from the fence that ran around the property. The ground was flat and well-tended all around, a perfect killing ground. There was no cover. The red uniformed British and blue and red German troops were taking up positions in the house, both upstairs and down, and around the grounds. A couple of small cannon were brought up too and wheeled into position.

  Casca saw that some of the enemy troops were wearing the distinctive flat Tam O’Shanters, identifying them as Scottish troops. He enviously looked at the bayonets of the Maryland troops and vowed to get one at the earliest opportunity. The Marylanders were finally ready, and at a command from Stirling, began to advance.

  Shots began to pour out of the house as they closed, climbing the fencing, and men began to fall, crying out and clutching their wounds. Casca ducked instinctively as one shot fizzed narrowly past his head, then he bent down and picked up a fallen musket with bayonet, twisting the blade free of the luckless former owner’s gun and then slipping it onto his, discarding the other musket. He ran a couple of steps to catch up, then raised his musket on command along with the others, and loosed off a shot at the packed British troops to the side of the house. Bodies began falling there, too, and with a cheer the Marylanders ran at the surprised British troops. Having been told that the Americans would melt away before their disciplined fire, they were taken aback at the enemy not only standing up to their volleys, but also charging them.

  Casca yelled as he ran for the door of Cortelyou House, kicking it open as he got there, his bayonet jabbing forward into the space beyond. A soldier swung his barrel at Casca’s head but the Eternal Mercenary ducked, then thrust up, the point of the bayonet sinking into the man’s chest. He was dead before he fell to the floor. Two more enemy soldiers came at Casca, fierce expressions on their faces. Behind Casca a couple of his comrades came into the house, seeking to drive the enemy from the house, and they jabbed at the two British soldiers while Casca glanced to the right through an open doorway.

  This was the kitchen and two men were in there shooting out. Casca ran at them, spearing the first through the back. The redcoat screamed and forgot about his gun, dropping it and writhing in agony. His comrade uttered a vile curse aimed at Casca’s parentage and tried to smash the Eternal Mercenary’s head in with the butt. Casca stepped back, then locked stocks with the Brit and pushed hard, sending the soldier back up against the wall. A push to one side, then the other, and the soldier overbalanced. Casca’s butt slammed into the man’s jaw, laying him out cold.

  He swung round, hearing shots from inside the house, and returned to the entry hall. One American lay dead and two British soldiers. More redcoats were pushing through from the rear of the house and the remaining Marylander urged Casca to get out. Together the two ran out into the sunshine and made for the fence, where the outnumbered Americans were retreating in disorder.

  Lord Stirling wheeled his horse and yelled encouragement at the men, getting them to form up once more into two lines. About half of them had fallen, and the odds were even more heavily stacked against them, but they had to buy time for the rest of their division to escape.

  Casca wiped sweat and blood from his forehead and gulped down lungfuls of air. This was suicide, but it had to be done. Lord Stirling rode past and shouted praise for the men. “Fine work, men! Another charge, one last time. They’ll remember taking on the Marylanders for a long time, mark my words!” He spied Casca readying himself. “How goes it, Lonnergan?”

  “Just warming up, sir.”

  Lord Stirling smiled, then became serious again and waved his saber in the air. “Once more, one more time, my boys! To buy our comrades time to save themselves! Ahead stand the enemy; send a message to King George – he shall never succeed in bringing us back under his rule!”

  The Marylanders roared and stepped forward once more, grim determination mixed with a fatalistic resignation on their faces. Casca sucked in a deep breath, cocked the hammer on his piece, and lurched forward. It was plain suicide but damned admirable; buying time with their lives. Lucky bastards; at least they can die. I can’t. Damn you, Jesus! He saw the cannon being loaded frantically, the loader probably ramming grapeshot into the muzzle. Bodies littered their route, mostly the brown uniformed Americans but here and there a British soldier.

  A volley rattled out from the house and metal fizzed past their ears, and more men staggered and sank to the grass. The cannon boomed and the air was suddenly full of pieces of lethal metal, cutting down more. Casca felt a sharp sting in his side and he staggered. Clutching the wound, he grimaced and bent double, squeezing his eyes shut. He looked at his coat, ripped along his ribs. Grapeshot it was. Blood was already coagulating against his skin, and Casca staggered on, holding his musket one-handed.

  Alongside him the remaining Americans were still cheering and advancing, marching as smartly as they could with their ranks torn to shreds. The defenders kept on shooting, blasting away at the men who just wouldn’t give up. Finally only a handful remained and Lord Stirling dismounted and grabbed Casca by the shoulder. “You’ve done all I can ask of you. Now get out of here and save yourself!”

  “What about you, sir?” Casca gasped painfully.

  “I’ll surrender. I can’t get away. But I’m damned if I’ll give my sword to a British officer. I’ll seek out one of those Germans. Now go!”

  Casca nodded and waved at a few of the remaining Marylanders who were still trying to shoot back. “Let’s go! It’s done!”

  The men looked around and their commander was waving them to get away. He would remain; there was nothing else for him to do now. His command had been destroyed. He just hoped that the sacrifice had been worth it.

  Casca stumbled along the
road, sweating. The pain was excruciating and he had to keep on holding his side. His musket was slung over one shoulder and he tried to keep up with the others but they were outpacing him. He took a last look behind him and saw the wounded being tended by Lord Stirling, and the enemy advancing on him now that there was nobody left to oppose them.

  The road ran towards the scene of the earlier battle so Casca knew the British would be in possession of it, and so the only way to go was to the right and down the slope to the marshy wilderness and the Gowanus Creek. No redcoat would go that way; nobody was expected to. An army certainly couldn’t cross it, not unless they lost all cohesion and got absolutely soaked and filthy.

  He got to the edge of the marshes and saw that many had already come that way. The ground was cut up, muddied and messed up by hundreds of feet. Clearly the American forces had made their break this way, the only place they could have gone. Casca plunged into the unwelcoming wetland and waded through the thigh deep water, holding his musket up to avoid it getting wet. The water was a dark brown color, churned up by the passage of hundreds of men. The air was full of the smell of rotting vegetation and the brackish smell that the tide always brought into coastal creeks like this. Ahead there were clumps of grassy islands, shrubs, trees and water filled ditches. A place only to be crossed in daylight.

  His boots were full of mud, his trousers stuck to his legs and his side hurt like hell. But he was free of pursuit. In the distance he could see a few figures wading through the marshes and followed them. Then suddenly a watercourse appeared – the creek. Casca looked behind him and saw a group of redcoats watching him. One raised his musket and gauged the distance, but at over two hundred yards it was ludicrous to believe he would hit him, and the soldier thought so too and lowered his gun.

  The Eternal Mercenary grunted, gritted his teeth and plowed into the creek, up to his chest. The ground was slippery and he stumbled once, but kept his balance and carried on. The pain in his legs was beginning to match his side with the effort of wading through the thick glutinous morass, and when he found firmer ground he gratefully heaved himself up, dripping water, mud and ooze. He lay down, gasping for air, and rolled onto his back.