The Minuteman Read online

  “You’re a private, aren’t you, Lonnergan?” Fisher finally spoke, his face slightly red with the irregularity of what was happening. He much preferred the orderly way of things.

  “Then make me a sergeant. You need NCOs who know their job. It’s the most important rank in any army. The NCOs hold the sections and platoons together. Officers may give the orders, but it’s we who make sure they’re carried out.”

  Fisher’s face went redder. The men behind Casca grinned and nodded. Casca stood up and turned to the men. “You chaps would be happy for me to train you, to be alongside you in a fight, wouldn’t you?”

  The room shook to the ‘ayes’ that broke the atmosphere. Casca nodded, smiling. He turned back to Fisher. “You can’t turn my offer down. This is no Tea Party that’s coming. It’s a real war. Just go ask the widows of the poor blokes who died yesterday. People like me can train men to fight properly, to react properly. All that helps cut down the losses.”

  Fisher cocked his head, clearly thinking deeply. Casca leaned towards him again. “Besides, Captain, if in the smoke of battle you need someone to rely on, to stand by you, would you want a raw recruit who has had no experience of what’s going on before, or someone like me?”

  Fisher smiled briefly. “I see your point, Lonnergan. Sergeant it is, then. Congratulations,” he stood up and shook Casca’s hand. The waiting recruits cheered and a few slapped Casca on the back. “Now let me sign up these enthusiastic volunteers and you can then tell them how lucky they are to be in your unit.”

  The men laughed. Casca turned and looked at them. They were a cross section of society, some absurdly young looking, others much older. The excitement of fighting for their own identity had clearly called to them and they were impatient to join those who had stood up to the army.

  Casca led Rob back outside. Rob scratched his head. “I’m not sure how I’m going to take being ordered around by you, Cass – or should I call you Case now?”

  “Call me Sarge,” Casca grinned. “Everyone else is going to.”

  “Hmm,” Rob looked dubious. “You sure you’re fit enough to be up like this? Elaine only dug that ball out of your shoulder yesterday. It’s amazing you’re up on your feet, let alone out here.”

  “I’m fine – your wife did a first class job on the shoulder. It’s sore, but I’ll manage. Don’t think there’s going to be a fight just yet.” Casca flexed his stiff and aching shoulder. It still hurt, but it would be back to normal in a couple of days, he knew.

  A crowd had gathered on the far side of the Green and were shouting loudly. One of them was James Lash, and he appeared to be stirring up the townsfolk. Casca began to saunter over. As he got closer he could make out what was being said. Lash was indeed stirring up the people. “We’ve got to show these Tories they cannot carry on taking all what’s due to us! This is our land, not theirs! We must take what’s ours and deny the same to anyone who supports the Tories!”

  It was a typical rent-a-mob scene. Casca sighed and stood at the back, musket cradled in his arms and listened as Lash began to list all the atrocities carried out by the Tories and the army. Casca was surprised; he’d seen none of what Lash was describing, yet the man was telling the crowd that they were true, and more to the point, they were believing it.

  Then Lash got down to specifics. “Just on the edge of town there’s a place run by a rich Tory; the merchant Maplin who payrolls the army! Let’s go show him he’s backed the wrong side! Let’s go there now and leave him with nothing!” The crowd roared, baying for Maplin’s blood. Casca felt a cold knot in his stomach. Lash was waving around a lit torch and it was clear he intended burning the mansion down. Casca grabbed his powder horn and poured an amount down the barrel, hauled out the ramrod and twirled it, compacting the powder at the bottom of the barrel. He then grabbed a lead ball and dropped it down the barrel and rammed it too, then cocked the musket and sprinkled some powder in the pan.

  As Lash pushed his way through the crowd to lead them to the mansion, Casca stood in his way and aimed at the agitator’s forehead. “Stop!” he roared.

  The crowd bunched up behind Lash and stared at Casca with wild eyes. They were very wound up and would need hardly any encouraging to go rip the Maplin’s place apart. Lash leaned back from the black muzzle and raised his burning torch. “Are you mad?” he demanded of Casca. “You’re a damned Tory!”

  “Oh shut up, you idiot!” Casca snapped. He faced the crowd pressing in on him. “Has he told you there’s a young woman in the house? Has he told you she’s no Tory? Has he told you she had a mother in Philadelphia she wishes to see? Would you burn her down in your madness? Is this the face of Massachusetts? Are you willing to commit atrocities too? What would the Tories say when they found out what you’d done?”

  The crowd muttered, turning to each other. Some of the red mist was clearing, he could see. Lash though was not to be deflected. “They burned down Mr. Getts’ house and him with it!” he shouted. “Are we going to allow that disgrace to go unpunished?”

  “When was it burned down?” Casca demanded, jabbing Lash in the chest with the gun barrel.

  “Last night. Most of the house is gone, and Mr. Getts died along with his family and servants.”

  Casca shook his head. “The army was nowhere near it last night. How do you know who did it? Maplin’s a greedy Tory; he’s no arsonist.”

  “Who cares? Maplin’s place must go! Who’s with me?” he shouted, turning to the crowd. Casca stepped back, raised his musket and discharged it into the air, making many jump in fright. A cloud of white smoke billowed up, obscuring Casca’s vision for a moment, then it cleared as the morning breeze blew it away.

  Men came running from all directions, most of them militiamen. Rob came up, concern on his face. “What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes wide. Others were in a state of half panic, thinking the British were coming. Casca swore under his breath. One shot and half the town was on the verge of pissing their pants. What would happen if Gage sent half the Boston garrison out right now?

  “This fool here,” Casca waved his smoking barrel in the direction of Lash who was working his jaw, trying to unblock his ringing ears, “is working up a lynch mob to go burn Maplin’s house down.”

  “Good God,” Rob breathed, “Rose is there, isn’t she?”

  “Maybe; she’s supposed to be traveling to Philadelphia. But Lash is going off half cocked.” Casca eyed the glaring agitator with dislike. There was just something about him he didn’t trust.

  “We’ll sort that out,” Rob said and waved at the men behind him who had come to an uncertain halt. Beyond, Casca could see Captain Fisher walking towards him, a bunch of new recruits in a loose bunch behind. The shot had brought everyone out.

  Rob asked his colleagues to speak to the crowd, to calm them down. Fisher turned up and Casca gave him the bare facts. Lash was looking very uncomfortable by now. The torch was taken and Lash ordered to return to the Meeting House with Fisher. The matter would be taken up with Samuel Adams. Nobody was to go burning down property unless the Congress authorized it.

  Lash shot Casca a look of intense dislike before he went under guard with Fisher. Casca puffed out his cheeks. That had been close. He decided to go visit the mansion. Maplin was no friend of his, and he guessed he may have fled. But what of Rose?

  It took him twenty minutes to arrive outside the mansion, and he walked past the open gates into the driveway. The house looked empty. The door was locked and nobody came to answer his knocking and ringing. He went around the rear and peered through the windows, calling out to Rose. Nobody answered.

  Everyone had gone. But where?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Enquiries to Adams via Fisher gave no comfort to Casca. Rose Maplin had not gone to Philadelphia. Nobody seemed to know anything, or had seen anyone leave the mansion. It was fortunate Lash’s harebrained scheme to burn the place down hadn’t been followed through, or no one would know for sure the place had been empty or not.


  The stand-off at Boston had brought many units running to the area, Casca’s included. The Massachusetts Congress had appointed a General called Artemas Ward to command what they were calling the ‘Army of Observation’ to make sure no British forces left Boston. What the American Congress in Philadelphia would do in the meantime was open to conjecture. The people of Massachusetts were clear in their attitude; they had gone too far into rebellion to go back now. If the British wanted Massachusetts back they would have to fight for it. What the other colonies were going to do would soon become clear, but the townsfolk and country people of New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Connecticut were backing the rebellion and sending their militias to help.

  Casca and his unit marched to Cambridge, a few miles outside Boston. They were on high ground, and when they made their way towards the coast shortly after arriving, they could look out over the bay to where the British were bottled up.

  Ahead on the right hand promontory stood the city of Boston. Church spires pushed up the highest from the collection of houses that ran up from the wharves and jetties of the harbor. Across a narrow stretch of water to the left stood another promontory, one that was closer to reach for the blockading American forces. On this promontory stood a small settlement on the waterfront opposite Boston itself. This was Charlestown and behind it the land rose up to where the British had been constructing some defensive fortifications, but these had now been abandoned and the British had gone. The promontory itself was connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway only ten yards wide in places.

  Beyond both Charlestown and Boston the sea glittered, dotted here and there by small islands and islets of varying sizes. The tang of salt could be smelt and Casca inhaled deeply for a moment or two. There was no mistaking the aroma of the sea.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” Rob commented, looking down at Boston.

  “No, but they can be supplied by sea and as long as they can do that, they’ll hold out. Fancy going into Boston across that causeway and forcing them out?”

  Rob pulled a face. Clearly it wasn’t going to be an easy task. Casca wondered what the two sides would do; the British were bottled up but were clearly going to be supplied by the Royal Navy, while the Americans had more men and could keep the British in Boston, but were in no position to force their way in and fight for possession of the town. It was a stand-off.

  Back at Cambridge Casca soon settled down into a routine of training the militiamen. He got them to fire in ranks and practice loading and cleaning their muskets. The black powder fouled the barrels up in no time at all. Then he had them marching in formation and wheeling from column into line. That took some doing; more than once someone turned the wrong way and threw the line into confusion. Casca patiently got them to go over it again and again. The men grumbled, but Casca told them that this drill was essential if they were to quickly form a battle line from the march formation if they were suddenly attacked.

  It was tiring work but he enjoyed it. It also helped the men – and boys – form a camaraderie. Being drilled together soon got them familiar with each other and they could compare aches and pains after another grueling day under Casca’s baleful glare.

  The Continental Congress in Philadelphia voted to adopt the ‘Army of Observation’ and gave the uprising their full support. The British would now have to fight for all thirteen colonies. Support in some states wasn’t as enthusiastic as in Massachusetts though, and there were plenty of people loyal to the crown. It would be a hard campaign, Casca knew, and once the British got their act together it would sort out the men from the boys.

  Other generals appeared and one, a man called Israel Putnam, occupied the Charlestown peninsula, putting his men just a short distance from Boston itself. The Governor-General, Gage, had made a strategic error, Casca thought. The Charlestown peninsula commanded the approaches to Boston harbor and artillery could be sited there to strike at supply vessels. If they wanted to keep Boston, the British would now have to retake Charlestown.

  * * *

  In Boston, Sir Richard Eley studied the American lines through his telescope. There were plenty of them, he thought to himself. No matter, once the reinforcements arrived the discipline of the redcoats would sweep the rabble from their positions and restore law and order. He lowered his eyepiece and shut it with an abruptness that betrayed his frustration. This uprising threatened his plans for making large amounts of money and bailing him out of the financial mess he’d gotten himself into.

  “Pity London doesn’t send us a General with some steel,” he commented to Lieutenant Harries who was patiently standing by his side alongside the fortifications on Beacon Hill, one of the high points on the Boston peninsula, and an area not built upon. It looked out due west over the waters to the marshy shore at the foot of the hills that rose to the town of Cambridge. “With someone other than that damned Whig Gage we could do something about this other than sit here like ducks on a mill pond.”

  “He’s our commanding officer, sir,” Harries said reprovingly.

  “Stuff and damnation,” Sir Richard responded testily. “Everyone knows he sympathizes with these rebels, and would happily surrender the city to them if it didn’t mean the end of his career. So he sits here and does nothing. It makes my blood boil.”

  “We must obey orders, sir.”

  “Damn you, you’re right of course!” Sir Richard took one last look at the militia figures, distant specks moving against the wooded background, before slapping his thigh. “I’m off indoors. Let me know if anything happens. Not that it will of course,” he added, “Gage will be content to keep the status quo until doomsday. Bloody Whigs,” he muttered and stamped off, leaving the relieved Harries to continue his survey of the lines on his own.

  The command post on Beacon Hill was a brick built construction, sturdy and squat, designed to withstand the latest artillery bombardments. The land outside had been shaped and modified, creating sloped landscapes that were designed to deflect cannon balls up and over the roof of the building. Low embrasures acted as windows, making the interiors gloomy but oil lamps were plentiful so there was sufficient light to see by even at night.

  Sir Richard entered the command room and sat down heavily behind his desk. His turn of duty at Beacon Hill was something he detested, but as the commander of the 67th Foot he had to take his turn like every other regimental leader.

  Sergeant Purseman sat patiently against the wall next to the door that led to the magazine. He was once more in the triple chevroned uniform of his rank and had reported his near success to Sir Richard. Although he’d had his hit confirmed by Sir Richard’s spy, the disconcerting news was that Long was once more up on his feet – remarkably quickly, so Sir Richard thought – and was now part of the force surrounding Boston.

  “Sergeant. We need to deal with this Long fellow in due course.”

  “Sah!” Purseman stood up ramrod straight.

  “Once this matter is concluded here you will carry on with your mission to deal with him. You were close the other day. I don’t want any more failures, you understand?”

  “No, sah!” Purseman stood waiting for Sir Richard’s next order, whatever that may be.

  “Our friend in the rebel camp tells me Getts was taken care of. Congratulations, Sergeant, on a fine job there.”

  “Thank you, sah. It was easy.”

  Sir Richard nodded. Purseman’s talents for mayhem and chaos were well known to him. Shame he couldn’t be let loose on Sir Richard’s creditors. That would solve much of his financial woes, but paper records had been made and lawyers were involved, and that made things pretty difficult to destroy. If they started dying in unfortunate fires or falling off cliffs whilst taking a bracing walk by the sea, someone might make the connection.

  He dismissed Purseman. The ugly sergeant was probably itching to get at a jar of grog or some pox-ridden whore. Sir Richard’s mind turned to the young Rose Maplin. She had been brought protesting into Boston by a breathless and frightened Ebene
zer the day of the skirmishes at Lexington and Concord. It appeared she had been preparing to flee to Philadelphia when her father discovered her plans and had decided to bring her to Boston. Rather fortunate timing; a few more hours later and the two would have been trapped on the wrong side of the blockade. As it was they’d just made it ahead of the retreating columns. Pity the plan to burn the evidence of their flight had been thwarted.

  The coming evening Sir Richard was to be a guest of the Maplins at their town house just off Beacon Hill. It would be just a short walk to the house and he was sure he could charm the girl given enough time. He just wanted to be able to tell her that the man of her dreams, that accursed Cass Long, was dead. Purseman would have to do his job once and for all.

  * * *

  Casca took a break from drilling the men to sit on a fallen tree trunk and watched as the new commander, Major General Ward, made his rounds of the various units scattered along the road to Boston. There were too many to be billeted in Cambridge and so a sea of tents and other temporary shelters had sprung up all along the route. They were grouped in their regional units but it was still a confusion of men, arms, supplies and space. Arguments had begun to break out between the various militias and Ward had responded by declaring he’d come and see for himself the conditions.

  Casca hoped he’d do something soon as things were very chaotic. His unit, the old Lexington Minutemen, seemed to be scattered in various places, and Captain Fisher had posted him and the men he had to train up away from them. Another problem the men had was to identify which unit they were in; there was no uniform as such. Everyone was in their normal everyday clothes, like Casca, and the only common denominator he could see was that they weren’t in uniform like the British were.

  Ward didn’t come near Casca; he was more interested in one unit practicing drill. Casca’s lot had done theirs that morning and were now taking a break and discussing the situation around lunch time camp fires. It was May and the days were getting warm but a cooked meal and hot tea was what the men wanted, especially as they were away from home.