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19 March, 1781
Saint Augustine, British West Florida
Thomas Heyward sweat in his broadcloth uniform as he looked over the array of forts protecting Saint Augustine's northern flank, some of which dated back to Spain's initial fortification of a tiny Indian village in 1565. Spring came early this year and the usual round of swamp diseases were already tearing their way through the American ranks. Fortunately a virtual stream of supplies and vigorous attention to hygiene discouraged insects and louses. This seemed to answer and actual casualties were light.
The Spanish/British forts were built with mutual support in mind. One of the lessons of siege warfare developed by the Italians in the 15th and 16th centuries was that a wall the enemy could only attack obliquely, as opposed to head on, was far less vulnerable to crushing cannonshot. Shortening and thickening the walls allowed them to absorb impacts. Given another ten years, further modifications could have made Saint Augustine virtually impregnable.
Tom knew nothing of siege tactics, but fortunately his officers did. They set their cannon out of range of the enemy and tried to build a trench encircling the entire city. The trench promptly flooded thus preventing exploitation, but at least it would discourage sallies. The British responded with their own flooded trench, Heyward answered with temporary fortifications. And still the cannon on both sides thundered on, doing minimal damage at this range.
"General Lincoln."
"General." Benjamin Lincoln was in a foul mood. First and foremost, he knew full well the politicos in the Carolinas and Virginia had their own agenda to which he was little more than a pawn, having been disgraced in the campaign against Jasen Exeter. Second he was tired of this swamp, and though casualties must be high he felt the best move was to storm the city now before any potential reinforcements arrived. Third he was developing a rash, and though in truth it was little more than an infection he dreaded the worst.
"Anything from the English?"
"No. Yes. They have a few boats out fishing under their guns."
Tom peered at the tiny ships. "I wouldn't worry, they won't get enough to feed the town."
"No."
"Did you have a suggestion?" Heyward turned to him.
"Nothing I haven't suggested before, sir."
"Ah." Even if poisoning the Atlantic Ocean was possible, it seemed extreme.
Lincoln whirled on him. "I keep telling you, sir. An attack now..!"
"Might shorten the siege. And it also might devastate our army. What fools would we be, to to lose a battle we'd already won? Also there's the matter of a possible army in Mobile,"
"General Exeter...."
"Is in there, or he's not. Nothing we do will change that either way." After a pitched battle with Exeter's army along the St. John's River the general had vanished. According to survivors he'd simply fled in mid-battle.
"Faint hearts..!" Lincoln protested. He owed Exeter. He'd heard the Ottomans had interesting ideas concerning prisoners and he wouldn't mind trying them out.
"I'm not sure I care for your tone," Tom warned sharply.
"Beg pardon. Sir." Lincoln turned away.
"What, you think I want to be here?"
"No, sir."
Heyward sighed. He was on his way to see Steving on the southern flank when a cavalryman rode up. "Sir," he saluted. "Captain Webster's compliments, and supplies have arrived from Charleston. And a letter for you."
"A letter?" Supplies took a month to wind their way down the coast. Cutters could deliver messages in a week. Why the delay? Had the privateers turned against them at last?
"Yes, sir." A rather thin letter, and Tom recognized Rutledge's private seal.
"This day just gets better."
"Sir?"
"Never mind. Thank you, corporal."
Tom sighed again and opened the letter. By Rutledge's standards it was direct and precise:
Sir: There is a lady here looking for Colonel Preston, Miss Cassandra Rafferty. She is with her guardian, who seems to dislike our colonel extremely. I suspect he forgot himself while up north and she seeks compensation. This is unfortunate. I believe her to be lower class and such a liason must damage his future prospects. I know you have a kindness for him. I recommend you keep him there, and we may pray she will tire and go away. If he must return, I will help. I am, your obed. humble....
"She's alive?" he asked no one in particular. What to do? Could Rutledge be right? Getting a girl pregnant in 1780 was <i>serious.</i> Hell, in 1940 it was serious. Regardless John would never forgive him if Tom tried to stop him from seeing her, and it wasn't like his cavalry had much to do until Saint Augustine fell....why was Rutledge willing to help? And why the devil was he treating Tom like a co-conspirator?
"Corporal!" He flagged down the cavalryman, who rode over.
"Sir?"
"My compliments to Colonel Preston, and I will see him in my office in twenty minutes."
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Tom's 'office' consisted of an abandoned house. Heyward brushed past the two sentries, absently returning their salutes. He moved into what was the kitchen and poured what passed for coffee.
Five minutes later Preston ran in. "Tom!?"
"Good afternoon, Colonel," Heyward answered, setting the tone. Rutledge's letter lay crushed in his jacket. "Please tell me the state and disposition of your command?"
"...Sir?" John's eyes seemed to glow. Finally, some action! "My command is at your disposal."
"And its state?"
"...Well enough. I have a few people ill. After rearranging some commands I suppose I could give you .... twelve or thirteen hundred, with another hundred protecting our flanks."
"Major Engels, is he ready for command?"
"Yes?" Preston tried to meet his general's gaze. What was going on? Tom turned away.
"Good. Colonel, you're to return to Charleston when the cutter's ready in a few days. That gives you time to put your command in order."
"Charleston? Why!?" There was going to be some action, and Tom was sending him away?
"There are matters there that need your personal attention, Colonel."
"But...I have a lawyer looking after my father's...my house. If something's wrong, I'm sure..."
"This is not open for discussion, Colonel." Tom did look at him now, coldly.
Preston clenched his jaw. Finally: "May I ask what these matters are?"
"I'm uncertain," Tom lied. "When you arrive, you're to speak with Edward Rutledge. You know him?"
"Of course!"
The man you hate.
"Then I'll leave you to your preparations, Colonel. Good journeys." Tom paused. "I expect you back here in six weeks, no later. You hear?"
"Aye."
You do know what's going on, or you wouldn't have said that. Why won't you tell me?
Because, Tom would have answered as he stood to watch Preston gallop off,
You would steal the cutter, wreck your career and leave your command a mess. Two or three days won't make any difference.
