Halestorm

by Becky Akers

  “Damn you! I’m gonna tell Howe about this.”

  That gave the lieutenant colonel pause. Cunningham seized his hesitation to press his advantage. “And what’s he got candles for, and a Bible? Howe ain’t gonna wanna hear you been mollycoddling a damned rebel.”

  “I hardly think a Bible—”

  “Won’t even let me measure him for his coffin—let me tell you, that makes a lot of rebels see their error, right there—but he’s sitting here like a man of leisure, reading his Bible.”

  At last, the rebel betrayed an emotion: the same revulsion that twisted British officers’ faces at sight of Billy Cunningham. The marshal’s lust flamed higher as he added hatred for Nathan Hale to it. How he could make the beautiful captain writhe! Just five minutes with him....

  “Lieutenant, take the prisoner’s Bible and the candle, since the marshal insists on it.” The colonel’s tone was icy as he issued his orders. “Rest of you, back to your posts. Provost Marshal, I’ll deliver the prisoner to you tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock.”

  “Colonel.” It was the rebel’s voice, low, musical, the perfect voice to come from that perfect man. Cunningham salivated. “Colonel, if I can’t have a Bible, can I see a chaplain?”

  The colonel chirped assent, but Cunningham said, “No chaplain. Don’t try and make out like you’s a pious one. Ain’t no damned rebels gonna get into heaven, anyway. You’re all gonna burn in hell with me.”

  “I doubt that, sir,” he shot back. “We’ve had too much of your company in this world to pursue your acquaintance in the next.”

  The colonel hid a grin while several of the guard laughed and Cunningham spluttered. “You damned dog. Damned rebel. You son of a whore, I’ll—” He lunged forward, to be pinioned again by the men around him.

  Astonishingly, the prisoner also lunged, as if good British steel were not pointed at him, as if six of the enemy were not arrayed against him. He was halfway to Cunningham before a musket stock cracked against his head and knocked him to the ground, where he groaned and lay stunned.

  Cunningham tried to kick him, but the colonel’s boot in his ankle deflected the blow, and he howled with pain instead.

  “Get out!” the colonel shouted. “Boy’s gonna hang in the morning. Isn’t that enough for you? You have to insult his mother and torment him? Now get out!”

  After they had gone, taking the candle and Bible with them, Nathan rolled over. He cushioned his throbbing head in his arms and lay staring toward the ceiling, lost in the darkness above, wondering whether its tiles were poorly laid enough to permit escape.

  He had spent the first hour of his confinement searching the greenhouse. He checked whether the shuttered panels of the walls had loosened or rotted in hopes that he might pry one away. But all were sturdy and tightly nailed to the frame. Besides, a dozen guards paced outside.

  He had despaired, then, before reminding himself that the Continentals might penetrate the government’s lines at any moment. Mayhap a straggler had seen him racing through the burning city and carried word to Washington or Knowlton. And even if they knew nothing of his capture, they might coincidentally sweep down York Island to surprise the enemy, especially if they had set the fire, as his guards and the Yorkers claimed. That could well have been a diversion; it could mask a southward march. But dusk turned to night, and he admitted the possibility was remote.

  He had next inspected the dirt floor with wild notions of tunneling to freedom, then searched in vain for a mattock or spade. At last, he flung one of the earthenware pots to the floor, thinking to use its shards. Four guards had burst through the door at the noise. Two of them shoved him against the wall while the other two investigated.

  When they realized the ruckus came from broken pottery, they laughed, told him to be more careful, and withdrew. Immediately, he was on his knees in a corner, scraping and praying desperately as he worked. The dirt was packed hard. He made so little progress that they must postpone his execution a year for him to escape this way. Still, he would have continued—anything was better than sitting and mourning the minutes as they melted away—but for his scraping bringing the guards again.

  This time, they didn’t laugh. One grabbed him from behind. Another punched him in the stomach, winding him, before they carted away the mess. He bowed his head in his hands and wept as he prayed.

  He had understood when he enlisted that death could come at any time. But he had hoped for glory in battle, leading an attack against the invaders, capturing a fort, driving the Redcoats from the field, and rejoicing at it, before dying. He had wanted his death, and his life, too, to count.

  Truly, though, he had not expected to die. He was invincible in his youth and his magnificent Cause. Right always prevailed, did it not?

  He could not make himself believe, even now, that he would not be here this time tomorrow, would, in fact, have been dead for hours. It was unreal, inconceivable. Still, unless Providence intervened, he would hang as a felon, in fewer hours than he had fingers, disgraced, alone, forgotten. He had hoped all night, had prayed for deliverance, for a way to alert Washington, for a miracle to save him. More improbable things had happened in this war, with the Continentals overcoming such odds as to convince him of the Almighty’s regard for them.

  But the certainty of death crushed those hopes as his blood dripped in the dirt. The government had conquered him as surely as it would the Continental Army. Washington, Putnam, Knowlton, the Congress, all would face the hangman as he would tomorrow. The administration would disarm the troops, fining the men, imprisoning the officers. Liberty would ebb, tyranny triumph, however he pleaded with Heaven for a way out. He lay in a pool of tears and blood, head exploding, stomach heaving, a thousand nerves never heard from before torturing him.

  And Ally. Where was she now? Would she attend the hanging? His tears fell harder, until he stuffed a fist in his mouth to quiet the sobs. He could not bear for her to witness such shame. How would she survive it when she had already suffered so much?

  He recalled how she had looked last night, in the twilight of his room at the Wyckoffs’. He could have made love to her there. She wanted him as much as he did her. Had he known that he was close to the end, had a voice whispered, “You will die two days from now,” would he have done differently? He had resisted out of honor, the same honor that would see him hang.

  Now he would never marry her, never come to her as her husband, never be more than her brother—and a poor one at that, who had disappointed her so much over the years.

  His list of nevers stretched endlessly. He would never trace his likeness on a son’s face, never laugh at the antics of his children. He would never again teach school. He would never buy a farm, nor plow and plant it, watch the sun rise and set over his fields, feel the breeze lift his sweat. He wouldn’t grow old with Ally. There were so many things he had thought to do, so much left undone.

  He lay quietly, worn out with his sobbing and pain. He longed for his watch, for the comfort of its ticking, the courage that fingering its engraved message always inspired. But the watch had disappeared into a Redcoat’s pocket when they searched him before locking him in here. It happened so quickly he couldn’t be sure who stole it, else he would have tackled the man, however outnumbered he was.

  He put a hand to his neck, tried to imagine the grip of the rope. How long would it take to die? Then he remembered his birthmark, and how the other boys, Guy Daggett especially, had teased him as a child: “’Tis the Devil’s own brand, and a certain-sure sign you’ll hang, like a murderer, like a thief.”

  Suddenly, it came to him, bleakly, unutterably, as his agreeing to spy became real to him on Captain Pond’s schooner.

  I will die in the morning.

  There would be no escape.

  He had not thought to waste his last hours in sleep, but he must have dozed for he woke with sunlight heavy on him. He opened his eyes groggily and tried to remember where he was, why his head ached with every heartbeat and his insides q
uaked with fear.

  Then the voices of the guard reached him, and the rattle of a musket, and he started off the floor. So little time. It must be after nine by the slant of the sun. They were coming for him at ten, the colonel had said last night.

  He glanced at the door, but no breakfast sat inside it. Good. He hated to think that anyone had seen him lying defeated on the ground.

  He was a mess, his hair matted with blood and the dirt from the floor caked on his clothes. He brushed himself off, combed his hair with his fingers and bowed his head for morning prayers. “Father, for whatever reason, You’ve decided it’s better for me to die. Let me die bravely, then, since I must. Let me give the government an example of what free men are that they’ll never forget. And, Father, I ask Thy protection over Ally—”

  He heard the bolt drawn back. The lieutenant who had shown him kindness the night before stood in the doorway, a loaf of bread and a jug in his hands. “Thought you might be hungry, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” His voice was strong, without a single quaver, praise God. “I wonder if you could fetch me a comb and washbasin, maybe a barber.”

  “Actually, sir, the colonel’s forming a detail right now to take you down to the riverbank so you can wash up. Wouldn’t expect a barber, if I was you. Last prisoner who had one got hold of his razor and cut a guard pretty bad. Made a eunuch of him, in fact.”

  He was saved from responding by the arrival of four soldiers, muskets at the ready, a towel over the shoulder and a ball of soap in the hand of the sergeant in charge. “Mr. Hale, if you’re ready—”

  He sighed, then smiled charmingly. “Sergeant, I’m a captain in the Continental Army. I’m going to die for that, so maybe you could address me that way.”

  The sergeant glanced at the lieutenant, and at his nod, said, “Right, then, Captain. This way.”

  The morning was warm for September, the heat of the past week unabated. Nathan peeled off his clothes while the soldiers lounged on the bank, chatting and sharing a pipe. “Captain, don’t go too far,” the sergeant called as he splashed into the water.

  He waded out until the ripples reached his chest and dove to the bottom, opening his eyes to see a school of bass swim past. He watched as long as his breath lasted, then broke the surface to find the Redcoats on their feet, staring tensely.

  “That’s enough, Captain.” The sergeant scooped up the soap and tossed it at him. “Soap up and rinse off. Let’s go.”

  He retrieved the soap and lathered his face and arms, the suds stinging his wounds. The government’s man-o-war, the Halifax, lurked near the opposite shore with smaller craft further south. Under the guise of rinsing, Nathan turned to survey the river again. If he dived and his breath lasted, he could swim beyond musket range. They could not shoot him from shore, and by the time they alerted the ships....But he would never survive the current. It was so treacherous that anything, ship or man, foolhardy enough to try would be sucked into the vortex at Hellgate, a mile or two upstream, and drowned against the whirlpool’s rocks.

  “Hey, rebel, come on! Get up here, now!” Panic tinged the sergeant’s voice.

  Nathan pivoted to see four muskets trained on him and the lieutenant colonel watching with his head cocked, arms folded on his chest around a white bundle. Nathan stepped backward, and a ball pinged the water to his left, nearly grazing him.

  “Out of the water, sir, now!” the colonel said.

  Nathan climbed the riverbank and accepted a towel from the sergeant. “Morning, Colonel.”

  “Morning, sir.” The colonel peered up at him, eyes as flat and shiny as a rooster’s. “Got a suit here for you. Your other clothes’ll be returned to your lines.”

  The colonel held out the white bundle. Nathan shook his head. He had seen the trim on the trousers and realized that these were the linen suit and cap, bordered in black, condemned felons wore.

  “I prefer my own dress, sir.”

  “I’m sure you do. Still, sir, I must insist. General Howe’s orders, you know.” He turned to the sergeant. “Take the prisoner’s clothes to headquarters and put them with his other effects. Now, Mr. Hale—”

  “Colonel, I’m a—”

  “I know.” He waved a hand. “But I can’t call you that. Now, you can either put these on or march to the Artillery Park naked, but I won’t answer for it if the ladies mob you.” He smiled kindly, seeking forgiveness for his part in this, and again proffered the clothes.

  Nathan took them reluctantly. As he pulled the trousers on and tied the drawstring at his waist, the colonel said softly, “Want to apologize for the provost marshal last night.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He struggled into the tunic, his shoulders straining the fabric. “And I should thank you for your protection, too.”

  He set the cap at a jaunty angle on his head. The colonel blinked as he stooped for the rope he had dropped in the long grass.

  “Hands behind you, Mr. Hale.”

  “Easier said than done, sir.” A seam under the arm ripped as Nathan complied. “You folks need a new tailor.”

  The colonel’s eyes were level with the torn fabric, and he stared for a long moment. Then he uttered a single, bitter oath before turning to one of the soldiers. “You there, bind this man. Then bring him up in front of headquarters. Detachment’ll be waiting there.”

  It was a mile to the Artillery Park. Nathan hugged every sensation of that walk to him, enjoying it as much as a man could while twenty soldiers surrounded him and a drummer beat the “Rogues’ March.” He had never heard such birdsong nor thrilled until he ached to the kiss of the sun. Some leaves were tinged with gold, others with red, forerunners to the splendor that would soon spangle the trees. Even the dust the soldiers kicked up to tickle his nose seemed precious, for it carried the earth’s odor.

  They heard Cunningham’s bluster when they were fifty paces from the park, over the clank of the muskets and the drumbeat. Dread squeezed Nathan’s chest, pushed the breath from him, and he prayed quickly, frantically for courage.

  The park was a field of barley His Majesty’s artillery brigades had seized. White tents marched in rows over the trampled crop, and cannon, more cannon than the Continental Army ever dreamed of, lined the perimeters. Though it was Sunday, companies drilled at the far end, sun flashing on their bayonets. As their officers dismissed them, they repaired to The Dove, directly across the road and enjoying a brisk trade thanks to their thirst.

  A maple with an obligingly horizontal limb ten feet up its trunk grew at the roadside before the field. A ladder leaned against it. In its shade gathered some officers, always eager for a break in routine. Rumors of the rebel spy had swept camp last night, and they craned to catch a glimpse of him.

  Cunningham swaggered over to the column as it marched into the park. “Fine day for a hanging, ain’t it?”

  “You forget yourself, Marshal.” The colonel saluted. Cunningham mimicked him as the drummer gave a flourish and subsided.

  “Uh, I ain’t got things set yet, Colonel. Can’t find that damn Richmond anywhere. Sent him for the rope a while ago, and he ain’t back. You wanna keep your boys there on guard till he gets here?”

  The colonel looked Cunningham up and down, a bantam ready to attack a pig. “Can’t you do anything right?”

  “Colonel.” An officer stepped from under the maple. “I’m Captain Montresor, sir, staff engineer to General Howe. My marquee’s right there.” He pointed to a tent in the second row. “I’d like to offer my hospitality to your prisoner until—until time.”

  The colonel nodded with a look of warning at Cunningham. The marshal snapped his mouth shut, though he watched suspiciously as Montresor preceded the column to his tent.

  At the entrance, the colonel deployed his men in a ring around the shelter before turning to Nathan. “I think you’ll be more comfortable in there. Anything I can get you?”

  “You’re very kind, sir. I’d like to write my family. Can I have some paper and pen and ink?”r />
  “I have those inside,” Montresor said.

  “Then, Colonel, just one other thing.”

  “Of course.” The colonel turned to a Redcoat and said, “Cut this man’s bonds.”

  The bayonet had severed the first loop when Cunningham charged them. “Whaddaya think you’re doing here? You can’t go and loose his hands, he’s—”

  “Marshal, you got more than enough to occupy you in making the preparations.” The colonel’s scorn lashed the air. “Now leave him be. Captain Montresor, my men and I will be right outside, case there’s any trouble.”

  “I daresay that won’t be necessary, Colonel.” Montresor held the tent’s flap aside and bowed Nathan through it.

  A bedroll, a camp desk and stool, a few books, and a large trunk furnished the place. Montresor strode to the trunk, asking over his shoulder, “Could I offer you some brandy, sir?” He added softly, “Might make things easier.”

  “Thank you, Captain, no.” He had abided by his resolution to take no food or drink, and desire for both had left him, replaced by an overwhelming itch to write Ally and his family. “They’ll be ready any minute, and there are some letters I need to write.”

  “Certainly. Please, sit down there. The desk is all yours.”

  Nathan seated himself, skimming the titles of the books stacked on the table before him. They were mostly army manuals and ledgers, though there was a psalter. If time allowed....

  He dipped the quill in the ink and drew a sheet of foolscap to him. Ally rose so clearly before him that she seemed to be standing there, smiling her love at him. “My dear Sister,” appeared across the top of the paper, though he had meant to write “Darling Ally.” He was too used to hiding his feelings for her to do otherwise, even with death only moments away, and he pushed ahead. “You are ever in my thoughts, and leaving you is what makes dying hard. Yet I do so with every conviction of rectitude and propriety. My only regrets are that I have but one life to lose for Liberty, and that I couldn’t have spent all that life with you. My everlasting love to you and our family.” He signed his name, added a postscript, “Remember the phoenix,” and began a second page, this one to Enoch. His quill flew across the paper, scratching in protest at his haste. He was oblivious to the rumblings of the guard outside, the bustle of the camp around him, Cunningham’s curses as his servant returned with the rope, Montresor’s eyes on him.