by Jeff Shaara
The first fires began after midnight, torches tossed through broken windows of homes abandoned by their owners. The men had emerged from the house like a swarm of bees, and Hale had watched from across the street, stayed back in a dark corner as the men retrieved their torches. As they spread out through the narrow streets, he had followed one man, saw the torch suddenly ignite from a candle in the man’s hand. The man thrust the torch into an open window, igniting the curtain, a sudden eruption of flame that quickly took hold of the dry wooden walls. Then the man moved on quickly, and Hale followed, the man turning into a narrow alley. As the fire spread higher, Hale grabbed a piece of wood, ripped it from the side of the house, wanted to light it with the rising flames, but he was in the open, too visible in the hard glow of firelight. He followed to where the man had disappeared, moved into the alley, then out to another street, could see men gathering around a fat barrel. More torches were handed out, each one dipped into the barrel, then ignited by a thick candle. Each man was quickly on his way, the torches coming alive in the darkness. Hale moved toward the man who stayed by the barrel, saw the face in the flickering candlelight, hard, old, and the man stared at him for a long moment, said, “I don’t know you.”
Hale held out the piece of ragged wood, said, “Does it matter? I am a patriot, sir, just as you.”
The man took the wood from Hale’s hand, dipped it in the oil, ignited it, said, “Get out of here!”
Hale ran now, was in a wide street, could see flickers of flame spreading out through the alleys. There were shouts now, and he moved quickly, saw a narrow lane, turned that way, the glow from his own torch casting a bright light between two houses. He stopped, looked both ways, houses on either side, thought, Which one . . . what should I do . . . and there was a voice above him. “What . . . who are you? I’ll kill you!”
He saw a glimpse of the man’s head, the voice unmistakably British. The house seemed to come alive with sounds, men scrambling, more curses. Hale looked up at the window, gauged the distance, put one hand on the bottom of the board, and with one quick motion, launched it up through the window.
The city was engulfed in fire, and he watched the extraordinary scene from a low hill, tried to catch his breath, his whole body shaking with the exhaustion and the pure thrill of the long night’s work. By now, the fires had spread to nearly a fourth of the city, and he could see entire houses collapsing into themselves, larger buildings, warehouses, even some of the grand homes now engulfed by the man-made hell.
It had not been long before the soldiers had swarmed the streets, and he had escaped by the strength of his legs, had run right through the grip of the troops sent to stop the chaos. There had been virtually no water, and when the soldiers could not extinguish the dozens of fires, they turned their energy instead to revenge. Troops began to round up anyone they could find in the street, and Hale had seen one screaming man simply thrown into a burning house, the rage of the soldiers building into their own inferno no officer could control.
He had been able to set a dozen or more of his own fires, and from the time that had passed, he knew the troops had not been mobilized with any kind of efficiency. As the fires had spread, there had been no general alarm, the soldiers only called out by word of mouth. In every church steeple, the bells were long gone, melted down by Washington’s army for the critical supply of musket balls.
It was nearly dawn, and still he watched, could tell that many of the fires had begun to die away. The wind had shifted, and he cursed that one piece of bad fortune. He had thought the entire city would burn, but now he could see that many of the steeples and taller buildings were still intact, the flames all centered in only one part of the city. But it was a massive area of destruction, and no matter what happened, the British had lost a large part of their comfortable winter quarters. And more, even General Howe would know that right there in the city, in dark alleys and crumbling shacks, there were rebels who could still bring their war straight into the heart of his own headquarters.
Hale turned to the east, the sunlight just beginning to break over Long Island, dim gray light in the empty road. He began to move down from the hill, stared northward toward Harlem Heights, still several miles in front of him, and every route blocked by the British. Before the fires, he had made some notes, maps, descriptions of those British fortifications he could see up close. The location of Howe’s headquarters was no secret in the city, and the position of the British cannon was simple to diagram, as was the largest gathering of troop barracks and tents. But with the spread of the fire, all of that seemed insignificant. But he still had his orders, thought, It is not up to me to decide what is important. General Washington will expect a report.
He felt his pocket, still had the diploma, his one piece of documentation, but he had no confidence now, his masquerade as a schoolmaster would mean nothing, not after the great fire. The British would round up every man who they could not label as a known Tory.
He thought of just hiding out, but he didn’t know the land, and any farmer who saw him would likely report him. There would be no friends out here, not this close to the British camps. And, on the river, the British patrol ships would stop and inspect every boat, probably stop the waterway traffic altogether.
He still walked northward, felt the chill of the early morning, could smell smoke on his clothes. Well, they’ll know where I’ve been. But still, I’m only a schoolmaster. He could see men now beside the road, moved closer to them, the road blocked, guards milling around a small stone building. He saw a crude wood sign, The Cedar’s Tavern, could see that the men were standing, watching him. Now they stepped into the road, and one man said, “Hold there, sir. What is your business here?”
Hale scanned the uniforms, tried to appear dazed, unsteady, said, “I’m a schoolmaster. My home has been burned. I have nowhere to go.”
The soldiers moved closer to him, one man now behind him.
“Yes, quite a shame. The army will do what it can for the citizens. You should go back to the city. There’s nothing for you out here.”
Another man emerged from the tavern, and Hale could see the uniform of an officer. The man smelled of an odd perfume, leaned close to Hale, said, “Look at me, sir.”
Hale lifted his head, looked at the officer, saw a grim unsmiling glare. The man kept his stare deep into Hale’s eyes, said, “Remove his shoes.”
Hale felt his heart turn over in his chest, and there was a bayonet now, pointed at his gut. He sat down in the road, pulled his shoes off, thick mud caked on his hands.
The officer pointed, and one man picked up a shoe, peered inside, turned it over, impaled it sideways on the bayonet. The sole split, and Hale closed his eyes as a folded piece of paper fell to the ground. He lowered his head, heard the officer say, “Hand me that.”
There was a quiet moment, and Hale sat with his eyes closed, knew the man was reading his report, his diagrams and sketches. The officer said, “Gentlemen, remember this. Always check the shoes. This is how spies carry their information. Pick him up.”
Hale felt hands under his arms, stood now, and the officer said, “Take him to General Robertson. This will certainly provide him some amusement.”
They held him in a greenhouse beside an extraordinary home known as the Beekman mansion. It was General Howe’s headquarters.
He sat barefoot on the hard ground, surrounded by the smells of the fire. He knew they had been talking about him behind the glass door, could see several officers come and go, many looking in on him, more than just curiosity. He tried to be polite, managed a faint smile, but the smiles were not returned. They had taken his diploma from his coat, his one official document, and it was the one piece of hope, that he was, after all, just a schoolmaster. There was no evidence at all to connect him to the army.
The door opened again, and two guards came in, bayonets pointed down at him, and behind them, an older man in a powdered wig. He had already been introduced to General Robertson.
“
Stand up, Mr. Hale. If that is your name. Actually, we’re about to determine that fact.”
Robertson motioned for him to follow, and Hale obeyed, moved between the guards into a small room, saw another man, younger, much shorter, the face familiar, but the British uniform a surprise. Robertson said, “Young man, this is Samuel Hale, General Howe’s deputy commissioner of prisoners. But, I don’t need to introduce him to you, I’m sure.” Robertson said to the other man, “Well?”
Hale avoided the eyes of the shorter man, who moved close to him now, reached up, pulled at Hale’s collar.
“Yes, sir. The birthmark, same as I remember. This is my cousin, Nathan Hale. That is, Captain Nathan Hale, of the Nineteenth Connecticut Regiment, of the Continental Army.”
Hale felt his breath drain from him, could still not look at his cousin’s face. Robertson said, “Thank you, Commissioner. You may return to your post.”
Robertson looked closely at Hale now, said, “Well, now. Your diploma is genuine. Most impressive.”
Robertson moved away, motioned to the guards, said, “Bring him.”
Hale felt a hand on his back, had no strength, his legs moving with slow unsteady motion. He climbed some stairs, did not look ahead, did not care where he was being led. A door opened, and he was surprised by the sudden aroma of food. His stomach began to ache, and Robertson said to the guards, “Hold him here.”
Robertson was gone, and Hale tried to see the food, thought, Perhaps they will feed me. But the door opened, again, and Robertson was back, and another man, round, thick-faced, but no uniform, the man dressed in a robe, gold slippers beneath a long nightgown. The man was clearly annoyed, said, “This is him? Not much to look at. I had rather expected someone with a bit more . . . flair.”
The man shuffled around behind him, then said, “So, tell me, young Mr. Hale. Did Mr. Washington send you here with instructions to burn this city?”
Hale said nothing, and Robertson said, “Mr. Hale, you will respond to General Howe.”
Hale was stunned, looked at the heavy man, stared at Howe’s disheveled dress. Howe scowled at him, said, “Rudeness is typical of rebels. I do not please you in my current state of attire? Well, I would add, Mr. Hale, that you do not please me by interrupting my morning repose. Have you no response to my question?”
Hale forced himself to stare straight ahead, said, “No, sir. You have all the information you require. My identity is known to you.”
Howe moved away toward the door, said, “Yes, indeed. That it is.” He pulled the door open, stopped, looked back toward Robertson now, said, “Hang him.”
SEPTEMBER 22, 1776
He sat in the tent of John Montresor, a pleasant, somewhat formal man. Montresor was the chief engineering officer for the British army in America, but only carried the rank of captain, something that had made Hale curious. There was little conversation between the men, but Hale appreciated the man’s graciousness, the engineer’s tent situated by chance close to the ground where the executions were said to be held. Hale had been escorted on foot to the place, his feet still bare, a sweltering hot day. He was surprised when Montresor had given the order for the guards to bring Hale into the tent.
Hale had asked for some paper, and was surprised that Montresor accommodated him, providing a pen as well. The engineer had watched him as Hale wrote two letters, and Hale could not help noticing the sadness in the man’s face. Hale didn’t know how to react to that, there was no reason to beg anyone for mercy.
Montresor was watching him still as Hale completed the last letter, to his brother. Hale put the pen down, sat back in the chair, stared at the papers on the small table Montresor had allowed him to use. He had no way of knowing if the British would actually send the letters, if such a courtesy would be granted a spy. But he was encouraged by Montresor’s manner, the man showing none of the arrogant hostility of the other officers.
“You attended Yale College, I am told.”
“Yes.”
“Fine school. Unusual to meet someone in your, um, profession who understands books.”
Montresor seemed uncomfortable, and Hale said, “I don’t have a profession anymore, sir. I was a schoolmaster. Now, I am, I suppose, simply a prisoner.”
Montresor looked down a moment, said, “You are familiar, I assume, with Homer?”
“Certainly.”
“I wonder about your own odyssey, this mission of yours. I sense something of dignity in your bearing. Yet the job requires a man to practice deceit at every turn. Is this what your cause requires of you, that you sacrifice moral principles to achieve your ends?”
“Captain, this is a war. What is moral about any duty we perform, whose outcome is the destruction of another?”
“But, Mr. Hale, you must certainly agree that in war, a well-accomplished mission is regarded with honor and celebration, even by your enemy. Yet in this business of yours, capture means death. That very penalty suggests that a spy is regarded with disdain on either side. To a man of honor, especially a soldier . . . well, I am at a loss, Mr. Hale. As soldiers, our place is on the field.”
“I’m sorry, Captain. But my place is where my nation requires my service. I had a mission to fulfill.”
“Is that important now, Mr. Hale? Clearly you did not succeed. I wonder what would have happened if you had. Do you believe you would have won the war for General Washington? Was it so important that you accomplish this mission?”
“Those are two different questions, sir. I doubt my actions would win any war. And, yes, it was important that I do this. I joined General Washington’s army because I wanted to be . . . useful.”
“Then you are a tragic figure, Mr. Hale. You will die for no good purpose.” He paused, and Hale could see a sadness in the man’s eyes. “Schoolmaster. There is honor in that, Mr. Hale. If not for this war, you would have had a good life, no doubt. You are an educated man, in a profession where books do not matter. How terribly sad. I regret that you should come to this end. You should not be remembered as a failure.”
Hale thought a moment. “How I am remembered will likely be decided by your army, sir. If you have the conscience to bury me in a forgotten grave and give my passing no mention, then, Captain, I will have failed indeed. But only because General Washington will not know that I performed my duty.”
Hale heard a voice outside, and Montresor stood, moved to the opening in the tent, said something, looked back toward Hale. Hale did not need to be told. He stood, moved to the opening of the tent.
Outside, the man who had led him across the open ground was waiting impatiently. Hale had come to know the man as Cunningham, the provost marshal, the man whose duties included the disposition of condemned prisoners. He was a big, grotesque man, spoke in a rough voice, a crude accent Hale could not place. The man’s uniform was merely a huge black ill-fitting coat, his arms extending below the sleeves. He grabbed Hale by the shirt, pulled him forward, spun him around, and Montresor said, “That is hardly necessary, Marshal. He will not resist you.”
Cunningham ignored him, and Hale’s hands were clamped together behind his back. He felt Cunningham’s hard grip, wrapping something around his wrists, the man’s rum-soaked breath engulfing him. He spun Hale around, faced him, and Hale saw the man’s hideous smile. Cunningham said, “There you go, now, rebel. All snug.”
Hale glanced at Montresor, who was looking away, the sadness obvious on the man’s face. Hale said, “I would request a clergyman, sir.”
Montresor looked at Cunningham, a short questioning nod, but Hale could see that Montresor had no authority. Cunningham made a small grunt, said, “Pray to the devil, rebel.”
The guards were there now, and Cunningham grabbed Hale’s collar, pulled him roughly away from the tent, Hale stumbling as the big man dragged him. He tried to work his legs, noticed a wagon parked beside an old stout apple tree. Beside the wagon was a shallow hole, fresh earth, and a wooden coffin.
He had no air in his lungs, felt his legs give way a
gain, but Cunningham held him up, the guards close behind him. Suddenly he was pulled up into the wagon, the hard wood rocking beneath him. He found his balance, straightened his legs, could see out now, an artillery park, rows of cannon, more wagons. There were a few soldiers gathering, and a small group of civilians. Now he saw children, running out across the open ground, some sort of game, the children oblivious to him, to what this all meant. He said again, “A clergyman . . .” but the rope was over his head now, Cunningham tightening it roughly on his throat, the words choked away. He tried to say a prayer, could not be angry at Cunningham, the man doing his job. There is no evil in that. Hale looked at the faces watching him, most of them expressionless, some turning away, and he saw Montresor, the only emotion he could see, the sadness etched hard in the engineer’s face. He wanted to talk to the man again, wished there had been more time, something intriguing, an educated, civilized man, serving in the uncivilized hell of war. But it is what we must do, it is the time we live in. He remembered the meeting with Washington, and Colonel Knowlton, the importance, the seriousness, the commander in chief speaking to him with such quiet respect. He had kept that moment with him, Washington’s concern, the weight of all of this on the man’s shoulders, all of the war, all that this could mean. I have been a small part of it. I hope that somehow he will know that. I hope he will understand. I may have failed my mission, but I was some small part. I was . . . useful.
