The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [47]
8. NATHAN HALE
HE CARRIED HIS DIPLOMA UNDER HIS COAT, THE ONLY OFFICIAL identification he could come up with. He had only been asked to show it once, to a hostile British colonel, suspicious of this plainly dressed man who traveled the country roads of Long Island at night, claiming to be a schoolmaster. The colonel had scanned the document with mild disgust, a low disrespectful comment about Yale College, as though any colonial school was far inferior to the most lowly grammar school in England. Hale had kept his hat in his hand, painfully polite, and the colonel could find no reason to hold this odd man in this dismal place. The colonel had more important work to do after all, patrolling the country roads for rebel raiding parties who were making off with cattle and grain. The colonel had not even taken the time to inspect the cloth bag Hale carried, heavy with books, texts in Latin, the classics. The British had simply resumed their march, patrolling the darkness for their enemy, while the schoolmaster was allowed to continue his journey. Hale had caught the officer’s final insult, some curse about teaching anyone to read in this godless land, and Hale had said nothing, had resumed his long walk, the sweat in his clothes betraying more than the humid warmth of the evening.
His route had brought him across the waterway from the north, a careful, discreet crossing, avoiding the British naval patrols. He had planned to stay on Long Island, to visit the homes of the loyal citizens there, those who stayed close to the British camps. Teachers were rare now, so many having escaped the growing terror of the war, their schools shut down, some serving as hospitals for the wounded, classrooms now crowded with flat hard beds, bloody sheets, doctors overwhelmed by the new horror of their job. But when he had reached the homes along the north side of the island, presenting his credentials to curious and often nervous farmers, he began to hear unexpected news. The British were gone, had crossed the East River, a swift and efficient invasion of New York. The farmers were delighted to tell the story, all their confidence confirmed, the might of King George’s army sweeping away the rebels, bringing an end to this ridiculous war.
His roundabout journey from Harlem Heights had taken days, and he had not been able to contact anyone in Washington’s army, had received no official messages from anyone. Though the British actively patrolled the roads, it did not take him long to realize that the bulk of their army was simply gone. With soft footsteps through silent patches of woods, he had found the camp, amazed to have been standing alone in what were now empty fields of debris. The effect on him had been unexpected and strange, a sense of panic that he might have missed it all, that he had wasted too much time reaching his destination. If the camps were empty, then he had come to the wrong place. His job, after all, was to find out where the British were going next, but now, there was nothing for him to learn, and ultimately, this dangerous mission had become a waste of time. He had become more panicked by that than by the confrontation with the British colonel.
He had no choice but to continue the journey, and he found passage to the city with a sympathetic, though somewhat surprised, merchant, who made regular crossings from Brooklyn to Governor’s Island, then to the city itself. Once the rebel cannon had fallen silent, the man had resumed his regular trade run, had found himself ferrying more passengers out of the city, part of a vast exodus of refugees who would escape the British occupation. But Hale had convinced the man, there were still children in New York, and certainly their parents would want them occupied with more than the chaotic horror of an army occupation. They would still need teachers.
HIS HOME WAS IN CONNECTICUT, AND HE JOINED THE ARMY AFTER an anguished