The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [53]
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