The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [54]
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