The Glorious Cause (11 page)

“The old place is quite handsome, I’m told. We shall move there tomorrow.”

Hale turned, leaned against a wood wall, seemed to scrape the mud from his shoes, tried to hear more. They were walking slowly away from him, and he began to follow, kept his distance.

“Well, the general shall certainly approve. With the batteries now in place, there will be no call for movement. The firewood is accumulating nicely. And, to a warm hearth are drawn those who provide their own warmth. Certainly, we can make use of the local . . . ah . . .
flowers
.”

The man laughed, joined by the others. Hale stayed back, could not risk them noticing him. He backed into an alley, ignored the crushing smells, thought,
Winter quarters
. Of course, this is no secret, it was always said that the British wanted to be in New York for the winter, plenty of housing, even for the soldiers. And, plenty of entertainment. Flowers indeed. He could not escape the sound of the woman’s screams, closed his eyes for a moment.
Damn them!

The daylight was fading, and he backed farther into the alley, thought, You’ve been on the street for too long, seen too many people. Someone will notice you. Best stay hidden for a while.

He felt his way around a corner, the smells of garbage and filth unavoidable. He felt the wetness in his shoes, stood in a place that never saw sunlight, thought, You should remember this alley. A good sanctuary. He looked up, saw a window, caught the flicker of a candle, and a head suddenly appeared, a sharp gaze down the alley toward the street. Hale stood motionless, and the man never looked down at him, withdrew back inside. Hale heard voices now, low talk, strained to hear.

“Aye, he’s bringing it all tonight. Have ye got the lamp oil? There’s already one barrel under the floor here . . .”

The accents were thick, Irish perhaps. The talk moved away from the window, just low murmurs now, and he felt a new excitement. These weren’t soldiers, this was something else, talk of conspiracy. He felt a sudden stab of hopefulness. There may yet be people here who don’t favor the British at all. He tried to recall the man’s words . . . lamp oil . . . a barrel. Why would they want so much lamp oil? To sell? But the British wouldn’t pay, they’d simply take it. He focused through the darkness, the daylight completely gone, moved farther back into the hidden corner, put his hand out, felt his way. The wall was rough, rotten planks, and his hand touched something that moved. There was a sudden clatter of falling wood, and he pulled back, his heart jumping. He reached down, wrapped his fingers around a long stick, could see a bulge at the top, felt it was crowned with straw. He picked it up, could tell that it was nearly as tall as he was, the straw gathered as on a broom. Odd, no place to be sweeping anything back here. His eyes were adjusting more to the darkness, the candle from the window a faint glow. There were more brooms farther back in the corner, the same shape, the straw pointing up, out of the mud. He moved his hand through the broomsticks, counted, eight, nine, a dozen. He still held the one in his hand, turned, looked out around the corner toward the street, quiet now. Why would someone store brooms . . . he looked up, the voices still there, the windowpane over his head brighter with the light of an oil lamp.
Lamp oil
. He held the broom away from him, stared at the straw. It’s not a broom. It’s a
torch
.

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.”