“How beautiful is death, when earn’d by virtue!
Who would not be that youth? What pity is it
That we can die but once to serve our country.”
Those were the lines from a play that now stood profoundly in my mind, one that I had the pleasure of reading while studying at Yale; Cato, a favorite of mine, written by Joseph Addison. Hadn’t Beatrice once mentioned it was the name of one of her friends? My mind snapped back awkwardly and I shook the exhaustion from my eyes.
One might think it an awkward thought to be reciting such a passage at the time of one’s death-- however, this is my death, my hanging, my last breaths, and my thoughts. To each his own. God gave us the power to become silent at will so as to allow us the privilege of a few last vestiges of privacy. How ironic, seeing as so many people are watching me now and only what is currently residing within my mind is kept secret from them.
I could see the rope; a slave boy was carrying it to the platform that will soon become the last ground my feet touch while my body still breathes. I could hear my name whispered between already hushed lips, traveling like the fire that blazed New York City only a few days prior, by many a type of voice: eager ones, dripping with impatience, wishing my execution to continue on so that they may be allowed to jeer at my limp body afterwards; questioning ones, unsure of what the ruckus is about but hoping that it would settle down soon because it was causing an uproar among the children; sorrowful ones, who sympathize for me and wish me a fate other than what was sure to come. Their words stand out because of the sadness that coats them ever so lightly-- “He is barely twenty-one years!” they say. “Educated and goodmannered! Still unmarried!”
And though I felt these comments wrench agonizingly at my soul, for every last one was true, it was not these that rattled my bones. No. Even if my friends were here, my family; their tears would not propel me to such a degree of fear. That reaction was reserved especially for the harsh voices and the disappointed undertones that dripped with contempt, coming from they who dared to look beyond my death and discover the real tragedy beneath it all.
I had failed my mission.
===
“Alan! Please, hurry!”
I pulled him along behind me as I dodged the disapproving glances and pattering feet while also trying to skip over puddles on the cobblestones. Judging by the angry glares as I stepped on toes and the fact that my dress was soaking wet…I wasn’t doing so well. But it couldn’t have mattered less. My lungs simply didn’t seem to want to hold any of the air that wheezed through my lips, and I was sure that it wasn’t because these damned stays were laced too tight (all right, maybe they were-- but still). My heart hadn’t raced this fast since I thought Alan was going to die.
Why couldn’t these boys just sit in a corner and stay out of trouble for once?
===
I remembered, before it began-- when I stepped forward to receive my orders from General Washington--
I have to admit, failure had not ever been considered an option. William had warned me (speaking as a friend, rather than a fellow captain) of how dangerous this assignment could turn out to be and fiercely reminded me that spying was the most dishonorable form of warfare a man could possibly attempt.
“Any task necessary for betterment of the public good became honorable in its own right,” I told him.
“This is my chance to make a difference in this war and God help me, I am going to take it!”
“Is that all you think about? Adventure and bravery? This war is not a game!” William snapped. “Open your eyes! Men die!”
“Yes, men die; but men die as heroes. You have one chance to become a hero in your life, and you have one chance to die…” I fell back onto my cot, caught up in my own daydream. Finally! A chance to take part in a war that seemed to avoid me at all costs!
“…somehow, I don’t think it is a stroke of coincidence.”

Oh, what a fool I was! What a fool I was to think of persons with hidden agendas like mine as friends!
Where had all of the sensibility and knowledge people have commended me for gone off to? A country home for the summer, perhaps, or to the shore to swim? I silently cursed my own stupidity-- I was beginning to act like Alan when he was in the vicinity of Miss Whaley; so focused on one objective that all other consequences were of lesser value.
Of course, one could say that that would not matter in a few minutes.
A man’s hand on my shoulder snapped me abruptly from my whirlwind of thoughts. I looked up from the post against which I leaned to rest facing the Dove Tavern. The surprisingly kindly face of the Loyalist captain Montresor greeted me and I politely nodded to acknowledge him.
“The Provost Marshall has granted me permission to offer my marquee for you to rest in, until the preparations are finished,” he informed me.
“That is most gracious of him, sir,” I responded in as steady a voice as one could muster having just seen the means to his end. I allowed him to lead me inside a small tent of some sort and also took the offer of a chair. It was a medium-sized tent, set away from the crowds. I inwardly cringed and a shiver tingled down my spine for a reason I could not explain. For some time Montresor left me alone (for some reason or the other he did not fear that I would escape) to brood in my own thoughts once more, and I began to drift back to happier times under the foliage that covered the beautiful grounds of Yale. A part of me longs to be back there, the young boy that existed barely three years before today, and I suddenly worry what might happen if news of my death reaches the undying ears of my old friends, my fellow soldiers. Or perhaps…perhaps my brother, even. Quickly, I sought out my brief caretaker. He was a few feet away, at a desk, sorting out paperwork of some sort. “Sir!” I pleaded. “Sir, would you be so kind as to allow me two pieces of paper and a quill? I would sincerely like to write a letter or two before my neck meets an untimely embrace with that godforsaken halo of rope.”
Montresor seemed to be taken by surprise at this request, but smiled and handed over what I asked.
“Here you go, boy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
===
Nathan’s hanging had drawn quite a crowd, though most of the people were confused instead of interested-- a small part of my mind was comforted by that fact. Somewhat.
Alan and I melded with the mob, and I held his hand tightly for fear of being separated. It wasn’t hard to look inconspicuous as we searched through unfamiliar faces for our friend’s; many others were peeking over heads wondering exactly what was going on. I bit my lip until I drew blood.
“Nathan! Nathan!” My call blurred with the rest of the voices and fell, lightly, on the wind’s ear.
“NATHAN!” Alan squeezed my hand in warning and I quieted. “…where could he be…?”
“It’ll be all right,” he assured me. The way the frown set on his face…those words didn’t convince me. “We will find him.”
===
I settled down at a desk beside him and uncorked the ink bottle, laying the parchment spread across the rough wood, and immediately set to writing: one to my family but directed towards Enoch, my brother with whom I had attended school with, and my commanding officer. Both were written differently, as I could not address to General Washington as I would to my flesh and blood, but each attempted to capture the apology in ink where spoken word could not. I wanted to say more, tell them how exactly how sorry I truly was, but…I shook my head. No. There was no time. I tried to write as fast yet as neatly as possible, eyes continually searching outside the small corner of my current world that was this marquee to see if the gallows were ready. Thankfully, they were not. I saw a small black slave-boy tying the knot and that bastard Cunningham, the provost marshal, checking to see if it was secure.
As the tip scratched and the words poured out, the realization came to me that these letters may never reach Enoch-- nevermind my commanding officer. My hands shook and I closed my eyes, willing myself
(however half-heartedly) to finish the last few sentences. My fingers were still trembling when I handed back the quill and ink in one hand, my letters clutched fast in the other. “Thank you again, sir. Would you mind…making sure that these see the correct persons?” Montresor eyed them as I set them on the table

and when he opened his mouth to speak I thought he would question them, but in fact simply nodded and asked about a very different matter.
“We British have been told that all of the rebels here are uneducated with no morals…so we are, in actuality, doing a justice to the world by reigning over them.” He offered to me another one of those mysterious smiles so uncharacteristic of Loyalists towards Americans like myself. “It seems that you have proved this statement false. Why is that?”
“I…” Words failed me. “…I do not know, sir. Perhaps it is because the notion was wrong in the first place?”
That earned a chuckle, deep and warm. At another time, in another place, I felt that I would have known this man under completely different circumstances. He moved to answer me in return, but then a soldier approached us and the captain fell silent.
“It is time.”
I knew those words were a long time forthcoming, but the still did not stop them from instilling a shiver like lightning down my spine. I closed my eyes and prayed to God for mercy, for certainly he would give it to me at such a time like this. Divine providence, I told myself. God has a plan for everything. There is no mystery unsolved to him, no accident. This is his plan for me, and I shall be strong in accepting it.
===
“There he is! I see him!”
Even when Alan’s fingers gripped my wrist so tight I could no longer feel my hand, the feeling of hunger for the elation in my chest wouldn’t be satiated. After so many days of bad news, I began to realize that my body starved for any sort good news.
“…I see him, Beatrice. They’re leading him onto the platform, and…oh god, they’re already reading him his charges.”
My muscles tensed as the happiness was snatched away again. “What do we do now?” I murmured.
He didn’t look at me, but I saw Alan’s eyes widen slightly. “I…don’t know.”
So close, yet so far. I stood on my tiptoes and called out to him, trying to get his attention. “NATHAN!”
Please. Look here.
===
The sunlight beyond the tent was bright, and my eyes unaccustomed as I had been stationed under the marquee for longer than I first thought. My hanging seemed to have brought in an undeniably large crowd, and the whispers of gossip were once again loud in my mind, drowning out even the sickly ringing of my ears. The sun is so bright, so every person can see me as I die. I feel like a slave about to be sold.
The soldier led me to the small stage upon which I was allowed to stand on for the time being and I absentmindedly took note that the wood was weak and rickety, poorly built. Of course, I would be the only one who noticed it…that was what most likely drew me towards it; the fact, again, that my thoughts were of my own and belonged to no one else. I didn’t dare look down at my feet to examine the boards more closely, however, and forced myself to stare out into the crowd. I would not show them I feared-- I refuse to fear anything but God…
…but oh, the terror that ran cold sweat down the back of my neck was close enough.
I turned my attention to Cunningham, who stood a short distance away. “May I, if you please, request the presence of a minister? Or, at the very least, the possession of a Bible?”
My last wishes. Please allow me this.
“No,” the Provost Marshall sneered. “You may, however, have a few last words. State your name and title.”
Without even a Bible, I had no proper last rites; no admission into the kingdom of Heaven. I licked my lips; they were dry and peeling from lack of moisture. I doubted that my faith would hold fast, even in

these last moments. What had I ever done to deserve this? How had I offended God the Almighty? With difficulty, I closed my eyes and composed myself.
A hero.
“I am Captain Nathan Hale, officer of the Continental Army led by General George Washington.”
The smile on Cunningham’s face grew. “Nathan Hale, you have been charged with being a spy and a willing participant in illegal combat. The punishment is death by hanging at the gallows. Do you accept this?”
“NATHAN!”
I blinked, attempting to clear my eyesight. Did my mind deceive me, or was that Alan and Miss Whaley?
My heartstrings tugged at my ribcage. They had come. Yes, they had come…most likely to rescue me, but it was too late. I knew it was too late.
The Provost Marshall cleared his throat angrily and repeated, “Do you accept this?”
No, my mind protested.
“Yes,” I replied instead. My eyes focused on my friends’ faces, wondering what they were thinking. Alan looked so…serious. Beatrice was crying. I laughed to myself. You ridiculous, irrational, emotion-driven
woman. I’d bet on my life that a rescue had been your idea. I stopped in mid-chuckle; my thoughts were no longer as humorous right now.
“Good. Then have you any last words to say?”
I bowed my head, unable to stand the pain-ridden emotions that coursed through my body when I looked at the two of them.
“Yes…I do.”
Then, without hesitation, my feet took a step forward on their own and I assumed the speaking position I was taught at Yale without thinking much of it: one foot in front of the other, hands clasped behind me, head held high.
With much difficulty, I managed to avoid my friends’ eyes and, instead, looked out on the crowd.
“It is the duty of every good officer…to obey the orders given to him by his Commander-in-Chief, and to be prepared at all times to meet death in whatever shape it might appear. This goes doubly so for such a disruptive time as now, where soldiers are shedding the blood of the innocent without a second thought…
“And though I believe this blood can go unspilt, this war holds in its center the cause for which I fight…and if I had ten thousand lives I would lay them all down, if I must, in the defense of this injured, bleeding nation.”
The words from Addison’s play came to mind once more, and I managed to smile to myself one last time.
“However, I regret…that I have but one life to lose for my country.”
With that, I took a step back, the world suddenly becoming a typhoon of monotonous grey and deep, blurred voices. Somewhere in the distance that was reality, something tightened around my neck; the knot of the noose felt rough and uncomfortable on my sweaty skin. And then that platform was quickly pulled out from beneath me-- I felt my whole body jerk painfully downwards when my feet suddenly met with intangible air.
I will not move. I will not give them the pleasure of seeing me in pain.
So I allowed my body to simply swing there, swaying in the wind, as my lungs constantly demanded air that I could no longer give them, until my vision faded to white and the world was no more.
===
“No…NO!”

I could no longer control myself and I broke out of Alan’s encasing arms, sprinting through the halfjeering, half-dissipating crowd. I felt his fingertips brush the ends of my hair, but I no longer cared as I pushed past men and women and children to get to Nathan’s lifeless form, still attached to the goddamned rope. It was hard to compare this corpse to the young man I had first met so many nights ago…the Nathan I knew would never be so silent.
“Nathan--!”
I was an arm’s-breadth away from him when the British soldiers shoved me aside. “I’m sorry, miss; but you can’t come any closer.”
“You…you bastards! Let me through!”
I needed to get to Nathan, touch him, watch him disappear in my hands so that I would finally be sure that this was all just a dream; a crazy, unreal dream. In dreams, no one really dies. You wake up to find that none of the nightmare was true. Even as I felt Alan begin to drag me away and the tears stream down my flushed cheeks in torrents or liquid fire, I refused to believe that this had actually happened.
Even when I managed to reach out and grab Nathan’s arm, I refused to accept that this was really his jacket I felt as the rough material was wrenched out of my grasp. It was too tangible. This was all too real to be a dream.
And for the first time since Alan kissed me on the fateful first night that started this mess, I wished I would wake up.
===
ALTERNATE WAY TO END THE STORY (lol) :
“Captain!”
Montresor strode to his superior’s side. “Yes, sir?”
Cunningham held out his hand. “Where are they, Captain?”
The captain flinched. “What do you mean, sir?”
Cunningham slowly turned towards the captain, smoldering eyes narrowed dangerously. “The letters,
Montresor. The letters that the spy wrote.”
“I don’t--”
“Do not take me for a fool, Captain! Where are the two letters that Hale wrote?”
Captain Montresor bowed his head. “In my marquee, sir.” He looked up, curious. “May I ask why, sir?”
The edges of the Provost Marshal’s mouth turned up, ever so slightly, in a malicious grin.
“…burn them.”