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Ben lifts his head when the door is heaved open. A soldier in a pristine red uniform steps in.
He’s handsome, likely around Ben’s age, though much smaller in stature. His brown hair curls around his face and pulls back, tied into a neat queue. His light blue eyes are filled with what Ben is sure is glee.
The man looks down at his papers, feigning to read. Ben takes note of the major’s epaulettes on either shoulder.
“Major Benjamin Tallmadge of the Continental Army,” the man finally breaks the silence in slow, measured words. “Commander of the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons.”
Ben says nothing, keeping the man’s gaze.
The man slaps down the small stack of papers onto the table before pulling out the chair across the table from Ben. He sits down with a soft sigh.
“In 1776, your commander-in-chief approved an espionage mission in New York City.”
Ben’s stomach drops.
The man digs through the small stack and pulls out a single piece of parchment, bringing it up to the light for him to read.
“Did you know him?”
Ben doesn’t respond, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The man lets the silence go on for several minutes.
Finally, the man clicks his tongue.
“‘I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.’”
Ben’s jaw tightens. “Why are you telling me this?”
A small smile tugs at the man’s lips. In that brief moment, Ben nearly forgets his manners.
The man drags his eyes up again.
“I’m curious, Major,” he says, a finger tapping against the wooden table. “Why enlist?”
“Why are you asking me this?” Ben rephrases his question.
“Was it because of Hale?”
“Stop,” he snaps.
“You met him during your time at Yale?”
Ben purses his lips, refusing to answer.
“Nevermind that,” the man dismisses.
He sits back in his chair and lets out a long, low breath.
“Correct me if I am wrong. A reverend’s son, born and raised in a backwater town on Long Island. Setauket. Not just a son—the second son. Useless in the eyes of primogeniture. And so you were sent off to Yale to make a man of yourself. To begin a career. You found yourself fond of teaching. Of shaping young minds.”
Ben refuses to meet his gaze.
“While at Yale, you met another young boy with the same aspirations.”
Ben closes his eyes, willing the lump in his throat to subside.
“You did not get far into the civilian life you and your father had desired when the rebellion began. Your friend convinced you to enlist, yes?”
Ben reaches up to wipe the tear that manages to escape and shakes his head. Still, the man continues.
“With the foolish belief that you were doing your duty to your country—”
“You’re wrong,” Ben snaps, his fiery gaze finally meeting the man’s.
“Ah,” the man says simply.
Another long silence falls over them, and Ben pleads with his Lord above that this unnecessarily cruel line of questioning ends.
“I convinced him,” Ben whispers, his eyes burning with unshed tears.
The man tilts his head minutely, eyes narrowed curiously. After a beat, a soft smile graces his lips.
“Oh, the guilt you must feel,” the man hisses, “knowing that you were his cause of destruction. Knowing that although Washington sent the order, Hale never would have met his grisly fate had it not been for you.”
Ben can no longer stop the tears. He ducks his head, refusing to give the man the satisfaction.
His Damon.
“You wish to know why I brought Hale into this conversation?” The man stands, his chair clattering on the ground as it falls over. “Why I ask you such questions?”
He leans forward slightly, but Ben refuses to look at him.
“Because you will suffer his same fate. At His Majesty’s pleasure, of course,” the man admits. “And you will know that not only is your death on your hands, but his as well. His, and Washington’s, and Wayne’s, and Knox’s… They will all hang beside you on the gallows. And it could have been prevented…”
The man straightens, gathering his paperwork with a sigh.
“Had you been a better spy.”
Ben lifts his head, glaring at the man’s back.
“Are we not to receive a trial?”
There’s a brief pause before the man looks over his shoulder. “At His Majesty’s pleasure.”
A trial is irrelevant. They’re guaranteed a conviction, regardless of any argument. They’re guaranteed to hang whenever the King commands it.
Ben sits back in his chair, refusing to let the nerves get to him.
“Major André, I presume,” he says, unable to hide the disgust lacing his tone.
“At your service,” the man looks over his shoulder at him. “Outgunned, outmanned… and outspied. How terrible of the rebels, to put their faith in a schoolteacher.”
The heavy door swings open, and Major André steps through, shutting it behind him. From the other side of the door, André speaks one last time.
“How terrible of poor Hale.”