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The cunning of the fox is as murderous as the violence of the wolf; and we ought to guard equally against both.
— Thomas Paine, The Crises
Colonel Grant Morgan continued writing even as the sound of muffled voices and footsteps advanced in the hallway. His gaze shifted and fell upon the crumpled message lying on the desk before him, causing his jaw to tighten and his brow to crease with agitation. Returning to his work, he casually pulled a nearby book onto the paper, hiding the communication from view.
When the door opened, he barely glanced at the woman standing between the two guards—but it was long enough for his heart to sink with disappointment and resentment. The young lady was indeed the same one he had often seen talking to British officers. She was exquisite. But no amount of beauty or grace could make up for the fact that she was apparently a Loyalist—or worse yet, a traitor.
“It was necessary to bind her hands?” He addressed the question to the guards, but had already turned his attention back to his paperwork.
“She warned us she’d fight like the devil,” one of the men answered. “We thought it best.”
Morgan lifted his eyes, but this time, not his head. “Is this true?”
The woman, though obviously weary from her journey, stood with her back straight and an unwavering glare. Her expression was one of angry defiance, and her dark eyes flashed with sparks of outrage. “Of course I gave fair warning that I will fight against this vile intrusion. By whose authority do I suffer this indignity?”
Colonel Morgan stopped her with an impatient wave of his hand, but did not bother to answer. Nodding toward the door, he dismissed the two guards before going back to his paperwork. Though acutely aware of the woman standing before him, he pretended to be preoccupied while waiting for the men to depart. Even after the latch clicked shut behind the last soldier, he continued with his correspondence. After making her wait a few more minutes, he began to question her, but did not cease his writing. “Do you understand why you have been brought here?”
He heard the woman take a step closer to his desk. “Yes. You received a communication about me.”
Morgan stopped writing in mid-sentence and raised his eyes with a questioning look. “What do you know of the communication I received and how do you know it?”
“I wrote it,” she replied matter-of-factly, her tone no longer hostile.
Colonel Morgan, making no attempt to disguise his surprise, put down the quill and leaned forward. “You wrote a communication implicating yourself as a spy?”
“Yes, sir.” She took another step forward so she now stood right in front of his desk. Her voice was soft, little more than a whisper. “I needed to speak to you, and I could devise no other way to come here without raising suspicion.”
“Raising suspicion? Miss, you are speaking in riddles. Why would you need to speak to me and in such a manner?”
“Sir, I reside at the Spangler house, near Smithtown.”
“I see.” The words were said with a mixture of disdain and discontent. It was just as he thought. The residents of the house were well known for their loyalty to the Crown—so much so that British officers often used the home as their headquarters when they occupied the region.
“I am in a position to—” She paused and swallowed hard as he stared at her as if she’d lost her nerve, but then hastily recovered. “To overhear certain things... and I have reason to believe you have a spy within your ranks. Close to you.”
Morgan stood and leaned across his desk in one movement. “How dare you make such an accusation. What would possess you to say such a thing?”
“I cannot divulge how I know.” She stood before him with lowered head, her hands still bound behind her back. “Yet I can tell you they are aware of your movements, your troop numbers, and your plans.” Her tone was even and quiet with just a hint of desperation in it.
Morgan strode to the fireplace and poked a moment at the smoky logs as he thought about her accusation. Despite his best attempts at secrecy, many of his efforts at reconnaissance had ended in a skirmish rather than intelligence gained, as if the British sensed where he was going to be and when.
He glanced back at the disheveled woman standing by his desk and scrutinized her more closely. Her hair appeared unruly and tousled as if it had been combed by the wind, and her eyes revealed immense fatigue. No doubt his men had not extended much courtesy to her during their journey. Why would she go to such extremes to seek him if she weren’t telling the truth?
“I have no reason to distrust or suspect anyone close to me.” Morgan turned to face her. “It would be foolish of me, don’t you think, to take the word of a perfect stranger? A Loyalist, no less?”
He watched her eyes fill with tears before she turned her head to keep him from seeing them.
“Why are you crying?” he asked with a severe tone, although his heart melted at the sight.
“I understood there was little chance you would believe me.”
“Yet still you came?”
She inhaled a ragged breath. “The lives at stake... the treachery. I had to come.” She lowered her head and murmured. “I could think of no other way.”
Morgan walked to her, and put a finger upon her cheek, stopping a tear before it slid down her face. “The moisture is real enough,” he said under his breath. “I wonder about the claim.”
She did not respond other than to gaze up at him with large, fawn-like eyes that glistened unnaturally with deep pools of liquid not yet spilled. Long, dark lashes blinked them back from behind wisps of hair straying wildly from an upswept coiffure. Her appearance seemed to confirm that his men had followed his order to make haste during the ride.
Morgan turned away, unable to face the innocent countenance peering up at him. She did not beg and bawl as most women in her situation would have, yet he still could not bring himself to believe her. These days it was impossible to decipher friend from foe. You just couldn’t tell about people these days. Not even women. Least of all, beautiful ones.
“You have placed me in an awkward position, Miss...” He glanced back to his desk for the note she had written.
“Adair.”
“Yes, Miss Adair. Just how is it that you came to reside at the Spangler house? The proprietor there is—”
“Charles Spangler.” She looked down at her feet. “My uncle.”
“I see,” Morgan said, rubbing his chin.
The young lady swallowed hard and her lips trembled as she talked. “My parents died when I was five. I have resided there most of my life.” She shifted her weight as if uncomfortable. “Not of my wanting, I assure you.”
“They are Loyalists?”
Her eyes remained cast on the floor, quiet and calm. “My uncle is a merchant. Trading with the British is his livelihood.”
“And yet you disagree.” He took a step closer. “I guess rightly?”
When she looked up her eyes were steady in their gaze of him. “I believe my country is more important than individual wealth or power, that men should fight for principle not gain.” She shrugged, but he detected something brave in her spirit, something penetrating in her eye, before her focus returned to the floor. “That is all.”
Morgan sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “Miss Adair, your story is intriguing, yet, you must admit, a bit incredible.”
“The risk is real, Colonel Morgan,” she replied defiantly. “The time to act is now.”
“And yet I see neither the expediency nor the necessity, quite frankly,” he said. “Unless, of course, you can show me something that would prove I should believe you.”
The young woman swallowed hard and stared for a moment at the fire, giving him time to study her face. Her countenance appeared youthful and alive, yet weary and drawn as she paused to ponder his question. It was an innocent-looking, fresh face, yet somehow it spoke of wisdom and reason.
After a few long moments, she tilted her head back, exposing white flesh above her collar. She looked at him with serious intent. “I have nothing but this.”
Morgan took a step closer. “And just what is that?” He stared at her in confusion.
“It is my neck, of course,” she said in a quiet voice. “The only one in my possession. And I have placed it in great danger by coming here.”
Morgan threw up his hands as he walked back to the fire and began to pace. If the girl’s accusations were true, he had to begin this instant to find the informant. If he discovered she was lying, he still had her in his possession to punish as necessary. It appeared he held all the cards.
He turned back to her. “Why do you think this spy, this informant, is close to me?” He walked to his desk, sat upon it with his arms crossed, and examined her as she spoke, watching closely for any evidence of hesitation or doubt.
“As I said, he has been reporting your numbers, your movements and your plans.”
“Such as?”
“You technically have three companies, but they number less than two.” She paused as if unsure she should continue. “You have recently been supplied with a cannon, along with two dozen—”
In one movement, Morgan banged his fist on the desk and stood. “How do you know this?”
“It is not me you should be worried about,” she said determinedly. “It is the British.”
Morgan started pacing again, ignoring the girl as he angrily pondered who could have betrayed him. He came to an abrupt stop in front of her, deciding he had other things to take care of first. “But why are you here? What possessed you to come to me?”
She had been staring out the window, but his voice commanded her to look at him. Her eyes began to glisten as she gazed up at him. “You are foremost in resisting royal authority in the south. That is why the British wish to stop you. I came because it is my duty to throw the weight of my arm—however feeble—onto the scale for the cause of liberty.” Her chin trembled and she appeared about to cry again before she turned away. “It is that simple.”
“War is never simple,” Morgan grumbled, staring at her back. He began pacing again before coming to an abrupt stop. “And what now, do you suggest I do with you?”
She shrugged, making it clear she had not made plans for anything past this moment. “That is no business of mine to solve.” She turned around to face him. “What would you do with any prisoner with whom you had suspicion?”
He laughed and then gazed at her with a skeptical look. “I would imprison such a person, and question them at length over a duration of days.”
“Then you have your answer,” she said. “The British—and the man within your ranks who is working with them— must believe I am being held here against my will.”
Colonel Morgan stood in front of her and bent down so his eyes were even with hers. “You believe that we Patriots are so uncivilized we would imprison a woman?”
She remained calm but defiant. “Woman or not, the harm I could inflict as a spy would be no less than that of a man. True?”
Morgan sighed heavily, walked away, and leaned his hands for a moment on the mantle over the fireplace as he considered his next move. At the age of twenty-five, he had been leading the life of a gentleman in a setting of refinement and repose, with easy deeds and no great responsibility. And now, at twenty-eight, he was in command of a large band of men, enduring daily discomfort, and having to make life and death decisions on behalf of his country. His keen sense of duty compelled him to do so willingly—but having to deal with a woman was another matter entirely.
“You have all the right answers,” he finally said, looking back over his shoulder. “But can I believe you?”
Her eyes flicked over to his, yet she made no comment other than what he read plainly in her expression before she looked away. For the first time, she appeared dejected and broken as if she had reached the end of her endurance. She had borne the journey with commendable fortitude, but now a dark weariness settled over her, stealing the color from her face and the life from her eyes.
“Believe what you will,” she said at last, shrugging and looking down, her hair falling across her face. “I have said what I came to say. I can do no more.”
Morgan cocked his head and stared at her. She was young, not yet twenty and one he guessed, and possessed the energy and innocence that comes with youth. Yet she had a wisdom and wit resembling one thrice her years. How remarkable that she would renounce extravagance and comfort for the sake of patriotic duty—if she were indeed telling the truth. He had to be careful though.
“Now that you have started this charade, I fear it must continue until the culprit is found.” He walked toward her as he deliberated upon his options. “And I’m afraid you will find our camp hospitality somewhat wanting in comfort. It will not be pleasant.”
“I knew that coming here would mean hardship and adversity,” came the solemn response. She did not bother to raise her eyes, and spoke as if forming words required much effort. “But not coming could mean something much worse for my country.”
Morgan cocked his head again, trying to detect any sign of treachery or deceit. He saw only sincerity, with no hint of fright or uncertainty. She appeared somewhat childlike and feminine, yet had a solid aspect of hardened steel about her. Even when staring straight ahead, which was most of the time, he could tell her mind was not idle—nor was it fretful.
“Still, I am reluctant to put you through it.”
The tone of his voice perhaps, more so than the words, made her meet his gaze squarely. “No trials could be more difficult than those through which I have already passed.” She removed her attention from him and stared out the window again as if that was all she was going to say on the subject.
The expression of calm courage made his pulse quicken. “You appear to possess a patriot’s heart, Miss Adair, yet I can’t help but wonder if it will be worth the cost.”
“If you find the traitor, it will be worth the cost.” She spoke with calm assurance, but did not bother to remove her distant gaze from the window.
Morgan recognized a conviction and sincerity in her manner that somewhat silenced his reservations and mistrust, but still he paused a moment, worried about her ability to endure a night in captivity. He was soon relieved of that misgiving as well, for despite her obvious fatigue, her countenance reflected cool courage and commitment. Something in her deep brown eyes spoke of defiance, strong will, and strength.
He turned away, and cleared his throat. “To be clear, you expect no special consideration?”
“Treat me as if you believe I am a traitor,” she replied steadily. “I understand the necessity of playing the game until the end.”
“This is hardly a game,” he said, turning back to her. “Perhaps you expect payment for your services?”
He watched the color rise in her cheeks. “Liberty for my country is payment enough for me.” She raised her head a notch higher as if insulted by the insinuation.
Morgan felt a vague sense of awe, and then one of painful apprehension, as he took in her motionless figure. The acceptance of her fate radiated in her eyes, but her face was destitute of all other expression. Never was anything so frail, and yet so very determined and resolute.
“I apologize,” he said gravely under his breath, “but you could not have found a person to whom your plan is more disagreeable.” When she did not answer, nor change her vacant look, he turned to the door and hailed the guards. “She is a prisoner. You can unbind her hands. She has given her word.” The men nodded, but one paused and motioned to Morgan. “The holding cell, sir?”
“Yes, the holding cell.”
Instead of watching her leave, Morgan turned back to his desk and listened to the door latch closed behind him.
