(Manhattan Island, September 22, 1776. Absalom Van Wyck, junior reporter for the Crime Beat of his father’s New York Knickerbocker News, has scheduled an interview with rebel spy Nathan Hale prior to Hale’s execution. Van Wyck, quill and notepad in hand-- he’d dropped his Google Tablet down the pit of an outhouse privy after completing that morning’s call of nature-- approaches a young man dressed as a Dutch schoolmaster, but with hands tied behind his back.)
VW: Halloo, Mr...?
NH: The name is Captain Hale. And you are...?
VW: Absalom Van Wyck. Your servant, sir. I’d like to ask you a few questions for my dad’s newspaper, if time permits before the hangman arrives.
NH: (Bows.) It would be my pleasure to accommodate you, sir. I should be gratified to be immortalized in print, considering what looms before me today.
VW: And that would be...?
NH: (Clears his throat and casts a quick glance at the sturdy oak nearby, noose dangling from a branch.)
VW: Just so. My apologies. It appears my mind was elsewhere, recollecting a fat suet pudding I ravaged last night at the Dove Tavern, just across the way. I heartily recommend it, should you have the oppurtu... Oops! Again, my apologies.
NH: Accepted, sir. And your questions? I see that the hangman has arrived, so time presses me.
VW: Hmm. It would seem my quill is dry and I have no pot of ink. You wouldn’t by any chance...? No. Again, I apologize. Here, I have a ballpoint pen in my pocket. Now! Have you a final statement, a confession, perhaps?
NH: A confession? Bah, sir! I volunteered for an essential duty, when not one man other had the courage to do so. My one consolation is that far into the future, perhaps two hundred years and more from now, Americans will look at this tree and remember me as a Son of Liberty and martyr to the Patriot cause.
VW: (Busy scribbling.) Ah, that should make outstanding copy, indeed! Forgive me once more, sir, as a result of the excellent brandy I enjoyed with last night’s pudding. Your name, for the record, is...?
NH: Captain Nathan Hale.
VW: Tell me, sir, have you any last words to recite before they string you up? I apologize, should that be indelicate phrasing.
NH: Accepted, sir. Indeed I have. I shall proclaim, loudly, “My only regret is that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Compelling, succinct, and altogether memorable, no?
VW: It certainly is. Run that by me one more time, would you? This pen does not comply. My apolo...
NH: (Interrupting.) My only regret is that I have but one life to lose for my country! By Jove, man, is this your first assignment?
VW: Alas, no, but in fact it is the first time Dad has given me a go on the Crime Beat. We’re trying each department out until we find an agreeable match. So, let me get this down: “My only regret is that I have but one life.” Profound, Lieutenant.
NH: My good man, I beseech you. Surely you might get both my rank and my final words correct.
VW: Sincere apologies. Last night’s brandy has really knocked my stockings off. Let’s start again, shall we? (With an air of authority, born of his privileged upbringing, Van Wyck waves off the approaching hangman. The hangman, bewildered, turns to speak to a trio of British officers.)
NH: (With a ragged sigh.) Yes, perhaps two hundred years hence, our American citizenry will gaze with fondness on that mighty oak and remember a man who died for their freedom.
VW: Mmm. That oak again. No doubt they would, sir, though rumor has it all the trees in this vicinity will be razed and supplanted by skyscrapers, as well as by Grand Central Station, hard by the post road. Our descendants— well, my descendants—might even read a plaque about you near the intersection of 66th Street and Third Avenue.
(Hale looks startled, then pleased, his eyes sparkling.)
NH: By Minerva’s Unmolested Maidenhead, sir, do you mean to say that in future years a memorial called Nathan Hale’s Grand Central Station will stand here, its merchants selling, perhaps, little American flags and badges with my picture on them? As well as raspberry shrub and Martha Washington’s delicious ginger cookies?
VW: Why not, sir. Why not. By the way, do you know how I might sample those cookies?
(The hangman, having conferred with the British officers, bears down now in a no-nonsense fashion on Hale and Van Wyck. He grabs Hale by the cravat and hauls him toward the oak tree.)
NH: Farewell, sir! And thank you for assuring me my spot in history!
VW: My pleasure, entirely, Private 1st Class Nathaniel... Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten your name again. My apologies, sir!
VW: Halloo, Mr...?
NH: The name is Captain Hale. And you are...?
VW: Absalom Van Wyck. Your servant, sir. I’d like to ask you a few questions for my dad’s newspaper, if time permits before the hangman arrives.
NH: (Bows.) It would be my pleasure to accommodate you, sir. I should be gratified to be immortalized in print, considering what looms before me today.
VW: And that would be...?
NH: (Clears his throat and casts a quick glance at the sturdy oak nearby, noose dangling from a branch.)
VW: Just so. My apologies. It appears my mind was elsewhere, recollecting a fat suet pudding I ravaged last night at the Dove Tavern, just across the way. I heartily recommend it, should you have the oppurtu... Oops! Again, my apologies.
NH: Accepted, sir. And your questions? I see that the hangman has arrived, so time presses me.
VW: Hmm. It would seem my quill is dry and I have no pot of ink. You wouldn’t by any chance...? No. Again, I apologize. Here, I have a ballpoint pen in my pocket. Now! Have you a final statement, a confession, perhaps?
NH: A confession? Bah, sir! I volunteered for an essential duty, when not one man other had the courage to do so. My one consolation is that far into the future, perhaps two hundred years and more from now, Americans will look at this tree and remember me as a Son of Liberty and martyr to the Patriot cause.
VW: (Busy scribbling.) Ah, that should make outstanding copy, indeed! Forgive me once more, sir, as a result of the excellent brandy I enjoyed with last night’s pudding. Your name, for the record, is...?
NH: Captain Nathan Hale.
VW: Tell me, sir, have you any last words to recite before they string you up? I apologize, should that be indelicate phrasing.
NH: Accepted, sir. Indeed I have. I shall proclaim, loudly, “My only regret is that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Compelling, succinct, and altogether memorable, no?
VW: It certainly is. Run that by me one more time, would you? This pen does not comply. My apolo...
NH: (Interrupting.) My only regret is that I have but one life to lose for my country! By Jove, man, is this your first assignment?
VW: Alas, no, but in fact it is the first time Dad has given me a go on the Crime Beat. We’re trying each department out until we find an agreeable match. So, let me get this down: “My only regret is that I have but one life.” Profound, Lieutenant.
NH: My good man, I beseech you. Surely you might get both my rank and my final words correct.
VW: Sincere apologies. Last night’s brandy has really knocked my stockings off. Let’s start again, shall we? (With an air of authority, born of his privileged upbringing, Van Wyck waves off the approaching hangman. The hangman, bewildered, turns to speak to a trio of British officers.)
NH: (With a ragged sigh.) Yes, perhaps two hundred years hence, our American citizenry will gaze with fondness on that mighty oak and remember a man who died for their freedom.
VW: Mmm. That oak again. No doubt they would, sir, though rumor has it all the trees in this vicinity will be razed and supplanted by skyscrapers, as well as by Grand Central Station, hard by the post road. Our descendants— well, my descendants—might even read a plaque about you near the intersection of 66th Street and Third Avenue.
(Hale looks startled, then pleased, his eyes sparkling.)
NH: By Minerva’s Unmolested Maidenhead, sir, do you mean to say that in future years a memorial called Nathan Hale’s Grand Central Station will stand here, its merchants selling, perhaps, little American flags and badges with my picture on them? As well as raspberry shrub and Martha Washington’s delicious ginger cookies?
VW: Why not, sir. Why not. By the way, do you know how I might sample those cookies?
(The hangman, having conferred with the British officers, bears down now in a no-nonsense fashion on Hale and Van Wyck. He grabs Hale by the cravat and hauls him toward the oak tree.)
NH: Farewell, sir! And thank you for assuring me my spot in history!
VW: My pleasure, entirely, Private 1st Class Nathaniel... Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten your name again. My apologies, sir!