The Informant, a patriot fanfic

The Informant

Chris Reilly ducked low under a fallen tree, careful to avoid any sticks, branches or dry leaves that might give away his position. It was well after dark, but with his path to the headquarters camp of Colonel Harry Burwell taking him so close to a major British stronghold in the area, making noise even once could give Chris away.

Skirting the edge of the enemy's territory, or going right through it, was something Chris did routinely when passing messages to and from Colonel Benjamin Martin and friends, allies, and fellow Patriot officers operating in this part of the Colonies. The British Army held sway over a great deal of the area, and to get messages delivered on time, Chris had to take risks. Putting his life on the line was a regular part of the job.

There was no alternative. Messages had to get to their destination, and they had to get there fast.

Messengers and dispatch runners were the lifeline on which the entire Patriot movement depended. They enabled commanders to share information on British positions and troop movements, the status of different Patriot units, successes or failures in recent engagements… without these daring young men to keep the supply of information going, no Continental Army or militia unit could do anything.

Chris shifted the bag he carried over his shoulder, careful to do so silently and with a minimum of movement. The bag held a tightly-rationed supply of food, as well as a canteen of water and a few other items and supplies. Some of these dispatch runs went on for days, and Chris had to have some amount of provisions in case he couldn't depend entirely on stopping at Patriot-friendly homes along the way.

It was 1780, four years after the start of the war, four years after Chris had volunteered for service in the Continental Army. His childhood friend, Gabriel Martin, had assumed Chris would lend his full support when Gabriel volunteered, and Chris had been unable to say no. Sometimes Chris wondered if he'd made the right decision. He just hadn't known how to say that his mother had raised him to be loyal to the Crown. Nonetheless, Chris had stayed on and done his part, unable to bring himself to leave his best and oldest friend.

His superb ability as a scout, the way Chris could travel considerable distances, day or night, and quickly find his way around, meant he had spent much of the past four years as a dispatch runner. These men often travelled alone, unarmed, and out of uniform, the better to blend in with the civilian populace.

It was dangerous work and required excellent navigational skills, plus a cool and clever head. You were on your own once you left a friendly camp, and the British, who understood well the value of a good dispatch runner, were always looking to catch you and get their hands on the letters and maps you were carrying.

Chris shivered involuntarily as he looked through the trees and uphill, toward the enormous countryside manor where Lieutenant General Charles Cornwallis had set up his headquarters. Cornwallis himself, the military genius, was no doubt enjoying a fine dinner, living in the best comfort available to a man of his status, out here in the rebellious Colonies.

The red-haired twenty-two-year-old, on the other hand, had barely eaten in the past two days.

A British column marched past on the road nearby, kicking up dust as they went. Supply wagons on both sides were jealously guarded, and the four in this column were no different. Chris had excellent eyesight in addition to his navigation and scouting skills, and he took careful note of every item he could see and identify in the back of those British wagons.

The food in them was probably not that good, still nothing close to what high-ranking British officers like Cornwallis enjoyed, but it had to be far, far better than a half-loaf of stale bread. Almost anything was.

Once the column had gone, Chris went on his way again, careful to stay well in the darkened depths of the woods, where British sentries and patrols would have the hardest time seeing him. Someone sneaking around the perimeter of one of the British encampments, especially Lord Cornwallis' headquarters, had an excellent chance of being shot on sight.

The other alternative was hanging. The British treated the Patriot cause as criminal rebellion against the authority of His Majesty King George III, the brilliant and charismatic monarch of the British Empire, and punished Patriots caught out of uniform severely.

Chris took all the risks nonetheless, including the last. While Gabriel Martin, a fellow dispatch runner and childhood friend, journeyed back and forth in Continental Army uniform and carried a marked case, Chris wore civilian clothes and hid his messages on him, carrying no case at all.

It was worth it, to Chris' mind. He'd escaped capture more than once by playing himself off as a civilian. No chance of that if you wore a uniform.

Chris' foot came down on a dry stick as he was moving up a slope, and the noise was like a gunshot in the mostly-quiet woods. The red-haired young man's heart leapt into his throat, and he ducked as low as he could and went still.

Incredibly, no one seemed to have heard that. Chris heard no shouts, no marching boots or clopping hooves coming his way. He waited for a few minutes, what seemed like eternity, and then kept going.

As Chris worked his way through the woods, he paused occasionally to look up at the stars, using them to check his position. In areas where he didn't know the land, and especially when he was moving anywhere at night, Chris used the stars to make sure he knew where he was.

Chris also got out the map he had been making of the British encampments in the area over the past few weeks. Every time he had gone out to deliver a message and bring another back to the militia camp, Chris had added a little more. Positions like Cornwallis' headquarters only changed so much over a period of weeks, and knowing the nature of their defenses, size and composition of forces, and approximations of their status and supplies was priceless.

After a few minutes of updating his map, sketching it out with a crude piece of graphite, Chris picketed the paper and went on his way. He needed to get this message through to Burwell soon. It was urgent. Every dispatch he carried was.

The woods were a risky area to travel through, since all manner of things lay on the ground that could give your position away, let the enemy know you were there. Fields were much better, in that they didn't have dry leaves that could make crunching sounds, or branches, sticks and twigs that could snap.

But fields were out in the open, even if they had wheat, corn, or tall grass. And the one ahead of Chris was on the other side of a road.

Chris had not passed quite this close to Cornwallis' headquarters many times. He didn't know this area as well as he knew other parts of South Carolina. Some areas, he knew like the back of his hand. Chris' memory of such things was excellent, but his ability to draw up mental portraits of places he had been, of key trees, creeks, rivers, fields and roads, was no use if he didn't know the area.

It was moments like this that he wished he had a weapon. A sword, a saber, a musket, a pistol. Something. But going armed would only serve to emphasize that Chris was a combatant; civilians did not go sneaking around in the woods carrying guns.

Besides, how much good is a pistol gonna do me if I'm suddenly facing down a thousand British redcoats? Chris thought. Good God, they'd just fill me full of holes before I could even fire two shots.

Chris crept up to the edge of the woods, looking at the pale surface of the road, at the field of tall grass he needed to get across to reach the next stretch of woods. If he could just run straight across, it would just be a minute or so. Maybe less than that.

Nothing to it.

The red-haired young man took a breath. He'd be completely in the open for at least a few seconds. Nothing he could do. All the way to the left, and right, that road stretched. Any alternative might well be miles out of the way.

Suddenly, Chris noticed movement behind him. He started to get up to run, but half-turned to look behind him, and ended up tripping over his own feet. He overbalanced and landed on the hard dirt road just as a handful of British soldiers emerged from the woods behind him.

"Don't move!" one of them said. "Stay where you are or you're dead!"

"Hands up, you! Take a step and you die!"

"I surrender!" Chris said immediately, holding up his hands. "Don't shoot! I'm a civilian!"

"Get up, you! Keep those hands up!"

"All right, all right!" Chris said, standing up slowly and carefully, avoiding any sudden movement.

"You're a civilian, then, are you?" the lead soldier asked.

"Yes, sir," Chris answered.

"You're a liar," the soldier declared. "You're a spy and you'll hang for treason by dawn."

Despite Chris' protests that he was an innocent civilian, just lost in the woods on his way to his uncle's farm, the patrol that had snuck up on him tied his hands behind his back, took his bag and coat, and then marched him up the road and toward the encampment constructed around the manor that housed Lord Cornwallis' headquarters.

Chris thought about escaping, but the leader of the patrol had thought of that, too, and kept a close eye the entire way back to the camp. The soldiers' muskets had their bayonets fixed, and they reminded him of that occasionally with helpful jabs in the back. Chris wanted to get away more than anything, but running for it would only mean getting run through with a bayonet, or shot in the back.

Left with no other choice, he focused instead on staying calm. Mam and Pa had not raised their eldest to be a coward.

So if simply making a break for it was out of the question, what was there to do? "There's always a way out of trouble," Pa had liked to say. "It's up to you to find it. God can't do all the work."

But with bayonets prodding him in the back, marching him toward the enemy headquarters, Chris was having a hard time seeing a way out of this one.

"Halt!" a sentry cried as the patrol neared one of the guard posts at the foot of the long, gently sloped hill that the manor stood at the top of. "Who goes there?"

"British patrol! We caught a spy!" the young soldier who seemed in charge of the patrol called out.

"A spy, you say?"

"That's what he is, sure enough!"

Chris shivered, and not just from the cool night air. This was not going well.

"My name's-"

"Shut up!" the sentry barked. "Who is he? Where'd you catch him?"

"Cross the way in the woods, there!" the soldier answered. "He was sneakin' around, he was, kept lookin' toward the camp! The little Irish bastard!"

"Did you search him, then?"

"I can't bloody well do that here in the dark, can I?"

"How do you know he's not armed?"

"Look, he's not hidin' a sword or somethin', you can see that."

The sentry peered at Chris suspiciously as the patrol brought him up. "You're a long way from Ireland, Paddy. What's got you out here in the middle of the bloody night?"

"I'm a civilian, and this is all a misunderstanding," Chris said. "I'm just tryin' to get back to my uncle's farm."

"What's your occupation?"

"Farm laborer."

"Your name?"

"Chris Reilly."

Another sentry came over with a torch, and they searched Chris for a minute or so, making sure he had no weapons or anything concealed on him.

"What were you doing out there in the forest?" the lead sentry demanded. "Sneaking around in the dark, and you got the nerve to go an' say you're just some civilian?"

"I got lost," Chris said. "I didn't want to get mistaken for a- for one of them Continental Army fellers, so I stayed outta sight. I don't want no trouble."

"Look here!" the leader of the patrol said, holding up Chris' dispatches and hand-drawn maps. "This one's a real spy, he is! He's got maps, an' dispatches! He's with them rebels!"

The sentry grinned. "This inn't lookin' good for you, lad."

"That's not my coat," Chris said immediately. "I borrowed it, from-"

"Who? From who?"

Chris hesitated, fumbling for the words. "From my- my older brother-"

"Take this one to see the Captain," the sentry said. "And you'd better tell Captain Halverson everything, boy. Or you won't live to see the sunrise."

Chris was led into a tent and ordered to sit down at a table, his hands still tied behind him. For what seemed like forever, he sat in that uncomfortable wooden chair.

It had been four years since the start of this war, and two years since he had seen home. Michael and Liam… they had been small boys when Chris left. They would be eight and nine now.

Would they even remember Chris when he returned?

Would he return?

For most of this war, Chris had remained convinced he would one day see home again. Now, though… he was starting to wonder.

The leader of the patrol entered the tent, checking each of the burning lamps. He then barked to Chris, "On your feet, you!"

Chris stood up just as a uniformed British officer entered the tent. He had a pale, lean face, and wore the rank insignia of a captain. The brown-haired officer regarded Chris for a few moments in silence, then said, "You may be seated."

The red-haired young man sat down again, and the captain took a seat in the chair on the other side of the table. The captain stared at Chris for almost a minute, then took out some letters, and two maps. Chris shivered again. They had not let him have his coat back, and it was far from warm out, even here in the tent.

"Corporal Wright here informs me that his patrol captured you outside this encampment, clearly trying to avoid being seen. These letters and maps were found in a hidden pocket on your overcoat. And your personal effects match those we know are typically carried by rebel scouts and dispatch runners."

Chris waited silently.

"You claim you are a civilian, yet your behavior and the papers in your possession give every appearance of your being a spy. And spies in the service of those in rebellion against King and Empire are to be hanged."

Chris' mouth worked as he tried to say something, but he couldn't say a word.

"There is not even the slightest evidence that you are telling us the truth," the captain said. "If you stick to your story, you will be hanged as a spy." He paused, staring at Chris. "What is your name?"

"My name's Chris Reilly," Chris answered.

"And what is it that you do?"

"I'm a farm laborer, sir."

"Not at the moment, you're not."

"It's what I do, sir."

"Do you want to be hanged in the morning?" the captain asked.

"I'd rather not be hanged at all, sir."

"Do you have a family?"

"Yes, sir. I got me Mam an' two little brothers."

"Do you want to see them again?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then stop lying and stop wasting my time."

Chris looked at the captain, who stared silently back at him. "I'm a farm laborer," Chris said, almost desperately.

"I should have you hanged now," the captain said with surprising calm. "I should have you drawn and quartered for spying on the King's military forces and aiding the rebelling Colonists as a spy and messenger."

The captain stood up.

"Wait," Chris blurted out.

"For what?" the captain demanded. "All you have done is waste my time. I will read these dispatches you were caught with, and pass them and the maps on to my commanding officer. You will receive the traitor's death you deserve."

"Wait, I-I was, I was telling the truth. I was a farm laborer before the war. It's what I did, sir."

"And now?"

It was now or never.

"Well, boy?"

Chris sighed. "I'm… a messenger, sir."

"With who?"

"Continental Army, sir."

The captain nodded. "Thank you very much." He turned to the leader of the patrol. "Well done. Keep your men here, and keep this spy under guard. I will return."

Then he left the tent.

Chris was left alone for a long, long time. His best guess was perhaps half an hour, but it felt like far more. He really had no idea. They had taken his pocket watch along with everything else, and Chris continued to shiver as the light clothing they'd left him in failed to keep him even remotely warm or comfortable.

They had seen right through his tale that he was a civilian. Of course they had. They'd captured him near their camp, sneaking through the woods. They'd found the messages and maps he was carrying.

Chris' heart pounded in his chest, and he tried desperately not to cry or beg mercy from the sentries outside the tent. They were going to hang him as a spy. Perhaps they would even draw and quarter him. It was a fate reserved only for those convicted of high treason… and here, in the Colonies, someone in Chris' position had little chance of avoiding such a conviction in the field.

What would become of Mam and the small Reilly farm? What would become of his brothers, who would now grow up without even an older brother to look after them?

And Mam- she had warned Chris. She had made him swear never to turn traitor against the Crown, the Empire that Pa had fought for. Chris had promised. And for two years he had broken his promise.

How did you do this to yourself? How did you get here? This was never where you were meant to be.

Chris sighed. He'd had no choice. Gabriel had talked him right into enlisting after the levy had passed, 28-12, the day South Carolina's legislators had voted to go to war. Surrounded by Patriot fervor and excitement, Chris had become caught up by it himself. He had volunteered, along with Peter Cuppin and Gabriel Martin. The latter he had known since they were both children. How could Chris have explained, on that proud day in 1776, that he was as against going to war with England as Benjamin Martin had been?

It had all gone so wrong. And now Chris was going to be hanged as a traitor to the Crown, leaving Gabriel Martin as the sole survivor of the trio who'd enlisted together outside the South Carolina state legislature in 1776. He was going to leave his brothers and Mam to do all the chores and work by themselves.

I don't want to die. Not now, not like this.

"On your feet!" the patrol leader barked.

Chris stood up again.

"Untie his hands," the captain said. The soldier looked surprised, but he moved over and removed the rope keeping Chris' hands tied behind his back. "Sit down," the captain said, looking at Chris.

Once they were both seated again, the captain said, "Confessing your identity as a messenger does not help your case. You were taken in civilian clothes, with papers that prove your identity as a spy. You are to be hanged in the morning. Do you understand?"

Chris nodded, dropping his eyes to the table. "Yes, sir."

"There is only one possibility of you getting out of this alive."

Chris looked up, unable to hide his surprise. "A possibility, sir?"

"Indeed," the officer said. "You are a traitor to your King, and your Empire. Precious little chance exists of you being forgiven for that. Tell me, was it worth it? Taking arms against His Majesty, against your sovereign?"

"I volunteered," Chris said.

"Why did you volunteer?"

"My friend. I known him since he were a child, sir, since both of us were. I couldn't turn on 'im."

"An admirable quality, being loyal to one's friends. But what is a mere friendship set against proper loyalty to one's King?"

Chris couldn't answer that. "I can't betray the Continentals, sir. I enlisted and I'm in this 'till it's over."

"It is over for you already. You'll see that when your neck is stretched at dawn."

Chris felt a tremor of fear, but managed to compose himself. "I'd-I'd rather hoped I'd make it through this, sir. My Mam, she needs me on the farm, she does. She'll be at a loss without me. Her, an' my brothers-"

"That's the least of your worries right now," the captain interrupted him. "I ask you again, was it worth it, committing treason against the Empire?"

"I ain't committed treason. I stood by my friends. I'm loyal," Chris insisted.

"Your misguided loyalty will guide you to the hangman's noose in a matter of hours."

Chris tried to avoid wringing his hands, failed, and tried to avoid looking nervous, and failed that, too. "I-I have a family, sir. Hangin' me, you'd- you'd be takin' me from 'em."

"You have taken yourself from your loved ones, by committing high treason," Captain Halverson pronounced. "Your sentence is death unless you reconsider."

"Reconsider?"

"Yes."

"I can't reconsider. I volunteered with the Continental Army and I'm in 'till it ends."

"You talk of this Continental Army," the captain said, "when no such thing exists. Only rabble and traitors against the lawful authority of the Crown. You have allied yourself with the lowest class of humanity ever to exist on this earth. The deepest of all the circles of Hell is reserved for betrayers and mutineers."

"I'm only doin' my duty, sir."

"Chris Reilly, is high treason really what you were raised to do with your life?"

Chris stared at the captain, astonished. "I-I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, sir."

"By your accent, I would venture a guess that you are not of the Colonies, not originally. Where were you born?"

"County Cork, sir. In Ireland."

"Which is part of the British Empire."

"Yes, sir."

"Did your mother raise you to be a traitor?"

"No, sir. An my Pa, neither."

"Would they be proud to see their firstborn, their son walking to the scaffold in just a few hours, when dawn breaks? Or would they be proud to see their son truly doing his duty?"

Chris was confused. The threat of death hung over him… no, not just the threat of it, the fact of it. And now this man was talking of alternatives, as if there was some way out. Some way to live.

"Is there a way I get to live, sir? Are you sayin' I don't have to be hanged?"

The captain looked at him evenly. "Well, that decision rests in your hands and yours alone. Would you wish to be forgiven your treason?"

"I'm not about to turn on my friends, sir," Chris said. "I can't." He drew in a breath, let it out. He stared at the desk for what seemed like a long time. "It wouldn't be right."

"Are they truly your friends? What kind of friends ask you to commit high treason alongside them? The time has come, Chris Reilly, for you to decide upon your loyalties. You will either die a traitor, or live a redeemed man, perhaps a hero."

"I don't follow you at all, sir," Chris answered. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"What have you done in your time with the rebels?"

"I been a horseman, clerk, scout and messenger, sir."

"A man of many talents."

"I suppose so, sir."

"Haven't you ever considered lending those talents to the right side?"

Chris stared at the captain. "The right side?"

"Of course. Only one side is right and just in this war and it's plain to both of us which that is."

"I couldn't do that," Chris said. "I can't- I can't change sides now."

"Surely you mean, 'Won't', not 'Can't'."

"I don't understand, sir."

"It's simple, lad. The Colonies haven't a chance of winning this war. They may be keeping up the opposite impression, but after the precious little time they have left runs out, the Crown's justice will triumph, and the ones who led the Colonies into treason will be dragged alive through the dirt in the streets."

"I was at Valley Forge," Chris said quietly. "That whole miserable winter, I was there. I seen 'em. I've seen 'em march an' fight. They're more determined than that, sir. I'm more determined than that."

"By aiding the Crown in bringing this war to a speedy end you will not only redeem yourself, you will save lives that will inevitably be wasted. More people will die the longer this treason persists. As it becomes even more obvious that they will lose, however, people will begin to return to their homes, to stop aiding the rebel cause. Wouldn't you like to save not only yourself, but the ones around you? Your 'friends' in the Continental Army will not know of it, but you will be helping them the best way you can."

"If they find me out," Chris said slowly, "they'll kill me. They'll hang me from the tallest tree in the country and leave my body for the birds. My friend… he'll… I'll… I can't turn on him, sir. I can't do that."

"You have served with him since the rebellion began?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's not your fault he's a traitor."

"I can't turn on him, sir."

Chris was clinging to that idea now, the way a drowning man would cling to anything he could reach and grab hold of… hoping it would keep him alive just a little longer.

"You won't be turning on him. You'll be doing him a favor. You may even save his life, if we can end this war quickly enough."

Chris stared at the table and sighed. He was struggling to make up his mind. He had always known capture was a risk, and death a real possibility in the event of capture. Did he really want to die for this cause? He'd been willing to put his life at risk, but dying? Mam and Pa would both be ashamed if he were killed for this cause. Chris knew that. They would turn their heads away in shame and disgust from their eldest son, the traitor to the Crown.

Chris had never shot a single British soldier in battle. He knew that. Even with the notorious lack of accuracy in an individual musket, Chris had never so much as tried. He was a fine shot, and could demonstrate it when hunting game or practicing.

But in battle, he'd aimed beneath the redcoats, deliberately fired in such a way that his comrades didn't notice or suspect, but there was no chance of a servant of the King coming to harm.

The thought had been unbearable. Even as they had been doing their best to kill him, Chris had been unable to make himself try to kill the King's soldiers.

"It's this or be hanged, then?" Chris asked.

"Yes. Do the right thing or die uselessly. I do not believe it should be an especially difficult decision."

Chris looked at the stern-faced officer, and neither of them spoke for a long time.

Finally, Chris nodded. The red-haired young man had to clear his throat a few times before he could speak. At first, he couldn't find his voice.

"I'll do it, sir."

Captain Halverson smiled. "Good. Stay here. I will return."

Then he got up and left the tent, leaving Chris to wonder if he hadn't somehow just done the wrong thing.

He supposed, though, that it didn't really matter now. His life was in the hands of this man. All Chris could do was try to take this chance to live.

When Captain Halverson returned, Chris stood up without being told, but the British officer just waved him down. The older man sat down across from Chris, looking at him with a solemn expression.

"Chris," he said, "there's a problem. You're in more danger than either of us knew."

"I'll swear an oath," Chris said hurriedly. "Like you talked about. I'll-"

"It's not me you need to convince anymore," Captain Halverson said. "I believe you. But my superiors don't. They don't see any reason why we shouldn't hang you for a spy despite everything you and I have spoken of."

"Sir-"

"It's how the situation is, Chris. I don't like it any more than you do."

Chris folded his hands, unfolded them, folded them again. He saw himself hanging for a cause he had been unable to keep himself out of, and now wanted to get out of, but couldn't.

"I know somethin' they'll wanna know, sir. Maybe they'll spare me if I tell you."

"What is it?"

"My friend," Chris said slowly, "he's a messenger like me. He carries dispatches, letters, things the like of that."

"Go on."

"His name's Gabriel Martin," Chris said, staring at the table. "He has dispatches hidden at Mr. Benjamin Martin's plantation, upstairs, under a loose floorboard across from the door of the bedroom he's using."

"Benjamin Martin," the captain said with interest. "He was in our last war with the French. Wasn't he?"

"He served under Washington, sir, is what I heard."

"Before Washington became a traitor."

"Yes, sir."

"So, Gabriel's father knows what his son is doing now?"

"He does, sir."

"So he is at the very least, complicit in and approving of his son's actions and choice in loyalties."

"Yes, sir."

"You're doing your friend Gabriel a favor by telling me this, Chris. You may well save his life, and keep him and his father from committing further treason against the Crown. But useful as this information is, what reason have we to let you go from this fort as a free man?"

Chris was silent for a few moments. Then he forced himself to look up and meet Captain Halverson's gaze.

"I'm the best messenger in the Continental Army," Chris said. "I been doin' this since the war started and only now you caught me. The Colonials, they trust me. I got all kinds of time to myself, where they dunno where I am. I can be runnin' messages for them an' tellin' you what I see, lettin' you all read the letters. I can tell you where the armies are and how many men they got. Where their supplies are, what kinda shape the men are in. I'll be a lot more help to you alive than dead."

"If they catch you, Chris, they'll kill you, as you said yourself. These traitors will not show mercy if they find you to be the sole man among them who remembered his duty to the Crown."

"I know, sir. But I'm better at this than them. I know the ways they use to keep an eye out, and I know how to beat 'em. I known since Valley Forge we… we weren't going to win this war. I've tried to find a way to talk to Gabe about it, tell 'im the truth. But I can't. Gabe's signed his death warrant by throwin' in with this rebellion. What I been dyin' to tell 'im is, if he continues on his present course, one day, he'll find he's the only one walkin' it… with the gallows at its end."

Captain Halverson nodded thoughtfully. "You speak like you have some education, Chris."

"My Pa, he taught me my letters. I listened to him speak."

"Then he must have spoken well, indeed."

"It was him, taught me to be loyal. Him and my Mam," Chris said.

"Then think of them if ever your resolve should falter. You're on our side now. Never let your loyalties go astray again." Halverson paused. "I must speak to my superiors. Remain here."

Chris was left alone for some time, with nothing to keep him company but his thoughts. The die was cast now; he had thrown in with the very people he had sworn to fight when he'd enlisted in the Continental Army. Now, he was swearing a new oath, to a new cause. He felt conflicted still, but at least he was doing what he'd promised Mam he would, and what Pa would have wanted.

There was no easy way out of this. No way Chris could live through the war without betraying someone. But the captain was right. Gabriel Martin might have been Chris' oldest and dearest friend. He'd chosen the wrong cause all the same, thrown in with traitors and mutineers. The best Chris could hope for now was that the war would end swiftly, with his aid to the British side to speed it along.

As for Gabriel… the only hope he had remaining was the chance that the war would end before he could get himself killed. He was too determined, too eager, too ready to fight. His daring had made him a good soldier and dispatch runner, but it was only serving to speed him closer to his doom.

While Chris waited for the captain's return, he bowed his head and prayed. He said a prayer asking for deliverance, for the wisdom of the King's officers to prevail and allow him to redeem himself in the Crown's service. Then he asked that the Almighty watch over his mother and brothers, and let him survive to see them again when this was all over. And lastly, Chris prayed for Gabriel and the other good men who had been misled into siding with the rebellion, and asked that as many of them could either come to their senses or otherwise survive the war as possible.

Gabe, my friend. How did you go so wrong? What will happen to you?

Captain Halverson looked pleased when he returned, and he wasted no time telling Chris that he was saved- Halverson's superiors had granted him permission to swear Chris into British service as a spy for the Crown.

After swearing Chris in, Halverson sat down with a pen, ink, and parchment. He dipped the pen in the inkwell, and looked at Chris expectantly.

"So, Chris. Tell me everything you know about Gabriel Martin and his family. Let's start with Gabriel's latest work. Tell me again: where has he hidden the dispatches?"

Over the next hour and a half, Chris told everything he knew. After four years with the Continental Army as a scout and dispatch runner, he knew quite a lot.

Gabriel Martin was reading his Bible by firelight when a shadow fell over him, blocking his view of the fireplace.

"Gabe," the young man said in a pronounced Irish accent, "I hope you're not too busy to see a friend comin' back."

"Chris!"

Gabriel set down his Bible and jumped up, throwing his arms around Chris. "What took you so long? It's never taken you this long to run a message! I was beginning to fear the worst!"

"Ah, you thought them redcoats had got the better o' me?" Chris said, grinning. "Nah, Chris, I jus' got lost."

"The best woodsman in Colonel Burwell's regiment got lost?" Gabriel asked in disbelief.

"Aye, it happens to the best of us."

"It's never happened to you."

"Ah, but perhaps I just never told you 'bout it 'till now."

Gabriel laughed. "It's good to have you back, Chris."

"Any day's a good day, Gabe, long as you're not ending it dangling from the gallows." Chris jerked his head to the side and stuck his tongue out.

"It's in no small part thanks to you that we've evaded that fate so far," Gabriel said.

"It may be," Chris said with a shrug. "But we're not through this yet."

"Chris," Benjamin Martin said, walking into the room. "It's always a pleasure when you invite yourself into my house."

"I wanted to surprise him, sir," Chris said apologetically. "I been out on my dispatch run and I thought he'd like to see me, a little surprised-like."

"I am pleased to see him, Father," Gabriel said.

"I understand that, but a visitor to this plantation and this house must properly announce himself."

"The blacks can't see me out there in the dark," Chris said, laughing. "Even with my red hair, they don't know as I'm slippin' by them. But I fool the whites just the same, quiet as I move."

"This is not a British camp," Benjamin Martin said. "You can afford to properly announce yourself, Chris."

"I'll do it proper the next time, sir," Chris promised.

"See that you do."

"Father! Who's that I heard downstairs?" Thomas Martin called from upstairs.

"Come down here and find out!" Gabriel called.

Thomas came running down the stairs, got a look at Chris, and shouted, "Nathan, Samuel, William! Margaret, Susan! Come see the visitor!"

"Is it Chris Reilly?" Nathan yelled.

"Stop shouting around the house or I'll throw the Irishman out!" Benjamin Martin threatened with mock fierceness, but the smile on his face gave him away.

The rest of the Martin children came running down to see Chris moments later, and Gabriel and Chris' attempts at catching up were diverted as the children all demanded Chris pay attention to each of them. He was a superb storyteller- even if he regularly embellished his tales, glossing over the boring and frightening sides of military life- and the children loved hearing him speak.

Chris believed that it was his Cork accent, as much as any of that, that made the Martin children want to hear him talk as often as they could. They loved the lilting, almost sing-song tone Chris tended to speak in, finding it amusing and intriguing at the same time.

The red-haired young man indulged them gladly. After his close brush with death tonight, he was in an especially generous mood.

Nothing made you appreciate life so much as knowing you might not be alive much longer.

When they got a spare minute as the evening wore on, Gabriel said to Chris, "I'm glad you're still with us, Chris."

"Of course, Gabe. I'm not about to leave ya now."

"We'll win this if you stand by us to the end. We need everyone, but especially men like you."

Chris blushed. "Oh, well… methinks you make me out to be more than I am. But don't worry. You can rely on me."

"I've known you since you were a child, Chris. I'll always rely on you."

"Thank ya, Gabe. That means somethin' to me. I'm glad we've stuck together all this time."

The sound of gunfire in the distance, and the deeper boom of cannons, interrupted Gabriel's reply. With British and Continental forces both being present in force in the area, the noise could only mean one thing.

"There'll be wounded comin' in soon," Chris predicted, his face becoming grim. "We'd better get outside and get ready."

A/N: 4-26-2018. Re-uploaded on 8-16-2021.

This is a prequel to my story "The Loyalist", exploring the origins of Chris Reilly's change in loyalties.