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      For Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs,

      Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kennedy and John Richmond, with all the very best wishes for the season, however it may be celebrated!

      Prologue A Winter’s Day

       New York City

       Christmastide, 1776

      Perhaps it was fitting that it should be such a cold and bitter, yet stunning, day.

      Jake Mallory took a minute to appreciate the awesome glory of the morning. The heavens were an extravagant shade of blue. Light puffs of soft white clouds were slipping by. The sun, a golden orb, was en route to a high point in the sky as the early hours of the morning defied the darkness of the passing night.

      It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

       A fine day to die.

      They had all known it, known they might be called upon to die, all of them who agreed that the colonies must break from Mother Britain. All those who had set pen to paper and signed the Declaration of Independence. All those who had led the armies. All those who had fought.

      And spied.

      Not that spying had actually been his intent. He was a soldier. Well, he hadn’t exactly wanted to be a soldier, either. Such an enterprise had not been his intent in life. He was a newspaperman—or, at least, that was what he had intended to be. Writing was his passion. His home was the small town of Gloucester, but even there, as in all the surrounding towns, the talk had been about politics. About breaking away. Then, there had been the Boston Tea Party.

      Blood had been spilled.

      He believed deeply in the freedom and equality of man. That and, of course, the editorials he had written regarding the need for the colonies to break free, were what had brought him to stand here today. In the taverns of Boston he had gotten to know many a man handy with a pamphlet, such as John Adams, who in turn had introduced him to another John—Hancock. He had become involved with men to whom the written word was a weapon. And handling such a weapon …

      Had led to his carrying a different kind of weapon. And—quite sadly, really—to getting caught.

      Ah, there was the rub. Getting caught. Men far too old to be soldiers knew that they would hang if captured by the British, if their cause failed.

      So here he was today.

      Upon the scaffold.

      Truly, such a deplorable state of affairs.

      Ah, well. He had written well, and sewn rampant seeds of rebellion. He had taken to the field, running missions; he had picked up a gun, as well. He was guilty of sedition, so they said. Words on paper could shout loudly, and his had been heard, far and wide.

      There was a precedent for his death. He wouldn’t be the first to die here, hanged for his loyalty to a fledgling nation. Nathan Hale had died just a few months back. Hale had died heroically. Jake could only hope now that he could do the same.

      Looking at the sky, one could almost pray for a miracle. There was such awe and wonder in the beauty of the sky. But there weren’t going to be any miracles. The British were firmly entrenched in the city. No sudden horde of rebels was suddenly going to break through the ranks of Lobsterbacks and save him. Nor was it likely that Hempton, the British major in charge of his fate, would find any way to suggest that they pardon their captive for the holiday.

      The holiday …

      It was almost Christmas.

      Well, he was a God-fearing man, so maybe that was a good thing. He didn’t blame God for his fate. Things were what they were. It was a war, perhaps an ill-advised one, considering the might and power of the British war machine and the truly pathetic manpower and munitions of the Patriots. It was being fought on dreams and ideals. This morning, especially this morning, he had to keep believing in the dream. He had been in over his head, cast into a desperate position, and he had chosen the high road.

      Of course, he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit that it was just a wee bit difficult not to regret that choice right now.

      “Sorry!” Captain Tim Reginald said to him. The British officer charged with the duty of slipping the noose around his neck had chafed his cheek with the coarse rope. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tim was a good enough fellow; they’d played cards together and shared a few drinks during the last days. He was young enough himself, a true Brit, following the way of the British army as his family would have him do. He was a man willing enough to fight for king and country, strong, intelligent and brave.

      But executions were not his forte.

      “Quite all right, good friend,” Jake said.

      Poor Tim. A good man, yes. War was so strange. Men became enemies when they did not know one another. If he and Tim did not give their hearts, souls and loyalties to different drummers, they might have been good friends in truth.

      It almost looked at if Tim would give way to tears. Ah, a good British officer could never do so. “Friend,” he said kindly to Tim, “don’t fear. I do not hold you responsible for my impending demise, nor does God above.”

      Tim swallowed hard, just appearing more ill.

      He could hear the Anglican minister droning on in prayer, advising him to pray, as well.

      Jake prayed.

      Jake did not pray

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