Page 4 of King's Man

Amos Holden stood before him. A balding, ruddy-faced man of about Nate’s father’s age, he held aloft a paper. The loyalty oath, no doubt. Behind Sam stood Bill Mather, one hand clenched in Sam’s hair, forcing his head back and up. Not that he needed to bother, because Sam’s ferocious gaze was locked on Holden. Even in the dark, Nate could see the flashing fury in his eyes. And the fear, stark and sharp. All around them, the air stank of hot pitch and violence.

“This is your last chance,” Holden shouted, waving the oath for all to see. “By order of the Rhode Island General Assembly, the Rosemont Committee of Safety demands that you, Samuel Hutchinson, swear as follows:I believe the War, Resistance, and Opposition, in which the United American Colonies are now engaged, against the Fleets and Armies of Great Britain, is, on the part of the said Colonies, just and necessary. And I will defend by arms the United Colonies against every hostile attempt of the Fleets and Armies in the service of Great Britain.”

A ringing silence followed his declaration, nothing to be heard but the spit and hiss of the torches, the heavy breathing of the angry crowd. Nate held his breath, heart clattering wildly.Please, he begged Sam.Please just say it.

Perhaps he made a sound of distress because Sam’s eyes flicked to him, then widened in shock. It had been several weeks since they’d seen each other. Sam sagged back against Mather, as if shoved by an invisible hand, and Nate took a half step forward, then stopped, paralyzed by indecision. If he spoke now, would he make matters worse? Holden would be only too happy to snarl insinuations about their friendship.

“Well?” Holden spat. “What’s your answer, Tory?”

For a moment, Nate thought Sam might concede. He sat slumped in defeat and Nate felt an awful, shameful relief. But what a Pyrrhic victory it would be. Yes, he wanted Sam to take the oath; he wanted Sam to be safe. But to see him like this, humiliated and forced to comply by a thug like Amos Holden? It was unbearable.

Then Sam’s eyes lifted to Nate’s. The fleeting contact was so fierce he feared everyone must see it, although there was nothing tender in that gaze, nothing of the love they shared. And nothing of defeat.

Sam’s gaze was all ice and defiance.

He looked away, his throat working, and moistened his lips. It was the only sign of his fear. “I cannot swear your oath,” he declared in a loud clear voice. “I wish no man ill, but I do not believe your war is just or necessary. I believe it is a mistake, and I cannot swear otherwise. My conscience forbids it.”

“The Committee demands that you do,” Holden said, playing to the crowd at his back. “We demand that you demonstrate your loyalty to us and to the American cause.”

“And I don’t accept that your arbitrary, self-created tribunal has any right to govern my conscience. Who are you, Amos Holden, to tell me what to think? Myopiniondoes not make me a traitor, sir. I have a right to think as I choose — about this war or any other matter.”

Nate closed his eyes, half in frustration and half in desperate pride. What a speech to make on your knees.

“And those,” Holden said, turning to face the crowd in triumph, “are exactly the weasel words you’d expect from a King’s man. Are they not? The British are camped just beyond the Pawtuxet, and this man” — he flung out his arm toward Sam — “thisTorycalls our struggle a mistake! He refuses to fight for our liberty! His conscience forbids it, he says. I say, where will hisconsciencebe when the British guns are turned on Rosemont?”

“Traitor!” yelled a voice from the crowd.

“Pig-fucking Tory whore!”

“What shall we do with him?” cried Holden, swaggering and strutting toward the pan of hot pitch. He lifted it up and the crowd cheered. “What will Rosemont do with this traitor?”

“Tar him!”

“Tar him!”

“Tar him!”

Nate watched in rising horror as two men broke from the mob to rip open Sam’s shirt, tearing it off his back with such force Sam would have fallen had Mather not gripped his hair.

“Look at yourselves!” Sam shouted, twisting in Mather’s grasp to glare at Nate. “This is your liberty? This is the country you want to be? Can’t you see what —”

Holden struck him, hard across the face. And it was too much. The sight of blood on Sam’s split lip was too much. Nate surged forward, ready to fight, but someone grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the crowd. He spun around furiously, fists up, and found himself face-to-face with John Reed.

“Think!” Reed hissed. “Think, Nate. Don’t make things worse for him.”

“Worse?” His eyes blurred with furious tears, his throat aching. “How could it be — ?”

“This will only hurt his pride. But get him out of here when they’re done. Do you understand me?” Reed shook his arm. “If they put a flame to him…”

A flame? Jesus Christ.

He turned back to Sam in terror. Holden was already pouring the pitch, while Mather and the other two tried to hold Sam still as he struggled. The stink of the tar made Nate’s eyes water. Viscid, it crawled through Sam’s hair, down over his face. Sam screwed his eyes shut, pressing his lips tight together, nostrils flaring.

Nate stifled a cry, hand to his mouth, the shouts and jeers of the men and women around him drowning out his aching horror. Reed’s hand tightened on his arm until his fingers dug into his flesh.

Sam struggled and bucked but he didn’t shout, he made no sound that Nate could hear as Holden tipped the hot pitch across his shoulders and let it run down his chest, the muscles of his belly quivering in humiliation and rage.

Nate’s heart begged to go to him. It begged to turn away. Nate allowed himself neither comfort. Instead, he made himself watch, made himself bear witness as a bag of feathers was fetched and dumped over Sam’s head, sticking to the tar on his face and body. The mob laughed and spat their contempt, and Sam coughed and retched until Mather let him go and he sagged forward over his knees.

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