A Girl Called Samson (10)

Mother

It was after that letter from my mother that the dream started. Vivid dreams were not new to me. In my dreams I could fly and swim and run without touching the earth. My sleep was never filled with fear, only freedom. But in this dream, I was drowning, my skirts pulling me down to the ocean floor, my lungs screaming for breath.

I would wake up tangled in my bedclothes, sobbing for another chance, and furious with my mother. She rarely wrote more than a few lines, once or twice a year, letting me know she was well and asking after my welfare in return, but for whatever reason, she thought I needed to know about a woman who drowned in the harbor, a story that gave me nightmares ever after.

Dorothy May Bradford was not my ancestor. My mother descended from Joseph, a son of William Bradford’s second marriage, and Dorothy May’s blood did not run in my veins. Her tragic death was not a burden I should carry. Yet every once in a while, she came to me, and we drowned together in my sleep.

She cried for her son and begged him for forgiveness. I’m sorry, John, forgive me, John.

I fought to wake, but she never did, and if she ever changed her mind, it was always too late.



In February of 1775, Boston was controlled by the redcoats—the derogatory term for the British soldiers—but the countryside was bristling with activity. It had long been the law that every town have its own militia to protect from Indian attacks, and every boy over the age of sixteen was required to serve, to have his own gun, and to know how to shoot it. But those militias took on new life and purpose. A general agreement had been reached throughout the colonies that a local government would be established, and supplies and arms were being hoarded and military leaders were being elected.

In April, the British general Thomas Gage sent seven hundred British troops marching out of Boston toward Concord, about twenty miles northwest of the city, both to destroy the stores being held there and to arrest a handful of the Sons of Liberty holed up in nearby Lexington.

They were met with forty armed men—farmers mostly—in an open field, and a battle ensued. The redcoats routed the farmers and then proceeded to destroy the supplies, but on the way back to Boston, every Massachusetts man for miles grabbed his gun and took to the trees. They picked off the redcoats, one by one, as they marched through the countryside, making the mission a bloody one. Eighty-eight colonials died, but the British lost more than two hundred fifty soldiers.

After the events in Lexington and Concord, Nathaniel was made a lieutenant of the Middleborough Militia, and when he wasn’t drilling in the village square, he was drilling his brothers in the barnyard, yelling out commands and prodding them back in line with a stick when they turned the wrong direction.

He let David, Daniel, and Jeremiah drill with them, though David and Daniel weren’t yet sixteen and Jerry was only eleven years old and a little on the short side. But what Jeremiah didn’t have in height or age he made up for in enthusiasm. I watched their little brigade, giggling at Jerry’s serious face and Nat’s furrowed brow, and joined in, matching their steps and holding my broom like a musket.

Nat turned on me, angrily. “This is serious, Rob.”

I glared back at him. I knew it was, but they’d always let me join in before. It was Nathaniel himself who taught me to shoot.

“I know the drills as well as any of you do. And I can load twice as fast,” I said.

“This isn’t a footrace, Rob. And we won’t be killing rabbits,” Phineas said. “This is one thing you can’t do.”

“Women can’t be soldiers, Deborah,” Nat said, and pulled the broom from my hands like it was loaded and dangerous.

“I’m going to Boston just as soon as we get the word,” Phineas said, puffing out his chest. He’d passed me up a while back and made a big deal about looking down on me from his lofty height a mere inch above me. Phineas was always in competition with me. He’d never really forgiven me for that footrace years before. He was faster now, a fact I secretly mourned, but my endurance was greater, and I never let him forget it.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Nathaniel said, shoving Phin’s shoulder, trying to maintain order in his unruly ranks. “Someone has to help Mother and Father. There’s a farm to run, if you haven’t noticed. And Deborah can’t do it by herself, even though she thinks she can.”

I wanted to strike Nathaniel so badly my fist curled and my mouth watered. I snatched my broom from his hands and marched toward the barn so I didn’t beat him with it.

I didn’t need Nat’s permission. I could do the maneuvers on my own. I’d sat on a rise in town plenty and watched the men drill, performing the evolutions in my head, counting paces, and tensing my arms as my imaginary musket twirled in my head. I knew what came next and what came after that. I’d practiced each drill in the barn, calling the signals out to myself.

A man had to be five feet and five inches to serve in the militia. It was the height it took to load the long barrel of a musket. I had three inches to spare, but height was not strength. I knew that. I was strong for a woman, but I had never been blind to my own weakness. Each night, since the men had begun drilling, I pushed myself off the floor and lowered myself back down, repeating the action until I could not continue. Then I held my gun over my head, arms extended, the weakest position for me, by far. I don’t know why I did it. It was a foolish enterprise and a waste of my time, but the need to prove myself and to compete was an impossible habit to break, even if I was barred from participation.