A Girl Called Samson (103)

“Kosciuszko lives in Society Hill,” Agrippa told me. “Fancy place. Fancy people. The colonel comes from money back in Poland, though you’d never know it. When the British took the city in ’77, he thought they’d burn the whole neighborhood down, but the house is his again, minus a few treasures, and he has big plans. I guess those plans include me.”

He sighed and rubbed at his brown cheeks, ruminating on the decision. “General Paterson says it’s my choice. I’ve been there once, but I don’t really want to make it my home, no matter how well the colonel treats me or how much he wants me to be his valet. But it sure beats the barracks, and it sure beats a tent while we’re here. He’s invited the general to stay at his home too.”

But just as he planned, General Paterson politely refused the invitation.

“My eldest sister lives on Society Hill as well. She is expecting me and Private Shurtliff. We will remain there until matters in Philadelphia are resolved. But Dr. Thatcher will be assisting at the temporary hospital in the barracks until we return to the Point. I am sure he would appreciate an invitation, Colonel,” General Paterson added. He simply patted Grippy’s shoulder and reminded him that the decision was his.

“You will always have a place with me, Agrippa Hull. Your room in the Red House is yours for as long as you want it.”

“You have Bonny,” Agrippa grumbled, shooting a look at me. “I need to be useful.”

The general said nothing more, though he hesitated like he wanted to speak. Instead, we mounted our horses, and with a promise to return in the morning, he and I made our way through the streets toward the colorful rows of merchant houses and businesses lining the busy docks. We passed a wagon filled with sick people in differing states of distress. A woman, flushed and moaning, held a child who was already dead, and a man vomited over the side, the contents of his stomach splashing on the cobbles.

A shop owner grumbled as they passed, and he tossed a pail of water over the vomit, diluting it, and went on with his day. The city was unfazed, and business continued. Perhaps it helped that yellow fever was not contagious, but Philadelphia had experienced one upheaval after another, and no place in the country was more ready for it all to be over.

The general dismounted in front of a dressmaker’s shop on Elfreth’s Alley and tied his reins and mine to a hitching post as I slid off Common Sense.

“General?” I asked, my eyes wide. We had not discussed any of this.

“You cannot be married in your uniform,” he said beneath his breath. “I will say the purchases are for my wife.”

My breath caught. “I keep expecting you to pinch me like the brothers used to do and tell me it is all a grand prank,” I murmured, but his gaze was filled with challenge.

“You must get everything you need. Shoes, stockings, a dress—several dresses, I would think. A wardrobe.” He wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know exactly what that entails.”

I didn’t know either. I knew cloth, and I knew quality, but I had never purchased anything from a dressmaker’s shop. Mrs. Thomas and I had sewn our own frocks, but I followed the general inside.

“I will not take Continental dollars, sir,” the gentleman warned as we entered his establishment.

John nodded, as though he expected as much, but the statement tightened his mouth. It was not the shopkeeper’s fault that the paper had no value, but it reinforced the injustice of paying the troops in that currency.

“I need a wardrobe, ready-made, for a woman, tall and slim,” the general said.

“How tall and how slim? We would need to do a fitting, sir.”

The general frowned at me, and I frowned back. “That is not possible. We are in town only briefly. Her maid can make minor alterations, but she is in need of a formal gown as soon as possible. And perhaps two more dresses that can be worn about the house.”

The shopkeeper stroked his chin, as if in deep deliberation, but his eyes gleamed.

“A sea captain ordered a wardrobe for his new bride. Gave me a deposit. Brought the woman in for a fitting. She was tall. And slim. But with a bit of a bosom.” He cupped his hands beneath his chest and bounced them, as if gauging weight. It amazed me how differently men talked to one another when they believed no women were present. The general flushed, and the man dropped his hands.

“But the captain and his bride died from yellow fever. His ship is still docked in the harbor.” He shook his head sadly, but the gleam was still present. “I will sell it all to you, sir. For your missus. And I will do all the alterations for free.”

“There is no time for your alterations. I will need to pay someone else to do them,” the general countered. “And my wife is a lady with discriminating tastes.”

I almost snorted but managed to control myself.

“We will have to see the gowns,” the general finished.

The shop owner shrugged, and the haggling began. The chest was opened, the contents revealed—velvet and lace and stripes and bows—and a price settled upon. I followed General Paterson from the shop a short time later, the new owner of a wardrobe fit for a sea captain’s wife. It would be delivered to the address on Society Hill within the hour.



John had sent a message to his sister the moment we arrived in Philadelphia, with the instructions for the courier to await her response. Anne Holmes had replied with effusive warmth and welcome, according to the general.