A Girl Called Samson (111)

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I want to be with you. I want to be with you so much that I bound you to me so you wouldn’t—so you couldn’t—get away. And still . . . you almost died.” He shook his head. “I am not in control here. Not at all. I never have been.”

“I am right here, my beloved general,” I said, and his mouth trembled at the endearment. John Paterson had not been loved nearly well enough, and I reached for him, desirous to rectify the deficiency, but he took my hands and pressed a kiss to each palm before he let me settle them on his whiskery cheeks.

“I am afraid the moment you are out of my sight, I will never see you again. But if I am to endure to the end and do as I promised . . .” He shuddered again like he could hardly bear it. “If I am to keep my word, then I can’t stay with you, and you cannot be a soldier anymore,” he said.

“I know. So I will wait for you. As long as it takes.”

His shoulders sagged as if I’d just granted him pardon. He laid his head against me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I stroked his hair, reveling in the weight of him and the gift of another day.

“I believe some men and women are blessed to see a bigger purpose, to understand the ripples that extend far beyond their own lives,” I said. “That is what gives me hope, that all of this suffering will be worth something far bigger than any of us. You are one of those men, General. And I want to be one of those women.”

“Do you promise?” he whispered. “Do you promise that nothing will happen to you? That you will focus all that considerable Samson might and keep yourself alive and well until we can be together again?”

“I promise. And when this is all over, I will be waiting for you in Lenox.”



Grippy paid me a visit before he and the general returned to the Point. I wore a dress and Anne’s maid arranged my hair, but when he looked at me, brown eyes wide, hat in his hand, I was transported back to that first day at the Thomases’ and the brothers openly sharing their unflattering opinions about my appearance.

“I’m still not much to look at, am I?” I asked. “Even in a dress. I’ve never been a bonny girl.” I meant to make him smile, but his eyes got bright instead.

“I’m a fool,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“I treated you badly. Poked fun at the way you looked.”

“You treated me exactly the way I wanted to be treated, like every other soldier on the Point. You were my friend.”

“We are friends, aren’t we, Bonny?” He released a pent-up breath. “Is it all right if I still call you that?”

“Yes, Agrippa. We are. And Bonny’s just fine with me.”

“That’s good then. I gotta get used to Deborah. To Mrs. Paterson.” He shook his head like the shock still hadn’t worn off.

“I lied to you about who I was, Grippy. I’m sorry. But I never lied about anything else.”

“The general told me most of it.” He shook his head again. “You are some kind of woman, Bonny. Didn’t I always say there was more to you than meets the eye?”

I nodded, and for a moment we fell silent.

“You’ll be going to Lenox now. That’s good.” He didn’t sound convinced. I wasn’t convinced either, but encouragement was not what I sought from Agrippa Hull. I needed promises.

“You’ll take care of General Paterson, won’t you? You’ll keep his spirits up and make sure he eats and sleeps and comes back from those long walks he takes?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I will.”

“And you’ll protect him, and his reputation, from those who might have heard about me?” I added in a rush. “I’m no Benedict Arnold, but I won’t have the general tarnished by my name. Any of them. I clean up my own messes.”

His eyes softened, and he began to smile. “Your secret is safe with me, Bonny. Remember what I told you? You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re one of us now, and I protect my own.”





28

CONCLUDE PEACE

June 12, 1783

Dear Elizabeth,

The house in Lenox is just as you described it, even down to the flowers on the rugs and the colors on the walls. When I touched the railing, I remembered how you liked the way it felt beneath your hand as you ascended the stairs.

The outside is John, stately and solid with classic appeal, but the inside is a place created by and for women. John’s presence is nowhere to be found in the furnishings and the decor, but his absence—eight years of absence, marked only by brief furloughs—is deeply felt.

You are here in this house. You are present in your daughters’ faces. They are not little girls anymore. Ruthie is nine years old. Polly eleven, and Hannah is almost thirteen. Hannah is tall. When John said she favored you, I thought she would be small. But she is dark and long and lovely and almost as tall as me.

Ruthie does look like John, just as he said, though she is loud where he is reserved and demanding where he is dutiful. She is the life of the household and wants all of my attention. Perhaps she, like Jeremiah, needs it the most. I think Polly must be the most like you in looks and demeanor. She is determined to do everything well, but struggles with poor health. She is all the more resolved because of it, and I have begun to teach her to weave.