A Girl Called Samson (17)

“Independence” was not a word that had been bandied about, and it was a step too far for many. Yet the word became a battle cry.

Not everyone agreed with the war. In truth, the yeas were but a slim majority, even in and around Middleborough, where a hundred sons from the area had marched to join George Washington in the last year and more were constantly going.

Treason became a common attack, and those who wanted to remain under England’s flag had begun to call themselves loyalists, as if those who disagreed were guilty of a deeper offense, even a flaw in their characters.

“Who are they loyal to? A king and a flag? I think it a greater thing to be loyal to one’s own countrymen,” Deacon Thomas muttered.

I wrote to Elizabeth, full of questions and commentary, and she wrote back with her usual aplomb, promising that she would share my thoughts with John in her next letter to him and ask him for his insights.

A few months later, I received a stained and filthy letter with a JP in the wax seal and Col. J Paterson, 26th Regiment in the corner. I carefully broke it, marveling that a letter had reached me at all; we’d received nothing from the brothers. It was not more than a few paragraphs, with short, clear answers to the questions I’d asked Elizabeth, but he closed with this:

People must be convinced. Persuaded. The pamphlet is but a precursor, a softening of the populace toward these ideas, but it is a powerful one. The man who penned it could not have offered stronger arguments.

The author of the pamphlet was still unknown, at least to the general public, and I had harbored secret fantasies about it being written by a woman. By someone like me. And why not? A woman could hide behind an anonymous signature as well as a man. The author intrigued me almost as much as the pamphlet itself.

But John Paterson proved right. Late that summer, the Continental Congress, in a statement written by Thomas Jefferson of Virginia, declared the united colonies “free and independent states.”

I wrote to Mr. Paterson directly, saving poor Elizabeth from my idealistic ramblings.

August 14, 1776

Dear Colonel Paterson,

I have begun to record the beauty that is free—the smell of the earth, the colors of the sky at sunrise and sunset, the quiet of the morning, the chirping of the birds, the rush of falling water. So many of the most wonderful things are available to everyone, and such things bring me great comfort.

But nothing has given me more comfort or hope than the words of the declaration that has just been published. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I have repeated these words until they run together in a new language, and every step I take rings with their rhythm. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Never have words penetrated deeper or lifted me higher. For what good is life without liberty, and what good is liberty without pursuit?

Do you think it means all men? And women too? All mankind? Because either it is true for all, or it is true for none. A man cannot be given “certain unalienable rights” and then say they are only unalienable for some. Reverend Conant says “unalienable” means that they are not given by man but by God, by the nature of our mere existence.

It is something to ponder, indeed, and something that fills me with hope and purpose. The signers pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor to the declaration. I have no fortune, and my life has never been mine, but I would pledge it if I could.

I remain, dear Mr. Paterson, your humble servant,

Deborah Samson



Francis enlisted in January of ’77 after the rallying news of the battles in Trenton and Princeton. General Washington had crossed the Delaware in the dead of night, in hail and snow, on Christmas Day no less, and surprised the Hessians. A routing of Lord Cornwallis followed, and hope was restored. Francis could hold out no longer.

I went with him to the home of Reverend Calder of the Third Baptist Church, where the muster man rallied the locals, and a month later, we watched him march away. We’d all known he would go.

The day David and Daniel left, they didn’t tell their mother or father; they begged me to do it for them.

“I can’t,” I protested, vehement. Sad. “You boys always want me to cover for you . . . to do your chores. But this is one I won’t do.”

“You’re not going to try and stop us, are you, Rob?”

“No. I would go too. If I could, I would go too. But you have to tell them yourself. At least leave a letter.”

“We don’t write like you do. You tell them, and you take care of them too. You’ll take care of them, won’t you?” David asked. He’d always had a softer heart.

I nodded, though I could not promise. I was not a daughter, and my servitude would come to an end. I would not be bound by a contract or blood, and the need to run was growing in my belly. I wanted to go too.



“Soon your bond will be lifted. You will be eighteen. Do you think you might marry?” Sylvanus Conant asked me one week after meetings. He’d walked out into the sunshine to mill among his parishioners and eventually made his way to me, as he was wont to do.

“Marry? Who? They have all gone to war. And I am taller than the boys and old men who remain,” I said.

“Yes. As tall as I,” he marveled. “When did that happen?”

By the time I was fourteen I was almost a full foot taller than the diminutive Mrs. Thomas, who at four foot nine was shorter than the average woman, but not terribly so. I was not average at all, at least not in height, but Sylvanus Conant had shrunk as of late.