A Girl Called Samson (23)

Sadly, he asked if he could see me again, and nothing I said could dissuade him.



The journey back home was a painful one. We traveled the same road from Plympton to Middleborough as Reverend Conant and I had done a decade earlier, but I was not the same girl. I no longer mourned the loss of my mother or feared the people beside me, but I was gutted all the same.

“You are so quiet, Deborah.”

“I do not wish to speak over the clatter,” I answered.

“What did you think of Mr. Crewe? He seemed quite taken with you,” Mrs. Thomas said.

“He did not.” Of that I was sure. Whatever he was, he was not taken with me at all. He might think his charity would profit him, but there had been no admiration in his eyes.

“He is as good as any man,” Mrs. Thomas said, her eyes surveying the countryside. I could only stare at her, dumbfounded.

“Is he really?” What a pathetic thought. He was not half the man Reverend Conant was. Or Deacon Thomas. Milford Crewe didn’t have Nathaniel’s confidence, Benjamin’s peace, Phin’s passion, or Jeremiah’s sweetness. I could think of nothing about him I liked.

“I would rather lie with the pigs,” I said.

Mrs. Thomas gasped and the deacon glowered at me like I had spoken in tongues. I bowed my head in remorse. I hadn’t meant to sound crass. Only honest. Only vehement. I would rather parade naked through the town square than disrobe in that man’s presence. I knew how children were made. I knew men liked the process and women weren’t supposed to. I thought I might enjoy it, but not with Mr. Crewe. Not with him.

“But . . . will you allow him to see you again?” She looked at me oddly, and I could not fathom her thoughts.

I sighed. “I have no wish to see him again.”

“He has offered to buy the fields I cannot farm and build nearby,” the deacon said. “It is a good offer. You must allow him to make his case.” It felt like a command, and it hung in the air, as discordant as the squeaking wheels. Again, I was struck dumb.

“I would have liked very much for you to remain in the family. But this way you will be close by. And now that Nathaniel is gone,” Mrs. Thomas murmured, “you must choose anew. It is time, Deborah.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that even if Nathaniel had lived, I could not imagine being a wife. And if not to Nat, then most definitely not to Milford Crewe.

“I would have liked to remain in the family too,” I said, and that much was sincere. I let the rest of my thoughts go unexpressed.





7

THE LAWS OF NATURE

Death has a way of stripping away our inhibitions and our excuses. I’d lost so many in such a short time, but Jeremiah did not die . . . he simply left. His height had held him back thus far—a soldier had to be five feet five inches—and Jerry was too small. But the summer before he turned seventeen and I turned twenty-one, he grew two inches, gained ten pounds, and promptly signed his name to the enlistment rolls. I begged him to stay, if not for the deacon and Mrs. Thomas, then for me.

“Please don’t go, Jerry.”

“You would go if you were me,” he shot back. I could not deny it, and he knew it.

“If you go, I’m coming with you,” I threatened.

“Oh, Rob.” He laughed and shook his head. “You would make a good soldier. A good sailor too. I’m sure of it. But they won’t take you.”

“I swear it. If you go, I’ll follow you. You heard about the woman in the Battle of Monmouth. She loaded the cannon when her husband fell ill. A cannonball went right between her knees. Blew off her petticoats, but she didn’t suffer a scratch. Didn’t falter either.” Stories of the woman had spread, though nobody seemed to know her name. There were other tales of wives who had followed their husbands to war, and I was convinced I could do it too.

“You don’t have a husband, and nobody’s going to let you anywhere near a cannon, Rob. And you can’t make me stay. I want to be a sailor. I may be the youngest and the smallest, but I’m big enough, and I’ll always wonder if I don’t go. I’ll wonder, and I’ll be ashamed. You don’t understand, because you’re a girl, and no one expects it of you.”

“How are we to watch out for each other if you leave?” I argued, desperate to convince him.

“How am I to face myself if I stay?”

The year 1780 became 1781, and as soon as the snow began to thaw, Jeremiah headed to Philadelphia to join the merchant marines headquartered there, his shoulders set and his gaze sure.

The day he left home, Mrs. Thomas went to her bed and refused to rise.

“I delivered ten healthy sons,” she wept. “I never had any difficulty carrying them, not even the twins. I had easy births too. So many women suffered terribly. Not I. I was built for birthing sons. You wouldn’t think it because I’m small, but it came easily to me. Raising them was another matter, but I never complained, because I’d been so richly blessed. I thought myself so lucky, but I wonder now. I can’t help but think it would hurt less if I’d never loved them at all.”

Deacon Thomas went out among his animals, to the fields he would farm alone, and I scrubbed and spun and chopped wood and forced them both to eat, and when I could find nothing else in which to occupy my time—the school season was drawing to an end—I wrote to Elizabeth and also to John, though neither of them had responded in ages. It had been six months at least.