A Girl Called Samson (25)

I pulled the pins from my hair and ran my brush through it, watching myself in the small mirror that hung on my wall. My hair hung past my waist, and with it brushed to a sheen and streaming around me, I felt like a creature from the sea, not constrained by fashion or station. A siren or a Greek goddess. I thought I might be beautiful this way, though I was not soft or small.

And no one would ever know.

No one would ever see this version of Deborah. No one but my husband.

Milford Crewe wanted to be my husband. He seemed intent upon it, and I suspected the sale of the deacon’s land was contingent upon my agreement.

“No!” I spat, startling myself. My hairbrush clattered to the floor.

“No,” I said, but this time much more softly. “No. Not him. Not ever.”

My hair was my one vanity, yet my tresses made me angry too. What good was beauty to me? I was as tall as most of the men I knew—as tall as half of the Thomas boys I’d been raised among. My mouth was wide, my jaw square, and my cheekbones sharp. The bump on my nose and the thickness of my brows made me more handsome than fine, though I wasn’t certain I could claim any comeliness. Even my eyes with their many colors were more strange than lovely.

“I do not want to be a wife,” I whispered. “I do not want to be a woman.” Emotion rose and broke, and my reflection became a watery smear. “I want to be a soldier.”

Did I?

I swiped at my eyes, angered by my weakness, but my heart was pounding. I did.

“Why should I not play the part?” I said, louder now. “When it is within my power to make it happen?”

My hair shimmered around my body, beckoning me. I wouldn’t have to cut it all off. The men I knew wore their hair gathered at their napes in short tails. I’d trimmed the boys’ hair often enough. I’d shaved their stubbly cheeks too. Shaving was not something many men attempted without a good mirror, and often not even then. It was a skill better left to a barber—or a woman—and I’d shaved every one of the Thomas men, except Jeremiah, who had no more beard than I. The thought gave me courage. There were plenty of bare-faced boys in the army. But none of them had hair to their waists.

I took a hunk of my hair in my fist, and with the sharpened edge of the same blade I’d used on the boys, sheared it off at my shoulders, long enough to tame it into an oiled queue, but short enough to draw a sharp distinction between male and female. Section by section, I repeated the action until there was far more hair at my feet than on my head.

I turned my head to the right and then to the left, enjoying the new, weightless swish against my naked shoulders. My breasts seemed bigger without my long hair obscuring them. They jutted out, rosy-tipped and large enough to fill my palms, and for a moment doubt surged. I folded my arms across my chest, searching for a solution.

My corset lay discarded on my bed, and I studied it, an idea forming.

I slid out the boning, removed the ties, and cut the corset into horizontal halves. I didn’t need to be winnowed from my ribs to my hips; I needed to constrain my breasts.

With careful stitches, I hemmed the newly cut edges and restrung each section with a piece of the long tie. Now I had two cinchers, each about six inches long, one to wear, and one to spare. If it didn’t work, maybe I could sew the pieces back together and reinsert the boning.

I stepped into the halved corset and wriggled it up so it circled me beneath my armpits. Then I pulled the laces good and tight, and my breasts flattened obediently against my chest. It almost felt . . . good.

What an odd feeling to be bound on top and free at my middle! I knotted the ties, tucked the ends beneath the band, and bounced on my toes, watching my reflection and marveling at the lack of movement. I raised my arms, danced a little jig, and almost laughed out loud. It felt right.

With the shirt on, it was even more impressive. The swell was not any different from that of a man with a bit of muscle on his chest. My shoulders weren’t broad, but they weren’t narrow either. I’d developed enough strength in my back to create a tapering from my shoulders to my ribs, and my hips were narrow in the breeches I secured around my waist.

“My bottom is a bit too round,” I worried, palming my backside. I thought about cinching it too, and how I might accomplish such a thing, then dismissed the idea. Most young men had no idea what a woman’s bottom looked like beneath her skirts, and they certainly had no idea how one looked in breeches. I giggled, the sound high-pitched and nervous, almost a keening, and I immediately swallowed the bubble of mirth. Laughing was out. Crying too.

I was going to see the local muster man. If I was successful, I would return before morning and finish the last two weeks of school while I awaited my reporting day—I knew by now how it was done—and no one would be the wiser.



I went to town without a word or a note to the Thomases. They wouldn’t worry. Mrs. Thomas knew I was grieving. If she noticed me gone at all, she would think I’d taken a walk in the woods or climbed to the top of my hill, as was my habit.

I’d added Reverend Conant’s vest and coat to my ensemble, along with the deacon’s Sunday hat. I would buy my own when I got into town and return his to the hook by the door. My shoes were Reverend Conant’s too, and they needed new buckles to cinch them up tight—I had a narrow foot—but they too would do until I got into town. A soldier needed good shoes.

I walked past the tavern and onto the green, past the First Congregational Church, strolling along with legs unhampered, arms swinging at my sides. No one stared. Wagons rolled past. I did not wave. I was a stranger, I told myself, and I did not shrink or pick up my stride.