A Girl Called Samson (28)

Oh, Elizabeth. I’ve been an utter fool, and I can’t help but think that the line between courage and madness is a thin one. I have told myself what I did was wrong, but deep down I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it, and my regret is not that I acted but that I didn’t succeed.

I set my journal aside and turned back to scripture, looking for inspiration, for something to ease my disconsolation. It was in Proverbs, the thirteenth chapter, twelfth verse, where I found an answer.

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick: but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life,” I read.

Then I read the verse again, slowly, as a sudden, irrevocable knowledge reverberated in my breast like the tolling of bells.

“If I don’t do this, I cannot continue on,” I said to the silent walls. “I would rather die.”

I was not given to histrionics or overexaggerations, but in the very depth of my being, I knew it was true. I had lost my hope, and if I did not pursue it, I would be finished.

I closed my Bible and arose. I removed my frock and my petticoats and took down my hair, just as I’d done before, but it was not despondency or grief that informed my actions now. It was the tree of life, extending its branches toward me, beckoning me forward. I dressed in my male attire and gathered my things, moving quickly and silently, clarity settling on my shoulders like angel wings. I had not thought things through the first time, and I had acted desperately, rashly. I would not make the same mistakes again.

My most prized possessions—the letters from Elizabeth and John, the writings of William Bradford, the Bible with my family tree—were left behind. I even left my own journals, though I hated the thought of someone’s eyes perusing the pages. Better here than where I was going. I would record my experiences on fresh pages, and I determined to buy a small book and a traveling quill and ink set when I reached my destination.

Two pairs of stockings, the extra binding for my breasts, and a small blanket tied to the bottom of my satchel were packed first. I added a loaf of bread, three apples, and a pound of dried mutton to my bag and draped my musket, a canteen, and my cartridge box over my shoulders like I’d seen the soldiers do. I had the rest of the money I’d saved and the conviction I’d come to, and I left the house without allowing myself a look back.

I did not take the mare but set out on foot. I had ridden her so often that should someone see me, they would identify the pair of us, and though the deacon had given it to me for my use, it was not mine, and I would not be able to bring her back. The Thomases had gone to bed, and the night was deep. I knew they would worry when they rose to find me gone, but I saw no way around it. I’d left them a simple goodbye and thanked them for their kindness, but I did not tell them where I was going, nor did I promise to return.

I had to enlist somewhere else, someplace where the ranks wouldn’t be filled with Middleborough men, including the Thomas boys. North was Boston, east was Plympton, and west was Taunton, a community which bled into Middleborough. None were nearly far enough away for my peace of mind or my anonymity. I would have to go south until I found a village far afield and in need of recruits to fill their quota.

I also needed a new name. Something dull and typical, yet not so bland as to be suspect. A name that would provide cover by itself, and something different from the one I’d already, disastrously, used.

I played with derivations of Deborah, mixing the letters and saying it backward. Harobed? That wasn’t a name. Obed? Horace? Robert? I liked Robert the best. It was the proper name for Rob, and I already answered to that. Obed and Horace were a little too distinct.

Now for a surname. I could not use Samson or Thomas or Bradford. I considered Conant, as a nod to my dear friend, and abandoned it immediately. All who knew me knew of that connection. Elizabeth’s maiden name was Lee, but that was too ordinary and too simple. Johnson, James, Jones . . . too common all.

My oldest brother was named Robert Shurtliff, in honor of an obscure relative I knew nothing about. The name Shurtliff, spelled a variety of ways in Massachusetts, was just unusual enough to be realistic. I couldn’t fathom anyone choosing it of their own accord, which made it ideal.

Robert Shurtliff.

It settled around me softly, and I nodded at the moonlight.

“I am Robert Shurtliff,” I murmured. “I am twenty-one years old.” I shook my head, rejecting that. I could pass as a boy, not a man. I would tell them I was sixteen. “I am smart. I am swift. I am able in all things. I am from . . .” I stewed over that. Where was I from? I couldn’t say Middleborough or Plympton. I’d been born in Plymouth County, so that was what I’d say. I tried again, repeating my story. “I am Robert Shurtliff. Sixteen years old. From a village in Plymouth. No family to speak of.”

They would think me a beardless orphan running off to join the army the first chance I got, like so many others. But that was fine. That was good. If they thought I was lying about my age, perhaps it wouldn’t even occur to them that I was lying about my sex. I would tell the truth where I could, in order to make it easier on myself.

I repeated my story all night long, matching it to the rhythm of my feet upon the road, and made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t cry, I wouldn’t complain, and I wouldn’t quit. Those things wouldn’t make me a man—I knew plenty of women with such qualities—but I figured by holding my tongue and my tears, I wouldn’t draw excess attention to myself.