A Girl Called Samson (31)

“What’s your business?” he asked.

“I was a weaver . . . and I taught school.” Weaving was not simply a woman’s profession. The Bradfords came from a long line of weavers. William Bradford brought a loom on the Mayflower.

The speculator made a note on the rolls, indicating I could read and write. Then he directed me to sign on the line, and in a moment of panic, I misspelled Shurtliff. It hardly mattered, as he didn’t know the difference, but I may as well have written Shirtless, as naked as I felt. He handed me my bounty and moved on to the man behind me. I told Elizabeth of my triumph in an entry dated April 20, 1781.

I am a private in the Fourth Massachusetts Regiment. Not only did they take me, they have assigned me to a company of light infantrymen under Captain George Webb. The light infantry are those able to advance quickly, and I wish I could tell the brothers that this proves, once and for all, that I am truly one of the swiftest.

Three years or the end of the war. That is what I agreed to. My hand shook a bit when I signed the roll, but it was not fear that made me tremble. I am not the smallest soldier, nor the tallest, but my stride is just as long and my heart just as willing. I was told to report to Worcester in three days—yet another fifteen-mile walk—where I’ll be mustered in.

Proverbs 13:19 says that desire accomplished is sweet to the soul.

I’ve never experienced anything sweeter. —RS





9

DECLARE THE CAUSES

Every soldier was issued a uniform to immediately change into and a haversack filled with a week’s worth of rations—salted pork and hard biscuits—to carry on our backs. We were told we would forage along the way as well, and I would soon learn that there was never enough food.

The men around me began to shuck off their outer layers, the soiled and mostly tattered piles rising up around their feet. I did the same, gritting my teeth and moving quickly. I could not run off behind a tree or erect a partition every time I was faced with such a situation. I had on drawers that looked no different from those of every man around me, and the half corset that kept me bound was laced tight beneath my shirt. No one was looking at me. No one had the slightest inkling that I had something to hide. Best that I not act as if I did.

The fit of the breeches gave every man the look of a plucked chicken, skinny legs and indeterminate sex, the folds and the extra fabric designed for movement obscuring what was between their legs. That was good, but I felt scandalous, my hips and my thighs clearly defined by the fit.

“I can do this. I have done this. It is done,” I chanted silently, my hands shaking. I had been wearing breeches for two weeks; I would not despair now. I slipped my arms into the white waistcoat, which was essentially a fitted vest, and immediately felt more secure. I wound the neckcloth round my neck and that too reassured me. My neck was long and slim, with no bulging Adam’s apple. Better to hide it altogether.

The uniform fit me well enough. The blue coat was a little broad in the shoulders and the breeches a bit tight in all the wrong places, though I could grab a handful at the seat.

“Ya got worms, lad?” a whiskered man jeered at my actions. “Yer arse itchin’?”

I ignored him and knotted the strings at the top of the breeches to keep them from slipping down, determined to alter them when I had the chance. I didn’t need to be worrying about them endlessly. Even without a corset winnowing my waist, I wasn’t as straight in the middle as the men.

I yanked the stockings to my knees and secured them with the ties to keep them in place, then pulled the gaiters over them. The day was warm and the layers unwelcome, but the gaiters would protect our legs and preserve our stockings.

When I put the tricorn hat on my head, I had to bite back my grin as the green plume caressed my cheek. I’d never worn anything so jaunty or fine. In the earlier days of the war, the rebels had had no uniform. I suppose that was an advantage to arriving late to the conflict; I adored it.

I rolled the clothes I’d removed into my blanket and secured it on both ends with rope, making a little sling with which to carry it beneath my knapsack. I set about putting the rest of the gear in order—cartridge box, powder horn, canteen, musket, hatchet, knife—everything strung across my chest with yet another strap or hanging round my waist.

They’d issued me a bayonet as well, along with a sheath to store it when it wasn’t attached to the end of my musket. Of all the accoutrements of war, I was least comfortable with the bayonet. If I ever had to use it, I doubted I would come out the victor.

I had my cup, bowl, and knife in my knapsack, along with a kit for sewing. My journal, my traveling inkstand, and my flint and tinderbox too. A comb, a candle, a slab of soap wrapped in oiled leather, and rags that could be used when I began to bleed, which would be a few weeks yet, thank Providence. I’d dealt with the flow on my journey from Middleborough. I’d managed well enough, but I’d been alone. It would be harder going forward.

A few hard biscuits and a small sack of dried peas would give me something to nibble on if my hunger got too great. I had an extra shirt, two pairs of stockings, and the other modified corset, just in case the one I now wore was damaged or wet and I needed to change. Anything more and I would have had too much gear.

“The less you take, the less you’ll have to carry,” Captain Webb shouted, echoing my thoughts, and we were hustled out into the bright midday, tugging at our uniforms and righting ourselves as we were taken through our drills.