A Girl Called Samson (34)

“General Paterson?” I gasped, a trifle too loud. The men around me snorted at my outburst, but I was too stunned to care. “That’s General Paterson?” I hissed.

“That he is,” Beebe said. “He’s the commander of the whole Point. We’re in his brigade.”

I knew John Paterson was a man of intelligence and kindness. He’d responded to the letters of an indentured girl, after all, and fielded my questions seriously, with no condescension or disdain. That was something indeed, and in my mind he had taken on the features and form of Sylvanus Conant, kindly and gray, a wise elf with a slight stoop and a soft belly.

This John Paterson was none of those things.

He was brawny and tall with a thick mane of auburn hair pulled back into a tail at his nape. He was not old—not at all—and he did not resemble the good reverend in the least.

“That’s not the general,” I said. “Surely that isn’t him.”

“It most definitely is, bonny boy,” Beebe asserted. “But don’t let his common-man appearance fool ya.”

“C-common man?” I stammered. He looked like no man I had ever seen.

“He has no patience for sloth or sloppiness. He likes drills and rules and order and has no qualms about throwing out the rabble if rabble is what you prove to be,” another man interjected.

“Robbie isn’t rabble.” Jimmy Battles, who stood beside me, jumped to my defense, reminding me again of Jeremiah, but I was still too caught up in my disbelief to thank him.

This was not Elizabeth’s John, was it? But how many General Patersons could there be? I thought he’d gone home to Lenox, yet here he was, inspecting the newly arrived troops, pausing to exchange a word here and there, his stride long and his hands clasped behind his back.

I must have moaned out loud.

“Ya all right, Robbie?” Jimmy asked.

I was not. Not at all. “I thought he resigned.”

“He did,” Beebe answered. “His wife died. He went home to see to his affairs. General Washington asked him to return.”

“How do you know so much about Paterson, Beebe?” Jimmy asked.

“You think soldiers don’t gossip? The ranks are worse than ladies in a drawing room. They’re worse than a church picnic. Poor Paterson’s been in this fight so long, it’s a wonder they haven’t named a fort after him.”

“That’s not his way,” an older man named Peter Knowles, a reenlistment, chimed in. “He’s never cared much about the glory. That’s why the men like him, and General Washington trusts him. No fancy ego on that one. Not like Arnold or some of the rest.”

“Isn’t he a bit young?” I asked, still unable to believe this was my John Paterson.

“Look who’s talkin’,” Beebe snorted.

“He’s the youngest brigadier general in the whole army,” Knowles answered. “Exceptin’ Lafayette, but we won’t count him, bein’ he’s French.”

As the general neared, all conversation ceased. Every spine straightened and every gaze swung.

He would not recognize me. We’d never met. He’d never seen me, nor I him. But I knew him. And he knew me, as well as anyone on earth knew me, and I was suddenly so afraid I could barely stand.

Emotion grew in my throat and pulsed behind my eyes. I blinked furiously, outraged by my sudden loss of composure. I had prepared myself for a possible sighting of one of the Thomas boys, though none of their companies were stationed at the Point, but I’d been blindsided by Elizabeth’s John. That he would be here had never even occurred to me, and I was filthy, I reeked, and I was so tired I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I began to pray, frantically, silently.

In you, O Lord, I have taken refuge; let me never be put to shame; deliver me in your righteousness. Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me.

The general walked past me, uniform pristine, boots shining, close enough that I could have clapped my hand on his epaulet, which was level with my eyes. He stood half a head taller than most of the men. He reached the end of our company, chatting with Captain Webb and Colonel Jackson, before he turned and walked back again, his eyes sweeping over the ranks. His gaze caught on my face and held, and a frown lowered his brows. He was only ten feet away, but he closed the distance until he stood directly in front of me.

“How old are you, soldier?” he asked, voice gentle.

I cleared my throat, met his pale blue eyes, and told the lie that was more believable than the truth. “Sixteen, sir.”

He grunted, signaling his displeasure with my answer. “And you, Private?” he asked Jimmy.

“I’m sixteen too, General, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jimmy Battles.”

“Hmm. Any connection to the Battles of Connecticut?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know my father’s family.”

He was looking at me again. “And you . . . What’s your name?”

“Robert Shurtliff,” I answered, no hesitation.

“Robbie’s one of our best, General,” Captain Webb said, and the moisture threatened to rise again. Kindness was my undoing. “He’s always willing and always able.”

“Robbie?” the general repeated, as if baffled by the nickname. “Jimmy? Where are all the men, Webb? Each new round of recruits looks younger than the last.”