A Girl Called Samson (35)

“They’re young, but they’re eager, and I’ve been pleased with them, sir. It’s not the best company I’ve had, but it definitely isn’t the worst.”

John Paterson shook his head, obviously not reassured. “God willing, this war will end before it makes them men . . . or we dig their graves,” he muttered, and proceeded down the line.



May 3, 1781

Dear Elizabeth,

John is here. I did not expect him. I confess to being more shaken by his appearance than I have been by anything else thus far. They say General Washington would not accept his resignation. He seems highly esteemed and respected, and he greeted many of the new soldiers personally.

He is a very striking figure, though he was not impressed by me; my looks do not inspire confidence. Still, I was overcome by the meeting and wanted so much to extend my condolences. It seemed a great dishonesty not to greet him as a friend, though of course decorum and my circumstances dictated otherwise.

Captain Webb commended me in his presence, which touched me greatly. Webb is a good officer, as is Colonel Jackson, though I’ve heard tales of many who aren’t. Too many think too much of their own comfort and not enough of the men in their charge, though that does not appear to be the case here at West Point. Perhaps it is the example of the general, who seems to demand much of everyone, including himself. His parting words on the parade ground were these: “There are no exceptions to the rules. You will follow them. Your officers will follow them. I will follow them. That is how we safeguard our position, how we defend each other, and how I protect you.”

He is not at all what I expected, Elizabeth. He is young, but old. Gracious, but grim. Straight and tall, but weary too, though my impressions may be colored by my compassion. I pray I will not let him down or let myself down. Even if I cannot follow his every rule. —RS





10

THE SEPARATION

General Paterson lived in Moore House, named for the farmer who built it before the army determined his land was the perfect place for a stronghold on the Hudson and commandeered it from him. It was an enormous red-planked home with three gables, a massive stone chimney, and several stories, and it was completely at odds with the rest of the timber structures on the Point.

Everyone called it the Red House, as if it needed the distinction from the other dwellings in the garrison, and it was set apart by a smaller parade ground and a short lane north of the new barracks. My company was quartered in these, which greatly pleased my messmates. Rumors of the rats in the old barracks were the stuff of nightmares.

We were not far from the pond where we could swim, bathe, and wash our clothes if we didn’t want to use one of the bathing barrels lined up in a long row near the latrines. Neither the wash barrels nor the latrines afforded any privacy at all. Two built-in benches with holes cut in the top ran the length of the latrine on each side. Twenty men could sit and empty their bowels at the same time, all while enjoying face-to-face conversation. There were two such latrines on either end of the encampment, and the officers’ homes and the Red House had their own toilets, though the rank and file were prohibited from using them.

I went to bed last and rose first, using the latrine only twice a day, picking my way to the long structure in the dark, following my nose and leading with my toes, inching along so I wouldn’t tumble into a hole filled with waste. I had no choice in the matter. I couldn’t very well sit side by side with another man with my breeches down.

After that first night, I counted my steps and always used the same bench and hole, simply because familiarity was its own kind of sight. I tried to go after everyone else was asleep, but my exhaustion made it hard to wait, and a few men took notice when it became a ritual.

“Robbie’s got a baby face and a baby bladder,” Beebe said about two weeks in. I said nothing in response, as was my way, but nothing scared me more than discovery. Not pain. Not death. Not torture or starvation. I wanted nothing more than to continue on, and that meant blending in.

My messmates liked to pull pranks, even Noble and Jimmy. They said it was all in good fun, and it might have been, but a known routine invited many opportunities for sabotage, and just as I’d done on the march, I adjusted my strategy.

The next evening, I marched into the latrine right behind Beebe and found an empty spot directly across from him so my presence wouldn’t be missed. I loosened my ties, dropped my breeches, and sank onto the hole in one smooth motion, my shirttails providing cover, my eyes on the floor.

I stayed long enough for Beebe to leave and a few more men to straggle in. I even managed to urinate and ease the constant ache I’d suffered since enlisting. It was the most horrific thing I’d ever done, and my neck broke out in welts of mortification afterward, but at least a dozen men had seen me, and that was my goal. I couldn’t imagine making it a regular occurrence—that was tempting fate—but I’d done it.

Bathing was a different matter. I washed in the pond a full two hours before the horns of reveille woke the camp, when it was so dark I couldn’t even see myself. I submerged myself in my clothes and washed them while I wore them. I became adept at shimmying off my dripping drawers and untying my altered corset beneath my shirt to avoid ever being completely naked. But I worried how I would manage when winter came.

I kept myself as neat and tidy as possible, brushing my coat, shining my boots, and maintaining my equipment, if only to avoid extra attention and inspections, which happened to some of the more slovenly soldiers.