A Girl Called Samson (36)

I don’t doubt many of the men noticed my beardless face and my clear complexion. My skin had always been my finest feature. I’m sure there were those who registered the unmanly shape of my hips and the comparatively narrow breadth of my shoulders. Perhaps they even laughed a little at the unfortunate “bonny boy” in their ranks who spoke softly when he spoke at all. I kept my voice pitched as deeply as I was able—it had always been husky—but it was not low enough; it wasn’t even as low as Jimmy’s. I imagined my company talking among themselves. Robbie looks a little feminine. Not his fault. None of us can do much about the way we look.

But then I kept up during the march, led them in drills, and handled my weapon with as much speed and accuracy as anyone else in my company, and they stopped seeing the parts of me that might have made them wonder before.

I was accepted as a man because for me to be a woman was unfathomable.



A partial solution to my problem came with picket duty. Captain Webb’s company was assigned to water guard—which was exactly what it sounded like—from the Red House to the great chain. We stood sentry along the perimeter, overlooking the water, a man posted about every ten rods. Considering no vessels passed beyond the barrier, the section of river we were assigned to watch was quiet duty. The war continued mostly in the south, and for the moment, there was nothing else for the new recruits at West Point to do but watch and drill, and we were given no orders beyond that.

I volunteered for the night shift from ten until two at the northernmost end, the watch no one else wanted, though a handful of others drew the short straw and manned the positions closer to the chain.

It allowed me an excuse to sleep when the hut was relatively empty and leave the barracks when most of the men were just settling down to bed. And my latrine and bathing habits went unnoticed. The stench of soldiers in close quarters as the temperatures rose into June, as well as their tendency toward evening misadventures was not something I missed, and it was on such a night when General Paterson approached my post, surprising the line with an inspection.

I called out as I’d been instructed to do—“Who comes there?”—and he bade me to be at my ease. I had not seen him since our arrival, except from a distance, and was struck once more by his size.

He was tall, a good deal taller than me, and broad of shoulder. He didn’t wear a hat or his uniform, and in the moonlight he was colorless, his pale shirt and tan breeches giving him the look of a man who couldn’t sleep instead of an officer performing an examination. The planes of his face were shadowed and his expression obscured. I was comforted that mine would be as well.

“You’ve been on water guard every night, soldier. Surely there is someone else who can take a shift?”

I was surprised that he knew, though my post was nearest to the Red House where he resided. “I volunteered for this watch, sir,” I said, keeping my voice soft and low. “I like the quiet.”

“I do too,” he said. I thought he would move on, but he hesitated. “Remind me of your name?”

“I am Robert Shurtliff, General.” My stomach twisted as it always did when I lied outright. “Captain Webb’s company.”

“Ahh. That’s right. Robbie. Robbie and Jimmy.”

He stopped beside me, his eyes on the river, and said nothing more for several long minutes. His melancholy was palpable, and my own throat began to throb, the need to acknowledge his loss almost unbearable. I searched for something to say—anything—to distract us both.

“Have you read Gulliver’s Travels, General?” I blurted.

He jerked and looked down at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “I have,” he answered, almost surprised.

“Which is your favorite?”

He was silent for a moment, as if mulling that over. “I don’t know. I never understood why Gulliver kept casting off. Home is the only place I long to be.”

I could not relate. Home was, in some ways, as mythical a place as Gulliver’s Lilliput or the land of the horses. I had never truly had one of my own.

“Where is home?” I asked, though I knew.

“Home is in Lenox, though I’ve hardly been there enough in the last six years for it to feel at all familiar. I was born and raised in Connecticut.”

I wanted to keep him talking. I don’t know why. It was certainly not my way. With every word, I endangered myself.

“And before that?” I asked. “Where are your people from?”

He studied me. I could feel his eyes on my smooth cheeks, and I kept my gaze averted, looking out over the slope of ground that led to the water, a diligent watchman on duty.

“My great-grandfather fled Scotland, a place called Dumfriesshire, during the reign of King James the Second. I have exchanged one set of highlands for another.”

I knew to what he referred. They called the area around the Point the “highlands of the Hudson”—the hated highlands, to be exact.

“I should like to see Scotland,” I said.

“So would I.” There was a bit of irony in the general’s voice, and again I seized on the chance to converse.

“It’s odd, isn’t it? That one’s history could be all wrapped up in a place. That one’s ancestors could toil in the land and walk the hills for thousands of years, and yet it be as foreign to us as the Pyramids of Egypt or the streets of Paris. Have you ever been to Paris?”