A Girl Called Samson (37)

“I have never been to Paris. No.”

“I should like to go there too.” I made myself stop talking, and he did not pick the subject up again. I had not lifted his spirits or distracted him from his sorrow, I could see.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, suddenly, and it was my turn to start in surprise.

“Sir?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated. “You are just a boy.” I knew what he saw. A tall, beardless lad with a voice that hadn’t deepened into manhood and shoulders that hadn’t widened with years.

“No, sir. I’m old enough. And I know why I’m here.” To tell the truth felt sweet, and my words rang with the conviction of testimony. If I knew nothing else, I knew that.

“Why? Why are you here?” It seemed an existential question, and hardly one particular to me. It was as though he asked so that he would better understand himself, and the anguish I sensed underscored his words.

“‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,’” I began.

He huffed under his breath, like I’d surprised him again, and I paused in my recitation.

“You’ve memorized it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe in it.”

He grunted, considering that. “Do you know it all?”

“I haven’t memorized all the injuries and usurpations, word for word. The list is long.”

“Yes. It is.” He laughed, though it was hardly more than a chuckle. I considered it a victory.

He sighed, and we stood in silence once more. “Will you recite what you can remember?” he asked. “I need to be reminded.”

“Of course,” I said, though I was rusty and afraid. I reminded myself again that the general would not—could not—find me familiar. He knew nothing of my face or form, or even my fondness for recitation. But I finished with feeling, and he pressed my shoulder in thanks, a heavy hand that rested only a moment.

I balked, afraid of detection, afraid that my very bones would give me away. The other fellows slung their arms around each other’s shoulders and slept in piles half the time. Not me. I allowed them—and myself—no familiarity.

“Well done, young man. Well done. You have the gift of oration.”

It was as though Reverend Conant had come to visit, and I was drenched in sudden longing for my old friend.

“Thank you, General.”

He turned back toward the Red House and bid me good night.

“Good night, sir.”

“Let someone else take a turn tomorrow,” he instructed as he walked away.

“Yes, sir,” I said. But I had no intention of obeying him.



“You’re still here, Shurtliff,” he said the following night, the only answer to my mandated, “Who comes there?” though I could well see it was him.

“Forgive me, sir. I prefer it. It is too warm to sleep.”

“That it is. And it will only get warmer. The bugs are thick.”

“They haven’t bothered me.”

“No?”

“I am not sweet enough,” I answered frankly. It was what the Thomas brothers always said.

I did not intend it to be humorous, but the general laughed, and I exhaled, glad to see him in better spirits.

“You do have a rather piercing gaze, Private. It belies your age and your smock-face.”

“My students said it was fearsome.”

“Students?” Again the surprise.

“Yes, sir. I was a schoolteacher before I came here.”

His gaze narrowed. Again, he didn’t believe me.

“There was no one else to do it. All the men—the more educated men—were gone.” That much was the truth, but I inwardly flinched, seeing as it matched what he might know about Deborah.

He cocked his head at me and lifted one brow, as though he were puzzling it all out before he committed to speak.

“I taught school once too, after my father died and before I married. It seems like a lifetime ago,” he said, and his sadness returned like a shroud.

“I am so sorry about your wife, General Paterson,” I blurted.

He froze.

“I mean . . . Mrs. Paterson. Forgive me. I am sorry, sir. Very sorry for you and your children. Your loss is felt . . . by many . . . of your men. They are aware of your sacrifice . . . to be here.”

I had made an utter mess of it.

I mentally lashed myself, cursing my babbling tongue and my pounding heart. He had mentioned his marriage, and I had pounced on the opening. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have written a letter instead, a letter from Deborah Samson, and poured out my heart and my affection for lovely Elizabeth as well as my sorrow for him, a man I was deeply fond of and one I greatly admired.

This man was not the friend of our long correspondence. This man was not my dear Mr. Paterson. This man was a brigadier general, a man in command of me and every other man at West Point, and a man I wouldn’t have dared speak to at all had I not known him.

He did not respond to my sloppy condolences. He simply stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the water. The night was so clear and still that the stars reflected on the surface, creating an illusion of standing above them, of looking down from a godlike perch. It reminded me of my dreams.