A Girl Called Samson (38)

“It is like flying,” I remarked, unable to bear his painful silence any longer. I didn’t care whether he thought me a fool. Perhaps it was better if he did. “It makes me hopeful.”

He said nothing.

“What gives you hope, sir?” I pressed softly.

He exhaled. “The thought that it will end,” he said, voice heavy.

I considered his words only long enough to reject them.

“No,” I said, and my vehemence surprised us both.

“No?”

“No, sir.” I swallowed. “If it was only an ending you wish for, you would not be here. None of us would.”

He shook his head. “You are bold, Shurtliff. I’ll warrant you that.”

“Hope requires boldness, sir.”

He grunted, and I warmed to my subject. “In Proverbs it says, ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick: but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.’ That is why I am here.”

I had shared so many things in my life with Elizabeth, and I knew she’d shared many of my letters with John. He knew Deborah Samson—my history and my heritage—so I could hardly relay the same stories. I was at a loss, stripped of the things of which I was proud. William Bradford was a hero of sorts, and I wanted to claim him. But he was Deborah’s, and I was Robert now. I trod carefully.

“My mother once told me the story of a woman who sailed to this country . . . long ago. She’d left her child behind in hopes he could join them when they settled. Her husband had gone to find shelter on land, and she waited in the boat. He was gone too long, and she feared him dead. She was cold and exhausted, and she did not want to continue on without him. She drowned herself.”

His breath hissed, his shoulders sagged, and his chin dropped to his chest. I had said the wrong thing. Again. The despondency and death of a wife left too long hit close to home.

“It was an ending that she sought,” I said, trying to salvage my story. “Not hope. But it is hope that will give you the desire to continue. You must resist it, that hopelessness. When God takes you, let Him take you. When He plucks you from this earthly coil, then you may rejoice. But as long as you draw breath, as long as your heart beats and the sun rises, you must stay in the fight.”

Every word I uttered was heartfelt, but when Paterson raised his head, his demeanor had not changed.

“You are just a boy,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re talking about and no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

I bit my lip and swore I would hold my tongue if it killed me.

“But you have a way with words,” he conceded, “and lately I cannot abide my own company.”

I swallowed an apology and shifted my musket to my other shoulder. I would not argue or defend myself either. If he wanted company, I would give him that. But I would be quiet.

“Will you recite it again, Shurtliff?” he asked, and my vow of silence was instantly dashed on the rocks of my desire to please him.

“The declaration, sir?”

“The declaration.”

“From the beginning?”

“From the beginning.”



The next night was much the same. The general stopped, exchanged a few pleasantries, and asked if I would recite the declaration. Sometimes he would stop me after the preamble, sometimes he would add his voice to certain words, as if they troubled him. Or strengthened him. I did not ask.

“Would you like to hear something else, sir?” I said after the fifth straight night of the same recitation. “A sonnet or scene or a bit of the Book of Revelation?”

“Good God, no. Do you want me to throw myself over this ledge?”

I gaped, not certain whether he jested. “You do not like sonnets, General?”

“I do not like the Book of Revelation.”

“I love it,” I breathed. “‘And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon.’” That was my favorite part. “It is wonderful. The beasts with wings, the four horsemen, and the heavens being rolled back like a scroll. What a story!”

“The earthquakes, the lamentations, the sun turning to ash, the moon turning to blood?”

“Yes!”

“You are a very odd fellow, Shurtliff.”

“Yes, sir. I know.” He had no idea how odd I truly was.

He began to laugh, a slow rumble that grew into a lusty, head-thrown-back howl.

“Sir?”

He covered his face with his palms, still chortling.

I didn’t know whether to laugh with him or put a palm to his forehead to check for fever.

He patted my shoulder and straightened my hat, still laughing, and something shifted in my chest.

The moon bathed his face and mirth lit his eyes. I could almost see their color—a pale, wintry blue—and when he laughed, his teeth were white and strong behind well-formed lips. I immediately averted my gaze.

“There is also a rainbow throne,” I mumbled. “And harps and golden vials of incense, which are the prayers of the saints.”

“Yes. And a bottomless pit and locusts as big as horses with the hair of women and the teeth of lions.”

“I should like to see all of those things,” I confessed, sneaking a peek at his smiling face.