A Girl Called Samson (42)

I scrubbed at my face, not understanding. I’d washed all the parts that weren’t covered.

“Got a mean look to you now, though your eyes gleam all the more. You’d best close ’em or the moths will circle your head.” He was jesting, but he didn’t laugh at me or himself like he was inclined to do.

The thought that my looks might have changed cheered me. Perhaps General Paterson had only been noting the difference.

“Go on, Robbie. Get some sleep,” Beebe demanded, but I hesitated. His gloom was pronounced.

“My watch doesn’t end for a bit,” I offered. “I’ll stay if you don’t mind.”

He shrugged, shifting his musket and peering up at the moon.

“You got a girl somewhere, Rob?” he asked suddenly.

“No.”

He snorted. “I didn’t think so.”

I knew better than to let Beebe bother me, and I ignored his scoffing.

“Talking to you about this is like talking to my sister.”

I didn’t like that assessment at all, and immediately set about disabusing him of the notion. “What exactly are we talking about, Beebe?” I said. “Do you need advice?”

He jeered again. “From you, lad? I doubt it.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Have you ever even touched a girl?” he needled, and Deborah Samson, in all her contrarian wickedness, decided to goad him right back.

“Of course,” I said, honesty ringing from my words.

“Liar,” he snapped.

“It’s the truth,” I said, but shrugged, letting it go. He fidgeted and fretted and finally broke the silence.

“I’m not talking about her arm, Shurtliff. Or her hand.”

“I didn’t think you were.” The devil on my shoulder howled with laughter and the angel felt totally justified.

“You’ve touched a breast?”

I ground my teeth together to keep from smiling. “Yes. Many times.”

He jerked. “Many?”

“Yes. Many. More times than I could count.”

“You’re just a . . . a smock-faced boy.”

I shrugged.

“Have you seen everything? Every part? Without clothing?”

“Yes.”

“A real live woman? Full grown? Not a child running about?”

“A real live woman.”

He gaped at me like I’d just sprouted a crown. “Have you slept beside one?”

“I have.”

“Have you put your knob in one?” His voice was so quiet I wasn’t certain I’d heard right, and it took me a minute to process what he meant.

“No.” I certainly could not claim that, and I was amazed once more at the limitless names men had for their parts. I had learned a dozen of them, at least.

“Why not?” He narrowed his eyes.

“Eh . . .”

“’Tweren’t offered?”

“Something like that,” I said, and the grin I’d been holding back split my cheeks. I had not had this much fun since I’d beat Phineas in that footrace.

Beebe’s shoulders fell and his chin hit his chest.

“Nor have I. But I dream of it. I heard it’s like a bit of heaven,” he said, wistful.

I grunted, my need to laugh warring with my sincere sympathy. He seemed so sad.

“That’s what scares me,” he added.

I stiffened, certain he was going to confess something about coupling I didn’t want to hear. I suppose I deserved that.

“I’m afraid I’ll die without ever finding out,” he mourned. “I’ve had a funny feeling all day.”

My mirth fled, and the demon on my shoulder vanished. I looked up at the sky and searched the woods around us, trying to summon words that might comfort him. It was odd. Terror informed my every action, but it was not the same dread felt by those around me. Oh, I shared my comrades fears as well—cowardice, death, suffering—but I was more afraid of discovery than of anything else, and it served as a huge distraction from all the other horrors. In fact, I suppose it made me bolder than I might have otherwise been.

“If you die . . . you won’t just experience a little bit of heaven. It’ll be heaven itself. Maybe you won’t need a taste because everything will be so good.”

“Do you believe that?” He seemed doubtful . . . and hopeful too.

“I’m not sure what I believe. But whoever made this world understands beauty and love. All you have to do is look around to feel it. And I don’t think that ever ends. ‘Whatever God does, it is forever,’” I quoted. “I imagine death is like moving into a new season.”

“That’s in Ecclesiastes, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.’”

“Yeah. I guess that might be true. You gonna be a reverend when this is over? You could be with all the Bible quotin’ you do.”

I considered that, picturing myself standing at the lectern in Reverend Conant’s church. Somehow I thought it might be harder to be a man of God than a man of war, and in a few years, I wouldn’t be able to pass for a beardless boy. But to be a reverend appealed to me.