A Girl Called Samson (43)

“I would like that,” I confessed.

“Then you better stop your whorish ways,” he whispered, grinning. “No more sampling from the apple dumplin’ shop.”

I blinked, not sure I understood, and then I remembered what I’d told him.

He sighed, but his rancor was gone. “Thanks for the talk, Robbie. Don’t let the fish take your wanker while you wash. We caught a few this afternoon. They were bitin’.”

I choked, and he chuckled, his humor restored. I suppose I had one advantage: I had no fear of losing my wanker.

“See that Noble and Jimmy are awake. They’ve got the next shift,” Beebe added. “I’m watch captain until we’re back at the Point.”

Dawn was coming, and I wouldn’t have long before the encampment was stirring, though the plan to sit tight for another day would delay their rise. Many of us had slept no more than winks and nods in several days. The morning would be slow. Still, I didn’t want an audience, and sitting by the fire to dry my clothes would be a whole lot more pleasant if the sun wasn’t yet up.

I shook Jimmy awake and then picked my way through the sleeping men until I found Noble. He was already up, pulling on his boots, and I watched him pick up his musket, snap his bayonet into place, and trudge to his picket point on the riverside. Jimmy was slower to follow, but once he had exited the encampment, I retrieved my pack and my blanket—it needed washing too—and headed toward the creek. I needed sleep, but I couldn’t go another day without a bath.

The creek was only chest high at its deepest point and maybe ten feet wide. It emptied into the Hudson about twenty rods to the west, if that, but it made for a nice bathing spot not far from camp. I shucked off my boots, found my soap, and waded a few feet in before sinking to my knees, submerging myself to my neck. I began wringing and washing, slipping my hand beneath my billowing shirt and my loosened breeches to scour my underarms and my nether regions before attacking my clothes. The band around my breasts remained tight and tied; the proximity of my company and the dwindling time forced me to wash it while I wore it, running the soap over the outside, as I’d done a dozen times before. If I was able, I would exchange it for the dry one in my pack. If I wasn’t, I would manage.

I’d been at it for mere minutes, frenzied as always, scanning the darkness for signs of unwanted company while keeping an eye on Jimmy, who sat watch farther up the creek. He’d never once even looked my way, though I’d made certain there was nothing for him to see. He was seated with his back to me, and from the way he was slumped, I doubted he was seeing anything but the backs of his eyelids.

I’d just finished rinsing the soap from my hair when a shifting and reshaping of the darkness, a ways beyond Jimmy’s picket point, caught my eye. As I watched, riders began to converge, moving along the opposite side of the creek. The trees cast long shadows that gave them cover, but there were many of them, their pistols were drawn, and they were not Continentals. I tucked my lips over a shriek and inched back until my shoulders touched the bank, tying my strings beneath the water, terrified that any movement would draw their eyes toward me and equally terrified that I’d lose my breeches when I stood. Jimmy’s head stayed bowed and his back remained bent.

I wriggled up the bank behind the small outcropping of rocks I’d chosen specifically to give me some privacy, though I’d never envisioned needing cover like this. I put the straps of my powder horn and my cartridge box over my head, notched my belt, and aimed my musket at the rider in the center. Discharging my weapon would be the fastest way to alert my detachment, but I wasn’t going to waste a bullet, and it might make them scatter, knowing they’d lost the element of surprise. I had doubts about my actions for half a second and then discarded them. Their coats were red, their movements stealthy, and their intentions clear. Images of Colonel Greene being dragged from his tent and slaughtered cemented my resolve. These were the tactics of DeLancey’s Brigade, and they weren’t behind our lines to negotiate a treaty.

I pulled the trigger and I think a man fell, though I didn’t stop to make sure, surging up from the bank and racing toward the encampment, separated from the marauders by trees and sheer terror. Bullets began to whiz and crack above my head, and I didn’t stop to pull on my boots or shrug into my coat. My wet clothes clung and my hair stuck to my cheeks and dripped down my back, but not one of the Thomas brothers could have outrun me in that moment.





12

SELF-EVIDENT

As I broke through the trees into the encampment, men were coming to their feet, weapons in hand, in various states of dress, their confusion evident.

“DeLancey’s coming,” I shouted, though I wasn’t certain who led the assault. “We’re under attack.”

Captain Webb was out of his tent, and Noble was running toward me from his picket on the Hudson side of our encampment. I caught a glimpse of General Paterson, gun in hand, his shirt hanging loose about his breeches, no boots, no stockings. He was shouting out orders, urging the men to move north to the tree line, and then his voice and his figure were swallowed up by the cavalry that descended upon us.

The flames of small campfires illuminated the hooves of flying horses and the legs of panicked men, but the crescent moon did nothing to alleviate the chaos or light the way to safety. I needed to reload. That was the only thought in my head, and I went through the motions, intent on my task.