A Girl Called Samson (47)

“But . . . what if you didn’t know them?”

“I ask their comrades. Their captain. Their colonel. I get to know them. Then I write letters that no one ever wants to receive.”

None of the Thomas boys had been attached to General Paterson’s brigade. The letters we’d received had been from General Howe.

“I will assist you,” I said. “I helped many of them write letters home.”

“Thank you, Shurtliff,” he said. “I would appreciate that. Now go get some rest, Private.” He rose and patted the top of my head with his big hand, like I was a child or a faithful dog.

“You must have laughed at my pretty words and inspirational ideas. I am a fool,” I blurted, moisture stinging my nose. He hesitated and sat back down.

“No. Not foolish. Not at all. What was it you said? That hope is something we have to keep burning?” He studied me. “I’ve never heard truer words in my life.”

“I killed two men. Maybe more.”

“I have killed many.”

“I am not sorry.”

He sighed heavily. “Yes, you are.”

“They were trying to kill me. They killed my friends.”

“Yes. But you are still sorry. It is a terrible burden to end a life.”

“Why did they attack?”

“We are at war.”

I shook my head. “No. That is not why. They wanted something.”

He did not answer.

“We don’t have the supplies. Captain Webb said they want our supplies, but we didn’t have the supplies today,” I protested.

“They weren’t here for the supplies. They were most likely here for me.”

I gasped, and he flinched.

“You?”

He rose again, and I followed, clutching my arm to my chest.

He shook his head like he regretted speaking. “I am weary. So are you. Go to bed, Shurtliff. We have survived this day. I have no doubt we will survive tomorrow as well.”

I watched him retreat to a small tent someone had erected in the trees. No one guarded his door or stood watch nearby, and I was suddenly afraid for him. The moans of the wounded and the absence of the dead tainted the night, and I doubted I would be able to sleep at all. I retrieved my blanket and made my bed beside his tent. If DeLancey came back for the general, I would be waiting.



August 31, 1781

Dear Elizabeth,

We returned to the Point only to leave again for Kingston two days later. General Paterson had arranged for another shipment of supplies which, given the attacks by Colonel DeLancey and his brigade, was fortunate. The supplies from Connecticut never arrived and a detachment assigned to escort the wagons has disappeared. Some think the soldiers deserted or were bribed—or threatened—to abandon the stores, but the men are gone and so are the goods.

Our second trip to Kingston did not go as smoothly as our previous assignment, and we left with half as much after twice as much trouble. Winter is coming, and the war continues, though I’m not sure anyone knows why.

My arm has healed quickly, thanks to the general, but my heart is changed yet again. I miss my mates. I was well acquainted with loss, but not with death, and the two are not the same. I told the general that I was not sorry for the men I killed, but he knew better. Sorrow has arrived, and I am permanently altered.

Noble Sperin was dutiful and brave. It occurred to me that he was much like Nathaniel, and my mourning for both has become all the more intense. What a terrible waste of good men! In the time I’ve been a soldier, that is the lesson that has most surprised me.

John Beebe was a lovable nuisance, but in many ways, his challenges made me better, his criticism too. And like Phineas, he made me laugh. It is not something I’ve done much of in my life. I have always been too intense. To laugh and play took time from the things that drove me, but Beebe brought out the rascal in me, and I am better for it.

Jimmy Battles and I were often lumped together because of our “age,” and we became a bit of a pair, much like Jeremiah and I once were. I told the general that Jimmy didn’t complain, he always encouraged, and he was never afraid, not even at the end. It will be a blessing to his mother to know that he died quietly and quickly, with very little suffering. It is a comfort to me as well.

Since Tarrytown, I have dreamed about Jeremiah almost every night, and I fear something has happened to him too, and he has come to tell me goodbye. Or perhaps I simply can’t separate the Thomas boys from my downed comrades, and in sleep they are one and the same. They all feel like brothers to me.

We have no new recruits. No one has taken the berths of the fallen, and since they were my bunkmates, I have considerably more room, but it is not welcome space.

Autumn is here. Like a pinprick, a drop of bloodred appeared on the hillside, and then another, and another, followed by a bit of gold and a sprinkling of orange. Now the entire valley is aflame. I thought the Point glorious in spring, but the fall is beyond description. I suspect even winter will take my breath away with its beauty, but I can hardly sleep for the fear in my chest. So many things will be more difficult when the cold hits. —RS





13

ALL MEN

I saw men die at Tarrytown. I watched them fall around me, and the blood and waste was beyond description, yet somehow my mind still attempted to quantify the horror, if only to consider what I might still endure.