A Girl Called Samson (53)

“I can, General. And very well.” I did not want to boast, but I could not find it in me to deny myself the truth I had worked so hard for.

“Sit here. I will dictate a letter, you will write, and I will see if your skills are sufficient.”

“They are, sir.”

His brows rose, but he pointed at his chair.

I settled myself in his spot, apprehension bubbling up in my chest. Would he recognize my handwriting?

He’d already begun the letter, but he moved that out of the way and provided me with a clean sheet. I dipped the quill and looked up at him expectantly. He turned away, pacing, and began stating his thoughts in broken sentences.

Dear Sirs,

I esteem it my duty to inform you of the disagreeable and distressing condition of the brigade under my command. Should the enemy discover our vulnerabilities, it would take little to exploit them.

We have no more than six days of meat provisions in the garrison. Last August we went the entire month without, our soldiers reduced to rations of flour and what little we could purchase or forage from local farms, which, considering the worthless paper we have to trade, is not much. Every department is at a stand for want of cash. Our stores are exhausted, the army unpaid and disheartened.

Should this continue, I am fearful of the consequences. Many officers, fretted by the treatment and the repeated failures of Congress to honor their promises, are committed to quit the service at the close of this campaign, and I fear the soldiery will follow their example. Most are in great distress and depend solely on the rations, both in food and clothing, that they have not received.

My wish is only to see the army well supplied; resignations, mutiny, and marauding would in great degree be prevented. I am ashamed to be continually filling your ears with complaints; the crisis is difficult and dangerous, and should we survive the present, we are at constant threat of a relapse.

I will continue to do all in my power to secure supplies, though some of these means put our bravest men at much risk. The local renegades have become increasingly more violent toward our soldiers and the citizenry. Perhaps they see their own end or believe they can hasten ours, but the situation is dire.

I look forward to your response and direction.

General Paterson returned to my side and waited for me to complete the final line.

“You have a fine hand,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.” I hardly dared breathe as he examined my work, but he simply leaned down, took the quill, and affixed his signature on the bottom, a signature I knew well. Then he straightened once more.

“This is how I spend my time.” He tossed a hand toward the letter. “Warning and worrying and writing letters that are rarely heeded.” He shook his head and ran his palms over his whiskery cheeks.

“I need a shave.”

“I can do that, sir.” I vacated his seat. “Where is your kit?”

“I can do it myself, Shurtliff.”

“Yessir, I’m sure you can. But it is an aide’s job, is it not?”

“I suppose it is, yes.”

“This is an evaluation of my abilities, isn’t it, sir?”

He shrugged, brought me his kit and a drape to cover his clothes, and sat in his chair once more. I splashed a little water in the shallow basin nearby and brought it to his desk, but not before carefully moving the letter I’d just been dictated.

I wrapped the drape around him, created a lather on his brush, and proceeded to remove the two-day growth on his chin and cheeks.

“It might only be temporary, and I will have to talk to Colonel Jackson. He might not want to lose a good man from his ranks,” he murmured as I worked.

“I would very much like the position, sir. It is a better use of my talents.”

He pursed his lips, and I fought to keep my gaze steady, though my cheeks grew hot again. I’d shaved dozens of faces, but I was stricken with a sudden, painful awareness of myself and of him. I had not had a proper bath in ages, and my menses had begun that morning. The bleeding wasn’t heavy, and I’d folded a rag and fashioned a sling to keep it in place beneath my breeches, but I could feel the wet and smell the distinct musk of my body, and feared he would too. I did my utmost to keep myself tidy and clean, but it was nigh on impossible.

The general, on the other hand, smelled of linseed oil and honeyed tea, and his waistcoat rivaled Agrippa Hull’s. I hoped the lather beneath his nose would mask my scent, and I willed myself to be calm. It was a miracle that such an opportunity had arisen. I would not plead or press for the appointment, but I would not let my fear of his proximity make me shy from it either.

To be the general’s aide would mean a bed of my own and a privacy that I had not enjoyed since my enlistment began. I would be able to wash and relieve myself without plotting and planning. I could sleep without being surrounded by men on every side.

I needed the position.

“You’re quite good at that, Shurtliff,” the general said after I’d cleared the stubble from one half of his face.

“Yessir. I know,” I said quietly. I wasn’t concentrating on my words but on the lather on the line of his left cheekbone and the scrape of the blade in my hand.

He jerked, laughing, and I gasped, my eyes flaring to his in alarm.

“Don’t move, sir!”

“Sorry,” he grunted. “Such confidence surprises me. Especially in one so young.”