A Girl Called Samson (60)

“I don’t know if it’s the storm coming in, but there’s nobody watching it. The opening’s not much more than a depression in a rocky rise, and it’s easy to miss. But it’s just like he said. I only had a quick look, but the barrels have the Continental mark. There’s at least a hundred barrels of beans and salted meat, flour and lard, butter, molasses, all of it.”

Sproat ordered five men to remain with the horses and another five to watch the door, and the rest of us went inside. Williby was waiting for us, a lantern lit, his rucksack already bulging. Sproat said nothing, and I assumed the man had been promised his own ham . . . or whatever he wanted.

The cave looked small from the outside, the opening barely tall enough for me to enter upright and only as wide as my outstretched arms. General Paterson and Colonel Sproat had to stoop, but within ten feet, the cavern opened up into much more, and just as promised, the bounty was significant.

“How did they get all this in here without anyone knowing?” Grippy marveled. “And how are we going to get it out?”

“They created a diversion,” Paterson said. “That’s what the strike in Tarrytown was all about. While some attacked, the rest were busy hijacking the supply line when it passed through. They just unloaded the barrels—”

“And burned the wagons,” Williby finished. “There’s a gulch just over the rise. The whole thing was lit up last summer. I found the hubs and the hitches. But that’s all. They torched ’em good.”

“How far are we from the river?” the general asked.

“Four miles, at the most,” Williby answered.

“How’s the terrain?”

“Easy. A man could walk it in an hour if he’s moving fast.”

“What are you thinking, General?” Sproat interjected. “Those barrels are too heavy to carry.”

“We’ll come down the North River with handcarts. On barges.”

“Thirty men could empty this in less than an hour,” Sproat said. “An hour here. An hour to load it all up, maybe two hours getting back to the river with the heavy carts. That leaves plenty of time to load the barges once we’re there.”

The general nodded. “We’ll get here in the middle of the night, load up and get out, and time the return to the shift in the tide.”

“Just like we do in Kingston,” I said.

“Just like we do in Kingston,” the general agreed.

“It could work,” Sproat said, and Grippy was beaming.

“Can I have my ham now?” he asked.



We didn’t want to sleep near the depot, but the wind howled and the night was cold. Williby led us about a mile north to the barn of a “friendly,” and we hunkered down inside and ate a feast of pickled eggs and bottled peaches from the cavern. Sproat passed around a bottle of pilfered wine, but I barely wetted my lips before handing it to the general. I desperately needed to empty my bladder and would have to wait until everyone was asleep. The men had only to step outside. I would have to go a little farther.

The space was huge, and we brought the horses inside as well, sheltering them from the weather and hiding them from anyone who might pass by. I lay back against my saddle and took out my book and quill, not eager to write, but needing an excuse to sit up when the others were bedding down. Grippy and the general spread themselves out and pulled their hats over their eyes like the others, and I scratched away by the light of Williby’s lantern, writing a letter to Elizabeth that was more a list of the goods we’d seen in the cavern than anything else.

I didn’t want the general to see me step outside. He would be the only one who cared and would mark my absence and my return. Sproat had assigned a man to watch, but everyone seemed mellowed by the wine and unconcerned about our safety.

“I know the farmer who owns this barn. He’s a patriot. We’ll be fine here,” Williby had reassured us.

“No book tonight, Shurtliff?” the general asked, his voice heavy.

“Perhaps. I’m not really that tired.”

He grunted and lifted his hat from his eyes so he could look at me.

“Liar. You’re nodding off just sitting there.”

I put my journal back in my saddlebag, stretched out like the others, and closed my eyes, convinced my discomfort would prevent me from sleeping.

It didn’t.

I awoke hours later, the men around me already stirring, morning light seeping in through the cracks in the barn walls.

I scrambled up, stunned that I’d slept so deeply, and almost wet myself, so desperate was my need.

The general and the others were saddling their horses, talking quietly, and I hurried past them and out the door, rushing for the trees. Someone chuckled, and Grippy called after me.

“I need a moment. My bowels are feeling a little loose. Too much fruit,” I babbled.

The chuckling multiplied, but no one followed.

I walked, teeth clenched, until I was certain no one could see me and no one had decided to come after me. I crouched behind a bush, my back against a tree, and wriggled my breeches down while contorting to keep the stream of urine from hitting my shoes or wetting my clothes. I’d gotten spoiled the last months at the Red House with a private perch and a locking door, and I had grown soft. I stayed crouched much longer than I usually dared, making sure I was emptied before I patted myself dry with the square of cloth I kept in my pocket in case my menses started, and secured my clothes.