A Girl Called Samson (64)

The wound on his head was swollen and ugly, but it was the injuries I couldn’t see that froze my blood. I ran my hands over his shoulders and down his long arms. His fingers did not curl or flex when I touched his palms. I unbuttoned his waistcoat and lifted his shirt, searching his skin for something I might have missed. He was warm and a tad too lean—we were all too lean—which somehow made him seem even longer, even larger, and tears rose to my eyes and tickled my nose as I ran my hands over his body, whispering my apologies as I perused. I didn’t find so much as a bruise for all my boldness. His wounded head was the culprit, and I could do nothing for him.

“Wake up, John Paterson,” I begged, righting his clothes and choking back my tears. “We have to get out of here.”

I rolled him to his side to release the pressure on the large bump on the back of his head and dragged his saddlebag over to use as a pillow. I lay back down beside him, spent by the exertion, and pulled the blanket back over us, curling into him and resting my cheek beside his on the saddlebag. Our faces were mere inches apart, his breath even, mine harsh, but I did not close my eyes. I didn’t dare. I was wracked by fear and guilt and pain, and I began to pray, demanding God’s attention.

Mrs. Thomas must have prayed the same way for her ten sons.

That thought did not comfort me.

Death had come time and again to the Thomas family in spite of the desperate pleadings of righteous parents.

I was not righteous, but I was tenacious. I was like Jacob from the Old Testament. Jacob who became Israel. Jacob the usurper. The supplanter. Jacob who wrestled with God and refused to yield until he had His blessing, a blessing he did not deserve. Jacob who stole his brother’s birthright.

It was not my brother’s birthright that I’d taken, but his name.

“Take me, God. Take me instead,” I pleaded. Perhaps God would take the general and me both. The wounds in my leg might fester. It was more likely than not, but I had never intended to survive.

I could do nothing more for John Paterson. I couldn’t fight. Couldn’t run. I could hardly walk. Jacob who became Israel pushed his way into my thoughts again. When God was finished with him, he’d been almost lame.

I prayed until my words slurred and my mind blanked. Before I drifted off, I entreated God once more, offering myself in John Paterson’s place, a terrible deal, I knew, but a heartfelt one. And then I begged Elizabeth to send him back if he tried to join her.

“We need him, Elizabeth. I know he would rather stay with you. But send him back if you see him. Please, Elizabeth.”



It was the rasp of his voice, barely above a rumble, that woke me again, hours later, and I jerked up, looking down into his face. Morning had broken, and I had no sense of the time that had passed. My bladder was full, my leg throbbed, but John Paterson was awake.

He’d rolled to his back at some point, and he blinked up at me slowly, as though his lids were heavy, but his blue gaze focused on my face.

“General Paterson? Can you talk to me, sir?”

“Is there a reason you’re holding my hand, soldier?” he whispered, strain making the words crack.

I was too overjoyed to be embarrassed. “Yes, sir. I was afraid you would die while I slept. And I couldn’t stay awake anymore. So I held your hand to keep you here.”

“It seems to have worked.” His hand flexed around mine, and I found myself clinging to it all the harder.

“I did not think you would ever wake.” My voice broke, and I cleared my throat, trying to find control.

“Where are we?” he rasped.

“We’re in a barn. It belongs to a loyalist toad named Jeroen Van Tassel. He has a home with at least a dozen rooms and, judging from his color and his girth, plenty of wine and food in his stores. I ask permission to accompany a raid on his property when we return to the Point.”

“Permission granted.” He blinked again, that slow, agonized lifting of his lids, and winced. “And why . . . are we in his barn?”

“What do you remember, sir?”

“The supplies. The cavern.”

“We were attacked on our return. I don’t know why. And I don’t know who. It was chaos. Men and horses scattered. Colonel Sproat and Agrippa were still alive when I saw them last, both still on their horses. But I don’t know about the others.”

“DeLancey’s men?”

“I don’t know. Probably. But we surprised them . . . and they surprised us. I do not think it was a planned attack.”

He grunted and raised his left hand to his head, feeling around the bandages. “My head feels like it’s nailed to the floor.”

“You took a musket ball through your hat. It parted your hair and made a furrow, but it didn’t lodge. It knocked you from your horse, though. Your brow is swollen, and you have a great lump on the back of your head as well, so I tried to turn your face to the side.”

“Front and back? How did I manage that?”

“I’m not sure, sir. Talent, I suppose.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Shurtliff,” he huffed, and his mouth twitched. My tears began falling in earnest.

“You remember me then?” I choked.

His lids closed and didn’t open.

“General?” He didn’t answer, and I thought he’d been pulled under again. “General?” I patted his cheek, panicked.