A Girl Called Samson (65)

“General!”

His eyes opened again, and his gaze was clearer.

“You were praying. Out loud. You said her name.”

“Who?”

“My wife. You asked Elizabeth to send me back.” His hand flexed around mine, and I realized I was still clutching his right hand in my left. I didn’t dare let go.

I nodded, not trusting my emotions enough to answer. Much of my agonized beseeching had been done in silence, but someone had been listening.

“It’s freezing in here,” he said. “Your hand is too warm.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“You aren’t. You are covered in blood, you’re crying, and your skin is hot.”

I made myself unclench my fingers and release him.

“Most of the blood is yours, sir,” I lied. “And my tears were for you too.”

“You weren’t injured?”

“I was. My left leg was hit, but I will heal. No permanent damage done.” I hoped. “My horse ran off.”

“And mine?”

“Your horse is in Van Tassel’s stable.”

He sighed heavily, gratefully, and we were silent again.

“How long have we been here?” he asked.

“I’m not certain. A full day . . . maybe a little longer. But we need to go. I was warned that Van Tassel is not a friend, though I didn’t need the warning. The only concern shown has been by a servant named Morris and the daughter, though I think it is more curiosity than care in her case. I asked for water and blankets. She brought them, but little else.”

“How do you know he’s a loyalist?”

“He’s fatter. Richer. More comfortable. He doesn’t have the look of the harried and the careworn.”

“Ahh.”

“I could go alone, sir, now that you are awake. Now that I know you aren’t going to die on me. And I can bring back help.”

He rolled to his side and pushed himself up, assessing his head. I scrambled to assist, sitting up as well.

He swayed but caught himself immediately. “My head is pounding, but the rest of me is fine. I need a drink . . . and to take a piss.”

I handed him the canteen, and he drank deeply, handing it back empty.

“Can you manage the other on your own, General?” I asked, preparing myself for the worst.

“If I can’t, I sure as hell won’t be able to sit on a horse.”

“I don’t know if you can ride yet, sir.”

“You can help me stay in the saddle.”

Alarm skittered down my back. You don’t feel like a boy, Rob.

I would not be able to walk back to West Point. I knew this. I was in no condition. I didn’t think my wounds had turned, but they had not even begun to heal. I would just have to hang on to him with my arms and pray my chest at his back didn’t betray me.

I nodded and stood, testing my leg. It was no better and no worse than it’d been before. But now the general was watching me.

“Your breeches are blood-soaked. Where were you shot?” he asked.

I peeled my stocking down, revealing the bandage on my calf, and quickly pulled it back up. My legs, even bandaged and blood-spattered, were decidedly feminine. My hair was too fine and light, my calves too narrow.

“That doesn’t account for the blood above it.”

“Your head was in my lap when we brought you here.”

He was silent, considering that, and I thought he might lie back down.

“I owe you my life, Shurtliff. Don’t I?”

“Yes, sir. You do. So I will thank you not to lose it any time soon.”

He snorted and rose gingerly, using the wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes like the barn was spinning.

“I will go get the horse, sir.”

“I’m not going to ask how.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“I trust you will.”

I left him, still wobbly but standing, his hand wrapped around the nearby post. I heard him retch behind me and throw up the water he’d just guzzled. “Damnation,” he moaned, but I left him to sort himself out, grateful that his misery would distract him from mine.

Morris was approaching, a bucket in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other, as I hobbled from the barn.

“We’re leaving. I need the general’s horse.”

He stopped, the water sloshing over the edge, and then he handed both to me.

“Van Tassel won’t like you taking that horse. He thinks it’s his now. He’s already got a buyer.”

“Then I’ve saved him from an enormous mistake.”

“I’ll bring it and help you saddle him. But you’d best get gone. He left not an hour ago, but he wasn’t going far.”

“Just as soon as you bring the horse,” I agreed, and turned back.

General Paterson was waiting for me. His color was an alarming gray, but his eyes were clear and his gaze steady. He took a hunk of the bread I offered and watched as I refilled the canteen and gathered the few things I’d removed from the packs.

“You can barely walk,” he said.

“My calf is sore.” I said nothing about my thigh.

Morris returned, leading Lenox, and put the saddle on his back and tied down the packs without a word. I almost moaned in relief. I didn’t have the strength to pick it up off the ground. Morris held the reins as Paterson swung up into the saddle and gripped the back of his coat when he teetered. For a moment I thought the general would fall off the other side, but he held on.