A Girl Called Samson (67)



He was almost muttering, but the conversation had taken a surprising turn. I desperately wanted him to continue.

“I will not be the kind of man history remembers. At this juncture . . . my own children will not remember me.”

“The war has been hardest on the women,” I said. “History won’t remember them at all.”

“Such an odd fellow you are, Shurtliff.” He sighed. “A wise old soul in a boy’s body.”

My laugh was almost a sob. “I was born old, sir.”

“Yes. I think you were. Tell me about your father.”

“I did not know my father.”

“And your mother?”

“She sent me to live with family after my father was gone.” I chose my words carefully. “I have not seen her more than a handful of times since I was five years old.”

“When this is over, I’ll go home to Lenox, Massachusetts. Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think that far ahead,” I said. I did not let myself think that far ahead.

“No. I don’t believe that. You are always thinking.”

“Yes, sir. But not about the future. I find the present taxing enough.”

I ground my forehead into his back, trying to prop him up without toppling him over. I could feel the moments he teetered on the edge of consciousness. Maybe it was exhaustion, but he swayed in intervals, and that we had managed to stay in the saddle for the last hour was nothing short of a miracle.

“Sir, if we are set upon, we are done for,” I panted.

“Keep talking, Shurtliff. If you don’t, then I am done for.”

“I do not know what to say, sir.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“I have not allowed myself to want anything too much.”

He swayed, and I shook him, afraid.

“I’m here, boy. I’m here. Keep going. You don’t want anything too much . . .”

“I would like to have a family one day,” I said. I almost laughed at myself. I had no desire for a husband. Just children.

“Do you have a girl in mind?” he asked, slightly slurring his words.

“I do not want a wife.”

“No? Children might be a difficulty then.” Humor, even amid the struggle. I liked that, and I laughed.

“I want to be loved madly or not at all. I can’t imagine finding anyone who would love me madly.” I was babbling, but I doubted he would remember it.

“Why not?”

“Because no one ever has.”

“You are young yet,” he rumbled, and his chin drooped farther into his chest.

“Tell me about your children, sir,” I prodded.

“I have daughters. Little daughters. Princesses, all. Like their mother. Hannah and Polly and Ruth.”

I knew all about Hannah and Polly and Ruth, but I urged him on.

“Hannah and Polly are dark, like Elizabeth. Ruth looks like me, down to the divot in her chin and the furrow of her brow. Poor mite.”

“Tell me about Mrs. Paterson. Did she look like the painting in your quarters?”

“She was small and . . . round, she would say, though she knew she was round in the way most women want to be round. Fair skin, dark hair, big . . . brown eyes. The painting is a fair likeness.”

Small and round. Like Mrs. Thomas. Somehow, it was exactly how I had pictured her. It was only John Paterson who did not match the image I had created for him. He continued on, as if acknowledging she was worthy of a eulogy, even in his diminished state.

“Elizabeth was . . . easy . . . to love. She was intelligent . . . and good . . . and beautiful. She was the kind of woman that gets . . . snatched up quickly, and I did not hesitate. The moment she was of age, I went to her father and made my case. I never doubted it was the right decision. She gave me three children, she gave me peace of mind, she gave me friendship and support. She gave and gave . . . and now she’s gone. And I am here, still fighting in this endless war, wondering what it’s all for.”

“I’m so sorry, General.”

“So am I,” he muttered.

“Hold on, sir. Not much farther now. Not much farther,” I lied. We had miles to go.

“Just keep talking, Rob. Just keep talking.”

He’d called me Rob, and it gave me courage, as if the Thomas brothers rallied around me, daring me on.

I began reciting everything I had ever learned, pulling the words out of the recesses of my mind, proverbs and catechisms and entire scenes from The Merchant of Venice to keep us both upright. The general mumbled and swayed, but he stayed in the saddle, and so did I.

We arrived at Peekskill Hollow sometime before dawn and were greeted by a guard who recognized the general’s horse before he realized it was us. A bugle sounded, feet pounded, and twenty men came at a run, Grippy at the front.

“Oh, thank God,” the general groaned. “Is that you, Agrippa?”

“It’s me, sir. It’s me. Praise the Lord.”

“I thought I might not see you again, my friend.” The general was swaying but smiling, and tears had begun to track down my cheeks. I too had feared the worst, and to see Agrippa Hull alive and well shattered the last bit of my control.

“General Paterson needs assistance,” I called, seeking to wipe my face against his bowed back. “He’s hurt.”

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