A Girl Called Samson (68)

Arms reached up to pull us down, but I was the one who found myself unable to let go, so cramped were my arms.

“Let go, Bonny,” Grippy urged, but I could only shake my head helplessly.

“I can’t.”

The general reached down and unraveled my arms, and I slid from the saddle, trying to catch all my weight on my good leg. I landed in a heap instead.

“Get Doc Thatcher,” Grippy shouted.

“No. I’m fine,” I insisted, allowing Grippy to help me rise. “See to the general. I am only weary.”

“You did good, Bonny. You did good,” Grippy murmured, holding me upright.

Paterson managed to keep his feet as he was assisted from the saddle, and I slung my arm around his waist on one side, Grippy on his other, and we staggered to the hospital as Grippy filled us in on everything we’d missed.





18

THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED

Dr. Thatcher looked at the general’s pupils and cleaned the wound that split his hair, then pronounced him in need of a tonic for his thundering head and someone to wake him every hour. “You’ve got some swelling, General. No doubt. But beyond a headache and an interesting scar, you should heal just fine.”

I hovered by the door, wanting to assist and desperate to be alone. Grippy had gone to find us some supper and see to the general’s horse, who was the real hero of the hour. Grippy was too astute, and he’d taken immediate note of my condition. I needed to get cleaned up before he returned.

“Private Shurtliff needs attention,” the general said, pointing toward me.

To protest would be more conspicuous than quiet submission, and when the doctor motioned me forward, I sat where I was directed and pushed down my stocking, just as I’d done before.

Dr. Thatcher cleaned it, declared me lucky, and applied another layer of thick ointment to the furrow the bullet had created in my calf. “There’s a hole the size of a musket ball in your breeches, and you’re bloodstained from hip to toe.” He was peering at my thigh.

“It is the general’s blood, sir, and the hole is nothing more than a tear I picked up along the way.”

He harrumphed and finished bandaging my leg. “A general’s aide should be neat in appearance. You should see to that immediately.”

General Paterson snorted. “Go easy, Thatcher. The boy’s had a bit more to worry about than a snag in his uniform.”

“You can’t give these men an inch, Paterson. You know that better than anyone.”

“I have clothes in my saddlebags. Grippy will retrieve them, and he’ll find something for Shurtliff,” the general said. “My aide deserves a commendation, not a scolding.”

My horse was lost, my saddle too, along with everything in the bags, and I could do nothing about it now. I had other things to worry about.

“Might I have another bandage, Dr. Thatcher?” I asked.

“What for?” he asked, frowning. He looked a great deal like his aunt when he looked at me that way.

“I would like to wash, sir, and the bandage might get wet.”

“Supplies are precious, Private.”

“For God’s sake, Thatcher,” the general snapped.

“I’ll be back to check on you in a while, Paterson. You can both sleep here in the hospital.” He pointed to a pair of empty cots against the wall and looked at me. “Don’t forget to wake him on the hour.”

I limped to an empty room, hauling a bucket of water with me, and bolted the door behind me. Then I stripped down, washed as thoroughly as I could, smeared some more of Maggie’s ointment on the ugly hole in my thigh, and wrapped it tightly, praying God would mend me and heal the general too. Then I used the bucket as a chamber pot, tossed the contents out the window, and braced myself for come what may.



The general was asleep, but Agrippa had returned with fresh clothing for both of us. I panicked for a moment, knowing that to retreat to change would be odd—men did not demand privacy for such things—but Agrippa left again almost immediately, giving me a moment to whip off my soiled shirt and wiggle into the ill-fitting breeches. I drew the strings tight and dragged the remaining cot close enough to the general that I could reach out and touch him through the night.

“Don’t worry, soldier. I’ll watch over him. You rest,” Grippy said as he came through the door, dangling a bottle of rum from one hand while dragging a rocking chair from places unknown with the other.

“Dr. Thatcher says I must wake him every hour,” I insisted.

“I know. But you’re hurting more than you’re letting on, so you’re gonna rest, and I’m gonna sit right here.”

I took a long pull from the bottle of spirits he offered, hoping for a respite from the pain, and handed it back, easing myself down with a barely suppressed groan.

“Don’t let him sleep too long, Grippy,” I implored. “I was so afraid he would never wake again.”

“I’ll look after him. You hush now,” Grippy said, setting the bottle on the floor. He spread a blanket over the general and pulled another over me. “You took good care of the general, Bonny, and I won’t forget that. I look after my own. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He began to rock back and forth, his presence and the slow, heavy creak of the chair soothing me far more than the rum. His kindness made my throat ache and my heart tremble, but I kept my voice steady and my eyes dry.