A Girl Called Samson (70)

“Stay. Get off your feet. Read your commentary on Revelation.”

“I have finished it, sir.”

“There is a whole shelf of such commentaries. The Book of Judges is horrific. That one should appeal to you.”



The general was right. The commentary on Judges was fascinating, and I read all day, tucked away in my quarters, and fell asleep early, lulled by my inactivity. I awoke much later, dragged from slumber by a presence in my room and a candle flickering from my small table.

General Paterson sat in my chair, his hands clasped between his knees. His hair was loose about his shoulders, his sleeves rolled, and his waistcoat unbuttoned like he’d begun to ready himself for bed and grown impatient.

“General? Do you need me, sir?” I wasn’t frightened. He’d never given me reason to be. But I was unsettled by the surprise visit. I hadn’t heard him return and had not expected him back until tomorrow.

He picked up the candle and held it toward my face, casting light this way and that as though he needed to reassure himself that it was me.

My eyes had not yet adjusted, and I winced and turned away.

“General?” I pressed again. “What time is it? Is there something wrong?”

“I noticed the first time we spoke that you already seemed to know me. And . . . I felt as if I knew you too, though I was quite certain we had never met. You have a very distinct look.”

He sounded so pained, and ice began to form in my limbs.

“I thought it simply the rapport that happens among like-minded people. You were easy to converse with, interesting. Wise even. And so damned brave. For a boy of sixteen, that impressed me.”

He paused, and in the dancing light his face was hard and hollowed out.

“But you aren’t a boy of sixteen, are you, Shurtliff? You must be at least twenty-two . . . or twenty-three. And you’re not a boy at all.” He said “boy” with a note of incredulity.

I was silent, not willing to admit to anything until I knew how much trouble I was truly in.

“When you drafted that first letter for me, the day you became my aide, I was again struck with a sense of familiarity but thought nothing of it. Nothing at all. I was reminded of Elizabeth, but many things make me think of her.”

“What has happened?” I whispered.

“There is a sea captain from New Bedford. He runs troops. Guns. Whatever he can get his hands on. I don’t trust him. He works both sides, but I’ve bought supplies from him a few times. He was at King’s Ferry today with his ship when Grippy and I crossed. I bought some barrels of wine from him. He had an interesting story to tell. About his daughter who wanted to be a soldier. He thought maybe, as commandant at the Point, I might have heard of her. Seen her.”

“His daughter?” I asked, numb.

“His name is Samson. He has an arresting gaze. It reminded me of yours.”

“Sir?”

“The chestnut horse you call Common Sense was recovered and returned to the stockyard. I have brought him back here for you. The saddle too. Your book was still in the bags.”

He set my diary on the small desk beside the candle, and for a moment, I thought I might be able to wiggle free from his snare. I had been so careful in my entries. Even if he’d read them all—oh dear God—I had never once written of my identity or my deepest fear.

“Grippy opened it, just to make certain it was yours. But when he looked through it, he thought maybe the book was mine, as the entries were all letters to . . . Elizabeth.”

I swallowed. “I have a dear friend named Elizabeth.”

“Yes. I know,” he said softly.

I was so afraid, but he didn’t stop.

“I keep all my letters. It has helped me in matters of war and business more than I can say. I never destroy a letter. Those letters can save lives. I have all the letters you wrote me. Even the one you sent not long ago. The handwriting is the same.” He paused and raised his eyes to mine. I could not look away. “Are you a spy, Deborah Samson?”

“Please. Please, General. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .” I didn’t have the words I needed. Why didn’t I have the words? Why hadn’t I made a plan?

“Why are you here? Why have you done this?” he asked, suddenly angry. “I want to hear it all. Every step, every breath, every lie you had to tell to get this far. And then I’ll decide what to do with you. God knows you can’t keep this up.”

I slid from my bed, groping for my breeches. When I’d retired, my nightshirt had still been damp from the wash, and I’d worn my extra shirt instead. The tails hung almost to my knees, but the general cursed as if I wore nothing at all.

“What has happened to your leg?” He grabbed at the cloth and pulled it away from my thigh, and I yelped, trying to step away. I almost fell, but his fist in my shirt kept me upright.

“It’s an old wound.” I jerked the cloth from his hand.

“It is not,” he ground out. “You are lying!”

I needed my clothes. I had to cover myself, and I turned back toward my bed, frantic. The altered corset I used to bind my breasts was folded beneath my pillow. When I’d slept among the other men, I’d learned to never take it off. But I’d grown careless in my own space, and to sleep without it pinching and pressing had been too much to resist.