A Girl Called Samson (72)

I bound my breasts, dressed, and made my bed. Then I sat in my chair, too afraid to venture out and too confused about what had just occurred to form a plan. John Paterson had not insisted I go. He had not said I could stay. I could no more interpret his embrace than I could his abrupt exit.

He had left my diary sitting beside the candle that still burned. The flame was wobbling and weary, the wick a long, charred line.

I opened my book and saw my words through a new lens, reading each entry as John Paterson must have read them. It was not what I said that condemned me, though I’d foolishly mentioned Nat and Phin and Jeremiah in one entry. It was the greeting to Elizabeth in Deborah Samson’s hand that must have jarred him awake. Once he’d made the connection, every careful word would have reinforced the realization.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” I whispered, trying not to weep. “What should I do?”

I should gather my things and go. But . . . I was enlisted. I couldn’t simply leave. If I did, I would be considered a deserter. I had not been discharged. General Paterson would have to do that, and no doubt when the morning came, he would present me with my papers and send me away. I didn’t believe he would tell anyone or seek to press charges. He would just release me, and I would go. And I would never see him again.

That was the worst part of all.

Worse than private shame, worse than public censure, worse than having no future and no home. To never see John Paterson again would be unbearable.

I turned to a clean page, prepared my quill, and began writing, holding nothing back, not even to myself.

April 2, 1782

Dear Elizabeth,

You must forgive me. I did not mean to love him. Not this way. I admired him—I’ve admired him for so long—and was so fond of him. But this is not fondness or admiration. This is agony in my chest and fire in my belly. You are his wife. His beloved and my beloved. And my feelings shame and alarm me. But I cannot deny them.

The ache in my heart is the same as it was the day I learned that you were gone. The disbelief, the betrayal, the loss of my hope, and most of all, the gaping emptiness of a world without you in it. But now it is magnified by the guilt that I have betrayed you and John both, not just with my actions, but with my feelings.

I wish you could give me a bit of advice like you used to do. Remind me of the power and blessings of our sex—weren’t those the words you used? I must return to womanhood, and I am not ready. It is not that being a man is a marvelous thing. The truth is, I am not one and never will be, nor do I even want to be one. It was never about changing myself. It has always been about freeing myself. Now here I am, bound, heart and soul, to a man who does not love me, who cannot love me—how could he?—and one I will likely never see again when I leave here.

I have looked with derision on girls who wanted only to marry, who mooned about men as if they held the power to give them the world instead of simply control their world. And now I am one of them. Now I want only to continue at his side. To care for him, to love him. And I am mortified by it. I wish you were here, and yet I am glad you are not. What a terrible thing to write. What a terrible thing to feel.

I did not sign my name or my initials at the close of the entry. I was not ready to be Deborah again, and Robert Shurtliff had been stripped away. Grippy said I was one of them, but I wasn’t. I never had been.

The diary no longer mattered. I would be leaving, and nothing I said on the page would change that now. I left the book open and let the ink dry, staring down at each hideous word. Contemplating the mess I’d made.

Writing to Elizabeth, the way I’d always done, had seemed perfectly benign. If any of my bunkmates had read my words, nothing I’d said would have condemned me.

But I had not planned on John Paterson.

I should have tossed the book into the fire the day I’d moved into the Red House, but I did not think. And now all was lost.





19

TO ALTER OR ABOLISH

The general had not slept in his bed. After our confrontation, I’d heard him leave his quarters, and he had not come back. I set out his shaving kit and tidied his room. I didn’t know if he’d donned fresh clothes, so I laid them out as well and stoked the fire in the grate. March had begun with sunshine and warmth and ended with two feet of fresh snow. Traveling would be unpleasant and difficult. Especially alone.

Perhaps the general would let me stay until I’d made other arrangements. I could write to my mother, but I was sure she’d been informed of my first attempt to enlist. She’d had more public humiliation than any woman should have to endure, and all at the hands of others. I could not go to her. I would not.

I had an aunt and uncle in Stoughton who might let me live with them. They had a farm, and their children were grown.

I could go back to the Thomases, to Middleborough, to the church elders and beg for them to let me return. Perhaps the community would forgive me if I groveled enough.

I shook my head, scattering the thoughts that didn’t serve me. The general would decide, and I would honor his wishes.

After cowering in my quarters almost an hour after reveille, I gathered my courage and walked to the kitchen to inquire whether the general had already eaten or whether I could bring him a tray.

Agrippa was alone at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast with obvious enjoyment. He looked up as I entered and answered my query as to the general’s whereabouts as if nothing at all was amiss.