A Girl Called Samson (74)

On the sixth day of his absence, I worked all day in the commissary, and upon my return saw Joe brushing Lenox down outside the stable and Mrs. Allen fixing the general his supper.

“The general was asking for you, but the poor dear must be starving,” she said.

John Paterson’s beauty and appeal had not escaped Mrs. Allen. She doted on him as much as I did, and she dished up a heaping trencher of potatoes and ham. She marched down the hall, wanting to be the one to feed him. I followed at her heels, carrying a tray with coffee and tea, numb with apprehension.

“General Paterson,” Mrs. Allen crooned, tapping on the door. “I’ve got your supper, sir.”

“Where is Shurtliff?” he barked, and Mrs. Allen frowned. He was rarely short with her. He wasn’t often short with anyone.

“He is here as well, General. He’s got your coffee.”

“Come in then.”

He kept his back to us as we hurried forward and placed his supper beside the pile of correspondence he’d been working on. He wore the same shirtsleeves and waistcoat he’d been wearing the last time I’d seen him, and his jaw sported several days’ growth.

I didn’t dare set the steaming pot or the little tray where it could be jostled and spilled on important papers, and I stood by, waiting for his instructions.

“You can go, Mrs. Allen. Thank you. But don’t feed me like this. I get the same rations as the men. It is only fair. There is enough here for two men, at least.”

“Well, maybe Bonny can eat with you. He’s not had his supper yet either.”

His chin shot up and he glared at the woman. “What did you call Private Shurtliff?”

“Why . . . Bonny. It’s what Agrippa calls him. It’s actually what everyone calls him. He’s a pretty boy, he is.”

“You may go, Mrs. Allen. And I would prefer we call my aide-de-camp by his proper name. Please tell the staff if I hear him referred to in such a familiar manner again, I will dock a day’s rations.”

The woman left, her fondness for General Paterson noticeably dampened. He did not look at me, but hope quickened my heart. Why should he care what others called me if he was going to send me away?

“I don’t mind the silly name. They mean no harm.”

“Yes . . . well, most women like to be told they’re pretty,” he shot back.

The tray in my shaking hands began to clatter, and coffee sloshed over the edge, scalding my thumb where I clutched the tray. I set it down on his desk with a crash, tears pricking my eyes, though from pain or humiliation I wasn’t certain, and brought my sore thumb to my mouth.

The general moved quickly, pulling me to the pitcher of cold water and the washbasin kept on the sideboard. He held my thumb beneath the stream of water and then pressed my hand into the basin, keeping it submerged. A raised red welt was already visible. I withdrew my hand and stepped back.

“It is fine, sir.”

“It is most definitely not fine, Miss Samson.”

“Please do not call me that.”

“It is who you are!” He shook his head, dumbfounded, and ground his palms into his eyes. “And I have spent these last days trying to come to terms with it.”

“Yes. It is who I am.” Oh, to admit it out loud! “And I am . . . dreadfully sorry that I have put you in this situation. I will make arrangements to go. If only you could see that I am discharged—honorably—so that I am not considered a deserter, I would be grateful.”

He raised his clear blue eyes and regarded me then.

“Is that what you want?”

I shook my head. “No, sir. I want to stay. I want to be your aide. I want to see this through until the end. Just as you do.”

He said nothing but continued to study me, and encouraged, I persisted in pressing my point.

“We never have to talk of it again, sir. I have been a soldier for almost a year. There is no reason I can’t continue. No one ever has to know.”

“But I know,” he said. “And it is against the rules.”

“Yes. You know,” I admitted softly. “But have I not . . . have I not performed every duty, completed every task, and been a good soldier, regardless of that fact?”

“You have. And I am indebted to you.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“That is not true. And we both know it. But that is not why I will allow you to stay.”

“You will allow me to stay?” My heart leapt and my breath caught.

He shut his eyes as if he needed to gather strength. “Yes.”

“Am I to go back to the ranks?”

“No. You will remain my aide.” He was so stiff and so prickly. I wanted the old general to return, the man who trusted me and tested me, who spoke to me without carefully choosing his words and guarding his every action. His hands were even clasped behind him like he’d yanked them back from a flame.

“You must allow me to do everything you expected of me before,” I insisted.

“That is out of the question,” he replied, terse.

“Then I will go back to the barracks.”

He gaped at me, his face flushing. “I am the commandant, and you are on very thin ice, Private.”

“I do not wish to be coddled or protected. That is not why I am here,” I shot back, infuriated. I could not help it. The strain of the last week had left me without reserves, and beneath my gratitude was anger that he had made me suffer so long, not knowing my fate.