A Girl Called Samson (80)

Mr. Allen ushered him into the general’s office, and when I rose to leave the two of them alone, as was customary any time the general conferred with his officers, Captain Webb asked that I remain.

“This concerns you as well, Private Shurtliff. I had hoped to speak with you both.”

Captain Webb was troubled and uncomfortable, and the general waved me back into my seat, though his eyes caught mine for an alarmed instant before he asked, “What is it, Webb?”

“One of the men in my company, a Private Laurence Barton, has come to me about talk of an uprising among some of the men in the Massachusetts line as well as the Connecticut line, in the Nelson’s Point encampment. He seems to believe there might be as many as two hundred men who will participate.”

“Do you know Private Barton?” the general asked me. His relief that the issue was not related to my disguise was evident, but my stomach was in knots.

“Yes, sir. We shared the same company, the same barracks, and he was in two of the scouting parties I volunteered for.”

“Private Barton claims that on one of those occasions, the men in the party talked seriously of desertion. He said you refused to participate and convinced the others to go back to the garrison.”

“As I recall, Private Barton was also not in favor of desertion. He was not vocal, but when asked, it was his disinterest that swung the balance.”

“What were the names of the other men in the party?” General Paterson asked, his face grim.

“I only knew Oliver Johnson, Laurence Barton, and Davis Dornan. The others in the party were from another company. I believe one’s name was Jones. Another was Sharpe, and there was a man they called Chuck, but the raid was unsuccessful, I kept to myself as I tend to do, and I have not been on a raid since.”

“Tell us what happened, word for word, as well as you can remember it,” the general insisted.

“You should have come to me, Shurtliff,” Captain Webb said, when I finished my account. “Right after that happened. You should have told me.”

“I should have, sir.” I didn’t offer an excuse. Fear of retaliation wasn’t a good reason not to do the right thing. But complaints were not insubordination. Every man, even General Paterson, had his low moments.

“If Shurtliff had come to you, what would you have done?” the general asked Captain Webb.

“I would have had them all lashed.”

“And Shurtliff?”

Captain Webb frowned.

“Would you have had Shurtliff lashed?” the general pressed.

“No, sir.”

“Then every man in the company would have known it was Shurtliff who reported them.”

“That is true, sir,” Captain Webb conceded. “But now we have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

“Davis Dornan was the instigator that night?” General Paterson asked, turning to me.

“Yes, sir. He started the talk and kept feeding it. He was also the one most worried about me reporting it.”

“That’s what Barton said,” Captain Webb said, nodding. “And he says Dornan is one of the ringleaders in this new action. He thinks they will use the celebration as a distraction or a diversion. When everyone disperses the day after, they plan to leave too.”

“How do you think we should handle it, Webb?” the general asked. He was upset, though I couldn’t determine whether it was disappointment in me or frustration that another crisis had been placed on his shoulders.

“I think you should pull him in, General. Tell him you know what is being planned. See if he will give us the names of the others, and throw him and any others in lockup until after this whole soiree is over. Then he can be given a hearing, and sentenced accordingly.”

“Do the men in your company know that Shurtliff is now my aide-de-camp?”

“Yessir. I assume they do. There aren’t any secrets in the barracks.”

The general’s mouth actually twitched though his eyes were a flat, unhappy blue. “Have you gone to Colonel Jackson with this?”

“Yes, sir. He told me to come to you, as other regiments will need to be informed.”

The general stood up abruptly and slapped his hat on his head. “Come with me, Captain.”

When I made to follow as well, he shot me a warning look. “Stay here, Shurtliff.”



When he returned hours later, he was surly and saddle sore, his uniform sweat stained and his answers clipped and short. I hauled water in for his bath and left him to it, setting his dinner on the side table in his quarters and retiring to my room until he decided whether he wanted to scold me or tell me what had occurred.

“The water’s yours, Samson,” he called. “Next time, you might want to use it first.”

I thanked him and barricaded myself in the space, too anxious over the day’s events to enjoy the soak. I washed quickly from my head to my toes and donned my clothes again, though my wet hair dripped down my collar and made me long for a nightshirt and oblivion.

The general was already in his bed, and a single candle flickered on his bedside table. His hands were crossed behind his head, his eyes on the exposed beams above him, and his lower lip tucked between his teeth. I recognized the look. He was pensive and worried, and he was waiting for me.

“We informed every colonel and every captain here and across the way, at Nelson’s Point, of the possible uprising. Every company will be assembled, every man questioned.”