A Girl Called Samson (81)

“And Dornan?”

“He’s gone.”

My heart jumped to my throat. “What?”

“He must have suspected he’d been outed. He was not at his post, and he was not in the barracks. Two dozen men spent an hour combing the garrison for him instead of working on the pavilion.” He sighed. “But he’s gone. Deserted. Every regiment has been made aware of his status as well.”

“I became your aide only two days after that scouting expedition. It was an answer to prayer, in so many ways. Should I have told Captain Webb?”

He sat up in his bed, his gaze earnest. “No. But you should have told me.”

I sighed, releasing the breath I’d been holding all day. “Sometimes it is so hard to know what the right thing is.”

“I know. And a man—or woman—who can keep a confidence and hold his tongue is always to be commended. But do not hold your tongue with me.”

I cocked my head. “Are you certain you want that, General?”

He quirked his brows, rueful, but the matter was done.

“What did you do this afternoon?” he inquired. “Or dare I ask?”

“I went over the menu for the banquet with Mrs. Allen and the staff in the mess hall. Everything needed for the feast is ordered and accounted for—even the geese and the chickens and the poor hogs, who are so fat they can hardly move. The butcher has been given instructions as well. I scrubbed the floor in the dining hall and dusted the chandeliers. Agrippa held the ladder. Did you know he’s afraid of heights?”

“Yes. I did.” He’d begun to smile.

“I decided to wash the entrance windows as well. And dust the highest shelves in the library.”

“I noticed they’ve begun hanging the flags on the garrison wall.”

“Yes . . . I thought . . . as long as I had the ladder out,” I began. “Agrippa and I started at the north end—”

“Good God, Samson,” he chortled, covering his face and falling back against the pillows once more. “Go to bed, woman.”

I retreated to my room with a small smile on my lips, but a moment later, my nightshirt donned and my hair tucked up, I called out to him.

“Would you like me to read to you for a while?” I asked. “I need to quiet my mind.”

He sighed, but the sound was one of release and even contentment.

“Yes. I would like that very much.”



French and American flags whipped in the breeze and regiments from every brigade in the Continental army lined the hills on both sides of the river, creating the illusion of a sea of blue wildflowers amid the green. The artillery had been brought out to the edge of the plain that overlooked the water, and the pavilion was complete. General Paterson had conveyed my suggestion to Colonel Kosciuszko that old and broken armaments from the armory—there were thousands of them—be used as decoration and bound to the pillars with twine. Instead of attempting to make the garrison what it was not—namely, an elegant hall—we had emphasized what it was. A fortress, a conquest, a rugged achievement carved out of nothing. And the result was magnificent.

All was in order. All that could be done had been done, and on the morning of May 31, dignitaries began to arrive.

The Red House was bursting at the seams; generals and their wives and aides and servants filled every room. Robinson’s house was the same, as was every structure in between. Large white tents were erected to accommodate the overflow, but most would only remain the one night.

“Your aide cuts a fine figure, Paterson. So slim and straight. Elegant. The whole garrison is in fine form,” General Henry Knox said, clapping John on the shoulders. They were the same height, but Knox was much heavier set, though his portrait in our exhibit made him look a dumpling instead of an ox, which was far more apt. He was young, probably near the same age as General Paterson, and he was one of my heroes. His father, a shipmaster, had died, leaving his wife and ten children without support, and Henry dropped out of school to provide for his family. He clerked at a bookstore in Boston and eventually opened one himself, despite being a self-educated man. Elizabeth had told me his story in one of her letters.

Contrary to his size and his peasant’s face, Henry Knox had an agile mind and unflagging spirit, and in the opening days of the war, he had managed to move fifty cannons on sleds from Fort Ticonderoga to Boston, just in time for the battle of Dorchester Heights, which ended the siege and saved the day.

His wife, Lucy, was every bit the character Henry was. She’d been disowned by her wealthy loyalist family when she married Henry—they’d met at his bookstore—and had remained by his side throughout the war, moving from camp to camp. I might have been more in awe of her than I was of even Henry.

She wore a powder-blue dress, and her hair was a mass of curls above a plump cupid’s face, but Lucy Knox was more intimidating than she looked. The moment she trained her eyes on me, I thought I might be done for.

“What was your name, young man?” Mrs. Knox asked, her gaze sharp.

“Robert Shurtliff, madam.” I bowed politely. “Aide-de-camp to General Paterson.”

“I have heard there is an exhibit with a painting of my husband on display. I should like to see it. Will you accompany me?”

The general met my fleeting, terrified glance with a lift of one brow, but I offered the woman my arm. Henry and General Paterson trailed behind us, already in deep conversation about the artillery arranged on the plain.