A Girl Called Samson (83)

I stared, caught and cornered, not certain who I gazed upon. I did not know this man.

“Rob. Is that you?” he pressed. I began to shake my head and back away even as my heart recognized who he was.

He was no taller and no broader, but his face was etched with hollows, and his hair had thinned. A thick scar puckered his left cheek, and he’d lost some teeth, but the grin that curled his lips was the same.

“Phineas?” I said. I could not have denied him in that moment had a pistol been pressed to my brow. It would have taken acting skills I did not possess. I was too glad to see him.

He moved to embrace me, but I brought my hand to his chest, warning him back. He placed his hand over mine instead, squeezing it with quick, bruising intensity before he let me go.

“Ma wrote me and said you’d gone. No one knows where you are. But they suspected something like this after you tried the first time. Your mother showed up, asking questions about you. Said your father saw you in New Bedford, though at the time he wasn’t certain it was you.”

I winced. I’d been such a fool that day. “It’s been over a year. I’ve been a soldier for over a year.”

He shook his head, amazement lighting his much-changed face.

“I’ve been looking for you. If I hadn’t, I would have looked right past you. You make a handsome lad.”

“You’ve been looking for me?” I didn’t like the sound of that. My heart had not stopped racing and my throat constricted beneath my neckcloth.

He shrugged. “I just wondered if you’d actually gone and done it. A part of me knew you had. Knew you could. So I’ve been looking.”

“You won’t tell?” I said, sounding like I was ten years old again, caught in my magic breeches. I was aware of the people around us, the movement, the eyes, and the ears. I knew better than to act as though I had something to hide, but my fear must have been evident. He stepped back, drawing me farther into the shadows.

“I won’t tell, Rob,” he said gently. “I’ve never told on you before.” He smirked, giving me another glimpse of the boy who’d always made me push myself a little harder, who saw me as a worthy adversary.

“No,” I murmured. “You never did.”

For a moment we simply gazed at one another, old memories colliding with a new, impossible reality. It was dizzying, and we both looked away, reorienting ourselves.

“Where have you been, Phin?”

“Here. There. Everywhere. Rhode Island lately. I’m in Colonel Putnam’s regiment. We’re at Nelson’s Point, across the river. Had to be here for the big show. My company performed a demonstration on the field. My comrades are somewhere getting drunk, but I thought I’d have a look around.”

“I’m so glad you did,” I whispered.

He shifted, squared his shoulders, and shifted again, as if he didn’t know what to say or how to act. It had been too long, and we were both too changed.

“They throw a party for the goddamn dauphin of France when men haven’t been paid all year. What are we celebrating?” he hissed under his breath.

I wasn’t certain what I should say or if he was even expecting an answer, but the general and I had worked too hard on the event for me not to feel at least a little defensive.

“Life? Friendship?” I suggested softly.

He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, that’s something, I guess.”

“We owe a great deal to France,” I parroted.

“They owe a great deal to the men who look like me.” He pointed at his scarred face. “And even the ones who look like you.” He sighed and turned away.

“The general expressed the same concern for the men,” I conceded, “but Washington thought it would be good for morale.”

“The general?” Phin asked, frowning.

I hesitated, not certain what I should divulge. “General Paterson. I’m his . . . aide-de-camp.”

The old Phin would have whooped and clapped me on the back or sulked and said he could do better. This Phineas did neither, though the hint of a smirk reappeared. “Does he know?”

“No. Of course not,” I lied. If I went down, I would not take John Paterson with me.

“Aide-de-camp in a year. No rank. How did you manage that?”

“Pure dumb luck. And hard work too, I suppose.”

He nodded his head slowly, like he could picture it. “You haven’t stopped running. You just keep on running until you win, don’t you, Deborah Samson?”

My name was just a murmur on his lips, but I flinched, afraid that someone would hear. “Yes. That is what I do. That is what we both do, Phineas Thomas.”

“Not me. I’m done running,” he said. “I’m tired.”

My heart twisted at his sad admission. “You have served so long.”

“I’m a lieutenant with the Fifth.”

“A lieutenant! Well done, Lieutenant Thomas.”

“It just means everyone else has quit . . . or died. So many of my brothers are gone, and all were better men than me. The best men don’t make it as long, though I don’t know if, at this point, I can be counted among the living.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that and searched for something to say, something hopeful. Something good.