A Girl Called Samson (84)

“Benjamin and Jacob . . . they made it home, didn’t they?” I prompted.

“They did.” He nodded. “Jake married Margaret.”

“And Jeremiah? What do you know of him?”

He stiffened and searched my eyes. Then he shrugged and looked away. “Last I heard, he was a sailor. Just like he wanted.”

“Oh, Jerry,” I murmured. “I have missed him so much.”

Phin’s voice was pained when he spoke again. “When I left home, Jeremiah was a little boy. I can’t even picture his face.”

“He still looks like Jerry. You would recognize him. You recognized me.”

He nodded, and his rheumy eyes refocused on my face. “But I was looking for you.”

He was so different, and his gloom made the hair rise on my neck. I didn’t understand this Phin. This Phin was a worn soldier with frayed edges and missing teeth, and I didn’t know what to say or do to reconnect with my old friend. Maybe we just needed more time or more privacy, but we weren’t going to get it.

His discomfort was as obvious as my own, and he had begun to fidget, his eyes scanning the grounds and the soldiers of every rank enjoying the fireworks that had begun over the water. He flinched and ducked at a particularly loud clap and crackle.

I touched his arm in farewell, giving him my silent permission to slip away. After Yorktown, I wasn’t fond of the sounds of cannonade myself.

“It was wonderful to see you,” I said. “I hope we can talk again. I haven’t been able to write to your parents . . . to anyone at all . . . and I would like to write to you.”

“You always had a way with words. But don’t do anything that might get you caught. I’m not worth the trouble, and you’ve got a good thing going, seems like.”

“You’ve always been worth the trouble, Phineas Thomas.”

He grinned, giving me a glimpse of the boy I’d known, and saluted me, though he outranked me.

“Goodbye, Rob.” The words sounded so final.

“Goodbye, Phin,” I choked around the growing lump in my throat.

“I’m glad you didn’t wait. I’m not ever going back. I reckon neither of us will.” He saluted me again and turned, tossing me one final look over his shoulder before he blended into the milling crowd.



The general was in high spirits when I found him in his office after midnight. It had all gone off without a hitch, from the demonstrations on the field to the final boom and crack of the fireworks over the river.

The Red House was finally quiet, our guests settled in their quarters, and the general was sprawled in his chair, humming a tune the band had played, his face relaxed in the candlelight. He’d removed his boots, and his uniform coat and waistcoat were tossed over another chair, his neckcloth and banner as well. The bottle of brandy I had placed on his desk was open, a half-filled glass in his hand.

I was wilted and weary, having traipsed from one end of the garrison to the other all day, attending to endless needs and countless tasks, and my bad leg throbbed in time with my sore heart. I had not recovered from my encounter with Phin. I didn’t worry he would expose me, but I was badly shaken all the same.

Seeing the general’s contentment soothed me greatly.

“Ah, there you are,” he greeted.

“Here I am,” I sighed. “Do you have everything you need, sir?”

“I realized about an hour ago that I did not make sleeping arrangements for myself . . . or for you,” he said. “I was so busy making accommodations for everyone else that I forgot that the commander would be in my quarters.”

“’Tis not your duty to make arrangements for me, sir.”

“Samson.” He rolled his eyes skyward. “Of course it is.”

“I saw to it, sir.”

I had placed two pallets on the thick rug and moved some of our clothing from his quarters before General Washington arrived. The pitcher was filled with water for him to wash, and I’d made sure there was a tray of ham, cheese, bread, and fruit, in case he’d worked up an appetite. I’d pilfered it from the feast, worried that he would not sit down long enough to eat. I had not sat down all day.

“Yes. I can see that you have. And I am grateful, for the brandy too.” He raised his glass. “You are remarkable. An excellent aide, although this arrangement”—he tipped the glass toward our bedding—“is not . . . ideal. You should have some privacy.”

“I am accustomed to the lack of privacy, sir.”

“I am aware,” he grumbled, but he said nothing more, and I took that as acceptance of the accommodations, intimate as they were. I sank onto the little settee by the door and removed my boots, biting back a grateful groan as I tugged them off. My hair had begun to escape its tie, and I pulled it free, shrugged off my coat, and unwrapped my neckcloth.

“You are weary,” he said.

“I am.” I had visited the toilet and washed at the pump, and I wanted only to lie down on my blankets and rest my aching leg.

The general rose and picked up the tray, but instead of sampling the selection, he sat down beside me and placed it between us.

“Eat,” he ordered, and I complied without a word.

“No argument? You must be exhausted,” he muttered, laying a piece of ham on a slice of bread and taking a huge bite. I gave him a rueful shrug, and we ate in silence, making short work of the excellent repast.