A Girl Called Samson (86)

I took a few sips and handed it back. I knew better than to fill my bladder when it meant traipsing outside in the dark when the entire garrison—the entire hillside—bristled with visitors.

He set the cup down, blew out the candles, and dropped onto his pallet. I did the same, too warm to burrow into the blankets and too aware of the man beside me to contemplate sleep.

I considered telling him that I’d seen Phineas and immediately dismissed the thought. The general would stew and fret and talk of sending me home again. And I did not want to talk about Phineas. Not yet. I didn’t want to even think about him. But Phineas had asked a question I didn’t have an answer for.

“Sir?” I whispered.

“Yes?”

“Why did you ask me to be your aide? Aren’t aides usually chosen from the officers?”

He was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I would get the truth or any answer at all.

“You impressed me. And intrigued me.”

It was my turn to lie in silence, hoping he would continue.

“I realize now . . . you have always intrigued me. Even as a voice on a page, you were like no one else I had ever encountered. Elizabeth thought you were a marvel. She would read bits of your letters out loud and shake her head. ‘How am I to respond to that, John?’ she would say.”

“I never wrote of girlish things,” I said.

“No. You didn’t.” There was laughter in his voice.

“I was supposed to be practicing the art of letter writing and proper conversation. But I wanted knowledge more, and when I discovered Elizabeth was willing to speak of serious things and deep thoughts, I was overjoyed.”

“She said she felt like she was being interrogated by a seasoned solicitor and turned them over to me. That’s how . . . that’s how I got involved. I didn’t mind. Writing to you about the lead-up to war actually helped me solidify and clarify my own beliefs.”

“Your letters were my favorite. I think . . . if I had not been born a girl, a servant girl, I would have liked to study law. Were there women in your classes at Yale?”

“No. But I’ve no doubt you would hold your own.”

“Are women allowed at any of the colleges?”

“No. They aren’t.”

“Perhaps after the war . . . if I remain Robert Shurtliff, I could go to school.” My heart started to pound. I had not even dared dream beyond the days I was now living. But maybe I could simply live as a man indefinitely. Or at least until I’d accomplished all I wanted to do that required a pair of pants and bound-up breasts.

“You would continue this charade?” he asked softly. “Is there nothing about being a woman that appeals to you?”

“Many things,” I murmured, but I did not list them. I yearned to feel the swish of a skirt around my legs and the weight of my hair as I brushed it. And there were many things that interested me now that had not compelled me before I met him.

The mere thought made my breasts ache and my belly thrum, but I ignored that impossible longing, distracting myself with conversation. “Nathaniel told me once that I should stop trying to be something that I am not. But that’s not what I’m doing.”

“No?” he snorted.

“No. I’m trying to be something . . . that I am.” He let the statement settle, uncontested, so I continued. “Elizabeth told me I would someday be a woman who inspired much admiration. She was very kind to me.”

“She was kind to everyone,” he said.

“Hmm.”

“What? What is hmm?”

“That does not comfort me. If she was kind to everyone, it is not nearly so special that she was kind to me.”

“Ahh,” he murmured. “Well, I know of no one else she wrote to the way she wrote to you,” he said. “You were dear to her.”

Emotion stung my nose. What a day it has been.

“She answered my letters for almost a decade. And you did too,” I added. “Though . . . you were very different in your correspondence.”

He was and he wasn’t, but I had discovered that I liked to tease him. It was a suitable outlet for my affection and a good distraction from the ache in my chest.

“I hope so. I was not writing to a soldier. I was writing to a precocious young girl.”

“You were kind to me too.”

“Of course I was.”

“But I expected you to look like Reverend Conant. Or Deacon Thomas. Or even . . . George Washington.”

He snorted.

“Maybe Benjamin Franklin?”

He began to laugh.

“Have you met Mr. Franklin?” I asked.

“I have indeed. He is quite popular with the ladies.”

“It is his intellect.”

“Oh yes?”

“A smart man is always attractive. What a life he has lived!”

“Indeed.” The general yawned, and I yawned in response.

“Good night, Samson. You made me proud today.”

My emotion welled again, and this time it ran over, trickling down my cheeks. I turned onto my side, away from him, so he wouldn’t see.

“Good night, John,” I whispered. It was only as I drifted into sleep that I realized I’d done it again. I’d called him John.