A Girl Called Samson (91)

“He wanted to die,” he whispered, and though I wasn’t certain he was even talking to me, I choked out an answer.

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“I gave him mercy, but he wanted relief.”

“Yes, sir.” It was all I could say, but he sounded so pained, like a man being stretched on the rack, that I sat up and moved to the bags I’d placed along the wall. I took out a tin cup, filled it halfway with grog, and crouched in front of him.

“Drink it, sir. It will make you feel better.”

“I am not the one crying,” he said, raising hollow eyes to mine.

“Perhaps you should be.”

“Will it help?”

“It will ease your sorrow.”

He handed the cup back to me, untouched. “If I start . . . I will not stop.”

“Drinking, sir? Or crying?”

He stared up at me, battle worn, but I urged the cup on him again. “I will not let you have too much.”

He raised one brow, as if to say, You couldn’t stop me. But he took the cup and drank down the contents, shuddering at the taste and the burn, but he insisted I have the last swallow. I took it, simply to avoid the argument.

“I have put your canteen there beside your roll, should you need it. It is full, and the water is sweet and cold.” I rose and slipped the tin cup back into the pack.

“Thank you.”

I returned to my bedroll and lay down upon it, but I faced him.

“He recognized you. He called you Rob.”

“Yes. He knew I was . . . here. He saw me the night of the dauphin’s celebration.”

“And you saw him too.”

“Yes. I spoke to him.”

“And you did not tell me.”

My tears became a torrent, and I could not answer. He waited, head bowed as if I’d betrayed him, and that made my anguish all the worse.

“It hurt too much,” I said, gritting my teeth against the waves that just kept rising.

“Why?”

“He w-was so changed.”

“We are all changed. And none for the better.” His voice was plaintive. “Is it so hard to trust me, Samson?”

“It is not trust, sir. It is fear.”

“Fear of what? I know who you are.”

“Fear of this,” I choked, and touched my cheeks. “Fear of breaking. Of weeping. Of grieving. There is a lifetime of grief inside me. It is in my chest and in my belly. It is in my head and in my arms. My legs ache with it. My feet too. It is beneath my skin and in my blood, and I can’t . . . hold . . . anymore.”

“Oh, Samson,” he whispered.

He moved to my side and stroked my hair and dried my cheeks, though he was the one who was wounded. I tried once to rise, and he pressed me back down and brought me the canteen I’d filled for him.

I drank and cried, and drank again, but he did not leave me, and when the shuddering stopped and my chest was emptied, he moved his pallet close to mine and stretched out on his side, his chest to my back, and pulled me close, cocooning me with his body.

“Are you in much pain, sir?” I whispered, so weary I could not lift my head.

“Shh. I’m fine. Sleep,” he murmured. I thought he pressed a kiss to my crown, but maybe it was just his breath, stirring my hair.

“I am afraid to sleep. Afraid to dream. When I close my eyes, I keep seeing him fall.”

“Tell me about young Phineas,” he said.

I did, tiptoeing through the early years, my voice slurred and my stories brief, but the fear retreated in the face of sweet reminiscence.

“Phineas Thomas, the boy who was bested by the magic breeches,” John said. “That is the boy you must remember.”

“He said death felt like flying,” I murmured, and let myself drift toward sleep. “He said Jerry was gone too. I believe him. I’ve felt it for a while, since Tarrytown, but didn’t want to admit it.”

“Oh, Samson,” John whispered again, knowing how I felt about the youngest of the Thomas brood, my other half, my best mate, but I was beyond words. I wanted only to rest in the comfort of his arms.

I dreamed of roads and wildflowers and racing through the trees, and Phineas soared above them, but I did not see Jeremiah. He’d already said his goodbye.



When I rose the next morning, I was emptied out, but instead of feeling gutted, I felt cleansed, even whole. Perhaps my grief had begun to distort me into someone else, and I’d returned to original form. I felt numb.

Poor General Paterson did not.

He was not beside me when I woke, and I doubt he’d slept much at all. Every movement reopened the welts, and the salve Dr. Thatcher applied wasn’t as good as the one Morris had given me. Still, I carefully daubed it on the crisscrossed wounds and bandaged them tightly, and we began the long walk back to the Peekskill encampment, even though our horses had arrived with the wagons and the second detachment.

“It feels better to walk than to ride,” he said, and I insisted on walking beside him. We trudged along, letting the others pull ahead.

“You should ride, Samson. Your walking doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“I am walking with you, sir. All the way.”

“You are so headstrong,” he complained. “It’s tiresome.”