After the events in Lexington and Concord, Nathaniel was made a lieutenant of the Middleborough Militia, and when he wasn’t drilling in the village square, he was drilling his brothers in the barnyard, yelling out commands and prodding them back in line with a stick when they turned the wrong direction.
He let David, Daniel, and Jeremiah drill with them, though David and Daniel weren’t yet sixteen and Jerry was only eleven years old and a little on the short side. But what Jeremiah didn’t have in height or age he made up for in enthusiasm. I watched their little brigade, giggling at Jerry’s serious face and Nat’s furrowed brow, and joined in, matching their steps and holding my broom like a musket.
Nat turned on me, angrily. “This is serious, Rob.”
I glared back at him. I knew it was, but they’d always let me join in before. It was Nathaniel himself who taught me to shoot.
“I know the drills as well as any of you do. And I can load twice as fast,” I said.
“This isn’t a footrace, Rob. And we won’t be killing rabbits,” Phineas said. “This is one thing you can’t do.”
“Women can’t be soldiers, Deborah,” Nat said, and pulled the broom from my hands like it was loaded and dangerous.
“I’m going to Boston just as soon as we get the word,” Phineas said, puffing out his chest. He’d passed me up a while back and made a big deal about looking down on me from his lofty height a mere inch above me. Phineas was always in competition with me. He’d never really forgiven me for that footrace years before. He was faster now, a fact I secretly mourned, but my endurance was greater, and I never let him forget it.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Nathaniel said, shoving Phin’s shoulder, trying to maintain order in his unruly ranks. “Someone has to help Mother and Father. There’s a farm to run, if you haven’t noticed. And Deborah can’t do it by herself, even though she thinks she can.”
I wanted to strike Nathaniel so badly my fist curled and my mouth watered. I snatched my broom from his hands and marched toward the barn so I didn’t beat him with it.
I didn’t need Nat’s permission. I could do the maneuvers on my own. I’d sat on a rise in town plenty and watched the men drill, performing the evolutions in my head, counting paces, and tensing my arms as my imaginary musket twirled in my head. I knew what came next and what came after that. I’d practiced each drill in the barn, calling the signals out to myself.
A man had to be five feet and five inches to serve in the militia. It was the height it took to load the long barrel of a musket. I had three inches to spare, but height was not strength. I knew that. I was strong for a woman, but I had never been blind to my own weakness. Each night, since the men had begun drilling, I pushed myself off the floor and lowered myself back down, repeating the action until I could not continue. Then I held my gun over my head, arms extended, the weakest position for me, by far. I don’t know why I did it. It was a foolish enterprise and a waste of my time, but the need to prove myself and to compete was an impossible habit to break, even if I was barred from participation.
“I’ll drill with you, Rob,” Phineas said, coming up behind me, but he plucked my cap from my head and pulled it on his own. He looked ridiculous, the ruffle flopping against his cheeks, and I chased him around the barnyard using the broom as a sword and trying to retrieve my cap. He parried my blows with the handle of a shovel, and when he knocked my broom aside, I sprinted through the barn door, scooped up a handful of dirt and straw, and tossed it at his face as he tumbled inside behind me. He roared and caught me about my waist, his cheek pressed between my shoulder blades, and brought me down on a bed of hay. I’d used the same maneuver on him more than once. It was how Deacon Thomas caught pigs.
Phineas had gotten stronger in recent years, and I’d simply sprouted breasts and rounder hips, which hadn’t helped me at all. If anything, they got in the way, and I was in a dress to boot. He rolled me over and pressed my shoulders into the ground, calling himself the victor. “You’re pinned.”
I wriggled and bucked, and he bore down harder, his upper body pressed to mine.
“You run like a boy. You shoot like a boy, fight like a boy, and you even look like a boy when you wear your britches. But you don’t feel like a boy, Rob.” I kicked and spat and swung my arms, humiliated by his words, but his eyes were frank as he pinned me with his knees and stared down into my face. I thought he would dribble spittle and exact promises, like he’d done a dozen times before, but he didn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t get the chance.