“Will Agrippa talk?”
“No. There is none more loyal than Agrippa Hull, though he is still in a state of shock. I think he feels a little . . . foolish. And awed. He says he should have known. He said he knew you were running from something, he just didn’t know what. And he can’t believe I married you.”
“Yes . . . well. He can’t be more shocked than I was.”
The general was silent then, studying me, morose.
“Will he stay with you? And watch over you?” I asked. “He can serve as your aide.”
“I cannot go back to the highlands,” the general argued, but that was his love talking, not his duty, and John Paterson was nothing if not valiant. He knew what he had to do. He simply did not want to do it.
“You can. And you must, General.”
His groan was more like a bellow, a warding off of reality.
“There was a time I wanted to be someone,” he said. “When I dreamed—albeit quietly—of my name being bandied about and my actions recounted among the men. Benedict Arnold wanted to be someone too. And he was.” He ran his hands through his loose hair and shook his head. “He’ll always be someone . . . that’s the odd thing. He has exactly what he wanted. He has fame. No one will ever forget the name Benedict Arnold.”
“God has a sense of humor, doesn’t He?”
“He gives us what we ask for,” he replied, nodding. “Every unrighteous, foolish desire. So I have learned to ask for nothing. I didn’t even ask for you. I just took what I wanted. And look what has happened.”
“What has happened, John? Tell me.”
“No one will remember the name John Paterson, and I don’t care a whit. You know that. But the way I have served—the effort, the sacrifice, the time—I have to believe it matters, that it all matters. The glory is not mine. Or even ours. The glory is what God makes of our sacrifice. But you are one sacrifice I am not willing to make. And He knows it. I cannot lose you . . . and I am convinced that is exactly what will happen.”
“You won’t lose me. I would follow you anywhere.”
His eyes filled and his hands clenched. “But you cannot follow me, Samson. You cannot follow me anymore. You can’t even stay here, in Philadelphia. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I want to be with you. I want to be with you so much that I bound you to me so you wouldn’t—so you couldn’t—get away. And still . . . you almost died.” He shook his head. “I am not in control here. Not at all. I never have been.”
“I am right here, my beloved general,” I said, and his mouth trembled at the endearment. John Paterson had not been loved nearly well enough, and I reached for him, desirous to rectify the deficiency, but he took my hands and pressed a kiss to each palm before he let me settle them on his whiskery cheeks.
“I am afraid the moment you are out of my sight, I will never see you again. But if I am to endure to the end and do as I promised . . .” He shuddered again like he could hardly bear it. “If I am to keep my word, then I can’t stay with you, and you cannot be a soldier anymore,” he said.
“I know. So I will wait for you. As long as it takes.”
His shoulders sagged as if I’d just granted him pardon. He laid his head against me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I stroked his hair, reveling in the weight of him and the gift of another day.
“I believe some men and women are blessed to see a bigger purpose, to understand the ripples that extend far beyond their own lives,” I said. “That is what gives me hope, that all of this suffering will be worth something far bigger than any of us. You are one of those men, General. And I want to be one of those women.”
“Do you promise?” he whispered. “Do you promise that nothing will happen to you? That you will focus all that considerable Samson might and keep yourself alive and well until we can be together again?”
“I promise. And when this is all over, I will be waiting for you in Lenox.”
Grippy paid me a visit before he and the general returned to the Point. I wore a dress and Anne’s maid arranged my hair, but when he looked at me, brown eyes wide, hat in his hand, I was transported back to that first day at the Thomases’ and the brothers openly sharing their unflattering opinions about my appearance.
“I’m still not much to look at, am I?” I asked. “Even in a dress. I’ve never been a bonny girl.” I meant to make him smile, but his eyes got bright instead.