The Thomases have said I must continue to attend, that Sylvanus would wish me present, but I cannot bear it, and if the dead can see us, I would hope he can forgive me.
It was never fealty for the church that kept me going, but fealty to him. He loved God, so I do too, though I’m not certain God is in the churches. I attended the Third Baptist meetings last Sabbath, just to see if He might be there. Perhaps He peeked in through the windows, but I didn’t feel Him. At least I didn’t ache for my friend, so I might go again.
The Baptists are delighted to have me, as if they have won me over to their side. There are so few converts to fight over in Middleborough these days. It feels good to be wanted, though I am sure the attention will soon wane, especially when they realize I am not nearly so obedient or faithful as I now seem. My peculiarities will seep out soon enough, and they will be glad that I was never really one of them.
It makes me realize what a gift you are, dear Elizabeth. All these years you could have scolded me, shamed me, or simply chosen not to answer. Instead you have shared your life and your loves, your faith and your fortitude, and most of all your warm acceptance. Of all the gifts your uncle gave me, it has been correspondence with you that has most blessed my life. I will be forever in his debt.
I am, dear Elizabeth, with perfect regard, your most obedient and very humble servant,
Deborah Samson
Some men came home, straggling into town with their feet wrapped in rags and their clothing tattered, telling tales of terrible things. Their enlistment was up, and they’d seen enough. It was too much to ask a man with a family left destitute by his absence to continue on. But many men did.
News arrived in tatters too, bits and pieces of battles, rumors of glory and whispers of loss. And then one day a rider approached with a letter sealed with wax and addressed to Deacon and Mrs. Thomas. The rider did not smile or water his horse. He did not want to stay.
Nathaniel was dead. Killed in a battle near Brandywine Creek. A beautiful name for a terrible defeat.
A month later, the rider came again.
Elijah died in Germantown. Edward had died beside him.
The third time he came, the rider could not meet Mr. Thomas’s gaze, and the deacon handed the letter to me. “Which son?” he whispered. “Which one now?”
David, who had worried over his parents, had succumbed to his inoculation of smallpox in a Philadelphia hospital. I wondered if Daniel was with him, and prayed Nathaniel, Elijah, and Edward were there to greet him in the end. Pennsylvania had claimed them all.
We’d grown accustomed to their absence, and they were absent still, but now their absence was final. We tortured ourselves with thoughts of their suffering and didn’t know what to do with our own. We had no bodies to bury or cold hands to clasp. We had memories. A prickly kiss and a possibility. That was all Nathaniel had given me, and he would never be anything more. I would never have to refuse him or be tempted to accept his offer.
It would have been so easy to do. Had he come home and extended his hand, I think I would have taken it. It might not have been right, and I may not have loved him the way I suspected I was capable of loving. But I might have taken it.
One. Two. Three. Four. All in one fell swoop. We no longer believed there wouldn’t be five. Or six, or all. Loss is not spread equally. I have learned that lesson well. It is a lumpy porridge and a thin gruel, and fate does not consider the suffering of a mother and say, Perhaps I’ll spare her this time.
There were many times in our season of death when I sat upon my hill, surveyed the bit of the world I was allowed to see, and pleaded for God to rein fate in. Fate was cruel, but I did not believe God was.
But fate was not done, and God did not stop her.
6
THE EQUAL STATION
The day I turned eighteen, December 17, 1777, was like the day before it and the day after. I had waited for it since I’d been bound to the Thomases almost eight years prior, thinking that I would have plotted a course, a path that led to a life of my choosing, where no one could keep me and no one could control my steps. But freedom is not left or right, up or down. It exists in degrees.
A bird has more freedom than a horse. A dog has more freedom than a sheep, though it might depend on the value—or the lack of value—of the beast. A man has more freedom than a woman, but only a few men have any real freedom at all. Freedom takes health and money and even wisdom, and I had two of the three, but I had no more freedom the day I turned eighteen than I’d had before. In fact, I cried bitterly into my pillow and wished for a little more time.
“You must stay here, Deborah. You have earned a place with us for as long as you need, and I cannot bear the thought of you leaving,” Mrs. Thomas said, and I gratefully accepted the reprieve.