Deacon Thomas went out among his animals, to the fields he would farm alone, and I scrubbed and spun and chopped wood and forced them both to eat, and when I could find nothing else in which to occupy my time—the school season was drawing to an end—I wrote to Elizabeth and also to John, though neither of them had responded in ages. It had been six months at least.
Two letters, one for me and one for the Thomases, arrived in early April. One was from John Paterson, and one was from Benjamin. I tucked my letter into my bodice for later and coaxed Mrs. Thomas from her room to read the one addressed to her.
She made her husband read it first, though I told her it was addressed in Ben’s handwriting and surely welcome news.
The deacon read it once, silently, with shaking hands, and then he read it again, out loud, to Mrs. Thomas and me.
We have made it through the worst winter we have ever spent. But our enlistment is up next month, and Jacob and I are satisfied that we’ve done our part. The news of our brothers has brought us both low. Enough Thomas blood has been spilt.
I don’t think the war will continue too much longer, and certainly not in the northern colonies. Most of the action has moved south, though Benedict Arnold’s betrayal and poor Major André’s hanging had us fearing an attack here at the Point. We have spent these months holed up doing little but shivering and starving and waiting for orders. We’ll be home in time for planting. Don’t let Rob do it all before we get there.
“They are coming home,” Mrs. Thomas moaned. “Coming home!”
The deacon nodded, his lips quivering and his eyes bright. He shoved his hat on his head and retreated to the back pasture, needing some privacy to collect himself. Mrs. Thomas bustled about, revived, and began preparations for supper as though Jacob and Ben would be arriving any minute.
I kept the letter from John Paterson tucked inside the fichu of my dress, enjoying the anticipation of more good news, and I didn’t take it out again until we’d finished our afternoon meal and sat in companionable silence about the table, Deacon Thomas reading his Bible and Mrs. Thomas carding wool. I pulled out my letter and carefully broke the seal. Mrs. Thomas looked up in interest as I unfolded it.
“What have you there, Deborah?”
“It’s from General Paterson. I haven’t heard from him or Elizabeth in so long,” I explained. “It arrived earlier, with the letter from Benjamin.”
“So kind of them to keep up a correspondence after all these years.” She said something else and I think I nodded, but I was no longer listening.
I was no longer breathing.
Ice and fire warred in my chest, and I read through the scant message three times, then read it again, looking for the lie.
I had never met Elizabeth Paterson in person, but she had been my dearest friend. In every way, she gave me solace and joy. For nigh on a decade, she had never rejected me and never failed me.
And she was gone.
I laid my head down on the letter, unable to push it away, unable to deny the words even as I sought to hide them. When I closed my eyes, I could still see them on my lids, John Paterson’s slanting scrawl like a line of black ants, undeterred.
Feb’y 10, 1781
My dear Miss Samson,
I regret to inform you that Elizabeth died suddenly last September. She had not been well in some time, though she was good at hiding her ailments. Especially from me. I have been released to attend to our affairs in Lenox. I know you and Elizabeth have enjoyed a long correspondence, and I am sorry to notify you of her death in such an abrupt and unfeeling manner, but I know of no other way. I find I am spent and have little compassion to spare. She was very fond of you and had the greatest hopes for your happiness.
My deepest regard,
John Paterson
Such a short missive.
Such a massive blow.
I had no compassion either. Not for poor John Paterson, or his children, or even Elizabeth herself. In that moment, I was consumed with sorrow for myself. I had not a soul left on the earth. Not a solitary soul on whom to rely or live for. No more letters. No more hope. And nothing to look forward to.
“What is it, Deborah?” Mrs. Thomas asked, her voice wary.
“Elizabeth Paterson has died.” My voice was dull.
She nodded, oddly, as if she’d expected it. Of course she expected it. She was all too familiar with letters filled with bad news and visitors who brought tidings of horror and tears. We had both grown accustomed to terrible things.
“Her husband . . . is he still serving under General Washington?” she asked, not lifting her eyes from the wool.