I repeated my story all night long, matching it to the rhythm of my feet upon the road, and made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t cry, I wouldn’t complain, and I wouldn’t quit. Those things wouldn’t make me a man—I knew plenty of women with such qualities—but I figured by holding my tongue and my tears, I wouldn’t draw excess attention to myself.
I also wouldn’t drink. I’d learned that lesson.
Then I vowed to continue what I’d done my whole life: endure and excel. That was my only plan.
My fear and sanity returned at dawn after walking for hours in a state of calm conviction. I’d cut through Taunton in the dark and was west of the village when a rider approached from the opposite direction, moving at a trot. I considered running into the tree line but abandoned the plan immediately. Acting suspicious would only arouse suspicion. I kept walking, my pace brisk, my shoulders back.
I braced myself and nodded politely as he passed, realizing in the final moments that I recognized him. He was a post rider. He’d been the messenger who’d visited the farm multiple times with letters from the front. His satchel was full and his destination was clear: Taunton and Middleborough.
He didn’t give me a second glance, and I didn’t allow myself to watch where he went, but the incident left me weak-kneed and shaking, and I found a thicket of trees about ten rods from the road where I could close my eyes and rest for a bit. I ate an apple, drank some water, and fell into a sleep so deep, an army of grim riders could not have awakened me.
It took me three days of walking, winding my way through villages and skirting farms, until I went as far south as I could go, and reached the coastal town of New Bedford. I’d been moving in a bit of a trance, intoxicated by the freedom I had never enjoyed and almost giddy in my male attire. It was a wonder to me that every woman hadn’t simply donned breeches and left home to wander the world.
I walked the wharves, basking in the sunshine that reflected off the water and the breeze that snapped the sails of the vessels anchored in the harbor. New Bedford and nearby Fairhaven had been raided by the British in ’78, homes, shops, and ships set afire, and the damage was still evident. It was a pretty town, even wounded and scarred. Stone and grass and gulls paid homage to the river and the ocean beyond.
I watched some fishermen come in, their nets full and their faces red with wind and exertion, and thought of sweet Jeremiah, and his dreams of sailing the seas. My own aspirations and my hunger roused me, prodding me along, and I found my way to a thatch-roofed tavern overlooking the docks with a buzzard painted on the door, his wings tucked and his eyes mean. Sailors and soldiers moved in and out, and no one spared me a glance. I bit back my grin and offered up a prayer of thanks and a proverb of my own. “Thou hast made me tall and plain, and I will never e’er complain.”
Business was brisk and the dining room teemed with people, the stench of sweat and stew making my eyes water and my stomach groan. I approached the bar to order biscuits and stew, my eyes down, clutching my satchel and mentally counting my coin.
A pair of women whose breasts rose plump above their deeply squared necklines sidled up to me, one on each side, and I kept my eyes stubbornly averted. It had been a woman in Middleborough who had exposed me the first time. Women were wise to other women, and they did not so easily underestimate each other. But if I was to be among men, men who assumed because of my height, my flattened chest, and my lean hips that I couldn’t possibly be female, then I might be safe. There would be no women to sniff me out. But I was not safe yet.
“Buy us a drink, handsome lad, and we’ll keep you company,” one said. They were plump and powdered, and both looked as though they’d kept many fellows company. I gaped down at them and then looked around, unsure of whether they were talking to me. I pulled my elbows into my sides, crossing my arms over my chest, just to be safe.
“No drink for me,” I said. “Just stew, if you please.”
One woman scoffed and the other sighed. “He thinks we’re serving up the stew, Dolly.”
“I have nothing you w-want,” I stammered, and they both snickered.
“Too good for us, eh?” the younger one said.
“No, madam. Not too good. Just famished.”
“Let him alone, Lydia. He’s just a boy, albeit a pretty one.” The one named Dolly patted my cheek. I was rigid with fear, certain that any moment they were going to pounce the way Mrs. Sproat had done, outing me to the crowded tavern, but they just laughed again and turned their attention to the sailors bellying up to the bar beside me.