I balked, afraid of detection, afraid that my very bones would give me away. The other fellows slung their arms around each other’s shoulders and slept in piles half the time. Not me. I allowed them—and myself—no familiarity.
“Well done, young man. Well done. You have the gift of oration.”
It was as though Reverend Conant had come to visit, and I was drenched in sudden longing for my old friend.
“Thank you, General.”
He turned back toward the Red House and bid me good night.
“Good night, sir.”
“Let someone else take a turn tomorrow,” he instructed as he walked away.
“Yes, sir,” I said. But I had no intention of obeying him.
“You’re still here, Shurtliff,” he said the following night, the only answer to my mandated, “Who comes there?” though I could well see it was him.
“Forgive me, sir. I prefer it. It is too warm to sleep.”
“That it is. And it will only get warmer. The bugs are thick.”
“They haven’t bothered me.”
“No?”
“I am not sweet enough,” I answered frankly. It was what the Thomas brothers always said.
I did not intend it to be humorous, but the general laughed, and I exhaled, glad to see him in better spirits.
“You do have a rather piercing gaze, Private. It belies your age and your smock-face.”
“My students said it was fearsome.”
“Students?” Again the surprise.
“Yes, sir. I was a schoolteacher before I came here.”
His gaze narrowed. Again, he didn’t believe me.
“There was no one else to do it. All the men—the more educated men—were gone.” That much was the truth, but I inwardly flinched, seeing as it matched what he might know about Deborah.
He cocked his head at me and lifted one brow, as though he were puzzling it all out before he committed to speak.
“I taught school once too, after my father died and before I married. It seems like a lifetime ago,” he said, and his sadness returned like a shroud.
“I am so sorry about your wife, General Paterson,” I blurted.
He froze.
“I mean . . . Mrs. Paterson. Forgive me. I am sorry, sir. Very sorry for you and your children. Your loss is felt . . . by many . . . of your men. They are aware of your sacrifice . . . to be here.”
I had made an utter mess of it.
I mentally lashed myself, cursing my babbling tongue and my pounding heart. He had mentioned his marriage, and I had pounced on the opening. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have written a letter instead, a letter from Deborah Samson, and poured out my heart and my affection for lovely Elizabeth as well as my sorrow for him, a man I was deeply fond of and one I greatly admired.
This man was not the friend of our long correspondence. This man was not my dear Mr. Paterson. This man was a brigadier general, a man in command of me and every other man at West Point, and a man I wouldn’t have dared speak to at all had I not known him.
He did not respond to my sloppy condolences. He simply stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the water. The night was so clear and still that the stars reflected on the surface, creating an illusion of standing above them, of looking down from a godlike perch. It reminded me of my dreams.
“It is like flying,” I remarked, unable to bear his painful silence any longer. I didn’t care whether he thought me a fool. Perhaps it was better if he did. “It makes me hopeful.”
He said nothing.
“What gives you hope, sir?” I pressed softly.
He exhaled. “The thought that it will end,” he said, voice heavy.
I considered his words only long enough to reject them.
“No,” I said, and my vehemence surprised us both.
“No?”
“No, sir.” I swallowed. “If it was only an ending you wish for, you would not be here. None of us would.”
He shook his head. “You are bold, Shurtliff. I’ll warrant you that.”
“Hope requires boldness, sir.”
He grunted, and I warmed to my subject. “In Proverbs it says, ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick: but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.’ That is why I am here.”
I had shared so many things in my life with Elizabeth, and I knew she’d shared many of my letters with John. He knew Deborah Samson—my history and my heritage—so I could hardly relay the same stories. I was at a loss, stripped of the things of which I was proud. William Bradford was a hero of sorts, and I wanted to claim him. But he was Deborah’s, and I was Robert now. I trod carefully.