The old tavernkeeper’s son from Middleborough was tall as a tree, and he stood out from the rest. He’d made a name for himself, and Captain Webb had sung his praises, but I was wary. I didn’t want to travel with his company. He’d known me—though from a distance—for too many years, and I feared he might have heard tales from home and would recognize me.
My company was grateful for the rest, but I spent the hours of my picket duty with my stomach in knots, unimpressed by the slivered moon, the soft air, and the croaking frogs. When Beebe relieved me early, stepping out from the trees, I spun, hands on my weapon, a startled cry in my throat. The guard was thin now that we were back behind our own lines, but a man was still stationed on every side.
“Don’t shoot, Robbie. It’s just me.”
“You’re early.”
“I was awake. Thought I might as well take watch if I wasn’t going to sleep.”
“It’s quiet,” I said. “Only the bullfrogs are awake.”
“You callin’ me a toad?” he quipped, rubbing at his bristly cheeks. The whole company—except for me and Jimmy—needed a shave. Captain Webb had been sheepish about our bedraggled appearance when we’d arrived in camp, but General Paterson had waved off his apologies, though his eyes had lingered on my face for a moment.
I just shook my head and let Beebe grumble. He loaded his musket, tearing the cartridge open with his teeth and priming the flash pan before closing the frizzen and pouring the rest of the powder into the barrel. He added the ball and paper and rammed it into the breech.
“You don’t look so young and bonny anymore either,” he muttered. “Your skin’s leathered, and the sun has bleached your hair. If I’m a toad, you’re a lizard.”
I scrubbed at my face, not understanding. I’d washed all the parts that weren’t covered.
“Got a mean look to you now, though your eyes gleam all the more. You’d best close ’em or the moths will circle your head.” He was jesting, but he didn’t laugh at me or himself like he was inclined to do.
The thought that my looks might have changed cheered me. Perhaps General Paterson had only been noting the difference.
“Go on, Robbie. Get some sleep,” Beebe demanded, but I hesitated. His gloom was pronounced.
“My watch doesn’t end for a bit,” I offered. “I’ll stay if you don’t mind.”
He shrugged, shifting his musket and peering up at the moon.
“You got a girl somewhere, Rob?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
He snorted. “I didn’t think so.”
I knew better than to let Beebe bother me, and I ignored his scoffing.
“Talking to you about this is like talking to my sister.”
I didn’t like that assessment at all, and immediately set about disabusing him of the notion. “What exactly are we talking about, Beebe?” I said. “Do you need advice?”
He jeered again. “From you, lad? I doubt it.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Have you ever even touched a girl?” he needled, and Deborah Samson, in all her contrarian wickedness, decided to goad him right back.
“Of course,” I said, honesty ringing from my words.
“Liar,” he snapped.
“It’s the truth,” I said, but shrugged, letting it go. He fidgeted and fretted and finally broke the silence.
“I’m not talking about her arm, Shurtliff. Or her hand.”
“I didn’t think you were.” The devil on my shoulder howled with laughter and the angel felt totally justified.
“You’ve touched a breast?”
I ground my teeth together to keep from smiling. “Yes. Many times.”
He jerked. “Many?”
“Yes. Many. More times than I could count.”
“You’re just a . . . a smock-faced boy.”
I shrugged.
“Have you seen everything? Every part? Without clothing?”
“Yes.”
“A real live woman? Full grown? Not a child running about?”
“A real live woman.”
He gaped at me like I’d just sprouted a crown. “Have you slept beside one?”
“I have.”
“Have you put your knob in one?” His voice was so quiet I wasn’t certain I’d heard right, and it took me a minute to process what he meant.
“No.” I certainly could not claim that, and I was amazed once more at the limitless names men had for their parts. I had learned a dozen of them, at least.