“I’m here, boy. I’m here. Keep going. You don’t want anything too much . . .”
“I would like to have a family one day,” I said. I almost laughed at myself. I had no desire for a husband. Just children.
“Do you have a girl in mind?” he asked, slightly slurring his words.
“I do not want a wife.”
“No? Children might be a difficulty then.” Humor, even amid the struggle. I liked that, and I laughed.
“I want to be loved madly or not at all. I can’t imagine finding anyone who would love me madly.” I was babbling, but I doubted he would remember it.
“Why not?”
“Because no one ever has.”
“You are young yet,” he rumbled, and his chin drooped farther into his chest.
“Tell me about your children, sir,” I prodded.
“I have daughters. Little daughters. Princesses, all. Like their mother. Hannah and Polly and Ruth.”
I knew all about Hannah and Polly and Ruth, but I urged him on.
“Hannah and Polly are dark, like Elizabeth. Ruth looks like me, down to the divot in her chin and the furrow of her brow. Poor mite.”
“Tell me about Mrs. Paterson. Did she look like the painting in your quarters?”
“She was small and . . . round, she would say, though she knew she was round in the way most women want to be round. Fair skin, dark hair, big . . . brown eyes. The painting is a fair likeness.”
Small and round. Like Mrs. Thomas. Somehow, it was exactly how I had pictured her. It was only John Paterson who did not match the image I had created for him. He continued on, as if acknowledging she was worthy of a eulogy, even in his diminished state.
“Elizabeth was . . . easy . . . to love. She was intelligent . . . and good . . . and beautiful. She was the kind of woman that gets . . . snatched up quickly, and I did not hesitate. The moment she was of age, I went to her father and made my case. I never doubted it was the right decision. She gave me three children, she gave me peace of mind, she gave me friendship and support. She gave and gave . . . and now she’s gone. And I am here, still fighting in this endless war, wondering what it’s all for.”
“I’m so sorry, General.”
“So am I,” he muttered.
“Hold on, sir. Not much farther now. Not much farther,” I lied. We had miles to go.
“Just keep talking, Rob. Just keep talking.”
He’d called me Rob, and it gave me courage, as if the Thomas brothers rallied around me, daring me on.
I began reciting everything I had ever learned, pulling the words out of the recesses of my mind, proverbs and catechisms and entire scenes from The Merchant of Venice to keep us both upright. The general mumbled and swayed, but he stayed in the saddle, and so did I.
We arrived at Peekskill Hollow sometime before dawn and were greeted by a guard who recognized the general’s horse before he realized it was us. A bugle sounded, feet pounded, and twenty men came at a run, Grippy at the front.
“Oh, thank God,” the general groaned. “Is that you, Agrippa?”
“It’s me, sir. It’s me. Praise the Lord.”
“I thought I might not see you again, my friend.” The general was swaying but smiling, and tears had begun to track down my cheeks. I too had feared the worst, and to see Agrippa Hull alive and well shattered the last bit of my control.
“General Paterson needs assistance,” I called, seeking to wipe my face against his bowed back. “He’s hurt.”
Arms reached up to pull us down, but I was the one who found myself unable to let go, so cramped were my arms.
“Let go, Bonny,” Grippy urged, but I could only shake my head helplessly.
“I can’t.”
The general reached down and unraveled my arms, and I slid from the saddle, trying to catch all my weight on my good leg. I landed in a heap instead.
“Get Doc Thatcher,” Grippy shouted.
“No. I’m fine,” I insisted, allowing Grippy to help me rise. “See to the general. I am only weary.”
“You did good, Bonny. You did good,” Grippy murmured, holding me upright.
Paterson managed to keep his feet as he was assisted from the saddle, and I slung my arm around his waist on one side, Grippy on his other, and we staggered to the hospital as Grippy filled us in on everything we’d missed.
18
THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED
Dr. Thatcher looked at the general’s pupils and cleaned the wound that split his hair, then pronounced him in need of a tonic for his thundering head and someone to wake him every hour. “You’ve got some swelling, General. No doubt. But beyond a headache and an interesting scar, you should heal just fine.”