“What was it you said, ‘It is not for the man who has everything and wants more that we fight,’” the general prompted.
“‘But the man who has nothing,’” I finished, battling a new swell. “And it was you who said it. I only reminded you of your words.”
He sighed heavily, but finished his meal without saying more.
“I will remain as your aide and nothing will change?” I clarified, after I’d cleared my entire plate and caged every wayward emotion.
He seemed to resolve something within himself and nodded once, eyes sober. “Nothing will change.”
He said nothing would change, but it did. The easy comfort we’d enjoyed with each other was bruised. The conversation was stilted, and the general seemed to struggle with my name. He called me “private” more than anything else, and “Shurtliff” when he absolutely had to, but mostly he avoided addressing—or looking—at me at all. And one day he slipped and called me Samson again. Not Deborah, thankfully, but Samson. Agrippa overheard it and pounced.
“Samson, huh? Where did that come from?” he crowed. “I need to hear this story.”
The general stiffened, and I froze.
“Shurtliff kept me in the saddle for six hours.” He shrugged. “He’s stronger than he looks. A veritable Samson in disguise. It is naught but a nickname.”
“Ah. The mighty Samson,” Grippy said, grinning. He looked at me, considering. “I like it.”
I flexed my arms like the pugilists who fought in the barracks for coin and the soldiers’ entertainment, and Grippy laughed, but the general dismissed us both without cracking a smile.
He was also reluctant to give me all the duties I’d had before. In the first few months as his aide, I’d delivered messages on horseback to Newburgh and Stony Point. I’d crossed King’s Bridge and brought communications to officers stretched across the highlands all by myself, but that ceased the moment he discovered my identity.
“It isn’t safe,” he said, curt, when I questioned him on it.
“But . . . sir. The other aides are starting to notice. And complain. You’ve sent Grippy to King’s Ferry thrice with communications. Instead of me.”
“You are still recovering. You are still limping. And who is complaining? You run circles around everyone else. You shaved every face in the house, shined every boot, and did all the wash for every officer and aide in this residence just this morning. Who is complaining?” he insisted again, indignant.
I bit my lip, suddenly so disconsolate tears pricked my eyes. I was bleeding again. My flow had been minimal, a spotting that required little attention or worry since the month after I enlisted. I’d taken it as mercy from a loving God, but knew it was likely more a result of the physical taxation of being a soldier. Now, after a few months as the general’s aide, with a warm bed and a full belly at least once a day, my menses had returned with regularity, putting me in my place.
“Last time Agrippa was sent in your stead, you chopped enough wood to stock the ovens and the fireplace in every room while still serving me, three high-ranking officers, and a visiting general at a formal dinner, by yourself,” the general added.
“I had only to look presentable, place food on the table, and stand by, sir. The Allens did all the preparation and the cleanup.”
“My point is, Samson, you do far more than your share. I don’t think Agrippa or Colonel Kosciuszko mind at all.”
“I mind, General.”
His head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed. “You mind?” he asked, his voice radiating pique.
“Yes, sir.” My heart was pounding. I didn’t like the confrontation, but I liked the wall between us even less.
“Shut the door, Samson,” he ordered.
I turned on my heel, shut the door, and returned to his desk. He watched me, grim.
“Sit.”
I sat in the chair across from his desk, my back straight, my hands in my lap.
“I said we would not speak of this again,” he began, but I interrupted him.
“You also said nothing would change.”
“Well, pardon me, madam, if I am struggling to keep your identities straight. Pardon me for doing my damnedest to handle an impossible situation.”
“You can’t even look at me. You hardly speak to me. And it is not impossible!”
“I don’t talk to you or about you because I am afraid I will slip and refer to you as her or she. And I cannot, for the life of me, refer to you as Robert or Robbie or Shurtliff or bloody . . . Bonny”—he spat the name—“like everyone else does. I don’t know how I didn’t see it from the start. You’re taller than most women. You’re long and lean, and you’re wearing a uniform. But that’s as far as it goes. You don’t look like a man. Not to me. Not anymore.”