“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Shurtliff,” the woman insisted, and it was not a casual question or polite inquiry. I resolved to tell her only truths.
“I was in the light infantry, Colonel Jackson’s regiment, and stepped up as General Paterson’s aide when Lieutenant Cole fell ill.”
“You are not an officer?”
“No, madam.”
“Samson is the best aide I’ve ever had. Smart, incredibly capable, and often underestimated,” General Paterson interjected, saving me.
“Samson?” Henry Knox asked, and I fought the urge to loosen my neckcloth.
“I thought your name was Shurtliff,” Mrs. Knox said, tipping her head quizzically.
“It is a nickname, madam. The general says I am . . . mightier than I look.”
“Ahh. I do like that.” Lucy Knox smiled. “I have often been underestimated myself.”
“Here we are,” Henry Knox boomed, stopping in front of the portrait that bore his corpulent likeness. He turned his head this way and that and even looked down at his waistcoat-covered abdomen before moving on to the others, General Paterson at his side. They praised some of them, commenting on their own knowledge of the subject in each painting. A soldier assigned to the kitchen staff circled with a tray and glasses of wine. Henry Knox helped himself and offered one to his wife, who took the glass while still holding firmly to my arm. I had begun to perspire, so great was my need to bolt.
“Do you like the portraits, Shurtliff?” Henry Knox asked kindly. I could not imagine why he would want my opinion, but he, General Paterson, and Mrs. Knox all looked at me for a response.
“No, sir.” It was not a diplomatic answer, but honest speech made me feel less like an impostor.
General Knox must not have expected my candor, for he choked on his wine and set it down on a passing tray.
“Why not?” he gasped.
“I do not understand the artist’s desire to add softness where there is none,” I explained.
General Paterson was listening with an indecipherable expression.
“Please do go on,” Mrs. Knox said.
“An itinerate artist came to our town before the war and set up his canvases on the green for people to see. I did not care for his portraits either. Not because he wasn’t skilled. He was.” I paused, warming to the subject.
“All the portraits had a certain style, and every subject looked the same: big, expressive eyes, pallid skin, small lips, rounded cheeks, and soft chins. It seems to be the fashion to make every man and woman look like cherubs, but I would rather immortalize people as they are and not as fashion dictates. The faces I knew—the faces I know—are gaunt and sharp, the features varied, and the skin weathered. I find that much more appealing.”
“But that is not desirable,” Mrs. Knox said, though her eyes twinkled merrily.
“No?” I queried.
“No. To be plump suggests wealth and status.”
“Yes. I know. But we are Americans. I would rather the artist emphasize strength and character.”
She grinned, and General Knox nodded. “Well said, boy.”
The general simply tipped his glass.
I bowed once, attempting to make an exit while I was well regarded.
“You must save me a dance, Mr. Shurtliff. I insist. I should like to hear more of your opinions,” Lucy Knox said, releasing my arm at long last.
I bowed again, promising nothing, and excused myself, leaving the exhibit with a measured stride and a racing heart. I would make certain I did not cross paths with Mrs. Knox again.
21
DISPOSED TO SUFFER
Dinner was served to the regimented officers and their ladies, casks were opened, wine flowed, music played, and the world was transformed. Thirteen toasts each punctuated by the firing of thirteen cannons were followed by a military presentation from both sides of the river; the sheer number of men in uniform and formation stirred the soul.
When the ball began, General Washington escorted Mrs. Knox to the pavilion and with twenty other couples, including his wife and Henry Knox, led several dances, changing partners for each one. I lurked on the far side of the pavilion throughout the evening. General Paterson did not need or want me dogging his steps, and I was intent on avoiding Mrs. Knox, though the general was not.
He danced with a dozen ladies, some of whom I could name, others I could not. I had never been to a ball, though I knew the steps for most of the dances. I’d been the only partner for ten Thomas sons and had even taught my students a few of the reels as a recess diversion, though in that instance, I’d always taken the part of the gentleman. I was convinced I could even keep up with Mrs. Knox if I was cornered but had no desire to call attention to myself.