A Girl Called Samson

A Girl Called Samson

Amy Harmon



Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.

Proverbs 31:25





January 3, 1827

Dear Elizabeth,

You have not been far from my mind today. It is a new year, though I suspect it will be my last. I find myself lost in thought more than I am present, and though I’ve told parts of my story, I’ve never written it all down from beginning to end.

Many of the things I will write, you already know, but this record will be for your children. And mine. And for generations of little girls who have not even been born.

A newspaper columnist named Herman Mann—he calls himself a novelist—interviewed me at length for a book, and I had hopes that he would write my story as I conveyed it to him. But I find some things are impossible to express, especially to a stranger. The pages he has shared with me bear little resemblance to the tale I lived, and one must understand my history to understand my choices. It is better that I write it myself, even if it shocks sensibilities.

I am accustomed to that.

The records I kept during the final years of the Revolution were scant and insufficient, but the events are burned into my memory, and I relive them in my sleep. It seems like another life, though the remnants of that life are with me still, in my flesh and in my posterity.

I thought nothing could be worse than the small, painful existence I was living. I also feared the war would end, and I would miss my only shot at deliverance. As it turned out, I saw all the bloodshed I could bear. I watched boys die and grown men weep. I saw cowardice reign and bravery falter. And I witnessed what dreams cost, up close and personal.

If I’d known, I might have avoided it all, the pain in my leg and the price of independence—my own and that of my country. But then I wouldn’t have met him. And I wouldn’t have come to truly know myself.

People ask me why I did it. Mr. Mann kept returning to that question, and I had no simple answer. Such a question demands the entire story. All I know is that once the desire took root in me, it grew and grew, until to deny it would have choked the hope from my breast. And hope is what keeps us alive.

Had I been pretty and small, I might have had different dreams. I’ve pondered on that many times. Our aspirations are so often influenced by our appearance. I wonder how mine might have changed me.

I was named after my mother, who was named after the biblical prophetess Deborah. But I didn’t want to be a prophet. I wanted to be a warrior like Jael, the woman who slayed a mighty general and liberated her people from the fist of oppression. Mostly, I wanted to free myself.

At five years old, I was alone in the world. At eight, I became a servant to a widow who treated me like a dog. At ten, I was indentured to a farmer until I turned eighteen.

It is impossible to describe how it feels to have no say in one’s own life, to be at the mercy of others, and to be sent away. I was only a child then, but being bound out marked me deeply and lit a rebellion in my veins I have never quelled.

Maybe that was the moment I became a soldier.

Maybe that was the day it all began.





1

THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS

March 15, 1770

Winter had begun her retreat, but summer was still a long way off, and the horse we rode picked his way over the thawing, gouged road with a bowed head and an uneven gait. The man in front of me shielded me from the bite of early morning, but I huddled in misery behind him, ignoring the crouching countryside and the bare branches prodding the sky for signs of spring. My legs bounced against the horse’s flanks, and I tucked my skirts more securely around my knees. My dress was too small, my wool stockings too large, and a patch of skin between the two was being rubbed raw. I wore every piece of clothing I owned and carried a satchel across my back that held a blanket, a hairbrush, and a Bible that had once belonged to my mother.

“Can you read, Deborah?” Reverend Sylvanus Conant asked. He tossed the question over his shoulder like crumbs for a bird. He hadn’t spoken since we’d set off, and I considered not answering. On the occasions he had visited Widow Thatcher, he had been kind to me, but today I was angry with him. Today he had come to take me away. Widow Thatcher no longer needed me, and I would be moving again. I would not miss her slaps, the harsh criticisms, or the endless tasks that were never done to her satisfaction, but I had no confidence that my new situation would be any better.

This time, I would be living with a family. Not my family. My family was gone, tossed into the wind and scattered. My brothers and my sister were all in servitude somewhere to someone. Mother couldn’t provide for us. She could barely provide for herself. I hadn’t seen her in ages, and I would see her even less living in Middleborough.

“Yes. I can read very well,” I relented. Conversation was preferable to stewing in my discontent. “My mother taught me when I was four years old.”

“Is that so?” he asked. The horse that carried us whinnied in disbelief. I shifted, trying not to cling to the man, but I was not accustomed to riding thus, and the ridge of the old mare’s back made an uncomfortable seat.

“My mother said reading is in my blood. She is the great-granddaughter of William Bradford. Do you know William Bradford? He was aboard the Mayflower. The people made him their governor.” I felt the need to defend my mother if only to defend myself.