A Girl Called Samson (5)

I nodded seriously, but my heart was pounding too. Sylvanus Conant might be loyal, but he’d just spoken the words of a rebel.



March 27, 1771

Dear Miss Elizabeth,

My name is Deborah Samson. I’m certain you’ve been warned that I would be writing. I am not an accomplished writer, but I hope to be. I promise I will work very hard to make my letters interesting so you will enjoy reading them and allow me to continue. Reverend Conant tells me you are kind and beautiful and smart. I am not beautiful, but I try to be kind, and I am very smart.

I love to read, and I love to run, though I have little time for either, as there is always work to be done. But I read the Bible every day, and I am memorizing verses from Proverbs. Do you have a favorite? I will write one that I have mastered below, just for practice.

Proverbs 28:1, “The wicked flee when no man pursues: but the righteous are bold as a lion.”

I told Mistress Thomas that running is not the same thing as fleeing. I thought that was quite bold, like a lion. She did not laugh, though I saw Phineas grin. I am quite rebellious, I fear. I attend the First Congregational Church with the Thomases. Your uncle Sylvanus preaches each week, and though I am very fond of him, and he is very convincing, the hours of inactivity are torture.

Last Sunday, I lied and said I wasn’t feeling well and left before the final hour. I ran straight for the woods and spent a blessed afternoon climbing the trees and swinging from the branches. I know the path that cuts behind the tree line all the way back to the Thomas farm, and I have begun to clear it of roots and stones that would trip a girl up if she were running as fast as she were able—that girl being me.

Mrs. Thomas asked me what I was doing in my free time between chores and supper. I told her I was clearing the walking path. I even quoted scripture so she was assured it was a righteous endeavor. Proverbs 4:26 says, “Ponder the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established.”

That is exactly what I have been doing. Pondering the path of my feet and establishing my ways. Mrs. Thomas seemed amiable to the activity, and even said it was a kind service to others who might use that path, but I did not tell her everything.

I call it my dashing path. I’ve claimed ownership of it since I’ve done all the work. It gives me a place to run where no one will see. I told the boys I could beat them all, maybe even Phineas, who is very fast, if I were allowed to race without my skirts hampering me. They have taken my challenge and presented me with a very worn pair of breeches that fit me quite well and a shirt to go with them. I can run so swiftly in them that I am convinced they are magic.

I hope you will not think me wicked, but if running is a sin, I will simply have to remain a sinner, as it is the only thing that quiets my mind.

Your obedient servant,

Deborah Samson

PS I will tell you all about the race, even if I do not win.





2

IT BECOMES NECESSARY

Though I kept my grievances close to my heart, putting them on the page was a waste of precious paper and ink. To sharpen a quill just to sharpen the axe did nothing to lessen the sting of my circumstances. I made lists of my weaknesses instead. Not to punish myself—that was not productive either. I made an accounting so I might better myself. The Bible made mention of weak things becoming strong, and I was determined to be strong. Each day, when I was not too weary to write, I would itemize the ways I fell short and count the ways I’d succeeded, always seeking to lengthen the latter column. But there were many things I could not teach myself, and I sought instruction wherever I could find it.

“The younger boys complain mightily about their lessons,” I told Reverend Conant on one of his visits. “I help them as much as I can, but I wish I had lessons of my own.”

Reverend Conant always timed his visits with supper. I couldn’t blame him. He didn’t have a wife. He claimed he was married to the gospel, and Mrs. Thomas said he “tended to everyone in his flock,” but I liked to think he kept a special eye on me. He always asked me a string of questions when he stopped in.

Deacon Thomas and his sons had come in for the midday meal, but most had eaten and scattered, uninterested in the political talk that inevitably ensued when the reverend was present. Nathaniel and Benjamin still remained, eating as though they were starving, and Jeremiah had set up his tiny soldiers in the corner of the room and was plotting an ambush.

“She helps them too much,” Mrs. Thomas chided. “They take advantage of her curiosity.”

Deacon Thomas slathered butter on his bread. “They want to be outside. I was the same.”

“I too want to be outside,” I blurted. “But I am restless, even out of doors. I find I cannot get full, no matter what I do.”

“You are not getting enough to eat?” Mrs. Thomas asked, stunned. Nathaniel and Benjamin even paused in their shoveling.

“I am. Yes.” My cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Pardon me, mistress. I do not mean food. I am hungry . . . to know.”

“To know what, child?” Mrs. Thomas said.

“The world, I suppose. I want to go to Boston and to New York and to Philadelphia. I want to go to Paris and London and to places that have no names . . . at least not yet. Elizabeth went to London and Paris.” I bit my lip and lowered my eyes. “And I would like to know God.”

I added the last bit because I felt I must. It was true . . . just not as true as the first part. Deacon Thomas was frowning at me, and Mrs. Thomas was wringing her hands.