Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War (2 page)

2
Loomings
 

             
SHE AWOKE TO THE SOUND of her father's heavy footsteps along the wooden floorboards in the hallway. Shortly after the footsteps paused, she heard the unmistakable sound of his gun and satchel as he picked them up from the pine table in the kitchen. In her mind, she could almost trace his path through the house based on the noises she heard him make.
              The sun had not yet reached through the curtains to wake her, so she knew it was her father's milling about that had caused her to stir from the sleep she had previously been enjoying. He was getting ready to leave, and by the sounds of it he would not be back for a long while. She waited a moment longer, almost holding her breath, to see if her mother was awake yet. She had only yet heard one person's clamor and decided it would not be unsafe to slip from her room out to the kitchen to give her father a parting good-bye.
              Almost without disturbing the arrangement of her covers, she slipped out of bed and, with equal stealth, exited her room and made her way down the hall. As she entered the kitchen, where her father still stood packing food for—by the looks of things—three weeks, she stayed silent and waited for him to turn and notice her presence. When he did, he seemed startled to see her but then immediately smiled as though relieved it was only she who had interrupted his morning routine.
              The kitchen was small but it was enough. The walls were made of brick that had been painted white, though by now it was beige and covered with dust and charcoal where the fire pit was. On the wall opposite the entrance was an arched brick oven with a fire pit inside. A cast iron, three-legged pot stood on the floor inside the brick portion behind a little wall-like ledge of the same kind of brick. Father had built up the ledge so that the hot coals would be less of a hazard to the wooden floor. When she was a small child, Abigail would march her index and middle fingers along the top, like a soldier, her mother thinking it was simply play. She supposed, now that she thought back on it, that her mother likely thought she was pretending her walking hand was a proper woman strolling down to the market, or perhaps a child skipping down the street. That's the thing about imagination. Nobody has to know what you really think or what your actions truly mean.
              The ledge kept the charcoal and ash nearly completely out of the kitchen, and the arched frame above the oven was well designed, too, keeping the majority of the smoke within its confines and guiding it effortlessly out through the chimney. The top of the brick oven did not reach the ceiling, not nearly. Above the masonry oven was a wooden ledge, another of her father's creations, which ran along the front of the oven and then along the right side, where the oven portion of the wall extended further into the room than the rest of it, and ended at the wall.
              On top of this ledge was where her mother kept her main cooking tools. Pots and pans hung from the right corner, and various herbs hung from the ceiling, drying on specially made hooks. Along the left wall, wooden shelves were affixed to the cold brick, holding bread and vegetables, and a bag of potatoes hung where the stove met the wall.
              On the far wall to the right of the stove there was a small window that looked out over the gardens, and the right wall also had a window, though smaller and much higher up. The only person who could view the front of the house through this window was Father. He was only five feet eleven inches tall, but Abigail and her mother were both five feet three inches and had no occasion to look through that particular window, anyway.
              The floor was uninterrupted wood throughout the entire house. There were, of course, planks that made up the length and breadth of the floor, but it seemed as though rooms had been built upon one large floor base separated only by walls, instead of each room having a floor of its own. Her father was currently standing by the wooden table in the center of the room. Underneath the table and all around it were baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables her mother had picked just the day before from the garden, and three loaves of bread were on the table, wrapped in linen for her father. He had taken an entire basket of potatoes, though they still had three remaining, and his pack was so full she could not form a guess as to how he would carry it out the front door, let alone the many miles to Concord.
              She had woken early on several past occasions to see her father off as he headed to work, but this time would be much different. There was no telling how long he would be gone. Though he was only packing three weeks’ worth of food, she knew it could be far longer before he returned, and that it likely would be. They stood there, looking at each other, without saying a word. No words were necessary. She was standing in the doorframe, although “doorframe” was a misnomer, since no door existed between the hallway in which she stood, the front room on her right, and the kitchen on her left. In front of her, if she stood so that she was directly in line with the hall, was the front door of their home. Soon, her father would be walking through that door, and she had no reasonable guess as to when that might be.
              "Did I wake you?" her father asked, finally breaking the silence but still speaking in hushed tones.
              She shook her head.
              "No," she smiled, rather dishonestly, but it was a harmless lie. "I was awake and heard you packing your things so I came out to bid you goodbye."
              "I am glad that you did."
              They were both smiling, but neither believed the other's expression to be sincere. Rather, there was no point in being as transparent as they usually would in a situation such as this. Smiles may be the only thing they would have of each other for a long while, so there was no sense in spoiling the moment too soon with the inevitable tears that accompany such occasions.
              "Are you headed to Concord?" she asked, knowing the answer already in her heart.
              He nodded his reply. Both of their faces abandoned the false smiles they had held so far, and solemnly they both allowed their gazes to fall as they privately pondered the events to come.
              They lingered there in silence a moment longer, and she watched him turn the same potato over a hundred times it seemed, idle hands engaging in repetitive motion so that there was something, anything, to break the silence and delay the time between now and the moment that would arrive too soon.
              Finally, Abigail could no longer stand it, and she disregarded her role as a composed and proper woman, ran across the room, and embraced her father so tightly that air audibly escaped from his lungs. He chuckled slightly, but the moment was no less heart-wrenching. Tears poured down her cheeks and over her lips as she sobbed openly, willing her father to stay but knowing he had to go.
              Taking both of her shoulders gently, her father held her out in front of him as though he were looking at a piece of art, examining her, in a way. His eyes were narrow and sincere, and it was as though he were trying to remember the smallest details of her appearance. Lightly, he wiped a tear away from her eye and straightened his posture, tucking a piece of her brunette hair behind her ear.
              "You are a strong woman, Abigail, and whatever others may think of it, I admire that about you. Don't ever allow yourself to bow to the ignorant slander of those who think your strength unbecoming of a woman. You were made by God to be strong, and to bow to the will of those who would confine your existence to a preconceived box would be a sin. One day, you will have the chance to show the world how strong you are, and I pray you will take it."
              He swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears from his own eyes as Abigail abandoned any attempt to keep herself composed and together. She didn't even give a thought to what would happen if her mother awoke to find her in such disarray. All she knew was that she did not want her father to leave. Neither of them would dare to speak the thoughts in their minds, but in a way they both felt that it would be a miracle should they ever see each other again.
              She heard Mother stirring in the back room, no doubt getting ready to awaken and see Father off. He and Abigail embraced one last time before she left for her bedroom to pretend that she had not yet woke. It would have been improper in her mother's eyes for her to be making such a scene. Emotions were to be kept in check, if they must be had at all, and anything other than calm, cool, even detached composure was not acceptable in Mother’s sight.
              Father and Abigail had always agreed in their disagreement with Mother on the matter, but that did not stop them from fearing her wrath. Father understood that while Abigail would have lingered by the doorframe until he was long out of sight and the sun had broken the surface of the horizon if she had had things her way, it was best for both of them if she retreated. Of course he understood. Father always understood her.
              Her bare feet silently stepped across the floor and into her bed where she slid beneath her white cotton sheets, waiting for the sun to peek through the window and inform her, without a word, that her appearance was acceptable. It was always at dawn that her work began, though her mother began hers far earlier. If she had thought for a moment that she would obtain any more sleep between the hour that she retreated into her bedroom and the hour she was allowed to reappear for her day's chores, she was mistaken.
              Murmurs reached her ears through the wall behind her as she lay on her right side. Her head was facing the right side of their home, if the front door was considered the front, and the kitchen was located immediately to the right upon entering the residence. Then, to the left, was a large open room separated only by one wooden step. The upper level, close to the front window, was the front room and sewing area, and the far side was the den and dining area all mixed into one. Her father's armchair sat in the corner by the fire, and the long wooden table with affixed bench-like seats where she and her father had discussed revolution just the night before was placed almost to the wall.
              To the right were the kitchen and her bedroom, and across from her bedroom was her mother and father's bedroom. As she lay staring toward the back of the house, she wished she had a doorway she could simply walk through. She would escape past the farm, past the crops, and take off into the forest to the back of the home. Revolution would be hers as much as her father's, and she would not have to contend with simple, lady-like chores while their country's future was forged by the men.
              Instead, she stared at a wall with only a high window and a desk. Her desk was wooden, much like the wood that made up most of the house but a bit lighter and not as rough. It was of simple construction, but it was the only place in the world she felt she had to herself. Studying was forbidden, of course, as education was of no use to women, according to her mother and most others. But she would still sit at her desk and write. She made sure to hide her writings well in a compartment beneath her desk. Nobody knew the compartment was there except for her, so when she found it she began to store things there that were her own. One day, she promised herself, she would take those things that were hers and hers alone and escape her life of drudgery.
              Upon her desk sat the only thing she was allowed to display save for the brisk decor of the room or flowers from the garden, and the only thing she now had of her father. He had once used a compass to hike in the mountains and came back with a handsome kill. We ate for almost the entire winter from that single hunting trip. Her father recounted to her in one of their conversations, which stretched almost until dawn, about how he and his hunting partners had almost become lost in the woods. When she asked him how he found his way home, he said his heart and his compass led him there. He then gave Abigail his compass and told her that he had another one, but that if she ever became lost, she could use her heart and his compass to lead herself to safety and home.
              The front door of the house creaked open and she could hear the curt, short tone of her mother's voice and the calming response of her father as they exchanged final goodbyes. Part of her was jealous of her mother for having the last goodbye, particularly because it was so undeserved. Her mother was responsible for so much of the tension in the household, and yet she stood there like the dutiful wife bidding her husband goodbye while she no more cared about the revolution than she did about Abigail, at least after her chores were complete.
              With three heavy boot steps her father was beyond the reaches of the home and headed off toward danger, revolution, freedom, and bravery. Abigail knew her mother would never understand. She knew she would always resent the both of them for their wild ambitions and that somehow any ill that might befall her father would be swiftly blamed on Abigail. In that moment, she resolved to ignore whatever her mother said, knowing somehow that she would not be kept in that house much longer. Revolution called Abigail, too, and when her time came, she would fight.

3
Freedom

The morning felt strange when Abigail awoke. It was a Tuesday, the twentieth day of June in the year 1775. Instead of being lulled awake by the rays of sunshine that normally accommodate such a summer day, she sat up straight in her bed after hearing a crash of thunder and seeing a bright bolt of lightning outside her window.
              The weather in Massachusetts was usually muggy but hot at this time of year. This day, however, was cold and formidable, even from the outset, and it did not much improve throughout the day. She remembered the day because it was embedded in her mind as though one of the lightning bolts that had pierced the sky that morning had seared it indelibly in the recesses of her memory. She shall never forget, for as long as she lives, that morning.
              Abigail looked at the clock that hung just above her desk above the compass her father had given her. It was not yet time for her to be awake, and she was in no rush to tend to her daily chores. For a moment, she thought that perhaps she could simply drift off to sleep again, but she knew that if she did she would be in danger of sleeping through her morning chores, and that would be more reprehensible than being up early.
              As she sat back against her pillows in the four-poster bed that took up the majority of her bedroom, she rested her eyes for just for a moment. Suddenly, she was startled awake by a knock at the door. She knew she was not allowed to exit her room, particularly while she was still in her morning gown, but she walked as close to her door as she could without being seen and pressed her ear against the crack around the door frame.
              Mother walked to the door and opened it. Abigail could hear her shoes lightly clicking across the wooden floor, and the door's audible creak could not be missed. Low voices murmured, almost whispered, and then she heard the sound that would never leave her memory. Her mother screamed. Abigail had not in all her eighteen years heard her mother scream, nor seen her lose her composure, nor witnessed her show any emotion whatever. After the scream came a continual sobbing, and Abigail knew that horrible news had arrived on their doorstep that morning.
              Ever so silently, Abigail opened her bedroom door and peeked down the hallway toward the front door. Two men in uniforms, or at least what she assumed were uniforms, ill-fitted and unmatched as they were, stood with somber faces as they attempted to console Mother, who had somehow regained her composure in the moments between the sobbing and the opening of Abigail’s door. She stood with a solemn face, nodding frequently and speaking in low tones to the men at the door.
              Their hats were in their hands and they looked at the ground frequently when speaking to Mother. She eventually closed the door, and while she had her back turned Abigail quietly shut her bedroom door and retreated to the comfort of her bed, where she assumed she would not long be able to stay. She was correct.
              She held her breath, knowing what Mother was about to tell her, realizing that the only possible reason for the men's visit and her mother's reaction was that her father was dead. She kept her eyes closed until she heard her mother’s voice wake her. Every fiber of her being willed time to slow down, to stop, so that she would not have to hear the words, would not have to face the truth. Her heart beat so loudly in her chest that she thought her mother would certainly be able to hear it. When her mother spoke to her in quiet tones, she knew something was very wrong.
              "Abigail, wake up," she said. It was more of a question as to whether or not Abigail could be woken with such a subtle tone than a direct command, and Abigail took her time responding so that the facade of her having been asleep in the first place would be more believable. She let her mother ask her a second time, and this time it was apparent that she had found her staunch will and that the stern wall of composure she had so consistently displayed throughout Abigail’s life up until this point was fast recovering. Abigail thought it wise to respond favorably this time.
              Slowly, rubbing one eye for effect, she turned over in her bed and sat up, blinking as though she was seeing the sun for the first time. With the best confused expression she could muster, she looked toward her mother with questioning eyes, hoping to appear fragile and innocent and young, thinking that perhaps it would soften her heart and take the sharp edge off of her next words. If it worked, it wasn't noticeable.
              "Yes, Mother?" she asked, as she noted her blotchy, tear-stained face.
              "Get up. Work starts early today. Your father is dead."
              Just like that, in the amount of time it took for her to walk down the hall and open Abigail’s door, the expression of humanity she had seen in the doorway had disappeared and was replaced immediately with the stern demeanor of a dictator.
              "What do you mean Father is dead?" I asked, true concern showing in my face, no need for acting anymore.
              "He's dead, Abigail. Gone. Shot to death in that wretched revolution of his."
              I tried my best to keep the look of shock from my face, but it did no good. Even for my mother, this cold and uncaring language was remarkable. His revolution? She acted as though he single-handedly asked the British to fight us, as though he had, on his own, planted the seed for revolution in the minds of the people, as though he himself had created the idea of freedom in the first place and then incited everyone in the American colonies to defend it. His revolution. It was the revolution of us all, at least those who cared enough about life outside of laundry and garden tending to realize its necessity.
              "Oh, come along, Abigail, don't give me that look! You were always just like him." She did not say this in a loving tone or as though it were a compliment. Instead, the words left her mouth as though she were spitting out poisonous venom so that it would not kill her, as though the very thought of my father, and by extension me, made her sick. She continued in no softer tones. "You and him with your silly ideas of revolution and freedom! And now look! Are you happy? Are you glad for what you've done to this family? Without your encouragement, maybe your father would still be home, but now he's dead, and with your help. Get out of your bed, Abigail, you can be the man of the house now, since you've never had any need for the lifestyle of a woman."
              Her eyes were like dark pools, almost entirely black, as though she were possessed by some evil being or demon. It was as though Satan himself had come to their little town and taken hold of Mother. But Abigail knew better. If she was, indeed, possessed, she had been contending with the indwelling beast for as long as Abigail had been alive. Some people are just born with a stone heart, and Mother was one of them.
              Tears stung Abigail’s eyes, more at the loss of her father and the reality of his death sinking in, but in small part because of her mother’s words, as well. It was one thing not to approve of their position on the revolution, one thing not to care about freedom for yourself or your family, but it was quite another to accuse your child of sending her father off to die in a war. Abigail knew better. She knew her words were not true. But they stung just the same.
              Abigail threw back her covers and stormed over to her mother, coming nose-to-nose with the demon itself and returning her gaze with her own fiery betrayal. If she was bringing a fight, Abigail was going to ensure that it was fought on her terms.
              "If you had been anything resembling a loving wife, perhaps Father would not have been able to empathize with those in bondage to the point that he found dying for freedom more favorable than contending with the likes of you. Perhaps if you had ever said a kind word to him, to me, to anyone in your entire life, there would have been something to stay behind for. And if you were a woman of any integrity, with any self-respect, with any desire for happiness and peace, you would understand the need for revolution and be proud of your husband. An abusive warden cannot blame the prisoner's cellmate for wanting to escape and dying in the cold when he does, and in the same way, you cannot blame me for my father's death. You should be ashamed of yourself."
              And with that, she mustered the last bit of courage she had within her and slammed the door so swiftly she feared for a moment it might have actually struck her mother on the nose. Quickly, she retrieved a chair from the corner of the room and propped it underneath the door handle so her mother could not enter.
              Abigail no longer feared her. She no longer had anything to fear. Her father, the only thing in the world she had ever loved and the reason she had stayed behind so long, was gone. A part of her had died that day, as well, and as the thunder rolled on outside and the lightning continued its brilliant assault on the earth and sky, she let the tears fall like rain. The storm of her life had just begun, and she was no longer her mother's daughter. She was her father's child, and she would be brave.
              Once, her father had written lyrics to a song, which he set to the music of an old British march, and he had given it to her to keep. He told her that someday there would come a time when she would need courage and would be seeking a way to be brave, and that at such a moment she should open the poem and read it. If ever there was such a moment, it was now.
              Somberly, she reached over to the wooden desk against the far wall, under the window through which she had observed the storm throughout the morning. In the compartment underneath the desk, filled with the things she wanted to keep secret, was the parchment on which her father had written the words to his song. She opened the compartment and retrieved the letter. Beneath her fingers, the parchment felt old and cracked, like leaves in the midst of a dry autumn drought. Pulling the letter out of the envelope, she was struck by the sight of her father's handwriting. Tears began to fall once more from her eyes, and she allowed it, because after today she would not cry. After today, she would be strong. Resolve in mind, she read:

God bless this maiden climate,

And through her vast domain

May hosts of heroes cluster

That scorn to wear a chain.

And blast the venal sycophants

Who dare our rights betray;

Assert yourselves, yourselves, yourselves

For brave America,

Lift up your hearts, my heroes,

And swear with proud disdain,

The wretch that would ensnare you

Shall spread his net in vain;

Should Europe empty all her force,

We'd meet them in array,

And shout huzza, huzza, huzza

For brave America.

The land where freedom reigns shall still

Be masters of the main,

In giving laws and freedom

To subject France and Spain;

And all the isles o'er ocean spread

Shall tremble and obey,

The prince who rules by Freedom's laws

In North America.

              Her father, even in death, made her proud. He and she had spent so many nights at the dining table, whispering in the candlelight, dreaming of a day when revolution would shape their land into a country of its own, free from British control, and every day she believed with greater resolve that their dreams were not those of fancy but of reality. Every day they came closer to earning their freedom. Her father believed this and died for it, and now the call was in her evermore to rise to the challenge and fight. Women, of course, were not soldiers, but she did not care.
              Before her father departed, he had told her that the Continental Army was expecting a leader to arrive. Everyone was skeptical, of course, but he told her that this leader was different, that he could potentially lead their people to freedom and success in creating a country for themselves.
              At that moment, she wondered more than ever whether such a man existed, whether such a leader had truly come to help them, to transform them into a sovereign nation. There was no question in her mind; she had to find out for herself, and the only way to find out was to fight. Slowly, she lifted her eyes from the paper in her hands, inspired by the words of her father, and gazed out at the ever-worsening storm. In her heart, she knew exactly what she had to do, and she could not delay in her plan.
              Her mother was still outside her door, shouting obscenities at her, threatening her with everything from starvation to throwing her out "to the dogs," as she put it. No happier day could Abigail experience than to be thrown out of her mother's house. Surely it would be better to take her chances on a desolate road than to remain within the confines of her prison. Their home had been radically transformed, and now, with the knowledge that her father could no longer reprimand Mother for her treatment of Abigail, she was as a raging bull let loose from its chains. Abigail was her target, and there was no escaping her wrath.
              Calmly, Abigail gathered her composure, hid the parchment containing her father's poem, making a mental note to return for it, and slowly walked to the door. Opening it, she stared blankly at her mother as she continued her vehement shouting. The moment the door was opened far enough, she felt the blow to the side of her face. Her mother had struck her so hard that the other side of her face hit the door, which was still in her hand from opening it, causing her head to spin for a moment.
              Abigail simply stared at her, and with full composure said, "Mother, if you keep carrying on in this manner, the whole town will think you've gone mad. Get a hold of yourself."
              Staring at her coolly, Abigail walked slowly past her and down the hallway to the kitchen, beginning her daily chores as though nothing had happened. Her mother was not the only person in the world who could play her game, and she intended to best her at it. There was no way she could know what was coming. She would let her think that she had won this one and final time. By the morrow, she would be alone in the world, and though it may have been wrong, she smiled internally at the thought. She had successfully pushed away the only people that ever loved her, and it was nothing short of justice.
              Abigail’s father always kept an extra change of clothes in the stable behind their house just past the vegetable garden. Vegetables were collected using burlap sacks, and it was necessary to visit the stable in order to obtain the sacks before the day's gardening chores began. Not only did her father keep an extra change of clothes there, he also kept his travel pack, an emergency pack he stored in case they ever needed to leave in a rush. His thought was that should an unforeseeable and dangerous event occur, such as a fire, they could escape through the back and he could grab his travel pack before the fire reached it. Of course, he had one in the house, as well, but he had taken it with him to the battlefield. Mother was in possession of that pack, and it would be a far greater chore to obtain it than the one in the stable. She doubted sincerely that her mother even remembered the stable pack.
              As Abigail tended to the day's cooking, she quietly contemplated her plan. She knew exactly what to do. Throughout the day, her mother continued her verbal assault on her character, her work ethic, her clothing, her hair, and nearly everything else she could think of that had anything whatever to do with Abigail. Through it all, Abigail remained stoic, secretly counting down the hours until it was time for gardening chores.
              Finally, the hour arrived. As she made her way to the stable, she quickly looked behind her through the rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash to the house to ensure that her mother was in the washroom. They took turns. One day Mother would garden and Abigail would tend to the washroom chores, and the next day it would be the opposite. In order to properly tend to the wash, it was essential to keep one's back to the window. There was no reason to turn around.
              When she was sure it was safe, she opened the stable door and retrieved the sacks from the corner where they were stored. Quickly, she took two more sacks than necessary and tucked them beneath the lower layer of her dress about the waistband of her stockings. It was uncomfortable at best, but not visible at all from the outside, and that was the only thing of import.
              After a certain amount of time, if Abigail had not yet emerged from the stable, Mother would no doubt become suspicious of her whereabouts. While it was not necessary to turn toward the window while tending to washroom chores, Mother would no doubt check on her anyway, and Abigail was in as much hurry to encourage her mother’s watchfulness of her as to come in contact with a rattlesnake. Quickly, she found the change of clothes her father always kept in the stable and transferred it to the travel sack. Upon exiting the stable, she made sure to keep the door unlatched.
              As she had expected, as she took the burlap sack intended for gardening and began to pull carrots, she glanced up to see her mother at the window. All cordiality, every attempt at vainly concealed smiles, was gone between the two of them. There was no longer a need for it. With the coolness of a winter night, she turned her back and continued the wash. Throughout the rest of the day Abigail made a mental checklist, a roadmap, an infallible plan to escape her mother's intolerable cruelty and do something with her life of which she could be proud.
              When evening fell, her mother turned in at her usual time, about one and a half hours before Abigail usually did. Finally, when she was sure her mother had fallen asleep, she extinguished the candles and retreated to her room. She waited for a moment or two after closing the door, slipping into bed in case her mother came in to ensure that she was sleeping, which happily she did not.
              Making all haste, she retrieved all the things she had stored in the compartment beneath her desk, checking twice to ensure that she had her father's song, and put them in one of the burlap sacks she had kept under her dress the whole day long. Looking around the room to see if there was anything she could use, she picked up some matches and a journal she had kept in her desk drawer but never used. Ink, quill, undergarments, shirts, and a pillowcase followed.
              The next ten minutes of her life would determine the success or failure of her plan. Almost holding her breath, she slipped out of her bedroom, ensuring that the door was closed behind her so her mother would not suspect anything until she was to be up for chores the following morning. Slipping into the kitchen, she silently filled one bag with food—rolls, vegetables, fruit, and some dry beans. Part of her wanted to take a kettle, but the risk of creating a racket was too great, and she decided that she could always find one on her journey.
              Making her way out of the kitchen, she slowly and silently walked past her mother's room, down the hallway, past her bedroom door—pausing only momentarily to say goodbye to the place she had called home for so long—and ever so quietly opened the back door of the house, which led to the garden and the stable.
              Racing through the rows of vegetables, she opened the stable door just enough so that she could fit inside. Almost panicked now, she quickly changed into her father's clothes, using cotton ties to cinch up the places that were too large for her body, a makeshift alteration. It would have to do.
              Fearful that her mother had heard her—or sensed her—leaving, she quietly peeked out the door, but nobody was there. The garden was completely silent, and the moonless night enveloped all the world in a blanket of complete and utter darkness. Not even the stars shone in the sky. The clouds were still covering everything in sight, a remnant of the day's storm. Blessedly, it was not yet raining, but she did not hold out hope that this stroke of luck would continue much longer.
              Heaving her father's travel sack over her shoulder and combining the two burlap sacks filled with food and her belongings, respectively, into one sack, she gathered a few more tools and some candlesticks, picked up the lantern, which always hung immediately inside the barn door, and, with a final glance behind her, exited the stable.
              It was too risky to light the lantern just yet. Once she had reached the place in the forest where she intended to spend her first night, she would light it, but only then. Her father had showed the place to her before when he had taken her hunting with him. In a rare turn of events, Mother had traveled for a week to see her sister in a neighboring community, leaving Abigail and her father on their own. The time she was able to spend with him then was some of the best time she had spent with anyone in her life, and she learned many valuable lessons about the wilderness surrounding their neighborhood.
              Closing the stable door quietly, she took one last look at the house she had once called home, where so many happy memories had occurred, and which had, somehow, become her prison over the year. Swallowing the lump in her throat that threatened to transform into tears, she jutted out her chin, straightened her back, and disappeared into the forest. She was going to join the army, fight in the war, and make her father proud. Her old life was but a memory now. This was revolution, and she would finish what her father could not.