Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War (6 page)

8
The Gathering Storm

Abigail awoke the following morning, remembering her meeting with Edward behind the trees the previous night. Nobody had heard them or bothered them, so they felt no need to change the meeting spot. Quietly, as the starlight glimmered above, they had whispered about the day, made plans for the future— what they would do should this or that happen—and then discussed some of the odd characters at the camp.
              The camp was essentially a large clearing in the middle of the woods. It seemed rather silly to her that someone would set up camp in such a vulnerable spot, but then again it didn't really matter, did it? At this point, they were waiting for the battle to come to them. Nobody had any doubts that it would, and the men were worn down from recent battles just a few days prior—like the one her father had died in.
              She couldn't talk about him to anyone, but everyone talked about him to her. Dr. Warren, they said, was one of the finest men and patriot leaders around. While everything in her wanted to enthusiastically agree or divulge everything she knew about the man as a father, she remembered why she was there and knew it was not allowed, not something she could really do even if she wanted to.
              A man had come up to her asking about her origin, where she'd come from, and she was as vague as possible without rousing suspicion. The man seemed to agree with her. Fred Johnson he said his name was, and he was about sixty years of age. He laughed about old times, talked about freedom with a glint in his eye, and though his clothing was stained with mud, rain, and blood, he refused to wash it.
              "A woman's work, no? Washing those clothes out—nah, I allow it to stay the way it is. Proves I been doin' somethin' with my time out here, eh?" He laughed heartily, but it sounded more like leaves being pushed along rough brick by a harsh wind.
              She had laughed as low and as harsh as she could and it seemed to go over well. They all thought she was simply a young boy, and while she hadn't thought of that as a disguise, it worked rather well.
All right then, I'm Raymond the seventeen-year-old kid,
she thought. How nice of them to give her disguise to her without her having even asked.
              "So tell me," she said, "how've things been faring around here?"
              "Eh," Fred shrugged as though they were discussing what to have for lunch in some common kind of situation, "it could be better, could be worse. Seems like we might have someone comin' soon to help us out, Washington you know, but that's all we heard. Bunker Hill was brutal, took some casualties—good men—but that's war, ain't it?"
              His posture slouched and he smoked a pipe, sending puffs of smoke about the same kind of sullied brown as his shirt—which she assumed was once white—and looked off toward the forest from which she and Edward had just come. It was clear that he wasn't looking at anything in particular but rather looking back in time toward happier memories and tragic losses all at once.
              Abigail nodded as if she understood, and she did—perhaps better than any of them knew, or could ever know—but it was more than that. It was more than just knowing her father had died among these men. She was part of them now.
              "So where ye come from?" he asked
              "Other side of the forest, by city name, and come to fight. You?"
              He nodded in an understanding manner.
              "Other direction, down South, but came up here to join the cause." He paused, considering what he had said, thinking again, and his face contorted into an odd position, partly considering, and partly regretting something from the past.
              "It is a good cause, eh?" said Abigail, trying her best to mimic the tone and language of the men there.
              "Mmm," he agreed, nodding. "This is more than a cause, though, lad. This is the beginning of a new age. A new country, can you believe that? An entire country. Somewhere that freedom can flourish. Never been done before, really. You're a part of something bigger than yourself, now. Enjoy it."
              Though his face looked sincere, stern, and almost stoic—aged and cracked by time and terrain—his eyes sparkled like those of a teenager, as though he was stepping onto the battlefield for the first time and felt nothing but promise for the future.
              Most of the men seemed that way. Even the younger men, like Benjamin Jeffries, who had come over a hundred miles to fight with them—twenty-one years of age—was still as haggard-looking as the men who were over sixty, but she assumed that this was probably to be expected. Benjamin's dark hair fell onto his face loosely, and he had a light scruff around his face—shaving was last priority, as was, apparently, laundry and clean clothes.
              Looking toward Bulldog, the man she and Edward had originally met when they arrived at the campground, she wondered what the man did all day. It seemed as though he never left that tent, and when he did, it was only to harass some of the other men and not do much good himself.
              The tent where she and Edward had originally gone on first arriving to the camp was a dark green color and had been covered over with leaves—poorly done, but almost effective—and inside was Bulldog, the man they hadn't got the name of and hadn't really cared to. It seemed he never took a break and never left that tent. Inside, he had a table— a makeshift one, at least—which had obviously been cut from a tree trunk.
              Another tree trunk, still in the ground, had been cut off for a stool, and a makeshift kitchen was in the back, though Abigail thought she wouldn't trust anything made in that space unless she were dying from hunger, and only then would she even consider it.
              On the other side of camp from the main tent and headquarters was what appeared to be a single cannon. What good one cannon would do anyone and why it was there—seemingly without any cannonballs or gunpowder—was a mystery to her. She thought it was very likely left over from a previous battle but didn't know, and didn't care enough to ask.
              Men were spread throughout the camp on whatever they had brought with them from home. Some preferred to lie out on the grass, and some preferred to sleep on mats they had brought. In reality, the mats were more like towels or blankets, things that might have been pulled off a bed on the way out the door, and almost nobody had cooking equipment. Still, Abigail didn't regret the decision to leave hers behind. In fact, she figured most of these men had the same realization she did—that they would be of no assistance. Furthermore, they would simply make the pack heavier to carry and more burdensome along the way. Nobody needed that.
              Although there was no official Army uniform, everyone seemed to be in much the same kind of dress. A baggy white shirt, stained beyond recognition into a muddy clay brown with dirt and blood and whatever else they happened to be sleeping in or on at night, then brown or white pants made from cheap linen, followed by some kind of burlap tie or overalls. Boots were as varied as they come, which wasn't much, but it crossed her mind that a person could very easily decipher by boots alone the owner or wearer of the shoes.
              The grass around the campground seemed to be almost as soiled as the garments of those who camped there. It had been beaten down by too many feet and stained with blood—very obviously so—in other areas. Since no battle had yet taken place at this particular camp—at least as far as the talk around the camp went—it could only be inferred that this was where the crippled army had arrived after the most recent battle, and the men they tried to save—or did save—were bleeding there.
              The thought made her wonder if this was where her father had died. When it came down to it, in all the stories she had heard about the great Dr. Warren, nobody had mentioned how or where he had died, and she was glad of it. She didn't want to know, didn't want that image in her mind. But it was there anyway, the random stains of blood throughout the camp, putting the pieces of information she did have together in her mind and realizing that it was really the only place he could have died if he wasn't immediately killed. That missing piece of information was the only saving grace she had.

             
The days around camp seemed to go much the same. Over the next several weeks, go back and fix the timeline here, note to self, as it would have been at least a year before another real battle happened, and Washington didn't take command of the army until July 3, which would, by the storyline, be after this entire first part of the book—just a note. Abigail seemed to realize that they didn't have much of an army at all but a lot of passionate people coming together for the same reason.
              Every day she spent time listening in on other people's conversations and putting together piece of information to figure out what had happened in the war so far, how things were going, and what they could expect. There was talk of a Mr. George Washington, someone who everyone said would be a great General, and there was hope that the Continental Congress would appoint him as such. But nobody knew for sure. That was how almost every conversation ended. Nobody knows for sure.
              Each night, she would meet Edward behind the trees and they would talk, embrace, simply be with each other, or make love, although that was a rare occasion. Explaining that away would be a bit more difficult if they were caught, but then again, almost nobody came back into that area of the woods. In fact, nobody seemed to know that area of the woods existed. It was as if life itself existed within the confines of the campground, and if you weren't in the clearing, you simply weren't there. It made sense, though; there was no attendance to be taken and no real commitment made, so if someone wanted to come or go, they could, as much as they pleased. However, most of the men stayed behind.
              Finally, they received word that the British were moving in and another battle was to begin. This time, they would be ready, though nobody knew how. They had been sent more shipments of ammunition in recent weeks, though most of the men carried their own guns and finding appropriate ammunition was a bit of a problem. Whatever the men had originally brought with them had been used up long ago.
              But what they had was what they had, and it was going to have to do. At least until the time came where they could use something else—do something else—anything at all. It didn't matter, though; this war had seemingly been fought on nothing more than pure passion and principle up until that point anyway, and she knew they would have to rely on the same to get through the next battle.
              Part of her was nervous about the coming battle, since she had never been in one before. Most of their days at the campsite had not even included training for or preparing for a battle in any way, shape, or form. And here she was, about to enter into a real fight the following day when the British were said to approach.
              Much of the time, her thoughts drifted toward Edward, even though she was able to see him every night. Here was a man she had thought she would hate—a British soldier; but then again, he wasn't a British soldier anymore, he was fighting for them, for the patriot cause, and she had fallen in love with him, and he with her.
              What strange turn of events brought them to this occasion, she couldn't guess, and what kind of alignment the stars made in heaven in order to create this meeting, she didn't know. All she knew was that Edward was a part of her life now, as much as breathing was, and she didn't want to see him come to any harm in the coming battle.
              That night, their talk turned to every subject except the ensuing battle the following day. Finally, when it could no longer be avoided, they stood together and held each other for what seemed like years and seconds all at the same time. Abigail wanted to cry, to sob and hold him and tell him to be careful, but there was no way she could. How could she go back to camp like that? Even though all the world was asleep, there was just no way she could risk it. No man would cry out here in battle, so she wasn't about to, either.
              They whispered to each other to be careful, and Abigail felt her heart sink.
              "Edward, don't let yourself come to harm, okay?"
              "You do the same, all right? I don't want to see you get hurt. Truth be told, that's my biggest fear, not what happens to me."
              "Fine, then we both keep ourselves safe for each other. Right?"
              Edward seemed to agree with her, but he seemed to do that a lot lately when she thought that perhaps he secretly didn't agree with her at all, or that perhaps what she was saying didn't apply to them in some way.
              It didn't matter. Tomorrow they would learn what they had been brought to battle for. That night, the sky was barely visible—a cloud cover had come over the encampment.
Fitting
, she thought, as she stared up at the sky trying to fall asleep. Her last thoughts as she finally drifted off were of Edward.

9
The Battle

The following morning, all in the camp were awakened by Bulldog shouting that the British forces were about to meet them. Edward awoke with a start, realizing that this was the day they would be fighting. His head turned immediately toward Abigail, though his eyes were decidedly diverted from her. He couldn't look her way, couldn't see her on the eve of battle, for he knew that if he did he would come undone. He had to maintain a sense of composure.
              For another thing, he feared that he would be recognized by his old troops, the brigadiers he fought alongside back when he had no idea what he was fighting for. Being recognized might not be such a bad thing for him, but he knew that if he were killed, Abigail would be left in the war on her own, and for some reason that gave him a sense of duty, that he could not leave her, that he could not let her go.
              Finally, from a distance, they heard the sound of feet, boots marching along the woodland, drums and battle songs being sung, the sound of an impending battle. In his heart, Edward felt that the only thing likely to happen was that many would die, and he prayed—though he had never done such a thing before in his life—that Abigail would remain safe.
              One of the men standing next to him squinted into the distance as though he was waiting for a ship to come in instead of facing his impending doom.
Perhaps
, Edward thought,
it is really no different for me
. A ship and his death would mean much the same thing: transportation out of here and moving on to another location.
              Edward could understand the look on the man's face. At least, he would have been able to understand it before, but now that he loved Abigail he didn't want to give up so easily. Not that anyone there wanted to give up, per se, but he assumed that it became easier over the extent of the war to become rather complacent about the way things were going. It didn't seem to him that any real good was going to come of anything. At least not today.
              When the first glimpses of red cloth and British flag were seen, the men all shifted, seemingly simultaneously, readying their steps and turning their gazes forward, focusing as best they could on the battle at hand. Wind rustled through the trees, and many in the front row took to their knee, rifle or whatever gun they happened to have at hand, and stood positioned for an attack.
              Some of the other men were armed with pistols, but the majority of them had rifles, and some even had shotguns. Whether or not any of their weaponry would do any good he couldn't tell, but his gun, at least, was a match for the British. While he had worried that his gun would give him away—and still did—he knew he had the advantage in a fight against them. But this was not the same as any time before. This was different. And what could he, one man, really do against the entire British army? Very little, perhaps, but he would fight and he would try.
              As he was debating these things with himself in his mind, he heard a horse riding in from his right. This was not the direction from which the British army should have been coming, and he didn't think it was plausible that they would be making so much noise upon their arrival. He looked toward the origin of the noise and realized that it was one individual, a stately man dressed in a blue and white uniform, though the white had been soiled into a yellowish color. His posture was straight. His horse was swift. Before introductions were made, Edward knew who he was looking at. General Washington had come, and just in time, too. It was clear that the men didn't know what to do. All of them assembled in their ragtag clothing, most of it hanging off them in an unceremonious manner with a variety of weapons they knew may or may not do the trick.
              Their leader had finally arrived, returning from his journeys away to bring back intelligence and let them know what kind of battle they were up against. He had no doubt gotten a glimpse of the British as he made his way back to camp and knew what they intended to do. As he rode up, he surveyed his people like a father surveying his sons about to go to war, about to fight for a noble cause, some of them surely about to die. General Washington had a strong presence and was unmistakably serious about what he wanted done, what the men needed to do, and how they were to behave, but he was kind, as well, and genuinely cared for his troops.
              Finally, he came to a stop before them, majestic on his steed. The men all waited, and Edward could hear the steps of the British ever louder in the background, moving steadily closer to where they stood. Every eye was on General Washington, expecting to be told what to do, how to fight, how this was going to be the battle they won.
              ”Men!" shouted General Washington to the crowd in order to get its attention. "Today is a fine day in the life of our new nation. As you hear the encroaching sound of battle threatening to knock on your door, know this: that you have been called to action not only by me, but by God Himself. This is a divine providence that we should have this land, that this nation should be ours. Whatever happens today, you men must know that the cause we carry forth is indeed a just and noble one and we must, in duty bound, follow the call of freedom."
              To this, Washington was greeted with approving murmurs from the crowd, including from Edward. He wasn't sure whether he should look up at Washington or lower his head. What if somehow this general realized that he was from the British side? There would be no time to explain. But certainly Washington hadn't memorized every face of all the British forces, hadn't committed to his mind and memory every British troop threatening his people. Surely not. As he pondered this, Washington continued.
              "Ready yourselves for battle, men. To defend the cause of freedom and liberty across this great nation of ours and to stake your claim in history. This will be the day that you remember for the rest of your lives as the day you sent the British running. Wait until they breach the tree line, then fire as you will. Do not run, do not back down, and do not stop firing. Defend your freedom, men! Defend your life and the lives of your children and your grandchildren and their grandchildren. Make them proud!"
              He paused for a moment, as though contemplating his own words, perhaps editing them for approval or realizing the weight of them as he surveyed the men. In any event, after a few moments of silence, a drum roll rang out from behind the tree line, perhaps two hundred yards away. It was time.
              "Ready!" he shouted. It was not a question, it was a command.
              Edward was in front, along the front lines, so he knelt down on one knee and readied himself for the breach of the tree line by the British. As his knee sunk into the soft ground, he dared to cast an eye over at Abigail. She was kneeling as well, also on the front lines. From what he knew of her, he couldn't have expected anything else, but his heart sank in his chest anyway. Why would she take the front lines? He knew the answer, but it didn't make it any easier on him. He loved her, and they had only had a short time together. He wanted it to last, wanted to be with her far beyond this battlefield and this war. But now was no time for being sentimental.
              He was back in fighting mode as he heard a particularly loud clash of the drum and realized that they were nearly at the tree line; the British were nearly upon them, and sentimentalities would have to wait for a later date. His heart beat within his chest and he took a deep breath to steady himself. Raising his gun, he caught a glimpse of General Washington, whose horse was near him. Looking up briefly at the General, he thought Washington was peering at him with a knowing look.
Does he know?
he thought.
Does he remember me? Has he seen me before? Has he recalled my face as one of the British troops and thinks me a spy?
The lump in Edward's throat grew and he swallowed hard, hoping that it was only his paranoia that had found him out, and not Washington.
              With a quick motion, General Washington led his horse off toward the right side of the battlefield toward the trees from which he had recently emerged and rounded to the side of his troops, surveying something from a different angle. He cast an eye back at Edward and then looked forward and readied his gun.
              Edward didn't know what to think, and, in all reality, he didn't have time to think at all. This wasn't about battle. Everything else could wait. Even if General Washington somehow realized that he was a member of the British army—or used to be—he found it entirely unlikely that given the dire and pressing situation at hand, this would be the moment that Washington chose to pull him aside and question him. He was right.
              The drum roll was close enough now that Edward knew battle would commence in the next few moments. As he shot one final look over at Abigail, her eyes unwavering and focused, her gun readied, the British army broke through the tree line.
              What happened next Edward could not have explained in any certain terms. There was an eruption of gunfire, booming cannon-like sounds from behind and all around him and coming at him as well. He happened to find his focus and took aim at one of the British troops. Brigadier Thompson. He knew him. And as he fell to the ground from his horse, the reality of what it meant to redirect one's loyalty dawned on Edward.
              Another one of his former fellow soldiers was rushing toward him, Brigadier North, and in a single shot Edward sent him, too, to the ground. The panic was welling up inside him, the image of that one man, the one who changed his mind about his loyalties. Well, it didn't matter now, but it struck Edward as odd. Killing those who were once his fellow soldiers did not render his heart broken and haunt him like that man.
              But this was no time for reflection.
              Brushing the image out of his mind, he continued on. Shouting came from all around him, the British and the colonists now intermingled like porridge and molasses, and it was everything Edward could do to stay focused and not become lost in the battle. This was not like the other battles in which he had been involved. This was chaos.
              "Edward!"
              Horror overcame him as he realized that someone from the British army had recognized him. It was not a question. His name had been uttered as a fact and with a tone of sheer disbelief.
              Turning around, Edward saw a man who had formerly been one of his closest friends in the army. He blinked back tears, knowing he had to take action. This man, too, had to fall, or it would be his own head. Tom Jackson was the man's name, and as Edward raised his gun to shoot, he heard Tom's last words.
              "Edward, what are you doing? Why are you…"
              And with a resounding bang from the gun, his sentence and his life was ended, punctuated by violence and a final crashing blow.
              As quickly as it had begun, the battle was over. The British retreated, pulling back and taking their horses, men, and ammunition back through the trees from which they had come. Calls to stand down came from General Washington, and as the smoke cleared and the guns quieted, the sound was replaced by moans, cries, and a couple of isolated screams. It was clear to Edward even before he turned to view the chaos that although the British had retreated, this army—his new family—had taken serious casualties.
              His only concern was to find Abigail. Knowing it was a risky move, he tried to scan the field quickly and thoroughly at the same time. Finally, he saw her, and his heart fell to his feet. She was over to the side, away from the main battlefield, and was being examined by one of the two soldiers who were also doctors on the scene. She had clearly been injured, her left leg bleeding and her right shoulder seemingly shot.
              Everything in his body made Edward want to run to her, embrace her, hold her hand, tell her it was going to be okay. But he couldn't. He knew that.
              Barely calming himself from thinking she had perished, he realized something else—something that was almost even more alarming. They would know. If they examined her at any length, they would know she was a woman. And just as the thought crossed his mind, he heard his fears spoken aloud by one of the surveying troops.
              "What in the name of…you're a woman!"
              It was enough to make those who were not dying or dead rise to their feet. A few of the men shuffled over to Abigail and the doctors to see what all the commotion was about.
              "I am a soldier," said Abigail.
              "You're not a bloody soldier, you're a damned woman! The lot of you are meant for laundering the clothes and caring for the children, not battle!" a clearly disgusted man exclaimed. He had wiry hair, was short and plump, and seemed to be varying shades of brown. If anything had been white on him at any point, it wasn't obvious.
              "And yet somehow I survived, didn't I?" Abigail retorted, almost spitting the words at him.
             
Oh, Abigail, don't start with your ornery ways right now!
Edward thought. Trying to observe the scene but remain casual in appearance, he moved a little closer.
              Another man stepped forward, tall and muscular with a dark, heavy beard and hands that could easily have been mistaken for clubs. Sneering down at Abigail, he began to taunt her and rouse the rest of the men.
              "A woman among us all this time and yet none of us put her to good use, eh?"
              He and the men laughed huskily, and another, scrawny man joined in.
              "Yeah, you know, you're right; all this battle has got me a bit stressed out, seems I could use some good relaxation, eh?"