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.
4 Darkness
Abigail traveled silently through the night, away from the place she had called home for so long, knowing that what was left there was nothing but misery. Everything changed the day her father died, and she had no hope of it ever being the same. Right about now, she thought, as the dawn crept up over the horizon, her mother was very likely awakening. In a couple of hours, perhaps not even that long, her mother would go to wake her and find her gone. Abigail had thought of leaving a note, but then thought better of it. After all, women were not allowed in the army, and her mother would almost certainly go and tell the officials immediately upon reading the note.
No, it was better for everyone if she didn't. If she just left, as simple as that, and let her mother wonder where she had gone. Written evidence of her plans would have been silly. She may as well arrive at the battlefield and announce herself as a woman. And after all, her mother had left them in a way, too. Always stern, her demeanor had violently taken a turn for the worse in recent years, and she left no note of where the person she used to be had gone, so why should Abigail leave a note giving her the courtesy of that knowledge as it pertained to her physical being?
The thought of this justification soothed her as she walked along. Once she had left the house behind, she had crossed over into the wooded area just beyond the dirt road that was almost visible along the side of the house. It was a trail, really, not quite a road, but it was the closest thing to a road they had there.
The clearing her father had always taken her to was only about three miles into the forest, but getting there was much more difficult than it seemed, particularly in the dark. Her father had only ever taken her into the forest in the daylight, never at night, and he had always ensured that they were home before sundown.
She thought it was fitting that after her father's death she would return to this place in the darkness, in the night. Night was what she felt in her heart now that her father was not there, so night was when she traveled to their spot now.
Darkness was what she needed, too. It was time for her to transform into Raymo
nd Smith, her disguise as a man for the army. Luckily, nobody had to prove anything except their loyalty to the cause when joining up, so as long as she could pass herself off as a man, her identity was hers to create and hers alone to know.
About two miles into the woods, it started to rain. Fitting, no doubt, but uncomfortable, to say the least. Abigail thought to herself that there would likely be many a rainy day in battle, and she reasoned with herself that using this rain to become stronger, tougher, would help her. She lifted her chin and kept walking, ensuring that she did not show her discomfort, even to the trees. What might they tell of her to someone else walking past?
Arriving at the clearing, Abigail found the tree she was hoping would still be in the same arrangement as before. Sometimes, whether due to animals or people, limbs from trees were gone and leaf coverings were not where they used to be, or they had disappeared altogether. Luckily, the covering she was hoping to obtain was still there, and she was glad for it.
Hunching down against the tree, trying to find as much shelter from the rain as possible, she removed the sack from her back and set the other one down as well. It was a nice reprieve, even with the rain, to be able to set down her pack for any length of time. Her father's clothing was still inside, and she knew just enough about sewing to make it fit.
Another glorious benefit of not having the most organized army in the world, she thought: no uniforms. That saved her the trouble and moral dilemma of stealing one, and she was able to keep something of her father's with her. He had never worn these clothes to battle, had always insisted on using something else, something more official. Always proud of his support of the patriot cause, he always had to look his best, even though he knew that at the end of his time away, should he return, the clothing would be unrecognizable anyway. It was, as he always said, just a matter of principle.
Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War Page 3