Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War

by Burns, Nathaniel

  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?"

  He dragged out t
he word relaxation with the sneer of a villain. The crowd rang out in laughter. The brute chimed in again.

  "Ey, yeah, Jordan, how's about I go first and you go next and we'll take our turns, she seems to be not so badly injured, I'm sure she would be good for a go."

  Abigail spit in his face and it was everything Edward could do not to applaud.

  The scrawny man reached out and touched her leg, moving it up toward her crotch.

  "Ey, yeah, Mike, I think you got a real deal there."

  Abigail jerked her leg away from him and slapped him across the face.

  Just as Mike, the brute, raised his hand to strike Abigail, Washington caught it in mid-swing with his own hand and twisted it behind Mike's back, reducing him instantly to a whimpering pile of muscle.

  "What has gotten into you men?" demanded Washington.

  "We got a lady among us, sir."

  Washington stopped and peered down at Abigail, who was frightened but strong, her facial expression a mixture of admiration for the General, fear of the men, and indignation that she couldn't get up and fight with the rest of them and keep going. He examined her with his eyes, not in the way the other men had, but with curiosity, as though trying to figure out what species she was and what her motives could be.

  "This is not how men of mine treat a woman," he said calmly but with stern reproach for the men, keeping his eyes on Abigail.

  "But sir, she been fightin' alongside us lyin' to us abou—" Washington cut him off.

  "Yes, Spencer, fighting alongside you, fighting for freedom with you, under a disguise, to be sure, and I will handle that issue on my own. But you men are perverse and a disgrace to everything we stand for as an army, as men, and as Americans. Get back to your stations, help someone out, or go to sleep. Surely you are all heat crazed and need your rest."

  The men grumbled and dispersed and Washington gave them a searing glare as they did so. Then his gaze quickly returned back to Abigail, though he was speaking to the doctor to his right.

  "Dr. Parish, get this young lady to the nearest medical center and arrange for her to stay with Sam Dodson's wife in the next town over. She can take care of her there and we can arrange for her dismissal from the army…honorably."

  "But sir," Abigail started to say, "I appreciate your concern, and your grace, but please just let me fi—" Washington held up a hand, cutting her off.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is no place for a woman, though you have served your country well in this battle alone. I have no doubt of your aptitude for battle, you have proved that today, but for being dishonest, and more so for your own…" he paused and made a disgusted gesture toward the men who had just left "…protection, I find it necessary to dismiss you."

  Abigail lay back on the ground and nodded. Good girl, thought Edward. Now he could fight, he could go on, knowing that Abigail would be safe.

  He turned around and headed toward the battlefield to see if anyone needed help, but everyone seemed already passed on, asleep, or in no mood to talk to anyone, so he went over to the tree—their tree. He could see now that there was no reason to hide his going there: Abigail was gone.

  As night fell, he leaned against the tree and imagined that Abigail was with him. He could almost feel her leaning against him, her head on his chest, her lips against his. But, opening his eyes, he realized again that he was alone. Relieved that he no longer had to worry about her safety on the battlefield but deeply saddened by her departure, he felt conflicted. The images of the faces of the men he had once fought with but whose lives he had taken in battle ran across his mind like a scroll. He didn't know what to feel. He still felt more for the man—the one man who had changed everything, the man whose eyes he had looked into, who begged him for mercy before he shot him—than he did for the people he had fought with.

  If nothing else, it gave him the comfort that he had made the right choice. But still. The image of that man haunted him, and he wished it hadn't come to this with his former friends.

  As he was about to drift off, he felt the muzzle of a gun at his neck and his eyes shot open. He looked up slowly and realized it was General Washington, his eyes narrowed, his face set and stern.

  "Sir?" said Edward.

  "Come with me," said General Washington. "I want to have a chat with you. Brigadier."

  As two of Washington's men hoisted Edward to his feet, he felt his heart sink and fear overcome him.

  10 Wounded

  Abigail opened her eyes and realized that she was at the clinical quarters, which were more of an outpost than an actual doctor's station. She expected as much. After all, this was a battlefield, not a health center. As her eyes adjusted to the light, they focused on a cloud in the sky. There was only one. It was a beautiful day, and the sun on her face felt wonderful. She took a mental inventory of her body to make sure everything felt right. Her shoulder was still in pain, and as she tried to lift herself from the mat she was lying on—it felt like bamboo or straw, with perhaps a cotton sheet over it—she felt a searing pain in her left leg, like an iron had been stuck into a wound.

  She cried out, and immediately three faces were over her. Two were women whose eyes seemed extremely concerned, the other a man whose face showed an expression of concern mixed with…was it admiration? The women looked similar to one another, and it crossed Abigail's mind that they might be sisters. They both had white, bonnet-like caps and long dresses, pure white skin with rosy cheeks, and thin statures. One woman had blue eyes, the other brown. The man was tall and thin with pointed features and gentle eyes, bright blue. Shocks of white hair came from under his cap, and he was very clearly the doctor.

  "What happened?" she asked, as the details of her arrival at the outpost were not yet clear in her mind. The two sister nurses looked at each other nervously, as though neither of them wanted to speak. The doctor, who had previously peered down at her through glasses, took his glasses off and looked at her with cautious eyes.

  "Well, miss, it appears you got yourself wrapped up in the battle somehow and took a good blow to the leg and a shot to the shoulder." He gave her the kind of look a father would give his child when kindly reprimanding them for stealing cookies out of the cookie jar.

  Suddenly, the events of the previous day came swiftly to the front of her memory. Trying to sit up straight and look around, she pulled her shoulder and was forced back onto the mat by pain.

  "Careful…careful, miss," said the doctor.

  "I'm supposed to stay with the wife of Sam Dodson," she murmured, remembering that she had been dismissed from the army. Bitterness crept into her voice but also a hint of gratitude. She knew General Washington could have just as easily punished her with a far harsher sentence than simply providing her shelter and not allowing her to return to the army.

  "Yes, miss," the doctor replied, "we have already arranged for you to stay there once we get you back on your feet. You took quite the beating out there. Can't say I understand the yearnin's of a woman to be out there firin' guns and such, but…"

  He trailed off and looked toward the ground, as though he was thinking very hard about something and simultaneously trying to figure out what to say and how to word it.

  When he looked back up, Abigail thought she could almost see a hint of tears, but not from sadness. Perhaps from a sense of pride, as a father might have in his daughter. Perhaps something else.

  "But you know what," he continued, "I can understand a citizen wantin' to go stand up fer their country and I know…I know that's what ye were doin'. And I have to commend you, miss. Woman or man, you love your country, and we are all of us citizens of this new but great nation. We'll win it, y'know…God's on our side."

  Abigail was touched by the doctor’s small speech. The last thing she expected was for anyone to understand what she had done and why—least of all a man.

  The two other women who were standing there beside her looked at each other nervously and then at the ground. One of them, the blue-eyed girl, lifted her head and l
ooked at Abigail, patting her hand gently, which was resting on her stomach.

  "It was real brave of you, miss," she said. "Real brave."

  The other girl managed to look up from her shoes, which had become ever so interesting in the past five minutes, and nodded, smiling at her.

  Tears of gratitude stung Abigail's eyes. All she could manage to do was smile weakly and look back and forth at the three individuals standing around her. Finally, she said "Thank you."

  Almost as quickly as this sentimentality had come on, it left, and the doctor and who she assumed were his nurses went back to work and to the matter at hand, which seemed to be her leg. This led her to believe that perhaps the shoulder injury wasn't all that bad, but for everything she could feel, it was equally as painful.

  Edward crossed her mind, and she couldn't make him leave it. As the doctor and nurses tended to her wounds, she let herself go back to the tree where she and Edward had spent so many nights and wondered where he was right at that moment. As she was being carried away from the battlefield, she had caught a glimpse of him as he was turning his back toward her and walking toward the front lines again. At least, she thought, he survived up until this point.

  At some point, Abigail drifted off to sleep, and when she awoke the sun was beginning to set. Finally, she was able to sit up slowly and look around. The outpost was very much in the wilderness, very similar to the location from which she had come. In a clearing of trees, a wooden cabin of sorts, though not as stable as one, had been erected for the purpose of treating battle injuries. While most individuals were treated outside, the cabin was there to store supplies and for the doctors and nurses to prepare treatments.

  A constant stream of nurses bustled in and out of the cabin, but there seemed to be only two doctors. Tall trees towered over her and directed her eyes to the sky, which had gone from bright blue to shades of purple and pink at the sunset hour. She was on the same cotton mat on the ground, and that mat was on top of another made of bamboo or some other tough fiber.