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

by Burns, Nathaniel

  Looking down to see what had happened, he saw the tip of a bayonet pointing through his shoulder toward the front and realized immediately that it had been plunged into his shoulder from the back. He couldn't turn around to see who had done it, but he knew the bayonet was British. None of the patriots had a bayonet in their possession, and he had a hard time believing that, even if they were suspicious, any of them would intentionally waste time in a battle by killing a man who was fighting for their cause.

  Whoever had plunged the weapon into his shoulder pulled it out quickly, making Edward cry out in pain. The edge of the blade was serrated and tore through flesh and tissue as it was extracted. Edward felt for a moment as though his arm had been severed from his body and even put a hand up to his shoulder to make sure that this was not the case. When he brought his hand back, it was covered in blood.

  Nausea began to take him over and he sunk even farther to his knees, putting his hands on the ground, wincing as his left hand hit the ground and pulling it back. This threw his balance off and he collapsed to the ground on his right side. Only in that moment was he able to look up and learn the identity of the person who had maimed him in such a brutal fashion.

  His eyes widened when he saw that it was his own—at least his former—commander. The leader of the British army.

  "You are not an Englishman and you have no need to be alive, Edward. Rot in Hell."

  With that, the commander raised his gun and aimed very clearly at Edward's head. The gun cocked, and in the moment before the man pulled the trigger he flew off his horse to the left as though an invisible avalanche had overtaken him.

  Quickly, Edward jerked his head to the left to see that it was Bulldog who had saved his life. For the first time in the entirety of their time together, Bulldog smiled. It was an awkward and brutish smile, even less attractive than that of an actual bulldog, but he knew what it meant. Suddenly it seemed to dawn on Bulldog that Edward was in very poor shape, and he called to Washington to tend to him.

  As Washington approached, his eyes grew larger, as though he was witnessing a horrific event unfold in front of him. The shoulder must have looked as bad as it felt, maybe worse, Edward surmised as he lay on the ground. All around him a tunnel started to form and he was losing his vision, nausea overtaking him, his head pounding as though he had been beat with a thousand hammers.

  Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he heard was Washington commanding several of his men.

  "Get this man to the outpost. Now! He's one of us."

  12 Casualties

  The following morning Abigail awoke to a beautiful sunrise. The torches and lanterns were still dimly lit from the previous night, and against the orange sky the tone was entirely peaceful. Her shoulder felt much better and it was apparent that her bandages had somehow been changed during the night. The doctor, or Doc as everyone called him, and the nurses were so skilled. She hadn't even woken up when they tended to her wounds during the night.

  She sat up slowly, remembering the painful lesson she had learned the last time she arose too quickly from the mat. Her leg still ached and it was almost impossible to move it without pain searing through her leg and down to her foot, but she felt that perhaps she could make it feel better by moving about. Being in one position all that time couldn't have done anything to help her leg. If anything, it was probably in the process of atrophying by now.

  She exercised the kneecap and joint by bending her leg back and out, back and out. At first the pain was almost blinding and she gritted her teeth in order to handle it. Right when the pain nearly forced her back down to her mat, she began to feel some relief, and the more she moved it the better she felt. Finally, the pain gave up its efforts at sidelining her and retreated into a dull ache that was manageable.

  Slowly rising to her feet, she walked toward the cabin. As she reached the door, she exited so quickly a nurse almost knocked her over and then muttered a hundred apologies as Abigail smiled and tried to assure her all was well.

  Doc saw her the second she reached the door because it had a window, or at least a cutout in the wood that one could see in and out of. To her right were more cutouts in the cabin wall, no doubt meant to be windows of a sort, as well.

  He rushed over in his awkward spider walk and hustled her inside, insisting that she sit down at the table with him and enjoy a morning cup of coffee. She smiled and nodded, unable to resist anything Doc offered her, from medication to a cup of coffee. There was something about him that made him seem like a father. Maybe she was just missing her own father. Doc could easily be her grandfather, but in any case she felt close to him.

  "It's going to be a busy day, Abigail," he said in a hushed tone, his glittering eyes peering at her from over his half-moon spectacles and glancing around nervously as though someone else might hear. Apparently he was concerned about throwing the nurses into a panic too early in the day.

  "Oh, no, what happened?" A busy day there was never a good thing, and she knew it.

  "Battle broke out last night over where you used to be. Surprise attack. Came from everywhere. Turns out we did an okay job, but lots of casualties. They put 'em on the wagons last night to bring 'em over our way. Gonna need your help today, Abby. Sorry to put you to work on a bum leg, but just do what you can."

  She smiled. "Nobody's called me Abby in a long time," she said. Sometimes her father would call her that, but only rarely.

  He looked nervous. "Is it okay I called you that?"

  "Of course," she replied quickly. "I like it."

  He nodded quickly and then glanced around the room again. At the same moment, both of them realized that the wagons were about to approach. Flat and wooden, they carried the bodies of the living, the almost dead, and the already passed over. It was a treacherous place to be, and Abigail was happy that she did not recall her journey on the wagons to the outpost.

  She rose to her feet. "What can I do?" she asked.

  "Wait here," Doc said, looking out the window toward the approaching wagons and not toward her. "I'll come back in and tell you what needs to be done. For now, just wait here."

  Abigail sat down on the seat again and sipped her coffee, nervously looking out the window, wondering if anyone she knew was going to be coming through on the wagons. It was impossible to tell, particularly from her vantage point, who was on the wagons. The bodies lay on top of each other all a mess of red and brown, blood and dirt, and no soldier was distinguishable from the next. Most of them were unconscious, and some of them were very clearly dead.

  She waited as the nurses bustled in and out of the door, nodding politely to her as they did and smiling in a forced manner. There was no need. This was no time for pleasantries. Abigail wanted to jump from her seat and help them bring in the bodies, sort out the living from the dead, clean up the living and start treating them. Her father had taught her many things about basic survival and medical care during his time as a doctor. She knew she could put that to use now, knew he would be with her to help her help others.

  Finally, she did rise to her feet and set her coffee down. Slowly, she walked out the doors and watched the process that was unfolding before her eyes. Men moaning as they awoke, some with skin falling from their bones, some with the bone exposed. Many had their heads wrapped in gauze and bandages and cloth because they had been shot, and some also had makeshift braces on broken limbs. One man had lost his eye.

  Partly in horror and partly with compassion, she stood motionless on the porch of the cabin, watching the horrifying scene unfold. How in the world anyone was expected to survive wounds like this she didn't know, but she knew Doc had saved her and could save at least some of these men, as well.

  Her eyes met Doc’s and he motioned her to come over. As quickly as she could she made her way to him and stooped over the mat of a man who had been shot in the stomach. His intestines were partly exposed and he was shaking violently. His eyes were full of fear and sheer terror as he tried to speak but time and time again f
ailed to form any words.

  "Abigail, I need you to hold him still, hold his leg."

  She looked down and saw that his leg was bleeding profusely and had been almost severed in one spot. The tissue was exposed as well as some of the bone. She held his legs down at the bottom, toward the calf, as Doc had shown her, and shut her eyes as he went to work on the man.

  Suddenly, it was as though she felt the man’s life leave him. He no longer struggled or moved at all, and he no longer felt as though his lifeblood was in him. She opened her eyes slowly, looking at Doc instead of the man. Doc looked back at her and nodded, indicating that the man had died.

  The reality of it all was starting to come down on Abigail like torrential rain. People were dying in a violent, horrible manner and suffering so much pain for this cause. She wanted to run back out to the battlefield, even if it meant she would find herself in the same condition. But she knew that was not possible, so she refocused her attention on the task at hand.

  Throughout the morning she helped Doc tend to some of the most severely injured soldiers who had come in on the wagons. Three people died in all, but five were miraculously saved and the rest had minor injuries. Doc told her in one of their very few conversational exchanges during the morning that two more men were inside, where there were two tables with mats for those who needed constant supervision because their wounds were so threatening.

  Finally, when it was about 10 o'clock in the morning, Doc informed Abigail that it was time to come inside again. She made her way through the doors and noticed that her coffee was still sitting on the table where she had left it. Looking down, she saw that her hands were caked in blood and dirt and unrecognizable as her own. Feeling nauseated, she went out to the back where the wash was and began to wash her hands and arms, removing all evidence of the tragic events that had led to those horrific injuries and deaths.

  Coming back inside, Doc told her that he needed help with one of the most critically wounded soldiers but gave her a list of a few other men she needed to tend to first. They were mainly status checks to make sure the men didn't need water or food and that they were comfortable, nothing serious. For all of the serious injuries Doc remained close by her side, teaching her valuable lessons but comforting her, as well, realizing that the newness of the situation was a bit overwhelming for her.

  After tending to the men on Doc's list and ensuring they had all they needed, she went back inside to assist with the man Doc was tending to. He was stout and very built, big but not fat, simply a muscular man, as if he had been logging or building houses his entire life. He was trying to form words but had either forgotten how to speak, was physically unable, or somehow couldn't remember how to make the letters and words come out of his mouth.

  Doc was telling him to stay calm and not to worry too much about not being able to articulate what he was trying to say. The man seemed adamant, although weakly, to get a message across, but Abigail was at a loss for what it could be. She was listening to the man as Doc checked his wounds. He had been almost completely cut open by a bayonet, had lost the lower portion of his left leg, had what looked like part of a spear through his right arm, and had cuts and other lacerations all over his body.

  Finally, Abigail thought she heard what the man had been trying to get out for so long. As she watched his lips move and listened to the faint noises coming from his mouth, she caught a glimpse of his hazel eyes and realized that he was desperate to get the message across. His desperation played out in his eyes, as though the eyes themselves were trying to speak.

  At long last, Abigail heard the words "Tell Rose," but beyond that she couldn't understand anything.

  "Did you say ‘Tell Rose’?" Abigail asked.

  Relief flooded the man's face and he nodded furiously.

  "Is Rose your wife?" she asked.

  Again she was met with furious nods. She smiled and checked the pocket of the man’s clothing. His name was Robert Wade. She looked at Doc and said, "We need to inform a Rose Wade that her husband is injured. That's what he was trying to say." She smiled, happy that she could help in some way.

  The man looked overwhelmingly relieved and kept thanking her profusely, at least as much as the movements of his lips seemed to provide in the way of evidence. She took both of his hands in hers and smiled at him, telling him not to worry, that Rose would be informed.

  As she walked up to retrieve a piece of paper on which she intended to write this information and give it to one of the workers there who acted as a runner, a man who took messages to the various nearby towns for soldiers who were in the outpost's care, the man on the table next to Robert's grabbed her wrist.

  Shocked, she spun around, ready to exchange harsh words with the person who would grab her so violently. But before she could open her mouth, her heart sank and she almost fell to her knees. As she took in the sight of the man, who was covered in bandages, barely conscious, with a large wound on his left shoulder, she realized who the man was. It was Edward.

  13 The Outpost

  Something happened between the last time he saw the battlefield and the time he awoke in the dimly lit outpost. He had been out on the field of battle fighting one of his former friends on the British side, and he remembered taking the shot. The pain radiated throughout his entire body, but he didn't feel it at the time. For some reason, perhaps it was sheer adrenaline, he didn't consider it a serious wound, merely a minor setback, and he had gotten up again, rising from the ground to continue the battle.

  What happened after that he couldn't be sure. He vaguely remembered a blast going off—was it his own gun?—and then silence. To remember the moment his feet were last solid on the ground was like watching an event unfold in slow motion. Nothing seemed real and nothing seemed to be quite in focus. It was as though he had imbued himself with too much drink and fallen asleep, waking up still in a stupor and trying to find his way through the dark.

  He remembered distinctly the moment he hit the ground but nothing between standing and lying down. There was virtually no memory of the actual fall, much like dreaming that one is falling and waking up before hitting the ground, but the opposite. Suddenly there was sky above him and a searing pain like none he had ever felt before. It occurred to him afterwards that perhaps he was only just then feeling the pain that had in reality been coursing through his body for several minutes. Almost as though a battering ram had knocked him to the ground, his entire shoulder area and part of his chest felt as though they were simultaneously being torn from his body and lit on fire.

  His breath had become shorter, and above him the blue sky was slowly funneling out to gray and then nothing. In his last moments awake he had muttered Abigail's name as some last hope of safety and familiarity, though never thinking that he would actually see her, that she would play a part in saving him or helping him in any way. Not that she wouldn't be willing, but he had assumed that by now she was staying with someone else until the battle died down. In retrospect he realized how foolish that was, to think that Abigail would do anything except continue to fight in whatever manner she was allowed, and he chuckled to himself in the darkness.

  The day—had it been more than one?—seemed to replay itself in his mind. After the sky had disappeared from before him he didn't remember anything except waking up. There was only one way anyone arrived at the outpost, and that was by wagon. The wagon, as it was called, though in truth there were many of them, was a purgatory of sorts between the battlefield and the outpost. Many men did not make it to the outpost, and some barely made it onto the wagon itself before passing into whatever fate they had earned in life.

  Creaking wheels and rickety boards were all the dead and dying had to hold them on the several-mile journey, and speed was not the wagon's strong suit. Then again, nothing of any esteem was necessary for the wagon, since nearly every single person who met its acquaintance as a passenger was unconscious for one reason or another. If you were conscious you were fighting and there was no need for the wagon.
Perhaps some soldiers would be treated beyond the trees and then enter the battlefield again, but only the most severe warranted a trip to the outpost.

  Edward wasn't sure what to think when he awoke. The dark room was very different from the bright blue sky he had last seen, and his eyes took some time to adjust. The first thing he noticed was a distinct parched feeling in his mouth, as though he had been chewing on cotton straight from the field for days without any water. A lovely nurse must have either read his mind or been so good at her duties that she simply recognized his need, and he was provided with water almost immediately. This helped soothe him and he continued to feel better throughout the—well, what was it, evening? Afternoon? It must have been evening because he could see past the windows, which were cut openings in the wall, and it was dark beyond them as well.

  After his thirst was ministered to, he continued to take a mental inventory of his working parts to see what had been damaged. He wiggled his toes and could feel them, so he knew he had not been paralyzed. For some reason, this made him feel much better, because he wasn't sure what had been injured when he first awoke. His knees and upper legs were equally mobile, though everything hurt to move. Recalling how bodies were so often dumped like potato sacks on the wagon, he had an idea of how that could have happened.

  He contracted his abdominal muscles, and while they were extremely sore, they, too, seemed to be all right. At least he didn’t have a gaping hole in his stomach, no spilling out of intestines or serious gashes to the side as so many of his patriot friends had suffered. Once he tried to move his upper body, though, the forces that be put him in his place and he humbly sunk back into the pillows and modest bedding that accompanied the wooden slab on which he lay. The same searing pain that had forced him to stare at the sky on the battlefield was now directing his eyes upwards to the old and cracked wooden boards above him.