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

by Burns, Nathaniel

  She entered and he shut the door. The small room had just enough space for the two of them to sit comfortably across from each other, with two chairs and a makeshift board sticking out of the wall on the same side as the door that functioned as a desk. Doc had his Bible, some parchment, a few boxes that held unknown items, and a candle.

  The candle was growing dim and he reached over and relit it so they could talk. He plans to be here for a while, she thought.

  "Abigail, how are you doing?"

  Doc's kind eyes glowed and sparkled in the candlelight, and his smile seemed even warmer in the glow of it. She didn't know how to respond. She was doing as well as she could.

  "I'm doing all right, I suppose. It's hard, of course, to see so many people pass on like they did today…" Her voice trailed off as she quickly remembered some of the faces whose eyes had seen her and Doc peering over them before the light vanished from their eyes. "But I'm doing fine. Like you say, if we can save one life it's worth it. And we do. We save lives here every day, and to me that makes it more than worth it. I can't imagine being anywhere else. Doing anything else."

  Her words were sincere, even if it seemed that her heart didn't entirely believe what she was saying. There was exactly one other place she would rather be—anywhere alone with Edward—than there in that room. But she knew there would be a time and a place for that, and it was not that time and certainly not that place.

  Doc nodded his head, seeming to understand what she said. He gazed around the room as if there were many beautiful things to be seen instead of the bare wooden walls. Perhaps he was looking for words to be written on the walls, because he seemed to be, if only temporarily, at a loss for words.

  He slowly reached over and took one of the boxes from his desk in a slow movement. He traced the outline of the top of the box with his fingers a few times, thinking to himself, a funny grin on his face.

  "You remember, Abigail, that I told you your father was here, right?"

  A twang of emotion plucked at Abigail's heart and she found it harder this time to regain her composure. Perhaps it was because she had seen Edward, that had caused her to become emotional, and this was just another abrasion in her emotional state, but she simply nodded to answer his question because she feared that if she spoke she would cry. And once she began to cry, there would be no end to it.

  Doc nodded again.

  "Well, Abigail, when he was here he left something behind. I wasn't sure whether or not I should keep it. After all, the men who…who pass on from here…they often leave things behind, and we certainly can't keep them all. But there was something about this article I felt could simply not be ignored. Could not be passed on. Could not be discarded. It felt important and special and treasured, and so I kept it right here.

  "Then, when I saw you, I knew I had kept it for a reason and that God had brought you across my path. It is no longer right of me to keep this article, Abigail, as it belongs to you. It was your father's and I want you to have it."

  Abigail looked at him in wonder, her heart beating rapidly inside her chest, wondering what in the world her father could possibly have left behind. He didn't carry anything with him other than food and what was absolutely essential for the trip—she knew her father's policy on carrying excess. Anything in excess was excess, as he used to say, and while the logic had seemed circular to her at one point she understood the phrase more clearly after her time in the forest and on the battlefield.

  Doc reached out and slowly, gently took her hand, motioning for her to unfold it. She swallowed hard as a lump in her throat had begun to form. She opened her hand and waited for what he was about to give her.

  He opened the box almost hesitantly and reached inside. Withdrawing the contents, he deposited into her hand what felt like solid metal and chain. Once his hand had withdrawn from hers, she looked down and the tears she had tried so hard to keep back would not stay put.

  Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the pocket watch in her hand. Her father never went anywhere without his pocket watch, but she had assumed he would have left it behind going into battle, seeing it as excess. For a moment all she could do was stare at the watch in her hands, not daring to touch or open it. Finally, she took her right hand and picked it up from her left.

  She ran her fingers over the engraved surface and then finally turned the small, dial-like device that opened the face of the watch. Inside the case, opposite from the watch, was a picture of her and her father that had been drawn by one of his good friends. It was almost as if she was looking at her father. His friend was one of the most talented sketch artists they knew, and he had done the sketch a few years back when Abigail was younger. She remembered the day, remembered sitting next to her father, his arm around her, as their friend casually sketched them.

  When that Christmas had come around, his friend remembered how much they had both loved the picture and found a way to put it into the pocket watch. The pocket watch was not new that year, but the addition of the picture was, set behind a piece of glass, as though it had been crafted that way from the outset.

  Doc spoke and his words fractured her memories and brought her back to a sense of reality.

  "Your father gave me that to hold onto until he left…he thought it would be stolen from him by others while he was out in the yard. Not by any of us, but by other soldiers. It happens sometimes, you know. Soldiers get ready to leave and "accidentally" pick up other soldiers' items so they have more to themselves and more to work with.

  "Well, anyway, he asked if I would keep it safe for him. Couldn't stop talking about his beautiful daughter Abby who he loved so much. Talked about you all the time, up until the last. And I promised him I would keep the watch safe.

  "When he passed away, I just couldn't throw it out. I just felt that at some point I would need it. And when you came my way I knew why I had kept it. This is yours, Abby, not mine, and your father would have wanted you to have it."

  She gazed down at the pocket watch, still enraptured by her own thoughts of the past, a past she ever so briefly wished she could return to. But then her mind came into focus and the present day was at hand. She knew her father would scold her for living in the past—at least as much as he could scold her, with a smile—and she looked up at Doc with a smile.

  "Doc, I don't know how to thank you for this. I don't know anyone else who would have bothered to keep this, and I just can't tell you how much it means to me. I have no words to express what you've done for me by giving me this. It's like you gave me my father back in some way. A piece of him. He carried this always and I thought it had been lost in some way or another. Either he had left it with my mother or lost it in battle. I never imagined he would have brought it with him. He always told me to leave things that were not essential behind when going out into the woods."

  A silence passed between them, and Doc seemed to be pondering what she had said, looking off to the right slightly and then back at her.

  "You were never non-essential, Abby," he said, and his eyes glistened with rebel tears that had escaped his carefully constructed wall of emotional neutrality. "When he carried this he was carrying you with him. You were the most essential thing he could have brought."

  After spending a few more minutes in the room talking about her father and other things pertaining to the watch and the battle, their conversation ended and she went to the nurses' quarters, wearing her father's pocket watch around her neck. He had always kept it on a long chain and she remembered teasing him, saying that he was going to lose it someday because the chain was too long. But now she was glad it was so long.

  Not wanting to be asked about the watch, she tucked it inside of the front of her dress and decided she would wear the apron over it the next day and on through her working duties. She lay down and attempted to get a few hours' sleep, but part of her was afraid she would sleep for too long and not be able to speak with Edward.

  When the time was right, she got up out of bed and sn
uck over to his bedside. Gently patting his arm, she woke him from his sleep. His broad grin told her that it was perfectly okay to wake him.

  "Are you all right? I'm so glad to see you here and still breathing. I was so scared," she whispered.

  He reached up with his left hand, since his right shoulder was still so wounded, and touched the side of her face gently. She took his hand in hers and momentarily closed her eyes, enjoying this small but welcomed break in the horror of the day and relishing the chance to be close to him again.

  "I'm all right now," he responded. She opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling overcome with emotion. The entire night had been that way; she was growing tired of fighting the tears.

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, Abigail, it's a long story. They caught me, at first, you know. General Washington himself. They had me up in the holding rack in the forest."

  "No! How did they find out?"

  "My gun. Only the British use this gun. Washington saw it and knew right away that I had to be from their side and thought I was a spy."

  "How did you ever get out? Are you a fugitive?"

  She said it almost jokingly, with a twinkle in her eye, and he laughed.

  "I may have been, but I heard the British troops riding in. Nobody else could hear it because they were on the battlefield and it was too noisy. But from my vantage point in the woods, I could hear it. So I called out and warned them. Well, Washington thought that if I was going to do all that, clearly I was no spy, so he let me go. And then I was shot by one of my former friends. Called me a traitor and such. Last thing I remember, I passed out on the field and then woke up here."

  Abigail's eyes were wide with wonder listening to this tale he was telling her. She couldn't believe he had actually been found out—and pardoned—and then wound up there. It was almost unbelievable, but she knew it was too wild to be made up.

  "I don't want to say I'm glad you're here, because you have to be wounded to be here, but—I'm just so glad to see you. Are you feeling okay?"

  "I'm feeling much better, actually; just this pain in my shoulder. But the fever is gone. And I'm glad to see you, too." He smiled kindly at her and she smiled back. She had been holding his hand at his side through all of this.

  Looking around the room to ensure she was not going to be seen, she leaned down and put her arms around his neck. He embraced her with one hand in return, his shoulder in too much pain for him to raise his arm. As she pulled back, the pocket watch fell out of her dress. She gathered it quickly into her hand as though it would run away from its own chain.

  "What's that?" Edward said curiously.

  "A trinket Doc gave me. Much more than a trinket, actually. As it—" she was cut off by the man to Edward's left snorting in his sleep, and she lowered her voice. "As it turns out, my father…he passed away here. And he always carried this pocket watch. There's a picture of us inside, and Doc kept it after my father died. Said he just couldn't bear to get rid of it. And so he gave it to me, since now he’s found its rightful owner, as he said." She smiled.

  Edward seemed touched. "That's beautiful. May I see the picture?"

  She would not have opened the pocket watch for anyone else. She wanted to keep her father to herself and felt almost as if allowing someone else to see the photo would take him away from her. But for Edward she felt comfortable.

  As she opened it, she held the candle that was at Edward's bedside closer to it so he could see. She couldn’t understand his reaction. Shock and almost horror came over his face, and he instantly burst into tears.

  "Edward…Edward, what…Are you all right?"

  She couldn't understand his reaction. It is a touching photo, she thought, but how could it mean so much to someone who has never even met my father? Someone who had never known us? She reached out to embrace Edward and he pushed her away. Her heart sank and she felt as though he had reached through her flesh and broken it when he pushed her away from him.

  "What on earth is the matter with you? Why are you pushing me away…? Edward…darling, what is it?"

  A few moments passed before Edward could regain his composure. His hands were shaking like someone with palsy and his face looked ghastly. He struggled with the words for quite some time while she looked around the room, thinking his outburst must surely have woken someone, but mercifully it had not.

  "Abigail…do you remember…" His voice trailed off and he hung his head, then looked at her again. "Do you remember when I told you about the who begged me for his life? How…how I killed him, and how at that moment I knew I couldn't fight for the British anymore? How something about him—something in his eyes—told me that I wasn’t fighting a war but simply murdering my fellow man?"

  "Yes, I do. But…"

  He raised a hand to stop her from speaking.

  "That…" He pointed toward the pocket watch and began to weep once more, quietly this time, tears streaming down his face. "Abigail, that man you just showed me. That's the man. He's the one. He's the man I killed."

  Her world was spinning and she didn't know how to make sense of anything. What was he saying? She looked at him, hoping he would say something different, clarify it, make it better, but he just looked at her with sorrow and then hung his head again, putting his hand to his face and quietly sobbing violent sobs that shook his entire body.

  Suddenly, all at once, she realized what he was saying. He had killed her father. The man she loved had killed her father.

  15 Truth And Pain

  Edward was helpless. For the first time in his life, he felt completely and utterly helpless. When Abigail had discovered the truth, when he realized that the man who had haunted his dreams for so long was the father of the woman he loved, he couldn't help but cry. Emotions were never something Edward was comfortable expressing, but in this instance he didn't seem to have much of a choice. His tears came forth like rebellious forces of nature that broke through a long-secured dam.

  The necklace around her neck had made him curious, the pocket watch, but now he wished he had never asked. When she came to him in the night to see how he was doing, to talk, like they had on the battlefield under the tree, he had felt better than he had in days. Seeing her again brought joy to his heart, and her words and voice seemed to heal him better than any salve or ointment they had at the outpost.

  But here he was, alone in the cold darkness. It was to be expected, at least after the ugly truth had surfaced and all was laid bare. Abigail was shocked at first, and he wasn't sure whether she was going to throw something at him, cry, or run away. The look had pained him, her face aghast, washed clean of all color, not even seeming to breathe, waiting for the truth to change. Waiting for something. Perhaps she was trying to reverse time to a few moments earlier so that she would never have had to know. But once her expression changed again, she became frantic.

  Her hands were shaking, and she clutched the pocket watch back to her and put it beneath her dress once more, as though it had been stolen and violated and she had to return it to a sacred place. Her breath returned to her in gasps, short at first, and then in sobs, tears streaming down her face.

  "No, Edward, you're wrong, it can't be, it…it wasn't him," she stammered, trying desperately to keep her voice low, he could see, but he could still hear the words as she tried to make the truth a lie.

  "Abigail, I'm sorry…I didn't know…dear Lord, how could I have…I didn't know. I wasn't thinking for myself, I wasn't thinking on my own. We were told to kill and we killed, and it wasn't until him…not until then did I start wondering why. Not until then did I start wondering what I was fighting for. Your father, in some way, he changed me. I know this isn't easy and I know it doesn't make anything better, but you have to believe me. I never even knew you then, Abigail. I didn't…"

  "And I wish I had never known you!" she spat at him, horrified sadness being replaced by fiery anger. He wasn't sure which was worse, the anger or the sadness.

  "I don't blame you for feeling that wa—
"

  "Don't patronize me, Edward. Don't you dare sit there and speak to me like someone who understands. You don't understand. You don't have any idea what you did to my family. What you did to me. You ripped the only thing I ever loved from my life, and now you want to tell me how you don't blame me for how I feel? Like Hell you can blame me."

  She stood to leave and he attempted to grab her hand, which she ripped away from him, whirling around to face him.

  "Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me again. Your hands killed my father. You keep them to yourself, or God knows what you'll do to me."

  "Abigail, that's not fair. You know I would never hurt you!"

  "I know nothing! Nothing, Edward!"

  She stared at him, her whispering anger as loud as thunder in his ears, and he felt tears sting his eyes. He knew she was angry, he knew she was confused, but logic couldn't help him, couldn't make him feel any better this time.

  Now she was gone, back to the nurse's quarters, or somewhere else, he didn't know, and he was alone in the dark. Even though he was still surrounded by people, patients on either side of him and a field of others beyond the window, he had never felt more alone in his entire life. Even in the forest before he had met her he had never felt so alone. Perhaps it was missing the company that she had provided him for the past several weeks, but he knew it was more than that. It was the feeling of guilt.

  There was no way he could have known how his life would turn after he shot that man—her father. He remembered very clearly the day he shot and killed him, and he remembered that he didn't die slowly. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he himself had killed him, because Dr. Warren had passed out before he rode off but still had a pulse. He had checked.

  It had been a day like any other; he had been tasked with raiding the place where the patriot army was encamped. Certainly they had disobeyed some order or another from the King and had to be put in their places. Riding past the man he now knew to be Dr. Warren, he had aimed, shot his gun, and the man had fallen to his knees. But there was something different about that man. The way Dr. Warren had looked at him when he fell. A look had passed over his face, of knowing, of understanding, of wishing he could have said something before he was killed. It was then that Edward had felt the first twinge of pain for someone not of his own army.