Edward remembered that he had been riding on horseback when he shot Dr. Warren, and after the doctor had fallen he went over to check on him. He didn't know why; he knew the man was doomed to die. But he had to know, had to see what the man had behind his eyes. As he approached the doctor, he noticed that he seemed rather calm in the face of death, as though he had already known what was going to happen to him.
The doctor had asked him to stop shooting, to stop the fighting, and not to let him die, though the plea not to let him die sounded more like a statement made on behalf of an entire army than the begging of a man who did not wish to die. Other than that, no words passed between them, not until the very last. Just a gaze that seemed to last forever.
And then Edward had asked the question he wished he never asked. Or maybe he was glad. He didn't know anything anymore. He asked the man why they insisted on fighting and what they were fighting for. Dr. Warren had looked him in the eye with kindness and a smile and said, "For freedom, sir. For freedom in what we do, freedom in who we are, and freedom to belong to ourselves. For liberty." After thinking about it some more, he said once again, "For liberty."
The man had passed out right after that, and Edward had felt his pulse. He was still alive, if barely, and Edward knew that Dr. Warren must have been transported to the outpost where he now lay in the dark, a broken man with a broken life, his spirit following suit.
The darkness seemed to envelop him and almost suffocate him, and he didn't know how to fight it. The face of Abigail's father still haunted him, how someone so close to death could be so calm. It was as if he knew he was fighting for something bigger than himself, that it wasn't about him. That was the moment Edward had decided that the rebels were fighting for more than just whiskey and the chance to annoy the King. This was something more. And suddenly, in a single moment, he understood.
It was then that he had slipped away behind the tree line into the forest and gone on his quest to—well, he didn't really know what. To do something. To find something. To go somewhere away from the British army. It was all too much; he had become overwhelmed with the notion and the belief—yes, the belief—that he had been fighting for the wrong side the entire time. Seeing the world through the patriots' eyes, he realized that being owned was not a natural thing, even though so many thought it was, that it was easy for the British to dismiss these patriots as nothing more than rebellious children because the British were the ones with all the power and freedom. At least, they were the people making the decisions. And what about he himself? Wasn't he just obeying orders? Had he even thought about what he believed in?
Not at all. He hadn't thought of it at all. And it was all he could think about in that dark room. He could feel his heartbeat in his chest, and it pounded, not from the wound or the fever, but from something resembling panic. It was as though he was being torn away from something he loved and was fighting desperately to get it back.
But there was nothing he could do about it. The deed had already been done, even though he couldn't have known it, and now what could he do? There was nothing to do but wait for morning and perhaps pray he didn't make it that long. What was left to live for? Yes, he still believed in freedom and wanted to live there, with the patriots, fighting with them, fighting for their cause. But he wanted to live out his days with Abigail. And now what could he do? Live a lonely life in a lonely place?
It was more than that, though—it was beyond him. He had broken the heart of someone he loved before he had ever met her. How was it even possible to understand something like that? He wanted to hold her, to make her feel better somehow, to take away the pain, to try to make her happy again, to give back something he had no way of replacing. His heart was breaking for Abigail more than it was for himself for losing her.
But then he realized that perhaps there was something he could do. He had taken something precious from her, but now she had to spend her days looking at him, tending to him, caring for him. How could he ask her to take care of him, the man who had taken so much from her? He couldn't. He realized there was only one thing left to do. He had to leave.
Even though he was still in pain, he was much improved from the day before and felt that he could make it on his own. After all, he had gone into the forest originally, from the outset, not knowing what he was looking for, and had been given Abigail. Abigail, who made everything so simple and clear, who had shown him so much and breathed life back into his heart and soul.
Maybe the empty woods and his directionless soul would turn up something else once more. Maybe he could go back there and find the answers again. But even if he died alone in the woods, he knew it would be for the best. At least he had given what he could to the cause he had finally found to be his own. In his current state, there was no way he could go back and fight, he knew that. But at least he could leave and not be a burden to those he now saw as his people and countrymen, or to the woman he loved.
Abigail was better off without him. In fact, she had probably always been better off without him. He was the only thing holding her back. Perhaps things would have been different for her if he hadn't been there. How, he didn't know, but nothing was clear and all he could feel was an overwhelming sense that he was intruding on the life of someone who didn't deserve to be intruded upon.
Two candles were still burning on the center table, and from their light he could make out his bag of belongings, limited though they may have been. In fact, most of them weren't even his. They were the clothes Abigail had given him, some of which he still wore. Her father's clothes. The clothes of the man he had killed.
Slowly, he sat up and silently got down from the table and picked up his belongings. As he did so, he realized that it was his final good-bye. The nurses could see anyone leaving, but he knew they were all asleep. Some nurses were on shift at night, but they left every so often to tend to the people outside. They had just done this an hour prior to Abigail's visit, and he knew they wouldn't be doing it again for a few more hours, since morning would break soon.
Without making a sound, he walked over to the door and tried desperately to keep the hinges quiet as he opened it. Nobody stirred. The night air struck his skin like jumping into a river on a hot day, and he felt chilled for a moment and shuddered.
He crept slowly along the side of the building. Toward the wooded area, away from the road, the candles that lit the exterior where the men were being treated disappeared and it was dark. He knew he would not be noticed if he slipped behind the building and off into the tree line. His heart was beating heavily in his chest and felt heavy, as well, knowing that he was leaving behind the thing he had loved for so long—Abigail.
But she was better off without him. How could he ever ask her to forgive him after all he had done? How could he ever expect her to understand or let his ignorance simply excuse what he had taken from her? He couldn't, he knew, and that's why he had to leave. Where he was going, he couldn't say, but he knew it had to be somewhere far from there so that nobody would find him. Least of all Abigail. But something told him that she would not come looking for him, anyway. And why would she? He was now her enemy.
As he reached the tree line, he heard something behind him and allowed himself to turn just slightly to see what it was. The door of the outpost had opened and Doc came out, peering from his left, toward the road, right, toward Edward, and back again. Edward knew there was no way he could see him from that far away, so he froze and stayed still. Finally, Doc went back inside. He wondered if Doc had realized his bed was empty or simply heard the door open. Either way, it didn't really matter. He was gone, and, at least for the moment, it seemed that nobody really seemed to mind or care.
When he reached the trees, he disappeared behind them, but within a few steps he knew something was terribly wrong. He felt something tear in his shoulder and his side simultaneously. Thinking he had brushed up against a branch, he looked down to see what it was, but there was no branch within several feet of him. At least none that wo
uld have been long or sharp enough to cause pain in his side and shoulder at the same time.
And then he saw it.
His stitches had torn open and he was bleeding from his side profusely. The shoulder wound had opened, as well. He knew he needed rest, but he didn't know how touchy of a situation his physical state was in until that moment. Feeling dizzy, he reached in front of him to touch a tree for balance and fell forward, missing the tree entirely with his hand but finding it with his head as he fell forward onto the ground.
Part of him, his survival instinct he supposed, almost made him scream for help. He was out of eyesight, but he knew the people back at the outpost could hear him if he called. Then again, he decided, it was better this way. When he had left he’d had no intentions of dying, and he didn't wish to die now, but if that was what was in store for him, he would take it. After all, what did he have to live for anymore?
His head pounded and he could see the candles in the outpost through the trees in the distance. Trying desperately to get back to his feet, he felt his side scream at him, and his shoulder gave way under him. Facedown in the grass and dirt, he was looking toward the outpost.
The cool ground beneath him was somehow calming, even though he knew he was very likely in the place in which he was going to die. Allowing himself to resist struggling, he simply gazed toward the outpost, wondering what was going on inside, wondering if they had noticed he was gone.
Trying once more to get up, he put his right hand beneath him and, once again, fell down. This time, as he looked toward the glowing lights, they began to fade. He was losing consciousness, slowly at first, and then everything went black.
16 Hope
Tears stung Abigail's eyes as she lay in bed clutching her father’s pocket watch. She opened it and closed it again, looking at her father’s picture. It was a drawing, yes, but such a good one that it was truly like looking into his eyes. What would he have said to her then? What advice would he have given her?
When Edward had told her that the man he had killed was her father, she had been enraged. She felt betrayed. This person she had loved, had given her heart to, had let inside her soul, had taken everything from her. How could he have done it?
But the more she thought about it, the more she began to doubt herself. Maybe she was being too harsh. After all, there was no way he could have known that the man he had killed, the one who had haunted his dreams, was her father until seeing his picture. And even when he did realize it, he could have kept it to himself. He didn't have to tell her. So why did he?
She reasoned that the only motivation Edward could have had for being so honest with her was that he truly cared for her and couldn't lie to her. He could have said nothing. Surely he knew the reaction she was likely have when he told her what he had realized. So why did he tell her? Because he had no other choice. Because his moral compass wouldn't allow him to go in any direction other than honesty when it came to her.
Over and over again she replayed his telling of her father's last moments. Or at least his last moments with Edward. The calm he described sounded just like her father. He wouldn't have panicked about dying for such a noble cause. In fact, he would have been proud to do it. Not that he went into the war hoping to die—nobody did—but he knew the risk and was probably not at all surprised when his time came.
But what stuck with her the most, what stayed in her mind, was how Edward had described the way his heart had changed after his short talk with her father. Her father had always hoped to influence everyone around him to fight for freedom. It didn't seem unrealistic to her at all that her father would have been happy to have the British join their side. After all, they were British once, too. It wasn't until moving to the colonies that they had begun to realize the fallacy of a nation governing a body of people an ocean away.
And if someone wanted to come over to their side? To dream of freedom, as well? Then all the better. Her father would have been so proud to know that he had influenced someone so greatly. So why was she so angry?
In reality, she knew it was the war that killed her father more than anything else. It was the people across the ocean who had decided that instead of simply allowing them to be free, they would have to fight for that freedom. Edward would never have been there in the first place were it not for that. And didn't Abigail herself kill people during the battle? Surely one of them could have been someone's father. But it was part of battle.
Dawn had broken through the window and rays of sun had reached through to greet her before she had stopped thinking about the events of the previous night. But she knew she had been wrong. It was no more Edward's fault that her father was dead than anyone else's, and how could she be hateful toward someone who was so sincere in his desire to change? She still loved Edward more than anything, and she didn't want to lose yet another person she loved so dearly. It was settled. She would apologize to Edward when she got the chance but try beforehand to convey to him that it was okay, that she wasn't angry, that everything was all right between them, if she could.
Dressing quickly in her nurse's garb, she went around the corner by the main table—and stopped dead in her tracks. The bed area where Edward had been lying the previous night was empty and he was nowhere to be found. A few nurses who had risen early were huddled in a corner speaking hurriedly and with concerned faces. Doc was speaking to another assistant to the side when he saw Abigail and smiled.
His face fell when he saw Abigail's expression, and she knew it must have been fairly obvious that she was distressed at Edward's space being open. He couldn't have died; it wasn't possible. Just hours earlier she had seen him and he…everything was…surely not…
She approached Doc.
"Doc, what happened to the man who was just here?" she said, trying to sound professional, desperately attempting to keep the concern out of her voice.
"Nobody knows. He was here several hours ago when we all went down for the night, and when we awoke he wasn't here. Nobody is sure what became of him. S'pose he left during the night for some reason or other."
"Was he well enough to leave?"
"Not by a long shot, no, not at all. Thought maybe he'd be outside layin' with the others, maybe the wood got too difficult to lay on, but nobody's seen him."
Abigail swallowed hard, still trying to hide the fact that she knew Edward. Doc was no fool, though, and he looked around to ensure they were out of earshot of the other nurses before quietly saying, "D'you know 'im?"
She nodded. "Yes, I know him. We…he and I…it…" How could she even begin to tell the story?
Doc chuckled. "No need to 'splain, I understand, things work out funny sometimes. So…you've no idea where he'd be?"
"We argued. You see…He was on the other side…He's British…But then he killed one of our people in battle and the conversation he had with the man changed him. I met him in the woods while I was escaping into the army and he was leaving his. He had told me about the man, but it wasn't until last night—he asked about my locket and…"
Doc's expression turned from that of someone who was listening to a nice love story to that of someone who was hearing a ghost story in several seconds as the realization dawned on him.
"Abby, it wasn't!"
She nodded. "It was my father he killed. He didn't realize it until he saw the drawing. I was unfair to him, Doc. I told him some ugly things. I said things to him I shouldn't have. I was just shocked…I didn't…But now…"
Somehow Doc seemed to put her broken story together and understood why she was so upset.
"Well, Abby, where do you think he'd go? You know him better than any of us."
"I don't know, Doc. I don't know why he'd leave at all. Unless he felt somehow that it was better than contending with me. Perhaps guilt made him…"
And halfway through her sentence she realized where he must have gone. The same place he went the first time something changed his life. The same place he fled to the last time he didn't understand how to handle s
omething. He would have fled into the woods.
She ran outside and looked toward the road, then toward the woods. If I had been injured, she thought, what path would I have taken? Where would I have gone? Straight. Straight along the side of the building and then out into the…
Her eyes squinted as she saw something just beyond the tree line. A white shirt. A white shirt like the one she had given Edward from her father's clothing. There was no reason for anything white to be on the ground in that direction. Whether or not it was Edward, it had to be someone. Someone was lying on the ground in need of help, and she knew in her heart that it was Edward.
Tears streamed down her face and she took off, running barefoot across the field and screaming Edward's name.
"Edward! Edward! Is that you?"
It felt as though she had been running forever, as though she couldn't get there soon enough, but as soon as she arrived within ten feet of the body on the ground, she knew it was him. She began sobbing uncontrollably, all the emotion she had kept inside until that point releasing like the waters behind a dam that had suddenly broken, and she fell hard to her knees next to him, shaking him to wake him.
"Edward! Edward, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Edward please wake up. Please wake up."
She looked toward the outpost and saw Doc coming behind her, much more slowly than she had, of course, and in his awkward, spider-like stance, but he was coming to help Edward.
Suddenly, a moan escaped Edward's lips, startling Abigail and then immediately flooding her with relief. At least he was alive.
Edward began to roll over and she saw how badly injured he was, that the stitches had been pulled, and how much blood he was lying in. The entire left side of his body and right arm was soaked in blood. His eyes opened slowly and she looked into them with eagerness, hoping he could speak somehow.
Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War Page 13