The Hour of Dreams

by Shelena Shorts

  I hurried closer, hoping it was William and not someone far more dangerous. The body lay completely still, despite the rustling of my approach, and I began to fear the worst.

  His back was to me, but I was close enough to see the red color of his coat and know it was definitely him. I reached out my hand hesitantly, and, in the blink of an eye, his body lurched toward me. He seized my collar in a tight grip. I closed my eyes and yelped as a sharp object pressed against my side.

  “Wait!” I cried, opening my eyes. The first ray of morning had peeked over the horizon, and I could see the brown eyes of a desperate boy. “It’s me,” I pleaded, recognizing William’s familiar face.

  His eyes widened, and he gave a frightened shiver. He released me, falling back against the ground. The arm holding the weapon fell lazily beside him.

  I scooted closer to him. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded weakly, and then glanced over my shoulder. “What are you doing out here? It’s not safe.”

  A creepy chill crept up my spine as I, too, looked around. Several sounds became audible, but it was too difficult to decipher who or what was making them. Feeling vulnerable, I pressed my lips together and focused on him.

  “You should have stayed put.”

  He chuckled weakly. “And be mobbed to death? I prefer not.”

  He was right, but I needed him to know how much I cared, even if they didn’t. “I came back for you, with my father. We came to get you, and you weren’t there.” He turned and looked at me in surprise. “And I was worried,” I added.

  He looked at me softly for a short moment and then mumbled, “You must go.”

  “And leave you here alone? I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll be fine. More of my army is coming from the south. I’ll wait for them.”

  Suddenly my father’s words replayed in my mind. God help us all. The realization of what that could mean gave me more chills, but I stayed focused in the moment.

  “Let me see your wound,” I said assertively.

  He shook his head and turned away.

  “Yes,” I argued, feeling like my mother. I went to move his coat and was shocked by the stiffness of the material. It was hardened with dried blood. William capitalized on my hesitation and placed his hand firmly over mine.

  “Don’t,” he said, gazing cautiously at me.

  I looked into his brown eyes for a long moment, absorbing the coldness of his hand on mine. His body temperature was too low, but he still made me feel warm. How was that possible?

  The feelings were completely strange to me, but they felt comfortable, like when I was with Charity or my own family.

  “Move your hand. Please?” I asked. He shook his head, never taking his eyes off me. “Please?” I whispered, struck by all the shades of brown in his eyes. My heart pounded from the intensity, and I was about to crack from impatience, when he blinked and moved his hand away. It took me a moment to realize what he was granting, and when I did, I quickly seized the opportunity to peel up his shirt, revealing a swollen gash about two inches long. My breath caught when he twisted his torso away from me, only to reveal the mirror image of the wound on the back side.

  I cringed and pulled his shirt down, not needing to think about what to do next. “Get up,” I ordered. He turned back, his brow raised. “Come on. Get up.” I was no longer concerned with outside dangers. His greatest threat was already upon him and he needed help immediately.

  He didn’t move, but I could see a small tear forming in the corner of his eye.

  “Please,” I said, remembering the effect of my first plea. “I won’t leave you out here alone.”

  “Where can I go?” he asked, resting his head against a rugged tree root protruding from the ground.

  “Well, my house, of course.”

  He shook his head weakly. “Your parents won’t—”

  “They will.” I glanced around, noticing our now-lighter surroundings. The growing daylight was making me nervous, because the more my parents worried, the more likely it was that they would send people to come look for me. That was the last thing we needed.

  “We have to hurry,” I pleaded. “Otherwise people will start looking for me. And I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

  He glanced my way again. “Why do you want to help me so much?”

  I sighed impatiently. “Because you saved my father…and me. And…” I paused, softening, realizing the whole truth in it. “Because I like you.”

  The words shocked even me as they rolled off my tongue, but I held still, maintaining composure. He studied me for a long moment and then nodded once.

  I wasn’t sure what that meant until he attempted to stand. Then, no longer contemplating the moment, I lunged forward and positioned myself beneath his arm, helping him to his feet. We said nothing as we returned to the pathway, but his firm grip on my shoulder told me I wasn’t leading him by force.

  He walked as best he could, with minimal complaining, and never released his hold from my shoulder. The closer we got to my house, the more nervous I became about exposing him to the open. Especially with him wearing the red coat. I stopped walking long enough to suggest that he remove it, and he did so willingly, turning it inside out and carrying it beneath his other arm.

  As soon as we reached the boundaries of my family's property, my mother and father burst through the front door. William tensed, but I kept walking, pulling him along. When my father got close enough, I could see his lips pressed in a tight line as he ran full speed. I expected him to scold me, but he just ran to William’s other side, lifting him noticeably higher, and began leading him along with more urgency.

  “Have you lost your wits, going off like that?”

  “Father, I’m sorry. But I told you—”

  “Phoebe!” My mother shouted, holding the hem of her dress as she ran closer.

  “Your mother has been worried sick,” my father griped as he pulled a pace ahead with William, who hadn’t dared speak a word.

  “What were you thinking?” My mother hissed as she reached us.

  “Mother, we won’t let him die.”

  She looked him over with nostrils flaring, and then scurried beside him, grumbling.

  “If you harm one hair on my Phoebe’s head, I will—”

  “Mother!”

  “I won’t harm her,” William interrupted.

  “That is right, you will not,” my father added, guiding him relentlessly.

  Relieved that the hard part seemed to be over, I hurried ahead of them and turned around. “Why are we walking so fast?”

  “Phoebe,” my father said harshly. “It’s morning, and, in case you haven’t noticed, rebels and the continental army are coming, and they will pass right by that very road over there.” He didn't need to point. I knew it well. Our property sat right off the main pass. “And I don't want anyone to see that we're sheltering a redcoat, wounded as he may be.”

  William slowed his already labored stride and unwrapped his arm from my father. “I can be off, Sir,” he said.

  “It’s too late for that,” he argued, grabbing hold of him again and hurrying him along. William winced, but did not protest.

  Upon finally reaching the confines of our house, my mother ordered us to keep him in a bedroom upstairs and to speak of his presence to no one. I quickly arranged his bedding and boiled water to clean his wound. My mother moved around the kitchen, irritable but quiet. Father helped William up the stairs and then left the house without a word.

  When I reached William’s room, I found my brother standing over him. “Andrew, back away,” I ordered, carefully carrying the hot water.

  “I want to help,” he said.

  It was not a good time to be meddling, but I appreciated his selflessness. “Okay. Help me take off his shirt.”

  I tried to pretend that I was allowing him to stay only because he wanted to, but the truth was that it made me nervous to undress William alone.

  I took a deep breath and focus
ed. “William. You are going to have to let us take off your shirt so I can clean your wound.”

  “This really isn’t necessary,” he mumbled, regaining eye contact with me.

  “I cannot get to your wound if you don’t take it off.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I just mean this.” He waved his hand at the water bowl.

  “I feel uncomfortable overstaying your family’s hospitality.”

  “Then let me help you so you can be on your way,” I said sharply, feeling like we were wasting precious time.

  He shared a long glance between me and my brother and then slowly sat up.

  Andrew helped him pull the sticky shirt over his head, revealing angry scars slashed across his shoulder blades and back. I sucked in a sharp breath, prompting him to look my way. Andrew’s eyes were wide. William bowed his head, making me feel horrible. Trying to regain my composure, I blinked several times and cleared my throat.

  He lay back, and I was again confronted with the swollen wound. My hands started shaking as I realized this whole experience was beyond my expertise, but I dared not ask my mother for assistance. She didn't know I had planned to nurse him at all, so I sucked up my nerve.

  “All right,” I began. “I’m not sure how—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I can—”

  “No,” I countered quickly. “I want to.” Why? I had no idea. Perhaps I owed it to him.

  Without further delay or loss of nerve, I took the rag, dipped it once into the water, and began to wipe away the dried blood and dirt. His stomach muscles tightened, drawing my gaze to his bare chest, which was smooth in contrast to his back.

  I quickly returned my attention to his wound, soaking the cloth and re-wiping. When finished, I turned him over slightly and worked on the exit wound. Again, the tensing of his muscles against the hot water drew my eyes over the ridges of his back. The crisscrossed scars made me feel both curious and intensely sorry for him at the same time.

  What had happened to him? Unable to stand the sight, I placed my hand on his bare shoulder and rolled him back toward me.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he whispered, unable to look me in the eyes. I was about to reassure him when a sharp tone sliced through the air. “Phoebe! Back away from him this instant!”

  I jerked my hand back and turned to face my mother. “You frightened me!”

  “We said he could heal in our home and that is the extent of it. Nothing more. You need not tend to him.”

  “I was just cleaning his wound.” I was about to argue over her insensitivity when I noticed that she was carrying a wet towel and cup. She was on a mission and I knew well enough to step aside.

  “You are not to be alone with him,” she ordered as she walked closer.

  “I’m not. Andrew is here.” I pointed, reminding her.

  “Well—”

  “Did you bring him something?” I asked, trying to refocus on her sense of purpose.

  “Yes. I brought him something to drink.” She sat the cloth on the bed next to him. “This is to clean yourself. John is bringing you something for your wound. And drink this,” she instructed, handing him the cup.

  “Thank you,” he said softly, taking it.

  “Drink all of it,” she ordered.

  He took a whiff and made a face. I dared step closer to get a better look. “What is it, Mother?”

  “It’s honey, water, and vinegar. It will help him heal.” She was facing me, but her answer was surely directed at him.

  Without another word, he started sipping slowly and cautiously.

  “It’s not poison,” I said, finding myself holding back a smile.

  My mother huffed. “Let’s go, Phoebe. We shall prepare breakfast so he has something to eat.”

  I nodded and followed her out, almost forgetting the presence of my brother until my mother ordered him to come with us.

  Downstairs, we prepared a hearty breakfast with eggs, ham, and biscuits. My mother took William his food and then quickly returned without a word. Andrew asked many curious questions, but my father quickly shushed him into silence, explaining that we were not to speak of William to anyone. He also instructed me to stay away from William’s room.

  I argued that I wanted to help him, but Father scolded me for being naive. He assured me he would treat his wound with tightly wrapped turpentine cloths and then would send him on his way in three days’ time, healed or not. I nodded humbly, at a loss for words.

  That night the walls around me felt thick and suffocating. I was eighteen and should be able to move about as I pleased. I could’ve even married if I wanted. I had never wanted to, and the army had enlisted most boys my age anyway, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t old enough to make my own choices. As the night went on, my irritation at the edict grew. In defiance, I found myself sneaking out of Andrew’s room and into the dark hallway.

  Feeling along the wall, I crept into the next room, being sure not to rouse my parents downstairs, and once I was standing inside, my body froze. What was I doing? Only my stubbornness would cause me to impede on William while he slept! It wasn’t even light enough to see his face. I was so foolish.

  I went to take a small step backward when I heard a low, soft voice. “Phoebe?”

  “Um” was all I could muster.

  I thought that maybe he didn’t hear me and that I could sneak out, but he made a movement, and it sounded like the bedding had shifted. I stood still, hoping he would go back to sleep.

  The next thing caused me to suck in a breath, as I was very sure he was walking around the room. Within a moment, I felt the space around me thicken, followed by the smell of fresh pine. “Phoebe?” he said again, only this time much closer.

  “I’m sorry.” I turned my head toward the door.

  “Don’t leave,” he murmured, so close to me that I nearly felt his clothes brush against mine.

  “Please, stay.”

  Part of me wanted to bolt; I felt like I’d bargained for way too much. But the other part felt electric and alive.

  Without even thinking, I turned myself back around and felt his breath hovering over the top of my head. I dared not move, and together we stood there in the dark, so close yet so distant, as neither one of us knew what to say next.

  After what felt like the longest silence of my life, he murmured, “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I whispered in a labored, cracked voice. I cleared my throat immediately, hoping for smoother results the next time.

  “For finding me…saving me…trusting me.”

  In the darkness, I smiled with relief, no longer unsure of my decision to visit. “You’re welcome.”

  At that point, I had to choose whether to stay or leave. The latter was not appealing, but neither was having him stand all night, so I suggested he should sit.

  Without delay, he moved about the dark space and soon the blackened room was lit up by a soft candle. The jolt I had felt before came to life again at the actual sight of him. Still in his white pants, he was shirtless save for the bandage wrapped tightly around his waist. Silently, he sat at the head of the bed and leaned his back against the wall, leaving a space at the foot. His gaze traveled between me and the open space, offering a silent invitation, which I accepted.

  That night, we talked about everything. He was oddly interested in my life on the farm, and when I was done answering his questions, I took it upon myself to ask him just as many. He talked about joining the British army to help support his mother back home. His father had served before him, and had died of illness when William was young. He said he’d thought coming to the Americas would be an honorable experience. The king himself had promised it would be a rewarding and prestigious duty.

  But when he got here, he quickly discovered there was a resistance he wasn’t aware of. Realizing the people here just wanted to be free, he felt confused and conflicted. But there was nothing he could do, having already landed, with no way of returning.

  So there he
was, traveling with his regiment, helping keep order. It wasn’t until he received word of his mother’s passing away that he felt his actions were completely meaningless. It was shortly thereafter that he received his flogging.

  It had been an early morning, and he and his men were stationed in a town. They had just arrived, when a young boy spat on his comrade’s shoe. His comrade chased after the boy and started beating him senseless. When William broke it up, the comrade challenged his authority and they scuffled.

  For being out of line and appearing undisciplined to the natives, William and his comrade both suffered ten lashes. I couldn’t help but stop him. “Why would you continue to serve when they did that to you?”

  He studied me for a moment. His mouth formed a soft frown as he shrugged his shoulders. “Where else am I going to go?”

  Every word that came out of his mouth earned one more piece of my affection. There was so much about him that made me want him to never leave. I wanted to hang on to the moment forever, but I heard my name slice through the air like a swift, merciless sword.

  “Phoebe!”

  Both of our heads turned toward the door as it burst open to reveal my father.

  My mouth hung open, and I was so stunned, my body couldn’t even make the move to stand. Though I felt immediately guilty, my father didn’t look angry or shocked. It was more a look of disappointment. But my mother made up for that. She quickly showed herself in the doorway, with eyes wide and lips pressed.

  “Phoebe!” she hissed sharply. “I will not accept this in my house. John, I want him out of here immediately. You must see to it now.”

  My father glanced between my desperate face and William’s, but before he could form words, the first shots were fired, and all of us, quickly, turned our heads toward the window.

  Chapter 12

  BLIND FAITH

  I woke up unwillingly to bright sunlight. I squeezed my eyes shut again, hoping to fall back asleep. I couldn’t wake up now. Not after coming so far. Ugh! I groaned, turning back over, thinking back to the last thing I remembered. Maybe if I thought hard enough, I could pick up right where I left off. I tried and tried, but it wasn’t happening. I groaned again.