The doctor noticed that Abigail had sat up and rushed over in an awkward fashion to her side, kneeling down.
"Careful, miss, don't want to be gettin' up too fast."
She smiled in response. "Thank you, doctor. Will I be staying here another night?"
The doctor turned his lips into a one-sided expression showing that he was making some serious considerations. He checked a few things, looked under a few bandages—they must have been applied while she slept—and made a few notes. Then, still considering, he looked at her and smiled broadly, so broadly that it pushed his glasses up on his face a bit.
"I believe you might, miss. Not sure where else to send ye. You got a home?"
"Not one I'm inclined to return to, sir, no," she replied.
"Well, I suppose ye can rest up here, get back to yourself, and perhaps…perhaps I could use some help. I can't pay ye, but there's no chance the General's takin' you back to the army."
Abigail pondered this and thought that she might actually like to stay there. It felt peaceful even when it was chaotic and bustling, and she didn't know quite why, but the prospect of staying made her happy.
"I need no pay, doctor. I'd be more than honored to help you here. It would mean so much to me. Thank you," she said.
He looked at her and smiled in a grandfatherly fashion over his glasses, nodding his agreement. The night around them was cool and crisp, but not unpleasant. She knew it was only a matter of time before things got hectic again, and she was taking in this night of peace. Though injured and bruised, she felt a sense of calm in that outpost. Perhaps it was because of the medical presence, or perhaps it was because it was the one place in the world where she was finally herself again. Maybe it was just the crickets softly chirping in the woods surrounding them and the dim light of the torches. But something about the place made her feel calm.
"What is your name, miss?" said the doctor with curiosity.
"Oh…it's Abigail. Abigail Warren," she said.
The doctor's eyes grew and then returned quickly to their previous state, as though he was trying to cover up his initial reaction. It wasn't quick enough, though. She had caught it. Suddenly, she started to understand why this place might make her feel so at peace, why she felt so at home and so accepted. This was where her father must have been brought after he had been injured in battle. This must have been where her father died.
"Did you know my father?" she asked the doctor, and his expression was that of one whose mind has just been read by a fortune teller or who has just seen an incredible magic show.
"You're Dr. Warren's daughter, yes?"
"Yes. Did you know him?"
The doctor grew quiet for a moment and directed his face toward the ground. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with one hand in an almost circular motion, then returned his spectacles to their proper place on his nose. His right hand went to the back of his head, nervously patting down his hair, which wasn't disturbed in the slightest.
"I knew your father, yes," said the doctor, without looking up.
A moment of silence passed between them, and Abigail slowly sat up.
"I know you did everything you could. War is bloody, and death is certain for some."
He raised his eyes to meet hers and looked as though he had just been pardoned from death row. His eyes filled with tears, and though he struggled to maintain composure, the tears in their rebellion spilled over and ran like raindrops down his age-worn face.
"I tried to save him. He was a doctor, one of us, and I couldn't save him."
The old man's bottom lip quivered as he expressed, like a parishioner in a confessional, the regret and guilt he had been carrying for far too long. Abigail felt compassion for him, losing his fellow doctor and colleague and being unable to help. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder and he hugged her, causing one of her wounds to sting, but she didn't let the pain show. She hugged him back and whispered in his ear, "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked as he pulled away from the hug and looked at her curiously.
"For trying to save my father's life. And for saving mine."
The doctor seemed to have found his sense of composure again and sniffed his nose, looking to the side and then up at Abigail, saying, "It's nothing at all, miss. It's what I am employed to do and it's my life's work, my passion, though sometimes it is difficult and painful."
Abigail smiled, though her eyes were tearful, and she nodded understandingly. She hadn't thought before of what it would be like to be a doctor in a place like this. Not very far from the battlefield, the injuries the doctor witnessed on a continual basis must have been severe and traumatizing. She wasn't sure she could perform the same duties and keep her sanity intact, but there she was about to do just that. Something about working for the doctor was comforting somehow, though, and she felt that this was where she was meant to be.
"General Washington has secured a place for me with Mrs. Dodson, I believe, but I'm not sure I can keep quarters in someone else's home doing nothing. Would it be possible to send word to her that her generosity is appreciated but no longer needed?" Abigail asked cautiously, fearing that the doctor would order her to Mrs. Dodson's at once.
He winked at her. "Of course, my dear. You don't strike me as a needle and thread type of gal, eh?" He winked again and chuckled to himself. Abigail smiled and blushed a little. She was glad to know that the lanterns around the outpost likely concealed her slight embarrassment.
"That is very true, I'm afraid," she said, almost apologetically.
"No reason to be apologetic. Everyone is made for some purpose. Some women were made to stitch clothing. Others were made to stitch skin. Perhaps you are in the latter group."
Abigail laughed quietly at this, and the doctor's eyes sparkled. Perhaps he felt he owed her something for having known her father, or perhaps he just saw her as a kindred spirit, but whatever the reason for his allowing her to stay, she was happy about it and wasn't going to ask.
"Do you need any help with anything right now?" Abigail asked.
"I need you to rest tonight. You're not quite healed yet. I may need ye in the mornin', though. I hear there may be another battle comin'."
The words immediately brought Edward to Abigail's mind and she became concerned. She tried not to show it. How could she possibly explain it to the doctor? How could she tell him about the British soldier turned American patriot who was so traumatized by…by something…that he decided to switch sides after escaping through the woods? Nobody would understand or believe her. Sometimes she wondered whether even her own father would have believed her. Then again, she knew he would. He always believed in people's ability to do right and choose right and change.
"I suppose I'll need my rest, then," she said with a smile.
After the doctor had walked away to other patients, she lay back and stared up at the starry sky. Crickets were chirping calmly in the woods, seemingly oblivious to the battles happening all around them throughout the day. The nighttime in general seemed to disregard the day. It was always peaceful, quiet, and then with the breaking of dawn chaos was imminent and bloodshed could happen at any time.
Many of the other patients around Abigail were moaning or snoring, but so quietly that it barely bothered her at all. She thought of Edward, wondered where he was, what he was doing, whether he had been injured or found out since the last time she saw him turning away from her on the battlefield after their clash with the British.
She missed the tree and wondered if he still went there. It made her smile to think that maybe he did, that maybe he was imagining being with her right now, that he was whispering forbidden sentiments into the sky for her to hear. And perhaps her heart had heard them and that was why she was missing him so strongly. Regardless of the reasons, her longing was undeniable.
In the darkness she remembered his lips against hers, his hands on her hips, her arms around his neck. Having those moments with him was the one thing that held her together throu
gh the rest of the day, even now that had been taken from her. Somehow she had to continue. Somehow she had to ignore the fact that she didn't know anything about his wellbeing or whereabouts and that there was little she could do to find out.
As thoughts continued to flood her mind, she tried desperately to sleep, knowing that the peace of the night was not guaranteed to last. Her shoulder still stung and it was difficult to move, but it felt better than it had that morning when she first awoke. Her leg felt better, but it was still sensitive. An overall throbbing feeling still raced through her body, and she realized how badly injured she had really been.
Behind her she could hear the door of the cabin swing open and shut again and again as nurses and the two doctors went in and out, fetching medicine and supplies and tending to the wounded all around her. In total, about two hundred people were there, men of course, who had been injured in surrounding battles. How the staff kept up with any of them she had no idea, but they took care of everyone as there was need, and, while they had an urgent sense about their duties, they didn't seem to be too worried or frantic. In fact, they were almost calm as they tended to their duties, tireless in their service to those who had fought so hard for freedom. She knew that some alive now would be gone by the morning.
As she tried to force her mind to quiet and stop the stream of thoughts that kept her awake, she finally felt sleepy. In her final moments awake, she thought of Edward and prayed he was safe.
11 General Washington
Edward awoke in the middle of the night unsure of where he was. All he remembered was being violently brought to his feet by General Washington and a few of the higher-ranking soldiers. One of the soldiers had struck him over the head in a menacing blow with an unknown object, and General Washington had reprimanded him. There were several men shouting and he had felt as though his arms would be torn from his body. Finally, he was thrown to the ground with more force than necessary and looked up into the eyes of one of the soldiers who was grimacing as though he were a cat that had just caught a bird.
"I swear, I'm not a spy. I came to join your cause. You don't under—"
Edward had been halfway through his sentence when the grimacing man struck him with his fist and shoved him into the soft ground with this boot. Another man spit on him. Washington reprimanded them both, but it seemed to do little good.
A discussion had gone on, but Edward couldn't remember what exactly had been said. Angry shouting, some more blows, reprimands from General Washington, balking by the men, and a promise from the general that he'd be back in the morning to dole out his punishment. Edward had protested, citing the fact that he had killed several British soldiers, even his former friends, in the last battle and that surely even a spy would not go so far to keep his cover intact.
None of his petitions mattered. Nothing helped. It seemed as though everyone had their minds made up that any British found on this side of the battle line was up to no good, was certainly a spy, was nothing. He thought of Abigail and wished for a moment that she were there, but what could she do? She was as treasonous as the he was in their minds, a woman joining the ranks. He wondered briefly about her welfare and whereabouts, but then another blow broke his train of thought and he was shoved into a wooden device that held his hands as though ready to have them chopped off for stealing something from the market.
As Edward awoke from his inevitable passing out from blood loss and trauma, he struggled to gain a sense of his surroundings. He realized that he was in the woods, not in the clearing but far enough away that most soldiers could not see him. Finally, he was able to piece together the vision before him and realize that he was directly across from the main tent where Bulldog sat but just beyond the tree line. Not that it mattered. Any movement of the bushes and he would be found out. That is, if Bulldog was awake.
Suddenly, Edward heard gunfire in the distance. The shouting of many men. Drums. The thundering trotting of horses coming through the forest. It was a blitz attack, he knew them well. These men had no idea what was coming. The British army had waited until the Continental army, badly wounded from the events of a couple of days prior, was low and not anticipating a strike to charge in and kill.
In a split second Edward made the decision to call out and warn the troops. No matter what they thought of him, he was probably going to be executed by morning. But if he could at least call out the alarm, at least alert a few people, maybe even General Washington himself, maybe some of them could be spared.
"Attack! Attack! Ready yourselves, men! There's an attack!"
He shouted as loud as he could. The cold night air, still moist, clung to him and made his clothes stick to his skin. The cool of the night was little consolation to his aching body and arms. He could see a few men sit up and listen and then scrambling from all over. General Washington was nowhere within Edward's viewpoint but he was sure the man was around. People started grabbing guns, filling up with ammunition, readying themselves. Perhaps he had given them enough time. Some of the men still seemed unsure of what was happening and what was left to be done.
Frantically, he inhaled deeply, readying himself to cry out again, but before he could he felt a hand on his shoulder, which startled him. In almost the same moment, the breath left his lungs, and then he gasped again, looking up to see who the source of the hand could be.
It was General Washington. His gaze was piercing but steady and had a hint of compassion behind it, something Edward had not yet seen from the General, at least not directed toward him. Edward waited in anticipation, wondering what Washington was going to do.
"You called the alarm?"
"Yes, sir," Edward responded, confused about why the General would ask such an obvious question. General Washington heaved a slow and steady sigh, put his head down slightly as though considering something, and then reached down swiftly and removed the shackle device from Edward's hands. Surprised, Edward looked up at him with questioning eyes.
"If you are raising the alarm, you are clearly no spy. No spy would do such a thing. And if you are a spy you are a very poor one, so an asset to us in any case."
With a short smile he threw Edward the gun that had gotten him in trouble in the first place. Perhaps it was meant to be that he would be shackled in the woods, just far enough away from the noise of camp to hear the impending attack.
Edward took his gun, nodded his thanks to Washington, and ran down the small hill that led to the tree line, entering the battlefield in preparation for the coming struggle. He ran to his former position, up toward what were the front lines in the previous battle, though now it was simply one of the front lines. The battle seemed to be coming in on them from many directions, at least three sides.
Washington called out reassuring but very abrupt commands, telling certain people where to go, what to do, and where to aim. He himself took the side facing the woods from which Edward had just been released. The men in the clearing were bordering all sides, waiting for the attack from the troops, whose noise grew louder and louder every moment.
And suddenly the whole scene burst alive. Toward the front lines, soldiers emerged from the trees like an explosion, shouting and shooting, making awful noises and screaming, anything to intimidate the Continental Army. Fortunately for the patriots, they were not easily intimidated and realized that much of what the British troops were doing amounted to nothing more than banging pots and pans together in an effort to ward off a wild animal.
Shooting came from all around, but most of the troops seemed tired and ineffective at best. The patriots, on the other hand, were fighting with everything they had, as though none of them had been injured and it was their first day on the battlefield—any battlefield. Edward had just enough time to be impressed before he felt the blow to the back of his head.
"You traitor!"
He spun around and found himself facing one of the soldiers with whom he used to fight. His name was Daniel, and he and Edward had once been good friends. After the incident that chan
ged the course of Edward's life, Daniel had been critical and mocking of him, and since then their friendship had deteriorated. But now he had to kill or be killed.
"You are a hypocrite, Daniel. You say you fight for liberty but you know nothing of it. Come to your senses!"
"Listen to you. You sound like the lot of them."
Daniel raised his gun quickly to aim, but before he could do anything, Edward shot him point blank in the head. His heart filled with sadness as he watched his former friend fall to the ground from his horse. Thinking quickly and trying to put his emotions aside, he ran over and grabbed Daniel’s gun and knife.
As he turned around, he saw one of the patriots, Sam, being charged at by a British soldier.
"Sam!" Edward called out.
Quickly, Sam turned around.
"Get down!"
Sam hit the ground and at the last second Edward fired, knocking the British soldier off his horse. Sam looked back and nodded thanks to Edward.
"Take his gun and knife, Sam!"
Sam nodded again and ran off toward the British soldier, taking his weapons, and then he turned and ran to aid another patriot caught up in a battle that did not look entirely promising. Edward turned, hearing the sound of hooves to his left, and shot yet another British soldier intending to charge him. A nearby soldier looked as though he had no gun, so Edward took the gun from the recently shot soldier and shouted at the man, who turned. He threw him the gun and the man thanked him, running off to fight now that he had the means to do so.
Right as Edward was about to turn around, he felt a searing pain through his left shoulder like nothing he had ever felt in his life. In shock, he didn't fall to his knees the moment it happened but rather let it happen slowly, as though he was being brought to his knees by other people or moving through water and not falling to the ground himself.
Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War Page 9
