It wasn't immediately apparent to him what had happened, but then the shot and the last portion of the battle— the last portion his mind could recall, at least—ran through his head, and it all became clear to him. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it, and he was even more fortunate that General Washington had been merciful and let him out of his bondage. Had the British seen him held up in the middle of the forest, they would surely have beheaded him right then and there, or at the very least killed him in some fashion. They all knew by now that he was nothing but a traitor, at least in their eyes, and they had no use for him. He may have been injured, but he knew it could have been much worse.
Immediately across from him was the cutout that led to the yard. The yard was essentially a large clearing in the forest, very similar to the battlefield, with mats laid out in rows in an organized fashion. They must each have been assigned a number or position, because the nurses and helpers seemed to know exactly where to go to tend to each person, never having to stop and seek out their patients. Considering the rate at which patients arrived at and departed from the outpost, he couldn't understand how anyone could keep track of where the patients were simply by name. And all of the patients looked the same when bloodied and bruised as badly as they had to be in order to arrive there in the first place. Must be a system of numbers, he thought.
Candles glowed from every corner of the room and on the center table. The room was not large, but he could see directly into the center of the room, which was directly in front of the window. Everything was in a line: the window, the center tables, and then his own bed there at the outpost with only minimal spacing between the window and the table and the table and himself.
The table, he conjectured, must have been used to prepare various treatments, because it seemed to be a workstation of sorts. There was a variety of tools, some parchment for writing, some ointments and liquids, and little trays that were used to carry whatever supplies were necessary for the patients. The nurses would come in and write something down, then take supplies, put them on a tray, and bustle out the door hurriedly to tend to the patient at hand.
As he watched the goings on of the table he formed the opinion that it had to be a sheet of supply inventory. It seemed that whenever a nurse would take out or bring back the reusable supplies, or simply take out the single-use supplies, she updated the log sheet so that there was an accurate account of the supplies on hand at all times.
He marveled at the organization with which everything had been put together for what amounted to a temporary location. He also knew that he had to be in fairly bad condition because he had learned from gossip on the battlefield that if you got "a raised seat," meaning you were on a table indoors, you were expected to live but just barely. It was these individuals that required constant supervision for their injuries, and there he was among them.
Slowly turning his head to the left, he observed the man lying on the raised seat next to him. His right hand was hanging off of the wooden board on which he lay as though he no longer had possession of it. It looked awkward compared to the rest of his body, which did not seem to be in such a relaxed position. The man's face had been partially blown away, no doubt by a shell blast, and the side facing Edward was nothing but blood. He couldn't even make out the man's eyes or nose, just blood. His face was likely there, but enough damage had been done that his features were not yet visible beneath all the injuries.
Taking note of the man's chest, he realized that he was not dead, at least, because his chest was rising and falling ever so slightly. His breathing did not come in any consistent pattern, and at times Edward had a hard time seeing his breath at all, but then just as he began to worry it would start up again in a haggard attempt at respiration.
Feeling slightly nauseated, Edward returned his head to its position looking at the ceiling and rose up slightly to look through the window. Seeming to read his mind again, the nurse came over and helped him prop up against a pillow so he could see the room in full. Turning slightly to the right, he saw a young man, probably no more than twenty years old, who was lying on his back and moaning terribly. It occurred to Edward that the man had been moaning since his awakening to the world again but that he had only then heard it. Perhaps his hearing had been slightly affected by the blast, or perhaps he simply hadn't noticed, he wasn't sure.
He shut his eyes momentarily and then opened them again to see something move past the window. It was his first glimpse of her, and once he realized what he was seeing, he thought it was a ghost. But then he looked harder, trying not to appear obvious to the nurses who seemed to read his mind and know his every thought and desire. Could they know that he was peering so closely at her? Did they know her? He tried to be as subtle as possible but still peered as closely as he dared without any of them noticing the direction of his gaze.
She moved from the left side of the window over to the right. Unlike the other nurses, who hurriedly shuffled from one patient to another, in and out the door, efficiently but in a rather unceremonious manner, she moved with grace, even in her ragged clothing that seemed to be clothing that had been given to her. At least it was not her battlefield outfit. She was almost floating from one patient to another, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground, and he thought for a moment that he was in a dream. A smile passed over his lips and he leaned his head back against the wall.
It made him happy to see her doing well. At least he could rest knowing that she was safe and not lying among the rest of the individuals in the yard. She passed back and forth outside the window several times, and although he was no longer peering at her so carefully and his vision was still slightly off from either the blast or the time spent unconscious—he didn't know which—it was as though he could still see her as clearly as anything else.
She was beautiful and captivating, just as she had been that first night in the forest that seemed like a lifetime ago now, though it was only a matter of weeks. Even in her father's clothing and her unceremonious garb, she still appeared to him as an angel in the forest. Right as he was thinking his own life was meaningless, having fled from his own troops and being haunted by the images of the people he had killed—especially the one man he couldn't get out of his head—he thought that he was a coward, that he had been led astray by his own country. He was confused and lost, and there in the forest she had reached out and saved him, even though she couldn't have known it at the time.
Was it a happy coincidence? An accident? A twist of fate? The hand of God Himself? What had brought them together at that particular moment in the forest that night he could never know. But he knew that had he not met her his fate would have been entirely different, that it would have been only a matter of time before he had fallen victim to the woods or perhaps even taken his own life, such was the state of his soul then.
Images of the man—the one he had killed right before the realization hit him that this was more than just an unfair war, that it was a slaughter of people who, in all reality, had a good reason to be declaring and fighting for their own independence—still haunted him daily. He could see the man's face every time he tried to sleep, could hear the last words he said, begging Edward, imploring him to show mercy. And then the click and the blow of the gun, as though it was shot by someone else's hand, as though by replaying this horrible event over and over he could somehow reach through the sands of time and undo what had been done. As though he could bring this man back to life.
But it was only grasping at the wind, as they say, and Edward could do nothing. Nothing except fight for the same cause that the man he had killed—and all the others—had been fighting for that very day. He was trying to make it right, but somehow he still felt that he was failing. And as he was feeling so low, there he saw Abigail.
She had always been able to lift his depression ever since they first came together. Even when she was being indignant and difficult, most of the time on purpose, she was still charming and elegant and beautiful. He didn't know how she
managed it, but she did, every time, and he wanted nothing more than to speak with her and find out where she had been and what had happened.
He remembered overhearing General Washington say something about Abigail staying with Mrs. Dodson, so it had initially surprised him to see Abigail working there. But as soon as the surprise had set in, it left, because, after all, this was Abigail. To resign herself to still another household to sit and sew and ponder the fate of the men on the battlefield was not in her nature. Not in the slightest. How she had convinced the doctor, whom everyone seemed to call Doc, to allow her to stay on there as a nurse and helper he had no idea, but knowing Abigail she had a way of charming people that was disarming as much as it was delightful.
The sound of footsteps coming through the door and the creaking of the wood as it opened made him open his eyes, back from his half-dreams. And there she was. He knew she likely would not recognize him in his battered state, but he was waiting for the right moment to get her attention, just so she would know he was there.
She walked over to the man on his right and tended to him for some time with the nurses and Doc as they muttered over his state and what should, or could, be done about him. Doc gave a command, gentle but hurried, to Abigail to fetch something Edward couldn't quite make out the name of.
He didn't want to impede the treatment of another soldier, so he stayed put for a while. After all, what was he supposed to do? Call out her name? It was likely that nobody there knew about their story and it would only call attention to himself, which he had received quite enough of in the recent past. So he stayed still while she went back and forth from the center table to the man on his right, fetching supplies, jotting down this or that, and going back to the man.
Finally, he saw his opportunity. As she was walking back toward the table, she came much closer to him to deliver something to Doc, and as she passed back the other way he was able to reach out ever so slightly and take her hand in his. She had been moving so quickly that it was more of a jolting grab, and he realized he had startled her by the look in her eyes. But that look quickly faded to one of pure concern and a bit of horror. He must have looked a sight, which didn't dawn on him until that moment, but he tried as best he could to smile at her.
He loosened his grip gently and returned his hand to his lap, but she still held her hand out as though he had not released it. She seemed to be in a bit of shock, and could anyone blame her? Finally, after several moments that seemed to last an eternity, the expression on her face softened a bit and she broke out into a smile—that beautiful smile he loved so much. She knew it was him, and for the first time since their last night at the tree on the battlefield, they were together. And for the first time in a long time in his life, he felt okay.
14 Reunion
Her heart leapt in her chest knowing it was Edward who lay in the bed next to the man she was helping treat. They both knew without having to say a word that they would not be able to do much in the way of talking until everyone else had gone to bed for the night. Even then they would have to be careful. It felt very much like the tree, but in a situation that was only slightly less dire than it had been then. Nobody was likely to turn them over or kill them if they were found out. But it was just as well that nobody knew about them. It was a longer story than either of them had time to tell.
It crossed Abigail's mind, though, that her job was to tend to the patients. So she knew she had a limited capability to make contact with him. Everything in her heart wanted to fling her arms around his neck and sob openly, so grateful that he was alive and so worried that he was in such bad shape, just to let the emotions of the past several weeks—had it been months?—since her father's passing to wash over her and to let the tears flow. But she knew this was no time for that kind of emotion and kept herself together.
Abigail was, if nothing else, the picture of composure, and while she knew she may never settle into the role society had dictated for her, she knew when to keep things together and keep her thoughts to herself.
"Sir," she said, as naturally as she could manage, "are you feeling all right? Do you need anything?"
"No, miss. Except perhaps a cup of water," Edward replied, his eyes glistening like a schoolboy’s who had just seen the girl he fancied in class. The way his eyes danced and his lips formed that dashing smile she had first found so hard to resist—and still did—made her want to laugh, but she simply smiled in kind.
"Of course, sir," she said, putting a slightly sarcastic emphasis on the word "sir," making them both smile. She could only be slightly sarcastic about it so as not to arouse the suspicions of the others, but Edward had caught on and silently chuckled to himself. She could see that he was as happy as she was, and the weight of worry and fear she had been carrying around since the last time she saw him lifted like rocks being unloaded from her shoulders.
She turned, went toward the table in the center of the room where the nurses kept their supplies, and grabbed the metal container that was used to fetch water. She brought him some and he drank, winking at her in a quite daring move as he handed back the ladle. Anyone could have seen him do that. Then again, his face was still rather bruised, though his shoulder had suffered the worst of it, so it could have been taken as a grimace, as well.
As she turned to return the ladle to its position on the center table she pretended to arrange Edward's bed linens and check on his shoulder, though she wouldn't have known what to do about the wound if her life depended on it. It was just an excuse to be close to him. Ensuring that nobody was paying any attention to her, she ever so quickly but sincerely put her hand on Edward’s and squeezed slightly in an affectionate move, as if to say that everything would be okay.
"Thank you," he murmured as she turned to leave his side, though she knew he was not thanking her for the water. She mumbled her reply, smiling tenderly once more in his direction, and then turned and returned the ladle to its place. She knew she had other patients to tend to, and Doc had said he wanted to meet with her that evening after things had settled down a bit from the wagons coming in.
They had lost several patients that day, and while it was difficult for Abigail to put it together in her mind, she knew not everyone would survive. In fact, she knew it was very likely that many of their patients would die, but she didn't find it any easier to watch them go. She was fortunate to be working with Doc. His sense of calm and his ever so kind demeanor influenced her own emotional state and helped her follow suit and be calm as well, even in the face of heartbreaking sorrow.
Doc had a phrase he used quite often: "We can't save them all, but if we can save someone it's worth it." And he was right, of course. She tried to focus on the lives they saved there instead of those that passed away. But with every man who lost his life under their care, she couldn't help but think of her father. Did that man have any children? A wife? A family that loved him and was earnestly praying for his safe return? How many families were being torn apart with every lost soul at the outpost and on the battlefield?
But she had no time to ponder such things in any depth before it was time to treat another patient, and perhaps that was a good thing. A person could make themselves go crazy thinking about such matters for too long.
The rest of the evening was much calmer than the day had been, and most of the men, even those in the raised seats, seemed to be doing rather well. This made her feel happy and relieved some of the stress she had been feeling for so much of the day.
Going back inside from her final rounds administering treatments and bandages and distributing water outside, she took off the apron she had been given. She was in a dress again, which was strange for her. One of the nurses, who happened to be Abigail's size, had offered her one of the dresses she had no need for. Abigail was happy to accept as her clothing was torn, bloody, filthy, and no longer comfortable to wear.
She kept her clothing, though, and laundered it when she had time, though that consisted of the use of a bucket, water, and some rocks, si
nce they had no washboard available. But it was her father's clothing and she had no intention of letting it go. She had a station there, a sleeping quarters of sorts, though it was small, and she kept her very few belongings under the mat of the bed. Changing into the dress, she felt almost as though she was back at her house and half expected her mother to enter and begin scolding her for her very unladylike ways. But then, of course, she knew her mother was nowhere near her.
The dress had kept her warm in the chill of the night and she had been grateful for it because her old clothing had been barely more than a sheet by the time she had arrived at the outpost. Now, though, she was hanging up her apron for the night and intended to turn in with a cup of hot cocoa and wait until the night was wearing on and everyone else was asleep so she could get up and talk to Edward.
It wouldn't be difficult to leave the nurses' quarters without being noticed. It was an area laid out in the back with four or five of them on raised, seat-like beds that were easy to silently enter and leave. It had no doubt been designed this way so that nurses who were on shift could get to their work without disturbing those who were gaining some much needed sleep. Though most nurses seemed to work almost around the clock anyway.
But as soon as she had put her apron on the knob where aprons were hung, she felt a gentle hand on her left shoulder and turned quickly to see who it was. It was Doc. He offered her a kind smile and seemed to have something to tell her. Without a word he motioned her to come with him.
Doc had a small room in the back where he would go to read the Bible throughout the day. She asked him why he did this, and he said it was a comfort to him when things seemed particularly unmanageable. It was his solace and she respected him for it. But tonight this small room, which wasn't really a study or an office but seemingly just an extra room that was no served useful in some way or another but still appeared altogether unnecessary, served as their meeting room.
Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War Page 11
