Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War (10 page)

              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, since 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.
              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."