Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War (3 page)

4
Darkness

Abigail traveled silently through the night, away from the place she had called home for so long, knowing that what was left there was nothing but misery. Everything changed the day her father died, and she had no hope of it ever being the same. Right about now, she thought, as the dawn crept up over the horizon, her mother was very likely awakening. In a couple of hours, perhaps not even that long, her mother would go to wake her and find her gone. Abigail had thought of leaving a note, but then thought better of it. After all, women were not allowed in the army, and her mother would almost certainly go and tell the officials immediately upon reading the note.
              No, it was better for everyone if she didn't. If she just left, as simple as that, and let her mother wonder where she had gone. Written evidence of her plans would have been silly. She may as well arrive at the battlefield and announce herself as a woman. And after all, her mother had left them in a way, too. Always stern, her demeanor had violently taken a turn for the worse in recent years, and she left no note of where the person she used to be had gone, so why should Abigail leave a note giving her the courtesy of that knowledge as it pertained to her physical being?
              The thought of this justification soothed her as she walked along. Once she had left the house behind, she had crossed over into the wooded area just beyond the dirt road that was almost visible along the side of the house. It was a trail, really, not quite a road, but it was the closest thing to a road they had there.
              The clearing her father had always taken her to was only about three miles into the forest, but getting there was much more difficult than it seemed, particularly in the dark. Her father had only ever taken her into the forest in the daylight, never at night, and he had always ensured that they were home before sundown.
              She thought it was fitting that after her father's death she would return to this place in the darkness, in the night. Night was what she felt in her heart now that her father was not there, so night was when she traveled to their spot now.
              Darkness was what she needed, too. It was time for her to transform into Raymond Smith, her disguise as a man for the army. Luckily, nobody had to prove anything except their loyalty to the cause when joining up, so as long as she could pass herself off as a man, her identity was hers to create and hers alone to know.
              About two miles into the woods, it started to rain. Fitting, no doubt, but uncomfortable, to say the least. Abigail thought to herself that there would likely be many a rainy day in battle, and she reasoned with herself that using this rain to become stronger, tougher, would help her. She lifted her chin and kept walking, ensuring that she did not show her discomfort, even to the trees. What might they tell of her to someone else walking past?
              Arriving at the clearing, Abigail found the tree she was hoping would still be in the same arrangement as before. Sometimes, whether due to animals or people, limbs from trees were gone and leaf coverings were not where they used to be, or they had disappeared altogether. Luckily, the covering she was hoping to obtain was still there, and she was glad for it.
              Hunching down against the tree, trying to find as much shelter from the rain as possible, she removed the sack from her back and set the other one down as well. It was a nice reprieve, even with the rain, to be able to set down her pack for any length of time. Her father's clothing was still inside, and she knew just enough about sewing to make it fit.
              Another glorious benefit of not having the most organized army in the world, she thought: no uniforms. That saved her the trouble and moral dilemma of stealing one, and she was able to keep something of her father's with her. He had never worn these clothes to battle, had always insisted on using something else, something more official. Always proud of his support of the patriot cause, he always had to look his best, even though he knew that at the end of his time away, should he return, the clothing would be unrecognizable anyway. It was, as he always said, just a matter of principle.
              So now here she was, about to defend her father's memory and name and fight where he no longer could. Opening her pack, she pulled out the clothing and sewing material she had brought—her own, of course, not her mother's—and began to stitch and seam. It didn't have to be pretty, just good enough that it didn't fall off her and look as though it had just been altered. Avoiding suspicion at all costs was the goal, and Abigail had brought several provisions in order to ensure that she had all she needed to get away with her plan.
              Sewing by moonlight proved to be a bit of a struggle, but not impossible. By now, she could probably stitch an entire garment herself in the dark, or in her sleep, so long had she been tending to the seams and stitches of the family. Apparently the dreary work of a woman was not so bad after all and had some value. She shrugged off the idea and kept sewing.
              Once the clothing was finished, she sat back and took a small break, leaning against the heavy tree trunk and staring upwards at the sky. It was full of darkness and light at the same time. The blackest of black punctured it just enough to let the starry light of heaven through. It was as though the entire world had been covered up so that heaven couldn't see what was about to happen, so that those who went to war would not be judged, and a few rebellious angels had peeked through to catch a glimpse of the revolution to come.
              Something rustled over to her left, and Abigail froze, not daring to breathe or move. Luckily, she had been thoughtful enough not to light a candle and cause anyone nearby, were there anyone to be seen, to become suspicious. The rustling occurred again, and she reasoned with herself that it was likely just an animal.
              When the sound came again, she hoped it wasn't an animal, because by the sound of it, it was very large. Mustering up her courage, she jerked her head to the left, trying to focus her eyes to see what could be there. This happened at just the right time to see a figure dart behind a tree. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? Was she really seeing what she thought she was seeing? Couldn't be.
              Her heart quickened as she thought of the possibility—could her mother have risen for some reason during the night and found her missing? Come out this way? Then she realized what a silly idea that was. Her mother would no more come into the woods than fight in the revolution herself. The only options left were that it was all a figment of her imagination, someone was there, or there were animals in existence that looked much like humans. None of these options was particularly consoling. Even if it was all in her mind, that meant her mind was in a state that could easily confuse her and make her see things that were not there.
Not good at all
, she thought.
              The whole world was in silence for what seemed like an eternity. She breathed very slowly, ensuring that she did not make a sound. She still had things to do before the morning, and this nonsense with the figure in the trees was not making anything better. Who would be out here in the rain? Maybe it was just the rain casting odd shadows as it beat on the trees, she reasoned.
              After what seemed like an hour, she leaned back against the tree again and allowed herself to relax ever so slightly. It wasn't that she had done away with her fear, but rather that she would continue to do what needed to be done before the morning, and whoever happened to be there could go away or appear again. She would deal with either situation as it came to pass, or didn't.
              Reaching into her pack, she took out the shears she had brought from the garden. Though a dangerous thing with which to travel, it was necessary in order not to steal the scissors from the kitchen or the bathhouse. Her hair had to be cut, and the shears from the shed were all she could think of to bring to accomplish the task.
              Taking one long bunch of her hair, she took the shears and cut it as close to her scalp as she could manage without fearing for her safety. Then another bunch. Then another. She knew the hair would have to go somewhere, she couldn't just leave it there. What a tell-tale sign that would be if someone stumbled across it. Then again, who would? Nobody ventured into those woods anymore. Except her imaginary friend behind the trees, apparently.
              With each cut, she felt her identity was being lost. She thought it was a silly thing, just a bunch of hair, and her hair—or the length of it—surely did not make her who she was any more than the color of her eyes. But then again, she had never cut her hair, at least not this short. Her mother cut the ends every now and again when it became so long that it was almost unbearably heavy. But this—this was in complete defiance of her womanhood, not just her mother.
              She kept cutting, and, finally, when all was said and done, she had the shortest hair she had ever seen on a woman. Not that she
could
see it, of course, but she could feel it, and it was barely there. It was almost liberating, in a way, so weightless, as though nothing could hold her down.
              Before the sound came about again, she had almost forgotten about the shadow man in the forest. But then she heard what sounded like loose gravel falling down a hillside, only on a small scale. Again, the sound originated from the left. She looked over again, hoping to see this shadow man once more, but she could see nothing. It wasn't so much that someone was there that bothered her, it was not knowing who—or what?—no, it had to be who. Animals were far less noisy and obnoxious when trying to sneak up on someone. If it were a bear or a wolf, she reasoned, she would already be dead.
              Shaking her head as though trying to rid herself of the intruder, she used the shears, together as one point, to dig into the ground around the tree. Shoving the mud with her hair mangled in it into the hole, she used the side of the tool like a level to cover the hole back up. As it turned out, the rain was a blessing. The ground was much more difficult to manage when it was dry, and they had not had a rain since the previous morning, when news of her father's death had reached them. It was now the previous morning, because the sky was lightening from darkness with peeking angels to a grayish blue, indicating that heaven was about to remove the shade and peek in on their little world to see what had happened over the last few hours and to judge those still alive to continue.
              What to do with the shears? Carrying them would be of no use now, and being seen with them, should anyone ask to see her pack, would be most suspicious. Narrowing her eyes toward the direction of her shadow friend—or foe—she held the shears by the finger holds and, twisting her body, hurled them into the darkness toward the night's sounds. As they landed with a clatter, she heard a clambering of rocks, and then a voice, low but audible.
              "Dammit."
              Certainly not a bear or a wolf. Fear had given way to rebellion and stubbornness and downright indignation that someone would be so close to her for all this time, perhaps spying on her? Following her? What? She didn't know, but she narrowed her eyes again, hoping the coming dawn would give her some information.
              No matter. She had one last thing to do: get into the clothes she had hemmed earlier. She did so quickly, quietly, almost soundlessly, then packed up her things and readied herself for the coming day. It was a daylong journey to the battlefield if all went well, but delays could easily make it a two-day journey. No matter, she was ready for whatever would come.
              The first birdcall came moments after she had finished the night's duties, and once she realized she had been up for nearly twenty-four hours, she began to feel tired. No time to sleep, though, not until nightfall. The next nightfall. And besides, who could sleep with a swearing animal on their trail?
              She rolled her eyes as she hoisted her pack, glared toward the shadow man's location, and, hoisting her pack once more, settling it into position, headed off to the battle she had so long felt called to join.

5
Edward

He smiled to himself as he saw her indignant response to his noise.
This one is certainly not the typical American woman,
he thought to himself. Not quite like any other woman, either. Quietly, to himself, he scolded his feet for being so lumbering and lame the night before, kicking the rocks, being startled so easily. Although, he thought to himself, he
did
almost get hit with flying shears. But still, no excuse, he had to remain quiet.
              What were the chances, he mused, that as he was out there trying to escape his fate, his—at least as his ruler had called it—destiny. Destiny. What is destiny? Nothing more than what men tell you it is.
True destiny,
he thought,
is only carved out once somebody has
—he almost choked on the word—
freedom
.
              The shores of America had, at first, been a battlefield to him. Everything he had been told said that these people were indignant, not in the remarkable way this girl was, but in the sense that they were simply a band of drunken fools throwing raucous parties with no idea of what it was they really wanted, shooting off armory without really understanding why.
              Of course, in his first few months here, he had believed it. Not because of anything he saw, really, but because of what he, duty bound, believed obediently. It was an obedient belief, not one that came from within, and once the bloodshed of Breed's Hill came about, it was all too clear to him that this was not merely a band of drunken rabble. These people were fighting for something. Something more important to them than their own lives. And that kind of belief didn't come from mere imbibing of spirited drink.
             
No
, he thought. These people were fighting for something he thought he had all his life but was now wondering if he ever knew. Freedom. What is freedom? He didn't know anymore. All his life he thought freedom was being dutiful and not being punished for so being. It had never, not once, occurred to him that having to bow to an earthly ruler so that your very basic—were they rights?—were not infringed upon was not freedom. Or that there was any other way of life to begin with.
              For three days he had been in the woods by himself, trying to escape what he once would have given his life for and trying to figure out what to do. He wanted to follow this girl, to figure out what it was she was doing, to understand her. But at the same time, he knew her path would only lead him back to his original destination, toward the place from which he was trying to escape, toward the battle he no longer wished to fight—at least not for his own side.
              It crossed his mind that she was rather lucky in not having a uniform. She could blend in anywhere. The striking red and blue of his own uniform had, graciously, been so sullied by mud, dirt, and the filth of the forest that he didn’t need to worry too much about being spotted, but any American colonist would know what it was, dirty or not. Waltzing out of the forest and introducing himself was, of course, out of the question. What to do, then? What to do?
              He realized that she was almost out of sight, and he would have to pick up the pace if he was going to keep up with her.
Following her to my doom,
he thought, as he slowly stepped through the trees and brush. It wasn't as though she were delivering him to his own people to be slaughtered for treason, of course. She didn't even know he was there. At least, she didn't know who he was or what he was and had only heard the evidence of him. Especially the cursing. That was surely no sound from an animal, and he knew he had at least given himself away as a human at that point.
              She didn't look scared. The girl simply walked along as though she was on a stroll, but he knew she wasn't. He knew exactly where she was going. And he knew she had heard him, that she knew he was a person, knew he was there. How was she not afraid? This girl had more courage than he thought he may have ever possessed, and here she was now, traveling toward the battle he was trying to escape.
              Of course, it wasn't really the battle he was trying to escape, but the cause. He had no desire to support his own people any longer. How could he? There was no way he could stand alongside what he used to consider his brothers, if not by blood, and kill—no, murder—these people he had long been taught to hate. He didn't hate them anymore, he understood them, and more than that, he now wanted to fight for them.
If I could join the battle again on their side, I would,
he thought.
In a heartbeat
.
              But that seemed so improbable. He had no commoner's clothing, nothing but this blasted red coat and royal uniform. It wouldn't take very long at all for them to realize who he was. What he was. And he wouldn't blame them if they killed him on the spot. Why should they believe that he wanted to switch sides all of a sudden? Why would they accept him?
             
I have intelligence they need,
he thought, trying to convince himself that he was of value to them. He knew it to be true. Convincing them of that was another issue. But there, as he was fleeing this battle, fleeing his people, attempting almost to flee himself and everything he had ever been, he had discovered, in the middle of the forest, a girl. A woman, who had left her life and concealed her own identity just to fight for this cause, just to join this battle, to defend—what? Herself? Fighting for her identity to conceal it?
              He had joined his own army for several reasons, most of which were, when he thought back on it, poor reasons for signing up to join a battle. But they had been his reasons, and they were all he needed at the time to risk his own life for—now it seemed unclear—for what? For some name? For some king? For some cause? What cause? Greed and power?
             
Very noble,
he thought,
very noble indeed
. His own sarcasm amused him. Nobility. What was that? He wasn't sure of anything anymore. And now, as he followed this woman through the woods, he felt that he was being drawn from his own miserly retreat into something else entirely. He didn't know what or where or when, but he just had to follow her. She compelled him to follow her.
             
Like a siren, leading me onward to my own demise,
he thought sardonically. Even so, would his demise be so bad? Hadn't he made amends to God for what he had already caused? Hadn't he already come to terms with who he was and was not and what he had done? He pushed the thought out of his head. This wasn't the time to be distracted by such things.
              He had a new destiny to follow. A destiny that dwelt within this mysterious girl who had shown up in the woods. If he had anything to admit, it was that he was a lost man, and he needed a cause. Could it be hers? Could it be that it
was
indeed destiny that drew him into this battle, but that his destiny was so different from what he had originally thought? He wasn't sure. Couldn't be sure. He just had to follow. So he did.
              Lightly stepping over each stone and tuft of grass, each patch of gravel and muddy embankment, he kept within eyesight of the girl in the woods, stepping after her as quietly as possible, wondering all the way how this would end. How would things turn out?
              It was high noon by the time she finally stopped to rest, and he was feeling the heat of the day upon him. The rain had blessedly ceased about an hour prior, but he had barely noticed. In many ways, the rain was a blessing to him, as it concealed his noise and footsteps, the gravel he loosed while walking. Everything in the forest sounded like rain when rain was present. Now, though, he knew the ground would dry in the next few hours, and when it did, his presence would be as obvious as ever.
              The second thought he had was that this girl was more physically able than he was, at least when it came to endurance. How he was not gasping for air, he didn't know, but he rested against a tree, his eyes facing her, as he reached into his pack for a loaf of bread, hoping it had not been completely ravaged and ruined by the storm. Luckily, it was still dry, wrapped in what he originally thought were too many layers of cloth. Not so, it now seemed.
              He ate his bread quickly and observed the girl as she rested. She seemed deep in thought, although not distressed, just pensive, as it were. He was among the shadows of the trees, which loomed high above him in a glorious canopy. It had always pleased him, the way light filtered through the tree leaves, making luminous patterns on the ground, like dancing angels or fae of some enchanted realm.
              He almost laughed aloud to himself as the ridiculousness of such a thought dawned on him. No matter. Who was there to judge him, after all? Except for this girl. But she could not judge him—she did not know who he was. But she would have to, at some point, he figured. She might be his only chance. The courage to fight a battle, though, was nothing compared to what it would take him to confront her. How could he? She would no doubt feel alarmed by his presence.
              His mind continued to race as he finished his bread and quietly closed his pack. Continuing to watch the girl in the clearing, he felt himself drawn to her. She was so beautiful, even with the lack of hair created by her attempts at disguise.
Such a beautiful face could never be passed off as a man
, he thought.
              It didn't take long for him to realize that he was going to have to reveal himself to her in some way or another. How it happened, he didn't know, but somehow he had become completely entrenched in the battle for freedom—not for "them," but for him—because he no longer felt any association with his former self and way of life.
It has to be done
, he thought. Somehow it had to be a success—he must be accepted to fight for the other side, his side now, and she was his key.
              It had been at least an hour, and she was still sitting against the tree with a pensive look. If she had eaten, he hadn't noticed. But then again, he had been lost in thought for just as long and eating his own meal, so perhaps he simply wasn't paying attention.

             
The next time he awoke, it was dark, and panic overtook him. Had she left without him? Without him—the thought almost made him laugh aloud; she didn't even know he was following her. The dim light from a nearby fire gave him some hope that perhaps she had simply stayed on a bit longer, that maybe he hadn't missed her.
              He looked closely at the campfire but didn't see anyone. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and as he did he felt something hard and metallic push into his back. A stern voice—female—was the next thing he heard.
              "Who are you?" she shouted. He had no doubt in his mind that it was her—the muse he'd been following, the siren that had led him to his fate, indeed.
              "My name is Edward," he said, trying hard not to sound as frightened as he was. After all, he was a man, and if pride cometh before the fall, now would be a good time for it.
              "What are you doing here? These woods are never occupied by anyone, and you have been following me for a full day now."
              "I thought…I didn't know you…look, let me explain, I beg you,"
              "Or what?"
              He was silent for a moment, pondering this. There really wasn't anything he
could
do. He was in her woods. At least, she owned them about as much as he did, if not more, since this was her home and he had only intruded upon it with his own army—though he felt he didn't have an army now.
              "Or nothing. It wasn't a threat, miss."
              The silence that passed between them over the next few moments—it felt as though years had gone by—was excruciating. She had not removed the gun—he assumed it was a gun—from his back, and he hadn't yet the occasion to turn around and face her. If he was going to die by her hand, it would surely be better than the other form of death he faced if found in those woods by another. But still, he wanted to face his end head-on.
              "Turn around," she demanded, as though reading his mind.
              He followed her instructions, turning, still on his knees, hands in the air, facing his muse. She was absolutely beautiful, even holding a gun to his face, even with the dreadful haircut she had managed to give herself, even with her cold eyes—although she did a bad job of covering up her own fears.
              "I'm sorry to have followed you," he said quietly but honestly. "It's just that I simply don't have anywhere else to go. You see, I was…" He searched for a way to explain himself as he realized that even he didn't have a good explanation for his actions. Perhaps something about that calmed her, because she seemed to relax her posture a bit.
              "You what?" she probed, shifting nervously.
              "I left…my army. The people I came over with, they…" He sighed. "This isn't what I signed up for. I don't want to fight for them, but I can't show up in front of your general like this without being shot or hanged before I can utter a word."
              "And you're lucky I didn't deliver you the same fate!" she said, the stern aspect returning to her voice.
              "I agree," he said softly, looking down at the ground.
              This must have done something to her, because he saw the end of the gun—a rifle—slowly lower to the ground. After a moment or two, he raised his eyes once more to meet hers. She looked at him curiously now, almost with a glimmer of pity. Pity wasn't what he wanted, but it was much better than most other alternatives, so he decided to welcome it.
              "What do you want?" she asked, softly this time.
              "I really don't know," he said, more honestly than he cared to admit. "I suppose I wanted to follow you to see where you went. Hoped I would be able to speak with your general or one of his men and…join you."
              Even though he knew the truth behind what he spoke, it sounded ridiculous even to him. Why in the world would he, a person who should no more be on the side of the "rabble" than one of the farm animals in the countryside, want anything to do with being on the other end of the fight. Why should they believe him, that he had tired of fighting for the British and wanted to join the quest for freedom.
              The only thing he could hope was that somehow it made sense to her and that he didn't hear the gun cock and then fire before having a chance to prove himself.
              "Why would you want to join us, Redcoat?" It was a term intended to threaten him, to mock him, and even to be disrespectful, but he couldn't balk at it. He himself agreed with the sardonic tone in her voice. Isn't that why he had decided to join them, after all?
              It was almost as though someone else spoke through him when he replied, for he hadn't figured out what to say.
              "Because you have a noble cause, and the others who believe they are noble do not."
              The words startled him as much as they must have startled her. She swallowed hard, and he knew she was contemplating her next action. Whether or not it was to kill him or believe him he hadn't quite pieced together, but he earnestly hoped it was the latter.
              As quickly as the confrontation had begun, it ended.
              "Get up," she said, a mixture of reluctance and empathy in her voice.
              He wasn't quite sure he had heard her correctly, and his face must have expressed utter confusion, because she almost smiled as she repeated herself.
              "Get up," she repeated, "there's food by the fire."
              With that, she left him to walk over to the campfire he had seen upon awakening.