Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War (8 page)

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 changed 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.
              Looking down to see what had happened, he saw the tip of a bayonet pointing through his shoulder toward the front and realized immediately that it had been plunged into his shoulder from the back. He couldn't turn around to see who had done it, but he knew the bayonet was British. None of the patriots had a bayonet in their possession, and he had a hard time believing that, even if they were suspicious, any of them would intentionally waste time in a battle by killing a man who was fighting for their cause.
              Whoever had plunged the weapon into his shoulder pulled it out quickly, making Edward cry out in pain. The edge of the blade was serrated and tore through flesh and tissue as it was extracted. Edward felt for a moment as though his arm had been severed from his body and even put a hand up to his shoulder to make sure that this was not the case. When he brought his hand back, it was covered in blood.
              Nausea began to take him over and he sunk even farther to his knees, putting his hands on the ground, wincing as his left hand hit the ground and pulling it back. This threw his balance off and he collapsed to the ground on his right side. Only in that moment was he able to look up and learn the identity of the person who had maimed him in such a brutal fashion.
              His eyes widened when he saw that it was his own—at least his former—commander. The leader of the British army.
              "You are not an Englishman and you have no need to be alive, Edward. Rot in Hell."
              With that, the commander raised his gun and aimed very clearly at Edward's head. The gun cocked, and in the moment before the man pulled the trigger he flew off his horse to the left as though an invisible avalanche had overtaken him.
              Quickly, Edward jerked his head to the left to see that it was Bulldog who had saved his life. For the first time in the entirety of their time together, Bulldog smiled. It was an awkward and brutish smile, even less attractive than that of an actual bulldog, but he knew what it meant. Suddenly it seemed to dawn on Bulldog that Edward was in very poor shape, and he called to Washington to tend to him.
              As Washington approached, his eyes grew larger, as though he was witnessing a horrific event unfold in front of him. The shoulder must have looked as bad as it felt, maybe worse, Edward surmised as he lay on the ground. All around him a tunnel started to form and he was losing his vision, nausea overtaking him, his head pounding as though he had been beat with a thousand hammers.
              Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he heard was Washington commanding several of his men.
              "Get this man to the outpost. Now! He's one of us."

12
Casualties

The following morning Abigail awoke to a beautiful sunrise. The torches and lanterns were still dimly lit from the previous night, and against the orange sky the tone was entirely peaceful. Her shoulder felt much better and it was apparent that her bandages had somehow been changed during the night. The doctor, or Doc as everyone called him, and the nurses were so skilled. She hadn't even woken up when they tended to her wounds during the night.
              She sat up slowly, remembering the painful lesson she had learned the last time she arose too quickly from the mat. Her leg still ached and it was almost impossible to move it without pain searing through her leg and down to her foot, but she felt that perhaps she could make it feel better by moving about. Being in one position all that time couldn't have done anything to help her leg. If anything, it was probably in the process of atrophying by now.
              She exercised the kneecap and joint by bending her leg back and out, back and out. At first the pain was almost blinding and she gritted her teeth in order to handle it. Right when the pain nearly forced her back down to her mat, she began to feel some relief, and the more she moved it the better she felt. Finally, the pain gave up its efforts at sidelining her and retreated into a dull ache that was manageable.
              Slowly rising to her feet, she walked toward the cabin. As she reached the door, she exited so quickly a nurse almost knocked her over and then muttered a hundred apologies as Abigail smiled and tried to assure her all was well.
              Doc saw her the second she reached the door because it had a window, or at least a cutout in the wood that one could see in and out of. To her right were more cutouts in the cabin wall, no doubt meant to be windows of a sort, as well.
              He rushed over in his awkward spider walk and hustled her inside, insisting that she sit down at the table with him and enjoy a morning cup of coffee. She smiled and nodded, unable to resist anything Doc offered her, from medication to a cup of coffee. There was something about him that made him seem like a father. Maybe she was just missing her own father. Doc could easily be her grandfather, but in any case she felt close to him.
              "It's going to be a busy day, Abigail," he said in a hushed tone, his glittering eyes peering at her from over his half-moon spectacles and glancing around nervously as though someone else might hear. Apparently he was concerned about throwing the nurses into a panic too early in the day.
              "Oh, no, what happened?" A busy day there was never a good thing, and she knew it.
              "Battle broke out last night over where you used to be. Surprise attack. Came from everywhere. Turns out we did an okay job, but lots of casualties. They put 'em on the wagons last night to bring 'em over our way. Gonna need your help today, Abby. Sorry to put you to work on a bum leg, but just do what you can."
              She smiled. "Nobody's called me Abby in a long time," she said. Sometimes her father would call her that, but only rarely.
              He looked nervous. "Is it okay I called you that?"
              "Of course," she replied quickly. "I like it."
              He nodded quickly and then glanced around the room again. At the same moment, both of them realized that the wagons were about to approach. Flat and wooden, they carried the bodies of the living, the almost dead, and the already passed over. It was a treacherous place to be, and Abigail was happy that she did not recall her journey on the wagons to the outpost.
              She rose to her feet. "What can I do?" she asked.
              "Wait here," Doc said, looking out the window toward the approaching wagons and not toward her. "I'll come back in and tell you what needs to be done. For now, just wait here."
              Abigail sat down on the seat again and sipped her coffee, nervously looking out the window, wondering if anyone she knew was going to be coming through on the wagons. It was impossible to tell, particularly from her vantage point, who was on the wagons. The bodies lay on top of each other all a mess of red and brown, blood and dirt, and no soldier was distinguishable from the next. Most of them were unconscious, and some of them were very clearly dead.
              She waited as the nurses bustled in and out of the door, nodding politely to her as they did and smiling in a forced manner. There was no need. This was no time for pleasantries. Abigail wanted to jump from her seat and help them bring in the bodies, sort out the living from the dead, clean up the living and start treating them. Her father had taught her many things about basic survival and medical care during his time as a doctor. She knew she could put that to use now, knew he would be with her to help her help others.
              Finally, she did rise to her feet and set her coffee down. Slowly, she walked out the doors and watched the process that was unfolding before her eyes. Men moaning as they awoke, some with skin falling from their bones, some with the bone exposed. Many had their heads wrapped in gauze and bandages and cloth because they had been shot, and some also had makeshift braces on broken limbs. One man had lost his eye.
              Partly in horror and partly with compassion, she stood motionless on the porch of the cabin, watching the horrifying scene unfold. How in the world anyone was expected to survive wounds like this she didn't know, but she knew Doc had saved her and could save at least some of these men, as well.
              Her eyes met Doc’s and he motioned her to come over. As quickly as she could she made her way to him and stooped over the mat of a man who had been shot in the stomach. His intestines were partly exposed and he was shaking violently. His eyes were full of fear and sheer terror as he tried to speak but time and time again failed to form any words.
              "Abigail, I need you to hold him still, hold his leg."
              She looked down and saw that his leg was bleeding profusely and had been almost severed in one spot. The tissue was exposed as well as some of the bone. She held his legs down at the bottom, toward the calf, as Doc had shown her, and shut her eyes as he went to work on the man.
              Suddenly, it was as though she felt the man’s life leave him. He no longer struggled or moved at all, and he no longer felt as though his lifeblood was in him. She opened her eyes slowly, looking at Doc instead of the man. Doc looked back at her and nodded, indicating that the man had died.
              The reality of it all was starting to come down on Abigail like torrential rain. People were dying in a violent, horrible manner and suffering so much pain for this cause. She wanted to run back out to the battlefield, even if it meant she would find herself in the same condition. But she knew that was not possible, so she refocused her attention on the task at hand.
              Throughout the morning she helped Doc tend to some of the most severely injured soldiers who had come in on the wagons. Three people died in all, but five were miraculously saved and the rest had minor injuries. Doc told her in one of their very few conversational exchanges during the morning that two more men were inside, where there were two tables with mats for those who needed constant supervision because their wounds were so threatening.
              Finally, when it was about 10 o'clock in the morning, Doc informed Abigail that it was time to come inside again. She made her way through the doors and noticed that her coffee was still sitting on the table where she had left it. Looking down, she saw that her hands were caked in blood and dirt and unrecognizable as her own. Feeling nauseated, she went out to the back where the wash was and began to wash her hands and arms, removing all evidence of the tragic events that had led to those horrific injuries and deaths.
              Coming back inside, Doc told her that he needed help with one of the most critically wounded soldiers but gave her a list of a few other men she needed to tend to first. They were mainly status checks to make sure the men didn't need water or food and that they were comfortable, nothing serious. For all of the serious injuries Doc remained close by her side, teaching her valuable lessons but comforting her, as well, realizing that the newness of the situation was a bit overwhelming for her.
              After tending to the men on Doc's list and ensuring they had all they needed, she went back inside to assist with the man Doc was tending to. He was stout and very built, big but not fat, simply a muscular man, as if he had been logging or building houses his entire life. He was trying to form words but had either forgotten how to speak, was physically unable, or somehow couldn't remember how to make the letters and words come out of his mouth.
              Doc was telling him to stay calm and not to worry too much about not being able to articulate what he was trying to say. The man seemed adamant, although weakly, to get a message across, but Abigail was at a loss for what it could be. She was listening to the man as Doc checked his wounds. He had been almost completely cut open by a bayonet, had lost the lower portion of his left leg, had what looked like part of a spear through his right arm, and had cuts and other lacerations all over his body.
              Finally, Abigail thought she heard what the man had been trying to get out for so long. As she watched his lips move and listened to the faint noises coming from his mouth, she caught a glimpse of his hazel eyes and realized that he was desperate to get the message across. His desperation played out in his eyes, as though the eyes themselves were trying to speak.
              At long last, Abigail heard the words "Tell Rose," but beyond that she couldn't understand anything.
              "Did you say ‘Tell Rose’?" Abigail asked.
              Relief flooded the man's face and he nodded furiously.
              "Is Rose your wife?" she asked.
              Again she was met with furious nods. She smiled and checked the pocket of the man’s clothing. His name was Robert Wade. She looked at Doc and said, "We need to inform a Rose Wade that her husband is injured. That's what he was trying to say." She smiled, happy that she could help in some way.
              The man looked overwhelmingly relieved and kept thanking her profusely, at least as much as the movements of his lips seemed to provide in the way of evidence. She took both of his hands in hers and smiled at him, telling him not to worry, that Rose would be informed.
              As she walked up to retrieve a piece of paper on which she intended to write this information and give it to one of the workers there who acted as a runner, a man who took messages to the various nearby towns for soldiers who were in the outpost's care, the man on the table next to Robert's grabbed her wrist.
              Shocked, she spun around, ready to exchange harsh words with the person who would grab her so violently. But before she could open her mouth, her heart sank and she almost fell to her knees. As she took in the sight of the man, who was covered in bandages, barely conscious, with a large wound on his left shoulder, she realized who the man was. It was Edward.