The Hour of Dreams (12 page)

“What is it?” my mother murmured, taking hold of my elbow.

“I don’t know,” my father said, peering hard.

Without a word, William began to gather his clothes. “Where are you going?” I found myself asking, unsure whether he was leaving on account of my father or something else. Regardless, I didn’t like the idea.

He finally turned and spoke. “The shots are coming from the north. That means there is some sort of confrontation. I think it may be my regiment.”

“What makes you say that?” my father asked, turning from the window for the first time.

William wiped his forehead nervously.“Our journey there was only supposed to take a couple days. Then we were to double back, meet a second company, and head east.” He looked toward the window. “Something’s gone wrong.”

“You
think
so?” my father asked incredulously. “What did you think would happen, trekking through towns, bullying people?”

“It wasn’t meant to…it’s not what we were supposed to be doing.”

More gunshots sounded. Closer this time, followed by shouting and high-pitched screaming. Possibly women. The hairs on my neck stood alert, and my mother held me tighter, complete fright apparent in her ghostly cheeks.

“Oh, right,” my father barked uncharacteristically.

“It’s true,” William said absently as he finished putting on his boots. “We were supposed to destroy weapons. Canons, guns, gunpowder. Things like that. It was to keep the peace.”

My father shook his head. “Or to disable anyone who opposed your king.”

William opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, taking a long glance at each of us. After a long moment, he slid into his red coat and returned his gaze to my father. “Please keep them here.”

My father’s jaw clenched. “You have a lot of nerve wearing that thing in here.”

William fastened the last button and looked up at all of us. In a quiet, steady voice, he murmured, “This coat just may save you now.” My mother sucked in a breath so hard, it nearly stole my own. “Now please stay here. Except you,” he said, pointing to my father.

“What of me?”

“Just follow me. Please.”

Together they went downstairs as the gunshots became louder. My mother and I could barely stand still, but thankfully she pulled me into the next room and busied herself with comforting my brother.

With the door cracked, I listened as hard as I could to my father and William below. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it sounded like arguing, and then a hard knock pounded at the door, settling them into silence. After a short pause, I heard a loud voice.

“Open this door!”

We froze in fear as the sounds of the latch being released, and the door opening, echoed up the stairs. Never had we been so close to gunfire. Now our home was open to it.

Surprisingly, there was a brief silence, followed by a less angry voice. “William?”

“Yes. I’m a wounded officer of the king.”

His words shocked both me and my mother. The unfamiliar voice spoke again. “And you’ve been here since your wounding?”

“I have,” William answered. “These kind people have taken me in and cared for me. They wish no harm to us. Their loyalty lies with the king.”

“Very well, then. We will use this home for other wounded.”

“Very well.”

With William’s last words, the door closed and the latch fastened. “What has he done?” my mother hissed.

Shock continued to weave through me. My gaze settled on an empty portion of the wall, and then I knew.

“He helped us, Mother.” And with that knowledge, I hurried downstairs, not caring about staying put.

My father was sitting at the dining room table with his face in his hands. William was standing with his back against the closed door, staring at the floor. Upon my entrance, he looked up to me.

“You just saved us, didn’t you?” I asked, coming to a stop in front of him.

His gaze traveled to mine, sending so many signals through me I couldn’t keep track. Worry, sorrow, defeat. And as I was trying to decipher the hard lines of his face, he nodded.

“Phoebe, get away from him,” my mother ordered.

I turned around to find her at the bottom of the stairs with my brother. There I was, in my home, standing between my family and someone who should’ve felt like a stranger. A stranger wearing the enemy’s uniform. And yet I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—comply.

“I will not,” I said, taking a step backward until I was nearly touching William’s chest.

My mother’s eyes grew wide, and my father’s head snapped up. “He’s helping us. He’s not like them,” I reasoned.

She was about to take a few angry strides my way, when my father spoke. “She’s right. Phoebe is right.”

My mother’s lips formed an O and then she turned her teary gaze toward my father. “John, you can’t—”

“Look outside. They’re burning the town.”

My mother gasped and ran to the window. “Oh, my God.”

“And they would’ve burned our house too. If William hadn’t been here.”

My mother covered her mouth, but her sobs escaped.

After a moment, we realized she was going to sink toward the floor, and my father leaped toward her, taking her in his arms. The sight of their fear and sorrow terrified me. I found myself unable to rationalize my feelings, and felt frozen, empty, and alone.

As if sensing my mental turmoil, William leaned his chest forward. The additional contact against my back was enough to cause me to give into him. He caught my weight and put his hands softly on my shoulders.

Despite all of the chaos surrounding us, in that little moment of time, I felt alive and safe, and because I knew how rare such a moment might be in our future, I turned myself around and let the tears fall into his chest. As if he’d done it many times before, he wrapped his arms around me and held me close enough to where I felt no amount of gunfire could ever find us.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“William?” my father spoke, still holding my mother.

We both turned in his direction.

“I will not stay here and attend to your wounded while my friends suffer the wrath of your comrades. We must go.”

Realizing the true severity of our situation, I instinctively took a step away and awaited William’s response, again trying to determine whether he was on our side or not. He looked tired and defeated as we stood there, literally cornering him into responding.

After a few slow, deep breaths, he nodded. “I understand.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, the panic resurfacing.

“Fetch your bags,” my father ordered. “Pack only the things you need and only what can be carried quickly. We must leave now.”

My mother’s eyes widened with fear. “What? Where will we go?”

“I don’t know. But we cannot stay here.”

Everything was happening quickly. Too quickly. I looked at William for some sort of explanation.

“He’s right,” William said. “I’m sorry. They’ll be back soon.”

“But where will you go?” I pressed.

“Now, Phoebe. Your bag,” my father urged.

“Wait,” I pleaded, looking back to William. “I don’t want you to go.”

The lines in William’s face deepened with worry, and he looked at my father. “I can still help, if you wish. You may need me again.”

My father stood still for a moment and then settled his gaze on me.

“Please,” I said, only knowing that I didn’t want him to leave.

After a moment of silence, he turned to William. “Why would you help us?”

His hands fumbled uncomfortably until he slid them into his pockets. He bounced his gaze off every corner of the room until settling them on me. My body felt like it would burst from the tension of the moment, but I stood my ground.

After exhaling deeply, he returned his gaze to my father. Softly, so that we had to lean in to hear him, he said, “Because I understand your cause…and if I’m being honest, because of Phoebe.” I couldn’t contain a smile as my face became hot. “I’d like not to see her harmed,” he finished, looking down.

My mother glared at me sharply, as if I was keeping a secret. Turning away, my gaze locked on William. His brown eyes softened to the warmest hue.

“Very well,” my father said, his answer stunning me as much as my mother.

“John, please…”

“It’s for the best,” he said. “Get our things. We must leave now.” Without another word, my distraught mother hurried upstairs, teary eyed, while Father gathered his guns and ammunition.

I attempted to speak to William, but could not find words. Only a nod escaped me, and then I too ran upstairs to gather my things.

I hurried to my room and threw a few garments in a sack and then reached under my bed to retrieve my diary and a small box of saved coins. It was then that I noticed William’s bag still on the floor.

As if on cue, a clearing of a throat sounded from my doorway. Without turning, I could feel his presence. Standing quickly, I moved out of his way. “Come in,” I said, wishing I had also cleared the scratchiness in my throat.

“My things—”

“I know,” I said a little more smoothly.

He moved past me like I wasn’t even there and quietly gathered his items into his satchel. Perhaps he felt awkward after his declaration downstairs. Or maybe he regretted it. Or maybe it was a lie. I had to know.

“Did you mean what you said? Downstairs. About me?”

He slowly fastened his bag and turned his gaze upon me. “Yes,” he said stoically, without hesitation.

I was entirely, unrecognizably thrilled on the inside, and somehow his admission made me chuckle nervously. I watched as the smile lines surrounded his charmingly perfect grin as he laughed as well.

The temporary calm was cut short by my father’s shout of “It’s time to go!” from below. In the same instant, we could hear distant cries and shouting beyond the hills, and we were both reminded of the harshness beyond the walls of my home.

Unable to move, I stood frozen, trying my hardest to muster the nerve to head outside into the chaos. Why were we leaving? It felt wrong.

“I don’t want to go,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone.

“Now!” my father shouted up the stairs

“You have to,” William said. “I’ll be with you.”

“But why can’t we just stay and pretend here?”

“Because it won’t last. They will only bring more danger here.” Even though his words were reasonable, my feet would not move. “It’s all right,” he said, stretching out an open hand before me. My gaze quickly settled upon it, and as more battle cries sounded just beyond the window, I knew it was now or never.

Taking his hand, I squeezed it hard, and he led me downstairs to where my family was waiting for us. My mother turned, and although tears were spilling over her lids, she nodded quickly and turned away.

“Do you have your weapons?” My father asked, looking at William.

“I do,” he answered.

“Good. Now take this also.” He tossed William a black coat, which William caught only by letting go of me. “Your red coat may not always save us. I suggest you be prepared to become a rebel if needed. Unless you oppose?”

“No,” William said, without hesitation.

My father looked at him with creases between his brows. “If you have to put this on, there may be no going back for you.”

William folded the coat into his bag. “I don’t want to go back.”

“You’ll fight your own?” my father asked.

“I have no intentions of fighting. But I will help you stand your ground. Even if that means yes.”

I thought I detected a look of satisfaction from my father, but he quickly broke the connection and ordered us onto the creaky porch and into the harshness of a divided world.

***

We knew we would travel through the forest, but weren’t sure where. I could hear my father telling William that his sister lived about ten miles to the west and that my mother had a brother who lived about five miles southwest. Feeling the vulnerability of traveling as a group, William and my father agreed to the shortest distance, so we set out to my uncle’s. There were still several shortcuts that the Redcoats wouldn’t know about, so we hid ourselves well, but it didn’t take long for a thought to occur to me and my parents.

We were heading in the direction of Charity’s house and thankfully my mother thought to ask my father if we should check on them and he agreed. Plus I think he wanted to share words about the impending conflict with her father.

Their house was small, but sat on over a hundred acres, well off the most traveled road, so we assumed they would be nestled at home safely. Unfortunately as we approached the peak of the hilltop we could hear noises. Shouting and cries similar to the ones I had heard in the distance beyond our own home.

“Get down!” my father hissed, ducking his head and forcing my brother’s down at the same time. Suddenly, terrified of what I might see, I obediently squeezed my eyes shut and bowed my head.

My mother crouched frozen beside me, but movement to my left gave me courage to open my eyes. William and my father were inching their way to the top of the hill.

“Bastards,” my father said through gritted teeth.

William was silent, but as soon as he caught sight of whatever it was, he bowed his head, no longer wanting to look. Several horrible scenarios shot through my mind until I could no longer take the suspense. Leaving my mother’s side, I too inched my way to the top. Before I could reach it, my father scurried down to me and held me back.

“What is it?” I pleaded.

“We have to go back,” he said, but I had to see for myself. Rolling away from him, I scrambled to the top. I was met with the sight of what looked like a thousand Redcoats making their way over the hills from every direction. And right in the center was Charity’s house, smoke billowing from the windows.

I sucked in a shocked breath so sharply that I had to clap my hand over my mouth to keep myself from screaming. Squeezing my lids closed, I ducked back down, unable to focus. Only when I pressed away the distant sounds of fighting did I hear my father’s commands.

“We have to go back to the house.”

“What? Why?” my mother asked, grabbing hold of his arms.