Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War (5 page)

7
The Camp

When morning broke, Edward was staring up at the sky, lying on his back, Abigail in his arms. Slowly, the events of the night prior filled his mind and he remembered everything. He felt his heart almost breaking, not understanding why he had bothered to include her in this pain of his, feeling that she had pain of her own. He should have been happy that he was able to share a night like that with someone like Abigail. But somehow he felt guilty, believing that she deserved more than him.
              There in his arms was that same muse, the same one that led him through the darkness without realizing it, though he supposed by now that she did realize it and wanted nothing more than to be with him and fight for her cause. Now he didn't know what to do. Didn't know what he wanted. How in the world did it happen? How did things end up this way?
              In the distance, Edward could hear the sounds of the battlefield they were about to approach, and knots tightened in his stomach. He was happy to fight for the patriot cause, happy to spur on the goal, happy to get to the end of this battle and this war and, whether he met his end there or lived through it, happy to be rid of the person he once was.
              But he wasn't quite rid of the old man. That old man still lingered quite remarkably and in such vivid detail he could see him, feel him, like a leech that clung to the skin and sucked out the lifeblood of its host. That old self was a virus, and he had no way of purging it, didn't know what the cure was.
              Then again, the previous night he had felt almost free in her arms, almost free under the starless sky—nearly starless, at least—and almost ready to let everything go, to release the past, to overcome who he had once been. But that image was still in his mind. The image of death, of loss, of murder—in his mind—of people who never deserved to die, but did so willingly.
              The previous night was the first night in a week he didn't have that dream, didn't see the face of…well, it didn't matter now. He had been free of it for one night, and it was all because of her. But she had no idea, did she? Had no idea the kind of man he was. Or used to be? Or was he that man still?
              Even he didn't know. But one thing he did know—he had to fight for something, and his people didn't give him anything to fight for anymore. Pride and greed and a name and a kingdom that wasn't even theirs, now that he thought about it. Is the slave master any freer than the slave? Perhaps not, because without someone to control he is no longer a slave master.
Such is Britain to America
, he thought. But nobody in Britain would believe that or understand it or see it.
              So now here he was, listening to the distant clamor of a war he had tried to flee, with an angel in his arms and that familiar knot rising again as he looked up into the gray sky. It wasn't for him. No, the knot in his stomach was for her. Because now that he loved her, he couldn't bear the thought of her fighting in that battle. Not that he thought she couldn't, no, of course not—this woman could certainly hold her own on a battlefield. But he didn't want her to.
              At that moment, he felt Abigail stir in his arms and looked down at her, pushing a leaf from her face that had apparently fallen there during the night and lingered like a memory. She blinked and looked up at him, smiling. He smiled back, though he didn't really mean it. He was terrified.
              "Good morning," she said quietly.
              "Good day, m'lady," he remarked, smirking a bit.
              "Always a jester," she replied.
              "Perhaps."

             
"Ready for today?"
              He thought about it before answering. This woman seemed to read him like a book, and the cover did no good in convincing her of anything but the truth of the contents within.
              "No, I'm not."
              Her expression questioned him without saying a word.
              "Abigail, I don't want to lose you. I know it's…it's crazy, it's silly, but…I'd rather fight for both of us than see you out there. I know this is your battle, though. I know you must. But still…that I had any control over it…" he trailed off.
              Abigail put a hand on his chest and then touched his face. "It's okay," she promised.
              "I hope so."

             
After they had eaten—some bread of his and fruit of hers—they packed up their things once again, discarding what they did not need and hiding the fact that they had ever been there as best they could. It was essential, being this close to the battlefield, that they not leave any trace of where they had been. Being in the forest broke no law—it was how most people got to the battlefield—but any sign of his British identity and they would both be sunk.
              Finally, after a long while, they had everything together, shared a kiss, and then moved onward toward the battlefield. It was only a few hours away, and they both shared the anticipation. She couldn't possibly know how anxious he was about returning to a battlefield he had so recently fled. And yet, she was the ever-increasing inspiration for his return. Where he had been headed before, when he was traveling in the other direction, he couldn't know. He just had to leave, had to go, had to get out.
              Once again, they were walking side by side, and although it had only happened for the first time a day ago, he felt as though he had been walking by her side forever.
I intend to, as well, if this thing has a happy ending,
he thought to himself.
              Over morning breakfast, they had decided that he would be Grayson Bentley, and she had already decided on being Raymond. Traveling toward their goal, he felt as though a tunnel were closing and the walls were closing in on him ever so slightly, ever so consistently, as they traveled along, and he couldn't help but think that this was the end.
              Approaching the battlefield line was the worst part. It was like being on the sea in the midst of a storm, on the top of a wave, waiting to crash down, expecting there to be some turbulence, expecting some hard times and some difficulty but not knowing whether the ship can be righted, not knowing whether it will end in smooth seas or at the bottom of the ocean.
              It was unclear to him whether he had even considered this before, but it was too late now. Now he was standing at the precipice of his future, and he had someone else with him, too. Someone he loved but didn't even know a few days earlier. Now it was all so real, it was all in front of him, and he didn't know if he could possibly do it.
              But it was time to find out, regardless. They approached what appeared to be the campground in the midst of the battlefield and walked up to a person who seemed to be in charge. "Raymond (smith) here," said Abigail, and Edward smiled inside—she really did a good job of passing as a man when she needed to. "And this here is my friend Grayson Bentley. Come down from the farms and wanted to join the Army, you have room?"
              The man sat like a puffy bull dog ready to guard the campground while all the bantering and fighting went on around him. He even had the look of a bulldog. He was plump, barely fitting into the white pants he had on, and his shirt was so tight around him it looked as though he might break free of it at any moment.
              His eye drooped to one side, the right one, and he had the expression of someone who had been glaring and guarding something his entire life. It was obvious, though his expression seemed to have only one setting, that he did not trust them and found the situation suspicious.
              "Why ye wanna come up here and join us, eh?" he asked, as though nobody in their right mind would be coming to join a battle.
              "Why did ye join?" retorted Abigail as Raymond.
              The man grunted a response as though he hadn't considered that, and, at the same time, appreciated her—er, his—honesty and retort.
              "Mm, I suppose we all join fer our own reasons, nah?" he said, laughing as though he was trying to cough something up at the same time, guttural and base as an instinct, but still he carried the gruff and drooping eyes, as though his face had two personalities. The lips were smiling, but the eyes were glaring, and it made not much difference which was true.
              "Then I suppose if we have our own reasons they be our own, yes?"
              Edward had to note how good of a job she was doing, and it was everything he could do not to laugh audibly. Just the previous night she had been the woman of his dreams, feminine and elegant, and here she was passing herself off as a rugged old male soldier with a storied background. It was humorous but also rather surprising.
              "Yes, I suppose they be. All right then, you two out on the lines, nobody slacks around here, get on with it."
              For a moment, Edward thought that even Abigail seemed surprised at how easily they were able to join a war. But then again, the more the merrier was likely the idea, and since it was so often the case that members of the army would go home to their farms, leave, or be killed, he figured that this exchange was merely a formality to make it seem as though there was an actual recruiting and examination process, when in effect anyone who had breath in them could easily join. And shouldn't it be that way? That passion is what earns you a spot in a fight, nothing else?
              As they walked away, Edward noted Abigail's disposition. She was still in character, so he remained that way, as well. He knew she was no fool. If anyone but suspected that they were anyone other than who they claimed to be, it was over, and a worse end would likely come to them than if they had never set foot on the battlefield in the first place or had simply walked in front of a gun battle.
              Earlier, Edward remembered, Abigail had mentioned that on the north side of the camp there was an area of trees left unsurveilled and that they should meet there nightly, quietly, once the camp was either too drunk to notice or already asleep, so they could discuss the day and make plans—but also simply to see each other.
              As discussed, he parted ways with Abigail once they left the camp, not wanting to raise any suspicion. It was easy to pretend you were someone else, but pretending there was no connection between you and someone else, particularly when you had just spent the previous night in that person's arms and then the situation called for being bitter and war-torn men, it was best for the both of them if they parted ways.
              As he made his way toward the east of the camp, he realized that there was very little to be done. While he expected to be engulfed in battle from the very moment he entered the field, he noticed that most of the people were simply…there. He had heard that General Washington had just recently been assigned as Commander and that he was doing wonders for the Army. Apparently, Washington was supposed to come their way soon, and what a blessed day it would be if the Americans’ success in other areas was any indication.
             
No matter,
he thought. He was there to fight, and now his only goal was to avoid running into anyone from his old brigade that he wasn't planning to kill. Again with the killing. He had no illusions that war was anything other than death, but it hurt him and simultaneously bothered him that he was so hurt by it. Nobody else seemed to be.
              He sat down on his own, observing his new battlefield and wondering when the next fight would come. Throughout the day, not much happened in the way of war, but he was glad of it. He needed a day to wrap his head around the events of the last two days and prepare for his new life. Almost daringly he shot a glance over at Abigail, who was chatting, probably reluctantly, with a man she had met. By the looks of things, the man didn't suspect she was anyone other than Raymond. Remarkable woman.
              Toward the end of the day, the camp began to settle down, and when the camp fell asleep and a few people blathered drunkenly about some old story, Edward saw Abigail slip behind the trees. Waiting for a few minutes longer, he began to make his way off to that side of the camp, careful not to wake Bulldog while he was at it.
              Once behind the trees, he and Abigail embraced, and she kissed him passionately. This time it was almost too much to bear. He wanted to be with her, to sleep with her under the stars, to hold her close, but he knew—they both knew—that this was as close as they were going to be able to get for a while. Who knew how long? At least they had these few precious moments behind the trees.
              "What do you think about tomorrow?" she said.
              "What do you mean what do I think?"
              "Oh, come on, Edward. There's been talk around the camp about impending doom of some kind or another, how the British are planning to attack tomorrow."
              "I hadn't heard of that." She couldn't tell if he was being honest or not, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt anyway.
             
              Silently, they exchanged a glance, and then they continued to kiss, finding comfort in a foreign place in each other’s embrace. How ironic it was that they were still strangers to each other—or should have been. Yet this woman had taken him by surprise, and he was glad of it.
              That night, they both slept across the camp from each other. He stared up at the stars, remembering the night before, and fell asleep to the sound of a nearby campfire and the drunken laughter of a few men remembering times past and dreaming of days to come.