Free Laura Abbot by Into the Wilderness

Lavinia of her hopes for a St. Louis visit.
    * * *
    “Caleb!” Buried in darkness, Caleb heard a voice, felt himself being roughly shaken. “Wake up, man!”
    Indians screaming war whoops hounded him from all sides, bullets hailed down upon him and the earth trembled with the reverberations of cannon fire. Moaning, he clawed his way to consciousness. Will Creekmore stood over him, his face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window of the officers’ barracks. “Montgomery, can you wake up?”
    Caleb tried to focus, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, groggy and disoriented. “The dream,” he croaked.
    “Again?”
    All Caleb could do was nod in disgust and humiliation. The ghosts of combat refused to relinquish him. He had come to dread sleep because of the horrific night visitors. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow even as he shivered in the cool night air. Mustering strength, he stood and clapped Will on the back. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
    Will smiled ruefully. “You’re not alone. We all have our battle scars.”
    That was true, and Caleb understood each man’s struggle was personal. “Go back to bed, friend.” He drew on his trousers. “I’ll be fine. I just want to clear my head.”
    He stepped out on the front porch, needing to purge from his body and soul the terrors that sat upon him like lead weights. Would this torment ever abate? Could anything or anyone cleanse his poisonous memories? He leaned on the railing, gazing over the encampment. Others were sleeping, most, peacefully, he surmised. But on nights such as this, sleep was a luxury he could not afford to indulge, not when it might invite again such troubled dreams.
    He looked up at the sky, brilliant with moonglow and starlight. If there was a God, was He up there? Amid the countless stars, why would He concern himself with one tortured cavalryman? And yet... “His eye is on the sparrow...”
    He reminded himself of the good in the world. His family. His loyal troops, some risking their lives to carry wounded mates to safety. Lily—a lovely young woman acquainted with grief. He must not, however, come to depend upon her to be the light in his darkness. Rather he should spare her his demons.
    Such wisdom, though, was at odds with his instincts toward friendship. What could friendship hurt? Her frequent visits to her mother’s grave confirmed that a military outpost could be a lonely place for a woman, too. As he remained on the porch, surrounded by night sounds, gradually an image of Lily replaced that of his nightmares. He fixed on it, grateful for his clearing mind and slowing respiration.
    He didn’t know how long he stood there, but finally he went back inside, lighted the lantern and tried to lose himself in Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield. Unable to concentrate, he set the book aside and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He held the pen in the air, gathering his thoughts. Finally he dipped it in the ink and began writing. With each succeeding stroke, he felt his torment subside.
    * * *
    May 1 dawned with the cheery songs of birds and the tantalizing aroma of hotcakes. Lily patted the empty space on the mattress beside her. Rose was already up and cooking. Cocooning herself in the covers, Lily lay listening to the avian reveille, soon joined by the bugle version. She found something predictably reassuring about military schedules, which, like clocks, remained constant.
    She had posted her letter to Aunt Lavinia and hoped she had been subtle but effective in saying how much she anticipated reuniting with her aunt and being introduced to the wonders of St. Louis. She knew such a trip would be expensive and that her father could not afford the entire cost. Months ago, Lavinia had offered to underwrite the expense. Had she forgotten? Or was the delay merely about timing? Lily appreciated that summer was not the season to go, but if she was to travel in the fall, plans had to be made.
    She sighed,