My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

***

  Emmett led the men through the thick Michigan Territory woodland. Although they would move much faster on the flat road, he knew there would be a risk of meeting advance scouts and picket guards. They couldn’t take the chance. The columns of attackers would move slowly. They had supplies and weapons and fifteen hundred men to move. Even dodging around trees and rocks, Emmett’s small band would outpace them easily.

  The snow began just as night fell. He turned up his collar and wished he had a pair of granny’s striped socks on his hands. He hefted the pack on his shoulders and wondered what was happening back at the bivouac camp. Was Abigail cold? She would certainly seek shelter in one of the lean-tos, wouldn’t she? They’d left the two blankets and Abigail’s quilt. Would it be enough? Were they keeping dry? As the snow fell thicker, he hoped it hadn’t put out the fire. Almost without thinking, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “She’ll be all right,” Jasper said, coming up beside him.

  Emmett kept walking. “Of course, I wasn’t . . .”

  Jasper’s furry hat was covered in white flakes. And with the way the sides of the hat fell, Emmett couldn’t make out his face. Not that he’d be able to read much in the man’s expression anyway. “You made the best choice, Captain,” Jasper said.

  Emmett thought if anyone else had spoken so bluntly about his orders, he’d have reprimanded them for insubordination. But coming from a man of so few words, a person who observed and seldom offered an opinion, the statement was reassuring.

  He nodded his thanks to Jasper, knowing the buckskin-clad Kentuckian would see the movement through the dark and falling snow and understand his meaning.

  They continued on. The snow stuck to the ground in thick drifts, slowing their steps. Hours passed, and Emmett was frustrated that he’d still not fully regained his strength. He tired much sooner than he should have. But lives depended on them, so he pushed through the pain, ignored the fatigue, and maintained a steady march through the dark and uneven terrain. It was almost a relief to hear Murphy’s labored breathing and have an excuse to rest.

  Jasper left to scout the army’s position, and when he returned, he reported the British had set up camp at Stony Creek, just a few miles north of Frenchtown. Knowing the redcoats and their Indian allies would be well-rested and their principal officers were very likely right this moment using their scouts’ reports on the Americans’ positions to strategize their attack gave Emmett a resurgence of energy. He nearly ran the remaining miles, and was relieved at last to hear the warning shout of a sentry.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Captain Emmett Prescott. I must speak to General Winchester immediately.”

  The sentry stepped closer, studying Emmett by moonlight as thick flakes fell around them. “General Winchester is at his headquarters.”

  Emmett’s side ached. He was exhausted, cold, and now furious. The general’s headquarters were in a farmhouse on the other side of the Raisin River, three miles away. Why was the commander not with his troops? “Surely he’s been warned about the British and Indian army bearing down on us at this very moment.”

  The sentry looked past Emmett as if he might see the army looming behind him. “I don’t know, Captain. Because of the weather, no pickets have been sent out along the roads.”

  “Who’s the field officer in charge?”

  “Colonel Wells, sir.”

  Emmett stormed past the sentry. They’d less than an hour before dawn, and for all he knew, the enemy was setting into position at this very moment.

  He left Jasper and Murphy with orders to find their regiments and warn their commanders.

  Striding into the open field to the east of town, Emmett stuck his head into the first tent he came to. “Where is Colonel Wells?” he demanded in a yell.

  A man sprang from his bedroll and stood at attention, blinking himself awake.

  Emmett’s frustration was nearly tangible. The man had been in a deep, unbothered sleep, just like the rest of the camp. How had they not been warned? “Where is Colonel Wells?” he repeated.

  “The colonel and Captain Lanham rode away a few hours ago. Left Major McClanahan in charge.”

  Emmett spun and left the tent. It wasn’t difficult to find the major. He sat beneath a tree with two other men, smoking. When Emmett approached, they all rose and saluted.

  “My regards, Major McClanahan,” Emmett said. “Sir, we are soon to be under attack. An army of over fifteen hundred redcoats and Indians is even now marching toward us armed with heavy artillery.”

  The major ordered the others to raise the alarm.

  Cries of, “To arms!” sounded, and the peaceful camp came alive as men poured out of tents and shouted orders. Emmett was relieved that the major at least recognized the truthfulness of the warning.

  “It’s just as the colonel feared,” Major McClanahan said as he and Emmett strode quickly through the confusion of men. “The general didn’t . . . uh . . . trust the information about an approaching army, but Colonel Wells assumed it was true. He rode off last night for reinforcements.” He must have gone for General Harrison’s army at the Rapids. Emmett vaguely wondered if he would make it back in time but did not dwell on it. He couldn’t place his hopes on what may happen but must focus on what he should do now.

  “Where are the ammunition stores?” Emmett asked.

  “With the general at his headquarters.” The major’s tone conveyed a world of meaning. He’d not speak out against his commanding officer, but both of them knew General Winchester’s unwillingness to take the warnings seriously and prepare the soldiers had very likely doomed them all.

  Emmett lifted his chin and kept a calm expression. Despair and fear spread like a plague among soldiers. He’d not allow his men to see his apprehension, or the battle would be finished before it even began. He saluted Major McClanahan. “I must join my—”

  The crack of the sentries’ muskets fired, sounding an alarm. Immediately afterward, bombshells and cannon shot rained down, exploding throughout the still-unorganized camp.

  Major McClanahan screamed over the artillery fire, calling out orders and urging his men to remember their training, load their weapons, and form a line. The cannons continued to fire on the unprotected soldiers, and their return fire was ineffective, as they couldn’t see their enemy through the darkness.

  Emmett fired the musket into the night then ran into Frenchtown, finding his men behind the fence that surrounded two sides of the town. They were shooting at the soldiers attacking from the north and west. Jasper stood with the First Kentucky Rifles and Murphy with the Pittsburg Blues. Emmett felt proud as he looked over the Second U.S. Dragoon Squadron and the Nineteenth Infantry Regiment and made a note to commend his lieutenants for forming ranks so efficiently. He exchanged Abigail’s father’s musket for a proper rifle and joined the battle.

  As daylight dawned, the scene became clear. The exposed soldiers in the open field were being driven back through their camp. From the surrounding forest came the sound of war cries as Indian warriors ran through the trees and flanked the retreating Americans. They attacked with guns, tomahawks, and knives, snatching off the “scalp locks” from their enemies’ heads and sending the army into a disordered panic as the commanders yelled and tried to reestablish order.

  The cannon shot continued to explode, sending blasts of snow, dirt, and blood into the air in the midst of the chaos.

  Emmett ordered the Kentuckians to concentrate their fire on the gun crews, and a few moments later, the cannon’s blasts were silenced.

  He caught Jasper’s gaze and saw a glint of satisfaction in the man’s eye. “Well done, Corporal,” Emmett said.

  The British were not discouraged by their loss of cannon power. “Fix bayonets,” came the commander’s cry, and the sharp blades were attached to the redcoats’ Brown Bess muskets.

  Emmett called out orders of his own, which were repeated by the lieutenants. They must hold steady.

  The Americans who
’d managed to retreat into the town turned, and at Emmett’s orders formed a line, protecting Frenchtown on three sides. The other side was bordered by the river. Lieutenants moved back and forth delivering orders. Injured men were pulled out of the line and laid between homes and in yards to wait for medical care. The snow was churned dirty with blood and mud as the British infantry charged and were met with a volley of bullets. Emmett fired and then used his weapon to deliver a blow to a redcoat. He pulled back to reload, commanding the men to take up the weapons of their fallen comrades.

  And so it continued. The British and Indians mustered again for an attack, but the Americans held the line, driving them back again and again.

  Ammunition was running low, as was morale, but the soldiers kept firing, turning back the British charge. At this latest withdrawal, a cheer went up from the line, and Emmett couldn’t help but grin.

  The momentary victory ended abruptly with the arrival of the general, or more accurately, Chief Roundhead wearing the general’s ornamented uniform coat, waving a white flag and dragging his bound prisoner, Brigadier-General James Winchester across the frozen river.

  Chapter 11

  Abigail shivered in the lean-to. She was both trying to take up as little space as possible so she didn’t crowd the men and keep herself away from the cold air at the edge of the shelter. The snow fell so thickly that it was filling the opening and spilling inside. The fire had long since gone out, making the night darker and colder than she could have believed.

  She and the others had agreed that remaining together was a better option than sending away one of the men to stand as sentry. He’d not be able to see farther than a few feet anyway, and they were safer as a group.

  In spite of his protests, Luke lay between the two of them, wrapped in the quilt. With the amount of blood he’d lost, as well as his body still mending from the fever, he should be kept the warmest. But he still shivered, and from the sound of their breathing, neither of the men was able to sleep. The ground was simply too cold.

  Finally, Abigail rose up onto her knees, holding the blanket tightly around her. “We must move about or our body temperatures will drop too low.”

  She heard the sounds of the other two moving.

  “I think we should start walking,” she said.

  “Might as well freeze going somewhere as lying here.” Luke’s voice was shaking.

  “Shall we start for Detroit?” Barney asked.

  Abigail had considered this very question for hours as they’d huddled in the cold. She had an idea but worried the men wouldn’t go along with her plan. She was determined to try. “I think we should go to Frenchtown.” She held still, waiting to see how they’d react.

  Both men were silent, and she could feel their discomfort as if they’d spoken it aloud. They were caught between the options of obeying their captain’s orders and obliging a lady’s request.

  Finally Barney spoke. “But Captain Prescott said—”

  “Captain Prescott gave his command out of worry for my well-being. And Luke’s. We are closer to Frenchtown than Detroit, are we not?”

  “Suppose so,” Barney said.

  “Luke cannot stay here in the cold,” she said. “He will be cared for in Frenchtown. And the army will return me to my father more quickly and safely than if the three of us spend the next few days tromping through the forest.”

  She thought her argument was sound. And her points were truthful. Luke’s care was foremost in her mind. In Frenchtown, the regiment was bound to have a surgeon, and certainly there was a house where he could be kept warm as he recovered. Or at the very least, the British would take him in a wagon to Detroit, where her father would care for him.

  But she had another reason for wanting to go to Frenchtown, one she didn’t say aloud. She must know what happened to Emmett and the others. If there was truly to be a battle at dawn, she wished to be there to provide medical care, and though she knew it was silly, she felt like being near was important. Not that she’d be able to protect anyone in battle, but she couldn’t just sit here in the cold forest or set off for Detroit without knowing how they’d fared. She simply could not.

  The men didn’t speak, so Abigail continued. “At any rate, we must move, or we will freeze. We may as well move in the direction that will be most beneficial to the others as well as Luke.”

  “Captain did say ‘take suitable measures for Abigail’s safety and Private Hopkins’s health’,” Barney said. “Can you travel, Luke?”

  “If we move slowly.”

  “Very well, then it is decided.” Abigail crawled out of the shelter and put on her bonnet, pulling her cloak and the woolen blanket tightly around her shoulders.

  The men followed, grabbing the packs they’d prepared for travel the next morning.

  “Here, Abigail,” Luke said. “Take the quilt.”

  She shook her head, though she knew he could not see it in the darkness. “You need it more than I.” Hearing his intake of breath as he prepared to protest, she touched his arm. “We can trade soon, once you are warm.”

  They set off, trusting Barney’s sense of direction to get them to the road. Moving through the thick snow in the dark forest would slow them so much as to be pointless if they hoped to reach Frenchtown the next day. And besides being easier for travel, there was a good chance they’d be found on the road by soldiers—from either army—and taken to the town.

  They walked in silence, with only the sounds of Abigail’s rustling skirts and an occasional grunt from one of the men, until they finally emerged from the tree line. Abigail could only see shadows, but she could hear by the change in acoustics that they were in an open space. After the security of the forest, she felt exposed and vulnerable. And seeing the way Barney and Luke held their guns and looked from side to side, she imagined they felt the same.

  She supposed conversation might set them at ease. “Barney,” she said. Her voice was much louder than she was used to with the trees muffling the sound. She spoke softer. “Tell me about your family in Ohio. You mentioned your mother, and there’s Luke, of course. Have you other siblings?”

  “Two sisters,” he said. “Younger than me, older than Luke. Both married.”

  “And do they live near you?”

  “Within a few miles. Close enough to help Pa and Ma with the farm while we’re gone. Not much to do in the winter, anyway.”

  “And when will your militia contract be served?”

  “We’ve a month more,” Barney said.

  They paused, brushing off the snow from a stump for Luke to sit on. Resting when Luke was tired had become so natural that they did not even discuss it—just paused in their walking, waited a few moments, and carried on. Marching on the tramped-down snow of the road was so much easier than trudging through the thick drifts that he rested less frequently.

  The two sat on either side of him.

  “What do you intend to do when you return home?” Abigail asked.

  “Barney has a sweetheart,” Luke said with the teasing inflection of a pestering brother.

  Abigail was glad to hear it. If Luke had the energy to tease, he must not be suffering too badly.

  “What is her name?” she asked.

  “Winnifred Morgan.” Both men replied at the same time, one sounding playful and the other affectionate.

  “I think Winnifred Morgan is a lucky woman,” Abigail said.

  They rose and continued along the road.

  “I hope to marry her,” Barney spoke in a low voice, meant for her ears only.

  “I am happy to hear it,” Abigail said. “You will make a fine husband, Barney.”

  She couldn’t see his expression, but she thought he held his head taller. Slowing her pace, she walked beside Luke.

  “And what do you plan to do when you return home?”

  “I hope to go to school. Perhaps attend a university.”

  “What will you study?”

  “I’d like to do doctoring, like you.” He soun
ded nervous as if worried she’d disparage his idea.

  “I hope you do, Luke. And I hope you write me letters and tell me all about it.” Abigail felt the familiar longing to attend a university, but of course for a woman, wishing for such a thing was useless.

  “I will,” Luke said. He sounded much more animated than he had the entire journey. “Do you know, Pa met a man in Cincinnati who said the outer settlements are desperate for doctors? Some will even pay the university fees.” He was quiet for a moment. “I wish I’d been awake to see you tend to my arm, Abigail. I was certain it would have to be amputated.”

  “I’m glad it didn’t.” She realized the young man would have no hope of a career in medicine with only one arm. She was once again grateful that Emmett had brought her to the camp and the men had entrusted her with Luke’s care.

  After another rest, they continued on. She imagined each in the party was caught up in his own thoughts. Barney was thinking of the woman he’d left behind, Luke of his future plans, and Abigail could not keep herself from remembering Emmett’s parting kiss. Her heart was heavy with worry about Emmett, Jasper, and Murphy. Had they made it to Frenchtown? Or had they been captured before they were able to deliver their warning? Her mind turned over different scenarios, each causing more worry than the previous, until she finally had to stop. She distracted herself by mentally reconstructing the chemical compositions of all the sheet silicates she could think of.

  More hours passed, and Abigail thought it must be near dawn. She wondered how far they’d gone. Surely they’d covered close to seven or eight miles, maybe more.

  The thought had no sooner entered her mind than she was startled by the sound of gunfire followed by explosions. She gasped and looked around as her body started to shake. Barney took her arm, and she could barely see his face in the dim predawn. His mouth was drawn into a grim line, his brows furrowed. The battle had begun.

  Once the initial terror passed, Abigail felt frantic to reach the town. Emmett could at this moment be lying on the ground, the victim of one of the blasts.

  They hurried along, stopping less often in their impatience to reach Frenchtown. The sun rose, and though they still could not see the town with the forest on either side of the road, a cloud of brown smoke floated in the sky ahead. The cannon discharges became so loud that Abigail could feel them shaking the air. And in between blasts were the noises of gunfire and the indistinctive sound of turmoil. She could not see the battle, but she could smell it. Gunpowder stung her eyes and made her cough, and even though it was likely her imagination, she was certain she could smell blood.