My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  The cannon blasts stopped, but the gunfire continued, and now she could hear shouts and the roars of hundreds of men locked in battle. But eventually this stopped as well, and only the smoky smell remained, becoming thicker as they neared the town.

  Shapes and movements appeared between the trees, and suddenly the way ahead was cleared and Frenchtown and the aftermath of the battle came into view.

  In spite of herself, Abigail drew back and took Barney’s arm. In the eerie silence, evidence of fighting was everywhere. The ground was a mess of dirty snow. Clumps of material that she realized were injured or dead men were strewn about as if a giant had dropped his collection of wooden soldiers haphazardly around the clearing.

  People moved about, carrying wounded men toward the town. Some simply sat and stared; others helped comrades. The chaos still existed, but it was subdued and a feeling of misery hung heavy like the cloud of gun smoke.

  Abigail could not make any sense of what she was seeing. Which side had won the battle? She started to ask Barney but felt him stiffen. Looking up, she saw a group of Indian warriors approaching.

  The men were muscular and bare-chested with painted skin and sharp weapons, but it was the scalp patches they carried that snatched the air from Abigail’s lungs and made cold terror spike through her veins.

  She clung to Barney’s large arm, her mind feeling sluggish and alert at the same time as utter fear covered her, cold and heavy.

  The Indians reached them and grinned menacingly, motioning for Luke and Barney to drop their weapons.

  The men complied. Barney stepped forward, moving himself to stand in front of both Abigail and Luke. Abigail could see his fists were tight, but he still shook.

  Two of the warriors aimed their guns at Barney, and the man who appeared to be the leader of the Indians drew a knife and started toward him, an evil expression curling his lip and making his dark eyes glint. Abigail put her hands over her face and closed her eyes, bracing herself for her friends’ pain nearly as much as her own. Her breathing was jagged, and all of her muscles tensed.

  “Hold, there!” a voice called from behind them. “You, stop immediately!”

  Abigail peeked through her fingers and saw a man in a British uniform approaching with hurried steps. He waved his hands in a shooing motion, and the Indian warriors moved away, looking back with disappointed glares.

  Realizing the man had saved them, Abigail let her breath out, and her body slacked with relief. The man caught her arm, perhaps fearing she would swoon. At this point, it wasn’t out of the question, Abigail thought. She’d never in her life felt such all-encompassing dread, and the utter relief that followed it made her light-headed.

  “Thank you,”—she noted the chevrons on his jacket—“Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant Sebastian Fox at your service, miss.” He gave Barney and Luke a quick glance then called a pair of soldiers over, instructing the two Americans to be taken to join the other prisoners.

  The soldiers took their weapons, and Luke handed the quilt to Abigail.

  “This man is in need of medical care,” Abigail said to the redcoats, but they gave her hardly a glance before her friends were marched away.

  So the British were the victors, Abigail realized. A week ago, this would have been her preferred outcome, but today, knowing Emmett and his men had been defeated wrenched her heart with anguish. She had to find them.

  Still holding on to her arm, the lieutenant studied Abigail. “Now, if you please, miss, explain who you are and what you were doing.”

  Abigail didn’t like the man’s demanding tone, but she figured he had a right to be suspicious of anyone during wartime.

  “My name is Abigail Tidwell, sir. Perhaps you know my father, William Tidwell. He is a physician-surgeon in Fort Detroit.”

  “Yes, I am acquainted with the doctor. And if I remember rightly, his home is in Amherstburg. So, that begs the question, ‘What is his daughter doing on a battlefield more than twenty miles away, with two American soldiers?’”

  Abigail definitely didn’t like the lieutenant’s tone now. And the way he looked at her made her wary, as if he were trying to discern the best way to use any information she might give against her. The man was very handsome. His speech was that of an aristocrat and his uniform impeccable, which she thought strange after a battle in the dirty snow.

  “I am a healer, Lieutenant. I have come to assist with the wounded in hopes that I might travel safely with the army back to my father.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That is not an explanation.” He took the bag off her shoulder and opened it, poking through her medical equipment with a bored expression.

  “It is rather a long story, and I think now my time would be better spent tending to the injured, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant.”

  “Perhaps I do mind.” His lip curled into a sneer. “I find your presence as well as your behavior highly suspicious, Miss Tidwell. And as you are no doubt aware, His Majesty’s army has no mercy for spies, nor traitors.”

  He leaned toward her, perhaps meaning to intimidate her, but Abigail had just survived an encounter with scalp-collecting Indian warriors. She’d slept in a cold forest surrounded by wolves and walked miles through the darkness and falling snow. She wasn’t about to let one snooty British officer frighten her.

  The impasse lasted only a moment before a young man approached. He saluted and stood to attention. “If you please, Lieutenant Fox, General Procter sends his regards and requests your presence, sir.”

  Lieutenant Fox’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, his gaze still boring into Abigail. “Corporal, please take this woman to the field hospital.”

  Chapter 12

  Emmett stood against the wall in the small upper-floor bedroom the British were using as a prison for the officers. He glanced around at the other men. Some paced or sat on the floor. A few held their heads in their hands or stared vacantly. Colonel Lewis was wounded and laid on the bed, his head wrapped and his face pale. All felt the heavy weight of their defeat.

  Emmett was very aware of the men missing from their company and what their absence meant. They were either dead or in the hospital tent. He approached Major McClanahan. “Do you know what’s become of Colonel Allen?”

  The major looked up and sighed heavily. “Shot in the head by the Indians after he surrendered. Saw it with my own eyes.”

  Emmett bowed his head. He’d admired the colonel, had trained beneath him, and considered him a friend. “We lost good men today,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Major McClanahan pressed his lips together. His jaw was tight. He gave no answer, but what answer was there to give?

  A group of lieutenants stood close together, their voices lowered as they lamented the casualties and combat errors. He heard them talking about Major Graves’s Kentuckians, who ignored their commander’s orders and fled in panic at the sight of the attacking Indian warriors.

  “Over a hundred cut down and scalped by the whooping savages . . . ,” one man was saying. Emmett turned away, not wanting to hear more.

  Another of the young lieutenants—Lieutenant Devon, if Emmett remembered correctly—stood alone, gazing at a miniature portrait that Emmett assumed was a rendering of his fiancée, or at least a woman he hoped would one day assume the role.

  Emmett thought of Abigail. Of her stricken face when he’d left her in the forest, of the softness of her lips, her mittened hand finding his, her intelligence and peculiar interests. Coming face to face with one’s mortality changed a man’s perspective, Emmett thought. He supposed in a way it robbed a person of the ability to lie to himself, and Emmett found that, even though it was foolish after so short a time, he could no longer deny that he was in love with Abigail Tidwell.

  His worry for her was so overwhelming he thought he might be crushed under its weight. Unanswerable questions pounded in his head. How had the small band fared through the cold night? Abigail knew to keep moving to prevent their bodies from becoming too cold. But wha
t if she’d fallen asleep? He trusted Barney and Luke, but the forest was full of predators, not to mention fierce Indians. There were so many factors, so many unknowns. Thinking about something horrendous befalling Abigail was more than he could bear. He should never have involved her in this war.

  It was selfishness on his part; he realized that now. He’d hoped to help Luke, but the longer he was with Abigail, the more difficult it became to imagine not being with her.

  He pushed away from the wall and paced, patting the lovesick lieutenant on the shoulder as he passed.

  Near the window, General Winchester sat on the room’s one chair. His elbows rested on his legs, hands hanging between his knees. The man looked despondent. Emmett found it difficult to feel sorry for him. It was because of his poor planning and refusal to listen to the scouts’ warnings that their force had been defeated so thoroughly. Men had died, men that Emmett knew and served with and shared a bond as close as any brothers; men that had depended on him to keep them alive, and men he looked up to. At least the general had managed to get his uniform coat back from the Indian chief, he thought cynically.

  He found a new spot on the wall and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, thinking what he could have done differently. If he’d only run faster or left camp earlier. If there had been time to plan, to distribute the ammunition storages, to set up defenses . . .

  If only.

  Guilt, hot and bitter-tasting, filled his throat.

  Maybe his father was right and Emmett was worthless. He couldn’t even lead his men through a battle. Images filled his mind, visions of his comrades falling, memories of their voices crying out in pain, looking to him for help that he couldn’t offer. He opened his eyes, pacing toward the window in hopes of distracting himself.

  He looked toward the field hospital tent. The British surgeons would obviously care for their own soldiers first, but he prayed the Americans were being treated as well. Before he’d been taken prisoner, he’d tried to see to the worst of the injuries. Tying tourniquets and using anything he could find to press against a wound and stop the bleeding until a surgeon was available was the extent of his medical assistance. Mostly he’d only been able to offer comfort.

  He’d found Murphy leaning against a fence holding his chest and felt a rush of relief to find the man hadn’t been injured. The gun smoke had burned his lungs. Emmett had sent him to the field tent. Hopefully a surgeon would know how to treat him.

  He didn’t realize he was staring at the hospital tent until something caught his eye. A patient with his arm in a sling was being led toward a group of sleds. Emmett guessed they would take the injured men to Fort Detroit. But it wasn’t the man with the wrappings that made Emmett stop and stare. It was the small woman leading him.

  It couldn’t be her. Was his mind deceiving him? But no, it was most certainly Abigail. What on earth was she doing here? Her hair had come loose, strands falling around her face, and the apron she wore was covered with blood. She’d been working for some time, he guessed. And for her to be in Frenchtown, she must have walked all night, as he had. What had happened? Had she and the Hopkins brothers been captured?

  He closely watched the tent opening, and a few moments later, a man was carried through on a stretcher. He recognized Abigail’s quilt covering the patient and, sure enough, she emerged again, helping another man.

  Emmett willed her to look up. The house he was in was on the very edge of town. If she would only lift her gaze, she’d see him. But she returned to the tent and emerged two more times before stopping and rubbing the back of her neck. She rolled her shoulders as if they’d become stiff and bent her head from side to side. She started back inside but stopped as if she’d heard something or realized she was being watched.

  She turned, looking curiously around until she glanced into the upstairs window, and her gaze locked with Emmett’s.

  He touched his fingers to the glass.

  Abigail pressed her hand to her breastbone and closed her eyes. Her shoulders dropped, and her head fell forward, her entire body displaying a powerful relief.

  Emmett’s apprehension lessened, and a warm feeling of comfort came over him.

  Abigail raised her eyes again, giving a small smile, and then she cocked her head as if she’d heard something from within the tent. She waved then hurried back inside.

  The entire exchange had lasted less than a few seconds, but the change it brought in Emmett’s spirits was profound. Abigail was safe—not only safe, she was tending to the wounded, and he could not imagine a better person for the job. And she’d been worried about him. He wasn’t surprised by it, but her relief at seeing him had touched him. It gave him courage and strengthened his will to go on, where before he’d felt naught but despair.

  Abigail was a gift. Her feelings for him were a reassurance that no matter where he went, what prison he’d be sent to, or how alone he might find himself, there was a young woman with brown eyes, long curling lashes, and an astonishing knowledge of elemental minerals who cared what became of him.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when the door finally opened and the officers were ordered to descend the stairs. The British soldiers and their prisoners would begin their march toward Fort Detroit immediately.

  Emmett followed the others but paused on the front doorstep as a conversation from inside the house caught his attention.

  A group of British soldiers were arguing.

  “. . . reinforcements are on their way from the south,” one man, who Emmett recognized as the army’s leader, General Henry Procter, was saying. “We cannot delay any longer.”

  “But if we take all the prisoners and leave no guards for the American wounded . . .” another man said, leaving the rest of the statement hanging.

  Emmett stepped to the side of the doorframe so as not to be seen by the men inside the house.

  “They will have to fend for themselves,” another man said, and Emmett assumed the nasally voice belonged to the young lieutenant with the handsome face and nicely pressed uniform.

  “Sir, you must know what will happen. The Indians are difficult enough to restrain with our force present. If the wounded prisoners are left with no protection . . .”

  “A pity, isn’t it?” the pretentious lieutenant said with a sniff.

  Emmett heard their footsteps approaching and moved from the doorway. His mind turned over the conversation. Would General Procter truly leave the wounded Americans to the mercy of angry Indian warriors? Somehow, he must get word to them.

  The officers were ordered to march with their regiment, and when Emmett arrived, he found more than half of the troops missing. Most, he knew, had been killed, but others must be in the hospital tent. How could he warn them? Once the army left, they would be helpless.

  The column began moving, and he organized his men into rows, waiting for their turn to join the procession. They started to march, and ahead he saw Abigail tending to a man near the side of the road. Here was his chance.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Emmett called to her. He stepped out of the line.

  Abigail spun. And he prayed she wouldn’t reveal that they knew one another.

  “You dropped this,” he said, holding out his pouch of rocks.

  Her eyes squinted, but that was the only indication she gave that she was uncertain about his motives. She reached for the pouch.

  “Abigail, send all the men with the British tonight.” Emmett spoke quickly, keeping his voice low. “Even the wounded. Don’t allow them to stay behind.”

  “But so many are hurt,” she said.

  “They must all leave—as many as you can send.”

  “You there, get back in line!” The lieutenant Emmett had seen earlier started toward them.

  “And you must leave as well. Today. Do you understand?”

  Abigail nodded. She took the pouch and turned away. “Lieutenant Fox, how nice to see you again.” She dipped in a curtsy.

  “What is the meaning of this, Captain?�
�� Lieutenant Fox asked, his shrewd eyes darting between the two of them.

  Abigail smiled prettily at the man. “The soldier was simply returning my pouch. I must have dropped it.”

  “Move along, Captain,” Lieutenant Fox growled. He snatched away the pouch from Abigail’s hands and poured out the rocks into his palm. “What is this?”

  Emmett moved away but continued to watch the interaction from the corner of his eye. He didn’t like the lieutenant, and he especially didn’t like the lieutenant speaking to Abigail.

  “It is just my collection, sir.” She took the pouch from him and started picking the stones from his hand and dropping them back inside.

  The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. He turned over his hand, dumping the rocks onto the ground and stormed away.

  Abigail crouched down and picked them up, returning them carefully to the pouch. She glanced up once and met Emmett’s eye before he turned and marched away with the rest of the prisoners. He had full confidence that Abigail would do all she was able to get the wounded out of Frenchtown. He could do nothing more than pray for those left behind.

  Chapter 13

  The journey to Fort Detroit took two days. Abigail rode in a horse-pulled wagon with patients who were unable to march. Different surgeons were assigned to other wagons or sledges, so she found herself with only injured soldiers to talk to. Since none of them seemed disposed to conversation, she settled into the corner of the wagon box, blankets around her in a spot that felt like her own nest. The wagon swayed as it moved along the road; the noise of the horses’ hooves crunching on the packed snow repeated in a pattern that lulled her to sleep often over the course of the journey, and when the wagon rolled over a rock or into a dip, it woke her with a start. The British Army had brought plenty of blankets, and for the first time in nearly a week, she was warm and had time to herself to ponder.