My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  As per Emmett’s request, she’d done all she was able to convince injured men to march with the British Army whether they felt well enough or not. She’d also insisted that many of the wounded Americans be transported with the British. The proposal was met with quite a bit of resistance from the surgeons. They assured her transportation would be sent back for the Americans once they reached the fort, but she argued and pleaded and, in the end, assigned men to empty spots among the other patients. But there was simply not enough room for all of them.

  Leaving men behind, either because they refused to leave or they were simply too incapacitated to be moved had made her feel like a failure. She’d have liked to remain in Frenchtown to ensure they were properly treated but remembered Emmett’s admonition and left them with the townspeople who graciously took the soldiers into their homes to care for them.

  She watched the departing soldiers, ensuring that all five of her friends were among them. They had all left the town safely and each looked healthy. Luke gave her a bit of worry, as did Murphy, but if they’d fallen behind or been unable to continue, she’d have found them along the road. And that gave her some comfort.

  Along the twenty-mile journey, the wagon stopped quite often to care for troops who’d fallen out of line because of one ailment or another. With all the stops, and moving at a slower rate, the infirmary detachment fell farther behind the main body of soldiers and prisoners, so Abigail did not see Emmett or any of the others during the journey.

  On her lap, she made a hollow in the folds of the blanket and poured out the pouch of Emmett’s rocks into it. She’d done this often over the hours, studying each mineral and element in turn. When she’d originally looked through the pouch, the clear quartz crystal had seemed the finest piece in the collection. But her opinion on the matter changed with each study.

  This time, she was drawn to a nugget of native copper. Common enough in the Michigan territory, but this particular specimen had oxidized in an interesting pattern. Patches of deep jade color covered nearly an entire side of the nugget. The other side was a very pure copper, its color a shiny pinkish brown. She turned over the nugget in her fingers, wondering what Emmett had thought about this particular bit of metal. Where had he acquired it? Had it been part of a trade with a native tribe? Or had he found it on the ground? What made him decide to add it to his pouch?

  She thought about Emmett’s warning as he’d marched away from Frenchtown. She’d never seen his expression so serious, or so worried. What had he thought would happen to the prisoners left behind? Did he know something? Or did he simply want to make sure the men stayed together?

  The copper was cold in her hand. Abigail ran her fingertip over a rough edge and down along the smooth opening of a cavity. She wondered what would happen to Emmett now as a prisoner of war. Would he be given parole and sent home? Or would General Procter send him to a prison camp? She thought of the others and hoped they were being treated well. She prayed Luke and Murphy were not pushing themselves too hard. And Barney—she hoped he was able to remain with his brother. Would the British guards think Jasper was a person to be feared because he wore a bear’s head and seldom smiled?

  She worried for all of them.

  ***

  The wagons finally arrived at the fort, passing through the heavy gates and beyond the high picketed fence with its sharp points running along the top. Abigail climbed out of the wagon, and she and the other surgeons supervised the relocation of the patients into the hospital buildings.

  She assisted a man with a broken ankle from one of the wagons. His injury must have pained him quite a lot, and she thought traveling over the bumpy road would have been agony.

  She held him around his waist, and he leaned his arm heavily across her shoulders as he hopped into the building. Once she settled him onto a hospital cot, she heard her name, and the voice in which it was spoken brought a smile to her face.

  “Father!”

  Abigail’s father pulled her to him and then held her at arm’s length. His spectacles slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up in a familiar motion. “What in the world are you doing here, my daughter? And how did you come to be with the army?” He shook his head as if answering his own questions. “No, there will be time enough for explanations later. We have much to do, and I am grateful for your help.”

  With the other surgeons, Abigail and her father spent the remainder of the day seeing to the wounded and ill. She quickly realized there were more men in the hospital buildings than just those injured in the battle. The march to and from Frenchtown had produced frost burn on cheeks, fingers, and toes, as well as blisters. Typhoid fever had stricken men and women inside the fort, as well as those coming from the battleground. Sutures were applied, bandages changed, poultices mixed, medicines administered.

  By the time her father found her for supper, Abigail was exhausted. She followed him along the streets of the fort, hardly noticing which direction they were traveling, until at last, he led her inside and up a set of stairs to a stone room with a small bed.

  “Rest yourself, Abigail, and I will return soon with supper.”

  She lay on the bed, and did not wake until she felt her father shaking her shoulder.

  “Come on, now, Abigail. That is plenty of sleep for a person,” he said in a voice that was both practical and loving. Hearing it brought more comfort than she could have imagined.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, noticing a tray of bread, cheese, and slices of venison on the table beside the bed. Her father sat down in a straight-backed chair and crossed one leg over the other.

  “Is it suppertime already?” Her mouth felt sticky and her head heavy.

  “You slept through suppertime, my dear.” He pushed up his spectacles and smiled affectionately. “And breakfast. I’ve brought your luncheon.”

  “Oh. I suppose I was more tired than I realized.” Abigail spoke through a yawn.

  “I’ve arranged for a bath,” he said. Then drawing out a bundle, he handed it to her. “And your clothes will need to be washed as well.”

  She spread out the bundle and smiled at the dress he’d found. She rarely had new clothes, and this blue cotton was beautiful. “Thank you, Father.”

  He smiled, the familiar creases forming in his cheeks, and stood. “I will return in an hour. I believe I’ve a story to hear.”

  The door had scarcely closed behind him when a knock sounded.

  A servant girl who introduced herself as Mae showed Abigail to a bathing chamber on the lower floor and took away her clothing to wash. A tub of hot water was already prepared, and it felt heavenly. Once she was cleaned and dressed, she made her way back to her father’s chamber and found him writing in the large leather-bound book where he logged the names of patients, their ages, diagnoses, and treatments. He was convinced that only through keeping thorough records would a doctor improve his ability to treat patients.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and ate, knowing better than to disturb him while he worked.

  Finally he dabbed off his quill and corked the ink bottle.

  Abigail stood and held her arms away from her sides. “What do you think of the dress?” She’d been delighted by the style of the gown. It was undoubtedly one brought from England by demand of the officers’ wives. The high waist and ribbons were elegant and the cotton softer than the coarse homespun fabric she was used to.

  “You are always the loveliest young lady in any room, no matter what you might happen to be wearing.”

  Abigail smiled at her father’s hyperbolic compliment and sat back down, holding the tray toward him.

  He shook his head at the offered food and settled back in the chair, moving his shoulders back and forth, and crossed one leg over the other, clasping his hands around one knee. “Now, my dear. Tell me everything.”

  And so she did. Abigail’s story lasted longer than an hour. She described Captain Prescott’s wounds, her treatment, the men appearing in their kitchen and taking the musket.
She told about crossing the river, repairing Luke’s arm, and how Jasper fought a bear. She described the lean-to shelters and the horrifying Indian warriors. Her throat was becoming scratchy as she told about the battle’s aftermath and Emmett’s warning.

  The only thing she did not tell him about was the kiss. Well, two kisses. Three, if one wanted to be precise. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her father, but the moments felt private, and it seemed like sharing them would lessen their significance. Besides, that information wasn’t crucial to his understanding of the story anyway.

  Her father remained silent during the entire narration without interrupting. If there was one thing her father was known for, it was listening.

  When he saw that she was finished, he released his knee, setting both feet onto the floor, and steepled his fingers in front of his lips. Abigail knew this meant he was considering. Her father did not speak without first thinking through all angles of something. Neither she nor her brother had inherited this trait, she’d often thought.

  After a moment, he pushed up his spectacles. “Abigail, I am so proud of you.”

  She had not anticipated that reaction. Abigail hadn’t thought her father would be angry with her—he rarely was. But she had expected some reprimand.

  “Your decisions were very understandable, my daughter—very unselfish,” he said. “An indication of your caring nature. You can be headstrong at times, and I cannot say I am pleased that you placed yourself in danger, but I cannot fault you for wanting to help others.” He smiled. “And I believe your medical skill to be equal, if not superior, to that of any of my associates.”

  Dr. Tidwell was generous with praise, but Abigail knew he did not distribute it undeserved. Her heart glowed at his words. “Thank you, Father.” She felt a blush heat her cheeks. “There is one matter on which I hoped for your advice.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Abigail brushed her hands over her skirts, loving the soft fabric beneath her fingers. She did not quite know how to put her thoughts into words and so took a moment to think it through. He waited patiently.

  “I know I should not have helped the Americans, Father. They are the enemy. But once I came to know them as people, I simply could not consider them as such.”

  He steepled his fingers again, his brows pulling together as he thought about what she said. He was quiet for a long time then finally lowered his arms. “Abigail, if you had left Captain Prescott to bleed to death, or let Luke’s arm fester, I believe you would have been the wicked one.” He leaned forward in the chair, his face very serious, as it was when he was teaching her something important. “Each of these armies contains noble men. And each contains men with evil hearts. Let a person’s character be the indicator of a real enemy, not the color of his uniform.”

  His words filled her with reassurance, even if they did border on treason. She felt in her heart that they were true. “Thank you, Father.”

  He smiled and stood, stretching out his back by pressing his fists against it and leaning back his shoulders. Abigail noticed that he’d grown thinner. Very likely he was working long hours and not taking the time to eat properly.

  Dr. Tidwell reached out a hand and assisted Abigail to her feet. “There is a small inn in town that serves flaky buttermilk biscuits with the supper selection. Perhaps you and your new dress would like to join me?”

  She grinned at his awkward attempt to be charming and took his arm, squeezing it as she laid her head on his shoulder. Soon enough, she’d have to return home, but she was determined to treasure this time with her father.

  The pair walked through the streets of the fort, and Abigail tried to orient herself. She’d not paid attention when they walked to her father’s quarters the day before. They walked past buildings that appeared to be barracks and others that must serve administrative functions. As they passed the stables, she looked beyond and saw soldiers guarding a courtyard full of tents. This must be where the prisoners were housed. Abigail slowed her steps and looked among the men moving between the tents, hoping to see one of her friends. She felt a sting of disappointment when she couldn’t but knew she shouldn’t pay too much attention to the prisoners. Her friendship with the enemy soldiers could be damaging to her reputation as well as to her father’s. She did wish she’d caught a glimpse of a particular captain with blue eyes, though.

  The inn was only a short walk from the fort. When they stepped inside, the smells of warm food and the sounds of laughter encircled them.

  Abigail looked around the room, noting that the majority of patrons wore the redcoats of British soldiers. As they moved toward a table, a familiar face caught her attention. Lieutenant Sebastian Fox. He and a few men whose clothes were also impeccably pressed were laughing at something a woman sitting at their table had said. Hearing her brash laughter joining with the others, Abigail didn’t think she was the type of woman she would want her brother to be dining with.

  They moved to a quieter part of the inn’s dining room and enjoyed a meal of roasted whitefish and potatoes, of course accompanied by flaky buttermilk biscuits. As they ate, they were interrupted several times by soldiers asking for medical advice. Abigail was irritated that the men would bother her father during his supper, but he did not act disturbed at all. He listened thoughtfully to their symptoms and gave advice or promised a treatment to be delivered that evening.

  “Really,” Abigail huffed after a man with impetigo on his knuckles had finally taken his leave. “Can people not allow you to eat in peace?”

  Her father bit into a biscuit and a drip of honey slipped onto his chin. He dabbed it off with a napkin. “I am not too busy to relieve a person’s discomfort, Abigail.”

  She was just about to deliver a counterargument when another shadow spread across their table.

  “Pardon me, Doctor.”

  Abigail lifted her gaze to see a naval captain standing beside her father’s chair. He stood with hands clasped behind his back and legs spread apart. She imagined this must be how he stood on the deck of a rocking ship.

  “Captain Lovell,” her father said. “What a pleasure to see you. May I introduce my daughter, Abigail?”

  The captain inclined his head. “How do you do, miss?”

  “Very well, Captain. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I believe I saw your ship as we walked through the town.” She’d noticed the large brig sitting perfectly still in the frozen river and the men standing on the surrounding ice guarding it.

  He nodded. “One of the curses of a lake appointment—immobility.” He smiled. “But if we can’t sail, the American’s can’t either, so I try to enjoy the winter months.”

  Abigail smiled since she was unsure quite how to respond.

  “And how is Mrs. Lovell?” Dr. Tidwell said.

  The captain suddenly became fidgety, scratching behind his ear and shifting his weight. “She is feeling very . . . ah . . . uncomfortable.”

  Her father nodded, his face pleasant. “Perfectly normal,” he said. “She is very near to term.”

  Ah. Abigail understood now. The captain’s wife was close to delivering a baby. She thought it strange that men became so ill at ease when discussing these matters. Well, excepting her father of course.

  Her father glanced at her and then back to the captain. “Sir, if I might offer a suggestion. Abigail has served as a midwife in Amherstburg. She is quite skilled, if I might say so without sounding boastful. Perhaps Mrs. Lovell would prefer to be under a woman’s care, as my experience is much more suited to tending bullet wounds and fractures.”

  Captain Lovell’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. “I believe she would like that very much. Might I send for you soon, Miss Tidwell?”

  She nodded, feeling the familiar warmth that filled her when her father spoke so proudly of her. “I am staying in the fort with my father.”

  “With the injuries and prisoners from Frenchtown, the surgeons and I are fortunate to have extra assistance,” her father said,
making it sound as if he’d sent for her to help with the influx of new patients. Abigail had been worried that the strange circumstance that had brought her to Fort Detroit might have unwanted effects on her father’s reputation or her own. In just a few sentences, her father had both explained away any perceived wrongdoing on her part, as well as made her feel invaluable.

  “Yes, very well. I thank you, Miss Tidwell, Dr. Tidwell.”

  He gave a crisp bow and left.

  “Well, you shall be busy for a few weeks at least,” Dr. Tidwell said. “That is, of course, unless you are eager to return home sooner.”

  “Not at all,” Abigail said as she bit into a flaky buttermilk biscuit.

  Chapter 14

  Emmett paced along the line of men as he inspected his regiment in Fort Detroit’s prison yard. He’d hired a woman to wash his uniform and a barber to cut his hair and give him a shave. And ordered the officers below him to do the same. He knew it was good for the men’s morale to see their commanders looking respectable, especially in these circumstances.

  The prison camp was in an empty section of the fort Emmett believed had previously been used as a training ground. The men slept in tents, and the officers were housed in the nearby barracks. In the three days since arriving at the fort, Emmett found that nearly every moment of his time was occupied making certain the mess distributed sufficient food for those in his command, organizing committees to see to basic camp duties, seeing to the ill and injured, and more than anything, he felt it his responsibility to keep the men’s spirits up. His eyes rose to the British flag waving over the fort, and he felt dismayed as he had every time he’d chanced to look at it. The sight of that standard upon American soil was demoralizing. And he could feel the effect on his men.