Love Thine Enemy

by Louise M. Gouge

  Frederick folded her in his arms. “Shh. You were quite brave, my love. We can thank the Lord you were alert and watching.”

  She nestled against him, still shuddering, still watching the woman whose life she had helped to save. All anger, all hurt feelings, all struggles not to mind Lady Augusta’s rudeness floated away like Rachel’s straw hat. Beneath her aristocratic exterior, she was a woman who loved and was loved by both God and the man He had ordained for her. Just like Rachel.

  “Yes, thanks be to the Lord.”

  “Well done, Rachel.” Papa’s eyes sparkled.

  She drank in his approval like a thirsty plant. She could almost feel water filling her. Looking down, she saw the river pouring into the boat through a small hole in the side.

  “Water!”

  Once again shouts filled the air.

  “Row to the bank.”

  “Bail it out.”

  “Keep the powder dry.”

  “We’re sinking!”

  “Where’s the other boat?”

  Mrs. Winthrop dispensed cups and bowls from the picnic basket, and everyone except the rowers scooped out the water as quickly as they could. Even the Brighams joined the task.

  Papa emitted a mild oath. “I never should have slept. Even then, I sensed we were off course.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Frederick scanned the horizon.

  “This river has many islands and creeks, as well ye know. From this level, they all look the same. It’s easy to go down the wrong stream when ye don’t set landmarks in yer mind.” Papa tapped his forehead as he studied the area around them. “We’ve got to put in.” He pointed toward a jut of land. “Over there. Put in, I say.”

  The rowers looked at Frederick.

  “Do as he says.” His tone was terse.

  Amidst the disaster, Rachel felt a measure of pride that Papa still proved himself a worthy commander and that Frederick was not too proud to listen to him.

  The two rowers gripped their poles and shoved the flatboat through the tall marsh grasses, coming at last to a sandy promontory. All the men jumped out and pulled the craft onto the little beach, then assisted Lady Augusta, Mrs. Winthrop and Rachel to dry land.

  For several minutes, everyone looked around without speaking. Then Frederick grinned at Rachel. “Well, my dear, it looks as if we’ll end the day with a stroll.” He broke into laughter, and Rachel did, too.

  The Brighams appeared unwilling to join the merriment, but the three soldiers and even the slave rowers guffawed.

  Papa’s gaze was directed toward the forest some distance away. Hands on hips, he faced the crowd. “We’ll not be walking through that salt grass marsh. There’ll be quicksand and water moccasins, not to mention more of those hungry alligators.”

  Major Brigham exchanged a look with Frederick, and they both turned back to Papa.

  “What do you suggest, sir?” Major Brigham asked.

  “I’d say Mr. Moberly and I should go for help. We’ll take this lad along.” He clapped one soldier on the back. “I’m fairly certain he’s not the one who blasted that hole in the boat.” He eyed the other two soldiers, one of whom appeared unwilling to meet his stare. “We can test our steps with one of these poles.” He took one in hand. “And we’d best be off soon so the day don’t get the better of us. Not all of the Indians in these parts think kindly of us.”

  Proud of Papa for taking charge, Rachel nonetheless moved closer to Frederick and looped her arm through his. She longed for him not to leave her.

  “A good plan, Mr. Folger.” Major Brigham shook Papa’s hand. “Do you need any provisions?”

  “A jug of water and a bit of bread should do it.” Papa motioned to Frederick. “Come along, lad.”

  Frederick placed a quick kiss on Rachel’s cheek. “Will you be all right? Silly question. Of course you will, my brave girl.”

  Despite his praise, it took all Rachel’s inner strength not to beg him to stay with her. She noticed that Papa patted Mrs. Winthrop’s hand, and the lady gave him an encouraging nod. Rachel decided she must be as brave as the older woman.

  Lightly provisioned, the three men struck out on their venture. While the others made camp, Rachel watched the travelers on their zigzag course across the marsh. Several times Frederick turned back to wave, giving her an incentive to keep her vigil.

  When at last they were out of sight, she searched for some task that might help the encampment, but all had been accomplished. The rowers had speared some fish and started a fire to cook them. Mrs. Winthrop had cleaned the cups and bowls and would ration the water. The beached flatboat sat drying in the sun. Even Lady Augusta joined the effort by bringing out the mosquito netting. All seemed in order.

  After their humble meal, Major Brigham instructed the ladies to sleep within the boat’s protection. The men would take turns standing watch.

  Yet despite the comforts of a full stomach, the boat cushions, mosquito netting and the fresh cool breeze off the river, Rachel could not sleep. Alligators grunted in the distance. Frogs and crickets played a discordant symphony. Fish—or something else—splashed in the river all too near them. Never mind that one could not hear a snake if it approached. She could hear Major Brigham ordering his men to keep watch for the Chickasaw, whose attacks on the English had led to many deaths in recent years. Rachel shuddered, then shuddered again, thinking of the dangers Frederick and Papa might encounter. She lifted up a prayer for their safety before lying back to wait for whatever the dawn would bring.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Following behind Mr. Folger, Frederick felt his admiration for the man grow, for he and Private Martin were forced to push themselves to keep up. Rachel once mentioned that her father limped due to an injury sustained on his last whaling voyage. The limp was not as noticeable today. With an optimism Frederick found contagious, the old man gamely led them across the salt grass marsh, both on sandy ground and through stretches of waist-deep water.

  Folger had set their heading toward a thin spire of smoke curling into the afternoon sky, no doubt from the Timucuan village on the plantation’s southeastern border. If the Indians would help them, they would be able to get back to Rachel and the others before daybreak.

  The strenuous journey took its toll on Frederick. And from the haggard looks of the other two men, he could tell they also felt the stress. The sun beat down on them with fury, and their thirst raged. Folger rationed the water. Frederick and Martin bantered that they must match the older man’s endurance. More than once, they sidestepped to avoid water moccasins, rattlesnakes, or snapping turtles, even juvenile alligators. Startled cranes and cormorants took flight at their approach. Heat forced the men to remove their shirts. Then, shortly before sunset, mosquitoes swarmed over them, biting every bare patch of skin. They hastened to don their garments again.

  But persistence proved rewarding, for they reached the tree line before twilight descended, albeit with torn, filthy, wet clothes. Summerlin would have a fit over Frederick’s ruined boots, which were soaked both inside and out.

  With what seemed to Frederick an uncanny sense of direction, Folger continued to wend his way through the palmettos and scrub that grew beneath the palm and cypress trees. At last they found a path to follow.

  Ahead, the torch-lit village hummed with late evening activities. The smell of roasted meat met Frederick’s senses, and his mouth watered. Beside him, he heard Martin’s belly rumble.

  Folger stopped and called out a greeting in the Timucuan tongue. The Indians sent the women and children to their palm-thatched huts, then grabbed bows, arrows and clubs. One man carried a musket, and several others brought torches. Most wore little clothing and bore many tattoos.

  “Stop.” A tall, burly, gray-haired man stepped from the group. “Who comes?”

  “Greetings, Saturiwa. ’Tis yer friend Folger.” He lifted both hands and spoke in his jolly, booming voice. “And my two friends.” He moved forward.

  “Folger.” The old chief becko
ned to Mr. Folger. “Come.” He slapped him on the back.

  As Frederick and Martin entered the torchlight, some men pointed to the private’s red coat and began to murmur. Saturiwa hushed them.

  “You come from the river,” the chief said.

  “Aye. Yes,” Folger said. “Our boat got swamped. Can ye help us fetch the rest of our party?”

  Not answering, Saturiwa now set his gaze on Frederick. “Moberly.” The resonance in the chief’s voice reminded Frederick of his father. When he had met the chief before, Frederick had been on horseback. Now the man’s superior height, well over six feet, proved intimidating.

  “Good evening, sir.” Frederick shook away his edginess. The trip across the swamp had taken more out of him than he realized. “May we rely upon your help? I shall make it worth your while.”

  Saturiwa grunted. “When other English kill us, you let us stay on our land. That is enough. You will eat. Then we will talk.”

  Frederick and his companions sighed their relief as if one man. They followed the Indians into the center of the circled huts and sat beside an open fire, where remnants of the evening meal still hung on a spit. Two old women brought them springwater, roasted rabbit, and a tasty cornmeal mush. Soon Frederick felt his strength returning.

  Across the campfire, Saturiwa and two other men conversed in their language. They appeared to reach some agreement, for the chief stared at Folger expectantly. Frederick dismissed the urge to speak up. An old man himself, the Indian no doubt respected age and regarded Folger as the group’s leader.

  Folger set down his wooden bowl and wiped a damp handkerchief across his lips. “Will ye help us fetch our friends, sir?”

  Saturiwa nodded his affirmation. “We will fetch—” he grinned using Folger’s word “—your friends and take you to the plantation. We will go at first light.”

  Frederick and Folger traded frowns.

  “Could ye consider going now?” Folger waved his hand toward the darkened path. “My daughter and the other ladies—”

  “Ah.” Saturiwa conferred with another man for a moment, then addressed Folger. “The little daughter of Folger must be safe, but travel in darkness is not wise. We will go before first light.”

  Frederick and Folger accepted his decision with reluctance. They would sleep beside the campfire and be rested for their journey.

  As the Indians prepared for the night, Frederick noticed Martin’s frequent glances into one palm-thatched hut. He nudged the soldier.

  “That could be considered rude. Don’t give them cause for offense.”

  “Yes, sir.” Martin clenched his fists. “Thing is, sir, I see what looks like one of our uniform jackets hangin’ in there. Why would these savages…’ scuse me, sir, these people have a British soldier’s jacket?”

  Frederick took a step toward the hut but found his way blocked by two Indians.

  “Moberly.” Saturiwa called from across the camp. “Come.”

  Dreading a confrontation, Frederick walked around the fire. He’d noticed the chief’s reference to “our land.” If the Indians turned on them in reprisal for the suffering inflicted by other Englishmen, they might be slaughtered, as other white men had been during a recent uprising. The situation did not sit well with Frederick, but he must face up to the chief, whatever the outcome. “Why do you have a British soldier’s jacket?”

  Saturiwa regarded him for several moments, perhaps sizing him up. Frederick didn’t lower his gaze, but he also kept his posture and expression neutral.

  “A soldier came to us to flee his evil chief. He no longer wanted to soldier but to live among us.” Saturiwa lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. “We do not turn you away. We did not turn him away.”

  The hair on Frederick’s neck prickled against his sweat-soaked collar. “Where is this man?”

  “We do not betray those who put their lives in our hands.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Folger approached, hands on hips, and cast a disapproving glare at Frederick.

  Frederick bit back a retort. “I think we may have found the man who burned down the inn and almost succeeded in burning your store.” He added that last detail for the chief’s information.

  Folger spat out an oath. “Where is he?”

  Frederick turned back to the chief. “If my suspicions are correct, the man you are protecting murdered two innocent people in the great fire last month. He lied to you about fleeing an evil leader, Saturiwa.”

  “Ah.” The chief looked toward the hut. “He has wounds and fights a fever. Come.”

  Saturiwa grabbed a small torch to light the hut’s interior. The smell of infection and human waste assaulted Frederick, and he covered his nose with one hand. On a raised platform some four feet above the ground lay the soldier he had kept from harming Rachel, the one Brigham had identified as the vengeful arsonist. The sleeping man’s pale face indicated his fever had broken.

  “Buckner.” Frederick reached out and shook him. “Get up, man. You’re coming with me.”

  Buckner groaned but did not awaken.

  Saturiwa stepped up beside him. “He cannot walk.”

  “What?” Frederick stared at the chief.

  “Wild boar.” The chief lifted his torch and pointed to Buckner’s left leg, which was wrapped in blood-stained rags.

  Frederick grimaced. “Will you keep him until we can send soldiers for him? I will make certain they do not harass you.”

  Saturiwa shrugged. “He will be here.”

  The chief’s relaxed demeanor invited Frederick’s confidence and soothed his earlier anxieties. “Thank you.”

  Frederick marveled at finding Buckner still on the plantation. He had ordered his people to leave the Timucua in peace, and no one ever came to this remote corner of the property. But by the strangest of circumstances, God had brought him here to find the miscreant, and Frederick would not rest until the man faced justice.

  “Rachel.” The impatient whisper came through the darkness from the flatboat’s other end.

  Rachel blinked away sleep and perceived the shadowed speaker’s identity. “Yes, Lady Augusta?” Both drowsiness and impatience filled her voice. The first she could not help, but the second she regretted immediately. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What news, madam?”

  Growing accustomed to the campfire’s dim light, she could see Lady Augusta in silhouette and her husband beside her.

  “Major Brigham has told me you are responsible for my rescue.” Her tone resounded with annoyance.

  “Augusta.” Major Brigham spoke his wife’s name so softly that Rachel could barely hear him.

  “Oh, very well.” Lady Augusta exhaled impatiently. “I thank you, Miss Folger. We shall reward you.”

  Raging heat rushed to Rachel’s face. Lord, give me patience. She drew in a deep, cooling breath. “Your well-being is my reward, Lady Augusta. We may praise God for your deliverance.”

  Frogs croaked in the distance. The men standing guard murmured around the fire. A dove cooed its mournful night song. But no sound came from the boat’s other end.

  Rachel lay back down.

  “Yes. Well. Nevertheless, I thank you.”

  With no small difficulty, Rachel held back a rush of tears. She would not have thought this woman could hurt her feelings again, but she just had. When Rachel could speak, she whispered “You are welcome.”

  She turned on her side and covered her head with her shawl to avoid hearing their quiet conversation. Soon they became silent, but Rachel could not return to sleep. Tears slipped across her cheek and ran down into her hair, but she did nothing to stop them.

  Lord, please grant me kindness toward others, no matter what their station in this world, for You have made us all equal in Your sight. Grant me a stout heart and only courtesy toward Lady Augusta.

  How like her arrogant English monarch this woman behaved. In spite of repeated attempts by the colonists to reconcile with King George, he had spurned their pleas for relief from mistreatment. W
hile Lady Augusta held no such authority over Rachel, she certainly acted as if she did. And the woman continued to snub Rachel, even when Rachel had helped to save her life, and had lost her favorite hat while doing so.

  A bit of Papa’s playfulness entered her thoughts. Lord, if You can find a reason to send Lady Augusta back home to England, she would be much happier there, don’t You think?

  With the hope that her prayer did not sound too impertinent, Rachel sat up to await the soon-coming dawn. When she and Papa arrived in East Florida, the early arrival of daylight had surprised her. Dawn came early. Twilight descended late. Nights were short, especially in the summer.

  Now a thin, horizontal glow split the eastern blackness, and with it a thick fog rose from the St. Johns River. Soon the small encampment became shrouded in gray. Rachel heard a haunting moan and saw hazy tongues of fire floating above the mists, as if the river were burning. Gradually, dark, blurred forms appeared and moved ever closer to the shore.

  Major Brigham awoke and grabbed his musket. The two guards rushed to the flatboat and aimed their weapons toward the apparitions.

  “Who goes there?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rachel gripped the sides of the yellow pine canoe as it flew through the water like an arrow shot from a bow, thanks to the muscular arms of the Indians at the slender vessel’s front and back.

  Frederick sat behind her, and she turned to see how he fared. Despite his puffy, bloodshot eyes and slumped posture, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Are you well, my love?” His voice croaked with weariness.

  “Very well, thank you, now that the sun is up.” She would not mention her lost hat or the heat scorching the back of her neck. This ordeal would soon be over.

  What a fright he and Papa had given her, arriving through the heavy fog with a dozen or more torch-bearing Timucuans. Only by God’s mercy did they not find themselves shot by the nervous soldiers guarding the encampment. Unlike the men, both white and Indian, who dismissed the incident once identities were established, the ladies had come near to fainting over what might have happened. Rachel hoped never to spend another night in this wilderness.