My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  She took bread from the basket and sliced it, careful to keep the knife away from the captain. “You are an officer; I’m sure you will be treated well.” A hot rush of guilt felt bitter inside, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she spoke. “Would you like butter and jam?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Abigail cut herself a slice as well, and for a moment they ate in silence. She was sorry to have ruined the pleasant mood and tried to think of things to say that might return the conversation to its earlier friendliness. “Your face is not as pale this morning.” She cringed at the stupidity of the observation. She glanced up and saw he was studying her. He did not look angry that she was planning to turn him in, simply pensive.

  Abigail tried again. “Where are you from, Captain Prescott?”

  He brushed some breadcrumbs from the quilt. “I’ve lived in Baltimore for the past six years, stationed at Fort McHenry.”

  “Oh, my father told me about Baltimore. He said there is no city so culturally refined in all of the United States.”

  He nodded. “I suppose there are enough balls, concerts, and theatrical performances to please even the most genteel members of society. My father and stepmother have a home in the city, and they insist on going out every night to some sort of entertainment or another.”

  His lip curled the smallest bit, indicating that these pleasures were not to his liking. Abigail was rather jealous. She’d not traveled farther than the other side of Lake Erie, and while she enjoyed the gatherings in Upper Canada, they were not grand as she imagined an assembly in the elegant city of Baltimore to be.

  He took another sip of the milk. “Did your father live in Baltimore?”

  “No. He attended medical lectures from Dr. William Shippen at the College of Philadelphia. But he promised to take me one day to see a concert and the fine shops on Lexington Street.”

  “And the war has put a halt on your travel plans.” Captain Prescott reached for a cloth, but his arm stopped. He winced at the pull in his side, and Abigail felt a renewal of the guilty sensation. She handed him the cloth, and he wiped jam from the corner of his mouth.

  She nodded. “I suppose it has.”

  “My family is from Virginia,” he said.

  Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Slave owners.”

  His expression changed, a small smile pulling at his mouth, but his eyes didn’t join in the smile, and she didn’t know whether or not her words had made him angry. “Not everyone in Virginia owns slaves, Miss Tidwell.”

  She felt the reprimand, though she realized it wasn’t a denial. She tried again to keep the conversation friendly. “And do you have other family, aside from your father and stepmother?”

  “An elder brother and a younger sister.”

  Abigail smiled. “I’ve always wanted a sister. What’s she like?”

  “Not at all like you.”

  “Oh.” She pulled back, feeling insulted and rather hurt by the bluntness of his reply.

  He smirked at her reaction. “My sister does not tie up men in her barn. In fact, I don’t think she has ever set foot in a barn in her life. She doesn’t know how to identify igneous rocks, and at the first sight of blood, she’d have fainted dead away.”

  She softened, realizing he hadn’t meant his words to be a slight. They were actually rather complimentary. “Well, it is fortunate that I found you, and she did not.”

  He raised his milk cup in a salute. “Fortunate indeed. Lydia would have needed more medical care than I if she’d discovered a wounded soldier.”

  “Lydia.” She recognized the name from his papers.

  “Yes, I believe you read her letter.”

  She nodded, not bothering to deny it when he already knew. “You’re fond of her.”

  “I love my sister more than any person on this earth.” Captain Prescott gave the first genuine smile she’d seen. And the effect was remarkable. His eyes brightened, sending wrinkles fanning from their corners. And his face lost its hardness, revealing a much more kindhearted man. “And I miss her dreadfully. Even though she is absolutely the most frivolous young lady who ever lived.”

  Abigail smiled in return, imagining the captain as a doting brother rolling his eyes at his younger sister’s chattering. “And your brother. What is he like?”

  The captain’s smile dropped away and his eyes tightened. “According to my father, he is perfect.”

  She grimaced at the change in his demeanor, wishing she’d not asked the question that chased away his good humor.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Surely you understand; you have a brother.”

  Abigail cleared away the remains of the meal and brought the basket of bandages around to his other side to check his injuries. “I think my brother is more like you, sir. He is kind and loving to me. But I haven’t seen him for months. Not since the war began. He’s stationed—” She snapped her mouth shut. “I probably shouldn’t tell you.”

  Captain Prescott was watching her closely, and she realized she’d almost told something that could possibly endanger her brother, or His Majesty’s Army. Although she wasn’t sure what she could and couldn’t say, remaining quiet on matters of troop movement when speaking to the enemy was likely the best policy.

  She removed the bandage on his arm and found the cut was still healing exactly as it should. He leaned forward while she removed the bandages from around his torso, and she found the more serious wound to be in good shape as well. “Soon enough, you’ll be back on your feet, Captain,” she said as she rewrapped it. “I’ve only seen one other arrow wound, and it was shot by accident. The Oneida nation is typically very friendly.”

  “I doubt these Indians were Oneida. More likely Shawnee or Iroquois, or at least part of Tecumseh’s Confederacy.” His jaw was tight. “You, of course, know they are British allies. A small, lightly armed band must have been too tempting to pass up, especially with the prices the Crown pays for American scalps.”

  “That is not true.” The very idea horrified her. “His Majesty’s soldiers are gentlemen of honor.” She was certain. One had only to meet Isaac to see the truth of that. The rumor must be American propaganda.

  Captain Prescott remained silent and just watched as she finished wrapping his torso. His silence was actually more disconcerting than if he’d argued the point. She’d helped her father treat a man in Detroit who’d been scalped and, even though she did not cringe at the sight of blood, the absolute brutality of the act had sickened her.

  “And what were you doing with your small, lightly armed band?” she asked, more to change the path of the conversation than out of actual curiosity.

  He quirked a brow. “I probably shouldn’t tell you.”

  Abigail felt acutely aware once again that they were on opposing sides of the war. For a short while, she’d almost forgotten. Getting acquainted with Captain Prescott was probably a poor idea. Realizing the war kept him away from Lydia just as it kept her away from Isaac had made her think they had more in common than not. And that just wouldn’t do. Not when she was to turn him in as soon as he was healed.

  Once she’d finished ministering to his injuries, he leaned back against the wagon wheel, pulling down his dangling arm and allowing the other to rise up. He rolled the stiffness from his shoulder, and Abigail thought again how uncomfortable the position must be. She took his hand and checked the skin on his wrists, glad to see the rope hadn’t rubbed it raw.

  He leaned his head back and regarded her. “What do you do with all your time, Miss Tidwell, since your father and brother are away? I mean, while you aren’t tending to your barn prisoners.”

  She didn’t deny that she was alone. Lying was becoming tiresome, especially when he could so clearly see the truth. “Well, as I said, I usually help my father. It seems someone is always ill in Amherstburg, though the residents don’t call for me as often with him away. And I serve as the town’s midwife.”

  He opened his mouth to reply but closed it, glancing toward the door.


  A moment later, Abigail realized what had stopped him. She heard a horse. Had the entire morning passed already? “My neighbor, Mr. Kirby.” She suddenly felt frantic. What if he entered the barn and found Captain Prescott? Would he take him to the fort? What if he looked into her windows and saw the captain’s mended clothes hanging in front of the hearth? “Keep quiet,” she whispered. She hurried to the door and carried the milk pail outside. “Hello,” she called, closing the barn door behind her. “How are you today, Mr. Kirby?”

  He climbed out of the conveyance, grumbling. At just over sixty years of age, Mr. Kirby was a perpetual grumbler. He lifted the pail into the sleigh and took out an empty one. “Heard there was a skirmish nearby.”

  “A skirmish?”

  He nodded. “Met some redcoats in the forest.” He jerked his head backward, indicating the road behind him. “Apparently a group of spies were attacked by Indians. Don’t know if there were any casualties, but if I see one of those Americans nosing around here, heaven help me, I’ll finish what the Shawnee started. Don’t want those scoundrels threatening honest citizens. Need to keep my family and my property safe.” He lifted a rifle from the sleigh’s seat to prove his point.

  Abigail grew cold.

  He pointed at her. “You be careful, miss. No telling what those wild Kentuckians would do to a young lady, alone. I’ve half a mind to bring you home to stay with Mrs. Kirby and myself until your pa returns.”

  Abigail forced a smile. She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be fine. I have my father’s musket.”

  He scowled and grumbled something under his breath while he returned to the seat in the sleigh. “You’ll let me know if you see anything. Anything at all.”

  “Of course.” Her smile felt painted on. “Good day, Mr. Kirby. Thank you again for delivering the milk for me.”

  He nodded and flicked the reins.

  Abigail watched until the sleigh was out of sight behind the trees. Her legs felt like soft noodles. Knowing Captain Prescott had no doubt overheard the entire conversation, she didn’t return to the barn. He’d know that she lied to protect him, and she felt confused and . . . ill. Her head hurt, and she needed to sit down and think. She didn’t know exactly how to reconcile what she’d just done. Had she betrayed her country? What would Isaac say if he ever found out?

  Chapter 4

  Emmett jerked awake. He was angry with himself for falling asleep, but even though he’d assured Miss Tidwell he was much improved, the truth was, his body wasn’t yet healed. It had taken an enormous effort to pull himself up to a sitting position and maintain it during the entire breakfast and medical examination.

  The conversation he’d overheard between Miss Tidwell and her neighbor had left him tense. The redcoats not only knew about the attack, they were searching for his company. Had they found his men? Were his men even alive? He pulled on the ropes, frustration making his fists clench. He hated feeling so helpless. He saw his clothes in a folded pile beside his boots, and a basket sat close beside him. When he moved away the cloth, he found strips of ham and some cornbread, which he gratefully ate.

  Laying back, he let his eyes close, and he thought of Miss Abigail Tidwell. He’d been almost certain she’d turn him in this morning. But she hadn’t. Had his roguish smile worked after all? He discounted the idea immediately. Abigail didn’t seem the type of person to be swayed by a bit of flirting. But she had been swayed. And he believed her worry for his well-being was the reason. He figured she considered him her patient and felt an obligation to care for him. Or perhaps it had nothing at all to do with him, and her stubbornness was to blame; she intended to turn him in on her own terms.

  Whatever the rationale behind her action, Emmett’s worry expanded to include her. If he was found in Abigail’s barn, it would mean trouble for both of them. She’d taken a risk keeping him here and then concealing it.

  A sound roused him, and he realized he’d fallen asleep again.

  “Captain,” a voice whispered.

  Someone was shaking his shoulder.

  Emmett woke completely and opened his eyes just as his bonds were cut free. He blinked, noticing shadows stretching across the floor. Was it already late in the afternoon? “Private Hopkins? Corporal Webb?”

  The two men crouched over him. Jasper Webb’s weather-worn face revealed none of his thoughts, as was typical for the Kentuckian. On his wiry frame, he wore buckskin clothing with tassels and moccasins instead of an army uniform. His hat was made from the head of a bear, giving him a fearsome look. The volunteer militia was an eclectic-looking group. Some dressed in their grandfather’s old Revolutionary War uniforms, but most simply wore civilian clothing. Jasper was an excellent hunter and tracker and had spent years in the mountains of Kentucky. He didn’t speak often, possibly because he was accustomed to time alone.

  Barney Hopkins may have been Jasper’s complete opposite. A large man from Ohio, and a bit slow-witted, he concealed nothing, his every sentiment showing in his words and expressions. Emmett had found him to be one of the most loyal men he’d ever known, and extremely honest. He could not have been any more relieved to see the two.

  “Why don’t you have any clothes on, Captain?” Barney Hopkins asked, helping Emmett into a sitting position. “Oh. You’re wounded.” He pointed to the bandages.

  “I’m fine,” Emmett said.

  “And you’re wearing a sock on your hand.”

  “How did you find me?” Emmett looked between the two. The buckskin-clad man had moved silently to the door and was peeking outside.

  “Jasper,” Barney said. “He found you. And all of us. After the Indian attack, we were scattered. We discovered your pack in the woods.” He motioned to the side, and Emmett saw his rucksack.

  “And is everyone . . . ?” He left the question hanging, not wanting to voice his fear.

  Barney’s expression fell. “Luke was hurt.”

  Emmett’s heart grew heavy. Luke Hopkins was Barney’s brother and, at seventeen, the youngest in their company. “Is he . . . ?” Emmett looked to Jasper.

  “He’s alive,” Jasper said. His eyes narrowed slightly, telling Emmett the boy’s condition was more serious than he wished to discuss in front of Barney. “Murphy is with him.” All of the company had survived then.

  Emmett pulled the sock from his hand and reached for the pile of clothing. He tried not to wince, not wanting his men to see how badly his injuries pained him. The shirt had a long seam where it had been mended. Abigail must have had to cut it off him. His coat was mended as well, and all of his clothes were clean. Once he was dressed, he started to put on his socks, but paused. Even though they’d been darned, they were still threadbare and worn.

  He plucked the blue-and-yellow-striped socks from Barney’s curious hands and put them on then his boots. The simple task of dressing had completely worn him out, and Emmett leaned back against the wagon. “They’re searching for us, Corporal.”

  Jasper nodded. He looked back through the crack of the door.

  “And we can’t trust the locals, either.” Emmett picked up the rope and wound it around his arm then hung it from a peg on the wall. He folded the quilt and pillows, setting them into the wagon with the basket that had held his lunch. “We must conceal all traces of my being here.”

  Jasper joined him, using a shovel to dig up the blood-stained dirt and spread it.

  Emmett picked up the arrowhead and slipped it into the pouch in his pocket.

  The three crept from the barn, and Emmett glanced back at the house. He felt a stab of remorse, leaving without seeing Abigail again. He owed his life to the woman, and he’d at least have liked to give his thanks and bid her farewell properly. But this was the best way. The longer he remained, the more danger he was putting her in.

  They hurried across the open land and into the forest. Emmett couldn’t help but shiver. He’d never known cold like that of Upper Canada. It bit at his skin, and he wished for a scarf or a pair
of gloves. But he knew the only way to warm up was to keep his body moving.

  Once they were beneath the shadow of the trees, they continued silently, heading north to where the river was narrow enough to cross. In a few hours, the night would be fully dark. Jasper fell back beside Emmett. “Luke is hurt bad.” The man’s whisper was barely audible. “Without a doctor . . .” He left the remainder of the thought unspoken.

  Emmett halted. He hesitated but knew instinctively what they must do. Besides, there was not time to come up with another plan. “I know a doctor.”

  ***

  Emmett eased open the door, and the smell of warm bread greeted him. He slipped into the house with Jasper and Barney and followed the homey sound of a woman’s humming until he stepped through a doorway into the kitchen.

  Abigail spun, and when she saw him, her eyes grew wide. “Captain Prescott. You shouldn’t be walking about. Your injuries.” She started toward him and then drew back as if just now making a realization. “How did you get free?”

  The other two men stepped into the doorway behind Emmett, and Abigail’s face paled. She gasped and stumbled backward.

  Emmett held up his hands. He should have approached this a bit more delicately. “Miss Tidwell—Abigail. Do not worry. These are my men. Corporal Jasper Webb, Private Barnabus Hopkins.” Emmett pointed at the others in turn. “They won’t hurt you.”

  Her eyes darted back and forth. She moved to the other side of the kitchen, keeping the table between herself and the men.

  “Block the door,” Emmett said in a low voice, nodding toward the door in the outside wall.

  Jasper moved to stand in front of it.

  “Miss Tidwell, we need you to come with us,” Emmett said.

  Abigail watched Jasper with an uneasy expression. “Come with you where?”

  “A camp on the other side of the river,” Emmett said. “One of my men is injured. He needs a doctor.”

  She hesitated, her eyes moving between the three, and then she shook her head. She had, of course, traveled often enough across the river and all along the borders of Lake Ontario when the weather was warm, but that was before the southern side of the lake became enemy territory.