My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  She unstopped the bottle, and Emmett caught the unmistakable scent of alcohol and opium—laudanum. “Hold up his head, if you please, Mr. Hopkins.”

  Barney moved around her and lifted Luke’s head so she could drip some laudanum into the boy’s mouth.

  “We have some time before it takes effect,” she said. She rose and brushed off her skirts. She began to roll up her sleeves, glancing around the dark camp. Her eyes landed on a kettle beside the fire. “Mr. Murphy, please boil some water. And Mr. Hopkins, if you’d please help me remove Luke’s wet clothes.”

  “And what shall I do?” Emmett asked.

  She turned to him. “I did not forget your promise, Captain. You will rest.” Seeing that he was opening his mouth to argue, she held up a hand, stopping him. “You’ll not be in any condition to lead these men if you do not let yourself mend properly.” She indicated the other lean-to shelter.

  Abigail took his arm and stepped closer, her gaze capturing his. “Sleep. Please.” Her voice was quiet, not calling orders as she’d done earlier but meant for his ears only, and pleading. He thought that voice could have convinced him to attack Fort Detroit alone, armed with only a child’s slingshot.

  She tugged him toward the lean-to and motioned for him to crawl inside. “I’ll rewrap your wounds when you wake.”

  The thought of falling into a deep slumber and forgetting his pain was so tempting that Emmett didn’t even argue. He assigned Murphy to take the first watch and Barney to assist Abigail, and within a moment of lying down, he slept.

  Chapter 7

  Once she was certain Emmett was resting and the laudanum had taken effect on Luke, Abigail set to work. She’d tried to keep a reassuring demeanor, especially when she spoke to Barney, but in truth, she was worried that Luke would at the very least lose his arm. However, she resolved not to amputate until she’d put up a good fight to save the limb. Her true fear went much deeper. If the infection had moved into his blood, she didn’t know if she’d be able to save him. Memories of her helplessness when her mother lay soaked in sweat, her leg swollen with red streaks shooting from the wound filled Abigail’s mind, and she pushed them away, not letting the panic overtake her. She was no longer that powerless girl. She closed her eyes and took a calming breath, remembering her father’s training and hours of study. She could do this.

  She and Barney removed the sweat-soaked clothing and wrapped Luke in the quilt. Once they were finished, the boiled water in the kettle had cooled enough to use for cleaning the wound.

  “Hold the torch closer,” Abigail instructed. “But not so close that it will burn his skin—or mine.” She could see by the nervous look on his face that Barney was worried, and so she did what her father had always done, and explained as she worked. Knowledge dispels fear, he’d said.

  Taking out the bowl she used for bloodletting, she set it beneath Luke’s arm to catch the fouled water then began to debride the wound. “I must make certain all the dried discharge and diseased tissue is removed and there is no foreign material inside, or when the wound is stitched up, it won’t heal. See here, this bit of skin is decayed.” She used a scalpel to slice off the dead flesh and poured water over the wound, working carefully until she was satisfied that only healthy tissue remained.

  “And now, a poultice to draw out the infection.” She pointed at the swollen skin and stood, returning the kettle to the fire. “If you would empty this bowl, please. And wash it very thoroughly.” She handed the bowl of dirty water to Barney, who took it away. Beneath Barney’s worried gaze, Abigail used the boiling water from the kettle to make a hot paste of wheat bran, which she set on the wound to draw out the pus, and then made a separate mixture of peppermint leaves, willow bark, and camphor to cool the skin. Once the poultices were bound in place, she rinsed the herbs from the mortar bowl.

  She stepped out of the shelter and stood next to Barney by the fire, with Luke’s soaked clothing and the dirty scalpel. “The wound needs to drain for a little while. Then we can set the fracture.”

  Barney nodded, his brows pulled close and raised, pushing up a stack of wrinkles on his forehead.

  Abigail laid a hand on his arm. “I understand your concern. I have a brother too.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Isaac. He’s in the army. I worry about him all the time. What if he should be injured in a battle? My father and I wouldn’t hear of it until weeks after it happened.” Voicing her fear aloud caused a heavy feeling to settle on her shoulders. “Luke is fortunate to have you here with him.”

  “I promised Ma I’d watch out for him.” Barney’s shoulders sagged.

  “And look at what you’re doing right this moment,” Abigail said. “Tending to him, just like you said.” She crouched down and rubbed snow over the blood on Luke’s shirtsleeve, knowing that remaining busy was the best way to keep from fretting.

  Barney crouched beside her and did the same for Luke’s coat, his large hands grabbing mounds of snow and clumsily grinding it into the bloodstains. Abigail’s heart went out to him. He was such an earnest man, and she wished she could reassure him. Tell him Luke would recover and there was no cause for worry.

  “I shouldn’t have allowed him to come on this mission,” he said. The firelight flickered over his round face. “I thought keeping him with me was safer, but he’d have done better back at camp with the rest of the regiment.”

  Abigail filled the pot with snow and set it over the fire. “You did what you thought was best. Often we must choose between two uncertainties.” She wiped her cold hands on her apron. “Mr. Hopkins, please don’t punish yourself. You had no way of knowing your group would be attacked.”

  “Barney,” he said. “You should call me Barney. Nobody ever calls me Mr. Hopkins. Even the muster rolls call me Private. But friends say Barney.” He gave a small smile, though despondency remained in his eyes.

  “Very well, Barney. And my friends call me Abigail.” She smiled back and swished the shirt in the warm water.

  Once the kettle steamed, she used the boiling water and carefully cleaned the scalpel. Father always stressed the importance of keeping her medical tools clean. She gratefully accepted coffee from Barney, knowing she needed to remain alert for hours yet. She hadn’t even begun to address the bone fracture.

  They hung the cleaned clothes near the fire and returned to their patient. When Abigail felt Luke’s head, she found his fever still remained, although she thought it had dropped a bit. The skin around the wound was still swollen, but she decided the bones needed to be set while Luke was still sleeping and his muscles were relaxed.

  “Now, do not worry, this looks rather alarming. I must enlarge the opening to remove any loose bone splinters,” she told Barney as she sliced carefully into the skin. Fresh blood welled up, and she wiped it away with soft lint. Motioning the light closer, she studied the exposed bone. The damaged ends overlapped, pulled tight by contracting muscles. “If I manipulate the muscle, it will lengthen,” she said, applying traction. “And the bones can be realigned.”

  The process took nearly a quarter of an hour until she felt the bones were arranged properly and the fracture was reduced so it could heal properly. She sat back, feeling a wave of exhaustion, but it was not time to rest, so she carried on. From her bag, she took the curved suture needle and waxed shoemaker’s thread, and filled a small bowl with oil.

  “Now, Barney, if you could hold the wound closed.” She showed him where to put his fingers to pinch the edges of the torn skin together. Then she dipped the needle in the oil and painstakingly sewed the wound shut, tying off each ligature with a surgeon’s knot, just how her father had shown her.

  When they finished, she sent Barney with a hatchet to search for slabs of curved bark they could use to splint the arm. She wedged the torch between two rocks to provide light as she reheated the wheat poultice and wrapped both mixtures over the wound then cut a square strip of fabric the length of Luke’s forearm. She sliced the edges of the bandage until
each side had a strip that looked like tassels then folded them carefully over the arm, pair by pair, to hold the bone in place. Once Barney returned, they would splint it.

  When she stepped back out to stand by the fire, she realized how dark the night was in the forest. A new fear arose, and her mind started to wander, wondering what might be just outside the circle of firelight. Where was Murphy? She knew he was standing guard somewhere but hadn’t seen him. And Barney had been gone longer than she’d anticipated.

  She cleaned her tools again and returned the scalpel to its case, checked that Luke was still sleeping, then tidied up the camp, though there was really nothing to do. She just felt nervous sitting still. She peeked in on Emmett but did not check his temperature, for fear she’d awaken him. She circled around the fire and then finally sat on a flat rock Murphy must have cleared of snow for this very purpose and tried to ignore the sinister feeling of the darkness surrounding the camp.

  As if conjured by her fears, she heard a wolf howl, and it sounded very close. Her eyes darted around, trying to see into the trees as another wolf answered from a different direction. She wondered if the animals could smell blood from Luke’s wound. Would they attack the camp? She darted a glance toward the branch shelter where Jasper and Emmett slept. Should she wake them? She found the musket and stood beside the fire, knowing she must protect Luke and the others.

  A branch snapped, and she whirled around, pointing the weapon into the darkness.

  “Easy there.” Murphy stepped into the light, hands raised.

  Abigail lowered the barrel of the musket. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Heard the wolves, did ya?”

  She nodded.

  “Not to worry. They’ll not approach the fire.”

  Another howl sounded.

  “Barney is in the forest,” she said, still feeling nervous.

  Murphy nodded, and she saw exhaustion on his lined face. She wondered when he’d slept last. “I saw him. He’s all right.”

  “Sir, perhaps you should sleep.”

  He yawned, as if her notice had given him permission to do so. “Aye, and that’s why I’ve returned. Shift’s over. Corporal Webb will keep watch for a few hours.”

  Abigail thought of Jasper’s long hike and felt sorry for the man, being allotted such a small amount of sleep. “Barney will be tired, too. I’ll convince him to sleep as well.”

  Murphy nodded wearily. He moved to the other shelter and bent down, shaking Jasper’s shoulder. The buckskin-clad man rose silently, and Murphy took his place.

  Abigail set down the musket and poured coffee for Jasper when he stepped around the fire. “Did you get enough sleep?”

  He shrugged and spoke in a low gravely voice. “Haven’t had a decent amount sleep since becoming a soldier.”

  Abigail grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged and drank the coffee.

  “I’m surprised the wolves didn’t wake you,” Abigail said.

  He glanced at the musket propped against the rock beside her. “You shooting at the wolves would have woken me.” His mouth twitched, and she thought he might have been making a joke.

  Before she could respond, Barney returned, stepping into the firelight. His arms were filled with slabs of curved bark. “Will these do, Abigail? I didn’t know what size, so . . . ”

  She took the pile from him, smiling as she studied the various sizes. “I’m certain some of these will be exactly what we need.”

  Jasper set down the cup and started toward the trees.

  “Enjoy your sentry duty,” Abigail said then felt supremely foolish for the sentiment. But what farewell did one give a soldier headed out to stand guard?

  He stopped and cocked his head, and from the rear, it appeared as if the bear he wore were considering what she’d said. Jasper lifted his hand as he disappeared into the woods.

  Barney held his cold hands toward the fire.

  Abigail set down the wood then took one of Barney’s hands and studied it, looking for discoloration on his fingertips. “I wish you had a pair of gloves. It’s not good for the skin to be constantly freezing and reheating.”

  He pulled the socks from his pocket and grinned, sliding them over his hands. “You remind me of my ma,” he said. “Always taking care of people.”

  She smiled at the simple compliment. “Have you warmed enough to help me splint Luke’s arm?”

  Barney cut the wood to the size Abigail directed, using his knife to smooth the splinters on the ends. It would still be rough on Luke’s skin, so she padded it with folded scraps of felt. The curvature of the bark fit around Luke’s arm tightly, but when the swelling reduced, Abigail thought the fit would be right. Still snug so he couldn’t move the bone, but not tight enough to restrict blood flow. They tied bandages around the wood splints, and Barney slipped a pair of blue and green socks over Luke’s hands.

  Abigail felt the young man’s forehead. His temperature seemed almost to have returned to normal, which surprised her after so short a time. A spark of hope lit in her chest. The boy was possibly stronger than she’d imagined.

  “You should sleep,” Abigail said to Barney. “Luke’s fever is down, and there’s nothing more to do for now but wait.”

  He shook his head, looking ready to protest, but Abigail pointed toward the spot beside Luke. “You’ll be close when he wakes.”

  Barney agreed and lay down beside his brother.

  Abigail left the shelter. She knew the hours right before dawn were the coldest, and all she could think about was keeping close to the fire. The wolf howls sounded, but farther away, which was a relief. She put the unused scraps of bark onto the flames and pulled her cloak tight, arranging herself on the ground beside the rock. The ground was cold, but at least the snow had been cleared away. The exhaustion she’d kept at bay for hours was suddenly too strong to resist any longer. She leaned an arm on the rock, settled her head into the bend of her elbow, and slept.

  Chapter 8

  Emmett dropped another load of branches onto the growing pile beside the fire. He grunted at the pain that shot through his injuries. Though he’d slept through two watches, he was still exhausted. The morning air was cold, but the sun shone brightly on the snow, and he tipped his head back, enjoying the feel of it on his face.

  He moved to the flat-topped rock and sat, glancing in both shelters. Barney and Luke slept in one and Abigail in the other.

  Emmett had woken at dawn and found her shivering on the cold ground, curled up beside the rock and immediately berated himself for collapsing into a dead slumber without taking any thought to her comfort. Of course, she’d not lie down to sleep beside any of the men. He’d carefully untied the ribbons beneath her chin and pulled off the bonnet, thinking it would be uncomfortable to sleep in, and pulled her mittens onto her hands. Her fingers were freezing.

  He was frustrated that he’d nothing better to offer the woman than a soldier’s bivouac made of sticks and a few scratchy blankets. He’d asked Jasper this morning to construct another shelter for Abigail.

  Allowing himself only a few more minutes to rest, he moved to Luke’s shelter, crouching down and touching his fingers to the boy’s head. He was surprised not to feel excessive heat. He touched his own forehead for a comparison. Based on his very limited medical experience, he thought Luke’s fever had cooled. He hoped it was a good sign. The boy’s color looked to be healthier, and he seemed to be sleeping deeply.

  As Emmett placed a few more branches on the fire, his eyes fell on the old musket. He couldn’t help but smile at the story Murphy had told him earlier about Abigail guarding the camp from wolves while the soldiers slept. Murphy and Jasper had spoken warmly about her, and he was pleased with how well the men had taken to her. Of course, it would be difficult not to enjoy a pretty woman’s company after months of marching and drilling. But he thought they’d seemed to especially like Abigail. And in the most secret part of his heart, he admitted that in the few days he’d known h
er, he’d grown fonder of Abigail Tidwell than was sensible. If only circumstances were different, he thought he’d be in danger of falling in love with the woman.

  He heard rustling from the shelter, and a moment later, Abigail crawled out. Her hair was mussed and her eyes sleepy. She pulled the government-issue gray woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders and blinked at the sunlight.

  Emmett’s heart flopped over. In that moment, Abigail Tidwell looked utterly enchanting.

  Her gaze met his, and she smiled and walked toward him, yawning. “You shaved. Now you look like a captain.”

  “Are you saying I didn’t before?”

  “I should have said you look like a well-kept captain now.” She pulled a pin from her hair, then another, and the loose knot unrolled, tumbling dark curls over her shoulders. She put the pins in her mouth then opened her pack and searched through it until she found a hairbrush. She sat on the rock and drew the brush through her curls. “Where is everyone?” Her words were a bit indistinct as she spoke around the pins.

  Emmett was enthralled, watching her go about her morning routine. He thought how intimate it felt, to see someone performing the little tasks they did without thinking. Pulling his eyes away, he moved to the pot, taking off the lid and stirring the stew. “Jasper is setting snares, Murphy is on sentry duty, and Barney and Luke are still sleeping.” He looked toward the shelter.

  Abigail gathered her hair and twisted it around to make a knot at the base of her neck then stuck in the pins to hold it in place. “That smells wonderful,” she nodded toward the stew.

  He scooped some into a bowl and held it toward her. “Come, have breakfast with me. My table manners are much better when I’m not bound to a wagon.” He winked as he scooped another bowl. “Although we don’t exactly have a table.”