My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  Once the inspection was over, he dismissed the men. The sounds of voices and of feet crunching in the snow began as soldiers returned to their tents, performed their daily duties, or milled around the prison yard under the watchful eye of the guards. Emmett stepped into Murphy’s tent and sat on a stool beside his friend’s bedroll. “How do you feel today?” he asked.

  Over the long march, Murphy’s cough had gone from occasional to long fits of hacking. His breathing was labored and sounded as if dry leaves were caught in his throat. He smiled weakly, his face appearing gray. “Same as yesterday, sir.”

  “I insist you go to the hospital tent.” Sick and injured prisoners were cared for separately from the British soldiers in a tent on the very edge of the prison yard, near the stables. “Come with me.” Emmett helped Murphy stand and slid an arm below his friend’s shoulders.

  They walked slowly across the yard, pausing a few times as Murphy succumbed to a fit of coughing. A man wearing a surgeon’s apron met them at the door, and he and Emmett helped Murphy to a cot.

  “The physician-surgeon will be here in a few hours,” the man said, not unkindly. “Rest until then.”

  Emmett made certain Murphy was comfortable then left the tent. He started back toward the barracks but stopped when he saw a man walking in the shadows along the inside of the high picket fence. Lieutenant Fox. The way the lieutenant glanced back, as if making certain nobody was following put Emmett’s instincts on alert. As did the man himself. Lieutenant Fox gave the impression of a person who would happily involve himself in underhanded dealings if he deemed the reward worth the risk.

  His curiosity was piqued. Looking around quickly, Emmett spotted a barrel and hefted it, carrying it on his shoulder. He walked straight ahead without glancing back, knowing men who appeared to be engaged in a task were less likely to be stopped than those creeping along in the shadows. He nodded to the prison guards as he passed. They gave him a strange look but didn’t stop him, apparently assuming he was carrying out orders from someone. Even though he was a prisoner, his uniform still garnered respect.

  Lieutenant Fox crept behind the stables, and Emmett waited, but he didn’t emerge on the other side. What could he be doing in the space between the edge of the stables and the fort’s high wall?

  Emmett walked along the side of the stable building until he reached the corner, and there he paused, listening. It was difficult to make out sounds over the noise of the horses, but he thought he heard voices. One was low and clipped, and the other sounded nasal and especially patronizing. He set down the barrel, slowly leaned forward to peek around to the rear of the building and then pulled quickly back.

  In the shadows, Lieutenant Fox stood speaking to an Indian warrior, and from the quick glimpse, Emmett thought the two were performing an exchange of some sort.

  He moved away, hurried along the building to the front and entered through the stable doors, grabbing the first tool he saw: a shovel. He acted as if it were the very reason he’d come into the stables in the first place, making a show of inspecting the handle and the blade. None of the stable workers even spared him a second glance.

  As he studied the shovel, he saw a flash of red as Lieutenant Fox walked past the stable door. Emmett stepped outside, following behind at a distance. In one hand, Lieutenant Fox carried a rough burlap bag with a large brownish stain on the bottom.

  The apprehensive feeling Emmett had before grew as he imagined what might make a stain of that color, and what might be valuable enough for a lieutenant to make a secretive trade with an Indian brave.

  Lieutenant Fox crossed the road and walked past a pen that housed two large hogs. He tossed the bag into the pen and continued on.

  Emmett resumed his course, following from a distance and, when he reached the pen, used the shovel to pull the bag toward him. He held his breath, both from the smell of the hogs and the smell coming from the bag. Stomach clenched, he loosed the knot and looked inside. What he saw filled his stomach with lead.

  The bag held dozens of human scalps.

  Emmett dropped the bag, feeling ill. He leaned his elbows on the wooden rail of the fence and rubbed his eyes, knowing exactly where these scalps had come from. His men at Frenchtown.

  Anger and utter despair stole his breath and made his chest hot. His hands were shaking. He’d feared this very thing when Lieutenant Fox had convinced General Procter to leave the city without guards. Tecumseh’s Indian army didn’t follow the same rules of war. They didn’t accept a full surrender, trusting a gentleman’s word of honor that the fighting had ended. And the lieutenant had known this would happen. He’d doomed injured and ill men to a horrific death and had even paid for the evidence.

  Clenching his hands into fists, he turned his back toward the pen and, in doing so, glanced up the road. Lieutenant Fox stood in the doorway of a building, watching him. He dropped his eyes conspicuously to the bag. His brows rose, and then his lip curled up into a sneer.

  Emmett started toward him, red fury filling his vision until the consequences of a prisoner of war attacking his captor didn’t matter to him at all.

  Lieutenant Fox called out an order, and soldiers rushed at Emmett.

  He pushed through, straining to get to his enemy. Fueled by rage, he swung blindly, landing punches at the men in his way and cursing at the arrogant officer.

  The shovel was wrested from Emmett’s hands, and he bent over when a soldier used the handle to deliver a blow to the gut. For a moment he couldn’t draw in a breath. Another blow hit his head, dazing him. Emmett looked up and locked eyes with Lieutenant Fox.

  The man’s mouth spread into a smile that looked more like a sneer. He motioned with a finger. “Take a walk with me, Captain Prescott.”

  Emmett had no choice but to obey; however, he didn’t have to go willingly. He planted his feet and struggled to pull his arms free but was dragged forward.

  The lieutenant didn’t look back but moved along, head held high and arms swinging as if he was out for a leisurely stroll. When he reached a side alley between the buildings, he spun around and tilted his head back so, even though they were of similar height, he was looking down his nose at Emmett.

  Two soldiers still held on to Emmett’s arms, and another two stood close behind.

  “Well, that was a bit of an overreaction,” the lieutenant said. He raised his brows and shook his head, as if embarrassed for Emmett. “I imagine you are upset because of what you saw in that filthy sack.” His nose wrinkled and he sniffed.

  Emmett’s fury spiked, sending a bolt of heat through him. “You did this.” He fought to keep his voice calm but was not successful. “You killed those men.”

  The lieutenant brushed some imaginary lint off his sleeve then straightened the cuff. “We both know that is factually untrue.”

  “It was your action, or more precisely your inaction that is the cause. You allowed innocent men to be butchered.” Emmett’s anger made his words come out in a sputter.

  The lieutenant merely gave a pleasant smile. “I did not only allow it but encouraged it, Captain.”

  Emmett had thought he would certainly deny it. The man’s admission left him unable to answer. He just stared at the foppish Englishman.

  Lieutenant Fox let out a sigh and studied his fingernails. “Let me tell you a bit about war, Captain. It is not all marching, training, and heroism in battles. There is also an element of psychology involved. Surely you must know this, although based on what I’ve seen, American military schools appear to be lacking when it comes to training their officers.” He sniffed again, making the sound as patronizing as possible. “But as I was saying, if one is able to make the enemy fear, really fear, there is an automatic advantage. A person who is afraid makes decisions based on that fear. He second-guesses himself and forgets his training.” His smile became more animated. “And right now, the most fearful weapon the British army has at its disposal isn’t the cannons or even our highly trained troops. It is the Indians.”

&
nbsp; Lieutenant Fox clasped his hands as if he were telling a merry tale at a Christmas party. “Americans fear the Indian tribes, because they know they have mistreated them . . . pushed them off their lands, obliterated their villages, and so forth. The Indians were not a threat before, but now those very warriors have the backing of the strongest army in the world. And they want revenge.” He flicked his fingers. “Their methods are, shall we say, grotesque, but the amount of fear a group of men in war paint with tomahawks is able to produce . . . well, one cannot put too fine a price on it.”

  “I cannot believe a man of honor is capable of such an atrocity,” Emmett said. He felt sickened.

  “Oh, I am entirely capable.” The lieutenant shrugged.

  “Those men had surrendered. They were sick and injured—” Emmett began.

  “And can you imagine the hysteria it will cause once their fate is known?” Lieutenant Fox looked delighted. “I imagine the American militia enrollment will drop significantly.”

  Emmett knew the lieutenant was right. Fear would spread like a wave when people learned the infirmary patients had been massacred. He’d seen with his own eyes how the men in the battle completely panicked when the screaming, painted Indians ran at them brandishing knives and axes. And two things could come of it. Either people would be outraged and take up arms, or they would cower. He worried it would be the latter. Fort Detroit itself had been taken without a fight when the commander, General Hull, had seen an angry army of Indians reinforced by the British soldiers and his thoughts had gone directly to his daughter and granddaughter staying inside the fort with him. Against the advice of his officers, he’d snatched up a white tablecloth and hung it out the window before the armies had even taken their positions. Fear did strange things to a person’s judgment.

  Lieutenant Fox was watching Emmett’s reaction. “I imagine you would like to kill me.” He sighed dramatically. “I don’t blame you. But know that I am not one you want for an enemy. Especially in your current circumstances.”

  Emmett clenched his fists. He had never felt such anger directed to one person in his entire life. “If given the chance, I will kill you, Lieutenant.” He’d never imagined saying such words to anyone, but in that moment, the objective had become Emmett’s highest priority.

  The lieutenant gave a small shrug. “Very well. Then at your wish we shall be adversaries.” His face remained impassive, but something inside his eyes grew hard. “But know this, Captain Emmett Prescott. I do not like to simply kill my foes. It is messy and unsatisfying. I prefer to break a man. Destroy his confidence, hurt people he cares about, leave him wondering when I might strike next, force him to question his own sanity.” He patted Emmett’s shoulder in a condescending manner. “Fair warning, sir. You’ll not like me as an enemy.”

  “I cannot consider you anything else,” Emmett ground out.

  Lieutenant Fox gave a nod of acknowledgment and motioned to the soldiers. Emmett was returned unceremoniously to the prison camp.

  ***

  That afternoon, Emmett sat in the barracks on his bunk. His insides were twisted up with anger and grief as he thought of the massacre at Frenchtown. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this feeling. He should have stopped it from happening. He had known, and he should have done something.

  A voice inside his head told him there was nothing more he could have done, but that didn’t dispel the wrenching guilt. His eyes burned as he imagined the men’s last moments. He was angry with General Procter for not posting guards, General Winchester for ignoring warnings. He was angry with himself for not running faster, angry with Tecumseh’s native confederacy for taking out their revenge on his men, but more than anything, he was angry with the vile Lieutenant Sebastian Fox. Thoughts of vengeance filled his mind, making his anger turn into something almost tangible.

  He’d not told his fellow officers, but he would. He’d decided to do it after the evening call to quarters, so they’d have the night to process the information before they would be required to put on strong faces for their men in the morning.

  His festering was interrupted by a knock. The door swung open, admitting a slender man with spectacles, followed by a guard.

  Emmett stood.

  The soldier stood to attention beside the door, and the bespectacled man crossed the room. “Captain Prescott?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Dr. William Tidwell. A pleasure to meet you.” The doctor held Emmett’s gaze a moment longer than was necessary, and Emmett recognized the shape and color of the man’s eyes, though, in his opinion, they looked much lovelier on a woman.

  “How do you do?” Emmett said.

  The doctor sliced his eyes toward the soldier, and Emmett understood at once that they’d not be able to speak openly about his friendship with Abigail. Such a thing would put her in danger of being presumed a traitor. She had, after all, aided and abetted the enemy.

  “An associate of mine told me you have some sutures needing to be removed. It was, in fact, the doctor who treated you, who sent me.”

  Emmett couldn’t help but feel pleased at the man’s words. He should have known, even after all that happened, that she’d not forget about his injuries. And since she could not come herself, she’d sent her father. Emmett smiled.

  The man raised his brow, a miniscule movement that was accompanied by a twinkle in his eye. He knows, Emmett thought. And the knowledge felt comforting, like her father was a tie between himself and Abigail.

  “If you’d please remove your shirt and sit just here.” Dr. Tidwell motioned toward the bed then turned to the guard. “Corporal, would you bring the lantern closer?”

  The man did so, and Dr. Tidwell pulled a chair beside Emmett.

  “An arrow, was it?” Dr. Tidwell said.

  “Yes.”

  “And here, a knife?” He pointed to Emmett’s arm.

  “I believe so,” Emmett said. “It was dark, and the attack happened rather quickly.”

  Dr. Tidwell nodded. He leaned close to study the wounds, pushing up his spectacles, then touched his finger to the skin around the sutures, just like Abigail had done. “Fine work,” he muttered.

  “I had fine care,” Emmett said.

  The doctor glanced up, his brow twitched again, and then he reached into his bag for scissors and tweezers. “This may sting.” He set to work, and Emmett sat still, twisting his head around to watch the procedure.

  “Corporal,” Dr. Tidwell said after a moment. “Have I told you about my daughter, Abigail?”

  Emmett grew very still.

  The corporal looked surprised, as if he wasn’t used to being addressed during doctoring procedures. “No, you have not.”

  “She arrived just yesterday to assist in the sick bay. She’s also serving as a midwife in town.” He finished with Emmett’s side and started on his arm, little strings of sutures making a small pile on a scrap of bandage he’d set out for the purpose.

  “That is very . . . nice,” the corporal said, sounding unsure of how to respond.

  Dr. Tidwell nodded. “Very nice indeed. I am happy to have her, even though she can only stay a few weeks. And I was pleased that she made the journey safely. She had good people watching over her. I’m grateful to them for the care they took.”

  The corporal nodded, perhaps wondering why the doctor chose to share this. But Emmett knew why, and he was touched that the man would communicate this to him. Dr. Tidwell was very much like his daughter—clever and more compassionate than he could believe. Especially as pertaining to forgiveness. He wished he could see her, just for a moment. The wish became a longing, because he knew it was something that could not be. Especially with Lieutenant Fox and his spies watching Emmett’s every move. For her own safety, he couldn’t give any indication that anything existed between Abigail and him.

  “There now, Captain.” Dr. Tidwell wiped his tools and returned them to his bag. “You’re healing well. Continue favoring this side as much as possible.”

 
; “Thank you, sir.” Emmett hoped the man knew he wasn’t just thanking him for removing the stitches. Knowing that Abigail was safe and happy and her father held no ill will for Emmett’s actions had eased part of the heaviness he carried.

  They bid farewell, and then the doctor departed, followed by the guard. Emmett turned back to the room, noticing a wad of bandages that Dr. Tidwell had left behind. The importance of keeping order in the barracks was instinctual. Meaning to dispose of them, Emmett picked up the bandages, and when he did, he felt something inside. Something small and very heavy.

  When he uncovered it, he saw it was a chunk of iron. Hematite, he thought. A metal that appeared to be formed of iron bubbles. This wasn’t one from his pouch. He wondered if Abigail had found it. He smiled at the thought. Only she would discover a rock with the ground covered in snow and know it was just the thing to tell him she was thinking of him. The rock was cold and smooth, and when he closed his hand around it, Emmett was filled with delicious warmth that seeped into his bones.

  Chapter 15

  Abigail unwrapped the bandages and studied the marred flesh beneath. Her father had done his best work, repairing the gash on the soldier’s face. It was so much improved from a week earlier that if she hadn’t seen the man when he’d arrived, she’d not have believed it to be the same person. “Hardly any swelling, Corporal,” she said, touching her fingers along his cheek and giving an encouraging smile.

  The wound began at his hairline and ran down, across the bridge of Corporal Willard’s nose, ending beneath his ear. In her entire life, Abigail had never seen a person recover from such a horrible injury.

  “I’ll have a scar, though, won’t I, Miss Tidwell?” His voice even sounded normal—no longer nasally—as his nose healed. Beyond a doubt, her father was the best physician-surgeon in the entirety of the British Army.

  “I suppose you will.” She lifted her shoulder as if the scar would be of little consequence then leaned close, her eyes twinkling. “A scar lends an air of mystery, you know. I imagine it will only increase your popularity with the ladies.”