Emmett crouched down at the sentry’s position, peering over a cluster of snow-laden bushes. Murphy and Abigail crouched beside him.
The cold metal of the spyglass stung his fingers, but he did not take any notice, counting quietly under his breath as he estimated the number of troops based on the length of the column he could see in glimpses between the trees. “At least six hundred regulars,” he muttered to Murphy. “Three cannons. One is a howitzer.”
Murphy didn’t respond. Emmett knew what the man was thinking, but neither of them said it aloud. The British Army was a threat in itself, but it was the large body of Indian warriors marching beside the red-coated soldiers that sent a cold spike of fear through his gut. His guess placed their number at more than eight hundred.
And they were all advancing toward the exhausted, untrained, and inexperienced men of his regiment. This army would slaughter them.
“How far to Frenchtown?” he asked.
“Ten, maybe twelve miles,” Murphy responded.
Dawn, then, Emmett realized. The attack would come at dawn. “We have to warn them.”
He rose to his feet but remained hunched down. He didn’t imagine the army could see him among the trees and shadows with the heavy cloud cover, but a glint of his brass coat buttons was all it would take to give away their position. Not that the British soldiers would be surprised to know their progress was being watched. They’d expect it. No, it wasn’t them he was worried about at all. The Indians were a different story altogether. In battle, they adhered to different rules. They were vicious and unpredictable, and . . . the cold feeling spread, energizing him to action. “Private Murphy, you, Corporal Webb, and I will leave immediately.”
He felt a tug on his hand.
Abigail’s eyes were wide. “Leave? You cannot leave.”
He clasped his fingers around her mittened hand and started toward the camp after Murphy. She stumbled, trying to keep pace with him on the downward incline, but he did not slow. He could not. It was time for action, and if he didn’t push away his own sentiments, his decision-making would be impaired. “I must,” he said. “Barney and Luke will accompany you to Detroit. You’ll be well-protected.” He pushed away more fears. The thought of Abigail being taken by the fierce native warriors made him feel like a band of iron was compressing his chest. He pushed away that feeling as well, concentrating on action. He couldn’t let his fondness for Abigail distract him from his duty.
“But it’s nearly dark and you’re still injured, Emmett. You mustn’t overexert yourself.”
A swell of affection rose inside him. Of course she was worried for his well-being over her own. He slowed his pace to walk alongside her and grasped her hand. “Abigail, that army is headed for my regiment. Men who look to me as their leader. Men who will fight and die tomorrow at dawn. I cannot neglect them. Not when they need me the most.”
Abigail remained silent, and Emmett could only imagine her thoughts. She must be terrified knowing a battle was coming. When they stepped back into the clearing, Murphy and Jasper were packing their gear. Luke and Barney stood at attention, worry manifesting in similar expressions on their faces.
Emmett released Abigail’s hand and stepped toward the brothers. “You two will deliver Miss Tidwell to Detroit. Be cautious; take suitable measures for her safety and Private Hopkins’s health.”
“Should we smother the fire, Captain?” Barney asked.
Emmett considered for a moment. The scouts had likely already seen the smoke. They may come to investigate, but he doubted it. Settlers lived throughout the forest, so chimney and hunting fires weren’t uncommon. His gut told him the army would focus on their march, hoping to arrive in time to rest their men and prepare for an attack at dawn. And there was a chance, with the heavy clouds, that they’d not seen it at all. As night fell, Abigail, Luke, and Barney would need the fire for warmth and to repel predators. In his mind, the benefits outweighed the risk. “Leave the fire,” he said.
He stepped closer to the two men, lowering his voice. He didn’t want to worry Abigail. “If you are taken, surrender immediately. Do not fight. Insist on speaking with an officer. Tell the truth of the mission, your regiment, Luke’s injury, how Miss Tidwell came to be with our company, all of it.” Nothing they said could hurt the mission now, and the officer would know men of their rank weren’t privy to any compromising information.
The brothers nodded their understanding.
Emmett turned and saw Jasper and Murphy wore their packs and haversacks. They held their weapons and were awaiting his order to move out. He grabbed his own pack.
Abigail stepped in front of him and grasped onto his forearm. “Emmett, wait.”
Her voice shook, and the sound caused his heart to ache. He led her to the far side of the clearing where they could have a bit of privacy.
“What do I do?” Her voice rose in tone as her panic grew. “Should we hide? I think it will snow. What about the wolves? The Indians? Luke is still very weak. What if the army finds us?”
Emmett dropped his gear and placed his hands on her shoulders, hoping to reassure her as he would any of his men, with a calm voice and logical discourse. “If you’re discovered, you’ll be taken safely to your father in Fort Detroit.”
“But Barney and Luke . . .”
“They are militia, not regulars. They’ll be quickly released.” Being captured would actually be a good situation for Abigail, he thought.
She shook her head as if unable to speak, and tears coursed from her eyes. A sob shook her and Abigail clamped her hand over her mouth. The sight made something inside of Emmett crack, and the feelings he’d kept at bay rushed out. It was with great effort that he pushed them back where they belonged. “Please don’t be afraid. Barney and Luke will keep you safe, Abigail.” He was surprised to hear the softer timbre of his voice as he tried to speak through a constricting throat.
He pulled her toward him, holding her tightly. When he glanced at the camp, he saw the other men had become suddenly attentive to their packs or the pile of firewood.
“We should all go together or stay,” Abigail said.
He drew back but didn’t release the embrace. He held her gaze as he spoke. “Abigail, I’m sorry. If I’d known . . . I’d never have brought you here. It wasn’t my intention to leave you like this.”
“I’m scared.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“You’ll be safe. The wolves won’t come near the fire, and by tomorrow or the next day at the very latest, you’ll be with your father.”
Abigail’s brows furrowed and she shook her head, reminding him again of Lydia in a stubborn bout. “I do not fear for myself.” She darted her eyes to the side, swallowing, and then looked back at him. “You are going to fight that army. Those cannons are going to be aimed at you and Jasper and Murphy. You’re walking directly into danger, and I won’t ever know . . .” Her voice choked off, and she put her hand back over her mouth.
Emmett’s body felt heavy like it was filled with lead canister shot. “Do not fear for me.”
She turned her head to the side, crossing her arms, somehow managing to look defeated and petulant at the same time.
He caught her chin and touched his lips to hers. This time, the kiss wasn’t hopeful, there was no questioning either of their affection for the other. This was a farewell kiss, and Emmett was taken by surprise at how badly it hurt.
“Miss Abigail Tidwell, you are a black opal.” She blinked and wrinkled her nose, and Emmett smiled at the confused look on her face. “Beautiful, rare, interesting, and just when I believe I know you, I am surprised to find there is more depth than I imagined.”
Abigail’s eyes softened into an expression that warmed him from head to toe. Her brown eyes, still wet with tears, shone with pleasure at his words. Her mouth curved into a soft smile, and Emmett knew he would remember how she looked at this very moment for as long as he lived.
“Thank you, Emmett. I do not think anyone has ever paid me a more thoughtful compliment.”
“Goodbye, Abigail.” He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek then turned quickly, forcing himself to step away. “Murphy, Webb—move out.”
He marched into the forest without looking back, knowing if he did, there was a very real possibility that he’d not have the strength to leave.
***
Emmett led the men through the thick Michigan Territory woodland. Although they would move much faster on the flat road, he knew there would be a risk of meeting advance scouts and picket guards. They couldn’t take the chance. The columns of attackers would move slowly. They had supplies and weapons and fifteen hundred men to move. Even dodging around trees and rocks, Emmett’s small band would outpace them easily.
The snow began just as night fell. He turned up his collar and wished he had a pair of granny’s striped socks on his hands. He hefted the pack on his shoulders and wondered what was happening back at the bivouac camp. Was Abigail cold? She would certainly seek shelter in one of the lean-tos, wouldn’t she? They’d left the two blankets and Abigail’s quilt. Would it be enough? Were they keeping dry? As the snow fell thicker, he hoped it hadn’t put out the fire. Almost without thinking, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“She’ll be all right,” Jasper said, coming up beside him.
Emmett kept walking. “Of course, I wasn’t . . .”
Jasper’s furry hat was covered in white flakes. And with the way the sides of the hat fell, Emmett couldn’t make out his face. Not that he’d be able to read much in the man’s expression anyway. “You made the best choice, Captain,” Jasper said.
Emmett thought if anyone else had spoken so bluntly about his orders, he’d have reprimanded them for insubordination. But coming from a man of so few words, a person who observed and seldom offered an opinion, the statement was reassuring.
He nodded his thanks to Jasper, knowing the buckskin-clad Kentuckian would see the movement through the dark and falling snow and understand his meaning.
They continued on. The snow stuck to the ground in thick drifts, slowing their steps. Hours passed, and Emmett was frustrated that he’d still not fully regained his strength. He tired much sooner than he should have. But lives depended on them, so he pushed through the pain, ignored the fatigue, and maintained a steady march through the dark and uneven terrain. It was almost a relief to hear Murphy’s labored breathing and have an excuse to rest.
Jasper left to scout the army’s position, and when he returned, he reported the British had set up camp at Stony Creek, just a few miles north of Frenchtown. Knowing the redcoats and their Indian allies would be well-rested and their principal officers were very likely right this moment using their scouts’ reports on the Americans’ positions to strategize their attack gave Emmett a resurgence of energy. He nearly ran the remaining miles, and was relieved at last to hear the warning shout of a sentry.
“Who goes there?”
“Captain Emmett Prescott. I must speak to General Winchester immediately.”
The sentry stepped closer, studying Emmett by moonlight as thick flakes fell around them. “General Winchester is at his headquarters.”
Emmett’s side ached. He was exhausted, cold, and now furious. The general’s headquarters were in a farmhouse on the other side of the Raisin River, three miles away. Why was the commander not with his troops? “Surely he’s been warned about the British and Indian army bearing down on us at this very moment.”
The sentry looked past Emmett as if he might see the army looming behind him. “I don’t know, Captain. Because of the weather, no pickets have been sent out along the roads.”
“Who’s the field officer in charge?”
“Colonel Wells, sir.”
Emmett stormed past the sentry. They’d less than an hour before dawn, and for all he knew, the enemy was setting into position at this very moment.
He left Jasper and Murphy with orders to find their regiments and warn their commanders.
Striding into the open field to the east of town, Emmett stuck his head into the first tent he came to. “Where is Colonel Wells?” he demanded in a yell.
A man sprang from his bedroll and stood at attention, blinking himself awake.
Emmett’s frustration was nearly tangible. The man had been in a deep, unbothered sleep, just like the rest of the camp. How had they not been warned? “Where is Colonel Wells?” he repeated.
“The colonel and Captain Lanham rode away a few hours ago. Left Major McClanahan in charge.”
Emmett spun and left the tent. It wasn’t difficult to find the major. He sat beneath a tree with two other men, smoking. When Emmett approached, they all rose and saluted.
“My regards, Major McClanahan,” Emmett said. “Sir, we are soon to be under attack. An army of over fifteen hundred redcoats and Indians is even now marching toward us armed with heavy artillery.”
The major ordered the others to raise the alarm.
Cries of, “To arms!” sounded, and the peaceful camp came alive as men poured out of tents and shouted orders. Emmett was relieved that the major at least recognized the truthfulness of the warning.
“It’s just as the colonel feared,” Major McClanahan said as he and Emmett strode quickly through the confusion of men. “The general didn’t . . . uh . . . trust the information about an approaching army, but Colonel Wells assumed it was true. He rode off last night for reinforcements.” He must have gone for General Harrison’s army at the Rapids. Emmett vaguely wondered if he would make it back in time but did not dwell on it. He couldn’t place his hopes on what may happen but must focus on what he should do now.
“Where are the ammunition stores?” Emmett asked.
“With the general at his headquarters.” The major’s tone conveyed a world of meaning. He’d not speak out against his commanding officer, but both of them knew General Winchester’s unwillingness to take the warnings seriously and prepare the soldiers had very likely doomed them all.
Emmett lifted his chin and kept a calm expression. Despair and fear spread like a plague among soldiers. He’d not allow his men to see his apprehension, or the battle would be finished before it even began. He saluted Major McClanahan. “I must join my—”
The crack of the sentries’ muskets fired, sounding an alarm. Immediately afterward, bombshells and cannon shot rained down, exploding throughout the still-unorganized camp.
Major McClanahan screamed over the artillery fire, calling out orders and urging his men to remember their training, load their weapons, and form a line. The cannons continued to fire on the unprotected soldiers, and their return fire was ineffective, as they couldn’t see their enemy through the darkness.
Emmett fired the musket into the night then ran into Frenchtown, finding his men behind the fence that surrounded two sides of the town. They were shooting at the soldiers attacking from the north and west. Jasper stood with the First Kentucky Rifles and Murphy with the Pittsburg Blues. Emmett felt proud as he looked over the Second U.S. Dragoon Squadron and the Nineteenth Infantry Regiment and made a note to commend his lieutenants for forming ranks so efficiently. He exchanged Abigail’s father’s musket for a proper rifle and joined the battle.
As daylight dawned, the scene became clear. The exposed soldiers in the open field were being driven back through their camp. From the surrounding forest came the sound of war cries as Indian warriors ran through the trees and flanked the retreating Americans. They attacked with guns, tomahawks, and knives, snatching off the “scalp locks” from their enemies’ heads and sending the army into a disordered panic as the commanders yelled and tried to reestablish order.
The cannon shot continued to explode, sending blasts of snow, dirt, and blood into the air in the midst of the chaos.
Emmett ordered the Kentuckians to concentrate their fire on the gun crews, and a few moments later, the cannon’s blasts were silenced.
He caught Jasper’s gaze and saw a glint of satisfaction in the man’s eye. “Well done, Corporal,” Emmett said.
The British were not discouraged by their loss of cannon power. “Fix bayonets,” came the commander’s cry, and the sharp blades were attached to the redcoats’ Brown Bess muskets.
Emmett called out orders of his own, which were repeated by the lieutenants. They must hold steady.
The Americans who’d managed to retreat into the town turned, and at Emmett’s orders formed a line, protecting Frenchtown on three sides. The other side was bordered by the river. Lieutenants moved back and forth delivering orders. Injured men were pulled out of the line and laid between homes and in yards to wait for medical care. The snow was churned dirty with blood and mud as the British infantry charged and were met with a volley of bullets. Emmett fired and then used his weapon to deliver a blow to a redcoat. He pulled back to reload, commanding the men to take up the weapons of their fallen comrades.
And so it continued. The British and Indians mustered again for an attack, but the Americans held the line, driving them back again and again.
Ammunition was running low, as was morale, but the soldiers kept firing, turning back the British charge. At this latest withdrawal, a cheer went up from the line, and Emmett couldn’t help but grin.
The momentary victory ended abruptly with the arrival of the general, or more accurately, Chief Roundhead wearing the general’s ornamented uniform coat, waving a white flag and dragging his bound prisoner, Brigadier-General James Winchester across the frozen river.