Emmett stood against the wall in the small upper-floor bedroom the British were using as a prison for the officers. He glanced around at the other men. Some paced or sat on the floor. A few held their heads in their hands or stared vacantly. Colonel Lewis was wounded and laid on the bed, his head wrapped and his face pale. All felt the heavy weight of their defeat.
Emmett was very aware of the men missing from their company and what their absence meant. They were either dead or in the hospital tent. He approached Major McClanahan. “Do you know what’s become of Colonel Allen?”
The major looked up and sighed heavily. “Shot in the head by the Indians after he surrendered. Saw it with my own eyes.”
Emmett bowed his head. He’d admired the colonel, had trained beneath him, and considered him a friend. “We lost good men today,” he said, mostly to himself.
Major McClanahan pressed his lips together. His jaw was tight. He gave no answer, but what answer was there to give?
A group of lieutenants stood close together, their voices lowered as they lamented the casualties and combat errors. He heard them talking about Major Graves’s Kentuckians, who ignored their commander’s orders and fled in panic at the sight of the attacking Indian warriors.
“Over a hundred cut down and scalped by the whooping savages . . . ,” one man was saying. Emmett turned away, not wanting to hear more.
Another of the young lieutenants—Lieutenant Devon, if Emmett remembered correctly—stood alone, gazing at a miniature portrait that Emmett assumed was a rendering of his fiancée, or at least a woman he hoped would one day assume the role.
Emmett thought of Abigail. Of her stricken face when he’d left her in the forest, of the softness of her lips, her mittened hand finding his, her intelligence and peculiar interests. Coming face to face with one’s mortality changed a man’s perspective, Emmett thought. He supposed in a way it robbed a person of the ability to lie to himself, and Emmett found that, even though it was foolish after so short a time, he could no longer deny that he was in love with Abigail Tidwell.
His worry for her was so overwhelming he thought he might be crushed under its weight. Unanswerable questions pounded in his head. How had the small band fared through the cold night? Abigail knew to keep moving to prevent their bodies from becoming too cold. But what if she’d fallen asleep? He trusted Barney and Luke, but the forest was full of predators, not to mention fierce Indians. There were so many factors, so many unknowns. Thinking about something horrendous befalling Abigail was more than he could bear. He should never have involved her in this war.
It was selfishness on his part; he realized that now. He’d hoped to help Luke, but the longer he was with Abigail, the more difficult it became to imagine not being with her.
He pushed away from the wall and paced, patting the lovesick lieutenant on the shoulder as he passed.
Near the window, General Winchester sat on the room’s one chair. His elbows rested on his legs, hands hanging between his knees. The man looked despondent. Emmett found it difficult to feel sorry for him. It was because of his poor planning and refusal to listen to the scouts’ warnings that their force had been defeated so thoroughly. Men had died, men that Emmett knew and served with and shared a bond as close as any brothers; men that had depended on him to keep them alive, and men he looked up to. At least the general had managed to get his uniform coat back from the Indian chief, he thought cynically.
He found a new spot on the wall and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, thinking what he could have done differently. If he’d only run faster or left camp earlier. If there had been time to plan, to distribute the ammunition storages, to set up defenses . . .
If only.
Guilt, hot and bitter-tasting, filled his throat.
Maybe his father was right and Emmett was worthless. He couldn’t even lead his men through a battle. Images filled his mind, visions of his comrades falling, memories of their voices crying out in pain, looking to him for help that he couldn’t offer. He opened his eyes, pacing toward the window in hopes of distracting himself.
He looked toward the field hospital tent. The British surgeons would obviously care for their own soldiers first, but he prayed the Americans were being treated as well. Before he’d been taken prisoner, he’d tried to see to the worst of the injuries. Tying tourniquets and using anything he could find to press against a wound and stop the bleeding until a surgeon was available was the extent of his medical assistance. Mostly he’d only been able to offer comfort.
He’d found Murphy leaning against a fence holding his chest and felt a rush of relief to find the man hadn’t been injured. The gun smoke had burned his lungs. Emmett had sent him to the field tent. Hopefully a surgeon would know how to treat him.
He didn’t realize he was staring at the hospital tent until something caught his eye. A patient with his arm in a sling was being led toward a group of sleds. Emmett guessed they would take the injured men to Fort Detroit. But it wasn’t the man with the wrappings that made Emmett stop and stare. It was the small woman leading him.
It couldn’t be her. Was his mind deceiving him? But no, it was most certainly Abigail. What on earth was she doing here? Her hair had come loose, strands falling around her face, and the apron she wore was covered with blood. She’d been working for some time, he guessed. And for her to be in Frenchtown, she must have walked all night, as he had. What had happened? Had she and the Hopkins brothers been captured?
He closely watched the tent opening, and a few moments later, a man was carried through on a stretcher. He recognized Abigail’s quilt covering the patient and, sure enough, she emerged again, helping another man.
Emmett willed her to look up. The house he was in was on the very edge of town. If she would only lift her gaze, she’d see him. But she returned to the tent and emerged two more times before stopping and rubbing the back of her neck. She rolled her shoulders as if they’d become stiff and bent her head from side to side. She started back inside but stopped as if she’d heard something or realized she was being watched.
She turned, looking curiously around until she glanced into the upstairs window, and her gaze locked with Emmett’s.
He touched his fingers to the glass.
Abigail pressed her hand to her breastbone and closed her eyes. Her shoulders dropped, and her head fell forward, her entire body displaying a powerful relief.
Emmett’s apprehension lessened, and a warm feeling of comfort came over him.
Abigail raised her eyes again, giving a small smile, and then she cocked her head as if she’d heard something from within the tent. She waved then hurried back inside.
The entire exchange had lasted less than a few seconds, but the change it brought in Emmett’s spirits was profound. Abigail was safe—not only safe, she was tending to the wounded, and he could not imagine a better person for the job. And she’d been worried about him. He wasn’t surprised by it, but her relief at seeing him had touched him. It gave him courage and strengthened his will to go on, where before he’d felt naught but despair.
Abigail was a gift. Her feelings for him were a reassurance that no matter where he went, what prison he’d be sent to, or how alone he might find himself, there was a young woman with brown eyes, long curling lashes, and an astonishing knowledge of elemental minerals who cared what became of him.
***
It was late afternoon when the door finally opened and the officers were ordered to descend the stairs. The British soldiers and their prisoners would begin their march toward Fort Detroit immediately.
Emmett followed the others but paused on the front doorstep as a conversation from inside the house caught his attention.
A group of British soldiers were arguing.
“. . . reinforcements are on their way from the south,” one man, who Emmett recognized as the army’s leader, General Henry Procter, was saying. “We cannot delay any longer.”
“But if we take all the prisoners and leave no guards for the American wounded . . .” another man said, leaving the rest of the statement hanging.
Emmett stepped to the side of the doorframe so as not to be seen by the men inside the house.
“They will have to fend for themselves,” another man said, and Emmett assumed the nasally voice belonged to the young lieutenant with the handsome face and nicely pressed uniform.
“Sir, you must know what will happen. The Indians are difficult enough to restrain with our force present. If the wounded prisoners are left with no protection . . .”
“A pity, isn’t it?” the pretentious lieutenant said with a sniff.
Emmett heard their footsteps approaching and moved from the doorway. His mind turned over the conversation. Would General Procter truly leave the wounded Americans to the mercy of angry Indian warriors? Somehow, he must get word to them.
The officers were ordered to march with their regiment, and when Emmett arrived, he found more than half of the troops missing. Most, he knew, had been killed, but others must be in the hospital tent. How could he warn them? Once the army left, they would be helpless.
The column began moving, and he organized his men into rows, waiting for their turn to join the procession. They started to march, and ahead he saw Abigail tending to a man near the side of the road. Here was his chance.
“Excuse me, miss,” Emmett called to her. He stepped out of the line.
Abigail spun. And he prayed she wouldn’t reveal that they knew one another.
“You dropped this,” he said, holding out his pouch of rocks.
Her eyes squinted, but that was the only indication she gave that she was uncertain about his motives. She reached for the pouch.
“Abigail, send all the men with the British tonight.” Emmett spoke quickly, keeping his voice low. “Even the wounded. Don’t allow them to stay behind.”
“But so many are hurt,” she said.
“They must all leave—as many as you can send.”
“You there, get back in line!” The lieutenant Emmett had seen earlier started toward them.
“And you must leave as well. Today. Do you understand?”
Abigail nodded. She took the pouch and turned away. “Lieutenant Fox, how nice to see you again.” She dipped in a curtsy.
“What is the meaning of this, Captain?” Lieutenant Fox asked, his shrewd eyes darting between the two of them.
Abigail smiled prettily at the man. “The soldier was simply returning my pouch. I must have dropped it.”
“Move along, Captain,” Lieutenant Fox growled. He snatched away the pouch from Abigail’s hands and poured out the rocks into his palm. “What is this?”
Emmett moved away but continued to watch the interaction from the corner of his eye. He didn’t like the lieutenant, and he especially didn’t like the lieutenant speaking to Abigail.
“It is just my collection, sir.” She took the pouch from him and started picking the stones from his hand and dropping them back inside.
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. He turned over his hand, dumping the rocks onto the ground and stormed away.
Abigail crouched down and picked them up, returning them carefully to the pouch. She glanced up once and met Emmett’s eye before he turned and marched away with the rest of the prisoners. He had full confidence that Abigail would do all she was able to get the wounded out of Frenchtown. He could do nothing more than pray for those left behind.