Abigail trudged through the snow on the forest floor, trying her best to keep pace with the men. Her breathing was heavy, and she felt as if she were practically running. How did they move so effortlessly when each step sank her in snow up to her knees? She supposed her shorter legs were part of the problem, as were her skirts. She wore both of her homespun dresses, leaving her finer gown behind, of course; the satin fabric wouldn’t add any warmth. The two combined with her petticoats and cloak were heavy, especially with clumps of snow clinging to the hems. She wished she could just don trousers and march along like a regular person, but as it was, she fought her clothing each step of the way.
Jasper had brought the pot of lard from her pantry and insisted they all smear it over any exposed skin, especially ears and noses. She didn’t like the slimy feel of it but was glad for the precaution. January nights in Upper Canada were cold enough that she’d not even complain about the blemishes that were sure to result from the practice.
One haversack, slung over her shoulder and across her chest, held her medicines and equipment, and the men carried the rest of the supplies, as well as their own weapons. Captain Prescott had brought her father’s musket. Abigail’s burden was the lightest, and yet she still lagged behind. A pity they couldn’t walk on a road or a nice path, but of course the men needed to remain concealed from patrols.
As time had passed—nearly an hour, she estimated—she’d become accustomed to Jasper’s disappearance and reappearance as he scouted ahead and returned to lead them on safe paths. The first few times she saw his shadow come out of the forest, she nearly screamed. The man’s hat was crafted to appear as if Jasper’s face was about to be chomped in a bear’s mouth. The sight was disconcerting. He didn’t speak often, and she was surprised how much a person could communicate with the smallest movements.
She assumed they were traveling north in order to cross the frozen river to Grosse Ile, a long island directly in the middle of the Detroit River, then continue across the river to the Michigan Territory on the other side.
Barney Hopkins moved between Abigail and Captain Prescott, walking beside each of them in turn. He also didn’t say much, taking the captain’s order to move in silence very seriously. But he did take Abigail’s arm on occasion, helping her over fallen logs or through the thick underbrush with an encouraging smile.
Abigail liked Barney quite a lot. He was earnest and pleasant and eager to be of assistance. Truth be told, she liked all three of the men. And trusted them, as silly as it sounded. She should be afraid, following enemy soldiers across the border, but her fear wasn’t of the Americans, but for them. She worried about the redcoats or the Shawnee finding them and fretted over what would happen if they did. The very thought was terrifying. Would a battle ensue? She supposed it would. And people would get killed or injured. She couldn’t abide the idea of these soldiers not making it back to their camp where Luke waited. Barney worried for his brother, and she knew that worry—she worried constantly for her own brother.
These were men with families and homes who looked out for each other, and the one looking out for all of them was Captain Emmett Prescott. As for the captain, there was so much she wanted to know about him. He’d studied at the university, something Abigail wished more than anything she could do. How would it be to hear lectures from experts and study medicine with cadavers and wax models of individual organs?
Even men were looked down on for their curiosity about the inner workings of the human body. But for a woman, attending university was unheard of.
Captain Prescott was knowledgeable about earth sciences. Had he attended lectures from William Smith at Columbia College in New York City? Had he gone on actual digs to geological sites? What did he think of James Hutton’s Theory of the Earth paper? She wished to ask him so many things but had found out often enough that men did not think such academic interest becoming of a young woman.
Was Captain Prescott of the same mind? She was curious about his life. He’d seen so much of the world, and she’d only seen a small part. What was Virginia like? And the grand city of Baltimore? And the Atlantic Ocean? She would likely only spend a few days in the captain’s company before joining her father in Detroit and would probably not get the chance to ask all the things she wanted to know.
Captain Prescott marched steadily, but Abigail could tell from the occasional grunt and the way he favored his side that he was hurting. And she knew he would push on in spite of it. Finally, after they descended a particularly difficult hill, she stopped.
Barney looked over his shoulder and then turned and hurried back to her.
“Mr. Hopkins, we must wait.” She gestured toward Captain Prescott with her chin. “He needs to rest.”
Emmett noticed that they’d paused, and he moved back to join them. “Why the delay?”
“Miss Tidwell has called a halt,” Barney said.
Emmett blinked, raising his brows. “Oh, has she?”
Barney nodded helpfully. “Says you need to rest, Captain.”
“I don’t need to rest.”
Though he protested, she could see by moonlight that his face was pale and shone with sweat. “Captain, you are the one who insisted on a doctor.” Abigail pulled on his arm. “And so I trust you will abide by my advice.” She tugged him to a large rock, brushing off the snow before pushing him to sit. He didn’t argue. She pulled off a mitten and felt his forehead. “You are very warm.”
“We did just hike three miles through the forest.” He started to rise, but Abigail put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down.
“If you continue in this way, you’ll just make your injuries worse. I fear you are growing feverish.”
He let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t feel feverish.”
“The feverish person cannot tell whether he is feverish,” she said. “You really shouldn’t be moving so much, or you’ll impede your recovery.” She realized her hands were still on his shoulders, and she dropped them to her sides.
Jasper emerged from the trees and joined them, his head tipping slightly in question.
“The longer we delay, the sicker Luke gets,” Emmett said.
“Perhaps we should go ahead and you can come slower?” Abigail proposed. “Mr. Webb can show me the way.”
Emmett shook his head and rose to his feet. “We stay together.” He started forward, and Abigail took his arm, walking beside him.
Jasper moved silently ahead, and Barney followed behind them.
“What about your fever, Captain?” Abigail asked.
“I do not have a fever.”
Abigail worried that the fever might even now be confusing him. “All right, sir. Prove it. Name the three elements that make up the mineral composition of granite.”
He looked down at her, a small smile on his lips. “Feldspar, quartz, and mica.”
“Well, that was too easy.”
His smile grew. “Your turn, Miss Tidwell. What might cause amethyst to appear red instead of its typical violet color?”
“Hematite,” she said. “Small spheres of hematite can exist just below the surface of the crystal, giving it the red color.”
“I’m impressed,” Emmett said.
Abigail shrugged as if the mineral structure of iron oxide were rudimentary knowledge as pride swelled like a bubble in her chest.
A cloud of fog loomed ahead, low to the ground, and the temperature of the air dropped. They must have reached the river.
As if answering her unasked question, Jasper stepped from the fog with a long, thick stick. He handed it to Abigail, indicating she should hold it horizontally with both hands. Abigail had used this precaution before; the ice could have pockets of air caused by irregular freezing. If she should step onto an unstable spot and fall into a crack, the stick would catch her. The men would use their guns in the same way.
She’d often skated on the ice, but walking across at night in the fog with British soldiers and Indians searching for them made her suddenly apprehensive. Abigail paused at the riverbank.
Emmett stood behind her. “Nothing to fear, Doctor.”
His voice was warm with a hint of humor, which she knew was meant to be comforting. But she stood still. The river marked the border between Upper Canada and America. She was crossing into a territory where she would be the enemy.
He nudged her forward. “Come, I’ll not allow you to fall.”
Abigail nodded and walked the remainder of the way to the edge of the shore.
“Without any wind, our footprints on the ice will be visible all up and down the bank,” Emmett said to Jasper. “A patrol will spot them immediately.” They hadn’t needed to worry about footprints in the irregular ground of the forest, Abigail assumed.
Jasper left and returned with a bushy branch.
“Just for fifty yards or so,” Emmett said. “Farther out, the fog will cover our tracks.”
Emmett started forward, and Abigail stepped onto the ice behind him, holding the stick in front of her in both hands as she walked. The snowfall had left a powdery covering over the frozen river that kept the ice from being too slick.
Without needing to be told, the group spread out, not wanting to put too much weight on any one section of the ice. Emmett led the way then Abigail. Barney was next, and Jasper followed along behind the others, brushing away evidence of their crossing.
The distance from the Upper Canada side of the river to the island was quite far. Abigail thought she’d heard at one time that it was at least a mile and a half. As they walked, the fog got thicker, and cold rose from the frozen water beneath. Again Abigail cursed her skirts. They seemed to trap cold air around her legs. She was glad for her mittens and worried the others might develop frost burns on their fingers in spite of the lard. When they stopped again, she’d insist the men wear her grandmother’s socks on their hands, though she was sure they’d complain about not being able to shoot with their fingers covered.
Time passed and she squinted ahead, but between the fog and the darkness, she couldn’t see Captain Prescott or any of the others. She stopped, listening, but the night was silent. She didn’t even see footprints. An eerie confusion came over her. Was she even moving in the right direction? Had she veered off course? If she had, they would never find her, and she would likely wander over the iced river in the wrong direction until she froze. Or until she fell through the ice. She clutched the stick and imagined the deep water, dark beneath her feet; she was separated from it by only a few inches of ice. She could feel apprehension building and tried to distract herself by thinking of a paper by John Dalton she’d read, on the composition of water. One molecule of water has two hydrogen atoms covalently bonded to a single oxygen atom. But it did nothing to calm her.
Panic took hold, and Abigail began to shake. She whirled around, looking for the others, but saw nothing. She kept turning until she was no longer sure which direction she’d been going. She started in the direction she thought was right but then turned, thinking she’d been mistaken. Dread filled her mind, and her heart started beating rapidly as she searched the darkness for . . . anything. Her impulse was to run, but a rational part of her mind knew that was not the answer. “Captain,” she called out, her voice sounding small and hoarse. She coughed and tried again. “Captain Prescott! Where are you?”
“Abigail?” The relief at hearing his voice lasted merely for an instant. She couldn’t tell which direction it came from.
“Captain, I’m lost.” A sob choked in her throat as she tried to draw in a breath. “Captain?”
“Abigail, I’m coming. Stay where you are.”
Another sob broke out, and the stick fell from her trembling hands, making a clattering sound on the ice.
An instant later, Captain Prescott ran out of the fog. Abigail’s relief at seeing him was so overwhelming that her legs went soft, and she swayed.
He caught her in his arms and held her as she broke down into a bout of weeping.
Abigail felt utterly ridiculous sobbing against the man’s chest. She was making wet, embarrassing noises and shaking uncontrollably but couldn’t stop herself. The panic that had taken over her seemed to need to expel itself through blubbering and facial seepage.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a hitching voice once she had enough control to speak. “I just . . .”
Captain Prescott rubbed her back and held her tighter. “No need to apologize.”
She shook her head, drawing back and wiping her mittens over her wet cheeks. “I . . . I couldn’t see . . . anything.”
“I know.”
Her face was cold as tears froze, making her eyelids and nose sting. Since her mittens were wet, she used the inside of her cloak to rub her eyes and the captain’s wet coat.
Once her mind started to clear, she realized they were still standing together, their combined weight pressing down on the ice, increasing the weight-per-square-inch ratio.
She stepped back and crouched down to pick up the stick. Her hands were still shaking, and it slipped, hitting the ice and rolling away. “Oh, Captain Prescott, I am a terrible soldier.”
He laughed and grabbed the stick, handing it to her. “You are a fine soldier.” He held her hand, walking beside her. “I’ve heard no complaints from you this entire campaign, even though I’m certain marching through deep snow in skirts isn’t easy.” His hand tightened and he pulled her forward. “Come, we’re nearly to the other side.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Abigail said. “And how do you know which way to go?”
“I’m the captain, remember? It’s my job to know.”
His smile flashed again, and seeing it, Abigail’s worries disappeared. She trusted this man, trusted him to keep her safe, to lead her through the darkness. Her relief was so welcome that she let her fear fall away and just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, fully confident that Captain Prescott would lead her to shore.