Kasey Michaels - A Most Unsuitable Groom

Spencer smiled, showing even white teeth in an otherwise deeply tanned and dirty face. He looked a rare hooligan, as Anguish had been so bold as to inform him, his thick black hair grown uncared for and much too long—releasing fat, waving curls, Clovis had added, that would be the envy of any female. “You forgot to mention the mug of ale at your right hand, Anguish.”

“That, too, sir,” Anguish agreed. “I’ll be sorry to miss it, that I will.”

“Then let’s be sure we don’t end our days here, all right?” Spencer stood up and looked across the river to the other bank once more. He was so tired. They’d abandoned Detroit, the soldiers and more than ten thousand men, women and children with all their belongings, all of them heading for the safety of the western part of Upper Canada before the worst of the winter arrived.

But they’d left their retreat too late, and the Americans were catching up to them. Spencer could already taste the bile of defeat at the back of his throat. Tecumseh’s idea was a good one—fighting with the swamp to their backs while the English forces pushed the Americans back to the river—but any hope of outflanking the Americans was just that, a hope.

“Here they come, Lieutenant. It’s been grand knowin’ you.”

Even as Clovis spoke, Spencer felt the earth begin to tremble beneath him, signaling the imminent arrival of the American cavalry. Above the rumble of hooves pounding against the earth, the battle cry “Remember the Raisin!” rolled through the air.

And then hell and all its fury came straight at them, and there was no more time to think.

Anguish went down, but Spencer couldn’t stop to examine the man’s wound. There wasn’t even time to curse Proctor, as he saw the man commandeer a wagon and drive off with his family, leaving the troops to raise the white flag.

With Clovis standing at his back, Spencer tried to load his rifle one last time, only to discover that he was out of powder. Spencer threw the weapon at the American running toward him, bayonet fixed to his own rifle, then ducked as Clovis’s knife found the man’s throat…but not before the bayonet had sunk deep in Spencer’s left shoulder.

“Sir!”

“I’m fine,” Spencer shouted, pushing Clovis away from him. “Our troops have surrendered, but there will be no surrender for the Indians. No surrender, no quarter. We have to get clear of here if we hope to save ourselves.”

“But the women, sir,” Clovis shouted back at him, pointing to the near-constant stream of English women and children, and Indian squaws and their children, all of them running blindly, terrified, racing deeper into the swamp.

“Hell’s bells, what a disaster!” Spencer pressed his hand to his shoulder, felt his blood hot and wet against his fingers. The pain hadn’t hit him yet, but he knew it would soon, unless he was dead before that could happen. “Where’s Tecumseh? Is he dead?”

“No, sir,” Clovis said, pointing. “There! Over there!”

Even now, the chief was ordering some of his warriors to their left, to fill a breach before the Americans could take advantage of it. And then he seemed to pause, take a deep breath and look to where Spencer stood. Slowly, he moved his arm away from his body, revealing a terrible wound in his chest.

“Christ, no!” Spencer shouted above the din, knowing that if Tecumseh fell, the Five Nations would all fall with him; the battle lost, the coalition broken. “We’ve got to get him out of here! Clovis! With me!”

But Clovis had slipped to his knees in the deepening mud and, when Spencer bent to pull him upright, he felt the sting of a bullet entering his thigh. Falling now, he never felt the fiercely swung rifle butt that connected heavily with the side of his skull….

“SIR? LIEUTENANT BECKET, sir? Sir?”

Spencer awoke all at once, his mind telling him to get up, get up, find Tecumseh and carry him away. But when he lifted his head the pain hit, the nausea, and he fell back down on the ground, defeated.

“Get him away…we can’t let them see…leave me…must get Tecumseh away…”

“He’s gone, sir,” Clovis said, pushing Spencer back as he once again tried to rise. “Dead and gone, sir, and has been for more’n week. They’re all gone, melting away into the trees like ghosts, even leaving some of their women behind to make their own way to wherever it is they’ve gone. It’s just us now. Us and poor Anguish and some others. Women and children who hid or were lost until the Americans took off again. They left us all for dead, but you’re not dying, thank God. You just lay still and I’ll fetch you some water. Water’s something we have plenty of. Cold and fresh.”

Spencer lay with his eyes closed, trying to assimilate all that Clovis had told him. Clovis was alive? Anguish was alive? Tecumseh…the great chief was dead? Damn, what a waste. He opened his eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight that filtered down through tall trees, their leaves already turning with the colder weather.

He moved his right hand along the ground, realized that he was lying on a blanket, realized when he tried to move his left arm that it was in a sling. He moved his legs, wincing as he tried to stretch out the right one. His head pounded, but he was alive and supposedly would recover.

But where was he? Still in the swamp? Yes, of course, still in the swamp. Where else would he be? A week? Clovis had a said week, hadn’t he?

“Here you go, sir,” Clovis said, holding out a silver flask as he raised Spencer’s head. “Don’t go smiling now, because it’s water I’m giving you. We used up the last of the good stuff on Anguish before we cut his arm off. Cried like a baby, he did, but that was the drink. He wouldn’t have made a sound, elsewise. Now hush, sir. It’s herself, come to look at you.”

“So he’s finally awake. Very good, Clovis.”

Spencer looked up toward the sun once more to see the outline of a woman standing over him, her long, wild hair the color of fire in the sunlight. A woman? But wasn’t that the scarlet coat of a soldier she was wearing? Nothing was making sense to him. Was she real? He didn’t think she was real. “An angel?”

“Not so you’d know it, sir,” Clovis whispered close to Spencer’s ear. “One of the women, sir. She’s been nursing your fever all the week long. Her and her Indian woman. They’re stuck here with us and she’s, well, sir, she’s the sort what takes charge, if you take my meaning. Other women are camped here with us, children, too, who hid out until the Americans left. We’ve been living off the dead, which is where I found the flask and blankets, but not much food. We’ve only three rifles betwixt us, and not much ammunition anyway. It’s a mess we’re in, Lieutenant, an unholy mess.”

Blinking, Spencer tried to make out the woman’s features, but now there seemed to be two of her, neither one of her standing still long enough for him to get a good look, damn her. “English?”

“You’re not a prisoner, if that’s the answer you’re hoping for,” the woman said, her accent pure, educated. “We’ll give him another day, Clovis, and then we have to be on the move north. Onatah says we’ll have snow within a fortnight, and we can’t just stay here and freeze as well as starve, not for one failed lieutenant. As it is, it will take us at least that fortnight to get to civilization. We’ll make a litter, and we’ll simply have to take turns dragging him.”

Then she was gone, and Spencer squeezed his eyes closed as the sun hit him full in the face. “You’re right, Clovis. Not an angel,” he said weakly, and then passed out once more.

Becket Hall

June 1814

“CAN YOU SMELL IT, Spencer? There’s a considerable storm churning somewhere out there. I imagine Courtland will have noticed, and won’t bring the Respite back from Hastings until it passes. That’s unfortunate. I was hoping to hear any war news he and Jack may have picked up while visiting my banker.” Ainsley Becket turned away from the open window overlooking the increasingly angry Channel to look at his son. “How’s the shoulder? Does it still pain you when a storm’s on its way?”