1813
The crickets were chirping, and somewhere in the distance, she could hear the splash of water. Someone was up late, trying no doubt to sneak a few moments alone in the river where they could be at peace. Around her, the camp was quiet for once. Enola suspected it was near midnight, based on the placement of the moon, but she could not be sure. All that mattered was that she was alone with the campfire and nature, the documents she was meant to translate spread out in front of her. The white tents surrounding her were like ghosts, swaying gently in the breeze as the military men slept, no doubt exhausted from a day of drills.
Enola had spent most of her life living intertwined with the British; she did not know any different. Although she identified as métis and had grown up with her people, she had also spent her life in the British towns, learning and growing; playing with the British children. They were separate...and yet the same. When the war came, it seemed obvious to her that she and her people would ally with the British here in the colonies, and defend it from the Americans. Her childhood friends suddenly seemed different; everyone grew up...and grew up fast. The women became wives; then they became mothers and widows faster than she could blink, it seemed. The men went from wide-eyed adventure seekers to soldiers, to fighters, and some already to dust. It seemed a whirlwind, and she could not believe that they were still the same people. A peaceful life living in harmony seemed a lifetime ago.
“Enola.”
She jumped, visibly startled, not expecting anyone else to be awake. She liked to translate, one of the services she offered the British military, in peace, losing herself in the words as they flew through her brain. Enola spoke English, which she had learned from the British, Michif, the language of her people, French, the language of her father, and Irish Gaelic, which she had picked up from the soldiers coming over. Languages came easily to her, as if she was simply changing her clothes rather than her vocabulary. She worked on stolen documents translating coded messages, usually at night when it was quiet. During the day, she worked with the surgeon, healing as her people had done before her. It made her feel as if she was contributing to this war fought by men; an ironic “war for peace.”
“Jacob,” she said, in surprise. She had not expected him to still be awake, but judging by his slick hair, she realized it was probably him that had gone for a dip in the lake just now.
Of all the British children that she had grown up playing with, Jacob Godde was probably her closest friend. She sometimes felt like he ended where she began; as if born on the same star. Jacob was the smartest person she knew, and had been even as a child. He had seemed to breeze through school, excelling through the grades faster than she could count. He took the bar exam before most of his colleagues figured out what they wanted to do with their lives, and was quickly becoming the most brilliant lawyer the colonies had ever seen.
He was a quick thinker with a temper, but only in his words. Jacob's mind worked faster than most, and he was often quiet, trying to make his thoughts into words others could keep up with. Now he was a military commander, rising through the ranks fast, and leading attacks that he planned and was constantly praised for from the higher ups. Only Enola knew that he felt out of his depth, struggling to live up to the pedestal on which they’d placed him. Only Enola knew that he hated speaking in front of crowds, that he faked his energy every day, and that his hands shook behind his back when he inspected his troops. He was her brother; her blood, as far as she was concerned. As a woman, Enola could only do so much, but she could make sure that her family survived. She had followed Jacob from camp to camp, long after they’d lost touch with the others, trying to maintain some semblance of family that this war had ripped away.
“Do you not have drills in four hours?” she asked. Her English was almost perfect, although Jacob's Michif was just as good. “What are you doing up?”
He sat heavily beside her, the rock not comfortable, but he did not care. The dying firelight licked his pale face, almost invisible under a curtain of dark hair, and he looked exhausted, which was not surprising. “A moment's peace by the river, is all,” he said as he glanced over at her. “And you? Will the surgeon not come calling at dawn?”
“And he can handle himself for a few hours,” Enola said as she scribbled a note on the documents. Jacob smiled briefly, rubbing his face with his hand as he leaned forwards. “I am not nearly done, if that is what you are waiting for. The French like to send novels instead of notes, it seems. Most of it is just chatter.”
“No, I am just...sitting,” he said. “Thinking about tomorrow”
“What is tomorrow?” she asked, confused. “Aside from another day we are at this wretched war.”
“New troops by the dozens,” Jacob answered. “By land and by sea. I am sure that if they figured out a way to get them in by air, they would do that as well. New troops to command, to feed, to house and to assimilate into the already precarious situation we have balancing here.”
“Oh,” she said. “Because things are not chaotic enough around here.”
“They would not be if anyone else could take some damn responsibility,” he fumed. He did not mean to snap, but it was clear that the days of constant work were wearing on him.
“Kaaya waypinikew....”
“Pakoshayimoohk?” he asked her with a half smile. Enola was more optimistic than he was, and often spoke of hope.
“Nippa,” she said with a grin. She was going to tell him not to abandon hope, but if he was going to try and predict her words, she would change it up.
He snorted. “If I had my way, sleep would never be abandoned. But it appears that is not the case on this night. I have got to greet the ships at dawn, and then somehow run drills at the same time. And then God only knows when the land recruits will get here.”
“Do they come with their own officers, at least?” she asked.
“They do,” he said. “Harold Harper, known as Lord Bamber, has been pulled from his fancy desk job at British Navy headquarters to command, and then on land, a Major Holde, risen from the ranks, brings me a militia force turned sharpshooters.”
“Risen from the ranks?” Enola raised an eyebrow. “Who does that?”
“Not many.” Jacob had bought his commission of Captain, and Enola knew he could have afforded more if he had been just a little braver. However, he thought that was as high as he wanted to go, given that he had no idea what he was doing in the military.
“Well, it should be interesting,” she said, as she watched the fire. He swallowed hard and her eyes shifted to him. “Do you want some peppermint?”
“No,” he said, although he was clearly fighting the urge to vomit. He had been like this since childhood, ill if he did not have everything in perfect balance. He rose, rubbing his hands together as if he was cold. She felt equal to him; just as strong as him; and sometimes stronger, depending on the situation. Most women would not even dare to think that way, but Enola was not like most women. “I am going to try for sleep. I am fine, Enola, do not look so concerned.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you think that you emptying your stomach contents into the fire is concerning to me, you missed most of our childhood,” she said. “Now if you came to me and asked me to marry for rank or wealth tomorrow, then I would be concerned.”
“Knowing that you are safe somewhere would concern you?” He quirked an eyebrow. He was so expressive; it was easy for her to read him. She hoped that the glare she gave him was enough for him to read her thoughts as well.
“This is war, Jacob. I do not know how anyone could think of love or marriage. I cannot think beyond sunrise.”
“If you ever make it back to your people, they would expect you to be married with three children, the time you have been away,” he said. “You never know, one of these soldiers could catch your eye.”
“Unlikely,” she replied, although she was not opposed to a mixed marriage. It was just that no one she had encountered seemed to be able to keep up with her mind; her strength; and her persistence, except Jacob. The thought of marrying him, however, made her want to vomit herself. “Go to bed.”
“Goodnight,” he said, heading toward his tent.
Enola waited until he was gone before she heaved a long sigh. Maybe in another life she would be able to marry and settle down; have the children she dreamed of. However, the métis believed in marriage for love; in satisfying Nature. If she was unhappy and throwing darkness into nature, it would only return to her.
She worked through the document for another page or two before deciding that her eyes and her mind were done for the night. Folding it up and slipping into the tanned hide pouch she carried, she rose. She was going to turn in also, ready to sleep for hours yet, when she heard a branch break.
“Jacob?” she said in surprise “I thought you were going to bed.”
The response came from a different direction than she expected.
“A doctor. Do you have a doctor?” came a distinct British accent. “Do you have a doctor? Please?”
She spun around and her blood ran cold. Standing at the edge of the forest were three men dressed in ragged clothing, weapons adorning their sides, and blood tingeing the edge of their sleeves. They were lean and tanned, and their eyes were hard. There was no uniform though, no indication aside from the accent as to who they were.
Enola knew who they were. They were pirates; ragged and raw on the edges.
It made no difference to her skill. Being a healer had no sides when it came to aiding the broken; the sick.
She clenched her hand into a fist, knowing that if she screamed the whole camp would come running. That was, if the pirates did not move too fast. She was safe, at least for the moment, so long as she kept her distance.
Did pirates often lure people into a trap by asking for a doctor? She had no idea, because she had only heard stories that were no doubt exaggerated. “I am a healer,” she said softly. “Can I assist?”
“Our captain, on our ship, in the harbor,” one of the pirates said haltingly, pointing in the direction of the bay. “Could you come? Do you mind? We can pay.”
Enola stayed rooted to her spot, trying to decide whether to trust them.
“We do not mean trouble,” said the pirate, which surprised her. “But you should come.”
She backed up a step or two as they approached, her hand trembling. At her back, suddenly, she felt a solid hand around her waist and screamed.
“Hush,” Jacob said quickly. “Gentlemen.”
The pirate held up his hands. “Really, we do not mean to frighten her. We just got here; we have not even made camp. Our Captain could do with a healer.”
Jacob's eyes narrowed, his hand on his sword. “What allegiance are you?”
“Our own,” the man answered. “But we did not sail across the ocean because we thought the Americans needed help, if you understand me, sir.”
Jacob glanced at Enola, who was at his side. Now that he was here, she felt safer, and nodded. “We will come. What is wrong with your Captain?” she asked.
“He has fits,” one of the pirates said. “We just thought...we should not move him.”
Enola glanced at Jacob, remembering a childhood friend with a similar affliction. Neither of them had any idea where that friend was now, and it brought back strong emotions.
“Of course,” she said. “Take me to your ship.”