My mouth and my throat felt like they’d been lined with tree bark. Still, I fought the pain to swallow before attempting to capture the attention of whoever might be at the reins.
“H-hello there!”
My best effort at shouting was nothing more than a croak no louder than the sound of the sled’s runners, and even that had robbed me of what little strength I had. This, then, was what Jonah must have felt all those days in the belly of that great fish. I tried to take some comfort in knowing that I was surely in God’s hands, as my own will had been handed over to him the moment I left my home so many days ago. Unwilling to succumb one more time to the depths of unconsciousness, I forced my mind to dwell on what I knew to be true: I had broken away from the bonds of the Mormons’ false teaching.
And quite possibly been thrust into the hands of a greater danger.
No! I pushed the doubt from my mind. Colonel Brandon was a fine Christian man.
Who lied to your husband. Then lied to you.
My eyes ached to produce tears, but none would come. I forced down the bile threatening to rumble up from my empty stomach. Now was the time for strength. Bracing against the pain, I rolled my shoulders once, twice, until I could move within the confines of the blankets. That helped, just to breathe a little. I lifted and contorted myself until my legs were equally free, which is when I discovered I was still dressed in the long shirt and woolen socks. No clothes, no shoes, and no way to find such items in the surrounding darkness. Not that I had any plans to jump to my escape, but the state of my undress restricted me as much as the blankets. I sat up—straight up—for the first time since awakening in the Army tent. Whether from the chloroform, the motion, or my lack of food, I immediately felt dizzy and reached out for the side of the wagon to keep me steady. Still, even that bit of initiative strengthened me, and I gingerly turned my body around until I was on my knees.
I clutched at the canvas opening to hold me steady and, taking a deep, strengthening breath, tugged it open. The onslaught of sunlight sent me reeling backward, and I buried my face in my sleeve until I felt I could look up again. When I did, the shocked expression on Private Lambert’s face made me wonder if, in fact, I hadn’t died sometime prior and come back to haunt him this snowcapped morning.
“You need to lie back down, ma’am.” Private Lambert’s voice cracked in surprise.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Please, lie back down, ma’am.” He sounded desperate, and I almost felt sorry for the boy. The cold had brought the blemishes on his face to a raging red, and he seemed about to snap his neck as he divided his attention between the horses and me.
“Tell me where we’re going, Private Lambert, or I promise you I’ll throw myself from this wagon and let you crush me under the runners. Would you like to explain that to Colonel Brandon?”
“No, ma’am, but honest, we’re almost there. You’ll be able to talk to the colonel yourself.”
The strength that was allowing me to sit upright and hold my balance was beginning to wane, so without another word I retreated to my pallet. Slowly, carefully, I took the top blanket and draped it across my shoulders, clumsily wrapping it around me not only for warmth, but as some sort of decent covering for my next confrontation with Colonel Brandon. I kept my head clear, rehearsing my questions: Where am I? Why am I here? Why did you send my husband away?
In my mind I was strong and forthright. I imagined myself six inches taller and infinitely stronger. I was no delicate hothouse flower after all. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know what happened the night before his men found me lost in the snow. What it took to stand up to my husband. To stand up to his church. The Lord had infused me with the power I needed to get away, and it was only by his strength that I’d survived since then. Surely he wouldn’t fail me now.
I was rehearsing my litany for a third time, including an imaginary contrite spirit on the part of Colonel Brandon, when I heard Private Lambert click, “Whoa,” to the team and the wagon-sled came to a smooth stop.
“We’re here, ma’am,” he said without bothering to poke his head through the canvas opening. Then the squeak of a wagon seat, and he spoke in a much more formal tone. “Subject ready for transport, sir.”
“Relax, Private.” Colonel Brandon’s voice rang clear.
“Yes, sir.” The crack in his voice reinforced his enthusiastic pride.
The two exchanged a few more words that I couldn’t hear. Moments later, I heard Colonel Brandon on the other side of the canvas. “Mrs. Fox?”
“Yes.” I hoped I sounded as indignant as I felt.
“If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll send for someone to help you down.”
“I’m fine.” I’d been inching my way toward the back of the wagon, unable to truly crawl, given the injury to my hand. Indeed, the smallest movement sent blue sparks of pain throughout every inch of me, but weakness had long ago worn out its welcome.
“Nonsense.” The wagon rumbled as he opened the tailgate. “At least let me—”
But I was already at the back of the wagon, ready, with what dignity I could muster, to swing my legs over the open gate. He looked at me and smiled, lifting one gloved hand to the brim of his hat.
“At least let me help you down.”
Before I could stop him, his hands were at my waist—lost as it was within the layers of blankets. As he readied to set me down, though, he held me suspended. “You don’t have shoes.”
“My socks are thick enough.” There, one strong sentence.
“Warm, dry socks are a luxury around here. No need to soak ’em through.”
In a move that made me fear I would snap in two, he wrestled me around until I was cradled in his arms, held close against him.
“Where are we?” Somehow, being thus carried, my inquiry lost its fervor.
But he did not answer. His steps were amazingly steady, given that each foot sank into the snow as he carried me around the corner of the wagon, and then a simple turn of my head answered my question. Almost.
I was looking at an enormous stone wall—ten feet tall, or so it seemed—stretched across the vast, snow-covered plain. The wall, at least, resembled a place I’d never been to but had heard of many times.
“Are we . . . Is this Fort Bridger?”
“Yep.” He hitched me closer, an angry gesture that accompanied the grim set of his mouth.
Besides the massive wall, nothing else resembled the great structure that was a part of so many conversations around our own hearth and especially when we visited with family in Salt Lake City. In my mind, it had always been a massive, fortified structure, designed to protect newly arrived Saints from the onslaught of Indians while they replenished their stores for the final leg of the journey. But this? The stone wall bore signs of scorching, and as Colonel Brandon carried me through what used to be a gated entry, I saw nothing but the charred remains of burned buildings poking up through the drifted snow.
“What happened?”
He said nothing, and my grand plan to remain resolute began to crumble just as much as these buildings had, and my own smoldering anger was doused under a cold blanket of fear.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“We’ll talk when I get you inside. There’s just one building left, and a room’s been set aside for you.”
Sure enough, a long, low building ran along the back side of the stone wall. Ducking his head, he carried me through the doorway, and a young man sitting behind a rough-hewn table jumped to his feet in salute. Colonel Brandon nodded in acknowledgment and took me through a passage of two other rooms, before coming to what I estimated to be the end of the building.
“Home sweet home,” he said, depositing me on the bed.
When he stepped away, I had the chance to take in the small space. Behind me, morning light poured through the single, small window high on the wall. Fire burned within a single-burner stove, and two spindly chairs were tucked up to a little round table. A wooden trunk sat
at the foot of the narrow bed.
“What do you mean home?”
“This is where you’ll be staying for a while.”
“Colonel Brandon, I have a home.”
“That’s something we need to talk about.” His response gave no credence to my protest.
“Well, that would be nice, actually, seeing as nobody has said more than two words to me since—”
“Since we saved your life?”
“If that’s how you want to see it. I might classify it as more of a capture.”
“Then you are naive, Mrs. Fox. Now, I’ve asked Private Lambert to bring you something to eat, and then you can get some rest—”
“I’ve had quite enough rest. I want to know why you’ve brought me here and what you intend to do with me.”
“How is your hand?”
“My hand?”
“I can send for Captain Buckley to give you something for the pain.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You’re not a soldier, Mrs. Fox. No need for you to suffer like one.”
I steeled myself. “Exactly what am I, then?”
He smiled. “A guest.”
“Who is free to leave?”
“Who isn’t strong enough to leave.”
“And when I am?”
“We live in a world that changes every day. A few weeks ago you would have been nothing more than a woman in the snow. And now . . .”
“A few weeks ago I would have been at home. My own home.”
“And so it seems we both have stories to tell.”
Just then a series of quick knocks sounded at the door, and at Colonel Brandon’s command, Private Lambert entered balancing a tray which, at yet another, silent, command, he placed on the table.
“Anything else, sir?”
“No thank you, Private. Assume your post, please.”
Private Lambert glanced in my direction before giving a well-practiced salute and backing out of the room.
“Now, Mrs. Fox, while you may not feel in need of any rest, I did not have the luxury of sleeping through the drive here.” With that, he touched his fingers to his brow and followed in Private Lambert’s path, but this time when the door closed, I heard the distinct sound of a sliding lock.
“Oh, Lord,” I spoke aloud into the sparse, empty room, “give me strength.”
It occurred to me then that I’d never know the extent of my weakness without testing my limits, so I stood—rather, I attempted to stand. My legs lacked the strength to bring me to my feet, and while the small bed had iron bedposts that I could grasp to help me up, I knew the bundle of bandages that encompassed my left hand would never be able to grip one. Besides, just the thought of the pain such a gesture would bring about made me dismiss the idea entirely.
I knew Private Lambert was just on the other side of the door, no doubt ordered to listen for my slightest cry for help, but I would not give my captors that satisfaction. The table was, at most, three steps away. If I could stand, I could walk; and if I could walk, I could sit again. By now my stomach rumbled in anticipation of whatever might be steaming in that bowl; perhaps that was the final impetus needed to propel me to my feet. Once standing, I wavered just a little, then one, two, three steps, and I lowered myself into the narrow seat of the wooden chair.
My reward was a rich potato soup, crackers, and a small pot of black coffee. My right hand had almost healed completely, though my fingers were still swollen to the extent that I could fit only one through the cup’s handle. No milk, no sugar—just onyx-black and pungent, and as I took my first sip, my eyes closed in gratitude. Immediately I felt the blood within me bring itself to the coffee’s warmth. Years—years it had been since I’d had even a sip, and I set the cup back down to cool so I could reward myself with more satisfying gulps later on.
I soon learned the thickness of the soup came not from any kind of cream, but from yet more potatoes, but I devoured it and even used the wrist of my bandaged hand to lift the bowl to drain it. After an initial salty crunch, I dipped the crackers in my coffee and savored how they dissolved in my mouth.
Strengthened as I was from the meal, the bed beckoned, but I did not want to have yet another bedside conversation. Instead, I rose to my feet—much more steady this time—and walked to the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was plain, but well made, with leather hinges and the words Property of the United States Army branded on the lid.
Not knowing what to expect, I bent to open it, hoping for nothing more than some form of colorful quilt to take the place of the monotonous wool Army blankets. Instead, I found something quite more rewarding. A Bible. My Bible, actually—the one given to me on my wedding day. It was small and fashioned to look like a tiny, velvet trunk with a brass clasp. It sat atop my dress, my skirt, my petticoats, and my stockings. Rummaging around with my good hand, I found the contents to be everything I’d had with me when I was lost in the storm, with the exception of my shoes and coat.
“In case the lock doesn’t hold me, I suppose.” Still, the sight of my Bible infused me with a sense of power tenfold what the coffee had given me, and I scooped it up, bending my lips to touch its cover. With a renewed thirst I carried it back to the table, letting the pages fall open in front of me. No surprise they fell open to the Psalms, as those were the passages that spoke clearest to me. In fact, the page I saw had its corner folded and a thin penciled line drawn beneath the words:
I will walk within my house with a perfect heart. I will set no wicked thing before mine eyes: I hate the work of them that turn aside; it shall not cleave to me.
With these verses, I lost my fear of what I would confess to Colonel Brandon. I, after all, had done nothing wrong. What had I to fear?
* * *
Though I had not returned to the bed, I had let my head rest on the pages of my open Bible, and it was in that state that Colonel Brandon found me. I don’t know if it was his gentle “Mrs. Fox?” that woke me or the sound of wood being added to the stove, but I opened my eyes to the blurred vision of words on a page. A tiny stream of spittle gathered in the corner of my mouth, and I quickly swiped it away as I sat up, grateful to have found my favorite shawl among my belongings. With it wrapped around my shoulders, a still-full stomach, and an almost-clear head, I felt a little more like myself. In fact, I had a few seconds of feeling whole before the pain in my hand manifested itself, but I simply squeezed it as best I could and braced myself for conversation.
“I see you found your things,” Colonel Brandon said, closing the stove.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“And I trust your time with the Scriptures served as a great comfort to you.”
“As always,” I said.
He took the chair across from me—the dirty dishes had been whisked away in my sleep—and braced his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Now, tell me. How is it that a good Mormon wife and mother finds herself alone in a snowstorm?”
“Perhaps I’m not a good wife.” I swallowed tears, thinking of my daughters, and wondered if I could even be called a good mother.
“Were you leaving your husband?”
“I was going to Salt Lake City. To visit my husband’s sister.”
“Her name?”
“Rachel.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly wanting more information, but I met his gaze, offering nothing.
“Why would your husband allow you to take such a journey alone? In winter, no less?”
The shame of my departure burned so, it surely registered on my face.
“Mrs. Fox—” he took a deep breath—“how many wives does your husband have?”
Had he reached across the table and slapped me, he could not have shocked me more. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“We are fully aware of the Mormon practice and the toll it takes on its women. Did we find you as you were trying to escape?”
Escape. Such a desperate word, and I did not want to paint the picture of my past life in that light.
“My husband, Nathan, took a second wife recently, but that isn’t why I left.”
“Then why did you?”
“Perhaps, Colonel Brandon, to be fair, we should take turns answering questions. Such as, why didn’t you tell my husband that I was in your custody?”
“Custody? Interesting. I kept your presence confidential for your own protection. Now, why did you leave?”
“Protection from what?” But apparently Colonel Brandon was intent on taking turns, and when he refused to answer, I resigned. “I left because I found I no longer accepted the teachings of the Mormon church. And I refused to be rebaptized, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay any longer.”
“So you left to protect yourself?”
“To some extent, I suppose.”
“And so you must now understand why we are protecting you. It’s not a secret—at least not to us—how your church treats the less, shall we say, faithful members.”
“Rumors,” I said, oddly defensive of the people I’d so recently renounced. “Besides, my husband would never let anybody harm me.”
“But he would put you on his horse and send you off into a blizzard.”
“The storm came up so suddenly. There’s no way anyone could have known—”
“There’s no way any man would let a woman take that horse.” He leaned closer. “In fact, he seemed not to have known you’d left home at all. Odd, considering you were planning to visit his sister. Rachel.”
I felt, somehow, that I’d been caught, though when I retraced my words, I couldn’t come up with a single lie. “He—he knew. I was to be escorted from our village by two of our ministers.”
Colonel Brandon seemed to fight for a second to keep his composure. “And why weren’t you?”
“Because I couldn’t wait.”
“And why not?”
I thought back to that late night. My husband. Elder Justus, his dour face stretched even longer behind the candle’s flame. Bishop Childress, with the voice that sounded like it had been scraped from the bottom of a kettle. My daughters asleep in the next room; my sister wife no doubt with her ear to the door. The accusations. The dire predictions that my skin would turn black with the blasphemy of an apostate. The request, over and over, that I confess to a sin of disbelief. The command that I be rebaptized into the church. Every word a snare, and the thought of climbing into their big black coach an even bigger trap. Thinking about it now, my heart raced, pounding like a rabbit’s, carrying through until my entire body quivered.
Forsaking All Others Page 4
