Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “You’re safe now.”

  I looked up. “Am I?”

  “More than that, the safety of a lot of people might depend on your staying here.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Look, Mrs. Fox, we’re at war.”

  “War?” I went cold despite the adequate heat from the stove. “Is that why you burned down the fort? To take it over?”

  “We didn’t burn the fort. One of you did.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would that happen? This belongs to us—to them. Rachel’s husband is a lawyer, and I know for a fact he advised Brigham Young on the purchase.”

  It was all Tillman could talk about during a particular family dinner. After years of conflict, Fort Bridger was to finally become a post to supply the Saints heading farther west. Tillman had nearly burst his vest buttons with pride.

  Colonel Brandon opened his hands in a warm gesture of surrender. “Apparently the church still owes on the note, and therein lies the dispute. Young knew we were planning to hold winter quarters here. Bridger himself guided us, and when we showed up, nothing. Scorched earth, if you will.”

  “But why would he burn his own—?”

  “I don’t know if Governor Young himself ordered it or if some zealot took it into his own hands. All I know is my men are facing a winter in tents because this is one of the few rooms remaining.”

  “And you’ve given it to me.”

  “For now, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “As I said, to keep you—and all of us—safe. We don’t want any of your people to misunderstand and think we captured you. We don’t want anybody storming our camp to rescue you, firing upon our men and getting fired upon in return. We don’t want them to think you’re a prisoner.”

  “Yet you lock the door.”

  “Only for now, until I had a chance to explain.”

  “And you’ll leave it open?”

  “If you wish. I could even give an order that the lock be put on your side.”

  I smiled, though it cracked my lip to do so. “And you’ll give me my shoes? And my coat?”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Are those not in your trunk? Must have been an oversight. I’ll have Private Lambert reprimanded in the morning.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” I said, playing along. “But you don’t really believe you fooled my husband, do you? He’ll come back.” At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.

  “I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen. Because if it does, we’ll respond as the president has given us orders to do.”

  “But what if I want to go home? What if I’ve realized I made a mistake leaving in the first place?”

  “You can, once this is all blown over. Trust me, if we can win this war without firing a shot, that’s what I’d prefer.”

  “You keep saying war. And we don’t know—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “How far outside of Salt Lake City is your village?”

  “Not far. Fifteen miles.”

  “And your husband? What does he do?”

  I thought back to Nathan’s workshop in the barn, packed full of his frustrated attempts to have his work worthy of the temple. “He’s a carpenter.”

  “We know Governor Young’s arming a militia, so the war’s no secret. You didn’t know a regiment was encamped here?”

  “No. We knew—that is, Bishop Childress told us we needed to dig in. With our faith and allegiance to the church. That’s why I became a problem. I guess I still am.”

  “Not a problem. Not a prisoner. A guest. Stay here, get your strength back, and we’ll decide where to go from there.”

  All of a sudden, I felt a peace wash over me and an inexplicable feeling of safety. The room was small but warm. The food simple but filling. And for the first time since I was a very young girl, my fate was in the hands of a man who shared my dedication to Jesus Christ. But like the touch of a tiny hand, one doubt beckoned me.

  “What about my daughters?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’ll want to know what happened to their mother.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That I was going to spend time visiting their aunt Rachel.”

  “And what was your plan after your visit? When were you planning to return home?”

  I didn’t need to answer his question. We both knew the answer to that. Never.

  “Your children are safe?”

  “Yes,” I said, knowing Nathan would die for our daughters. Along with that, the shadowy thought that his life would be easier if I died instead. They would have their father, and a mother in his second wife. “We have an Indian woman who helps me care for them. She is a Christian, too.” For some reason, it was important to me that Colonel Brandon realize that I’d done all I could to protect my girls.

  “Then you can sleep easy.”

  “But I want somebody to know the truth. To know where I am.”

  “I know. My men know. And God knows. For now, that’s enough. Give us some time, and I’ll see what else we can do.”

  Chapter 5

  I wonder if we don’t mistake the comfort of routine for the comfort of home. Within a week my small room had come to feel almost cozy. The western exposure of the window allowed me to sleep late into the morning, and I was never disturbed until I knocked on my own side of the door, at which time whatever soldier happened to be on duty would escort me to the facilities outside. For these brief forays I was granted a pair of men’s boots, which fit perfectly given the layers of wool socks I wore, and I felt my strength growing little by little each day. Once back inside, I’d find a bowl of porridge, sometimes accompanied by a slice of bacon, waiting for me at my little table. And always, coffee. At noon the ritual was repeated, only the meal was replaced with potato soup and crackers, and in the evening, with johnnycakes and molasses.

  Twice a day, once after breakfast and again after supper, Colonel Brandon came to my room to visit. Our conversation was always the same.

  “Have you heard from my husband?”

  “No.”

  “Then can I leave?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “When it’s safe.”

  Sometimes I found myself wanting to talk about other things, like whether or not he had a wife and children, or to tell him more about my own daughters, but the night I tried to do this, he held up his hand.

  “It’s not a good thing for me to know how wonderful and loving my enemy is.”

  “We aren’t your enemy, Colonel Brandon. My family—we’re just honest people.”

  “Living in a traitorous theocracy.”

  The words slammed against each other in my head, making no sense at all. “What does that mean?”

  “Brigham Young, as governor, is the political leader in the territory, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, though I’d never really thought of him in that context.

  “And he’s also your religious leader.”

  “Yes.” Now that was a much more familiar picture.

  “Well, for a territory looking for statehood, that’s not a good combination.”

  “I can’t see that it would matter. Aren’t other political leaders religious men?”

  “Yes, but they don’t exercise their power in a religious manner. Their citizens are still free to make their own choices.”

  “And you don’t think the citizens of Utah Territory are given that same right?”

  Colonel Brandon sat back in his chair. “You lived there for how many years? Seven? You tell me.”

  “He would tell you that he brought his people here to find religious freedom. That’s what my . . . what Nathan used to say. That the Mormons were driven out of the United States for the very same reason that our forefathers settled there. And now you bring this conflict to us? It isn’t right.”

  “Governor Young had ample opportunity to step down, let the president appoint another leader, and
he refused. He brought this upon himself. He brought this upon his people.”

  “You don’t know . . .” I stopped and questioned my own thoughts. How was it my heart could be so full for these people from whom I was so desperate to flee? “So many have already lost so much. Lost as they are, they have homes. And lives.”

  “Which they would die for if their leader asked. You know that’s true.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Is he worth dying for?”

  The question didn’t warrant an answer, but it did prompt another question. “Have you met him?”

  “Not yet. Have you?”

  “Once. He came to the wedding.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Your wedding?”

  “No.” I instantly wished I hadn’t said anything, but his gaze compelled me to continue. “Not my wedding. My husband’s, to Amanda.”

  “Oh.” He had the grace to look embarrassed before turning his moustache up in a smile in a valiant attempt to lighten the mood. “So tell me. Suppose, through some great feat of military strategy, I manage to get this guy cornered. What’s Brigham Young’s weakness?”

  Smiling despite myself, I said, “Pastry. And women.”

  We laughed together, and I think both of us saw our enemy diminished in our amusement. To have said such a thing in my own home would have incurred the wrath of my husband, and I’d never dare say such a thing in public. But this room was safe. Small and warm with a lock on the door, even if the lock was meant to keep me in.

  * * *

  Two weeks after Captain Buckley had come after me with the bone nipper, he unrolled the bandages to reveal the final result of his work. He cocked his head and clicked his teeth, examining my hand from one angle, then another, beaming as if he held a new creation.

  “Outside of actual fingers, I don’t think anything could be more perfect.”

  I suffered his gloating, finding it only slightly less painful than the wound he declared healed. On all of his previous visits, I’d averted my head, not wanting to face my hand’s mangled fate, but I knew I couldn’t ignore it forever, especially knowing it would no longer be hiding in a mass of bandages.

  “Let me see.”

  Captain Buckley released his cold, thin grip. I held my breath, and there it was. Two soft, pink mounds where my fingers used to be.

  “See that?” He fairly bounced on the bed with glee. “Healed from the inside out. No stitches, no infection, just brand-new skin and scar. Second best to the real thing.”

  I attempted to move them and was rewarded with a stubby budge. After so many days of bandaging, I’d grown used to doing everything with my right hand—eating, drinking, dressing. I maneuvered my fingers—even the phantom ones—imagining what it would take to move on to more complex activities. How would I lace my boots, were they ever returned? Or tie a corset, should I ever decide to wear one again? I thought of the day when I would return to my daughters, how one of them would be forced to wrap her fingers over this place of amputation. Would they recoil in fear? Or fight for the privilege? And then, a thought—to my shame, an afterthought that hadn’t occurred to me until this very moment.

  “My ring.”

  “What’s that?” Captain Buckley barely looked up from his task of rolling up my bandage.

  “My wedding ring. Where is it?”

  “Ah, yes.” He tapped his finger to his temple, making himself look all the more like a marionette as he pondered. “I believe I gave it over to Colonel Brandon with the rest of your property.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “Hasn’t he?”

  “Where is my ring, Captain Buckley?”

  “Let me check.” He stomped his little feet on the ground before jumping up, moving in a miniature, jerking fashion that always made me think of a fish on a line. His black leather bag sat on my table, and I heard the odd clattering of metal objects as he rifled through it. “Is it . . . is it . . . ? Here!”

  Once again proud and self-congratulatory, this simple feat on par with a successful surgery. He handed the ring—a thin, simple band of plain gold—and as I took it, I marveled at the fact that his fingers were the same size as my own.

  “Are you married, Captain Buckley?”

  “Not yet. Oh, there’ve been some ladies willing to step out, but my heart belongs to medicine. She’s a jealous mistress. You know a man can’t go and give himself to two . . . Oh, beg your pardon, Mrs. Fox.”

  If I thought for a moment that Captain Buckley had misspoken, I might have been inclined to grant him grace, but the smug look when he caught his gaffe made me wonder just how long he’d been waiting for such an opportunity. Instead, I ignored him.

  “I suppose I’ll have to wear this on my right hand,” I said. “The, um, stub is too wide.”

  “Oh, that’s some swelling. Might go down in a couple of days. Might not.”

  I slid the band over the third finger of my right hand, surprised to see it stop at the knuckle.

  “Still some swelling there too, eh?” He crooked his pinkie at me. “Looks like a last resort. But I wouldn’t worry. There’s more to being married than wearing a ring, isn’t there? You’re just as married whether it’s on the right hand or left hand, or even a ribbon around your neck, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  He picked up his rolled bandages and took a few shuffling steps back to the table and dropped them in the bag. “You know,” he addressed the ceiling, “I’ve always wondered if . . . No, no. Never mind.”

  Tiresome as his company was, I knew he’d prolong his exit unless I indulged his question.

  “Go on,” I said. “Wondered what?”

  “Well, if you Mormon women shouldn’t get a new ring with every new wife. Sort of like a prize. Three, uh, sister wives, is it? Well, then, three more rings. One on each finger.”

  He held up a spindly hand looking like a bare branch growing from the cavernous pot of his sleeve and wiggled his fingers, something dark dancing in his eyes. I narrowed my own.

  “Don’t be ignorant, Captain Buckley.”

  “But it’s not a bad idea, is it? Think about it. Then everybody would know—”

  “Just stop.” For the first time I felt threatened in my safe little room, and I balled my hand into its first real fist, feeling my nails—long after so many days’ growth—digging into my palm. “Thank you for saving as much of my hand as you did; now I suppose you won’t need to visit me as frequently. Or ever.”

  He looked genuinely shocked but not at all hurt. Any insult I intended deflected off him like a bullet hitting brass. He snapped his bag shut and hauled it off the table, trying very hard not to stagger at its weight.

  “Oh, absolutely, Mrs. Fox. And I daresay I’ll be glad to get back to tending the men, which is what I’m out here to do anyway, isn’t it? I didn’t exactly sign up to spend my time with a . . . Nope, no. Not going to say it.”

  This time I allowed his words to go unspoken, and after a fairly civil good-bye, he left. Of all my visitors—including Colonel Brandon and the myriad of shifting guards—he was the only one who continued to latch the door on the other side. I found myself waiting for the sound of that metal bar before allowing my tears to fall. Seeing my hand, the finality of amputation, settled an overwhelming sense of loss. This, then, was all the healing I could expect. What kind of healing could I hope to see for my family? Twice I had done this—run off in pursuit of freedom, only to find myself enslaved. The first time when I was just fifteen years old, lured by the promises of love and adventure in the arms of a handsome boy. And now I was here, trying to escape those promises. For the first time in my life I was utterly alone. Not because of a locked door, but because of a lost life.

  “Father God . . .” I buried my face in my hands, cognizant of the new absence. I didn’t know what to speak to him. I simply repeated my cry and waited for an answer. And then I heard a long, wailing sound coming from the yard outside my window.

  “. . . a
aaaaalllll.”

  It was an unfamiliar summoning, and I cocked my ear to hear more clearly. Still unsatisfied, I hopped out of bed and slid a chair next to the wall under the window and climbed upon it. Raised to my tiptoes, I could get my eyes just over the sill. Outside, the men—some bundled in buffalo robes, others braving the cold in just their woolen uniforms—were running from all directions toward a man who stood on a tall wooden box. He held a canvas bag over his shoulder, and once again, cupping his hand to his mouth, he issued the call that was echoed by the crowd that had gathered.

  “Mail call!”

  I jumped off the chair and ran to my closed, locked door. For the first time in my stay I pounded upon it, demanding that it be opened, and to my surprise and relief it was, immediately, revealing the shocked and somewhat-frightened face of Private Lambert.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “I need to speak with Colonel Brandon.”

  “He’s probably out at mail call.”

  “Go and find him. Send him in to me.” Private Lambert’s eyes fluttered, and I softened. “Please, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “Not at all, ma’am.”

  We stood for a few minutes as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Finally I backed into my room. There was an odd sense of respect as Private Lambert closed the door between us.

  I paced the room during those moments I waited for Colonel Brandon to arrive, and when he did, I nearly pounced upon him.

  “You have mail.”

  He looked confused and moved a hand to his breast pocket. “How did you—?”

  “I heard the call outside. How is it you have mail delivered in the middle of winter?”