Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “You have to send her back. To my husband.”

  “Time enough for that. We’ll get you feeling better, and then we’ll get both of you safely home.”

  More tears, and now they fell, sliding straight down into my ears. “I don’t have a home.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Now, don’t be silly. Everybody’s got a home.”

  “Not me. I had one, and I left it. I had to.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper, even though as far as I could tell, the two of us were quite alone. “Are you one of them, then? A Mormon?”

  “Yes.” Then quickly, “No. I mean I was, for a time. But not really, not in my heart. And now—God, forgive me . . .” Whatever else I meant to say disappeared in the drought of my throat. I mustered what strength I could and turned on my side, my back to Colonel Brandon, and curled up with my regret.

  Taking a liberty I could have never imagined, he put his hand on my shoulder, tugging me to face him. As I complied, he smoothed my hair from my brow and brought his face so close to mine I could feel his breath.

  “Now you listen to me. I don’t want you to be frightened for one more minute. Not for yourself and not for your girls. I’m here for you. The United States Army is here for you. And as I’ve sworn my life as a sacrifice for freedom, I will make it my promise that you’ll have a home.”

  “How?” I’d brought the blanket up to my face, and it muffled my question. Still, he heard.

  “You leave that up to me. Another drink?”

  As an answer, I sat myself up on my elbows, holding the covers nearly to my chin.

  Silently, he filled the cup with water from a pot sitting on a grate by the fire and added a little from a clay pitcher. Then he lifted the flask, holding it like a question. Remembering the pleasant warmth, I nodded, and as before, he measured in a tiny stream and swirled the cup. I continued to hold the covers as he tipped the cup against my mouth, and this time I took the drink in several satisfying gulps.

  “That’s the last of that for you.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, lying back down.

  “Now sleep. And don’t worry. When you wake up, I’ll be here.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, it sounds like we might have a bit of a battle on our hands.”

  Chapter 2

  On what I judged to be the second day after waking, a soldier backed in through the tent’s door. He barely twisted his torso to turn and drop a bundle of folded cloth on my feet, but it was enough for me to get a glimpse of a face where a battle between faint, sparse fuzz and angry blemishes raged along sunken cheeks and a sharp jaw.

  “Here y’are, ma’am,” he mumbled before stumbling back out again. Still weak, I struggled to sit up and inched the bundle closer to me. I found it to be a man’s long shirt made of fine, thin wool and a pair of thick wool socks. With some effort I managed to drop the shirt over my shoulders and pull my arms through the sleeves. The shirt was laced along the front, and while I could pull the laces to pull it closed, I could not tie it, as both my hands were bundled loosely in bandages. This was the unpleasant surprise that had greeted me when I was fully awake. Frostbite, Colonel Brandon told me, which caused unbearable tingling. I’d not yet been permitted to see them, so I had no idea the extent of the burning, but I knew I could no more pull on a pair of wool socks than I could pull a sleigh across the snow. Besides, my feet felt warm enough under the pile of blankets and bearskin; in fact, I appreciated the shirt more for its measure of modesty than warmth.

  Exhausted from dressing, I fell back upon my pillows, but I did not sleep. Instead, I listened to the conversations around me. Most of what I heard seemed to meld into one constant, masculine hum, but if I concentrated very hard, I could pick up recurring themes. The blasted cold. Those blasted Mormons. That blasted woman goin’ to mean nothing but trouble . . .

  Apparently the bedside vigil enacted upon my arrival was suspended once it seemed clear that I would not become “that blasted dead woman” anytime soon. I was left largely alone with my thoughts—memories interspersed with dozing dreams—to be interrupted only by the appearance of one young man or another with a cup of hearty broth or tea. I judged time by their greetings: “Morning, ma’am.” “Afternoon, ma’am.” “Evening, ma’am.” If any noticed the unworn socks folded across my lap, no one mentioned them. I learned no names, ascertained no ranks, and after two days of this, I knew little more about where I was than the day I arrived.

  On the morning of what must have been my third waking day, I opened my eyes to see—for the first time—a strip of sunlight along the bottom of the tent wall. Before that, there’d been only the steady, low light from the constant burning of the little woodstove. This tiny sliver brought to me the sense of hope that comes with a new day: the snow must be somewhat clear, and I could go home. Well, not home, exactly. I had little hope that my husband would welcome me. And if he did, I knew he’d never again let me out of his sight. But I did wish to get away from here and find my way safely to the home of Nathan’s sister, Rachel, in Salt Lake City. Just for a while, until God directed my next step.

  Moments later, when the young man who’d brought me my shirt arrived with a tin plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of tea, I thanked him and asked to see Colonel Brandon immediately.

  The young man, too tall to stand comfortably within the tent, maintained what posture he could. “Colonel Brandon is not here, ma’am.”

  “Not here?” His promise to deliver me rang in my ears, and I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “Where is he?”

  “Not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Not at liberty to say, ma’am. Anything else I can get for you?”

  I wanted to tell him to take this food away and bring me my clothes and coat, shoes and horse, and let me set out for Salt Lake City, but something about the tightness of his lips told me that such an action was highly unlikely. I sat up—easier now as I’d grown stronger—and held my bandaged hand out for the plate. This was to be my first bite of solid food, and while my stomach growled for it, my bandaged hands were too clumsy to grip the fork.

  “I’m going to need help with this.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Your name. If you are going to feed me, I insist on knowing your name.”

  “Lambert. Private Casey Lambert, ma’am.”

  “Good morning, Private Lambert.”

  “Good morning, ma’am.”

  He found a small stool and brought it to my side, folding his long body into a piece of bric-a-brac to sit on it. With great precision, he speared a bite of egg and brought it to my mouth, his own opening slightly as my lips closed around the fork—something I remembered doing when I fed my own daughters. The memory of that made it difficult to swallow, but the moment I managed it, he was ready with the next one.

  “You have a knack for this,” I said, hoping some conversation might loosen his lips a little. “Do you have children?”

  Even in the dim light of the tent I could see how deeply he blushed. “No, ma’am. Don’t even got a wife. But I helped my ma with my little brothers and sisters.”

  “Oh? Are you the oldest?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And where are they? Where are you from?”

  “Ohio, ma’am.”

  “You must miss them terribly.”

  There was the tiniest crack to his facade, no more than the sunlight running along the tent floor, and then the military mask was back. “It’s an honor to serve my country, ma’am.” He punctuated his sentiment by nudging the fork ever closer to my mouth.

  After just three bites, I could eat no more.

  “Are you sure, ma’am? Make you strong.”

  “It’s delicious,” I said, though truthfully it needed a little salt, “but I don’t have my appetite. I think, though, it’s only a matter of days b
efore I’ll be strong enough to leave. Perhaps Colonel Brandon will be back by then?”

  Nothing, not a flicker of an eyelash nor a twitch of a lip, gave me any answer. Instead, he put the teacup between my bandaged palms and waited for me to drink it down before removing himself and the dirty dishes.

  I knew I’d be left alone until noon, if not longer.

  Private Lambert was right about one thing, though. Even those few bites of food gave me a new strength, and with the aid of my teeth to loosen the fastenings, I managed to unwrap my right hand to assess the damage. My fingers were red and swollen. I flexed them with very little pain, though it felt like each would come snapping out of its own skin. The tingling seemed more unbearable with the bandage removed, and I had to fight against the urge to rub my hand against the scratchiness of the wool blanket. No doubt such an action might bring a temporary relief, but I knew well the damage of doing so could be permanent.

  Then, clumsily, I unwrapped my left hand, not nearly as pleased at what I saw. My thumb and first two fingers seemed well enough. Swollen and red, but otherwise in as fine a shape as my entire right hand. But the skin had swollen up and over the wedding ring I wore on my third finger; both it and my pinkie were black nearly to the second knuckle.

  I knew what that meant.

  Dear God, please—heal my hand. I knew I was asking for a miracle because the flesh of my fingers was now as dead as any rotting corpse. But you, O Lord, are a God of miracles. You have raised men from the dead. You brought me from the brink of death to this place.

  “It’s just two little fingers.” What are two little fingers in the scope of creation?

  I felt myself wanting to cry, but tears would not come. Even they had dried up and deserted me.

  There seemed little point in rebandaging my hands, though I did loosely wrap the gauze around my left one, if only to shield me from its ugliness.

  How had this happened? I’d been so careful. I remembered the morning I’d left—crisp and cold, but clear. Two pairs of gloves I wore. Three pairs of socks under my boots. And when the storm hit—that great wall of snow—hadn’t I been careful? Although much of my memory was as clouded as that gray sky, I remembered tearing my petticoat, wrapping my hands and feet, knowing the danger. And still, this?

  I thought back to all those glorious days, with sunlight blinding off the surface of new snow. How my girls loved it. Played for hours. And I’d bring them in, set them by the stove, carefully pulling off gloves and boots and stockings. They’d complain about the cold, and my first instinct was to rub their little hands and feet until they were warm, but Kimana always stopped me.

  “No, Mrs. Fox,” she’d say, the wisdom of her people shining within her bright brown eyes. “Just warm by the fire. Let the blood dance by the fire.” And soon enough the girls would be dancing too.

  I wiggled my toes, pleased to feel that they, at least, seemed intact. No pain, no tingling, not even numb.

  But my hand . . .

  I hazarded another look, surprised that the flesh of my fingers seemed even blacker than it had the first time, and a new fear invaded my soul.

  Oh, God, don’t let it be . . . don’t let it be . . .

  “Mrs. Fox?”

  To my recollection, this was the first time anyone had announced himself before entering my tent, and this small measure of courtesy took me off guard. I said nothing, seeing as I had no idea what right I had to allow or disallow a visitor. The flap opened and with the always-welcome burst of fresh air came one of the smallest men I’d ever seen. He had to have been within an inch of my own height, and he seemed to float within the now-familiar blue hat and coat rather than wear them.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. The pitch of his voice was high and nasal, almost unpleasantly so. “I heard you were alive and well, sitting up, eating and talking and all that. Very good, very good. I don’t want you to think I’ve abandoned you, but there are a lot of sick men around this camp. Sicker than you, I’m afraid. But now—”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Captain Buckley, United States Army physician.” He took off his glove and held out his hand as if to shake mine, a gesture that made him seem both insensitive and ignorant of my condition. Still, I lifted mine, and he caught it, gently holding it aloft with his soft palm. With the swelling, my hand was actually larger than his. “Not bad, not bad.” He turned it over and over, inspecting the flesh at all angles. “Pain?”

  “Not really.”

  “Tingling?”

  “Yes.”

  “You took it upon yourself to remove your bandages?”

  “Yes.”

  His small, pink lips were surrounded by a neatly trimmed moustache and a beard that just covered his chin. He twitched his lips, moving the whiskers from side to side. “Let’s look at your feet.”

  “They feel fine, not at all—”

  But Captain Buckley was already at the foot of the bed, lifting the covers. He took my foot in his hand, and I could not recall any other time a man had done such a thing. I flinched—more than that, I kicked out, surprised at my own strength.

  “Whoa, there!” He feigned being thrown against the wall. “You’re a feisty little filly.”

  “I’m sorry.” I willed myself to hold still. “I don’t feel . . . I mean, my feet feel fine.”

  “They’re good. Now, at the risk of my own life, I’m going to put these socks on you to keep them that way.”

  I held my breath as I felt my foot descend within the woolen sock, but the immediate sense of warmth proved to be a great comfort, and I relaxed.

  “Now, Mrs. Fox, I believe you have one other hand?” He made his way back to my side and settled on the little stool as naturally as I’d seen any man sit in any chair. “May I?”

  Carefully, he unwound the soft folds of bandaging to reveal my damaged hand and made a small, repetitive tsk-ing sound. “This does not look good.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mrs. Fox. I was here when they brought you in. It was obvious to me that you took every precaution—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. They warned me. The bishop and the elder. They warned me. It’s a curse.”

  I felt the cool back of his small hand against my forehead. “Mrs. Fox, I’m afraid your fever has returned.”

  “They warned me.” And I could see them, both of them. The leaders of the church. In my home. By the light of my fire. Telling me. Accusing me. “It’s the mark of my sin.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m an apostate, do you see? I was a good Christian girl. I became one of them.”

  “Mormon?”

  “Yes. But after a while, it all seemed . . . Their teachings felt . . . wrong. That’s why I left. I was leaving my husband and the church.”

  “Wise move, if you ask me.” He brought my hand closer to his face, sniffing.

  “They said, ‘You will forever bear the mark of your sin. Your skin will turn as dark as that Indian woman you keep.’ And now, look.”

  “I’m looking. And it’s no different than I’ve seen a hundred times over. Frostbite, pure and simple.”

  “What if they were right? What if this is God’s punishment?”

  “For leaving their church?”

  “For joining in the first place, maybe.”

  “Mrs. Fox, I am a man of God only insofar as I see him through the lens of science. This—” he held up my hand—“is the result of poor blood circulation due to extreme cold. Nothing more. I will never purport to be one to claim where or how we are to acknowledge God, but I do know that we were not meant to live unsheltered in extreme temperatures. Our blood requires warmth. And when it is denied that warmth, we die. Sometimes we die all at once; other times we die a little at a time. That is what’s happening here.”

  “It’s because I abandoned my daughters. I left them there.”

  “How many daughters do you have?”

  “Two.”

 
“Two daughters. Two fingers. Which would you rather have lost?”

  The finality of his words struck my core. “Lost?”

  There was an immediate softening to his character. “I think right here—” his finger grazed the first knuckle—“just at the hand.”

  “No.”

  “You’d rather wait? Let the death spread?”

  “God could heal me. He saved my life, after all.”

  “Do you know how God heals?” He answered his own question by letting go of my hand and holding up his own—both of them, like spindly branches growing from the trunk of his overlarge sleeves. “For you, healing will come when these are gone.” He folded down his fingers that corresponded to my ruined ones. “Does this look like too big a price to pay to live?”

  I studied the image, squinting my eyes to imagine my own hands. “My wedding ring . . .”

  “Wear it on another finger, if you choose to wear it at all.”

  “I just don’t know if I’ll be able to stand—”

  “The pain?”

  I nodded.

  He chuckled. “I’ve seen men snap off their own toes with their bare hands to keep this from eating them alive. But seeing that you’re a lady . . .” He opened the black leather satchel he’d carried in with him and produced a glass bottle of clear liquid. “Chloroform. A few drops of this, and you’ll be sound asleep. Won’t feel or remember a thing. I promise.”

  “Shouldn’t we consult with Colonel Brandon? He—he said he would take care of me.”

  Captain Buckley puffed up a full inch. “And just how efficient would an Army surgeon be if he consulted with his commanding officer for every medical decision? Soldier or not, you are encamped here with this regiment, and therefore under my care. I don’t know why I am flattering you with the illusion of choice in this matter. Now—” he produced a clean white cloth—“will it be with anesthesia or without?”

  “What if I don’t wake up?”

  “You have made your peace with the afterlife, I assume?”

  I know he meant his retort to be lighthearted, but it chilled me. Of course I had, hadn’t I? I knew my life to belong to Jesus Christ, both here and eternally, but that did not give me the courage to face this unflinchingly.