Forsaking All Others

by Allison Pittman

  “May I pray first?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you pray with me?”

  “Mrs. Fox, I do not know how much of a comfort that would be.”

  I found myself longing for Colonel Brandon’s strong Christian comfort. “There’s no one else here.”

  He sighed—“Very well”—and took off his hat.

  “Most gracious Lord,” I prayed, “I ask now your favor. I offer you my hand as I’ve given you my life, and I ask that only one be spared completely. Bring me again to life after this deep sleep, that I may return and bring my daughters to the truth. And my husband, should he seek to know you. If you choose to take me in my sleep, I’ll welcome an eternity spent with you, for I’ll know you have another plan to save the souls of my children. Please guide the hands of Captain Buckley, and may he see your miracles in his work. In the name of Jesus, I bring my petitions. Amen.”

  Captain Buckley grunted something akin to an amen, then poked his head out the tent door and ushered in Private Lambert, who might have been standing outside the whole time. “To assist,” he said.

  The three of us seemed very crowded indeed, and the cold winter air lingered as Captain Buckley gave the order for Private Lambert to keep the tent flap open.

  “We need to let the fresh air circulate,” he explained, rummaging through his bag, “lest we all succumb to the chloroform. That wouldn’t do.”

  “No, indeed,” I said, trying to make light of the moment. Private Lambert remained stoic as ever.

  From the bag came a one-foot square wooden block, which the captain covered with a clean piece of linen. This he set on the bed somewhat near my waist.

  “Now, are you ready, Mrs. Fox?”

  “Yes.”

  He folded the cloth, held it over my mouth and nose, scowled, refolded, and repeated the process until he had the size and thickness he sought. Then, careful to hold the bottle away from him, he eased the cork out and silently counted each drop as it fell.

  “Now,” he said, perfectly positioning the cloth, “just breathe normally. And count, if you like.”

  I did not count. Instead, I repeated, Lottie, Missy, Nathan, Kimana . . . Lottie, Missy, Nathan, Kimana.

  Over Captain Buckley’s shoulder I could see Private Lambert holding a knife above the flames of the fire in the little stove. They danced orange and red upon the blade.

  Lottie, Missy . . .

  Let the blood dance by the fire.

  Chapter 3

  I don’t know that I would call it pain, exactly. More like a constant awareness that what once used to exist is no more. Like a half-remembered thought, a name on the tip of the tongue, or the lost verse of a song. I’d hold my hand up, stare at the packed and bandaged wound, and think, My goodness, shouldn’t this hurt more than it does?

  Then again, no part of my body felt as it ought. My head was heavy beyond the point of lifting, my legs all but disappeared, and my intact hand a throbbing ball of numbness at the end of my arm. The silence screamed louder than any noise, making words spoken within inches of my ear seem swallowed up in the constant haze within the tent walls. I tried to explain all of this to Captain Buckley, but the words were too thick on my tongue. I could only manage a cumbersome “I can’t feel . . . I can’t feel . . .” before he told me that I should count myself blessed, then administered a few drops of black liquid to the back of my tongue.

  “Five more days, and no more of this,” he’d said. At least that’s what I thought he said. But I could not trust my judgment anymore. Sometimes the shadows on the tent wall took on frightful shapes—giant bears reared up with their massive claws outstretched. Low, sleek foxes running circles around the walls. I’d hear the sound of men chopping wood and imagine my limbs being hacked off one by one. The touch of a hand to my face would usher in searing pain, and I didn’t know if it was the burning of the hand or my fevered brow beneath it. The shirt I wore would soak through with sweat, and I’d think myself back in the snowstorm, desperately clinging to Honey’s bridle. Once, when that happened, I actually stumbled from my cot and wandered out into the camp, only to be brought back by two soldiers. Later I learned that I’d put up quite a fight. After that, somebody was always beside me.

  I begged to go home. To see my daughters. To talk to that man, the Christian. Colonel Brandon. I prayed to Jesus, pleaded for healing. For grace. For forgiveness and release.

  “No more.” I’d turn my head whenever Captain Buckley came at me with the dropper full of morphine.

  “You couldn’t bear the pain without this.”

  “I can. God will give me strength.”

  To my surprise, he shrugged and said, “As you wish,” before returning the precious drops to the small black vial and proceeding to change the dressing.

  This time, I didn’t look away. I fixed my eyes on the white bandage, growing dizzy as I watched him unwind it from my hand. He let it fall like so much ribbon on my chest and lifted the gauze that covered the spot where my fingers once were.

  “You don’t want to see this.”

  “Yes, I have to.”

  He set his face grimly and began to pull a thinner ribbon of gauze from within what was left of my finger itself. “I didn’t have enough healthy tissue to sew a flap,” he said, “and the flesh is too delicate to risk cauterizing, so you’re healing from the inside out. A little each day until the skin grows over.”

  “You don’t look happy at what you see.”

  “I’m worried that I didn’t cut far enough down the bone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He reached down into his ever-present bag and came up with a small silver tool, something like a pair of pliers.

  “What is that?”

  He squeezed the handles. “It’s called a bone nipper. Now, would you—?”

  The tent flap opened, and Private Lambert nearly fell inside. “Captain Buckley? Sir? We have a problem.”

  Captain Buckley didn’t turn around. “What is it?”

  “The w—” His eyes met mine and he stopped. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know she’d be—”

  “What is it?” I struggled to sit up, but Buckley tightened his grip on my hand, and the resulting pain stole the very breath from me. I was working up the strength to scream when I heard his voice.

  Even in my fevered, drugged state, I knew it. I’d heard this voice every day of my life for the past seven years, save for the one summer we spent apart. The summer that ruined everything. I was fifteen years old the first time he ever said my name, and I could hear him say it now.

  “Camilla.”

  Only it wasn’t the soft, breathless, love-struck sound it had been all those years ago. No, this was angry. Accusing.

  “Camillaaaaaaaa!” Calling for me.

  And then, an answer to him. “She isn’t here, sir.” I knew that voice, too, though I hadn’t heard it but once in my life, and that days and days ago.

  “You cannot keep my wife from me.”

  Nathan.

  “Na—”

  A cool, small hand clamped itself over my mouth before I could make another sound.

  “I will search every one of these tents if I have to.” My husband, the man I’d pledged my life to. He was here. Home was here. I strained to turn my head beneath the surprisingly strong grip of such a minuscule man.

  “Private Lambert,” Buckley said calmly, much too calmly given the scene, “it appears I need to perform a second surgery on Mrs. Fox. Will you prepare the anesthesia?”

  “Yes, sir.” Private Lambert could no longer look me in the eye.

  “You would do well to remember, sir,” Colonel Brandon was saying on the other side of the canvas, “that you are on military property. We are in a hostile situation, and I don’t want to treat you like an enemy combatant.”

  “Nathan!” But my plea went no farther than the soft, white palm against my lips.

  “Listen, Captain—”

  “Colonel.”

 
“—Colonel Brandon, is it? There’s no need to create hostility where none exists.” That was my Nathan, his voice as slick with honeyed peace as I’d ever heard. “I’m simply a man looking for his wife.”

  “Who isn’t here.”

  “Seven drops,” Buckley said.

  No! My silent scream.

  “If that’s the case,” my ever-charming husband was saying, “then you have no reason not to let me look around.”

  “Given what your people did at Fort Bridger, you’re lucky you haven’t been taken prisoner on the spot. Now, I suggest you leave, Mr. Fox.”

  For a split second, the hand was ripped away, but I had only time to squeak out, “Na—” before the familiar square of white cloth was clapped over my mouth and nose.

  “I’ll be back.” I pictured his eyes, narrowed the way they did when he had that crescent-moon grin—the one that started at the middle of his mouth and curled up to one ear. The one he gave when he wanted you to think you’d won.

  “Come ready to defend yourself.”

  I locked eyes with Captain Buckley, holding my breath until the pain in my head threatened to split my skull and I exhaled against the cloth.

  Then inhaled.

  Then, black.

  * * *

  My stomach roiled; bile filled my mouth. In an instinctive panic I rolled to hang my head over the side of the cot, but that put weight on my left arm, and the crippling pain of the action sent me flat on my back, gagging.

  “Here, now.” Captain Buckley’s voice came through the darkness and I felt myself being raised to sit up. A cool, smooth surface grazed my chin.

  My heaves produced little, as I’d had nothing more than water and broth for days, but my stomach fought valiantly to expel even this meager content.

  “It happens sometimes with chloroform,” Captain Buckley said.

  My throat raw from effort, my body came to a shuddering rest, and I relaxed against him. He slowly lowered me to be propped up by a bedroll and blankets, and I willed myself to die. But I had a final request.

  “I want to see my husband.”

  “I can’t help you there.”

  “He was here. I heard him. Right before—” My stomach cramped again, and my entire body responded.

  “You see? You’re in no shape to see anyone.”

  There was one man to whom we all answered, though, and as I found myself once again at rest, I risked saying only two words.

  “Colonel Brandon?”

  “Hm.” Buckley seemed to be waiting for me to settle; then, without a word, he left. My hope that he would return with the colonel was short-lived because in an instant he returned carrying a tin cup filled past its rim with snow.

  “This is fresh. Clean. Sent down from the heavens just a few hours ago.” He produced a spoon, scooped it full, and held it against my lips. “Don’t need to swallow. Just let it melt against your lips.”

  I took a measure of comfort at the coolness of the snow. It was, after all, the first contact I’d had with the world outside this tent in so many days. I savored it, fresh against my lips, and felt my entire body succumb to its nourishment.

  “Better?”

  I nodded.

  “I know you are probably in a great deal of pain right now. But we need to wait until it’s safe to give you anything more. Do you understand?”

  I nodded again and looked at the cup in a silent request for more snow. He complied.

  “As for Colonel Brandon—” his narrow eyes remained focused on my mouth—“you’ll be happy to know that he is just as anxious to see you. He’s waiting only on my word that you are up to the meeting. You need to be strong. We don’t want him to think you’re not up to travel, now, do we?”

  I shook my head, fighting to keep my breath steady, my stomach still. Captain Buckley wiped away the melted snow that dribbled down my chin.

  “Very well, then.” He set the cup squarely by my side and went to the tent flap, opening it but an inch to say, “Fetch the colonel.” A long, lanky shadow moved to obey. Private Lambert, no doubt.

  “I know you are in pain,” he repeated upon his return. And I was, so much so that the throbbing of it rang in my ears, making his voice seem very far away. “You mustn’t let on to Colonel Brandon just how much. Do you understand? He needs to think you are much stronger than you are, for all our sakes. Otherwise, he won’t move the camp, and we’ll all be stuck here like open targets in the snow. Can you manage?”

  I nodded, saving my strength to speak my mind later.

  “Good girl. You just let me speak for you.”

  At that moment, Colonel Brandon stooped to Captain Buckley’s stature and came through a bright gash of sunlight. He removed his hat and held it to his chest, saying, “Mrs. Fox,” in a greeting fit for the queen’s parlor. I attempted to return his salutation, but Buckley’s steadying hand on my shoulder gave me permission to remain quiet.

  “How is she?” Colonel Brandon asked as if I’d suddenly disappeared.

  “Weak,” Buckley said. “Extremely so, I’m afraid.”

  “And the, uh . . .” I couldn’t be certain whether he himself was aware of wiggling his fingers.

  “You’re no stranger to such surgery. You know it’ll be a week at least before we’ll know the extent of her recovery.”

  Brandon lowered his voice. “We don’t have a week. Can she be moved?”

  “With great care, I believe so, sir. In fact, the fresh air might do her a world of good. I assume more suitable quarters have been arranged?”

  I followed their conversation, my eyes darting from one to the other, full of unanswered questions, but something told me the less I spoke, the more I’d learn.

  “Two buildings left intact,” Colonel Brandon said, frustrated. “Well, one in good shape and half of another.” For the first time since saying my name, Colonel Brandon focused his attention on me and went to his knees at my bedside. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Fox? Be truthful with me.”

  “I—” I swallowed and tried again. “Is my husband here?”

  “Your husband? No.”

  “He was. I heard him.”

  “I’ve tried to tell her,” Captain Buckley piped up from behind. “The medicine and the cold, it can all play tricks on the mind.”

  I scowled over Colonel Brandon’s shoulder. He’d said no such thing, but there was a particular purse to the doctor’s lips that warned me to keep silent.

  “The situation is very complicated right now,” the colonel said, calling my attention back to him. “And very dangerous. I have to do what I think is best for you and, equally important, what is best for my men.”

  “What could it matter—?”

  “I’m not in the habit of planning military strategy with women.”

  “I want to go home, to my husband. Before there’s any real trouble.”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  No softening of his eyes. No sympathy. No promise.

  My heart began to race, and with its fury, the pounding in my head increased, bringing with each beat the intense, throbbing pain. “Am I a prisoner, then?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “More like property,” Captain Buckley interjected, to the colonel’s disdain.

  I closed my eyes while the remnants of fresh snow turned bitter to my taste. “I don’t understand.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Mrs. Fox, I don’t know that I fully understand either.”

  He stood then, clapped a gentle hand on Buckley’s shoulder, and ushered the doctor outside for a moment, leaving me alone with my fear.

  Father God, this is my deliverance? To be maimed and imprisoned? I will trust you, as I have no choice. But please, Lord, be not far from me.

  Moments later Captain Buckley reappeared and went immediately to his bag and retrieved the small vial of black liquid.

  I turned away. “No.” While the pain might have been close to unbearable, I did appreciate the clear head. I needed to think. To understand. To pray
and listen for the Holy Spirit’s comfort. Guidance. “You said I had to wait. That it wasn’t safe.”

  “Those were my orders, yes, but unfortunately your physician is outranked.” He caught my chin in his hand and forced me toward him. “Now open.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Please, Mrs. Fox.” He wedged his finger between my lips, and seizing the opportunity, I bit down. Hard. Hard enough to feel his delicate bone between my teeth. He yelped and I released my grip, only to feel the sting of his slap against my face. As shocking as that was, it came as a welcome distraction from my ever-throbbing hand.

  “Give me a wounded soldier any day,” Buckley muttered, shaking his hand. “They understand the perils of war.”

  With that, he grasped the bundle wrapped to my wrist, and while at first his grip meant nothing, given the padding of gauze and bandages, soon the pressure eked its way through, and what had been a constant, familiar pulsation now became a silent, tangible scream as he pressed and pressed upon the wound. I fought not to cry out. Clenched my jaw, bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. I arched my back in protest, thrashed my head, but soon it all rose within me, and the tiniest pressure of his thumb made its way to the place where I’d once worn my wedding band.

  I screamed, calling out, “Nathan!” And when I opened my mouth to call his name again, the bitter, familiar black drops landed on my tongue, to be chased away with pure white snow.

  Chapter 4

  I recognized the sound of heavy sleds scraping over the snow and the muffled clomp of hooves. The gentle jostling woke me—the opposite effect of being rocked to sleep. The sweet, clean, cold smell of snow pierced my lungs, such a refreshing change from that of the ever-burning fire. I opened my eyes and saw peach-colored canvas stretched above me. On the other side of it was the sun.

  From what I could tell, I was lying atop a pile of skins—most likely buffalo—with my arms folded across my chest. My left hand throbbed mercilessly, but there was nothing I could do to alleviate my discomfort. I was wrapped—swaddled, really—in several wool blankets, cocooned like an Indian baby on its mother’s back. However, I was alone. I craned my neck, twisting it in hopes of getting a glimpse through the front opening to see who was driving. Remembering the conversation between Colonel Brandon and Nathan, I almost hoped it was my husband taking me home, even if I felt like some trussed-up prey. At least I would see my girls.