Forsaking All Others (8 page)

Chapter 6

I did not see Colonel Brandon for two days after watching him pen the opening of the letter to my parents. I passed the time reading my Bible and, having kept the ink and pen, pestered the soldier posted outside my door for more paper time and time again. Finally Private Lambert knocked softly at the door and, with a covert glance over his shoulder, presented me with a ledger book bound with red cardboard. Several sheets had been ripped from the front of it, leaving me with pages upon pages of empty lines. True, they were divided into columns, but I soon learned to ignore them as I wrote.

At first I returned to my childhood habit of noting a meaningful Bible verse each day, but that was the practice of a girl who struggled to read even one chapter per evening. Now, as I spent hours poring over the Scriptures, it seemed unfathomable to choose one verse, one sentence to carry more meaning than the next. Every word seemed precious, and the more I studied, the more I wondered how anyone could choose the ramblings of a false prophet over these sacred writings.

And so, rather than pick and choose to expound on God’s truths, I set out to write my own story. How I came to meet and love and follow Nathan Fox. How I let the lies of Joseph Smith grow like yeast in my heart and mind, how the death of my child and life with a sister wife brought me back to truth. Exactly who I was writing this for, I didn’t know. Much as I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew there was some chance that my parents would refuse to welcome me back into their home. This, then, would tell my story. Sometimes I feared I might never see my daughters again, and this would tell the story of why and how I left. But I flicked this thought away, quickly and often, like a pesky summer fly. If anything, we would read these pages together. All of us, my daughters on my lap, my father at the table, my mother stirring supper on the stove.

I relived it all as I wrote, remembering those days when my future was as uncertain as it seemed now. Someday I would be somewhere, looking back on this time. I tried to borrow on that future assurance that God was with me, just as I could look to my past and see him guarding my steps, no matter how wayward my path.

Although I couldn’t imagine why anyone would risk reprimand to give me such a treasure, I nonetheless treated it as well-meaning contraband and took pains to have it tucked away under my mattress long before I could expect any of my regular interruptions—mealtime, a stroll to the outhouse, and the like. Therefore, after such a long absence, when Colonel Brandon interrupted my afternoon composition with a harsh pounding at my door, I chose to forgo the usual hiding place and simply stood, slipped the book onto my chair, and sat back down upon it, trying to sound calm and natural as I beckoned him to come in.

His face gave away nothing to enlighten me to his current mood. Instead, expressionless, he strode in and, with no prelude, set a black bottle of ink on the table. “I figured you must be running low by now.”

“Thank you,” I said, offering no explanation of my own.

“You’ve been writing.”

It was impossible for me to tell whether his statement was intended as a question or a reprimand, so I treated it as neither and said nothing. Instead, I sat with my hands folded in my lap in a new fashion I’d adopted meant to conceal the amputation of my fingers.

After a few moments’ pacing he asked, “May I sit?” which he went on to do without awaiting my permission. “I see you presume to return to Iowa.”

“You read my letter.”

“It’s customary for a prisoner’s correspondence to come under a certain scrutiny.”

“You sound as if you disapprove.”

“I’ve been thinking.” He drummed his fingers on the table, and I waited. I’d grown so comfortable with silence. “You said you intend to travel back east in the spring.”

“I hope to, yes. If you’ll allow.”

“And how do you intend to get there?”

“If I remember correctly, I arrived on a horse. I assume she is corralled somewhere, or will I have to charge the United States Army with horse thievery?”

He raised a brow, along with a corner of his moustache. “And what of your daughters?”

I felt myself bristle in defense of my decision. “I can’t stay here—in Deseret, I mean. I need a home to bring my girls to. I need to know that I can have that with my parents, or at least with their help. It seems to me a logical conclusion, Colonel. Hardly worth days of stewing.”

“In fact, Mrs. Fox, I’ve been thinking about my own boy. How he lives day to day unsure of his father’s well-being. He’s cared for and loved, of course, but the uncertainty of his father—well, I know it’s hard. I write as often as I can, but still, he may go years without seeing me and even months without hearing any news. It hardly seems fair to saddle him with so much worry.”

Something flickered within me—a twisting of hope and dread. “So you’re going to tell me to go back to my husband?”

“The idea has crossed my mind. Since you won’t be able to travel until spring. But naturally, it’s up to you.”

“I have a choice?”

“Of course.”

“
Of course?
Two minutes ago I was a prisoner and you were reading my personal letters. Now I’m just, just . . . nothing?”

After initial, unchecked amusement, he settled into a quizzical look. “You have always been here at my discretion, Mrs. Fox. And like any reasonable man, my discretion is rarely absolute.”

“So I’m no longer in danger of being the spark that would ignite a war?” I was being sarcastic now, pouting a little. I must admit to having been somewhat hurt by my diminished importance.

He looked clearly uncomfortable. “It could be that my decision to keep you here was not entirely motivated by military protocol. Call it old-fashioned chivalry, a natural, protective nature. But I realize now my decision is keeping you away from your children. I don’t know if I have the right to do that.”

“I chose to leave them, Colonel Brandon. So I can bring them to a better life.”

“Which you can still do. And I’ll do all I can to help you. But for now—what was your original intent?”

“To stay with family. In Great Salt Lake City, until the spring.”

“Perhaps, then, that would be best after all.”

I thought of Rachel’s home. I’d never felt unwelcome there, and surely if I came to her—wounded and cold—she would willingly give me refuge. Surely her home would be a greater source of creature comfort than this primitive encampment, and Nathan might consider my residence there less of a betrayal than my remaining a willing prisoner of Brigham Young’s enemy. It seemed I had no recourse to argue. Colonel Brandon looked every bit a man settled in his thoughts, and beyond the fact that I’d grown comfortable, I could come up with no compelling reason to stay.

“Well then,” I said, attempting to inject some light into the graying room, “I’ll have to insist that you give me my shoes.”

* * *

I did, in fact, get my shoes back, but days of inactivity had swollen my feet so that tying the laces proved more cumbersome than I could have imagined. I was red-faced with the effort when Private Lambert came to my door.

“Can’t leave today, ma’am. Storm’s on the horizon.”

For two solid days it snowed. Grateful for the reprieve, I tried to gather my thoughts, deciding just what I would say to Rachel and Tillman upon my arrival on their doorstep.

Rachel was more than Nathan’s sister. Though a year younger, she was his fierce protector, and in some ways the bond between them rivaled that between Nathan and me. Both were fiercely protective of each other. It was Nathan who’d joined Joseph Smith’s church first, bringing his beloved sister to join him soon after. He’d arranged a marriage with a strong, prominent man—the imposing Tillman Crane—who’d promptly filled his spacious home with wife after wife. Four, in fact. The rooms teemed with women and children, and here I was set to add myself to the mix.

If they’d have me.

The hospitality of Rachel and Tillman was nothing new for our family. In fact, Nathan had encouraged such visits before, hoping I would see the domestic beauty of plural marriage. The sisterhood. The camaraderie. The preview of heaven on earth. But there was a canyon of difference between being a guest and a refugee. As gracious as he might be to his first wife’s family, Tillman’s loyalty belonged to the church. After all, we had done nothing to line his pockets.

I knew the morning I woke up to sunshine flooding through my tiny window would be my last in this room. Without waiting for confirmation, I broke the thin layer of ice in my washbasin and splashed my face with the frigid water beneath. Nathan had always said this was his favorite part of any day. He never heated his wash water, claiming the chill of it wakened the blood within. I felt my blood awakened that morning, though my hand ached terribly at the base of my missing fingers.

The soldiers had never been able to procure a proper brush, so I did what I could with the small comb that had appeared after days of appeal. Luckily, my hair was thin, straight, and soft—its condition an advantage for the first time in memory. The comb’s small teeth slid through easily from my roots to the ends just past my shoulders. Amanda, my sister wife, had a shining blue-black mane, thick like velvet clear past her waist. In the evenings, my daughters would squabble over the right to brush it. She slept with it plaited in three braids, which she twisted together like a rope, and each morning, nearly half an hour was devoted to its styling.

I wondered what she would choose that morning, though the sun was hardly high enough for her to be out of my husband’s bed.

My own hands could barely manage the simplest twist, secured at the nape of my neck with a few pins. I was thus engaged when Private Lambert’s familiar knock sounded. When I summoned him to come in, he poked his head through and immediately blushed bright pink, as if catching me in some much more intimate act.

“I see you’re ready to go, ma’am.” He kept his eyes trained on my feet, perfectly respectable in their laced-up boots.

“Then we are leaving today?”

“Within the hour, Colonel says, providin’ you’re set.”

My stomach twisted. I was anything but
set
, but God had directed my path this far. I had no reason to believe I shouldn’t follow.

Not long after, I was presented with my coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. Then a new step outside into the unforgiving glare of a clear day, I was presented with another longed-for sight.

Honey. I hadn’t seen her since the day I left home, and if she were any measure as happy to see me as I was to see her, she gave no sign. Her breath steamed in tufts from her nostrils as she stood, ever patient, in the snow. Her coat had grown thicker and her mane had been denied the careful attention that Nathan bestowed, but her eyes were brown and bright. She’d been well fed, I could tell, and seemed quite at ease with the man holding her rein.

“She’s a fine horse.” Colonel Brandon had come up to stand behind me. For the first time in our acquaintance, he was not wearing his familiar blue uniform. In its place were sturdy, plain, brown wool pants tucked into the legs of thick leather boots, with a thick sheepskin coat over all. A black knit cap sat just above his brow.

“Why, Colonel Brandon,” I said, taking in the sight of him, “I would hardly have recognized you.”

“This is not official business,” he said. “More of a civilian errand. And I figure I’ll attract less attention if I’m not parading you through town in all my decorated glory.”

The gathering of men around us laughed, something I couldn’t imagine them doing had he been in full uniform. He held the reins of a prancing white stallion that snorted impatiently, pawing at the patchy snow. Both he and Honey were ready to ride, and while Private Lambert deposited my small bundle of worldly goods into the bags hanging from my saddle, my eyes were drawn to the rifle holstered at Honey’s side.

“I don’t expect you’ll have to use that.” Colonel Brandon read both my mind and my fear. “Most anything that could be dangerous is deep in hibernation right now.”

“You telling me them Mormons hibernate?” The comment, coming from the back of the crowd, spurred on a chorus of resounding laughter that might have given way to a dozen more comic threats if not for the silencing glare of Colonel Brandon. Civilian attire or not, his authority commanded almost immediate silence. He said nothing, though. Nothing in my defense nor in that of the Saints. But he didn’t have to. I knew. Were the need to arise, he would protect me, defend me with his words or his gun. I could only pray for a peaceful passage.

And in his great mercy, God granted it. The sky maintained a gauzy haze, enough to soften the glare of the sun but without the darkness that threatened storm. We were a party of four: myself, Colonel Brandon, and Private Lambert, who had been instructed to change into civilian attire. Apparently his overcoat was either borrowed or came from a time before his final uniform fitting, because the sleeves stopped just shy of his bony wrists, making him look even more the vulnerable youth. Riding ahead was a man they called Coyote Tom—a small, dark Paiute Indian whom Colonel Brandon described as the finest scout he’d ever met. A master at reading the land, Coyote Tom had vision that bored through hills and trees and snow. We followed the tracks left by his sturdy, spotted horse. Keeping a steady pace, barring deep drifts or new snow, our party was due to arrive in Salt Lake City late tomorrow night.

“Would be more comfortable in a sleigh or wagon, I know,” Colonel Brandon spoke over his shoulder, “but harder on the horses. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover. We’ll be pushing our mounts to their limit just to make it in two days.”

“I’m fine.” The scarf, wrapped twice around the lower half of my face, muffled my words, and we continued in purposeful, comfortable silence.

It was one of those winter days when, after days of being cooped up inside, I would have shooed the girls outside to play. Cold, yes, but windless and still. Before long I’d unwrapped my scarf and taken off my hat. The temperature must have climbed up to something close to forty degrees, and we shed our overcoats. Every hour or so, we rested the horses, allowing them to nibble at what exposed grass they could find and lap from puddles of melted snow. For our rest, we walked in slow, stretching circles, chewing strips of salty dried venison. Colonel Brandon had his familiar flask, this time filled with brandy, and he insisted I take one or two sips, just to “keep the blood warm.” From what I could tell, Coyote Tom had nothing to eat or drink all day, and he remained respectfully distant when we stopped to do so.