Forsaking All Others (3 page)

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.

“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.