Fort Douglas

By Nancy Foshee

Utahans had been denied statehood for more than forty years, primarily because of the states connection to polygamy. Then in 1890, the Mormon Church published the Woodruff Manifesto ending plural marriages, and the promise of statehood was granted. Many Mormon husbands either kept their multiple wives or provided separate accommodations for them and their children. But some sent their wives away expecting them to fend for themselves. As a result, many formerly married Mormon women in Salt Lake City had to work as prostitutes in the brothels.

It is in this volatile community that Abigail Randolph finds herself at the beginning of Fort Douglas. Raised in Kentucky on her grandparents horse farm and educated at Smith College, Abigail Randolph had rarely seen her father who was now a colonel in the army. Then in 1895, he invites her to visit Fort Douglas where he is the commanding officer. With conflicting emotions about her father, she sets out from Boston to help regain womens suffrage in Utah, but her goals change after she discovers the tragic result of the end of polygamy there.
She is met at the train station by her fathers adjutant, Captain Garrett Talbot. Willing to help his commanding officer, the Captain realizes that the Colonels daughter is going to be trouble for both of them. Her independent nature clashes with the captains adherence to military protocol. Abbys insistence on helping Mormon women places her own life in danger and jeopardizes her fragile relationship with her father. As a result, the romance that develops between Abby and Garrett is nearly destroyed by the secrets she keeps.
Then when an acquaintance of hers is killed and Abbys friends husband is arrested, both she and Garrett must work together to reveal the actual murderer. Ironically, it is this turmoil that brings the two lovers back into each others arms and finally secures Abbys relationship with her father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477279700

Book preview

Prologue

Salt Lake City, August 13, 1895

Move! Let me through! she exclaimed, pushing her way through the crowd in the hallway outside Rebekah’s bedchamber. Please! I must see her."

The mob of scantily clad women reluctantly stood aside and allowed her to squeeze into the darkened room. On the bed lay the lifeless body of her friend Rebekah, once a vibrant young woman with curly blond hair and an angelic expression. Now her face was gaunt and gray; her hair stringy and matted. She wore a tattered dress that appeared to be three sizes too big. Her eyes were closed, her jaw slack.

Rebekah, Rebekah, her friend spoke urgently into the young woman’s ear, stroking her cheeks. She called frantically over her shoulder. Call a doctor, she demanded. Someone please get help now!

Won’t do no good, announced a large, older woman standing near the headboard at Rebekah’s bedside. She’s dead.

How do you know? She could just be unconscious, cried her friend. Turning back to Rebekah, she shook her shoulders, but there was no response. The older woman placed a hand on the distraught woman’s shoulder.

We thought she was just ill because of her flow, one of the women in the hallway said. We had no idea she wasn’t eating.

Starved herself to death, said another woman. A shame. Like she didn’t care to live no more. There were murmurs and nods among the women in the hallway.

No need for a doctor now, the big woman said. Besides, he’d only call the health inspector, who’ll shut us down for a month until I can afford to pay another bribe. She turned to one of the women and ordered, Go fetch Officer Dandridge, and be quick about it. He’ll know how to handle this quietly so’s we don’t have to close our doors to the payin’ public.

I should have checked on you more often, the friend whispered as she stroked the girl’s ashen arm. I knew how sad you were, grieving ever since you had to leave your little boys. This is all my fault.

Don’t blame yourself, the older woman cautioned, standing behind her. Twern’t your fault. I knew when the two of you came here, she was just too soft to make a go of this for long.

The friend turned toward the older woman with shimmering eyes, her words spoken in a low, angry voice, I told you to let her be the housekeeper. She didn’t need to end up like this!

The large woman stepped back, hands on hips, her lips pressed firmly together. I’ll let that backtalk go just this once, missy, she said, on account of you losin’ your friend. But like I told you then, I didn’t need no housekeeper and still don’t. You two were desperate when you came to me. You hadn’t eaten in no tellin’ when. I told you this ain’t no charity. You can have a room to sleep in and food to eat long’s you earn your keep, same as everyone else, and that’s a fact.

The friend’s tears now streamed down her face. She nodded slowly and looked at the floor. Still, I can’t help but think I could’ve done something more.

Well, can’t say as I’m happy about losin’ her either. She was the sweet, pretty thing that all those young plough boys asked for. Don’t know who I’m gonna recommend now.

Rebekah’s friend continued to weep softly.

The older woman patted her shoulder again. Nothing we can do now, dearie. She’s gone for good. Like I said, she was just too soft for this business. Not like you. You’re strong, maybe because you’re angry. There’s a fire in you that makes you tough—tough enough to survive. She didn’t have that, I’m afraid.

The friend nodded and dabbed her eyes with a dirty, crumpled handkerchief. She said, I’ve got a little money put aside. I can pay for her to be buried proper.

There was a long silence as the big woman stared down at her. Are you daft, dearie? How you gonna do that? No God-fearing folks are gonna allow the likes of her to be laid alongside their family members!

But she was raised in a good Mormon family. She followed the teachings of the prophet her whole life.

Yeah, but that was then. Ain’t no Mormon cemetery gonna be open for her now.

But what about her two little boys? They’ve got a right to know where their mother’s buried, the friend cried.

The older woman cocked her head and squinted. You’d be doin’ them a kindness never to speak of this. Would you want them to grow up knowing what she was doin’ afore she died?

The friend turned back to stare at the tragic figure lying on the bed. She spoke softly. Oh, Rebekah, dear Rebekah, how did we get here? She bent forward to brush a strand of hair from the dead girl’s forehead and continued in a whisper. It was only a year ago, we were married women, keeping house, working together, caring for all the children. How could our world have shattered so completely that we found ourselves with nowhere to go but a brothel on Franklin Street?

The women had all fallen quiet, some dabbing at their eyes or brushing tears from their cheeks. The friend sat up and straightened her shoulders, then turned to the older woman and cleared her throat. So what’s to become of her? she asked.

Potter’s Field is our only option, dearie.

Rebekah’s friend gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. But that’s for criminals and non-whites! she said, tears again filling her eyes.

And for those of us not as good as the rest, the older woman responded tersely. Her large hand now grasped the friend’s shoulder, urging her to stand. C’mon now, dearie. Nothing more to do in here. It’s Friday, and your reg’lars will be comin’ soon. Tain’t no man wants to see a woman who’s been cryin’ all day. Go fix your face and get your mind on bus’ness. You’ve got a job to do. Like I said, this ain’t no charity.

She stood obediently. As she trudged down the stairs, a heavy-set police officer strode by her without acknowledging the broken-hearted woman who passed him.

Chapter 1

Salt Lake City, Utah, August 15, 1895

Abigail Randolph stood among her luggage in the Salt Lake City train depot, alone in a crowd of strangers. Her handbag, parasol, and traveling case at her side, she nervously fingered the locket hanging on a silver chain around her neck. It had been her mother’s, and it always helped to inspire courage in her. She knew she would need all the courage she could muster today.

The cavernous hall of the train station in mid-August smelled of perspiration and stale cigar smoke. An infant’s wailing reverberated across the expansive ceiling. The bustle of travelers in the huge space created a loud, persistent hum. Voices called and greeted one another; feet constantly shuffled, moving through the station to and from the platforms. People scurried about like so many insects around Abigail while she remained still, watching. Surely he hadn’t forgotten she was arriving today. She sighed and crossed her arms above her slender waist, one foot tapping impatiently on the solid oak floor.

Sir, can you tell me how to get to Fort Douglas? she asked a man who passed near her.

The man stopped briefly, scowled, and almost shouted back at her. Fort Douglas? You gentiles have ruined everything. Go back to your own kind, miss. We don’t need you here. He turned and marched away with a woman and several children.

Shocked by the man’s attitude, Abigail watched as the family group hastened toward the platforms. What did he mean?

She straightened her gray tweed suit jacket and brushed some dust from the long navy skirt she’d chosen for this last leg of her journey, then continued to examine the crowd. She was little used to waiting for someone else to do something. Both her upbringing and her education drove her to be actively involved in her environment, usually looking for ways to help others. Grammy had said that praying for someone wasn’t enough if there was something specific you could do to ease their suffering. It was the main reason Abigail was here in Salt Lake City.

Searching for a uniform among the mass of strangers in the depot, she realized how rarely in her life she’d viewed her father’s military status in a positive light—at least today his uniform might make him easier to spot in this throng. A flash of deep blue caught the corner of her eye, and she turned to see a man much younger than her father standing before her in a neatly pressed army uniform.

He removed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed his head briefly toward her, revealing sandy-colored hair, neatly barbered. Miss Randolph? he asked loudly, trying to be heard above the noise.

She nodded politely in response and watched expectantly behind the tall soldier, but no one else appeared to be with him. She frowned as she looked back at the stranger.

Where’s my father? she asked.

He cleared his throat and moved a step closer, his body stiffly erect, as though standing at attention. I’m Captain Garrett Jackson Talbot, Miss Randolph. Your father asked me to meet you here and drive you back to the fort. The noise all but muffled the soldier’s voice. He reached for her traveling case.

Irritation began to grow in her chest. Why did he not come himself? she asked.

Colonel Randolph had a meeting with the mayor and chief of police he couldn’t miss. He sent me instead. I’m a little late, I know. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you, ma’am.

Abigail was surprised to be feeling disappointment. After all, her father had been absent from her life for most of her twenty-one years. She was very used to his being elsewhere. Determinedly, she took a deep breath and blinked hard, then picked up her handbag and parasol. She felt foolish to have expected him to meet her in person, just because she was here at his invitation. He was obviously an important and busy man who couldn’t be bothered. Fine, she thought. Her rehearsed, polite greetings for the man wouldn’t be needed just yet. She reminded herself sternly of her more compelling reasons for coming to Fort Douglas.

The captain picked up the remaining satchel beside her and ushered her toward the front entrance as he gestured to a Negro porter. This way, ma’am. The wagon is just outside, he said, walking toward the door.

She quickly followed the soldier. Behind her, the porter pushed a cart with her trunks. She watched while the two men worked to put her traveling cases aboard the wagon. The soldier climbed up to the wooden bed and lifted the first trunk while the porter guided it up to him. Together, the two men managed to secure both of her trunks. After they finished, the soldier jumped down and latched the back of the wagon. He thanked the colored man, shook his hand, and gave him some coins.

Watching this exchange amazed her. Back East, most coloreds were looked upon as second-class citizens. But here, this porter had been treated as an equal, at least by this captain. For the first time since arriving this morning, Abigail smiled.

The captain turned to her. Ma’am, let me help you up, he said, his hand out.

She shook her head. I think I can do that myself, she responded. But thank you for offering. She edged her skirt up slightly, put her foot on the metal step, found a handhold to pull on, and climbed up onto the wagon. Once there, she straightened her suit jacket and skirt, brushed a curl of copper-colored hair back under her bonnet, and situated herself primly on the wagon’s wooden bench.

I am quite accustomed to this type of transportation, Captain. I spent most of my life on a Kentucky horse farm.

Yes ma’am, so I’ve heard.

Abigail felt the kernel of irritation nag at her again. So he’s heard? The captain handed up her parasol, then walked around to the other side, climbed up and took the reins.

Ready? he asked.

Certainly, she replied. Where is Fort Douglas?

Without glancing in her direction, he pointed off to his left. Up there on the Wasatch foothills, about six or seven miles from here. With any luck, we’ll be there in about an hour.

He snapped the reins smartly, and the horses bolted forward, jostling Abigail suddenly from her seat. She reached out blindly for anything to hold onto, inadvertently grabbing the captain’s arm as she sat down hard on the wagon’s wooden bed.

Whoa! Whoa! he called to the horses, her grip on his arm yanking him sideways. He retained control of the reins, pulling back on them until the wagon halted.

Quickly releasing his arm, Abigail shot him a hard look, sure that he would be laughing at her awkward spill. Instead, she caught his look of concern as he hurriedly wrapped the reins around the brake lever.

So sorry, ma’am, he said contritely. Here, let me help you. He gently assisted Abigail back up onto the seat. I’ve never used this old freight wagon before, but Roger said it was the only vehicle we had that could accommodate all your luggage. I promise I’ll be more careful. Are you all right?

Abigail felt her face grow hot and knew it must be bright red. She took a deep breath and brushed at her skirt nervously.

I’m fine, she said. She gripped the bench with both hands. Go ahead, Captain, she said, facing straight ahead.

After an unsure pause, he shook the reins lightly. The wagon again lurched forward, then began to lumber steadily down the dirt street. She glanced over at the captain. Was he enjoying her struggle to remain erect? No real gentleman would find her predicament amusing, but she wouldn’t be terribly surprised if he did. Military men were all alike—focused on themselves, leaving their families behind while they chased after God knows what.

You might want to use that, Miss Randolph, he said, pointing to her parasol. The August sun can really bake a person this time of year.

She nodded curtly, still clutching the bench. As they moved slowly through the streets, neither spoke. Abigail looked around and began to relax. Within a few minutes, she was indeed becoming quite warm in the bright sunshine. A few moments later, she took his suggestion, and the shade beneath her parasol gave her instant relief. She realized she was embarrassed by her mood and tried to think of something to say.

What did you say your name was again? I’m afraid I didn’t hear it in the confusion.

Captain Garrett Talbot, ma’am.

So, Captain Talbot, do you fight Indians or cattle rustlers out here? she asked, turning to catch his response.

He laughed and shook his head. No, ma’am. I’m legal counsel for your father.

A lawyer? she asked, surprised to learn he was educated.

Yes, ma’am, though I mostly just advise your father on army contracts and a few other legal matters.

Well, Captain Talbot, just what has my father told you about me?

He shrugged his shoulders, never taking his eyes off the horses. Just a little. You’ve been living back East, you’ve finished Smith College in Boston, and you’ve come to stay here awhile, ma’am.

Is that all, Captain?

Pretty much. Of course, I can tell you’re not originally from Boston. Your accent is definitely Southern.

Abigail knew she was blushing again at his remarks, but she began to relax with this soldier who was simply doing a favor for her father. As she surveyed her surroundings, she couldn’t help but be impressed by downtown Salt Lake City. She hadn’t expected it to be so modern looking. There were several tall buildings like those in Boston and New York. Though the streets were not yet paved, it was evident they were being maintained and kept swept of debris, especially near the impressive, cathedral-like structure.

Is that the Mormon Temple? she asked, pointing.

Yes, ma’am, he replied matter-of-factly.

Abigail marveled at the sight of the Mormon sanctuary, positioned strategically in the center of the town. She’d heard about it, but it exceeded her expectations in grandeur.

This street is South Temple, and over there is Temple Square, he continued as he motioned. The smaller building is the Mormons’ original meeting place. I guess they’re keeping it for general meeting purposes. Only Mormons are allowed into the new temple. They completed it just two years ago in ‘93, and last year they added the solid bronze angel on the top of it up there, he said, pointing up to the spire.

Abigail gazed at the magnificent building. It was awe-inspiring, to be sure.

The captain guided the wagon easily to the right as he continued to describe other sites for her. This is Main Street. See, they’ve got electric street cars running up and down the business district to Temple Square. There’s even a stop up at the fort.

He gestured toward the left, explaining, This end of the street is Mormon-owned businesses. We don’t shop down here.

Why not, Captain?

Don’t question the Colonel’s orders, ma’am. He doesn’t want us to spend any time or money in Mormon businesses, if we can manage it. It’s just better that way.

She turned toward him, her eyebrows furrowed. Have you ever been around Mormons, Captain?

No, ma’am. I follow orders. Everyone at Fort Douglas does.

Abigail frowned. Well, Captain, I’m not in the army, she replied. Under her breath, she added, I won’t be following anybody’s orders.

Captain Talbot continued to drive the wagon down the noisy street. He pointed toward another row of shops. South of here are non-Mormon businesses where most of us go shopping when we come to town. The Colonel will probably tell you himself he’d rather you stay on this side of the business district.

She raised her eyebrows sharply and started to speak, but quickly checked herself. Any such suggestion by her father would certainly require addressing, she decided, but not here. As long as she didn’t hear it from her father directly, she wouldn’t be defying him with her actions, she rationalized. Best not say anything.

They traveled for a time in silence. Beneath the shade of her parasol, Abigail became curious about this man her father had sent in his place. She slid her eyes to the left to make as covert an appraisal as possible. His gray-blue eyes were intent on the road, only occasionally looking up in the direction of the sights he explained. She guessed him to be near thirty years old. He was an attractive man, clean-shaven so that his square chin and strong cheekbones were visible, the effect softened somewhat by the hint of a dimple in his cheek. Beneath his snug shirt sleeve, she could detect his muscles contracting with each move of the reins. He was certainly in control of himself and the animals. Maybe too controlled, she thought. He follows orders, she reminded herself.

As he turned the wagon to the left, Abigail’s eyes were drawn to a giant structure towering over the street. It was an imposing building in the center of what looked like a park. What’s that? she asked.

That’s the Salt Lake City and County Building. Just finished it last year. Inside are modern courtrooms, offices for judges and lawyers, and executive headquarters for the police, as well as a new jailhouse. Had a little trouble getting it done because of the problems with money nowadays. But it got done. They dedicated the finished building last December.

She nodded again. The entire country had been experiencing economic difficulties. Back East, some banks and several railroads had closed. Factory workers had lost jobs due to reduced demand for some products. But she hadn’t realized that areas as far west as the Utah Territory were affected.

Abigail had been traveling for nearly two weeks now. Her body was aching and stiff from sitting in cramped places for long periods of time, and riding in this old freight wagon only intensified her discomfort. She was ready for this journey to be at an end. She had yet to see her father, and she was still unsure what she was going to say when she did. She stared vacantly off in the distance, rehearsing words and actions that would be appropriate.

Despite her fatigue, a sense of excitement began to grow in her mind. Because it was a Western town, she’d not been expecting the municipal development here. The modern structures surprised her. She smiled as she considered the possibility of making a difference here in Salt Lake City. At least, that was her intention.

She glanced again at her handsome companion, whose bronzed hands continued to control the pace of the horses. Mother fell in love with just this sort of man, and look what it got her, she thought. She reached up to touch her locket briefly.

Soon they were passing groves of orchard trees and small farms rich with grain waving in the breeze. The Mormons had truly made an oasis of what must have originally been high desert country.

Why doesn’t my father want you to talk with Mormons, Captain?

They’re not particularly fond of us, ma’am. Been that way ever since the fort was put here back during the war.

Why was a fort put here then?

It’s common knowledge that Lincoln was concerned the Mormons would involve themselves in the conflict. He sent Colonel Connor out here to keep an eye on them. Must have worked, because they never even considered joining the Confederates.

Aren’t you the least bit curious about them?

He shook his head. Not really, ma’am. Their religion is their business. Constitution guarantees them the freedom of religion. They have the right to worship as they please.

Abigail frowned. She sensed an air of superiority in his remarks. Was it something in his voice, or had she only imagined it? She started to object when all of a sudden, the wagon jerked to a complete stop as a faded black hearse pulled across the road in front of them. It was followed by an open wagon with several women dressed in dark clothing. Abigail strained to see that most of them appeared to be in mourning for whoever had preceded them in the road. She glanced around looking for the cemetery, but there didn’t seem to be one nearby.

Where are they going? she asked, turning toward her companion.

His head hung low. He rubbed his forehead methodically before answering. Out this way, there’s only one place—Potter’s Field. Poor souls.

Even from Boston, Abigail understood what that meant. Sadness overwhelmed her. She stared off in the distance and followed the funeral dirge until they became a black spot on the horizon. Whatever had befallen those people, only God could help now. Suddenly her petty disagreement with her companion disappeared into oblivion. Shaking her head from the nightmarish reverie, she turned to look straight ahead in the direction of the fort, and they traveled the next few miles in silence.

As they rounded a curve, Abigail could see the gates of the post located just up a steep hill rimmed by dark gray mountains. Soldiers stood atop the stockade, apparently on guard. Realizing quickly that she would need both her hands again, she closed her parasol. She grabbed the edge of the wagon seat to keep from being dislodged as the road inclined sharply up to the gate. As she struggled to remain erect, the wind caught the stiff brim on her bonnet, turning it to an odd angle and rearranging her hair. Still focused on bracing herself in the wagon, she snatched her hat off her head with one hand while holding on to her seat with the other.

Up ahead, the road flattened out where two uniformed men stood beside a large residence on the post. Even from this distance, she recognized her father’s tall figure and strong shoulders. As they neared, she noticed his always immaculately groomed beard, its color gone salt-and-pepper since she’d last seen him. Unbidden anxiety made her suddenly queasy. She sat taller in the wagon and prepared to come face to face with her father after so many years apart.

***

Captain Garrett Talbot pulled the old freight wagon to a stop in front of the residence where the Colonel waited with another soldier at his side. After securing the reins, Garrett turned toward Abigail. She had readjusted herself after having nearly fallen again on the ride up the hill and now fussed with her hat, trying to put her bright auburn hair back in place. Several strands had escaped from beneath her bonnet. She didn’t seem pleased with the effect, although he had to admit to himself, the picture was quite charming. Even having seen her photograph in the Colonel’s office, he hadn’t been prepared for her to be so pretty.

He eased around her and jumped down effortlessly before turning to assist his passenger. She tentatively took his hand as he guided her. He reached up and placed his hands securely at her waist, but as he set her gently down on the ground, she stumbled forward against him. Her hair was fragrant with the scent of lavender. For an instant, the warmth of her slender body against his took his breath away. But even this incidental physical contact was improper. They both quickly stepped back. Abigail straightened her suit jacket while Garrett quickly moved aside to allow the Colonel to greet his daughter.

There you are! I hope you had a pleasant trip, Abby, the Colonel said as he approached Abigail. I know the trains can be a bit tiresome, but they do make transportation out here easier than the old covered wagons used to be. The Colonel’s voice trailed off suddenly as he reached her, and he took a step back, staring. His eyes glistened.

You look so much like your mother, Abby, he said softly, almost under his breath.

She smiled tentatively, obviously uneasy with the attention. She extended her gloved hand toward him, perhaps to shake his. When he abruptly hugged her, Abigail stood stiffly in his embrace. After an awkward moment, the Colonel stood back and turned toward Garrett.

Captain Talbot is my most trusted officer, Abby. Since I couldn’t get away to meet you, I sent him to drive you here, he explained.

Thank you, Captain, Abigail replied, glancing briefly in his direction.

You’re welcome, ma’am. But please call me Garrett.

She nodded at him, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink, he thought. Her green eyes shone for just a moment before they were obscured by dark, thick lashes. He tried to think of something more to say, but she had turned away. The Colonel was leading her toward the house, so Garrett moved to the back of