Fortune's Journey (12 page)

The day seemed to have lost its warmth. She rubbed her hands together nervously. “They fished him out before he could drown. But he caught pneumonia. That was what killed him.” Suddenly Jamie seemed far away, and she was back in the little room where her father lay dying. She could see the weak sunlight filtering through a dirty window, smell again the closed, moist sickroom odor. Mr. Patchett was standing at the foot of the bed. Walter was in the corner, filling it with his presence, staring down at her mournfully as if it were all his fault for not somehow preventing the tragedy.

Her father took her hand. He started to speak, but his voice was weak, and she had to lean close to hear.

“I'm not going to make it, sweetheart.”

Her throat knotted. Unable to speak, she squeezed his fingers tightly. Though she wanted to deny it, she knew he was right.

“Don't give up the dream,” he said fiercely. “Take the troupe to California. Keep them together. Build our theater.” He coughed, his body racked by the spasms. After a moment the spell subsided. “Don't let Plunkett's Players fall apart, Fortune. This journey that we've started on is the right one, darling. Promise me that you will finish it.”

And though the trip had been his dream and not hers, she had bent close, kissed his forehead, and said, “I will.”

“Those were the last words he ever spoke to me,” she whispered. “He died in his sleep that night. I was sitting beside him…but I was asleep, too.”

“Pardon me?” said Jamie.

She shook herself out of her reverie. “Nothing.” She looked toward the hills looming in the distance. “I was talking to myself.”

Chapter Twelve

The journey continued. As they traveled farther west, away from all that Fortune had known, she began to feel both lonely and more free. Though she missed the world she had grown up in, at the same time she—and, she could sense, many other females in the train as well—began to shed some of the strictures that tied women down back East, the things that said, “This a woman must do; this she must not.”

Not that she had paid as much attention to those rules as most women anyway; a life in the theater had already set her on the outskirts of polite society. But on a trip like this, survival came before “must” and “must not,” and she felt the other women in the train begin to accept her and Mrs. Watson in a way she was not used to.

Some days the train made fifteen or twenty miles. Others they spent from sunrise to sunset simply trying to get all the wagons across a river.

Twice they had to cross long stretches that held no water at all. These were dangerous passages, and many of the animals did not survive the second one. Fortune herself was nearly delirious with thirst by the time they reached the shallow river they had been aiming for. They had to filter the dark, muddy water through a cloth before they could drink it. Brown and slightly acrid, it was still the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.

Though their fellow travelers had seemed somewhat wary of the actors when the journey started, shared adversity began to break down those barriers. The troupe made friends with others in the train, Becky Hyatt's family in particular.

Fortune even came to have a grudging respect for Abner Simpson—not only for his knowledge of the trail, but also for his ability to spin out tall tales, a skill that made him in some ways like a one-man theater.

By the time they had crossed the prairie and entered the mountains, two of the women in the wagon train had given birth. Alas, one of the babies had died after less than a day. Its grave joined the hundreds of others that lined the trail, and the parents said nothing more about it.

Some days they had passed as many as fifteen or twenty such graves, most of them marked by simple wooden crosses. The majority of them, according to Mr. Hyatt, were victims of cholera, which occasionally swept through a wagon train with terrible suddenness, wiping out travelers by the dozen.

Fortune heard much talk of the disease—more than she cared to, really—and by the time they came upon a lone child whose family had been cut down by it, she knew that the cholera's onset was swift and vicious; that vomiting and diarrhea robbed the body of fluid, making dehydration a great danger; that of those who contracted it, far more died than recovered.

The child, a little girl of about six, was half dead with weeping herself. She was taken in by the family that had lost their boy in the wagon accident near the beginning of the journey.

Amidst these life-and-death struggles, Fortune sometimes saw her own problems as small indeed. Yet they were vexing still, for she had never been so confused in her life. After his apology for his behavior on the night of the storm, Aaron seemed to relax toward her, acting almost as if he now assumed that they were a couple. This both surprised and distressed her, for she was no longer as certain as she had once been of her own feelings about him.

Yet, as had always been the way with them, they never discussed the matter. Fortune wondered why it was that she could so easily speak other people's lines on the stage, but found it so difficult to say what was in her own heart.

Jamie's presence only complicated things, since she suspected that part of Aaron's new warmth was in response to what he saw as competition. Part of her was amused by this, another part of her was angry. She felt that it should have happened before, without the spur of Jamie's presence.

“Well, you never know what you have until you're in danger of losing it,” explained Mrs. Watson, during one of what had become their daily conversations in the wagon. “Besides, Jamie is only part of the change.”

Some of the cookware rattled as the wagon started up a steep hill, and Mrs. Watson paused to adjust the way she was sitting. “The thing is, Fortune, you've started to blossom—sort of like a caterpillar,” she added, blithely mixing her metaphors.

“What do you mean?”

“Aaron is a very sophisticated young man, chicken. When he first met you, I daresay you were a bit of a tomboy for the likes of him. Certainly you were too young for him.”

Fortune started to protest, but Mrs. Watson spoke on over the girl's words. “When you took over the troupe last December you started to change—to grow up.” She looked at Fortune appraisingly. “By a lucky chance that seems to have coincided with what your body was ready to do.”

Fortune knew this was true. She had been pleasantly aware of how her body was rounding out, the way her breasts had begun to swell, her waist to taper. The problem was she had had so much to do since responsibility for the troupe fell on her shoulders that she had not had time to really understand these changes.

Thinking about that now gave her a sharp pang of longing for her mother. She was about to speak again when the wagon slid to the right. Fortune and Mrs. Watson grabbed at the sides to keep from being thrown to the floor. They could hear Aaron yelling. The wagon rolled forward, and with a jolt they were level again.

“Is that ‘blossoming' so important to a man?” asked Fortune, once they had recovered from being jounced around.

Mrs. Watson laughed. “Let's just say it doesn't hurt, ducky.”

Fortune laughed too. It felt good. The last weeks had been difficult, and there hadn't been enough reason to laugh. In addition to everything else, the constant tension between Jamie and Aaron had begun to fray her nerves.

Yet at the same time she had enjoyed flirting with them, watching the way they reacted to each other, and to her.

She had sensed a feeling of disapproval from Mr. Patchett. But that was only natural. As her father's best friend, he probably wanted her to stay a little girl forever. She had begun to realize that in his heart her father had felt that way.

She didn't really blame him. She figured if she ever had a baby, she would want to keep it with her forever. She wondered if it bothered Mrs. Watson not to have any children.

The next afternoon Fortune was walking beside Mr. Patchett, who was telling her a long story about a time when he was a little boy and had been introduced to Thomas Jefferson. They were nearing the crest of a trail section that led over a low mountain. The trail hugged the side of the mountain as tightly as possible with a drop to the left so severe it was frightening.

“I tell you, Jefferson should have been an actor!” concluded Mr. Patchett triumphantly. “With his height and looks, his command of language, he would have been a real star!”

Fortune was wondering if Mr. Patchett would be insulted if she suggested that what Jefferson had done was probably more important than acting when she heard a shout from Aaron. It was followed by a series of terrified whinnies from the horses. Looking ahead, she saw that the wagon had moved too close to the edge of the trail and one wheel had gone over. Now the whole wagon was tipped precariously over the steep drop.

“Mrs. Watson is in there!” cried Fortune, grabbing Mr. Patchett by the arm.

They ran for the wagon, as did Edmund and Walter, who had been walking behind them. Aaron remained in place, shouting at the horses, trying to get them to pull the wagon back on to the trail.

Stationing themselves at the sides of the wagon, the players tried to roll the rear wheel back up over the edge of the drop. It wouldn't budge. Indeed, the whole wagon seemed to be tipping farther over.

“What's happening?” cried Mrs. Watson, her voice tinged with hysteria. “What is going on out there?”

“We've got a problem with the wagon!” shouted Fortune. “You'd better get out.”

“Oh, Minerva,” moaned Mrs. Watson. Fortune could hear her start to move to the front of the wagon. At the same time Aaron urged the horses into another attempt to pull the wheel back over the lip of the cliff. His efforts only caused the wagon to tip farther sideways. Walter clutched the side of the wagon, roaring at it as if he could keep it on the trail by sheer rage. Mrs. Watson's scream was nearly drowned in a clatter of falling objects.

“Are you all right?” shouted Fortune.

No answer.

“Mrs. Watson, are you all right?”

When there was still no answer Fortune said, “I'm going in after her.”

“You can't do that!” cried Mr. Patchett. He grabbed her arm to hold her back. “Fortune, that wagon could go over at any minute.”

“All the more reason to get Mrs. Watson out now!” snapped Fortune.

The disagreement was interrupted by the arrival of Jamie, who had been riding ahead of the group. He sprang from his saddle and hurried to the wagon. Other travelers were approaching as well, the ones who had been following them on the trail, and Becky Hyatt's father, Frank, who had been traveling just ahead of them.

“Don't look good,” said Mr. Hyatt glumly.

Fortune bit back a sharp comment. “What can we do?” she asked.

Jamie went to the edge of the trail. Dropping to his hands and knees, he studied the terrain. “Nowhere down there for us to stand to try to push it back up. Might be best if we put a man at the head of each horse and try to pull it up slowly.”

As he spoke Aaron tried yet again to get the horses to pull the wagon over the lip of the trail. The only result was that the wagon tipped even farther to its side.

“Stop!” cried Jamie. “You're going to lose it altogether if you're not careful!”

Aaron threw him a black look, but did not try to lash the horses forward again.

“Thing is, it might go over, even if we go slow,” said Mr. Hyatt.

“Chance we have to take,” said Jamie simply. “Though maybe we should try to get as much of our equipment and supplies out as we can.”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” said Mr. Hyatt. “You get messing around in there, and it's apt to go over with you.”

“All right, then we'll lead the horses and take our chances.” He started toward the team.

“Not yet!” cried Fortune. “Mrs. Watson is still in there! I think she's unconscious.”

Jamie's face turned pale. “We have to get her out before we try anything else.” He changed course, starting back toward the wagon.

“What are you going to do?” asked Fortune.

“Go in after her.”

“I think I'd better do it,” said Fortune.

Mr. Patchett looked at her in horror. “Are you out of your mind?”

It was all Fortune could do to keep from stamping her foot in frustration. “Of course not. Are you? What do you think is going to happen when someone goes into that wagon? It's going to tip more, that's what! So who do we send in? The lightest person we have, that's who! Which happens to be me, not this big horse. Sorry, Jamie—you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. But I don't like it much.”

“Well, you don't have much choice. We're not just talking about who takes the risk. We're talking about Mrs. Watson's life. Lighter is safer. I'm it.” She started purposefully toward the wagon.

“Wait!” said Jamie.

“Don't try to stop me!”

“I'm not trying to stop you; I'm trying to get you to do this the smart way. You're right—you should be the one to go in. But what are you going to do once you're inside?”

Fortune paused. She hadn't thought that far ahead.

“Mr. Hyatt, can you get us a rope?” asked Jamie.

“Peter, fetch a rope,” said Mr. Hyatt to his son, who was among the growing crowd watching the situation.

“Now what I suggest is that as many of us as can fit line up along this side of the wagon when Fortune goes in,” said Jamie. “Even if we can't haul it back up on the trail, we might be able to keep it from going over.”

Fortune nodded. Her initial determination had given way to a fearful realization of what she was actually about to do, and she wanted all the help she could get.

When Peter Hyatt returned with the rope, his father tied a loop in the end. “See if you can get your friend into that,” he said, handing the loop to Fortune and keeping the other end of the rope himself. “Then maybe we can haul her out.”