Fortune's Journey (13 page)

Fortune started toward the tottering wagon again.

“You hold on to it, too!” said Jamie. “Aaron, you better climb on down. Maybe you should take the head of the team, try to keep them calm.”

Without speaking, Aaron followed Jamie's suggestion.

Fortune waited until the men had stationed themselves on either side of Walter, who had not let go of the wagon during all this. Jamie nodded to Fortune. “Be careful,” he said solemnly.

The look in his eyes tightened the knot of fear that had begun to grow in her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she began to climb up the side. She went slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements. Careful as she was, the dirt under the rear wheel that was still on the trail gave way a little. The men shouted and tightened their grip on the wagon as it tipped another inch or two to the side.

When Fortune pulled herself up far enough to look inside, her heart sank. Almost everything had slid to the left, with the bulk of it toward the back. No wonder they were having such a hard time holding it, much less getting it back onto the trail.

At first she couldn't see Mrs. Watson at all. Finally she spotted a length of red hair and realized that the woman was half buried under the contents of a trunk that had broken loose.

Clutching the rope, she climbed in.

The wagon shifted again, and she could hear the shouts of the men as they tried to hold it. She slipped and fell sideways, striking her head on a shovel. Blood poured down her face.

Somewhere far away Aaron was cursing. Bracing herself against the side of the wagon, Fortune pulled herself up. For the first time she looked out the back. She had to fight to keep from shouting in terror. Behind them yawned a great void—a drop into sheer emptiness. She had known it was there, of course, but knowing it and facing it as she did now were two different things.

Slowly, carefully, she made her way down toward Mrs. Watson. The wagon shifted and tipped another couple of times as she moved, but only slightly. Even so, Fortune's heart seemed to be trying to pound its way out of her chest.

“Mrs. Watson,” she said, reaching out to take the older woman's arm. “Mrs. Watson, can you hear me?”

Suddenly Mrs. Watson reached up and clutched Fortune's hand with a grip that was like an eagle's talons. “Don't let me fall,” she whispered. “Please don't let me fall, Fortune!”

Fortune put her other hand on Mrs. Watson's hair. “It will be all right,” she replied fiercely. “I'll get us out of here. We're going to California, remember?”

As she spoke, she tried to position herself so that she could get the rope around Mrs. Watson's shoulders. The movement caused the wagon to shudder and tip farther to the side. For a dizzying moment Fortune saw a whirl of clouds and treetops through the opening in the back of the wagon. She was afraid she was going to be sick.

“Fortune, don't move!” shouted Jamie. “We've got to try to brace the wagon so it doesn't slip any more.”

“How long will that take?” she yelled.

“Not long. But you
mustn't
move!”

Fortune set her mind to staying still. It seemed that as soon as Jamie had told her not to move her position became unbearable, as if the very thought of being forced to stay still made her muscles wildly rebellious.

She was surrounded by tools, cans, cookware, and loose clothing. The wound on her head began to throb. The dripping blood forced her to close one eye. Mrs. Watson's hand seemed like an iron claw on her arm.

Fortune heard a jumble of voices outside. The men were arguing, speaking rapidly, their voices colliding so that it was hard to understand them. She heard a new voice and recognized it as that of Abner Simpson. Despite her dislike of the wagon master, she felt better knowing he was there.

“Get a rope here—and another around that wheel,” she heard Simpson order. “You men got those? Good. Now let's try to get those women out!”

“Fortune, have you got that rope around Mrs. Watson?” called Jamie.

“Not yet!”

“Well, go ahead and give it a try.”

Fortune took a deep breath, then bent forward with the rope.

The wagon crashed to its side.

With a cry of terror she saw the wooden frame crack and the cover rip. Their supplies pressed against the opening, tore it wide open, and began to spill into the chasm beyond.

Fortune felt herself sliding toward the opening as well.

Chapter Thirteen

If Fortune hadn't wrapped the rope Mr. Hyatt had given her around her arm, both she and Mrs. Watson would have been lost to the abyss at once. As it was, they were dangling like links at the end of a chain, and Mrs. Watson's life depended on how long they could manage to cling to each other.

Outside they could hear frantic shouts from the men. Below them was the ghastly drop.

“Close your eyes!” ordered Fortune, tightening her grip on Mrs. Watson's arm.

Mrs. Watson groaned, but did as Fortune told her.

Fortune felt as if her arms were being slowly but surely pulled from their sockets. The rope had tightened around her right wrist, cutting off the circulation. Mrs. Watson's full weight dangled from her other hand.

Suddenly the older woman moaned. “I can't do it, Fortune. I can't hold on any longer.”

A surge of fear ripped through Fortune as she felt Mrs. Watson's hand slipping from hers. With the fear came unsuspected strength, and she tightened her own grip as if her hand were made of iron.

“Don't you dare give up,” she ordered sharply. “Don't you dare! I promised my father I would get us to California, and I am, by God, going to do it.
And I am taking you with us!”

“I can't,” sobbed Mrs. Watson. “I can't do it!”

“You have to!” hissed Fortune.

She wanted to scream herself—it felt like she was being ripped in half. But she refused to let go. Closing her eyes, she put herself back in the dingy room where her father had died and whispered over and over, “I promise, Papa. I promise I'll hold the troupe together.”

She was still whispering when a sudden movement made her realize that the wagon was being pulled upward.

A thud, a scraping sound, and they were almost level. She heard the men shouting again. The wagon stopped moving, and she realized that the back wheels had caught on the ledge.

Again the wagon began to rock. A series of short, sharp jolts, and suddenly they were over the top.

Fortune cried out in relief and let go of Mrs. Watson. Her arms were throbbing with pain, yet so stiff she could scarcely move them. A burst of voices signaled Jamie and Walter scrambling into the wagon from the back, while Mr. Patchett, Edmund, and Aaron came in from the front. Their questions—“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”—spilled over one another so rapidly that Fortune could hardly think. But somehow she was on her feet, hugging each of them, even Edmund, in turn.

Each of them but Jamie, who was on his knees beside Mrs. Watson, shaking her gently, trying to bring her out of her stupor.

When she finally opened her eyes, she looked around, blinked in bewilderment, then moaned, “Oh, Minerva.”

Plunkett's Players stood in a forlorn circle looking at the small pile of supplies on the ground. It was a dismal picture, and no doubt about it. Most of what they owned had disappeared in the gorge where they had nearly lost Fortune and Mrs. Watson as well. Tools, food, the few properties and costumes that had survived the fire in Busted Heights—all were now scattered at the bottom of the cliff.

“So much for Jamie's great bargains,” said Aaron sardonically. “What a waste of money that turned out to be.”

Jamie flushed. Fortune was almost angry with him for not lashing back. To her surprise, she did it for him, snapping, “If you had been driving more carefully, it wouldn't have happened to begin with!”

It was Aaron's turn to flush. If anyone had suspected that the accident was mere carelessness on his part, the question had been resolved when the wagon was finally safe and they had peered into the abyss where it had nearly disappeared. At the bottom could be seen the wreckage of two other wagons.

Even so, Aaron had been extremely harsh on himself about the mishap, and Fortune would have given a lot to take back her sharp words.

“Fault is not the issue,” said Mr. Patchett, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “The issue is, what are we going to do now?”

“Why not do what you do best?” suggested Jamie.

Fortune looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Put on a show.”

“This is hardly the place for theatrics,” said Mr. Patchett, glancing around at the circle of wagons.

Fortune followed his gaze. Her proud heart, ill at ease with accepting help from anyone, was troubled by the knowledge that they would never have made it without the help of the others. That help had continued even after the wagon had been pulled back from the brink of disaster, when Frank Hyatt and some other men had temporarily repaired the damages so the troupe could keep up with the wagon train until nightfall. Whatever problems they still faced, she did not want to ask for any more help. Whatever they needed now, they had to earn.

Walter's voice brought her back to the present. “I think the boy's got a point!”

“Minerva, yes!” cried Mrs. Watson, a look of excitement flashing in her eyes. “I was getting rusty anyway!”

“But we lost most of our props and costumes—”

“What difference does that make?” asked Edmund, to the surprise of nearly everyone. “These people won't care. They want entertainment, not perfection.”

“That's exactly the point,” said Jamie. “They'd love to see a show…any show. And we won't charge money. We'll take things in trade: food, clothing, tools—whatever someone can spare.”

The group was beginning to get caught up in the idea. Suddenly Fortune felt herself excited by it, too.
I've missed it,
she thought in surprise.
I've actually missed acting!

They began to prepare for the evening meal—largely a matter of gathering fuel, starting a fire, and letting Jamie cook. During it all they continued chattering about the idea. Excitement was taking hold of them, a sense that maybe a show really was the answer to their problems. Somehow, before the meal was over, it was no longer a question of if they should do it, but of when and how.

Mr. Patchett began to wax nostalgic. “I do miss the shows we used to do.”

“You mean back when we were trying to be good?” asked Walter. Fortune was surprised by the bitter tone in the question.

“What was your best show?” asked Jamie quickly.

“Hamlet,
” said the three older actors, almost in unison.

“Why not do it again?”

“These rubes don't want Shakespeare,” said Edmund scornfully.

“I don't know,” said Mr. Patchett. He hesitated, as if speaking against his better judgment. “They're doing a lot of Shakespeare out in San Francisco.”

“The Booth family has been out there,” said Mrs. Watson dreamily. “I wonder if we'll ever meet them.”

Fortune smiled. Mrs. Watson had been longing to meet the great Junius Brutus Booth for as long as she could remember. Her smile faded as she heard Walter's next words.

“Don't make any difference,” he said mournfully. “We don't have a Hamlet. Not since we lost John.”

The moment of painful silence that fell over the group ended when Jamie said softly, “I know the part.”

Aaron snorted in derision.

“And I'm the King of Siam,'” said Edmund.

“Let's hear ‘To be, or not to be,'” said Mr. Patchett.

Fortune started to object, but held her tongue.

Slowly, without standing up, without striking a dramatic pose, Jamie began to recite the famous Act Three soliloquy.

“To be, or not to be—that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them…”

His voice was soft at first, as if he were genuinely wondering whether it was better to live or not. His eyes were distant, unfocused, and Fortune had the feeling that for him the fire, the wagons, everyone around them had faded into the distance. When he stood a moment later she caught her breath; the movement had been both unconscious and perfect.

The fire flickered over his face; his voice grew more intense, anguished, as he questioned his being, his worth, the worth of all men. It rang out for a moment, clear and pure, challenging the stars themselves, then sank to an aching whisper on the closing words, “Be all my sins remember'd.”

Fortune sat breathless, stunned. Was this the same boy who had rushed onstage and blurted out his lines when they tried to plug him into
The Squire and the Lady
? The bumpkin she had laughed at back in Busted Heights?

“‘Do you know me, my lord?'” asked Walter, jumping to a different part in the play.

“‘Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.'”

“Excellent indeed!” hooted Walter in delight. “How do you know it so well?”

“My father taught me,” said Jamie, shaking his head as if he were being roused from a trance.

“He taught you well,” said Mr. Patchett. “Excellent well.”

Mrs. Watson said nothing. But she was staring at Jamie in a very strange way.

By the time the players were ready to unveil their version of
Hamlet
a week later, the generosity of their fellow travelers had forced them to change their plans. Instead of a performance for which they took things in trade, it was given free, as a thank-you for all that had been shared with them.

It had been a difficult week. The troupe's version of the play had been drastically trimmed in some spots to make up for the fact that they only had seven actors. As a result, Jamie had had to unlearn many lines and grasp the transitions they had created to get past the scenes that required more actors than they had. Aaron had been alternately helpful and sullen, genuinely taken with what Jamie could do, and at the same time resentful of it.