Cherish the Dream

by Kathleen Harrington

  “That’s it, Theodora. Hate me!” Blade grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, ignoring the wicked blade that danced in front of his face. “Hate me as if your life depended on it!” He released her and turned, heading for her tent in long strides. In moments he was back, her diary in his hand. He threw it to her, and she caught it without thinking. “Here! Write it all down, Miss Gordon. Every blasted, unfeeling word I’ve said. And live to see me eat those words.”

  “I’ll live!” she screamed, as she clutched the journal to her breast. “I’ll live to see you court-martialed, Blade Roberts. I’ll see you stripped of your rank and drummed out of the army, if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Chapter 11

  Heartsick, Theodora stood beside Lieutenant Haintzelman on the low riverbank of the sludgy, yellow South Platte River, with its treacherous sandbars and tiny islands, and watched the preparations for the fording. Numb to all feeling except the bitter anger she nursed toward their tyrannical leader, she gazed with disinterest at the enormous flat plain stretching on both sides of the river, golden now with huge patches of blooming sunflowers. It was timberless, but they’d found that the grass was good for grazing and buffalo chips were plentiful. The water in the Platte, though muddy, was potable, and as they’d followed the river, the travelers had dropped handfuls of cornmeal into pails of it, letting it settle overnight. Yet even by dawn, the water still had an alkali flavor and brimmed with minuscule wildlife.

  That morning Private Belknap had stared at a dipperful and snorted in disgust. “Why, it’s full of animals!”

  Peering into the water in curiosity, Peter had called to her. “Look at this, Theodora! We’ve grown some little beasties in our buckets overnight.”

  Theodora had barely glanced at the water. “I’m sure Julius knows what he’s doing,” she replied without interest. “Besides, Captain Roberts has already given me his official permission to drink it.”

  The look on Peter’s face had told her that the uncalled-for sarcasm surprised and puzzled him, but she hadn’t bothered to explain the promise that the captain had so brutally coerced from her. Each evening she’d entered in her diary every unfeeling word Blade had uttered. She’d use that diary someday to show the world what a wretched, uncaring scoundrel the captain really was.

  She returned now to her breakfast chores, slipping into the silence that she kept about her like a thick, hand-stitched quilt. It was over a week since Tom had died—days filled with an unrelieved anguish so intense that it blocked out all other sensations. She felt remote, set apart from the world that had always been the source of joy. No longer did she wake up thrilling to the sight of the early dawn breaking over the far off horizon. Or stop to watch a prairie falcon circling high above her in a wide, graceful arc. Or wonder at the heart stirring beauty of a black-tailed doe and her fawn as they migrated westward toward the mountains. By her own choice, she spoke only when she had to, preferring to remain alone in her self-made endless night of withdrawal.

  It was the first Wednesday of July, and they were preparing to cross the South Platte. The river was only about six hundred yards wide, but it was rapid, high from the spring floods, and known to have a quicksand bottom. After a long consultation with Ezekiel Conyers, Blade carefully chose the point of entry. Sergeant O’Fallon directed two troopers to fashion poles, sharpened at one end and long enough to stand above the surface of the water when driven into the bottom. These were laid out in a pile on the sandy bank.

  “Who’s going first?” Lieutenant Haintzelman called to Zeke, who stood slightly downriver from him and Theodora. Conyers slipped his Kentucky rifle into his scabbard and let his mount’s reins dangle on the ground. As Zeke walked toward Peter and Theodora, the roan followed him like a trained puppy. “The Cap’n’ll go first.” His tone was calm and matter-of-fact as though there were no question about it.

  Everyone watched Blade wade barefoot into the muddy current with the bundle of sticks under his arm. He was dressed in leather breeches that had been hacked off at the knees. Using one of the sticks and the soles of his feet, he carefully tried the shifting bottom until he discovered the firmest ground, and then planted the pole. Without wasting a moment, he rapidly but cautiously made his way deeper into the water, choosing the safest ground as he went, then driving the poles into the murky riverbed to mark the track. The water came up to his knees, then his waist.

  “Why doesn’t he just dive in and swim it, Zeke?” Peter asked. “He’s the strongest swimmer I’ve ever seen. This current isn’t half as fast as the Big Blue, and he swam that like it was a flat pond the day he saved Miss Gordon from drowning.”

  “Cause a man caught in a current loaded with sand cain’t even struggle. That thar movin’ sand wave could pull the cap’n under, and he’d be pow’rless to save hisself.” Zeke shook his head, and his long gray beard wagged solemnly across his thin chest. “The sand never gives up its dead.”

  Like a circus audience following the performance of a dare devil tightrope walker, the members of the expedition watched Blade mark the ford. The hush along the shore was so complete that everyone seemed to be holding a collective, baited breath.

  All at once the bottom fell away beneath him. Blade sank up to his shoulders in a void of sand and water. Cold fear engulfed Theodora. Despite her smoldering anger, the thought of his death nearly brought her to her knees.

  Up and down the bank shouts rang out, and Conyers and Lejeunesse started into the water.

  For precious minutes Blade flailed about with his arms. Then he found firm bottom and, without pausing, continued across, planting sticks to mark the route as he proceeded. Theodora released her breath, telling herself that anyone would be frightened at what they’d just witnessed; that the relief she’d felt on the captain’s behalf was no more than she’d experience for any member of the expedition.

  He reached a sandbar and turned to face them. “It’s about medium stage,” he called. “We’ll ford it here.”

  When Blade had safely reached the far side, Conyers and two of the French Canadians started across, leading their horses behind them with their boots tied to their saddles.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just ride them over?” Peter questioned Lejeunesse, who had come up to stand beside him and Theodora.

  Baptiste’s dark eyes twinkled. “Non, my friend. The men go across first on foot to pack the sand and make the track more firm and secure. When the horses are led across, they won’t be allowed to dally. That’s why we watered all the livestock before entering the river, to be sure they don’t try to drink, for their hooves will sink quickly into the sand if they stop.”

  Peter touched Theodora gently on her arm. “I’ll accompany you across, Teddy. I know how frightened you were when we forded the Big Blue. This time I’ll stay right beside you.”

  Theodora placed her hand over his and squeezed his fingers. “Thank you, Peter. I’d appreciate someone walking across with me.”

  Taking care of her had become Peter’s unofficial assignment since her brother’s death. Earlier that morning, as they’d discussed the fording, Lieutenant Fletcher had offered to be responsible for her safety. Blade had turned on him like an enraged grizzly bear and ordered him to take charge of the pack animals. Nothing seemed to make the captain so angry as the sight of the Southerner in her company.

  Fletcher was always a gentleman, demonstrating without words his sympathy and understanding. He’d press her hand and tell her not to talk. Tell her that he, for one, understood her need to be left alone. Unlike that bully of a captain, who never once asked her if she welcomed his persistent attentions.

  Theodora had dressed in a pair of Tom’s breeches and one of his old flannel shirts, for she’d been instructed by Blade to change out of her skirt. She really wasn’t afraid to cross the river. To be swallowed up by the muddy current would be a blessing. She smiled at Peter, trying hard not to show her utter hopelessness. Tom was truly gone. The world would never be the same again.

&n
bsp; Before it was time to cross, Blade returned to the near bank. “Lieutenant Haintzelman, you’ll lead Athena over with your own horse. Lejeunesse will take care of War Shield for me. Remember, once you start, don’t stop for any reason. Don’t even slow down. Keep the animals moving as fast as you can and stay as close to the poles as possible.” He turned to look at her. She had been pointedly ignoring his presence. “You’ll go with me, Miss Gordon.” His voice was aloof, and he seemed to take no notice of the sudden glare she directed at him. “Get your boots off. Your stockings too.”

  “Peter has already promised to take me across. Don’t waste your valuable time on me.” Theodora wished the scorn in her words could prick his hidebound exterior, but she knew that was impossible. She had repeatedly tried to show the captain that she wanted nothing to do with him, but he continued to pester her with his unwelcome solicitations.

  “You heard my orders. Now get your boots off.”

  Theodora dropped to the sandy bank without another word and reached for the heel of her riding boot.

  Crouching before her, Blade brushed her hand aside and took hold of one boot. He held her calf firmly with the other hand and tugged. His breeches were soaking wet, and the water glistened in beads on the thick mat of hair on his chest. His black eyes were piercing in the bright sunlight, and he looked at her with the same immutable determination he’d displayed for the past week, his square, obstinate jaw thrust forward in a gesture of absolute authority .

  Dear God, how she hated him! This man who wouldn’t leave her alone. Who refused to let her enjoy the comfort of her empty silence. Who kept insisting that she talk, that she work, that she eat, that she sleep, when all she wanted to do was be left by herself.

  She tried to jerk her foot out of his hand. “You don’t have to do that. I can get my own boots off,” she snapped.

  Blade ignored her, deftly tugging off first one boot and then the other, and handing them and her stockings to Julius. “Put these in the wagon, Twiggs. They can ride across with you.” Then he stood and grasped Theodora’s waist in his strong hands. With an easy swing of his arms, he lifted her and set her on her bare feet. “You’re going to cross with me, Miss Gordon. Give me your hand.”

  Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. “I’m not a child,” she complained. “You don’t have to treat me like one.” With embarrassment, she suddenly realized she was behaving exactly like a three-year-old.

  Still, she continued to pull against his grasp until they reached the water. Once in the river, however, Theodora immediately became quiescent. By the time they were waist-deep, the heavy, sand-laden current completely engulfed them. It would have pushed Theodora along in its powerful wake had it not been for Blade. She understood now why she had to wear the old breeches and shirt, for her soaked riding skirt would have weighted her down and slowed her progress dangerously. The shifting, sludgy bottom covered her feet with every step she took, and the suck of the mud on her bare toes each time she pulled them free seemed to be a living thing trying to entrap her. The thought of being covered with sand and buried alive in the mucky bottom made her heart pound. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

  All at once her fears became reality.

  The shifting bottom slid out from beneath her, and she slipped under the yellow water. In mindless panic, she clutched Blade’s arm, her grip tightening on his strong fingers.

  He lifted her up above the water, steadying her while she gasped for air. “Don’t be afraid, vehona. I’ve got you.” His calm voice was soothing. “We just need to keep moving, that’s all.”

  Terrified, Theodora looked up into his steady gaze and recognized the reassurance there. She nodded mutely. The moment he set her back down on the bottom, she began to walk beside him again, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other, in spite of the terror of knowing the entire riverbed could move out from under her at any moment.

  When they reached the safety of the north side at last, Blade released her hand and nodded to Peter, who was leading the two horses out of the water immediately behind them. “Lieutenant, see to Miss Gordon,” he said with impersonal detachment.

  Dripping wet, her heart still racing, she watched the captain’s broad back as he turned away. She glanced up at Peter, only to catch him shaking his head in commiseration.

  After the advance party had safely forded the South Platte, Twiggs drove the light Yankee spring wagon across as quickly as possible, never allowing the mules to stop. The remaining livestock were led across by the troopers, with the loss of only one contrary mule, which stopped from fear, sat down, and refused to budge. The men hollered colorful oaths in three languages at the recalcitrant beast and tugged on it with ropes in an attempt to drag it out, but it became so enmeshed in the miry bottom that the struggle to free it only served to imprison it further, until the only recourse was to shoot it.

  At the sound of the rifle blast, Theodora shuddered.

  “Come on, Teddy,” Peter said to divert her attention. “We’ll ride ahead. We should be getting some change of scenery before too long.”

  She turned a melancholy half-smile on him. How she appreciated his tact and forbearance. Of all the men on the campaign, only the captain pushed her. Annoyed and irritable, she tried to bat him away, as one would a pesky horsefly, but he just kept coming back at her, tenacious and unrelenting. Good Lord, how she despised him!

  The travelers left the south fork of the river and struck out over the high prairie for sixteen miles, till they descended the high bluffs that bordered the valley of the North Platte. They windlassed the wagon down the jumble of rocks and entered Ash Hollow, its deep canyon cut by a small, clear spring. The days were long and hot and dry. A constant wind blew across the plains, its velocity never varying. But the face of the land began to change. They approached a stratum of rock, cut and shaped by countless seasons of wind and rain. A series of sharp cones and peaks like chimneys rose in the western horizon. Clouds of dust spiraled upward in the distance, caused by enormous herds of buffalo as they moved toward the river for water. Conyers estimated that there were at least ten thousand of the beasts, extending for miles in all directions and leaving a small open space around the voyagers as they advanced.

  One evening, as Theodora sat apart on a box in front of her tent, absently brushing her hair and watching the men gather around the fires for their last cups of coffee, Blade came over to her. He nodded and politely touched his hat brim. “I wondered if I might speak with you a moment, Miss Gordon?”

  She glanced up briefly, then resumed her brushing. “My wishes have never stopped you before, Captain.”

  He ignored her unfriendly remark, crouched beside her, resting on his haunches, and pulled up a long blade of grass. “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

  Suspicious, Theodora held her brush in her lap and looked down at him, but his head was bent and the wide brim of his hat blocked his face from her view. He chewed on the grass and waited patiently for her reply. Sensing he would wait indefinitely, she responded at last. “Just what is it you’d like to ask, Captain Roberts? I’m not a mind reader.”

  He looked up, met her gaze, and grinned engagingly, his even white teeth flashing beneath his dark mustache. His face was deeply bronzed from the days in the sun, and creases framed the corners of his eyes where he’d squinted against its glare. “I was hoping you’d be willing to assist me with the mapmaking. I could use some help in the evenings recording the information we gather during the day. It’s more than enough work for two people, as you learned when you helped me and Tom in the past.”

  She resumed her task with the ivory-handled brush. “I’d rather not. I have enough to keep me busy just gathering my specimens and making my drawings.”

  Resentment grew inside her at his brassy request for assistance; he was too arrogant to realize how much she disliked him. She’d made a point of writing in her diary beside the fire each night, hoping he’d wonder what vitriolic accusations she penned with such obvious relis
h. But he’d only regarded her with those mocking black eyes, a faint smile playing about his lips.

  “I understand the hardship it would impose, Miss Gordon. It’d mean giving up most of your own work. Naturally, I’d free you from your mess chores.” Blade took off his hat and ran his hand through his straight, thick hair. “Another trooper could help Twiggs and Belknap, giving you some extra time. But mostly you’d be working with me.”

  “Why?” she asked. She stood, the brush clenched in her hand, and he rose with her. “Why should I want to help you, Captain? Now that Tom is gone, the maps are totally your responsibility. Why should I give up my own important work to assist in yours?”

  Blade twisted his hat in his strong hands. It was clear how hard it was for him to ask anyone for help. He was a man who’d always handled his own problems. He slowly expelled a breath and met her irate gaze with candor. “For the sake of the expedition, Miss Gordon.”

  She gave a soft, unladylike snort and turned to go inside her tent. “You can draw the maps, Captain.” She looked back over her shoulder at him. “It’s what you’ve been trained to do.”

  “Yes, Theodora, I could do it without you. But at the expense of valuable time. Time we can’t afford to waste at this early stage of our journey. I’ve seen you work with Tom, and you’re a talented artist. You also understand enough of cartography to be able to contribute immeasurably to the success of our mission. I’d appreciate it if you’d set aside your feelings and help me with this work.”

  “Now how could I possibly do that, Captain? Being a mere female, as you so succinctly pointed out, who’s ruled by her emotions?”

  Theodora placed her hand on the tent flap, intending to reject his request out of hand. Then suddenly a thought occurred to her. “At the end of this trek, who’d get credit for the maps we’ve drawn?”