Beyond the Mapped Stars

by Rosalyn Eves

  As I pass through the restaurant, I scoop up a discarded Colorado newspaper on one of the seats, then dash for the train.

  The train begins to move just as I’ve finished climbing to the car, and I’m forced to grab the side of the door to maintain my balance. I walk down the rocking aisles to my seat—only to find it occupied in my absence by an elderly couple.

  I look around for an open seat, and spot one by a prim middle-aged woman, whose erectness of carriage suggests she might be a schoolteacher. I make my way toward her. “Is this seat taken?”

  The woman turns her head to look at me. Her eyes travel slowly from my handmade straw hat to my home-sewn clothes and dusty shoes. Her nose pinches slightly.

  “Are you from Utah?” she asks at last.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you a Mormon?”

  Some imp prompts me to respond, “I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” That’s the official name of the church, though it mostly only gets used in sermons.

  She continues to stare at me, eyebrow raised.

  Deflated, I add, “Some folks know us as Mormons, ma’am.”

  She looks away from me, out the window, drawing her skirts toward her as though she fears my very presence will pollute her. “Find somewhere else to sit.”

  I stand frozen for a moment, heat rising from my neck to suffuse my face until even my forehead burns. Everyone near us is staring at me. The elderly couple who have my original seat whisper to one another. A few of their words float back to me: “deluded,” “brazen,” “dirty.”

  Shame tastes sharp and bitter in my throat.

  Tightening my grip on my bag, I turn around, marching toward the rear of the car.

  Finding a pair of empty seats, I take the seat by the window so I can turn my face outward and only the glass can see the tears stinging my eyes. I unfold the paper, breathing deeply the smell of wood pulp and ink, and let the pages obscure my face. I forgot I was no longer in Utah, that the opinions of outsiders aren’t just ink on pulp, but living in real, breathing folks.

  I search the pages, looking for more news of the upcoming eclipse to distract myself. At last I see it, squirreled away in a small box on the penultimate page.

  Miss Maria Mitchell, Professor of Astronomy at Vassar College, is planning an expedition to Denver to view the eclipse in the company of several current and former students. Though we assume such an outing will be good for airing of the old girls (who do not otherwise get taken out much), we question whether they will be able to add much to the luminaries already gathering for the historic event: Thomas Edison, Henry Draper, Dr. Charles Young, James Watson, and many more. Undoubtedly a case of “girls can too,” we shall see if the girls can, indeed, contribute anything other than ornament to the study of science.

  My own shame forgotten, I let the paper fall with a gasp, torn between outrage at the ridiculous tone and a thrill of pleasure. Miss Mitchell—my scientific hero—will be in Denver? Denver is not far from Cheyenne, less than a day’s ride by train.

  I indulge in a few minutes of spectacular daydreams, of offering my services to Professor Mitchell. Of somehow contributing something that would transform our understanding of eclipses. Perhaps I would glimpse Vulcan, the planet some astronomers believe exists in orbit between Mercury and the sun. Perhaps I would notice some new feature of the corona. In my daydream, Professor Mitchell is so moved by my work that she offers me a spot at Vassar at once.

  But the daydream cannot survive the rude interruption of reality. Even supposing Rebekka does not need my help (and what new mother, with a weeks-old baby, is fully healed and restored?), how am I to afford the train to Denver? As it is, I shall have to wire Far to send me more money when I am ready to return. And why should Professor Mitchell offer a valuable spot among her crew to a girl who is essentially untrained?

  I sigh and fold the paper up and try to let the gentle rocking of the train across the Wyoming plains lull me to sleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  The train lurches to a stop. Startled, I flail awake and peer out the darkened windows. Around me, people are sleeping, though a few have been awakened by the stop as I have.

  I can see no lights outside, except the stars, the wash of moonlight across empty plains. Has there been an accident?

  A door bangs in a carriage farther up the line and I hear shouting.

  Then a single gunshot, loud in the still night.

  Around me, others rouse, their voices raised in anxiety. All down the rail car, the word whispers like a wave: Robbery.

  chapter seven

  Thursday, July 11, 1878

  Somewhere Near Rawlins, Wyoming

  Eighteen days until eclipse

  A man in a white mask bursts through the forward door of the carriage and several women scream. One, near the door, faints and her startled partner waves smelling salts beneath her nose to revive her, the acrid scent filling the car. I slide some of my thin stack of bills and loose coins into my boot, my heart beating wildly, and start to pray.

  The man tells us to stand, waving a gun carelessly. He herds us toward the back of the compartment, where a single lamp burns beside the door and where we cannot gang up behind him.

  “Right, then.” He gestures with his gun again and moves down our ragged line, relieving women of jewelry and men of pocket watches and dollar bills and stuffing them into a bag. When he reaches me, I swallow at the narrow mouth of the gun pointed at my head.

  No wonder the heroines in all those dime novels faint when confronted by train robbers. Fainting seems infinitely more pleasant than this cold knot of fear lurching through my belly. I could die here. How did I ever think stories like this were exciting?

  I hold out the remainder of my money. The man takes it, feels how flimsy the stack is, and snorts. My hidden money burns like a brand against my leg.

  “Open the bag.”

  My carpetbag is looped over my arm: I grabbed it out of habit, not any logical thought. I wrench it open, exposing my book, some bread and apples, and a change of undergarments. The robber paws through, dirty fingers brushing against my most intimate things.

  He shoves my bag back at me, and I stumble against the man behind me. I fall to my knees, but the man I’ve bumped into manages to catch himself, his fingers digging into my shoulder.

  The robber’s gun swivels between us. “Here, now, nothing funny.”

  I remain still, my knees pressed painfully against the hard floor of the rail car. The man behind me releases my shoulder and lifts both hands in a sign of surrender. I watch him from the corner of my eye.

  “The girl fell,” he says. “Nothing more.” He has the light, cultured voice of an eastern businessman and dark, shining hair. He reaches into his coat pocket, and the robber fires, the bullet whizzing past the dark-haired man’s head and cracking through one of the glass windows of the train.

  A wave of dizziness passes through me, my bent knees cutting off the flow of blood to my head. I need to stand, but I don’t dare.

  The man behind me holds out a thick wad of bills. His arm trembles. “Sorry. I was just reaching for this.”

  The robber takes the money, eyes glittering behind his mask, and while he quickly flicks through the stack, the dark-haired man helps me stand.

  A single coin, knocked loose from my boot by my fall, drops to the ground with a faint clink.

  I freeze.

  The dark mouth of the gun swings back to me.

  “You holdin’ out on me?” The robber stuffs the dark-haired man’s money into his bag and stalks toward me. He presses the cold muzzle of the gun right up to my temple.

  The man leans toward me, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ve a mind to shoot you right here, show these folks what happens when they try to cheat me.”

  My own breat
h halts.

  There are faint protesting murmurs in the car around me, but nobody tries to stop the man.

  * * *

  * * *

  This is it.

  I’ll not see Mama nor Far nor Hyrum nor Rachel nor any of the other children again in this life. I close my eyes, my whole body braced for the loud retort, the explosion of pain.

  That hot breath comes again. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous. Take off your boots.”

  I bend slowly, my fingers fumbling almost blindly for the laces at the tops of my boots. The gun follows my movements, still fixed to my head. I have to hitch up my skirts to get at my boots, and on top of the fear pulsing through me, there’s a dark thread of humiliation that I have to expose my legs, my stockinged feet, to the staring eyes of strangers.

  Now is no time for modesty. I tug at the laces, nearly weeping when they won’t come. Impatient with my slowness, the robber says, “You keep at that. I’mma collect money from the rest of these folks and be back for what you owe me.”

  The gun leaves my head, and I draw a long, shaky breath.

  The robber makes his way down to the end of our line. Everyone obeys this time, handing him their money and valuables in silence. I keep working at my laces. I pull one shoe free, then the other. There’s no money in the second shoe, but the robber won’t know that, and I don’t want to risk his wrath again.

  The robber returns just as I remove the second shoe. “Dump them in,” he says, gesturing with his gun at the bag he holds.

  I shake out the first boot, and all the money I have in the world tumbles into the bag. My ankles and feet feel exposed—the metal floor of the carriage is cool beneath my skin. I shake the second, and nothing falls but a bit of lint.

  The man’s gaze flicks up to mine, assessing. The eyes behind his mask are blue like ice.

  He lifts the gun again, and I flinch.

  From somewhere down the line, a whistle sounds, piercing and sharp.

  The gun lowers.

  The masked man backs away toward the door, his gun still fixed on the carriage, on me. He reaches behind him for the handle, and the door swings open with a bang. He whirls, jumps from the car, and disappears into the night.

  A woman starts sobbing.

  I grasp the back of the seat nearest me, not sure my legs will hold me. The dark-haired man scoops up my carpetbag and dusts off the bottom before handing it back to me.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak without crying.

  Around me, others start drifting back to their seats, stumbling a little in shock. The dark-haired man returns my nod and then heads back up the carriage.

  Collapsing onto the seat I’ve been gripping, I set my bag beside me and hug my boots to my chest. Then I start shaking and can’t seem to stop.

  I stare out the window into the Wyoming darkness. The landscape is washed silver by the nearly full moon. If I crane my head, I can just make out Jupiter and the Lyra constellation.

  We’re alive.

  It’s all right.

  It’s all right.

  It’s all right.

  The words keep time in my head with my ragged breathing. I try to offer a prayer of gratitude, but I can’t find the right words.

  I’m still shaking when the conductor comes through the car several long minutes later.

  “Tracks have been sabotaged,” he says. “We won’t be able to move on till they’re fixed.”

  “But what are we to do?” a woman asks.

  “You can shelter in the car for tonight. We’ve wired ahead to Rawlins—they should be sending along wagons and aid in an hour or two.”

  At the growing murmurs, the conductor lifts a hand. “Or you can walk. Rawlins is just a few miles down the road—you can be there in an hour or two yourself.”

  “And our baggage?” an older man asks, his skin ruddy against his white hair.

  “A wagon will fetch it. You can wait for another train in Rawlins.”

  “And what of the robbery? Will the sheriff get our money back?”

  The conductor shakes his head. “You’ll have to ask the sheriff.” He waves off further questions, making his way to the next car down the line.

  I stay motionless for a moment, letting his words sink in. The train car still bears the acrid scent of smelling salts and fear. It no longer feels safe.

  All at once, I can’t bear being inside this iron car with its sloping walls, waiting for help to arrive. Better to be doing something. Better to be moving under the stars and the moon. I stop hugging my boots, slipping them on my feet instead.

  I stand and go to the door of the carriage, my carpetbag clutched in my fist. Opening it, I peer out to find a handful of people—mostly single men—already disembarking to walk along the rail line toward Rawlins. The moon casts an eerie glow across an unfamiliar landscape. The phantom memory of the gun still presses against my head. I’m not sure I can make the trek alone, or with a strange man.

  Especially not with a strange man. The glittering ice eyes of the robber rise in my mind.

  I nearly go back to my seat.

  Wait.

  At the end of the train, the first-class compartment disgorges a couple. Young, from the energy in their steps. She wears some well-cut traveling dress in a pale color, and his collar and waistcoat gleam in the moonlit darkness. Her curly hair is done up underneath a hat covered in some gauzy stuff, and he wears a derby.

  Releasing a slow breath of relief, I climb down the metal stairs and approach them. “Excuse me! Are you walking to Rawlins?”

  The young woman looks up at me: she’s pretty, with wide, dark eyes and full lips. Though the moon leaches color from everything, I think her skin is a few shades darker than mine. “Yes, I believe so. By the time help arrives and transports this lot to Rawlins, there will be no place to be had in town for love or money.”

  Not that I have any money. I push the thought aside. I’ll work for my lodging, if I have to. “May I walk with you?”

  Her companion shrugs. “It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  The young woman pokes him and whispers, “Will! Be nice. She’s just been through an ordeal. We all have.”

  The young man—Will—whips his derby off, revealing tight dark curls beneath, and gives me a very formal bow. “I beg your pardon, madame. My name is William Lancelot Stevens, and like my namesake knight, I am at your service.”

  His gesture is so extravagant that I find myself smiling, some of the chill that has lingered since the robbery lifting from my body. He grins at me, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. I dip a rough curtsy. “Elizabeth Bertelsen.”

  Will nods at the young lady beside him, whose folded arms and fissured brow suggest she doesn’t find him as amusing as I do. “My sister, Alice.”

  “How do you do, Miss Stevens?”

  “As well as can be expected, considering I have to walk to the next stop, instead of sleeping cozily in my compartment.” But she smiles, to take the sting from her complaint.

  As the pair starts walking again, I scramble to catch up with them. Only a handful of travelers are moving, strung alongside the rails like beads on a cord. Most of the passengers have opted to wait for help.

  Some hundred feet or so in front of the train we see the sabotage—someone has wrenched up the iron tracks, rolled aside the wooden supports that hold the track in place. No trains will be coming this way tonight. I wonder how many trains will back up behind ours before the tracks are fixed.

  We pass the time at first with introductions. The Stevens siblings are from Denver—a fact I learn with a sharp stab of envy. They have no other siblings, and their grandfather, Alice tells me proudly, owns one of the finest hotels in Denver.

  “The Trans-Oceana,” she says. “Our grandfath
er escaped from slavery as a boy, and made his way to Chicago, where he worked for an abolitionist magazine. A friend of his convinced him to come west, to make his fortune, and he did.”

  In the last couple of days, I’ve had more conversations with black folks than I have in the whole of my life. They haven’t been anything like I expected: Sister James was a Mormon like me, and the Stevens siblings have more money and education than anyone I know in Monroe, judging from their clothes and speech. My assumptions have been born of newspaper articles and conversations I’ve overheard, but I should have known better. Goodness knows people have enough faulty notions about Mormons. What else have I gotten wrong?

  A good scientist should always examine her assumptions.

  “Your grandpa sounds pretty remarkable,” I say, and Alice smiles at me. “I never knew my grandparents. My parents came to America from England and Denmark and left their parents behind.”

  Alice asks me about my family, and I tell her about my nine siblings. Her eyes grow wide.

  Will says, “I suppose you never lack for company.”

  “No,” I agree. “But sometimes I wish I did.”

  I don’t tell them my family is Mormon. I’m not entirely sure why, except that I think of the woman on the train who refused to let me sit by her. I don’t want to see the open expression in the siblings’ faces grow cold and closed.

  We walk on, following the tracks in the moonlight. Will and Alice tell me some of the sights they saw in California, where they went to visit their father’s sister: orange groves and the ocean, old Catholic missions. I have no similar stories to share, but I enjoy listening to their easy banter, though it brings with it an unexpected pang of homesickness. Sometimes my sisters and I would tease each other so. Hyrum was never one to tease, but I miss him too. I wonder how Rachel is doing, and shiver.