Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  As he explained the situation, Johannes immediately understood the seriousness. “You’re right Reuben,” he said simply, and turned and walked Bente to the rear of the wagon.

  Reuben backed Lahn, a maneuver the palomino had expertly learned over the past week. When he drew up even with Inga and Rebecca, he tried to keep any hint of concern or emotion from his voice. “Johannes will drive the wagon. We are stopped for about a half an hour. The two of you should probably go back and make sure anything you don’t want to get wet is higher up off the wagon floor, but don’t make the rig top-heavy. Johannes will help you.”

  Inga looked up at him, “But, I thought Johannes was going to ride Bente?”

  Reuben felt his lips twitch, and decided a smile would probably be reassuring. “So he’s already told you the mare’s name, eh?”

  She nodded and smiled in her typical radiant fashion, “He asked me my opinion before he made his final decision.”

  “Is that so?” Reuben chuckled.

  He looked over at Rebecca. She was studying his face closely. Reuben knew she had deduced exactly what the situation was. “I need to go talk to Charlie and John and the rest of the wagons, so if I don’t see you before, we will see each other on the far bank.” He tipped his hat and spurred Lahn.

  Rebecca turned to Inga, “Inga let’s see what we need to do in the wagon. There’s only two ways things can get wet.”

  “What ways, Milady Marx?”

  She really has no experience at this sort of thing at all, Rebecca thought. “The wagon tips over,” she said aloud, “or the waters are high enough to come in the bed. If the wagon tips, it does not matter how you put things away, so it’s my presumption that the men think the water might be high enough to come in the wagon.”

  Inga’s eyes widened. “Milady Marx—I thought this was just a little stream?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “So did I. Let’s get busy.”

  The two ladies clambered down from the driver’s seat as Johannes came around from behind the wagon. “Do you need some help?”

  Rebecca shook her head, “We can manage, thank you. If we need you, we will call out.”

  “Good,” he said, his eyebrows descending in a frown and his response absent the usual verbal sparring. “I want to check the collars and traces on the teams and make sure the lines and attachments are snug.”

  Rebecca felt a little butterfly in her stomach. Reuben must’ve said something to him that he did not share with us.

  “Let’s go, Inga, we don’t have much time to do this.” The two women walked swiftly to the back of the schooner, lowered the tailgate, slid out the ladder, and were quickly inside, discussing, pointing, and moving things.

  “Inga, help me get these grain sacks off the floor, that ammunition, too. Let’s wrap that up in these blankets and then over that we will wind the gutta-perchas Reuben got us. Get me some rope. We will lash these piles so they don’t shift. Oh…and hand me Reuben’s leather case. I’m sure he does not wish whatever is in it to get wet.”

  Inga straightened up. “You know how to tie knots?”

  Without stopping her sorting Rebecca said a bit wistfully, “Remember, my father was a sea captain.”

  Inga struggled to place the sack of pemmican on top of Rebecca’s locked trunk. Rebecca looked up from the floor of the wagon. “Hold on, Inga. There are some things in that trunk I must get out.” Inga gratefully let the heavy bag sag to the floor.

  “Help me open this.” Rebecca lifted up her skirt and petticoats and reached down into her boot, which came several inches above her ankles. She knelt down and placed the key in one of the two large locks in the dome shaped steamer trunk, highlighted with polished oak ribs and silver scroll. The lock clicked and the top of the trunk opened. Inga leaned forward, holding it, while Rebecca rummaged through the contents, one hand emerging with a tightly rolled parchment, three feet long.

  “What is that, Milady Marx?”

  “A map, Inga.”

  “A map? To what?”

  Still on her knees, Rebecca looked back over her shoulder and said, “It’s a map my father gave me when he died. It marks some land that he apparently bought. I need to see it, ascertain its value, and then sell it before I return to England.” She handed the map to Inga who continued holding the trunk lid with her free hand.

  Rebecca’s fingers searched, then closed on something solid, wrapped in a thin wool blanket extending corner to corner in the bottom of the trunk. She withdrew it and stood, admiring the .52-caliber Sharps rifle, a gift from her father. She realized now he had obtained the weapon during his prolonged journey to America, just several years before his death.

  Inga instinctively took a step away, a startled, almost fearful expression on her face, as Rebecca turned the rifle in her hands. “Milady Marx, whatever do you need that for? Do you know how to use it?”

  “Indeed I do, Inga.” Rebecca gave her a stern look. “And I will trust you to say nothing of the rifle or the map.”

  Far down the line they heard Mac shout.

  “I shall not breathe a word, Milady Marx.”

  Rebecca, still watching Inga, saw her eyes flutter, then her complexion turn pale, her fair skin blanching to a pasty white. She grimaced, placed her hand on her stomach, and swayed.

  She reached out to steady her blond companion. “What’s wrong, Inga? It’s only Mac.”

  “I suddenly don’t feel very well.”

  “We all ate the same thing last night, that pemmican stew— which you did a fine job of preparing, I might add—hardtack biscuits and dried fruit. Reuben and Johannes looked fit, and my stomach is not upset.”

  Inga eased herself down on one of the trunks and bent over slightly. “I have felt this way on and off for the last week. It usually passes in five or ten minutes.”

  Rebecca bent down, one hand on Inga’s arm. “What is it? How do you feel?” Rebecca could hear the concern in her own voice though she had tried to keep her tone steady.

  “Just cramps, and queasy,” said Inga her head slightly lower.

  Rebecca straightened up looking at the bowed locks of Inga’s golden hair. She felt a sudden jolt as a thought struck her. Can’t be. She shook her head, “Well, you just rest up and I’ll finish what we have to here. Johannes can help me move those provisions boxes and the molasses keg. They are heavy. You need to have your wits about you on this crossing. Can I get you some water?”

  Without lifting her face, Inga wagged her head, “No, no, Milady, I should be fine in a few minutes.”

  Rebecca stopped and turned back to Inga who was still partially doubled over. “Remember, not a word about the map or the rifle to anyone, Inga.”

  The tall blonde looked up weakly, “Of course, but why, Milady Marx?”

  Rebecca laughed. “The men shall know about the rifle soon enough. Tonight I believe…” Her tone grew more serious, “… as to the map, I have my reasons.”

  Inga looked up. Some of the color was returning to her face. “Not a word, Milday Marx.”

  Clambering over gear to the front of the wagon, Rebecca poked her head from the canvas, “Johannes,” she waved, “Johannes.”

  Up at the head of the team Johannes was carefully checking each horse, harness, and attachment. He looked up.

  “We just have a few things that we need help with. When you’re done, would you mind?”

  “I’m just about through here. I’m glad I checked. The collar was loose on that sorrel.”

  Rebecca ducked back inside. Inga was on her feet but not completely steady. Johannes climbed in the back. The smile he flashed at Rebecca faded when his eyes moved to Inga. “Are you all right, Inga? You don’t look well.”

  Inga opened her mouth to reply but Rebecca swiftly interjected, “She’s fine, Johannes, just a momentary thing. Would you grab one end of that trunk for me?” She bent down and grasped one handle, catching from the corner of her eye Inga’s silent look of appreciation.

  Sitting on Red, Mac had a bad feeling
he couldn’t shake. Reuben, Charlie, and John pulled their horses up alongside him. “Everybody told?” he asked the men.

  “Yes,” was the unified reply.

  He turned to Charlie and John, “You boys go find a spot to put in. I don’t want the wagons working down at too much of an angle. They’ll be fine unless somebody panics and pulls on the brake, or spooks their stock. The one thing you have to watch is a pilgrim turning their wagon uphill before the river. This hill has just enough lean to it that could tip the wagon over. It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  He gave his head a toss but still couldn’t shake the bad feeling. “Zeb already gave me the ‘all clear’ from the opposite bank right before you rode up. I waved to him to come back over. He can handle the wagons after they are out. Once you men are across, make sure each wagon gets out of the way of the next, without crowding. Last thing we’ll do is come back across and bring the extra stock over.”

  He pointed. “See those chunks of ice in the water?”

  Reuben, Charlie, and John craned their necks to see. Here and there floated large pieces of ice, perhaps several feet squared.

  “That answers part of the puzzle on why the flow is so high,” Mac said. “Steer clear of ’em—they’re heavy and if they hit an animal or a wagon and catch the current, they could be mean.”

  Mac thought for a moment before giving instructions, “As the wagons get out, Zeb can get them organized and over to that meadow. Make sure people have their wits about them. I imagine it will take us an hour to get everything sorted out after we get across. Reuben and I will stay here and anchor this side of the river. That’ll give us two horses on either side if things don’t go smooth.”

  The lead wagon had now almost reached them. Mac held up his hand and turned to Charlie and John. “Ok, Charlie, head on over there. Check on the footings, and make some adjustments so we stay out of big rocks or soft bottom. Tie off this bandana to a tree over there so the wagons have a downstream marker. John, we have two big block and tackles back there in your wagon. Bring them across with you and grab two hundred feet of rope. Fasten them to the biggest damn tree you can find and get them rigged up, just in case you need to help the wagons coming out. Make sure each wagon gets out of the way quick and follows Zeb over to that field beyond the trees. I don’t want them thinking about it while they’re in the water, but remind the menfolk to get out their rifles as each rig gets out.”

  He turned to Zeb, who had ridden up from the downstream side, the Sharps slung across his back, and the Enfield in his hands. Buck was dripping and Zeb’s leather fringed pants were wet almost up to his saddle seat.

  “Did a complete sweep a quarter mile either side of where we are now,” he said. “No sign. The river is pretty deep and mighty cold. Had to dodge a nice block or two of ice when we crossed. It’s not moving all too fast, but that current is powerful with that heap of water.”

  Mac turned to Reuben. “Is Johannes mounted?”

  “No, we decided he better handle the lines. The women are not experienced enough just yet.”

  Mac nodded and spit a ball of tobacco juice. “Yep, good idea.”

  He looked around. “Well, gentlemen, daylight’s wastin’. We can’t spend all day jawboning.” Charlie, Reuben, Zeb, and John looked at each other and grinned. John took off at a gallop back to the supply wagons to fetch the rope, block and tackle. Zeb and Charlie nosed their horses into the current and began to splash across.

  Mac watched them keenly. The water grew deeper as they rode into the center of the flow. The current crested high on the upstream side of the horses about six inches below the bottom of their saddle seats. The horses were not struggling, but working hard. The upstream flow around their shoulders and rumps formed a downstream pocket that gurgled below them. He watched Zeb rein in Buck to let a chunk of ice flow by the front of the horse. Another slab brushed the rear of Charlie’s horse. It wasn’t big, less than two feet around, but the extra force of current when the ice clipped the horse’s rump was enough to knock its rear legs downstream. Charlie dug in his heels and leaned forward to get his mount re-pointed toward the exit point.

  The riders clambered up the far bank. Charlie tied off the red bandana on the downstream side where he’d exited the river. John was now in the water, block and tackle dragging in the current pocket downstream of the horse. He checked up his mount twice to allow small masses of ice to flow by. When he reached the opposite side he, John, and Zeb quickly and expertly set the big pulleys and rigged them with rope, most of the heavy hemp coiled and ready for use.

  Mac nodded, satisfied. He turned to Reuben. “Well, I think we’ve set things up best we can, other than actually doing. I’ll lead the first wagon across. You hold the second wagon here until the first one is out of the water. They can start when I am halfway back. Don’t think we want two wagons in the water at the same time before we see how this goes.”

  Spinning Red around, Mac trotted her back to the lead wagon, about sixty feet behind. It was driven by an elderly couple. The man was medium build, in his early fifties. The bald top of his head was pale where it emerged from underneath his black hat with its highrounded crown and stiff, curved brim. He had a white shirt on, as always, with the western bowtie that seemed to be his trademark. A large silver crucifix hung from his neck from a beaded chain. His wife was smaller, frail looking, with short grey hair. Her face was wrinkled, but her light blue eyes were kind.

  Mac tipped his own hat at the man. “Preacher Walling, would you say a few words for the wagon train that we get to the other side?”

  The preacher smiled. “Hope you mean the other side of the river.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah,” Mac chuckled, “that’s what I meant.”

  The preacher bowed his head, the lines held in the center of his clasped hands. Beside him, his wife raised her hands to her lips in silent prayer. She tipped her head and closed her eyes.

  “Oh, great and powerful Lord, watch over your children as they cross this river. Keep them safe, and protect their wagons and stock from mishap. We thank you, Lord, and trust in your divine guidance and the wisdom and truth of Jesus Christ our Savior. Thy will be done. Amen.”

  Mrs. Walling softly echoed, “Amen.”

  Mac, figuring he needed all the help he could muster, breathed out the word Amen louder than he intended. Then, urging Red forward, he said, “Preacher, follow me. The trick here is to keep the oxen steady. You see that red bandana out there?” The couple nodded.

  “What you want is to come in just upstream of that. Know that when the current hits the wagons it will feel like it’s floating. Matter of fact, these Conestogas are built to double as a boat. When the oxen are moving, hold them real steady on course. That will straighten things out. Nothing to fret about. Reuben’s behind us and Charlie, John, and Zeb are over on the other side. You will be just fine. Ready?”

  The preacher and his wife nodded again. Mac noticed Preacher Walling’s hands trembled slightly and the lines made a soft tap on his knees.

  “Let’s go.”

  Mac moved Red into the current. She was a prankster, but unflappable when need be. He turned back in his saddle. The preacher’s lead and rear oxen were already up to their lower shoulders with the Conestoga just coming off the bank. The current touched the wagon wheels—first the front axle, then the rear—and the back end of the Conestoga swung slightly downstream. The preacher snapped the lines with just the right amount of force, the oxen strained, the wagon straightened, and then they were moving steadily behind Mac.

  So far so good. A few minutes later, without mishap, the team scrambled up the opposite bank, the preacher shouting, “Pull, you beasts, pull!” The wagon followed Zeb toward the meadow visible through the trunks of the tree-lined water’s edge. Mac saw him speak to the preacher. The preacher reached behind him, got out his musket and laid it across his knees. Good man, that Zeb.

  Mac turned to Charlie and John. “One down, forty to go.” He reached in
to his breast pocket where he had moved his timepiece. “Took nine minutes. We will have to hurry it up, or we will be here all damn day.”

  He spurred Red, plunged back in the river and headed across to the opposite bank where Reuben let loose the next wagon, a prairie schooner, driven by the ailing Dr. Leonard and his wife, Thelma. Mac met up with them when they were a third of the way across. He turned Red around twenty feet upstream of the two oxen. The mare, her rump to the current, protested at the momentary weightlessness and drift. Mac steadied her and began to move toward the opposite crossing point, parallel with the two oxen that pulled the schooner. A block of river ice floated by Red’s shoulders and struck the upstream oxen in the front shoulder. It knocked the big beast into his downstream teammate for a moment. There was some splashing as the animals regained their footing. Mac’s eyes flashed to Dr. Leonard. His face was tense, but he looked steady. The wagon crossed without mishap.

  The next wagon was Johannes’. Red met them when they were one quarter the way across. Rebecca smiled and nodded at him. She seemed completely unconcerned. Mac chuckled to himself. I do believe Milady Marx is enjoying this. Inga looked either ill or scared, Mac couldn’t tell. Johannes was focused, but his usual self. He grinned as they moved past Mac on the far bank. “Looks like this river’s better suited to tall people than short people, don’t you think, Mac?”

  Mac’s eyes did not miss a step of the horses dragging the wagon up the incline of the bank, but he laughed. “Better to be compact and close to the ground than some skinny bean pole. That way when you fall, it ain’t so far.”

  Johannes laughed without taking his attention from the team. The crossing of their wagon was the smoothest yet.

  Mac, more confident now, turned Red back into the current and raised his hand at Reuben. “Hold up,” he shouted above the river noise. He crossed over and Red climbed up to Lahn, the two riders abreast, their horses facing opposite directions. “Everything seems pretty good. The pilgrims are doing fine and though you can always make a mistake out there, I think we can pick up the pace. We will have two wagons in the water from here on in. Get the second wagon going when the first wagon is two-thirds of the way across. You and I will take turns leading the first wagon out the first third, and Charlie and John will take turns leading them the last third. They will be on their own in the middle, but one of us will be close enough to get to them quick if we need to. Take Lahn over. Get a feel for the crossing and the current. See what the teams are up against and let Lahn get his feet wet. Tell Charlie and John the plan.”