Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Reuben and the palomino made their way across. After a short time they were back. “That water is freezing!” exclaimed Reuben. “No wonder there’s ice.”

  Mac nodded. “Enough jabber. Let’s get going.”

  Jacob and Sarah’s wagon, the thirtieth in the bunch, made it without mishap, the only notable event the dark, spiteful snarl Jacob flashed at Reuben and Mac, offset by the glowing smile Sarah projected toward Reuben, and her friendly wave to the wagon master.

  The plan worked well. There were just five wagons and the stock left to go. The next wagon was the family from Kentucky. The man, his sallow-faced wife, Saley, and their teenage son nodded and smiled as they left Mac’s stewardship and moved through the current toward John, who waited for them mid-river. Their three little ones had run to the back of the wagon and were waving at Mac, fascinated with his red beard since the day the family walked into the livery stable back in St. Louis.

  Mac started to wave back, but froze when he heard shouting. John was gesturing upstream. Behind him he heard the same loud warning from Reuben. He turned in the saddle and looked up river. “Jesus, Mary, Mother of Christ,” he said out loud. An ice chunk, much larger than the others they had contended with—perhaps six feet across—rose and fell in the current’s swells, making its way steadily on a collision course with the Kentucky wagon. Mac spurred Red to try and catch up to the family. From the corner of his eye, he saw John doing the same from the opposite side, shouting and pointing.

  Too late, the driver realized the danger and frantically applied the lines to the mules pulling the modified schooner. The beasts picked up the pace but their shorter, squatter bodies had more difficulty than the taller horses or heavier oxen.

  For a moment, Mac thought the ice would miss the rig but it caught the upstream, rear corner with a sickening thud. The schooner’s downstream end slipped under water, its upstream side rising. The rear face of the slab caught the current like a frozen sail. The wagon groaned and started to spin sideways. The sudden wrenching threw one of the little girls, screaming, from the rear of the wagon into the cold waters.

  Mac hesitated, torn between the floundering wagon and the child. Reuben shouted, “I’ll get her.” Mac turned Red into the rushing current toward the wagon, watching as John’s horse, downstream of the lead mules, struggled to gain his footing. Nearly abreast of the team, John used his mount to steady the mules.

  The wife screamed, “My baby, my baby!” The wagon’s spinning rear wheels caught on a rock and the entire wagon tipped upstream, the water rushing through the canvas over the rim of the wagon box.

  Mac reached the mules, and now he and John were on either side of the two leads. Yelling and coaxing, their hands on the harnesses, the spooked animals splashed forward. The wagon righted itself and began to move again. The little girl’s mother was wailing, sickened by the sight of her daughter downstream, her head bobbing to the surface for a moment, then disappearing, then surfacing again.

  Reuben was almost to the girl. Lahn lunged through the current, great sprays of water erupting with each surge of the palomino. Reuben leaned far down from the saddle in a desperate reach, the Sharps in the other hand pressed against the horn, his shoulder almost in the river. He straightened and dragged the little girl up over his lap.

  Mac, still holding the harness to steady the animals, watched Lahn struggle in the strong current of the upstream approach as the wagon reached the other side. The Kentucky mother jumped off before the wheels were on dry ground, sinking into the river up to her knees, her soaked skirt clinging to her legs. She stretched out her arms toward Reuben. He reached the hysterical woman and handed the little girl down to her. The child, shivering, cried out, “Mama, Mama, I’m cold.” Her mother looked up at Reuben, and Mac could see the tears in her eyes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Frank,” she said. Reuben pulled at the brim of his hat, and smiled. “It worked out, fine, ma’am. You better go get both of you warmed up and in dry clothes.”

  Reuben was a good choice, Mac silently complimented himself. He dismounted and looked inside the drenched wagon. They had lost a good portion of their foodstuffs. Flour sacks had been knocked off their perches. Some of the pemmican, dried fruit, beans, and biscuits were soaked through. The man and his son joined Mac as he surveyed the damage.

  “I reckon we lost about half the food,” said the father. “Our musket balls got wet too but that don’t matter. Sure glad we tied the powder up.” He pointed to several small leather sacks dangling from short strings of rope latched to the top of the bowed hardwood ribs that supported the canvas top. “Guess we can always kill what we need to eat.”

  Mac turned to him, “That was a fluke accident, and you are lucky. Damn good thing we were strung out the way we were, or you would have lost more than flour,” he nodded over to the man’s wife, who was drying off their daughter, making clucking sounds.

  “Sure enough. I owe you and John. I surely owe Reuben,” the father said.

  Mac slapped him on the back, staggering the smaller man. “You owe us nothing. We are all Americans, and we’re neighbors. We’ll see if folks can spare some vittles and grub for you and get you reorganized. Head on out there with the other wagons, get dried off and laid out. We will be here at least an hour before we’re moving again. Use the time wisely.”

  Mac walked over to Reuben, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “That was quick thinking, son.”

  “There was no thinking, Mac. Just had to be done.”

  Mac smiled, nodded, and bit off a large chunk of tobacco. “Go back over and get the rest of rigs and stock ready to cross. You tell Harris and Margaret in that back Conestoga to keep their kids up front with them and seated. We might not be so lucky a second time.”

  As Reuben headed across, Mac peered through the trees where the rigs were grouping. His eyes rested on Rebecca and Inga’s wagon. Johannes had remounted his horse and Rebecca had taken over command of the driver’s seat. She held the lines loosely in her left hand, but her stature was erect and at-the-ready.

  CHAPTER 18

  MARCH 23, 1855

  PETTICOATS AND LEAD

  Zeb’s horse, Buck, led the way, Zeb’s thin buckskin-clad profile towering in the saddle, as the four men trotted out from the circled wagons. The rough bark of the trees sucked the clamor of the camp and the sound of the river from the air until only the thud of hooves and woodland noises remained.

  Johannes admired the surefooted and fluid gait of Zeb’s paint. The horse wove between trees, moving without any obvious commands. He noticed that Zeb wasn’t the only one holding his rifle loosely, but at the ready. Mac and Reuben also moved cautiously among the long timbered shadows. As the day waned, birds chirped angrily at the intrusion and sortied between limbs, their wings flashing the dull brown of wood sparrows, the black and orange of the occasional oriole and the dull grey of red-breasted robins. In the distance, the muted, raucous call of a flock of crows rose from the woods.

  Zeb pulled up and waited until the others reached him. “I figure this will do, Mac.” He waved a finger lazily out to the side from where his forearm rested on his saddle horn.

  Johannes quickly assessed the shooting range the mountain man had chosen to test the marksmanship skills of the men on the wagon train. He was impressed with Zeb, with his silent mannerisms, keen, deep-set eyes that missed nothing, and the frontiersman’s air of quiet confidence. He smiled. “I’d say this works well, Zeb.”

  Mac turned to him with a piercing look, “What makes this so perfect, John?”

  “The name is Johannes,” he corrected. Then he laughed aloud, enjoying a memory that sifted into the moment and the pending question. There was much these three men had yet to learn about him. “What makes this so perfect, you ask?” he looked at Mac. Should I tell them just how it is I came to be here? The memory came suddenly alive, and he laughed again, unable to control his amusement at this very private recollection.

  Mac looked puzzled. A hen pheasant hiding just a f
ew feet from them, unnerved by Johannes’ loud guffaws, took sudden flight. The frantic whistling noise of her wings startled the horses, except for Buck who merely cocked one ear and shook his head. Lahn jumped, but settled down quickly, as did Johannes’ bay horse. Red, however, bucked in a circle at the startling explosion. Mac cursed, finally getting the mare under control.

  He turned to Johannes, “What’s so damn funny?”

  Johannes saw a mental image of the Chief Magistrate of the Royal Danish Court and the judge’s stern look belied by the laughter in his eyes as he rustled his papers, and peered down from the bench at him just months prior. Six ax-wielding guards had stood at attention on either side of the great double doors to the courtroom. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “She is a very beautiful woman,” Johannes had responded.

  The judge looked up sharply, amusement apparent in the twitch of his mouth. “She is that. You do know that sleeping with another man’s wife is a crime?”

  “Yes, your Honor.”

  “You know also that indiscretion may be punished in a number of ways. Certain physical changes can be made to your person to ensure you never again make such an error.”

  Johannes’ knees trembled. The Magistrate continued, “Or the Court could sentence you to ten years hard labor, or both.”

  “Yes, your Honor.”

  “There’s one other measure available to the Court. I see here you have a distinguished record as an officer in the King’s Heavy Cavalry.”

  Johannes had said nothing.

  “Twice awarded the Cross of Merit, correct?”

  “Yes, your Honor.”

  Johannes remembered, as if it was yesterday, how the Magistrate leaned back in his chair, the high-backed purple velour all but engulfing his portly frame. He had clasped his hands across his protruding belly and regarded Johannes studiously. “Because of your past service to Denmark and the heroism you have shown in the defense of the Kingdom, I will not order you incarcerated or castrated. You are, however, hereby exiled.”

  He had paused, letting the finality of sentence settle. One of the guards shifted his ax.

  “You are never to set foot on Danish soil again, or you will be subject to arrest and both of the alternative punishments. Is that understood? As one other condition of the sentencing, you will talk to no one concerning this case or any related matter, ever, whether within or outside of the country. You will have no contact with any public official, any relative of an official, the royal family, or any minister of the Kingdom at any time in the future. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, your Honor.”

  The judge turned to the Captain of the Guard. “Captain, take the prisoner to the first available sea transportation to a non-Danish destination. He is not to leave your sight. He is not speak to anyone. You are not to return until his ship disappears on the horizon. Is that clear?”

  The Captain of the Guard clicked his heels. The Magistrate’s features were stern, but Johannes had clearly seen a slight wink. “That is all, Captain Svenson.”

  Mac’s mare, still skittish from the pheasant, raised her head and snorted. “Dammit, Red,” he said, giving the reins an impatient jerk. Then he turned his attention back to Johannes.

  “What in tarnation is so funny?”

  Johannes looked at his three companions. Mac was clearly irritated. Reuben wore a wondering expression and was watching him closely. Zeb’s fingers thoughtfully stroked the tip of his long handlebar mustache. His face was impassive, as always, but Johannes could detect curiosity in his eyes.

  “The hell with it. I will give you the short run of a long story.” His eyes shifted to Mac. “Mac, you don’t have to beat around the bush. If you wish an answer, ask the question direct. You are fishing as to why I knew this was a good spot for a shooting range. You didn’t need me to explain the logistics of Zeb’s selection.”

  Mac’s eyes widened.

  Johannes swiveled his head to each of them in turn. “We are all in this together for months. You need to know who you ride with and our trust in each other must be automatic…” his attention again focused on Mac, “just like in battle.”

  Mac nodded. Johannes knew the wagon master was congratulating himself on his correct supposition regarding Johannes’ background. “One of my lady friends back in Denmark, a beautiful young creature, went by the name of Bente,” he turned to Reuben and grinned, “that answers your question on how I came up with the name for this bay.”

  Johannes cleared his throat and continued, “Unfortunately for Bente, she was married to a diminutive, egotistical, self-absorbed little runt who, over eleven years of marriage, had been unable to satisfy her. I ask you, gentlemen, a beautiful woman in such distress, what’s an officer and a gentleman to do?”

  Reuben shook his head, chuckling, Mac burst out laughing, and even Zeb smiled.

  “It was Bente’s unfortunate circumstance that I was gallantly trying to alleviate. My predicament, even less fortunate, was that her husband was the First Minister to the King and I was merely a captain in the King’s Heavy Cavalry. To make matters worse, we were caught in his own bed, and I was somewhat less respectful than the midget rooster thought proper. He had me hauled in front of the Chief Magistrate of the King’s Court. In an ironic and lucky twist of events, the judge and I had shared some time in one of the highend brothels on the outskirts of Copenhagen. To my benefit, he was married. He used my service and decorations as the pretext, but in reality he feared the wrath of his wife if the case became public as it certainly would’ve in the palace. I was exiled, a far better fate than the incarceration or castration called for by the law. One of the conditions of his leniency, however, was that I never tell the story to anyone, ever. I will therefore request of the three of you that this tale never be repeated.”

  Reuben, Mac, and Zeb looked each other and then back at Johannes. They nodded their agreements silently, but all had wide grins on their faces.

  Johannes swung one long leg over the bay’s ears and in a smooth motion slid off the saddle sideways, landing lightly on his feet. “This log is perfect as a shooting rest,” he pointed. “It is my suggestion that we have each man fire two rounds from the rest and two rounds standing. That will tell us whether he knows how to shoot, and his standing shots will indicate how he’ll be under pressure. Shooting at paper and firing at blood are two different things.”

  Johannes fell silent and looked out across the field. “There are three groups of trees out there across the field. I would judge the first cluster to be about one hundred meters, the second double that, and the third approximately three-hundred-fifty meters. I suggest we tack the cloth pieces Zeb brought out as targets, three in each clump of trees. Let each man pick the targets he wishes to shoot at. This will tell us his confidence in his own ability and with luck give us at least a few marksmen who can shoot at distance.

  “For those men who will rely on a pistol as their primary weapon, we shall place a target at approximately fifty paces, over on that thick oak behind us,” he gestured. “Each man will take three shots with their pistol. We should give them the latitude of shooting whichever style they wish—military, dueling, or American, which I understand is also referred to as ‘from the hip’.”

  The other three men nodded their acceptance of the plan. Johannes continued, “I believe at the end of the session we will be able to determine who can shoot. Those men can go back to their wagons. Those who can’t will break into four groups. Each of us will work with that group and help those men identify their bad habits so that they can at least begin to think about them. However, I would suggest we repeat this exercise several times over the next week with the men who need improvement. I have turned men who couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn into semi-proficient marksmen rather quickly, but it takes time for them to get confident in their own newfound abilities. One will never make a shot that he does not believe he has the skill for.” Johannes smiled, “Rather like life.”

  M
ac looked at him with obvious respect. Zeb was rolling a smoke and nodded. Reuben was staring at him with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.

  “What is it, Reuben?”

  Reuben shook his head, “You named your horse after the First Minister of Denmark’s wife?”

  Johannes chortled, “I was rather fond of her.” Everyone guffawed.

  Mac turned in the saddle, “Zeb, if you don’t mind, go back to the wagons and have the men follow you back here. We will tack up these targets.”

  “What if someone does not want to come?” Zeb asked laconically. Mac looked at him. Without hesitation, his voice grim, he answered, “If that son of a bitch O'Shanahan gives you any guff, you have my permission to do whatever it takes, but I want every man except the ten guarding the wagons out here. No ifs, no buts.”

  Zeb’s smile indicated that he hoped Jacob would refuse to attend. He cupped a match to his cigarette and without a word, and without any apparent command, Buck trotted off in the direction of the wagons.

  Johannes had just finished fastening the last target cloth to the widest trunks he could find in the furthest stand of trees when he heard the voices of the approaching group. He mounted Bente and trotted back across the field. The men dismounted. Those whose wagons only had oxen had doubled with those who had horses. Two men rode mules. He glanced toward the horizon to the west. They had little more than an hour of daylight left.