Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  The clear pride in her voice was obvious, and Mac smiled again. “So, Miss Rebecca, you’re out there in front of everybody and God, with no cover, and your Sharps rifle, marching toward the fracas. What exactly did you think you were going to do?”

  Rebecca returned his teasing look, but he was more than half serious. There was some laughter in her eyes, but a steely cold, too. It impressed Mac.

  “Whatever I needed to,” she answered.

  Mac leaned over, spat a wad down into the trail, wiped his mustache with the back of his sleeve, and nodded. “I suspect you would’ve, Miss Rebecca, I suspect you would’ve.”

  Reuben shifted his attention, pointing up ahead of them. “What is that?”

  Mac stood in the stirrups to see better, then sat down heavily. Red let out a disgruntled snort, and flicked her nose in the air, annoyed at the sudden cascade of weight on the saddle.

  “Sorry about that, Red. Guess I got excited. That there is Fort Kearney. You can just make out the corner of the stockade, out there where there’s a bend in the trees on the river in front of us. The fort sits pretty much in open, flat ground, a distance from and opposite some islands. They ain’t ever going to complete it. Got some defensive bulwarks dug out on some sides, but they’re always adding stockades. I doubt there will ever be a full fence around the place. Ten years ago, when we started this back and forth between Cherry Creek and St. Louis, there was just a couple of lonely buildings stuck next of the wagon track. The two-story you’ll see is the commander’s house. I hear the current colonel is a fella named Philip St. George Cooke. Rumor has it, he’s planning to teach the Brule Sioux some respect for that Grattan Massacre. Nevermind, of course, that would break the treaty we signed with ’em in 1851. The Army don’t care.”

  “What else is at the fort, Mac?” asked Rebecca, her interest evident.

  “Now they got themselves a little central parade ground of sorts. When we came through here last fall, they had three buildings built and the fourth going up around it. There’s a tall flagpole in the middle.” He leaned over and spat again. “Interesting place. Used to be called Fort Childs. They changed it to Kearney on account of that military man, Stephen Kearney. I think the middle name was Watts, but I don’t rightly recollect. Quite the soldier. War of 1812, headed up the Yellowstone expedition back in 1819. Big map man. If you folks get some maps in Cherry Creek, most likely the rivers—least the major ones—were mapped by that fellow. They’ve named forts and buildings for him about everywhere. There’s one up southeast of the Big Horns, too.”

  He paused to spit again, then carried on. “Funny thing is, he found the spot for this fort but from what I hear tell, he’s never been here since it was built. He figured if there was an attack the troops probably couldn’t get to the river, so he has that Table Creek going through it so they always have water. Pretty damn smart. Made quite a name for himself designing other forts, too. He’s somewhere down the southwest now. Hear tell he’s leading expeditions to map all that territory we picked up from the Mexicans back in ’48, if he is still alive. Now that’s a pile of ground. One of these days, I’m going down to take a look. Rumor has it they get cactus trees twice as high as a man sets on a horse, and big rock formations that only God himself could sculpt,” he sighed, thinking about his brother.

  “But my brother Randy, at the Mercantile in Cherry Creek, is not too keen on the idea. Fact is, he told me he’d shoot me if I left him to run things alone.”

  Rebecca gave him a sharp look, a strange expression on her face, “Is there, by chance, a post office?”

  The question surprised Mac. He stroked his beard in thought, “I think there might be. Matter fact, I think they put it in five or six years ago, maybe 1849. Never had no use for it myself, but now that you mention it, I have seen folks off the stage lines, carrying letters, and I heard a name,” he paused, eyes up at the sky, brow creased, trying to remember, “oh yeah, John Heth. He’s the sutler.”

  “Sutler?”

  “Postmaster. Works for the outfit that runs the mercantile, too.” He fixed his eyes on Rebecca, who was looking ahead at the still far distant and indistinguishable buildings with a hopeful look, “Why?” He noticed Reuben was also watching the brunette attentively.

  She sighed, “I’ve written three letters to my mum. One I got posted in St. Louis before we left, but the others I’ve finished since we started our expedition. I would just like to get them headed to England.”

  “Well, Miss Rebecca…”

  Rebecca broke into his words, interrupting. “Mac, I really would like you to call me Rebecca.” Her voice was soft and sincere, and her eyes were smiling.

  Mac grinned widely. “Well, thank you, Rebecca. I’d be honored. And I surely hope I’m right on that post office for you. Make sure you tell the folks you’re writin’ that you are posting from the very center of the United States of America. Folks say that Fort Kearney is just about smack dab in the center between the Pacific and the Atlantic. Them two railroads are killing themselves trying to get to this point first before they link up. That’s a racket. The government is giving them every other section of land for the track they buy, and what else the good Lord only knows.”

  He reached into his pocket and took out his chew, bit off a chunk, and moved it around in his mouth, like a squirrel with an acorn. He smacked his lips. “I think the boys coming from the west is going to lose. That would be the Central Pacific. They have to fight mountains. Leavenworth, Pawnee and Western Railroad’s coming from the east, and they got their own problems, but at least the land is fairly flat.”

  “Governments are like that, Mac,” said Reuben with an edge in his voice. “They take from some, give to others, and get power in return. My family has had to put up with that for years back in the old country. In our case it is disguised with religion, but from what you’re saying, it’s the same everywhere, even in America.”

  Mac shot a sharp look at Reuben. The young man’s jaw was set. Mac decided to say nothing.

  “So what’s the procedure in a place like this, Mac?” asked Reuben. “Do we circle the wagons, or is it okay to leave them strung out with the soldiers there?”

  “Good question, Reuben. With the Army, I am not too worried. They usually have two or three companies, some infantry, some dragoons. Guess they just started callin’ ’em Cavalry. Add the guns of this train, and that’s three hundred or more rifles. Have to be an awful large crowd of fools to tackle it.” Red flicked her head again, gaining slack in her reins, so she could drop her nose to the grass. Impatient with all this chatter, thought Mac.

  “No,” he answered Reuben, “what we’ll do is just make sure folks are close and together, and line up the wagons side by side, in three lines maybe keeping fifty feet apart for room and privacy. When we get going we’ll just pull out in the same order. Makin’ these wheel repairs will be easier, too, rather than running up and down a third mile of rigs. Fort’s got a blacksmith for what work we don’t have tools for. We’ll get settled in, get John and Doc Leonard into the Army doctor, then get the Harris, Walling, Leonard, and the Kentucky wagons fixed up. Might be another wagon train come in while we are there, though the Mormon wagon master says they are stopping just long enough to get a platoon of Cavalry as an escort. Guess most outfits under thirty wagons are getting escorts now with things heating up with some of the tribes.” He eased Red’s head up, working the slack in the reins back through his hand.

  “This is a big junction of the Mormon and Emigrant Trails and the Oregon, too. They all run together for a spell. That usually means we will run into someone. That Mormon Trail starts north. Most outfits like to jump off at St. Joseph or Independence. We like St. Louis. Don’t have to put up with loading and unloading the paddle wheelers going up to Missouri and faster. Least I think so. I know it’s cheaper.”

  He raised up in the saddle and looked back at the wagon strung along behind them. “People’s tired, after that run-in with those bandits, and that storm was vic
ious, too. Been on the trail for six weeks. A good rest will help. We can make sure water kegs get filled, replenish ammo, and let folks just relax tonight. We’re about two-thirds of the way to Cherry Creek, but this next four hundred miles is way tougher than where we’ve been.”

  “How many come through here, Mac?” Reuben asked.

  “Almost fifteen thousand wagons have gone by Kearney since 1850, Reuben. But, ’cept for the Mormons headed down to Salt Lake, almost all were taking the northern route to California.”

  Rebecca’s head jerked up. “Oh, I read about that in the London Times. Gold was discovered at a mill, Sutter’s Mill.”

  Mac chuckled, “You impress me more and more, Miss… Rebecca. That’s exactly right. Went crazy for a few years after 1848, but it was pretty well overplayed. Folks that made money were the folks that sold supplies to the fools chasing the gold. Bunch of damn…,” he looked quickly at Rebecca, “Excuse me, Rebecca. Very few that chased the yellow, ever found any. They followed the Oregon Trail— it splits off from the Mormon and from where we’re headed. Never been to California, but from what I hear there’s places right settled up already.” He shook his head. “Seems there’s people on both sides the country and nobody in the middle, though it’s starting. You folks are part of the vanguard.”

  Reuben, Charlie, and Mac quickly had the wagons organized into two lines of thirteen rigs and one of fifteen. Rebecca was fascinated with the fort. It was quite unlike anything she had ever seen or imagined. Built on a slight elevation a few miles from the Platte, with Table Creek running next to and through it, it boasted five unpainted, weathered, but sturdy looking, single-story wood houses grouped around the central parade ground. Atop a tall pole in the middle was the American flag, flying proudly in the slight breeze from the west. The red and white stripes contrasted sharply, and the blue field blended perfectly, with the deep blue of the sky.

  She tried for a moment to imagine a Union Jack on the pole. It could never fit here. The heavy cloth made a slight whooshing sound as the flag’s furls brushed against one another in the wind. The colors send a message, she thought, like a defiant shout into the void of nothing. A strange feeling overcame her and she looked west, where the wide expanse of well-worn wagon tracks wound past the fort, disappearing in shimmers of ground-reflected sun.

  “What are you looking at, Milady Marx?”

  Inga and Sarah were smiling at her, though pain still clouded Inga’s face. Rebecca immediately felt sorry for her again.

  “I was just looking down where all those wagon tracks are heading, and thinking about the souls who have been here before us.” She shook her head. “Mac tells us not too far down the well-used wagon track that we’ve been on for the last two days, the main road splits to the north and once again we will be on a much lesser used route. If the Mississippi was the edge of the wilderness, I have this strange feeling that this place, this fort, is the edge of the frontier.”

  Inga and Sarah exchanged glances, then all three turned their heads as an Army officer marched by, pulling on the brim of his hat. “Good day, ladies. A pleasure to have you at Fort Kearney.”

  Behind him a barrel-chested man with a blue field hat and black visor, chinstrap tight around the point of his jaw, and sergeant stripes on his sleeve, shouted cadence for eight marching men. Obviously new enlisted recruits, thought Rebecca, by the way they stumble. Their rifles held stiffly in their right hands, forestocks resting upward at a sharp angle on their shoulders. Several of the men ogled at her and the other women, but snapped their faces forward and stiffened when the sergeant barked, the words bouncing with his Irish brogue. “Look forward now, you mongrels. There will be none of that less you want twenty lashes and a day locked in the brig.” The sergeant’s face stayed rigidly forward, but his eyes clicked right to them. “Apologies from the troops, ladies.”

  Rebecca’s head nodded involuntarily, as did Inga’s and Sarah’s. The men marched by, the cadence call receding in the distance. Another squad was mounted up, running through Cavalry drills on the other side of two dozen long, low buildings that appeared to be built out of grey, textured mud or clay, the roofs made of sod. The military horses pranced smartly, their red or dark brown hides contrasting with the light blue trousers and dark blue coats of the cavalryman, and the dark blue saddle blankets with yellow-gold trim. The squad flashed back and forth between the buildings in obvious exercise.

  Here and there wispy, immature trees had been planted in an attempt at ordered landscaping around the crude parade ground. The two-story house of the commanding officer, Colonel Cooke, sat off to the side very close to the wagon track. Not quite the grandiose military headquarters of England, she smiled to herself. Beyond the fort, the land was flat, level, and barren except for grass. In the distance, a few straggly trees could be seen as they followed the wide meanders of the Platte.

  She turned to Inga and Sarah. “How are you doing, Inga?” Inga’s lower lip trembled. She looked down hastily and wiped a tear with her forefinger from her right eye. She sighed, “Johannes drove the wagon this morning. I sat next to him, but… but…”

  Sarah finished the sentence for her. “But the big oaf barely said a word to her. Treated her almost like she didn’t exist.” Rebecca watched as Sarah reached out a hand and rubbed Inga’s arm.

  “We talked…,” Inga continued, “after the Mormon prayer meeting. He said he would talk to me soon, but not until he is ready. I… I don’t think he likes me anymore. I’ve tried to talk to him, to tell him I’m….” Her eyes raised up quickly to Rebecca, and she looked down again, embarrassed.

  Rebecca took a step forward, put her arm around her shoulder, and hugged her. She’d always prided herself on facing problems full on. “And you’re pregnant,” she said.

  Inga’s head snapped up, mouth open, a look of total dismay in her eyes. Sarah did not look surprised at all. Inga’s head bowed, and Sarah met the next question in Rebecca’s eyes. I’m right, Rebecca knew instantly. The answer passed between them without words. We women are all connected by our unspoken emotions, our thoughts, our common predicaments, bound by an invisible thread.

  She looked at Sarah, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “And so you, too, are pregnant?”

  Sarah’s blue eyes never wavered. “Yes, Rebecca. We both are.”

  Rebecca reached out her free arm. Without hesitation Sarah stepped forward, and the three women hugged. Rebecca stepped back, keeping a hand on each of their arms. “I shan’t say a word. I’m sure the three of us, if we put our brains together, can figure out a plan to calm down Johannes.” She looked at Inga and shook her shoulder. “I, for one, am convinced he’s in love with you.”

  Inga looked up teary-eyed, “Oh, Rebecca…”

  “No, I truly believe that.”

  Sarah looked at Inga with earnest eyes. “I believe Rebecca is right, Inga. The way Johannes looks at you, touches you, interacts with you, is just like my father did with my mother, God rest their souls. And I often see him looking at you when you’re not watching. I agree with Rebecca. It’s time to let him know that you’re carrying his child, that you love him with all your heart, and that whatever happened in the past is just that.” She paused. “I don’t believe Johannes was a virgin when you met.”

  Rebecca felt a laugh bubble up and bit her lip, but it spilled out anyway. Within a moment all three were laughing, their arms around each other again, the questioning stares coming from soldiers and pioneers, alike, merely fueling their mirth.

  Rebecca reached into her sleeve, pulled out her handkerchief, and dabbed their eyes. “Oh my,” she gasped, “oh my. I have not laughed that hard in months. No, Sarah, I believe it’s a safe bet that Mr. Svenson has not been a virgin for quite some time.” And that, of course, started the laughter all over again.

  Rebecca returned the hanky to her sleeve. “Well ladies, let’s visit the mercantile, and find that little candy shop that Mac was talking about. I hear it is one room in one of these huts that is sometimes
staffed by a soldier whose hobby is confections. I will buy us all treats, and perhaps we can find the post office so I can post two letters.”

  She waved the envelopes in her hand. “To my mum. I’ve tried to write about what this is like, this land, this country,” she looked around, “these people, and I have written about the two of you too, my friends, Sarah and Inga.” The other women smiled broadly.

  “Let’s be off then,” she said, and, as they set out for the mercantile, Rebecca noticed that they were followed by virtually every pair of male eyes in the fort.

  Jacob avoided the small groups and families of pioneers that flowed in all directions from the wagons—to John Heth the sutler, to Dryer and Company Mercantile, and other various parts of the fort. He uneasily watched small troops of blue-coated soldiers drilling on foot and horseback. Uniforms is trouble, whether coppers or the Army.

  He pulled the two decks of cards from his jacket pocket and smiled to himself. He smoothly, expertly, fanned them to be sure they were both marked, shoved them back into his pocket, patted them with a smug feeling, and looked across the parade ground toward the barracks. Soldier boys get paid, and I bet there’s not too many places to spend the money out here. Maybe I can have me one serious poker game on this trail, and stuff some money in my money pouch.

  Some distance away he saw Sarah, Rebecca, and Inga in a small circle hugging each other. “Bitches!” he spat the word into the air. Without further looks at them, he set off at a fast walk across the parade ground, whistling. He was impressed by the cannons, and counted them as he walked. Twenty-one of various types, sixteen block-house guns, two field pieces, two Mountain Howitzers, and one Prairie Piece, all set on either side of the parade area, and all pointing outwards from the fort.

  He strode up to the first door. “C-Company—2nd Dragoons” was the name on the barracks. The door was closed. He knocked on it, but there was no answer.