Fortune's Journey

by Bruce Coville

  And still the buckets kept coming. Her hands were starting to blister now, though she didn’t realize it. The blisters formed, broke, formed again; the sharp pain there would not register until tomorrow.

  Is this how the journey ends? she asked herself. With a fire started by some drunken fool in a loft over a general store?

  Tears began to course down her cheeks, cutting through the soot and ash. Her father had had such great plans for Plunkett’s Players, so much he wanted them to do. He had left the task in her hands, and now—

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said aloud, talking to herself but startling the woman who was passing her a bucket. “You haven’t even looked for the others yet.” She passed the bucket on. Her arms ached so that she wanted to die.

  She took the next bucket, and the next, and the next. Then she reached out and to her surprise found nothing to grab. She turned. The fire was out.

  She felt herself sway. Stop it! she thought sternly. She had no time for weakness now; she had to find the others. She took a deep breath, then another. Before she had to decide what to do next, Mr. Patchett appeared at her side.

  “Fortune! Thank God you’re all right!” he cried.

  Then he put his arm around her and led her to a clearing.

  To her relief, the others had already gathered there.

  Weary to the bone, but exhilarated that they were all still alive, Plunkett’s Players stumbled back to Myra Halleck’s boarding house, talking about what they had done, how they had survived.

  Fortune was dragged from her exhausted sleep by a pounding on her door. She pulled the covers over her head. The pounding didn’t stop.

  “Go away!” she shouted.

  Mrs. Watson let out a snort and flopped over, draping her arm across Fortune’s chest. Fortune pushed it off.

  And still the pounding continued. With a sigh she heaved aside the covers and got to her feet, flinching at the cold floor.

  I can’t believe someone is still up after everything that’s gone on tonight, she thought wearily.

  Another burst of pounding thundered through the room. In exasperation she threw the door open to see who was there and was horrified to find Jamie Halleck, his eyes bright, his face still smeared with smoke. She put her hand to her cheek and realized that she was probably equally sooty, since she had been too tired to wash after they made their way back to the house.

  “Go away,” she said.

  She tried to close the door, but he had thrust his foot inside and it jammed against his boot. “You have to pack at once,” he said quietly. “I have your wagon hitched and ready to go.”

  She yanked the door open. “What are you talking about?”

  Jamie looked embarrassed. “Some of the men are blaming you for the fire.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Those two drunks caused all the trouble!”

  “I didn’t say it made sense,” replied Jamie patiently. “I just told you what’s happening. If you’re smart you’ll get dressed and get out of town before they do something crazy.”

  The blood drained from Fortune’s face. She had seen small-town mobs before. She remembered one group of men, enraged over something much smaller than this, erupting into a rampage that had left two men dead. The look on Jamie’s face told her this mob might prove equally dangerous.

  “I’ve woken the others,” he continued. “They’re getting ready now.”

  “You should have woken me first! It’s my troupe!”

  “I’ll have your wagon at the south edge of town in fifteen minutes,” said Jamie curtly. “Be there!” He turned and walked away.

  Men! fumed Fortune. She crossed to the bed and shook Mrs. Watson. “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up! We have to go.”

  Mrs. Watson snorted and rolled over.

  Fortune shook the older woman again. “Wake up, Mrs. Watson. We have to get out of town.”

  As if Fortune’s words had penetrated the fog of sleep, Mrs. Watson instantly sat bolt upright. “Oh, Minerva!” she cried. “It’s just like the old days.”

  Throwing aside the covers, she sprang out of bed with a speed that astonished Fortune. Her red hair billowing around her like a cloud at sunset, she hummed cheerfully as she began throwing on her clothes. “Grab those dresses, duckie,” she commanded. “Just throw them in there like that. Thank you!”

  “Don’t you want to know why we’re leaving?”

  “It’s because those two drunks started that fire, I would imagine.”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s part of an actor’s life, chicken. You’ll learn when you’ve been on the road a bit longer.”

  “Well, I don’t like being blamed for something that wasn’t our fault.”

  “We’re not the first,” said Mrs. Watson. “And we won’t be the last. Best get packing or we won’t make it.”

  Fortune sighed and threw her own clothes into her bag. Suddenly she sank down on the bed. “The costumes!” she moaned. “The properties. They were all burned. What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll make do,” snapped Mrs. Watson. “Get moving!”

  Struck by the note of urgency in the older woman’s voice, Fortune leaped to her feet and finished packing. The properties and costumes would wait till another day.

  They slipped into the hall. Edmund was there already, looking surly. Soon Aaron joined him. “Mr. Patchett and Walter have gone downstairs to make sure the coast is clear,” he whispered. “Come on.”

  Moving in single file, the actors tiptoed along the hall to the stairwell at the south end. A board creaked once beneath Aaron’s foot, startling Fortune so much that she almost dropped her bag.

  “Shhh!” hissed Mrs. Watson, who was walking right behind her.

  “I’m trying!” snapped Fortune.

  Walter loomed at the base of the stairs, an anxious look deepening the lines of his face. “Mr. Patchett has gone on ahead,” he whispered, scratching nervously at his beard. “When he sees us come out of the house, he’ll move on a way to make sure it’s safe.” He looked the group over anxiously. “Ready?”

  They all nodded.

  Walter opened the door carefully, striving not to make any noise. Fortune looked behind her. At least we paid in advance, she thought with grim satisfaction. Actors might be notorious for sneaking out of boarding houses without paying, but Plunkett’s Players had never done it, and she didn’t want to start now.

  That thought led her mind to another matter.

  “The money! Walter, did—”

  “Shhhh!” hissed Mrs. Watson.

  Fortune fumed. Was the money safe, or had it been lost in the fire?

  Without further sound they passed into the darkness. It was a cool night, quiet and calm. The stars were bright and clear, the spring constellations twinkling as if nothing horrible had happened here. In the distance peepers were singing their chorus. A light dew coated the ground. But the odor of smoke still filled the air. Fortune shuddered; the smell brought memories of the ordeal in the loft flooding over her.

  A series of shouts in the distance reminded her that the night was not as calm as it seemed here in the darkness behind Halleck’s boarding house.

  She heard a rustling in the bushes ahead of them—Mr. Patchett moving on. After a moment he made an owl-like sound. The troupe continued forward. Before long they had reached his side. It frightened Fortune to see how worried he was.

  When he had counted to be sure they were all there, he moved on again. Soon the owl sound drifted through the night. They followed his path once more.

  Traveling in this fashion they came to a clearing at the edge of town. There, standing in a pool of moonlight, was Jamie Halleck. He held the reins of the lead pair of the troupe’s team, which he had already harnessed to their wagon. The silvery light caught in his chestnut hair, making it appear like some strangely cool fire. A flicker of a smile played over his lips.

  “Good work, lad,” said Mr. Patchett, striding to his side. He took the reins from Jamie. />
  “I don’t know how we can ever repay you,” said Walter, stepping up beside him. “You have done us a great favor.”

  “Take me with you,” said Jamie simply.

  “You must be out of your mind!” cried Edmund.

  “I was not speaking to you,” said Jamie. “I was addressing Miss Plunkett.” He turned to Fortune. “I would like to be allowed to accompany your troupe on its trip to San Francisco. I will work hard and help you in whatever way I can.”

  The simple request was obviously difficult for him to make, and she realized with sudden certainty that he had never asked anyone for a favor before.

  Jamie was gazing at her intently. She saw nothing childlike or moonstruck about him. But his eyes, large and warm, were pleading with her.

  She thought about the harpy he lived with. In the short time they had been there, Fortune had seen and heard enough to know that Myra Halleck made her son’s life a living torment. It was so strangely different from the way her parents had treated her that she had hardly been able to understand it. She knew that Jamie would never turn on his mother, never lash out at her. But he would leave the woman. Fortune’s mind took the next step forward and realized that not only would he leave her, but that he had to do so. And they were his best hope for making that break.

  Jamie smiled, and her heart ached as she realized what a gallant gesture it was.

  What do I do? He’s acting like it doesn’t really matter. But I can see how much it does. She swallowed and faced the hard fact. He wouldn’t dream of mentioning that I owe him my life. But I do.

  “Look, it was nice of you to help us,” said Aaron curtly. “But you’d better…”

  “You’d better be ready if you’re planning on coming with us,” said Fortune, using the tone of voice that said I am the leader of this troupe.

  For a moment she was dazzled by the smile that broke across Jamie’s face, the joy she read in his eyes. Then he nodded slightly, and said, “Much obliged, miss,” as if it was nothing at all.

  He hurried to the side of the clearing and came back leading a horse. It was already saddled, and there was a rifle strapped to its side. He had a carpetbag in his hand and a bundle of books under his arm.

  “What are those?” asked Mrs. Watson, always curious at the sight of printed matter.

  Jamie smiled. “My Shakespeare!”

  “Oh, dear God,” sighed Edmund, putting his hands together, as if in prayer. “Be merciful to your humble servants and spare us from would-be actors!”

  Chapter Five

  When they were far enough from the town, Jamie filled them in on the events that had followed the fire. He was riding next to the wagon, and his voice came out of the cold darkness. He spoke clearly to be heard above the creaking of the wagon.

  “It started with the keg of whiskey someone broke out to thank the folks who helped put out the fire,” he said. “I suppose the men did deserve a drink. But it didn’t take long before there was a fair number of them as drunk as the two who started the trouble to begin with.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Fortune bitterly.

  Jamie paused long enough to make her wonder what he was thinking, then went on with his story.

  “Poor Mr. MacKenzie was the worst of the lot. He was awful bitter. I can understand: This morning he owned a store, and now all he has is a pile of ashes. But he seemed to take it pretty personal. Anyway, he finally got up and made a speech about what you folks had done to him that got the others as riled up as he was.

  “I could tell they were getting a big mad on. I tried to talk them out of it; pointed out that Fortune had saved little Nancy Conaway’s life, and that all of you had worked on the bucket brigades. They weren’t having any of that. Even so, I thought it might blow over—until some of them went out looking for tar and feathers. That’s when I decided I’d better come and roust you out.”

  Fortune shuddered at the nearness of their escape.

  She was glad to be free of the town, which she had disliked from the moment she arrived there. And she was relieved that Walter had been able to save the night’s take. But she was deeply troubled that she had not found out why her father had wanted them to go to Busted Heights to begin with. His unfinished business would have to remain unfinished, and that bothered her.

  They traveled until morning, when they found a place to get out of sight of the road in a small stand of trees next to a stream. They washed up in the cold water, glad to rid themselves of the stink of the smoke, which still clung to their skin and hair.

  The men took shifts standing guard a few miles up the road, in case the angry townspeople decided to pursue them. When darkness fell they began to travel again. They drove through Smith’s Corners, the next town along the road, without stopping.

  Two days of hard travel later, they reached Bevins.

  It was the last town they planned to stop in before they reached Independence, where they were to join Abner Simpson’s wagon train to make the journey across the plains and over the Rocky Mountains to California.

  Bevins was a pleasant surprise after the string of increasingly dreary settlements that had led them to Busted Heights. Not only was it larger and more prosperous looking than the last several places they had been; but somehow it seemed to have an air of friendliness about it.

  Moreover, Fortune no longer felt like a fugitive.

  “That could be just because we’re far enough from Busted Heights to stop worrying about revenge,” pointed out Mrs. Watson when Fortune expressed this feeling.

  Whatever the reason, she felt more comfortable as she looked the town over.

  We’ve nearly reached the end of the beginning, she thought, looking around the town. One more town and the real journey begins. Oh, I wish you were still with us, Papa!

  They gathered the next afternoon in a space not unlike the site of their catastrophic performance in Busted Heights. The fact that they had had no problem finding a place suitable to put on a show confirmed that word of their last performance had not yet traveled this far west.

  As Fortune listened with growing anxiety to the argument developing between Mr. Patchett and Mrs. Watson, she began to think that finding a place to work had been the easy part.

  “You can’t possibly expect me to do that, Henry!” cried Mrs. Watson. “It is an insult to my talent!”

  Mr. Patchett sighed. “My dear Mrs. Watson, all I am suggesting is that you play the scene exactly the way you did the last ninety-six times we performed this show!”

  “It’s not the same, and I won’t do it! The whole production is wrong anyway. We have no sense of style, no sense of elegance. Now, here’s what I think—”

  “Woman, I do not care what you think! Will you please take your position before I lose my temper completely?”

  Fortune sighed. At least things were back to some semblance of normality. With Jamie’s arrival the troupe had decided to attempt a different play, since they were all thoroughly tired of The Widow’s Daughter. Though his work would be limited to walk-ons and lines like, “Yes, Your Majesty,” his very presence freed up one of the other actors to take on some larger parts.

  She glanced over to where Jamie stood at the edge of the makeshift stage, waiting to make his entrance. Aaron gave him his cue. Fortune winced as she watched Jamie bolt awkwardly up the steps, stumble, and blurt out his line so fast that it seemed like one long word.

  “No, no, no,” said Mrs. Watson. “Here, try it like this.”

  “Madam,” said Mr. Patchett, “are you directing this play or am I?” Though he spoke softly, there was murder in his voice.

  “Oh, what difference does it make, Henry?” she asked airily. “We’re just trying to get it to come out right, aren’t we, ducky?” Her second comment, addressed to Jamie, was accompanied by a squeeze of his cheek.

  “I guess so,” he said, looking very uncomfortable.

  Fortune could sympathize. She had been caught in the Patchett-Watson crossfire herself, and
she knew it was no fun. Worse, it had been going on all afternoon. She could see Mr. Patchett’s usually good temper wearing thin.

  “Looks like your boyfriend is going to make a mess of things,” said Edmund, sidling up beside her.

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” Fortune snapped. “And I think he’s doing perfectly well, all things considered.”

  Edmund gave her an evil grin and walked toward the stage.

  Wondering what he was up to, Fortune found herself wishing again that they had never let him join the group. Suddenly she realized her entrance was coming up. She lifted her skirts to head for the stage. Halfway there she stopped, surprised by an unfamiliar line. After a moment she realized that Edmund was delivering a fake cue. Aaron picked up on it, and sent the dialogue spinning off into nowhere.

  Jamie looked from one to the other, his eyes wide with panic.

  Mr. Patchett, who had turned aside to make a note of something, looked up. A puzzled frown wrinkled his face. “Jamie?…”

  “Uh…uh…”

  He looked frantically out at Fortune.

  Aaron erupted in gleeful laughter.

  “It’s not funny!” said Jamie sharply.

  “I should say not!” snapped Mrs. Watson. “Henry, you should see to—oh, never mind, I’ll do it. Now, look here, Edmund. If you and Aaron think—”

  “Mrs. Watson,” said Mr. Patchett, “would you please—”

  “Be quiet, Henry. This is important!”

  Fortune caught her breath.

  Mr. Patchett’s face turned an odd shade of red. Without a word he stalked onto the stage. Silence filled the room, the kind of quiet that prevails before a tornado. Mrs. Watson’s air of grand control was replaced by a nervous expression.

  Mr. Patchett stood before her without speaking for a moment.

  He’s going to hit her! thought Fortune, simultaneously horrified and fascinated. To her disgust she found herself, as she often did, wondering how she could use this moment onstage. She shook the idea away.