Fortune's Journey

by Bruce Coville

  Fortune began to understand why Jamie loved his books so much. The expression on his face when he talked about them cut right to her heart. He looked just as her father used to when he got talking about the theater.

  “Of course,” continued Jamie, “Ma would be furious whenever she caught Pa reading to me. That only happened in the winter, when we had to do it in the barn instead of outside. But despite all the screaming and shouting, neither of us was willing to give it up. We used to read the plays over and over, acting them out together. I know a lot of them by heart.”

  “You don’t, either!”

  “Try me.”

  Rummaging through her mind, Fortune dragged up a line from Romeo and Juliet that she had always enjoyed for its wild romanticism. “All right, try this. It’s Romeo speaking. ‘I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far as that vast shore…’”

  Jamie paused for a moment. Then he nodded, as if he had caught the thread. Jumping to the floor, he stared up at her, stared directly into her eyes. For one strange moment, sitting there on that rough stable wall, Fortune had the sense of being Juliet on her balcony—with the dearest man in all the world standing below her.

  “‘I am no pilot,’” said Jamie, his voice deep and resonant, his brown eyes boring into hers. “‘Yet wert thou as far as that vast shore, wash’d with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.’”

  Fortune turned her eyes away, astonished that he knew the line—and even more astonished by the truth in his voice when he delivered it.

  Confused, and a little frightened, she cut short the conversation. “That’s very good. I’d like to hear you do more someday. But I have to go now. I…I promised Mr. Patchett I would help him try to figure out how to replace some of the properties we lost in the fire.”

  Jamie nodded, and Fortune hurried from the stable, which had suddenly begun to feel as dangerous as a burning theater.

  Chapter Seven

  Fortune was heading toward their lodgings when Aaron fell into step beside her. Anger darkened his eyes. “What were you doing in there?”

  “In where?”

  “In the stable, with—with him. ”

  Fortune could hardly believe her ears. What do you care? was the first thought that flashed through her mind. Biting back the bitter retort she said, “We were talking. Why?”

  “He’s…not good for you. He’ll fill your head with foolish notions.”

  Fortune laughed out loud. “What in heaven’s name has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing!” Aaron ran his fingers through his curly black hair, as if the action would help him answer her question. “I just don’t want to see you make a fool out of yourself.”

  It was Fortune’s turn to flare. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Masters. Kindly tend to your own business!”

  She turned on her heel and stalked away from him. But she was not nearly as angry as she had pretended to be. How could she be, when he was finally showing some sign of interest in her? Was he actually jealous of Jamie?

  Too bad! She wasn’t about to rearrange her life to suit Aaron Masters. If being friends with Jamie would make Aaron pay a little more attention to her…well, her father had always said friends were a person’s most precious possession.

  “Did you youngsters have a nice chat, chickie?”

  Fortune blinked. She had been so intent on her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed Mrs. Watson walking up beside her. Though the question had been almost purred there was an edge of steel in the woman’s voice that made Fortune wary. She had a momentary vision of the life of the entire troupe being disrupted by the presence of the handsome young stranger.

  She shook her head. She had to stop thinking like this. Mrs. Watson couldn’t be interested in Jamie!

  “Yes, we did have a nice chat,” she said, as if nothing at all had crossed her mind. “We have a lot in common.”

  Mrs. Watson’s face was expressionless.

  That’s the problem with living with actors, thought Fortune. Since they spend their whole life pretending, you never know what they’re really thinking unless they want you to.

  “I wonder if Mr. Patchett is still angry,” she said aloud, mainly to change the subject.

  Mrs. Watson rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I went and apologized to him.”

  “You what?” cried Fortune, stopping in midstride.

  “I told the old fool I was sorry when I returned his shoes and pants. It was Jamie’s suggestion. I think it was a good idea.”

  Fortune shook her head. Based on past performance, she would have expected the sun to rise in the west before Mrs. Watson apologized to Mr. Patchett for interfering with a rehearsal. Yet she had stated the fact as calmly as if saying she had decided to have an extra egg for breakfast.

  Before she could think of how to respond, Walter came lumbering across the street to join them. Tipping his derby, he said, “We’ll be late for supper if we’re not careful.”

  He held out his arm. When Mrs. Watson slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, he seemed to relax visibly. Even so, he caught Fortune’s eye and without words asked her, Have I got anything to worry about?

  “I can’t stand it!” cried Fortune.

  Walter and Mrs. Watson blinked in astonishment.

  “Supper,” said Fortune hastily. “This town is certainly an improvement over Busted Heights, but the food is just awful. I can’t stand another meal here.”

  “Well, I’m famished!” said Mrs. Watson. She and Walter took off at a near gallop, heading for the boardinghouse.

  Fortune crossed to a nearby tree and leaned against the rough, sturdy trunk. Until Jamie had joined them, the tensions and relationships in the troupe had been set and predictable. Some things were good, some were bad, but she had been able, for the most part, to have a clear expectation of how people would react in any given situation. Edmund’s arrival hadn’t changed that slightly; he was an irritant, but nothing that they couldn’t live with. But somehow Jamie was like a stick thrust into a pond and stirred around. Things were swirling, and who could tell where they would land when they finally settled down again?

  On Saturday morning Plunkett’s Players rolled out of Bevins and headed for Independence. Their performance of The Squire and the Lady the night before had been acceptable, though hardly inspired. It was the funniest play in their repertory, and at least they had gotten most of the laughs they expected.

  The most notable aspect of the evening had been Jamie’s sheer pleasure in the event. Aaron and Edmund had made a number of cynical comments about his wide-eyed enthusiasm. But Fortune had enjoyed seeing it, partly because it had reminded her of how much she sometimes loved performing herself.

  As usual, Aaron and Fortune now sat at the front of the wagon, Aaron guiding Romeo and Juliet with his firm, steady hand. Jamie was riding his roan mare, Dolly, though occasionally he tied her to the back of the wagon and sat inside so that he could talk with the rest of the troupe.

  Equally often, one or more of them would climb out of the wagon to stretch their legs by walking part of the way. Only Mrs. Watson rode the entire distance.

  “I don’t know how she does it,” said Mr. Patchett to Fortune when they stopped to take a break. “If I sat like that for an entire day, my legs wouldn’t work at all by the time we stopped for dinner.”

  Given the length of his legs, this didn’t surprise Fortune. What she was more interested in was the way that he and Mrs. Watson had managed to patch up their differences. It was as if nothing at all had happened.

  She had talked to Walter about it the previous night, during the first intermission. “Can a simple apology be that effective?” she had asked in amazement.

  “If it’s sincere,” he said, looking down at her with his kindly old bear expression. Then he broke into an impish grin and added, “Of course, it helps if it’s totally unexpected and out of character.”

  Fortune had laughed. But the question still intrigued her. She had never
been good at apologies herself. It always seemed so painful to admit she was wrong.

  And the more wrong she was, the harder it got.

  Well, it was something to think about. In the meantime, there was the trek west to be faced. She realized she had been avoiding thinking about it, partly because she knew it was going to be long and difficult. Her father had clipped many of the letters the earliest overlanders had sent to the newspapers describing their experiences. He had also read the troupe long sections of Mr. Parkman’s wonderful book The Oregon Trail, and she remembered vividly the hardships that it had described. Fortune did take some comfort in knowing the journey wouldn’t be as rough now as it had been for the very first ones to cross.

  Papa, are you watching over us? This is really your trip after all.

  She turned away from that line of thought, which sometimes led to a bitterness for her father that she did not want to feel. Besides, it was no longer true. She had made the journey her own, and she had every intention of getting the troupe to San Francisco.

  She turned her thoughts to the spring morning that surrounded them. The sky was clear as crystal, blue as a cornflower. The air was sweet and pure, and the land covered with a veil of light green that was as lovely as anything she had seen in a long, long time. Suddenly she felt at peace with herself, and eager about the journey to come. They were going to cross territory that had been a mystery until the last few years, hardly seen by anyone other than Indians. It was an adventure!

  She asked Walter to hand up her guitar. As the wagon jounced and the axles creaked and the horses plodded along, she began to pluck out the chords of the overlander’s popular “Oh, Susanna.” After a moment, she began to sing. The others joined her, and the unexpectedly pleasant sound of Jamie Halleck’s tenor voice harmonizing with Aaron’s pure baritone sent a little chill running down her spine.

  Even though Jamie had told them what to expect, Fortune’s first sight of Independence left her amazed. The town was in the midst of its annual spring explosion, and permanent structures were far outnumbered by wagons filled with pilgrims ready to attempt the westward adventure. According to Jamie, Independence was one of the three main jumping-off places for wagon trains, and ever since the discovery of gold in California, hopeful travelers had gathered here each April to wait for the prairie mud to dry before launching their daring journey.

  It’s like a city without buildings, thought Fortune. All these people, with nothing to live in but wagons.

  For the first time it really sank in that a wagon was what they, too, would be living in—or out of—for the four or five months it would take to make their way to San Francisco. Until now they had stayed in boarding houses, except for those few nights when they had not been able to reach a town. On those occasions the men had slept under the stars—or under the wagon if it was raining—while she and Mrs. Watson shared the wagon floor.

  Fortune smiled at the memory. One of the floorboards had a hole in it, and more than once she had been able to peek through and watch Aaron sleeping. She liked to look at him that way. The hard expression left his face then, and his tousled hair was…

  She shook herself out of her daydream. Sleeping in the wagon was no longer to be a once-in-a-while situation. It was the way they were going to live!

  Fortune fought down a surge of panic and tried to think about what she had read of San Francisco—how it was a booming town to rival or even outstrip the most exciting cities in the East, a place where entertainers could find fame and fortune virtually overnight if they somehow caught the public fancy, and where gold was changing hands as fast as buckets in a bucket brigade.

  Others have done it. We can, too.

  Her brave words to herself were deflated by another small voice inside her, a voice that said, They were outdoorsmen; we’re actors. We know nothing about surviving in the wild.

  She tried to quell that fear by reminding herself that this was the reason they were joining a wagon train. The others would help them get through…

  Aaron guided the horses through the bustle of the streets to a spot at the edge of town where there was room to stake them out.

  Mr. Patchett looked around at the crowded camp and sighed happily. “People, Fortune. Lots of people. And believe me, before this trip is over, they’ll be bored and wanting entertainment. I wish your father was here, sweetheart. He would have loved this.”

  No sooner had the words passed his lips than it was clear he regretted them.

  Fortune said nothing, simply turned and looked back toward the east.

  A few hours after they had found a place to rest, a lean, leather-skinned man with a long mustache and a stubble of white beard came striding over to their wagon.

  “Take it you’re the Plunkett group,” he said. It was an easy assumption, given the fact that their name was boldly painted on their wagon cover. Fortune was a little embarrassed by the way it stood out among the sea of white wagon tops.

  “We are indeed Plunkett’s Players,” said Mr. Patchett cheerfully.

  The lean newcomer nodded seriously. “I’m Abner Simpson, your wagon master.” He gazed around at the group, then shook his head in amazement. “I’ll tell you honestly—I have seen unlikelier crews than this make it across in one piece. But not many.” With a mournful note in his voice he asked, “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Oh, Minerva!” moaned Mrs. Watson from the back of the wagon.

  “Now, look here, my good man,” said Mr. Patchett, his usual pleasant nature evaporating. “You are being paid to guide this wagon train across the continent. We are part of the train, and as such we expect your help and encouragement.”

  “I’ll give you as much help as I give anyone else. But don’t count on encouragement. My daddy taught me it was nothing but cruelty to encourage fools.”

  “Just a minute!” said Fortune. “I don’t—”

  “Quiet, woman,” snapped Simpson. Turning to Aaron, he said, “Keep your wife out of my way. I don’t like mouthy females.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Aaron, trying to hide a smirk.

  Fortune turned bright red. She would have spoken up, save for a look from Mr. Patchett that virtually begged her to hold her tongue.

  The wagon master turned his horse and rode away from them. “Try to stay out of trouble till we go!” he called over his shoulder. Then he jerked his horse to a stop. “Better yet,” he said, looking back toward them, “turn back while you still can!”

  “Well, I like that!” said Mrs. Watson angrily. “Who does that pompous rooster think he is, anyway?”

  “You have to ignore him,” said Jamie, struggling not to laugh. “Believe me, Simpson has seen worse than us cross the continent and survive. He’s not nearly as bad as he sounds, or as tough as he likes to make out. But he does like to weed out the weak-willed before he starts. He figures anyone who would turn back because of what he says wouldn’t have what it takes to make it across anyway.” He paused, then added, “And he hopes those who don’t turn back will maybe take the trip a little more seriously.”

  Jamie said nothing else, but Fortune had the clear impression he was wondering himself whether it had been such a good idea to link up with a group of citified actors to cross nearly two thousand miles of mostly unsettled territory.

  Chapter Eight

  That night Mr. Patchett managed to find three chickens someplace in town. To everyone’s surprise Jamie took over from there, plucking and dressing the birds, then doing something mysterious with some flour and spices he found in their supplies. Fortune watched him intently, wondering if her joking comments about his cooking that first day in Busted Heights were unexpectedly accurate.

  They were. The chicken was tender and delectable.

  This was an amazement to Fortune, who found cooking an unfathomable mystery.

  Happily, once dinner was over it was her turn to shine. She took out her guitar and began to play and sing. After a few minutes Walter climbed into the wagon to fetch his fiddle. (Or �
�violin,” as he preferred to call it.) Soon the two of them were playing a lively duet that attracted their fellow wagoneers like moths to a lantern.

  Before long an impromptu dance was going full swing around them, people clapping and singing and stomping with the rhythm of their music. Two other men showed up with fiddles, someone made rhythm on a washtub, and someone else started twanging on a Jew’s harp.

  “Yes, sir!” cried Mr. Patchett gleefully. “It’s just like your father always said, Fortune. Wherever there are people, there’s a need for entertainment. We’re doing the smart thing all right, just you wait and see.”

  Later on, as Fortune and Walter grew tired, the party began to wind down. Singly and in pairs, their fellow travelers headed reluctantly back toward their own wagons.

  The actors gathered around the fire once more, and Fortune found herself sitting between Jamie and Aaron. She felt warm, comfortable, and pleasantly tired.

  The talk turned then, as it always did, to theater. For a while they discussed their plans for San Francisco, and their dream of building their own theater. At Walter’s urging, Fortune got out a drawing Aaron had made to show what her father had had in mind.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Jamie appreciatively.

  “And we’ll all have shares in it,” said Walter proudly.

  Next the conversation turned to the past. Fortune loved this part, loved listening to the three older actors tell of their experiences onstage, the crazy things that had happened to them over the years, the practical jokes they had played—or been the butt of.

  Mrs. Watson told a story she had heard about the wild adventures of the famous Lola Montez, whom she greatly admired.

  “I’d love to see her do that spider dance of hers someday,” she added wistfully.

  Mr. Patchett launched into one of his own favorite stories, the one about the time his suspenders had broken in the middle of a dramatic monologue, and he had had to finish both the speech and the ensuing love scene with one hand holding up his trousers. Fortune loved the story; no matter how many times she heard it, it made her laugh.