Sometimes at night, when she simply could not walk another step, Fortune would take out the banjo a dying miner had given her, and sing quietly to herself, the little songs she had been writing about California.
If she sat on the porch of the hotel when she did this, miners would soon gather about her, in the same way the wagon people had. Then she would feel once more what it meant to be a performer.
She understood, in those days, how her songs could be as important as the nursing she was doing, for she could see the gratitude in the eyes of the men who listened—gratitude for what her songs gave them: a momentary release from the sorrow that surrounded them, and an escape valve for pent-up emotions. When she sang of homes that were far away, she could count on bringing them to tears every time.
It gave her a sense of power, and a sense of responsibility.
Late one night Fortune sat on the porch, strumming the banjo and thinking about all that had happened in the single year since their wagon had rolled into Busted Heights the previous April.
A heavy fog closed over the streets, so that the dim glow of yellow from the window behind her provided the only illumination.
Suddenly she began to weep. Seven more men had died that day, despite everything she had done. It was no surprise. Everyone knew what the odds were. But she could never get used to it. She wanted to be back on the stage, where death was a bit of pretending, and at the end of the show everyone came back to take a bow.
Sorrow found voice in song. Plucking the banjo, she began to sing the words she had written back while they were on the trail:
“When I rise up
And look around,
My home I cannot see…”
She stopped, the painful hurt in her throat too thick to let the words pass. But from out of the mist and the darkness a sweetly familiar tenor voice picked up the lyric, finished the verse.
“For I have wandered
Far away…
What will become of me?”
She seemed to hang suspended in space, unable to speak, to move, to breath. From the corner of her eye she saw a movement in the fog at the end of the porch. It freed her to move again. Silently she placed the banjo at her side. Then she stood and brushed out her skirt.
“I’m here,” she said softly.
The mist seemed to cling to the man who stepped forward, hiding his face. It made no difference; she knew who it was.
She wanted to run to him, throw her arms around him, cover him with kisses.
But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she knew how he felt about her.
He stepped still closer. She was on fire with the need to reach out to him. But she had to wait, had to know if he would accept her, forgive her…
Still not saying a word, Jamie stepped out of the mist. His eyes were dark, as if he had not slept in a long time, and they seemed deeper than ever, full of wonder.
Slowly, almost fearfully, he reached out to touch her hair.
A sob broke from his chest. “My God. You are here. And you’re alive!”
Trembling, she placed her hand over his.
“I’ve kept track of you every day since I left,” he whispered. “When I learned about the flood, the cholera, heard what you were doing here, I had to come. Even if you didn’t want me, I had to see if you were all right, to see if…if you needed me.”
The words caught in his throat. They were unnecessary. She saw everything she needed in his eyes.
Tentatively, still trembling, but knowing that he was willing to risk even the horror of cholera on her behalf, she reached out her hand and laid it on his chest.
“Jamie.” Her body shook like a leaf in the wind, and no more words would come. It didn’t matter. His arms were around her now, and he was holding her against him so tightly it felt as if they were a single being.
“Oh, Fortune,” he gasped. “Oh, God, you don’t know how I’ve missed you. Every day was a little death, every night an eternity in hell. There hasn’t been a morning I’ve woken without you on my mind, a night when you weren’t the last thing I thought of before I went to sleep.”
“I thought I would die when you went away,” she whispered. She drew away from him slightly, remembering how he had been hurt by what he saw. “Let me tell you what happened.”
He covered her lips, first with his finger, then with a kiss. “It doesn’t matter,” he said a few moments later. “I don’t care what happened, as long as you love me now.”
“I do.” She pulled his face back down to hers. “I do.”
After a time she took Jamie into the hotel and led him to Walter’s bedside. He gasped, and Fortune realized again how old and shrunken their friend now looked.
Jamie turned at her, and she could read the question in his eyes: Is he going to make it?
She shook her head.
Before either of them could speak, Walter opened his eyes.
“Jamie?” he asked, struggling to lift his head. Then, when he was sure of what he was seeing, he held out his hand. “Jamie! Do you know me?”
“‘Excellent well,’” said Jamie, reaching down to take Walter’s hand. “‘You are a fishmonger.’”
“It is you!” said Walter, clutching him desperately. “You came back!”
“Couldn’t stay away!”
“I’ve been waiting for you.” He gasped, and broke into a fit of coughing. When it finally subsided, he said, “There’s something you have to see!” He turned to Fortune. “Show him.” He reached up and touched her neck, laying his fingers lightly over the chain she had worn throughout the winter. “Show him what you always have with you…”
Without a word, Fortune drew out the heart-shaped nugget.
“See!” Walter was smiling now, his face more peaceful than she had seen it in months. “See, Jamie, I didn’t waste all your gold.”
Jamie looked startled. “What do you mean?”
“Later,” whispered Fortune. “I’ll tell you later.”
Walter took Jamie’s hand and squeezed it fiercely. “Be good to her, boy,” he whispered. “Be good to her. If you don’t, I’ll come back. I’ll haunt you fiercer than the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I always wanted to get the death scene,” he whispered. His hand tightened on Jamie’s. Then his once massive body, shrunken and wasted by the disease, twitched in a final spasm.
Jamie stood without moving for a long time. Finally he released Walter’s hand and placed it tenderly on the old man’s chest.
Moving slowly, as if with a great weariness, Fortune pulled the other limp hand on top of it. Then, repeating a gesture she had made all too many times in the last few days, she drew the sheet over his still and silent face.
After a time she took Jamie’s hand, warm and pulsing with life, and led him from the room.
“Tell me what happened,” he said urgently, as if life would always be too short. “Tell me everything—everything you’ve done and thought and heard and seen. And then I’ll tell you about me—about how much I love you, and about the million letters I wrote and tore up, and how you were on my mind every minute of every hour, and about the fortune in gold I’ve dug out of the hills, and—”
“It can wait,” said Fortune, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertip. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”
He took her in his arms and made everything else disappear.
Three weeks later, on a morning brilliant with sunshine, the six members of Plunkett’s Players crested a California hill.
“There it is!” whooped Mr. Patchett, who was walking alongside the new wagon they had bought with the money Jamie had dug from the hills. “There…it…is!”
“The promised land,” said Aaron, who was walking beside him. His voice held no trace of cynicism.
Fortune felt her heart leap. It really is beautiful, she thought, gazing down at the city her father had set out to reach over two years before. The sparkling waters of the broad bay where the city
lay waiting seemed to beckon them on. Gulls wheeled and cried above great ships with furled sails that sat rocking at anchor. To the west the blue-gray waters of the Pacific stretched as far as the eye could see, until they were lost in the haze of the horizon.
Papa! Oh, I wish you could see it. I wish you could be here with us.
“Ready, Mrs. Halleck?” asked Jamie softly.
Fortune reached out and took her husband’s hand. “Give me just a minute longer, Mr. Halleck. I never really expected this to happen.”
He smiled and in the moment of astonishing warmth that flooded her heart she thought, This is it. This is home. It’s with him, wherever that might be.
She smiled. “I’m ready now.”
With a smile as big as tomorrow he looked over his shoulder, into the wagon, and said, “Ready…Mom?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, my chicks,” replied Mrs. Watson happily.
Jamie shook the reins. Romeo and Juliet started forward.
Fortune took out her new guitar and began to sing.
Behind them was the land they had challenged and survived.
Around them, on foot or in the wagon, were four dear, dear friends.
And just ahead—there at last—lay San Francisco, and all their golden dreams.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Fortune’s Journey! Please take a moment to review it on the source you purchased it from. I would truly appreciate it.
If you’d like to know more about me and my work, you can find me on the web at www.brucecoville.com.
You can also order autographed copies of print versions of most of my books there.
A Personal History by Bruce Coville
I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.
Our house was around the corner from my grandparents’ dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin’, hay-bale-haulin’, garden-weedin’ kid.
I was also a reader.
It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me Tom Swift in the City of Gold that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle.
I also read lots of things that people consider junk: Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country stores, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!
My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!
The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall chose. But this time, when I was free to write whatever I wanted, I loved doing it.
Of course, you think about doing many different things when you’re a kid, but I kept coming back to the thought of being a writer. For a long time my dream job was to write for Marvel Comics.
I began working seriously at writing when I was seventeen and started what became my first novel. It was a terrible book, but I had a good time writing it and learned a great deal in the process.
In 1969, when I was nineteen, I married Katherine Dietz, who lived around the corner from me. Kathy was (and is) a wonderful artist, and we began trying to create books together, me writing and Kathy doing the art.
Like most people, I was not able to start selling my stories right away. So I had many other jobs along the way, including toymaker, gravedigger, cookware salesman, and assembly line worker. Eventually I became an elementary school teacher and worked with second and fourth graders, which I loved.
It was not until 1977 that Kathy and I sold our first work, a picture book called The Foolish Giant. We have done many books together since, including Goblins in the Castle, Aliens Ate My Homework, and The World’s Worst Fairy Godmother, all novels for which Kathy provided illustrations.
Along the way we also managed to have three children: a son, Orion, born in 1970; a daughter, Cara, born in 1975; and another son, Adam, born in 1981. They are all grown and on their own now, leaving us to share the house with a varying assortment of cats.
A surprising side effect of becoming a successful writer was that I began to be called on to make presentations at schools and conferences. Though I had no intention of becoming a public speaker, I now spend a few months out of every year traveling to make speeches and have presented in almost every state, as well as such far-flung places as Brazil, China, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh.
Having discovered that I love performing and also that I love audiobooks, in 1990 I started my own audiobook company, Full Cast Audio, where we record books using multiple actors (sometimes as many as fifty in one book!) rather than a single voice artist. We have recorded over one hundred books, by such notable authors as Tamora Pierce, Shannon Hale, and James Howe. In addition to being the producer, I often direct and usually perform in the recordings.
So there you go. I consider myself a very lucky person. From the time I was young, I had a dream of becoming a writer. With a lot of hard work, that dream has come true, and I am blessed to be able to make my living doing something that I really love.
Hey, baby! You looking at me? I was born on May 16, 1950, in Syracuse, New York. In this picture I’m one year old.
As a farm boy, I learned to drive a tractor when I was quite young.
Reading was always important to me—anytime, anywhere.
I planned to be a cowboy …
But I ended up a boy scout. (From the look on my face, I think I just got away with something …)
In 1969 I married Kathy. She lived right around the corner from me. She’s an artist and has illustrated twenty of my books. We have three children—Orion, Cara, and Adam.
Here’s me at Buckshot Lake. Apparently no one told me I was supposed to sit in the boat.
As a young father, I often functioned as a piece of furniture.
Here’s me with my daughter. I swear I did not steal her candy!
A rare sighting of my half-mad brother Igor (on the right), star of Goblins in the Castle. When I was an elementary school teacher, Igor would visit my classroom every Halloween to celebrate his birthday. For some reason the two of us were never seen together. It was a puzzling mystery. This is a picture of Igor posing with my wife’s little brother.
Something has clearly gone very, very right!
Often I give speeches about reading and writing. But sometimes I get a little carried away.
No, seriously, I meant it when I said I get carried away …
I not only write books, I read them aloud, too. Here I am recording an audiobook for my company, Full Cast Audio. Whatever I just read has clearly surprised me!
I love my books … they make me happy! I hope they do the same for you. Photo courtesy of Charles Wainwright.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electro
nic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995, 2012 by Bruce Coville
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6856-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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