Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  His fingertips were inching below her waistband. She opened her mouth again to cry for help but reaching over to the pitcher stand, he grabbed one of the cloth napkins, shoving it roughly between her teeth. With a violent effort, she tried to turn her body but it was too late. She gagged. Her entire body was trembling and her thighs shook. His rough, whiskered face scraped her cheek. One of his hands stayed between her legs. Her arms were pinned between the bed and her back. She felt his lips on her throat, jumbled thoughts flitting through her mind.

  The delicate fabric of her drawers ripped as he stripped the cloth from her hips. His breeches were down around his knees. She tried to push against him but he crushed his frame to hers. He grinned, then grunted, his hips bucking back. She convulsed in pain. Disgust and horror welled through her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The train rocked side-to-side. The goblet of wine crashed to the floor, sending a spray of deep red splashing against the window.

  CHAPTER 38

  MARCH 8, 1855

  METAMORPHOSIS

  Sarah lay stunned, her shoulders heaving with each retching sob. Outside the stained compartment window, daylight faded. Jacob had roughly removed the rest of her clothing and had taken her repeatedly. The whole day was a nightmarish blur. Each time she tried to convince herself that nothing had happened, that this was all just a terrible dream, she was reminded of the awful reality by pangs in the tender apex of her legs. Jacob snored next to her, naked from the waist down, his arm tight around her waist. He had even accompanied her, one of his hands like a vise on her arm, on each of her two trips to the toilet that served their set of berths. Each time they encountered another passenger, the increasing pressure of his grip hurt and bruised her bicep.

  As the hours ticked by, her horror, shock, pain and denial began to yield to a white-hot anger. This animal has taken my virginity. My trust. My innocence. Forever.

  Curling into a fetal ball, she attempted to ignore the sore burning below her hips and the angry constriction deep in her chest. Trying to will the rhythmic motion of the train and the tracks to calm the bitter contempt that consumed her soul and induce sleep was futile. There was no bottom to the depths of the growing rage clogging her throat, tugging viciously at her gut, swirling like an angry storm in her head, filling her heart. Staring fixedly through the gloom at her valise, she visualized the pistol that lay in its secret compartment.

  Jacob left early the next morning, again locking the door with the key. Springing from the bed as soon as the lock clicked, she sparingly but hurriedly used the water in the pitcher, and with dampened napkins and the remnant of her torn undergarments, cleaned herself as best she could. Opening the false bottom of the valise, she drew out the revolver, wiping it with the tattered remnants of her torn clothing to impart the energy of her shame to the dull, dark blue steel and give it purpose. Placing the weapon on the bed within easy reach, she put on clean clothes. A feeling of detachment pervaded her like a protective cloak. Drawing herself up on a bunk facing the door, her back to the corner of the compartment, she wrapped her arms around her knees and pressed them against her chest. Rocking slowly back and forth, the pistol in one hand, she waited, every sense alert, marveling at the cold clarity of her thoughts.

  Returning several hours later, Jacob fumbled with the lock outside the door, speaking in apparent good humor, “I have some food for us, woman. Won a bit of money from some fools who think they are poker players.” Backing into the berth, he was focused on shutting the door, one hand holding a tray of cheese, bread and apples. Leveling the pistol at the center of his back, Sarah steadied the barrel with both hands on the grip, her trembling forearms resting on her knees. She waited for him to turn around. I want to see your face, your eyes—I want you to know.

  Sliding the door shut, Jacob turned, his eyes on the tray. Sarah pulled back the hammer. The distinctive metallic click of the mechanism engaging seemed unusually loud in the small area.

  Jacob looked up, startled, his smug smile vanishing instantly. He froze. “Now, Sarah, you don’t want to do this,” he said in a low, soothing tone.

  The world seemed to pause. Sarah’s vision narrowed to only the cocked hammer and barrel of the pistol pointed squarely at the stocky figure in front of her. She felt nothing but grim satisfaction at the look of fear in Jacob’s eyes. No sound reached her ears but his voice and the inner palpable pounding of her own heart.

  “Yes, I do,” she said in a voice that seemed somehow separate from herself, and pulled the trigger. Jacob hurled himself sideways to the right, almost simultaneously with the surprisingly subtle pop of the shot.

  For a moment, Sarah thought the bullet had felled him but he rose frantically, cursing, “You bitch!” He put his right hand to the blood seeping into his sleeve several inches below his left shoulder.

  Sarah began to fumble with the pistol in the surreal moment. The cylinder would not advance, and she struggled to cock the hammer again, watching her hands as if from another body. Everything seemed to be in slow motion.

  Pausing only for a split second, he leapt the few feet to her bunk, his right hand stretched for the pistol as Sarah struggled with the weapon. Landing squarely on her, his weight jammed her into the corner with full force, knocking the breath from her. Wrestling the revolver away from her, he stood, glowering as she gasped to regain her breath. His tone was deadly, “If you ever try anything like that again, wench, I will break your neck with my bare hands and throw your body off the train. Now get up, get some water from the pitcher and clean my arm.”

  Jacob raped her brutally that night, covering her cries with his hand. “Hurts does it, lassie? Well, my arm hurts, too.”

  He began to develop a pattern. He would leave mid-morning after taking her to the water closet. He was generally gone several hours, then he would return with food and usually with coins or small bills that he would add to his money pouch. The pistol had disappeared. Sarah contemplated requesting help from another passenger or the conductor but realized it was his word against hers. Besides, the shame of this wretched situation; no one will believe we shared a compartment by mistake.

  The third day of the trip, she waited a few minutes after he had left the compartment and then opened his duffel, pawing its contents with violently shaking hands. There is no doubt he will make good on his promise of killing me if provoked but I need something to give me leverage.

  Under the dirty shirts and old cloths, she discovered a large folded piece of parchment paper. It looked old and worn. Carefully opening it, she held it up to the light of the window. She was startled. This seems to be a map to a gold deposit. There was a reddish-brown stain in one corner. Where had he gotten it?

  Sitting on the floor in the narrow space between the bunks, she reviewed her options. They had been through Philadelphia. She could try to escape when the train stopped in Chicago but she was a virtual prisoner and the authorities were far less likely to believe a woman. It will be my word against his and with each day that passes greater doubt would be cast on my version. He will be difficult to shake. How can I keep the map and be rid of him? How long can I stand the thought of him next to me everywhere we go, and his vulgar touch? The map indicates the gold is somewhere far west of St. Louis. Is the revenge of my honor and justice worth it?

  “Las Montanas Rojas,” she muttered to herself. Perhaps I can steal the map and safely lose myself in the dense population of St. Louis? But that is not where the gold is.

  Meticulously replacing the map just as she had found it, she whispered grimly to herself, “The opportunity will arise, Mister O’Shanahan.” Staring at her valise, she wished fervently her revolver was still concealed in the bottom. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. “I will wait, be patient and play the game well. You owe me, Jacob. And I shall collect.”

  CHAPTER 39

  MARCH 11, 1855

  ST. LOUIS

  Lying on his back on his bunk, knees bent, hands clasped behind his blond hair, Johannes roll
ed his head toward Reuben. “Can we please find a hotel with beds I can straighten my legs in?”

  Sitting on the edge of his bunk, Reuben looked up from oiling his Slim Jim, and grinned. “Worse comes to worst, there’s always the floor—that would be an improvement over this cubby hole.”

  “You have a point, my Prussian friend.”

  “And…”

  “Yes?”

  “Think of the room you’ll have to stretch out under wagons and stars for the next two months.”

  Johannes fixed his eyes toward the ceiling and grunted.

  Reuben and Johannes disembarked as Inga and Rebecca were emerging from five cars down the track. Walking toward one another through wafts of steam slipping down the track from the locomotive, Reuben noticed the intense stares exchanged between Johannes and Inga. “Careful you don’t walk into a post, Johannes.”

  Reuben was delighted to be off the train and in St. Louis. The last time we really stretched was Chicago. His good humor was dampened, however, as he returned Rebecca’s coldly aloof gaze. “Where will you be staying?” he asked in a polite voice.

  “That’s none of your concern,” Rebecca snapped, her eyes dropping to his lips. Reuben wondered if she was thinking of her passionate response when he had kissed her between the train cars.

  “Well, for the sake of those two,” Reuben nodded his head toward Inga and Johannes, who had drifted a bit to another spot on the platform, “we should at least know where the other is staying.”

  “I imagine you’re staying down in the river district?” she said.

  Reuben felt his jaw tighten. “Actually, we have a room at the Southern Hotel at Fourth and Walnut.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment but her voice was sharp. “How did you manage enough money for both a train and a fine hotel?”

  Before Reuben could reply, Johannes and Inga returned. Inga had overhead Reuben’s last statement.

  “That’s where we’re staying, too!” exclaimed Inga. She clapped her hands together and seemed to take a little jump. She shot Rebecca a look that said, ‘I told you so.’ Rebecca flashed back a baleful stare.

  Johannes cleared his throat, “Well, let’s get a carriage together.”

  Reuben threw him a warning glare. “I don’t think there’s enough room for the four of us and all the ladies’ luggage in a single carriage.”

  Rebecca’s shoulders drew back and she turned away. “Come along, Inga. Find us some porters. Though Mister Frank seems fixated with my trunks, I have heard no offer of assistance from these two.” Bestowing a dazzling, parting smile upon Johannes, Inga hurried after Rebecca.

  Johannes turned to Reuben, obviously perplexed.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Just having some fun at her almighty’s expense. Let’s get our bags.”

  “I think she likes you.” Johannes tried vainly to make his tone serious.

  “Then I would hate to see how she acts towards someone she dislikes.”

  The next morning Reuben cast a half-open eye toward Johannes’ unslept-in bed. An hour later, he was in the lobby, vibrant with a crowd of finely dressed men and women seated at scattered round tables having breakfast and coffee. Reuben chose a table centered in a broad beam of sunlight spilling invitingly through one of the large, high windows. Stretching in the bright warmth, he studied the other people gathered for breakfast.

  A woman’s voice jolted him out of his survey of the dining area. “Gentlemen usually rise and pull out a chair for a lady.”

  Reuben was shocked to see Rebecca standing by the other chair. Her well-tailored dress accentuated every supple, inviting curve of her figure. Though she attempted to cast her usual superior air, Reuben felt some other indefinable energy. The same sensation as when we kissed on the train. Bolting to his feet, he bowed slightly, motioning with his hand for her to be seated.

  “Thank you.” Rebecca’s nose was slightly upturned; her shoulders squared back, stiff and straight. “Inga tells me you’re going west to Cherry Creek.”

  “Yes, we are.” He volunteered nothing else.

  Her eyes dropped to his chin, and then fleetingly to the tufts of hair poking from his open shirt collar, and then up to his lips. She smiled disarmingly. Reuben felt a stir in his loins. She’s about to play me for a fool, he warned himself.

  “It just so happens we are going to Cherry Creek also,” she said, busying herself with a rearrangement of the utensils in front of her.

  “I thought you had some business pertaining to your father that you had to attend to here in St. Louis.” Reuben’s fingers were tapping on the tabletop.

  Rebecca started. “You remember our conversation back at Castle Garden?”

  “Yes or perhaps Johannes is not the only one who tells tales out of school,” Reuben said.

  Rebecca smiled. “We shall have to have a talk with our people.”

  There was a moment’s silence; their eyes met, and the two of them began laughing uproariously.

  People at the tables around them rotated in their seats, staring at them. An old lady who sat near them leaned over to her companion and said in a tone they were not meant to overhear, “I suppose when you make that striking a couple, you think you can do what you wish.”

  “So, they must take breaks from their romantic escapades at least long enough to share a few sentences,” Reuben teased.

  “Well, at least someone is experiencing romance.” Rebecca subconsciously ran her tongue along her upper lip.

  “We do make a fine-looking couple,” Reuben said. Rebecca dabbed at tears of laughter with her napkin.

  “Do you really think so? I’ve never imagined myself as part of a couple.”

  “I wonder why not?”

  “I’ve never had the time or the opportunity or found a man in whom I was even slightly interested.”

  “When do you plan to leave?” Reuben asked, purposefully absorbing himself in his coffee cup.

  “We don’t know that yet. I understand from the concierge that the wagon trains leave periodically this time of year. But it’s important to be in with the right class of people and to have a good captain.”

  “Wagon master,” Reuben corrected.

  Rebecca paused. “Wagon master.… Yes, I’ve heard it’s important to have the right wagon master to remain safe. Have you found an appropriate situation?”

  “Have you?” he countered.

  “No. We have no inkling of where to begin. I rather hoped that you could assist me.”

  Deep within him, something turned over. I have been right all along. This woman does not and has never cared for me. I doubt she cares about anybody unless they are of some specific use to her.

  His chair legs made a loud scraping squeak on the marble floor as he rose abruptly. “It seems your attitude changes when you need something.”

  “Reuben…I—”

  “We would be happy to assist you.” Reuben cut her off, keeping his face impassive and his voice steely, “We are beginning to get ourselves prepared this morning. There is a group being organized to leave within the week. I’ll have Johannes keep Inga abreast of our progress.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened at the sudden change in his demeanor. “Thank you, Reuben.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Reuben quickly left the table. Glancing back from the foot of the stairs, Rebecca still sat at the table looking after him, her expression one of perplexed surprise.

  CHAPTER 40

  MARCH 15, 1855

  UNTOLD

  Sarah knew Jacob was keeping a watchful eye on her. During each stop along the route, he remained in the compartment with her, the door locked and window shades pulled. Her wrist was still black and blue from his vise-like grip when they had switched to the Illinois Central train in Chicago for the last leg of the journey to St. Louis.

  He wore a light jacket to cover the bloodstains in his shirt where the bullet had pierced his arm. Watching him dig out the small mound of lead with a stiletto he had pulled
from his boot, Sarah purposely did not warn him to heat the blade with matches before he performed the procedure.

  His advances were less frequent. He was doing well at cards, which seemed to keep him in relative good humor. His first act each time he returned was to shove his winnings in his change bag. If he wasn’t too drunk, and passed out first, his second was usually to command her to take off her clothes. After the fourth day, she forced herself to become more compliant and less resistant, though she remained rigid at his touch. The strategy seemed to work. During the last several occasions they had coupled, Jacob had changed his position and become less rough when Sarah complained he was hurting her.

  Sarah’s one escape was the changing nature of the countryside. She was startled from one particular moment of reverie watching the land transform, when Jacob had stood behind her, putting his hands lightly on her shoulders and rubbing them in a clumsy but almost gentle way, “Aye, it is a beautiful landscape with not so many people. I think we might like it in the West.”

  Sarah was startled by the sudden thought that Jacob had started to care for her a bit. Perhaps in some twisted way, he respects me for trying to kill him. She had no further illusions about what sort of man Jacob was, and she was no longer innocent. She stowed the realization for future use.

  *****

  It was a pleasure to stretch her legs without the confines of the train and to feel space around her when they disembarked in St. Louis.

  “Had some good winnings on that train, woman,” Jacob boasted. “If there are even bigger fools in this town, we will be well outfitted for our journey west.”

  He hadn’t asked her about her money and she said nothing. Jacob found a seedy hotel, the Planters Inn, on the northeast side of town. The room had an odor but its bed was semi-clean. They had barely entered the room when Jacob suddenly pushed her face down on the bed. The old mattress sagged in the center and creaked as he lifted her skirt and petticoats and pulled her drawers down to her knees in one adept motion. Sarah had no leverage in the concave springs. Her cries were muffled in the mushy wool of the blankets as Jacob spread her thighs with his knees and entered her from behind. A few thrusts and he grunted, then relaxed. He stood up, buttoning his pants.