Fortune's Journey

by Bruce Coville

  “I’m sure we’re all impressed,” said Aaron, causing a snicker from Edmund.

  Jamie’s jaw tightened, the muscles around his mouth clenching as though he were biting back an angry retort.

  Leave him alone, Aaron! thought Fortune, to her own surprise.

  Jamie looked around the room. “I’m sorry,” he said with great dignity. “I’m intruding.”

  Without another word he walked away from the group and disappeared down the stairway.

  “Oh, Minerva!” said Mrs. Watson to Aaron. “Now see what you’ve done?”

  “Me?” cried Aaron, his voice full of wounded innocence.

  Fortune ignored them. She was trying to tell herself she was relieved that the intruder was gone. Yet she couldn’t stop staring at the doorway.

  The next night Fortune stood behind one of the curtains that Walter and Aaron had draped at the right and left sides of the stage to mask the actors when they were not performing. Mr. Patchett had arranged the action to ensure that she and Mrs. Watson could always exit to the right to make their costume changes, while the men would always exit to the left.

  She glanced over at Mrs. Watson, who was “preparing her face” for her grand entrance. Her red hair tumbled over her shoulders in thick, glossy curls.

  Almost against her will, Fortune felt a wave of affection for this woman who had tried so hard to look out for her over these last months. At least she meant well.

  Turning back to the curtain, she gently pulled back an edge so that she could check the audience. She felt a flash of guilt for this breach of professional ethics, but not enough to stop her from doing it.

  The oil lamps at the front of the stage had been lit. Walter, already in costume, stood at the front, selling tickets. The house was filling nicely; they would probably have close to a hundred people.

  To Fortune’s surprise, she saw little Nancy Conaway sitting toward the back, all scrubbed and polished.

  As she continued to look around, she found herself wondering if Jamie had arrived yet. She told herself the curiosity was only because she felt sorry for him. After she had heard his mother screaming at him this afternoon, Fortune had decided the young man deserved whatever fun he could manage. Especially since part of what Mrs. Halleck had been screaming about had had to do with how she would tan his hide if he even considered going to “that wicked play” this evening.

  Fortune scowled at the memory. Mrs. Halleck’s abusive screeching had been a horrible thing to listen to. And even though it had been so loud that neither she nor anyone else within a hundred yards could help but hear it, she had felt as if she was eavesdropping.

  “Nervous, dear?” asked Mrs. Watson.

  Fortune dropped the curtain. “Of course not. Why should I be?”

  Mrs. Watson gave her a sly grin. “I always find it gives me butterflies when I have an admirer in the audience.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Fortune, a little too casually.

  “Jamie, of course.”

  “Oh, him.” She waved a hand carelessly. “I hardly think you could call him an admirer.”

  Mrs. Watson paused in the application of her makeup. “You know, I think you’re right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Fortune. This is ridiculous, she said to herself. I’m not in the least bit interested in him. So why should it bother me if he’s not interested in me? Vanity. That’s what it is. You’re getting vain, Fortune Plunkett. You’d better watch out, or you’ll end up like Mrs. Watson.

  “I’ll tell you what it is with that boy,” said Mrs. Watson. She gave her face one last dab of powder and turned to Fortune. “He’s stage-struck! Don’t ask me how it happened out here in West Nowhere, but that’s what it is. He’s got it bad.”

  The older woman shrugged. “Of course, you being an actress and all, he naturally looks up to you. But it’s the stage he’s really interested in. You’re right, Fortune. He’s not an admirer after all.”

  Fortune looked at Mrs. Watson suspiciously. Was she teasing? The hint of a smile lit her face, but Fortune couldn’t tell if it was because she was joking, or because she was feeling smug for having diagnosed Jamie’s condition.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she said, forcing a smile herself. “I was beginning to worry about the poor boy.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him. Any lad who looks like he does won’t lack for female companionship. But he’ll go crazy in this little town if he doesn’t get rid of that hankering for ‘the theater.’”

  Mrs. Watson altered her voice on the last two words, doing a perfect imitation of Jamie’s worshipful way of saying them.

  Fortune laughed in spite of herself.

  Suddenly they were aware of a silence on the stage. “Oh, Minerva!” cried Mrs. Watson. “That’s my entrance!”

  The older woman rushed off, leaving Fortune alone with her thoughts. After a moment she reached for the edge of the curtain and again scanned the audience.

  She spotted Jamie sitting in the third row, and wondered how he had gotten around his mother’s objections to his coming…or what price he would pay once the fierce old harridan discovered where he had been.

  She narrowed her eyes. Jamie was sitting next to a girl. Had they come together?

  What difference does it make if they did? she asked herself sternly. I certainly don’t care if he has a girlfriend!

  She looked the young lady over.

  She’s pretty—but not as pretty as I am.

  She lowered the edge of the curtain in disgust. What had gotten into her? What did she care whether the girl he was sitting with was pretty or not? She had Aaron to think about.

  Aaron! She could hear his voice onstage. If she wasn’t careful she would be like Mrs. Watson and miss her entrance.

  She went to the edge of the stage and waited for her cue.

  “And where is the widow’s daughter?” asked Walter in his oiliest tones.

  Fortune smiled. Walter made a wonderful villain—which was strange, since he was about the sweetest man she knew.

  “Here I am!” she cried gaily, doing a pirouette as she made her entrance.

  Her arrival prompted a burst of applause. Women were scarce in this area—and pretty ones were even scarcer. The men appreciated her beauty, and she enjoyed their appreciation. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Mrs. Watson looking disgruntled. There had been slightly less applause at her entrance.

  At the end of the first act the audience surged out of the loft. Fortune, experienced at reading the mood of a crowd, could tell things were going well. She caught a certain contented buzz, mixed with an angry undertone that spoke of outrage at the villain’s behavior. They were really involved in the play.

  Unfortunately, she knew many of the men would take advantage of the break to go next door to the bar for a drink. Others had already been drinking out of pocket flasks they had brought with them. Fortune frowned. The drunks they had to cope with in almost every audience were one of the things that bothered her most about their travels.

  “Knock knock?”

  It was Walter, standing outside their curtain.

  “Come in!” said Fortune.

  Walter lifted the makeshift door and ducked to step into their space. He was wearing a broad smile. “A good house tonight, Fortune. We took in enough to cover what we paid Mrs. Halleck, get the horses shod, and still have a little to spare.” Fortune returned his smile. That was good news. The troupe’s day-to-day funds had been getting dangerously low, and she had feared they would have to dip into the money she was saving for the price of the wagon train they were planning to join at Independence. A few good nights would help avoid that unpleasant possibility.

  “Thank you, Walter. Take good care of it, now, won’t you?”

  He winked. “I’ve got it tucked away safe and sound. I just wanted to give you the good news.”

  Fortune watched him leave. She found herself smiling affectionately. Walter was an old bear, that was all there was to i
t. A big cuddly old bear.

  Edmund was next at their “door.” Fortune frowned. The newcomer had developed an annoying habit of coming to their dressing room between acts on almost any excuse, and she didn’t like the way his dark eyes flicked over her at those times. Now those eyes were smoldering, and his thin lips were pulled tighter than usual.

  “Aaron has stepped on my lines three times tonight, Miss Plunkett. I would appreciate it if you would speak to him after the performance!” He spun on his heel and stalked away.

  Fortune opened her mouth, but nothing came out. When Mrs. Watson burst out laughing, Fortune turned on her and cried, “What’s so funny?”

  Mrs. Watson was holding her sides. “Oh, you can’t take that young peacock seriously. He’s such a vain little thing. Thinks he can act, too!”

  “He can,” said Fortune. “Otherwise I’d tell Mr. Patchett to get rid of him. Unfortunately, we need him.”

  “And he needs us just as much. My advice is to just ignore him when he gets like that. Do you think he’d leave us? Where’s he going to go, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Ready for Act Two!” It was Mr. Patchett, hissing through their curtain.

  “Yes,” called Fortune. “We’re set to go.”

  She sighed. Three of the four men in the troupe had found reason to cross the stage and speak to her during intermission. Why not Aaron?

  The audience was obviously in a good mood as the second act began. They cheered as Fortune and Mrs. Watson made their entrances, and booed loudly at the appearance of Walter-the-villain.

  Fortune felt a little nervous. Their mood was a trifle too good. She knew from past experiences that rowdy audiences like this could get out of hand.

  Her fears were confirmed ten minutes later when two men in the front row took objection to Walter’s latest, most wicked scheme.

  “You can’t do that!” cried one of them, his words slurred by liquor. “Why, that woman’s too good for you!”

  “Who do you think you are, anyway, trying to bust up them kids?” cried the other. He stood, weaving unsteadily.

  His partner leaped up beside him. “Come on down here an’ fight like a man.”

  “Yeah,” said the second. “C’mere an’ fight like a man, ya big sissy.”

  Fortune winced. It wasn’t the first time this had happened during a show. But the more drunk the interrupters were, the harder it was to get things settled down.

  Mr. Patchett was moving to the edge of the stage when the second of the two men clambered up onto it. Lunging past Mr. Patchett, he grabbed for Walter. “C’mere, you weasel! I wanna teach you a lesson!”

  Walter stepped aside. It did no good. The man stumbled after him. “C’mere, I said!”

  Reaching up to grab Walter’s shoulder, he gave it a fierce yank. Walter turned, raising an enormous arm to ward off the man’s fist.

  That was all it took to send the drunk sprawling to the floor. His outstretched arm struck one of the oil lanterns that lined the edge of the stage. It rolled off, cracked, and spilled oil across the floor.

  The still burning wick touched off the oil spill. Flames raced along the oil, creating a low wall of fire across the front of the stage.

  Cries of terror erupted from the audience. As a mass they leaped up and began scrambling for the doors.

  Fortune grabbed Mrs. Watson’s arm. “We’ve got to get out!” she cried. “Let’s go!”

  At that moment the blaze jumped to the curtain strung on the men’s side of the stage. In a flash the fabric was engulfed in flame. Thick smoke billowed out, making it impossible to see across the stage.

  Fortune began to cough. Her eyes were smarting. She let go of Mrs. Watson to rub them, only to find that made things worse. In the distance she could hear people screaming.

  She reached for Mrs. Watson again, but the woman was gone. Fortune stumbled forward, her arms stretched before her. The smoke was so dense she couldn’t see. Where were the others?

  A momentary break in the smoke showed her that ahead and to her left Mr. Patchett was leading Walter toward the door.

  Where are Aaron and Edmund? And what’s happened to Mrs. Watson?

  Suddenly a sound caught at Fortune’s throat. She recognized Nancy Conaway’s voice. The child was trapped somewhere in the loft, crying for help.

  Lifting her skirt in front of her face, Fortune made her way in the direction of the child’s cries. The heat was intense, searing her skin, her lungs. A spark caught at the edge of her dress. With a strength born of terror she tore off the outer skirt and threw it away from her, grateful for the trousers she wore beneath it.

  Nancy shouted for help again.

  “Where are you?” cried Fortune, coughing on the smoke that billowed around her.

  “Here!” screamed the child. “Here!”

  Suddenly Fortune could see her. Racing forward, she swept the child into her arms. Nancy flung herself around Fortune’s neck and clung to her desperately.

  Fortune turned and began to stumble toward the front of the loft. But the smoke was thicker now. She was choking and coughing, and her eyes were burning so fiercely she could hardly see. Yet she continued to move forward until a spurt of flame shot up beside her. She stopped. It was useless. She couldn’t go on.

  A beam fell from the roof, crashing nearby.

  Nancy let out a cry of terror and squeezed Fortune’s neck even more tightly. The terror of the helpless thing in her arms seemed to give Fortune new strength. Ducking her head, she forced herself to take another ten steps.

  But the smoke was too much for her. She felt herself begin to sway.

  Then someone reached out to take the child from her arms. Relieved of her burden, Fortune sank to the floor, the flames swirling around her.

  Chapter Four

  Strong arms folded about Fortune. Someone lifted her from the floor.

  Aaron! she thought deliriously. He knew I was in trouble and came back to get me.

  The flames were still roaring. The smoke was thick and choking. But she was safe. Resting her head against his chest, she drifted in and out of consciousness, content to let him take care of her now.

  A dull explosion thundered somewhere behind them. Ahead, another beam crashed to the floor. She let out a scream that was stifled because her mouth was pressed against his chest. She heard him curse and was racked by a sudden fear that they were both going to die.

  “Look out!” cried a voice from somewhere far away. She felt the muscles in his arms tighten, a lurch as he jumped, a moment of terrible heat, and then a sudden draft of cooler air.

  They were out!

  He swayed for a moment, as if about to faint, then stood solid again. Fortune opened her eyes. The glare from the blazing building seemed to blind her. It didn’t matter. She drew her arms tighter about his neck and pulled herself closer to him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Then she kissed him, savoring the soft warmth of his lips against hers.

  “Thank you, Miss Plunkett,” he said when she drew away.

  “You!” she cried in horror. She couldn’t believe it. She had been rescued by Jamie Halleck. “Put me down, you…you impostor!”

  A burst of laughter erupted around them. “Looks like you rescued a wildcat, Jamie,” said one of the men.

  “Draw in your claws, girl,” said a voice close beside her. “The boy saved your life.”

  Smiling, Jamie set her down, then turned and walked away.

  “Get back!” cried a voice. “Get back, it’s about to go!”

  Fortune rushed back with the throng of men as the general store began to collapse in on itself. The wooden frame shook, held steady for another moment, almost as if it had been frozen, then tumbled in like a house of cards before a sneeze. A cascade of sparks swept into the sky, swirling up as if they were heading for the stars, going to become stars themselves.

  Fortune had no time to watch the spectacle. She had to find the others. Grabbing the sleeve of a nearby man, she cried, “Did everyon
e get out?”

  He ignored her, his eyes locked on the blazing building.

  Fortune followed his gaze. To her horror she saw that the buildings on either side of it were on fire now, too. She shook his arm. “Did everyone get out all right?”

  About the time that she realized she was screaming, she recognized that the man she was talking to was Arthur MacKenzie, owner of the building that had just fallen. The loss had left him in a stupor.

  She turned away, thinking she would have to ask someone else. With her first step she realized that she was still trembling. And the horrible truth was beginning to sink in on her: If any of the troupe hadn’t gotten out, it was too late. They were dead.

  She forced the thought from her mind. They couldn’t lose anyone else. Not now. But in her near delirium the faces of her friends began to swirl before her, merging with the flames, screaming. She was about to scream herself when someone grabbed her by the arm. “Get in line!” yelled the stranger. “Do your part!”

  With a start Fortune realized that the townspeople had formed a bucket brigade and were trying to keep the fire from spreading any farther. The general store was lost. But while the saloon to the right of it had caught fire, it could still be saved. The little church to the left was starting to go, too. It also needed instant attention.

  Two lines of people stretched from the small river at the edge of town to the buildings. Fortune took her place in a spot where a gap was slowing things down. A bucket was thrust into her hands. She passed it to the next person in line. Almost before she could turn back, another bucket was being pressed on her. She passed that on, too, and the next, and the next.

  Soon the routine became a mechanical blur. With her body working automatically, her thoughts wandered elsewhere. She tried to think about the others. But her mind kept betraying her, and she found herself remembering the feel of Jamie Halleck’s arms around her body, the warmth and the softness of his lips when she had foolishly kissed him. Why couldn’t it have been Aaron? she thought bitterly.

  Her arms began to ache, but there was no time to rest. The buckets had to keep moving.

  Fortune would have been amazed if she could have seen herself. When the evening began she was beautiful. “Radiant,” as her father had often said. Now her costume was in tatters, the bottom half ripped away to reveal the trousers she wore beneath it for one of her Act Three scene changes. Her blond hair hung limply against a face smeared dark with smoke and dirt, and her arms and legs were nearly black.