If Fortune hadn’t wrapped the rope Mr. Hyatt had given her around her arm, both she and Mrs. Watson would have been lost to the abyss at once. As it was, they were dangling like links at the end of a chain, and Mrs. Watson’s life depended on how long they could manage to cling to each other.
Outside they could hear frantic shouts from the men. Below them was the ghastly drop.
“Close your eyes!” ordered Fortune, tightening her grip on Mrs. Watson’s arm.
Mrs. Watson groaned, but did as Fortune told her.
Fortune felt as if her arms were being slowly but surely pulled from their sockets. The rope had tightened around her right wrist, cutting off the circulation. Mrs. Watson’s full weight dangled from her other hand.
Suddenly the older woman moaned. “I can’t do it, Fortune. I can’t hold on any longer.”
A surge of fear ripped through Fortune as she felt Mrs. Watson’s hand slipping from hers. With the fear came unsuspected strength, and she tightened her own grip as if her hand were made of iron.
“Don’t you dare give up,” she ordered sharply. “Don’t you dare! I promised my father I would get us to California, and I am, by God, going to do it. And I am taking you with us!”
“I can’t,” sobbed Mrs. Watson. “I can’t do it!”
“You have to!” hissed Fortune.
She wanted to scream herself—it felt like she was being ripped in half. But she refused to let go. Closing her eyes, she put herself back in the dingy room where her father had died and whispered over and over, “I promise, Papa. I promise I’ll hold the troupe together.”
She was still whispering when a sudden movement made her realize that the wagon was being pulled upward.
A thud, a scraping sound, and they were almost level. She heard the men shouting again. The wagon stopped moving, and she realized that the back wheels had caught on the ledge.
Again the wagon began to rock. A series of short, sharp jolts, and suddenly they were over the top.
Fortune cried out in relief and let go of Mrs. Watson. Her arms were throbbing with pain, yet so stiff she could scarcely move them. A burst of voices signaled Jamie and Walter scrambling into the wagon from the back, while Mr. Patchett, Edmund, and Aaron came in from the front. Their questions—“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”—spilled over one another so rapidly that Fortune could hardly think. But somehow she was on her feet, hugging each of them, even Edmund, in turn.
Each of them but Jamie, who was on his knees beside Mrs. Watson, shaking her gently, trying to bring her out of her stupor.
When she finally opened her eyes, she looked around, blinked in bewilderment, then moaned, “Oh, Minerva.”
Plunkett’s Players stood in a forlorn circle looking at the small pile of supplies on the ground. It was a dismal picture, and no doubt about it. Most of what they owned had disappeared in the gorge where they had nearly lost Fortune and Mrs. Watson as well. Tools, food, the few properties and costumes that had survived the fire in Busted Heights—all were now scattered at the bottom of the cliff.
“So much for Jamie’s great bargains,” said Aaron sardonically. “What a waste of money that turned out to be.”
Jamie flushed. Fortune was almost angry with him for not lashing back. To her surprise, she did it for him, snapping, “If you had been driving more carefully, it wouldn’t have happened to begin with!”
It was Aaron’s turn to flush. If anyone had suspected that the accident was mere carelessness on his part, the question had been resolved when the wagon was finally safe and they had peered into the abyss where it had nearly disappeared. At the bottom could be seen the wreckage of two other wagons.
Even so, Aaron had been extremely harsh on himself about the mishap, and Fortune would have given a lot to take back her sharp words.
“Fault is not the issue,” said Mr. Patchett, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “The issue is, what are we going to do now?”
“Why not do what you do best?” suggested Jamie.
Fortune looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“Put on a show.”
“This is hardly the place for theatrics,” said Mr. Patchett, glancing around at the circle of wagons.
Fortune followed his gaze. Her proud heart, ill at ease with accepting help from anyone, was troubled by the knowledge that they would never have made it without the help of the others. That help had continued even after the wagon had been pulled back from the brink of disaster, when Frank Hyatt and some other men had temporarily repaired the damages so the troupe could keep up with the wagon train until nightfall. Whatever problems they still faced, she did not want to ask for any more help. Whatever they needed now, they had to earn.
Walter’s voice brought her back to the present. “I think the boy’s got a point!”
“Minerva, yes!” cried Mrs. Watson, a look of excitement flashing in her eyes. “I was getting rusty anyway!”
“But we lost most of our props and costumes—”
“What difference does that make?” asked Edmund, to the surprise of nearly everyone. “These people won’t care. They want entertainment, not perfection.”
“That’s exactly the point,” said Jamie. “They’d love to see a show…any show. And we won’t charge money. We’ll take things in trade: food, clothing, tools—whatever someone can spare.”
The group was beginning to get caught up in the idea. Suddenly Fortune felt herself excited by it, too. I’ve missed it, she thought in surprise. I’ve actually missed acting!
They began to prepare for the evening meal—largely a matter of gathering fuel, starting a fire, and letting Jamie cook. During it all they continued chattering about the idea. Excitement was taking hold of them, a sense that maybe a show really was the answer to their problems. Somehow, before the meal was over, it was no longer a question of if they should do it, but of when and how.
Mr. Patchett began to wax nostalgic. “I do miss the shows we used to do.”
“You mean back when we were trying to be good?” asked Walter. Fortune was surprised by the bitter tone in the question.
“What was your best show?” asked Jamie quickly.
“Hamlet,” said the three older actors, almost in unison.
“Why not do it again?”
“These rubes don’t want Shakespeare,” said Edmund scornfully.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Patchett. He hesitated, as if speaking against his better judgment. “They’re doing a lot of Shakespeare out in San Francisco.”
“The Booth family has been out there,” said Mrs. Watson dreamily. “I wonder if we’ll ever meet them.”
Fortune smiled. Mrs. Watson had been longing to meet the great Junius Brutus Booth for as long as she could remember. Her smile faded as she heard Walter’s next words.
“Don’t make any difference,” he said mournfully. “We don’t have a Hamlet. Not since we lost John.”
The moment of painful silence that fell over the group ended when Jamie said softly, “I know the part.”
Aaron snorted in derision.
“And I’m the King of Siam,’” said Edmund.
“Let’s hear ‘To be, or not to be,’” said Mr. Patchett.
Fortune started to object, but held her tongue.
Slowly, without standing up, without striking a dramatic pose, Jamie began to recite the famous Act Three soliloquy.
“To be, or not to be—that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them…”
His voice was soft at first, as if he were genuinely wondering whether it was better to live or not. His eyes were distant, unfocused, and Fortune had the feeling that for him the fire, the wagons, everyone around them had faded into the distance. When he stood a moment later she caught her breath; the movement had been both unconscious and perfect.
The fire flickered over his face; his voice grew more intense, anguished, as he questioned his being, his worth, the worth of all men. It rang out for a moment, clear and pure, challenging the stars themselves, then sank to an aching whisper on the closing words, “Be all my sins remember’d.”
Fortune sat breathless, stunned. Was this the same boy who had rushed onstage and blurted out his lines when they tried to plug him into The Squire and the Lady? The bumpkin she had laughed at back in Busted Heights?
“‘Do you know me, my lord?’” asked Walter, jumping to a different part in the play.
“‘Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.’”
“Excellent indeed!” hooted Walter in delight. “How do you know it so well?”
“My father taught me,” said Jamie, shaking his head as if he were being roused from a trance.
“He taught you well,” said Mr. Patchett. “Excellent well.”
Mrs. Watson said nothing. But she was staring at Jamie in a very strange way.
By the time the players were ready to unveil their version of Hamlet a week later, the generosity of their fellow travelers had forced them to change their plans. Instead of a performance for which they took things in trade, it was given free, as a thank-you for all that had been shared with them.
It had been a difficult week. The troupe’s version of the play had been drastically trimmed in some spots to make up for the fact that they only had seven actors. As a result, Jamie had had to unlearn many lines and grasp the transitions they had created to get past the scenes that required more actors than they had. Aaron had been alternately helpful and sullen, genuinely taken with what Jamie could do, and at the same time resentful of it.
Jamie himself seemed in a daze at times.
Can he really do it? wondered Fortune nervously. Knowing the part, even acting it with us, is different from playing it in front of an audience. He’s never done a major role before. What if he freezes on us?
She closed her mind to the possibility. She was nervous enough as it was, since she herself had not played Ophelia in nearly a year.
Worse, her own emotions had threatened to get the best of her several times during the week. Hamlet was her father’s favorite role, and his best one. At first she had been swept up by Jamie’s power in repeating the lines. But later, as they had worked on it, she found the play bringing back painful memories. She wasn’t sure she would make it through the performance herself.
The night before the show Jamie found her sitting beneath a great oak tree. Though she had come there to be alone, somehow his presence did not bother her.
“Mind if I sit down?”
When she shook her head, he folded his legs and settled beside her.
He’s gotten more graceful, thought Fortune. That’s Mrs. Watson’s doing. Her coaching has really helped him.
“Tired?” Jamie’s voice was soft and pleasant, almost like the wind rustling through the oak leaves above her.
“Uh-huh. I don’t think I could move if I tried.”
“Will you be ready for tomorrow night?”
Fortune laughed. “A Plunkett is always ready to go onstage.” She sighed and leaned her head back against the tree. “That’s our motto.”
“You don’t sound like you mean it.”
Fortune shifted uncomfortably. An owl flew overhead, then settled onto a branch three or four trees away. They heard a sudden patter of rain on the leaves, but just as they were ready to run for the camp, it stopped.
“I don’t,” said Fortune.
She closed her eyes. Against her will tears began to seep from beneath her lids, trickling down her cheek.
Jamie reached over to brush them away. Fortune stiffened for a moment, then decided to relax and accept the gesture.
“It’s funny,” he said. “You come from an acting family, and you’re tired of acting. I come from a plain-folks family, and I can’t get enough of you people. I want to talk about the theater all day long. Do you suppose we always want something different from what we have?”
“I don’t know,” said Fortune. “That sure would make life complicated.”
“It’s pretty complicated already,” said Jamie, an odd note in his voice. “I wonder if it’s even stranger than that. Sometimes I think we’re attracted to the people that are most different from us. Look at you…you’re smart and sophisticated. You’ve done all that traveling…”
“Hush,” said Fortune.
Jamie nodded. “I won’t say another word,” he promised. “As long as you promise to stay here beside me.”
Fortune leaned back against the tree. “It’s a deal,” she whispered.
It was early in July. They had scheduled the show to start at 7:30, to take advantage of the natural light as long as it lasted. Torches had been placed around the playing area, to be lit as necessary. The wagon, stripped of its covering, provided a platform for some of the action. The canvas itself provided a backdrop. Chairs had been borrowed to make thrones for Queen Gertrude and King Claudius.
Everything was in readiness.
Nearly the entire population of the wagon people had gathered to see the performance, bringing with them chairs, stools, and logs to sit on. A restless buzzing filled the air. It was interrupted when Walter pounded on the base of the wagon with a huge stick. (Normally he would have used a drum; unfortunately, it had been lost with the rest of their materials.) He was dressed as the ghost of Hamlet’s father; and in the gloom created by the evening shade, his flour-whitened face looked truly eerie.
“Welcome, friends!” he intoned. “Welcome, lovers of the arts! Welcome to The Tragical History of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, as written by one William Shakespeare, and performed by the illustrious Plunkett’s Players, late of Charleston and bound for California!”
The words earned a burst of applause.
“Oh, they’re ripe,” said Mrs. Watson gleefully. Standing next to her, behind a blanket they had strung between two poles, Fortune was uncharacteristically nervous. With a jolt she realized the cause: these were people they had lived with for over two months and would continue to live with for some time. Unlike the normal audience—never seen again, faceless, unknown—these were friends, acquaintances, partners on the road to adventure.
I care what they think! she told herself uncomfortably. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.
Suddenly Jamie was standing beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her toward him, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Be wonderful,” he whispered.
To her amazement, she was. Not immediately. But from the moment she traded her first lines with Jamie, there was a fire between them that she had never experienced on the stage before. He was unbelievably good himself, his eyes tragic and haunted, his voice filled with pain and power.
It brought out the best in her. Always before, when her father had acted the role, no matter how good he was, he was still her father.
But Jamie was not Jamie. He was Hamlet. And in becoming that melancholy Dane, he transformed Fortune Plunkett, too. For the first time in more than a hundred performances, she became Ophelia, loved as Ophelia, ached as Ophelia, wept as Ophelia. It was wonderful. It was agony. She felt as if her heart was being torn in half.
“Do you know what you’re doing out there?” hissed Mrs. Watson, grabbing her arm between scenes. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to that audience?”
Fortune shook her head numbly.
Mrs. Watson stared at her. “Good,” she said at last. “Maybe it’s better that way.”
And when Aaron, as Laertes, and Jamie, as Hamlet fought their final duel, she found herself behind the blanket sobbing as if her heart would break.
In her heart she knew that something had happened. She had been touched by the spirit of her father, and acting would never be the same for her again.