The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (18 page)

“It’s Grandma Richman’s raft, Ma! Jube hung his old red-checked shirt up like a flag. It must be Mr. Chandler steering. Gosh, but it’s getting awful close to those rocks. Now we’re heading in toward them, too. It must be the current.’’

He rubbed his eyes as if disbelieving what he saw.

“There’s somebody hanging out of Jube’s wagon! I think it’s his little brother Lycurges, the one that had the putrid sore throat yesterday.’’

Maggie opened her eyes. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Seeing
couldn’t
be worse than hearing.

It was.

The Richman/Chandler raft was nearly atop the rocks. It was swaying drunkenly, undecided on its final move. A youngster in shirtsleeves and long pants was hanging suspended from the rear opening of the white-top, arms flailing, a thread of rope dangling like an umbilical cord from his middle to the wagon. Behind him, arms were tugging at the rope violently. It had gotten stuck, part of its length tangled under the wagon itself. Maggie watched the life and death drama, afraid to breathe, unable to offer help.

The raft swayed for another moment, suspended between the rocks and the river. Maggie could see Chandler bowed over the rudder, putting all of his considerable strength, and more, into it. She could almost smell the fear. Fear was emanating from the rocks, the river, the whirlpool. It was being blown toward their own craft.

Of an instant, a blessed wave came to lift the logs away, to send the raft out of danger, farther from the ragged rocks. The raft rushed on into the mists. Lycurges Richman was still suspended, limbs limp.

Maggie gasped for breath and slowly felt her heartbeat begin to steady itself. It wouldn’t be for long. They were the next raft due for the maelstrom.

She spread her feet wider to take the added jarring of the wagon upon its logs. She hugged her children to her until it hurt. They were barreling toward the stony ledge themselves, being pulled by the crazed waters into the vortex. The last raft of the Stuart Party. But no, here came another craft.

It was Gentry’s bateau.

Faster than their own, it had sped ahead between themselves and the rocks and was trying a complicated maneuver to complete a turn before them. Would it work?

No.

Their own raft was plunging with the currents toward both the bateau and the rocks. In a moment they would meet, splintering the bateau through its middle. Even Jamie shut his eyes this time. Would they make it? Would they get through the rocks, past the Cape to the final smooth waters of the river beyond? Would they ever see their promised land? Only God and Johnny’s new found strength could help them now.

A crash was followed by a shuddering crunch. Maggie’s mind blanked into stillness.

Ten rafts limped toward the palisades of Fort Vancouver the next afternoon before sunset. The Columbia was wider here than the great Missouri and smooth as a bath~placid and calm. Johnny threw his arms wide open to it with awe.

“It’s the relief after the catharsis. Just as the ancient Greeks spoke of it. We’ve come to the new land scourged and freshly born.’’

Maggie stood beside him, taking one last look upstream, one last look East toward all they’d overcome.

“There was no way to save any of those men, was there?’’

“We’ve gone over it, Meg. Their boat was cleanly stove in. We’ll not be hearing any more from the Danites. But in dying they gave us one final gift, albeit unwillingly. Our collision with their bateau gave us the edge we needed, the final correction to keep us off the rocks ourselves.’’

Maybe there was a justice to the pattern of life. If Jack Gentry hadn’t pursued them, it could be her family now floating in a watery grave. Maggie gave thanks yet again, then forgot the East to turn at last to the West.

Johnny saw her final acceptance, and threw ropes to the waiting men onshore. The men had come down the smooth escarpment of green grass from the stockaded walls of the vast fort before them, ready and willing to welcome the weary pilgrims.

But Maggie’s thoughts were still with the great river. It yet had a few miles to flow before it reached the sea. They were gentle, broad miles. Miles which had brought the great sailing ships which stood anchored before the fort as if in a harbor. Ships that had been beyond. Beyond what the Stuart train had survived. Beyond to another world. Could this planet Earth truly go on forever? Pray God she’d never have to find out.

Their raft grounded on a soft, sandy beach with a gentle sigh of relief. It slid a few feet and stopped. Johnny guided their children and Bacon from the craft. He returned to swoop Maggie up in his arms, to carry her with aplomb to the solid land. Still in his arms, their lips met and lingered for a kiss of thanks, a kiss of promise for the years to come. Johnny eased her then to the firmness of the earth. They paused on the grass, as if in a dream.

Johnny turned to the rough woodsman who’d aided them.

“Where have the ships come from, sir?’’

“Them? The four master, that’d be from around the Horn. She come in last week. We’re just now loading her up with skins and lumber for the return voyage. The other come from the Sandwich Islands. It brung strange things. Pineapples, coconuts, spices from the Orient.’’ He paused and spat a thin stream of brown tobacco. “I can’t think who’d be wanting to pizzen themselves on such.’’

“The Sandwich Islands.’’ Johnny’s eyes had a new gleam in them. “The name brings such exotic images to the mind~’’

Maggie grabbed her husband and gave him a shake. “Johnny Stuart! Don’t even
think
it! We have arrived!’’

Johnny grinned his old grin. He watched their children scrambling past the sand, up to the green grasses of the new world. He took Maggie in his arms again in a great, exuberant bear hug. One of his old war whoops split the air, this time for sheer joy. He dropped her, breathless, next to him.

“We
have
arrived, Meg. But a man can still dream!’’