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Indeed the shift was not unlike the one Tracey herself was dressed in. The storm had struck late at night when she had been in bed and Emily had been in such a rush to make sure they vacate the cabin that she had not had time to put anything else on.Despite her fear and illness she couldn't help but feel ashamed and vulnerable as she stood on the deck. The shift, soaked by the driving rain had plastered itself to her body like a second skin and she hated to think what a harlot she must look like.The storm raged for another three hours and whether is was good seamanship or good luck or a combination of the two the ship was still upright when the weather subsided and they so obviously ridden out the storm.It was by now dawn and the light, although not perfect yet was good enough to reveal the broken masts and sails flapping in the wind. Some of the sailors were starting to round up the slaves and Tracey knew that she would soon have to go below decks to do a head count. She herself had. The man who sold me the weapons instructed me in their use. By the time we were ready to travel I could hold my own in any situation.“It was a warm spring day, the sky was bright blue with a couple of puffy white clouds in the distance, when the leader of our wagon train yelled out, “Wagons Ho” and waved us westward. Anyone who tells you that traveling west by covered wagon is romantic doesn’t know what they are talking about. It was six months of back breaking, boring travel, punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Day after day, the routine was always the same; wake up at sunrise, hitch up the horses and head westward. The weather was unpredictable. For days on end the sun would beat down on us, making the ground bone dry, which we turned into great clouds of dust. Or it would rain for several days in a row, making the trail slick with mud and me and everyone else drenched to the bone. And yet we pressed on, ever forward, always towards the setting sun; only stopping at.
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