That first night the Kesebergs, Mr. Dolan, Mr. Burger and me bundled ourselves back into the Breens’ wagon, mad as hell with the Graveses. But at least, we reasoned, next day they would be there to help us at our end of the camp.
Next morning we clambered out of the wagon at dawn to discover Mr. Stanton and the Mexicos already hard at work, yet again hauling logs over to the Graveses’ cabin. They were nowhere to be seen, but then one of the Mexicos fetched up his hammer and started banging, and next thing Mrs. Graves come flying out and laid into him good and proper.
It made good sense to build a second cabin onto the back of the first, for it was as if one wall was already constructed, but it infuriated Mrs. Graves to discover that she was to have neighbors, and even more when she discovered that her neighbors were to be not only the Mexicos and Mr. Stanton, but also Mrs. Reed’s family.
When the walls were up, there were no planks to make a roof. Mr. Graves poked his head out of doors to hand over a spare canvas, which was nailed roughly into place. The men said after, that they heard his wife give him a tongue lashing for this small act of kindness. I was not surprised to hear it.
The rest of us started on building a second cabin against the tall rock where we had gathered to drink coffee after our first flight down the mountain after the storm. Mr. Graves came out to help, and William, too. But to no one’s very great surprise Mrs. Graves and the girls stayed put in their cabin and never showed their noses out of doors for the whole of the day.
By midafternoon the cabin walls were up. There were gaps aplenty where the logs didn’t fit right well, so the wind whistled through some, but it was a good-size cabin and sound enough. Mr. Eddy took some of the wagon planks, and made a partition at the back of the cabin, saying that for the time being, at least, this little room would serve as a shelter for his own small family; and then the rest of the wagon planks were laid over to make the roof. With no planks left, the cabin was made do with a packed-earth floor.
By now we all were like to die from tiredness. Worst hit were the men. Mr. Eddy collapsed and had to be carried inside and laid down on a blanket, where he slept the clock round, and Milt Elliott was glassy-eyed, and staggered when he walked like he had spent his afternoon in the alehouse. Most of the men were like enough the same, and could not have built another cabin, that day or the next, whether they had wanted to or no.
With all the wagons gone, the Kesebergs and Mr. Burger and I were left with nowhere to shelter for the night. So, once the walls on the Murphy cabin were up, we left the others to finish off, and set to build something for ourselves, round back of the Breens’ cabin.
At first we had some help here and there, as one task after another was completed and the workers came across to give us a hand. But when the Murphy cabin was complete, and the fire was lit, the good smell of cooking began to drift on the air, and the same from the Breen cabin as well. One by one our fellows laid down their tools, and went down to the lake and washed their hands and faces, glad enough to see the end of labor, and have a hot meal, and shelter for the night.
But we labored on, as the afternoon wore into evening, and the sun sank down behind the mountain.
We had got some of the trunks that had been felled earlier, and spare planks given us by the Breens, and they gave us a couple of canvases, too. After he’d eaten his supper, Mr. Dolan came out to help Mr. Keseberg and Mr. Burger. Along of him came John Breen and his brother, Edward. God bless those boys, for they were as tired as any and still willing to help us. To my mind they put the older men, safe indoors with a hot meal inside them while we were out working in the snow, to shame.
Meriam and Landrum came too. We crossed over to the great pile of discarded branches and treetops, and tried to salvage as many of those as we could, but it was a horrible task. The branches were covered with prickly needles that scratched our arms and hands and legs, and caught in our hair and clothing. Every cut we made released some horrible sticky sap so our hair and faces and hands were thick with it, and bugs flew out at us.
The first time a great moth fluttered into my face, I screamed and clutched at Meriam, and she screamed back and clutched at me, and the boys laughed and made fun of us. But it was halfhearted sport, and after that one time we were too exhausted to indulge in such childish carry-on.
After we’d carried the branches over to the Breens’ cabin, the others gave up the task and went indoors. But I carried on, going where I was told, and holding what I was given. It was like being in a dream—past hunger, past speech, past thought altogether.
I don’t know why we did it. I don’t know why we didn’t bang on the door of the Breen cabin and beg shelter for one more night. It was as if none of us could put one clear thought after another, and all that drove us on was the instinct to have shelter of our own and the determination to get the task finished.
We managed to construct a kind of little shanty, butting up against the far wall of the Breen cabin. What we built was a poor enough thing, not much more than a few slender trunks fixed to the roof of the Breen cabin, and sloping away to the ground. We laid branches across, tied into place with ropes, and nailed a canvas over these, with another across the entrance as a kind of doorway. It was shelter of a sort, something more spacious than the wagon we’d been sleeping in, at least, and we thought it would do, until such time as we regained our strength, and could build something better.
Everyone else was finished by now, and the rest of the camp was quiet and dark, all asleep. All that was left awake was our little band, Mr. Burger and Mr. and Mrs. Keseberg, the children and me, sick at heart and trembling from head to foot with tiredness, the lack of food, and the bitter cold. Mrs. Keseberg and the rest went inside, but I stood for a minute, too tired even to take the three steps that would have brought me into the shelter.
I would have given everything in my whole world, then, to be back in Cincinnati, even with my pa shouting and my ma screaming with the thud of his fist landing on her. I wanted, more than I have ever wanted anything in my life, to be huddled in my bed with a couple of my sisters, with the rain dripping through the roof, and the singing in the streets outside as the alehouses let out.
I drew in a ragged breath, and went into our shelter, wondering how long it was to be my home.
Mr. Burger had lain down at the far end of the lean-to and was asleep already. Mr. Keseberg was sat with his back against the wooden wall of the cabin, with his eyes closed. Ada was fast asleep. I covered her with another shawl, and helped Mrs. Keseberg to spread out the blankets and quilts. When that was done, she gathered the children to her, and lay down with them, weeping softly.
“Louis.” Her voice was not above a whisper. “Do you think it is true, that we will be here but a month or so? I wish I could believe it. Oh, my dear, I am sore afraid.”
And with that, she fell asleep.
It reminded me of something and I asked Mr. Keseberg, what is it? He answered me in a low voice, with his eyes still closed for tiredness, it is the Christmas story, how the shepherds were looking out for their sheep; and he said, “The angel of the Lord came down upon them, and the Glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.”
I ventured my head out of the shelter. The sky stretched high above us, not angel wings but black crow feathers spread out across heaven. The moon over the mountain was a cold white eye, staring straight at me, and I was sore afraid, as well.
I curled myself into the littlest ball I could, and lay there all that long night, shaking with cold and fear.
27
It seemed that Mrs. Keseberg’s fear was well-founded. Thanksgiving came and went but the snow stayed, and more came to join it. And we were still in the camp, with no thought of being able to leave.
One afternoon, I was in the Murphy cabin with Mrs. Eddy and Mrs. Keseberg and a couple of the other women. We all had stitching or knitting to hand. The cold was something hard to bear, and most folks had set off with only a change or two of light clothing,
so we were using what scraps we could find to make hats and scarves for the children. Ada and Margaret and the other children were at our feet, engaged in some game with their dolls, and the men out chopping firewood.
I was knitting squares in a plain stitch. It was pretty much all I could do, but when they were finished they could be sewn up one side and across the top to be mittens. They would not win a prize for their beauty at any country fair, that much was certain, but they served a purpose. I thought the same was probably true of me.
The cabin was warm enough, with a good fire blazing up. Mrs. Murphy put the kettle over, and when it boiled she made us some tea. There was no milk or sugar, and it was not much more than a flavor in hot water, but it was welcome enough.
“I wonder that Mr. McCutcheon has not returned.” This was Mrs. Eddy. Mrs. Keseberg opened her mouth to speak, then cast a look at Mrs. McCutcheon, head bent over her work, and thought the better of it. But Mrs. Eddy was not speaking with any malice; she bit the end of her thread, and held up the cap she had just finished to examine the stitching. She went on, “At Sutter’s Fort—there must be folks wondering what has become of us, surely? Mr. Sutter himself—the mules that he lent to Mr. Stanton—he must be looking for their return.”
Mrs. McCutcheon spoke next. “I hope my husband is well, but I fear he is not. I cannot imagine what has become of him.” She dashed at her eyes with the hem of the jacket that she was stitching. “But you are right, Mrs. Eddy, to wonder why we are left in this way. Colonel Russell would have expected to find us there when he arrived. What of Mr. Hastings? Didn’t he think us to be close behind him on the trail? And Mr. Reed and Walter Herron must have got through, surely. Where are they?”
It was the first time we had put into words what we had begun to dread: that maybe no help was coming for us. The thought was too terrible to contemplate.
“But—we cannot manage! Look, look!” Mrs. Murphy stood up, and her knitting dropped to the floor, unheeded. She half-ran across to the corner where her provisions were stored. “I have a half sack of flour and the same of oatmeal, and some rice—it’s not enough! It’s not enough!”
It was a sad little array of goods, to be sure—a few sacks, half-empty, and a couple of boxes and casks, and a side of salt bacon hanging from the ceiling, not much left on it at all.
“If no one comes for us—what will we do? Oh, dear God, what will we do?” Mrs. Murphy gave a choking sob, and bent her head and began to weep. Meriam jumped to her feet, and ran across to fling her arms round her mother, and looked at me and I looked back at her, with the same fear in our eyes, I am sure.
Day by day we grew more despondent. Folks turned upon one another, women blaming their husbands and the men blaming the weather, and all of us blaming Mr. Reed most of all. Our spirit was near gone; and our provisions, too.
Mr. Breen called a meeting to see what could be done. There were too many folks to fit into one cabin, so this meeting—like the meeting that was held to decide Mr. Reed’s fate—was held out in the open. The snow had let up, and it was a bright sunny day with a blue sky. We collected together a great deal of wood, and lit a fire, and stood round, and Mr. Breen started, as he had before, by making a little speech.
He said that whether we liked it or no, we were all here together and looked to be staying put for the time being and that ill-feeling, if there was any such—and he looked over our heads as he spoke, so that he would not catch anyone’s eye—if there was any ill-feeling we should put it to one side, and that we should work together for the good of all. Everyone nodded their heads virtuously at this fine sentiment.
Then he asked Mr. Eddy to step forward, and tell us how he had fared in his hunting.
Mr. Eddy had gone out a few days before, telling us how he would return with deer aplenty, and that there would be fresh meat for all. He was out all day, but returned at sunset with nothing. Now, he told us that the reason was that the harsh winter weather had driven all the game out of the mountains and that in his opinion—and he kind of laughed, and looked round at all—his humble opinion—and he lowered his eyes to look modest—there was little point in wasting time and effort in trying to hunt further and we should think of other ways of finding food.
Mr. Eddy had spent so long telling everyone what a great hunter he was, that folks had come to believe him. Now, there was a general muttering round the circle, with the other men saying, well, if he can’t catch anything, no one can.
Their spirit might be broke; they might be content to give up without a fight, but I was not. I thought that they could defer to Mr. Eddy and believe him all they liked, but I thought it more that Mr. Eddy felt a fool for coming home with nothing after his boastings.
I spoke up in a loud voice.
“That cannot possibly be true! The animals can’t have run away all in one go! And even if the deers have, there must still be some little animals, rabbits and such!
“There are traps left in your cabin, Mr. Breen, I have seen them with my own eyes, and it must be worth setting them out at least!”
All looked something startled at hearing me speak out. The married women could have their say, and the older boys might venture an opinion or two but we girls were not supposed to.
Mr. Breen raised his eyebrows at me, and Mrs. Keseberg snapped at me, “Be quiet!” and apologized to Mr. Eddy for my rudeness. I might have been talking to the snow itself, for all that anyone took notice of what my opinion might be.
My pa said it was impossible for a girl to think and understand the ways of the world, and it was a man’s job to do so, and brought the lesson home with his belt when I asked why this, and why not that. So I shut my mouth tight, glowering at Mrs. Keseberg, and keeping my thoughts to myself, though it didn’t prevent me from turning them over and over in my head in a silent fury.
Beside us was a great lake full of fish. Even as we spoke they could be seen snapping at the last few insects that were foolish enough to alight on the water. Now one of the men stepped up to recount how he had spent a morning fishing, but was forced to give it up after an hour or so of standing shivering in the water. Another nodded his agreement. “Yes, that’s true, I tried, too, but there are no fish to be had.”
A few days previous I had watched these men at their halfhearted work, and I had been determined it could be done. I made Meriam and a couple of the boys come with me and we went out to have a go ourselves. We hadn’t any fishing line, but we tried picking threads from our clothes and knotting those together, and Lemuel Murphy spent a long hour unraveling a length of rope to make a fine string. We had no fishing hooks but we had hairpins, and bent those into shape and baited them with bits of corn bread.
Despite all our efforts, the fish just swam past, taking as little notice of our precious scraps of food as they would a fallen leaf or a bit of twig floating on the surface. Great fat things they were, as well.
Meriam remembered the bugs in the woodpile. Maybe those would be more tempting as bait, so we all trooped off there to see if we could find more, but that was no good, either; they’d flown themselves back into the forest or something else had come along and eaten them. So I guess I was a little more forgiving of this story than I was of Mr. Eddy’s.
Mr. Breen then said, “Well, if there is no game to be had and we cannot catch the fish, what else can we do? For there are some among us who have more than sufficient for their needs, but many of our friends here are reduced to nothing. My suggestion is that everyone brings their food into my cabin and we count it up, and then divide it out so that everyone has a fair share.”
There was a moment’s shocked silence.
No one wanted to say it was a good idea, because it made sense that the person who said it first would be the person who wanted it most. To be right truthful, I guess that person would have been Mrs. Reed, who had nothing to her name whatsoever and a goodly number of folks to provide for; but I reckon it would have took more courage than she possessed to say so and sound a beggar.
&
nbsp; When we came down off the mountain the second time, Mr. Keseberg and I had gone into our abandoned wagon and brought back into camp all that we could carry. So we had some dried goods: peas and pumpkin and onion, a sack of oatmeal and one of cornmeal, and a bit of rice, and some other odds and ends. But I guess neither Mr. nor Mrs. Keseberg wanted to say what we had got, for fear it should be taken and handed out to others. The rest clearly felt the same. Finally Mrs. McCutcheon stepped forward and said just that; that she had only enough for herself and her child. She understood that there were others not as fortunate, and she was right sorry for it. She might have nothing to share, but then again she wanted nothing either, and that was her view on the matter.
Mr. Breen nodded, yes, he understood that, and then Mrs. Breen spoke up. “We have sufficient for our family, too,” she said. “We are lucky in that we brought our wagons safely along the trail. But we can live frugal enough and find a little to spare for others if they need it.”
This was kindly meant, but it had the opposite effect to what she intended and stung Mrs. Graves into speech. “Well!” she started, and this single word was enough to make her feelings pretty clear.
“I have no need of charity from you, Peggy Breen, I thank you kindly! And if you wish to see your children half-starved because of other folks’ foolishness”—and she fixed Mrs. Reed with a stare—“then you go right ahead. But I have been careful all along, and I have twelve bodies to provide for. If anyone thinks I am going to help them and see my family suffer as a result, why then they are very much mistaken, and I think you will find that there are others here who would agree with me.
“There has been some talk about our cabin, and why we choose to live a distance from the rest of you. I can tell you why that is. I do not want folks knocking my door to ask for charity. Charity begins at home, as the saying goes, and I will not see my family go without for the sake of folks I hardly know.
When Winter Comes Page 17
