When Winter Comes

by V. A. Shannon

  Mrs. McGillivray comes up pretty sharp. “If all you can say is something so silly then you’d best be quiet!”

  I guess like me, she had been biting her lip over what she should and shouldn’t say, and at last it was impossible for her to keep her mouth shut.

  “You know nothing about it! There were slave owners up in the mining camps. Men who arrived with ten or fifteen of them, thinking to sit themselves back in comfort and let their slaves do all the labor for no money and punished if they paused even for a moment. I’ve seen a slave whipped, for no more than helping himself to a drink of water without permission, so that the skin on his back peeled off like the skin of an orange, leaving the bone open to the sky!”

  “Oh my!” This was Mrs. Holden. “Mrs. McGillivray, I am sure we all—”

  But Mrs. McGillivray would not be still. “If those mine owners had any conscience, they’d have paid for honest labor. Working alongside those black men were white men who had families to provide for! Some of them would have been very glad for a day’s pay for a day’s work.

  “Why should the slave owners come into the camps and think to make an easy dollar at the expense of the black men’s lives and the white men’s families? Tell me that!”

  Mrs. Holden very much dislikes being interrupted in this way, and makes a sharp reply herself, about what ruffians the miners are altogether. Mrs. McGillivray answers back, that Mrs. Holden being so proud of California’s statehood, she should be grateful to those ruffians—for if it wasn’t for them there would be no statehood at all!

  The words might not have been to Mrs. Holden’s liking, but Mrs. McGillivray is right.

  The year after I arrived here, gold was discovered on Mr. Sutter’s land, and folks flooded into California in search of it.

  Some of the early arrivals found gold lying there for the taking, more or less. They moved on pretty quick away to the coast, buying themselves land and constructing great houses, and some of them poured money into setting up businesses and building schools and churches. But they were followed by another wave of folks and another after that, until the land along the foothills of the Sierra Nevada was a seething mass of prospectors.

  And they were desperate folks, to be sure. I guess they arrived thinking that, like in their towns back East, there would be trading posts and provision stores, but of course this was not so.

  The folks that had settled in the region already—the homesteaders and the religious folks who wanted to live a quiet life away from any sort of persecution—found their little settlements overrun with the mining men, looking for food to purchase. There was none, for what folks grew or farmed was pretty much only enough to sustain their families. And so the mining men turned to thievery. Folks woke in the mornings to find their cattle stolen, their chickens gone, and the crops vanished from the fields; their vegetable gardens smashed and trampled and no food left to feed their families.

  We were lucky here; we are too far away from the gold fields to have had much trouble, but we have all heard the tales.

  The good side of the bad, though, was that between one year and the next, our population went from seven thousand folks to seventy thousand. Of course, we did not know this at the time, but I suppose the government kept count. Once the population reached sixty thousand, a vote could be held to see if folks wanted California to apply for statehood, and of course everyone did.

  I guess the respectable folks who take such relish in our admission to the Union try to ignore the bitter taste that comes from knowing that it is owed to the ruffians up at the mining camps, even though these same ruffians felt so strongly about slavery that in some places they would not countenance it in their midst and drove the slave owners out of the diggings.

  Everyone has an opinion on one thing or another. What starts off as a lively discussion turns into a fierce argument, with even the most ladylike among us yelling at the top of her voice and shouting down her neighbor. In the end Mrs. McGillivray gets herself into such a fluster that she drops her sewing, and bursts into tears.

  We all look at one another something shamefaced to have made the poor woman cry. In our enthusiasm for the subject, we have just completely forgot that her husband and her two older sons are themselves those very ruffians; and poor little Isobel Davies, who has done nothing more than repeat what her father and husband have told her, is already weeping into her handkerchief in the corner of the room.

  Mrs. Gerald says, “Oh my Lord, if I’d known you quilting bee ladies to be such a lively crowd I’d have joined you all a great deal earlier!”

  Then she says she has just the thing for the hysterics, and rings for the maid to bring in a bottle of brandy and some glasses. She pours herself a generous measure and drinks it off, and then one for each of the rest of us.

  We all look askance at the idea of drinking spirits, let alone in the middle of the day! But she says, “Oh, it is purely medicinal, for I think all of us are something upset”—and pours herself another.

  Preacher Holden runs a temperance household. Mrs. Holden takes up her glass with much hesitation, looking around at us and saying how she is so very upset that she is close to the palpitations, and her son would allow that a drop of brandy is known to be good for the heart, would he not?

  At that, she swallows it down in one, albeit with a ladylike wrinkle of her nose, and much genteel coughing, then says, “Why, I declare I do feel something restored. I’ll take a drop more, Mrs. Gerald, if you would be so kind.”

  29

  In the middle of December, Baylis Williams died. He was a simple-witted fellow, but there was no harm in him, and he was real devoted to his sister Eliza, the Reeds’ cook. He had arrived in camp in a poor state of health and had been laid abed ever since, but his death was a shock to all, for he was the first of us to die from simple cold and hunger, and according to his sister, it was a right cruel and painful way to go.

  We could not believe it. Even when his body was carried out from Mrs. Reed’s cabin, with his sister weeping over it; even when it was buried in the snow, we could not believe it.

  Belief and lie; they go along hand in hand, for it is belief in a lie that gives the lie its power, and the lies we tell ourselves are the ones we believe the most. We could not believe in the snow on the mountain, even as we floundered our way through it. We believed we would be rescued, when there was no sign of it. And we had not believed we might die; but here was the proof of it.

  Mr. Eddy’s carpentering skills were called upon once more to fashion a coffin. When it was done, he and Milt Elliott carried it into Mrs. Reed’s cabin. After a while, Mr. Eddy come to the door and called in Mr. Stanton and Mr. Dolan. Then the four men fetched out the coffin with Baylis Williams laid inside.

  We had all come to escort him to his burial place. The men took off their hats as the coffin came out of the cabin and one or two of the women wept.

  We set off in silence, but Eliza stopped in her tracks, and said, “Baylis couldn’t sleep at night when he was a little lad—he was too afeard of the dark—and I used to sing to him. Oh, poor boy, he will be frightened now!” Her voice gave out on a choke, and Mrs. Reed put her arm round her shoulders for comfort.

  Ada’s hand crept into mine, and I squeezed it hard, thinking of poor Baylis Williams as a little boy being scared of the dark, and in his coffin now. Walking beside me with her arm tucked into mine was Mrs. Murphy. I guess she felt the same as me, for she lifted up her voice and started to sing. It was a song I had heard many times along our journey:

  Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

  Lead thou me on,

  The night is dark, and I am far from home;

  Lead thou me on.

  Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see

  The distant scene: one step enough for me.

  All joined in, and we sung our way through the trees to the grave place, our voices thin and little in the silent, snowy landscape.

  When we got back to camp, Mr. Graves went off i
n a huddle with Mr. Eddy. And the next morning he called a meeting.

  “I grew up in Vermont; for those of you who do not know it, Vermont is about as far in the Northeast as it is possible to go.

  “There, it snows hard through the winter, and the Indians have a type of shoe that makes it possible for them to walk across the surface of the snow. Mr. Eddy thinks he will be able to make such shoes under my direction, and I propose that we make up a party, to attempt to cross the mountain.

  “We have waited for the snow to go, and it has not. We have waited for help to come, and it has not. Now we must find our own salvation, or we shall all go the way of our poor friend Baylis Williams.

  “I shall set out. Mr. Eddy has agreed to come with me. My daughter Mary and my married daughter Sarah and her husband have agreed to attempt the journey, too.

  “Mr. Stanton will come with us, and the two Mexican fellows as guides. Who else is willing to venture forth with us? I propose it should be those that are the strongest among us, and those that have the means in California to purchase food and animals to send back for those left behind. And someone should go back to our friends at Alder Creek, and see if any there wish to come along, or if they have provisions enough to spare to aid us.”

  So next morning, Milt Elliott and a couple of others set off for Alder Creek. And the rest of us set to work on the snowshoes.

  Mr. Eddy took the wooden oxbows that were left of the wagons, and cut each one in half, and then sawed them crosswise, giving curved strips of wood. Holes were drilled through at intervals, and as each pair of curved sides was completed it was given over to the women. We unraveled lengths of heavy rope and rebraided them into strings, then threaded them through the holes in the wooden sides until we had something like a net suspended in a wooden frame, about three times the size of a foot.

  There were sixteen pairs of these snowshoes made in all, and I wished more than anything that I was to be of the party.

  I wanted to try out the snowshoes, and go gliding across the snow like a wild animal, or an Indian. I imagined returning from California like Mr. Stanton had, riding back into camp on a mule with everyone cheering me for my bravery, and handing out food to all. But most of all I wanted to prove that I could get the better of the mountain.

  It loomed above our heads, a mighty fortress keeping us out of California, or the wall of a great prison, keeping us in camp. It was our enemy, a brooding giant, waiting to catch us and grind our bones for his bread. Twice it had defeated me, once with snow and once with sleep. I felt its power over me increasing every day, and sometimes I caught myself staring at it, willing it to let us pass. But I could not go. I had no rich friends to help me in California; no notes of promise to exchange for animals and food. My duty lay with the Kesebergs, and my heart with little Margaret Eddy; but last of all I could not bear to leave Meriam, and Mrs. Murphy, for Hattie Pike, Sara Foster, and Sara’s husband, Will, were to join the Snowshoes party.

  I was horrified to hear of their leaving. Mrs. Murphy’s eyesight was failing, worse by the day, and she depended on her grown daughters and her son-in-law for nearly everything. They were woeful short of food, and I could not comprehend how Hattie and Sara could leave their own little ones, for Naomi and George were too small to walk and too heavy to be carried and were to be left with their grandmamma.

  I went across to the Murphy cabin to make my farewell to them, and Sara took me to one side.

  “I cannot bear to stay and hear the children begging for food; and Hattie is so starved that she cannot feed the baby anymore. Will won’t go without me, and he must; he cannot stay here.”

  I agreed with the last. You would not know Will Foster for the cheerful fellow he had been at the start of our journey. From the instant he had shot his friend Bill Pike he had become a changed man, more withdrawn and miserable by the day. His temper was such that he was near deranged at times, and his screams of rage could be heard from one end of the camp to another. One morning I had come across little George Foster weeping round the back of the cabin, a great bruise on his face, and had my own suspicions about how this had come about.

  “Lemuel is coming with us, but Landrum and Meriam are to stay and help Mama. We will be at Sutter’s Fort in a few days only. Then help will come and take the rest of you out. Promise me that you will look after Mama for me, and the children—oh, swear to me that you will care for my little boy!”

  I said I would. “With all my heart, I swear it. I will look out for Mrs. Murphy, who has been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was. And on my life I will care for little George.”

  Sara Foster hugged me close, and thanked me, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  With no news back from Alder Creek, the snowshoes finished and all eager to get started, there was still one place remaining, and Charlie Burger said he would go out—though I begged him not to.

  For the past few nights, Mr. Burger had lain in our shelter coughing all the livelong night. He winked at me when I quizzed him about it, and said, “Not to worry, sweetheart, I am strong enough to march through the Mountain and get to Sutter’s Fort. By the time the new year comes around I shall be back, and I’ll bring you a green hair ribbon to match those pretty eyes, and some pumpernickel bread!”

  He might be able to make a joke of it, but I could not. And I was right to be concerned, for within an hour or two of setting off, Mr. Burger returned, much distressed, and took refuge once more in our lean-to, coughing and shivering and too ill to be moved.

  30

  The afternoon was drawing in and the light fading on Christmas Eve when Milt Elliott finally returned from Alder Creek. Real pleased we were to see him, and crowded about him, asking for news of our friends. It was cruel news, to be sure.

  He told us that the journey there and back was one of great difficulty, for the way was very poor. Conditions at the Donners’ camp were even worse than ours.

  The Donners had brought tents with them for the older children to camp out on the trail. They’d begun by putting them up in the shelter of some big trees, and started to dismantle the wagons, thinking to build walls round these tents and a roof over. But a great storm had come upon them, right sudden and fierce, and they had been forced to abandon their work, managing only to make a rough lean-to over the tents to keep off the worst of the snow. By the time the snow had let up enough for them to try and construct something better, all the boards and such were buried under such snow that they could not be found.

  Mr. Jacob Donner had died, leaving his sick wife and their seven small children to fend for themselves, and Mr. George Donner was raving with fever. Mrs. Wolfinger was ill abed as well, and not likely to last many more days. They were woeful short of food; and Mrs. Tamsen Donner was left to care for all—near on a dozen children and three invalids, with help just from the lad who’d joined us at Bridger’s Fort, Jean Trudeau, and Leanna and Elitha. Everyone else—the teamsters who had stayed to help them—was dead, along with them our good friend Mr. Reinhardt.

  It was desperate news and we could hardly comprehend it. So many to die, and in so short a space of time!

  We wished with all our hearts that those few remaining would come up to the camp with us, and at least be in company. Mr. Elliott said he had suggested it to them, but it was impossible. With no animals and no wagons, they could not get the tiny children through the snow and anyway, Mr. George Donner could not leave his bed, and Mrs. Tamsen Donner would not leave him.

  It was ill news, to be sure, and we were mighty sober about our business for the rest of the afternoon.

  The weather was just as miserable: sleeting needles of ice mixed in with pelting rain that wet us through the second we stepped out of doors, and left everything in the cabins as sodden as we were ourselves.

  At the beginning of our imprisonment in the camp we had welcomed the rain, for each time we thought that it might signal a thaw. We would go to sleep thinking to wake at last to the sight of the good earth, with the snow washe
d away and escape possible. Each time our hopes were come to nothing. The rain turned always to snow, and each day we would open our eyes to find ourselves buried deeper and deeper, and more trapped than the day before. But this night we thought that maybe our luck would change; maybe a miracle would happen.

  We were invited into the Breens’ cabin to celebrate the holiday. Mrs. Keseberg and I tucked up Ada and Baby and saw them asleep, then we walked the few steps that took us into the Breens’ cabin. Mr. Keseberg stood back and ushered us through the door, quite as if we were grand folks going into a ball and he bowed to us, “My ladies!” making us laugh.

  Even though so many of the adults had left with the Snowshoes, it was still crowded. Folks who had seen one another but an hour since were laughing and chattering as if they were but newly met. Over to one side was Meriam, and Mrs. Murphy. I could not help but look at Landrum. To my confusion, he was looking right at me, and he winked. I blushed, and quickly turned my head away.

  Such foolishness lasted but a moment, for Mr. Breen called for quiet, and suggested we start with a prayer. So we bent our heads, hoping for forgiveness for our sins with the most sincere of hearts, and asking God for aid as He saw fit.

  Meriam and Virginia and I had collected rushes from the banks of the lake, and set them to soak for a few days in a little bit of melted grease to be candles. Now they were lit in the corners of the cabin, one for every member of our party who had set out with us and was no longer here.

  We thought of them as we said our prayers. First, for those who had set out to obtain help for us—Mr. McCutcheon and Mr. Reed and Mr. Herron first of all, and then our friends who had left with the Snowshoes. We asked God’s mercy on those in our party who had died, either in camp or back along the trail—Baylis Williams and John Snyder—those dead at Alder Creek, and Mr. Hardkoop and Mr. Wolfinger. We said a prayer for Bill Pike. And below my breath I added in another prayer, this time for Will Foster, suffering such agonies of guilt over his friend’s death. We remembered Mr. Halloran, who had died of the consumption no more than a few days into our journey, and Virginia’s grandmamma, laid to rest on the banks of the Big Blue.