When Winter Comes

by V. A. Shannon

  In the end the only way to get her out was for the boys to take her ankles, and haul her from the top. Her dress and ragged apron dragged down over her head, so her stained rags of undergarments were on show to the boys and all of us. Meriam wept; and I turned my face away, with the horror and shame of it.

  Sometimes in my dreams I see Mrs. Eddy’s waxy white face, with her head banging on each step to raise a little flurry of snow as they heave her up. In my dreams she opens her eyes and looks straight at me, smiling, and I jerk awake.

  I tell myself that all is well, that the sounds I hear are only Jacob breathing steady beside me, and the big clock in the hall ticking out the seconds. But its chimes are like to those of a bell tolling for the dead, and I am afraid to close my eyes again.

  34

  Well into February, four long months since we had first arrived in camp, we finally beheld what we had dreamed of and prayed for: six strangers, stout and hearty men come to be our salvation. They stared about them in astonishment as more and more of us emerged from the snowy depths, falling upon them with screams of delight.

  We looked behind them, expecting to see a great train of mules and carts loaded with supplies. But our joy was short-lived. The snow was as deep on the mountain as ever before, and animals and wagons could not get through.

  They had come on the word of Mr. Reed, who had arrived safe at Sutter’s Fort with Mr. Herron. Virginia clutched hold of her ma at this news, and they whirled each other round in delight to know he was safe. But it was a mixed blessing, for when Mr. Reed had left us we had been well provided for with animals aplenty and most folks still in possession of their wagons. So these men had come merely to act as our guides, and help us through the pass, and were horrified to find us in such dire need.

  We quizzed them: but hadn’t the Snowshoes party arrived safe? And hadn’t they told of our terrible suffering? They knew nothing of it. They knew only that the Snowshoes had got through the mountain, arriving at the homestead of a Mr. Johnson, some distance from Sutter’s Fort. Word had been sent to the fort, but only an account of the Snowshoe survivors—that eight of their number had perished on the crossing—eight! Our hearts failed us to hear it—and that there were more of us left behind needing assistance. There had been no word as to the truth of how very ill and wretched we were, and the men had brought no food or clothing with them at all.

  Some of the men set off for Alder Creek. Upon their return, bringing back as many as they could, the party would leave again, with those they thought could manage the journey through the mountain. But they also told us that Mr. Reed was busy recruiting more men, and a second rescue was close behind, no doubt better equipped than this one.

  Those who had gone on to Alder Creek arrived back the next day with grim faces, bringing with them a raggle-taggle band of children: what remained of Mr. Jacob Donner’s poor orphaned family. They seemed to be in a much better way than we up at the lake, with some color to their lips and cheeks that we had not.

  With them came Elitha and Leanna. Meriam and I ran to meet them. They hardly recognized us at first, and hugged us, laughing and crying at the same time.

  They said that upon hearing that their pa and step-mamma were not to travel with them, the girls had refused to leave as well, but Mrs. Donner had bade them go. She made them promise upon their lives to never say a word to anyone in California about what had befallen them and how they had lived. I thought this was sound advice. The rescue men were scarce able to look any one of us in the eye. Pity and disgust were close neighbors indeed.

  “If I get through the mountain,” I thought, “never will I speak of what I have seen to another living soul”—a resolve I have kept to this day.

  With Elitha and Leanna came their cousins George and William. It was a dreadful sight to see these little boys, nine-year-old George and twelve-year-old William, acting as manful as they could and declaring that they would look after the girls and get them through the mountain. To see them so small and starved against the great men come to rescue them filled me with a fierce anger against the foolish old men of our party, the Donners and the Reeds and the rest, who had brought us all to this dreadful state, and left these boys to do men’s work.

  Also leaving were the Breen boys, some of the older Graves children, and last of all, Mrs. Reed’s party. And I was to go, too, and take Ada with me.

  I had no possessions to collect together. Everything I owned was in my skirt pocket, where they had been all this time: Leanna’s little twist of hair, and my pink kerchief, so badly faded from the sun that it was near impossible to tell the color. Folded up small was the drawing of bluebells that Mrs. Donner had given me, and with it the little heap of silver dollars, my fee for the journey that Mr. Keseberg never had taken from me.

  Now I held the money out to him, but he took my hand in his, and folded my fingers back over the coins. “I hardly feel that I have merited payment for bringing you to this dreadful place. You will have need of this in California, much more than I can have use of it here.”

  He left his hand folded over mine. I could not help myself, but burst out, “Oh! I wish you were coming with me! I shall miss you most dreadfully!”

  I meant it. I would miss him. For the first time in my whole life I had met someone who talked to me as an equal, who opened my eyes to the world and showed me what it was to have dreams and ambitions. I had watched him with his children, and wished my own pa had been as kind; and watched him with his wife, and wished I would have a husband as caring. And I had seen him as a friend, weeping over Mr. Burger when he died in his arms, and wished him such a friend to me.

  As for Mrs. Keseberg, these months in the camp had changed me, more than I knew. The childish resentment I had felt toward her was long since vanished away, and I felt sorry for her, more than I could think possible, at the loss of her child. I crossed over to where she was folding up Ada’s clothes into a bundle, and spoke most sincere to her. “I thank you, Mrs. Keseberg, with all my heart. You have taken good care of me, and now I can repay you, for I shall take such very good care of Ada. Come what may, I will get her safely through the mountain, and wait for you in California, I promise you most faithfully!”

  Mrs. Keseberg stopped in her work. She stared at me with her eyes narrowed.

  “Ada? You need have no care for Ada. You may do as you see fit, my dear! And you, Louis, live or die I care not. You brought us to this wretched place and now I have lost everything!

  “I am not staying one more day in this hellhole! There may be another rescue and there may not. But I am not waiting to find out.”

  I stared at her in amazement. Just as Mrs. Donner had refused to leave her sick husband, so I had taken it for granted that Mrs. Keseberg would not leave hers.

  “If I were married to—to anyone,” I thought, “I would not go out and leave him here alone.” But I buried that thought most hastily, and my telltale face with it, and went out to join the others.

  We had our little belongings tied on our backs, and blankets and quilts huddled around us, poor protection from the weather. I stood with my friends, Meriam and Virginia, Leanna and Elitha, John and Edward Breen. I was so glad to be with them and to feel that I was not setting out all alone. But it was hard to see upon their faces the same mix of fear and hope that I am certain showed upon my own.

  Mr. and Mrs. Keseberg stood at a distance to say their good-byes, and I could not help myself but look. I saw him go to put his arms around her, and I saw her pull away. I saw him go to kiss Ada, only for Ada to be snatched from him.

  Mr. Keseberg was a great tall man, and Mrs. Keseberg a tiny slip of a thing, scarce reaching his shoulder. But he broke under her will. He turned away, brushing his hand across his eyes as he did so.

  I turned my face away, and caught sight of Mrs. Murphy. Mr. Keseberg had brought her out of the cabin to say good-bye to Meriam and her grandchild, Naomi, who was going out tied on the back of one of the rescue men in a blanket.

  Mrs. Murphy
had Catherine in her arms, peering shortsightedly about her and muttering to herself. The three little boys staying behind, George Foster, James Eddy, and Simon Murphy, were clustered around her, clutching hold of her skirts and watching us with desolate faces.

  * * *

  With every step that took me farther away from the camp and toward freedom, I thought of Mr. Keseberg and Mrs. Murphy struggling to look after those four children all alone. Mr. Keseberg could hardly walk, and Mrs. Murphy could hardly see; and the words I had spoke to Sara Foster haunted me.

  “With all my heart, I swear it: I will care for Mrs. Murphy, and on my life I will care for George.”

  Slower and slower grew my steps. I looked around me at my little group of companions. I thought of us making our slow way onward, plodding mile after wearisome mile across the mountain’s great, cold face; soft fingers of snow poised ready to brush us away, as easily as one would flick aside a few bothersome ants on a hot summer’s day.

  I would die on the mountain. I knew it. My last remains would be swept away by the wind and the rain. There would be no stone to mark my place; I would be forgotten.

  I turned on my heel, ignoring the shouts of my friends, and fled back the way I had come. Mr. Keseberg was standing there, watching us. I ran to him, and he caught me, and held me close. I knew that I would never see my friends again.

  35

  My birthday falls at the end of August, and Jacob springs a great surprise on me. I have known something was afoot, for I caught him once or twice in the kitchen talking to Martha in an undertone, a conversation that stopped the second I stepped into the room. If Jacob was any other man, or Martha any other sort of girl, I might look upon this whispering with a degree of suspicion, but I do not.

  First thing in the morning on the day before my birthday, I am astonished to see a smart buggy pulled by two horses draw up on the road in front of the house. Jacob jumps down from the driving seat, and the girls and I go running out to greet him.

  “My lady!” Jacob sweeps a great bow to me. “Your carriage awaits!”

  “What—I mean—what is this? Jacob, what is going on here?”

  Meggie turns to me, her face lit up with the thrill of the surprise.

  “Pa has arranged to take you away for a treat for your birthday, and I have known for a whole week and said nothing! Isn’t it the best surprise ever?”

  Not to be outdone, Hannah chips in. “Martha is going to stay here and look after us, and we have promised to be good and not cause mischief.”

  Clara scowls, and stamps her foot on the ground. “No one told me!”

  Meggie replies, “That’s because you are a baby and cannot keep a secret!” and Clara bursts into tears.

  I send Clara indoors to fetch an apple for each of the horses, and she is all sunshine again and runs off quite happy, and Jacob explains my treat.

  He has some business over near the coast, and he has arranged it to tie in with the Sonoma County Fair. We are to go and visit the fair for two days, and stay in a proper hotel, and eat our dinners in the dining room each night. After that, we will spend a day at the coast so that Jacob can attend to his business, before heading back home. What with the stops along the way, we will be gone altogether for a week, and Martha has agreed to sleep in the house and take care of the girls.

  It turns out that Mrs. McGillivray is in on the secret as well. When I go to pack my valise, I discover a parcel on the bed, and here is my new gown finished, ready for those fancy dinners.

  The hotel is very grand, with white steps leading up to the front door, which has pillars on each side, and the hallway is laid with fancy colored tiles and oriental-looking rugs over. There are some little side tables, each with an arrangement of flowers, and several large, gloomy-looking paintings in heavy gilt frames on the wall.

  A young lad in a uniform takes my valise and shows us upstairs, and as we pass I catch a sight of the dining room where we will be eating our dinners, and think to myself that I am very glad of my new gown.

  That evening, as we are about to step out of our room, Jacob produces another surprise. A gray silk shawl, with a border of heavy fringing. I shake it out, marveling at how beautiful it is. I go to put it on, but Jacob takes it from my hands, and arranges it round my shoulders himself.

  “My dear, you look beautiful. Just the same as you did when I first laid eyes upon you, and knew in an instant that I wanted you for my own.”

  Jacob is the least sentimental of men. In all the years that we have been married, he has never once spoken of love, or drawn my attention to the beauty of the night skies or bid me listen to a bird singing in the treetops.

  There have been times when I have wished with all my heart that he would do so. Times, too, when I have maybe thought my life to be little more than a comfortable-enough arrangement; and might have felt some regret at it, if the truth be told. But now he speaks these words so heartfelt that I blush, and know not where to look, feeling almost that this man is a stranger to me.

  Next morning we set off to the fair. There are tents everywhere, with banners and flags flying over, and such a crowd of folks that I cling onto Jacob’s arm, in fear that I will lose him.

  There is a display of farm machinery, and something that catches Jacob’s eye: a man demonstrating steam power, with a whole array of miniature devices powered so. Jacob quizzes him, would it be possible to drive a sawmill in this way, and how could it be designed? The two men set their heads together and I guess they would stay on this fascinating subject for an hour or more if left to it, but Jacob tears himself away and we walk on.

  There are pens of animals, each the best in its breed: sheep, horses, cows, chickens, everything you can think of. And there is a display of beehives. I think I would like one for my garden, how lovely it would be to have honey for the taking; though I am not so sure of the costume that the beekeeper is wearing, gloves and a veil and a hat and all, to avoid being stung. Hannah has a morbid fear of bees, having been stung by one when she was little, and I think of her quivering in the house, too afraid to venture outside, and abandon that particular idea.

  Jacob and I spend some time in the Ladies’ Tent, which has display upon display of needlework and watercolor paintings and other handicrafts.

  On one stand is a large glass dome. Within is a display of wax flowers, made by a Mrs. Bradley, so lifelike that folks are crowded round, marveling at them. I dislike them intensely. They look so real, and yet are not, and to see them so stiff and still, imprisoned in their glass case, makes me shudder. I am reminded of the story of Snow White, eating a poisoned apple and falling asleep, and her body kept in a glass coffin. I imagine her awake, and knowing of her fate, but unable to break free.

  Poor Jacob. He makes a gallant effort to display an interest, escorting me from one display to another, but his heart is hardly in it. Eventually I say to him, “Go and look at the steam machinery, I know that is what you would prefer. You can leave me here and I will be perfectly happy. I see a display of quilts at the far end of the tent and I would surely like to spend some time looking at them.”

  We agree a place to meet for our luncheon—there is a coffee stall a little way along—and he goes off, and I over to the quilting display.

  When I get to the coffee stall, Jacob is nowhere to be seen. I sit for a little while and rest at one of the tables, but I am in the full sun and after a few minutes I think I must get into the shade. Next to the coffee stall is a fruits and vegetables tent, and I step in for a minute or two.

  The first thing I see is a stand comprised of rows of barrels stacked up one on top of another, and an arrangement of glasses and bottles. Behind them is a great banner reading BUENA VISTA VINEYARD, NATIVE WINES AND BRANDIES, and here is a most elegant-looking gentleman with a set of fine moustaches, engaged in conversation with a small group of folks.

  I cannot help myself. I stare at the gentleman, and the barrels stacked up, and the banner, and listen as hard as I might to the conversation—I ha
ve thought at times that eavesdropping on what other folks might be saying is a poor trait in my character, but I am sorry to say it is one I cannot eradicate. He is telling them about the wine, urging them to sniff at it, and then to sip it; that it tastes of chocolate and spice, and how it is kept in specially made oak barrels that have been shipped all the way from France.

  Eventually these folks depart, and he nods at me and asks me if I would care to sample something. He holds up a bottle with a label that reads, “Vin de la Montagne.” I smile at him.

  “I will not, thank you all the same. But can you tell me something of your vineyard? How did you plant it, and where have the grapes come from, and tell me, how do they grow, for I have never seen a grapevine in my life. And I have heard, as well, that folks dance on the grapes to get the juice, can this be true?”

  The poor gentleman looks quite taken aback at this outburst. He answers me with great good humor, only to be met with another stream of questions directed at him once more.

  He tells me that his vineyard is set on a hill, which is a novelty and not the perceived method at all. To his mind, vines growing on the slope get more sunshine and more rain, and their roots are not set in standing water, which he believes to be harmful to the plant.

  He has dug into this hill and made tunnels lined with bricks in which to store the barrels—casks, he calls them—and here they stay cool. And no, in his vineyard folks do not dance upon the grapes, for he has a great press that extracts the juices. But it is true that in the Old World, where even the smallest of farms might grow a quarter-acre of vines, the local folks do get together and produce the wine in this way.

  At last, with great reluctance, I must make my good-bye, for over this gentleman’s shoulder I can see Jacob, casting about this way and that, looking for me.