Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  Reed’s condition alarms me. I say he looks as I must have looked, but in reality, he is much worse off. I’ve always had a little fat on me to give back to the rigors of travel: Reed was gaunt in the best of times, and now looks like a man who’s been locked in a dungeon for years.

  My two Indian companions are stoic and quiet men. I am trying not to second-guess their motivations. I am paying them little, yet they are uncomplaining. I think they are good men, better men than many of those I traveled across a continent with.

  I once believed I would have a fresh start in California, with modest wealth. How little I understood about what I was attempting. The country is far larger than I knew. It is both beautiful and harsh. It punishes the ill-prepared and the unlucky.

  A fresh start, indeed. I will be starting from scratch, without a penny to my name. Almost everything I had was invested in three wagons abandoned halfway across the Great Salt Lake and undoubtedly looted by now. What little cash I possessed, I’ve spent on supplies to take back over the mountains.

  And yet, it seems of little consequence compared to the needs of my traveling companions. Money comes and goes––I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor more than once in my business career––but life is precious. Perhaps one has to lose everything to understand how little it matters. Fear builds as wealth increases; fear that you’ll lose it all. But when one is forced to focus on day-to-day survival, there is little time to be dissatisfied or afraid. One simply endures.

  Diary of Charles Stanton, Truckee Lake, November 2, 1846

  As we reached the summit, it began to snow; not the sparse, cold, wind-driven snow that blew in our faces during McCutchen and my outward journey, but fat, wet snowflakes that clung to everything and slowed us. The snow seemed to want to weigh us down, drive us into the ground. If it had hit as we were ascending, we wouldn’t have made it, but as it was, we managed to stumble our way down the mountain. By the time we reached the cabins at Truckee Lake, six inches of snow had been added to the crusty remains of the previous storms, and it showed no signs of diminishing.

  I was hailed as a conquering hero. There was a scramble for the pack ponies, but I ordered everyone back quite firmly. Eventually, everyone respected my wishes that the food be distributed in an orderly manner. By the time everyone had taken a fair portion, it looked as if I had arrived with nothing at all. Spread among sixty people, it seemed little more than a meal.

  Yet I know that in these dire circumstances an ordinary meal is a feast, and that it can be stretched into two or three or even half a dozen meals. A meal can last a week, if it is apportioned correctly.

  I look outside the cabin and see that another six inches of snow has fallen, and a sense of dread comes over me. A week’s provisions aren’t going to be enough. Not nearly enough.

  The Reeds have accepted me into their cabin, while Luis and Salvador have set up camp just outside. I saved an extra pack of food for the Reeds, which seemed only fair as it was their money that paid for much of what I brought.

  The cabin is tidy and well ordered, and I quickly saw that Virginia Reed is mostly responsible for that. The girl is a doer: constantly in motion, taking care of her young brothers and even her sister and mother. Reed asked me to look after his family, but this thirteen-year-old girl is already doing so.

  She is an attractive girl, appearing older than her years, and she is drawing much attention from the young men in the camp. She relishes the attention, even as she tries––unsuccessfully––to remain modest. She’s spirited, and makes me wish I were a younger man.

  The young men––there is the problem. There were a few moments, as I distributed the food, when I thought Keseberg and his two confederates, Reinhart and Spitzer, were going to seize the entire supply. If they had tried, I’m not sure what would have happened. I noticed that young Virginia was armed with her father’s rifle and was watching the men warily. Where once I might have smiled indulgently at the sight, I now have no doubt of her capabilities and willingness to use that rifle.

  The young fellow who is their driver was at her side, looking equally grim, if a little more frightened than she was.

  Other than those two and myself, I’m not sure any of the others even saw the danger. Fortunately, the moment passed. I could see Keseberg eyeing Virginia and myself, then relaxing, deciding to make no attempt to take more than he deserved.

  It should have been reassuring that he backed down, but I wonder if he isn’t simply planning to wait until we let our guard down. Then again, I doubt there will be much food left after this evening. Most of the families will probably consume all their food rather than ration it.

  Besides, it occurred to me that the Germans already look well fed. They don’t need the provisions, I thought. They have a secret food supply.

  I shudder at the thought.

  Virginia knows too, I can see it her eyes; but the rest of the travelers still seem unaware of what lurks in our midst. If this storm doesn’t abate, I fear they will soon find out.

  CHAPTER 21

  Note found with the diaries of Virginia Reed, undated

  So began the days of cold and hunger. At first, it was the cold that was the worst, the bone-chilling cold that seeped into our clothes and our shelters so that we were constantly shivering. In the end, it was the hunger, the constant emptiness at the center of our bellies that tormented us the most.

  Days stretched into weeks and then months of misery as we slowly descended to the level of beasts and beasts preyed upon us. God has mercifully granted me forgetfulness of much of that time, but there is also a small irony here, a little joke that the Devil slipped into the record I so dutifully kept throughout my journey: only the pages that detail the events of our agonizing descent still survive.

  These diaries and journals are sad and soiled documents. I have an almost-memory of having gnawed on the edges, as if the paper was food, and indeed, as they lie on the desk before me now, I see what appear to be teeth marks. Perhaps I chewed up the rest of the pages. I don’t remember.

  Diary of Virginia Reed, November 6, 1846

  It has begun to snow again. We have all retreated to our cabins and tents. We have taken refuge in one of the three cabins, and the others have vanished behind a curtain of white. It is easy to believe that only our cabin exists in all the world, that we are alone, the only survivors of some worldwide catastrophe.

  The sound of the wind is constant, and so is the creaking of the trees. Only these sounds provide relief from the cries of the children and the moans of sick and starving adults.

  When we arrived at Truckee Lake, we found these cabins already here, and we embraced them as our homes, grateful that we didn’t have to build shelters from scratch. I wonder now if that wasn’t a mistake. The cabins are poorly constructed, and perhaps if we had built them ourselves, we might have contrived something better. Now we are too weak and too tired of the pervasive cold and damp to do much of anything but wait out this new storm.

  We long ago consumed the supplies Mr. Stanton brought us. He sits in the corner of the cabin, no doubt wishing he had remained in California. I have spoken with him several times, trying to get more information about Father––wanting, I suppose, simply to share the fact of his existence with another. Stanton seemed irritated by my last round of questions. “There is nothing more I can do, girl,” he snapped. He apologized later and told me I was a “plucky little thing.” I’m sure he is still exhausted from his efforts on our behalf, bless him. I will leave him in peace.

  His two Indian friends are camped outside our cabin and seem comfortable enough. They rarely make a sound. Sometimes I forget they are there. I will feel someone watching me and turn around, sure that I’ll meet the red eyes of a beast, only to find the still figures of Luis and Salvador staring at me; then they will nod solemnly, as if in greeting. I sense they mean me no harm. In truth, I see Keseberg as more of a savage than these Indians.

  It is still early in the winter. Perhaps this is only a prema
ture storm, which will pass and allow us to continue on our way. So we tell each other; but I see doubt and fear in the eyes of my companions.

  November 8, 1846

  After Father and Bayliss, the man I most trust is William Eddy. He is the most experienced hunter among those who are left. He shot a bear not long after we arrived at the lake, and he shared it with us without asking anything in return.

  Unfortunately, the Eddy family is also the most destitute among us. They lost their wagon early on and have used up what supplies they were able to carry. The second least fortunate family is, alarmingly, my own. We have wealth, but it lies in banks in civilized towns. It means nothing here. We too have lost our wagons.

  The only family that still has livestock––though the animals are little more than living skeletons––is the Graves family. Yesterday, we had acrimonious dealings with Franklin Graves, who insisted that we promise to pay double the going price for a pair of oxen. In the end, against the protestations of his wife, he took a note of debt from us. We came out better than William Eddy, who had to pay $25 for a single ox, or three times the normal cost.

  We had no choice.

  I won’t forget this unkindness.

  November 10, 1846

  It is still snowing, harder than ever. It is a dry, fluffy snow now, because it is getting colder. This storm will not blow over soon, I fear. When the snow first started to fall, we shot the livestock we still had left and stacked their carcasses on the cold ground, thinking that we had created a store of food. By the time we ventured out to hack off portions of meat, it was clear we had waited too long. The thick blanket of snow had covered everything and filled every crevice, making the land flat and featureless. We didn’t reckon on the snow blinding us, softening the features of the landscape and causing us to be lost in a sea of white. It never occurred to anyone that the huge oxen and horses could be buried under snow so thick that we can no longer tell where they are.

  This morning I found drag marks in the snow, streaks of red and black gore. It appears that wild animals have discovered the stored meat and have dragged it away. After much searching, I was able to find half a horse carcass. I called out for someone to help me butcher the remains, but no one came. I left the meat in the middle of the path and hurried back to the cabin. Bayliss was waiting by the door, looking concerned, having woken while I was gone. By the time we returned, the carcass was either gone or buried again. I noticed a new set of footprints near the trail, and I suspect that someone made off with my discovery.

  I dug into two more mounds, but found tree stumps instead of carcasses. By then, my hands were nearly frozen and Bayliss couldn’t even grasp anything anymore. We dared not stay out in the elements any longer. We retreated in defeat to my family’s cabin without anything to show for our efforts. My mother and sister couldn’t hide their disappointment, and I nearly lashed out at them.

  It has occurred to me, in these dark days, that I’ve always been separate from the others, though I’ve always hidden this fact from myself. Only Father has really embraced me fully in his heart as a member of this family, though Mother loves me, I think, in her vague way. I’ve always had more spirit than anyone in my family except for Father. Though he is my stepfather, he is the only father I’ve ever known, and I am closer to him in temperament than any of my siblings are. It is my faith in him that keeps me hopeful, and which will keep me alive.

  Bayliss didn’t say a word as we returned empty-handed, but I no longer construe his silence as sullenness. I’ve decided it is the wisdom of a fellow who knows he doesn’t have all the answers. In every case, when he has been put to the test, he has come through for me and my family, though we can no longer pay him and though he might have been better off camping with the other bachelors, who seem to be surviving these travails better than the rest of us.

  That night, as we sat by the fire, I accidentally nudged him with my knee. When he moved away, I nudged him again, and when he looked at me in surprise, I gave him a shy smile. After that, we sat companionably together. If my mother noticed, she didn’t say anything. Perhaps she thinks that I should experience what life I can while I still can. The fear is always there in the background: fear that we are entombed in the snow, that we are running out of food.

  Outside is a lake, but no one knows how to fish. Few of the men have ever hunted: on the trail, the women bartered with friendly Indians for meat. Most of these men were shopkeepers back in Illinois and Missouri; a few were farmers. They can tell you the yield of topsoil and which grasses make the best fodder, but throughout our journey, we have had little luck hunting or fishing.

  So whether the lake is full of fish, we will never know; nor have we been able to find any of the animals that must fill this forest. We have no knowledge of the local plants. We may as well be adrift in the middle of the ocean on a boat without a rudder, with the continents beyond reach.

  November 11, 1846

  It is dispiriting that the snow has, if anything, deepened this morning. No one dares to venture out of the cabin. We are trapped.

  As I sit and write by the light of the fire, I can see that our hovel will be inadequate to last us the winter––if we even have the food to last the winter. We have piled up a few days’ worth of wood, but it is rapidly diminishing. We are constantly melting snow for water. Occasionally, my mother finds some snippet of food to put into the pot to create a thin gruel.

  We have begun trapping the poor mice that infested this cabin when we first moved in. It is only fair, as the little creatures were adept at stealing our crumbs of food. Now they are put into the pot and we regain what we have lost. The little animals can’t escape. Outside the cabin, they would freeze; inside the cabin, they are boiled. The older children have made a game of catching them.

  The younger children do not yet understand how much trouble we are in, and none of us is going to tell them. They will no doubt find out soon enough. For them, it is a vacation from the constant toil of a moving, working wagon train, with its endless chores and tasks to be attended to. They sit and play word games with each other. My mother managed to hold onto a few books. Perhaps she should have carried more food instead, but I find it difficult to fault her for it.

  Bayliss has shown surprising empathy for the children, reading to them in an unexpectedly expressive way and coming up with interesting games for them to play. It helps distract them from the boredom of being shut in.

  Starting early in the morning, the children ask over and over when dinner will be. We eat once now, at midafternoon, so that we will still have a few scraps of food in our stomachs when we go to bed. When we wake, we are hungry again, and that hunger builds to a crescendo until the afternoon, when we eat whatever meager provisions we have scrounged.

  I saw my mother surreptitiously slipping dead insects into our soup, grinding them up so that they were unrecognizable. When it came time to eat, my mind rebelled, but my stomach readily accepted the offering.

  November 14, 1846

  It doesn’t seem possible, but the snow has continued to fall. It is piled so high that we are continuously forced to dig out the small entrance to our cabin and trample out a path for a few yards beyond it.

  I should describe our living spaces. The cabins are rectangular blocks made of unstripped pine timbers, which, when we first moved in, were infested with insects. The insects have mostly disappeared or been consumed, which is unfortunate. What in normal times I would have considered a plague, I now devoutly wish for. A soup of dead insects, the carcass of a mouse, the skin of a scavenged rabbit: when you have no food, anything seems edible.

  There is one entrance to our hovel, which isn’t really a door, but a hole cut low to the ground and covered with a thick hide. Inside, the floor is tamped-down earth with most of the rocks cleared away––though when I try to sleep, I can still feel rocks under me. There are no windows. The only light comes from the fire pit built in the corner farthest from the entrance. Water drips down the nearby walls and fre
ezes into icicles.

  In the roof, there is a small hole for the smoke to trickle out of, though much of it seems to prefer to remain within the cabin. My eyes are gritty and red, and to the sound of the wind and rasping branches has been added a third constant refrain: the sound of coughing. Even outside, the smoke can’t escape. It floats up a short distance and seems to get trapped by the previous smoke. It is as if the sky is forcing it downward, and it wreaths the trees in halos of white.

  The roofs of our cabins are flat, which was a grave mistake in their construction. Their wooden timbers have started to sag from the weight of the piled-up snow. The previous occupants covered the ceiling with ox hides, which have sprung leaks where the heat of the fire has reached them. These little tears in the hides drip constantly. We’ve dug small channels for the water to escape down, and as it reaches the cabin walls, the water begins to freeze. It has become my job to break up this ice and encourage the water to leave through the small exits I’ve dug, which then immediately freeze again. My arms are tired from constantly hacking at the ice, but it always reforms. It is the hardest task I have done on the entire journey. If this snowstorm ever abates, the first thing I will do is dig deeper channels to the outside.

  Our fire is burning low now, the light too dim to read the books to the children, too dim to even see each other’s faces. We’ve had to poke the snow away from the hole above the fire, and the moisture has almost put it out more than once. Our firewood is mostly gone. Tomorrow I will venture out to try to find some more.