A FATEFUL CABIN--MRS. MURPHY GIVES MOTHERLY COMFORT--THE GREAT
STORM--HALF A BISCUIT--ARRIVAL OF THIRD RELIEF--"WHERE IS MY BOY?"
How can I describe that fateful cabin, which was dark as night to us
who had come in from the glare of day? We heard no word of greeting and
met no sign of welcome, but were given a dreary resting-place near the
foot of the steps, just inside the open doorway, with a bed of branches
to lie upon, and a blanket to cover us. After we had been there a short
time, we could distinguish persons on other beds of branches, and a man
with bushy hair reclining beside a smouldering fire.
Soon a child began to cry, "Give me some bread. Oh, give me some meat!"
Then another took up the same pitiful wail. It continued so long that I
wept in sympathy, and fastened my arms tightly around my sister
Frances' neck and hid my eyes against her shoulder. Still I heard that
hungry cry, until a husky voice shouted,
"Be quiet, you crying children, or I'll shoot you."
But the silence was again and again broken by that heart-rending plea,
and again and again were the voices hushed by the same terrifying
threat. And we three, fresh from our loving mother's embrace, believed
the awful menace no vain threat.
We were cold, and too frightened to feel hungry, nor were we offered
food that night, but next morning Mr. Reed's little daughter Mattie
appeared carrying in her apron a number of newly baked biscuits which
her father had just taken from the hot ashes of his camp fire. Joyfully
she handed one to each inmate of the cabin, then departed to join those
ready to set forth on the journey to the settlement. Few can know how
delicious those biscuits tasted, and how carefully we caught each
dropping crumb. The place seemed drearier after their giver left us,
yet we were glad that her father was taking her to her mother in
California.
Soon the great storm which had been lowering broke upon us. We were not
exposed to its fury as were those who had just gone from us, but we
knew when it came, for snow drifted down upon our bed and had to be
scraped off before we could rise. We were not allowed near the fire and
spent most of our time on our bed of branches.
Dear, kind Mrs. Murphy, who for months had taken care of her own son
Simon, and her grandson George Foster, and little James Eddy, gave us a
share of her motherly attention, and tried to feed and comfort us.
Affliction and famine, however, had well nigh sapped her strength and
by the time those plaintive voices ceased to cry for bread and meat,
her willing hands were too weakened to do much for us.
I remember being awakened while there by two little arms clasped
suddenly and tightly about me, and I heard Frances say,
"No, she shall not go with you. You want to kill her!"
Near us stood Keseberg, the man with the bushy hair. In limping past
our sleeping place, he had stopped and said something about taking me
away with him, which so frightened my sisters that they believed my
life in danger, and would not let me move beyond their reach while we
remained in that dungeon. We spoke in whispers, suffered as much as the
starving children in Joseph's time, and were more afraid than Daniel in
the den of lions.
How long the storm had lasted, we did not know, nor how many days we
had been there. We were forlorn as children can possibly be, when Simon
Murphy, who was older than Frances, climbed to his usual "look out" on
the snow above the cabin to see if any help were coming. He returned to
us, stammering in his eagerness:
"I seen--a woman--on snow shoes--coming from the other camp! She's a
little woman--like Mrs. Donner. She is not looking this way--and may
pass!"
Hardly had he spoken her name, before we had gathered around him and
were imploring him to hurry back and call our mother. We were too
excited to follow him up the steps.
She came to us quickly, with all the tenderness and courage needed to
lessen our troubles and soften our fears. Oh, how glad we were to see
her, and how thankful she appeared to be with us once more! We heard it
in her voice and saw it in her face; and when we begged her not to
leave us, she could not answer, but clasped us closer to her bosom,
kissed us anew for father's sake, then told how the storm had
distressed them. Often had they hoped that we had reached the cabins
too late to join the Relief--then in grieving anguish felt that we had,
and might not live to cross the summit.
She had watched the fall of snow, and measured its depth; had seen it
drift between the two camps making the way so treacherous that no one
had dared to cross it until the day before her own coming; then she
induced Mr. Clark to try to ascertain if Messrs. Cady and Stone had
really got us to the cabins in time to go with the Second Relief.
We did not see Mr. Clark, but he had peered in, taken observations, and
returned by nightfall and described to her our condition.
John Baptiste had promised to care for father in her absence. She left
our tent in the morning as early as she could see the way. She must
have stayed with us over night, for I went to sleep in her arms, and
they were still around me when I awoke; and it seemed like a new day,
for we had time for many cherished talks. She veiled from us the
ghastliness of death, telling us Aunt Betsy and both our little cousins
had gone to heaven. She said Lewis had been first to go, and his
mother had soon followed; that she herself had carried little Sammie
from his sick mother's tent to ours the very day we three were taken
away; and in order to keep him warm while the storm raged, she had laid
him close to father's side, and that he had stayed with them until "day
before yesterday."
I asked her if Sammie had cried for bread. She replied, "No, he was not
hungry, for your mother saved two of those little biscuits which the
relief party brought, and every day she soaked a tiny piece in water
and fed him all he would eat, and there is still half a biscuit left."
How big that half-biscuit seemed to me! I wondered why she had not
brought at least a part of it to us. While she was talking with Mrs.
Murphy, I could not get it out of my mind. I could see that broken
half-biscuit, with its ragged edges, and knew that if I had a piece, I
would nibble off the rough points first. The longer I waited, the more
I wanted it. Finally, I slipped my arm around mother's neck, drew her
face close to mine and whispered,
"What are you going to do with the half-biscuit you saved?"
"I am keeping it for your sick father," she answered, drawing me closer
to her side, laying her comforting cheek against mine, letting my arm
keep its place, and my fingers stroke her hair.
The two women were still talking in subdued tones, pouring the oil of
sympathy into each others' gaping wounds. Neither heard the sound of
feet on the snow above; neither knew that the Third Relief Party was
at hand, until Mr. Eddy and Mr. Foster came down the steps, and each
asked anxiously of Mrs. Murphy, "Where is my boy?"
Each received the same sorrowful answer--"Dead."