Time passed. Not a word had come to me from Sonoma in months, when Benjamin handed me theUnion, and with horror I read the headlines to which he pointed: "TRAGEDY IN SONOMA.CHRISTIAN BRUNNER, AN OLD RESIDENT, SLAYS HIS OWN NEPHEW!"
From the lurid details published, I learned that the Brunners had asked this nephew to come to them, and had sent him money to defray his expenses from Switzerland to California. Upon his arrival in Sonoma, he had settled himself in the proffered home, and at once begun a life of extravagance, at the expense of his relatives. He was repeatedly warned against trifling with their affection, and wasting their hard-earned riches. Then patience ceased, and he was forbidden the house of his uncle.
Meanwhile, his aunt became seriously ill, and the young man visited her secretly, and prevailed upon her to give him, in the event of her death, certain cattle and other property which stood in her name. She, however, recovered health; and he in the presence of his uncle, insisted that she had given him the property outright, and he wanted possession. This made trouble between the old couple, and the wife took refuge with friends in San Francisco. The night after her departure, the husband entered his own room and found the nephew in his bed. Thoroughly enraged, he ordered him up and out of his sight, and was insolently told by the young man that he was owner of that property and in rightful possession of the same. At this, his uncle snatched his pistol from the table at the bedside, and fired the fatal shot.
This almost incredible news was so harrowing that I could scarcely think of anything, except grandpa chained in a prison cell, grandma in hiding away from home, and excited groups of people gathering about the thoroughfares of Sonoma discussing the tragedy.
I was not sorry that at this time an epidemic of measles broke out in Sacramento, and Georgia became one of its early victims. This brought both girls back to the ranch, and during Georgia's convalescence, we had many serious talks about the Brunners' troubles. We wrote to grandma, but received no answer, and could only wait to learn what would be done with grandpa. He was arraigned and held; but the date set for trial was not fixed before Benjamin took Frances and Georgia to Benicia, to enter the September term ofSt. Catherine's Convent School.
Upon Ben's return, I observed that he and Elitha were keeping from me some mysterious but pleasurable secret. It came out a few days later when Elitha began making a black and a white uniform which would fit no one except me. When ready to try them on, she informed me that we would have to sew early and late, that I might be ready to enter the convent by the first of October, and thereby reap the benefit of the institution's established custom—"That when more than two of a family become pupils the same term, the third one shall be received free of charge (except incidentals) with the understanding that the family thus favored shall exert its influence toward bringing an additional pupil into the school."
Friends who had religious prejudices advised Ben against putting us under Catholic influence, but he replied good-naturedly: "The school is excellent, the girls are Protestants, and I am not afraid. Besides, I have told them all the horrible and uncanny stories that I have heard about convents, and they will not care to meddle with anything outside of the prescribed course of study."
He was twenty years older than I, and had such conservative and dignified ways, that I often stood in awe of him. So when he let the convent gate close behind us with a loud click and said, "Now, you are a goner," I scanned his face apprehensively, but seeing nothing very alarming, silently followed him through the massive door which was in charge of a white-robed nun of the Dominican order.
ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT AT BENICIA, CALIFORNIA
ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT AT BENICIA, CALIFORNIA
CHAPEL, ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT
CHAPEL, ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT
Presently Mother Mary Superior and my two sisters came to us in the reception room and my brother deposited the fund for my school incidentals, and after a brief conversation, departed. The preparations in connection with my coming had been so rapidly carried out that I had had little time in which to question or anticipate what my reception at the convent might be. Now, however, Mother Mary, with open watch in hand, stood before me, saying,
"Your sister Georgia cried twice as long as expected when she came; still I will allow you the regular five minutes."
"I don't wish to cry," was my timid response.
"But," she insisted, "you must shed a few entrance tears to—" Before she finished her sentence, and without thinking that it would be overreaching a stranger's privilege, I impulsively threw my arms around her neck, laid my cheek against hers, and whispered, "Please don't make me cry."
She drew me closer to her, and her lips touched my forehead, and she said, "No, child, you need not." Then she bade me go with my sisters and become acquainted with my new surroundings.
I was at once made to feel that I was welcome to every advantage and privilege accorded to Frances and Georgia. The following Monday, soon after breakfast, I slipped unobserved from the recreation room and made my way to the children's dormitory, where Sister Mary Joseph was busily engaged. I told her that I had come to help make beds and that I hoped she would also let me wash or wipe the silverware used at the noon and evening meals. She would not accept my services until she became thoroughly satisfied that I had not offered them because I felt that I was expected to do so, but because I earnestly desired to do whatever I could in return for the educational and cultural advantages so freely tendered me by the convent.
By the end of the week I knew the way to parts of the buildings not usually open to pupils. Up in the clothes room, I found Sister Mary Frances, and on assuring her that I only wanted occupation for part of my leisure time, she let me help her to sort and distribute the clothing of the small girls, on Saturdays. Sister Rose let me come to her in the kitchen an hour on Sundays, and other light tasks were assigned me at my request.
Then did I eat the bread of independence, take a wholesome interest in my studies, and enjoy the friends I gained!
My seat in the refectory was between my sister Georgia and Miss Cayitana Payñe, a wealthy Spanish girl. Near neighbors were the two Estudillo sisters, who were prouder of their Castilian lineage than of the princely estate which they had inherited through it. To them I was in a measure indebted for pleasing conversation at table. My abundant glossy black hair and brunette type had first attracted their attention, and suggested the probability of Spanish blood in my veins. After they had learned otherwise, those points of resemblance still awoke in them an unobtrusive interest in my welfare. I became aware of its depth one evening in the recreation room while Georgia was home for a month on sick leave.
I was near Miss Dolores Estudillo, and overheard her say quietly to her sister, in Spanish, "Magdalena, see how care-free the young girl at my side seems tonight. The far-away look so often in her eyes leads me to think that our dear Lord has given her many crosses to bear. Her hands show marks of hard work and her clothing is inexpensive, yet she appears of good birth and when I can throw pleasure in her way, I mean to do it."
Whereupon Miss Magdalena turned to me and asked, "Do you live in Sacramento, Miss Donner?"
"No, I live on a ranch twenty miles from the city."
"Do your parents like it there?"
"I have no parents, they died when I was four years old."
She did not ask another question, nor did she know that I had caught the note of sympathy in her apology as she turned away. From that time on, she and her coterie of young friends showed me many delicate attentions.
While still a new pupil, I not infrequently met Sister Dominica resting at the foot of the steps after her walk in the sunshine, and with a gracious, "Thank you," she would permit me to assist her up the flight of stairs leading to her apartment. Bowed by age, and wasted by disease, she was patiently awaiting the final summons. I became deeply interested in her before I learned that this wan bit of humanity was the once winsome daughter of Commandante Arguello, and the heroine of a pathetic romance of Spanish California's day.[17]
The hero was Rezanoff, an officer of high repute, sent by Russia in 1806 to inspect its establishment at the port of Sitka, Alaska. Finding the colony there in almost destitute condition, he had embarked on the first voyage of a Russian vessel to the port of San Francisco, California. There being no commercial treaty between the two ports, Rezanoff made personal appeal for help to Governor Arrillago, and later to Commandante Arguello. After many difficulties and delays, he succeeded in obtaining the sorely needed supplies.
Meanwhile, the young officer frequently met in her father's house the vivaciousDoña Concepcion Arguello, and Cupid soon joined their hearts with an immortal chain.
After their betrothal, Rezanoff hastened back to the destitute colony with supplies. Then he sped on toward St. Petersburg, buoyant with a lover's hope of obtaining his sovereign's sanction to his marriage, and perhaps an appointment to Spain, which would enable him to give his bride a distinguished position in the country of her proud ancestors. Alas, death overtook the loveren routeacross the snows of Siberia.
WhenDoña Concepcionlearned of her bereavement, her lamentations were tearless, her sorrow inconsolable. She turned from social duties and honors, and, clad in mourning weeds, devoted her time and means to the poor and the afflicted, among whom she became known and idolized as "the beautiful angel in black." After the death of her parents, she endowed St. Catherine's Convent with her inheritance, took the vows of the Dominican nun, and the world saw her no more.
Early in her sorrow, she had prayed that death might come to her in the season when the snow lay deep on Siberia's plain; and her prayer was realized, for it was on a bleak winter morning that we pupils gathered in silence around the breakfast table, knowing that Sister Dominica lay upon her bier in the chapel.
The meal was nearly finished when Sister Amelda entered, and spoke to a couple of the Spanish young ladies, who bowed and immediately withdrew. As she came down the line selecting other Spanish friends of the dead, she stopped beside me long enough to say:
"You also may go to her. You comforted her in life, and it is fitting that you should be among those who keep the last watch, and that your prayers mingle with theirs."
After her burial, which was consecrated by monastic rites, I returned to the schoolroom with reverential memories of Sister Dominica, the once "beautiful angel in black."
The school year closed in July, 1858, and I left the convent with regret. The gentle, self-sacrificing conduct of the nuns had destroyed the effect of the prejudicial stories I had heard against conventual life. The tender, ennobling influences which had surrounded me had been more impressive than any I had experienced during orphanhood, and I dreaded what the noisy world might again have in store for me.
My sisterFrancesand William R. Wilder, who had been betrothed for more than a year, and had kept their secret until we three returned from the convent, were married November 24, 1858, and soon thereafter moved to a pleasant home of their own on a farm adjoining Rancho de los Cazadores. The following January, Georgia and I entered public school in Sacramento, where we spent a year and a half in earnest and arduous study.
[17]
The subject of a poem by Bret Harte, and of a novel by Mrs. Gertrude Atherton.
Our school home in Sacramento was with friends who not only encouraged our desire for knowledge, but made the acquirement pleasant. The head of the house wasMr. William E. Chamberlain, cashier of D.O. Mills's bank. His wife,Charlotte, was a contributor toThe Sacramento Unionand leading magazines. Their daughter, Miss Florence, taught in the public schools; and their son, William E., Jr., was a high-school student, preparing for Harvard.
In addition to their superior personal attainments, Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, each—for they were cousins—had the distinction of being first cousins toDaniel Webster, and this fact also served to bring to their home guests of note and culture. Georgia and I were too closely occupied with lessons to venture often beyond the school-girl precinct, but the intellectual atmosphere which pervaded the house, and the books to which we had access, were of inestimable advantage. Furthermore, the tuition fees required of non-resident pupils entitled them to choice of district, and we fortunately had selectedJefferson Grammar School, No. 4, in charge ofMr. Henry A. White, one of the ablest educators in the city.
Several resident families had also taken advantage of this privilege, and elected to pay tuition and place their children under his instruction, thus bringing together forty-nine energetic boys and girls to whet each other's ambition and incite class rivalry. Among the number were the five clever children of theHon. Tod Robinson; three sons ofJudge Robert Robinson; Colonel Zabriskie's pretty daughterAnnie; Banker Swift's statelyMargaret; General Redding's two sons; Dr. Oatman's sonEugene; belovedNelly Upton, daughter of the editor ofThe Sacramento Union;Daniel Yost;Agnes Toll, the sweet singer; andEliza Denison, my chum.
At the end of the term,The Daily Unionclosed its account of the public examination of Jefferson Grammar School with the following statement: "Among Mr. White's pupils are two young ladies, survivors of the terrible disaster which befell the emigration of 1846 among the snows of the California mountains."
Even this cursory reference was a matter of regret to Georgia and me. We had entered school silent in regard to personal history, and did not wish public attention turned toward ourselves even in an indirect way, fearing it might lead to a revival of the false and sensational accounts of the past, and we were not prepared to correct them, nor willing they should be spread. Pursued by these fears, we returned to the ranch, where Elitha and her three black-eyed little daughters welcomed our home-coming and brightened our vacation.
Almost coincident, however, with the foregoing circumstance, Georgia came into possession of"What I Saw in California,"byEdwin Bryant; and we found that the book did contain many facts in connection with our party's disaster, but they were so interwoven with wild rumors, and the false and sensational statements quoted fromThe California Star, that they proved nothing, yet gave to the untrue that appearance of truth which is so difficult to correct.
The language employed in description seemed to us so coarse and brutal that we could not forgive its injustice to the living, and to the memory of the dead. We could but feel that had simple facts been stated, there would have been no harrowing criticism on account of long unburied corpses found in the lake cabins. Nor would the sight of mutilated dead have suggested that the starving survivors had become "gloating cannibals, preying on the bodies of their companions." Bare facts would have shown that the living had become too emaciated, too weak, to dig graves, or to lift or drag the dead up the narrow snow steps, even had open graves awaited their coming. Aye, more, would have shown conclusively that mutilation of the bodies of those who had perished was never from choice, never cannibalistic, but dire necessity's last resort to ease torturing hunger, to prevent loss of reason, to save life. Loss of reason was more dreaded than death by the starving protectors of the helpless.
Fair statements would also have shown that the First Relief reached the camps with insufficient provision to meet the pressing needs of the unfortunate. Consequently, it felt the urgency of haste to get as many refugees as possible to Bear Valley before storms should gather and delays defeat the purpose of its coming; that it divided what it could conscientiously spare among those whom it was obliged to leave, cut wood for the fires, and endeavored to give encouragement and hope to the desponding, but did not remain long enough to remove or bury the dead.
Each succeeding party actuated by like anxieties and precautions, departed with its charges, leaving pitiable destitution behind; leaving mournful conditions in camp,—conditions attributable as much to the work of time and atmospheric agencies as to the deplorable expedients to which the starving were again and again reduced.
With trembling hand Georgia turned the pages, from the sickening details of theStar[18]to the personal observations ofEdwin Bryant, who in returning to the United States in the Summer of 1847, crossed the Sierra Nevadas with General Kearney and escort, reached the lake cabins June 22, and wrote as follows:
A halt was called for the purpose of interring the remains. Near the principal lake cabin I saw two bodies entire, except the abdomens had been cut open and entrails extracted. Their flesh had been either wasted by famine or evaporated by exposure to dry atmosphere, and presented the appearance of mummies. Strewn around the cabins were dislocated and broken skulls (in some instances sawed asunder with care for the purpose of extracting the brains). Human skeletons, in short, in every variety of mutilation. A more appalling spectacle I never witnessed. The remains were, by order of General Kearney, collected and buried under supervision of Major Sword. They were interred in a pit dug in the centre of one of the cabins for a cache. These melancholy duties to the dead being performed, the cabins, by order of Major Sword, were fired and, with everything surrounding them connected with the horrible and melancholy tragedy, consumed.
The body of(Captain) George Donnerwas found in his camp about eight miles distant. He had been carefully laid out by his wife, and a sheet was wrapped around the corpse. This sad office was probably the last act she performed before visiting the camp of Keseberg. He was buried by a party of men detailed for that purpose.
I knew the Donners well; their means in money and merchandise which they had brought with them were abundant. Mr. Donner was a man of about sixty, and was at the time of leaving the United States a highly respectable citizen of Illinois, a farmer of independent means.Mrs. Donnerwas considerably younger than her husband, an energetic woman of refined education.
After Georgia left me, I reopened the book, and pondered its revelations, many of them new to us both; and most of them I marked for later investigation.
Bryant found no human bones at Donner's camp. His description of that camp was all-important, proving that my father's body had not been mutilated, but lay in his mountain hut three long months, sacred as when left by my little mother, who had watched over him to the pitiful end, had closed his eyes, folded his arms across his breast, and wrapped the burial sheet about his precious form. There, too, was proof of his last resting-place, just as had been told me in sight of Jakie's grave, by the Cherokee woman in Sonoma.
The book had also a copy ofColonel McKinstrey'sletter to the General Relief Committee in San Francisco, reporting the return of the first rescuers with refugees. In speaking of the destitution of the unfortunates in camp, he used the following words sympathically:
When the party arrived at camp, it was obliged to guard the little stock of provisions it had carried over the mountains on its back on foot, for the relief of the poor beings, as they were in such a starving condition that they would have immediately used up all the little store. They even stole the buckskin strings from the party's snowshoes and ate them.
I at once recognized this friendly paragraph as the one which had had its kindness extracted, and been abbreviated and twisted into that cruel taunt which I had heard in my childhood from the lips of "Picayune Butler."
A careful study of Bryant's work increased my desire to sift that of Thornton, for I had been told that it not only contained the "Fallon Diary," but lengthier extracts from theStar, and I wanted to compare and analyze those details which had been published as"Thrilling Events in California History."I was unable to procure the book then, but resolved to do so when opportunity should occur. Naturally, we who see history made, are solicitous that it be accurately recorded, especially when it vitally concerns those near to us.
Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. THE CROSS AT DONNER LAKE
Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. THE CROSS AT DONNER LAKE
Shortly before school reopened, Georgia and I spent the day with cousinFrances E. Bond; and in relating to her various incidents of our life, we spoke of the embarrassment we had felt in class the day that Mr. White asked every pupil whose ancestors had fought in the war of the American Revolution to rise, and Georgia and I were the only ones who remained seated. My cousin regarded us a moment and then said:
"Your Grandfather Eustis, although a widow's only son, and not yet sixteen years of age, enlisted when the Revolutionary War began. He was a sentinel at Old South Church, and finally, a prisoner aboard theCount d'Estang."
She would have stopped there, but we begged for all she knew about our mother's people, so she continued, mingling advice with information:
"I would rather that you should not know the difference between their position in life and your own; yet, if you must know it, the Eustis and the Wheelwright families, from whom you are descended, are among the most substantial and influential of New England. Their reputation, however, is not a prop for you to lean on. They are on the Atlantic coast, you on the Pacific; so your future depends upon your own merit and exertions."
This revelation of lineage, nevertheless, was an added incentive to strive for higher things; an inheritance more enduring than our little tin box and black silk stockings which had belonged to mother.
An almost indescribable joy was mine when, at a gathering of the school children to do honor to the citizens who had inaugurated the system of public instruction in Sacramento, I beheld on the platform Captain John A. Sutter. Memories both painful and grateful were evoked. It was he who had first sent food to the starving travellers in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was he who had laid his hand on my head, when a forlorn little waif at the Fort, tenderly saying, "Poor little girl, I wish I could give back what you have lost!"
To me,Captain Sutterhad long been the embodiment of all that was good and grand; and now I longed to touch his hand and whisper to him gratitude too sacred for strangers' ears. But the opportunity was withheld until riper years.
During our last term at school, Georgia's health was so improved that my life was more free of cares and aglow with fairer promises. MissKate Robinsonand I were rivals for school honors, and I studied as I never had studied before, for in the history, physiology, and rhetoric classes, she pressed me hard. At the close of the session the record showed a tie. Neither of us would accept determination by lot, and we respectfully asked the Honorable Board of Education to withhold the medal for that year.
About this time Georgia and I enjoyed a rare surprise. On his return from business one day, Mr. Chamberlain announced that a distinguished-appearing young lawyer,S.O. Houghtonby name, had stopped at the bank that afternoon, to learn our address and say that he would call in the evening. We, knowing that he was the husband of our "little cousin Mary," were anxious to meet him and to hear of her, whom we had not seen since our journey across the snow. He came that evening, and told us of the cozy home in San Jose to which he had taken his young wife, and of her wish that we visit them the coming July or August.
Although letters had passed between us, up to this time we had known little of Mary's girlhood life. After we parted, in 1847, she was carried through to San Francisco, then called Yerba Buena, where her maimed foot was successfully treated by the surgeon of the United States shipPortsmouth. The citizens of that place purchased and presented to her the one hundredvaralot Number 38, and the lot adjoining to her brother George.Mr. Reedwas appointed her guardian and given charge of her apportionment of funds realized from the sale of goods brought from her father's tents. She became a member of the Reed household in San Jose, and her life must have been cast in pleasant lines, for she always spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Reed with filial affection. Moreover, her brother had been industrious and prosperous, and had contributed generously to her comfort and happiness.
Some weeks later, we tookMr. Houghton'sreport home to Elitha. We also showed her a recent letter from Mary, sparkling with bright anticipations—anticipations never to be realized; for we girls were hardly settled on the ranch before a letter came from cousin George Donner, dated Sacramento, June 20, 1860. From this we learned that he had on that day been summoned to the bedside of his dying sister, and had come from his home on Putah Creek as fast as horse could carry him, yet had failed to catch the bay steamer; and while waiting for the next boat, was writing to us who could best understand his state of mind.
Next, a note from San Jose informed us that Mrs. Mary M. Houghton died June 21, 1860, leaving a namesake, a daughter two weeks old, and that her brother had reached there in time for the funeral.
Of the seven Donners who had survived the disaster, she was the first called by death, and we deeply mourned her loss, and grieved because another little Mary was motherless. The following August, Mr. Houghton made his first visit to Rancho de los Cazadores, and with fatherly pride, showed the likeness of his little girl, and promised to keep us all in touch with her by letter.
Mr. Houghtonwas closely identified with pioneer affairs, and we had many friends in common, especially among officers and soldiers of theMexican War. He had enlisted in Company A of Stevenson's Regiment of New York Volunteers when barely eighteen years of age; and sailed with it from his native State on the twenty-sixth of September, 1846. After an eventful voyage by way of Cape Horn, the good shipLoo Choo, which bore him hither, cast anchor in the Bay of San Francisco, March 26, 1847, about the time the Third Relief was bringing us little girls over the mountains. His company being part of the detachment ordered to Mexico under Colonel Burton, he went at once into active service, was promoted through intermediate grades, and appointed lieutenant, and adjutant on the staff of Colonel Burton, before his twentieth year. Following an honorable discharge at the close of the war, and a year's exciting experiences in the gold fields, he settled in San Jose in November, 1849, then the capital city. His knowledge of the Spanish and French languages fitting him specially therefor, he turned his attention to legislative and municipal matters. As clerk of the Senate Judiciary Committee of the first session of the California Legislature, he helped to formulate statutes for enactment, they being promulgated in Spanish as well as English at that time. During the period between 1851 and 1860 he held several official positions, among them that of president of the City Council; and on his twenty-fifth birthday he was elected Mayor of San Jose. Meanwhile he had organized the Eagle Guard, one of the first independent military companies in the State, and had also been successively promoted from adjutant to ordnance officer, with the rank of lieutenant-colonel, on Major-General Halleck's staff of the State Militia. Moreover, he had completed the study of law in the office of Judge W.T. Wallace, been admitted to the bar, and was now actively engaged in the practice of his profession.
[18]
See Appendix for extract fromThe California Star.
More than two years had elapsed since we had heard directly from Sonoma, when, on the day before Thanksgiving, 1860,Judge Robert Robinsonand wife, of Sacramento, came to the ranch, and he, in his pleasing way, announced that he and Mrs. Robinson had a little story to tell, and a message to deliver, which would explain why they had arrived unexpectedly to spend the national holiday with us. Then seating himself, he bowed to his wife, and listened in corroborative silence while she related the following incident:
"Last Summer when the Judge went on his circuit, he took the carriage, and I accompanied him on his travels. One day we stopped for dinner at the stage station between Sonoma and Santa Rosa. After we had registered, the proprietor approached us, saying: 'I see you are from Sacramento, and wonder if you know anything about a couple of young girls by the name of Downie, who spent some time there in the public school?' He seemed disappointed when we replied, 'We know Donners, but not Downies.' 'Well,' he continued, 'they are strangers to me; but I am interested in them on account of their former connection with an unfortunate little old German woman who frequently comes in on the stage that runs between Sonoma and Santa Rosa. She carries their pictures in her hand-bag and tells a touching story about her happiness when they lived with her.' Just then the stage stopped before the door, and he, looking out, exclaimed, 'Why, she is among the passengers to-day! With your permission, I'll bring her to you.'
"He introduced her as Mrs. Brunner, told her where we were from, and asked her to show us the picture of her little girls. After shaking hands with us, she took the seat offered, and nervously drew from her reticule a handsomely inlaid case, which she opened and handed to us. An expression of pride and tenderness lighted her worn features as Judge and I at once exclaimed, pointing to one and then the other, 'Why, this is Georgia, and this, Eliza Donner. We know them well and call them "our girls" in Sacramento!'"
"She sprang from her seat, and stood with one hand on Judge's shoulder, and the other on mine, saying earnestly,
"'Yes! You do know my children? Be they well, and doing well?'
"We had to talk fast in order to answer all her questions, and a number of listeners drew nearer and were considerably affected as the poor old soul said, 'Please shake hands with me again for them, and tell them that you talked with their oldGrandma Brunner, that loves them now just the same as when they was little.'
"Judge and I assured her that we would deliver her messages in person, as soon as we should get time to look you up. After dinner we saw her reseated in the stage, and the black silk reticule containing the picture was upon her lap as the stage carried her homeward."
We learned from them further that grandpa had been convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to San Quentin Prison for a term of eleven years, and that grandma had been granted a divorce, and awarded all the property, but was having great trouble because it had since become involved and was being frittered away in litigation.
The information given by the Robinsons increased our uneasiness for our trouble-worn friends. Since the tragedy, Georgia and I had often spoken of them to one another, but to no one else. We knew that few could understand them as we did, and we refrained from exposing them to unnecessary criticism. Anxious as we were to comfort them, it was not in our power to do more than endeavor again to reach them by letter. The first was despatched to grandma at Sonoma, the day after the departure of our guests; and shortly before Christmas I posted one to grandpa. The former was answered quickly, and so pathetically that brother Ben offered to take us to Sonoma for a visit in the early Spring and then to see what could be done for grandma.
The letter to grandpa did not reach him until January 27, 1861, but his reply left San Quentin by Wells-Fargo Express on the twenty-eighth of January. It was a brave letter, closing with the following mystifying paragraph:
Though I may be confined by prison walls, I wish those dear to me to be happy and joyous as they can, and I trust in God to open a way for me out of here, when I can see you all; which will make us all very happy.
Your affectionate grandfather,
CHRISTIAN BRUNNER.
His next communication contained a thrilling surprise which cleared the lurking mystery of his former letter, and expressed such joyous appreciation of his regained privileges that I once more quote his own words, from the letter yellowed by age, which lies before me.
SONOMA,March 25, 1861
DEAR ELIZA AND GEORGIA:
Your kind and friendly letter reached me about ten days ago, and I would have responded to the same right away, but waited a few days, so that I could give you some good news, over which you, my dear little girls, will surely rejoice, as you take so much interest in everything which myself concerns. This news is that I am free again.
Last Tuesday I received, through the influence of friends, from the Governor of the State of California, a full pardon, and am again in Sonoma; and as soon as I have my business affairs in such a way settled that I can leave for a week or two, I will come up and see you. I have much to tell you which you will better understand through a personal interview than by writing.
Yours friendly,
C. BRUNNER
Georgia and I felt this news was almost too good to be true. We wondered how soon he would come to see us; wondered also, if he and grandma had met, and were glad that we had not taken the side of either against the other.
"What next?" was the pertinent question uppermost in our minds. We found the answer inThe Sacramento Daily Union, early in April, under title of "Romance in Real Life." After a brief review of the troubles of the Brunners, and reference to their divorcement, the article announced their recent remarriage.
This gratifying circumstance made our long intended trip to Sonoma unnecessary, especially since the reunited couple seemed to have retained the sympathy and loyalty of those who had known them in their days of prosperity and usefulness.
I happened to be in Sacramento on the thirteenth day of April, 1861, and found the city full of irrepressible excitement. Men on gayly caparisoned horses galloping hither and thither, unfurled flags, and a general air of expectancy on eager faces everywhere betokened an occasion of rare moment. At times hats were swung aloft and cheers rang out tumultuously, only to be hushed by the disappointing murmur, "Not yet." But an instant's quiet, and there was a mad rush of the populace toward Sutter's Fort; then again enthusiasm died, and the crowds ebbed back up J Street, which, some eight or ten feet higher than any other street in the city, extended straight as an arrow from the fort to where the bay steamer lightly hugged the water front, puffing and impatient to be off to San Francisco.
So the anxious waiting continued until the day was well on to its close, when suddenly, vociferous cheers again rent the air, and this time knew no cessation. What a din! With leap and outcry, all faced Sutter's Fort. That was a spectacle to be remembered.
Pony! The pony, hurrah, hurrah! We see a dark speck in the distance. It grows, as up J Street it comes. Now, the pony foams before us; now, swift as the wind, it is gone. It passes reception committee, passes escort. It reaches the water front; down the gang-plank it dashes; the band plays, the whistle blows, the bell rings, the steamer catches the middle of the stream and is off, leaving a trail of sparks and smoke in the twilight, and bearing away the first "Pony Express," memorable in history.
The baffling problem is solved; the dream of years is realized; expeditious mail service with the East is an accomplished fact.
No wonder the people cheered! It was a gigantic scheme, well conceived, magnificently executed. Think of it, a stretch of two thousand miles of mountain wild and desert plain covered in twelve days!
How was it done? Horses were tested and riders selected by weight and power of endurance. The latter were boys in years—Bill Cody, the youngest, said to be only fourteen years of age. The pouch was light, its contents were limited—but how gladly five dollars per letter was paid for those precious missives.
Every detail was carefully arranged. The first mount left St. Joseph, Missouri, April 2; relay camps were established ten miles apart, with a horse ever in readiness for instantaneous exchange, and a fresh rider, mounted for the next run, was waiting at each successive hundred-mile station along the entire route.
Small wonder those pioneers were beside themselves with enthusiastic excitement. The minds of many reverted to personal experiences with ox team, or jogtrot of horses or mule train. Here was the Overland Stage outdone; even the speed with which Monk Hanks brought Horace Greeley over the mountains was at discount.