The ceremony was solemnized by the Rev. J.A. Benton, of Sacramento. The event is also noteworthy as being the occasion of the first reunion of the five Donner sisters since their parting at Sutter's Fort in June, 1847. Georgia's place was by my side, while Elitha, Leanna, and Frances each grouped with husband and children in front among friends, who had come to witness the plighting of vows between my hero and me. Not until I had donned my travelling suit, and my little white Swiss wedding dress was being packed, did I fully realize that the days of inseparable companionship between Georgia and me were past; She had long been a.s.sured that in my new home a welcome would be ever ready for her, yet she had thoughtfully answered, "No, I am not needed there, and I feel that I am needed here."

Nature's wedding gift to us was a week of glorious weather, and its first five days we pa.s.sed in San Francisco, the bustling, historic city, which I knew so well, yet had never seen before. Then we boarded the afternoon boat up the bay, expecting to spend the evening and following morning in Sonoma with Grandpa and Grandma Brunner, but the vessel failed to reach Lakeside Landing in time to connect with the northbound coach. This mischance necessitated our staying overnight at the only hostelry in the place.

The cry, "All aboard for Sonoma!" hurried us from the table next morning, and on reaching the sidewalk, we learned that the proprietor of the hotel had bespoken the two best seats in the coach for us.

I was too happy to talk until after we crossed the Sonoma River, shaded by grand old oak, sycamore, and laurel trees, and then onward, I was too happy to remain silent. Before us lay the valley which brought back memories of my childhood, and I was in a mood to recall only the brightest, as we sped on to our destination. My companion shared my delight and gave heed to each scene I called to his attention.

The coach stopped in front of the hotel, and we alighted upon almost the same spot from which I had climbed into the carriage to leave Sonoma six years earlier. But, oh, how changed was everything! One sweeping glance at the little town revealed the fact that it had pa.s.sed its romantic age and lost its quickening spirit. Closed were the homes of the old Spanish families; gone were the _caballeros_ and the bright-eyed _senoritas_; gra.s.s-grown was the highway to the mines; the flagstaff alone remained flushed with its old-time dignity and importance. In subdued mood, I stepped into the parlor until our names should be registered. When my husband returned, I said,

"The carpet on this floor, the chairs in this room, and the pictures on these walls were in place in grandma's home when I left her--perhaps she is no longer living."

He left me again to make inquiry concerning those whom we had come to see, and ascertained that the Brunners had remarried for the purpose of facilitating the readjustment of their property rights, and of rescuing them from the hands of a scheming manager, who, with his family, was now living on the estate, and caring for grandma, but would not permit grandpa to enter the house.

After sending a messenger to find grandpa, I led the way to the open door of the old home, then slipped aside to let my husband seek admission. He rapped.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GENERAL VALLEJO'S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832]

[Ill.u.s.tration: GENERAL VALLEJO'S OLD JAIL]

I heard a side door open, uneven footsteps in the hall, and him saying quietly, "I think the old lady herself is coming, and you had better meet her alone." I crossed the threshold, opened my arms, and uttered the one word, "Grandma!"

She came and rested her head against my bosom and I folded my arms about her just as she had enfolded me when I went to her a lonely child yearning for love. She stirred, then drew back, looked up into my face and asked, "Who be you?"

Touched by her wistful gaze, I exclaimed, "Grandma, don't you know me?"

"Be you Eliza?" she asked, and when I had given answer, she turned from me in deepest emotion, murmuring, "No, no, it can't be my little Eliza!" She would have tottered away had I not supported her to a seat in the well-remembered living room and caressed her until she looked up through her tears, saying, "When you smile, you be my little Eliza, but when you look serious, I don't know you."

She inquired about Georgia, and how I came to be there without her.

Then she bade me call my husband, and thanked him for bringing me to her. Forgetting all the faults and shortcomings that once had troubled her sorely, she spoke of my busy childhood and the place I had won in the affections of all who knew me.

A tender impulse took her from us a moment. She returned, saying, "Now, you must not feel bad when you see what I have in the hand behind me,"

and drawing it forth continued, "This white lace veil which I bought at Sutter's Fort when your mother's things were sold at auction, is to cover my face when I am dead; and this picture of us three is to be buried in the coffin with me. I want your husband to see how you looked when you was little."

She appeared proudly happy; but a flame of embarra.s.sment burned my cheeks, as she handed him the picture wherein I showed to such disadvantage, with the question, "Now, doesn't she look lovely?" and heard his affirmative reply.

Upon the clock lay a broken toy which had been mine, and in childlike ecstasy she spoke of it and of others which she had kept ever near her.

When invited to go to luncheon with us, she brought first her bonnet, next her shawl, for me to hold while she should don her best apparel for the occasion. Instead of going directly, she insisted on choosing the longer road to town, that we might stop at Mrs. Lewis's to see if she and her daughter Sallie would recognize me. Frequently as we walked along, she hastened in advance, and then faced about on the road to watch us draw near. When we reached Mrs. Lewis's door, she charged me not to smile, and clapped her hands when both ladies appeared and called me by name.

As we were taking leave, an aged horseman drew rein at the gate and dismounted, and Mrs. Lewis looking up, exclaimed, "Why, there is Mr.

Brunner!"

It did not take me long to meet him part way down the walk, nor did I shrink from the caress he gave me, nor know how much joy and pain that meeting evoked in him, even after he turned to Mr. Houghton saying fervently, "Do not be angry because I kiss your wife and put my arms around her, for she is my child come back to me. I helped raise her, and we learned her to do all kinds of work, what is useful, and she was my comfort child in my troubles."

My husband's reply seemed to dispel the recollections which had made the reunion distressing, and grandpa led his horse and walked and talked with us until we reached the turn where he bade us leave him while he disposed of Antelope preparatory to joining us at luncheon.

Proceeding, we observed an increasing crowd in front of the hotel, ma.s.sed together as if in waiting. As we drew nearer, a way was opened for our pa.s.sage, and friends and acquaintances stepped forth, shook hands with me and desired to be introduced to my husband. It was apparent that the message which we had sent to grandpa early in the day, stating the hour we would be at the hotel, had spread among the people, who were now a.s.sembled for the purpose of meeting us.

Strangers also were among them, for I heard the whispered answer many times, "Why, that is little Eliza Donner, who used to live with the Brunners, and that is Mr. Houghton, her husband--they can only stay until two o'clock." The hotel table, usually more than ample to accommodate its guests, was not nearly large enough for all who followed to the dining-room, so the smiling host placed another table across the end for many who had intended to lunch at home that day.

Meantime, our little party was seated, with Mr. Houghton at the head of the table, I at his right; grandpa opposite me, and grandma at my right. She was supremely happy, would fold her hands in her lap and say, "If you please," and "Thank you," as I served her; and I was grateful that she claimed my attention, for grandpa's lips were mute.

He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks. Not until we reached a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express itself in words. Grasping my husband's hand he said:

"My friend, I must leave you. I broke bread and tasted salt with you, but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye. You bring back my child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast, or happiness to offer. I must see and talk with her in the house of strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear! But before I go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do. You will not have bitter thoughts and blame one another."

Here grandma interrupted meekly, "I know I did wrong, but I did not mean to, and I be sorry."

The pause which followed our given promise afforded me the opportunity to clasp their withered hands together between mine, and gain from grandpa an earnest pledge that he would watch over and be kind to her, who had married him when he was poor and in ill health; who had toiled for him through the long years of his convalescence; who had been the power behind the throne, his best aid and counsellor, until time had turned her back in its tide, and made her a child again.

My husband followed him from the room to bestow the sympathy and encouragement which a strong man can give to a desponding one.

When the carriage was announced, which would take us to Benicia in time to catch the Sacramento steamer to San Francisco, I tied on grandma's bonnet, pinned her shawl around her shoulders, and told her that we would take her home before proceeding on our way, but she crossed her hands in front and artlessly whispered:

"No; I'd like to stay in town a while to talk with friends; but I thank you just the same, and shall not forget that I am to go to you, after you be settled in the new home, and his little daughter has learned to call you 'mother.'"

We left her standing on the hotel piazza, smiling and important among the friends who had waited to see us off; but grandpa was nowhere in sight.

The steamer was at the landing when we reached Benicia so we hurriedly embarked and found seats upon the deck overlooking the town. As the moonlight glistened on the white spray which encircled our departing boat, the sound of the Angelus came softly, sweetly, prayerfully over the water; and I looking up and beyond, saw the glimmering lights of Saint Catherine's Convent, fitting close to scenes of my childhood, its silver-toned bells cheering my way to long life, honors, and many blessings!

APPENDIX

Though the mills of G.o.d grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.

FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU.

I

ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN _The California Star_--STATISTICS OF THE PARTY--NOTES OF AGUILLA GLOVER--EXTRACT FROM THORNTON--RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE.

In honor to the State that cherishes the landmark; in justice to history which is ent.i.tled to the truth; in sympathetic fellowship with those who survived the disaster; and in reverent memory of those who suffered and died in the snow-bound camps of the Sierra Nevadas, I refute the charges of cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity which have been ascribed to the Donner Party.

In this Appendix I set forth some of the unwarranted statements to which frequent reference has been made in the foregoing pages, that they may be examined and a.n.a.lyzed, and their utter unreliability demonstrated by comparison with established facts and figures. These latter data, for the sake of brevity, are in somewhat statistical form.

A few further incidents, which I did not learn of or understand until long after they occurred, are also related.

The accounts of weather conditions, of scarcity of food and fuel, also the number of deaths in the camps before the first of March, 1847, are verified by the carefully kept "Diary of Patrick Breen, One of the Donner Party," which has recently been published by the Academy of Pacific Coast History.

The following article, which originally appeared in _The California Star_, April 10, 1847, is here quoted from "The Life and Days of General John A. Sutter," by T.J. Schoonover:

A more shocking scene cannot be imagined than was witnessed by the party of men who went to the relief of the unfortunate emigrants in the California Mountains. The bones of those who had died and been devoured by the miserable ones that still survived were around their tents and cabins; bodies of men, women, and children with half the flesh torn from them lay on every side. A woman sat by the side of the body of her dead husband cutting out his tongue; the heart she had already taken out, broiled, and eaten. The daughter was seen eating the father; and the mother, that [_viz._ body] of her children; children, that of father and mother. The emaciated, wild, and ghastly appearance of the survivors added to the horror of it.

Language can not describe the awful change that a few weeks of dire suffering had wrought in the minds of the wretched and pitiable beings. Those who one month before would have shuddered and sickened at the thought of eating human flesh, or of killing their companions and relatives to preserve their own lives, now looked upon the opportunity the acts afforded them of escaping the most dreadful of deaths as providential interference in their behalf.

Calculations were coldly made, as they sat around their gloomy camp fires, for the next succeeding meals. Various expedients were devised to prevent the dreadful crime of murder, but they finally resolved to kill those who had least claims to longer existence.