How did disease spring forth in one place or another, seemingly out of nowhere? Surely one of these prospectors would have had to catch it first, then spread it to the others, and beyond.
He thought of one of Gow’s last letters to him, in which he’d mentioned the work of Dr. Snow, and his belief that disease could spread in myriad ways. Snow had told him that in fact humanity’s entire understanding of disease, our connection of the disease to its symptoms, might be erroneous. Namely, that a disease and its symptoms were not necessarily the same thing. That the disease is something alive but invisible—almost like a spirit, in fact—that then takes hold in the body and causes symptoms, sometimes different symptoms in different people. Sometimes, even, causing no symptoms at all.
He thought, too, then, of the story of the large Irish family he’d heard about, who had apparently all succumbed to a similar sickness, save for a young girl who had remained remarkably symptom-free.
Bryant tossed the shells into the fire and listened to them crackle as he turned the mystery over in his mind. He lay on the bare ground, hoping for sleep. As Bryant watched the flickering orange flames, his mind drifted.
The row of skulls winked at him in the firelight. The flames danced, vibrant gold and blood red.
In his hands, Bryant turned over the haft with Keseberg’s name on it, and memories of Keseberg on the wagon trail came back to him. A series of mostly ugly encounters: Lewis shoving his still-pregnant wife back into their tent. Lewis picking a fight with James Reed. Lewis sitting outside his camp, cutting up rabbits he’d caught for dinner, his hands washed in blood, a look of concentration on his face, as Halloran’s little dog paced excitedly nearby. Bryant recalled the knife slipping in Keseberg’s damp hand, the blade catching the flesh of his palm. Blood swelling, a fat line of red. Halloran’s terrier seeing his chance and lunging at Keseberg’s hand, lapping up the rabbit meat—and Keseberg’s blood—hungrily.
A deep horror stirred within Bryant as he thought of that dog, thought of Keseberg’s mean face and presumptuous swagger. How the man had roamed among them like a form of plague himself—something disgusting, something to be feared.
The more he turned the pieces over in his mind, the more he was sure he had something. A hunger that spread from man to man. A disease, perhaps invisible at first—or invisible in some, like the girl from the Irish family who’d all gone mad and became something more like wolves than humans. They had celebrated her good fortune, believing she had survived where the others had succumbed—until the day, many years later, that she was found squatting over a neighbor’s baby, her mouth and hands smeared with blood.
A disease that turned some men into monsters. But others were able to hide their monstrosity on the inside.
Bryant sat bolt upright, bathed in sweat. The implication stared him in the face.
Keseberg’s uncle had carried the disease.
That was how the sickness got here. That was how the prospectors had all died.
Keseberg’s uncle, like the Irish girl, must have been carrying the disease in his blood, perhaps even unbeknownst to him. He had been the one to bring it to this territory a half-dozen years ago, causing an outbreak that had not only resulted in the death of the rest of his group but subsequently rocked the local tribes, amplifying some of their ancient belief systems and driving fear throughout the inhabitants of the mountains.
And if this was true, it was even possible that others in his family carried the disease . . . or some sort of trait that allowed them to survive it.
Others like Lewis Keseberg.
It might be a long shot, but if he was right, then everyone in the Donner Party—nay, everyone in the entire territory—was in jeopardy. He had to warn them.
But then he paused. He thought of what lay ahead—not for him personally, but for the future of science.
A new letter began in his head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
For two days after she regained consciousness, Virginia refused to say why she had come or what had happened at Truckee Lake. At first Elitha thought she was just being stubborn, until she realized from Virginia’s gestures and frantic signals that Virginia did not want the grown-ups to know.
Whatever had happened, she was ashamed. Even at night, alone, she would say very little. She did tell Elitha about the slaughtering of the cattle, the strange behaviors, and that fighting had broken out. How the younger ones, teenagers and children, were succumbing first. “They say it’s a sickness,” she said. Virginia’s extra-wide eyes made her look perpetually surprised. “They say Mary Murphy has got it now, too.”
“Is that why you left?” Elitha asked. “Were you afraid you were going to catch it, too?” But Virginia didn’t answer, only saying that Mr. Stanton and Mr. Eddy had gone for help but failed and Mr. Keseberg was trying to make himself the leader. But she would say nothing more, and when Elitha tried to get details from her, she only pulled the blanket up to her chin and pretended to go to sleep.
The adults debated what to do with her. “We can’t send her back, not until she heals,” Jacob said, still worried about Virginia’s mother, Margaret. “It’s not like we can send her back by herself, and we can’t spare the men from standing watch,” Betsy said. Even Elitha could see that Betsy was feeling overwhelmed with so many children and so few adults.
“If Virginia made it here by herself, the way must be reasonably passable,” Tamsen had said, sizing the girl up shrewdly. But Virginia insisted it had taken her the better part of an entire day and that she’d nearly gotten lost and it was practically a miracle that she got to Alder Creek at all.
“Don’t send me back. Please,” she begged.
Several days after her arrival, on a surprisingly clear day blowing no snow, Lewis Keseberg arrived at the camp so early that the bonfires hadn’t yet burned themselves out.
“I had a feeling she might be here,” Keseberg told Jacob and Betsy and Tamsen. They stood together outside in the chilly dawn. The damp wood smoke still hung in the air. “She worried her mama something awful. I come to fetch her back.” Mr. Keseberg was being much nicer than normal.
“And Margaret Reed sent you?” Tamsen said. Elitha could see that Tamsen wasn’t fooled.
“I come because I’m the one in charge,” he said, a little too loudly. “It’s not like she has a husband to take care of these things and keep her girl from running wild.” Virginia absorbed this blow quietly, without blinking. Everyone knew James Reed had likely frozen to death somewhere in the wilderness. “Now, come on. We need her. We’re almost through slaughtering the cattle. Even the girls got to pitch in.”
Slaughtering cattle; that meant there would be food. Elitha tried to remember how many cattle the Breens had. A dozen, surely. The idea of all that meat made her stomach twist with longing. Elitha knew the talk of cattle would persuade Tamsen to give Virginia up. There wasn’t much food at Alder Creek, just the last scraps from the tough old oxen. They didn’t need any extra mouths to feed.
Her boots squelched in the mud as she stepped up to the campfire. “I want to go, Tamsen. I volunteer to go and help Virginia.”
Tamsen looked surprised to see her. That always happened—everyone was always surprised to see Elitha. She was the kind of girl that other people forgot all about. Except for Thomas. Thomas always looked like he was expecting her.
“Stop talking nonsense,” Tamsen said. “You belong with your family.”
She belonged with Thomas—but she couldn’t admit that to Tamsen. Besides, Virginia had run away for a reason, and even if she hadn’t yet told Elitha what it was, she could hardly stand by and watch her head off alone with Keseberg, back into the danger she had fled. “Virginia will need help getting back. You said it yourself: She’s lost blood and she’s weak. She’ll do better if I’m with her.” She didn’t mention that Virginia had talked about a disease spreading. She’d be careful. She was afraid, b
ut her desire to see Thomas was stronger than her fear. And no disease could be scarier than the creatures that had been watching them night after night. “C’mon, let me go. I’m not a little girl anymore. I can take care of myself.” Then: “Trust me. Please.”
Those words, at last, seemed to do it. “Very well. I expect you’d be safer in a larger group,” she said quietly. Tamsen helped her pack her few belongings. Before she kissed Elitha good-bye, she gave her one piece of advice: She must never let herself be trapped alone with Lewis Keseberg.
* * *
• • •
ELITHA COULDN’T BELIEVE the conditions at Truckee Lake. The shelters were scarcely better than her family’s tents. And they were just as crowded; she couldn’t believe all the people that came spilling out of the cabin where Virginia’s family was staying with the Graveses. At least Thomas was among them—spotting her, he ran up to her and threw his arms around her in front of everyone.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered.
His touch warmed her everywhere all at once. She was blushing; she could see how people stared. “I came to see you.”
His expression changed. It shuttered and grew cold. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said. “It’s not safe here.”
“It’s not safe where I was, either,” she replied. She knew if he told her to go back, her heart would break.
But he simply said, “Come on,” and slipped his hand in hers.
He was leading Elitha away from the crowd when she spotted Keseberg with Virginia. He’d bent so they were face to face and was saying something to her very quietly. She’d gone all stiff, and her face was white as the snow around her. Elitha got a twist of bad feeling in her stomach. What did he want?
It was two of the Graves girls—Lovina Graves at twelve, Nancy at nine—who later let Virginia’s secret spill. Lewis Keseberg had told the girls that they were going to start putting a child out each night as a sacrifice to the wolves. He said their parents knew all about it, so it was no good going to them. They’d agreed to leave the decision up to him so they didn’t have to choose which child would have to die. The grown-ups had come together on this so the majority would survive, just like those Indians who strung up one of their boys. Sacrifices had to be made.
But he’d spare you if you went into the woods with him and did what he told you.
“It’s not so bad,” Lovina Graves said, though her expression told a different story. She smiled funny as she told her story and was as fidgety as a hummingbird. “He just feels under your skirts and stuff.”
“He put it in my hand and made me hold it,” Nancy Graves said, so low Elitha almost didn’t hear her. Nancy was so thin she looked all hollowed out like a ghost.
Elitha felt like she couldn’t breathe, like she was being held underwater by an invisible hand. She was a fool for coming here. She realized quickly she couldn’t tell Thomas about all this; it would only put him at risk. He was no match for Keseberg.
She had been at Truckee Lake less than twenty-four hours when it was her turn. She had ventured into the woods with Thomas; it was his idea to try to look for fish in the creek.
There were worse things than going hungry, Elitha wanted to tell him, remembering Virginia’s white-faced, terrified nod when Keseberg stooped to speak to her.
Lying flat on her stomach on the hard surface of the creek, Elitha pressed her face to the ice, looking for movement. Thomas had gone off to find a rock to smash through the ice. In truth, Elitha knew nothing about fish. She had grown up on a farm and had only tasted fish once or twice in her entire life. Still, it seemed like a good idea; from the things Thomas told her, Indians knew the best ways to get through tough times. Thomas had taken one look at the creek and said they probably wouldn’t find any fish suitable for eating, but by then Elitha was so excited he didn’t have the heart to call it off. So he went to look for a rock and Elitha brushed snow off the icy surface of the creek and slid out on her knees. She could make out nothing, however, but a dark tangle of frozen branches and rotted leaves, a rush of black water beneath the surface.
Now that she had been with Thomas, she had thought she would feel different, but other than an ache lodged high between her legs, she felt nothing but a deep contentment, as if in becoming a woman she had fallen into a sleep untroubled by dark dreams. It had been her idea; she’d asked Thomas to meet her last night at the wagons. No one went out to the wagons anymore. It was dangerous being out at night, even with the bonfires. There were always at least two men patrolling with shotguns, and in the shadows they might be mistaken for one of them.
She had brought a blanket, though she didn’t dare bring a candle or a lantern. Thomas appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He knew how to be practically invisible; they were alike in that way.
When Thomas climbed over the backboard and saw that she had made a makeshift bed for them, he turned to her. “Are you sure this is what you want? Think about it, Elitha. Your family will not let you be with me. Once we are down from this mountain, they will not let us be together.”
There was no sense worrying about the future. She would be Thomas’s woman, if only for one night. And she would go to her grave without regret.
They would all be going to their graves soon enough.
Kneeling now on the thick frozen surface of the creek, Elitha heard a whisper behind her and paused to listen. The hairs lifted on her neck. The whisper kept going, a susurration like the hiss of wind.
The voices. They were coming back. She couldn’t make out the words they said but they were there, clawing at the edge of her consciousness like a sick headache. Some of the voices were new; that meant more people had died. She tried to close her mind against it.
Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. It was like being visited by a ghost, like a dark shadow stepping across her mind. She spun around and saw Keseberg, coming up the ridge, his breath steaming in front of him. “Well, lookee here,” he said. He grabbed Elitha by her shoulders before she could scrabble away and lifted her to her feet, as if she was a doll. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”
“I’m not by myself,” she said quickly.
Keseberg grunted a laugh, as if she’d said something funny. “I know. You got your Indian sweetheart. What a shame, a nice girl like you just gonna throw yourself away like that.”
“We love each other,” she blurted out. She didn’t know why. It seemed important. Where was Thomas? She wanted him to save her, and she wanted him to stay away, all at once.
Keseberg pulled off a glove and put his bare fingers against her cheek. Her blood froze at his touch. “You think them savages even know what love means? They don’t love the same way as a white man,” he said, as though it were a fact. Elitha pictured Keseberg’s wife, Philippine, a slight woman with light brown hair, usually with a bruise somewhere on her face. She’d never heard Philippine speak. Did Keseberg love his wife? Had he ever loved anyone? Elitha was pretty sure she knew the answer to that.
“I’m gonna yell.”
He backed her up against a tree. She focused on a bead of mucus hanging from the tip of his red nose because she didn’t want to look into his eyes. “If you cause trouble for me, I’ll make trouble for your boyfriend. You know I can, too. Ain’t nobody gonna help no Indian.”
She felt the truth of this in her bones. She pressed her spine into the tree trunk, steeling against the first touch of his hand. Wearing so many layers of clothes, she knew that even if he put his hands on her breasts he wouldn’t be touching them, not really. Still, the thought made her shiver. She remembered how Thomas had stepped close, nuzzling her neck, only last night.
But Keseberg wouldn’t do anything serious, the girls had said. She tried to calm herself with that thought, even as her stomach seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in her throat and her whole body went rigid in protest. He was just going to touch her. She co
uld stand that and Thomas would be safe. She almost wished he would hurry up and get it over with . . .
Keseberg grabbed the front of her coat and yanked it open, yanked the front of her dress open, too, exposing the bare skin of her throat and sternum. She cried out in surprise. But he got one hand around her mouth. His fingers tasted filthy. She thought about kneeing him but she was worried that wouldn’t stop him, it would only make him angrier. He seemed like the kind to hit you if he got angry; his wife, Philippine, was proof of that.
“You ain’t as pretty as some of the other girls,” he said, in a low voice, as he pushed one knee between her legs, parting them, “but you’ll do.”
Too late, she realized that he wouldn’t just touch her and be done with it. Too late, as he moved his hand to undo his belt, she realized he intended something far, far worse. A voice in her head yelled run, run, run. Was it one of the dead? It didn’t matter; her legs were rigid with fear.
Then, suddenly, a terrible force struck them both, knocking Keseberg away, driving her into the snow. She tasted blood in her mouth where she’d bitten down on her tongue. A horrible screaming echoed through the woods. At first, she thought it was one of them.
But it was Thomas. He and Keseberg were on their knees, grappling in the snow. Thomas had surprised him but Keseberg regained the advantage quickly. She scanned the ground for a rock, for a branch, for something to use as a weapon.
Keseberg finally pushed Thomas off him, sending the boy to the ground. He stood up, heaving, shaking off the snow—like some horrible shadow, doubling and redoubling as the sun set. “You think you can fight me, boy? You think you’re going to save her?” He put a boot into Thomas’s side, hard. “Well, the joke’s on you. She’s a whore. She wants me. She wants me to make a woman of her.”