'ROSITA AND DORINA' (Con't) Five Senseless Murders ----------------------------------------------------------------------- After dinner one evening, with the three children tucked in bed, Michael spoke to Dorina of his failures. A tiny fire glowed in the open fireplace. The evening meal had been sparse, due to his suggestion that they had better save up for the bleak months ahead. The haggard man looked at his pretty wife, her once bright eyes dulled from work and caring for three small children, her once supple body tired and frail. "Perhaps we should go back east," he said, his face sullen. Dorina was pensive, noticing the slight twitch developing in her husband's hands. "I just don't think I'm going to make a go of the mining business. Perhaps someone with more forsight and skill could do better at it." "You mustn't blame yourself, Michael," Dorina said smiling. "It's not your fault the mine is not living up to expectations. It takes time. Just wait and see. By spring everything will be going well." "I'm not so sure, Dorina. It seems we go from bad to worse. We don't even have enough food. And here I had promised you riches beyond belief." "Now, Michael, you are my husband and the father of our three wonderful children. That's enough for me." Michael shook his head. He was a proud man who did not take defeat easily. "No," he said, "It's me. I'm not doing the right thing. Something is wrong but I just don't know how to right it." At nearly 30, Michael Brennan appeared anguished. His light hair was thinning, and his deeply set eyes and narrow mouth were pale and expressionless. "In the spring, Michael," Dorina said, trying to reassure him, "everything will be fine. It's just that the weather hasn't been good, and the cold and rain make everyone feel poorly. When spring comes and the flowers bloom, you'll feel better. Now come, let's go to bed where it's warm." "I wish I had your optimism, Dorina," he said, looking about the barren room of the cabin. "I wanted to buy you so many nice things, and bring Momma and my sister to America. But it doesn't look like that will ever happen." "Of course it will, Michael. You just have to have hope in this land. Why, every day someone is digging up a gold nugget as big as your fist. Just you wait, the mine will prove out alright." But Michael had already decided he was a failure, and all of Dorina's encouragement could not bring him out of his agony. Dorina said nothing more, for she was sure in her own heart that the new year would be better. She never missed New York City and its freezing winters, or the affluent life they had there. Grass Valley was beautiful, and often, with its mountains capped in snow, she was reminded of a fairy-tale book she had seen once in the East. She mustn't lose sight of her dream that someday all would be well with the Brennan family. Despite her optimism, the year dawned badly. Andre Chevanne, who held the mine's mortgage, was about to foreclose, and Michael blamed himself even more for the mine's failure. Dorina tried to coax her husband into a better frame of mind, but it was useless. He was determined to blame himself. During the first week in February, Michael sought out an attorney, A.B. Dibble. It was his intention to have a will drawn up. "You're really much too young a man to be worried about dying," Dibble said on the first visit. "It's always well to protect one's family," Michael returned. "One never can predict tomorrow." "Well, of course" Dibble added. "And will-drawing is part of my business. But nevertheless you are a young man in the best of health and with a job." "A bad lot at that," Michael said. "But most of the men here have no permanent position. They live from day to day on what they might bring from the ground. And then many of them take it all and throw it away on the gambling tables or corn whiskey. I sometimes wonder what this country is coming to." "I have made my plans," Michael said, ignoring the attorney's mumbling. "I want my affairs in order for whatever happens." "Whatever you say, Mr. Brennan. After all, you're paying the bill." Dibble promised to have all the documents drawn up soon so that Michael could return to sign them. Michael said nothing and left the office solemnly. Later Dibble told friends that he thought Michael Brennan was "slightly insane." He didn't know one other man in Grass Valley who was worried about dying. Rather, they were worried about not getting their claim staked in time. The will was drawn and Michael signed it. It was soon afterwards that he received a letter from Andre Chevanne saying that because of the poor profits, he would soon be foreclosing on the company. Brennan's melancholy turned from bad to worse. He blamed himself for everything that had gone wrong. "Now, now, Michael," Dorina again tried to make him smile. "Things will be better. Perhaps we should go down to Sacramento. Maybe you could find a job there where the pressure wouldn't be so bad." Michael sat in the corner chair, his head lowered, eyes colorless, his face without expression. He had failed. He knew for a fact that other men would have made the mine a success. All through the mountains miners were discovering gold, some nuggets being as large as silver dollars, but he couldn't find anything. Every day they toiled in the mine. Michael was sure that blasting sections would yield a million or so in revenue. But every day ended in failure. Michael was beside himself. What had gone wrong? Where had his dream failed him? Was he so stupid that he couldn't do anything successfully? He had battled for two years, but his operations had proved disastrous. Yet he knew he'd once had a fine mind -- and he'd used it well at the newspaper to land this position with the mining company. No, he thought, why think of this company? He had failed them, losing thousands of dollars in the attempt to locate gold ore. Each day was growing worse. He could not shake his feelings of guilt and despair. On Saturday, February 21, 1858, Michael Brennan took his last few coins and stopped at the local market for wine. It had been a long day at the mine, and still no gold. No gold! That was all he could think about. All over town miners were panning for gold in the streams and digging in makeshift holes in the hills, yet he, in his big mine, with much help and money from the East, could not strike a single golden vein. He took the wine in his arms. "Have a good Sunday," the shopkeeper called. "And say hello to the Mrs. That's one fine Irish lass you have there, and those three little children are as dear as the Blarney stone itself." Michael did not acknowledge the shopkeeper. Instead, he walked silently out of the store, his mind a million miles away. That night Dorina fixed a fine meal of beans and salt pork. The children played noisily in the small room, laughing and chattering as youngsters do. Michael watched them, his eyes and mouth twisted in sadness. How young, how innocent they were. Who would take care of them if they suddenly had no mother or father, he thought. Then he knew exactly what must be done. In a delirious state, he poured wine for the family, turning his back to the commotion of game playing. Dorina, who was cleaning up the dishes, did not notice that he dropped prussic acid into the wine. "Now," he said, in only what could be called an insane calmness. "We must toast our future, Mommy's and Daddy's. And how we will all be together no matter what happens." Dorina smiled with her familiar Irish twinkle. "I'm glad you think of us as one, Michael. You know we will always be here, wanting to take care of you and love you." Michael smiled, his lips curling with bitterness. How could he leave his loving family in this remote and violent camp without him? His wife would have to turn to prostitution or drink. And what would happen to the children? They would become orphans, hungry and cold; cast out of society, they might turn to stealing or something far worse. They must be with their father. Only he could take care of them. "Let's drink to our future," he said, as Dorina gathered the children up for bed. "One last sip for tomorrow and what it will bring." "Well, if you insist, Michael," Dorina said. "But the children are getting tired, so please hurry. Besides, the fire will be out soon, and the cold will be coming in." On Sunday morning, a friend stopped by to pass the time of day and found the bodies, cold and rigid in death. The children were found in different rooms, while Dorina lay on the sofa and her husband on the floor in the parlor. By Michael's side lay a loaded pistol, cocked, though for what purpose one can only surmise. Michael left a letter fully explaining what had led him to commit this horrible deed. "I do not feel that I have mislead or deceived anyone. But rather Massachusetts Hill is the deceiver. It is cowardly to leave my wife and children behind to face the unknown, so they come with me in death." He added that he wished he could take with him on his long journey his mother and sister still living in Europe, who were dependent upon him for maintenance. The town was temporarily upset by the unnecessary deaths of the Brennan family. But fate appears to have won another battle with reason. Following the tragedy, Andre Chevanne confirmed the title and took over the mine. The first blast of black powder his new mine foreman used brought down a shower of white fragments, each richly speckled with gold. Mining developed into a major industry in this town, and its operation continued for more than 100 years. In all, over $1 million in rich gold ore poured from the bowels of Massachusetts Hill. Grass Valley became the richest and most famous gold-mining district in California. Dorina Brennan and Rosita Murietta were but two victims of the many senseless crimes of the mid-1800s. How many more women suffered without reason we shall never know. Flowers dot the five Brennan graves in Grass Valley, Nevada. To Be Continued . . . EMMA WIXOM. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Copied by Nancee(McMurtrey)Seifert May 7, 2005 iggy29@rnetinc.net