History of the Donner Party: A Tragedy of the Sierra

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Title: History of the Donner Party: A Tragedy of the Sierra

Author: C. F. McGlashan

Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6077]
Most recently updated: April 6, 2009

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6077

Credits: Produced by David Schwan, and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY OF THE DONNER PARTY: A TRAGEDY OF THE SIERRA ***

Produced by David Schwan

HISTORY OF THE DONNER PARTY

A TRAGEDY OF THE SIERRA

By C. F. McGlashan

Truckee, Cal.

To Mrs. Elizabeth A. Keiser,
One of the Pioneer Mothers of California,

This Book is Respectfully Dedicated by the Author.

Preface.

The delirium preceding death by starvation, is full of strange
phantasies. Visions of plenty, of comfort, of elegance, flit ever
before the fast-dimming eyes. The final twilight of death is a brief
semi-consciousness in which the dying one frequently repeats his weird
dreams. Half rising from his snowy couch, pointing upward, one of the
death-stricken at Donner Lake may have said, with tremulous voice:
"Look! there, just above us, is a beautiful house. It is of costliest
walnut, inlaid with laurel and ebony, and is resplendent with burnished
silver. Magnificent in all its apartments, it is furnished like a
palace. It is rich with costly cushions, elegant tapestries, dazzling
mirrors; its floor is covered with Oriental carpets, its ceiling with
artistic frescoings; downy cushions invite the weary to repose. It is
filled with people who are chatting, laughing, and singing, joyous
and care-free. There is an abundance of warmth, and rare viands, and
sparkling wines. Suspended among the storm-clouds, it is flying along
the face of the precipice at a marvelous speed. Flying? no! it has
wheels and is gliding along on a smooth, steel pathway. It is sheltered
from the wind and snow by large beams and huge posts, which are bolted
to the cliffs with heavy, iron rods. The avalanches, with their burden
of earth and rocks and crushed pines, sweep harmlessly above this
beautiful house and its happy inmates. It is drawn by neither oxen nor
horses, but by a fiery, hot-breathed monster, with iron limbs and thews
of, steel. The mountain trembles beneath his tread, and the rocks for
miles re-echo his roar."

If such a vision was related, it but indicates, prophetically, the
progress of a few years. California's history is replete with
tragic, startling events. These events are the landmarks by which its
advancement is traced. One of the most mournful of these is recorded in
this work--a work intended as a contribution, not to the literature, but
to the history of the State. More thrilling than romance, more terrible
than fiction, the sufferings of the Donner Party form a bold contrast to
the joys of pleasure-seekers who to-day look down upon the lake from the
windows of silver palace cars.

The scenes of horror and despair which transpired in the snowy Sierra in
the winter of 1846-7, need no exaggeration, no embellishment. From all
the works heretofore published, from over one thousand letters received
from the survivors, from ample manuscript, and from personal interviews
with the most important actors in the tragedy, the facts have been
carefully compiled. Neither time, pains, nor expense have been spared in
ferreting out the truth. New and fragmentary versions of the sad story
have appeared almost every year since the unfortunate occurrence.
To forever supplant these distorted and fabulous reports--which have
usually been sensational new articles--the survivors have deemed it wise
to contribute the truth. The truth is sufficiently terrible.

Where conflicting accounts of particular scenes or occurrences have been
contributed, every effort has been made to render them harmonious and
reconcilable. With justice, with impartiality, and with strict adherence
to what appeared truthful and reliable, the book has been written. It is
an honest effort--toward the truth, and as such is given to the world.

C. F. McGlashan.

Truckee, Cal., June 30, 1879.

Contents.

Chapter I.

Donner Lake
A Famous Tourist Resort
Building the Central Pacific
California's Skating Park
The Pioneers
The Organization of the Donner Party
Ho! for California!
A Mammoth Train
The Dangers by the Way
False Accounts of the Sufferings Endured
Complete Roll of the Company
Impostors Claiming to Belong to the Party
Killed by the Pawnees
An Alarmed Camp
Resin Indians
A Mother's Death

Chapter II.

Mrs. Donner's Letters
Life on the Plains
An Interesting Sketch
The Outfit Required
The Platte River
Botanizing
Five Hundred and Eighteen Wagons for California
Burning "Buffalo Chips"
The Fourth of July at Fort Laramie
Indian Discipline
Sioux Attempt to Purchase Mary Graves
George Donner Elected Captain
Letter of Stanton
Dissension
One Company Split up into Five
The Fatal Hastings Cut-off
Lowering Wagons over a Precipice
The First View of Great Salt Lake

Chapter III.

A Grave of Salt
Members of the Mystic Tie
Twenty Wells
A Desolate Alkaline Waste
Abandoned on the Desert
A Night of Horror
A Steer Maddened by Thirst
The Mirage
Yoking an Ox and a Cow
"Cacheing" Goods
The Emigrants' Silent Logic
A Cry for Relief
Two Heroic Volunteers
A Perilous journey
Letters to Captain Sutter

Chapter IV.

Gravelly Ford
The Character of James F. Reed
Causes which Led to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy
John Snyder's Popularity
The Fatal Altercation
Conflicting Statements of Survivors
Snyder's Death
A Brave Girl
A Primitive Trial
A Court of Final Resort
Verdict of Banishment
A Sad Separation
George and Jacob Donner Ahead at the Time
Finding Letters in Split Sticks
Danger of Starvation

Chapter V.

Great Hardships
The Sink of the Humboldt
Indians Stealing Cattle
An Entire Company Compelled to Walk
Abandoned to Die
Wolfinger Murdered
Rhinehart's Confession
Arrival of C. T. Stanton
A Temporary Relief
A Fatal Accident
The Sierra Nevada Mountains
Imprisoned in Snow
Struggles for Freedom
A Hopeless Situation
Digging for Cattle in Snow
How the Breen Cabin Happened to be Built
A Thrilling Sketch of a Solitary Winter
Putting up Shelters
The Donners Have Nothing but Tents
Fishing for Trout.

Chapter VI.

Endeavors to Cross the Mountains
Discouraging Failures
Eddy Kills a Bear
Making Snow-Shoes
Who composed the "Forlorn Hope"
Mary A. Graves
An Irishman
A Generous Act
Six Days' Rations
Mary Graves' Account
Snow-Blind
C. T. Stanton's Death
"I Am Coming Soon"
Sketch of Stanton's Early Life
His Charity and Self-sacrifice
The Diamond Breastpin
Stanton's Last Poem

Chapter VII.

A Wife's Devotion
The Smoky Gorge
Caught in a Storm
Casting Lots to See Who Should Die
A Hidden River
The Delirium of Starvation
Franklin Ward Graves
His Dying Advice
A Frontiersman's Plan
The Camp of Death
A Dread Resort
A Sister's Agony
The Indians Refuse to Eat
Lewis and Salvador Flee for Their Lives
Killing a Deer
Tracks Marked by Blood
Nine Days without Food

Chapter VIII.

Starvation at Donner Lake
Preparing Rawhide for Food
Eating the Firerug
Shoveling Snow off the Beds
Playing they were Tea-cups of Custard
A Starving Baby
Pleading with Silent Eloquence
Patrick Breen's Diary
Jacob Donner's Death
A Child's Vow
A Christmas Dinner
Lost on the Summits
A Stump Twenty-two Feet High
Seven Nursing Babes at Donner Lake
A Devout Father
A Dying Boy
Sorrow and Suffering at the Cabins

Chapter IX.

The Last Resort
Two Reports of a Gun
Only Temporary Relief
Weary Traveling
The Snow Bridges
Human Tracks!
An Indian Rancherie
Acorn Bread
Starving Five Times!
Carried Six Miles
Bravery of John Rhodes
A Thirty-two Days' Journey
Organizing the First Relief Party
Alcalde Sinclair's Address
Capt. R. P. Tucker's Companions.

Chapter X.

A Lost Age in California History
The Change Wrought by the Discovery of Gold
The Start from Johnson's Ranch
A Bucking Horse
A Night Ride
Lost in the Mountains
A Terrible Night
A Flooded Camp
Crossing a Mountain Torrent
Mule Springs
A Crazy Companion
Howlings of Gray Wolves
A Deer Rendezvous
A Midnight Thief
Frightening Indians
The Diary of the First Relief Party

Chapter XI.

Hardships of Reed and Herron
Generosity of Captain Sutter
Attempts to Cross the Mountains with Provisions
Curtis' Dog
Compelled to Turn Back
Hostilities with Mexico
Memorial to Gov. Stockton
Yerba Buena's Generosity
Johnson's Liberality
Pitiful Scenes at Donner Lake
Noble Mothers
Dying rather than Eat Human Flesh
A Mother's Prayer
Tears of Joy
Eating the Shoestrings

Chapter XII.

A Wife's Devotion
Tamsen Donner's Early Life
The Early Settlers of Sangamon County
An Incident in School
Teaching and Knitting
School Discipline
Capt. George Donner's Appearance
Parting Scenes at Alder Creek
Starting over the Mountains
A Baby's Death
A Mason's Vow
Crossing the Snow Barrier
More Precious than Gold or Diamonds
Elitha Donner's Kindness

Chapter XIII.

Death of Ada Keseberg
Denton Discovering Gold
A Poem Composed while Dying
The Caches of Provisions Robbed by Fishers
The Sequel to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy
Death from Overeating
The Agony of Frozen Feet
An Interrupted Prayer
Stanton, after Death, Guides the Relief Party!
The Second Relief Party Arrives
A Solitary Indian
Patty Reed and Her Father
Starving Children Lying in Bed
Mrs. Graves' Money still Buried at Donner Lake

Chapter XIV.

Leaving Three Men in the Mountains
The Emigrants Quite Helpless
Bear Tracks in the Snow
The Clumps of Tamarack
Wounding a Bear
Blood Stains upon the Snow
A Weary Chase
A Momentous Day
Stone and Cady Leave the Sufferers
A Mother Offering Five Hundred Dollars
Mrs. Donner Parting from her Children
"God will Take Care of You"
Buried in Snow without Food or Fire
Pines Uprooted by the Storm
A Grave Cut in the Snow
The Cub's Cave
Firing at Random
A Desperate Undertaking
Preparing for a Hand-to-hand Battle
Precipitated into the Cave
Seizing the Bear
Mrs. Elizabeth Donner's Death
Clarke and Baptiste Attempt to Escape
A Death more Cruel than Starvation

Chapter XV.

A Mountain Storm
Provisions Exhausted
Battling the Storm Fiends
Black Despair
Icy Coldness
A Picture of Desolation
The Sleep of Death
A Piteous Farewell
Falling into the Fire-well
Isaac Donner's Death
Living upon Snow Water
Excruciating Pain
A Vision of Angels
"Patty is Dying!"
The Thumb of a Mitten
A Child's Treasures
The "Dolly" of the Donner Party

Chapter XVI.

A Mother at Starved Camp
Repeating the Litany
Hoping in Despair
Wasting Away
The Precious Lump of Sugar
"James is Dying"
Restoring a Life
Relentless Hunger
The Silent Night Vigils
The Sight of Earth
Descending the Snow Pit
The Flesh of the Dead
Refusing to Eat
The Morning Star
The Mercy of God
The Mutilated Forms
The Dizziness of Delirium
Faith Rewarded
"There is Mrs. Breen."

Chapter XVII.

The Rescue
California Aroused
A Yerba Buena Newspaper
Tidings of Woe
A Cry of Distress
Noble Generosity
Subscriptions for the Donner Party
The First and Second Reliefs
Organization of the Third
The Dilemma
Voting to Abandon a Family
The Fatal Ayes
John Stark's Bravery
Carrying the Starved Children
A Plea for the Relief Party

Chapter XVIII.

Arrival of the Third Relief
The Living and the Dead
Captain George Donner Dying
Mrs. Murphy's Words
Foster and Eddy at the Lake
Tamsen Donner and Her Children
A Fearful Struggle
The Husband's Wishes
Walking Fourteen Miles
Wifely Devotion
Choosing Death
The Night Journey
An Unparalleled Ordeal
An Honored Name
Three Little Waifs
"And Our Parents are Dead."

Chapter XIX.

False Ideas about the Donner Party
Accused of Six Murders
Interviews with Lewis Keseberg
His Statement
An Educated German
A Predestined Fate
Keseberg's Lameness
Slanderous Reports
Covered with Snow
"Loathsome, Insipid, and Disgusting"
Longings toward Suicide
Tamsen Donner's Death
Going to Get the Treasure
Suspended over a Hidden Stream
"Where is Donner's Money?"
Extorting a Confession

Chapter XX.

Dates of the Rescues
Arrival of the Fourth Relief
A Scene Beggaring Description
The Wealth of the Donners
An Appeal to the Highest Court
A Dreadful Shock
Saved from a Grizzly Bear
A Trial for Slander
Keseberg Vindicated
Two Kettles of Human Blood
The Enmity of the Relief Party
"Born under an Evil Star"
"Stone Him! Stone Him!"
Fire and Flood
Keseberg's Reputation for Honesty
A Prisoner in His Own House
The Most Miserable of Men

Chapter XXI.

Sketch of Gen. John A. Sutter
The Donner Party's Benefactor
The Least and Most that Earth Can Bestow
The Survivors' Request
His Birth and Parentage
Efforts to Reach California
New Helvetia
A Puny Army
Uninviting Isolation
Ross and Bodega
Unbounded Generosity
Sutter's Wealth
Effect of the Gold Fever
Wholesale Robbery
The Sobrante Decision
A "Genuine and Meritorious" Grant
Utter Ruin
Hock Farm
Gen. Sutter's Death
Mrs. E. P. Houghton's Tribute

Chapter XXII.

The Death List
The Forty-two Who Perished
Names of Those Saved
Forty-eight Survivors
Traversing Snow-belt Five Times
Burying the Dead
An Appalling Spectacle
Tamsen Donner's Last Act of Devotion
A Remarkable Proposal
Twenty-six Present Survivors
McCutchen
Keseberg
The Graves Family
The Murphys
Naming Marysville
The Reeds
The Breens

Chapter XXIII.

The Orphan Children of George and Tamsen Donner
Sutter, the Philanthropist
"If Mother Would Only Come"
Christian and Mary Brunner
An Enchanting Home
"Can't You Keep Both of Us?"
Eliza Donner Crossing the Torrent
Earning a Silver Dollar
The Gold Excitement
Getting an Education
Elitha C. Donner
Leanna C. Donner
Frances E. Donner
Georgia A. Donner
Eliza P Donner

Chapter XXIV.

Yerba Buena's Gift to George and Mary Donner
An Alcalde's Negligence
Mary Donner's Land Regranted
Squatters Jump George Donner's Land
A Characteristic Land Law-suit
Vexatious Litigation
Twice Appealed to Supreme Court, and once to United States Supreme Court
A Well-taken Law Point
Mutilating Records
A Palpable Erasure
Relics of the Donner Party
Five Hundred Articles Buried Thirty-two Years
Knives, Forks, Spoons
Pretty Porcelain
Identifying Chinaware
Beads and Arrow-heads
A Quaint Bridle-bit
Remarkable Action of Rust
A Flint-Lock Pistol
A Baby's Shoe
The Resting Place of the Dead
Vanishing Land-marks

Chapter I.

Three miles from Truckee, Nevada County, California, lies one of the
fairest and most picturesque lakes in all the Sierra. Above, and on
either side, are lofty mountains, with castellated granite crests, while
below, at the mouth of the lake, a grassy, meadowy valley widens out and
extends almost to Truckee. The body of water is three miles long, one
and a half miles wide, and four hundred and eighty-three feet in depth.

Tourists and picnic parties annually flock to its shores, and Bierstadt
has made it the subject of one of his finest, grandest paintings. In
summer, its willowy thickets, its groves of tamarack and forests of
pine, are the favorite haunts and nesting places of the quail and
grouse. Beautiful, speckled mountain trout plentifully abound in its
crystalline waters. A rippling breeze usually wimples and dimples its
laughing surface, but in calmer moods it reflects, as in a polished
mirror, the lofty, overhanging mountains, with every stately pine,
bounding rivulet; blossoming shrub, waving fern, and--high above all,
on the right--the clinging, thread-like line of the snow-sheds of the
Central Pacific. When the railroad was being constructed, three thousand
people dwelt on its shores; the surrounding forests resounded with the
music of axes and saws, and the terrific blasts exploded in the lofty,
o'ershadowing cliffs, filled the canyons with reverberating thunders,
and hurled huge bowlders high in the air over the lake's quivering
bosom.

In winter it is almost as popular a pleasure resort as during the
summer. The jingling of sleighbells, and the shouts and laughter of
skating parties, can be heard almost constantly. The lake forms the
grandest skating park on the Pacific Coast.

Yet this same Donner Lake was the scene of one of the most thrilling,
heart-rending tragedies ever recorded in California history. Interwoven
with the very name of the lake are memories of a tale of destitution,
loneliness, and despair, which borders on the incredible. It is a tale
that has been repeated in many a miner's cabin, by many a hunter's
campfire, and in many a frontiersman's home, and everywhere it has been
listened to with bated breath.

The pioneers of a new country are deserving of a niche in the country's
history. The pioneers who became martyrs to the cause of the development
of an almost unknown land, deserve to have a place in the hearts of
its inhabitants. The far-famed Donner Party were, in a peculiar sense,
pioneer martyrs of California. Before the discovery of gold, before the
highway across the continent was fairly marked out, while untold dangers
lurked by the wayside, and unnumbered foes awaited the emigrants, the
Donner Party started for California. None but the brave and venturesome,
none but the energetic and courageous, could undertake such a journey.
In 1846, comparatively few had dared attempt to cross the almost
unexplored plains which lay between the Mississippi and the fair young
land called California. Hence it is that a certain grandeur, a certain
heroism seems to cling about the men and women composing this party,
even from the day they began their perilous journey across the plains.
California, with her golden harvests, her beautiful homes, her dazzling
wealth, and her marvelous commercial facilities, may well enshrine the
memory of these noble-hearted pioneers, pathfinders, martyrs.

The States along the Mississippi were but sparsely settled in 1846, yet
the fame of the fruitfulness, the healthfulness, and the almost tropical
beauty of the land bordering the Pacific, tempted the members of
the Donner Party to leave their homes. These homes were situated in
Illinois, Iowa, Tennessee, Missouri, and Ohio. Families from each of
these States joined the train and participated in its terrible fate; yet
the party proper was organized in Sangamon County, Illinois, by George
and Jacob Donner and James F. Reed. Early in April, 1846, the party set
out from Springfield, Illinois, and by the first week in May reached
Independence, Missouri. Here the party was increased by additional
members, and the train comprised about one hundred persons.

Independence was on the frontier in those days, and every care was taken
to have ample provisions laid in and all necessary preparations made for
the long journey. Ay, it was a long journey for many in the party!
Great as was the enthusiasm and eagerness with which these noble-hearted
pioneers caught up the cry of the times, "Ho! for California!" it
is doubtful if presentiments of the fate to be encountered were not
occasionally entertained. The road was difficult, and in places almost
unbroken; warlike Indians guarded the way, and death, in a thousand
forms, hovered about their march through the great wilderness.

In the party were aged fathers with their trusting families about them,
mothers whose very lives were wrapped up in their children, men in the
prime and vigor of manhood, maidens in all the sweetness and freshness
of budding womanhood, children full of glee and mirthfulness, and babes
nestling on maternal breasts. Lovers there were, to whom the journey was
tinged with rainbow hues of joy and happiness, and strong, manly hearts
whose constant support and encouragement was the memory of dear ones
left behind in home-land. The cloud of gloom which finally settled down
in a death-pall over their heads was not yet perceptible, though, as we
shall soon see, its mists began to collect almost at the outset, in the
delays which marked the journey.

The wonderment which all experience in viewing the scenery along the
line of the old emigrant road was peculiarly vivid to these people.
Few descriptions had been given of the route, and all was novel and
unexpected. In later years the road was broadly and deeply marked, and
good camping grounds were distinctly indicated. The bleaching bones of
cattle that had perished, or the broken fragments of wagons or cast-away
articles, were thickly strewn on either side of the highway. But in 1846
the way was through almost trackless valleys waving with grass, along
rivers where few paths were visible, save those made by the feet of
buffaloes and antelope, and over mountains and plains where little more
than the westward course of the sun guided the travelers. Trading-posts
were stationed at only a few widely distant points, and rarely did the
party meet with any human beings, save wandering bands of Indians. Yet
these first days are spoken of by all of the survivors as being crowned
with peaceful enjoyment and pleasant anticipations. There were beautiful
flowers by the roadside, an abundance of game in the meadows and
mountains, and at night there were singing, dancing, and innocent plays.
Several musical instruments, and many excellent voices, were in the
party, and the kindliest feeling and good-fellowship prevailed among the
members.

The formation of the company known as the Donner Party was purely
accidental. The union of so many emigrants into one train was not
occasioned by any preconcerted arrangement. Many composing the Donner
Party were not aware, at the outset, that such a tide of emigration was
sweeping to California. In many instances small parties would hear
of the mammoth train just ahead of them or just behind them, and by
hastening their pace, or halting for a few days, joined themselves to
the party. Many were with the train during a portion of the journey, but
from some cause or other became parted from the Donner company before
reaching Donner Lake. Soon after the train left Independence it
contained between two and three hundred wagons, and when in motion was
two miles in length.

With much bitterness and severity it is alleged by some of the survivors
of the dreadful tragedy that certain impostors and falsifiers claim
to have been members of the Donner Party, and as such have written
untruthful and exaggerated accounts of the sufferings of the party.
While this is unquestionably true, it is barely possible that some who
assert membership found their claim upon the fact that during a portion
of the journey they were really in the Donner Party. Bearing this in
mind, there is less difficulty in reconciling the conflicting statements
of different narrators.

The members of the party proper numbered ninety, and were as follows:

George Donner, Tamsen Donner (his wife), Elitha C. Donner, Leanna C.
Donner, Frances E. Donner, Georgia A. Donner and Eliza P. Donner. The
last three were children of George and Tamsen Donner; Elitha and Leanna
were children of George Donner by a former wife.

Jacob Donner, Elizabeth Donner (his wife), Solomon Hook, William Hook,
George Donner, Jr., Mary M. Donner, Isaac Donner, Lewis Donner and
Samuel Donner. Jacob Donner was a brother of George; Solomon and William
Hook were sons of Elizabeth Donner by a former husband.

James Frazier Reed, Margaret W. Reed (his wife), Virginia E. Reed,
Martha F. (Patty) Reed, James F. Reed, Jr., Thomas K. Reed, and Mrs.
Sarah Keyes, the mother of Mrs. Reed.

The two Donner families and the Reeds were from Springfield, Illinois.
From the same place were Baylis Williams and his half-sister Eliza
Williams, John Denton, Milton Elliott, James Smith, Walter Herron and
Noah James.

From Marshall County, Illinois, came Franklin Ward Graves, Elizabeth
Graves (his wife), Mary A. Graves, William C. Graves, Eleanor Graves,
Lovina Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, F. W. Graves, Jr.,
Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Jay Fosdick and Mrs. Sarah Fosdick (nee Graves).
With this family came John Snyder.

From Keokuk, Lee County, Iowa, came Patrick Breen, Mrs. Margaret Breen,
John Breen, Edward J. Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon P. Breen, James
F. Breen, Peter Breen, and Isabella M. Breen. Patrick Dolan also came
from Keokuk.

William H. Eddy, Mrs. Eleanor Eddy, James P. Eddy, and Margaret Eddy
came from Belleville, Illinois.

From Tennessee came Mrs. Lavina Murphy, a widow, and her family, John
Landrum Murphy, Mary M. Murphy, Lemuel B. Murphy, William G. Murphy,
Simon P. Murphy, William M. Pike, Mrs. Harriet F. Pike (nee Murphy),
Naomi L. Pike, and Catherine Pike. Another son-in-law of Mrs. Murphy,
William M. Foster, with his wife, Mrs. Sarah A. C. Foster, and infant
boy George Foster, came from St. Louis, Missouri.

William McCutchen, Mrs. W. McCutchen, and Harriet McCutchen were from
Jackson County, Missouri.

Lewis Keseberg, Mrs. Phillipine Keseberg, Ada Keseberg, and L. Keseberg,
Jr., Mr. and Mrs. Wolfinger, Joseph Rhinehart, Augustus Spitzer, and
Charles Burger, came from Germany.

Samuel Shoemaker came from Springfield, Ohio, Charles T. Stanton from
Chicago, Illinois, Luke Halloran from St. Joseph, Missouri, Mr. Hardcoop
from Antwerp, in Belgium, Antoine from New Mexico. John Baptiste was a
Spaniard, who joined the train near the Santa Fe trail, and Lewis and
Salvador were two Indians, who were sent out from California by Captain
Sutter.

The Breens joined the company at Independence, Missouri, and the Graves
family overtook the train one hundred miles west of Fort Bridger. Each
family, prior to its consolidation with the train, had its individual
incidents. William Trimble, who was traveling with the Graves family,
was slain by the Pawnee Indians about fifty miles east of Scott's Bluff.
Trimble left a wife and two or three children. The wife and some of her
relatives were so disheartened by this sad bereavement, and by the fact
that many of their cattle were stolen by the Indians, that they gave up
the journey to California, and turned back to the homes whence they had
started.

An amusing incident is related in the Healdsburg (Cal.) Flag, by Mr. W.
C. Graves, of Calistoga, which occurred soon after his party left St.
Joseph, Missouri. It was on the fourth night out, and Mr. Graves and
four or five others were detailed to stand guard. The constant terror
of the emigrants in those days was Indians. Both the Pawnees, the Sioux,
and the Snakes were warlike and powerful, and were jealous, revengeful,
and merciless toward the whites. That night a fire somehow started in
the prairie grass about half a mile from camp. The west wind, blowing
fierce and strong, carried the flames in great surging gusts through the
tall prairie grass. A resin weed grows in bunches in this part of the
country, generally attaining the height of four or five feet. The night
being very dark, these weeds could be seen standing between the fire and
the guards. As the flames swayed past the weeds, the impression was very
naturally produced upon the mind of a timid beholder that the weeds were
moving in the opposite direction. This optical illusion caused some of
the guards to believe that the Indians had set fire to the grass, and
were moving in immense numbers between them and the fire with intent to
surround them, stampede the cattle, and massacre the entire party. The
watcher next to Mr. Graves discovered the enemy, and rushed breathlessly
to his comrade to impart the intelligence. Scarcely had Mr. Graves
quieted him before it was evident that a general alarm had been spread
in the camp. Two other guards had seen the Indians, and the aroused
camp, armed to the teeth, marched out to give battle to the imaginary
foe. It was a rich joke, and it was some time before those who were
scared heard the last of the resin Indians.

Only once, before reaching Salt Lake, did death invade the joyous Donner
company. It was near the present site of Manhattan, Kansas, and Mrs.
Sarah Keyes was the victim. This estimable lady was the mother of Mrs.
J. F. Reed, and had reached her four score and ten years. Her aged frame
and feeble health were not equal to the fatigues and exposure of the
trip, and on the thirtieth of May they laid her tenderly to rest.
She was buried in a coffin carefully fashioned from the trunk of a
cottonwood tree, and on the brow of a beautiful knoll overlooking the
valley. A grand old oak, still standing, guards the lonely grave of the
dear old mother who was spared the sight of the misery in store for her
loved ones. Could those who performed the last sad rites have caught a
vision of the horrors awaiting the party, they would have known how good
was the God who in mercy took her to Himself.

Chapter II.

Presenting, as they do, an interesting glimpse of the first portion
of the journey, the following letters are here introduced. They were
written by Mrs. Tamsen Donner, and were published in the Springfield
(Illinois) Journal. Thanks for copies of these letters are due to
Mrs. Eliza P. Houghton of San Jose, Mrs. Donner's youngest daughter.
Allusions are made in these letters to botanical researches. Mrs.
Donner, C. T. Stanton, and perhaps one or two others who were prominent
actors in the later history, were particularly fond of botany. Mrs.
Donner made valuable collections of rare flowers and plants. Her
journal, and a full description of the contents of her botanical
portfolios, were to have been published upon her arrival in California.

Though bearing the same date, the letters here presented were written at
different times. The following appeared in the Springfield Journal, July
23, 1846:

Near the Junction of the North and South Platte, June 16, 1846.

My Old Friend: We are now on the Platte, two hundred miles from Fort
Laramie. Our journey so far has been pleasant, the roads have been good,
and food plentiful. The water for part of the way has been indifferent,
but at no time have our cattle suffered for it. Wood is now very scarce,
but "buffalo chips" are excellent; they kindle quickly and retain heat
surprisingly. We had this morning buffalo steaks broiled upon them that
had the same flavor they would have had upon hickory coals.

We feel no fear of Indians, our cattle graze quietly around our
encampment unmolested.

Two or three men will go hunting twenty miles from camp; and last night
two of our men lay out in the wilderness rather than ride their horses
after a hard chase.

Indeed, if I do not experience something far worse than I have yet done,
I shall say the trouble is all in getting started. Our wagons have not
needed much repair, and I can not yet tell in what respects they could
be improved. Certain it is, they can not be too strong. Our preparations
for the journey might have been in some respects bettered.

Bread has been the principal article of food in our camp. We laid in 150
pounds of flour and 75 pounds of meat for each individual, and I fear
bread will be scarce. Meat is abundant. Rice and beans are good articles
on the road; cornmeal, too, is acceptable. Linsey dresses are the most
suitable for children. Indeed, if I had one, it would be acceptable.
There is so cool a breeze at all times on the plains that the sun does
not feel so hot as one would suppose.

We are now four hundred and fifty miles from Independence. Our route at
first was rough, and through a timbered country, which appeared to be
fertile. After striking the prairie, we found a first-rate road, and the
only difficulty we have had, has been in crossing the creeks. In that,
however, there has been no danger.

I never could have believed we could have traveled so far with so
little difficulty. The prairie between the Blue and the Platte rivers is
beautiful beyond description. Never have I seen so varied a country, so
suitable for cultivation. Everything was new and pleasing; the Indians
frequently come to see us, and the chiefs of a tribe breakfasted at
our tent this morning. All are so friendly that I can not help feeling
sympathy and friendship for them. But on one sheet what can I say?

Since we have been on the Platte, we have had the river on one side
and the ever varying mounds on the other, and have traveled through the
bottom lands from one to two miles wide, with little or no timber.
The soil is sandy, and last year, on account of the dry season, the
emigrants found grass here scarce. Our cattle are in good order, and
when proper care has been taken, none have been lost. Our milch cows
have been of great service, indeed. They have been of more advantage
than our meat. We have plenty of butter and milk.

We are commanded by Captain Russell, an amiable man. George Donner
is himself yet. He crows in the morning and shouts out, "Chain up,
boys--chain up," with as much authority as though he was "something in
particular." John Denton is still with us. We find him useful in the
camp. Hiram Miller and Noah James are in good health and doing well. We
have of the best people in our company, and some, too, that are not so
good.

Buffaloes show themselves frequently.

We have found the wild tulip, the primrose, the lupine, the eardrop, the
larkspur, and creeping hollyhock, and a beautiful flower resembling the
bloom of the beech tree, but in bunches as large as a small sugar-loaf,
and of every variety of shade, to red and green.

I botanize, and read some, but cook "heaps" more. There are four hundred
and twenty wagons, as far as we have heard, on the road between here and
Oregon and California.

Give our love to all inquiring friends. God bless them. Yours, truly,

Mrs. George Donner.

The following letter was published in the journal of July 30, 1846:

South Fork of the Nebraska, Ten Miles from the Crossing, Tuesday, June
16, 1846.

Dear Friend: To-day, at nooning, there passed, going to the States,
seven men from Oregon, who went out last year. One of them was well
acquainted with Messrs. Ide and Cadden Keyes, the latter of whom, he
says, went to California. They met the advance Oregon caravan about
150 miles west of Fort Laramie, and counted in all, for Oregon and
California (excepting ours), 478 wagons. There are in our company over
40 wagons, making 518 in all, and there are said to be yet 20 behind.
To-morrow we cross the river, and, by reckoning, will be over 200 miles
from Fort Laramie, where we intend to stop and repair our wagon wheels.
They are nearly all loose, and I am afraid we will have to stop sooner,
if there can be found wood suitable to heat the tires. There is no wood
here, and our women and children are out now gathering "buffalo chips"
to burn, in order to do the cooking. These chips burn well.

Mrs. George Donner.

At Fort Laramie a portion of the Donner Party celebrated the Fourth of
July, 1846. Arriving there on the evening of the third, they pitched
camp somewhat earlier than usual, and prepared a grand dinner for the
Fourth. At the Fort were a large party of Sioux who were on the war-path
against the Snakes or Pawnees. The Sioux were, perhaps, the most warlike
Indian nation on the great prairies, and when dressed in their war
paint and mounted on their fleet ponies, presented a truly imposing
appearance. The utmost friendliness prevailed, and there was a mutual
interchange of gifts and genial courtesies. When the Donner Party
pursued their march, and had journeyed half a day from the Fort, they
were overtaken and convoyed quite a distance by about three hundred
young warriors. The escort rode in pairs alongside the train in true
military fashion. Finally halting, they opened ranks; and as the wagons
passed, each warrior held in his mouth a green twig or leaf, which was
said to be emblematic of peacefulness and good feeling.

The train was never seriously molested by the Sioux. On one occasion,
about fifty warriors on horseback surrounded a portion of the train,
in which was the Graves family. While generally friendly, a few of the
baser sort persisted in attempting to steal, or take by force, trivial
articles which struck their fancy. The main body of Indians were
encamped about half a mile away, and when the annoyances became too
exasperating, W. C. Graves mounted a horse, rode to the encampment,
and notified the Chief of the action of his followers. Seizing an
old-fashioned single-barreled shotgun, the Chief sprang upon his horse
and fairly flew over the plain toward the emigrant wagons. When within
about a hundred yards of the train he attracted attention by giving
an Indian whoop, which was so full of rage and imprecation that the
startled warriors forthwith desisted from their petty persecutions and
scattered in every direction like frightened quail. One of the would-be
marauders was a little tardy in mounting his pony, and as soon as the
Chief got within range, the shotgun was leveled and discharged full at
the unruly subject. Three of the buckshot entered the pony's side and
one grazed the warrior's leg. As if satisfied that his orders to treat
the emigrants in a friendly manner would not be again disregarded, the
Chief wheeled his horse about, and in the most grave and stately manner
rode back to his encampment.

On another occasion, Mary Graves, who was a very beautiful young lady,
was riding on horseback accompanied by her brother. They were a little
in the rear of the train, and a band of Sioux Indians, becoming enamored
with the maiden, offered to purchase her. They made very handsome
offers, but the brother not being disposed to accept, one of the Indians
seized the bridle of the girl's horse and attempted to carry her away
captive. Perhaps the attempt was made in half jest. At all events the
bridle was promptly dropped when the brother leveled his rifle at the
savage.

On the twentieth of July, 1846, George Donner was elected Captain of the
train at the Little Sandy River. From that time forward it was known as
the Donner Party.

One incident, not at all unusual to a trip across the plains, is
pointedly described in a letter written by C. T. Stanton to his brother,
Sidney Stanton, now of Cazenovia, New York. The incident alluded to
is the unfriendliness and want of harmony so liable to exist between
different companies, and between members of the same company. From one
of Mr. Stanton's letters the following extract is made:

"At noon we passed Boggs' company on the Sweetwater; a mile further up
the river, Dunlavy's; a mile further, West's; and about two miles beyond
that, was Dunbar's. We encamped about half way between the two latter.
Thus, within five miles were encamped five companies. At Indian Creek,
twenty miles from Independence, these five companies all constituted
one, but owing to dissensions and quarreling they became broken into
fragments. Now, by accident, we all again once more meet and grasp the
cordial hand; old enmities are forgot, and nothing but good feeling
prevails. * * * * * The next morning we got rather a late start, owing
to a difference of opinion arising in our company as to whether we
should lie by or go ahead. Those wishing to lie by were principally
young men who wished to have a day's hunting among the buffaloes, and
there were also a few families out of meat who wished to lay in a supply
before they left the buffalo country. A further reason was urged that
the cattle were nearly fagged out by hard travel, and that they would
not stand the journey unless we stopped and gave them rest. On the other
side it was contended that if we stopped here the other companies would
all get ahead, the grass would all he eaten off by their thousand head
of cattle, and that consequently, when we came along, our cattle would
starve. The go-ahead party finally ruled and we rolled out."

As will presently be seen, the dissension existing in the company, and
the petty differences of opinion and interest, were the fundamental
causes of the calamities which befell the Donner Party.

When the company was near Fort Bridger, Edward Breen's leg was broken by
a fall from a horse. His mother refused to permit amputation, or rather
left the question to Edward's decision, and of course, boy-like, he
refused to have the operation performed. Contrary to expectation, the
bone knitted, and in a month he walked without a crutch.

At Fort Bridger, which was at this time a mere camp or trading post, the
party heard much commendation bestowed upon a new route via Salt Lake.
This route passed along the southern shore of the Lake, and rejoined the
old Fort Hall emigrant road on the Humboldt. It was said to shorten the
distance three hundred miles. The new route was known as the Hastings
Cut-off, and was named after the famous Lansford W. Hastings, who was
even then piloting a small company over the cut-off. The large trains
delayed for three or four days at Fort Bridger, debating as to the best
course to pursue. It is claimed that but for the earnest advice and
solicitation of Bridger and Vasquez, who had charge of the fort, the
entire party would have continued by the accustomed route. These men
had a direct interest in the Hastings Cut-off, as they furnished the
emigrants with supplies, and had employed Hastings to pilot the first
company over the road to Salt Lake.

After mature deliberation, the party divided, the greater portion going
by Fort Hall and reaching California in safety. With the large train,
which journeyed the old road, this narrative is no longer interested.
Eighty-seven persons, however, took the Hastings Cut-off. Their names
are included in the ninety mentioned in the preceding chapter, it being
remembered that Mrs. Sarah Keyes had died, and that Lewis and Salvador
were not yet members of the party. For several days the party traveled
without much difficulty. They reached Weber River near the head of the
well-known Weber Canyon. At the first crossing of this river, on the
third of August, they found a letter from Hastings stuck in the split
of a stick, informing them that the road down the Weber Canyon was in
a terrible condition, and that it was doubtful if the sixty-six wagons
which L. W. Hastings was then piloting through the canyon would ever
succeed in reaching the plain. In the letter, Hastings advised all
emigrants to avoid the canyon road, and pursue over the mountains
a course which he faintly outlined. In order to obtain further
information, and, if possible, to induce Hastings to return and act as
guide, Messrs. Reed, Stanton, and Pike were sent forward to overtake the
advance company. This was accomplished after a fatiguing trip, which
so exhausted the horses of Stanton and Pike that these gentlemen were
unable to return to the Donner Party. Hastings was overtaken at a point
near the southern end of Great Salt Lake, and came back with Reed to the
foot of the bluffs overlooking the present city of Salt Lake. Here he
declared that he must return to the company he was piloting, and despite
the urgent entreaties of Reed, decided that it was his duty to start
back the next morning. He finally consented, however, to ascend to the
summit of the Wahsatch Mountains, from which he endeavored, as best he
could, to point out the direction in which the wagons must travel from
the head of Weber Canyon. Reed proceeded alone on the route indicated,
taking notes of the country and occasionally blazing trees to assist him
in retracing the course.

Wm. G. Murphy (now of Marysville, Cal.) says that the wagons remained in
the meadows at the head of Weber Canyon until Reed's return. They then
learned that the train which preceded them had been compelled to travel
very slowly down the Weber River, filling in many irregular places
with brush and dirt; that at last they had reached a place where vast
perpendicular pillars of rock approached so closely on either side that
the river had barely space to flow between, and just here the water
plunged over a precipice. To lower the wagons down this precipice had
been a dreadful task.

The Donner Party unanimously decided to travel across the mountains in a
more direct line toward Salt Lake. They soon found rolling highlands and
small summit valleys on the divide between Weber River and Salt Lake.
Following down one of the small streams, they found a varying, irregular
canyon, down which they passed, filling its small stream with brush and
rocks, crossing and recrossing it, making roads, breaking and mending
wagons, until three weeks' time had expired. The entire country was
heavily covered with timber and underbrush. When the party arrived at
the outlet of this stream into Salt Lake Valley, they found it utterly
impassable. It was exceedingly narrow, and was filled with huge rocks
from the cliffs on either side. Almost all the oxen in the train were
necessary in drawing each wagon out of the canyon and up the steep
overhanging mountain. While in this canyon, Stanton and Pike came up
to the company. These gentlemen encountered great hardships after their
horses gave out, and were almost starved to death when they reached the
train.

Instead of reaching Salt Lake in a week, as had been promised, the party
were over thirty days in making the trip. No words can describe what
they endured on this Hastings Cut-off. The terrible delay was rendering
imminent the dangers which awaited them on the Sierra Nevada. At last,
upon ascending the steep rugged mountain before mentioned, the vision
of Great Salt Lake, and the extensive plains surrounding it, burst upon
their enraptured gaze. All were wild with joy and gratitude for their
deliverance from the terrible struggle through which they had just
passed, and all hoped for a prosperous, peaceful journey over pleasant
roads throughout the remainder of the trip to California. Alas! there
were trials in the way compared with which their recent struggles were
insignificant. But for the fatal delay caused by the Hastings Cut-off,
all would have been well, but now the summer was passed, their teams
and themselves were well-nigh exhausted, and their slender stock of
provisions nearly consumed.

Chapter III.

A Grave of Salt
Members of the Mystic Tie
Twenty Wells
A Desolate Alkaline Waste
Abandoned on the Desert
A Night of Horror
A Steer Maddened by Thirst
The Mirage
Yoking an Ox and a Cow
"Cacheing" Goods
The Emigrant's Silent Logic
A Cry for Relief
Two Heroic Volunteers
A Perilous Journey
Letters to Capt. Sutter.

Near the southern shore of great Salt Lake the Donner Party encamped
on the third or fourth of September, 1846. The summer had vanished, and
autumn had commenced tinting, with crimson and gold, the foliage on the
Wahsatch Mountains. While encamped here, the party buried the second
victim claimed by death. This time it was a poor consumptive named Luke
Halloran. Without friend or kinsman, Halloran had joined the train,
and was traveling to California in hopes that a change of climate might
effect a cure. Alas! for the poor Irishman, when the leaves began to
fall from the trees his spirit winged its flight to the better land.
He died in the wagon of Captain George Donner, his head resting in Mrs.
Tamsen Donner's lap. It was at sundown. The wagons had just halted for
the night. The train had driven up slowly, out of respect to the dying
emigrant. Looking up into Mrs. Donner's face, he said: "I die happy."
Almost while speaking, he died. In return for the many kindnesses he
had received during the journey, he left Mr. Donner such property as he
possessed, including about fifteen hundred dollars in coin. Hon. Jas. F.
Breen, of South San Juan, writes: "Halloran's body was buried in a bed
of almost pure salt, beside the grave of one who had perished in the
preceding train. It was said at the time that bodies thus deposited
would not decompose, on account of the preservative properties of the
salt. Soon after his burial, his trunk was opened, and Masonic papers
and regalia bore witness to the fact that Mr. Halloran was a member of
the Masonic Order. James F. Reed, Milton Elliott, and perhaps one or two
others in the train, also belonged to the mystic tie."

On the sixth day of September they reached a meadow in a valley called
"Twenty Wells," as there were that number of wells of various sizes,
from six inches to several feet in diameter. The water in these wells
rose even with the surface of the ground, and when it was drawn out the
wells soon refilled. The water was cold and pure, and peculiarly welcome
after the saline plains and alkaline pools they had just passed. Wells
similar to these were found during the entire journey of the following
day, and the country through which they were passing abounded in
luxuriant grass. Reaching the confines of the Salt Lake Desert, which
lies southwest of the lake, they laid in, as they supposed, an ample
supply of water and grass. This desert had been represented by Bridger
and Vasquez as being only about fifty miles wide. Instead, for a
distance of seventy-five miles there was neither water nor grass, but
everywhere a dreary, desolate, alkaline waste. Verily, it was

"A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with
osiered sides; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor
cloud, nor misty mount Appears to refresh the aching eye, But the barren
earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon round and round Spread,
void of living sight or sound."

When the company had been on the desert two nights and one day, Mr.
Reed volunteered to go forward, and, if possible, to discover water.
His hired teamsters were attending to his teams and wagons during his
absence. At a distance of perhaps twenty miles he found the desired
water, and hastened to return to the train. Meantime there was intense
suffering in the party. Cattle were giving out and lying down helplessly
on the burning sand, or frenzied with thirst were straying away into the
desert. Having made preparations for only fifty miles of desert, several
persons came near perishing of thirst, and cattle were utterly powerless
to draw the heavy wagons. Reed was gone some twenty hours. During this
time his teamsters had done the wisest thing possible, unhitched the
oxen and started to drive them ahead until water was reached. It was
their intention, of course, to return and get the three wagons and the
family, which they had necessarily abandoned on the desert. Reed passed
his teamsters during the night, and hastened to the relief of his
deserted family. One of his teamster's horses gave out before morning
and lay down, and while the man's companions were attempting to raise
him, the oxen, rendered unmanageable by their great thirst, disappeared
in the desert. There were eighteen of these oxen. It is probable they
scented water, and with the instincts of their nature started out
to search for it. They never were found, and Reed and his family,
consisting of nine persons, were left destitute in the midst of the
desert, eight hundred miles from California. Near morning, entirely
ignorant of the calamity which had befallen him in the loss of his
cattle, he reached his family. All day long they looked and waited in
vain for the returning teamsters. All the rest of the company had driven
ahead, and the majority had reached water. Toward night the situation
grew desperate. The scanty supply of water left with the family was
almost gone, and another day on the desert would mean death to all
he held dear. Their only way left was to set out on foot. He took his
youngest child in his arms, and the family started to walk the twenty
miles. During this dreadful night some of the younger children became so
exhausted that, regardless of scoldings or encouragements, they lay
down on the bleak sands. Even rest, however, seemed denied the little
sufferers, for a chilling wind began sweeping over the desert, and
despite their weariness and anguish, they were forced to move forward.
At one time during the night the horror of the situation was changed to
intense fright. Through the darkness came a swift-rushing animal, which
Reed soon recognized as one of his young steers. It was crazed and
frenzied with thirst, and for some moments seemed bent upon dashing into
the frightened group. Finally, however, it plunged madly away into
the night, and was seen no more. Reed suspected the calamity which had
prevented the return of the teamsters, but at the moment, the imminent
peril surrounding his wife and children banished all thought of worrying
about anything but their present situation. God knows what would have
become of them had they not, soon after daylight, discovered the wagon
of Jacob Donner. They were received kindly by his family, and conveyed
to where the other members of the party were camped. For six or eight
days the entire company remained at this spot. Every effort was made to
find Reed's lost cattle. Almost every man in the train was out in the
desert, searching in all directions. This task was attended with both
difficulty and danger; for when the sun shone, the atmosphere appeared
to distort and magnify objects so that at the distance of a mile every
stone or bush would appear the size of an ox. Several of the men came
near dying for want of water during this search. The desert mirage
disclosed against the horizon, clear, distinct, and perfectly outlined
rocks, mountain peaks, and tempting lakelets. Each jagged cliff, or
pointed rock, or sharply-curved hill-top, hung suspended in air as
perfect and complete as if photographed on the sky. Deceived, deluded by
these mirages, in spite of their better judgment, several members of the
company were led far out into the pathless depths of the desert.

The outlook for Reed was gloomy enough. One cow and one ox were the only
stock he had remaining. The company were getting exceedingly impatient
over the long delay, yet be it said to their honor, they encamped on the
western verge of the desert until every hope of finding Reed's cattle
was abandoned. Finally, F. W. Graves and Patrick Breen each lent an ox
to Mr. Reeds and by yoking up his remaining cow and ox, he had two yoke
of cattle. "Cacheing," or concealing such of his property on the desert,
as could not be placed in one wagon, he hitched the two yoke of cattle
to this wagon and proceeded on the journey. The word cache occurs so
frequently in this history that a brief definition of the interesting
process of cacheing might not be amiss. The cache of goods or valuables
was generally made in a wagon bed, if one, as in the present instance,
was to be abandoned. A square hole, say six feet in depth, was dug in
the earth, and in the bottom of this the box or wagon bed containing
the articles was placed. Sand, soil, or clay of the proper stratum was
filled in upon this, so as to just cover the box from sight. The ground
was then tightly packed or trampled, to make it resemble, as much as
possible, the earth in its natural state. Into the remaining hole would
be placed such useless articles as could be spared, such as old tins,
cast-off clothing, broken furniture, etc., and upon these the earth
was thrown until the surface of the ground was again level. These
precautions were taken to prevent the Indians from discovering and
appropriating the articles cached. It was argued that the Indians, when
digging down, would come to the useless articles, and not thinking there
was treasure further down would abandon the task. "But," says Hon. James
F. Breen, in speaking on this subject, "I have been told by parties who
have crossed the plains, that in no case has the Indian been deceived
by the emigrant's silent logic." The Indians would leave nothing
underground, not even the dead bodies buried from time to time. One of
the trains in advance of the Donner Party buried two men in one grave,
and succeeding parties found each of the bodies unearthed, and were
compelled to repeat the last sad rites of burial.

Before the Donner Party started from the Desert camp, an inventory of
the provisions on hand was accurately taken, and an estimate was made of
the quantity required for each family, and it was found that there was
not enough to carry the emigrants through to California. As if to render
more emphatic the terrible situation of the party, a storm came during
their last night at the camp, and in the morning the hill-tops were
white with snow. It was a dreadful reminder of the lateness of the
season, and the bravest hearts quailed before the horrors they knew must
await them. A solemn council was held. It was decided that some one must
leave the train, press eagerly forward to California, and obtaining a
supply of provisions, return and meet the party as far back on the
route as possible. It was a difficult undertaking, and perilous in the
extreme. A call was made for volunteers, and after a little reflection
two men offered their services. One was Wm. McCutchen, who had joined
the train from Missouri, and the other was C. T. Stanton, of Chicago,
a man who afterwards proved himself possessed of the sublimest heroism.
Taking each a horse, they received the tearful, prayerful farewells of
the doomed company, and set out upon their solitary journey.

Would they return? If they reached the peaceful, golden valleys of
California, would they turn back to meet danger, and storms, and death,
in order to bring succor to those on the dreary desert? McCutchen
might come, because he left dear ones with the train, but would
Stanton return? Stanton was young and unmarried. There were no ties
or obligations to prompt his return, save his plighted word and the
dictates of honor and humanity.

They bore letters from the Donner Party to Captain Sutter, who was in
charge at Sutter's Fort. These letters were prayers for relief, and
it was believed would secure assistance from the generous old Captain.
Every eye followed Stanton and McCutchen until they disappeared in the
west. Soon afterward the train resumed its toilsome march.

Chapter IV.

Gravelly Ford
The Character of James F. Reed
Causes Which Led to the Reed-Snyder Tragedy
John Snyder's Popularity
The Fatal Altercation
Conflicting Statements of Survivors
Snyder's Death
A Brave Girl
A Primitive Trial
A Court of Final Resort
Verdict of Banishment
A Sad Separation
George and Jacob Donner Ahead at the Time
Finding Letters in Split Sticks
Danger of Starvation.

Gravelly ford, on the Humboldt River, witnessed a tragedy which greatly
agitated the company. Its results, as will be seen, materially affected
the lives not only of the participants, but of several members of the
party during the days of horror on the mountains, by bringing relief
which would otherwise have been lacking. The parties to the tragedy were
James F. Reed and John Snyder. Reed was a man who was tender, generous,
heroic, and whose qualities of true nobility shone brilliantly
throughout a long life of usefulness. His name is intimately interwoven
with the history of the Donner Party, from first to last. Indeed, in the
Illinois papers of 1846-7 the company was always termed the "Reed and
Donner Party." This title was justly conferred at the time, because he
was one of the leading spirits in the organization of the enterprise. In
order to understand the tragedy which produced the death of John Snyder,
and the circumstances resulting therefrom, the reader must become better
acquainted with the character of Mr. Reed.

The following brief extract is from "Powers' Early Settlers of Sangamon
County:" "James Frazier Reed was born November 14, 1800, in County
Armagh, Ireland. His ancestors were of noble Polish birth, who chose
exile rather than submission to the Russian power, and settled in the
north of Ireland. The family name was originally Reednoski, but in
process of time the Polish termination of the name was dropped, and the
family was called Reed. James F. Reed's mother's name was Frazier, whose
ancestors belonged to Clan Frazier, of Scottish history. Mrs. Reed and
her son, James F., came to America when he was a youth, and settled in
Virginia. He remained there until he was twenty, when he left for the
lead mines of Illinois, and was engaged in mining until 1831, when he
came to Springfield, Sangamon County, Illinois."

Among the papers of Mr. Reed is a copy of the muster roll of a company
which enlisted in the Blackhawk war, and in this roll are the names
of Abraham Lincoln, Stephen A. Douglas, and James F. Reed. At the
termination of this war, Mr. Reed returned to Springfield, engaged
in the manufacture of cabinet furniture, and amassed a considerable
fortune. He was married in 1835 to Mrs. Margaret Backenstoe, whose
maiden name was Keyes. The death of his wife's mother, Mrs. Sarah Keyes,
has already been mentioned as occurring on the Big Blue River, near
Manhattan, Kansas.

During the progress of the train, Mr. Reed was always a prominent,
active member. Full of life and enthusiasm, fearless of danger, he was
ready at all times to risk his life for the company's welfare. On the
desert, we have seen that his lonely expedition in search of water cost
him his valuable oxen, and left him and his family almost destitute.

The deplorable affair about to be narrated was only the natural
outgrowth of the trying circumstances in which the company were placed.
The reader must bear in mind that many petty causes combined to produce
discord and dissension among the members of the Donner Party. Coming
from so many different States, being of different nationalities and
modes of thought, delayed on the road much longer than was expected,
rendered irritable by the difficulties encountered on the journey,
annoyed by losses of stock, fearful of unknown disasters on the Sierra,
and already placed on short allowances of provisions, the emigrants were
decidedly inharmonious.

The action of the company, moreover, was doubtless influenced in a
greater or less degree by Snyder's popularity. A young man, not over
twenty-three years old, he was tall, straight, and of erect, manly
carriage, and his habits of life as a frontiersman had developed him
into a muscular, athletic being. He excelled and led in all the out-door
sports most in favor with Western men, such as jumping, running, and
wrestling. His manner was gentle, retired, and timid to a degree verging
on bashfulness, until roused by the influence of passion. The lion in
the man was dormant until evoked by the fiercer emotions. His complexion
was dark, but as you studied his face you could not repress the
suspicion that Nature had marked him for a blonde, and that constant
exposure to the wind and sun and rain of the great plains of the West
had wrought the color change, and the conviction was strong that the
change was an improvement on Nature. His features were cast in a mold of
great beauty--such beauty as we seldom look for in a man. He was
never moody, despondent, or cast down, and at all times, and under all
circumstances, possessed the faculty of amusing himself and entertaining
others. In the evening camp, when other amusements failed, or when
anticipated troubles depressed the spirits of the travelers, it was his
custom to remove the "hindgate" of his wagon, lay it on the ground, and
thereon perform the "clog dance," "Irish jigs," the "pigeon wing," and
other fantastic steps. Many an evening the Donner Party were prevented
from brooding over their troubles by the boyish antics of the
light-hearted youth.

As stated above, the train had reached Gravelly Ford. Already the
members of the company were beginning to scan eagerly the western plain
in hopes of discovering the relief which it was believed Stanton and
McCutchen would bring from Sutter's Fort. Of course there were the
usual accidents and incidents peculiar to a journey across the plains.
Occasionally a wagon would need repairing. Occasionally there would be a
brief halt to rest and recruit the jaded cattle. The Indians had stolen
two of Mr. Graves' oxen, and a couple of days later had stolen one of
the horses.

In traveling, the Donner Party observed this rule: If a wagon drove in
the lead one day, it should pass back to the rear on the succeeding day.
This system of alternating allowed each his turn in leading the train.
On this fifth of October, 1846, F. W. Graves was ahead, Jay Fosdick
second, John Snyder third, and the team of J. F. Reed fourth. Milton
Elliott was driving Reed's team. Arriving at the foot of a steep, sandy
hill, the party was obliged to "double teams," that is, to hitch five or
six yoke of oxen to one wagon. Elliott and Snyder interchanged hot words
over some difficulty about the oxen. Fosdick had attached his team to
Graves' and had drawn Graves' wagon up the hill. Snyder, being nettled
at something Elliott had said, declared that his team could pull up
alone. During the excitement Snyder made use of very bad language, and
was beating his cattle over the head with his whip-stock. One account
says that Reed's team and Snyder's became tangled. At all events, Snyder
was very much enraged. Reed had been off hunting on horseback, and
arriving at this moment, remonstrated with Snyder for beating the
cattle, and at the same time offered him the assistance of his team.
Snyder refused the proffered aid, and used abusive language toward both
Reed and Elliott. Reed attempted to calm the enraged man. Both men were
of fiery, passionate dispositions, and words began to multiply rapidly.
When Reed saw that trouble was likely to occur, he said something about
waiting until they got up the hill and settling this matter afterwards.
Snyder evidently construed this to be a threat, and with an oath
replied, "We will settle it now." As Snyder uttered these words,
he struck Reed a blow on the head with the butt-end of his heavy
whip-stock. This blow was followed in rapid succession by a second,
and a third. As the third stroke descended, Mrs. Reed ran between her
husband and the furious man, hoping to prevent the blow. Each time the
whip-stock descended on Reed's head it cut deep gashes. He was blinded
with the blood which streamed from his wounds, and dazed and stunned by
the terrific force of the blows. He saw the cruel whip-stock uplifted,
and knew that his wife was in danger, but had only time to cry "John!
John!" when down came the stroke full upon Mrs. Reed's head and
shoulders. The next instant John Snyder was staggering, speechless
and death-stricken. Reed's hunting-knife had pierced his left breast,
severing the first and second ribs and entering the left lung.

No other portion of the History of the Donner Party, as contributed by
the survivors, has been so variously stated as this Reed-Snyder affair.
Five members of the party, now living, claim to have been eyewitnesses.
The version of two of these, Mrs. J. M. Murphy and Mrs. Frank Lewis,
is the one here published. In the theory of self-defense they are
corroborated by all the early published accounts. This theory was first
advanced in Judge J. Quinn Thornton's work in 1849, and has never
been disputed publicly until within the last two or three years. Due
deference to the valuable assistance rendered by Wm. G. Murphy, of
Marysville, and W. C. Graves, of Calistoga, demands mention of the fact
that their accounts differ in important respects from the one given
above. This is not surprising in view of the thirty-three years which
have elapsed since the occurrence. The history of criminal jurisprudence
justifies the assertion that eye-witnesses of any fatal difficulty
differ materially in regard to important particulars, even when their
testimony is taken immediately after the difficulty. It is not strange,
therefore, that after the lapse of an ordinary life-time a dozen
different versions should have been contributed by the survivors
concerning this unfortunate tragedy. James F. Reed, after nearly a
quarter of a century of active public life in California, died honored
and respected. During his life-time this incident appeared several times
in print, and was always substantially as given in this chapter.
With the single exception of a series of articles contributed to the
Healdsburg Flag by W. C. Graves, two or three years ago, no different
account has ever been published. This explanatory digression from the
narrative is deemed necessary out of respect to the two gentlemen who
conscientiously disagree with Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Lewis. On all other
important subjects the survivors are harmonious or reconcilable.

W. C. Graves, now of Calistoga, caught the dying man in his arms, and in
a few minutes he was carried a little way up the hill and laid upon the
ground. Reed immediately regretted the act and threw the knife from him.
His wife and daughters gathered about him and began to stanch the blood
that flowed from the gashes on his head. He gently pushed them aside and
went to the assistance of the dying man. He and Snyder had always been
firm friends, and Snyder had been most active in securing a team for
Reed after the latter had lost his cattle in the desert. Snyder expired
in about fifteen minutes, and Reed remained by his side until the last.
Patrick Breen came up, and Snyder said, "Uncle Patrick, I am dead." It
is not certain that he spoke again, though Reed's friends claim that he
said to Reed, "I am to blame."

Snyder's death fell like a thunderbolt upon the Donner Party. Camp was
immediately pitched, the Reed family being a little removed down the
hill from the main body of emigrants. Reed felt that he had only
acted in defense of his own life and in defense of the wife he adored.
Nevertheless, it was evident that trouble was brewing in the main camp
where Snyder's body was lying.

The Reed family were in a sad situation. They commenced the journey with
a more costly and complete outfit than the other emigrants, and thereby
had incurred the envy of some of their less fortunate companions. They
had a fine race horse and good stock, and Virginia had a beautiful pony
of her own, and was fond of accompanying her father on his horseback
excursions. From these and other circumstances the Reeds had acquired
the name of being "aristocratic." Ordinarily, this is a term which would
excite a smile, but on this dreadful day it had its weight in inflaming
the minds of the excited emigrants. On the desert Reed had cached many
valuable articles, but all his provisions had been distributed among his
companions. This, however, was forgotten in the turbulent camp, and
the destitute, desolate family could plainly catch the sound of voices
clamoring for Reed's death.

Meantime, Virginia Reed was dressing the wounds on her father's head.
Mrs. Reed was overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, and the father
came to Virginia for assistance. This brave little woman was only twelve
years old, yet in this and all other acts of which there is a record
she displayed a nerve and skillfulness which would have done credit to
a mature woman. The cuts in Reed's scalp were wide and deep. Indeed, the
scars remained to his dying day. In San Jose, long years afterwards,
as James F. Reed lay dead, the gentle breeze from an open window softly
lifted and caressed his gray hair, disclosing plainly the scars left by
these ugly wounds.

Reed entertained none but the friendliest sentiments toward Snyder.
Anxious to do what he could for the dead, he offered the boards of his
wagon-bed from which to make a coffin for Snyder. This offer, made with
the kindliest, most delicate feeling, was rejected by the emigrants. At
the funeral, Reed stood sorrowfully by the grave until the last clod was
placed above the man who had been one of his best friends. A council
was held by the members of the company. A council to decide upon Reed's
fate. It was in the nature of a court, all-powerful, from whose decision
there was no appeal. Breathlessly the fond wife and affectionate
children awaited the verdict. The father was idolized by the mother and
the little ones, and was their only stay and support.

The friendship of the Donner Party for John Snyder, the conflicting and
distorted accounts of the tragedy, and the personal enmity of certain
members of the company toward Reed, resulted in a decree that he should
be banished from the train. The feeling ran so high that at one time
the end of a wagon-tongue was propped up with an ox-yoke by some of the
emigrants with the intention of hanging Reed thereon, but calmer counsel
prevailed.

When the announcement was communicated to Reed that he was to be
banished, he refused to comply with the decree. Conscious that he had
only obeyed the sacred law of self-defense, he refused to accede to an
unjust punishment. Then came the wife's pleadings! Long and earnestly
Mrs. Reed reasoned and begged and prayed with her husband. All was of no
avail until she urged him to remember the want and destitution in which
they and the entire company were already participants. If he remained
and escaped violence at the hands of his enemies, he might nevertheless
see his children starve before his eyes, and be helpless to aid them.
But if he would go forward, if he would reach California, he could
return with provisions, and meet them on the mountains at that point
on the route where they would be in greatest need. It was a fearful
struggle, but finally the mother's counsels prevailed. Prior to setting
out upon his gloomy journey, Mr. Reed made the company promise to care
for his family.

At the time of the Snyder tragedy, George and Jacob Donner, with their
wagons and families, were two days in advance of the main train. Walter
Herron was with them, and, when Reed came up, Herron concluded to
accompany him to California.

It was contemplated that Reed should go out into the wilderness alone,
and with neither food nor ammunition. Happily this part of the programme
was thwarted. The faithful Virginia, in company with Milton Elliott,
followed Mr. Reed after he had started, and carried him his gun and
ammunition. The affectionate girl also managed to carry some crackers to
him, although she and all the company were even then on short allowance.

The sad parting between Reed and his family, and the second parting with
the devoted Virginia, we pass over in silence. James F. Reed, Jr., only
five years old, declared that he would go with his father, and assist
him in obtaining food during the long journey. Even the baby, only two
and a half years old, would fret and worry every time the family sat
down to their meals, lest father should find nothing to eat on his
difficult way. Every day the mother and daughters would eagerly search
for the letter Mr. Reed was sure to leave in the top of some bush, or
in a split stick by the wayside. When he succeeded in killing geese or
ducks, as he frequently did along the Humboldt and Truckee, he would
scatter the feathers about his camping-ground, that his family might see
that he was supplied with food. It is hardly necessary to mention that
Mrs. Reed and the children regarded the father's camping-places as
hallowed ground, and as often as possible kindled their evening fires in
the same spot where his had been kindled.

But a day came when they found no more letters, no further traces of the
father. Was he dead? Had the Indians killed him? Had he starved by the
way? No one could answer, and the mother's cheek grew paler and her dear
eyes grew sadder and more hopeless, until Virginia and Patty both feared
that she, too, was going to leave them. Anxious, grief-stricken, filled
with the belief that her husband was dead, poor Mrs. Reed was fast
dying of a broken heart. But suddenly all her life, and energy, and
determination were again aroused into being by a danger that would
have crushed a nature less noble. A danger that is the most terrible,
horrible, that ever tortured human breast; a danger--that her children,
her babes, must starve to death!

Chapter V.

Starvation now stared the emigrants in the face. The shortest allowance
capable of supporting life was all that was portioned to any member of
the company. At times, some were forced to do without food for a day or
more, until game was procured. The poor cattle were also in a
pitiable condition. Owing to the lateness of the season, the grass was
exceedingly scanty and of a poor quality. Frequently the water was bad,
and filled with alkali and other poisonous deposits. George Donner,
Jacob Donner, Wolfinger, and others, lost cattle at various points along
the Humboldt. Mr. Breen lost a fine mare. The Indians were constantly
hovering around the doomed train, ready to steal cattle, but too
cowardly to make any open hostile attack. Arrows were shot into several
of the oxen by Indians who slipped up near them during the night-time.
At midnight, on the twelfth of October, the party reached the sink of
the Humboldt. The cattle, closely guarded, were turned out to graze
and recruit their wasted strength. About dawn on the morning of the
thirteenth the guard came into camp to breakfast. During the night
nothing had occurred to cause the least apprehension, and no indications
of Indians had been observed. Imagine the consternation in camp when it
was discovered that during the temporary absence of the guard twenty-one
head of cattle had been stolen by the redskins. This left the company
in terribly destitute circumstances. All had to walk who were able. Men,
women, and children were forced to travel on foot all day long, and in
many cases were compelled to carry heavy burdens in order to lessen
the loads drawn by the weary cattle. Wm. G. Murphy remembers distinctly
seeing his brother carrying a copper camp-kettle upon his head. The
Graves family, the Breens, the Donners, the Murphys, the Reeds, all
walked beside the wagons until overpowered with fatigue. The men became
exhausted much sooner, as a rule, than the women. Only the sick, the
little children, and the utterly exhausted, were ever allowed to ride.
Eddy and his wife had lost all their cattle, and each carried one of
their children and such personal effects as they were able. Many in the
train were without shoes, and had to travel barefooted over the weary
sands, and flinty, sharp-edged stones.

On the ninth of October a death had resulted from this necessity
of having to walk. It was a case of desertion, which, under other
circumstances, would have been unpardonably heartless. An old man named
Hardcoop was traveling with Keseberg. He was a cutler by trade, and had
a son and daughter in the city of Antwerp, in Belgium. It is said
he owned a farm near Cincinnati, Ohio, and intended, after visiting
California to dispose of this farm, and with the proceeds return to
Antwerp, for the purpose of spending his declining years with his
children. He was a man of nearly three-score years, and the hardships of
the journey had weakened his trembling limbs and broken down his health.
Sick, feeble, helpless as he was, this old man was compelled to walk
with the others. At last, when his strength gave way, he was forced to
lie down by the roadside to perish of cold and hunger. Who can picture
the agony, the horror, the dreary desolation of such a death? The poor
old man walked until his feet actually burst!--walked until he sank
utterly exhausted by the roadside! It was a terrible death! To see the
train disappear in the distance; to know he was abandoned to die of
exposure and starvation; to think that the wolves would devour his flesh
and gnaw his bones; to lie down on the great desert, hungry, famished,
and completely prostrated by fatigue--to meet death thus is too dreadful
to contemplate.

No one made any attempt to return and find the poor old fellow. This,
however, is partially excused by the overwhelming dangers which now
threatened the entire company. Each hour's delay rendered death in the
Sierra Nevada Mountains more imminent.

About the fourteenth of October, beyond the present site of Wadsworth,
another tragedy occurred. Wolfinger, who was supposed to be quite
wealthy, was in the rear of the train, traveling with Keseberg. At
nightfall, neither of the Germans made his appearance. It happened
that both their wives had walked ahead, and were with the emigrants.
Considering it suspicious that the men did not arrive, and fearing some
evil had befallen them, a party returned to ascertain the cause of
the delay. Before proceeding far, however, Keseberg was met traveling
leisurely along. He assured them that Wolfinger was only a little
way behind, and would be along in a few moments. Reassured by this
information, the party returned with Keseberg to camp and awaited the
arrival of Wolfinger. The night passed, and the missing man had
not appeared. Mrs. Wolfinger was nearly frantic. She was a tall,
queenly-looking lady, of good birth and much refinement. She was
recently from Germany, and understood but little English, yet she was
evidently a wellbred lady. Nearly all the survivors remember the
elegant dresses and costly jewelry she wore during the first part of the
journey. Her grief at her husband's disappearance was so heart-rending
that three young men at last consented to start back in the morning and
endeavor to find Wolfinger. W. C. Graves, from whom this information is
obtained, was one of the three who returned. Five miles back the wagon
was found standing in the road. The oxen had been unhitched, but were
still chained together, and were quietly grazing at a little distance.
There were no signs of Indians, but Wolfinger was not to be found.
At the time it was strongly conjectured that Keseberg had murdered
Wolfinger for his money, and had concealed the body. This was doubtless
unjust, for when Joseph Rhinehart was dying, some weeks later, in George
Donner's tent, he confessed that he (Rhinehart) had something to do
with the murder of Wolfinger. The men hitched the oxen to the wagon, and
drove on until they overtook the emigrants, who, owing to the dangers
by which they were encompassed, felt compelled to pursue their onward
journey. The team was given to Mrs. Wolfinger, and she employed a German
by the name of Charles Burger to drive it thereafter. Little was said
about the affair at the time. Mrs. Wolfinger supposed the Indians had
killed her husband.

On the nineteenth of October, C. T. Stanton was met returning with
provisions. The company was near the present town of Wadsworth, Nevada.
A great rejoicing was held over the brave man's return. McCutchen
had been severely ill, and was unable to return with Stanton. But the
latter, true to his word, recrossed the Sierra, and met the emigrants at
a time when they were on the verge of starvation. He had brought seven
mules, five of which were loaded with flour and dried beef. Captain
Sutter had furnished these mules and the provisions, together with two
Indian vaqueros, without the slightest compensation or security.
The Indians, Lewis and Salvador, would assist in caring for the
pack-animals, and would also be efficient guides. Without Stanton's
aid the entire party would have been lost; not a single soul would have
escaped. The provisions, though scant, were sufficient to entirely alter
the situation of affairs. Had the party pressed immediately forward,
they could have passed the summits before the storms began. For some
cause, however, it was concluded to rest the cattle for a few days
near the present site of Reno, preparatory to attempting to ascend
the difficult Sierra. Three or four days' time was lost. This loss was
fatal. The storms on the mountains generally set in about Thanksgiving,
or during the latter days of November. The emigrants trusted that the
storm season of 1846 would not begin earlier than usual. Alas! the
terrible consequences of this mistaken trust!

After the arrival of Stanton, it was still deemed necessary to take
further steps for the relief of the train. The generosity of Captain
Sutter, as shown to Stanton, warranted them in believing that he would
send still further supplies to the needy emigrants. Accordingly, two
brothers-in-law, William Foster and William Pike, both brave and daring
spirits, volunteered to go on ahead, cross the summits, and return with
provisions as Stanton had done. Both men had families, and both were
highly esteemed in the company. At the encampment near Reno, Nevada,
while they were busily preparing to start, the two men were cleaning
or loading a pistol. It was an old-fashioned "pepper-box." It happened,
while they were examining it, that wood was called for to replenish
the fire. One of the men offered to procure it, and in order to do so,
handed the pistol to the other. Everybody knows that the "pepper-box"
is a very uncertain weapon. Somehow, in the transfer, the pistol was
discharged. William Pike was fatally wounded, and died in about twenty
minutes. Mrs. Pike was left a widow, with two small children. The
youngest, Catherine, was a babe of only a few months old, and Naomi was
only three years of age. The sadness and distress occasioned by this
mournful accident, cast a gloom over the entire company, and seemed an
omen of the terrible fate which overshadowed the Donner Party.

Generally, the ascent of the Sierra brought joy and gladness to weary
overland emigrants. To the Donner Party it brought terror and dismay.
The company had hardly obtained a glimpse of the mountains, ere the
winter storm clouds began to assemble their hosts around the loftier
crests. Every day the weather appeared more ominous and threatening. The
delay at the Truckee Meadows had been brief, but every day ultimately
cost a dozen lives. On the twenty-third of October, they became
thoroughly alarmed at the angry heralds of the gathering storm, and with
all haste resumed the journey. It was too late! At Prosser Creek, three
miles below Truckee, they found themselves encompassed with six inches
of snow. On the summits, the snow was from two to five feet in depth.
This was October 28, 1846. Almost a month earlier than usual, the Sierra
had donned its mantle of and snow. The party were prisoners. All was
consternation. The wildest confusion prevailed. In their eagerness,
many, went far in advance of the main train. There was little concert
of action or harmony of plan. All did not arrive at Donner Lake the
same day. Some wagons and families did not reach the lake until the
thirty-first day of October, some never went further than Prosser Creek,
while others, on the evening of the twenty-ninth, struggled through the
snow, and reached the foot of the precipitous cliffs between the summit
and the upper end of the lake. Here, baffled, wearied, disheartened,
they turned back to the foot of the lake.

Several times during the days which succeeded, parties attempted to
cross the mountain barrier. W. C. Graves says the old emigrant road
followed up Cold Stream, and so crossed the dividing ridge. Some wagons
were drawn up this old road, almost to the top of the pass, others were
taken along the north side of Donner Lake, and far up toward the summit.
Some of these wagons never were returned to the lake, but were left
imbedded in the snow. These efforts to cross the Sierra were quite
desultory and irregular, and there was great lack of harmony and system.
Each family or each little group of emigrants acted independently.

At last, one day, a determined and systematic attempt was made to cross
the summit. Nearly the entire train was engaged in the work. The road,
of course, was entirely obliterated by the snow. Guided only by the
general contour of the country, all hands pressed resolutely forward.
Here, large bowlders and irregular jutting cliffs would intercept
the way; there, dizzy precipices, yawning chasms, and deep, irregular
canyons would interpose, and anon a bold, impassable mountain of rock
would rear its menacing front directly across their path. All day long
the men and animals floundered through the snow, and attempted to
break and trample a road. Just before nightfall they reached the abrupt
precipice where the present wagon-road intercepts the snow-sheds of the
Central Pacific. Here the poor mules and oxen had been utterly unable to
find a foothold on the slippery, snow-covered rocks. All that day it had
been raining slightly--a dismal, drizzling, discouraging rain. Most of
the wagons had been left at the lake, and the mules and oxen had been
packed with provisions and necessary articles. Even at this day some of
the survivors are unable to repress a ripple of merriment as they recall
the manner in which the oxen bucked and bellowed when the unaccustomed
packs were strapped upon their backs. Stanton had stoutly insisted upon
taking the mules over the mountains. Perhaps he did not wish to return
to Capt. Sutter without the property which he had borrowed. Many in
the train dissented from this proposition, and endeavored to induce the
Indians, Lewis and Salvador, to leave Stanton, and guide them over the
summits. The Indians realized the imminent danger of each hour's
delay, and would probably have yielded to the solicitations of these
disaffected parties, had not Stanton made them believe that Capt. Sutter
would hang them if they returned to the Fort without the mules. This
incident is mentioned to illustrate the great differences of opinion and
interest which prevailed. Never, from the moment the party encountered
the first difficulties on the Hastings Cut-off until this fatal night in
November, did the members of the company ever agree upon any important
proposition. This night all decided upon a plan for the morrow. The
great and overwhelming danger made them forget their petty animosities,
and united them in one harmonious resolve. On the morrow the mules and
cattle were all to be slain, and the meat was to be stored away for
future emergency. The wagons, with their contents, were to be left
at the lake, and the entire party were to cross the summits on foot.
Stanton had become perfectly satisfied that the mules could not reach
the mountain-top, and readily consented to the proposed plan.

Returning to the lake they sought their weary couches, comforted with
the thought that tomorrow should see all the Donner Party safely over
the summit. That night a heavy snow fell at the lake. It was a night of
untold terror! The emigrants suffered a thousand deaths. The pitiless
snow came down in large, steady masses. All understood that the storm
meant death. One of the Indians silently wrapped his blanket about him
and in deepest dejection seated himself beside a tall pine. In this
position he passed the entire night, only moving occasionally to keep
from being covered with snow. Mrs. Reed spread down a shawl, placed her
four children, Virginia, Patty, James, and Thomas, thereon, and putting
another shawl over them, sat by the side of her babies during all the
long hours of darkness. Every little while she was compelled to lift the
upper shawl and shake off the rapidly accumulating snow.

With slight interruptions, the storm continued several days. The mules
and oxen that had always hovered about camp were blinded and bewildered
by the storm, and straying away were literally buried alive in the
drifts. What pen can describe the horror of the position in which the
emigrants found themselves! It was impossible to move through the deep,
soft snow without the greatest effort. The mules were gone, and were
never found. Most of the cattle had perished, and were wholly hidden
from sight. The few oxen which were found were slaughtered for beef. All
were not killed during any one day, but the emigrants gave this business
their immediate attention, because aside from the beef and a few slight
provisions, the entire party were completely destitute. Mrs. Breen was
compelled to attend personally to the slaughtering of their cattle,
because her husband was an invalid. This family had by far the largest
stock of meat. Too great praise can not be ascribed to Mrs. Breen for
the care and forethought with which she stored up this food for her
children. The meat was simply laid away in piles, like cordwood, and by
the action of the frost was kept fresh until consumed. Mrs. Reed had no
cattle to kill. She succeeded, however, in purchasing two beeves from
Mr. Graves, and two from Mr. Breen, pledging herself to pay when the
journey was ended. Mr. Eddy also purchased one ox of Mr. Graves.

The flesh of many of the cattle which strayed away, and were buried
several feet under the snow, was nevertheless recovered by their owners.
It was soon ascertained that the cattle had endeavored to seek shelter
from the fury of the storm by getting under the branches of the bushiest
trees. Going to these trees, the emigrants would thrust down long poles
with sharpened nails in the ends of them. By thus probing about in the
snow, the whereabouts of a number of cattle was discovered, and the
bodies were speedily dug out of the drifts.

Realizing that the winter must be passed in the mountains, the emigrants
made such preparations as they could for shelter. One cabin was already
constructed. It was located about a quarter of a mile below the foot of
the lake. It had been built in November, 1844, by Moses Schallenberger,
Joseph Foster, and Allen Montgomery. Moses Schallenberger now resides
three and a half miles from San Jose, and when recently interviewed
by Mrs. S. O. Houghton, nee Eliza P. Donner, gave a very complete and
interesting account of the building of this cabin, and the sufferings
endured by his party. This cabin, known as the Breen cabin, is so
intimately connected and interwoven with future chapters in the
History of the Donner Party, that the following items, taken from Mr.
Schallenberger's narration, can not prove uninteresting:

"Mr. Schallenberger's party reached Donner Lake about the middle
of November, 1844, having with them a large quantity of goods for
California. Their cattle being very poor, and much fatigued by the
journey, the party decided to remain here long enough to build a cabin
in which to store their goods until spring. They also decided to leave
some one to look after their stores, while the main portion of the party
would push on to the settlement. Foster, Montgomery, and Schallenberger
built the cabin. Two days were spent in its construction. It was built
of pine saplings, and roofed with pine brush and rawhides. It was twelve
by fourteen feet, and seven or eight feet high, with a chimney in one
end, built "western style." One opening, through which light, air, and
the occupants passed, served as a window and door. A heavy fall of snow
began the day after the cabin was completed and continued for a number
of days. Schallenberger, who was only seventeen years old, volunteered
to remain with Foster and Montgomery. The party passed on, leaving very
little provisions for the encamped. The flesh of one miserably poor cow
was their main dependence, yet the young men were not discouraged. They
were accustomed to frontier life, and felt sure they could provide for
themselves. Bear and deer seemed abundant in the surrounding mountains.
Time passed; the snow continued falling, until it was from ten to
fifteen feet deep. The cow was more than half consumed, and the game had
been driven out of the mountains by the storms.

"The sojourners in that lonely camp became alarmed at the prospect of
the terrible fate which seemed to threaten them, and they determined to
find their way across the mountains. They started and reached the summit
the first night after leaving their camp. Here, young Schallenberger was
taken ill with severe cramps. The following day he was unable to proceed
more than a few feet without falling to the ground. It was evident to
his companions that he could go no farther. They did not like to leave
him, nor did they wish to remain where death seemed to await them.
Finally Schallenberger told them if they would take him back to the
cabin he would remain there and they could go on. This they did, and
after making him as comfortable as possible, they bade him good-by,
and he was left alone in that mountain wild. A strong will and an
unflinching determination to live through all the threatening dangers,
soon raised him from his bed and nerved him to action. He found some
steel traps among the goods stored, and with them caught foxes, which
constituted his chief or only article of food, until rescued by the
returning party, March 1, 1845."

The Breen family moved into the Schallenberger cabin. Against the west
side of this cabin, Keseberg built a sort of half shed, into which he
and his family entered. The Murphys erected a cabin nearer the lake.
The site of this cabin is plainly marked by a large stone about ten or
twelve feet high, one side of which rises almost perpendicularly from
the ground. Against this perpendicular side the Murphys erected the
building which was to shelter them during the winter. It was about three
hundred yards from the shore of Donner Lake, and near the wide marshy
outlet. The Breen and Murphy cabins were distant from each other about
one hundred and fifty yards. The Graves family built a house close by
Donner Creek, and half or three quarters of a mile further down the
stream. Adjoining this, forming a double cabin, the Reeds built. The
Donner brothers, Jacob and George, together with their families, camped
in Alder Creek Valley, six or seven miles from Donner Lake. They were,
if possible, in a worse condition than the others, for they had only
brush sheds and their tents to shield them from the wintry weather. Mrs.
John App (Leanna C. Donner), of Jamestown, Tuolumne County, writes: "We
had no time to build a cabin. The snow came on so suddenly that we had
barely time to pitch our tent, and put up a brush shed, as it were, one
side of which was open. This brush shed was covered with pine boughs,
and then covered with rubber coats, quilts, etc. My uncle, Jacob Donner,
and family, also had a tent, and camped near us."

Crowded in their ill-prepared dwellings, the emigrants could not feel
otherwise than gloomy and despondent. The small quantity of provisions
became so nearly exhausted that it is correct to say they were compelled
to live on meat alone, without so much as salt to give it a relish.
There was an abundance of beautiful trout in the lake, but no one
could catch them. W. C. Graves tells how he went fishing two or three
different times, but without success. The lake was not frozen over at
first, and fish were frequently seen; but they were too coy and wary to
approach such bait as was offered. Soon thick ice covered the water, and
after that no one attempted to fish. In fact, the entire party seemed
dazed by the terrible calamity which had overtaken them.

Chapter VI.

Endeavors to Cross the Mountains
Discouraging Failures
Eddy Kills a Bear
Making SnowShoes
Who Composed the "Forlorn Hope"
Mary A. Graves
An Irishman
A Generous Act
Six Days' Rations
Mary Graves Account
Snow-Blind
C. T. Stanton's Death
"I am Coming Soon"
Sketch of Stanton's Early Life
His Charity and Self-Sacrifice
The Diamond Breastpin
Stanton's Last Poem.

All knew that death speedily awaited the entire company unless some
could cross over the mountain barrier and hasten back relief parties.
Out of the list of ninety persons mentioned in the first chapter, only
Mrs. Sarah Keyes, Halloran, Snyder, Hardcoop, Wolfinger, and Pike had
perished, and only three, Messrs. Reed, Herron, and McCutchen, had
reached California. This left eighty-one persons at the mountain camps.
It was resolved that at the earliest possible moment the strongest and
ablest of the party should endeavor to cross the summits and reach the
settlements. Accordingly, on the twelfth of November, a party of twelve
or fifteen persons set out from the cabins. It was found impossible,
however, to make any considerable headway in the soft, deep snow, and at
midnight they returned to the cabins. They had not succeeded in getting
more than a mile above the head of the lake. In this party were Mr. F.
W. Graves and his two daughters, Mary A. Graves, and Mrs. Sarah Fosdick.
The rest, with the exception of Jay Fosdick and Wm. H. Eddy, were young,
unmarried men, as, for instance, Stanton, Smith, Spitzer, Elliott,
Antoine, John Baptiste, and the two Indians. It was comparatively a
trifling effort, but it seemed to have the effect of utterly depressing
the hopes of several of these men. With no one in the camps dependent
upon them, without any ties of relationship, or bonds of affection,
these young men were be first to attempt to escape from their prison
walls of snow. Failing in this, many of them never again rallied or made
a struggle for existence. Not so, however, with those who were heads
of families. A gun was owned by William Foster, and with it, on the
fourteenth of November, three miles north of Truckee, near the present
Alder Creek Mill, Mr. Eddy succeeded in killing a bear. This event
inspired many hearts with courage; but, alas it was short-lived. No
other game could be found except two or three wild ducks. What were
these among eighty-one people! Mr. F. W. Graves was a native of Vermont,
and his boyhood days had been spent in sight of the Green Mountains.
Somewhat accustomed to snow, and to pioneer customs, Mr. Graves was the
only member of the party who understood how to construct snow-shoes. The
unsuccessful attempt made by the first party proved that no human being
could walk upon the loose snow without some artificial assistance. By
carefully sawing the ox-bows into strips, so as to preserve their curved
form, Mr. Graves, by means of rawhide thongs, prepared very serviceable
snow-shoes. Fourteen pair of shoes were made in this manner. It was
certain death for all to remain in camp, and yet the first attempt had
shown that it was almost equally certain death to attempt to reach the
settlements. There was not food for all, and yet the ones who undertook
to cross the mountains were undoubtedly sacrificing their lives for
those who remained in camp. If some should go, those who were left
behind might be able to preserve life until spring, or until relief
came. The stoutest hearts quailed before the thought of battling with
the deep drifts, the storms, and the unknown dangers which lurked on
the summits. The bravest shuddered at the idea of leaving the cabins
and venturing out into the drear and dismal wilderness of snow. Yet they
could count upon their fingers the days that would elapse before the
provisions would be exhausted, and starvation would ensue, if none left
the camps.

Day after day, with aching hearts and throbbing brows, the poor
imprisoned wretches gazed into each other's faces in blank despair.
Who should be sacrificed? Who would go out and seek a grave 'neath the
crashing avalanche, the treacherous drifts, or in the dreary famished
wilderness, that those left behind might live? Who would be the forlorn
hope of the perishing emigrants?

Once, Messrs. Patrick Breen, Patrick Dolan, Lewis Keseberg, and W.
H. Eddy, are said to have attempted to reach the summit. On another
occasion these same parties, with Mrs. Reed and family, Mr. Stanton and
the two Indians, made an unsuccessful attempt. Still another time, a
large party, among whom were Mrs. Murphy and the older members of her
family, made the effort, and even succeeded in crossing the topmost
ridge and reaching Summit Valley, one and a half miles west of the
summit. But all these parties were forced to return to the cabins, and
each failure confirmed the belief that no living being could cross the
mountains. In this manner time dragged wearily along until the tenth,
or, as some say, the sixteenth of December. The mere matter of the date
is of trifling importance. At all events a forlorn hope was organized.
Seventeen names were enrolled as volunteers. Of these, Charles Burger
went only a short distance, turning back weary and exhausted. Wm. G.
Murphy, who is described as a most brave and resolute boy of eleven
years of age, accompanied the party as far as the head of Donner Lake.
He and his brother Lemuel were without snowshoes. It was expected they
would step in the beaten tracks of those who had shoes, but this was
soon proven to be utterly impracticable. The party made snow-shoes for
Lemuel on the first night, out of the aparajos which had been brought by
Stanton from Sutter's Fort. Wm. G. Murphy saved his life by returning
to the cabins. No human being could have endured the trip without
snow-shoes. Fifteen remained in the party, and these pressed forward
without so much as daring to look back to the dear ones whose lives
depended upon this terrible venture. Without forgetting William G.
Murphy and Charles Burger, who started with this little band, the first
party who crossed the Sierra will in future be termed the fifteen.
Who composed this party? Mothers, whose babes would starve unless the
mothers went; fathers, whose wives and children would perish if the
fathers did not go; children, whose aged parents could not survive
unless the children, by leaving, increased the parents' share of food.
Each were included in the forlorn hope.

It was time for some one to leave the cabins. During the days that had
elapsed, no word had been received from the Donner brothers at Alder
Creek, nor from the emigrants who camped with them. Alder Creek is a
branch of Prosser Creek, and the Donners encamped on the former stream
about a mile and a half above the junction.

On the ninth of December, Milton Elliott and Noah James started back to
learn some tidings of these people. Soon after they left the camps at
the lake, a terrific storm came down from the mountains, and as nothing
had been heard from them, it was considered certain they had perished.

About this time, starvation and exposure had so preyed upon one of the
company, Augustus Spitzer, that one day he came reeling and staggering
into the Breen cabin and fell prostrate and helpless upon the floor.
Poor fellow, he never rallied, although by careful nursing and kindest
attentions he lingered along for some weeks. The emigrants were no
longer on short allowance, they were actually starving! Oh! the horror!
the dread alarm which prevailed among the company! C. T. Stanton, ever
brave, courageous, lion-hearted, said, "I will bring help to these
famishing people or lay down my life." F. W. Graves, who was one of the
noblest men who ever breathed the breath of life, was next to volunteer.
Mr. and Mrs. Graves had nine children, the youngest being only nine
months old. Generously had they parted with the cattle which they
brought to the lake, dividing equally with those families who had
no food. Mary A. Graves and her elder sister, Mrs. Sarah Fosdick,
determined to accompany their father, and as will presently be seen,
their hearts failed not during trials which crushed strong men. Mary
Graves was about nineteen years old. She was a very beautiful girl,
of tall and slender build, and exceptionally graceful carriage. Her
features, in their regularity, were of classic Grecian mold. Her eyes
were dark, bright, and expressive. A fine mouth and perfect set of
teeth, added to a luxuriant growth of dark, rebelliously wavy hair,
completed an almost perfect picture of lovely girlhood. Jay Fosdick
resolved to share with his wife the perils of the way. Mrs. Murphy
offered to take care of the infant children of her married daughters,
Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Pike, if they would join the party. The dear, good
mother argued that what the daughters would eat would keep her and the
little ones from starving. It was nobly said, yet who can doubt but
that, with clearer vision, the mother saw that only by urging them to
go, could she save her daughters' lives. With what anguish did Mrs.
Harriet F. Pike enroll her name among those of the "Forlorn Hope,"
and bid good-by to her little two-year-old Naomi and her nursing babe,
Catherine! What bitter tears were shed by Mr. and Mrs. Foster when they
kissed their beautiful baby boy farewell! Alas! though they knew it not,
it was a long, long farewell. Mrs. Eddy was too feeble to attempt the
journey, and the family were so poorly provided with food that Mr. Eddy
was compelled to leave her and the two little children in the cabins,
and go with the party. Mrs. McCutchen also had an infant babe, and Mrs.
Graves employed the same reasoning with her that Mrs. Murphy had so
effectively used with Mrs. Pike and Mrs. Foster. That these three young
mothers left their infant children, their nursing babes, with others,
and started to find relief, is proof stronger than words, of the
desperate condition of the starving emigrants. The Mexican Antoine, the
two Indians Lewis and Salvador, and an Irishman named Patrick Dolan,
completed the fifteen. This Patrick Dolan deserves more than a passing
word. He had owned a farm in Keokuk, Iowa, and selling it, had taken as
the price, a wagon, four oxen, and two cows. With these he joined the
Donner Party, and on reaching the lake had killed his cattle and stored
them away with those killed by the Breens. Dolan was a bachelor, and
about forty years of age. He was possessed of two or three hundred
dollars in coin, but instead of being miserly or selfish, was
characterized by generous openheartedness. "When it became apparent that
there was to be suffering and starvation" (this quotation is from the
manuscript of Hon. James F. Breen), "Dolan determined to lighten the
burden at the camps, and leave with the party that was to attempt the
passage of the summit, so that there should be less to consume the scant
supply of provisions. Previous to his departure, he asked my father
(Patrick Breen) to attend to the wants of Reed's family, and to give of
his (Dolan's) meat to Reed's family as long as possible." Accordingly,
Mrs. Reed and her children were taken into Breen's cabin, where, as
mentioned above, Dolan's meat was stored. Was ever a more generous act
recorded? Patrick Dolan had no relative in the Donner Party, and no
friends, save those whose friendship had been formed upon the plains.
With the cattle which belonged to him he could have selfishly subsisted
until relief came, but, whole-souled Irishman that he was, he gave food
to the mothers and the children and went out into the waste of snow to
perish of starvation! How many who live to-day owe their existence to
Patrick Dolan's self-sacrifice! This blue-eyed, brown haired Irishman
is described as being of a jovial disposition, and inclined to look
upon the bright side of things. Remembering how he gave his life for
strangers, how readily can we appreciate Mr. Breen's tender tribute: "He
was a favorite with children, and would romp and play with a child." As
a token of appreciation for his kindness, Mrs. Reed gave Patrick Dolan a
gold watch and a Masonic emblem belonging to her husband, bidding him
to keep them until he was rewarded for his generosity. The good mother's
word had a significance she wot not of. When Mrs. Reed reached Sutter's
Fort she found these valuables awaiting her. They had been brought in by
Indians. Patrick Dolan had kept them until his death--until the angels
came and bore him away to his reward.

This party of fifteen had taken provisions to last only six days. At the
end of this time they hoped to reach Bear Valley, so they said, but it
is more than probable they dared not take more food from their dear
ones at the cabins. Six days' rations! This means enough of the poor,
shriveled beef to allow each person, three times a day, a piece the size
of one's two fingers. With a little coffee and a little loaf sugar,
this was all. They had matches, Foster's gun, a hatchet, and each a thin
blanket. With this outfit they started to cross the Sierra. No person,
unaccustomed to snow-shoes, can form an idea of the difficulty which is
experienced during one's first attempt to walk with them. Their shoes
would sink deep into the loose, light snow, and it was with great effort
they made any progress. They had been at Donner Lake from forty-two to
forty-six days, and on this first night of their journey had left it
four miles behind them. After a dreadful day's work they encamped, in
full sight of the lake and of the cabins. This was harder for the aching
hearts of the mothers than even the terrible parting from their little
ones. To see the smoke of the cabins, to awake from their troubled
dreams, thinking they heard the cry of their starving babes, to stifle
the maternal yearnings which prompted them to turn back and perish with
their darlings clasped to their breasts, were trials almost unbearable.
The next day they traveled six miles. They crossed the summit, and the
camps were no longer visible. They were in the solemn fastnesses of the
snow-mantled Sierra. Lonely, desolate, forsaken apparently by God and
man, their situation was painfully, distressingly terrible. The snow
was, wrapped about cliff and forest and gorge. It varied in depth from
twelve to sixty feet.

Mrs. M. A. Clarke (Mary Graves), now of White River, Tulare County,
speaking of this second day, says: "We had a very slavish day's travel,
climbing the divide. Nothing of interest occurred until reaching the
summit. The scenery was too grand for me to pass without notice, the
changes being so great; walking now on loose snow, and now stepping on a
hard, slick rock a number of hundred yards in length. Being a little
in the rear of the party, I had a chance to observe the company ahead,
trudging along with packs on their backs. It reminded me of some
Norwegian fur company among the icebergs. My shoes were ox-bows,
split in two, and rawhide strings woven in, something in form of the
old-fashioned, split-bottomed chairs. Our clothes were of the bloomer
costume, and generally were made of flannel. Well do I remember a remark
one of the company made here, that we were about as near heaven as we
could get. We camped a little on the west side of the summit the second
night."

Here they gathered a few boughs, kindled a fire upon the surface of the
snow, boiled their coffee, and ate their pitiful allowance of beef; then
wrapping their toil-worn bodies in their blankets, lay down upon the
snow. As W. C. Graves remarks, it was a bed that was soft, and white,
and beautiful, and yet it was a terrible bed--a bed of death. The third
day they walked five miles. Starting almost at dawn, they struggled
wearily through the deep drifts, and when the night shadows crept over
crag and pine and mountain vale, they were but five miles on their
journey. They did not speak during the day, except when speech was
absolutely necessary. All traveled silently, and with downcast eyes.
The task was beginning to tell upon the frames of even the strongest and
most resolute. The hunger that continually gnawed at their vitals, the
excessive labor of moving the heavy, clumsy snow-shoes through the soft,
yielding snow, was too much for human endurance. They could no longer
keep together and aid each other with words of hope. They struggled
along, sometimes at great distances apart. The fatigue and dazzling
sunlight rendered some of them snowblind. One of these was the
noble-hearted Stanton. On this third day he was too blind and weak to
keep up with the rest, and staggered into the camp long after the others
had finished their pitiful supper. Poor, brave, generous Stanton! He
said little, but in his inner heart he knew that the end of his journey
was almost at hand.

Who was this heroic being who left the beautiful valleys of the
Sacramento to die for strangers? See him wearily toiling onward during
the long hours of the fourth day. The agony and blindness of his eyes
wring no cry from his lips, no murmur, no word of complaint. With
patient courage and heroic fortitude he strives to keep pace with his
companions, but finds it impossible. Early in the morning he drops to
the rear, and is soon lost to sight. At night he drags his weary limbs
into camp long after his comrades are sleeping 'neath the silent stars.
It must be remembered that they had been accustomed to short allowance
of food for months, while he had been used to having an abundance. Their
bodies had been schooled to endure famine, privations, and long, weary
walks. For many days before reaching the mountains, they had been used
to walking every day, in order to lighten the burdens of the perishing
oxen. Fatigues which exhausted them crushed Stanton. The weather was
clear and pleasant, but the glare of the sun during the day had been
like molten fire to their aching eyes.

On the morning of the fifth day Stanton was sitting smoking by the
smoldering fire when the company resumed its journey. Mary Graves, who
had a tender heart for the suffering of others, went kindly up to him,
and asked him if he were coming. "Yes," he replied, "I am coming
soon." Was he answering her, or the unseen spirits that even then were
beckoning him to the unknown world? "Yes, I am coming soon!" These were
his last words. His companions were too near death's door to return when
they found he came not, and so he perished. He had begged them piteously
to lead him, during the first days of his blindness, but seeming
to realize that they were unable to render assistance, he ceased to
importune, and heroically met his fate. He did not blame his comrades.
They were weak, exhausted, and ready to die of starvation. With food
nearly gone, strength failing, hope lost, and nothing left but the last,
blind, clinging instinct of life, it was impossible that the perishing
company should have aided the perishing Stanton. He was a hero of the
highest, noblest, grandest stamp. No words can ever express a fitting
tribute to his memory. He gave his life for strangers who had not the
slightest claim to the sacrifice. He left the valleys where friends,
happiness, and abundance prevailed, to perish amidst chilling
snow-drifts--famished and abandoned. The act of returning to save the
starving emigrants is as full of heroic grandeur as his death is replete
with mournful desolation.

In May, 1847, W. C. Graves, in company with a relief party, found the
remains of C. T. Stanton near the spot where he had been left by his
companions. The wild animals had partially devoured his body, but the
remains were easily identified by means of his clothing and pistols.

The following sketch of this hero is kindly furnished by his brother,
Sidney Stanton, of Cazenovia, New York:

"Charles Tyler Stanton was born at Pompey, Onondaga County, New York,
March 11, 1811. He was five feet five inches in height. He had brown
eyes and brown hair. He possessed a robust constitution, and although
rather slender during his youth, at the age of fifteen he became strong
and hearty, and could endure as great hardships as any of his brothers.
He had five brothers and four sisters, and was the seventh child. His
grandparents, on his father's side, were well off at the close of the
revolutionary war, but sold their large farms, and took Continental
money in payment. Soon afterward this money became worthless, and they
lost all. They were at the time living in Berkshire, Massachusetts,
but soon after removed west to the county where C. T. Stanton was born.
There were in his father's family fourteen children--seven sons and
seven daughters."

In his younger days Stanton was engaged as a clerk in a store. He was
honest, industrious, and greatly beloved by those with whom he came in
contact. His early education was limited, but during his employment as
clerk he used every possible endeavor to improve his mind. During his
journey across the plains, he was regarded as somewhat of a savant,
on account of his knowledge of botany, geology, and other branches of
natural science. His disposition was generous to a fault. He never was
happier than when bestowing assistance upon needy friends. His widowed
mother, for whom he entertained the most devoted affection, was kindly
cared for by him until her death in 1835. After this sad event he
removed to Chicago. At Chicago he made money rapidly for a time, and his
hand was ever ready to give aid to those about him. Charity and heroic
self-sacrifice appear to have been his predominant characteristics. They
stand out in bold relief, not only in his early history, but during his
connection with the Donner Party. While in the mountains he had no money
to give, but instead he gave his strength, his energy, his love, his
all, his very life, for his companions.

That he had a premonition of the gloomy fate which overtook him in the
Sierra, or at least that he fully realized the perils to which he was
exposing his life, is indicated by the following incident: When he set
out from Sutter's Fort to return to the Donner train with provisions, he
left a vest with Captain Sutter. In one of the pockets of this vest was
subsequently found a package directed to the Captain with the following
memorandum: "Captain Sutter will send the within, in the event of my
death, to Sidney Stanton, Syracuse, New York." The package contained a
diamond breastpin. Mr. Sidney Stanton writes as follows concerning this
keepsake:

"I will give you a short history or account of the pin which was left
for me at Sutter's Fort, which Mr. McKinstry forwarded to me. This was
an event so peculiar at the time. He visited me here at Syracuse, while
he was prospering in Chicago. He was on his way to New York, and wanted
a sum of money, which I advanced. Before leaving he fastened this pin on
the dress of my wife, remarking that she must consider it as a present
from him. Nothing more was thought of this event until he again wanted
money. Misfortune had overtaken him, and this event gave him much pain,
not so much on his own account as because he could not relieve the
distress of dear friends when asked for aid. I sent him a little more
money; I had not much to spare, and in talking the matter over with my
wife, she asked, 'Why not send him the pin? It is valuable, and in time
of need he might dispose of it for his comfort.' In saying this she
took the ground that it was left with her as a pledge, not as a gift. I
therefore handed it to my sister to send to him for this purpose. But it
appears by his keeping it and sending it back in the way he did, that he
did consider it a gift, and hence he would not and did not dispose of it
for necessary things for his own comfort. This pin was the only thing of
value which he had at the time of his death."

Stanton was an excellent writer. His descriptions of his travels from
Chicago to the South would make a good-sized and a very interesting
book. His last composition is given below. It is an appropriate ending
to this brief outline of the history of one who should be regarded as
one of the noblest of California's pioneer heroes:

"To My Mother In Heaven."

"Oh, how that word my soul inspires
With holy, fond, and pure desires!
Maternal love, how bright the flame!
For wealth of worlds I'd not profane
Nor idly breathe thy sacred name,
My mother."

"Thy sainted spirit dwells on high.
How oft I weep, how oft I sigh
Whene'er I think of bygone time,
Thy smile of love, which once was mine,
That look so heavenly and divine,
My mother."

"Thy warning voice in prayers of love,
Ascending to the throne above
With tones of eloquence so rife,
Hath turned my thoughts from worldly strife,
And cheered me through my wayward life,
My mother."

"When death shall close my sad career,
And I before my God appear
There to receive His last decree
My only prayer there will be
Forever to remain with thee,
My mother."

Chapter VII.

A Wife's Devotion
The Smoky Gorge
Caught in a Storm
Casting Lots to See Who should Die
A Hidden River
The Delirium of Starvation
Franklin Ward Graves
His Dying Advice
A Frontiersman's Plan
The Camp of Death
A Dread Resort
A Sister's Agony
The Indians Refuse to Eat
Lewis and Salvador Flee for Their Lives
Killing a Deer
Tracks Marked by Blood
Nine Days without Food.

Let no one censure Stanton's companions for abandoning their brave
comrade. In less than twenty-four hours all were without food, unless,
indeed, it was Mr. Eddy, who, in his narration published by Judge
Thornton, states that on the day of Stanton's death he found half a
pound of bear's meat which had been secreted in a little bag by his
wife. Attached to this meat was a paper, upon which his wife had written
in pencil a note signed, "Your own dear Eleanor." Mr. Eddy had not
discovered this meat until the sorest hour of need, and the hope
expressed in Mrs. Eddy's note, that it would be the means of saving his
life, was literally fulfilled. There is something extremely touching in
the thought that this devoted wife, who, as will presently be seen,
was starving to death in the cabins, saved her husband's life by
clandestinely concealing about his person a portion of the food which
should have sustained herself and her infant children.

In the account given by Mary Graves, is mentioned the following incident
in the fourth day's travel: "Observing by the way a deep gorge at the
right, having the appearance of being full of smoke, I wanted very much
to go to it, but the Indians said no, that was not the way. I prevailed
on the men to fire the gun, but there was no answer. Every time we
neared the gorge I would halloo at the top of my voice, but we received
no answer."

On this day the horror of the situation was increased by the
commencement of a snow-storm. As the flakes fell thick and fast, the
party sat down in the snow utterly discouraged and heartsick.

Mary Graves says: "What to do we did not know. We held a consultation,
whether to go ahead without provisions, or go back to the cabins, where
we must undoubtedly starve. Some of those who had children and families
wished to go back, but the two Indians said they would go on to Captain
Sutter's. I told them I would go too, for to go back and hear the cries
of hunger from my little brothers and sisters was more than I could
stand. I would go as far as I could, let the consequences be what they
might."

There, in the deep, pitiless storm, surrounded on all sides by desolate
wastes of snow, the idea was first advanced that life might be sustained
if some one were to perish. Since leaving the cabins, they had at no
time allowed themselves more than one ounce of meat per meal, and for
two entire days they had not tasted food. The terrible pangs of hunger
must be speedily allayed or death was inevitable. Some one proposed that
lots be cast to see who should die. The terrible proposition met with
opposition from Foster and others, but slips of paper were actually
prepared by some of the men, and he who drew the longest--the fatal
slip--was Patrick Dolan. Who should take Dolan's life? Who was to be
the executioner of the man who had so generously given up the food which
might have sustained his life, and joined the forlorn hope that others
might live? With one accord they rose to their feet and staggered
forward. As if to banish from their minds the horrid thought of taking
Dolan's life, they attempted to pursue their journey.

With the greatest exertion and suffering they managed to crawl, and
stagger, and flounder along until they attained a distance of two or
three miles. Here they camped, and passed a most wretched, desolate
night. The morning dawned; it was dreary, rainy, and discouraging. The
little party set out as usual, but were too weak and lifeless to travel.
The soft snow clung to their feet in heavy lumps like snow-balls.
Instead of making a fire in a new place, Mary Graves says they crawled
back to the camp-fire of the night previous. Here they remained until
night came on--a night full of horrors. The wind howled through the
shrieking forests like troops of demons. The rain had continued all day,
but finally changed to snow and sleet, which cut their pinched faces,
and made them shiver with cold. All the forces of nature seemed
to combine for their destruction. At one time during the night, in
attempting to kindle a fire, the ax or hatchet which they had carried
was lost in the loose snow.

A huge fire was kindled at last, with the greatest difficulty, and
in order to obtain more warmth, all assisted in piling fuel upon the
flames. Along in the night, Mr. Foster thinks it was near midnight, the
heat of the flames and the dropping coals and embers thawed the snow
underneath the fire until a deep, well-like cavity was formed about
the fire. Suddenly, as if to intensify the dreadful horrors of the
situation, the bottom of this well gave way, and the fire disappeared!
The camp and the fire had been built over a stream of water, and the
fire had melted through the overlying snow until it had fallen into the
stream! Those who peered over the brink of the dark opening about which
they were gathered, could hear, far down in the gloom, during the lull
of the storm, the sound of running waters.

If there is anything lacking in this picture of despair, it is furnished
in the groans and cries of the shivering, dying outcasts, and the
demoniacal shrieks and ravings of Patrick Dolan, who was in the delirium
which precedes death. It was not necessary that life should be taken
by the members of the company. Death was busily at work, and before the
wild winter night was ended, his ghastly victims were deaf to wind or
storm.

When the fire disappeared, it became apparent that the entire forlorn
hope would perish before morning if exposed to the cold and storm. W.
H. Eddy says the wind increased until it was a perfect tornado. About
midnight, Antoine overcome by starvation, fatigue, and the bitter cold,
ceased to breathe. Mr. F. W. Graves was dying. There was a point beyond
which an iron nerve and a powerful constitution were unable to sustain a
man. This point had been reached, and Mr. Graves was fast passing away.
He was conscious, and calling his weeping, grief-stricken daughters to
his side, exhorted them to use every means in their power to prolong
their lives. He reminded them of their mother, of their little brothers
and sisters in the cabin at the lake. He reminded Mrs. Pike of her poor
babies. Unless these daughters succeeded in reaching Sutter's Fort,
and were able to send back relief, all at the lake must certainly die.
Instances had been cited in history, where, under less provocation,
human flesh had been eaten, yet Mr. Graves well knew that his daughters
had said they would never touch the loathsome food.

Was there not something noble and grand in the dying advice of this
father? Was he not heroic when he counseled that all false delicacy be
laid aside and that his body be sacrificed to support those that were to
relieve his wife and children?

Earnestly pleading that these afflicted children rise superior to their
prejudices and natural instincts--Franklin Ward Graves died. A sublimer
death seldom is witnessed. In the solemn darkness, in the tempestuous
storm, on the deep, frozen snow-drifts, overcome by pain and exposure,
with the pangs of famine gnawing away his life, this unselfish father,
with his latest breath urged that his flesh be used to prolong the lives
of his companions. Truly, a soul that could prompt such utterances
had no need, after death, for its mortal tenement--it had a better
dwelling-place on high.

With two of their little number in the icy embraces of death, some plan
to obtain warmth for the living was immediately necessary. W. H. Eddy
proposed a frontiersman's method. It was for all to huddle closely
together in a circle, lie down on a blanket with their heads outward,
and be covered with a second blanket. Mr. Eddy arranged his companions,
spread the blanket over them, and creeping under the coverlid, completed
the circle. The wind swept the drifting snow in dense clouds over their
heads. The chilling air, already white with falling snowflakes, became
dense with the drifting masses. In a little while the devoted band
were completely hidden from wind, or storm, or piercing cold, by a
deep covering of snow. The warmth of their bodies, confined between the
blankets, under the depth of snow, soon rendered them comfortably
warm. Their only precaution now was to keep from being buried
alive. Occasionally some member of the party would shake the rapidly
accumulating snow from off their coverlid.

They no longer were in danger of freezing. But while the elements were
vainly waging fierce war above their heads, hunger was rapidly sapping
the fountains of life, and claiming them for its victims. When, for a
moment, sleep would steal away their reason, in famished dreams they
would seize with their teeth the hand or arm of a companion. The
delirium of death had attacked one or two, and the pitiful wails and
cries of these death-stricken maniacs were heart-rending. The dead, the
dying, the situation, were enough to drive one crazy.

The next day was ushered in by one of the most furious storms ever
witnessed on the Sierra. All the day long, drifts and the fast-falling
snow circled above them under the force of the fierce gale. The air was
a frozen fog of swift-darting ice-lances. The fine particles of snow
and sleet, hurled by maddened storm-fiends, would cut and sting so that
one's eyes could not be opened in the storm, and the rushing gale would
hurl one prostrate on the snow. Once or twice the demented Dolan escaped
from his companions and disappeared in the blinding storm. Each time he
returned or was caught and dragged 'neath the covering, but the fatal
exposure chilled the little life remaining in his pulses. During the
afternoon he ceased to shriek, or struggle, or moan. Patrick Dolan, the
warm-hearted Irishman, was starved to death.

Mr. Eddy states, in Thornton's work, that they entered this Camp of
Death, Friday, December 25, Christmas. According to his version they
started from the cabins on the sixteenth day of December, with scanty
rations for six days. On the twenty-second they consumed the last morsel
of their provisions. Not until Sunday noon, December 27, did the storm
break away. They had been over four days without food, and two days and
a half without fire. They were almost dead.

Is there a mind so narrow, so uncharitable, that it can censure these
poor dying people for the acts of this terrible day? With their loved
ones perishing at Donner Lake, with the horror of a lingering death
staring them in the face, can the most unfeeling heart condemn them?

Emerging from the dreary prison-house, they attempted to kindle a fire.
Their matches were wet and useless. Their flint-lock gun would give
forth a spark, but without some dry material that would readily ignite,
it was of no avail.

On this morning of the twenty-seventh Eddy says that he blew up a
powder-horn in an effort to strike fire under the blankets. His face and
hands were much burned. Mrs. McCutchen and Mrs. Foster were also burned,
but not seriously. For some time all efforts to obtain a fire proved
fruitless. Their garments were drenched by the storm. Mrs. Pike had a
mantle that was lined with cotton. The lining of this was cut open, and
the driest portion of the cotton was exposed to the sun's rays, in the
hope that it could be made to catch the spark from the flint. At last
they were successful. A fire was kindled in a dead tree, and the
flames soon leaped up to the loftiest branches. The famished, shivering
wretches gathered round the burning tree. So weak and lifeless were they
that when the great pine limbs burned off and fell crashing about them,
neither man nor woman moved or attempted to escape the threatening
danger. All felt that sudden death would be welcome. They were stunned
and horrified by the dreadful alternative which it was evident they must
accept.

The men finally mustered up courage to approach the dead. With averted
eyes and trembling hand, pieces of flesh were severed from the inanimate
forms and laid upon the coals. It was the very refinement of torture to
taste such food, yet those who tasted lived. One could not eat. Lemuel
Murphy was past relief. A boy about thirteen years old, Lemuel was
dearly loved by his sisters, and, full of courage, had endeavored to
accompany them on the fearful journey. He was feeble when he started
from the cabins, and the overwhelming sufferings of the fatal trip had
destroyed his remaining strength. Starvation is agony during the first
three days, apathy and inanition during the fourth and perhaps the
fifth, and delirium from that time until the struggle ceases. When the
delirium commences, hope ends. Lemuel was delirious Sunday morning, and
when food was placed to his lips he either could not eat or was too near
death to revive. All day Mrs. Foster held her brother's head in her lap,
and by every means in her power sought to soothe his death agonies. The
sunlight faded from the surrounding summits. Darkness slowly emerged
from the canyons and enfolded forest and hill-slope in her silent
embrace. The glittering stars appeared in the heavens, and the bright,
full moon rose over the eastern mountain crests. The silence, the
profound solitude, the ever-present wastes of snow, the weird moonlight,
and above all the hollow moans of the dying boy in her lap, rendered
this night the most impressive in the life of Mrs. Foster. She says she
never beholds a bright moonlight without recurring with a shudder to
this night on the Sierra. At two o'clock in the morning Lemuel Murphy
ceased to breathe. The warm tears and kisses of the afflicted sisters
were showered upon lips that would never more quiver with pain.

Until the twenty-ninth of December they remained at the "Camp of Death."
Would you know more of the shuddering details? Does the truth require
the narration of the sickening minutiae of the terrible transactions of
these days? Human beings were never called upon to undergo more trying
ordeals. Dividing into groups, the members of each family were spared
the pain of touching their own kindred. Days and perhaps weeks of
starvation were awaiting them in the future, and they dare not neglect
to provide as best they might. Each of the four bodies was divested
of its flesh, and the flesh was dried. Although no person partook of
kindred flesh, sights were often witnessed that were blood-curdling.
Mrs. Foster, as we have seen, fairly worshiped her brother Lemuel. Has
human pen power to express the shock of horror this sister received when
she saw her brother's heart thrust through with a stick, and broiling
upon the coals? No man can record or read such an occurrence without a
cry of agony! What, then, did she endure who saw this cruel sight?

These are facts. They are given just as they came from the lips of Mrs.
Foster, a noble woman, who would have died of horror and a broken heart
but for her starving babe, her mother, and her little brothers and
sisters who were at Donner Lake. Mary Graves corroborates Mrs. Foster,
and W. H. Eddy gave a similar version to Judge Thornton.

The Indian guides, Lewis and Salvador, would not eat this revolting
food. They built a fire away from the company, and with true Indian
stoicism endured the agonies of starvation without so much as beholding
the occurrences at the other camp-fire.

Starved bodies possess little flesh, and starving people could carry but
light burdens through such snow-drifts. On these accounts, the provision
which the Almighty seemed to have provided to save their lives, lasted
only until the thirty-first On New Year's morning they ate their
moccasins and the strings of their snow-shoes. On the night before,
Lewis and Salvador caught the sound of ominous words, or perceived
glances that were filled with dreadful import, and during the darkness
they fled.

For several days past the party had been lost. The Indians could not
recognize the country when it was hidden from thirty to fifty feet in
snow. Blindly struggling forward, they gradually separated into three
parties. On the fourth, W. H. Eddy and Mary Graves were in advance with
the gun. A starved deer crossed their path and providentially was slain.
Drinking its warm blood and feasting upon its flesh, this couple waited
for the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Foster, Mrs. McCutchen, and Mrs. Pike,
who were some distance behind. Night came and passed and they did not
arrive. Indeed, Foster was dying for lack of nourishment. Behind this
party were Mr. and Mrs. Jay Fosdick. During the night, Mr. Fosdick
perished, and the faithful wife, after remaining with him until morning,
struggled forward and met Mrs. Foster and a companion. Mrs. Fosdick
related the death of her husband, and upon being informed of Foster's
condition, consented that her husband's body be converted into food. It
was done. This was the first time that women's hands had used the knife,
but by the act a life was saved. Mrs. Fosdick, although dying, would not
touch the food, and but for the venison would not have lived to see the
setting of the sun. But what was one small deer among so many famished
people? Hide, head, feet, entrails, all were eaten. On the sixth, the
last morsel was consumed. They were now without hope. Their journey
was apparently interminable. Wearied, foot-sore, freezing at night and
tortured by hunger during the day, life could not last many hours. Some
one must die; else none could live and reach the long-talked-of relief.
Would it be Eddy, whose wife and two children were behind? Would it be
Mrs. Pike, who left two babes? Mrs. McCutchen, who left one? Mr. or Mrs.
Foster, whose baby boy was at the cabin? Or would it be Mary Graves
or Mrs. Fosdick, who had left mother and family? On the night of the
seventh, they lay down upon the snow without having tasted a mouthful
of food during the day. Continued famine and exhaustion had so weakened
their frames that they could not survive another day. Yet, on the
morning of the seventh, they arose and staggered onward. Soon they
halted and gathered about some freshly made tracks. Tracks marked by
blood! Tracks that they knew had been made by Lewis and Salvador, whose
bare feet were sore and bleeding from cuts and bruises inflicted by the
cruel, jagged rocks, the frozen snow, and flinty ice. These Indians had
eaten nothing for nine days, and had been without fire or blankets for
four days. They could not be far ahead.

Chapter VIII.

How fared it with those left at Donner Lake? About the time the fifteen
began their terrible journey, Baylis Williams starved to death. Such
food as the rest had was freely given to him, but it did not is satisfy
the demands of his nature. Quietly, uncomplainingly, he had borne
the pangs of famine, and when the company first realized his dreadful
condition, he was in the delirium which preceded death. What words can
portray the emotions of the starving emigrants, when they saw one of
their number actually perish of hunger before their eyes! Williams died
in the Graves cabin, and was buried near the house by W. C. Graves and
John Denton.

All the Donner Party were starving. When the cattle were killed the
hides had been spread over the cabins in lieu of shingles. These were
now taken down and eaten. All the survivors describe the method of
preparing this miserable substitute for food. The narration by Mrs. J.
M. Murphy (Virginia E. Reed), of San Jose, is among the most vivid. She
says the green rawhides were cut into strips and laid upon the coals, or
held in the flames until the hair was completely singed off. Either side
of the piece of hide was then scraped with a knife until comparatively
clean, and was placed in a kettle and boiled until soft and pulpy. There
was no salt, and only a little pepper, and yet this substance was all
that was between them and starvation. When cold, the boiled hides
and the water in which they were cooked, became jellied and exactly
resembled glue. The tender stomachs of many of the little children
revolted at this disagreeable diet, and the loathing they acquired for
the sight of this substance still exists in the minds of some of the
survivors. To this day, Thomas K. Reed, of San Jose, who was then a tiny
three-year-old, can not endure the sight of calf's-foot jelly, or of
similar dishes, because of its resemblance to the loathed food which was
all his mother could give him in the cabins at Donner Lake.

William G. Murphy describes how they gathered up the old, castaway
bones of the cattle-bones from which all the flesh had been previously
picked-and boiled, and boiled, and boiled them until they actually would
crumble between the teeth, and were eaten. The little children, playing
upon the fire-rug in his mother's cabin, used to cut off little pieces
of the rug, toast them crisp upon the coals, and then eat them. In this
manner, before any one was fairly aware of the fact, the fire-rug was
entirely consumed.

The Donner families, at Prosser Creek, were, if possible, in even a
sadder condition. In order to give a glimpse of the suffering endured in
these two tents, the following is quoted from a letter written by Mrs.
W. A. Babcock (Georgia A. Donner, now residing at Mountain View, Santa
Clara County): "The families shared with one another as long as they had
anything to share. Each one's portion was very small. The hides were
boiled, and the bones were burned brown and eaten. We tried to eat a
decayed buffalo robe, but it was too tough, and there was no nourishment
in it. Some of the few mice that came into camp were caught and eaten.
Some days we could not keep a fire, and many times, during both days and
nights, snow was shoveled from off our tent, and from around it, that we
might not be buried alive. Mother remarked one day that it had been two
weeks that our beds and the clothing upon our bodies had been wet. Two
of my sisters and myself spent some days at Keseberg's cabin. The first
morning we were there they shoveled the snow from our bed before we
could get up. Very few can believe it possible for human beings to live
and suffer the exposure and hardships endured there."

Oh! how long and dreary the days were to the hungry children! Even their
very plays and pastimes were pathetic, because of their piteous silent
allusion to the pangs of starvation. Mrs. Frank Lewis (Patty Reed), of
San Jose, relates that the poor, little, famishing girls used to fill
the pretty porcelain tea-cups with freshly fallen snow, daintily dip it
out with teaspoons and eat it, playing it was custard.

Dear Mrs. Murphy had the most sacred and pitiful charge. It was the wee
nursing babe, Catherine Pike, whose mother had gone with the "Forlorn
Hope," to try, if possible, to procure relief. All there was to give
the tiny sufferer, was a little gruel made from snow water, containing
a slight sprinkling of coarse flour. This flour was simply ground wheat,
unbolted. Day after day the sweet little darling would lie helplessly
upon its grandmother's lap, and seem with its large, sad eyes to be
pleading for nourishment. Mrs. Murphy carefully kept the little handful
of flour concealed--there was only a handful at the very beginning--lest
some of the starving children might get possession of the treasure.
Each day she gave Catherine a few teaspoonfuls of the gruel. Strangely
enough, this poor little martyr did not often cry with hunger, but with
tremulous, quivering mouth, and a low, subdued sob or moan, would appear
to be begging for something to eat. The poor, dumb lips, if gifted with
speech, could not have uttered a prayer half so eloquent, so touching.
Could the mother, Mrs. Pike, have been present, it would have broken her
heart to see her patient babe dying slowly, little by little. Starvation
had dried the maternal breasts long before Mrs. Pike went away, so that
no one can censure her for leaving her baby. She could only have done as
Mrs. Murphy did, give it the plain, coarse gruel, and watch it die, day
by day, upon her lap.

Up to this time, but little has been said of Patrick Breen. He was an
invalid during the winter of 1846 and '47. A man of more than ordinary
intelligence, a devout Catholic, a faithful and devoted father, his life
furnishes a rare type of the pioneer Californian. To Mr. Breen we are
indebted for the most faithful and authentic record of the days spent at
the cabins. This record is in the form of a diary, in which the events
of the day were briefly noted in the order of their occurrence. Lewis
Keseberg kept a similar diary, but it was subsequently accidentally
destroyed. Mrs. Tamsen Donner kept a journal, but this, with her
paintings and botanical collections, disappeared at the fatal tent on
Alder Creek. Mr. Breen's diary alone was preserved. He gave it into
Col. McKinstry's possession in the spring of 1847, and on the fourth of
September of that year it was published in the Nashville (Tenn.) Whig.
A copy of the Whig of that date is furnished by Wm. G. Murphy, of
Marysville. Other papers have published garbled extracts from this
diary, but none have been reliable. The future history of the events
which transpired at the cabins will be narrated in connection with this
diary.

It must be remembered that the lake had always been known as "Truckee
Lake," it having been named after an old Indian guide who had rendered
much assistance to the Schallenberger party in 1844. The record appears
without the slightest alteration. Even the orthography of the name of
the lake is printed as it was written, "Truckey."

The diary commences as follows:

"Truckey's Lake, November 20, 1846."

"Came to this place on the thirty-first of last month; went into the
pass; the snow so deep we were unable to find the road, and when within
three miles from the summit, turned back to this shanty on Truckey's
Lake; Stanton came up one day after we arrived here; we again took our
teams and wagons, and made another unsuccessful attempt to cross in
company with Stanton; we returned to this shanty; it continued to snow
all the time. We now have killed most part of our cattle, having to
remain here until next spring, and live on lean beef, without bread
or salt. It snowed during the space of eight days, with little
intermission, after our arrival, though now clear and pleasant, freezing
at night; the snow nearly gone from the valleys."

"November 21. Fine morning; wind northwest; twenty-two of our company
about starting to cross the mountains this day, including Stanton and
his Indians."

"Nov. 22. Froze last night; fine and clear to-day; no account from those
on the mountains."

"Nov. 23. Same weather; wind west; the expedition cross the mountains
returned after an unsuccessful attempt."

"Nov. 25. Cloudy; looks like the eve of a snow-storm; our mountaineers
are to make another trial to-morrow, if fair; froze hard last night."

"Nov. 26. Began to snow last evening; now rains or sleets; the party do
not start to-day."

"Nov. 27. Still snowing; now about three feet deep; wind west; killed my
last oxen to-day; gave another yoke to Foster; wood hard to be got."

"Nov. 30. Snowing fast; looks as likely to continue as when it
commenced; no living thing without wings can get about."

"Dec. 1. Still snowing; wind west; snow about six or seven and a half
feet deep; very difficult to get wood, and we are completely housed up;
our cattle all killed but two or three, and these, with the horses
and Stanton's mules, all supposed to be lost in the snow; no hopes of
finding them alive."

"Dec. 3. Ceases snowing; cloudy all day; warm enough to thaw."

"Dec. 5. Beautiful sunshine; thawing a little; looks delightful after
the long storm; snow seven or eight feet deep."

"Dec. 6. The morning fine and clear; Stanton and Graves manufacturing
snow-shoes for another mountain scrabble; no account of mules."

"Dec. 8. Fine weather; froze hard last night; wind south-west; hard work
to find wood sufficient to keep us warm or cook our beef."

"Dec. 9. Commenced snowing about eleven o'clock; wind northwest; took in
Spitzer yesterday, so weak that he can not rise without help; caused by
starvation. Some have scanty supply of beef; Stanton trying to get some
for him self and Indians; not likely to get much."

"Dec. 10. Snowed fast all night, with heavy squalls of wind; continues
to snow; now about seven feet in depth."

"Dec. 14. Snows faster than any previous day; Stanton and Graves,
with several others, making preparations to cross the mountains on
snow-shoes; snow eight feet on a level."

"Dec. 16. Fair and pleasant; froze hard last night; the company started
on snow-shoes to cross the mountains; wind southeast."

"Dec. 17. Pleasant; William Murphy returned from the mountain party last
evening; Baylis Williams died night before last; Milton and Noah started
for Donner's eight days ago; not returned yet; think they are lost in
the snow."

"Dec. 19. Snowed last night; thawing to-day; wind northwest; a little
singular for a thaw."

"Dec. 20. Clear and pleasant; Mrs. Reed here; no account from Milton
yet. Charles Burger started for Donner's; turned back; unable to
proceed; tough times, but not discouraged. Our hope is in God. Amen."

"Dec. 21. Milton got back last night from Donner's camp. Sad news; Jacob
Donner, Samuel Shoemaker, Rhinehart, and Smith are dead; the rest of
them in a low situation; snowed all night, with a strong southwest
wind."

Jacob Donner was the first to die at Prosser Creek. He expired while
sitting at the table in his tent, with his head bowed upon his hands,
as if in deep meditation. The following terse account is from the gifted
pen of Mrs. S. O. Houghton (Eliza P. Donner), of San Jose: "Jacob Donner
was a slight man, of delicate constitution, and was in poor health when
we left Springfield, Illinois. The trials of the journey reduced
his strength and exhausted his energy. When we reached the place of
encampment in the mountains he was discouraged and gave up in despair.
Not even the needs of his family could rouse him to action. He was
utterly dejected and made no effort, but tranquilly awaited death."

"Dec. 23. Clear to-day; Milton took some of his meat away; all well at
their camp. Began this day to read the 'Thirty Days' Prayers;' Almighty
God, grant the requests of unworthy sinners!

"Dec. 24. Rained all night, and still continues; poor prospect for any
kind of comfort, spiritual or temporal."

As will be seen by various references throughout this diary, Mr. Breen
was a devout Catholic. During the darkest hour of trial the prayers were
regularly read. That this might be done during the long weary evenings,
as well as by day, pieces of pitch pine were split and laid carefully in
one corner of the cabin, which would be lighted at the fire, and would
serve as a substitute for candles. Those of the survivors who are living
often speak of the times when they held these sticks while Mr. Breen
read the prayers. So impressive were these religious observances that
one girl, a bright, beautiful child, Virginia E. Reed, made a solemn vow
that if God would hear these prayers, and deliver her family from the
dangers surrounding them, she would become a Catholic. God did save her
family, and she kept her vow. She is to-day a fervent Catholic.

"Dec. 25. Began to snow yesterday, snowed all night, and snows yet
rapidly; extremely difficult to find wood; uttered our prayers to God
this Christmas morning; the prospect is appalling, but we trust in Him."

What a desolate Christmas morning that was for the snow-bound victims!
All were starving. Something to eat, something to satisfy the terrible
cravings of appetite, was the constant wish of all. Sometimes the wishes
were expressed aloud, but more frequently a gloomy silence prevailed.
When anything was audibly wished for, it was invariably something whose
size was proportional to their hunger. They never wished for a meal,
or a mouthful, but for a barrel full, a wagon load, a house full, or a
storehouse full.

On Christmas eve the children spoke in low, subdued tones, of the visits
Santa Claus used to make them in their beautiful homes, before they
started across the plains. Now they knew that no Santa Claus could find
them in the pathless depths of snow.

One family, the Reeds, were in a peculiarly distressing situation. They
knew not whether the father was living or dead. No tidings had reached
them since his letters ceased to be found by the wayside. The meat they
had obtained from the Breen and Graves families was now gone, and on
Christmas morning their breakfast was a "pot of glue," as the boiled
rawhide was termed. But Mrs. Reed, the dear, tender-hearted mother, had
a surprise in store for her children this day. When the last ox had been
purchased, Mrs. Reed had placed the frozen meat in one corner of the
cabin, so that pieces could be chipped off with a knife or hatchet. The
tripe, however, she cleaned carefully and hung on the outside of the
cabin, on the end of a log, close to the ground. She knew that the snow
would soon conceal this from view. She also laid away secretly, one
teacupful of white beans, about half that quantity of rice, the same
measure of dried apples, and a piece of bacon two inches square. She
knew that if Christmas found them alive, they would be in a terribly
destitute condition. She therefore resolved to lay these articles away,
and give them to her starving children for a Christmas dinner. This was
done. The joy and gladness of these poor little children knew no bounds
when they saw the treasures unearthed and cooking on the fire. They
were, just this one meal, to have all they could eat! They laughed,
and danced, and cried by turns. They eagerly watched the dinner as
it boiled. The pork and tripe had been cut in dice like pieces.
Occasionally one of these pieces would boil up to the surface of the
water for an instant, then a bean would take a peep at them from
the boiling kettle, then a piece of apple, or a grain of rice. The
appearance of each tiny bit was hailed by the children with shouts
of glee. The mother, whose eyes were brimming with tears, watched her
famished darlings with emotions that can be imagined. It seemed too sad
that innocent children should be brought to such destitution that the
very sight of food should so affect them! When the dinner was prepared,
the mother's constant injunction was, "Children, eat slowly, there is
plenty for all." When they thought of the starvation of to-morrow, they
could not repress a shade of sadness, and when the name of papa was
mentioned all burst into tears. Dear, brave papa! Was he struggling to
relieve his starving family, or lying stark and dead 'neath the snows of
the Sierra? This question was constantly uppermost in the mother's mind.

"Dec. 27. Cleared off yesterday, and continues clear; snow nine feet
deep; wood growing scarce; a tree, when felled, sinks into the snow, and
is hard to be got at."

"Dec. 30. Fine clear morning; froze hard last night. Charles Burger died
last evening about 10 o'clock."

"Dec. 31. Last of the year. May we, with the help of God, spend the
coming year better than we have the past, which we propose to do if
it is the will of the Almighty to deliver us from our present dreadful
situation. Amen. Morning fair, but cloudy; wind east by south; looks
like another snow-storm. Snow-storms are dreadful to us. The snow at
present is very deep."

"Jan. 1, 1847. We pray the God of mercy to deliver us from our present
calamity, if it be His holy will. Commenced snowing last night, and
snows a little yet. Provisions getting very scanty; dug up a hide from
under the snow yesterday; have not commenced on it yet."

"Jan. 3. Fair during the day, freezing at night. Mrs. Reed talks of
crossing the mountains with her children."

"Jan. 4. Fine morning; looks like spring. Mrs. Reed and Virginia, Milton
Elliott, and Eliza Williams started a short time ago with the hope of
crossing the mountains; left the children here. It was difficult for
Mrs. Reed to part with them."

This expedition was only one of many that the emigrants attempted. The
suffering that was endured at these times was indescribable. The broken,
volcanic nature of the summits rendered it extremely difficult to keep
from getting lost. The white, snowy cliffs were everywhere the same.
This party became bewildered and lost near the beautiful Lake Angeline,
which is close to the present "Summit Station" of the Central Pacific.
Had they attempted to proceed, all would undoubtedly have perished.

Within half a mile of the wagon road which now extends from Donner Lake
to the Summit are places where rocks and cliffs are mingled in wildest
confusion. Even in summertime it is difficult to find one's way among
the broken, distorted mountain tops. In the mighty upheaval which
produced the Sierra Nevada, these vast mounds or mountains of frowning
granite were grouped into weird, fantastic labyrinths. Time has wrought
little effect upon their hold precipitous sides, and made slight
impress upon their lofty and almost inaccessible crests. Between these
fragmentary mountains, in shapely, symmetrical bowls which have been
delved by the fingers of the water nymphs and Undines, lie beautiful
lakelets. Angeline is but one of a dozen which sparkle like a chain
of gems between Donner Lake and the snowy, overhanging peaks of Mount
Stanford. The clefts and fissures of the towering granite cliffs are
filled, in summer, with dainty ferns, clinging mosses, and the loveliest
of mountain wild flowers, and the rims of the lakelets are bordered with
grasses, shrubbery, and a wealth of wild blossoms. But in winter this
region exhibits the very grandeur of desolation. No verdure is visible
save the dwarfed and shattered pines whose crushed branches mark the
path of the rushing avalanche. The furious winds in their wild sport
toss and tumble the snow-drifts here and there, baring the sterile
peaks, and heaping the white masses a hundred feet deep into chasm and
gorge. The pure, clear lakes, as if in very fear, hide their faces from
the turbulent elements in mantles of ice. The sun is darkened by dense
clouds, and the icy, shivering, shrieking stormfiends hold undisturbed
their ghastly revels. On every side are lofty battlements of rock,
whose trembling burden of snow seems ever ready to slide from its glassy
foundations of ice, and entomb the bewildered traveler.

Into this interminable maze of rocks and cliffs and frozen lakelets,
the little party wandered. Elliott had a compass, but it soon proved
worthless, and only added to their perplexed and uncertain state of
mind. They were out five days. Virginia's feet became so badly frozen
that she could not walk. This occurrence saved the party. Reluctantly
they turned back toward the cabins, convinced that it was madness to
attempt to go forward. They reached shelter just as one of the most
terrible storms of all that dreadful winter broke over their heads. Had
they delayed their return a few hours, the path they made in ascending
the mountains, and by means of which they retraced their steps, would
have been concealed, and death would have been certain.

"Jan. 6. Eliza came back yesterday evening from the mountains, unable to
proceed; the others kept ahead."

"Jan. 8. Mrs. Reed and the others came back; could not find their way
on the other side of the mountains. They have nothing but hides to live
on."

"Jan. 10. Began to snow last night; still continues; wind
west-north-west."

"Jan. 13. Snowing fast; snow higher than the shanty; it must be thirteen
feet deep. Can not get wood this morning; it is a dreadful sight for us
to look upon."

One of the stumps near the Graves-Reed cabin, cut while the snow was at
its deepest, was found, by actual measurement, to be twenty-two feet in
height. Part of this stump is standing to-day.

"Jan. 14. Cleared off yesterday. The sun, shining brilliantly, renovates
our spirits. Praise be to the God of heaven."

"Jan. 15. Clear to-day again. Mrs. Murphy blind; Landrum not able to
get wood; has but one ax between him and Keseberg. It looks like another
storm; expecting some account from Sutter's soon."

"Jan. 17. Eliza Williams came here this morning; Landrum crazy last
night; provisions scarce; hides our main subsistence. May the Almighty
send us help."

"Jan. 21. Fine morning; John Baptiste and Mr. Denton came this morning
with Eliza; she will not eat hides. Mrs.--sent her back to live or die
on them."

The blanks which occasionally occur were in the original diary. The
delicacy which prompted Patrick Breen to omit these names can not fail
to be appreciated. What, if there was sometimes a shade of selfishness,
or an act of harshness? What if some families had more than their
destitute neighbors? The best provided had little. All were in reality
strangely generous. All divided with their afflicted companions. The
Reeds had almost nothing to eat when they arrived at the cabins, yet
this family is the only one which reached the settlements without some
one member having to partake of human flesh.

"Jan. 22. Began to snow after sunrise; likely to continue; wind north."

"Jan. 23. Blew hard and snowed all night; the most severe storm we have
experienced this winter; wind west."

"Jan. 26. Cleared up yesterday; to-day fine and pleasant: wind south; in
hopes we are done with snow-storms. Those who went to Sutter's not yet
returned; provisions getting scant; people growing weak, living on a
small allowance of hides."

"Jan. 27. Commenced snowing yesterday; still continues to-day. Lewis
Keseberg, Jr., died three days ago; food growing scarce; don't have fire
enough to cook our hides."

"Jan. 30. Fair and pleasant; wind west; thawing in the sun. John and
Edward Breen went to Graves' this morning. Mrs.--seized on Mrs. N 's
goods until they would be paid; they also took the hides which herself
and family subsisted upon. She regained two pieces only, the balance
they have taken. You may judge from this what our fare is in camp. There
is nothing to be had by hunting, yet perhaps there soon will be."

"Jan. 31. The sun does not shine out brilliant this morning; froze hard
last night; wind northwest. Landrum Murphy died last night about ten
o'clock; Mrs. Reed went to Graves' this morning to look after goods."

Landrum Murphy was a large and somewhat overgrown young man. The hides
and burnt bones did not contain sufficient nourishment to keep him
alive. For some hours before he died, he lay in a semi-delirious state,
breathing heavily and seemingly in little or no pain. Mrs. Murphy went
to the Breen camp, and asked Mrs. Breen for a piece of meat to save her
starving boy. Mrs. Breen gave her the meat, but it was too late, Landrum
could not eat. Finally he sank into a gentle slumber. His breathing grew
less and less distinct, and ere they were fairly aware of it life was
extinct.

"Feb. 4. Snowed hard until twelve o'clock last night; many uneasy for
fear we shall all perish with hunger; we have but little meat left, and
only three hides; Mrs. Reed has nothing but one hide, and that is on
Graves' house; Milton lives there, and likely will keep that. Eddy's
child died last night."

"Feb. 5. It snowed faster last night and to-day than it has done this
winter before; still continues without intermission; wind south-west.
Murphy's folks and Keseberg say they can not eat hides. I wish we had
enough of them. Mrs. Eddy is very weak."

"Feb. 7. Ceased to snow at last; to-day it is quite pleasant.
McCutchen's child died on the second of this month."

This child died and was buried in the Graves cabin. Mr. W. C. Graves
helped dig the grave near one side of the cabin, and laid the little one
to rest. One of the most heart-rending features of this Donner tragedy
is the number of infants that suffered. Mrs. Breen, Pike, Foster,
McCutchen, Eddy, Keseberg, and Graves each had nursing babes when the
fatal camp was pitched at Donner Lake.

"Feb. 8. Fine, clear morning. Spitzer died last night, and we will bury
him in the snow; Mrs. Eddy died on the night of the seventh."

"Feb. 9. Mrs. Pike's child all but dead; Milton is at Murphy's, not
able to get out of bed; Mrs. Eddy and child were buried to-day; wind
south-east."

Feb. 10. Beautiful morning; thawing in the sun; Milton Elliott died last
night at Murphy's cabin, and Mrs. Reed went there this morning to see
about his effects. John Denton trying to borrow meat for Graves; had
none to give; they had nothing but hides; all are entirely out of meat,
but a little we have; our hides are nearly all eat up, but with God's
help spring will soon smile upon us."

"Feb. 12. Warm, thawy morning."

"Feb. 14. Fine morning, but cold. Buried Milton in the snow; John Denton
not well."

"Feb. 15. Morning cloudy until nine o'clock, then cleared off warm. Mrs.
---- refused to give Mrs. ---- any hides. Put Sutter's pack hides on her
shanty, and would not let her have them."

"Feb. 16. Commenced to rain last evening, and turned to snow during the
night, and continued until morning; weather changeable, sunshine and
then light showers of hail, and wind at times. We all feel unwell. The
snow is not getting much less at present."

Chapter IX.

The Last Resort
Two Reports of a Gun
Only Temporary Relief
Weary Traveling
The Snow Bridges
Human Tracks!
An Indian Rancherie
Acorn Bread
Starving Five Times!
Carried Six Miles
Bravery of John Rhodes
A Thirty-two Days Journey
Organizing the First Relief Party
Alcalde Sinclair's Address
Captain R. P. Tucker's Companions.

It is recorded of Lewis and Salvador that they came willingly to
the relief of the emigrants. Two of Sutter's best trained vaqueros,
faithful, honest, reliable, they seemed rather proud when chosen to
assist Stanton in driving the mules laden with provisions for the
starving train. Now they were dying! Horrified at the sight of human
beings eating the flesh of their comrades, they withdrew from the
whites at the "Camp of Death." After that they always camped apart,
but continued to act as guides until they became certain that their own
lives were in danger. Then they fled. Starving, exhausted, with frozen
and bleeding feet, the poor wretches dragged their weary bodies onward
until they reached a little streamlet, and here they lay down to die.
Nine days, with no other food than they could find in the snow, was too
much even for their hardy natures. They were unable to move when the
famished "Seven" passed. Yes, passed! for the starving emigrants went on
by the poor fellows, unable to deprive them of the little spark of life
left in their wasted bodies. Traveling was now slow work for the dying
whites. They only went about two hundred yards. In a few more hours,
perhaps that very night, they would die of starvation. Already the
terrible phantasies of delirium were beginning to dance before their
sunken eyes. Ere the Indians would cease breathing some of the Seven
would be past relief. There were two men and five women. William Foster
could see that his wife--the woman who was all the world to him--was
fast yielding to the deadly grasp of the fiends of starvation. For
the sake of his life she had stifled the most sacred instincts of her
womanly nature, and procured him food from Fosdick's body. Should he see
her die the most terrible of deaths without attempting to rescue her?
Reader, put yourself in this man's place. Brave, generous, heroic, full
of lion-like nobility, William Foster could not stoop to a base action.
Contemplate his position! Lying there prostrate upon the snow was Mrs.
Pike, the woman whom, accidentally, he had rendered a widow. Her babes
were dying in the cabins. His own boy was at the cabins. His comrades,
his wife, were in the last stages of starvation. He, also, was dying.
Eddy had not nerve enough, the women could not, and William Foster
must-what! Was it murder? No! Every law book, every precept of that
higher law, self-preservation, every dictate of right, reason or
humanity, demanded the deed. The Indians were past all hope of aid. They
could not lift their heads from their pillow of snow. It was not simply
justifiable--it was duty; it was a necessity.

He told them, when he got back, that he was compelled to take their
lives. They did not moan or struggle, or appear to regret that their
lingering pain was to cease. The five women and Eddy heard two reports
of a gun.

The "Forlorn Hope" might yet save those who were dying at Donner Lake.

Even this relief was but temporary. Taking the wasted flesh from the
bones, drying it, and staggering forward, the little band speedily
realized that they were not yet saved. It was food for only a few days.
Then they again felt their strength failing. Once more they endured the
excruciating torments which precede starvation.

In the very complete account of this trip, which is kindly furnished by
Mary Graves, are many interesting particulars concerning the suffering
of these days. "Our only chance for camp-fire for the night," she says,
"was to hunt a dead tree of some description, and set fire to it. The
hemlock being the best and generally much the largest timber, it was our
custom to select the driest we could find without leaving our course.
When the fire would reach the top of the tree, the falling limbs would
fall all around us and bury themselves in the snow, but we heeded them
not. Sometimes the falling, blazing limbs would brush our clothes, but
they never hit us; that would have been too lucky a hit. We would sit
or lie on the snow, and rest our weary frames. We would sleep, only to
dream of something nice to eat, and awake again to disappointment. Such
was our sad fate! Even the reindeer's wretched lot was not worse! 'His
dinner and his bed were snow, and supper he had not.' Our fare was the
same! We would strike fire by means of the flintlock gun which we had
with us. This had to be carried by turns, as it was considered the only
hope left in case we might find game which we could kill. We traveled
over a ridge of mountains, and then descended a deep canyon, where one
could scarcely see the bottom. Down, down we would go, or rather slide,
for it is very slavish work going down hill, and in many cases we were
compelled to slide on our shoes as sleds. On reaching the bottom we
would plunge into the snow, so that it was difficult getting out, with
the shoes tied to our feet, our packs lashed to our backs, and ourselves
head and ears under the snow. But we managed to get out some way, and
one by one reached the bottom of the canyon. When this was accomplished
we had to ascend a hill as steep as the one we had descended. We would
drive the toes of our shoes into the loose snow, to make a sort of step,
and one by one, as if ascending stair-steps, we climbed up. It took us
an entire day to reach the top of the mountain. Each time we attained
the summit of a mountain, we hoped we should be able to see something
like a valley, but each time came disappointment, for far ahead was
always another and higher mountain. We found some springs, or, as we
called them, wells, from five to twenty feet under ground, as you might
say, for they were under the snow on which we walked. The water was so
warm that it melted the snow, and from some of these springs were large
streams of running water. We crossed numbers of these streams on bridges
of snow, which would sometimes form upon a blade of grass hanging over
the water; and from so small a foundation would grow a bridge from
ten to twenty-five feet high, and from a foot and a half to three feet
across the top. It would make you dizzy to look down at the water, and
it was with much difficulty we could place our clumsy ox-bow snow-shoes
one ahead of the other without falling. Our feet had been frozen and
thawed so many times that they were bleeding and sore. When we stopped
at night we would take off our shoes, which by this time were so badly
rotted by constant wetting in snow, that there was very little left of
them. In the morning we would push our shoes on, bruising and numbing
the feet so badly that they would ache and ache with walking and the
cold, until night would come again. Oh! the pain! It seemed to make the
pangs of hunger more excruciating."

Thus the party traveled on day after day, until absolute starvation
again stared them in the face. The snow had gradually grown less deep,
until finally it disappeared or lay only in patches. Their strength was
well-nigh exhausted, when one day Mary Graves says: "Some one called
out, 'Here are tracks!' Some one asked, 'What kind of tracks human?'
'Yes, human!' Can any one imagine the joy these footprints gave us? We
ran as fast as our strength would carry us."

Turning a chaparral point, they came in full view of an Indian
rancherie. The uncivilized savages were amazed. Never had they seen such
forlorn, wretched, pitiable human beings, as the tattered, disheveled,
skeleton creatures who stood stretching out their arms for assistance.
At first, they all ran and hid, but soon they returned to the aid of
these dying wretches. It is said that the Indian women and children
cried, and wailed with grief at the affecting spectacle of starved men
and women. Such food as they had was speedily offered. It was bread
made of acorns. This was eagerly eaten. It was at least a substitute for
food. Every person in the rancherie, from the toddling papooses to the
aged chief, endeavored to aid them.

After what had recently happened, could anything be more touching than
these acts of kindness of the Indians?

After briefly resting, they pressed forward. The Indians accompanied and
even led them, and constantly supplied them with food. With food? No,
it was not such food as their weakened, debilitated systems craved. The
acorn bread was not sufficient to sustain lives already so attenuated by
repeated starvations. All that the starved experience in the way of pain
and torture before they die, had been experienced by these people at
least four different times. To their horror, they now discovered that
despite the acorn bread, they must die of hunger and exhaustion a
fifth and last time. So sick and weak did they become, that they were
compelled to lie down and rest every hundred yards. Finally, after being
with the Indians seven days, they lay down, and felt that they never
should have strength to take another step. Before them, in all its
beauty and loveliness, spread the broad valley of the Sacramento. Behind
them were the ever-pleading faces of their starving dear ones. Yet
neither hope nor affection could give them further strength. They were
dying in full view of the long-desired haven of rest.

One of the number was hardly so near death's door as his companions. It
was W. H. Eddy. As a last resort, their, faithful allies, the Indians,
took him upon either side, and fairly carried him along. His feet moved,
but they were frozen, and blistered, and cracked, and bleeding. Left
alone, he would have fallen helplessly to the earth. It was as terrible
a journey as ever mortal man performed. How far he traveled, he knew
not. During the last six miles his path was marked by blood-stains from
his swollen feet.

By making abridgments from valuable manuscript contributed by George W.
Tucker, of Calistoga, this narrative may be appropriately continued.
Mr. Tucker's father and relatives had reached Johnson's Ranch on the
twenty-fifth of October, 1846. They had been with the Donner Party
until Fort Bridger was reached, and then took the Fort Hall road.
Their journey had been full of dangers and difficulties, and reaching
Johnson's Ranch, the first settlement on the west side of the Sierra,
they determined to remain during the winter.

One evening, about the last of January, Mr. Tucker says a man was seen
coming down Bear River, accompanied by an Indian. His haggard, forlorn
look showed he was in great distress. When he reached us, he said he was
of the Donner Party. He told briefly how the train had been caught in
the snow east of the mountains, and was unable to get back or forward.
He told how the fifteen had started, and that six beside himself were
still alive. That the six were back in the mountains, almost starved.
R. P. Tucker and three other men started at once with provisions, the
Indian acting as guide. They reached them, fifteen miles back, some time
during the night, and brought them in the next day. The names of the
seven were W. H. Eddy, William Foster, Mrs. S. A. C. Foster, Mrs. H. F.
Pike, Mrs. William McCutchen, Mrs. Sarah Fosdick, and Mary Graves. It
had been thirty-two days since they left Donner Lake!

At Johnson's Ranch there were only three or four families of poor
emigrants. Nothing could be done toward relieving those at Donner Lake
until help could arrive from Sutter's Fort. A rainy winter had flooded
Bear River, and rendered the Sacramento plains a vast quagmire. Yet one
man volunteered to go to Sacramento with the tale of horror, and get men
and provisions. This man was John Rhodes. Lashing two pine logs together
with rawhides, and forming a raft, John Rhodes was ferried over Bear
River. Taking his shoes in his hands, and rolling his pants up above his
knees, he started on foot through water that frequently was from one to
three feet deep. Some time during the night he reached the Fort.

A train in the mountains! Men, women, and children starving! It was
enough to make one's blood curdle to think of it! Captain Sutter,
generous old soul, and Alcalde Sinclair, who lived at Norris' Ranch two
and a half miles from the Fort, offered provisions, and five or six men
volunteered to carry them over the mountains. In about a week, six men,
fully provided with supplies, reached Johnson's Ranch. Meantime the
Tuckers and their neighbors had slaughtered five or six fat cattle, and
had dried or "jerked" the meat. The country was scoured for horses and
mules, and for saddles and pack-saddles, but at last, in ten or twelve
days, they were ready to start. Alcalde Sinclair had come up from the
Fort, and when all were ready to begin their march, he made them a
thrilling little address. They were, he said, starting out upon a
hazardous journey. Nothing could justify them in attempting so perilous
an undertaking except the obligations due to their suffering fellow-men.
He urged them to do all in their power, without sacrificing their lives,
to save the perishing emigrants from starvation and death. He then
appointed Reasin P. Tucker, the father of our informant, captain of the
company. With a pencil he carefully wrote down the name of each man in
the relief party. The names were John Rhodes, Daniel Rhodes, Aquilla
Glover, R. S. Mootrey, Joseph Foster, Edward Coffeemire, M. D. Ritchie,
James Curtis, William H. Eddy, William Coon, R. P. Tucker, George W.
Tucker, and Adolph Brueheim. Thus the first relief party started.

Chapter X.

California, at this time, was sparsely settled, and it was a fearful
undertaking to cross the snowy mountains to the relief of the
storm-bound emigrants. A better idea of the difficulties to be
encountered by the various relief parties can not be presented than
by quoting from the manuscript of George W. Tucker. This gentleman
was sixteen years old at the time of the occurrences narrated, and his
account is vouched for as perfectly truthful and reliable. This sketch,
like the remainder of this book, treats of an epoch in California
history which has been almost forgotten. The scene of his adventures is
laid in a region familiar to thousands of miners and early Californians.
Along the route over which he passed with so much difficulty, scores of
mining camps sprung up soon after the discovery of gold, and every
flat, ravine, and hill-slope echoed to pick, and shovel, and pan, and
to voices of legions of men. Truly, his narration relates to a lost, an
almost unremembered era in the history of the famous mining counties,
Placer and Nevada. In speaking of the first relief party, he says:

"We mounted our horses and started. The ground was very soft among
the foothills, but we got along very well for two or three miles after
leaving Johnson's ranch. Finally, one of our packhorses broke through
the crust, and down he went to his sides in the mud. He floundered and
plunged until the pack turned underneath his body. He then came out of
the mud, bucking and kicking; and he bucked and kicked, and kicked and
bucked, till he cleared himself of the pack, pack-saddle and all, and
away he went back to the ranch. We gathered up the pack, put it upon the
horse Eddy was riding, and the party traveled on. Eddy and myself were
to go back to the ranch, catch the horse, and returning, overtake them.
We failed to find the horse that day, but the next morning an Indian got
on my horse, and, about nine o'clock, succeeded in finding the missing
animal. My horse, however, was pretty well run down when he got back.
Eddy and myself started about ten o'clock. We had to travel in one day
what the company had traveled in two days. About the time we started it
commenced clouding up, and we saw we were going to have a storm. We went
on until about one o'clock, when my horse gave out. It commenced raining
and was very cold. Eddy said he would ride on and overtake the company,
if possible, and have them stop. He did not overtake them until about
dark, after they had camped.

"My horse could only go in a slow walk, so I walked and led him to keep
from freezing. The rain continued to increase in volume, and by dark it
was coming down in torrents. It was very cold. The little stream began
to rise, but I waded through, though sometimes it came up to my armpits.
It was very dark, but I kept going on in hopes I would come in sight of
the camp-fire. But the darkness increased, and it was very difficult to
find the road. I would get down on my knees and feel for the road with
my hands. Finally, about nine o'clock, it became so dark that I could
not see a tree until I would run against it, and I was almost exhausted
dragging my horse after me. I had lost the road several times, but found
it by feeling for the wagon-ruts. At last I came to where the road made
a short turn around the point of a hill, and I went straight ahead until
I got forty or fifty yards from the road. I crawled around for some time
on my knees, but could not find it. I knew if the storm was raging in
the morning as it was then, if I got very far from the road, I could not
tell which was east, west, north, or south, I might get lost and perish
before the storm ceased, so I concluded to stay right there until
morning. I had no blanket, and nothing on me but a very light coat and
pair of pants. I tied my horse to a little pine tree, and sitting down,
leaned against the tree. The rain came down in sheets. The wind blew,
and the old pine trees clashed their limbs together. It seemed to me
that a second deluge had come. I would get so cold that I would get up
and walk around for a while. It seemed to me I should surely freeze.
Toward morning I began to get numb, and felt more comfortable, but that
was the longest and hardest night I ever experienced.

"In the morning, when it became light enough so that I could see two or
three rods, I got up, but my legs were so numb that I could not walk. I
rolled around until I got up a circulation, and could stand on my
feet. Leaving my horse tied to the tree, I found the road, went about a
hundred yards around the point of a hill, and saw the camp-fire up in a
little flat about a quarter of a mile from where I had spent the night.
Going up to camp, I found the men all standing around a fire they had
made, where two large pines had fallen across each other. They had laid
down pine bark and pieces of wood to keep them out of the water. They
had stood up all night. The water was running two or three inches deep
all through the camp. When I got to the fire, and began to get warm, my
legs and arms began to swell so that I could hardly move or get my hands
to my face.

"It never ceased raining all that day nor the next night, and we were
obliged to stand around the fire. Everything we had was wet. They had
stacked up our dried beef and flour in a pile, and put the saddles and
pack saddles over it as well as they could, but still it got more or
less wet. The third morning it stopped raining about daylight, and the
sun came out clear and warm. We made scaffolds and spread our meat all
out, hung up our blankets and clothing on lines, and by keeping up fires
and with the help of the sun, we managed to get everything dry by night.
The next morning we packed up and started on until we came to a little
valley, where we found some grass for our horses. We stayed there that
night. The next day we got to Steep Hollow Creek, one of the branches
of Bear River. This stream was not more than a hundred feet wide, but it
was about twenty feet deep, and the current was very swift. We felled a
large pine tree across it, but the center swayed down so that the water
ran over it about a foot deep. We tied ropes together and stretched them
across to make a kind of hand railing, and succeeded in carrying over
all our things. We undertook to make our horses swim the creek, and
finally forced two of them into the stream, but as soon as they struck
the current they were carried down faster than we could run. One of them
at last reached the bank and got ashore, but the other went down under
the tree we had cut, and the first we saw of him he came up about twenty
yards below, heels upward. He finally struck a drift about a hundred
yards below, and we succeeded in getting him out almost drowned. We then
tied ropes together, part of the men went over, and tying a rope to each
horse, those on one side would force him into the water, and the others
would draw him across. We lost a half day at this place. That night we
climbed a high mountain, and came to snow. Camped that night without any
feed for our horses. The next day, about noon, we reached Mule Springs.
The snow was from three to four feet deep, and it was impossible to go
any farther with the horses. Unpacking the animals, Joe Varro and Wm.
Eddy started back with them to Johnson's Ranch. The rest of us went
to work and built a brush tent in which to keep our provisions. We set
forks into the ground, laid poles across, and covered them with cedar
boughs. We finished them that evening, and the next morning ten of
the men fixed up their packs, consisting of dried beef and flour, and
started on foot, each one carrying about seventy-five pounds. They left
Billy Coon and myself to watch the provisions until they returned. I
have never been in that country since, but I think Mule Springs is on
the opposite side of Bear River from Dutch Flat.

"After the men had all gone, I amused myself the first day by getting
wood and cutting cedar limbs to finish our camp with. My companion,
Billy Coon, was partially insane, and was no company at all. He would
get up in the morning, eat his food, and then lie down and sleep for
two or three hours. He would only talk when he was spoken to; and all he
knew was to sleep and eat. I got very lonesome, and would sit for
hours thinking of our situation. Sixty miles from any human habitation!
Surrounded with wild Indians and wild beasts! Then, when I would look
away at the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra, and think that my father
and the rest of the men where there, toiling under the heavy loads which
they carried, I became still more gloomy. When night would come, the
big gray wolves that had collected on the mountains facing to the south,
where the snow had melted off, would set up their howlings. This, with
the dismal sound of the wind roaring through the tall pine trees, was
almost unendurable. To this day, when I am in pine timber, and hear the
wind sighing through the tree-tops, I always think of the Donner Party
and of those lonely days in the mountains.

"The third day after the men left I became so lonesome that I took
the gun and went down in the direction in which I had heard the wolves
howling. When I got down out of the snow, I found the deer had collected
there by the hundreds. I killed two deer; went up and got Billy Coon,
and we carried them up to camp. We hung one on each corner of our brush
tent, not more than six feet from our bed, and not more than four feet
from the fire. Next morning one of the deer was gone! I supposed the
Indians had found us out and stolen it; but when I looked for tracks I
found the thief had been a California lion. I tracked him two or three
hundred yards, but he had walked off with the deer so easily, I thought
he might keep it. That afternoon I went down to kill another deer, but
when I reached a point from which I could see down to the river, I saw
the smoke of an Indian camp. I was afraid to shoot for fear the Indians
would hear the gun, and finding out we were there, would come up and
give us trouble. I started back, and when in sight of camp I sat down
on a log to rest. While sitting there I saw three Indians coming up
the hill. I sat still to see what they would do. They came up to within
sight of the camp, and all crawled up behind a large sugar-pine tree,
and sat there watching the camp. I did not like their movements, so
thought I would give them a scare. I leveled the old gun at the tree,
about six feet above their heads, and fired away. They got away from
there faster than they came, and I never saw them afterwards."

"On the fifth day after the men left, three of them came back to the
camp. They informed me they had been three days in traveling from Mule
Springs to Bear Valley, a distance of twelve miles. These three had
found it impossible to stand the journey, but the other seven had
started on from Bear Valley. It was thought they could never get over to
Truckee Lake, for the snow was so soft it was impossible to carry their
heavy loads through from ten to thirty feet of it."

M. D. Ritchie and R. P. Tucker kept a diary of the journey of the first
relief party, which, thanks to Patty Reed, now Mrs. Frank Lewis, is
before us. It is brief, concise, pointed, and completes the narration of
Mr. George W. Tucker. Mr. Ritchie's diary reads:

"Feb. 5, 1847. First day traveled ten miles. Bad roads; often miring
down horses and mules. On the sixth and seventh traveled fifteen
miles. Road continued bad; commenced raining before we got to camp, and
continued to rain all that day and night very severe. Lay by here on the
eighth to dry our provisions and clothing."

"Feb. 9. Traveled fifteen miles. Swam the animals over one creek, and
carried the provisions over on a log."

"Feb. 10. Traveled four miles; came to the snow; continued about four
miles further. Animals floundering in snow, and camped at the Mule
Springs."

"Feb. 11. Mr. Eddy started back with the animals; left William Coon and
George Tucker to guard what provisions were left in camp; the other ten
men, each taking about fifty pounds, except Mr. Curtis, who took about
twenty-five pounds. Traveled on through the snow, having a very severe
day's travel over mountains, making about six miles. Camped on Bear
River, near a cluster of large pines."

"Feb. 12. Moved camp about two miles, and stopped to make snow

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