ORPHANS--KESEBERG AND HIS ACCUSERS--SENSATIONAL ACCOUNTS OF THE TRAGEDY
AT DONNER LAKE--PROPERTY SOLD AND GUARDIAN APPOINTED--KINDLY
INDIANS--"GRANDPA"--MARRIAGE OF ELITHA.
The report of our affliction spread rapidly, and the well-meaning,
tender-hearted women at the Fort came to condole and weep with us, and
made their children weep also by urging, "Now, do say something
comforting to these poor little girls, who were frozen and starved up
in the mountains, and are now orphans in a strange land, without any
home or any one to care for them."
Such ordeals were too overwhelming. I would rush off alone among the
wild flowers to get away from the torturing sympathy. Even there, I met
those who would look at me with great serious eyes, shake their heads,
and mournfully say, "You poor little mite, how much better it would be
if you had died in the mountains with your dear mother, instead of
being left alone to struggle in this wicked world!"
This would but increase my distress, for I did not want to be dead and
buried up there under the cold, deep snow, and I knew that mother did
not want me to be there either. Had she not sent me away to save me,
and asked God, our Heavenly Father, to take care of me?
Intense excitement and indignation prevailed at the Fort after Captain
Fallon and other members of his party gave their account of the
conditions found at the mountain camps, and of interviews had with
Keseberg, whom they now called, "cannibal, robber, and murderer." The
wretched man was accused by this party, not only of having needlessly
partaken of human flesh, and of having appropriated coin and other
property which should have come to us orphaned children, but also of
having wantonly taken the life of Mrs. Murphy and of my mother.
Some declared him crazy, others called him a monster. Keseberg denied
these charges and repeatedly accused Fallon and his party of making
false statements. He sadly acknowledged that he had used human flesh to
keep himself from starving, but swore that he was guiltless of taking
human life. He stated that Mrs. Murphy had died of starvation soon
after the departure of the "Third Relief," and that my mother had
watched by father's bedside until he died. After preparing his body for
burial, she had started out on the trail to go to her children. In
attempting to cross the distance from her camp to his, she had strayed
and wandered about far into the night, and finally reached his cabin
wet, shivering, and grief-stricken, yet determined to push onward. She
had brought nothing with her, but told him where to find money to take
to her children in the event of her not reaching them. He stated that
he offered her food, which she refused. He then attempted to persuade
her to wait until morning, and while they were talking, she sank upon
the floor completely exhausted, and he covered her with blankets and
made a fire to warm her. In the morning he found her cold in death.
Keseberg's vehement and steadfast denial of the crimes of which he
stood accused saved him from personal violence, but not from suspicion
and ill-will. Women shunned him, and children stoned him as he walked
about the fort. _The California Star_ printed in full the account of
the Fallon party, and blood-curdling editorials increased public
sentiment against Keseberg, stamping him with the mark of Cain, and
closing the door of every home against him.[14]
Elitha and Leanna tried to keep us little ones in ignorance of the
report that our father's body was mutilated, also of what was said
about the alleged murder of our mother. Still we did hear fragments of
conversations which greatly disturbed us, and our sisters found it
difficult to answer some of our questions.
Meanwhile, more disappointments for us were brewing at the fort.
Fallon's party demanded an immediate settlement of its claim. It had
gone up the mountains under promise that its members should have not
only a _per diem_ as rescuers, but also one half of all the property
that they might bring to the settlement, and they had brought valuable
packs from the camps of the Donners. Captain Fallon also had two
hundred and twenty-five dollars in gold coin taken from concealment on
Keseberg's person, and two hundred and seventy-five dollars additional
taken from a cache that Keseberg had disclosed after the Captain had
partially strangled him, and otherwise brutally treated him, to extort
information of hidden treasure.
Keseberg did not deny that this money belonged to the Donners, but
asserted that it was his intention and desire to take it to the Donner
children himself as he had promised their mother.
Eventually, it was agreed that the Donner properties should be sold at
auction, and that "one half of the proceeds should be handed over to
Captain Fallon to satisfy the claims of his party, and the other half
should be put into the hands of a guardian for the support of the
Donner children." Hiram Miller was appointed guardian by Alcalde
Sinclair.
Notwithstanding these plans for our well-being, unaccountable delays
followed, making our situation daily more trying.
Elitha was not yet fifteen years of age, and Leanna was two years
younger. They had not fully recovered from the effects of their long
privations and physical sufferings in the mountains; and the loss of
parents and means of support placed upon them responsibilities greater
than they could carry, no matter how bravely they strove to meet the
situation. "How can we provide for ourselves and these little
sisters?" was a question which haunted them by night and perplexed
them by day.
They had no way of communicating with our friends in Eastern States,
and the women at the Fort could ill afford to provide longer for us,
since their bread winners were still with Frémont, and their own
supplies were limited. Finally, my two eldest sisters were given
employment by different families in exchange for food, which they
shared with us; but it was often insufficient, and we little ones
drifted along forlornly. Sometimes home was where night overtook us.
Often, we trudged to the _rancheria_ beyond the pond, made by the
adobe-moulders who had built the houses and wall surrounding the fort.
There the Indian mothers were good to us. They gave us shreds of smoked
fish and dried acorns to eat; lowered from their backs the queer little
baby-beds, called "bickooses," and made the chubby faces in them laugh
for our amusement. They also let us pet the dogs that perked up their
ears and wagged their tails as our own Uno used to do when he wanted to
frolic. Sometimes they stroked our hair and rubbed the locks between
their fingers, then felt their own as if to note the difference. They
seemed sorry because we could not understand their speech.
The pond also, with its banks of flowers, winding path, and dimpling
waters, had charms for us until one day's experience drove us from it
forever. We three were playing near it when a joyous Indian girl with a
bundle of clothes on her head ran down the bank to the water's edge.
We, following, watched her drop her bundle near a board that sloped
from a rock into nature's tub, then kneel upon the upper end and souse
the clothes merrily up and down in the clear water. She lathered them
with a freshly gathered soap-root and cleansed them according to the
ways of the Spanish mission teachers. As she tied the wet garments in a
bundle and turned to carry them to the drying ground, Frances espied
some loose yellow poppies floating near the end of the board and lay
down upon it for the purpose of catching them.
Georgia and I saw her lean over and stretch out her hand as far as she
could reach; saw the poppies drift just beyond her finger tips; saw her
lean a little farther, then slip, head first, into the deep water. Such
shrieks as terrified children give, brought the Indian girl quickly to
our aid. Like a flash, she tossed the bundle from her head, sprang into
the water, snatched Frances as she rose to the surface, and restored
her to us without a word. Before we had recovered sufficiently to
speak, she was gone.
Not a soul was in sight when we started toward the Fort, all
unconscious of what the inevitable "is to be" was weaving into our
lives.
We were too young to keep track of time by calendar, but counted it by
happenings. Some were marked with tears, some with smiles, and some
stole unawares upon us, just as on that bright June evening, when we
did not find our sisters, and aimlessly followed others to the little
shop where a friendly-appearing elderly man was cutting slices of meat
and handing them to customers. We did not know his name, nor did we
realize that he was selling the meat he handed out, only that we wanted
some. So, after all the others had gone, we addressed him, asking,
"Grandpa, please give us a little piece of meat."
He looked at us, and inquired whose children we were, and where we
lived. Upon learning, he turned about, lifted a liver from a wooden peg
and cut for each, a generous slice.
On our way out, a neighbor intercepted us and said that we should sleep
at her house that night and see our sisters in the morning. She also
gave us permission to cook our pieces of liver over her bed of live
coals. Frances offered to cook them all on her stick, but Georgia and I
insisted that it would be fun for each to broil her own. I, being the
smallest child, was given the shortest stick, and allowed to stand
nearest the fire. Soon the three slices were sizzling and browning from
the ends of three willow rods, and smelled so good that we could hardly
wait for them to be done. Presently, however, the heat began to burn my
cheeks and also the hand that held the stick. The more I wiggled about,
the hotter the fire seemed, and it ended in Frances having to fish my
piece of liver from among the coals, burned in patches, curled over
bits of dying embers, and pretty well covered with ashes, but she knew
how to scrape them away, and my supper was not spoiled.
Our neighbor gave us breakfast next morning and spruced us up a bit,
then led us to the house where a number of persons had gathered, most
of them sitting at table laughing and talking, and among them, Elitha
and Leanna. Upon our entrance, the merriment ceased and all eyes were
turned inquiringly toward us. Some one pointed to him who sat beside
our eldest sister and gayly said, "Look at your new brother." Another
asked, "How do you like him?" We gazed around in silent amazement until
a third continued teasingly, "She is no longer Elitha Donner, but Mrs.
Perry McCoon. You have lost your sister, for her husband will take her
away with him." "Lost your sister!" Those harrowing words stirred our
pent feelings to anguish so keen that he who had uttered them in sport
was touched with pity by the pain they caused.
Tears came also to the child-wife's eyes as she clasped her arms about
us soothingly, assuring us that she was still our sister, and would
care for us. Nevertheless, she and her husband slipped away soon on
horseback, and we were told that we were to stay at our neighbor's
until they returned for us.
This marriage, which was solemnized by Alcalde John Sinclair on the
fourth of June, 1847, was approved by the people at the Fort. Children
were anxious to play with us because we had "a married sister and a new
brother." Women hurried through noon chores to meet outside, and some
in their eagerness forgot to roll down their sleeves before they began
to talk. One triumphantly repeated to each newcomer the motherly advice
which she gave the young couple when she "first noticed his affection
for that sorrowing girl, who is too pretty to be in this new country
without a protector." They also recalled how Perry McCoon's launch had
brought supplies up the river for the Second Relief to take over the
mountains; and how finally, he himself had carried to the bereaved
daughter the last accounts from Donner Camp.
Then the speakers wondered how soon Elitha would be back. Would she
take us three to live with her on that cattle ranch twenty-five miles
by bridle trail from the Fort? And would peace and happiness come to us
there?
[Footnote 14: See Appendix for account of the Fallon party, quoted from
Thornton's work.]