WAR AND RUMORS OF WAR--MARRIAGE--SONOMA REVISITED.
The Summer of 1861, now well advanced, was rife with war and rumors of
war, and foreshadowings of coming events. The old and the young were
flushed with patriotism, each eager to help his country's cause. I,
remembering grandma's training, was ready to give my services to
hospital work. Earnest as was this desire, however, I was dissuaded
from taking definite steps in that direction by those who knew that my
slender physique and girlish appearance would defeat my purpose before
the board of appointing physicians. Moreover, Mr. Houghton's visits and
frequent letters were changing my earlier plans for the future, and
finally led to my naming the tenth of October, 1861, as our wedding
day.
The ceremony was solemnized by the Rev. J.A. Benton, of Sacramento. The
event is also noteworthy as being the occasion of the first reunion of
the five Donner sisters since their parting at Sutter's Fort in June,
1847. Georgia's place was by my side, while Elitha, Leanna, and Frances
each grouped with husband and children in front among friends, who had
come to witness the plighting of vows between my hero and me. Not
until I had donned my travelling suit, and my little white Swiss
wedding dress was being packed, did I fully realize that the days of
inseparable companionship between Georgia and me were past; She had
long been assured that in my new home a welcome would be ever ready for
her, yet she had thoughtfully answered, "No, I am not needed there, and
I feel that I am needed here."
Nature's wedding gift to us was a week of glorious weather, and its
first five days we passed in San Francisco, the bustling, historic
city, which I knew so well, yet had never seen before. Then we boarded
the afternoon boat up the bay, expecting to spend the evening and
following morning in Sonoma with Grandpa and Grandma Brunner, but the
vessel failed to reach Lakeside Landing in time to connect with the
northbound coach. This mischance necessitated our staying overnight at
the only hostelry in the place.
The cry, "All aboard for Sonoma!" hurried us from the table next
morning, and on reaching the sidewalk, we learned that the proprietor
of the hotel had bespoken the two best seats in the coach for us.
I was too happy to talk until after we crossed the Sonoma River, shaded
by grand old oak, sycamore, and laurel trees, and then onward, I was
too happy to remain silent. Before us lay the valley which brought back
memories of my childhood, and I was in a mood to recall only the
brightest, as we sped on to our destination. My companion shared my
delight and gave heed to each scene I called to his attention.
The coach stopped in front of the hotel, and we alighted upon almost
the same spot from which I had climbed into the carriage to leave
Sonoma six years earlier. But, oh, how changed was everything! One
sweeping glance at the little town revealed the fact that it had passed
its romantic age and lost its quickening spirit. Closed were the homes
of the old Spanish families; gone were the _caballeros_ and the
bright-eyed _señoritas_; grass-grown was the highway to the mines; the
flagstaff alone remained flushed with its old-time dignity and
importance. In subdued mood, I stepped into the parlor until our names
should be registered. When my husband returned, I said,
"The carpet on this floor, the chairs in this room, and the pictures on
these walls were in place in grandma's home when I left her--perhaps
she is no longer living."
He left me again to make inquiry concerning those whom we had come to
see, and ascertained that the Brunners had remarried for the purpose of
facilitating the readjustment of their property rights, and of rescuing
them from the hands of a scheming manager, who, with his family, was
now living on the estate, and caring for grandma, but would not permit
grandpa to enter the house.
After sending a messenger to find grandpa, I led the way to the open
door of the old home, then slipped aside to let my husband seek
admission. He rapped.
[Illustration: GENERAL VALLEJO'S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832]
[Illustration: GENERAL VALLEJO'S OLD JAIL]
I heard a side door open, uneven footsteps in the hall, and him saying
quietly, "I think the old lady herself is coming, and you had better
meet her alone." I crossed the threshold, opened my arms, and uttered
the one word, "Grandma!"
She came and rested her head against my bosom and I folded my arms
about her just as she had enfolded me when I went to her a lonely child
yearning for love. She stirred, then drew back, looked up into my face
and asked, "Who be you?"
Touched by her wistful gaze, I exclaimed, "Grandma, don't you know me?"
"Be you Eliza?" she asked, and when I had given answer, she turned from
me in deepest emotion, murmuring, "No, no, it can't be my little
Eliza!" She would have tottered away had I not supported her to a seat
in the well-remembered living room and caressed her until she looked up
through her tears, saying, "When you smile, you be my little Eliza, but
when you look serious, I don't know you."
She inquired about Georgia, and how I came to be there without her.
Then she bade me call my husband, and thanked him for bringing me to
her. Forgetting all the faults and shortcomings that once had troubled
her sorely, she spoke of my busy childhood and the place I had won in
the affections of all who knew me.
A tender impulse took her from us a moment. She returned, saying, "Now,
you must not feel bad when you see what I have in the hand behind me,"
and drawing it forth continued, "This white lace veil which I bought at
Sutter's Fort when your mother's things were sold at auction, is to
cover my face when I am dead; and this picture of us three is to be
buried in the coffin with me. I want your husband to see how you looked
when you was little."
She appeared proudly happy; but a flame of embarrassment burned my
cheeks, as she handed him the picture wherein I showed to such
disadvantage, with the question, "Now, doesn't she look lovely?" and
heard his affirmative reply.
Upon the clock lay a broken toy which had been mine, and in childlike
ecstasy she spoke of it and of others which she had kept ever near her.
When invited to go to luncheon with us, she brought first her bonnet,
next her shawl, for me to hold while she should don her best apparel
for the occasion. Instead of going directly, she insisted on choosing
the longer road to town, that we might stop at Mrs. Lewis's to see if
she and her daughter Sallie would recognize me. Frequently as we walked
along, she hastened in advance, and then faced about on the road to
watch us draw near. When we reached Mrs. Lewis's door, she charged me
not to smile, and clapped her hands when both ladies appeared and
called me by name.
As we were taking leave, an aged horseman drew rein at the gate and
dismounted, and Mrs. Lewis looking up, exclaimed, "Why, there is Mr.
Brunner!"
It did not take me long to meet him part way down the walk, nor did I
shrink from the caress he gave me, nor know how much joy and pain that
meeting evoked in him, even after he turned to Mr. Houghton saying
fervently, "Do not be angry because I kiss your wife and put my arms
around her, for she is my child come back to me. I helped raise her,
and we learned her to do all kinds of work, what is useful, and she was
my comfort child in my troubles."
My husband's reply seemed to dispel the recollections which had made
the reunion distressing, and grandpa led his horse and walked and
talked with us until we reached the turn where he bade us leave him
while he disposed of Antelope preparatory to joining us at luncheon.
Proceeding, we observed an increasing crowd in front of the hotel,
massed together as if in waiting. As we drew nearer, a way was opened
for our passage, and friends and acquaintances stepped forth, shook
hands with me and desired to be introduced to my husband. It was
apparent that the message which we had sent to grandpa early in the
day, stating the hour we would be at the hotel, had spread among the
people, who were now assembled for the purpose of meeting us.
Strangers also were among them, for I heard the whispered answer many
times, "Why, that is little Eliza Donner, who used to live with the
Brunners, and that is Mr. Houghton, her husband--they can only stay
until two o'clock." The hotel table, usually more than ample to
accommodate its guests, was not nearly large enough for all who
followed to the dining-room, so the smiling host placed another table
across the end for many who had intended to lunch at home that day.
Meantime, our little party was seated, with Mr. Houghton at the head of
the table, I at his right; grandpa opposite me, and grandma at my
right. She was supremely happy, would fold her hands in her lap and
say, "If you please," and "Thank you," as I served her; and I was
grateful that she claimed my attention, for grandpa's lips were mute.
He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal
the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks. Not until we reached
a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express
itself in words. Grasping my husband's hand he said:
"My friend, I must leave you. I broke bread and tasted salt with you,
but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye. You bring back my
child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast,
or happiness to offer. I must see and talk with her in the house of
strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear! But before I
go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work
together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that
when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do. You
will not have bitter thoughts and blame one another."
Here grandma interrupted meekly, "I know I did wrong, but I did not
mean to, and I be sorry."
The pause which followed our given promise afforded me the opportunity
to clasp their withered hands together between mine, and gain from
grandpa an earnest pledge that he would watch over and be kind to her,
who had married him when he was poor and in ill health; who had toiled
for him through the long years of his convalescence; who had been the
power behind the throne, his best aid and counsellor, until time had
turned her back in its tide, and made her a child again.
My husband followed him from the room to bestow the sympathy and
encouragement which a strong man can give to a desponding one.
When the carriage was announced, which would take us to Benicia in time
to catch the Sacramento steamer to San Francisco, I tied on grandma's
bonnet, pinned her shawl around her shoulders, and told her that we
would take her home before proceeding on our way, but she crossed her
hands in front and artlessly whispered:
"No; I'd like to stay in town a while to talk with friends; but I thank
you just the same, and shall not forget that I am to go to you, after
you be settled in the new home, and his little daughter has learned to
call you 'mother.'"
We left her standing on the hotel piazza, smiling and important among
the friends who had waited to see us off; but grandpa was nowhere in
sight.
The steamer was at the landing when we reached Benicia so we hurriedly
embarked and found seats upon the deck overlooking the town. As the
moonlight glistened on the white spray which encircled our departing
boat, the sound of the Angelus came softly, sweetly, prayerfully over
the water; and I looking up and beyond, saw the glimmering lights of
Saint Catherine's Convent, fitting close to scenes of my childhood, its
silver-toned bells cheering my way to long life, honors, and many
blessings!
APPENDIX
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding
small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds
He all.
FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU.
I
ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN _The California Star_--STATISTICS OF THE
PARTY--NOTES OF AGUILLA GLOVER--EXTRACT FROM THORNTON--RECOLLECTIONS OF
JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE.
In honor to the State that cherishes the landmark; in justice to
history which is entitled to the truth; in sympathetic fellowship with
those who survived the disaster; and in reverent memory of those who
suffered and died in the snow-bound camps of the Sierra Nevadas, I
refute the charges of cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity which have
been ascribed to the Donner Party.
In this Appendix I set forth some of the unwarranted statements to
which frequent reference has been made in the foregoing pages, that
they may be examined and analyzed, and their utter unreliability
demonstrated by comparison with established facts and figures. These
latter data, for the sake of brevity, are in somewhat statistical form.
A few further incidents, which I did not learn of or understand until
long after they occurred, are also related.
The accounts of weather conditions, of scarcity of food and fuel, also
the number of deaths in the camps before the first of March, 1847, are
verified by the carefully kept "Diary of Patrick Breen, One of the
Donner Party," which has recently been published by the Academy of
Pacific Coast History.
The following article, which originally appeared in _The California
Star_, April 10, 1847, is here quoted from "The Life and Days of
General John A. Sutter," by T.J. Schoonover:
A more shocking scene cannot be imagined than was witnessed by the
party of men who went to the relief of the unfortunate emigrants in
the California Mountains. The bones of those who had died and been
devoured by the miserable ones that still survived were around their
tents and cabins; bodies of men, women, and children with half the
flesh torn from them lay on every side. A woman sat by the side of
the body of her dead husband cutting out his tongue; the heart she
had already taken out, broiled, and eaten. The daughter was seen
eating the father; and the mother, that [_viz._ body] of her
children; children, that of father and mother. The emaciated, wild,
and ghastly appearance of the survivors added to the horror of it.
Language can not describe the awful change that a few weeks of dire
suffering had wrought in the minds of the wretched and pitiable
beings. Those who one month before would have shuddered and sickened
at the thought of eating human flesh, or of killing their companions
and relatives to preserve their own lives, now looked upon the
opportunity the acts afforded them of escaping the most dreadful of
deaths as providential interference in their behalf.
Calculations were coldly made, as they sat around their gloomy camp
fires, for the next succeeding meals. Various expedients were
devised to prevent the dreadful crime of murder, but they finally
resolved to kill those who had least claims to longer existence.
Just at this moment some of them died, which afforded the rest
temporary relief. Some sank into the arms of death cursing God for
their miserable fate, while the last whisperings of others were
prayers and songs of praise to the Almighty. After the first few
deaths, but the one all-absorbing thought of individual
self-preservation prevailed. The fountains of natural affection
were dried up. The chords that once vibrated with connubial,
parental, and filial affection were torn asunder, and each one
seemed resolved, without regard to the fate of others, to escape
from impending calamity.
So changed had the emigrants become that when the rescuing party
arrived with food, some of them cast it aside, and seemed to prefer
the putrid human flesh that still remained. The day before the party
arrived, one emigrant took the body of a child about four years of
age in bed with him and devoured the whole before morning; and the
next day he ate another about the same age, before noon.
This article, one of the most harrowing to be found in print, spread
through the early mining-camps, and has since been quoted by historians
and authors as an authentic account of scenes and conduct witnessed by
the first relief corps to Donner Lake. It has since furnished style and
suggestion for other nerve-racking stories on the subject, causing
keener mental suffering to those vitally concerned than words can tell.
Yet it is easily proved to be nothing more or less than a perniciously
sensational newspaper production, too utterly false, too cruelly
misleading, to merit credence. Evidently, it was written without
malice, but in ignorance, and by some warmly clad, well nourished
person, who did not know the humanizing effect of suffering and sorrow,
and who may not have talked with either a survivor or a rescuer of the
Donner Party.
When the Donner Party ascended the Sierra Nevadas on the last day of
October, 1846, it comprised eighty-one souls; namely, Charles
Berger,[19] Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), John Breen,
Edward Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon Breen, James Breen, Peter
Breen, Isabella Breen, Jacob Donner,[19] Elizabeth Donner[19] (his
wife), William Hook,[20] Solomon Hook, George Donner, Jr., Mary Donner,
Isaac Donner,[20] Lewis Donner,[19] Samuel Donner,[19] George Donner,
Sr.,[19] Tamsen Donner[19] (his wife), Elitha Donner, Leanna C. Donner,
Frances Eustis Donner, Georgia Anna Donner, Eliza Poor Donner, Patrick
Dolan,[20] John Denton,[20] Milton Elliot,[19] William Eddy, Eleanor
Eddy (his wife), Margaret Eddy,[19] and James Eddy,[19] Jay Fosdick[20]
and Sarah Fosdick (his wife), William Foster, Sarah Foster (his wife)
and George Foster,[19] Franklin W. Graves, Sr.,[20] Elisabeth
Graves[20] (his wife), Mary Graves, William C. Graves, Eleanor Graves,
Lovina Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, Franklin W. Graves,
Jr.,[20] and Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Noah James, Lewis S. Keseberg,
Philippine Keseberg (his wife), Ada Keseberg[20] and Lewis S. Keseberg,
Jr.,[19] Mrs. Lovina Murphy[19] (a widow), John Landrum Murphy,[19]
Lemuel Murphy,[20] Mary Murphy, William G. Murphy and Simon Murphy,
Mrs. Amanda McCutchen and Harriet McCutchen,[19] Mrs. Harriet Pike
(widow), Nioma Pike and Catherine Pike,[19] Mrs. Margaret Reed,
Virginia Reed, Martha J. Reed, James F. Reed, Jr., and Thomas K. Reed,
Joseph Rhinehart,[19] Charles Stanton,[20] John Baptiste Trubode,
August Spitzer,[19] James Smith,[19] Samuel Shoemaker, Bailis
Williams[19] and Eliza Williams (his sister), Mrs. Woolfinger (widow),
Antonio (a Mexican) and Lewis and Salvador (the two Indians sent with
Stanton by General Sutter).
Stated in brief, the result of the disaster to the party in the
mountains was as follows:
The total number of deaths was thirty-six, as follows: fourteen in the
mountains while _en route_ to the settlement; fourteen at camp near
Donner Lake; and eight at Donner's Camp.
The total number who reached the settlement was forty-five; of whom
five were men, eight were women, and thirty-two were children.
The family of James F. Reed and that of Patrick Breen survived in
unbroken numbers. The only other family in which all the children
reached the settlement was that of Captain George Donner.
Fourteen of the eighty-one souls constituting the Donner Party were
boys and girls between the ages of nineteen and twelve years;
twenty-six ranged from twelve years to a year and a half; and seven
were nursing babes. There were only thirty-four adults,--twenty-two men
and twelve women.
Of the first-named group, eleven survived the disaster. One youth died
_en route_ with the Forlorn Hope; one at the Lake Camp; and one at Bear
Valley in charge of the First Relief.
Twenty of the second-named group also reached the settlements. One died
_en route_ with the First Relief; two at Donner's Camp (in March,
1847); two at Starved Camp, in charge of the Second Relief; and one at
the Lake Camp (in March).
Two of the seven babes lived, and five perished at the Lake Camp. They
hungered and slowly perished after famine had dried the natural flow,
and infant lips had drawn blood from maternal breasts.
The first nursling's life to ebb was that of Lewis Keseberg, Jr., on
January 24, 1847.[21] His grief-stricken mother could not be comforted.
She hugged his wasted form to her heart and carried it far from camp,
where she dug a grave and buried it in the snow.
Harriet McCutchen, whose mother had struggled on with the Forlorn Hope
in search of succor, breathed her last on the second of February, while
lying upon the lap of Mrs. Graves; and the snow being deep and hard
frozen, Mrs. Graves bade her son William make the necessary excavation
near the wall within their cabin, and they buried the body there, where
the mother should find it upon her return. Catherine Pike died in the
Murphy cabin a few hours before the arrival of food from the settlement
and was buried on the morning of February 22.[22]
[Illustration: Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. ALDER CREEK]
[Illustration: DENNISON'S EXCHANGE AND THE PARKER HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO]
Those were the only babes that perished before relief came. Does not
the fact that so many young children survived the disaster refute the
charges of parental selfishness and inhumanity, and emphasize the
immeasurable self-sacrifice, love, and care that kept so many of the
little ones alive through that long, bitter siege of starvation?
Mrs. Elinor Eddy, who passed away in the Murphy cabin on the seventh of
February, was the only wife and mother called by death, in either camp,
before the arrival of the First Relief. Both Patrick Breen's diary and
William G. Murphy, then a lad of eleven years, assert that Mrs. Eddy
and little Margaret, her only daughter, were buried in the snow near
the Murphy cabin on the ninth of February. Furthermore, the Breen Diary
and the death-list of the Donner Party show that not a husband or
father died at the Lake Camp during the entire period of the party's
imprisonment in the mountains.[23]
How, then, could that First Relief, or either of the other relief
parties see--how could they even have imagined that they saw--"wife
sitting at the side of her husband who had just died, mutilating his
body," or "the daughter eating her father," or "mother that of her
children," or "children that of father and mother"? The same questions
might be asked regarding the other revolting scenes pictured by the
_Star_.
The seven men who first braved the dangers of the icy trail in the work
of rescue came over a trackless, ragged waste of snow, varying from ten
to forty feet in depth,[24] and approached the camp-site near the lake
at sunset. They halloed, and up the snow steps came those able to drag
themselves to the surface. When they descended into those cabins, they
found no cheering lights. Through the smoky atmosphere, they saw
smouldering fires, and faced conditions so appalling that words forsook
them; their very souls were racked with agonizing sympathy. There were
the famine-stricken and the perishing, almost as wasted and helpless as
those whose sufferings had ceased. Too weak to show rejoicing, they
could only beg with quivering lips and trembling hands, "Oh, give us
something to eat! Give us something to drink! We are starving!"
True, their hands were grimy, their clothing tattered, and the floors
were bestrewn with hair from hides and bits of broken bullock bones;
but of connubial, parental, or filial inhumanity, there were no signs.
With what deep emotion those seven heroic men contemplated the
conditions in camp may be gathered from Mr. Aguilla Glover's own notes,
published in Thornton's work:
Feb. 19, 1847. The unhappy survivors were, in short, in a condition
most deplorable, and beyond power of language to describe, or
imagination to conceive.
The emigrants had not yet commenced eating the dead. Many of the
sufferers had been living on bullock hides for weeks and even that
sort of food was so nearly exhausted that they were about to dig up
from the snow the bodies of their companions for the purpose of
prolonging their wretched lives.
Thornton's work contains the following statement by a member of one of
the relief corps:
On the morning of February 20,[25] Racine Tucker, John Rhodes, and
Riley Moutrey went to the camp of George Donner eight miles distant,
taking a little jerked beef. These sufferers (eighteen) had but one
hide remaining. They had determined that upon consuming this they
would dig from the snow the bodies of those who had died from
starvation. Mr. Donner was helpless, Mrs. Donner was weak but in
good health, and might have come to the settlement with this party;
yet she solemnly but calmly determined to remain with her husband
and perform for him the last sad offices of affection and humanity.
And this she did in full view that she must necessarily perish by
remaining behind. The three men returned the same day with seven
refugees[26] from Donner Camp.
John Baptiste Trubode has distinct recollections of the arrival and
departure of Tucker's party, and of the amount of food left by it.
He said to me in that connection:
"To each of us who had to stay in camp, one of the First Relief Party
measured a teacupful of flour, two small biscuits, and thin pieces of
jerked beef, each piece as long as his first finger, and as many pieces
as he could encircle with that first finger and thumb brought together,
end to end. This was all that could be spared, and was to last until
the next party could reach us.
"Our outlook was dreary and often hopeless. I don't know what I would
have done sometimes without the comforting talks and prayers of those
two women, your mother and Aunt Elizabeth. Then evenings after you
children went to sleep, Mrs. George Donner would read to me from the
book[27] she wrote in every day. If that book had been saved, every one
would know the truth of what went on in camp, and not spread these
false tales.
"I dug in the snow for the dead cattle, but found none, and we had to
go back to our saltless old bullock hide, days before the Second Relief
got to us, on the first of March."
[Footnote 19: Died while in the mountain camps.]
[Footnote 20: Died _en route_ over the mountains to the settlements in
California.]
[Footnote 21: Report brought by John Baptiste to Donner's Camp, after
one of his trips to the lake.]
[Footnote 22: Incident related by William C. Graves, after he reached
the settlement.]
[Footnote 23: Franklin W. Graves and Jay Fosdick perished in December,
1846, while _en route_ to the settlement with the Forlorn Hope.]
[Footnote 24: One of the stumps near the Breen-Graves cabin, cut for
fuel while the snow was deepest, was found by actual measurement to be
twenty-two feet in height. It is still standing.]
[Footnote 25: Thornton's dates are one day later than those in the
Breen Diary. Breen must have lost a day _en route_.]
[Footnote 26: The First Relief Corps took six, instead of seven,
refugees from Donner Camp, and set out from the lake cabins with
twenty-three, instead of twenty-four, refugees.]
[Footnote 27: The journal, herbarium, manuscript, and drawings of Mrs.
George Donner were not among the goods delivered at the Fort by the
Fallon Party, and no trace of them was ever found.]
II
THE REED-GREENWOOD PARTY, OR SECOND RELIEF--REMINISCENCES OF WILLIAM G.
MURPHY--CONCERNING NICHOLAS CLARK AND JOHN BAPTISTE.
On the third of March, 1847, the Reed-Greenwood, or Second Relief Corps
(excepting Nicholas Clark) left camp with the following refugees:
Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon
Breen, James Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella Breen, Solomon Hook, Mary
Donner, Isaac Donner, Mrs. Elizabeth Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B.
Graves, Franklin W. Graves, Jr., Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Martha J. Reed,
and Thomas K. Reed. The whole party, as has been already told, were
forced into camp about ten miles below the summit on the west side of
the Sierras, by one of the fiercest snow-storms of the season.
All credit is due Mr. and Mrs. Breen for keeping the nine helpless
waifs left with them at Starved Camp alive until food was brought them
by members of the Third Relief Party. Mr. Breen's much prized diary
does not cover the experiences of that little band in their struggle
across the mountains, but concludes two days before they started. After
he and his family succeeded in reaching the Sacramento Valley, he gave
his diary (kept at Donner Lake) to Colonel George McKinstrey for the
purpose of assisting him in making out his report to Captain Hall,
U.S.N., Sloop of War _Warren_, Commander Northern District of
California.
James F. Reed of the Reed-Greenwood Party, the second to reach the
emigrants, has been adversely criticised from time to time, because he
and six of his men returned to Sutter's Fort in March with no more than
his own two children and Solomon Hook, a lad of twelve years, who had
said that he could and would walk, and did.
Careful investigation, however, proves the criticism hasty and unfair.
True, Mr. Reed went over the mountains with the largest and best
equipped party sent out, ten well furnished, able-bodied men. But
returning he left one man at camp to assist the needy emigrants.
The seventeen refugees whom he and nine companions brought over the
summit comprised three weak, wasted adults, and fourteen emaciated
young children. The prospect of getting them all to the settlement,
even under favorable circumstances, had seemed doubtful at the
beginning of the journey. Alas, one of the heaviest snow-storms of the
season overtook them on the bleak mountain-side ten miles from the tops
of the Sierra Nevadas. It continued many days. Food gave out, death
took toll. The combined efforts of the men could not do more than
provide fuel and keep the fires. All became exhausted. Rescuers and
refugees might have perished there together had the nine men not
followed what seemed their only alternative. Who would not have done
what Reed did? With almost superhuman effort, he saved his two
children. No one felt keener regret than he over the fact that he had
been obliged to abandon at Starved Camp the eleven refugees he had
heroically endeavored to save.
In those days of affliction, it were well nigh impossible to say who
was most afflicted; still, it would seem that no greater destitution
and sorrow could have been meted to any one than fell to the lot of
Mrs. Murphy at the lake camp. The following incidents were related by
her son, William G. Murphy, in an address to a concourse of people
assembled on the shore of Donner Lake in February, 1896:
I was a little more than eleven years of age when we all reached
these mountains, and that one-roomed shanty was built, where so many
of us lived, ate, and slept. No!--Where so many of us slept,
starved, and died! It was constructed for my mother and seven
children (two being married) and her three grandchildren, and
William Foster, husband of her daughter Sarah.
Early in December when the Forlorn Hope was planned, we were almost
out of provisions; and my mother took the babes from the arms of
Sarah and Harriet (Mrs. Pike) and told them that she would care for
their little ones, and they being young might with William (Foster)
and their brother Lemuel reach the settlement and return with food.
And the four became members of that hapless band of fifteen.
Mr. Eddy being its leader, his wife and her two children came to
live with us during his absence. When my eldest brother, on whom my
mother depended, was very weak and almost at death's door, my mother
went to the Breens and begged a little meat, just a few mouthfuls--I
remember well that little piece of meat! My mother gave half of it
to my dying brother; he ate it, fell asleep with a hollow death
gurgle. When it ceased I went to him--he was dead--starved to death
in our presence. Although starving herself, my mother said that if
she had known that Landrum was going to die she would have given him
the balance of the meat. Little Margaret Eddy lingered until
February 4, and her mother until the seventh. Their bodies lay two
days and nights longer in the room with us before we could find
assistance able to bury them in the snow. Some days earlier Milton
Elliot, weak and wandering around, had taken up his abode with us.
We shared with him the remnant of our beef hides. We had had a lot
of that glue-making material. But mark, it would not sustain life.
Elliot soon starved to death, and neighbors removed and interred the
body in the snow beside others.
Catherine Pike, my absent sister's baby, died on the eighteenth of
February, only a few hours before the arrival of the First Relief.
Thus the inmates of our shanty had been reduced to my mother, my
sister Mary, brother Simon, Nioma Pike, Georgie Foster, myself, and
little Jimmy Eddy.
When the rescuers decided they would carry out Nioma Pike, and that
my sister Mary and I should follow, stepping in the tracks made by
those who had snowshoes, strength seemed to come, so that I was able
to cut and carry to my mother's shanty what appeared to me a huge
pile of wood. It was green, but it was all I could get.
We left mother there with three helpless little ones to feed on
almost nothing, yet in the hope that she might keep them alive until
the arrival of the next relief.
Many of the survivors remember that after having again eaten food
seasoned with salt, the boiled, saltless hides produced nausea and
could not be retained by adult or child.
I say with deep reverence that flesh of the dead was used to sustain
the living in more than one cabin near the lake. But it was not used
until after the pittance of food left by the First Relief had long been
consumed; not until after the wolves had dug the snow from the graves.
Perhaps God sent the wolves to show Mrs. Murphy and also Mrs. Graves
where to get sustenance for their dependent little ones.
Both were widows; the one had three, and the other four helpless
children to save. Was it culpable, or cannibalistic to seek and use the
only life-saving means left them? Were the acts and purposes of their
unsteady hands and aching hearts less tender, less humane than those of
the lauded surgeons of to-day, who infuse human blood from living
bodies into the arteries of those whom naught else can save, or who
strip skin from bodies that feel pain, to cover wounds which would
otherwise prove fatal?
John Baptiste Trubode and Nicholas Clark, of the Second Relief, were
the last men who saw my father alive. In August, 1883, the latter came
to my home in San Jose.
This was our second meeting since that memorable morning of March 2,
1847, when he went in pursuit of the wounded mother bear, and was left
behind by the relief party. We spoke long and earnestly of our
experience in the mountains, and he wished me to deny the statement
frequently made that, "Clark carried a pack of plunder and a heavy
shotgun from Donner's Camp and left a child there to die." This I can
do positively, for when the Third Relief Party took Simon Murphy and us
"three little Donner girls" from the mountain camp, not a living being
remained, except Mrs. Murphy and Keseberg at the lake camp, and my
father and mother at Donner's Camp. All were helpless except my mother.
The Spring following my interview with Nicholas Clark, John Baptiste
came to San Jose, and Mr. McCutchen brought him to talk with me. John,
always a picturesque character, had become a hop picker in hop season,
and a fisherman the rest of the year. He could not restrain the tears
which coursed down his bronzed cheeks as he spoke of the destitution
and suffering in the snow-bound camps; of the young unmarried men who
had been so light-hearted on the plains and brave when first they faced
the snows. His voice trembled as he told how often they had tried to
break through the great barriers, and failed; hunted, and found
nothing; fished, and caught nothing; and when rations dwindled to
strips of beef hide, their strength waned, and death found them ready
victims. He declared,
The hair and bones found around the Donner fires were those of
cattle. No human flesh was used by either Donner family. This I
know, for I was there all winter and helped get all the wood and
food we had, after starvation threatened us. I was about sixteen
years old at the time. Our four men died early in December and were
buried in excavations in the side of the mountain. Their bodies were
never disturbed. As the snows deepened to ten and twelve feet, we
lost track of their location.
When saying good-bye, he looked at me wistfully and exclaimed: "Oh,
little Eliza, sister mine, how I suffered and worked to help keep you
alive. Do you think there was ever colder, stronger winds than them
that whistled and howled around our camp in the Sierras?"
He returned the next day, and in his quaint, earnest way expressed
keenest regret that he and Clark had not remained longer in camp with
my father and mother.
"I did not feel it so much at first; but after I got married and had
children of my own, I often fished and cried, as I thought of what I
done, for if we two men had stayed, perhaps we might have saved that
little woman."
His careworn features lightened as I bade him grieve no more, for I
realized that he was but a boy, overburdened with a man's
responsibilities, and had done his best, and that nobly. Then I added
what I have always believed, that no one was to blame for the
misfortunes which overtook us in the mountains. The dangers and
difficulties encountered by reason of taking the Hastings Cut-off had
all been surmounted--two weeks more and we should have reached our
destination in safety. Then came the snow! Who could foresee that it
would come earlier, fall deeper, and linger longer, that season than
for thirty years before? Everything that a party could do to save
itself was done by the Donner Party; and certainly everything that a
generous, sympathizing people could do to save the snow-bound was done
by the people of California.
III
THE REPORT OF THOMAS FALLON--DEDUCTIONS--STATEMENT OF EDWIN
BRYANT--PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES.
The following is the report of Thomas Fallon, leader of the fourth
party to the camps near Donner Lake:
Left Johnson's on the evening of April 13, and arrived at the lower
end of Bear River Valley on the fifteenth. Hung our saddles upon
trees, and sent the horses back, to be returned again in ten days to
bring us in again. Started on foot, with provisions for ten days and
travelled to head of the valley, and camped for the night; snow from
two to three feet deep. Started early in the morning of April 15 and
travelled twenty-three miles. Snow ten feet deep.
April 17. Reached the cabins between twelve and one o'clock.
Expected to find some of the sufferers alive. Mrs. Donner and
Keseberg[28] in particular. Entered the cabins, and a horrible scene
presented itself. Human bodies terribly mutilated, legs, arms, and
skulls scattered in every direction. One body supposed to be that of
Mrs. Eddy lay near the entrance, the limbs severed off, and a
frightful gash in the skull. The flesh was nearly consumed from the
bones, and a painful stillness pervaded the place. The supposition
was, that all were dead, when a sudden shout revived our hopes, and
we flew in the direction of the sound. Three Indians who had been
hitherto concealed, started from the ground, fled at our approach,
leaving behind their bows and arrows. We delayed two hours in
searching the cabins, during which we were obliged to witness sights
from which we would have fain turned away, and which are too
dreadful to put on record. We next started for Donner's camp,
eight miles distant over the mountains. After travelling about
half-way, we came upon a track in the snow which excited our
suspicion, and we determined to pursue. It brought us to the camp of
Jacob Donner, where it had evidently left that morning. There we
found property of every description, books, calicoes, tea, coffee,
shoes, percussion caps, household and kitchen furniture, scattered
in every direction, and mostly in water. At the mouth of the tent
stood a large iron kettle, filled with human flesh cut up. It was
from the body of George Donner. The head had been split open, and
the brain extracted therefrom; and to the appearance he had not been
long dead--not over three or four days, at most. Near-by the kettle
stood a chair, and thereupon three legs of a bullock that had been
shot down in the early part of winter, and snowed upon before it
could be dressed. The meat was found sound and good, and with the
exception of a small piece out of the shoulder, whole, untouched. We
gathered up some property, and camped for the night.
April 18. Commenced gathering the most valuable property, suitable
for our packs; the greater portion had to be dried. We then made
them up, and camped for the night.
April 19. This morning Foster, Rhodes, and J. Foster started, with
small packs, for the first cabins, intending from thence to follow
the trail of the person that had left the morning previous. The
other three remained behind to cache and secure the goods
necessarily left there. Knowing the Donners had a considerable sum
of money we searched diligently but were unsuccessful. The party for
the cabins were unable to keep the trail of the mysterious
personage, owing to the rapid melting of the snow; they therefore
went directly to the cabins and upon entering discovered Keseberg
lying down amid the human bones, and beside him a large pan full of
fresh liver and lights. They asked him what had become of his
companions; whether they were alive, and what had become of Mrs.
Donner. He answered them by stating that they were all dead. Mrs.
Donner, he said, had, in attempting to cross from one cabin to
another, missed the trail and slept out one night; that she came to
his camp the next night very much fatigued. He made her a cup of
coffee, placed her in bed, and rolled her well in the blankets; but
next morning she was dead. He ate her body and found her flesh the
best he had ever tasted. He further stated that he obtained from her
body at least four pounds of fat. No trace of her body was found,
nor of the body of Mrs. Murphy either. When the last company left
the camp, three weeks previous, Mrs. Donner was in perfect health,
though unwilling to leave her husband there, and offered $500.00 to
any person or persons who would come out and bring them in, saying
this in the presence of Keseberg, and that she had plenty of tea and
coffee. We suspected that it was she who had taken the piece from
the shoulder of beef on the chair before mentioned. In the cabin
with Keseberg were found two kettles of human blood, in all,
supposed to be over two gallons. Rhodes asked him where he had got
the blood. He answered, "There is blood in dead bodies." They asked
him numerous questions, but he appeared embarrassed, and equivocated
a great deal; and in reply to their asking him where Mrs. Donner's
money was, he evinced confusion, and answered that he knew nothing
about it, that she must have cached it before she died. "I haven't
it," said he, "nor money nor property of any person, living or
dead." They then examined his bundle, and found silks and jewellery,
which had been taken from the camp of Donners, amounting in value to
about $200.00. On his person they discovered a brace of pistols
recognized to be those of George Donner; and while taking them from
him, discovered something concealed in his waistcoat, which on being
opened was found to be $225.00 in gold.
Before leaving the settlement, the wife of Keseberg had told us that
we would find but little money about him; the men therefore said to
him that they knew he was lying to them, and that he was well aware
of the place of concealment of the Donners' money. He declared
before Heaven he knew nothing concerning it, and that he had not the
property of any one in his possession. They told him that to lie to
them would effect nothing; that there were others back at the cabins
who unless informed of the spot where the treasure was hidden would
not hesitate to hang him upon the first tree. Their threats were of
no avail. He still affirmed his ignorance and innocence. Rhodes took
him aside and talked to him kindly, telling him that if he would
give the information desired, he should receive from their hands
the best of treatment, and be in every way assisted; otherwise, the
party back at Donner's Camp would, upon arrival, and his refusal to
discover to them the place where he had deposited this money,
immediately put him to death. It was all to no purpose, however, and
they prepared to return to us, leaving him in charge of the packs,
and assuring him of their determination to visit him in the morning;
and that he must make up his mind during the night. They started
back and joined us at Donner's Camp.
April 20. We all started for Bear River Valley, with packs of one
hundred pounds each; our provisions being nearly consumed, we were
obliged to make haste away. Came within a few hundred yards of the
cabins and halted to prepare breakfast, after which we proceeded to
the cabin. I now asked Keseberg if he was willing to disclose to me
where he had concealed that money. He turned somewhat pale and again
protested his innocence. I said to him, "Keseberg, you know well
where Donner's money is, and damn you, you shall tell me! I am not
going to multiply words with you or say but little about it. Bring
me that rope!" He then arose from his hot soup and human flesh, and
begged me not to harm him; he had not the money nor goods; the silk
clothing and money which were found upon him the previous day and
which he then declared belonged to his wife, he now said were the
property of others in California. I told him I did not wish to hear
more from him, unless he at once informed us where he had concealed
the money of those orphan children; then producing the rope I
approached him. He became frightened, but I bent the rope around his
neck and as I tightened the cord, and choked him, he cried out that
he would confess all upon release. I then permitted him to arise. He
still seemed inclined to be obstinate and made much delay in
talking. Finally, but without evident reluctance, he led the way
back to Donner's Camp, about ten miles distant, accompanied by
Rhodes and Tucker. While they were absent we moved all our packs
over the lower end of the lake, and made all ready for a start when
they should return. Mr. Foster went down to the cabin of Mrs.
Murphy, his mother-in-law, to see if any property remained there
worth collecting and securing; he found the body of young Murphy who
had been dead about three months with his breast and skull cut
open, and the brains, liver, and lights taken out; and this
accounted for the contents of the pan which stood beside Keseberg
when he was found. It appeared that he had left at the other camp
the dead bullock and horse, and on visiting this camp and finding
the body thawed out, took therefrom the brains, liver, and lights.
Tucker and Rhodes came back the next morning, bringing $273.00 that
had been cached by Keseberg, who after disclosing to them the spot,
returned to the cabin. The money had been hidden directly underneath
the projecting limb of a large tree, the end of which seemed to
point precisely to the treasure buried in the earth. On their return
and passing the cabin, they saw the unfortunate man within devouring
the remaining brains and liver left from his morning repast. They
hurried him away, but before leaving, he gathered together the bones
and heaped them all in a box he used for the purpose, blessed them
and the cabin and said, "I hope God will forgive me what I have
done. I could not help it; and I hope I may get to heaven yet!" We
asked Keseberg why he did not use the meat of the bullock and horse
instead of human flesh. He replied he had not seen them. We then
told him we knew better, and asked him why the meat on the chair had
not been consumed. He said, "Oh, it is too dry eating; the liver and
lights were a great deal better, and brains made good soup!" We then
moved on and camped by the lake for the night.
April 21. Started for Bear River Valley this morning. Found the snow
from six to eight feet deep; camped at Yuma River for the night. On
the twenty-second travelled down Yuma about eighteen miles, and
camped at the head of Bear River Valley. On the twenty-fifth moved
down to lower end of the valley, met our horses, and came in.
The account by Fallon regarding the fate of the last of the Donners in
their mountain camp was the same as that which Elitha and Leanna had
heard and had endeavored to keep from us little ones at Sutter's Fort.
[Illustration: VIEW IN THE GROUNDS OF THE HOUGHTON HOME IN SAN JOSE]
[Illustration: THE HOUGHTON RESIDENCE IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA]
It is self-evident, however, that the author of those statements did
not contemplate that reliable parties[29] would see the Donner camps
before prowling beasts, or time and elements, had destroyed all proof
of his own and his party's wanton falsity.
It is also plain that the Fallon Party did not set out expecting to
find any one alive in the mountains, otherwise would it not have taken
more provisions than just enough to sustain its own men ten days? Would
it not have ordered more horses to meet it at the lower end of Bear
Valley for the return trip? Had it planned to find and succor survivors
would it have taken it for granted that all had perished, simply
because there was no one in the lake cabins, and would it have delayed
two precious hours in searching the lake camp for valuables before
proceeding to Donner's Camp?
Had the desire to rescue been uppermost in mind, would not the sight of
human foot-tracks on the snow half way between the two camps have
excited hope, instead of "suspicion," and prompted some of the party to
pursue the lone wanderer with kindly intent? Does not each succeeding
day's entry in that journal disclose the party's forgetfulness of its
declared mission to the mountains? Can any palliating excuse be urged
why those men did not share with Keseberg the food they had brought,
instead of permitting him to continue that which famine had forced upon
him, and which later they so righteously condemned?
Is there a single strain of humanity, pathos, or reverence in that
diary, save that reflected from Keseberg's last act before being
hurried away from that desolate cabin? Or could there be a falser,
crueler, or more heartless account brought to bereaved children than
Fallon's purported description of the father's body found in Donner's
Camp?
Here is the statement of Edwin Bryant, who with General Kearney and
escort, _en route_ to the United States, halted at the deserted cabins
on June 22, 1847, and wrote:
The body of (Captain) George Donner was found in his own camp about
eight miles distant. He had been carefully laid out by his wife, and
a sheet was wrapped around the corpse. This sad office was probably
the last act she performed before visiting the camp of Keseberg.[30]
After considering what had been published by _The California Star_, by
Bryant, Thornton, Mrs. Farnham, and others, I could not but realize
Keseberg's peculiarly helpless situation. Without a chance to speak in
his own defence, he had been charged, tried, and adjudged guilty by his
accusers; and an excited people had accepted the verdict without
question. Later, at Captain Sutter's suggestion, Keseberg brought
action for slander against Captain Fallon and party. The case was tried
before Alcalde Sinclair,[31] and the jury gave Keseberg a verdict of
one dollar damages. This verdict, however, was not given wide
circulation, and prejudice remained unchecked. There were other
peculiar circumstances connected with this much accused man which were
worthy of consideration, notably the following: If, as reported,
Keseberg was in condition to walk to the settlement, why did the First
Relief permit him to remain in camp consuming rations that might have
saved others?
Messrs. Reed and McCutchen of the Second Relief knew the man on the
plains, and had they regarded him as able to travel, or a menace to
life in camp, would they have left him there to prey on women and
little children, like a wolf in the fold?
Messrs. Eddy and Foster of the Third Relief had travelled with him on
the plains, starved with him in camp, and had had opportunities of
talking with him upon their return to the cabins too late to rescue
Jimmy Eddy and Georgia Foster. Had they believed that he had murdered
the children, would those two fathers and the rest of their party have
taken Simon Murphy and the three little Donner girls and left Keseberg
_alive_ in camp with lone, sick, and helpless Mrs. Murphy--Mrs. Murphy
who was grandmother of Georgia Foster, and had sole charge of Jimmy
Eddy?
[Footnote 28: Should be spelled Keseberg.]
[Footnote 29: General Kearney and escort, accompanied by Edwin Bryant.]
[Footnote 30: McGlashan's "History of the Donner Party" (1879).]
[Footnote 31: The old Alcalde records are not in existence, but some of
the survivors of the party remember the circumstance; and Mrs. Samuel
Kybert, now of Clarkville, Eldorado County, was a witness at the trial.
C.F. McGlashan, 1879.]
IV
LEWIS KESEBERG
In March, 1879, while collecting material for his "History of the
Donner Party," Mr. C.F. McGlashan, of Truckee, California, visited
survivors at San Jose, and coming to me, said:
"Mrs. Houghton, I am sorry that I must look to you and your sisters for
answers to the most delicate and trying questions relating to this
history. I refer to the death of your mother at the hand of Keseberg."
He was so surprised and shocked as I replied, "I do not believe that
Keseberg was responsible for my mother's death," that he interrupted
me, lost for a moment the manner of the impartial historian, and with
the directness of a cross-questioning attorney asked:
"Is it possible that Mrs. George Donner's daughter defends the murderer
of her mother?"
And when I replied, "We have no proofs. My mother's body was never
found," he continued earnestly,
"Why, I have enough evidence in this note book to convict that monster,
and I can do it, or at least arouse such public sentiment against him
that he will have to leave the State."
Very closely he followed my answering words, "Mr. McGlashan, from
little girlhood I have prayed that Lewis Keseberg some day would send
for me and tell me of my mother's last hours, and perhaps give a last
message left for her children, and I firmly believe that my prayer will
be granted, and I would not like you to destroy my opportunity. You
have a ready pen, but it will not be used in exact justice to all the
survivors, as you have promised, if you finish your work without giving
Keseberg also a chance to speak for himself."
After a moment's reflection, he replied, "I am amazed; but your wish in
this matter shall be respected."
The following evening he wrote from San Francisco:
You will be glad to know that I have put Harry N. Morse's detective
agency of Oakland upon the track of Keseberg, and if found, I mean
to take steps to obtain his confession.
In less than a week after the foregoing, came a note from him which
tells its own story.
SACRAMENTO, _Midnight, April 4, 1879_
MRS. E.P. HOUGHTON,
DEAR MADAM:--
Late as it is, I feel that I ought to tell you that I have spent the
evening with Keseberg. I have just got back, and return early
to-morrow to complete my interview. By merest accident, while
tracing, as I supposed, the record of his death, I found a clue to
his whereabouts. After dark I drove six miles and found him. At
first he declined to tell me anything, but somehow I melted the mood
with which he seemed enwrapped, and he talked freely.
He swears to me that he did not murder your mother. He declares it
so earnestly that I cannot doubt his veracity. To-morrow I intend
plying him closely with questions, and by a rigid system of cross
examination will detect the false-hood, if there is one, in his
statement. He gives chapter after chapter that others never knew. I
cannot say more to-night, but desire that you write me (at the
Cosmopolitan) any questions you might wish me to ask Keseberg, and
if I have not already asked them, I will do so on my return from San
Francisco.
C.F. MCGLASHAN.
After his second interview with Keseberg and in response to my urgent
appeal for full details of everything relating to my parents, Mr.
McGlashan wrote:
I wish you could see him. He will talk to either you or me at any
time, unless other influences are brought to bear upon him. If I
send word for him to come to Sacramento, he will meet me on my
return. If you and your husband could be there on Thursday or Friday
of this week, I could arrange an interview at the hotel that would
be all you could wish. I asked him especially if he would talk to
you, and he said, "Yes."
I dared not tell you about my interview until I had your permission.
Even now, I approach the task tremblingly.
Your mother was not murdered. Your father died, Keseberg thinks,
about two weeks after you left. Your mother remained with him until
the last and laid him out tenderly, as you know.
The days--to Keseberg--were perfect blanks. Mrs. Murphy died soon
after your departure with Eddy, and he was left alone--alone in his
cabin--alone with the dead bodies which he could not have lifted
from the floor, because of his weakness, even had he desired. The
man sighs and shudders, and great drops of agony gather upon his
brows as he endeavors to relate the details of those terrible days,
or recall their horrors. Loneliness, desolation was the chief
element of horror. Alone with the mutilated dead!
One night he sprang up in affright at the sound of something moving
or scratching at a log outside his cabin. It was some time before he
could understand that it was wolves trying to get in.
One night, about two weeks after you left, a knock came at his door,
and your mother entered. To this lonely wretch her coming seemed
like an angel's. She was cold and wet and freezing, yet her first
words were, that she must see her children. Keseberg understood that
she intended to start out that very night, and soon found that she
was slightly demented. She kept saying, "O God! I must see my
children. I must go to my children!" She finally consented to wait
until the morning, but was determined that nothing should then
prevent her lonely journey. She told Keseberg where her money was
concealed, she made him solemnly promise that he would get the money
and take it to her children. She would not taste the food he had to
offer. She had not tasted human flesh, and would hardly consent to
remain in his foul and hideous den. Too weak and Chilled to move,
she finally sank down on the floor, and he covered her as best he
could with blankets and feather bed, and made a fire to warm her;
but it was of no avail, she had received her death-chill, and in the
morning her spirit had passed heavenward.
I believe Keseberg tells the truth. Your mother watched day and
night by your father's bedside until the end. At nightfall he ceased
to breathe, and she was alone in the desolate camp, where she
performed the last sad ministrations, and then her duty in the
mountains was accomplished. All the smothered yearnings of maternal
love now burst forth with full power. Out into the darkness and
night she rushed, without waiting for the morning. "My children, I
must see my children!"
She arrived at Keseberg's cabin, overwrought mentally, overtaxed
physically, and chilled by the freezing night air. She was eager to
set forth on her desperate journey without resting a moment. I can
see her as he described her, wringing her hands and exclaiming over
and over again, "I must see my children!"
The story told by Mrs. Farnham and others about finding your
mother's remains, and that of Thornton concerning the pail of blood,
are unquestionably false. She had been dead weeks, and Keseberg
confessed to me that no part of her body was found by the relief
(Fallon) party.
My friend, I have attempted to comply with your request. More than
once during this evening I have burst into tears. I am sorry almost
that I attempted so mournful a task, but you will pardon the pain I
have caused.
Keseberg is a powerful man, six feet in height, with full bushy
beard, thin brown locks, and high forehead. He has blue eyes that
look squarely at you while he talks. He is sometimes absent-minded
and at times seems almost carried away with the intensity of his
misery and desolation.
He speaks and writes German, French, Spanish, and English; and his
selection of words proves him a scholar. When I first asked him to
make a statement which I could reduce to writing he urged: "What is
the use of making a statement? People incline to believe the most
horrible reports concerning a man; they will not credit what I say
in my own defence. My conscience is clear. I am an old man, and am
calmly awaiting my death. God is my judge, and it long ago ceased to
trouble me that people shunned and slandered me."
He finally consented to make the desired statement, and in speaking
of your family he continued: "Some time after Mrs. George Donner's
death, I thought I had gained sufficient strength to redeem the
pledge I had made her before her death. I went to Alder Creek Camp
to get the money. I had a difficult journey. The wagons of the
Donners were loaded with tobacco, powder, caps, school-books, shoes,
and dry goods. This stock was very valuable. I spent the night
there, searched carefully among the bales and bundles of goods, and
found five hundred and thirty-one dollars. Part of this sum was
gold, part silver. The silver I buried at the foot of a pine tree, a
little way from camp. One of the lower branches of another tree
reached down close to the ground, and appeared to point to the spot.
I put the gold in my pocket, and started back to my cabin; got lost,
and in crossing a little flat the snow suddenly gave way, and I sank
down almost to my arm-pits. After great exertion I raised myself out
of a snow-covered stream, and went round on a hillside and continued
my journey. At dark, and completely exhausted, and almost dead, I
came in sight of the Graves's cabin, and sometime after dark
staggered into my own. My clothes were wet, and the night was so
cold that my garments were frozen stiff. I did not build a fire nor
get anything to eat, just rolled myself up in the bed-clothes, and
shivered; finally fell asleep, and did not waken until late in the
morning. Then I saw my camp was in most inexplicable confusion;
everything about the cabin was torn up and scattered about, trunks
broken open; and my wife's jewellery, my cloak, my pistol and
ammunition was missing. I thought Indians had been there. Suddenly I
heard human voices. I hurried up to the surface of the snow, and saw
white men approaching. I was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. I
had suffered so much and so long, that I could scarcely believe my
senses. Imagine my astonishment upon their arrival to be greeted,
not with a 'Good-morning' or a kind word, but with a gruff, insolent
demand, 'Where is Donner's money?'
"I told them they ought to give me something to eat, and that I
would talk with them afterwards; but no, they insisted that I should
tell them about Donner's money. I asked who they were, and where
they came from, but they replied by threatening to kill me if I did
not give up the money. They threatened to hang or shoot me. At last
I told them that I had promised Mrs. Donner that I would carry her
money to her children, and I proposed to do so, unless shown some
authority by which they had a better claim. This so exasperated them
that they acted as though they were going to kill me. I offered to
let them bind me as a prisoner, and take me before Alcalde Sinclair
at Sutter's Fort, and I promised that I would then tell all I knew
about the money. They would listen to nothing, however, and finally
I told them where they would find the silver, and gave them the
gold. After I had done this they showed me a document from Alcalde
Sinclair, by which they were to receive a certain proportion of all
moneys and properties which they rescued. Those men treated me with
great unkindness. Mr. Tucker was the only one who took my part or
befriended me. When they started over the mountains, each man
carried two bales of goods. They had silks, calicoes, and delaines
from the Donners, and other articles of great value. Each man would
carry one bundle a little way, lay it down, and come back and get
the other bundle. In this way they passed over the snow three times.
I could not keep up with them, because I was so weak, but managed to
come up to their camp every night."
Upon receipt of this communication I wrote Mr. McGlashan from San Jose
that I was nerved for the ordeal, but that he should not permit me to
start on that momentous journey if his proposed arrangements were at
all doubtful, and that he should telegraph me at once.
Alas! my note miscarried; and, believing that his proposal had not met
my approval, Mr. and Mrs. McGlashan returned to Truckee a day earlier
than expected. Two weeks later he returned the envelope, its postmarks
showing what had happened.
It was not easy to gain the consent of my husband to a meeting with
Keseberg. He dreaded its effect on me. He feared the outcome of the
interview.
However, on May 16, 1879, he and I, by invitation, joined Mr. and Mrs.
McGlashan at the Golden Eagle Hotel in Sacramento. The former then
announced that although Keseberg had agreed by letter to meet us there,
he had that morning begged to be spared the mortification of coming to
the city hotel, where some one might recognize him, and as of old,
point the finger of scorn at him. After some deliberation as to how I
would accept the change, Mr. McGlashan had aceeded to the old man's
wish, that we drive to the neat little boarding house at Brighton next
morning, where we could have the use of the parlor for a private
interview. In compliance with this arrangement we four were at the
Brighton hotel at the appointed time.
Mr. McGlashan and my husband went in search of Keseberg, and after some
delay returned, saying:
"Keseberg cannot overcome his strong feeling against a meeting in a
public house. He has tidied up a vacant room in the brewery adjoining
the house where he lives with his afflicted children. It being Sunday,
he knows that no one will be about to disturb us. Will you go there?"
I could only reply, "I am ready."
My husband, seeing my lips tremble and knowing the intensity of my
suppressed emotion, hastened to assure me that he had talked with the
man, and been impressed by his straightforward answers, and that I need
have no dread of meeting or talking with him.
When we met at his door, Mr. McGlashan introduced us. We bowed, not as
strangers, not as friends, nor did we shake hands. Our thoughts were
fixed solely on the purpose that had brought us together. He invited us
to enter, led the way to that room which I had been told he had swept
and furnished for the occasion with seats for five. His first sentence
made us both forget that others were present. It opened the way at
once.
"Mr. McGlashan has told me that you have questions you wish to ask me
yourself about what happened in the mountain cabin."
Still standing, and looking up into his face, I replied: "Yes, for the
eye of God and your eyes witnessed my mother's last hours, and I have
come to ask you, in the presence of that other Witness, when, where,
and how she died. I want you to tell me all, and so truly that there
shall be no disappointment for me, nor remorse and denials for you in
your last hour. Tell it now, so that you will not need to send for me
to hear a different story then."
I took the chair he proffered, and he placed his own opposite and
having gently reminded me of the love and respect the members of the
Donner Party bore their captain and his wife, earnestly and feelingly,
he told me the story as he had related it to Mr. McGlashan.
Then, before I understood his movement, he had sunk upon his knees,
saying solemnly,
"On my knees before you, and in the sight of God, I want to assert my
innocence."
I could not have it thus. I bade him rise, and stand with me in the
presence of the all-seeing Father. Extending my upturned hand, I bade
him lay his own right hand upon it, then covering it with my left, I
bade him speak. Slowly, but unhesitatingly, he spoke:
"Mrs. Houghton, if I had murdered your mother, would I stand here with
my hand between your hands, look into your pale face, see the
tear-marks on your cheeks, and the quiver of your lips as you ask the
question? No, God Almighty is my witness, I am innocent of your
mother's death! I have given you the facts as I gave them to the Fallon
Party, as I told them at Sutter's Fort, and as I repeated them to Mr.
McGlashan. You will hear no change from my death-bed, for what I have
told you is true."
There, with a man's honor and soul to uncover, I had scarcely breathed
while he spoke. I watched the expression of his face, his words, his
hands. His eyes did not turn from my face; his hand between mine lay as
untrembling as that of a child in peaceful sleep; and so, unflinchingly
Lewis Keseberg passed the ordeal which would have made a guilty man
quake.
I felt the truth of his assertion, and told him that if it would be any
comfort to him at that late day to know that Tamsen Donner's daughter
believed him innocent of her murder, he had that assurance in my words,
and that I would maintain that belief so long as my lips retained their
power of speech.
Tears glistened in his eyes as he uttered a heartfelt "Thank you!" and
spoke of the comfort the recollection of this meeting would be to him
during the remaining years of his life.
Before our departure, Mr. McGlashan asked Keseberg to step aside and
show my husband the scars left by the wound which had prevented his
going to the settlement with the earlier refugees. There was a mark of
a fearful gash which had almost severed the heel from the foot and left
a troublesome deformity. One could easily realize how slow and tedious
its healing must have been, and Keseberg assured us that walking caused
excruciating pain even at the time the Third Relief Corps left camp.
His clothing was threadbare, but neat and clean. One could not but feel
that he was poor, yet he courteously but positively declined the
assistance which, privately, I offered him. In bidding him good-bye, I
remarked that we might not see one another again on earth, and he
replied pathetically, "Don't say that, for I hope this may not be our
last meeting."
I did not see Keseberg again. Years later, I learned that he had passed
away; and in answer to inquiries I received the following personal note
from Dr. G.A. White, Medical Superintendent of the Sacramento County
Hospital:
Lewis Keseberg died here on September 3, 1895; aged 81 years. He
left no special message to any one. His death was peaceful.
THE END
INDEX
Academy of Pacific Coast History
Altemera, Padre
American Fur Company
American Tract Society
Arguello, Doña Concepcion
Bartlett, Washington A.
Benton, Rev. J.A.
Benton, Thomas H.
Boggs, ex-Governor of Missouri
Bond, Frances
Boone, Alphonso
Breen, Patrick
diary of
Brenheim, Adolph
Brunner, Christian
Brunner, "Grandma"
and Napoleon
Bryant, Edwin
Cady, Charles
_California Star_
Camp of Death
Chamberlain, Charlotte (Mrs. Wm. E.)
Chamberlain, William E.
Church, Mission service
Civil War
Clark, Nicholas,
Cody, Bill
Coffemeir, Edward
Coon, William
Curtis, James
Del, John
Denison, Eliza
"Diary of Patrick Breen, One of the Donner Party"
Dofar, Matthew
Dolan, Patrick
Donner, Elitha
Donner, Frances
Donner, George
Donner, Mrs. George
letters
Donner, Georgia
Donner, Jacob
Donner, Leanna
Donner, Mary
Donner Party
Dozier, Tamsen Eustis
_see_ Donner, Mrs. George.
Eddy, William
Fallon, Thomas
diary
Fitch, Capt.
"Forlorn Hope" Party
Fortune, Padre
Fosdick, Jay
Foster, John
Foster, William
Francis, Allen
Frémont, John C.
Frisbie, Capt.
marriage of
Fuller, John
Glover, Aguilla
Gold, discovery
early minings
seekers
Graves, W.F.
Grayson, Mrs. Andrew J.
Great Overland Caravan
Greenwood, "Old Trapper"
Halloran, Luke
Hardcoop, ----
Hastings, Lansford W.
Herron, Walter
Hook, Solomon
Hooker, Capt. Joe
Houghton, S.O.
Independence, Mo.
Indians
as guides
Sioux
on raids
as saviours
at "grub-feast"
James, Noah
Jondro, Joseph
Josephine, Empress
Kerns, Capt.
Keseberg, Lewis
Land-grants, Mexican
Leese, Jacob
"Life and Days of General John A. Sutter"
Maps of territory
Maury, William L.
McCoon, Perry
McCutchen, William
McGlashan, C.F.
McKinstrey, Col. George
Mervine, Capt.
Mexican War
Miller, Hiram
Moutrey, R.S.
Murphy, Mrs. Lavina
Murphy, William G.
Napoleon
Oakley, Howard
Oatman, Eugene
"Oregon and California"
Packwood, Mr. and Mrs.
Pike, William
Pony Express, first
Poor, Elizabeth
letter to
Prudon, Major
Reed, James F.
Relief Party, First
Relief Party, Fourth
Relief Party, Second
Relief Party, Third
Rhinehart, Joseph
Rhodes, Daniel
Rhodes, John
Richardson, ----
Richey, D.
Richer, Col. M.D.
Robinson, Kate
Robinson, Judge Robert
Robinson, Hon. Tod
Russell, Col.
Sacramento
_Sacramento Union_
School,
first in California
Miss Doty's
St. Mary's Hall
Miss Hutchinson's
St. Catherine's
Jefferson Grammar
Schoonover, T.J.
Sherman, Gen. Wm. T.
Shoemaker, Samuel
Sinclair, John
Sloat, Commodore
Smallpox
Smith, General
Smith, James
Snyder, John
Sonoma,
last visit to,
_Springfield Journal_
Stanton, Charles
Stark, John
Starved Camp
Stone, Charles
Sutter, Captain John A.
Sutter's Fort
Swift, Margaret
Thanksgiving celebration
Thornton, J.Q.,
extracts from journal
"Thrilling Events in California History"
Toll, Agnes
"Topographical Report, with Maps Attached"
"Travels Among the Rocky Mountains, Through Oregon and California"
Trubode, John Baptiste
Tucker, Daniel
Tucker, George
Tucker, Racine
Turner, John
Upton, Nellie
Vallejo, Mariano G.
Webster, Daniel
"What I Saw in California"
White, Dr. G.A.
White, Henry A.
Wolfinger, ----
Woodworth, Midshipman
Yost, Daniel
Yount, George
Zabriskie, Annie