CLARA BARTON: "THE ANGEL OF THE BATTLEFIELDS"

For several weeks the sound of hammer and saw had been heard on the

Barton farm where a new barn was being built. The framework was almost

up, and David Barton and his little sister Clara, with a group of

friends, were eagerly watching the carpenters, who were just fixing

the high rafters to the ridge-pole.

"I dare you to climb to the top, Dave!" suddenly challenged a boy in

the group.

David Barton, who was known as the "Buffalo Bill" of the neighborhood,

always took a dare. Almost before the challenge had been given his

coat was off and he had started toward the new building amid a chorus

of cries: "Good for you, Dave!" from the group of young spectators who

were always thrilled by his daring exploits. Only the little sister

Clara protested.

"Don't, David," she exclaimed. "It isn't safe."

Her warning was not heeded. Up went the sure-footed athlete until he

had almost reached the topmost peak of the barn. Crash! a board gave

way under his feet, and down to the ground he was hurled, landing on

his back on a pile of heavy boards. Limp and lifeless he lay there, a

strange contrast to the vigorous young man who had climbed up the

building only a few moments earlier, and the accident seemed to

paralyze the faculties of those who saw it happen. It was not the

builders or the older persons present who spoke first, but small,

dark-eyed, determined Clara, who idolized her brother.

"Get mother, and go for the doctor, quick!" she commanded, and in less

time than it takes to tell it the entire Barton family had been

summoned to the scene of the disaster, and a doctor was bending over

the unconscious man.

Dorothy and Sally, the grown-up sisters, hastily obeyed the doctor's

orders, and made a room in the farm-house ready for their injured

brother, while Stephen Barton and one of the workmen carried him in as

gently as possible and laid him on the bed which he was not to leave

for many weary months. Examination proved that the injury was a

serious one, and there was need of careful and continuous nursing. To

the surprise of the whole family, who looked on eleven-year-old Clara,

the youngest of them all, as still a baby, when Mrs. Barton made ready

to take charge of the sick-room, she found a resolute little figure

seated by the bedside, with determination to remain there showing on

every line of her expressive face.

"Let me take care of him! I can do it--I want to. Please, oh, please!"

pleaded Clara.

At first the coveted permission was denied her, for how could a girl

so young take care of a dangerously injured man? But as the weary days

and nights of watching wore away and it seemed as if there would be no

end to them, from sheer exhaustion the older members of the family

yielded their places temporarily to Clara. Then one day when the

doctor came and found her in charge, the sick-room was so tidy and

quiet, and the young nurse was so clear-minded and ready to obey his

slightest order, that when she begged him to let her take care of her

brother he gave his hearty permission, and Clara had won her way.

From that time on, through long months, she was the member of the

family whose entire thought and care was centered in the invalid.

David was very sick for such a long time that it seemed as if he could

never rally, and his one great comfort was having Clara near him. Hour

after hour, and day after day, she sat by his bedside, his thin hand

clasped in her strong one, with the patience of a much older, wiser

nurse. She practically shut herself up in that sick-room for two whole

years, and it seemed as if there was nothing too hard for her to do

well and quickly, if in any way it would make David more comfortable.

Finally a new kind of bath was tried with success. David was cured,

and Clara Barton had served her earliest apprenticeship as a nurse.

Let us look back and see what went into the making of an

eleven-year-old child who would give two years of her life to a task

like that.

On Christmas Day of the year 1821, Clarissa Harlowe, as she was named,

or "Clara" Barton, as she was always called, was born in her father's

home near the town of Oxford, Worcester County, Massachusetts. Her

oldest sister Dorothy was seventeen at that time, and her oldest

brother Stephen, fifteen, while David was thirteen and Sally ten years

old; so it was a long time since there had been a baby in the family,

and all were so delighted over the event that Clara Barton says in her

_Recollections_, "I am told the family jubilation upon the occasion

was so great that the entire dinner and tea sets had to be changed for

the serving of the noble guests who gathered."

The house in which the Christmas child was born was a simple

farm-house on a hill-top, and inside nearly everything was home-made,

even the crib in which the baby was cradled. Outside, the flat

flagstone in front of the door was marked by the hand tools of the

father. Stephen Barton, or Captain Barton as he was called, was a man

of marked military tastes, who had served under "Mad Anthony" Wayne

in campaigns against the Indians. In his youngest daughter Clara he

found a real comrade, and, perched on his knee, she early gained a

passionate love of her country and a child's simple knowledge of its

history through the thrilling tales he told her. In speaking of those

days she says:

"I listened breathlessly to his war stories. Illustrations were called

for, and we made battles and fought them. Every shade of military

etiquette was regarded. Colonels, captains, and sergeants were given

their proper place and rank. So with the political world; the

President, Cabinet, and leading officers of the government were

learned by heart, and nothing gratified the keen humor of my father

more than the parrot-like readiness with which I lisped these

difficult names." That they did not mean much even to such a

precocious child as Clara Barton is shown by an incident of those

early days, when her sister Dorothy asked her how she supposed a

Vice-President looked.

"I suppose he is about as big as our barn, and green!" was the quick

reply.

But though the child did not understand all that was poured into her

greedy little mind by an eager father, yet it bore fruit in later

years, for she says: "When later I ... was suddenly thrust into the

mysteries of war, and had to take my place and part in it, I found

myself far less a stranger to the conditions than most women, or even

ordinary men, for that matter. I never addressed a colonel as captain,

got my cavalry on foot, or mounted my infantry!"

When she was not listening to her father's stories or helping her

mother with the housework, which, good housewife that Mrs. Barton was,

she took great pains to teach her youngest daughter how to do well,

Clara was as busy as possible in some other way. In that household

there were no drones, and the little girl was not even allowed to

waste time in playing with dolls, although she was given time to take

care of her pets, of which she had an ever-increasing collection,

including dogs, cats, geese, hens, turkeys, and even two heifers which

she learned to milk.

Dorothy, Sally and Stephen Barton were teachers, and as Clara early

showed her quick mentality, they all took great interest in educating

her according to their different ideas. As a result, when the little

girl was three years old she could read a story to herself, and knew a

little bit about geography, arithmetic and spelling. That decided the

family. Such a bright mind must be developed as early as possible. So

on a fine, clear winter morning Stephen lifted her to his shoulders

with a swing of his strong arms, and in that way she rode to the

school taught by Col. Richard C. Stone, a mile and a half from the

Barton farm. Although the new pupil was such a very little girl, and

so shy that often she was not able even to answer when she was spoken

to or to join the class in reciting Bible verses or in singing songs,

yet Colonel Stone was deeply interested in her, and his manner of

teaching was so unusual that the years with him made a lasting

impression on his youngest scholar's mind. To Clara it was a real loss

when, at the end of five years, the Colonel left the school, to be

succeeded by Clara's sisters in summer and by her brother Stephen in

winter.

David was Clara's favorite brother. So athletic was he, and so fond of

all forms of out-of-door life and exercise, that he was no less than a

hero to the little sister, who watched him with intense admiration,

and in her secret heart determined that some day and in some way she,

too, would be brave and daring.

Having decided this in her own mind, when David suggested teaching her

to ride, she was delighted, and, hiding her fear, at once took her

first lesson on one of the beautiful blooded colts which were a

feature of her father's farm. In her _Story of My Childhood_ she

says: "It was David's delight to take me, a little girl five years

old, to the field, seize a couple of those beautiful grazing

creatures, broken only to the halter and bit, and, gathering the reins

of both bridles in one hand, throw me on the back of one colt, spring

on the other himself, and, catching me by the foot and bidding me

'cling fast to the mane,' gallop away over field and fen, in and out

among the other colts, in wild glee like ourselves. They were merry

rides we took. This was my riding-school. I never had any other, but

it served me well.... Sometimes in later years when I found myself on

a strange horse, in a troop saddle, flying for life or liberty in

front of pursuit, I blessed the baby lessons of the wild gallops among

the colts."

And so it was that the child grew strong in body and alert in mind,

while the routine of daily farm duties, when she was not at school or

galloping over the fields with David, developed her in concentration

and in inventive ability. Housekeeping at that time was crude, and

most of the necessary articles used were made at home. There were no

matches. The flint snapped by the lock was the only way of lighting a

fire. Garments were homespun, and home-made food was dried, canned and

cooked in large quantities by the busy housekeeper. Although there was

always a fire blazing on the hearth of the home, it was thought to be

a religious duty to have the meeting-house unheated on the Sabbath

day. Little Clara, who was particularly susceptible to cold, bore the

bitter chill of the building as bravely as she could, each week in the

long winter, but one Sunday as she sat in the big pew, not daring to

swing her feet, they grew more and more numb until at last, when she

was obliged to stand on them, she fell over--her poor little feet were

frozen, and she had to be carried home and thawed out!

When she was eight years old her father left his hill farm and moved

down to the Learned house, a much bigger farm of three hundred acres,

with the brook-like French river winding through its broad meadows,

and three great barns standing in the lowlands between the hill and

the house. Stephen and David remained on the hill to work their small

farms there, and the other sisters stayed there, but Clara was not

lonesome in the new home in the valley, for at that time she had as

playmates the four children of Captain Barton's nephew, who had

recently died. With them Clara played hide-and-seek in the big

hay-mows, and other interesting games. Her most marked characteristic

then and for many years afterward was her excessive shyness, yet when

there was anything to do which did not include conversation she was

always the champion. At times she was so bashful that even speaking to

an intimate friend was often an agony to her, and it is said she once

stayed home from meeting on Sunday rather than tell her mother that

her gloves were too worn out to wear!

Inside the new house she found many fascinating things to do, and did

them with eager interest. The house was being redecorated, and Clara

went from room to room, watching the workmen, and even learned to

grind and mix paints. Then she turned her attention to the paperers,

who were so much amused with the child's cleverness that they showed

her how to match, trim and hang paper, and in every room they

good-naturedly let her paste up some piece of the decoration, so she

felt that the house was truly hers, and never lost her affection for

it in any of her later wanderings or changes of residence.

When the new home was completed inside Clara turned her attention to

out-of-door matters and found more than one opportunity for daring

feats. With shining eyes and bated breath, she learned to cross the

little winding French river on teetering logs at its most dangerous

depths. When this grew tame, she would go to the sawmill and ride out

on the saw carriage twenty feet above the stream, and be pulled back

on the returning log, and oh the joy of such dangerous sport!

By the time she was eleven years old her brothers had been so

successful with their hill farms that they followed their father down

to the valley of the river, where they bought the sawmill and built

new dams and a grain-mill, and Sally and Stephen, who both married,

settled in homes near the Barton farm. Then came the building of the

new barn and David's accident. Eleven-year-old Clara, a child in years

but mature mentally, proved equal to the emergency and took up her

rôle of nurse in the same vigorous way she went about everything--but

she had to pay a high price for her devotion.

David was strong and well again, but the little sister who had been

his constant companion through the weary months was far from normal.

The family had been so occupied with the invalid that no thought had

been given to his young nurse. Now with grave concern Captain Barton

talked with his wife.

"She has not gained an ounce in weight in these two years," he said,

"and she isn't an inch taller. If anything, she seems to be more

morbidly self-conscious and shy than ever. What shall we do with her?"

That was the question. The years shut up in the sick-room had

completely unfitted Clara for ordinary life; she seemed to be more

afraid of speaking to any one, more afraid of being seen or talked to

than ever before. All took a hand at helping her to forget herself.

Sally, who knew what an imaginative nature her small sister had,

interested her in reading poetry, which was a delight to Clara. At the

same time her father and brothers kept her out-of-doors as much as

possible, and her father gave her a fine horse of her own. She named

him Billy, and at once jumped on his back to get acquainted. From that

time the slim, graceful animal with his youthful rider became one of

the features of the neighborhood as they galloped across country. But,

despite all that was done to make her healthy and happy, her

self-consciousness and shyness remained, and another way of curing her

was tried. She was sent to the boarding-school which was kept by her

old teacher, Colonel Stone. He was delighted to have her in the

school, and her quick mind was an amazement to him; but she was so

homesick that often it was impossible for her to study or to recite,

while being with one hundred and fifty girls of her own age made her

more bashful than ever. In despair, Colonel Stone advised her father

to take her home before she became seriously sick, and soon she found

herself again in her beloved haunts. After that time her brother

Stephen taught her mathematics; and later, when two fine teachers came

to Oxford, she studied Latin, philosophy and chemistry with them,

besides literature, history and languages--finding herself far ahead

of the other scholars of her age, although she had been buried in a

sick-room for two years.

As long as she was busy she was contented, but when vacation came she

was again miserable. Her active mind and body demanded constant work;

when she did not have it she was simply wretched, and made those

around her so.

One day, when she was in her brother's mill watching the busy weavers,

she had a sudden desire to work a loom herself. When she mentioned

this at home her mother was horrified, but Stephen, who understood her

restless nature better, took Clara's side and a few days later she

proudly took her place before her loom and with enthusiastic

persistence mastered the mysteries of the flying shuttle. How long she

would have kept on with the work cannot be guessed, for on the

fifteenth day after she began work the mill burned down, and she was

again on the look-out for new employment for her active brain and

body.

That she was a real girl was shown when, having discovered that she

had no summer hat, she decided she must have one. Walking through the

rye-fields, she had an idea. With quick interest in a new

accomplishment, she cut a number of green rye stalks, carried them

into the house and scalded them, then laid them out in the sun to

bleach, and when they were white, she cut them into even lengths,

pulled them apart with her teeth, braided them in eleven strands and

made the first straw bonnet she ever owned.

Somehow or other the months of vacation wore away; then the question

was, what to do next? Her nature demanded constant action. She was far

ahead of others of her own age in the matter of studies, and Mrs.

Barton was in real bewilderment as to what to do with her youngest

child. A phrenologist, who was a keen observer of child nature, was

visiting the Bartons at that time, and Clara, who had the mumps and

was lying on the lounge in the adjoining room, heard her mother tell

their guest of her daughter's restlessness and self-consciousness and

ask his advice. Listening eagerly, she heard his reply:

"The sensitive nature will always remain," he said. "She will never

assert herself for herself; she will suffer wrong first. But for

others she will be perfectly fearless. Throw responsibility upon her.

Give her a school to teach."

The very words, "give her a school to teach," sent a shiver of fear

through Clara's frame, as she lay there listening, but at the same

time she felt a thrill of pleasure at the idea of doing something so

important as teaching. If her mother was so much troubled about her

peculiar traits as to be obliged to talk them over with a stranger,

they must be very hard to bear. She would set to work to be something

quite different, and she would begin at once!

And so it happened that when Clara Barton was fifteen years old she

followed in the footsteps of her brother and sisters and became a

teacher. As soon as she decided to take the step, she was given

District School No. 9, up in "Texas village," and in May, 1836, "after

passing the teachers' examination with a mark of 'excellent,' she put

down her skirts and put up her hair and walked to the little

schoolhouse, to face and address her forty scholars." That was one of

the most awful moments of her life. When the rows of pupils were

ranged before her, and she was supposed to open the exercises by

reading from the Bible, she could not find her voice, and her hand

trembled so visibly that she was afraid to turn the pages and so

disclose her panic. But no one knew. With perfect outward calmness,

she kept her eyes on the open book until her pulse beat less fast,

then she looked straight ahead and in a steady voice asked them to

each read a verse in turn. This was a new and delightful plan to her

pupils, who were still more pleased when the reading was over to have

the new teacher question them in a friendly way about the meaning of

the verses they had just read in the "Sermon on the Mount."

That first day proved her marked ability as a teacher, and so kindly

and intimate was she with her scholars that they became more her

comrades than her pupils. When the four rough boys of the school

"tried her out" to see how much she could endure, to their

astonishment, instead of being able to lock her out of the building as

they had done with the previous teacher, she showed such pluck and

physical strength that their respect was won and kept. After that,

almost daily, at recess time she would join them in games such as no

teacher had ever played with them before. And with her success Clara

gained a new assurance and a less shy manner, although she never

entirely lost her self-consciousness.

So successful was she with that first school that it was the preface

to sixteen years of continuous teaching, winter and summer. Her two

most interesting experiences as a teacher were in North Oxford and in

Bordentown, New Jersey. North Oxford was the mill village where her

brother's factories were, and where there were hundreds of children.

When her popularity as the teacher in No. 9, Texas village, spread to

North Oxford, she was asked to go there to start a school for

operatives. This was a piece of work to her liking, and for ten years

she says: "I stood with them in the crowded school-room summer and

winter, without change or relaxation. I saw my little lisping boys

become overseers, and my stalwart overseers become business men and

themselves owners of mills. My little girls grew to be teachers and

mothers of families." Here was satisfying work for the busy brain and

active body! But even that did not take up all of her time; she found

long hours in which to read and study, and also acted as Stephen's

bookkeeper in the mill, during those years in North Oxford.

At the end of the ten years she broke away from the routine of

teaching and became a pupil herself in Clinton Liberal Institute in

New York, as there were no colleges for women at that time. The year

of study refreshed her in mind and body, and, as her mother died

during the year and her father decided to live with his married

children, Clara was free to seek the work of the world wherever it

should claim her.

From the seminary she went to Hightstown to teach, and while there

rumors of her ability to cope with conditions and unruly scholars

reached the village of Bordentown, ten miles away from Hightstown.

Many attempts had been made to start a public school there, but

without success. As a result the children of the poor ran wild in the

streets, or when an attempt was made to open a school they broke up

the sessions by their lawless behavior. When she heard this, Clara

Barton was so greatly interested that she went to Bordentown to talk

it over with the town officials, who told her that it was useless to

think of making the experiment again.

Clara Barton's eyes flashed with determination. "Give me three months,

and I will teach free!" she said.

As a result of her generous offer, she was allowed to rent a

tumble-down, unoccupied building, and opened her school with six

pupils! Every one of the six became so enthusiastic over a teacher who

was interested in each individual that their friends were eager to be

her pupils, too, and parents were anxious to see what the wonderful

little bright-eyed, friendly woman could do for their children. At the

end of five weeks the building was too small for her scholars, and the

roll-call had almost six hundred names on it. To a triumphant teacher

who had volunteered her services to try an experiment, a regular

salary was now offered and an assistant given her. And so Clara Barton

again proved her talent for teaching.

But Bordentown was her last school. When she had been there for two

years and perfected the public-school system, her voice gave out as a

result of constant use, and she went to Washington for a rest. But it

did not take her long to recuperate, and soon she was eagerly looking

out for some new avenue of opportunity to take the place of teaching.

Government work interested her, and she heard rumors of scandals in

the Patent Office, where some dishonest clerks had been copying and

selling the ideas of inventors who had filed patents. This roused her

anger, for she felt the inventors were defrauded and undefended

individuals who needed a protector. As her brother's bookkeeper, she

had developed a clear, copper-plate handwriting, which would aid her

in trying to get the position she determined to try for. Through a

relative in Congress she secured a position in the Patent Office, and

when it was proved that she was acceptable there, although she was the

first woman ever appointed independently to a clerkship in the

department, she was given charge of a confidential desk, where she had

the care of such papers as had not been carefully enough guarded

before. Her salary of $1,400 a year was as much as was received by the

men in the department, which created much jealousy, and she had many

sneers and snubs and much disagreeable treatment from the other

clerks; but she went serenely on her way, doing her duty and enjoying

the new line of work with its chances for observation of the

government and its working.

War clouds were now beginning to gather over both North and South, and

signs of an approaching conflict were ominously clear in Washington,

where slavery sentiments swayed all departments. Clara Barton saw with

keen mental vision all the signs of the times, and there was much to

worry her, for from the first she was clearly and uncompromisingly on

the unpopular side of the disturbing question, and believed with

Charles Sumner that "Freedom is national; slavery is sectional." She

believed in the Union and she believed in the freedom of the

individual. So eager was she to help the government in the coming

national crisis that she offered her services as a clerk, to do the

work of two dishonest men; for this work she was to receive the salary

of one clerk, and pay back into the Treasury that of the other, in

order to save all the money possible for an emergency. No deed gives a

clearer insight into the character of Clara Barton than that. As it

was in the case of the school in Bordentown, so was it now. If public

service was the question, she had no thought of self or of money--the

point was to achieve the desired end. And now she was nearer the goal

of her own personal service to the world than she dreamed.

Fort Sumter was fired on. President Lincoln called for seventy-five

thousand troops, and all those who were at the seat of government knew

that the hour for sacrifice of men and money had come. Massachusetts

responded to the call for troops with four regiments, one of which,

the Sixth, set out for Washington at once. As they marched through the

streets of Baltimore they were attacked by a furious mob who succeeded

in killing four soldiers and wounding many more, but the troopers

fought them off as bravely as possible and marched on to the station,

where they entrained for Washington, many of them arriving there in a

pitiable condition. When they detrained at the national capital they

were met by a large number of sympathetic women, among them Clara

Barton, who recognized some of her old friends and pupils among those

who were limping, or with injured arms, or carried on stretchers, and

her heart went out to them in loyalty and pride, for they were giving

their services to their country in an hour of need.

The men who had not been injured were temporarily quartered at the

Capitol, while the wounded were taken to the Infirmary, where their

wounds were dressed at once, any material on hand being used. When the

supply of handkerchiefs gave out, Clara Barton, as well as other

impromptu nurses, rushed to their homes and tore up sheets for

bandages, and Miss Barton also filled a large box full of needles,

pins, buttons, salves and other necessities, and carried it back to

the Infirmary, where she had her first experience in caring for

wounded soldiers. When she could leave the Infirmary, she went to the

Capitol and found the poor fellows there famished, for they had not

been expected and their commissary stores had not yet been unloaded.

Down to the market hurried the energetic volunteer nurse, and soon

came back carrying a big basketful of supplies, which made a feast for

the hungry men. Then, as she afterward wrote in a letter to a friend,

"the boys, who had just one copy of the _Worcester Spy_ of the 22nd,

were so anxious to know its contents that they begged me to read it to

them, which I did--mounting to the desk of the President of the

Senate, that they all might hear."

In her letter she says, "You would have smiled to see _me_ and my

_audience_ in the Senate Chamber of the U. S. A." and adds: "God bless

the noble fellows who leave their quiet happy homes at the call of

their country. So far as our poor efforts can reach, they shall never

lack a kindly hand or a sister's sympathy if they come."

Eager to have the soldiers given all the comforts and necessities

which could be obtained, Miss Barton put an advertisement in the

_Worcester Spy_, asking for supplies and money for the wounded and

needy in the Sixth Regiment, and stating that she herself would

receive and give them out. The response was overwhelming. So much food

and clothing was sent to her that her small apartment overflowed with

supplies, and she was obliged to rent rooms in a warehouse to store

them.

And now Clara Barton was a new creature. She felt within herself the

ability to meet a great need, and the energy which for so long had

been pent up within her was poured out in a seemingly unending supply

of tenderness and of help for suffering humanity. There was no time

now for sensitiveness, or for shyness; there was work to do through

the all-too-short days and nights of this struggle for freedom and

unity of the nation. Gone was the teacher, gone the woman of normal

thought and action, and in her place we find the "Angel of the

Battlefields," who for the remainder of her life was to be one of the

world's foremost figures in ministrations to the suffering, where

suffering would otherwise have had no alleviation.

"On the 21st of July the Union forces were routed at Bull Run with

terrific loss of life and many wounded. Two months later the battle of

Ball's Bluff occurred, in which there were three Massachusetts

regiments engaged, with many of Clara Barton's lifelong friends among

them. By this time the hospitals and commissaries in Washington had

been well organized, and there was no desperate need for the supplies

which were still being shipped to Miss Barton in great quantities, nor

was there need of her nursing. However, she went to the docks to meet

the wounded and dying soldiers, who were brought up the Potomac on

transports." Often they were in such a condition from neglect that

they were baked as hard as the backs of turtles with blood and clay,

and it took all a woman's swift and tender care, together with the use

of warm water, restoratives, dressings, and delicacies to make them at

all comfortable. Then their volunteer nurse would go with them to the

hospitals, and back again in the ambulance she would drive, to repeat

her works of mercy.

But she was not satisfied with this work. If wounds could be attended

to as soon as the men fell in battle, hundreds of deaths could be

prevented, and she made up her mind that in some way she was going to

override public sentiment, which in those early days of the war did

not allow women nurses to go to the front, for she was determined to

go to the very firing-line itself as a nurse. And, as she had got her

way at other times in her life, so now she achieved her end, but after

months of rebuffs and of tedious waiting, during which the bloody

battle of Fair Oaks had been fought with terrible losses on each side.

The seven days' retreat of the Union forces under McClellan followed,

with eight thousand wounded and over seventeen hundred killed. On top

of this came the battle of Cedar Mountain, with many Northerners

killed, wounded and missing.

One day, when Assistant Quartermaster-General Rucker, who was one of

the great-hearts of the army, was at his desk, he was confronted by a

bright-eyed little woman, to whose appeal he gave sympathetic

attention.

"I have no fear of the battle-field," she told him. "I have large

stores, but no way to reach the troops."

Then she described the condition of the soldiers when they reached

Washington, often too late for any care to save them or heal their

wounds. She _must_ go to the battle-front where she could care for

them quickly. So overjoyed was she to be given the needed passports as

well as kindly interest and good wishes that she burst into tears as

she gripped the old soldier's hand, then she hurried out to make

immediate plans for having her supplies loaded on a railroad car. As

she tersely put it, "When our armies fought on Cedar Mountain, I broke

the shackles and went to the field." When she began her work on the

day after the battle she found an immense amount of work to do. Later

she described her experience in this modest way:

"Five days and nights with three hours' sleep--a narrow escape from

capture--and some days of getting the wounded into hospitals at

Washington brought Saturday, August 30th. And if you chance to feel

that the positions I occupied were rough and unseemly for a woman, I

can only reply that they were rough and unseemly for men. But under

all, lay the life of a nation. I had inherited the rich blessing of

health and strength of constitution such as are seldom given to women,

and I felt that some return was due from me and that I ought to be

there."

The famous army nurse had served her novitiate now, and through the

weary years of the war which dragged on with alternate gains and

losses for the Union forces, Clara Barton's name began to be spoken

of with awe and deep affection wherever a wounded man had come under

her gentle care. Being under no society or leader, she was free to

come or go at will. But from the first day of her work at the front

she was encouraged in it by individual officers who saw the great

value of what she accomplished.

At Antietam, when the fighting began, her wagons were driven through a

field of tall corn to an old homestead, while the shot whizzed thick

around them. In the barnyard and among the corn lay torn and bleeding

men--the worst cases, just brought from the places where they had

fallen. All was in confusion, for the army medical supplies had not

yet arrived, and the surgeons were trying to make bandages of corn

husks. The new army nurse immediately had her supplies unloaded and

hurried out to revive the wounded with bread soaked in wine. When her

bread gave out there were still many to be fed. All the supplies she

had were three cases of unopened wine.

"Open the wine, and give that," she commanded, "and God help us."

Her order was obeyed, and as she watched the cases being unpacked her

eyes fell on the packing around the bottles of wine. It was nicely

sifted corn-meal. If it had been gold dust it could not have been more

valuable. The wine was unpacked as quickly as possible; kettles were

found in the farm-house, and in a twinkling that corn-meal was mixed

with water, and good gruel for the men was in the making. Then it

occurred to Miss Barton to see what was in the cellar of the old

house, and there three barrels of flour and a bag of salt were found,

stored by the rebels and left behind when they marched away. "What

wealth!" exclaimed the woman, who was frantically eager to feed her

flock. All that night Clara Barton and her workers carried buckets of

hot gruel up and down the long lines to the wounded and dying men.

Then up to the farm-house went the army nurse, where, in the dim light

of a lone flickering candle, she could dimly see the surgeon in

charge, sitting in apparent despair by the table, his head resting in

his hands. She tiptoed up to him and said, quietly, "You are tired,

doctor."

Looking up, he exclaimed: "Tired? Yes, I am tired! Tired of such

heartlessness and carelessness! And," he added, "think of the

condition of things. Here are at least one thousand wounded men;

terribly wounded, five hundred of whom cannot live till daylight

without attention. That two-inch of candle is all I have, or can get.

What can I do? How can I bear it?"

A smile played over Clara Barton's clear-cut face. Gently but firmly

she took him by the elbow and led him to the door, pointing toward the

barn, where dozens of lanterns gleamed like stars.

"What is it?" he exclaimed.

"The barn is lighted," she said, "and the house will be directly."

"Who did it?"

"I, doctor."

"Where did you get them?"

"Brought them with me."

"How many have you?"

"All you want, four boxes."

For a moment he stared at her as if to be sure he was not in a dream.

Then he turned away without a word, and never spoke of the matter

again, but his deference to Clara Barton from that time was the

greatest a man can pay a woman.

Not until all her stores were exhausted and she was sick with a fever

would Clara Barton leave the battle-field of Antietam; then, dragging

herself to the train, she went back to Washington to be taken care of

until she was better. When at last she was strong enough to work again

she went to see her friend Quartermaster-General Rucker, and told him

that if she had had five wagons she would have had enough supplies for

all the wounded at Antietam. With an expression of intense admiration

on his soldierly face as he watched the brave volunteer nurse, he

declared:

"You shall have enough next time!"

The promise was made good. Having recognized the value of her

efficient services, the Government assisted in every way, making it

possible for her to carry on her work on the battle-fields and in

military camps and hospitals in the best way.

Clara Barton!--Only the men who lay wounded or dying on the

battle-field knew the thrill and the comfort that the name carried.

Again and again her life was in danger--once at Antietam, when

stooping to give a drink of water to an injured boy, a bullet whizzed

between them. It ended the life of the poor lad, but only tore a hole

in Clara Barton's sleeve. And so, again and again, it seemed as if a

special Providence protected her from death or injury. At

Fredericksburg, when the dead, starving and wounded lay frozen on the

ground, and there was no effective organization for proper relief,

with swift, silent efficiency Clara Barton moved among them, having

the snow cleared away and under the banks finding famished, frozen

figures which were once men. She rushed to have an old chimney torn

down and built fire-blocks, over which she soon had kettles full of

coffee and gruel steaming.

As she was bending over a wounded rebel, he whispered to her: "Lady,

you have been kind to me ... every street of the city is covered by

our cannon. When your entire army has reached the other side of the

Rappahannock, they will find Fredericksburg only a slaughter-pen. Not

a regiment will escape. Do not go over, for you will go to certain

death."

She thanked him for the kindly warning and later told of the call that

came to her to go across the river, and what happened. She says:

"At ten o'clock of the battle day when the rebel fire was hottest, the

shells rolling down every street, and the bridge under the heavy

cannonade, a courier dashed over, and, rushing up the steps of the

house where I was, placed in my hand a crumpled, bloody piece of

paper, a request from the lion-hearted old surgeon on the opposite

shore, establishing his hospitals in the very jaws of death:

"'Come to me,' he wrote. 'Your place is here.'

"The faces of the rough men working at my side, which eight weeks before

had flushed with indignation at the thought of being controlled by a

woman, grew ashy white as they guessed the nature of the summons, ...

and they begged me to send them, but save myself. I could only allow

them to go with me if they chose, and in twenty minutes we were rocking

across the swaying bridge, the water hissing with shot on either side.

"Over into that city of death, its roofs riddled by shell, its every

church a crowded hospital, every street a battle-line, every hill a

rampart, every rock a fortress, and every stone wall a blazing line of

forts.

"Oh, what a day's work was that! How those long lines of blue, rank on

rank, charged over the open acres, up to the very mouths of those

blazing guns, and how like grain before the sickle they fell and

melted away.

"An officer stepped to my side to assist me over the débris at the end

of the bridge. While our hands were raised in the act of stepping

down, a piece of an exploding shell hissed through between us, just

below our arms, carrying away a portion of both the skirts of his coat

and my dress, rolling along the ground a few rods from us like a

harmless pebble in the water. The next instant a solid shot thundered

over our heads, a noble steed bounded in the air and with his gallant

rider rolled in the dirt not thirty feet in the rear. Leaving the

kind-hearted officer, I passed on alone to the hospital. In less than

a half-hour he was brought to me--dead."

She was passing along a street in the heart of the city when she had

to step aside to let a regiment of infantry march by. At that moment

General Patrick saw her, and, thinking she was a frightened resident

of the city who had been left behind in the general exodus, leaned

from his saddle and said, reassuringly:

"You are alone and in great danger, madam. Do you want protection?"

With a rare smile, Miss Barton said, as she looked at the ranks of

soldiers, "Thank you, but I think I am the best-protected woman in the

United States."

The near-by soldiers caught her words and cried out:

"That's so! That's so!" and the cheer they gave was echoed by line

after line, until the sound of the shouting was like the cheers after

a great victory. Bending low with a courtly smile, the general said:

"I believe you are right, madam!" and galloped away.

"At the battles of Cedar Mountain, Second Bull Run, Antietam, during

the eight months' siege of Charleston, in the hospital at Fort Wagner,

with the army in front of Petersburg and in the Wilderness and the

hospitals about Richmond, there was no limit to the work Clara Barton

accomplished for the sick and dying, but among all her experiences

during those years of the war, the Battle of Fredericksburg was most

unspeakably awful to her. And yet afterward she saw clearly that it

was this defeat that gave birth to the Emancipation Proclamation.

"And the white May blossoms of '63 fell over the glad faces--the

swarthy brows, the toil-worn hands of four million liberated slaves.

'America,' writes Miss Barton, 'had freed a race.'"

As the war drew to an end, President Lincoln received hundreds of

letters from anxious parents asking for news of their boys. There were

eighty thousand missing men whose families had no knowledge whether

they were alive or dead. In despair, and believing that Clara Barton

had more information of the soldiers than any one else to whom he

could turn, the President requested her to take up the task, and the

army nurse's tender heart was touched by the thought of helping so

many mothers who had no news of their boys, and she went to work,

aided by the hospital and burial lists she had compiled when on the

field of action.

For four years she did this work, and it was a touching scene when she

was called before the Committee on Investigation to tell of its

results. With quiet simplicity she stood before the row of men and

reported, "Over thirty thousand men, living and dead, already traced.

No available funds for the necessary investigation; in consequence,

over eight thousand dollars of my own income spent in the search."

As the men confronting her heard the words of the bright-eyed woman

who was looked on as a sister by the soldiers from Maine to Virginia,

whose name was a household one throughout the land, not one of them

was ashamed to wipe the tears from his eyes! Later the government paid

her back in part the money she had spent in her work; but she gave her

time without charge as well as many a dollar which was never returned,

counting it enough reward to read the joyful letters from happy,

reunited families.

While doing this work she gave over three hundred lectures through the

East and West, and as a speaker she held her audiences as if by magic,

for she spoke glowingly about the work nearest to her heart, giving

the proceeds of her lectures to the continuance of that work. One

evening in the winter of 1868, when speaking in one of the finest

opera-houses in the East, before one of the most brilliant assemblages

she had ever faced, her voice suddenly gave out, as it had in the days

when she was teaching. The heroic army nurse and worker for the

soldiers was worn out in body and nerves. As soon as she was able to

travel the doctor commanded that she take three years of absolute

rest. Obeying the order, she sailed for Europe, and in peaceful

Switzerland with its natural beauty hoped to regain normal strength;

for her own country had emerged from the black shadow of war, and she

felt that her life work had been accomplished, that rest could

henceforth be her portion.

But Clara Barton was still on the threshold of her complete

achievement. When she had been in Switzerland only a month, and her

broken-down nerves were just beginning to respond to the change of air

and scene, she received a call which changed the color of her future.

Her caller represented the International Committee of the Red Cross

Society. Miss Barton did not know what the Red Cross was, and said so.

He then explained the nature of the society, which was founded for the

relief of sick and wounded soldiers, and he told his eager listener

what she did not know, that back of the Society was the Geneva Treaty,

which had been providing for such relief work, signed by all the

civilized nations except her own. From that moment a new ambition was

born in Clara Barton's heart--to find out why America had not signed

the treaty, and to know more about the Red Cross Society.

Nearly a year later, while still resting in quiet Switzerland, there

broke one day upon the clear air of her Swiss home the distant sounds

of a royal party hastening back from a tour of the Alps. To Miss

Barton's amazement it came in the direction of her villa. Finally

flashed the scarlet and gold of the liveries of the Grand Duke of

Baden. After the outriders came the splendid coach of the Grand

Duchess, daughter of King Wilhelm of Prussia, so soon to be Emperor

William of Germany. In it rode the Grand Duchess. After presenting her

card through the footman, she herself alighted and clasped Miss

Barton's hand, hailing her in the name of humanity, and said she

already knew her through what she had done in the Civil War. Then,

still clasping her hand in a tight grip of comradeship, she begged

Miss Barton to leave Switzerland and aid in Red Cross work on the

battle-fields of the Franco-Prussian War, which was in its beginnings.

It was a real temptation to once again work for suffering humanity,

yet she put it aside as unwise. But a year later, when the officers of

the International Red Cross Society came again to beg that Miss Barton

take the lead in a great systematic plan of relief work such as that

for which she had become famous during the Civil War, she accepted. In

the face of such consequences as her health might suffer from her

decision, she rose, and, with head held high and flashing eyes, said:

"Command me!"

Clara Barton was no longer to be the Angel of the American

battle-fields only--from that moment she belonged to the world, and

never again could she be claimed by any one country. But it is as the

guardian angel of our soldiers in the United States that her story

concerns us, although there is reason for great pride in the part she

played in nursing the wounded at Strassburg, and later when her

presence carried comfort and healing to the victims of the fight with

the Commune in Paris.

As tangible results of her work abroad, she was given an amethyst cut

in the shape of a pansy, by the Grand Duchess of Baden, also the

Serbian decoration of the Red Cross as the gift of Queen Natalie, and

the Gold Cross of Remembrance, which was presented her by the Grand

Duke and Duchess of Baden together. Queen Victoria, with her own hand,

pinned an English decoration on her dress. The Iron Cross of Germany,

as well as the Order of Melusine given her by the Prince of Jerusalem,

were among an array of medals and pendants--enough to have made her a

much-bejeweled person, had it been her way to make a show of her own

rewards.

Truly Clara Barton belonged to the world, and a suffering person had

no race or creed to her--she loved and cared for all.

When at last she returned to America, it was with the determination to

have America sign the Geneva Treaty and to bring her own country into

line with the Red Cross movement, which she had carefully watched in

foreign countries, and which she saw was the solution to efficient aid

of wounded men, either in the battle-field or wherever there had been

any kind of disaster and there was need of quick aid for suffering. It

was no easy task to convince American officials, but at last she

achieved her end. On the 1st of March, 1882, the Geneva Treaty was

signed by President Arthur, ratified by the Senate, and immediately

the American National Red Cross was formed with Clara Barton as its

first president.

The European "rest" trip had resulted in one of the greatest

achievements for the benefit of mankind in which America ever

participated, and its birth in the United States was due solely to the

efforts of the determined, consecrated nurse who, when eleven years

old, gave her all to a sick brother, and later consecrated her life to

the service of a sick brotherhood of brave men.

On the day after her death, on April 12, 1912, one editor of an

American newspaper paid a tribute to her that ranks with those paid

the world's greatest heroes. He said:

"On the battle-fields of the Rebellion her hands bound up the wounds

of the injured brave.

"The candles of her charity lighted the gloom of death for the heroes

of Antietam and Fredericksburg.

"Across the ocean waters of her sweet labors followed the flag of the

saintly Red Cross through the Franco-Prussian war.

"When stricken Armenia cried out for help in 1896, it was Clara Barton

who led the relief corps of salvation and sustenance.

"A woman leading in answering the responsibility of civilization to

the world!

"When McKinley's khaki boys struck the iron from Cuba's bondage it was

Clara Barton, in her seventy-seventh year, who followed to the

fever-ridden tropics to lead in the relief-work on Spanish

battle-grounds.

"She is known wherever man appreciates humanity."

* * * * *

Hers was the honor of being the first president of the American Red

Cross, but she was more than that--she _was_ the Red Cross at that

time. It was, as she said, "her child," and she furnished headquarters

for it in her Washington home, dispensing the charities of a nation,

amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars, and was never requested

to publish her accounts, an example of personal leadership which is

unparalleled.

In 1897 we find the Red Cross president settled in her home at Glen

Echo, a few miles out of Washington, on a high slope overlooking the

Potomac, and, although it was a Red Cross center, it was a friendly

lodging as well, where its owner could receive her personal friends.

Flags and Red Cross testimonials from rulers of all nations fluttered

from the walls, among them a beautiful one from the Sultan of Turkey.

Two small crosses of red glass gleamed in the front windows over the

balcony, but above the house the Red Cross banner floated high, as if

to tell the world that "the banner over us is love." And to Glen Echo,

the center of her beloved activity, Clara Barton always loved to

return at the end of her campaigns. To the many thousands who came to

visit her home as one of the great humane centers of the world, she

became known as the "Beautiful Lady of the Potomac," and never did a

title more fittingly describe a nature.

To the last she was a soldier--systematic, industrious, severely

simple in her tastes. It was a rule of the household that every day's

duties should be disposed of before turning in for the night, and at

five o'clock the next morning she would be rolling a carpet-sweeper

over the floor. She always observed military order and took a

soldier's pride in keeping her quarters straight.

Hanging on the wall between her bedroom and private sitting-room was a

small mirror into which her mother looked when she came home as a

bride.

Her bed was small and hard. Near it were the books that meant so much

to her--the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, the stories of Sarah Orne

Jewett, the poems of Lucy Larcom, and many other well-worn, much-read

classics.

That she was still feminine, as in the days of girlhood when she

fashioned her first straw bonnet, so now she was fond of wearing

handsome gowns, often with trains. Lavender, royal purple, and wine

color were the shades she liked best to wear, and in which her friends

most often remember her. Despite her few extravagant tastes, Clara

Barton was the most democratic woman America ever produced, as well as

the most humane. She loved people, sick and well, and in any State and

city of the Union she could claim personal friends in every walk of

life.

When, after ninety-nine years of life and fifty of continuous service

to suffering human nature, death laid its hand upon her on that spring

day, the world to its remotest corner stopped its busy barter and

trade for a brief moment to pay reverent tribute to a woman, who was

by nature of the most retiring, bashful disposition, and yet carried

on her life-work in the face of the enemy, to the sound of cannon, and

close to the firing-line. She was on the firing-line all her life.

That is her life story.

Her "boys" of all ages adored her, and no more touching incident is

told of her than that of a day in Boston, when, after a meeting, she

lingered at its close to chat with General Shafter. Suddenly the great

audience, composed entirely of old soldiers, rose to their feet as she

came down the aisle, and a voice cried:

"Three cheers for Clara Barton!"

They were given by voices hoarse with feeling. Then some one shouted:

"Tiger!"

Before it could be given another voice cried:

"No! _Sweetheart!_"

Then those grizzled elderly men whose lives she had helped to save

broke into uproar and tears together, while the little bent woman

smiled back at them with a love as true as any sweetheart's.

* * * * *

To-day we stand at the parting of the ways. Our nation is in the

making as a world power, and in its rebirth there must needs be

bloodshed and scalding tears. As we American girls and women go out

bravely to face the untried future and to nurse under the banner of

the Red Cross, we shall do our best work when we bear to the

battle-field the same spirit of high purpose and consecration that

inspired Clara Barton and made her the "Angel of the Battle-fields."

Let us, as loyal Americans, take to heart part of a speech she once

made on Memorial Day, when she stood with the "Boys in Blue" in the

"God's-acre" of the soldier, and declared:

"We cannot always hold our great ship of state out of the storms and

breakers. She must meet and buffet with them. Her timbers must creak

in the gale. The waves must wash over her decks, she must lie in the

trough of the sea as she does to-day. But the Stars and Stripes are

above her. She is freighted with the hopes of the world. God holds the

helm, and she's coming to port. The weak must fear, the timid tremble,

but the brave and stout of heart will work and hope and trust."

VIRGINIA REED: MIDNIGHT HEROINE OF THE PLAINS IN PIONEER DAYS OF

AMERICA

On a lovely April morning in 1846 there was an unusual stir in the

streets of Springfield, Illinois, for such an early hour. From almost

every house some one was hurrying, and as neighbor nodded to neighbor

the news passed on:

"The wagons are ready--they are going!"

As the sun mounted slowly in the cloudless sky, from all parts of town

there still flocked friends and relatives of the small band of

emigrants who were about to start on their long trip across the

plains, going to golden California.

California--magic word! Not one of those who were hurrying to wish the

travelers God-speed, nor any of the band who were leaving their homes,

but felt the thrilling promise and the presage of that new country

toward which the emigrants were about to turn their faces.

The crowd of friends gathered at the Reeds' home, where their great

prairie-wagons and those of the Donners were drawn up in a long line

before the door; the provision wagons, filled to overflowing with

necessities and luxuries, the family wagons waiting for their human

freight. Mr. James F. Reed, who had planned the trip, was one of

Springfield's most highly respected citizens, and the Donner brothers,

who lived just outside of the town, had enthusiastically joined him in

perfecting the details of the journey, and had come in to town the

night before, with their families, to be ready for an early start. And

now they were really going!

All through the previous winter, in the evening, when the Reeds were

gathered before their big log fire, they had talked of the wonderful

adventure, while Mrs. Reed's skilful fingers fashioned such garments

as would be needed for the journey. And while she sewed, Grandma Keyes

told the children marvelous tales of Indian massacres on those very

plains across which they were going to travel when warmer days came.

Grandma told her breathless audience of giant red men, whose tomahawks

were always ready to descend on the heads of unlucky travelers who

crossed their path--told so many blood-curdling stories of meetings

between white men and Indian warriors that the little boys, James and

Thomas, and little black-eyed Patty and older Virginia, were

spellbound as they listened.

To Virginia, an imaginative girl, twelve years old, the very flames,

tongueing their way up the chimney in fantastic shapes, became bold

warriors in mortal combat with emigrants on their way to the golden

West, and even after she had gone to bed it seemed to her that

"everything in the room, from the high old-fashioned bedposts down to

the shovel and tongs, was transformed into the dusky tribe in paint

and feathers, all ready for a war-dance" as they loomed large out of

shadowy corners. She would hide her head under the clothes, scarcely

daring to wink or breathe, then come boldly to the surface, face her

shadowy foes, and fall asleep without having come to harm at the hands

of the invisibles.

Going to California--oh the ecstatic terror of it! And now the day and

the hour of departure had come!

The Reeds' wagons had all been made to order, and carefully planned by

Mr. Reed himself with a view to comfort in every detail, so they were

the best of their kind that ever crossed the plains, and especially

was their family wagon a real pioneer _car de luxe_, made to give

every possible convenience to Mrs. Reed and Grandma Keyes. When the

trip had been first discussed by the Reeds, the old lady, then

seventy-five years old and for the most part confined to her bed,

showed such enthusiasm that her son declared, laughingly: "I declare,

mother, one would think you were going with us."

"I am!" was the quick rejoinder. "You do not think I am going to be

left behind when my dear daughter and her children are going to take

such a journey as that, do you? I thought you had more sense, James!"

And Grandma did go, despite her years and her infirmities.

The Reeds' family wagon was drawn by four yoke of fine oxen, and their

provision wagons by three. They had also cows, and a number of driving

and saddle horses, among them Virginia's pony Billy, on whose back she

had been held and taught to ride when she was only seven years old.

The provision wagons were filled to overflowing with all sorts of

supplies. There were farming implements, to be used in tilling the

land in that new country to which they were going, and a bountiful

supply of seeds. Besides these farm supplies, there were bolts of

cotton prints and flannel for dresses and shirts, also gay

handkerchiefs, beads, and other trinkets to be used for barter with

the Indians. More important still, carefully stowed away was a store

of fine laces, rich silks and velvets, muslins and brocades, to be

exchanged for Mexican land-grants. The family wagon, too, had been

fitted up with every kind of commodity, including a cooking-stove,

with its smoke-stack carried out through the canvas roof of the wagon,

and a looking-glass which Mrs. Reed's friends had hung on the canvas

wall opposite the wagon door--"so you will not forget to keep your

good looks, they said!"

And now the party was ready to start. Among its number were Mrs. Reed

and her husband, with little Patty, the two small boys, James and

Thomas, and the older daughter, Virginia; the Donners, George and

Jacob, with their wives and children; Milton Elliott, driver of the

Reed family wagon, who had worked for years in Mr. Reed's big sawmill;

Eliza Baylis, the Reeds' domestic, with her brother and a number of

other young men, some of them drivers, others merely going for

adventure. In all, on that lovely April morning, it was a group of

thirty-one persons around whom friends and relatives clustered for

last words and glimpses, and it was a sad moment for all. Mrs. Reed

broke down when she realized that the moment of parting had really

come, while Mr. Reed, in response to the good wishes showered on him,

silently gripped hand after hand, then he hurried into the house with

Milt Elliott, and presently came out carrying Grandma, at the sight of

whom her friends cheered lustily. She waved her thin hand in response

as she was lifted gently into the wagon and placed on a large

feather-bed, where she was propped up with pillows and declared

herself to be perfectly comfortable.

And indeed her resting-place was very much like a room, for the wagon

had been built with its entrance at the side, like an old-fashioned

stage-coach, and from the door one stepped into a small square room.

At the right and left were spring seats with high backs, which were

comfortable for riding, and over the wheels for the length of the

wagon, a wide board had been placed, making what Virginia called a

"really truly second story" on which beds were made up. Under this

"second story" were roomy compartments in which were stowed away stout

bags holding the clothing of the party, each bag plainly marked with a

name. There was also a full supply of medicines, with lint and

bandages for an emergency, and Mr. Reed had provided a good library of

standard books, not only to read during the journey, but knowing they

could not be bought in the new West. Altogether, from provision wagon

to family caravan, there was a complete equipment for every need, and

yet when they arrived in California, as one of the party said, "We

were almost destitute of everything!"

The wagons were loaded, Grandma was safely stowed away in her warm

bed, with little Patty sitting on its end where she could hold back

the door flap that the old lady might have a last glimpse of her old

home--the hard farewells had been said, and now Mr. Reed called in as

cheery a voice as he could command, "All aboard!"

Milton Elliott cracked his whip, and the long line of prairie-wagons,

horses and cattle started. Then came a happy surprise. Into saddles

and vehicles sprang more than a score of friends and relatives who

were going to follow the party to their first night's encampment,

while many of Virginia's schoolmates ran at the side of the wagon

through the principal streets of the town until one by one they

dropped back from fatigue, Virginia waving a continued farewell from

the wagon while they were in sight.

The first day's trip was not a long one, as it was thought wise to

make the start easy for man and beast. Most of the way Virginia rode

on Billy, sometimes beside the wagon, then again galloping ahead with

her father. A bridge was seen in the distance, and Patty and the boys

cried out to Milton, "Please stop, and let us get out and walk over

it; the oxen may not take us across safely!" Milt threw back his head

and roared with laughter at such an idea, but he halted to humor them,

then with a skilful use of his loud-voiced "Gee! and Haw!" made the

huge beasts obey his will.

On the line of great wagons wound its way beyond the town, until the

sun was sinking in the west, when they stopped for the night on the

ground where the Illinois State House now stands. The oxen were then

unhitched and the wagons drawn up in a hollow circle or "corral,"

within the protection of which cattle and horses were set free for

the night, while outside the corral a huge camp-fire soon blazed,

around which the party gathered for their first evening meal together,

and their last one with those friends who had come thus far on their

way with them. It was a determinedly merry group around the fire, and

stories were told and songs sung, which to the radiant Virginia were a

foretaste of such coming adventure as was beyond her wildest dreams.

As she sat in the glow of the camp-fire, with sleepy Patty's head

pillowed on her lap, she felt even more than before the thrill of this

wonderful adventuring. To keep a record of her travels,--that was the

thing to do! Full of the idea, she pinned together sheets of

wrapping-paper into a bulky blank-book, on the outside of which she

printed:

_Going to California. 1846._

From that time she kept a faithful though not a continuous record of

the experiences of what came to be known later as "the ill-fated

Donner party of martyr pioneers." And from that record she later wrote

her story of their journeying to the golden West.

By the eleventh day of May the band of emigrants had reached the town

of Independence, Missouri, and Virginia's record says:

"Men and beasts are in fine condition. There is nothing in all the

world so fascinating as to travel by day in the warm sunshine and to

camp by night under the stars. Here we are just outside the most

bustling town I ever saw and it is good news to find a large number of

inhabitants with their wagons, ready to cross the prairie with us. Who

knows, perhaps some new friendships will be made as we all go on

together! They all seem to feel as eager to go as we are, and

everybody is glad. I will get acquainted with as many as I can now,

and bring cheerful ones to visit Grandma, for she feels rather

homesick, except when Patty and I make her laugh."

Again, "The first few days of travel through the Territory of Kansas

were lovely. The flowers were so bright and there were so many birds

singing. Each day father and I would ride ahead to find a place to

camp that night. Sometimes when we galloped back we would find the

wagons halting at a creek, while washing was done or the young people

took a swim. Mother and I always did our wash at night, and spread it

on the bushes to dry. All this is such a peaceful recital that I began

to think I need not keep a diary at all, till one hot day when I was

in the wagon helping Patty cut out some doll's dresses, Jim came

running up to the wagon, terribly excited and crying out:

"'Indians, Virginia! Come and see! They have to take us across the

river!' Out he rushed and I after him, with every story Grandma ever

told us dancing through my brain. Now there was going to be an

adventure! But there wasn't. We had reached the Caw River, where there

were Indians to ferry us across. They were real and red and

terrifying, but I never flinched. If they brought out tomahawks in

midstream, I would be as brave as a pioneer's daughter should be. But

would you believe me, those Indians were as tame as pet canaries, and

just shot us across the river without glancing at us, and held out

their big hands with a grunt, for the coins! That was one of the

greatest disappointments of my life."

All went well with the travelers during those first weeks of the trip,

and no one enjoyed it more than Grandma Keyes after she got over being

homesick. But when they reached the Big Blue river, it was so swollen

that they had to lie by and wait for it to go down, or make rafts to

cross it on. As soon as they stopped traveling Grandma began to fail,

and on the 29th of May, with scarcely any pain, she died. Virginia's

diary says: "It was hard to comfort mother until I persuaded her that

to die out in that lovely country, and with most of your family around

you, was far better than living longer at home. Besides, she might

have died in Springfield. So mother cheered up a little, while all the

party helped us in making the sad preparations. A coffin was made from

a cotton-wood tree, and a young man from home found a gray stone slab

and cut Grandma's name, birthplace, and age on it. A minister of the

party made a simple address, and with the sunlight filtering through

the trees we buried her under an oak-tree and covered the grave with

wild flowers. Then we had to go on our way and leave dear Grandma in

the vast wilderness, which was so hard for mother that for many days I

did not take my rides on Billy, but just stayed with her. But the

landscape was so comfortingly beautiful that at last she cheered up

and began to feel that Grandma was not left alone in the forest, but

was with God. Strange to say, that grave in the woods has never been

disturbed; around it grew up the city of Manhattan, Kansas, and there

it is in the city cemetery of to-day."

The river did not go down, as the men had hoped, so they began to cut

down trees and split them into twenty-five-foot logs which were

hollowed out and joined together by cross timbers, these were firmly

lashed to stakes driven into the bank, and ropes were tied to each end

to pull the rafts back and forth across the river. It was no easy

matter to get the heavy wagons down the steep bank to the rafts, and

they had to be held back by the ropes and let down slowly so the

wheels would run into the hollowed logs. The women and children stayed

in the wagons, and talked and laughed gaily, that they might not show

the fear they felt as they balanced above the swollen river. But it

was crossed safely and then on the oxen jogged over a rough road until

the great Valley of the Platte was reached, where the road was good

and the country beautiful beyond expression. Virginia says: "Our party

was now so large that there was a line of forty wagons winding its way

like a serpent through the valley. There was no danger of any kind,

and each day was happier than the one before. How I enjoyed galloping

over the plains on Billy!" she exclaims, adding, "At night we young

folks would sit around the camp-fire, chatting merrily, and often a

song would be heard, or some clever dancer would give us a barn-door

jig on the hind gate of a wagon!"

The caravan wound its slow way westward, making from fifteen to twenty

miles a day, and always at night, when the party camped, a corral was

formed to protect the cattle from thieving Indians, who, says

Virginia, sadly, "are not like grandma's Indians. They treat us kindly

except for taking our things, which is annoying but not terrifying."

And she adds, "We have fine fare for those who like to eat game, as we

have so many good riflemen in the party who are always bringing it

in." She then confesses, "I certainly never thought I would be

relishing antelope and buffalo steaks, but they are good food when one

has grown used to them. Often I ride with father in a buffalo hunt,

which is very thrilling. We all help Eliza, who has turned into a fine

camp cook. As soon as we reach the place where we are to spend the

night all hands get to work, and, my, but things taste good when that

meal is ready! When we drove into the South Fork of the Platte, Eliza

had the cream ready to churn, and while we were fording the stream she

worked so hard that she turned out several pounds of butter."

The diary gives quite a long narrative here as follows:

"By the Fourth of July we were near Fort Laramie in Dakota, and what a

sight I saw as we approached the fort. 'Grandma's Indians!' I

exclaimed, as I saw bands of horses grazing on the plains and Indians

smeared with war-paint and armed with hunting-knives, tomahawks, bows

and arrows, moving about in the sunlight. They did not seem to notice

us as we drove up to the strongly fortified walls around the buildings

of the American Fur Company, but by the time we were ready to leave,

the red men and their squaws were pressing close to the wagons to take

trinkets which we had ready for them. Little Patty stood by me and

every now and then she squeezed my arm and cried, 'Look! Look!' as the

Indians crowded around us. Many of the squaws and papooses were

gorgeous in white doeskin suits gaily trimmed with beads, and were

very different from us in our linsey dresses and sunbonnets.

"As soon as father met the manager of the Fur Company, he advised us

to go right on as soon as we could, because he said the Sioux were on

the war-path, going to fight the Crows or Blackfeet, and their march

would be through the country which we had to cross, and they might

treat us badly, or rob us, as they were in an ugly humor. This greatly

frightened some of the women, and to calm them the men cleaned and

loaded their rifles and did everything they could to hurry away from

the fort. We were there only four days, and when we drove away we met

the mounted Indians, about three hundred of them, tomahawks,

war-paint, and all! They looked very handsome and impressive as they

advanced in a stately procession, two abreast, and rode on before our

train, then halted and opened ranks. As our wagons passed between

their lines they took green twigs from between their teeth and tossed

them to us in token of friendship. Then, having shown their good

faith, they crowded around our wagons and showed great curiosity at

the funny little smoke-stack sticking through the top of our family

wagon. A brave caught a glimpse of his war-paint and feathers in our

looking-glass, which hung opposite the door, and he was fascinated.

Beckoning to his comrades, he pointed to it, and to the strange

reflection of himself, and they all fairly pushed to the front, to see

themselves, in the glass. Unfortunately at that time I rode up on

Billy, and at once the Indians forgot everything except their

admiration of my pony. They swarmed around me, grunting, nodding, and

gesturing, and brought buffalo robes and tanned buckskin, also pretty

beaded moccasins and robes made of grass, and signed to me that they

would give all these in exchange for Billy. I shook my head as hard as

I could shake it, but they were determined to have Billy. They made

signs that they would give their ponies for mine, but again I shook my

head. They talked together awhile, then one of them triumphantly

brought me an old coat which had evidently belonged to a soldier, and

seemed much surprised that its brass buttons were not enough of an

inducement to make me give up the coveted prize. Though both father

and I continued to refuse their request as positively as ever, they

still swarmed around us and looked at me in a most embarrassing way. I

did not mind much, but father seemed angry and he said, sternly:

'Virginia, you dismount at once and let one of the men take Billy. Get

into the wagon now.' When father spoke in that way I was never slow to

obey, so I climbed into the wagon, and, being anxious to get a better

look at the Indians, I took a field-glass out of the rack where it

hung and put it to my eyes. The glass clicked as I took it from the

rack and like a flash the Indians wheeled their ponies and scattered,

taking the noise for the click of firearms. I turned to mother and

laughed.

"'You see you need not be afraid, mother dear,' I said; 'I can fight

the whole Sioux tribe with a spy-glass! If they come near the wagon

again just watch me take it up and see them run!'"

Those were happy days of adventuring in a new and smiling country, and

all were in high spirits when on the 19th of July they reached the

Little Sandy River, where they encamped, and all gathered together to

talk over whether to take a new route which had been opened up by Mr.

Lansford Hastings, called the Hastings Cut-off. This route passed

along the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake, then joined the Old

Fort Hall emigrant road on the Humboldt River. The new route was said

to shorten the trip by about three hundred miles, and Virginia says in

her diary, "Father was so eager to reach California quickly, that he

was strongly in favor of taking the Cut-off, while others were equally

firm in their objections to taking such a risk. At that time our party

had grown to be a large one, for so many families had joined us on our

way across the plains, and all had to have their say about the matter.

"There was a long discussion of the merits of the two routes, and as a

result, at last we decided to split up, for a number of the party

preferred not to risk taking the new route, while eighty-seven of us,

including our family and the Donners, decided to take the Cut-off.

"On the 20th of July we broke camp and left the little Sandy, the

other division of the party taking the old trail to Fort Hall, and the

rest of us, who were called 'the Donner party' from that time, taking

the new one.

"When we reached Fort Bridger, we were told that Mr. Hastings, whom we

had expected to find there, had gone ahead to pilot a large emigrant

train, and had left word that all later bands were to follow his

trail; that they would find an abundant supply of wood, water, and

pasturage along the whole line of road except for one forty-mile

drive; that there were no difficult cañons to pass; and that the road

was mostly good. This was encouraging and we traveled on comfortably

for a week, when we reached the spot where Webber River breaks through

the mountains into a cañon. There, by the side of the road, was a

forked branch with a note stuck in its cleft, left by Hastings,

saying, 'I advise all parties to encamp and wait for my return. The

road I have taken is so rough that I fear wagons will not be able to

get through to the Great Salt Lake Valley.' He mentioned another and

better route which avoided the cañon altogether, and at once father,

Mr. Stanton and William Pike said they would go ahead over this road,

and if possible meet Hastings and bring him back to pilot us through

to the valley.

"While the men went off to try to find Hastings, we encamped and

waited for them to come back. In five days father came alone, having

become separated from his companions, who he feared might have been

lost. They had met Hastings, but he had refused to leave his party for

their sake. Finally, however, father had insisted that he go with them

to a high peak of the Wahsatch Mountains and from there point out to

them the direction our party ought to take. Coming down from the peak,

father lost sight of Stanton and Pike and was forced to come on alone,

taking notes and blazing trees to help him in retracing his path when

he should have us to guide. Searchers were at once sent out after the

lost men, while we broke camp and started on our risky journey. It was

easy enough traveling at first, but the following day we were brought

to a sudden stop by a patch of dense woodland which it took a whole

day's chopping to open up enough for our wagons to pass through. From

there we chopped and pushed our way through what seemed an impassable

wilderness of high peaks and rock-bound cañons, and then faced a great

rough gulch. Believing it would lead out to the valley, our men again

set to work vigorously, and for six long days they chopped until they

were almost exhausted. Then a new party of emigrants caught up with us

and, aided by three fresh men, the eight-mile road through the gulch

was finished. It did not lead to the opening we had expected, but

into a pretty mountain dell, but we were happy, because we found the

searchers there with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Pike. They reported that we

must go back on the newly made road and cross a more distant range of

mountains in order to strike the trail to the valley. That was a

moment of terror, even to the most courageous of our valiant band, but

everyone forced a smile and a cheerful word as we started to retrace

our way. We had five days more of traveling and road-making, and

climbed a mountain so steep that six yoke of oxen had to pull each

wagon up the steep ascent. Then we crossed the river flowing from Utah

Lake to Great Salt Lake and at last found the trail of the Hastings

party, thirty days after we set out for the point we had expected to

reach in ten or twelve days.

"While we rested we took an inventory of our provisions, and found the

supply was not sufficient to last until we should reach California.

Here was a predicament! Mr. Donner called for volunteers to ride ahead

on horseback to Sutter's Fort, to tell of our sorry plight and ask

Captain Sutter to send back provisions by them for us, as we traveled

toward them. Mr. Stanton and Mr. McCutchen said they would go to the

fort, and rode away on their errand of mercy.

"Our wagons, meanwhile, wound their slow way along, far behind the

horsemen, who were soon out of our sight, and two days later we found

a lovely green valley where there were twenty wells of clear,

sparkling water to cool our parched throats, which were only used to

the alkaline pools from which we had been obliged to drink. Close

beside the largest well we found a rough board, stuck in the ground

with strips of white paper pinned to it, and around the board pieces

of the paper were strewn on the turf, as if they had been torn off the

board. 'There has been some message written on that paper. We must

piece the bits together,' declared Mrs. Donner. No sooner said than

done. Laying the board on her lap, she began to patch the scraps

together, while we eagerly watched her. At last the words could be

read: '2 days--2 nights--hard driving--cross--desert--reach water.'

This was evidently meant as a warning to us, and the thought of two

days' hard driving through the desert was anything but cheering. In

fact, it would be such a strain on our cattle that we remained where

we were, with the fine water to drink and good pasturage for three

days. Then we filled our water casks, made all other preparations for

the forty-mile drive, and started off again. We traveled for two days

and nights, suffering from heat and thirst by day and from bitter cold

by night. At the end of the second day we still saw the vast desert

ahead of us as far as we could look. There was no more fodder for our

cattle, our water-casks were empty, and the burning rays of the sun

scorched us with pitiless and overpowering heat. Father rode on ahead

in search of water, and scarcely had he left us than our beasts began

to drop from exhaustion and thirst. Their drivers instantly unhitched

them and drove them ahead, hoping to meet father and find wells where

the thirsty beasts could be refreshed. They did find father and he

showed them the way to wells he had found where the beasts could

drink, then he traveled back to us, reaching our camp at dawn. We

waited all that day in the desert, with the sun beating down on us

with cruel heat, and still drivers and cattle had not come back. It

was a desperate plight, for another night without water would mean

death. We must set out on foot and try to reach some of the other

wagons, whose owners had gone ahead." Virginia adds, "Never shall I

forget that night, when we walked mile after mile in the darkness,

every step seeming to be the very last we could take, each of us who

were older and stronger, taking turns in carrying the younger

children. Suddenly out of the black night came a swift, rushing noise

of one of the young steers, who was crazed by thirst and rushing madly

toward us. Father snatched up little Patty, and commanded the rest of

us to keep close to his side, while he drew his pistol. We could hear

the heavy snorting of the maddened beast, when he turned and dashed

off into the darkness, leaving us weak and shivering with fright and

relief. And still we were obliged to drag our weary feet on, for ten

long miles, when we reached the Jacob Donner wagons. The family were

all asleep inside, so we lay down on the ground under the protecting

shadow of the family wagon. A bitter wind was howling across the

desert, and it so chilled us that we crept close together, and if all

five of our dogs had not snuggled up close to us, warming us with the

heat from their big bodies, we would probably had died from cold.

"At dawn father rushed off to find his cattle, but in vain. He met the

drivers, who told him that as the frenzied beasts were being driven

toward the wells, they had broken loose and been lost in the darkness.

At once all the men of the company turned out to help father to search

for them, but none were ever found except one ox and a cow, and in

that plight we were left stranded on the desert, eight hundred miles

from California! To turn back to Fort Bridger was an impossibility--to

go forward meant such hardship as blanched even my sun-reddened

cheeks, and I shuddered at the thought that mother must live through

greater privations than those we had already encountered. Well it was

that the future was hidden from our eyes on that day in the desert!

"Two oxen were loaned father, which, yoked together with our one cow

and ox, would draw one wagon, but not the family one, which had grown

to be so home-like to us in our journeyings. It was decided to dig a

trench, and _cache_ all of our things except those which we could take

in the one wagon. A _cache_ is made by digging a hole in the ground

and sinking in it the bed of a wagon, in which articles are packed;

the hole is then covered with boards and earth, so they are completely

hidden, and when we buried ours we hoped some day to return and take

them away."

Having _cached_ so many of their treasures, on the party went as

bravely as possible until they reached Gravelly Ford on the Humboldt,

where on the 5th of October there was such a tragic occurrence that

Virginia says, "I grew up into a woman in a night, and life was never

the same again, although for the sake of mother and the children I hid

my feelings as well as I could."

Here her record is detailed, and as concise as possible. She writes:

"I will tell it as clearly and quickly as I can. We had reached a

short sandy hill, and as the oxen were all tired, it was the custom at

such places for the drivers to double up teams and help one another up

the hill. A driver named Snyder, for some unaccountable reason,

decided to go up alone. His oxen could not pull their load, and

Snyder, angry at them, began to beat them. Father, who had gone on

ahead, looking for the best road, came back, and in trying to make

Snyder stop abusing his beasts, roused his anger to the point of

frenzy. Father said, 'We can settle this, John, when we get up the

hill.' 'No,' said Snyder. 'We will settle it now!' and, jumping on the

tongue of his wagon, he struck father a hard blow over the head with

his heavy whip-stock. One blow followed another, and father was

stunned, as well as blinded by the blood streaming down from the

gashes in his head. The whip was about to drop again when mother

sprang between the two men. Father saw the uplifted whip and had only

time to cry 'John! John!' when down came the blow on mother's head.

Quick as a flash father's hunting-knife was out and Snyder fell,

mortally wounded, and fifteen minutes later died. Then father

realized, too late, what he had done. Dashing the blood from his eyes,

he knelt over the dying man, who had been his friend, with remorse and

agony in his expression.

"Camp was pitched at once, our wagon being some distance from the

others, and father, whose head was badly cut, came to me.

"'Daughter,' he asked, 'do you think you can dress these wounds in my

head? Your mother is not able and they must be attended to.' I said,

promptly: 'Yes, if you will tell me what to do.' Then we went into the

wagon, where we would not be disturbed, and I washed and dressed his

wounds as best I could. When I had done what he told me to do, I burst

out crying, and father clasped me in his arms, saying: 'I should not

have asked so much of you!' I told him it was pity for him that made

me cry. Then he talked to me quietly until I had controlled my

feelings and was able to go back to the tent where mother was lying,

weak and dazed by the happenings of the day. And there were worse

things to come. In our party there was a man who had been in the habit

of beating his wife until father told him he must either stop it or

measures would be taken to make him. He did not dare abuse her again,

but he hated father from that time, and now he had his chance for

revenge. After Snyder had been buried, and father had sadly watched

the last clod of earth piled on the grave, the men of the party held a

conference from which our family were excluded. We waited a short

distance away, in terrified suspense to know the outcome of it, as we

were sure it concerned father. And it did. His plea of self-defense

was not acceptable to them, they said, and we shivered as we saw such

bitterness on the men's faces as seemed sure would lead to lynching.

Father saw it, but he was no coward. Baring his neck, he stepped

forward, and proudly said, 'Come on, gentlemen!' No one moved, and

presently he was told that he must leave the party, an exile--must go

out in the wilderness alone without food or weapons. It was a cruel

sentence, for it might result either in starvation or in murder by the

Indians, and it is no wonder that mother was beside herself with

fright, that we children knew not what to do or where to turn for

help. Father heard the sentence in silence, then facing the group of

old-time friends, with brave eyes, he said: 'I will not go. My act was

one of self-defense, and as such is justified before God and man.'

"Meanwhile, my mother had been thinking, as she told me later, and she

begged father to accept the sentence and leave the party, thinking it

would be less dangerous than to remain among men who had become his

enemies. He firmly refused until she pleaded that the whole party were

now practically destitute of food, and if he remained, as an outcast,

he would be obliged to see his children starve, while by going he

might be able to meet them with food which he had procured somewhere.

After a fearful struggle with his own desires, father consented, but

not until the men of the party had promised to care for his innocent

wife and children. Then, after he had held mother in his arms for a

long agonized moment, he turned to me, and I forced my eyes to meet

his with such fearless trust that he looked less despairing as he

picked up Patty for a last hug and gripped the boys with an emotion

too deep for any words; then he went off, an exile in the desert.

"I had no idea what I was going to do about it, but I knew I must do

something. Through the long hours of the day, while I was busy

soothing and comforting mother, who felt it keenly that we were left

as much alone as if we were lepers, I was thinking busily. Our wagon

was drawn up apart from the others, and we ate our scanty evening meal

in silence. Milt Elliott and some others tried to talk with us, and

show their friendliness, but mother would only answer in monosyllables

and commanded the children to do the same. We were an utterly

desolate, frightened group as darkness fell over us. I was busy

helping the children get to bed, and then I found mother in such a

state of collapse that I could think of nothing but comforting and

quieting her.

"At last she fell asleep, and I crept to my bed, but I could not

sleep. I must act. At last, I made a decision. I was strong and

fearless, and father had no food or light or supplies, out there alone

in the trackless wilderness. I stole to my mother's side and she

roused at my light touch.

"'Mother, dear,' I whispered, 'I am going out to find father and take

him some food, and his gun, and ammunition.' She roused and exclaimed:

"'What do you mean, child? You cannot find your father!'

"'I'm not going alone,' I replied 'I've asked Milt and he says he'll

go with me.'

"Without giving her a chance to say I must not go, I hurried to the

supply-chest and found some crackers, a small piece of bacon, some

coffee and sugar. I took a tin cup, too, and a dipper for father to

make coffee in, and packed his gun, pistols, and ammunition with them.

His lantern was on the shelf, and I put a fresh piece of candle in it

and matches in my pocket--then I was ready to start.

"Everything had to be done very quickly and quietly, for there would

be a great risk if the children knew what I was going to do, or if any

others of the party discovered my intention. So I did everything on

tip-toe, and holding my breath for fear of being discovered.

"Mother called, 'Virginia!' and I went to her side. 'How will you find

him in the darkness?'

"'I shall look for his horse's tracks and follow them,' I whispered.

At that moment Milton's cautious step was heard at the side of the

wagon, and with a last hug mother released me, and Milt and I stole

off on our dangerous expedition.

"Out into the darkness we crept. Stealthily we hid in the shadows cast

by the wagons in the flickering light of the dying camp-fire--cautiously

we stole up behind the unsuspicious sentinel who was wearily tramping

back and forth, and we held our breath for fright as he suddenly looked

over the sleeping camp, then peered out into the mysterious darkness of

the desert, but he did not see us. For safety we lay down on the ground,

and silently dragged our bodies along until we were well out of his

sight and hearing; then we pushed our feet along without lifting them,

to be sure they did not fall into some unseen hole or trap, and now and

again we were startled by some noise that to our excited senses seemed

to mean that a wild animal was near us. My eyes had been searching the

darkness around and before us, and at last I whispered:

"'Stop, Milt. Let us light the lantern!'

"Then stooping down, I spread out my skirts so that not the slightest

flash of a match or gleam of light could be seen by the sentinel or by

any one in the encampment. Milton lighted the lantern. I took it in

one hand, and with the other held my skirts up in such a way as to

shield its beams, and in its feeble light I searched the ground still

frantically for some trace of the footprints of father's horse.

Although I was nervous and excited enough to fly on the wings of

lightning, I did not let the feeling get the better of me, but made a

deliberate search of every inch of ground, making a complete circle

around the outskirts of the camp, for I was determined to find those

tracks. At last! There they were, unmistakable and clear. I gave a

smothered cry and showed them to Milt. Then, still with the lantern

carefully covered, so that no unguarded flash might bring a

death-dealing shot from the sentinel's rifle, I followed where they

led, Milt close behind, carrying the gun and provisions. Mile after

mile we followed--followed, now seeing the tracks, now losing them. Oh

what an agony was compressed in those awful hours!

[Illustration: VIRGINIA GOES FORTH TO FIND HER EXILED FATHER]

"Suddenly on the midnight air came the wild howl of coyotes. From the

distance echoed an even more hideous cry--that of the panther, seeking

for prey. At that sound Milton's hair literally stood on end, and if I

had shown one sign of weakening he would gladly have given up the

search. But I went on, closing my ears to the dreaded sounds. All of a

sudden my heart beat so wildly that I was obliged to press my hand

over it to quiet its hammering. What I heard or saw or felt I can

never explain, but I know that all the terror of my thirteen years of

life seemed to be condensed into one moment of dread. And yet go on I

must, praying to God to protect us and let me find father. I pushed

ahead, with panic holding me in its wild grip as I pictured a horrible

death if we should be captured by Indians. Then suddenly with

wide-strained eyes and fluttering heart, I forgot all weariness and

fear. In the far distance a dim, flickering light. Gripping Milt's

arm, I whispered:

"'Father!'

"No sooner had I said it than I thought, 'Perhaps it is an Indian

camp-fire.' But common sense put that aside, for I was sure I had seen

father's horse's hoofprints, and certainly they would lead to him. But

suppose he had been captured by Indians, and this fire we were coming

to should lead to horrible disclosures. All this went through my mind,

but I said nothing of it to Milton. I just went walking steadily on.

Oh, how far away the light was! Would we never reach it? It seemed as

if the more we walked the farther from it we were. But no, it was

he--it was--it was! With a glad cry of, 'Oh, father! father!' I

rushed forward and flung myself in his arms.

"'My child, my Virginia!' he exclaimed, when surprise had let him find

his voice. 'You should not have come here!'

"'But I _am_ here,' I cried, 'and I've brought you some food and your

gun, and a blanket, and a little coffee, and some crackers! And here's

a tin cup, too, and your pistols, and some powder and caps. Oh, and

here are some matches, too!' I exclaimed, holding out one after

another of the precious articles to his astonished gaze, and laughing

and crying as I talked.

"It was almost pitiful to see father's astonishment at the thought

that some one had come to help him in his terrible plight, and as he

took the things I had brought he kissed and fondled me like a little

child, and said that, God helping him, he would hurry on to California

and secure a home for his beloved family--and it seems conceited to

mention it, but he called me his 'brave daughter' over and over again,

until I was glad of the darkness to hide my burning cheeks. Then in

the protecting darkness, with Milton to stand guard, we sat together

and talked of mother and Patty and the boys, and of what we should do

while we were parted from him. Father was the first to remember that

dawn would soon flush the east, and rising, he kissed me again and

tried to say farewell.

"'But I'm not going back!' I cried. 'I'm going with you. Milt will go

back, but I am going on with you.' Seeing his stern, set face, I

pleaded, piteously: 'Oh, don't send me back--I can never bear to see

those cruel men again. Let me go with you?' He turned a white, drawn

face to mine.

"'For mother's sake, dear,' he said, 'go back and take care of her.

God will care for me.' Before I could cry out or make a move to go

with him, he had gathered up the articles I had brought him, jumped

on his horse, and ridden away into the solitude of the Western desert.

Milton and I were left alone to find our way back to the encampment

where mother was watching and waiting for me with an eager, aching

heart. When my straining eyes had seen the last of that solitary

figure riding off into the black desert, I turned abruptly away, and

Milt and I crept back over the vast desert. Before there was a glimmer

of dawn I was safely clasped in mother's arms, repeated my comforting

news over and over again that we had found father, that he was well

and on his way to that land toward which our own faces were turned."

In this simple, direct fashion has Virginia Reed told of a heroic deed

in the history of brave pioneer girls--but as the story comes from her

pen, it is scarcely possible to realize the anxiety, the torturing

fear, the hideous danger of such an expedition as that one of hers

when at midnight, on the great plains, she set out to find her father.

"After that," she says, "though we were obliged to travel on, and

though the party tried to be friendly with us, our hearts were sore

and our thoughts were centered on father, journeying on alone. But as

we went on we found welcome surprises by the way. A note written by

him, stuck on a forked twig by the wayside, feathers scattered over

the path to show that he had killed a bird and was not hungry. When we

had found such evidence of his being alive and well, mother would be

light-hearted for a whole day. Then the signs ceased, and mother's

despair was pitiful to see. Had he been killed by the Indians or

perhaps died of starvation? Patty and I were afraid we would lose

mother, too. But starvation was menacing the whole party, and she was

roused to new strength in a desire to protect her children from that

fate. And even more ominous in their portent of disaster, before us

rose the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, which we must cross

before the heavy snows fell, and the question was, could we do it? We

left our wagon behind, which was too heavy for the mountain trip,

placed in it every article we could do without, packed what we needed

in another, and struggled on as best we could until the 19th of

October, when we had a great joy. As we were wearily traveling along

the Truckee, up rode Mr. Stanton and with him were seven mules loaded

with provisions! No angel from the skies could have been more welcome,

and, hungry though we were, better than food was the news that father

was alive and pushing on to the west. Mr. Stanton had met him near

Sutter's Fort, and had given him provisions and a fresh horse. Oh, how

relieved mother was! I think she could not have eaten a mouthful,

hungry as she was, without the glad tidings. Father had asked Mr.

Stanton to personally conduct us across the Sierras before snow came,

which he had promised to do, so with new courage we hurried on,

keeping a close watch on those gaunt peaks ahead of us, which we must

climb before realizing our dreams. Although it was so early in the

season, all trails were covered with snow, but we struggled on, mother

riding one mule with Tommy in her lap, Patty and Jim on another,

behind two Indians who had accompanied Mr. Stanton, and I riding

behind our leader. But though we did all in our power to travel fast,

we were obliged to call a halt before we reached the summit, and camp

only three miles this side of the crest of the mountain range.

"That night," says Virginia, "came the dreaded snow. Around the

camp-fires under the trees great feathery flakes came whirling down.

The air was so full of them that one could see objects only a few feet

away. The Indians knew we were doomed and one of them wrapped his

blanket about him and stood all night under a tree. We children slept

soundly on our cold bed of snow, which fell over us so thickly that

every few moments my mother would have to shake the shawl--our only

covering--to keep us from being buried alive. In the morning the snow

lay deep on mountain and valley, and we were forced to turn back to a

lake we had passed, which was afterward called 'Donner Lake,' where

the men hastily put up some rough cabins--three of them known as the

Breen cabin, the Murphy cabin, and the Reed-Graves cabin. Then the

cattle were all killed, and the meat was placed in the snow to

preserve it, and we tried to settle down as comfortably as we could,

until the season of snow and ice should be over. But the comfort was a

poor imitation of the real thing, and now and then, in desperation, a

party started out to try to cross the mountains, but they were always

driven back by the pitiless storms. Finally, a party of fifteen, known

in later days as the 'Forlorn Hopes,' started out, ten men and five

women, on snow-shoes, led by noble Mr. Stanton, and we heard no more

of them until months afterward.

"No pen can describe the dreary hopelessness of those who spent that

winter at Donner Lake," says Virginia. "Our daily life in that dark

little cabin under the snow would fill pages and make the coldest

heart ache. Only one memory stands out with any bright gleam.

Christmas was near, and there was no way of making it a happy time.

But my mother was determined to give us a treat on that day. She had

hidden away a small store of provisions--a few dried apples, some

beans, a bit of tripe, and a small piece of bacon. These she brought

out, and when we saw the treasures we shouted for joy, and watched the

meal cooking with hunger-sharpened eyes. Mother smiled at our delight

and cautioned:

"'Children, eat slowly, for this one day you can have all you wish!'

and never has any Christmas feast since driven out of my memory that

most memorable one at Donner Lake.

"Somehow or other the cold dark days and weeks passed, but as they

went by our store of supplies grew less and less, and many died from

cold and hunger. Frequently we had to cut chips from the inside of our

cabin to start a fire, and we were so weak from want of food that we

could scarcely drag ourselves from one cabin to the other, and so four

dreadful months wore away. Then came a day when a fact stared us in

the face. We were starving. With an almost superhuman strength mother

roused. 'I am going to walk across the mountains,' she said; 'I cannot

see my children die for lack of food.' Quickly I stood beside her. 'I

will go, too,' I said. Up rose Milt and Eliza. 'We will go with you,'

they said. Leaving the children to be cared for by the Breens and

Murphys, we made a brave start. Milt led the way on snow-shoes and we

followed in his tracks, but Eliza gave out on the first day and had to

go back, and after five days in the mountains, we, too, turned back

and mother was almost exhausted, and we went back just in time, for

that night there was the most fearful storm of the winter, and we

should have died if we had not had the shelter of our cabins. My feet

had been badly frozen, and mother was utterly spent from climbing one

high mountain after another, but we felt no lasting bad effects from

the venture. But we had no food! Our cabins were roofed over with

hides, which now we had to take down and boil for food. They saved

life, but to eat them was like eating a pot of glue, and I could not

swallow them. The roof of our cabin having been taken off, the Breens

gave us a shelter, and when Mrs. Breen discovered what I had tried to

hide from my own family, that I could not eat the hide, she gave me

little bits of meat now and then from their fast-dwindling store.

"One thing was my great comfort from that time," says Virginia. "The

Breens were the only Catholics in the party, and prayers were said

regularly every night and morning in their little cabin, Mr. Breen

reading by the light of a small pine torch, which I held, kneeling by

his side. There was something inexpressibly comforting to me in this

simple service, and one night when we had all gone to bed, huddled

together to keep from freezing, and I felt it would not be long before

we would all go to sleep never to wake again in this world, all at

once I found myself on my knees, looking up through the darkness and

making a vow that if God would send us relief and let me see my father

again, I would become a Catholic. And my prayer was answered.

"On the evening of February 19th, we were in the cabin, weak and

starving, when we heard Mr. Breen's voice outside, crying:

"'Relief, thank God! Relief!'

"In a moment, before our unbelieving eyes, stood seven men sent by

Captain Sutter from the fort, and they had brought an ample supply of

flour and jerked beef, to save us from the death which had already

overtaken so many of our party. There was joy at Donner Lake that

night, for the men said: 'Relief parties will come and go until you

have all crossed the mountains safely.' But," Virginia's diary says:

"mingled with one joy were bitter tears. Even strong men sat and wept

as they saw the dead lying about on the snow, some even unburied, as

the living had not had strength to bury them. I sorrowed most for Milt

Elliott--our faithful friend, who seemed so like a brother, and when

he died, mother and I dragged him out of the cabin and covered him

with snow, and I patted the pure white snow down softly over all but

his face--and dragged myself away, with a heart aching from the pain

of such a loss.

"But we were obliged to turn our thoughts to the living and their

future, and eagerly listened to the story of the men, who told us that

when father arrived at Sutter's Fort, after meeting Mr. Stanton, he

told Captain Sutter of our desperate plight and the captain at once

furnished horses and supplies, with which father and Mr. McCutchen

started back, but were obliged to return to the fort, and while they

were conferring with Captain Sutter about their next move, the seven

living members of the 'Forlorn Hope' party who had left us the first

part of the winter, arrived at the fort. Their pale, worn faces told

the story and touched all hearts. Cattle were killed and men were up

all night drying beef and making flour by hand-mills for us; then the

party started out to our rescue and they had not reached us one moment

too soon!

"Three days later, the first relief started from Donner Lake with a

party of twenty-three men, women, and children, and our family was

among them. It was a bright, sunny day and we felt happy, but we had

not gone far when Patty and Tommy gave out. As gently as possible I

told mother that they would have to go back to the lake and wait for

the next expedition. Mother insisted that she would go back with them,

but the relief party would not allow this, and finally she gave in and

let the children go in care of a Mr. Hover. Even the bravest of the

men had tears in their eyes when little Patty patted mother's cheek

and said, 'I want to see papa, but I will take good care of Tommy, and

I do not want you to come back.' Meanwhile we traveled on,

heavy-hearted, struggling through the snow single file. The men on

snow-shoes broke the way and we followed in their tracks. At night we

lay down on the snow to sleep, to awake to find our clothing all

frozen. At break of day we were on the road again.... The sunshine,

which it would seem would have been welcome, only added to our misery.

The dazzling reflection made it very trying to our eyes, while its

heat melted our frozen clothing and made it cling to our bodies. Jim

was too small to step in the tracks made by the men, and to walk at

all he had to place his knee on the little hill of snow after each

step, and climb over it. Mother and I coaxed him along by telling him

that every step he took he was getting nearer papa and nearer

something to eat. He was the youngest child that walked over the

Sierra Nevada.

"On their way to our rescue the relief party from Sutter's Fort had

left meat hanging on a tree for our use as we came out. What was their

horror when we reached the spot to find that it had been taken by wild

animals. We were starving again--where could we get food? As we were

trying to decide on our next move, one of the men who was in the lead

ahead stopped, turned, and called out:

"'Is Mrs. Reed with you? If she is, tell her Mr. Reed is here!' There

before us stood father! At the sight, mother, weak with joy, fell on

her knees with outstretched arms, while I tried to run to meet him,

but found myself too much exhausted, so I just held out my arms, too,

and waited! In a moment he was where we could touch him and know that

he was flesh and blood and not just a beautiful dream. He had planned

to meet us just where we were, and had brought with him fourteen men

and a generous supply of bread.

"As he knelt and clasped mother in his arms she told him that Patty

and Tommy were still at the lake, and with a horrified exclamation, he

started to his feet. 'I must go for them at once,' he said. 'There is

no time to lose.' With one long embrace off he went as if on winged

feet, traveling the distance which had taken us five days to go in

two, we afterward heard. He found the children alive, to his great

joy, but, oh, what a sight met his gaze! The famished little children

and the death-like look of all at the lake made his heart ache. He

filled Patty's apron with biscuits, which she carried around, giving

one to each person. He also had soup made for the infirm, and rendered

every possible assistance to the sufferers, then, leaving them with

provisions for seven days, he started off, taking with him seventeen

who were able to travel, and leaving at the lake three of his men to

aid those who were too weak to walk.

"Almost as soon as father's party started out, they were caught in a

terrible snow-storm and hurricane, and his description of the scene

later was heart-breaking, as he told about the crying of the

half-frozen children, the lamenting of the mothers and suffering of

the whole party, while above all could be heard the shrieking of the

storm king. One who has never seen a blizzard in the Sierras can have

no idea of the situation, but we knew. All night father and his men

worked in the raging storm, trying to put up shelters for the dying

women and children, while at times the hurricane would burst forth

with such fury that he felt frightened on account of the tall timber

surrounding the camp. The party was almost without food, having left

so much with the sufferers at the lake. Father had _cached_ provisions

on his way to the lake, and had sent three men forward to get it

before the storm set in, but they could not get back. At one time the

fire was nearly gone; had it been lost, all would have perished. For

three days and three nights they were exposed to the fury of that

terrible storm; then father became snow-blind, and would have died if

two of his faithful comrades had not worked over him all night, but

from that time all responsibility of the relief work was taken from

him, as he was physically unfit.

"At last the storm abated, and the party halted, while father with Mr.

McCutchen and Mr. Miller went on ahead to send back aid for those who

were exhausted from the terrible journeying. Hiram Miller carried

Tommy, while Patty started bravely to walk, but soon she sank on the

snow and seemed to be dying. All gathered around in frantic efforts to

revive the child, and luckily father found some crumbs in the thumb

of his woolen mitten which he warmed and moistened between his own

lips, and fed Patty. Slowly she came to life again, and was carried

along by different ones in the company, so that by the time the party

reached Woodworth's Camp she was quite herself again, and as she sat

cozily before a big camp-fire she fondled and talked to a tiny doll

which had traveled with her all the way from Springfield and which was

her chosen confidante.

"As soon as father's party reached Woodworth's Camp a third relief

party started back to help those who were slowly following, and still

another party went on to Donner Lake to the relief of those who were

still living. But many of that emigrant band lie sleeping to-day on

the shore of that quiet mountain lake, for out of the eighty-three

persons who were snowed in there, forty-two died, and of the

thirty-one emigrants who left Springfield on that lovely April morning

of 1846, only eighteen lived to reach California. Among them were our

family, who, despite the terrible hardships and hideous privations we

had suffered, yet seemed to have been especially watched over by a

kind Providence, for we all lived to reach our goal, and were the only

family who were not obliged at some part of the journey to subsist on

human flesh to keep from perishing. God was good to our family, and I,

Virginia, testify to the heroic qualities which were developed in even

the youngest of us, and for my own part, I gratefully recognize the

blessings which came to me from an unqualified faith in God and an

unfaltering trust that He would take care of us--which He did.

"Mother, Jimmy and I reached California and were taken at once to the

home of the mayor, Mr. Sinclair, where we were given a warm welcome

and where nothing was left undone for our comfort. But we were still

too anxious to be happy, for we knew that father's party had been

caught in the storm." Virginia says: "I can see mother now as she

stood leaning against the door for hours at a time, looking at the

mountains. At last--oh wonderful day--they came, father, Patty and

Tommy! In the moment of blissful reunion tears and smiles intermingled

and all the bitterness and losses and sorrows of the cruel journey

were washed away, leaving only a tender memory of those noble souls

who had fared forth, not to the land of their dreams, but to a far

country whose maker and builder is God.

"And for us, it was spring in California!"