Since we have declared ourselves to be less interested in bald
chronology than in the naturally connected causes of events which make
chronology worth while, we may now, perhaps, double back upon the path
of chronology, and take up the great early highways of the West--what we
might call the points of attack against the frontier.
The story of the Santa Fe Trail, now passing into oblivion, once was on
the tongue of every man. This old highroad in its heyday presented the
most romantic and appealing features of the earlier frontier life. The
Santa Fe Trail was the great path of commerce between our frontier and
the Spanish towns trading through Santa Fe. This commerce began in 1822,
when about threescore men shipped certain goods across the lower Plains
by pack-animals. By 1826 it was employing a hundred men and was using
wagons and mules. In 1830, when oxen first were used on the trail, the
trade amounted to $120,000 annually; and by 1843, when the Spanish ports
were closed, it had reached the value of $450,000, involving the use
of 230 wagons and 350 men. It was this great wagon trail which first
brought us into touch with the Spanish civilization of the Southwest.
Its commercial totals do not bulk large today, but the old trail itself
was a thing titanic in its historic value.
This was the day not of water but of land transport; yet the wheeled
vehicles which passed out into the West as common carriers of
civilization clung to the river valleys--natural highways and natural
resting places of home-building man. This has been the story of the
advance of civilization from the first movements of the world's peoples.
The valleys are the cleats of civilization's golden sluices.
There lay the great valley of the Arkansas, offering food and water, an
easy grade and a direct course reaching out into the West, even to the
edge of the lands of Spain; and here stood wheeled vehicles able to
traverse it and to carry drygoods and hardware, and especially
domestic cotton fabrics, which formed the great staple of a "Santa Fe
assortment." The people of the Middle West were now, in short, able
to feed and clothe themselves and to offer a little of their surplus
merchandise to some one else in sale. They had begun to export! Out
yonder, in a strange and unknown land, lay one of the original markets
of America!
On the heels of Lewis and Clark, who had just explored the Missouri
River route to the Northwest, Captain Zebulon Pike of the Army, long
before the first wheeled traffic started West, had employed this valley
of the Arkansas in his search for the southwestern delimitations of the
United States. Pike thought he had found the head of the Red River when
after a toilsome and dangerous march he reached the headwaters of
the Rio Grande. But it was not our river. It belonged to Spain, as he
learned to his sorrow, when he marched all the way to Chihuahua in old
Mexico and lay there during certain weary months.
It was Pike's story of the far Southwest that first started the idea of
the commerce of the Santa Fe Trail. In that day geography was a human
thing, a thing of vital importance to all men. Men did not read the
stock markets; they read stories of adventure, tales of men returned
from lands out yonder in the West. Heretofore the swarthy Mexicans, folk
of the dry plains and hills around the head of the Rio Grande and the
Red, had carried their cotton goods and many other small and needful
things all the way from Vera Cruz on the seacoast, over trails that were
long, tedious, uncertain, and expensive. A far shorter and more natural
trade route went west along the Arkansas, which would bring the American
goods to the doors of the Spanish settlements. After Pike and one or two
others had returned with reports of the country, the possibilities of
this trade were clear to any one with the merchant's imagination.
There is rivalry for the title of "Father of the Santa Fe Trail." As
early as 1812, when the United States was at war with England, a party
of men on horseback trading into the West, commonly called the McKnight,
Baird, and Chambers party, made their way west to Santa Fe. There,
however, they met with disaster. All their goods were confiscated and
they themselves lay in Mexican jails for nine years. Eventually the
returning survivors of this party told their stories, and those stories,
far from chilling, only inflamed the ardor of other adventurous traders.
In 1821 more than one American trader reached Santa Fe; and, now that
the Spanish yoke had been thrown off by the Mexicans, the goods, instead
of being confiscated, were purchased eagerly.
It is to be remembered, of course, that trading of this sort to Mexico
was not altogether a new thing. Sutlers of the old fur traders and
trappers already had found the way to New Spain from the valley of the
Platte, south along the eastern edge of the Rockies, through Wyoming
and Colorado. By some such route as that at least one trader, a French
creole, agent of the firm of Bryant & Morrison at Kaskaskia, had
penetrated to the Spanish lands as early as 1804, while Lewis and Clark
were still absent in the upper wilderness. Each year the great mountain
rendezvous of the trappers--now at Bent's Fort on the Arkansas, now
at Horse Creek in Wyoming, now on Green River in Utah, or even farther
beyond the mountains--demanded supplies of food and traps and ammunition
to enable the hunters to continue their work for another year. Perhaps
many of the pack-trains which regularly supplied this shifting mountain
market already had traded in the Spanish country.
It is not necessary to go into further details regarding this primitive
commerce of the prairies. It yielded a certain profit; it shaped the
character of the men who carried it on. But what is yet more important,
it greatly influenced the country which lay back of the border on the
Missouri River. It called yet more men from the eastern settlements
to those portions which lay upon the edge of the Great Plains. There
crowded yet more thickly, up to the line between the certain and the
uncertain, the restless westbound population of all the country.
If on the south the valley of the Arkansas led outward to New Spain,
yet other pathways made out from the Mississippi River into the unknown
lands. The Missouri was the first and last of our great natural frontier
roads. Its lower course swept along the eastern edge of the Plains, far
to the south, down to the very doors of the most adventurous settlements
in the Mississippi Valley. Those who dared its stained and turbulent
current had to push up, onward, northward, past the mouth of the Platte,
far to the north across degrees of latitude, steadily forward through
a vast virgin land. Then the river bent boldly and strongly off to the
west, across another empire. Its great falls indicated that it headed
high; beyond the great falls its steady sweep westward and at last
southward, led into yet other kingdoms.
When we travel by horse or by modern motor car in that now accessible
region and look about us, we should not fail to reflect on the long
trail of the upbound boats which Manuel Lisa and other traders sent out
almost immediately upon the return of the Lewis and Clark expedition.
We should see them struggling up against that tremendous current
before steam was known, driven by their lust for new lands. We may
then understand fully what we have read of the enterprises of the old
American Fur Company, and bring to mind the forgotten names of Campbell
and Sublette, of General Ashley and of Wyeth--names to be followed by
others really of less importance, as those of Bonneville and Fremont.
That there could be farms, that there ever might be homes, in this
strange wild country, was, to these early adventurers, unthinkable.
Then we should picture the millions of buffalo which once covered these
plains and think of the waste and folly of their slaughtering. We should
see the long streams of the Mackinaw boats swimming down the Missouri,
bound for St. Louis, laden with bales of buffalo and beaver peltry,
every pound of which would be worth ten dollars at the capital of the
fur trade; and we should restore to our minds the old pictures of savage
tribesmen, decked in fur-trimmed war-shirts and plumed bonnets, armed
with lance and sinewed bow and bull-neck shield, not forgetting whence
they got their horses and how they got their food.
The great early mid-continental highway, known as the Oregon Trail or
the Overland Trail, was by way of the Missouri up the Platte Valley,
thence across the mountains. We know more of this route because it was
not discontinued, but came steadily more and more into use, for one
reason after another. The fur traders used it, the Forty-Niners used it,
the cattlemen used it in part, the railroads used it; and, lastly, the
settlers and farmers used it most of all.
In physical features the Platte River route was similar to that of the
Arkansas Valley. Each at its eastern extremity, for a few days' travel,
passed over the rolling grass-covered and flower-besprinkled prairies
ere it broke into the high and dry lands of the Plains, with their green
or grey or brown covering of practically flowerless short grasses. But
between the two trails of the Arkansas and the Platte there existed
certain wide differences. At the middle of the nineteenth century the
two trails were quite distinct in personnel, if that word may be used.
The Santa Fe Trail showed Spanish influences; that of the Platte Valley
remained far more nearly American.
Thus far the frontier had always been altering the man who came to it;
and, indirectly, always altering those who dwelt back of the frontier,
nearer to the Appalachians or the Atlantic. A new people now was in
process of formation--a people born of a new environment. America and
the American were conceiving. There was soon to be born, soon swiftly to
grow, a new and lasting type of man. Man changes an environment only by
bringing into it new or better transportation. Environment changes man.
Here in the midcontinent, at the mid-century, the frontier and the ways
of the frontier were writing their imprint on the human product of our
land.
The first great caravans of the Platte Valley, when the wagon-trains
went out hundreds strong, were not the same as the scattering cavalcade
of the fur hunters, not the same as the ox-trains and mule-trains of the
Santa Fe traffic. The men who wore deepest the wheel marks of the Oregon
Trail were neither trading nor trapping men, but homebuilding men--the
first real emigrants to go West with the intent of making homes beyond
the Rockies.
The Oregon Trail had been laid out by the explorers of the fur trade.
Zealous missionaries had made their way over the trail in the thirties.
The Argonauts of '49 passed over it and left it only after crossing the
Rockies. But, before gold in California was dreamed of, there had come
back to the States reports of lands rich in resources other than gold,
lying in the far Northwest, beyond the great mountain ranges and, before
the Forty-Niners were heard of, farmers, home-builders, emigrants,
men with their families, men with their household goods, were steadily
passing out for the far-off and unknown country of Oregon.
The Oregon Trail was the pathway for Fremont in 1842, perhaps the most
overvalued explorer of all the West; albeit this comment may to some
seem harsh. Kit Carson and Bill Williams led Fremont across the Rockies
almost by the hand. Carson and Williams themselves had been taken across
by the Indian tribes. But Fremont could write; and the story which he
set down of his first expedition inflamed the zeal of all. Men began
to head out for that far-away country beyond the Rockies. Not a few
scattered bands, but very many, passed up the valley of the Platte.
There began a tremendous trek of thousands of men who wanted homes
somewhere out beyond the frontier. And that was more than ten years
before the Civil War. The cow trade was not dreamed of; the coming cow
country was overleaped and ignored.
Our national horizon extended immeasurably along that dusty way. In the
use of the Oregon Trail we first began to be great. The chief figure
of the American West, the figure of the ages, is not the long-haired,
fringed-legging man riding a raw-boned pony, but the gaunt and sad-faced
woman sitting on the front seat of the wagon, following her lord where
he might lead, her face hidden in the same ragged sunbonnet which had
crossed the Appalachians and the Missouri long before. That was America,
my brethren! There was the seed of America's wealth. There was the great
romance of all America--the woman in the sunbonnet; and not, after all,
the hero with the rifle across his saddle horn. Who has written her
story? Who has painted her picture?
They were large days, those of the great Oregon Trail, not always
pleasingly dramatic, but oftentimes tragic and terrible. We speak of
the Oregon Trail, but it means little to us today; nor will any mere
generalities ever make it mean much to us. But what did it mean to the
men and women of that day? What and who were those men and women?
What did it mean to take the Overland Trail in the great adventure of
abandoning forever the known and the safe and setting out for Oregon
or California at a time when everything in the far West was new and
unknown? How did those good folk travel? Why and whither did they
travel?
There is a book done by C. F. McGlashan, a resident of Truckee,
California, known as "The History of the Donner Party," holding a great
deal of actual history. McGlashan, living close to Donner Lake, wrote
in 1879, describing scenes with which he was perfectly familiar, and
recounting facts which he had from direct association with participants
in the ill-fated Donner Party. He chronicles events which happened in
1846--a date before the discovery of gold in California. The Donner
Party was one of the typical American caravans of homeseekers who
started for the Pacific Slope with no other purpose than that of
founding homes there, and with no expectation of sudden wealth to be
gained in the mines. I desire therefore to quote largely from the
pages of this book, believing that, in this fashion, we shall come upon
history of a fundamental sort, which shall make us acquainted with the
men and women of that day, with the purposes and the ambitions which
animated them, and with the hardships which they encountered.
"The States along the Mississippi were but sparsely settled in 1846, yet
the fame of the fruitfulness, the healthfulness, and the almost tropical
beauty of the land bordering the Pacific, tempted the members of
the Donner Party to leave their homes. These homes were situated in
Illinois, Iowa, Tennessee, Missouri, and Ohio. Families from each of
these States joined the train and participated in its terrible fate; yet
the party proper was organized in Sangamon County, Illinois, by George
and Jacob Donner and James F. Reed. Early in April, 1846, the party set
out from Springfield, Illinois, and by the first week in May reached
Independence, Missouri. Here the party was increased by additional
members, and the train comprised about one hundred persons....
In the party were aged fathers with their trusting families about them,
mothers whose very lives were wrapped up in their children, men in the
prime and vigor of manhood, maidens in all the sweetness and freshness
of budding womanhood, children full of glee and mirthfulness, and babes
nestling on maternal breasts. Lovers there were, to whom the journey was
tinged with rainbow hues of joy and happiness, and strong, manly hearts
whose constant support and encouragement was the memory of dear ones
left behind in homeland.
"The wonderment which all experience in viewing the scenery along the
line of the old emigrant road was peculiarly vivid to these people.
Few descriptions had been given of the route, and all was novel and
unexpected. In later years the road was broadly and deeply marked, and
good camping grounds were distinctly indicated. The bleaching bones of
cattle that had perished, or the broken fragments of wagons or castaway
articles, were thickly strewn on either side of the highway. But in 1846
the way was through almost trackless valleys waving with grass, along
rivers where few paths were visible, save those made by the feet of
buffalo and antelope, and over mountains and plains where little more
than the westward course of the sun guided the travelers. Trading-posts
were stationed at only a few widely distant points, and rarely did the
party meet with any human beings, save wandering bands of Indians. Yet
these first days are spoken of by all of the survivors as being crowned
with peaceful enjoyment and pleasant anticipations. There were beautiful
flowers by the roadside, an abundance of game in the meadows and
mountains, and at night there were singing, dancing, and innocent plays.
Several musical instruments, and many excellent voices, were in the
party, and the kindliest feeling and goodfellowship prevailed among the
members.
"The formation of the company known as the Donner Party was purely
accidental. The union of so many emigrants into one train was not
occasioned by any preconcerted arrangement. Many composing the Donner
Party were not aware, at the outset, that such a tide of emigration was
sweeping to California. In many instances small parties would hear
of the mammoth train just ahead of them or just behind them, and by
hastening their pace, or halting for a few days, joined themselves to
the party. Many were with the train during a portion of the journey, but
from some cause or other became parted from the Donner company before
reaching Donner Lake. Soon after the train left Independence it
contained between two and three hundred wagons, and when in motion was
two miles in length. The members of the party proper numbered ninety."
This caravan, like many others of the great assemblage westbound at that
time, had great extremes in personnel. Some were out for mere adventure;
some were single men looking for a location. Most of them were fathers
of families, among them several persons of considerable means and of
good standing in the community which they were leaving. While we may
suppose that most of them were folk of no extraordinary sort, certainly
some were persons of education and intelligence. Among these was the
wife of George Donner--Tamsen Donner, a woman of education, a musician,
a linguist, a botanist, and of the most sublime heroism.
Tamsen Donner sent back now and then along the route some story of the
daily doings of the caravan; and such letters as these are of the utmost
interest to any who desire precise information of that time. It would
seem that the emigrants themselves for a great part of their route met
with no great adventures, nor indeed, appeared to be undertaking any
unusual affair. They followed a route up the Platte Valley already long
known to those of the eastern settlements.
"Near the Junction of the North and South Platte, June 16, 1846.
"My Old Friend: We are now on the Platte, two hundred miles from Fort
Laramie. Our journey so far has been pleasant, the roads have been good,
and food plentiful. The water for part of the way has been indifferent,
but at no time have our cattle suffered for it. Wood is now very scarce,
but 'buffalo chips' are excellent; they kindle quickly and retain heat
surprisingly. We had this morning buffalo steaks broiled upon them that
had the same flavor they would have had upon hickory coals.
"We feel no fear of Indians; our cattle graze quietly around our
encampment unmolested. Two or three men will go hunting twenty miles
from camp; and last night two of our men lay out in the wilderness
rather than ride their horses after a hard chase.
"Indeed, if I do not experience something far worse than I have yet
done, I shall say the trouble is all in getting started. Our wagons have
not needed much repair, and I can not yet tell in what respects they
could be improved. Certain it is, they can not be too strong. Our
preparations for the journey might have been in some respects bettered.
"Bread has been the principal article of food in our camp. We laid in
one hundred and fifty pounds of flour and seventy-five pounds of meat
for each individual, and I fear bread will be scarce. Meat is abundant.
Rice and beans are good articles on the road; cornmeal too, is
acceptable. Linsey dresses are the most suitable for children. Indeed,
if I had one, it would be acceptable. There is so cool a breeze at
all times on the Plains that the sun does not feel so hot as one would
suppose.
"We are now four hundred and fifty miles from Independence. Our route
at first was rough, and through a timbered country, which appeared to be
fertile. After striking the prairie, we found a firstrate road, and the
only difficulty we have had, has been in crossing the creeks. In that,
however, there has been no danger.
"I never could have believed we could have traveled so far with so
little difficulty. The prairie between the Blue and the Platte Rivers is
beautiful beyond description. Never have I seen so varied a country, so
suitable for cultivation. Everything is new and pleasing; the Indians
frequently come to see us, and the chiefs of a tribe breakfasted at
our tent this morning. All are so friendly that I can not help feeling
sympathy and friendship for them. But on one sheet what can I say?
"Since we have been on the Platte, we have had the river on one side
and the ever varying mounds on the other, and have traveled through the
bottom lands from one to two miles wide, with little or no timber.
The soil is sandy, and last year, on account of the dry season, the
emigrants found grass here scarce. Our cattle are in good order, and
when proper care has been taken, none have been lost. Our milch cows
have been of great service, indeed. They have been of more advantage
than our meat. We have plenty of butter and milk.
"We are commanded by Captain Russell, an amiable man. George Donner
is himself yet. He crows in the morning and shouts out, 'Chain up,
boys--chain up,' with as much authority as though he was 'something in
particular.' John Denton is still with us. We find him useful in the
camp. Hiram Miller and Noah James are in good health and doing well. We
have of the best people in our company, and some, too, that are not so
good.
"Buffalo show themselves frequently. We have found the wild tulip, the
primrose, the lupine, the eardrop, the larkspur, and creeping hollyhock,
and a beautiful flower resembling the bloom of the beech tree, but in
bunches as large as a small sugarloaf, and of every variety of shade, to
red and green.
"I botanize, and read some, but cook 'heaps' more. There are four
hundred and twenty wagons, as far as we have heard, on the road between
here and Oregon and California.
"Give our love to all inquiring friends. God bless them.
"Yours truly, Mrs. George Donner."
By the Fourth of July the Donner Party had reached Fort Laramie. They
pushed on west over the old trail up the Sweetwater River and across the
South Pass, the easiest of all the mountain passes known to the early
travelers. Without much adventure they reached Fort Bridger, then only a
trading-post. Here occurred the fatal mistake of the Donner Party.
Some one at the fort strongly advised them to take a new route, a
cut-off said to shorten the distance by about three hundred miles. This
cut-off passed along the south shore of Great Salt Lake and caught up
the old California Trail from Fort Hall--then well established and well
known-along the Humboldt River. The great Donner caravan delayed for
some days at Fort Bridger, hesitating over the decision of which route
to follow. The party divided. All those who took the old road north of
Salt Lake by way of Fort Hall reached California in complete safety. Of
the original Donner Party there remained eighty-seven persons. All of
these took the cut-off, being eager to save time in their travel. They
reached Salt Lake after unspeakable difficulties. Farther west, in the
deserts of Nevada, they lost many of their cattle.
Now began among the party dissensions and grumblings. The story is a
long one. It reached its tragic denouement just below the summit of the
Sierras, on the shores of Donner Lake. The words of McGlashan may now
best serve our purpose.
"Generally, the ascent of the Sierra brought joy and gladness to weary
overland emigrants. To the Donner Party it brought terror and dismay.
The company had hardly obtained a glimpse of the mountains, ere the
winter storm clouds began to assemble their hosts around the loftier
crests. Every day the weather appeared more ominous and threatening. The
delay at the Truckee Meadows had been brief, but every day ultimately
cost a dozen lives. On the twenty-third of October, they became
thoroughly alarmed at the angry heralds of the gathering storm, and with
all haste resumed the journey. It was too late! At Prosser Creek, three
miles below Truckee, they found themselves encompassed with six inches
of snow. On the summits, the snow was from two to five feet in depth.
This was October 28, 1846. Almost a month earlier than usual, the Sierra
had donned its mantle of ice and snow. The party were prisoners!
"All was consternation. The wildest confusion prevailed. In their
eagerness, many went far in advance of the main train. There was little
concert of action or harmony of plan. All did not arrive at Donner Lake
the same day. Some wagons and families did not reach the lake until the
thirty-first day of October, some never went farther than Prosser Creek,
while others, on the evening of the twenty-ninth, struggled through the
snow, and reached the foot of the precipitous cliffs between the summit
and the upper end of the lake. Here, baffled, wearied, disheartened,
they turned back to the foot of the lake."
These emigrants did not lack in health, strength, or resolution, but
here they were in surroundings absolutely new to them. A sort of panic
seized them now. They scattered; their organization disintegrated.
All thought of conjoint action, of a social compact, a community of
interests, seems to have left them. It was a history of every man for
himself, or at least every family for itself. All track of the road
was now lost under the snow. At the last pitch up to the summit of the
Sierras precipitous cliffs abounded. No one knew the way. And now the
snows came once again.
"The emigrants suffered a thousand deaths. The pitiless snow came down
in large, steady masses. All understood that the storm meant death. One
of the Indians silently wrapped his blanket about him and in deepest
dejection seated himself beside a tall pine. In this position he passed
the entire night, only moving occasionally to keep from being
covered with snow. Mrs. Reed spread down a shawl, placed her four
children--Virginia, Patty, James, and Thomas--thereon, and putting
another shawl over them, sat by the side of her babies during all the
long hours of darkness. Every little while she was compelled to lift the
upper shawl and shake off the rapidly accumulating snow.
"With slight interruptions, the storm continued several days. The mules
and oxen that had always hovered about camp were blinded and bewildered
by the storm, and straying away were literally buried alive in the
drifts. What pen can describe the horror of the position in which the
emigrants found themselves? It was impossible to move through the deep,
soft snow without the greatest effort. The mules were gone, and were
never found. Most of the cattle had perished, and were wholly hidden
from sight. The few oxen which were found were slaughtered for beef."
The travelers knew that the supplies they had could not last long. On
the 12th of November a relief party essayed to go forward, but after
struggling a short distance toward the summit, came back wearied and
broken-hearted, unable to make way through the deep, soft snow. Then
some one--said to have been F. W. Graves of Vermont--bethought himself
of making snowshoes out of the oxbows and the hides of the slaughtered
oxen. With these they did better.
Volunteers were called for yet another party to cross the mountains into
California. Fifteen persons volunteered. Not all of them were men--some
were mothers, and one was a young woman. Their mental condition was
little short of desperation. Only, in the midst of their intense
hardships it seemed to all, somewhere to the westward was California,
and that there alone lay any hope. The party traveled four miles the
first day; and their camp fires were visible below the summit. The next
day they traveled six miles and crossed the divide.
They were starving, cold, worn out, their feet frozen to bursting, their
blood chilled. At times they were caught in some of the furious storms
of the Sierras. They did not know their way. On the 27th of December
certain of the party resolved themselves to that last recourse which
alone might mean life. Surrounded by horrors as they were, it seemed
they could endure the thought of yet an additional horror.... There were
the dead, the victims who already had perished!...
Seven of the fifteen got through to the Sacramento Valley, among these
the young girl, Mary Graves, described as "a very beautiful girl, of
tall and slender build, and, exceptionally graceful character." The
story brought out by these survivors of the first party to cross the
Sierras from the starving camp set all California aflame. There were
no less than three relief expeditions formed, which at varying dates
crossed the mountains to the east. Some men crossed the snow belt five
times in all. The rescuers were often in as much danger as the victims
they sought to save.
And they could not save them. Back there in their tents and hovels
around Donner Lake starvation was doing its work steadily. There is
contemporary history also covering the details of this. Tamsen Donner,
heroine that she was, kept a diary which would have been valuable
for us, but this was lost along with her paintings and her botanical
collections. The best preserved diary is that of Patrick Breen, done
in simple and matter-of-fact fashion throughout most of the starving
winter. Thus:
"Dec. 17. Pleasant; William Murphy returned from the mountain party last
evening; Baylis Williams died night before last; Milton and Noah started
for Donner's eight days ago; not returned yet; think they are lost in
the snow.
"Dec. 21. Milton got back last night from Donner's camp. Sad news; Jacob
Donner, Samuel Shoemaker, Rhineheart, and Smith are dead; the rest of
them in a low situation; snowed all night, with a strong southwest wind.
"Dec. 23. Clear to-day; Milton took some of his meat away; all well at
their camp. Began this day to read the 'Thirty Days' Prayers'; Almighty
God, grant the requests of unworthy sinners!
"Jan. 13. Snowing fast; snow higher than the shanty; it must be thirteen
feet deep. Can not get wood this morning; it is a dreadful sight for us
to look upon.
"Jan. 27. Commenced snowing yesterday; still continues today. Lewis
Keseberg, Jr., died three days ago; food growing scarce; don't have fire
enough to cook our hides.
"Jan. 31. The sun does not shine out brilliant this morning; froze hard
last night; wind northwest. Landrum Murphy died last night about ten
o'clock; Mrs. Reed went to Graves's this morning to look after goods.
"Feb. 4. Snowed hard until twelve o'clock last night; many uneasy for
fear we shall all perish with hunger; we have but little meat left, and
only three hides; Mrs. Reed has nothing but one hide, and that is on
Graves's house; Milton lives there, and likely will keep that. Eddy's
child died last night.
"Feb. 7. Ceased to snow at last; today it is quite pleasant. McCutchen's
child died on the second of this month.
"[This child died and was buried in the Graves's cabin. Mr. W. C. Graves
helped dig the grave near one side of the cabin, and laid the little one
to rest. One of the most heart-rending features of this Donner tragedy
is the number of infants that perished. Mrs. Breen, Mrs. Pike, Mrs.
Foster, Mrs. McCutchen, Mrs. Eddy, and Mrs. Graves each had nursing
babes when the fatal camp was pitched at Donner Lake.]
"Feb. 8. Fine, clear morning. Spitzer died last night, and we will bury
him in the snow; Mrs. Eddy died on the night of the seventh.
"Feb. 9. Mrs. Pike's child all but dead; Milton is at Murphy's, not able
to get out of bed; Mrs. Eddy and child buried today; wind southeast.
"Feb. 10. Beautiful morning; thawing in the sun; Milton Elliott died
last night at Murphy's cabin, and Mrs. Reed went there this morning to
see about his effects. John Denton trying to borrow meat for Graves; had
none to give; they had nothing but hides; all are entirely out of meat,
but a little we have; our hides are nearly all eat up, but with God's
help spring will soon smile upon us."
There was one survivor of the camp at Donner Lake, a man named Lewis
Keseberg, of German descent. That he was guilty of repeated cannibalism
cannot be doubted. It was in his cabin that, after losing all her loved
ones, the heroic Tamsen Donner met her end. Many thought he killed her
for the one horrid purpose. *
* Many years later (1879) Keseberg declared under oath to C. F.
McGlashan that he did not take her life. See "History of the Donner"
Party, pp. 212, 213.
Such then is the story of one of the great emigrant parties who started
West on a hazard of new fortunes in the early days of the Oregon
Trail. Happily there has been no parallel to the misadventures of this
ill-fated caravan. It is difficult--without reading these bald and awful
details--to realize the vast difference between that day and this. Today
we may by the gentle stages of a pleasant railway journey arrive at
Donner Lake. Little trace remains, nor does any kindly soul wish for
more definite traces, of those awful scenes. Only a cross here and
there with a legend, faint and becoming fainter every year, may be seen,
marking the more prominent spots of the historic starving camp.
Up on the high mountain side, for the most part hid in the forest, lie
the snowsheds and tunnels of the railway, now encountering its stiffest
climb up the steep slopes to the summit of the Sierras. The
author visited this spot of melancholy history in company with the
vice-president of the great railway line which here swings up so
steadily and easily over the Sierras. Bit by bit we checked out as best
we might the fateful spots mentioned in the story of the Donner Party. A
splendid motor highway runs by the lakeside now. While we halted our
own car there, a motor car drove up from the westward--following
that practical automobile highway which now exists from the plains of
California across the Sierras and east over precisely that trail
where once the weary feet of the oxen dragged the wagons of the early
emigrants. It was a small car of no expensive type. It was loaded down
with camping equipment until the wheels scarcely could be seen. It
carried five human occupants--an Iowa farmer and his family. They had
been out to California for a season. Casually they had left Los Angeles,
had traveled north up the valleys of California, east across the summit
of the Sierras, and were here now bound for Iowa over the old emigrant
trail!
We hailed this new traveler on the old trail. I do not know whether or
not he had any idea of the early days of that great highway; I suspect
that he could tell only of its present motoring possibilities. But his
wheels were passing over the marks left more than half a century ago
by the cracked felloes of the emigrant wagons going west in search
of homes. If we seek history, let us ponder that chance pause of the
eastbound family, traveling by motor for pleasure, here by the side of
the graves of the travelers of another day, itself so briefly gone. What
an epoch was spanned in the passing of that frontier!