Snow was already falling, although it was only the last week in
October. Winter had set in a month earlier than usual. All trails and
roads were covered, and our only guide was the summit, which it seemed
we would never reach. Despair drove many nearly frantic. Each family
tried to cross the mountains but found it impossible. When it was seen
that the wagons could not be dragged through the snow, their goods and
provisions were packed on oxen and another start was made, men and
women walking in snow up to their waists, carrying their children in
their arms and trying to drive their cattle. The Indians said they
could find no road; so a halt was called, and Stanton went ahead with
the guides and came back and reported that we could get across if we
kept right on, but that it would be impossible if [_more_] snow fell.
He was in favor of a forced march until the other side of the summit
should be reached, but some of our party were so tired and exhausted
with the day’s labor that they declared they could not take another
step; so the few who knew the danger that the night might bring
yielded to the many, and we camped within three miles of the summit.
That night came the dreaded snow. Around the campfires 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.... With heavy hearts
we turned back to a cabin that had been built ... on the shore of a
lake, since known as Donner Lake. The Donners were camped in Alder
Creek Valley below the lake.... The snow came on so suddenly that they
had no time to build cabins, but hastily put up brush sheds, covering
them with pine boughs....
Many attempts were made to cross the mountains, but all who tried were
driven back by the pitiless storms. Finally a party was organized,
since known as the “Forlorn Hope.” They made snowshoes, and fifteen
started—ten men and five women—but only seven lived to reach
California; eight men perished. They were over a month on the way, and
the horrors endured by that Forlorn Hope no pen can describe nor
imagination conceive....
The misery endured during those four months at Donner Lake in our
little dark cabins under the snow would fill pages and make the
coldest heart ache. Christmas was near, but to the starving its memory
gave no comfort. It came and passed without observance, but my mother
had determined weeks before that her children should have a treat on
this one day. She had laid away a few dried apples, some beans, a bit
of tripe, and a small piece of bacon. When this hoarded store was
brought out, the delight of the little ones knew no bounds. The
cooking was watched carefully, and when we sat down to our Christmas
dinner, Mother said, “Children, eat slowly, for this one day you can
have all you wish.”...
The storms would often last ten days at a time, and we would have to
cut chips from the logs inside which formed our cabins in order to
start a fire. We could scarcely walk, and the men had hardly strength
to procure wood. We would drag ourselves through the snow from one
cabin to another, and some mornings snow would have to be shoveled out
of the fireplace before a fire could be made. Poor little children
were crying with hunger, and mothers were crying because they had so
little to give to their children. We seldom thought of bread, we had
been without it so long....
Time dragged slowly along till we were no longer on short allowance
but were simply starving. My mother determined to make an effort to
cross the mountains. She could not see her children die without trying
to get them food. It was hard to leave them, but she felt that it must
be done. She told them she would bring them bread, so they were
willing to stay, and with no guide but a compass we started—my mother,
Eliza, Milt Elliot, and myself. Milt wore snow-shoes, and we followed
in his tracks. We were five days in the mountains; Eliza gave out the
first day and had to return, but we kept on and climbed one high
mountain after another only to see others higher still ahead. Often I
would have to crawl up the mountains, being too tired to walk ... we
were compelled to return, and just in time, for that night a storm
came on, the most fearful of the winter, and we should have perished
had we not been in the cabins.
We now had nothing to eat but raw hides, and they were on the roof of
the cabin to keep out the snow; when prepared for cooking and boiled
they were simply a pot of glue. When the hides were taken off our
cabin and we were left without shelter, Mr. Breen gave us a home with
his family, and Mrs. Breen prolonged my life by slipping me little
bits of meat now and then when she discovered that I could not eat the
hide. Death had already claimed many in our party, and it seemed as
though relief never would reach us. Baylis Williams, who had been in
delicate health before we left Springfield, was the first to die; he
passed away before starvation had really set in....
On his arrival at Sutter’s Fort my father [_the author’s father had
led a second and successful effort to cross the mountains to get
help_] made known the situation of the emigrants, and Captain Sutter
offered at once to do everything possible for their relief. He
furnished horses and provisions, and my father and Mr. McClutchen
started for the mountains, coming as far as possible with horses and
then with packs on their backs proceeding on foot; but they were
finally compelled to return. Captain Sutter was not surprised at their
defeat. He stated that there were no able-bodied men in that vicinity,
all having gone down the country with Frémont to fight the Mexicans.
He advised my father to go to Yerba Buena, now San Francisco, and make
his case known to the naval officer in command. My father was in fact
conducting parties there—when the seven members of the Forlorn Hope
arrived from across the mountains. Their famished faces told the
story. Cattle were killed and men were up all night, drying beef and
making flour by hand mills, nearly two hundred pounds being made in
one night, and a party of seven, commanded by Captain Reasen P.
Tucker, were sent to our relief by Captain Sutter and the alcalde, Mr.
Sinclair. On the evening of February 19, 1847, they reached our
cabins, where all were starving. They shouted to attract attention.
Mr. Breen clambered up the icy steps from our cabin, and soon we heard
the blessed words, “Relief, thank God, relief!”