Hardships of Reed and Herron
Generosity of Captain Sutter
Attempts to Cross the Mountains with Provisions
Curtis' Dog
Compelled to Turn Back
Hostilities with Mexico
Memorial to Gov. Stockton
Yerba Buena's Generosity
Johnson's Liberality
Pitiful Scenes at Donner Lake
Noble Mothers
Dying rather than Eat Human Flesh
A Mother's Prayer
Tears of Joy
Eating the Shoestrings.
James F. Reed encountered the most disheartening trials after leaving
the Donner Party. He and Walter Herron were reduced to the utmost verge
of starvation while on the Sierra Nevada. At one time they discovered
five beans in the road, one after the other, and at another time they
ate of the rancid tallow which was found in a tar bucket under an old
wagon.
Mr. Reed has told the rest in an article contributed by him to the Rural
Press. It explains so well the difficulties of getting relief to the
emigrants, that it is copied:
"When I arrived at Captain Sutter's, making known my situation to him,
asking if he would furnish me horses and saddles to bring the women and
children out of the mountains (I expected to meet them at the head of
Bear Valley by the time I could return there), he at once complied with
the request, also saying that he would do everything possible for me
and the company. On the evening of my arrival at the Captain's, I found
Messrs. Bryant, Lippencott, Grayson, and Jacobs, some of the early
voyagers in the Russel Company, they having left that company at Fort
Laramie, most of them coming on horseback.
"During the evening a meeting was held, in which I participated,
adopting a memorial to the commander of Sutter's Fort, to raise one or
more companies of volunteers, to proceed to Los Angeles, we being at
war with Mexico at this time. The companies were to be officered by the
petitioners. Being requested to take command of one of the companies,
I declined, stating that it would be necessary for the captain to stay
with the company; also that I had to return to the mountains for the
emigrants, but that I would take a lieutenancy. This was agreed to,
and I was on my return to the emigrants to enlist all the men I could
between there and Bear Valley. On my way up I enlisted twelve or
thirteen.
"The second night after my arrival at Captain Sutter's, we had a light
rain; next morning we could see snow on the mountains. The Captain
stated that it was low down and heavy for the first fall of the season.
The next day I started on my return with what horses and saddles Captain
Sutter had to spare. He furnished us all the flour needed, and a hind
quarter of beef, giving us an order for more horses and saddles at
Mr. Cordway's, near where Marysville is located. In the mean time, Mr.
McCutchen joined us, he being prevented from returning with Mr. Stanton
on account of sickness. After leaving Mr. Johnson's ranch we had thirty
horses, one mule, and two Indians to help drive.
"Nothing happened until the evening before reaching the head of Bear
Valley, when there commenced a heavy rain and sleet, continuing all
night. We drove on until a late hour before halting. We secured the
flour and horses, the rain preventing us from kindling a fire. Next
morning, proceeding up the valley to where we were to take the mountain,
we found a tent containing a Mr. Curtis and wife. They hailed us as
angels sent for their delivery, stating that they would have perished
had it not been for our arrival. Mrs. Curtis stated that they had killed
their dog, and at the time of our arrival had the last piece in the
Dutch oven baking. We told them not to be alarmed about anything to eat,
for we had plenty, both of flour and beef, and that they were welcome
to all they needed. Our appetites were rather keen, not having eaten
anything from the morning previous. Mr. Curtis remarked that in the
oven was a piece of the dog and we could have it. Raising the lid of the
oven, we found the dog well baked, and having a fine savory smell. I cut
out a rib, smelling and tasting, found it to be good, and handed it over
to McCutchen, who, after smelling it some time, tasted it and pronounced
it very good dog. We partook of Curtis' dog. Mrs. Curtis immediately
commenced making bread, and in a short time had supper for all.
"At the lower end of the valley, where we entered, the snow was eighteen
inches in depth, and when we arrived at the tent, it was two feet.
Curtis stated that his oxen had taken the back track, and that he had
followed them by the trail through the snow. In the morning, before
leaving, Mrs. Curtis got us to promise to take them into the settlement
when on our return with the women and children. Before leaving, we gave
them flour and beef sufficient to keep them until our return, expecting
to do so in a few days."
"We started, following the trail made by the oxen, and camped a number
of miles up the mountain. In the night, hearing some of the horses going
down the trail, we went to where the Indians had lain down, and found
them gone. McCutchen mounted his horse and rode down to Curtis'
camp, and found that the Indians had been there, stopped and warmed
themselves, and then started down the valley. He returned to camp about
the middle of the night.
"Next morning we started, still on the trail of the oxen, but
unfortunately, the trail turned off to the left from our direction. We
proceeded on, the snow deepening rapidly, our horses struggling to get
through; we pushed them on until they would rear upon their hind feet to
breast the snow, and when they would alight they would sink in it until
nothing was seen of them but the nose and a portion of the head. Here we
found that it was utterly impossible to proceed further with the horses.
Leaving them, we proceeded further on foot, thinking that we could get
in to the people, but found that impossible, the snow being soft and
deep."
"I may here state that neither of us knew anything about snow-shoes,
having always lived in a country where they never were used."
"With sorrowful hearts, we arrived that night at the camp of Mr. Curtis,
telling them to make their arrangements for leaving with us in the
morning. Securing our flour in the wagon of Mr. Curtis, so that we could
get it on our return, we packed one horse with articles belonging to
Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and started down the valley to where the snow was
light, and where there was considerable underbrush, so that our famished
animals could browse, they not having eaten anything for several days."
"After packing Mr. Curtis' horse for him the next morning, we started;
in a short time, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis proceeded ahead, leaving the
pack-horse behind for us to drive, instead of his leading him; we
having our hands full in driving the loose ones, they scattering in all
directions. The pack turned on the horse. Mr. Curtis was requested to
return and help repack and lead his horse, but he paid no attention
to us. We stood this for some time; finally, McCutchen became angry,
started after him, determined to bring him back; when he got with him
he paid no attention to McCutchen's request to return; Mac becoming more
exasperated, hit him several times over the shoulders with his riatta.
This brought him to his senses. He said that if Mac would not kill him,
he would come back and take care of the pack animal, and he did."
"As soon as we arrived at Captain Sutter's, I made a statement of all
the circumstances attending our attempt to get into the mountains. He
was no way surprised at our defeat. I also gave the Captain the number
of head of cattle the company had when I left them. He made an estimate,
and stated that if the emigrants would kill the cattle, and place the
meat in the snow for preservation, there was no fear of starvation
until relief could reach them. He further stated that there were no
able-bodied men in that vicinity, all having gone down the country with
and after Fremont to fight the Mexicans. He advised me to proceed to
Yerba Buena, now San Francisco, and make my case known to the naval
officer in command."
"I left Captain Sutter's, by the way of San Jose, for San Francisco,
being unable to come by water. When I arrived at San Jose, I found
the San Francisco side of the bay was occupied by the Mexicans. Here
I remained, and was attached to a company of volunteers, commanded by
Captain Webber, until after the fight at Santa Clara."
"The road now being clear, I proceeded to San Francisco with a petition
from some of the prominent citizens of San Jose, asking the commander of
the navy to grant aid to enable me to return to the mountains."
It is proper, perhaps, to interrupt the narrative in the Rural Press
for the purpose of introducing the memorial referred to by Mr. Reed. The
copy of the original document was recently found among his papers by his
daughter, Patty Reed.
"To his Excellency, R. F. Stockton, Governor and Commander-in-Chief,
by sea and land, of the United States Territory of California: We, the
undersigned citizens and residents of the Territory of California, beg
leave respectfully to present to your Excellency the following memorial,
viz.: That, whereas, the last detachment of emigrants from the United
States to California have been unable, from unavoidable causes, to
reach the frontier settlements, and are now in the California mountains,
seventy-five or one hundred miles east from the Sacramento Valley,
surrounded by snow, most probably twenty feet deep, and being about
eighty souls in number, a large proportion of whom are women and
children, who must shortly be in a famishing condition from scarcity
of provisions, therefore, the undersigned most earnestly beseech your
Excellency to take into consideration the propriety of fitting out an
expedition to proceed on snowshoes immediately to the relief of the
sufferers. Your memorialists beg leave to subscribe themselves, very
respectfully, yours, etc."
"January, 1847."
The article in the Rural Press continues: "Arriving at San Francisco, I
presented my petition to Commodore Hull, also making a statement of the
condition of the people in the mountains as far as I knew, the number of
them, and what would be needed in provisions and help to get them out.
He made an estimate of the expense, and said that he would do anything
within reason to further the object, but was afraid that the department
at Washington would not sustain him if he made the general outfit. His
sympathy was that of a man and a gentleman.
"I also conferred with several of the citizens of Yerba Buena; their
advice was not to trouble the Commodore further; that they would call a
meeting of the citizens and see what could be done. At the meeting, the
situation of the people was made known, and committees were appointed to
collect money. Over a thousand dollars was raised in the town, and the
sailors of the fleet gave over three hundred dollars. At the meeting,
Midshipman Woodworth volunteered to go into the mountains. Commodore
Hull gave me authority to raise as many men, with horses, as would be
required. The citizens purchased all the supplies necessary for the
outfit, and placed them on board the schooner, for Hardy's Ranch, mouth
of Feather River. Midshipman Woodworth took charge of the schooner, and
was the financial agent of the government."
"I left in a boat for Napa by way of Sonoma, to procure men and horses,
and when I arrived at Mr. Gordon's, on Cache Creek, I had all the men
and horses needed. From here I proceeded to the mouth of Feather River
for the purpose of meeting Mr. Woodworth with the provisions. When we
reached the river the boat had not arrived. The water was very high in
the river, the tule lands being overflowed. From here I sent a man to
a point on the Sacramento River opposite Sutter's Fort, to obtain
information of the boat with our provisions; he returned and reported
the arrival of the boat at the Fort."
"Before leaving Yerba Buena, news came of a party of fifteen persons
having started from the emigrant encampment, and only seven getting to
Johnson's. I was here placed in a quandary--no boat to take us across
the river, and no provisions for our party to take into the mountains.
We camped a short distance back from the river, where we killed a number
of elk for the purpose of using the skins in covering a skeleton boat.
Early next morning we started for the river, and to our delight saw a
small schooner, belonging to Perry McCan, which had arrived during the
night. We immediately crossed, McCutchen and myself, to the opposite
bank of the river. I directed the men to cross and follow us to
Johnson's Ranch. We arrived there early that day. Making known our
situation, he drove his cattle up to the house, saying, 'There are the
cattle, take as many as you need.' We shot down five head, staid up all
night, and with the help of Mr. Johnson and his Indians, by the time the
men arrived the next morning, we had the meat fire-dried and ready to be
placed in bags. Mr. Johnson had a party of Indians making flour by hand
mills, they making, during the night, nearly two hundred pounds."
"We packed up immediately and started. After reaching the snow, the meat
and flour was divided into suitable packs for us to carry, we leaving
the horses here. At Johnson's I learned that a relief party had passed
in a few days previous, being sent by Captain Sutter and Mr. Sinclair."
This was the party commanded by Captain Reasin P. Tucker, whose journey
over the mountains as far as the summit was described in the last
chapter. Reed was faithful and energetic in endeavoring to recross the
mountains. Mr. McCutchen, also, did all in his power to reach the wife
and baby he left behind. The snow belt is about four times as wide on
the west side of the summit as it is on the east side. It was almost
impossible for relief parties to cross the mountains. Captain Tucker's
party was composed of men of great nerve and hardihood, yet, as will be
seen, the trip was almost as much as their lives were worth.
On the morning of the nineteenth of February, 1847, the relief party of
Captain R. P. Tucker began the descent of the gorge leading to Donner
Lake.
Let us glance ahead at the picture soon to be unfolded to their gaze.
The mid-winter snows had almost concealed the cabins. The inmates lived
subterranean lives. Steps cut in the icy snow led up from the doorways
to the surface. Deep despair had settled upon all hearts. The dead
were lying all around, some even unburied, and nearly all with only a
covering of snow. So weak and powerless had the emigrants become, that
it was hardly possible for them to lift the dead bodies up the steps
out of the cabins. All were reduced to mere skeletons. They had lived
on pieces of rawhide, or on old, castaway bones, which were boiled or
burned until capable of being eaten. They were so reduced that it seemed
as if only a dry, shriveled skin covered their emaciated frames. The
eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, and had a fierce, ghastly,
demoniacal look. The faces were haggard, woe-begone, and sepulchral.
One seldom heard the sound of a voice, and when heard, it was weak,
tremulous, pitiful. Sometimes a child would moan and sob for a mouthful
of food, and the poor, helpless mothers, with breaking hearts, would
have to soothe them, as best they could, with kind words and tender
caresses. Food, there was none. Oh! what words can fitly frame a tribute
for those noble mothers! When strong men gave up, and passively awaited
the delirium of death, the mothers were actively administering to the
wants of the dying, and striving to cheer and comfort the living. Marble
monuments never bore more heroic names than those of Margaret W. Reed,
Lavina Murphy, Elizabeth Graves, Margaret Breen, Tamsen Donner, and
Elizabeth Donner. Their charity, fortitude, and self-sacrifice failed
not in the darkest hour. Death came so often now, that little notice
was taken of his approach, save by these mothers. A dreadful want of
consciousness precedes starvation. The actual death is not so terrible.
The delirious would rave of feasts, and rich viands, and bountiful
stores of food. As the shadows of death more closely enveloped the poor
creatures, the mutterings grew unintelligible, and were interrupted,
now and then, by startled cries of frenzy, which gradually grew fainter,
until the victims finally slumbered. From this slumber there was no
awakening. The breathing became feebler and more irregular, and finally
ceased. It was not so terrible to the unconscious dying, as to the
weeping mother who watched by the sufferer's side.
It was always dark and gloomy enough in the snow-covered cabins,
but during the fierce, wild storms, the desolation became almost
unendurable. The rushing gale, the furious storm, the lashing of
storm-rent pine boughs, or the crash of giant trees overthrown by the
hurricane, filled the souls of the imprisoned emigrants with nameless
dread. Sometimes the silent darkness of the night would shudder with
the howl of the great gray wolves which in those days infested the
mountains. Too well did they know that these gaunt beasts were howling
for the bodies of the living as well as of the dead.
Wood grew plentifully at short distances from the cabins, but for these
weak, starving creatures to obtain it was a herculean task. To go out
when the storms were raging, would be almost impossible for a well,
strong man. To struggle through the deep, loose drifts, reaching
frequently to the waist, required, at any time, fearful exertion. The
numb, fleshless fingers could hardly guide, or even wield the ax. Near
the site of the Breen cabin, to-day, stands a silent witness of the
almost superhuman exertions that were made to procure fuel. On the
side of a pine tree are old seams and gashes, which, by their irregular
position, were evidently made by hands too weak to cut down a tree.
Hundreds of blows, however, were struck, and the marks of the ax-blade
extend up and down the side of the tree for a foot and a half. Bark
seared with age has partly covered portions of the cuts, but in one
place the incision is some inches deep. At the foot of this pine was
found a short, decayed ax-handle, and a broad-bladed, old-fashioned
ax-head. The mute story of these witnesses is unmistakable. The poor
starved being who undertook the task, never succeeded.
Trees felled, frequently buried themselves out of sight in the loose
snow, or at best, only the uppermost branches could be obtained. Without
fire, without food, without proper shelter from the dampness occasioned
by the melting snows, in the bitter, biting wintry weather, the men,
women, and children were huddled together, the living and the dead. When
Milton Elliott died, there were no men to assist in removing the
body from the deep pit. Mrs. Reed and her daughter, Virginia, bravely
undertook the task. Tugging, pushing, lifting as best they could, the
corpse was raised up the icy steps. He died in the Murphy cabin by the
rock. A few days before he died, he crawled over to the Breen cabin,
where were Mrs. Reed and her children. For years he had been one of the
members of this family, he worked for Mr. Reed in the mill and furniture
establishment owned by the latter in Jamestown, Illinois. He drove the
same yoke of oxen, "Bully" and "George," who were the wheel-oxen of
Reed's family team on the plains. When Mr. Reed proposed crossing the
plains, his wife and children refused to go, unless Milt. could be
induced to drive. He was a kind, careful man, and after Mr. Reed had
been driven away from the company, Elliott always provided for them as
best he was able. Now that he was going to die, he wanted to see
"Ma" and the children once more. "Ma" was the term he always used
in addressing Mrs. Reed. None realized better than he the sorrowful
position in which she was placed by having no husband upon whom to lean
in this time of great need. Poor Elliott! he knew that he was starving!
starving! "Ma, I am not going to starve to death, I am going to eat of
the bodies of the dead." This is what he told Mrs. Reed, yet when
he attempted to do so, his heart revolted at the thought. Mrs. Reed
accompanied him a portion of the way back to the Murphy cabin, and
before leaving him, knelt on the snow and prayed as only a mother can,
that the Good Father would help them in this hour of distress. It was a
starving Christian mother praying that relief might come to her starving
children, and especially to this, her starving boy. From the granite
rocks, the solemn forests, and the snow-mantled mountains of Donner
Lake, a more fervent prayer never ascended heavenward. Could Elliott
have heard, in his dying moments, that this prayer was soon to be
answered, so far as Mrs. Reed and her little ones were concerned, he
would have welcomed death joyfully.
As time wore wearily on, another and more severe trial awaited Mrs.
Reed. Her daughter Virginia was dying. The innutritious rawhide was not
sufficient to sustain life in the poor, famished body of the delicate
child. Indeed, toward the last, her system became so debilitated that
she found it impossible to eat the loathsome, glue-like preparation
which formed their only food. Silently she had endured her sufferings,
until she was at the very portals of death. This beautiful girl was a
great favorite of Mrs. Breen's. Oftentimes during the days of horror
and despair, this good Irish mother had managed, unobserved, to slip an
extra piece of meat or morsel of food to Virginia. Mrs. Breen was the
first to discover that the mark of death was visible upon the girl's
brow. In order to break the news to Mrs. Reed, without giving those in
the cabin a shock which might prove fatal, Mrs. Breen asked the mother
up out of the cabin on the crisp, white snow.
It was the evening of the nineteenth of February, 1847. The sun was
setting, and his rays, in long, lance-like lines, sifted through the
darkening forests. Far to the eastward, the summits of the Washoe
mountains lay bathed in golden sunlight, while the deep gorges at their
feet were purpling into night. The gentle breeze which crept over the
bosom of the ice-bound lake, softly wafted from the tree-tops a muffled
dirge for the dying girl. Ere another day dawned over the expanse of
snow, her spirit would pass to a haven of peace where the demons of
famine could never enter.
In the desolate cabin, all was silence. Living under the snow, passing
an underground life, as it were, seldom visiting each other, or leaving
the cabins, these poor prisoners learned to listen rather than look for
relief. During the first days they watched hour after hour the upper end
of the lake where the "fifteen" had disappeared. With aching eyes and
weary hearts, they always turned back to their subterranean abodes
disappointed. Hope finally deserted the strongest hearts. The brave
mothers had constantly encouraged the despondent by speaking of the
promised relief, yet this was prompted more by the necessities of the
situation than from any belief that help would arrive. It was human
nature, however, to glance toward the towering summits whenever they
ascended to the surface of the snow, and to listen at all times for an
unfamiliar sound or footstep. So delicate became their sense of hearing,
that every noise of the wind, every visitor's tread, every sound that
ordinarily occurred above their heads, was known and instantly detected.
On this evening, as the two women were sobbing despairingly upon the
snow, the silence of the twilight was broken by a shout from near Donner
Lake! In an instant every person forgot weakness and infirmity, and
clambered up the stairway! It was a strange voice, and in the distance
the discovered strange forms approaching. The Reed and the Breen
children thought, at first, that it was a band of Indians, but Patrick
Breen, the good old father, soon declared that the strangers were white
men. Captain Tucker and his men had found the wide expanse of snow
covering forest and lake, and had shouted to attract attention, if any
of the emigrants yet survived. Oh! what joy! There were tears in other
eyes than those of the little children. The strong men of the relief
party sat down on the snow and wept with the rest. It is related of one
or two mothers, and can readily be believed, that their first act was to
fall upon their knees, and with faces turned to God, to pour out their
gratitude to Him for having brought assistance to their dying children.
Virginia Reed did not die.
Captain Reasin P. Tucker, who had been acquainted with the Graves family
on the plains before the Donner Party took the Hastings Cut-off, was
anxious to meet them. They lived in the lower cabin, half a mile further
down Donner Creek. When he came close enough to observe the smoke
issuing from the hole in the snow which marked their abode, he shouted,
as he had done at the upper cabins. The effect was as electrical as
in the former instance. All came up to the surface, and the same
unrestrained gladness was manifested by the famished prisoners. Famished
they were. Mrs. Graves is especially praised by the survivors for her
unstinted charity. Instead of selfishly hoarding her stores and feeding
only her own children, she was generous to a fault, and no person ever
asked at her door for food who did not receive as good as she and her
little ones had to eat.
Dear Mrs. Graves! How earnestly she asked about her husband and
daughters! Did all reach the valley? Captain Tucker felt his heart
rise in his throat. How could he tell this weak, starved woman of the
terrible fate which had be fallen her husband and her son-in-law! He
could not! He answered with assumed cheerfulness in the affirmative.
So, too, they deceived Mrs. Murphy regarding her dear boy Lemuel. It
was best. Had the dreadful truth been told, not one of all this company
would ever have had courage to attempt the dangerous journey.
Little sleep was there in the Donner cabins that night. The relief party
were to start back in a couple of days, and such as were strong enough
were to accompany them. Mrs. Graves had four little children, and told
her son William C. Graves that he must remain with her to cut wood to
keep the little ones from freezing. But William was anxious to go and
help send back provisions to his mother. So earnestly did he work during
the next two days, that he had two cords of wood piled up near the
cabin. This was to last until he could return. His task was less
difficult because this cabin was built in a dense grove of tamarack.
Food had been given in small quantities to the sufferers. Many of the
snow-bound prisoners were so near death's door that a hearty meal would
have proven fatal. The remnant of provisions brought by the relief party
was carefully guarded lest some of the famished wretches should obtain
more than was allotted them. This was rendered easier from the fact
that the members of the relief party were unable to endure the scenes
of misery and destitution in the cabins, and so camped outside upon the
snow. So hungry were the poor people that some of them ate the strings
of the snowshoes which part of the relief company had brought along.
On the twentieth of February, John Rhodes, R. S. Mootry, and R. P.
Tucker visited the Donner tents on Alder Creek, seven miles from the
cabins. Only one ox-hide remained to these destitute beings. Here, as
well as at the cabins, the all-important question was, who should go
with the relief party and who remain. In each family there were little
children who could not go unless carried. Few of the Donner Party had
more than enough strength to travel unencumbered across the deep snows.
Should a storm occur on, the mountains, it was doubtful if even the
members of the relief party could escape death. It was hopefully urged
that other relief parties would soon arrive from California, and that
these would bring over those who remained. In determining who should go
and who stay, examples of heroism and devotion were furnished which
were never surpassed in the history of man. Could their vision
have penetrated the veil which interposed between them and the sad
occurrences about to ensue, they would have known that almost every
family, whose members separated, was bidding good-by to some member
forever.