A Wife's Devotion
Tamsen Donner's Early Life
The Early Settlers of Sangamon County
An Incident in School
Teaching and Knitting
School Discipline
Captain George Donner's Appearance
Parting Scenes at Alder Creek
Starting over the Mountains
A Baby's Death
A Mason's Vow
Crossing the Snow Barrier
More Precious than Gold or Diamonds
Elitha Donner's Kindness.
Mrs. Tamsen Donner was well and comparatively strong, and could easily
have crossed the mountains in safety with this party. Her husband,
however, was suffering from a serious swelling on one of his hands. Some
time before reaching the mountains he had accidentally hurt this hand
while handling a wagon. After encamping at Alder Creek he was anxious to
assist in the arrangements and preparations for winter, and while thus
working the old wound reopened. Taking cold in the hand, it became
greatly swollen and inflamed, and he was rendered entirely helpless.
Mrs. Donner was urged to go with the relief party, but resolutely
determined to heed the promptings of wifely devotion and remain by her
husband.
No one will ever read the history of the Donner Party without greatly
loving and reverencing the character of this faithful wife. The saddest,
most tear-stained page of the tragedy, relates to her life and death
in the mountains. A better acquaintance with the Donner family, and
especially with Mrs. Tamsen Donner, can not fail to be desirable in view
of succeeding chapters. Thanks to Mr. Allen Francis, the present United
States Consul at Victoria, British Columbia, very complete, authentic,
and interesting information upon this subject has been furnished. Mr.
Francis was publisher of the Springfield (Illinois) Journal in 1846, and
a warm personal friend of the family.
The Donners were among the first settlers of Sangamon County, Ill. They
were North Carolinians, immigrants to Kentucky in 1818, subsequently to
the State of Indiana, and from thence to what was known as the Sangamon
Country, in the year 1828.
George Donner, at the time of leaving Springfield, Ill., was a large,
fine-looking man, fully six feet in height, with merry black eyes,
and the blackest of hair, lined with an occasional silver thread.
He possessed a cheerful disposition, an easy temperament, industrious
habits, sound judgment, and much general information. By his associates
and neighbors he was called "Uncle George." To him they went for
instructions relating to the management of their farms, and usually
they returned feeling they had been properly advised. Twice had death
bequeathed him a group of motherless children, and Tamsen was his third
wife.
Her parents, William and Tamsen Eustis, were respected and well to do
residents of Newburyport, Mass., where she was born in November, 1801.
Her love of books made her a student at an early age; almost as soon
as the baby-dimples left her cheeks, she sought the school-room, which
afforded her great enjoyment. Her mother's death occurred before she
attained her seventh year, and for a time her childish hopes and desires
were overshadowed with sadness by this, her first real sorrow. But the
sympathy of friends soothed her grief, and her thirst for knowledge led
her back to the schoolroom, where she pursued her studies with greater
eagerness than before.
Her father married again, and little Tamsen's life was rendered happier
by this event; for in her step-mother she found a friend who tenderly
directed her thoughts and encouraged her work. At fifteen years of age
she finished the course of study, and her proficiency in mathematics,
geometry, philosophy, etc., called forth the highest praise of her
teachers and learned friends. She, like many daughters of New England,
felt that talents are intrusted to be used, and that each life is
created for some definite purpose. She therefore resolved to devote
herself to the instruction of the young, and after teaching at
Newburyport for a short time, she accepted a call to fill a vacancy in
the academy at Elizabeth City, N. C., where she continued an earnest and
appreciated teacher for a number of years. She became a fluent French
scholar while at that institution, and her leisure hours were devoted
to the fine arts. Her paintings and drawings were much admired for their
correctness in outline, subdued coloring, and delicacy in shading.
In Elizabeth City she met Mr. Dozier, a young man of education and
good family, and they were married. He was not a man of means, but her
forethought enabled them to live comfortably. For a few brief years she
enjoyed all the happiness which wedded bliss and maternal love could
confer, then death came, and in a few short weeks her husband and two
babes were snatched from her arms. In her desolation and bereavement she
thought of her old home, and longed for the sympathy of her childhood's
friends. She returned to Newburyport, where she spent three years in
retirement and rest. In 1836, she received a letter from her brother in
Illinois, urging her to come to his afflicted household, and teach his
motherless children. She remained with them one winter, but her field
of action had been too wide to permit her to settle quietly on a farm.
Besides, she had heard much of the manner in which country schools were
conducted, and became desirous of testing her ability in controlling and
teaching such a school. She obtained one in Auburn, and soon became the
friend of her pupils. All agreed that Mrs. Dozier was a faithful teacher
until the following little incident occurred. The worthy Board of School
Trustees heard that Mrs. Dozier was in the habit of knitting during
school hours. "Surely, she could not knit and instruct her pupils
properly; therefore, she must either give up her knitting or her
school." When Mrs. Dozier heard their resolution, she smiled, and said:
"Before those gentlemen deny my ability to impart knowledge and work
with my fingers at the same time, I would like them to visit my school,
and judge me by the result of their observation."
A knock at the school-room door, a week later, startled the children,
and a committee of trustees entered. Mrs. Dozier received them in the
most ladylike manner, and after they were seated, she called each
class at its appointed time. The recitations were heard, and lessons
explained, yet no one seemed disturbed by the faint, but regular, click
of knitting needles. For hours those gentlemen sat in silence, deeply
interested in all that transpired. When the time for closing school
arrived, the teacher invited the trustees to address her pupils,
after which she dismissed school, thanked her visitor for their kind
attention, and went home without learning their opinion.
The next morning she was informed that the Board of Trustees had met
the previous evening, and after hearing the report of the visiting
committee, had unanimously agreed that Mrs. Dozier might continue her
school and her knitting also. This little triumph was much enjoyed by
her friends.
The following year she was urged to take the school on Sugar Creek,
where the children were older and further advanced than those at
Auburn. Her connection with this school marked a new era for many of its
attendants. Mr. J. Miller used to relate an incident which occurred a
few days after she took charge of those unruly boys who had been in the
habit of managing the teacher and school to suit themselves. "I will
never forget," said Mr. Miller, "how Mrs. Dozier took her place at the
table that morning, tapped for order, and in a kind, but firm, tone
said: 'Young gentlemen and young ladies, as a teacher only, I can not
criticise the propriety of your writing notes to each other when out of
school; but as your teacher, with full authority in school, I desire
and request you neither to write nor send notes to any one during school
hours. I was surprised at your conduct yesterday, and should my wish be
disregarded in the future, will be obliged to chastise the offender.'
She called the first class, and school began in earnest. I looked at her
quiet face and diminutive form, and thought how easy it would be for me
to pick up two or three such little bodies as she, and set them outside
of the door! I wrote a note and threw it to the pupil in front of me,
just to try Mrs. Dozier. When the recitation was finished, she
stepped to the side of her table, and looked at me with such a grieved
expression on her face, then said: 'Mr. Miller, I regret that my eldest
scholar should be the first to violate my rule. Please step forward.' I
quailed beneath her eye. I marched up to where she stood. The stillness
of that room was oppressive. I held out my hand at the demand of that
little woman, and took the punishment I deserved, and returned to my
seat deeply humiliated, but fully determined to behave myself in the
future, and make the other boys do likewise. Well, she had no more
trouble while she was our teacher. Her pluck had won our admiration, and
her quiet dignity held our respect, and we soon ceased wondering at
the ease with which she overturned our plans and made us eager to adopt
hers; for no teacher ever taught on Sugar Creek who won the affections
or ruled pupils more easily or happily than she. We were expected to
come right up to the mark; but if we got into trouble, she was always
ready to help us out, and could do it in the quietest way imaginable."
She taught several young men the art of surveying, and had a wonderful
faculty of interesting her pupils in the study of botany. She sought
by creek and over plain for specimens with which to illustrate their
lessons. It was while engaged in this place that Mrs. Dozier met
George Donner, who at that time resided about two and a half miles from
Springfield field. Their acquaintance resulted in marriage. Her pupils
always called her their "little teacher," for she was but five feet in
height, and her usual weight ninety-six pounds. She had grayish-blue
eyes, brown hair, and a face full of character and intelligence. She was
gifted with fine conversational powers, and was an excellent reader. Her
voice would hold in perfect silence, for hours, the circle of neighbors
and friends who would assemble during the long winter evenings to hear
her read. Even those who did not fail to criticise her ignorance of farm
and dairy work, were often charmed by her voice and absence of display;
for while her dress was always of rich material, it was remarkable for
its Quaker simplicity.
Mr. Francis says: "Mrs. George Donner was a perfect type of an eastern
lady, kind, sociable, and exemplary, ever ready to assist neighbors,
and even the stranger in distress. Whenever she could spare time, she
wielded a ready pen on various topics. She frequently contributed gems
in prose and poetry to the columns of the journal, that awakened an
interest among its readers to know their author. Herself and husband
were faithful members of the German Prairie Christian Church, situated
a little north of their residence. Here they lived happily, and highly
respected by all who knew them, until the spring of 1846, when they
started for California."
Having said this much of the Donners, and especially of the noble woman
who refused to leave her suffering husband, let us glance at the parting
scenes at Alder Creek. It had been determined that the two eldest
daughters of George Donner should accompany Captain Tucker's party.
George Donner, Jr., and William Hook, two of Jacob Donner's Sons, Mrs.
Wolfinger, and Noah James were also to join the company. This made six
from the Donner tents. Mrs. Elizabeth Donner was quite able to have
crossed the mountains, but preferred to remain with her two little
children, Lewis and Samuel, until another and larger relief party should
arrive. These two boys were not large enough to walk, Mrs. Donner was
not strong enough to carry them, and the members of Captain Tucker's
party had already agreed to take as many little ones as they could
carry.
Leanna C. Donner, now Mrs. John App, of Jamestown, Tuolumne County,
Cal., gives a vivid description of the trip from George Donner's tent
to the cabins at Donner Lake Miss Rebecca E. App, acting as her mother's
amanuensis, writes:
"Mother says: Never shall I forget the day when my sister Elitha and
myself left our tent. Elitha was strong and in good health, while I was
so poor and emaciated that I could scarcely walk. All we took with us
were the clothes on our backs and one thin blanket, fastened with
a string around our necks, answering the purpose of a shawl in the
day-time, and which was all we had to cover us at night. We started
early in the morning, and many a good cry I had before we reached the
cabins, a distance of about eight miles. Many a time I sat down in the
snow to die, and would have perished there if my sister had not urged me
on, saying, 'The cabins are just over the hill.' Passing over the hill,
and not seeing the cabins, I would give up, again sit down and have
another cry, but my sister continued to help and encourage me until I
saw the smoke rising from the cabins; then I took courage, and moved
along as fast as I could. When we reached the Graves cabin it was all
I could do to step down the snow-steps into the cabin. Such pain and
misery as I endured that day is beyond description."
In Patrick Breen's diary are found the following entries, which allude
to Captain Tucker's relief party:
"Feb. 19. Froze hard last night. Seven men arrived from California
yesterday with provisions, but left the greater part on the way. To-day
it is clear and warm for this region; some of the men have gone to
Donner's camp; they will start back on Monday."
"Feb. 22. The Californians started this morning, twenty-three in number,
some in a very weak state. Mrs. Keseberg started with them, and left
Keseberg here, unable to go. Buried Pike's child this morning in the
snow; died two days ago."
Poor little Catherine Pike lingered until this time! It will be
remembered that this little nursing babe had nothing to eat except
a little coarse flour mixed in snow water. Its mother crossed the
mountains with the "Forlorn Hope," and from the sixteenth of December
to the twentieth of February it lived upon the miserable gruel made
from unbolted flour. How it makes the heart ache to think of this little
sufferer, wasting away, moaning with hunger, and sobbing for something
to eat. The teaspoonful of snow water would contain only a few particles
of the flour, yet how eagerly the dying child would reach for the
pitiful food. The tiny hands grew thinner, the sad, pleading eyes sank
deeper in their fleshless sockets, the face became hollow, and the
wee voice became fainter, yet, day after day, little Catherine Pike
continued to breathe, up to the very arrival of the relief party.
Patrick Breen says twenty-three started across the mountains. Their
names were: Mrs. Margaret W. Reed and her children--Virginia E. Reed,
Patty Reed, Thomas Reed, and James F. Reed, Jr.; Elitha C. Donner,
Leanna C. Donner, Wm. Hook, and George Donner, Jr.; Wm. G. Murphy, Mary
M. Murphy, and Naomi L. Pike; Wm. C. Graves, Eleanor Graves, and Lovina
Graves; Mrs. Phillipine Keseberg, and Ada Keseberg; Edward J. and Simon
P. Breen, Eliza Williams, John Denton, Noah James, and Mrs. Wolfinger.
In starting from the camps at Donner Lake, Mrs. Keseberg's child and
Naomi L. Pike were carried by the relief party. In a beautiful letter
received from Naomi L. Pike (now Mrs. Schenck, of the Dalles, Oregon),
she says: "I owe my life to the kind heart of John Rhodes, whose
sympathies were aroused for my mother. He felt that she was deserving
of some relic of all she had left behind when she started with the first
party in search of relief, and he carried me to her in a blanket." We
have before spoken of this noble man's bravery in bearing the news of
the condition of the "Forlorn Hope" and of the Donner Party to Sutter's
Fort. Here we find him again exhibiting the nobility of his nature by
saving this little girl from starvation by carrying her on his back over
forty miles of wintry snow.
Before the party had proceeded two miles, a most sad occurrence took
place. It became evident that Patty and Thomas Reed were unable to
stand the fatigue of the journey. Already they exhibited signs of great
weakness and weariness, and it was not safe to allow them to proceed.
Mr. Aquila Glover informed Mrs. Reed that it was necessary that these
two children go back. Who can portray the emotions of this fond mother?
What power of language can indicate the struggle which took place in the
minds of this stricken family? Mr. Glover promised to return as soon as
he arrived at Bear Valley, and himself bring Patty and Thomas over the
mountains. This promise, however, was but a slight consolation for the
agonized mother or weeping children, until finally a hopeful thought
occurred to Mrs. Reed. She turned suddenly to Mr. Glover, and asked,
"Are you a Mason?" He replied, "I am." "Do you promise me," she said,
"upon the word of a Mason, that when you arrive at Bear Valley, you will
come back and get my children?" Mr. Glover made the promise, and
the children were by him taken back to the cabins. The mother had
remembered, in this gloomiest moment of life, that the father of her
little ones was a Mason, and that he deeply reverenced the order. If her
children must be left behind in the terrible snows, she would trust the
promise of this Mason to return and save them. It was a beautiful trust
in a secret order by a Mason's wife in deep distress.
Rebecca E. App, writing for her mother, gives a vivid description of
this journey across the summits, from which is taken the following brief
extract:
"It was a bright Sunday morning when we left the cabins. Some were in
good health, while others were so poor and emaciated that they could
scarcely walk. I was one of the weakest in the party, and not one in the
train thought I would get to the top of the first hill. We were a sad
spectacle to look upon as we left the cabins. We marched along in single
file, the leader wearing snow-shoes, and the others following after, all
stepping in the leader's tracks. I think my sister and myself were about
the rear of the train, as the strongest were put in front. My sister
Elitha and I were alone with strangers, as it were, having neither
father, mother, nor brothers, to give us a helping hand or a word of
courage to cheer us onward. We were placed on short allowance of food
from the start, and each day this allowance was cut shorter and shorter,
until we received each for our evening and morning meal two small pieces
of jerked beef, about the size of the index finger of the hand. Finally,
the last ration was issued in the evening. This was intended for that
evening and the next morning, but I was so famished I could not resist
the temptation to eat all I had--the two meals at one time. Next
morning, of course, I had nothing for breakfast. Now occurred an
incident which I shall never forget. While I sat looking at the others
eating their morsels of meat, which were more precious than gold or
diamonds, my sister saw my distress, and divided her piece with me. How
long we went without food after that, I do not know. I think we were
near the first station."