"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.