Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “How can we trust the statements of a man about whom we know nothing?”

  “Hastings, you mean?”

  There was a curt nod. “We’ve never even met the man. Who’s to say that he is not some selfish adventurer who wants us to come this way for his own reasons?”

  Now James Reed moved up beside them. “Tamsen, Tamsen,” he soothed. “Mr. Hastings is a renowned explorer. He came across that route just this spring.”

  “What if he is a liar?” she shot back.

  That so surprised Mr. Reed that he was nonplused.

  Seeing his reaction, Mrs. Donner backed off a little. “Well, maybe not a liar. But how can you and my husband think for one moment of leaving a known road to trust in the statement of someone about whom you know nothing?”

  “It’s a four-hundred-mile savings, Tamsen,” Reed said earnestly. “That’s twenty days of wagon time. Twenty days! We can’t just ignore that.”

  Mrs. Donner looked at him once, then looked away. Her whole body suggested resignation and surrender. “I don’t feel good about it,” she muttered again, then moved away from the Reeds to rejoin her husband.

  It was midmorning when they reached the spot where the trail forked. The Donner Party had broken camp and started away first, and now they had no one out in front of them. Ahead of Peter a few dozen yards was a clear set of wagon tracks which turned to the right, angling off to the northwest across an endless sage-covered plain. Another set turned to the left, heading in a southwesterly direction. In the far distance, Peter thought he could see a smudge of green. That would be the Big Sandy, where both groups would camp for the night, though in different locations.

  As he approached the fork, speaking softly to the oxen, he looked at the spot where the road joined. He was intrigued by it. At one point there was only one road. Then in what could be measured in inches, they began to diverge. In ten feet the tracks were separated by three or four feet. In fifty, they were two completely separate roads. In a mile they would no longer be in sight of each other. In a few days, they would be hundreds of miles apart.

  It was a strange thought, and it occurred to him that in some ways life was like that. You came to a point where a decision had to be made. In many cases the choice seemed so inconsequential that you could barely tell the difference. But once the decision was made, you started off in a different direction. In a lifetime, one simple choice could bring you to widely separated destinations.

  As his wagon reached the spot where the routes split, he popped the whip over the head of the lead oxen. “Haw, boys! Haw! Haw!” They swung their massive heads to the left. The wagon tongue creaked as it turned slowly in response to their pressure, and in a matter of moments they were on the left fork, moving on toward Fort Bridger. The road to the right lay empty and desolate, waiting for the companies coming behind.

  About twenty minutes later, Peter peered to the north. Sure enough, there was a line of wagon tops crawling across the flat desert, slowly but surely moving farther and farther away from the company led by George Donner. The Boggs Party had reached and then taken the turnoff. Even as Peter watched, they seemed to be receding. No wonder they called it “the parting of the ways,” he thought. Then he turned his face to the southwest and began to watch for any signs of the Big Sandy.

  On the morning of July twenty-first a thunderstorm rolled in from the west, and it began to rain and rain hard. Umbrellas were brought out and coats were put on. The air was cold and the wind stiff. The children huddled in the two wagons while the adults went ahead with their preparations to depart. By nine o’clock, the rain slackened, but it was still a steady drizzle. By noon, which was so typical of the weather of late, the sky was clear and the temperature hot again.

  Six days earlier, Captain (now Colonel) James Allen marched out with four companies of the Mormon Battalion. They went as far as Traders Point to get their initial supplies, then stopped to wait. A steamboat was supposed to meet them there and take them downriver to Fort Leavenworth, but it never showed up. It was just as well. He brought them back to the main camp, and the additional time had given them a chance to fill up the last company. Of the desired five hundred men, Colonel Allen now had four hundred and ninety-six. For the second time he made the announcement that the battalion was about to depart.

  On the sixteenth, when the battalion had gathered and marched away, there had been great excitement in the air. Today, the finality of their departure had set in and the mood was very much different. This time there were no speeches. The officers and noncoms shouted and yelled and pulled their companies into line in a matter of minutes. Once in position, they shouted up to Colonel Allen, who stood with his sword out of its scabbard at parade rest. When the last officer called out that his company was ready, Allen snapped to attention. “Bat-tal-yun!” His voice floated over the bluffs and the camps that covered them as not another sound was heard. Four hundred and ninety-six men snapped to attention. “For-ward! March!Hup, two, three, four. Hup, two, three, four.”

  William Pitt, probably at the express command of Brigham Young, had brought his band together again. They were seated just behind where the colonel had stood. As the rhythmic stamp of feet began and Company A moved forward, Pitt brought down his baton. At march tempo, the band began to play “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

  Tears came more profusely than the morning’s rain, and they were not confined to those who waved good-bye. Many a man marched by with his head held high and his cheeks stained with tears as his wife and children called out their final farewells.

  In five minutes they were gone. The band stopped and began packing away their instruments. The crowd began to dissipate. The Steeds stood silently. A few sniffles and sobs could still be heard, but for the most part they watched the disappearing columns in silence.

  Emily was clinging to her mother, the reality of not seeing Josh for at least a year finally settling fully in upon her. Rachel stood nearby, also crying but not totally devastated. “At least,” she managed to say through her sniffles, “he will be in the same company with Derek and Rebecca. It was very nice of Colonel Allen to let Derek and Rebecca change companies.”

  Lydia took a deep breath and then let it out in a long sigh. “Yes, thank heavens for that.”

  Mary Ann turned to face her family. “One more,” she said simply.

  “One more what?” Joshua asked.

  “One more farewell,” she said softly. “That’s when Matthew and Nathan leave with the Pioneer Company in the spring.” She managed a wan smile. “That will be as hard as this. But after that, it’s going to be nothing but family reunions for the Steeds. And I can hardly wait.”

  Chapter Notes

  The Donners, along with several other companies, reached the Little Sandy River (in what is now southwestern Wyoming near the town of Farson) at the same time. A council was called, and the companies decided to take different routes. Those who took the Greenwood Cutoff (or the Sublette Cutoff, as it was later called) faced a long drive of about fifty miles but a shorter route to Fort Hall, near present-day Pocatello, Idaho. The others, led by the Donners and the Reeds, chose to head for Fort Bridger, where Hastings had promised to wait for them to lead them across his new route to the south.

  J. Quinn Thornton, one of the party who chose not to accompany the Donners, wrote in his journal for 19 July: “The Californians [i.e., those who chose the southern route] were generally much elated, and in fine spirits, with the prospect of a better and nearer road to the country of their destination. Mrs. George Donner was, however, an exception. She was gloomy, sad, and dispirited, in view of the fact, that her husband and others could think for a moment of leaving the old road, and confide in the statement of a man who of whom they knew nothing, but who was probably some selfish adventurer.” (In UE,p. 22; see also Overland in 1846,p. 429; Chronicles,pp. 100–103.) Ironically, Tamsen Donner would be one of those who died in the Sierra when she refused to leave her dying husband after the rescue parties came (see Chroni
cles,pp. 298, 316, 318).

  Though the sources usually list Jacob Donner as the older of the two Donner brothers (which is the way this series has depicted the situation), recent research indicates that it may have been the other way around (see Kristin Johnson, “The Jacob Donner Family,” New Light on the Donner Party, [4 September 1998]).

  After several delays, the Mormon Battalion marched away from Council Bluffs at noon on Tuesday, 21 July 1846. Henry Bigler perhaps summed up the feelings of all when he wrote: “It was a solemn time with us as we were leaving families and friends and near and dear relatives, not knowing how long we should be absent, and perhaps we might never see them again in this life.” Zacheus Cheney observed: “It was a day of sadness, of mourning and of parting. The tears fell like rain.” (See SW,pp. 44–45.)

  Chapter 18

  The thirtieth of July was a hot, sultry day in Nauvoo, but Melissa Rogers didn’t mind. For her, things were better than they had been in several months. On July twenty-fifth, after two full weeks of captivity and severe mistreatment, the five Latter-day Saints who had been taken hostage by the anti-Mormons were finally released and allowed to return home. That didn’t completely end the tension that hung over the city, but it reduced it sharply, and life settled back into some kind of normalcy.

  What had most significantly changed was the situation in the home of Carl and Melissa Rogers. After that night spent in her parents’ home, her relationship with Carl had changed dramatically. Part of that came from her decision to accept his leadership and to trust in his judgment. Equally important, at least she suspected as much, was her absence from the house that night. After her scare at the store, it had really frightened Carl when he had not been able to find her. Since then he had been more loving and considerate of her feelings. He made a special effort to inform her of what went on at his new citizens committee meetings. And though she wasn’t exactly sure what they were, she knew that he began to make some contingency plans in case more trouble erupted.

  She found herself singing from time to time, and Carl had startled her two days ago when she heard him laughing and roughhousing with the children when he should have been putting them to bed. It was so unexpected and yet so welcome. Several times each day Melissa would close her eyes and thank her Heavenly Father for leading her to that scripture and helping her find her answer.

  It was nearing five o’clock when the back door opened and she heard Carl’s footsteps coming down the hall. She went to the door of the kitchen, wiping the flour from her hands against her apron. “Hi,” she said, going up to kiss him. She could smell the odor of the harvest on him and she breathed deeply. It was as though she had stepped outside for a moment.

  He kissed her back, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly for a moment. “You smell like fresh bread,” he said, burying his face in her hair.

  “And you smell like fresh straw. Were you harvesting?”

  “Yep. Young Carl and I helped Zebedee Franklin get in his wheat.” He thumped his pocket. “Made four dollars.”

  “Good.” She pulled away. “Come in. Supper won’t be for an hour, but there’s hot bread and honey.”

  “Now, that sounds good. Young Carl stopped to talk with one of his friends. He’ll be along in time for supper.” He followed her to the kitchen, but then stopped just inside the door. As she reached the table she looked around. He was holding a letter and waving it slightly back and forth. “This came today.”

  She started toward him. “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer, just held it out for her. Again she wiped her hands and took the envelope. When she opened it and withdrew the letter she recognized Joshua’s handwriting immediately. “From Joshua? What does he say?”

  Carl gave her a strange look. “Just read it.”

  She moved back to the table and sat down. She read quickly the first half of the page. “They’re at the Missouri River now.” She looked at the date. “This was written on the sixteenth, just two weeks ago now.”

  He nodded, but his expression said, “Keep reading.” She did so. Suddenly her eyes widened. She laid the letter on the table and began to smooth the paper as she read. “Oh my,” she breathed after a minute. She looked up at Carl, then continued to read swiftly.

  “Can you believe it?” she said, half to herself. Then she looked up. “Did you read it, Carl?”

  “Yes. A bit of a surprise, huh?”

  “A bit?” she cried. “I am absolutely dumbfounded. Joshua baptized? I . . .” She shook her head and leaned back. “I can’t believe what I’m reading. This is wonderful. Oh!” She started to reread it. When she was finished, she folded it slowly. Her eyes were moist and her voice was very soft. “I wish I could have been there. Oh, how I would have loved to see Caroline’s eyes when he told her.”

  “I wish you could have been there too, Melissa,” Carl said with equal softness. “I really do.”

  Her head came up in surprise. He had really meant it. The tears came as she looked at him. “Thank you, Carl.” Then she took a deep breath. “Joshua Steed. Who would ever have guessed?”

  Carl shook his head slowly. “Well, it wouldn’t have been me, I can tell you that for sure.”

  Then, to her surprise, he reached in his back pocket and drew out another envelope. This was larger and of a darker brown paper.

  She stared for a moment, then laughed. “You are full of surprises today, aren’t you? Who is this one from?”

  To her utter surprise, he was suddenly a little emotional.

  She stood and came to him. “What, Carl? What is it?”

  He held out the letter toward her. “This one is from Kathryn and Peter. They’re all right, Melissa. Everything is all right with them.”

  James Reed called for a meeting with his teamsters right after supper on the evening of July thirtieth. They had arrived at Fort Bridger on the evening of the twenty-seventh and camped in a wide meadow near the fort. It was lush with green grass, and the pure, cold waters of Black’s Fork ran through it. After the alkali dust and brackish water they had endured for several days, this was welcomed with great rejoicing. The excitement was high as they approached the area. At last they would meet the famous Lansford Hastings.

  That excitement was quickly dashed. As soon as supper was over, Reed and the two Donner brothers rode the half mile to the fort to find Hastings and tell them they had arrived. To their grave dismay, Jim Bridger announced that Hastings had decided he could wait no longer and had started out with about sixty wagons a few days earlier. Hastings had left a message for any coming behind that he would mark the trail clearly and leave letters in prominent places to help guide them along the route. But he had not waited.

  What a bitter disappointment that proved to be! Reed was furious. George Donner called it outright betrayal. For some in their party it was the last straw. Cursing the fact that they had been talked into coming this far instead of taking the Greenwood Cutoff, they decided to abandon the whole idea of a shortcut and join those who were taking the traditional route on the Oregon Trail.

  Jim Bridger and Louis Vasquez did much to convince the others that Hastings’s route was still the right way to go. They spoke in glowing terms of the easiness of the new way. Except for a forty-mile dry run across the Salt Desert, the trail crossed mostly level terrain where grass and water were abundant; and there were no canyons, just hard-packed soil that made it easy going for wagons.

  Peter found that report a little too glowing and, like some others, started to have deep misgivings about the new route. But Jim Bridger’s name was legendary, and he knew the West as few other men did. So when all the griping and muttering was done, all but a few decided they would stay with the Donners. They would lay over at Bridger’s outpost for a few days for a badly needed rest for the teams and to repair and resupply; then they would start again. When they did they would follow the tracks the Hastings group had taken to the southwest.

  Reed look
ed around the circle at his four teamsters and Baylis Williams, who was his all-around hired hand. “All right,” he said, “we’ll leave first thing in the morning. Let’s get a report on how things are looking.”

  Baylis shot up a hand. The sun was down now, and there was heavy cloud cover, leaving the sky muted and gray. Baylis was an albino, and full daylight bothered him. He often stayed inside the wagon or the tents when they were camped. But once the light was reduced, as it was now, it was as if he were some nocturnal animal coming out of its lair. He was a completely different person. It was his assignment to oversee the restocking of their supplies. Reed nodded in his direction.

  “I’m real pleased, Mr. Reed,” he said. “As I told you yesterday, I’m very much surprised at how well stocked the fort here is. It doesn’t look like much, but we’ve been able to either buy or trade for almost everything we need.”

  Milt Elliott, who was the lead teamster but who also helped Baylis with the acquisitions, nodded. “Prices are high.” He pulled a face. “I saw someone give a ten-dollar pair of pants for a pint of whiskey this morning. But when you consider this is the last outpost between here and Sutter’s Fort in California, that’s to be expected.”

  Baylis nodded vigorously. “True. But we’ve taken in a good supply of wheat, flour, coffee, and sugar. I think we’re about where we need to be.”

  Reed nodded in satisfaction. “Good. I’m a little surprised by what we’ve found here too. As you know, Mrs. Reed and myself and the Donners were invited to have dinner with Mr. Bridger and Mr. Vasquez last night. We ate off English stoneware with sterling silver forks and knives. Some of the things those men have in their quarters would feel perfectly right in some of the finest homes back east. They are a couple of fine and honest gentlemen, and their fort is a blessing for us.”

  Mrs. Reed smiled. “That Mr. Bridger, what a storyteller!”

  Reed nodded vigorously. “He sure is. I guess that comes from all those long winters out here with nothing to do but talk to each other.”