“And Hastings?” Jacob Donner exclaimed. “Where’s Hastings?”
The other of the two brothers shook his head slowly. “And why is he coming from that direction instead of up Weber Canyon?”
He looked tired, Peter thought. Or maybe it was discouragement. That was a rare thing for James Reed, but Peter was sure that part of the weariness was the deep sense of betrayal he was feeling.
Reed looked around at the circle of faces. “Where are Stanton and Pike?” he said in sudden surprise.
“That’s what we were wondering,” George Donner said.
Reed blew out his breath, another sign of his growing frustration. “They must be lost. We’ll send someone out in the morning. They can’t be that far away.”
“What about Mr. Hastings?” Milt Elliott asked. “Why isn’t he with you?”
Reed’s shoulders sagged a little and he passed one hand before his eyes. “He’s not coming.”
“What?” Milt Elliott, Lewis Keseberg, George and Jacob Donner, Margret Reed, Peter Ingalls, and half a dozen others all said it as one.
“Let me start at the beginning and tell you everything. We have some important decisions to make.”
“Hastings is not coming?” Tamsen Donner said in a plaintive voice. “But he said he would pilot us through.”
“Let James tell us,” her husband said, though there was clearly anger in his eyes.
“First, after passing through Weber Canyon, I can tell you that there is no question but what if we attempt that route, many of our wagons shall be destroyed. Just a few miles from where we are now, the route becomes virtually impassable. I cannot believe they took sixty-six wagons through there. Then again a few miles farther on, at the mouth of the canyon, it is extremely difficult. We barely made it through with our horses.”
“So what are we to do?” one of the Donner bullwhackers called out.
“I’ll come to that in a minute,” Reed answered. “We finally caught up with Hastings and his company camped on the south end of the Great Salt Lake near a place we called Black Rock. Hastings didn’t seem too surprised to see us, as he had all confidence that we would find his letter. When I asked him to return with us and show us the other route that he proposed, he agreed to do so.
“As you remember, all along Mr. Hastings proposed a different route over the mountains. He told me again that had he been able to prevail upon his company to follow his advice, they would have taken that route themselves and not lost a wagon and team.” He looked at Margret, who watched every nuance of his expression with growing concern. “Anyway, we started out the next morning. I traded my horse for a fresh mount the company gave me. Stanton’s and Pike’s horses were too tired to go on, and there were no more to be spared by the lead company; so they decided to rest for a day, then retrace the route we took. That’s why I was surprised when they weren’t back yet. But I’m not overly concerned. I think we can easily find them.”
“So if Hastings came back with you, where is he?” Keseberg’s voice was angry and demanding.
“He rode back with me partway, then decided that it was farther than he had remembered. He said that he couldn’t abandon the larger party as they prepare to cross the Salt Desert.”
“So he abandons us instead?” Baylis Williams half snarled.
Reed ignored that. “He rode with me to the top of a mountain and from there pointed out his proposed route.” He looked down at his hands. “Then he left me and returned to his company.”
“And did you find this new route?” George Donner asked quietly. The news had greatly depressed the group now, and they were all very much subdued.
“After descending from that mountain, I came across an Indian trail. Using that as my guide, I blazed a trail where I think a road can be made. I have marked trees all along the way.”
“So, is it a good road?” Jacob Donner asked.
For several seconds, Reed did not answer. Then his head came up. “There is no road. It will take much clearing and digging to make one, but I think it can be done.”
No one spoke as they let that sink in. Finally, someone—and Peter couldn’t tell who it was—said, “Is there any other choice?”
They already knew the answer to that. They could turn back and take the old Oregon road, or they could take their chances in Weber Canyon—neither of which was a choice at all. All around the circle, heads wagged back and forth slowly.
Finally George Donner got to his feet. “As captain, I propose that we agree to work faithfully to make this road, if Mr. Reed will show us the way. If there are any other alternatives, let’s discuss them now. Otherwise, I would like a vote.”
No one spoke.
“All right, then. All in favor of taking this new road over the mountains.”
Every hand around the circle slowly came up.
For the first time since his return, James Reed managed a wan smile. “Thank you. It will not be easy, but I believe this is the best way to go.”
Chapter Notes
The Mississippi Saints reached Fort Pueblo on the Arkansas River (in present-day Colorado) on 7 August 1846, not quite a month after turning south from Fort Laramie. It was just three days later that word came that the main body of the Saints was encamped for the winter on the Missouri River, confirming the wisdom of the Mississippi Saints’ decision not to continue on west that season. (See “Pioneer Journeys,” pp. 807–8.)
For the first two months after reaching the Missouri River, Brigham Young was heavily occupied in seeing to the needs of his people and recruiting for the Mormon Battalion. Once the battalion left, he turned his focus to preparing his people for the winter. On 1 August a firm decision was finally made that no one would be sent to the Rocky Mountains that season. A few days later, an exploration party found a site on the west side of the Missouri River some distance north of the Cold Spring Camp. Named Cutler’s Park for Alpheus Cutler, the location was designated as the site for the Saints’ winter home. Later, a better site was found closer to the river, and that became Winter Quarters. (See SW,pp. 69–82.)
When the Donners left what is now known as Echo Canyon (near the junction of Interstates 80 and 84 at the town of Echo in northern Utah) and came to the first crossing of the Weber River (present-day Henefer), they found a note written by Lansford Hastings. The actual letter no longer exists, so its exact contents are not known, but several contemporaries describe the general message. The description of the difficult passage through the narrow spots of Weber Canyon (near present-day Croydon and Devil’s Slide on I-84) comes from the journal of Heinrich Lienhard, who was traveling with the advance company. (See Chronicles,pp. 116–19.)
James Reed returned to his company on the evening of 10 August, four days after leaving to go find Lansford Hastings. Most of the details given in this chapter come from Reed’s later account of events, as well as from other contemporaries. (See UE,pp. 24–27, 186–88; Overland in 1846,p. 262.)
Many writers have tried to make Lansford Hastings the villain in the Donner tragedy. For example, one author wrote of Hastings’s refusal to return with Reed: “By this time, it would seem that Hastings was losing what little judgment he ever had, and possibly his nerve had broken” (George Stewart, as cited in Chronicles,p. 118).
While there is little question that Hastings was a naive and overzealous promoter and that his failure to keep his word contributed greatly to the eventual disaster, it is only fair to balance that against the factors that must have weighed on his mind. He was leading a large group (the Harlan-Young Company) that was already giving him difficulty (they refused to follow his counsel about Weber Canyon). That group was about to embark on the Salt Desert crossing (now known as the Salt Flats of western Utah), the most difficult stretch of the entire cutoff. The Harlan-Young Party was also about triple the size of the Donner Party. If he delayed them long enough for the Donners to catch up, it would put them at risk. And there was no way he could offer his services to both companies. He had to choose which gro
up to lead, and he chose the larger group, which was already in the lead and had no one out ahead of them to break trail.
Chapter 22
James Reed looked grim as he rode up to the first of his three wagons. Peter and the other two drivers got to their feet. Margret Reed, on hearing the horse, came to the flap of the wagon to see what was happening. Virginia Reed, their thirteen-year-old daughter, who was standing beside Peter, started to smile and wave, but the sight of her father’s face froze both the smile and the lifting hand.
Reed glanced at his wife, shook his head, then turned to his teamsters. “We’re going up and over.”
“What?” Milt Elliott erupted, his face twisting.
“No!” Peter cried. “We’ll never make it.”
“The decision has been made,” Reed said through tight lips. “We’ve been outvoted.”
“But you said it’s no more than half a mile more down the creekbed and we’re out of the canyon.”
Reed swung down from Glaucus and came forward a few steps. “Perhaps not even that.” His voice was lifeless and flat, his eyes showing the weariness they all felt.
“Then let’s cut our way through,” Milt said. “If we’re that close—”
Baylis Williams, who rarely said anything in councils such as this, surprised them all. “I’m not chopping one more bunch of willows or moving one more boulder,” he said bitterly. “I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”
“But it will kill the teams,” Peter exclaimed. He turned and pointed at the steep ridge that loomed high above them. “Look at that incline. You can’t take wagons over that.”
“We’ll hook up as many teams to each wagon as we need to,” Reed answered. “All of them, if need be.”
“They can’t do it, I tell you,” Peter countered. “They’re already near exhaustion after these past twelve days of coming through the mountains.”
James Reed swung around, his eyes blazing. “Are you deaf, Peter?” he roared. “I said we’re going over the top. If you can’t accept that, I’ll find someone else to drive.”
Peter would not have been more stunned if Reed had jerked out his pistol and fired it at him. He rocked back in astonishment. Milt Elliott’s mouth was open as he gaped at his employer. Williams was aghast. James Reed never lost his temper. Now his jaw was clenched and the veins along it stood out. His nostrils flared as his chest rose and fell. His eyes were like two black glowing points of fire, daring anyone to disagree with him. Margret Reed was as deeply shocked as any of them. “James—,” she started.
He whirled, swearing. “Woman! This is not your affair. I suggest you stick with things that are.”
Her face instantly drained of color. Then, as tears sprang to her eyes, she turned quickly and stepped back inside the wagon.
Reed glared at his three drivers. “Make up your mind, Peter. What will it be?”
“I . . .” Peter stammered. “You know I’ll do whatever you say, Mr. Reed. I was—” He stopped. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
The others nodded quickly as he swung on them.
“Then unhook the teams. We’ll take Uncle George’s wagons over first.” With that, he pulled on Glaucus’s reins and walked past them, ignoring the utter astonishment he left in his wake.
Peter stood quietly beside the two yoke of oxen for which he was responsible. They were now yoked ahead of George Donner’s own three yoke. Milt Elliott was yoking up two more to the front of Peter’s teams. Baylis Williams waited beyond Milt with one additional yoke beyond that. They had decided to take one of Donner’s supply wagons first. It was not fully loaded, and they had decided it would be a good test to see how the oxen fared. But eight yoke? This was madness!
Peter turned his head and looked at the path the scouts had chosen. The ridge rose steeply for about three hundred feet before it crested. What an unfortunate accident of nature! They had entered this canyon two days before and been working their way down by following the creek. This was the route that Lansford Hastings had shown James Reed some two weeks ago. Even though they were moving downhill now, it had been tough going through the underbrush, which was too thick for even a bear to go through. Then last night, when they finally could see that they were nearing the mouth of the canyon, they had rounded a bend in the creek and found this. Just where the canyon should have opened up onto the valley, a high ridge jutted out from the left canyon wall to dam the canyon’s mouth.
It was heartbreaking. They were so close to being out of the mountains. The valley was just over the ridge or, if they chose the other option, less than a mile farther downstream. It seemed like such an obvious choice, but Peter understood what had led the group to choose this route, even though he bitterly disagreed with the decision. The past twelve days had broken the spirit of the company. They had so exhausted themselves in cutting a road over the mountains, that now the thought of even one more half mile of hacking and chopping and shoveling was unbearable. They couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do any more. They would leave it to the animals instead.
If they had been a company the size of the one Hastings was leading, which had more than a hundred men and sixty wagons, it would not have been so desperately difficult. But the Donners had only twenty-seven able-bodied men and boys who were capable of the kind of work required. Two days into the mountains they had been joined by the Graves family. The Graveses—consisting of three men, one older boy, three adult women, and six younger children—were from Illinois. They had been with a larger company which had two men killed in a vicious attack by the Pawnees. At Fort Bridger they had been told that the Donners were not too far ahead of them and decided to push ahead and join with them. It was a welcome addition. That brought the company’s working force to thirty-one men and the number of wagons to twenty-two. But it still wasn’t enough for the task at hand.
The creek bottoms were a wild tangle of willow thickets, wild rose and service berry bushes, cottonwood, box elder, and alder trees. In most cases even a man and a horse couldn’t make their way through unimpeded. Therefore, there was no choice but to hack a road through it yard by man-killing yard. The sun beat down upon them, only slightly tempered by the higher elevations. Mosquitos swarmed thickly enough to form a shadow. They were under constant attack from large brown flies whose bite stung like that of a horsefly. They chopped and slashed; dragged brush and trees; attacked side hills or creek banks with shovels to make them passable for wagons. Their arms and faces were a mass of scratches and cuts. Their legs were scraped and bruised. Even those with the toughest of hands quickly raised huge blisters that had to be doctored every night. One day they worked from first light until dusk and barely made two miles. In another eight-mile stretch, they crossed a creek thirteen times, either digging down the banks or creating makeshift bridges with logs and brush. Going up the mountains required double teaming the wagons, and then they would have to lock the wheels and chain up the animals behind the wagons to take them down the other side. Twelve days and they had barely come thirty miles as the crow flies.
That was why the company voted to go up and over the ridge. It was criminal, a major mistake, in Peter’s mind, but it was also perfectly understandable. Yet it worried Peter to the point that he felt ill. It was not just the teams, though that made him a little sick as well. It was what was happening to the company. They had lost their heart, abandoned reason. They couldn’t see that today, but they would tomorrow.
Peter blew out his breath. When they left Fort Bridger they had estimated it would take them seven weeks to reach Sutter’s Fort in California. That required averaging a hundred miles a week, an ambitious schedule but not an impossible one. But here they were, three weeks into the seven, and they had barely come a hundred and twenty-five miles. It was the last week of August, and they still had six hundred miles to go!
He heard a footstep and turned. James Reed was coming toward him. Peter straightened. He suspected that his employer had been making peace with his wife. After tying Glaucus to the back of the
wagon, Reed had immediately gone inside their commodious wagon and Peter had heard the soft murmur of voices.
Reed came up alongside Peter and stopped, watching Baylis Williams starting to hook up the last yoke of oxen. “Eight yoke,” he said softly and with open bitterness, “sixteen animals, and I’m still not sure it will be enough.”
Peter nodded. “This is one of the more lightly loaded wagons. I don’t think eight yoke will be enough to take yours up, Mr. Reed.”
“If we have to put on every team, we’ll do it.”
Peter nodded again, not about to contradict him anymore.
The silence was awkward and heavy for a moment; then Reed cleared his throat. “Peter, I want to apologize for what happened earlier. I—”
“No need,” Peter broke in quickly. “It is I who should apologize. It’s not my place to question the vote of the company or your orders, Mr. Reed.”
Reed went on quickly. “I tried to reason with the rest of the men, but they rode right over my protests.”
Peter waited, troubled by the despair and hurt he saw in Reed’s face.
“They’re saying it’s my fault, Peter.”
His head came up quickly. “What’s your fault, sir?”
Reed looked away. “Choosing to take this cutoff.”
“But,” Peter exclaimed, “they all voted to follow Mr. Hastings’s new route. You didn’t make them do that.”
There was a sad smile. “No, but I was such an enthusiastic supporter of the idea, they’re saying I convinced them against their will.”
“Balderdash, Mr. Reed. Those who didn’t want to take this way went with Mr. Boggs and company. No one forced anyone to come with you.”
“They’re also saying we should have taken Weber Canyon.”
“But . . .” Peter stopped, seeing that Reed wasn’t listening.
Reed rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It would have been difficult, but I think we could have gone through Weber Canyon in four or five days.”
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