Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  We floated back into camp. It was quiet; everyone was either resting or off foraging.

  Over the next few days, I caught Bayliss looking my direction. At first, I looked away, vaguely ashamed. But why? I wondered. What do I owe him? After all, Bayliss had been avoiding me ever since our ill-fated moonlight walk.

  Nevertheless, one night I sat down next to him as he sat staring into his campfire. “Hello, Bayliss,” I said. “Can we talk?”

  He got up and walked away.

  #

  The next day, I found myself walking behind the Donner family wagon that Jean Baptiste was driving. We were slowly climbing a precipitous slope, which had been steepening so gradually that none of us had noticed that the incline had become dangerous.

  As it happened, Bayliss was driving the wagon immediately following Jean’s. I was walking between the two of them. This infelicitous confluence of the young men in my life had had me wavering unhappily all morning. I was wondering if I should approach Bayliss again. I felt an obligation to tell him about Jean Baptiste. It was clear that Bayliss knew about our relationship by then, but he hadn’t heard it from me personally. I felt I owed him an explanation; but even more, I still wanted to be friends with him. I liked him. He’d been supportive of me when I’d most needed it.

  Why, then, had I chosen Jean Baptiste? Because I felt an ever-growing fear of the future, and Jean was much better company––and therefore a much better distraction. He was jovial and told funny stories. It was a shallow reason, perhaps, but just as the party preferred amiable George Donner above Father because of his temperament, I chose Jean Baptiste because he was easier to get along with.

  Lost in thought, I was barely aware of the steepening slope.

  Jean’s wagon started slipping backward on the dry sand. One of the oxen fell to its knees, and the other beasts were thrown off their strides. The oxen grunted and made lowing sounds I’d never heard before, as if they were frightened.

  It felt as if the entire mountain was moving, and my body seemed to lurch in sympathy with the motion. I caught my breath and heard a strange, panicky sound emerge from my throat. To the left of the path, a sheer drop-off plummeted into a steep gorge, the treetops at the bottom reminding me of daggers.

  Jean shouted at the oxen, his whip cracking. The wagon lurched and started to slide sideways, almost going over the precipice. It came to a stop inches from the lead oxen of Bayliss’s wagon.

  Bayliss motioned urgently to me and I ran to him with my heart in my mouth. Jean’s wagon had nearly slid into me, I realized when I was finally able to think straight. I would have gone over the edge.

  Bayliss handed me the reins. “Hold the wagon right here,” he said sternly. Glowering, he clambered out of the seat and went to the back of the wagon, and I could hear the sound of something being slammed home. The wagon, which had been sliding slowly backward, stopped moving. Then Bayliss marched past me, his boots digging into the steep trail as he assessed the position of Jean’s wagon.

  “Block the wheels,” he commanded, “or we’ll end up at the bottom of the ravine.”

  “I’ve not been told to do that,” Jean Baptiste answered, a stubborn look on his face I’d never seen before.

  “Block the wheels, you damn fool!” Bayliss shouted. As if to reinforce his words, the big wagon slid another couple of inches and teetered on the edge of the cliff. Bayliss hurried to the back of the Donner wagon to block the wheels himself.

  Jean jumped down, red-faced. “You have no right to interfere,” he said angrily.

  “I have every right to protect my wagon,” Bayliss said, squaring off with him. “Even if I have to do your job as well as my own.”

  Both of them glanced my way, as if trying to gauge whose side I was taking. It was only then that I realized the fight was about more than the safety of the wagons.

  “What’s going on here?” It was Father. He was nearly sliding down the slope in his haste. The scree and gravel of the hill was held together by sand, which crumbled at the slightest touch.

  “Their oxen are too weak to pull their wagon up the slope!” Bayliss said. “I blocked the wheels, but we need to use the pulleys!”

  “That’s for Mister Donner to decide!” Jean shouted back.

  Father turned around and assessed the situation. He examined the four oxen pulling the Donner wagon, then hopped up on the tail, untied the canvas, and looked inside.

  He also examined our wagon. In the middle of the inspection, he glanced up and noticed me in the driver’s seat. He was clearly surprised, but said nothing of it.

  “We will unload both wagons,” he announced finally. “We can come back later for the supplies. Once they’re unloaded, we may not need to use the pulleys and ropes.”

  It is a good solution, I thought admiringly. By including his own wagon as part of the problem, he was avoiding casting blame.

  Once the wagons were unloaded, the oxen managed to make it up the hill, and the problem was resolved.

  But I noticed that the solution didn’t do much to mollify either Jean Baptiste or Bayliss.

  #

  Until this part of the journey, the trails ahead of us had been clearly marked and easy to follow. There was something reassuring in seeing the ruts of wagon wheels, the stumps of trees cut down for firewood, the remains of old campfires, the boulders and timbers that had been moved aside by other wagon trains.

  Now it was as if we were blazing a brand-new trail––which, if we had but known it, we were in fact doing. We had been told that Lansford Hastings had left Fort Bridger ten days before with another wagon train, leaving handwritten instructions nailed to the trees for us to follow. We were following their trail into Weber Canyon.

  It was the most difficult terrain we had yet faced.

  We found a letter from Hastings, hastily scrawled, telling us to wait for him, that he’d show us a new and better route. We wasted two valuable days waiting. Finally, it was decided that Charles Stanton, William Pike, and Father would hike on ahead and see if they could meet our guide along the trail.

  Strange as may seem, those of us left behind were still in good spirits when Father and his two companions trudged off, in spite of the previous few days of difficulty and the looming winter. Having days off from the grueling routine of the trail was a little like playing hooky from school.

  I would have enjoyed it more if Jean Baptiste and Bayliss weren’t acting like spoiled children. They glared at each other if either of them went near me. As a result, they both stayed away, hovering just out of earshot. I tried to mediate, but it was hopeless. The tension in the air made it impossible to have a discussion with them. I shook my head in disgust and used the time to write in my journal.

  One night, as I sat with my family at dinner, I realized that for many weeks, I had paid little attention to my siblings. Mother was tight-lipped around me, which was the only sign of how angry she was with me. I’ve been off on a cloud, I realized.

  The boys were still rambunctious, but they had taken on a more serious demeanor. They spent most of their time with the younger drivers, who had taken them under their wing. Patty had grown up a great deal in the months on the trail. She was only nine, but was acting like a responsible young woman––more responsible than I, in fact. As I watched my sister help Mother prepare the meal, I realized that I had been completely selfish. Patty had been doing my chores as well as hers.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” I blurted out. “I should be helping you more.”

  She didn’t respond, just continued to ladle the soup into bowls in stony silence. Patty looked surprised, and both of the boys were wide-eyed. Father was staring off into the distance, not really there––planning the next day’s route, perhaps, or dreaming of California.

  Then Mother’s manner softened. “You will not always have the boys chasing you,” she said. “I don’t mind––and Patty likes to help. As long as you help your father, Virginia, I forgive you.”

  Tears came to my eyes, and
as I went to bed that night, I vowed to do better. But soon, Jean Baptiste came a-calling, and all my promises vanished into thin air.

  The days of rest passed quickly. It wasn’t only us pioneers who needed the break: the livestock and the horses needed to be rested and grazed. The trip was far more arduous than any of us had expected, despite the warnings, for the warnings had always been presented cheerfully, as if they were of no consequence. The truth was far different.

  Every morning, we women rose early, started the fires, and set the kettles to boiling for coffee and morning beans––those of us who still had them. Then we milked the cows and baked the bread, and that was only the beginning. Our days sometimes seemed to end just as we were starting them. We baked and cleaned, hauled water from the streams, gathered firewood, aired the bedding, and sewed up rents in the canvas, and when all these tasks were done and we finally had some leisure time, it was already dark and time to retire.

  We’d go to bed with sore backs, for the day’s chores required stooping to wash clothes or draw water, and bending over open fires to retrieve burned food and set it back in the pot, the smoke in our eyes and the cold at our backs. We had no chairs or tables to help ease our work.

  In this desolate land, we scrounged what food we could and prepared whatever was available. Cooking seemed to take up just as much time as it had when we had plenty. Mosquitoes found us and feasted on us, so at least some creatures in this awful land were eating well.

  Would that we had rested less often! Idle days were a luxury we didn’t have. We had spent a week resting at Fort Bridger, and would spend several days at the base of the Wasatch Mountains, and yet another week at the foot of the Sierra Nevada. I wish now that we had pushed on, despite our weariness, despite the pleasure it gave us to sit idle.

  Perhaps if we had gritted our teeth and pressed on, everything that happened later might have been avoided. But we trusted the advice of those who were supposed to know best, and who we thought wished us well.

  CHAPTER 14

  Diary of Charles Stanton, August 6, 1846

  Had I chosen with whom to travel on such a difficult journey, I would have chosen men in the exact mold of my two companions, James Reed and Bill Pike.

  I am aware that Reed isn’t well liked by the rest of the party, but I’ve had dealings with men like him many times in my business career. Gruff, honest, and hardworking, such men are reliable and dependable, though not the liveliest of companions in the evenings after work. While they are abed resting up for the next day’s labor, I can be found with our less reliable but more spirited peers, drinking and carousing the night away without a worry in the world.

  Bill Pike belongs more in the latter camp. He is neither as well off as Reed nor as dour, and he enjoys a good drink. He is an excellent traveling companion, easygoing and energetic.

  Me? As it happens, I have an appetite for both hard work and hard play. I like both men.

  I am well aware that my arguments probably swayed the Donner Party to take the Hastings Cutoff. What I didn’t reveal was my own doubts. In my long business career, I’ve also had dealings with men like Lansford Hastings, and I know that such men can either break you or make you rich. They are the men who make things happen––despite having a tendency, far too often, to be wrong. I had no choice but to gamble, for I am too far in debt to play it safe.

  I’ve wagered everything I have on this trip. All my wealth is tied up in the trail-worn merchandise in my three wagons. Some of the perishables I’d hoped would be safely in California by now are already too far gone to save, though I made a small profit selling some to the other emigrants––though nothing like the kind of money I would have made in California.

  By the time we started off on our little “shortcut,” I was beginning to believe it was a mistake. The only question in my mind was whether it was a bigger mistake to turn back or to push on. Did I wish to survive, even if destitute, or did I wish to risk all and perhaps die trying?

  It was probably too late to change routes anyway. I suspected I would have difficulty convincing the others to turn back. Once men such as James Reed set their minds on a task, it is nearly impossible to dissuade them.

  Nevertheless, my misgivings grew as the route ahead of us was revealed. It was unforgiving terrain, with massive boulders and narrow paths cut off by sharp angles in the sheer cliffs. Fallen timbers and loose shale blocked the path. Steep gullies and waterfalls were around every corner. It was madness.

  On the second day, we found Lansford Hastings nailing another one of his inadequate letters to a tree. He was a little man with an impressive mustache, a potbelly, and clothes that were designed more for the boardroom of a bank than for the dusty trail. He seemed surprised and a little alarmed to see us. While the others were talking, I pulled the note from the tree and read it: “Please continue on, I will meet you later with further instructions.”

  What is his game? I wondered. These notes were both reassuring and distressingly vague. They seemed to be designed to do nothing more than lure us farther on this impossible route.

  As hard as it is to believe given our distrust of him, we were about to be bamboozled by the man yet again.

  “Of course this isn’t an adequate road, I never said it was,” I heard him say in response to Reed’s exasperated questioning. “I have found an easier route, believe me. Just ahead.”

  “Tell me, Hastings,” Pike demanded, “have you ever gone this way before? With wagons?”

  “As it happens,” Hastings said, sounding offended, “I am nearly finished leading the Harlan-Young Party to the Humboldt River. But the route we took was too rough and would take you too long. I have, in fact, found a better route and have marked it for you.”

  “Why shouldn’t we go the same way as the Harlan-Young wagon train?” Pike asked.

  “You can if you wish. There is a fork up ahead, and if you wish to ignore my advice, you will see which route they took. However, I strongly urge you to take the new path I have marked.”

  “But their wagon train made it safely; surely we need only to follow them,” Pike insisted.

  “They did indeed make it, but it was a very time-consuming and exhausting trek,” Hastings said. “We were late arriving at our destination. Indeed, I must hurry back. Therefore, I would encourage you to follow this new path I have laid out for you.”

  “Not so fast, you humbug!” Reed roared. “We’ve followed your advice at every turn, and yet we seem to be falling farther and farther behind.”

  Hastings waved his hand dismissively. “I assure you, sir, that you will reach California in plenty of time. Just continue following my instructions.”

  Reed was glowering. He too has put his reputation on the line, which I know is as valuable to him as my wagons full of goods are to me. He has also brought along his family, so he has loved ones to consider. As for me, I didn’t care any more who was right or who was wrong. I only wanted out of this trap.

  Hastings was mounting his mule before we realized he was trying to leave. We started to object, but he waved to us and trotted off. “See you in a few days, folks. Follow the path and you’ll be fine!”

  I wanted to take out my rifle and shoot him in the back. From the looks Pike and Reed were giving him, they had the same impulse. Then the fat little man rounded a curve and disappeared from sight.

  Reed and Pike seemed defeated.

  “I don’t trust that man,” Reed muttered. “I don’t know what I saw in him.”

  “After what we’ve been through, none of us do,” I said. “But we are already committed to this road, unless you wish to go back to Fort Bridger. Unless you wish to admit to the others that you have made a mistake.”

  Reed looked down at the ground as if looking for an answer in the pine needles and dust. He kicked out, and a rock went careening against the cliff face and then over the side of the ravine.

  “What now?” asked Pike.

  No one answered him. I sighed and turned to Reed. “Why do
n’t you go on back to the main party and present them with the choices, Mister Reed?” I said. Such as they are, I was thinking. “Mister Pike and I will push on ahead for a ways and find out if this trail is as satisfactory as Mister Hastings assures us it is.”

  “Yes, I still think we ought to check out the trail the Harlan-Young Party took and compare,” Pike said. “At least we know they made it through.”

  “We can try both routes for a short ways,” I answered. “It should be clear enough which we should take.”

  Reed nodded. “Very well. We will wait three days for your return,” he said. “When you come back with your scouting report, we will put it to a vote before the entire party and choose our path.”

  I nodded. I didn’t think we had any choice but to move forward. The only question was whether to take the proven but difficult Weber Canyon route or the new route that Hastings had assured us was easier.

  In every case, we had chosen the unproven “easier” route, and in every case, it had turned out to be much more difficult and time-consuming than if we had followed the more established path. But the farther we fall behind, the more urgent it is to save time.

  It’s as if we are destined to always choose wrong.

  #

  After Reed left, Pike and I agreed to explore the Weber Canyon route for one full day and then return to the same spot. Then we would investigate Hastings’s new route for one more day, and after that, return to the Donner Party. Our plan was for it to take three and a half days in total. We hoped to arrive back at the wagon train in plenty of time to influence the vote.