The Summer of 1861, now well advanced, was rife withwarand rumors of war, and foreshadowings of coming events. The old and the young were flushed with patriotism, each eager to help his country's cause. I, remembering grandma's training, was ready to give my services to hospital work. Earnest as was this desire, however, I was dissuaded from taking definite steps in that direction by those who knew that my slender physique and girlish appearance would defeat my purpose before the board of appointing physicians. Moreover,Mr. Houghton'svisits and frequent letters were changing my earlier plans for the future, and finally led to my naming the tenth of October, 1861, as our wedding day.
The ceremony was solemnized by theRev. J.A. Benton, of Sacramento. The event is also noteworthy as being the occasion of the first reunion of the five Donner sisters since their parting at Sutter's Fort in June, 1847. Georgia's place was by my side, while Elitha, Leanna, and Frances each grouped with husband and children in front among friends, who had come to witness the plighting of vows between my hero and me. Not until I had donned my travelling suit, and my little white Swiss wedding dress was being packed, did I fully realize that the days of inseparable companionship between Georgia and me were past; She had long been assured that in my new home a welcome would be ever ready for her, yet she had thoughtfully answered, "No, I am not needed there, and I feel that I am needed here."
Nature's wedding gift to us was a week of glorious weather, and its first five days we passed in San Francisco, the bustling, historic city, which I knew so well, yet had never seen before. Then we boarded the afternoon boat up the bay, expecting to spend the evening and following morning in Sonoma with Grandpa and Grandma Brunner, but the vessel failed to reach Lakeside Landing in time to connect with the northbound coach. This mischance necessitated our staying overnight at the only hostelry in the place.
The cry, "All aboard for Sonoma!" hurried us from the table next morning, and on reaching the sidewalk, we learned that the proprietor of the hotel had bespoken the two best seats in the coach for us.
I was too happy to talk until after we crossed theSonoma River, shaded by grand old oak, sycamore, and laurel trees, and then onward, I was too happy to remain silent. Before us lay the valley which brought back memories of my childhood, and I was in a mood to recall only the brightest, as we sped on to our destination. My companion shared my delight and gave heed to each scene I called to his attention.
The coach stopped in front of the hotel, and we alighted upon almost the same spot from which I had climbed into the carriage to leave Sonoma six years earlier. But, oh, how changed was everything! One sweeping glance at the little town revealed the fact that it had passed its romantic age and lost its quickening spirit. Closed were the homes of the old Spanish families; gone were thecaballerosand the bright-eyedseñoritas; grass-grown was the highway to the mines; the flagstaff alone remained flushed with its old-time dignity and importance. In subdued mood, I stepped into the parlor until our names should be registered. When my husband returned, I said,
"The carpet on this floor, the chairs in this room, and the pictures on these walls were in place in grandma's home when I left her—perhaps she is no longer living."
He left me again to make inquiry concerning those whom we had come to see, and ascertained that the Brunners had remarried for the purpose of facilitating the readjustment of their property rights, and of rescuing them from the hands of a scheming manager, who, with his family, was now living on the estate, and caring for grandma, but would not permit grandpa to enter the house.
After sending a messenger to find grandpa, I led the way to the open door of the old home, then slipped aside to let my husband seek admission. He rapped.
GENERAL VALLEJO'S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832
GENERAL VALLEJO'S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832
GENERAL VALLEJO'S OLD JAIL
GENERAL VALLEJO'S OLD JAIL
I heard a side door open, uneven footsteps in the hall, and him saying quietly, "I think the old lady herself is coming, and you had better meet her alone." I crossed the threshold, opened my arms, and uttered the one word, "Grandma!"
She came and rested her head against my bosom and I folded my arms about her just as she had enfolded me when I went to her a lonely child yearning for love. She stirred, then drew back, looked up into my face and asked, "Who be you?"
Touched by her wistful gaze, I exclaimed, "Grandma, don't you know me?"
"Be you Eliza?" she asked, and when I had given answer, she turned from me in deepest emotion, murmuring, "No, no, it can't be my little Eliza!" She would have tottered away had I not supported her to a seat in the well-remembered living room and caressed her until she looked up through her tears, saying, "When you smile, you be my little Eliza, but when you look serious, I don't know you."
She inquired about Georgia, and how I came to be there without her. Then she bade me call my husband, and thanked him for bringing me to her. Forgetting all the faults and shortcomings that once had troubled her sorely, she spoke of my busy childhood and the place I had won in the affections of all who knew me.
A tender impulse took her from us a moment. She returned, saying, "Now, you must not feel bad when you see what I have in the hand behind me," and drawing it forth continued, "This white lace veil which I bought at Sutter's Fort when your mother's things were sold at auction, is to cover my face when I am dead; and this picture of us three is to be buried in the coffin with me. I want your husband to see how you looked when you was little."
She appeared proudly happy; but a flame of embarrassment burned my cheeks, as she handed him the picture wherein I showed to such disadvantage, with the question, "Now, doesn't she look lovely?" and heard his affirmative reply.
Upon the clock lay a broken toy which had been mine, and in childlike ecstasy she spoke of it and of others which she had kept ever near her. When invited to go to luncheon with us, she brought first her bonnet, next her shawl, for me to hold while she should don her best apparel for the occasion. Instead of going directly, she insisted on choosing the longer road to town, that we might stop at Mrs. Lewis's to see if she and her daughter Sallie would recognize me. Frequently as we walked along, she hastened in advance, and then faced about on the road to watch us draw near. When we reached Mrs. Lewis's door, she charged me not to smile, and clapped her hands when both ladies appeared and called me by name.
As we were taking leave, an aged horseman drew rein at the gate and dismounted, and Mrs. Lewis looking up, exclaimed, "Why, there isMr. Brunner!"
It did not take me long to meet him part way down the walk, nor did I shrink from the caress he gave me, nor know how much joy and pain that meeting evoked in him, even after he turned to Mr. Houghton saying fervently, "Do not be angry because I kiss your wife and put my arms around her, for she is my child come back to me. I helped raise her, and we learned her to do all kinds of work, what is useful, and she was my comfort child in my troubles."
My husband's reply seemed to dispel the recollections which had made the reunion distressing, and grandpa led his horse and walked and talked with us until we reached the turn where he bade us leave him while he disposed of Antelope preparatory to joining us at luncheon. Proceeding, we observed an increasing crowd in front of the hotel, massed together as if in waiting. As we drew nearer, a way was opened for our passage, and friends and acquaintances stepped forth, shook hands with me and desired to be introduced to my husband. It was apparent that the message which we had sent to grandpa early in the day, stating the hour we would be at the hotel, had spread among the people, who were now assembled for the purpose of meeting us.
Strangers also were among them, for I heard the whispered answer many times, "Why, that is little Eliza Donner, who used to live with the Brunners, and that is Mr. Houghton, her husband—they can only stay until two o'clock." The hotel table, usually more than ample to accommodate its guests, was not nearly large enough for all who followed to the dining-room, so the smiling host placed another table across the end for many who had intended to lunch at home that day.
Meantime, our little party was seated, with Mr. Houghton at the head of the table, I at his right; grandpa opposite me, and grandma at my right. She was supremely happy, would fold her hands in her lap and say, "If you please," and "Thank you," as I served her; and I was grateful that she claimed my attention, for grandpa's lips were mute.
He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks. Not until we reached a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express itself in words. Grasping my husband's hand he said:
"My friend, I must leave you. I broke bread and tasted salt with you, but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye. You bring back my child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast, or happiness to offer. I must see and talk with her in the house of strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear! But before I go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do. You will not have bitter thoughts and blame one another."
Here grandma interrupted meekly, "I know I did wrong, but I did not mean to, and I be sorry."
The pause which followed our given promise afforded me the opportunity to clasp their withered hands together between mine, and gain from grandpa an earnest pledge that he would watch over and be kind to her, who had married him when he was poor and in ill health; who had toiled for him through the long years of his convalescence; who had been the power behind the throne, his best aid and counsellor, until time had turned her back in its tide, and made her a child again.
My husband followed him from the room to bestow the sympathy and encouragement which a strong man can give to a desponding one.
When the carriage was announced, which would take us to Benicia in time to catch the Sacramento steamer to San Francisco, I tied on grandma's bonnet, pinned her shawl around her shoulders, and told her that we would take her home before proceeding on our way, but she crossed her hands in front and artlessly whispered:
"No; I'd like to stay in town a while to talk with friends; but I thank you just the same, and shall not forget that I am to go to you, after you be settled in the new home, and his little daughter has learned to call you 'mother.'"
We left her standing on the hotel piazza, smiling and important among the friends who had waited to see us off; but grandpa was nowhere in sight.
The steamer was at the landing when we reached Benicia so we hurriedly embarked and found seats upon the deck overlooking the town. As the moonlight glistened on the white spray which encircled our departing boat, the sound of the Angelus came softly, sweetly, prayerfully over the water; and I looking up and beyond, saw the glimmering lights of Saint Catherine's Convent, fitting close to scenes of my childhood, its silver-toned bells cheering my way to long life, honors, and many blessings!
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.
FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU.
In honor to the State that cherishes the landmark; in justice to history which is entitled to the truth; in sympathetic fellowship with those who survived the disaster; and in reverent memory of those who suffered and died in the snow-bound camps of the Sierra Nevadas, I refute the charges of cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity which have been ascribed to theDonner Party.
In this Appendix I set forth some of the unwarranted statements to which frequent reference has been made in the foregoing pages, that they may be examined and analyzed, and their utter unreliability demonstrated by comparison with established facts and figures. These latter data, for the sake of brevity, are in somewhat statistical form. A few further incidents, which I did not learn of or understand until long after they occurred, are also related.
The accounts of weather conditions, of scarcity of food and fuel, also the number of deaths in the camps before the first of March, 1847, are verified by the carefully kept"Diary of Patrick Breen, One of the Donner Party,"; which has recently been published by theAcademy of Pacific Coast History
The following article, which originally appeared inThe California Star, April 10, 1847, is here quoted from "The Life and Days of General John A. Sutter," byT.J. Schoonover:
A more shocking scene cannot be imagined than was witnessed by the party of men who went to the relief of the unfortunate emigrants in the California Mountains. The bones of those who had died and been devoured by the miserable ones that still survived were around their tents and cabins; bodies of men, women, and children with half the flesh torn from them lay on every side. A woman sat by the side of the body of her dead husband cutting out his tongue; the heart she had already taken out, broiled, and eaten. The daughter was seen eating the father; and the mother, that [viz.body] of her children; children, that of father and mother. The emaciated, wild, and ghastly appearance of the survivors added to the horror of it. Language can not describe the awful change that a few weeks of dire suffering had wrought in the minds of the wretched and pitiable beings. Those who one month before would have shuddered and sickened at the thought of eating human flesh, or of killing their companions and relatives to preserve their own lives, now looked upon the opportunity the acts afforded them of escaping the most dreadful of deaths as providential interference in their behalf.
Calculations were coldly made, as they sat around their gloomy camp fires, for the next succeeding meals. Various expedients were devised to prevent the dreadful crime of murder, but they finally resolved to kill those who had least claims to longer existence. Just at this moment some of them died, which afforded the rest temporary relief. Some sank into the arms of death cursing God for their miserable fate, while the last whisperings of others were prayers and songs of praise to the Almighty. After the first few deaths, but the one all-absorbing thought of individual self-preservation prevailed. The fountains of natural affection were dried up. The chords that once vibrated with connubial, parental, and filial affection were torn asunder, and each one seemed resolved, without regard to the fate of others, to escape from impending calamity.
So changed had the emigrants become that when the rescuing party arrived with food, some of them cast it aside, and seemed to prefer the putrid human flesh that still remained. The day before the party arrived, one emigrant took the body of a child about four years of age in bed with him and devoured the whole before morning; and the next day he ate another about the same age, before noon.
This article, one of the most harrowing to be found in print, spread through the early mining-camps, and has since been quoted by historians and authors as an authentic account of scenes and conduct witnessed by the first relief corps to Donner Lake. It has since furnished style and suggestion for other nerve-racking stories on the subject, causing keener mental suffering to those vitally concerned than words can tell. Yet it is easily proved to be nothing more or less than a perniciously sensational newspaper production, too utterly false, too cruelly misleading, to merit credence. Evidently, it was written without malice, but in ignorance, and by some warmly clad, well nourished person, who did not know the humanizing effect of suffering and sorrow, and who may not have talked with either a survivor or a rescuer of theDonner Party.
When the Donner Party ascended the Sierra Nevadas on the last day of October, 1846, it comprised eighty-one souls; namely, Charles Berger,[19]Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), John Breen, Edward Breen, Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon Breen, James Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella Breen, Jacob Donner,[19]Elizabeth Donner[19](his wife), William Hook,[20]Solomon Hook, George Donner, Jr., Mary Donner, Isaac Donner,[20]Lewis Donner,[19]Samuel Donner,[19]George Donner, Sr.,[19]Tamsen Donner[19](his wife), Elitha Donner, Leanna C. Donner, Frances Eustis Donner, Georgia Anna Donner, Eliza Poor Donner, Patrick Dolan,[20]John Denton,[20]Milton Elliot,[19]William Eddy, Eleanor Eddy (his wife), Margaret Eddy,[19]and James Eddy,[19]Jay Fosdick[20]and Sarah Fosdick (his wife), William Foster, Sarah Foster (his wife) and George Foster,[19]Franklin W. Graves, Sr.,[20]Elisabeth Graves[20](his wife), Mary Graves, William C. Graves, Eleanor Graves, Lovina Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, Franklin W. Graves, Jr.,[20]and Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Noah James, Lewis S. Keseberg, Philippine Keseberg (his wife), Ada Keseberg[20]and Lewis S. Keseberg, Jr.,[19]Mrs. Lovina Murphy[19](a widow), John Landrum Murphy,[19]Lemuel Murphy,[20]Mary Murphy, William G. Murphy and Simon Murphy, Mrs. Amanda McCutchen and Harriet McCutchen,[19]Mrs. Harriet Pike (widow), Nioma Pike and Catherine Pike,[19]Mrs. Margaret Reed, Virginia Reed, Martha J. Reed, James F. Reed, Jr., and Thomas K. Reed, Joseph Rhinehart,[19]Charles Stanton,[20]John Baptiste Trubode, August Spitzer,[19]James Smith,[19]Samuel Shoemaker, Bailis Williams[19]and Eliza Williams (his sister), Mrs. Woolfinger (widow), Antonio (a Mexican) and Lewis and Salvador (the two Indians sent with Stanton by General Sutter).
Stated in brief, the result of the disaster to the party in the mountains was as follows:
The total number of deaths was thirty-six, as follows: fourteen in the mountains whileen routeto the settlement; fourteen at camp near Donner Lake; and eight at Donner's Camp.
The total number who reached the settlement was forty-five; of whom five were men, eight were women, and thirty-two were children.
The family of James F. Reed and that ofPatrick Breensurvived in unbroken numbers. The only other family in which all the children reached the settlement was that ofCaptain George Donner.
Fourteen of the eighty-one souls constituting theDonner Partywere boys and girls between the ages of nineteen and twelve years; twenty-six ranged from twelve years to a year and a half; and seven were nursing babes. There were only thirty-four adults,—twenty-two men and twelve women.
Of the first-named group, eleven survived the disaster. One youth dieden routewith the Forlorn Hope; one at the Lake Camp; and one at Bear Valley in charge of the First Relief.
Twenty of the second-named group also reached the settlements. One dieden routewith the First Relief; two at Donner's Camp (in March, 1847); two at Starved Camp, in charge of the Second Relief; and one at the Lake Camp (in March).
Two of the seven babes lived, and five perished at the Lake Camp. They hungered and slowly perished after famine had dried the natural flow, and infant lips had drawn blood from maternal breasts.
The first nursling's life to ebb was that of Lewis Keseberg, Jr., on January 24, 1847.[21]His grief-stricken mother could not be comforted. She hugged his wasted form to her heart and carried it far from camp, where she dug a grave and buried it in the snow.
Harriet McCutchen, whose mother had struggled on with the Forlorn Hope in search of succor, breathed her last on the second of February, while lying upon the lap of Mrs. Graves; and the snow being deep and hard frozen, Mrs. Graves bade her son William make the necessary excavation near the wall within their cabin, and they buried the body there, where the mother should find it upon her return. Catherine Pike died in the Murphy cabin a few hours before the arrival of food from the settlement and was buried on the morning of February 22.[22]
Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. ALDER CREEK
Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. ALDER CREEK
DENNISON'S EXCHANGE AND THE PARKER HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO
DENNISON'S EXCHANGE AND THE PARKER HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO
Those were the only babes that perished before relief came. Does not the fact that so many young children survived the disaster refute the charges of parental selfishness and inhumanity, and emphasize the immeasurable self-sacrifice, love, and care that kept so many of the little ones alive through that long, bitter siege of starvation?
Mrs. Elinor Eddy, who passed away in the Murphy cabin on the seventh of February, was the only wife and mother called by death, in either camp, before the arrival of the First Relief. BothPatrick Breen's diaryandWilliam G. Murphy, then a lad of eleven years, assert that Mrs. Eddy and little Margaret, her only daughter, were buried in the snow near the Murphy cabin on the ninth of February. Furthermore, the Breen Diary and the death-list of the Donner Party show that not a husband or father died at the Lake Camp during the entire period of the party's imprisonment in the mountains.[23]
How, then, could thatFirst Relief, or either of the other relief parties see—how could they even have imagined that they saw—"wife sitting at the side of her husband who had just died, mutilating his body," or "the daughter eating her father," or "mother that of her children," or "children that of father and mother"? The same questions might be asked regarding the other revolting scenes pictured by theStar.
The seven men who first braved the dangers of the icy trail in the work of rescue came over a trackless, ragged waste of snow, varying from ten to forty feet in depth,[24]and approached the camp-site near the lake at sunset. They halloed, and up the snow steps came those able to drag themselves to the surface. When they descended into those cabins, they found no cheering lights. Through the smoky atmosphere, they saw smouldering fires, and faced conditions so appalling that words forsook them; their very souls were racked with agonizing sympathy. There were the famine-stricken and the perishing, almost as wasted and helpless as those whose sufferings had ceased. Too weak to show rejoicing, they could only beg with quivering lips and trembling hands, "Oh, give us something to eat! Give us something to drink! We are starving!"
True, their hands were grimy, their clothing tattered, and the floors were bestrewn with hair from hides and bits of broken bullock bones; but of connubial, parental, or filial inhumanity, there were no signs.
With what deep emotion those seven heroic men contemplated the conditions in camp may be gathered fromMr. Aguilla Glover'sown notes, published inThornton'swork:
Feb. 19, 1847. The unhappy survivors were, in short, in a condition most deplorable, and beyond power of language to describe, or imagination to conceive.
The emigrants had not yet commenced eating the dead. Many of the sufferers had been living on bullock hides for weeks and even that sort of food was so nearly exhausted that they were about to dig up from the snow the bodies of their companions for the purpose of prolonging their wretched lives.
Thornton's work contains the following statement by a member of one of the relief corps:
On the morning of February 20,[25]Racine Tucker, John Rhodes, and Riley Moutrey went to the camp ofGeorge Donnereight miles distant, taking a little jerked beef. These sufferers (eighteen) had but one hide remaining. They had determined that upon consuming this they would dig from the snow the bodies of those who had died from starvation. Mr. Donner was helpless,Mrs. Donnerwas weak but in good health, and might have come to the settlement with this party; yet she solemnly but calmly determined to remain with her husband and perform for him the last sad offices of affection and humanity. And this she did in full view that she must necessarily perish by remaining behind. The three men returned the same day with seven refugees[26]from Donner Camp.
John Baptiste Trubodehas distinct recollections of the arrival and departure of Tucker's party, and of the amount of food left by it.
He said to me in that connection:
"To each of us who had to stay in camp, one of the First Relief Party measured a teacupful of flour, two small biscuits, and thin pieces of jerked beef, each piece as long as his first finger, and as many pieces as he could encircle with that first finger and thumb brought together, end to end. This was all that could be spared, and was to last until the next party could reach us.
"Our outlook was dreary and often hopeless. I don't know what I would have done sometimes without the comforting talks and prayers of those two women, your mother and Aunt Elizabeth. Then evenings after you children went to sleep,Mrs. George Donnerwould read to me from the book[27]she wrote in every day. If that book had been saved, every one would know the truth of what went on in camp, and not spread these false tales.
"I dug in the snow for the dead cattle, but found none, and we had to go back to our saltless old bullock hide, days before the Second Relief got to us, on the first of March."
[19]
Died while in the mountain camps.
[20]
Dieden routeover the mountains to the settlements in California.
[21]
Report brought by John Baptiste to Donner's Camp, after one of his trips to the lake.
[22]
Incident related by William C. Graves, after he reached the settlement.
[23]
Franklin W. Graves and Jay Fosdick perished in December, 1846, whileen routeto the settlement with the Forlorn Hope.
[24]
One of the stumps near the Breen-Graves cabin, cut for fuel while the snow was deepest, was found by actual measurement to be twenty-two feet in height. It is still standing.
[25]
Thornton's dates are one day later than those in the Breen Diary. Breen must have lost a dayen route.
[26]
The First Relief Corps took six, instead of seven, refugees from Donner Camp, and set out from the lake cabins with twenty-three, instead of twenty-four, refugees.
[27]
The journal, herbarium, manuscript, and drawings of Mrs. George Donner were not among the goods delivered at the Fort by the Fallon Party, and no trace of them was ever found.
On the third of March, 1847, the Reed-Greenwood, orSecond ReliefCorps (exceptingNicholas Clark) left camp with the following refugees:Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon Breen, James Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella Breen, Solomon Hook, Mary Donner, Isaac Donner, Mrs. Elizabeth Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B. Graves, Franklin W. Graves, Jr., Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Martha J. Reed, and Thomas K. Reed. The whole party, as has been already told, were forced into camp about ten miles below the summit on the west side of the Sierras, by one of the fiercest snow-storms of the season.
All credit is due Mr. and Mrs. Breen for keeping the nine helpless waifs left with them at Starved Camp alive until food was brought them by members of the Third Relief Party. Mr. Breen's much prized diary does not cover the experiences of that little band in their struggle across the mountains, but concludes two days before they started. After he and his family succeeded in reaching the Sacramento Valley, he gave his diary (kept at Donner Lake) to Colonel George McKinstrey for the purpose of assisting him in making out his report to Captain Hall, U.S.N., Sloop of WarWarren, Commander Northern District of California.
James F. Reed of the Reed-Greenwood Party, the second to reach the emigrants, has been adversely criticised from time to time, because he and six of his men returned to Sutter's Fort in March with no more than his own two children and Solomon Hook, a lad of twelve years, who had said that he could and would walk, and did.
Careful investigation, however, proves the criticism hasty and unfair. True, Mr. Reed went over the mountains with the largest and best equipped party sent out, ten well furnished, able-bodied men. But returning he left one man at camp to assist the needy emigrants.
The seventeen refugees whom he and nine companions brought over the summit comprised three weak, wasted adults, and fourteen emaciated young children. The prospect of getting them all to the settlement, even under favorable circumstances, had seemed doubtful at the beginning of the journey. Alas, one of the heaviest snow-storms of the season overtook them on the bleak mountain-side ten miles from the tops of the Sierra Nevadas. It continued many days. Food gave out, death took toll. The combined efforts of the men could not do more than provide fuel and keep the fires. All became exhausted. Rescuers and refugees might have perished there together had the nine men not followed what seemed their only alternative. Who would not have done what Reed did? With almost superhuman effort, he saved his two children. No one felt keener regret than he over the fact that he had been obliged to abandon at Starved Camp the eleven refugees he had heroically endeavored to save.
In those days of affliction, it were well nigh impossible to say who was most afflicted; still, it would seem that no greater destitution and sorrow could have been meted to any one than fell to the lot of Mrs. Murphy at the lake camp. The following incidents were related by her son, William G. Murphy, in an address to a concourse of people assembled on the shore of Donner Lake in February, 1896:
I was a little more than eleven years of age when we all reached these mountains, and that one-roomed shanty was built, where so many of us lived, ate, and slept. No!--Where so many of us slept, starved, and died! It was constructed for my mother and seven children (two being married) and her three grandchildren, and William Foster, husband of her daughter Sarah.
Early in December when the Forlorn Hope was planned, we were almost out of provisions; and my mother took the babes from the arms of Sarah and Harriet (Mrs. Pike) and told them that she would care for their little ones, and they being young might with William (Foster) and their brother Lemuel reach the settlement and return with food. And the four became members of that hapless band of fifteen.
Mr. Eddy being its leader, his wife and her two children came to live with us during his absence. When my eldest brother, on whom my mother depended, was very weak and almost at death's door, my mother went to the Breens and begged a little meat, just a few mouthfuls—I remember well that little piece of meat! My mother gave half of it to my dying brother; he ate it, fell asleep with a hollow death gurgle. When it ceased I went to him—he was dead—starved to death in our presence. Although starving herself, my mother said that if she had known that Landrum was going to die she would have given him the balance of the meat. Little Margaret Eddy lingered until February 4, and her mother until the seventh. Their bodies lay two days and nights longer in the room with us before we could find assistance able to bury them in the snow. Some days earlier Milton Elliot, weak and wandering around, had taken up his abode with us. We shared with him the remnant of our beef hides. We had had a lot of that glue-making material. But mark, it would not sustain life. Elliot soon starved to death, and neighbors removed and interred the body in the snow beside others.
Catherine Pike, my absent sister's baby, died on the eighteenth of February, only a few hours before the arrival of the First Relief. Thus the inmates of our shanty had been reduced to my mother, my sister Mary, brother Simon, Nioma Pike, Georgie Foster, myself, and little Jimmy Eddy.
When the rescuers decided they would carry out Nioma Pike, and that my sister Mary and I should follow, stepping in the tracks made by those who had snowshoes, strength seemed to come, so that I was able to cut and carry to my mother's shanty what appeared to me a huge pile of wood. It was green, but it was all I could get.
We left mother there with three helpless little ones to feed on almost nothing, yet in the hope that she might keep them alive until the arrival of the next relief.
Many of the survivors remember that after having again eaten food seasoned with salt, the boiled, saltless hides produced nausea and could not be retained by adult or child.
I say with deep reverence that flesh of the dead was used to sustain the living in more than one cabin near the lake. But it was not used until after the pittance of food left by the First Relief had long been consumed; not until after the wolves had dug the snow from the graves. Perhaps God sent the wolves to show Mrs. Murphy and also Mrs. Graves where to get sustenance for their dependent little ones.
Both were widows; the one had three, and the other four helpless children to save. Was it culpable, or cannibalistic to seek and use the only life-saving means left them? Were the acts and purposes of their unsteady hands and aching hearts less tender, less humane than those of the lauded surgeons of to-day, who infuse human blood from living bodies into the arteries of those whom naught else can save, or who strip skin from bodies that feel pain, to cover wounds which would otherwise prove fatal?
John Baptiste TrubodeandNicholas Clark, of the Second Relief, were the last men who saw my father alive. In August, 1883, the latter came to my home in San Jose.
This was our second meeting since that memorable morning of March 2, 1847, when he went in pursuit of the wounded mother bear, and was left behind by the relief party. We spoke long and earnestly of our experience in the mountains, and he wished me to deny the statement frequently made that, "Clark carried a pack of plunder and a heavy shotgun from Donner's Camp and left a child there to die." This I can do positively, for when the Third Relief Party took Simon Murphy and us "three little Donner girls" from the mountain camp, not a living being remained, except Mrs. Murphy andKesebergat the lake camp, and my father and mother at Donner's Camp. All were helpless except my mother.
The Spring following my interview with Nicholas Clark,John Baptistecame to San Jose, and Mr. McCutchen brought him to talk with me. John, always a picturesque character, had become a hop picker in hop season, and a fisherman the rest of the year. He could not restrain the tears which coursed down his bronzed cheeks as he spoke of the destitution and suffering in the snow-bound camps; of the young unmarried men who had been so light-hearted on the plains and brave when first they faced the snows. His voice trembled as he told how often they had tried to break through the great barriers, and failed; hunted, and found nothing; fished, and caught nothing; and when rations dwindled to strips of beef hide, their strength waned, and death found them ready victims. He declared,
The hair and bones found around the Donner fires were those of cattle. No human flesh was used by either Donner family. This I know, for I was there all winter and helped get all the wood and food we had, after starvation threatened us. I was about sixteen years old at the time. Our four men died early in December and were buried in excavations in the side of the mountain. Their bodies were never disturbed. As the snows deepened to ten and twelve feet, we lost track of their location.
When saying good-bye, he looked at me wistfully and exclaimed: "Oh, little Eliza, sister mine, how I suffered and worked to help keep you alive. Do you think there was ever colder, stronger winds than them that whistled and howled around our camp in the Sierras?"
He returned the next day, and in his quaint, earnest way expressed keenest regret that he and Clark had not remained longer in camp with my father and mother.
"I did not feel it so much at first; but after I got married and had children of my own, I often fished and cried, as I thought of what I done, for if we two men had stayed, perhaps we might have saved that little woman."
His careworn features lightened as I bade him grieve no more, for I realized that he was but a boy, overburdened with a man's responsibilities, and had done his best, and that nobly. Then I added what I have always believed, that no one was to blame for the misfortunes which overtook us in the mountains. The dangers and difficulties encountered by reason of taking the Hastings Cut-off had all been surmounted—two weeks more and we should have reached our destination in safety. Then came the snow! Who could foresee that it would come earlier, fall deeper, and linger longer, that season than for thirty years before? Everything that a party could do to save itself was done by theDonner Party; and certainly everything that a generous, sympathizing people could do to save the snow-bound was done by the people of California.