Ten American Girls From History

K >> Kate Dickinson Sweetser >> Ten American Girls From History

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

The river did not go down, as the men had hoped, so they began to cut
down trees and split them into twenty-five-foot logs which were
hollowed out and joined together by cross timbers, these were firmly
lashed to stakes driven into the bank, and ropes were tied to each end
to pull the rafts back and forth across the river. It was no easy
matter to get the heavy wagons down the steep bank to the rafts, and
they had to be held back by the ropes and let down slowly so the
wheels would run into the hollowed logs. The women and children stayed
in the wagons, and talked and laughed gaily, that they might not show
the fear they felt as they balanced above the swollen river. But it
was crossed safely and then on the oxen jogged over a rough road until
the great Valley of the Platte was reached, where the road was good
and the country beautiful beyond expression. Virginia says: "Our party
was now so large that there was a line of forty wagons winding its way
like a serpent through the valley. There was no danger of any kind,
and each day was happier than the one before. How I enjoyed galloping
over the plains on Billy!" she exclaims, adding, "At night we young
folks would sit around the camp-fire, chatting merrily, and often a
song would be heard, or some clever dancer would give us a barn-door
jig on the hind gate of a wagon!"

The caravan wound its slow way westward, making from fifteen to twenty
miles a day, and always at night, when the party camped, a corral was
formed to protect the cattle from thieving Indians, who, says
Virginia, sadly, "are not like grandma's Indians. They treat us kindly
except for taking our things, which is annoying but not terrifying."
And she adds, "We have fine fare for those who like to eat game, as we
have so many good riflemen in the party who are always bringing it
in." She then confesses, "I certainly never thought I would be
relishing antelope and buffalo steaks, but they are good food when one
has grown used to them. Often I ride with father in a buffalo hunt,
which is very thrilling. We all help Eliza, who has turned into a fine
camp cook. As soon as we reach the place where we are to spend the
night all hands get to work, and, my, but things taste good when that
meal is ready! When we drove into the South Fork of the Platte, Eliza
had the cream ready to churn, and while we were fording the stream she
worked so hard that she turned out several pounds of butter."

The diary gives quite a long narrative here as follows:

"By the Fourth of July we were near Fort Laramie in Dakota, and what a
sight I saw as we approached the fort. 'Grandma's Indians!' I
exclaimed, as I saw bands of horses grazing on the plains and Indians
smeared with war-paint and armed with hunting-knives, tomahawks, bows
and arrows, moving about in the sunlight. They did not seem to notice
us as we drove up to the strongly fortified walls around the buildings
of the American Fur Company, but by the time we were ready to leave,
the red men and their squaws were pressing close to the wagons to take
trinkets which we had ready for them. Little Patty stood by me and
every now and then she squeezed my arm and cried, 'Look! Look!' as the
Indians crowded around us. Many of the squaws and papooses were
gorgeous in white doeskin suits gaily trimmed with beads, and were
very different from us in our linsey dresses and sunbonnets.

"As soon as father met the manager of the Fur Company, he advised us
to go right on as soon as we could, because he said the Sioux were on
the war-path, going to fight the Crows or Blackfeet, and their march
would be through the country which we had to cross, and they might
treat us badly, or rob us, as they were in an ugly humor. This greatly
frightened some of the women, and to calm them the men cleaned and
loaded their rifles and did everything they could to hurry away from
the fort. We were there only four days, and when we drove away we met
the mounted Indians, about three hundred of them, tomahawks,
war-paint, and all! They looked very handsome and impressive as they
advanced in a stately procession, two abreast, and rode on before our
train, then halted and opened ranks. As our wagons passed between
their lines they took green twigs from between their teeth and tossed
them to us in token of friendship. Then, having shown their good
faith, they crowded around our wagons and showed great curiosity at
the funny little smoke-stack sticking through the top of our family
wagon. A brave caught a glimpse of his war-paint and feathers in our
looking-glass, which hung opposite the door, and he was fascinated.
Beckoning to his comrades, he pointed to it, and to the strange
reflection of himself, and they all fairly pushed to the front, to see
themselves, in the glass. Unfortunately at that time I rode up on
Billy, and at once the Indians forgot everything except their
admiration of my pony. They swarmed around me, grunting, nodding, and
gesturing, and brought buffalo robes and tanned buckskin, also pretty
beaded moccasins and robes made of grass, and signed to me that they
would give all these in exchange for Billy. I shook my head as hard as
I could shake it, but they were determined to have Billy. They made
signs that they would give their ponies for mine, but again I shook my
head. They talked together awhile, then one of them triumphantly
brought me an old coat which had evidently belonged to a soldier, and
seemed much surprised that its brass buttons were not enough of an
inducement to make me give up the coveted prize. Though both father
and I continued to refuse their request as positively as ever, they
still swarmed around us and looked at me in a most embarrassing way. I
did not mind much, but father seemed angry and he said, sternly:
'Virginia, you dismount at once and let one of the men take Billy. Get
into the wagon now.' When father spoke in that way I was never slow to
obey, so I climbed into the wagon, and, being anxious to get a better
look at the Indians, I took a field-glass out of the rack where it
hung and put it to my eyes. The glass clicked as I took it from the
rack and like a flash the Indians wheeled their ponies and scattered,
taking the noise for the click of firearms. I turned to mother and
laughed.

"'You see you need not be afraid, mother dear,' I said; 'I can fight
the whole Sioux tribe with a spy-glass! If they come near the wagon
again just watch me take it up and see them run!'"

Those were happy days of adventuring in a new and smiling country, and
all were in high spirits when on the 19th of July they reached the
Little Sandy River, where they encamped, and all gathered together to
talk over whether to take a new route which had been opened up by Mr.
Lansford Hastings, called the Hastings Cut-off. This route passed
along the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake, then joined the Old
Fort Hall emigrant road on the Humboldt River. The new route was said
to shorten the trip by about three hundred miles, and Virginia says in
her diary, "Father was so eager to reach California quickly, that he
was strongly in favor of taking the Cut-off, while others were equally
firm in their objections to taking such a risk. At that time our party
had grown to be a large one, for so many families had joined us on our
way across the plains, and all had to have their say about the matter.

"There was a long discussion of the merits of the two routes, and as a
result, at last we decided to split up, for a number of the party
preferred not to risk taking the new route, while eighty-seven of us,
including our family and the Donners, decided to take the Cut-off.

"On the 20th of July we broke camp and left the little Sandy, the
other division of the party taking the old trail to Fort Hall, and the
rest of us, who were called 'the Donner party' from that time, taking
the new one.

"When we reached Fort Bridger, we were told that Mr. Hastings, whom we
had expected to find there, had gone ahead to pilot a large emigrant
train, and had left word that all later bands were to follow his
trail; that they would find an abundant supply of wood, water, and
pasturage along the whole line of road except for one forty-mile
drive; that there were no difficult canons to pass; and that the road
was mostly good. This was encouraging and we traveled on comfortably
for a week, when we reached the spot where Webber River breaks through
the mountains into a canon. There, by the side of the road, was a
forked branch with a note stuck in its cleft, left by Hastings,
saying, 'I advise all parties to encamp and wait for my return. The
road I have taken is so rough that I fear wagons will not be able to
get through to the Great Salt Lake Valley.' He mentioned another and
better route which avoided the canon altogether, and at once father,
Mr. Stanton and William Pike said they would go ahead over this road,
and if possible meet Hastings and bring him back to pilot us through
to the valley.

"While the men went off to try to find Hastings, we encamped and
waited for them to come back. In five days father came alone, having
become separated from his companions, who he feared might have been
lost. They had met Hastings, but he had refused to leave his party for
their sake. Finally, however, father had insisted that he go with them
to a high peak of the Wahsatch Mountains and from there point out to
them the direction our party ought to take. Coming down from the peak,
father lost sight of Stanton and Pike and was forced to come on alone,
taking notes and blazing trees to help him in retracing his path when
he should have us to guide. Searchers were at once sent out after the
lost men, while we broke camp and started on our risky journey. It was
easy enough traveling at first, but the following day we were brought
to a sudden stop by a patch of dense woodland which it took a whole
day's chopping to open up enough for our wagons to pass through. From
there we chopped and pushed our way through what seemed an impassable
wilderness of high peaks and rock-bound canons, and then faced a great
rough gulch. Believing it would lead out to the valley, our men again
set to work vigorously, and for six long days they chopped until they
were almost exhausted. Then a new party of emigrants caught up with us
and, aided by three fresh men, the eight-mile road through the gulch
was finished. It did not lead to the opening we had expected, but
into a pretty mountain dell, but we were happy, because we found the
searchers there with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Pike. They reported that we
must go back on the newly made road and cross a more distant range of
mountains in order to strike the trail to the valley. That was a
moment of terror, even to the most courageous of our valiant band, but
everyone forced a smile and a cheerful word as we started to retrace
our way. We had five days more of traveling and road-making, and
climbed a mountain so steep that six yoke of oxen had to pull each
wagon up the steep ascent. Then we crossed the river flowing from Utah
Lake to Great Salt Lake and at last found the trail of the Hastings
party, thirty days after we set out for the point we had expected to
reach in ten or twelve days.

"While we rested we took an inventory of our provisions, and found the
supply was not sufficient to last until we should reach California.
Here was a predicament! Mr. Donner called for volunteers to ride ahead
on horseback to Sutter's Fort, to tell of our sorry plight and ask
Captain Sutter to send back provisions by them for us, as we traveled
toward them. Mr. Stanton and Mr. McCutchen said they would go to the
fort, and rode away on their errand of mercy.

"Our wagons, meanwhile, wound their slow way along, far behind the
horsemen, who were soon out of our sight, and two days later we found
a lovely green valley where there were twenty wells of clear,
sparkling water to cool our parched throats, which were only used to
the alkaline pools from which we had been obliged to drink. Close
beside the largest well we found a rough board, stuck in the ground
with strips of white paper pinned to it, and around the board pieces
of the paper were strewn on the turf, as if they had been torn off the
board. 'There has been some message written on that paper. We must
piece the bits together,' declared Mrs. Donner. No sooner said than
done. Laying the board on her lap, she began to patch the scraps
together, while we eagerly watched her. At last the words could be
read: '2 days--2 nights--hard driving--cross--desert--reach water.'
This was evidently meant as a warning to us, and the thought of two
days' hard driving through the desert was anything but cheering. In
fact, it would be such a strain on our cattle that we remained where
we were, with the fine water to drink and good pasturage for three
days. Then we filled our water casks, made all other preparations for
the forty-mile drive, and started off again. We traveled for two days
and nights, suffering from heat and thirst by day and from bitter cold
by night. At the end of the second day we still saw the vast desert
ahead of us as far as we could look. There was no more fodder for our
cattle, our water-casks were empty, and the burning rays of the sun
scorched us with pitiless and overpowering heat. Father rode on ahead
in search of water, and scarcely had he left us than our beasts began
to drop from exhaustion and thirst. Their drivers instantly unhitched
them and drove them ahead, hoping to meet father and find wells where
the thirsty beasts could be refreshed. They did find father and he
showed them the way to wells he had found where the beasts could
drink, then he traveled back to us, reaching our camp at dawn. We
waited all that day in the desert, with the sun beating down on us
with cruel heat, and still drivers and cattle had not come back. It
was a desperate plight, for another night without water would mean
death. We must set out on foot and try to reach some of the other
wagons, whose owners had gone ahead." Virginia adds, "Never shall I
forget that night, when we walked mile after mile in the darkness,
every step seeming to be the very last we could take, each of us who
were older and stronger, taking turns in carrying the younger
children. Suddenly out of the black night came a swift, rushing noise
of one of the young steers, who was crazed by thirst and rushing madly
toward us. Father snatched up little Patty, and commanded the rest of
us to keep close to his side, while he drew his pistol. We could hear
the heavy snorting of the maddened beast, when he turned and dashed
off into the darkness, leaving us weak and shivering with fright and
relief. And still we were obliged to drag our weary feet on, for ten
long miles, when we reached the Jacob Donner wagons. The family were
all asleep inside, so we lay down on the ground under the protecting
shadow of the family wagon. A bitter wind was howling across the
desert, and it so chilled us that we crept close together, and if all
five of our dogs had not snuggled up close to us, warming us with the
heat from their big bodies, we would probably had died from cold.

"At dawn father rushed off to find his cattle, but in vain. He met the
drivers, who told him that as the frenzied beasts were being driven
toward the wells, they had broken loose and been lost in the darkness.
At once all the men of the company turned out to help father to search
for them, but none were ever found except one ox and a cow, and in
that plight we were left stranded on the desert, eight hundred miles
from California! To turn back to Fort Bridger was an impossibility--to
go forward meant such hardship as blanched even my sun-reddened
cheeks, and I shuddered at the thought that mother must live through
greater privations than those we had already encountered. Well it was
that the future was hidden from our eyes on that day in the desert!

"Two oxen were loaned father, which, yoked together with our one cow
and ox, would draw one wagon, but not the family one, which had grown
to be so home-like to us in our journeyings. It was decided to dig a
trench, and _cache_ all of our things except those which we could take
in the one wagon. A _cache_ is made by digging a hole in the ground
and sinking in it the bed of a wagon, in which articles are packed;
the hole is then covered with boards and earth, so they are completely
hidden, and when we buried ours we hoped some day to return and take
them away."

Having _cached_ so many of their treasures, on the party went as
bravely as possible until they reached Gravelly Ford on the Humboldt,
where on the 5th of October there was such a tragic occurrence that
Virginia says, "I grew up into a woman in a night, and life was never
the same again, although for the sake of mother and the children I hid
my feelings as well as I could."

Here her record is detailed, and as concise as possible. She writes:

"I will tell it as clearly and quickly as I can. We had reached a
short sandy hill, and as the oxen were all tired, it was the custom at
such places for the drivers to double up teams and help one another up
the hill. A driver named Snyder, for some unaccountable reason,
decided to go up alone. His oxen could not pull their load, and
Snyder, angry at them, began to beat them. Father, who had gone on
ahead, looking for the best road, came back, and in trying to make
Snyder stop abusing his beasts, roused his anger to the point of
frenzy. Father said, 'We can settle this, John, when we get up the
hill.' 'No,' said Snyder. 'We will settle it now!' and, jumping on the
tongue of his wagon, he struck father a hard blow over the head with
his heavy whip-stock. One blow followed another, and father was
stunned, as well as blinded by the blood streaming down from the
gashes in his head. The whip was about to drop again when mother
sprang between the two men. Father saw the uplifted whip and had only
time to cry 'John! John!' when down came the blow on mother's head.
Quick as a flash father's hunting-knife was out and Snyder fell,
mortally wounded, and fifteen minutes later died. Then father
realized, too late, what he had done. Dashing the blood from his eyes,
he knelt over the dying man, who had been his friend, with remorse and
agony in his expression.

"Camp was pitched at once, our wagon being some distance from the
others, and father, whose head was badly cut, came to me.

"'Daughter,' he asked, 'do you think you can dress these wounds in my
head? Your mother is not able and they must be attended to.' I said,
promptly: 'Yes, if you will tell me what to do.' Then we went into the
wagon, where we would not be disturbed, and I washed and dressed his
wounds as best I could. When I had done what he told me to do, I burst
out crying, and father clasped me in his arms, saying: 'I should not
have asked so much of you!' I told him it was pity for him that made
me cry. Then he talked to me quietly until I had controlled my
feelings and was able to go back to the tent where mother was lying,
weak and dazed by the happenings of the day. And there were worse
things to come. In our party there was a man who had been in the habit
of beating his wife until father told him he must either stop it or
measures would be taken to make him. He did not dare abuse her again,
but he hated father from that time, and now he had his chance for
revenge. After Snyder had been buried, and father had sadly watched
the last clod of earth piled on the grave, the men of the party held a
conference from which our family were excluded. We waited a short
distance away, in terrified suspense to know the outcome of it, as we
were sure it concerned father. And it did. His plea of self-defense
was not acceptable to them, they said, and we shivered as we saw such
bitterness on the men's faces as seemed sure would lead to lynching.
Father saw it, but he was no coward. Baring his neck, he stepped
forward, and proudly said, 'Come on, gentlemen!' No one moved, and
presently he was told that he must leave the party, an exile--must go
out in the wilderness alone without food or weapons. It was a cruel
sentence, for it might result either in starvation or in murder by the
Indians, and it is no wonder that mother was beside herself with
fright, that we children knew not what to do or where to turn for
help. Father heard the sentence in silence, then facing the group of
old-time friends, with brave eyes, he said: 'I will not go. My act was
one of self-defense, and as such is justified before God and man.'

"Meanwhile, my mother had been thinking, as she told me later, and she
begged father to accept the sentence and leave the party, thinking it
would be less dangerous than to remain among men who had become his
enemies. He firmly refused until she pleaded that the whole party were
now practically destitute of food, and if he remained, as an outcast,
he would be obliged to see his children starve, while by going he
might be able to meet them with food which he had procured somewhere.
After a fearful struggle with his own desires, father consented, but
not until the men of the party had promised to care for his innocent
wife and children. Then, after he had held mother in his arms for a
long agonized moment, he turned to me, and I forced my eyes to meet
his with such fearless trust that he looked less despairing as he
picked up Patty for a last hug and gripped the boys with an emotion
too deep for any words; then he went off, an exile in the desert.

"I had no idea what I was going to do about it, but I knew I must do
something. Through the long hours of the day, while I was busy
soothing and comforting mother, who felt it keenly that we were left
as much alone as if we were lepers, I was thinking busily. Our wagon
was drawn up apart from the others, and we ate our scanty evening meal
in silence. Milt Elliott and some others tried to talk with us, and
show their friendliness, but mother would only answer in monosyllables
and commanded the children to do the same. We were an utterly
desolate, frightened group as darkness fell over us. I was busy
helping the children get to bed, and then I found mother in such a
state of collapse that I could think of nothing but comforting and
quieting her.

"At last she fell asleep, and I crept to my bed, but I could not
sleep. I must act. At last, I made a decision. I was strong and
fearless, and father had no food or light or supplies, out there alone
in the trackless wilderness. I stole to my mother's side and she
roused at my light touch.

"'Mother, dear,' I whispered, 'I am going out to find father and take
him some food, and his gun, and ammunition.' She roused and exclaimed:

"'What do you mean, child? You cannot find your father!'

"'I'm not going alone,' I replied 'I've asked Milt and he says he'll
go with me.'

"Without giving her a chance to say I must not go, I hurried to the
supply-chest and found some crackers, a small piece of bacon, some
coffee and sugar. I took a tin cup, too, and a dipper for father to
make coffee in, and packed his gun, pistols, and ammunition with them.
His lantern was on the shelf, and I put a fresh piece of candle in it
and matches in my pocket--then I was ready to start.

"Everything had to be done very quickly and quietly, for there would
be a great risk if the children knew what I was going to do, or if any
others of the party discovered my intention. So I did everything on
tip-toe, and holding my breath for fear of being discovered.

"Mother called, 'Virginia!' and I went to her side. 'How will you find
him in the darkness?'

"'I shall look for his horse's tracks and follow them,' I whispered.
At that moment Milton's cautious step was heard at the side of the
wagon, and with a last hug mother released me, and Milt and I stole
off on our dangerous expedition.

"Out into the darkness we crept. Stealthily we hid in the shadows cast
by the wagons in the flickering light of the dying camp-fire--cautiously
we stole up behind the unsuspicious sentinel who was wearily tramping
back and forth, and we held our breath for fright as he suddenly looked
over the sleeping camp, then peered out into the mysterious darkness of
the desert, but he did not see us. For safety we lay down on the ground,
and silently dragged our bodies along until we were well out of his
sight and hearing; then we pushed our feet along without lifting them,
to be sure they did not fall into some unseen hole or trap, and now and
again we were startled by some noise that to our excited senses seemed
to mean that a wild animal was near us. My eyes had been searching the
darkness around and before us, and at last I whispered:

"'Stop, Milt. Let us light the lantern!'

"Then stooping down, I spread out my skirts so that not the slightest
flash of a match or gleam of light could be seen by the sentinel or by
any one in the encampment. Milton lighted the lantern. I took it in
one hand, and with the other held my skirts up in such a way as to
shield its beams, and in its feeble light I searched the ground still
frantically for some trace of the footprints of father's horse.
Although I was nervous and excited enough to fly on the wings of
lightning, I did not let the feeling get the better of me, but made a
deliberate search of every inch of ground, making a complete circle
around the outskirts of the camp, for I was determined to find those
tracks. At last! There they were, unmistakable and clear. I gave a
smothered cry and showed them to Milt. Then, still with the lantern
carefully covered, so that no unguarded flash might bring a
death-dealing shot from the sentinel's rifle, I followed where they
led, Milt close behind, carrying the gun and provisions. Mile after
mile we followed--followed, now seeing the tracks, now losing them. Oh
what an agony was compressed in those awful hours!

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22