Nearly a year later, while still resting in quiet Switzerland, there broke one day upon the clear air of her Swiss home the distant sounds of a royal party hastening back from a tour of the Alps. To Miss Barton's amazement it came in the direction of her villa. Finally flashed the scarlet and gold of the liveries of the Grand Duke of Baden. After the outriders came the splendid coach of the Grand Duchess, daughter of King Wilhelm of Prussia, so soon to be Emperor William of Germany. In it rode the Grand Duchess. After presenting her card through the footman, she herself alighted and clasped Miss Barton's hand, hailing her in the name of humanity, and said she already knew her through what she had done in the Civil War. Then, still clasping her hand in a tight grip of comradeship, she begged Miss Barton to leave Switzerland and aid in Red Cross work on the battle-fields of the Franco-Prussian War, which was in its beginnings. It was a real temptation to once again work for suffering humanity, yet she put it aside as unwise. But a year later, when the officers of the International Red Cross Society came again to beg that Miss Barton take the lead in a great systematic plan of relief work such as that for which she had become famous during the Civil War, she accepted. In the face of such consequences as her health might suffer from her decision, she rose, and, with head held high and flashing eyes, said:
"Command me!"
Clara Barton was no longer to be the Angel of the American battle-fields only—from that moment she belonged to the world, and never again could she be claimed by any one country. But it is as the guardian angel of our soldiers in the United States that her story concerns us, although there is reason for great pride in the part she played in nursing the wounded at Strassburg, and later when her presence carried comfort and healing to the victims of the fight with the Commune in Paris.
As tangible results of her work abroad, she was given an amethyst cut in the shape of a pansy, by the Grand Duchess of Baden, also the Serbian decoration of the Red Cross as the gift of Queen Natalie, and the Gold Cross of Remembrance, which was presented her by the Grand Duke and Duchess of Baden together. Queen Victoria, with her own hand, pinned an English decoration on her dress. The Iron Cross of Germany, as well as the Order of Melusine given her by the Prince of Jerusalem, were among an array of medals and pendants—enough to have made her a much-bejeweled person, had it been her way to make a show of her own rewards.
Truly Clara Barton belonged to the world, and a suffering person had no race or creed to her—she loved and cared for all.
When at last she returned to America, it was with the determination to have America sign the Geneva Treaty and to bring her own country into line with the Red Cross movement, which she had carefully watched in foreign countries, and which she saw was the solution to efficient aid of wounded men, either in the battle-field or wherever there had been any kind of disaster and there was need of quick aid for suffering. It was no easy task to convince American officials, but at last she achieved her end. On the 1st of March, 1882, the Geneva Treaty was signed by President Arthur, ratified by the Senate, and immediately the American National Red Cross was formed with Clara Barton as its first president.
The European "rest" trip had resulted in one of the greatest achievements for the benefit of mankind in which America ever participated, and its birth in the United States was due solely to the efforts of the determined, consecrated nurse who, when eleven years old, gave her all to a sick brother, and later consecrated her life to the service of a sick brotherhood of brave men.
On the day after her death, on April 12, 1912, one editor of an American newspaper paid a tribute to her that ranks with those paid the world's greatest heroes. He said:
"On the battle-fields of the Rebellion her hands bound up the wounds of the injured brave.
"The candles of her charity lighted the gloom of death for the heroes of Antietam and Fredericksburg.
"Across the ocean waters of her sweet labors followed the flag of the saintly Red Cross through the Franco-Prussian war.
"When stricken Armenia cried out for help in 1896, it was Clara Barton who led the relief corps of salvation and sustenance.
"A woman leading in answering the responsibility of civilization to the world!
"When McKinley's khaki boys struck the iron from Cuba's bondage it was Clara Barton, in her seventy-seventh year, who followed to the fever-ridden tropics to lead in the relief-work on Spanish battle-grounds.
"She is known wherever man appreciates humanity."
Hers was the honor of being the first president of the American Red Cross, but she was more than that—she was the Red Cross at that time. It was, as she said, "her child," and she furnished headquarters for it in her Washington home, dispensing the charities of a nation, amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars, and was never requested to publish her accounts, an example of personal leadership which is unparalleled.
In 1897 we find the Red Cross president settled in her home at Glen Echo, a few miles out of Washington, on a high slope overlooking the Potomac, and, although it was a Red Cross center, it was a friendly lodging as well, where its owner could receive her personal friends. Flags and Red Cross testimonials from rulers of all nations fluttered from the walls, among them a beautiful one from the Sultan of Turkey. Two small crosses of red glass gleamed in the front windows over the balcony, but above the house the Red Cross banner floated high, as if to tell the world that "the banner over us is love." And to Glen Echo, the center of her beloved activity, Clara Barton always loved to return at the end of her campaigns. To the many thousands who came to visit her home as one of the great humane centers of the world, she became known as the "Beautiful Lady of the Potomac," and never did a title more fittingly describe a nature.
To the last she was a soldier—systematic, industrious, severely simple in her tastes. It was a rule of the household that every day's duties should be disposed of before turning in for the night, and at five o'clock the next morning she would be rolling a carpet-sweeper over the floor. She always observed military order and took a soldier's pride in keeping her quarters straight.
Hanging on the wall between her bedroom and private sitting-room was a small mirror into which her mother looked when she came home as a bride.
Her bed was small and hard. Near it were the books that meant so much to her—the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, the stories of Sarah Orne Jewett, the poems of Lucy Larcom, and many other well-worn, much-read classics.
That she was still feminine, as in the days of girlhood when she fashioned her first straw bonnet, so now she was fond of wearing handsome gowns, often with trains. Lavender, royal purple, and wine color were the shades she liked best to wear, and in which her friends most often remember her. Despite her few extravagant tastes, Clara Barton was the most democratic woman America ever produced, as well as the most humane. She loved people, sick and well, and in any State and city of the Union she could claim personal friends in every walk of life.
When, after ninety-nine years of life and fifty of continuous service to suffering human nature, death laid its hand upon her on that spring day, the world to its remotest corner stopped its busy barter and trade for a brief moment to pay reverent tribute to a woman, who was by nature of the most retiring, bashful disposition, and yet carried on her life-work in the face of the enemy, to the sound of cannon, and close to the firing-line. She was on the firing-line all her life. That is her life story.
Her "boys" of all ages adored her, and no more touching incident is told of her than that of a day in Boston, when, after a meeting, she lingered at its close to chat with General Shafter. Suddenly the great audience, composed entirely of old soldiers, rose to their feet as she came down the aisle, and a voice cried:
"Three cheers for Clara Barton!"
They were given by voices hoarse with feeling. Then some one shouted:
"Tiger!"
Before it could be given another voice cried:
"No! Sweetheart!"
Then those grizzled elderly men whose lives she had helped to save broke into uproar and tears together, while the little bent woman smiled back at them with a love as true as any sweetheart's.
To-day we stand at the parting of the ways. Our nation is in the making as a world power, and in its rebirth there must needs be bloodshed and scalding tears. As we American girls and women go out bravely to face the untried future and to nurse under the banner of the Red Cross, we shall do our best work when we bear to the battle-field the same spirit of high purpose and consecration that inspired Clara Barton and made her the "Angel of the Battle-fields." Let us, as loyal Americans, take to heart part of a speech she once made on Memorial Day, when she stood with the "Boys in Blue" in the "God's-acre" of the soldier, and declared:
"We cannot always hold our great ship of state out of the storms and breakers. She must meet and buffet with them. Her timbers must creak in the gale. The waves must wash over her decks, she must lie in the trough of the sea as she does to-day. But the Stars and Stripes are above her. She is freighted with the hopes of the world. God holds the helm, and she's coming to port. The weak must fear, the timid tremble, but the brave and stout of heart will work and hope and trust."
On a lovely April morning in 1846 there was an unusual stir in the streets of Springfield, Illinois, for such an early hour. From almost every house some one was hurrying, and as neighbor nodded to neighbor the news passed on:
"The wagons are ready—they are going!"
As the sun mounted slowly in the cloudless sky, from all parts of town there still flocked friends and relatives of the small band of emigrants who were about to start on their long trip across the plains, going to golden California.
California—magic word! Not one of those who were hurrying to wish the travelers God-speed, nor any of the band who were leaving their homes, but felt the thrilling promise and the presage of that new country toward which the emigrants were about to turn their faces.
The crowd of friends gathered at the Reeds' home, where their great prairie-wagons and those of the Donners were drawn up in a long line before the door; the provision wagons, filled to overflowing with necessities and luxuries, the family wagons waiting for their human freight. Mr. James F. Reed, who had planned the trip, was one of Springfield's most highly respected citizens, and the Donner brothers, who lived just outside of the town, had enthusiastically joined him in perfecting the details of the journey, and had come in to town the night before, with their families, to be ready for an early start. And now they were really going!
All through the previous winter, in the evening, when the Reeds were gathered before their big log fire, they had talked of the wonderful adventure, while Mrs. Reed's skilful fingers fashioned such garments as would be needed for the journey. And while she sewed, Grandma Keyes told the children marvelous tales of Indian massacres on those very plains across which they were going to travel when warmer days came. Grandma told her breathless audience of giant red men, whose tomahawks were always ready to descend on the heads of unlucky travelers who crossed their path—told so many blood-curdling stories of meetings between white men and Indian warriors that the little boys, James and Thomas, and little black-eyed Patty and older Virginia, were spellbound as they listened.
To Virginia, an imaginative girl, twelve years old, the very flames, tongueing their way up the chimney in fantastic shapes, became bold warriors in mortal combat with emigrants on their way to the golden West, and even after she had gone to bed it seemed to her that "everything in the room, from the high old-fashioned bedposts down to the shovel and tongs, was transformed into the dusky tribe in paint and feathers, all ready for a war-dance" as they loomed large out of shadowy corners. She would hide her head under the clothes, scarcely daring to wink or breathe, then come boldly to the surface, face her shadowy foes, and fall asleep without having come to harm at the hands of the invisibles.
Going to California—oh the ecstatic terror of it! And now the day and the hour of departure had come!
The Reeds' wagons had all been made to order, and carefully planned by Mr. Reed himself with a view to comfort in every detail, so they were the best of their kind that ever crossed the plains, and especially was their family wagon a real pioneer car de luxe, made to give every possible convenience to Mrs. Reed and Grandma Keyes. When the trip had been first discussed by the Reeds, the old lady, then seventy-five years old and for the most part confined to her bed, showed such enthusiasm that her son declared, laughingly: "I declare, mother, one would think you were going with us."
"I am!" was the quick rejoinder. "You do not think I am going to be left behind when my dear daughter and her children are going to take such a journey as that, do you? I thought you had more sense, James!"
And Grandma did go, despite her years and her infirmities.
The Reeds' family wagon was drawn by four yoke of fine oxen, and their provision wagons by three. They had also cows, and a number of driving and saddle horses, among them Virginia's pony Billy, on whose back she had been held and taught to ride when she was only seven years old.
The provision wagons were filled to overflowing with all sorts of supplies. There were farming implements, to be used in tilling the land in that new country to which they were going, and a bountiful supply of seeds. Besides these farm supplies, there were bolts of cotton prints and flannel for dresses and shirts, also gay handkerchiefs, beads, and other trinkets to be used for barter with the Indians. More important still, carefully stowed away was a store of fine laces, rich silks and velvets, muslins and brocades, to be exchanged for Mexican land-grants. The family wagon, too, had been fitted up with every kind of commodity, including a cooking-stove, with its smoke-stack carried out through the canvas roof of the wagon, and a looking-glass which Mrs. Reed's friends had hung on the canvas wall opposite the wagon door—"so you will not forget to keep your good looks, they said!"
And now the party was ready to start. Among its number were Mrs. Reed and her husband, with little Patty, the two small boys, James and Thomas, and the older daughter, Virginia; the Donners, George and Jacob, with their wives and children; Milton Elliott, driver of the Reed family wagon, who had worked for years in Mr. Reed's big sawmill; Eliza Baylis, the Reeds' domestic, with her brother and a number of other young men, some of them drivers, others merely going for adventure. In all, on that lovely April morning, it was a group of thirty-one persons around whom friends and relatives clustered for last words and glimpses, and it was a sad moment for all. Mrs. Reed broke down when she realized that the moment of parting had really come, while Mr. Reed, in response to the good wishes showered on him, silently gripped hand after hand, then he hurried into the house with Milt Elliott, and presently came out carrying Grandma, at the sight of whom her friends cheered lustily. She waved her thin hand in response as she was lifted gently into the wagon and placed on a large feather-bed, where she was propped up with pillows and declared herself to be perfectly comfortable.
And indeed her resting-place was very much like a room, for the wagon had been built with its entrance at the side, like an old-fashioned stage-coach, and from the door one stepped into a small square room. At the right and left were spring seats with high backs, which were comfortable for riding, and over the wheels for the length of the wagon, a wide board had been placed, making what Virginia called a "really truly second story" on which beds were made up. Under this "second story" were roomy compartments in which were stowed away stout bags holding the clothing of the party, each bag plainly marked with a name. There was also a full supply of medicines, with lint and bandages for an emergency, and Mr. Reed had provided a good library of standard books, not only to read during the journey, but knowing they could not be bought in the new West. Altogether, from provision wagon to family caravan, there was a complete equipment for every need, and yet when they arrived in California, as one of the party said, "We were almost destitute of everything!"
The wagons were loaded, Grandma was safely stowed away in her warm bed, with little Patty sitting on its end where she could hold back the door flap that the old lady might have a last glimpse of her old home—the hard farewells had been said, and now Mr. Reed called in as cheery a voice as he could command, "All aboard!"
Milton Elliott cracked his whip, and the long line of prairie-wagons, horses and cattle started. Then came a happy surprise. Into saddles and vehicles sprang more than a score of friends and relatives who were going to follow the party to their first night's encampment, while many of Virginia's schoolmates ran at the side of the wagon through the principal streets of the town until one by one they dropped back from fatigue, Virginia waving a continued farewell from the wagon while they were in sight.
The first day's trip was not a long one, as it was thought wise to make the start easy for man and beast. Most of the way Virginia rode on Billy, sometimes beside the wagon, then again galloping ahead with her father. A bridge was seen in the distance, and Patty and the boys cried out to Milton, "Please stop, and let us get out and walk over it; the oxen may not take us across safely!" Milt threw back his head and roared with laughter at such an idea, but he halted to humor them, then with a skilful use of his loud-voiced "Gee! and Haw!" made the huge beasts obey his will.
On the line of great wagons wound its way beyond the town, until the sun was sinking in the west, when they stopped for the night on the ground where the Illinois State House now stands. The oxen were then unhitched and the wagons drawn up in a hollow circle or "corral," within the protection of which cattle and horses were set free for the night, while outside the corral a huge camp-fire soon blazed, around which the party gathered for their first evening meal together, and their last one with those friends who had come thus far on their way with them. It was a determinedly merry group around the fire, and stories were told and songs sung, which to the radiant Virginia were a foretaste of such coming adventure as was beyond her wildest dreams.
As she sat in the glow of the camp-fire, with sleepy Patty's head pillowed on her lap, she felt even more than before the thrill of this wonderful adventuring. To keep a record of her travels,—that was the thing to do! Full of the idea, she pinned together sheets of wrapping-paper into a bulky blank-book, on the outside of which she printed:
Going to California. 1846.
From that time she kept a faithful though not a continuous record of the experiences of what came to be known later as "the ill-fated Donner party of martyr pioneers." And from that record she later wrote her story of their journeying to the golden West.
By the eleventh day of May the band of emigrants had reached the town of Independence, Missouri, and Virginia's record says:
"Men and beasts are in fine condition. There is nothing in all the world so fascinating as to travel by day in the warm sunshine and to camp by night under the stars. Here we are just outside the most bustling town I ever saw and it is good news to find a large number of inhabitants with their wagons, ready to cross the prairie with us. Who knows, perhaps some new friendships will be made as we all go on together! They all seem to feel as eager to go as we are, and everybody is glad. I will get acquainted with as many as I can now, and bring cheerful ones to visit Grandma, for she feels rather homesick, except when Patty and I make her laugh."
Again, "The first few days of travel through the Territory of Kansas were lovely. The flowers were so bright and there were so many birds singing. Each day father and I would ride ahead to find a place to camp that night. Sometimes when we galloped back we would find the wagons halting at a creek, while washing was done or the young people took a swim. Mother and I always did our wash at night, and spread it on the bushes to dry. All this is such a peaceful recital that I began to think I need not keep a diary at all, till one hot day when I was in the wagon helping Patty cut out some doll's dresses, Jim came running up to the wagon, terribly excited and crying out:
"'Indians, Virginia! Come and see! They have to take us across the river!' Out he rushed and I after him, with every story Grandma ever told us dancing through my brain. Now there was going to be an adventure! But there wasn't. We had reached the Caw River, where there were Indians to ferry us across. They were real and red and terrifying, but I never flinched. If they brought out tomahawks in midstream, I would be as brave as a pioneer's daughter should be. But would you believe me, those Indians were as tame as pet canaries, and just shot us across the river without glancing at us, and held out their big hands with a grunt, for the coins! That was one of the greatest disappointments of my life."
All went well with the travelers during those first weeks of the trip, and no one enjoyed it more than Grandma Keyes after she got over being homesick. But when they reached the Big Blue river, it was so swollen that they had to lie by and wait for it to go down, or make rafts to cross it on. As soon as they stopped traveling Grandma began to fail, and on the 29th of May, with scarcely any pain, she died. Virginia's diary says: "It was hard to comfort mother until I persuaded her that to die out in that lovely country, and with most of your family around you, was far better than living longer at home. Besides, she might have died in Springfield. So mother cheered up a little, while all the party helped us in making the sad preparations. A coffin was made from a cotton-wood tree, and a young man from home found a gray stone slab and cut Grandma's name, birthplace, and age on it. A minister of the party made a simple address, and with the sunlight filtering through the trees we buried her under an oak-tree and covered the grave with wild flowers. Then we had to go on our way and leave dear Grandma in the vast wilderness, which was so hard for mother that for many days I did not take my rides on Billy, but just stayed with her. But the landscape was so comfortingly beautiful that at last she cheered up and began to feel that Grandma was not left alone in the forest, but was with God. Strange to say, that grave in the woods has never been disturbed; around it grew up the city of Manhattan, Kansas, and there it is in the city cemetery of to-day."
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 cañons 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 cañon. 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 cañon 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 cañons, 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!