“But here’s my personal favorite,” Reed went on, enjoying himself greatly now. “Old Gabe—that’s Bridger’s nickname—says there’s one place in the mountains where you have an eight-hour echo.” He paused, waiting for them to take the bait.
“An eight-hour echo?” Elliott asked dubiously.
“Yes.” Reed was grinning broadly now. “He says it is of great convenience. When you go to bed at night you just cup your hands and yell, ‘It’s time to get up,’ and then the next morning the echo wakes you up at just the right time.”
They all roared at that one.
“It’s as good as any theater in Illinois,” Mrs. Reed concluded. “We were thoroughly entertained for over an hour.”
Reed’s smile held for several seconds as he thought back on the previous night, but then he gradually sobered. “Well, enough of that. Let’s get on with it. How is everything else?”
Milt Elliott nodded quickly. “All is in readiness. All the repairs have been completed on the wagons and harnessing. The women have the laundry done. They’ve also gathered herbs and berries and dried them, cleaned out the wagons and repacked them, and taken stock of our provisions. We’ve bagged some fresh meat and dried that as well. We bought two new oxen to replace the two we lost to bad water at the Dry Sandy.”
“We lost on that one, Mr. Reed,” Peter spoke up. “Balley and George were the two best we had. These new ones are a poor substitute.”
Milt nodded. “Anyway, I think we’re ready for whatever this cutoff has to offer.”
That brought a lowering of Reed’s brows. “I’m very surprised that Edwin Bryant didn’t leave some word for me. He was here. I thought for sure he would leave me some word.” Then he shrugged. “Well, be that as it may, it sounds like we’re ready. Uncle George and I met together. As best we can count, we will have seventy-four people—twenty-seven men or older boys, twelve women, and thirty-five children ranging in age from an infant to fifteen years. We will have nineteen wagons total.”
Milt Elliott, who also served as a kind of foreman for the Reeds, spoke when Mr. Reed had finished. “That’s large enough to keep any Indians away but small enough that we’re not eating one another’s graze for the teams.”
“Yes,” Reed answered. “I’m pleased. I’ll still have a word or two to say to Mr. Hastings when we catch him, but we’re well prepared.” He looked around the group. No one spoke. “All right, then,” he concluded, “let’s pack up everything we don’t need for tonight. We’ll leave at first light.”
Rebecca Ingalls had guessed there would be times when she would ask herself if she had done the right thing by insisting on accompanying Derek on the Mormon Battalion’s march. What she hadn’t suspected was that those times would come frequently and within the first ten days of their departure. They had left Council Bluffs at noon on the twenty-first; now it was the evening of the thirtieth, and a miserable evening it was turning out to be.
About half an hour before—which would make it about eight-thirty—just as they were finally getting the children to sleep, a stiff wind from the west began to rustle the trees above their heads. It had the smell of rain in it, and immediately the men of the camp set about getting their shelters ready for a “blow.” That was no easy task, for their shelters were not tents. They would not receive tents until they got to Fort Leavenworth. In the meantime, each night they built small willow lean-tos or conical shelters which they dubbed “wigwams” because of their resemblance, though in miniature, to the Indian lodges. On nights when the sky was clear, many just slept on the ground beneath the stars. But there had been clouds in the west even before sundown, and so most had prepared shelters. They were flimsy things and did little more than to provide some privacy and keep out the worst of the mosquitos.
The typical wigwam was usually only big enough to sleep one or two. Derek was obliged to make a larger one so that all five of them could sleep together. Josh made one just large enough for himself a short distance away, then always helped Derek with the larger one. Both were becoming more adept at making them with each passing day.
Rebecca listened to the wind and felt the cool air flowing through the walls. That was good, but the fact that the wind was picking up was not. She could hear Derek and Josh and the other men moving around the camp, making sure everything was secure. Then came the splatter of the first raindrops against the west end of the wigwam. She groaned.
Not tonight!
She was desperately weary, and little Leah would be up in an hour or two wanting to eat. She knew the brush walls could withstand a light rain, but if it got heavy at all, and especially if it came slanting in on the wind, their so-called shelter would very quickly prove to be quite inadequate.
Ten days, and it already seemed like a month. The men were being driven hard, and morale was starting to collapse. The weather had been exceedingly hot, and the men were hoping that under those circumstances the marches would be moderated. Colonel Allen seemed to agree, but then his adjutant, a martinet by the name of George P. Dykes, argued that the men wished to do more than that. Dykes himself was a great walker and advocated that longer marches would get the men in shape more quickly.
Rebecca snorted in disgust. A great walker? That from a man who owned a horse and rode it more than half the time. But Dykes had convinced Colonel Allen, and so long marches became the order of the day. What really irritated the rest of the battalion was that Lieutenant Dykes was one of their own. The heat was enough to drain the strength from a healthy man, but for those who were suffering from ague, as many were, it was devastating. The heat wrung every drop of sweat from man and beast. The dust rose in choking clouds, and they had to keep their heads and faces covered in order to breathe. More and more men became ill, and only the administrations of the priesthood allowed them to continue on with the group.
Rebecca could not remember ever being so utterly exhausted as she was at the end of each day. She couldn’t believe Derek. About half the time he carried either young Benjamin or the baby. Benji was four now and quite plucky, but after an hour or two he’d begin to lag and lose heart. Then Rebecca would have to take the baby and Benji would go up on his father’s shoulders. Josh was also a great help. Sometimes he had to be up front with the officers to fulfill his duties as orderly, but whenever he was free to march with them, he helped with the children. Thankfully, Christopher still found the whole thing to be a wonderful adventure and marched ahead with enthusiasm.
Then had come the problem with the flour. There had been little flour for the army to purchase at Traders Point, but Colonel Allen had assured them they would make arrangements to purchase it en route. By the night of the twenty-fifth they had exhausted their supply and had been unable to find any more. Most of the camp went to bed fasting that night, though a few, like her and Derek, had some parched corn and made a meager meal of that.
They marched on for two more days—thirty-eight more miles—in that condition, weak with hunger, dizzy with the heat, on the verge of collapse from heat exhaustion. Finally they had come to the town of Oregon, Missouri, near where the Nodaway River emptied into the Missouri. Colonel Allen sent word that he had finally been able to procure some flour. Then, to everyone’s dismay, when they went to get it, the Missourian who had brought it in his wagon refused to give it to them since he had learned that it was a company of Mormons he was supplying.
Colonel Allen was so furious when he learned what was happening, that he told the man he would either deliver the flour or be instantly arrested and put under guard. As the red-faced man grudgingly obeyed, the battalion let it be known what they thought of this non-Mormon officer who led them. The air had rung with shouts of “Good for the colonel” and “God bless the colonel.”
The flour had helped immensely, but the road—
She broke off from her thoughts as Derek slipped into the lean-to and crawled up to lie beside her. She could smell the rain on his coat. “How is it?”
She could sense that he shook his head in the darkness. “I think we’re in for it, Becca. It could be a long night.”
As if to prove his point, a gust of wind rattled their wigwam and she felt a mist of water touch her face. She reached out and made sure the baby was completely covered. “I don’t need a long night,” she said wearily.
“I know.”
They lay there for several minutes, listening to the rising storm. Above them the limbs of the trees began to creak. Flashes of lightning punctuated the darkness, followed by the ominous rumble of thunder. The makeshift walls of their shelter shook as a particularly violent gust hit it, and Derek reached out to hold it steady. “Whoa, there,” he said softly, as if he were speaking to one of his horses. His voice showed a little anxiety, which only added to Rebecca’s concerns.
“Will it hold?” Rebecca said nervously.
“Not if it gets much worse than this.”
She moaned. Christopher stirred and raised his head. “Is it all right, Papa?”
“Yes, son. It will be all right.”
But it wasn’t all right. Lightning was cracking sharply now, and the night was filled with continuous flashes. The wind was gusting powerfully, rising to a shriek. “I don’t like this,” Rebecca said through gritted teeth, holding on to the branch framework as it shook and trembled.
Then over the sound of the wind there came another noise. It was a deep creaking sound, as if someone were pulling a nail out of a piece of wood with agonizing slowness.
“What’s that?” Rebecca asked in alarm.
Derek’s head was cocked to listen. For a moment it stopped; then they all jumped as there was a tremendous crash and the ground shook violently beneath them.
Ignoring Rebecca’s cry, Derek shot through the small entryway into the night. He stood up, leaning into the fury of the wind. There was a flash of lightning and he saw Josh’s shelter rip free and go tumbling away. Josh was struggling to put on his oilskin raincoat. He saw Derek and came to stand beside him. “What was that?” he called.
“I don’t know,” Derek shouted. He looked around. It was an eerie scene. The rising wind had whipped the dying coals of dozens of cooking fires into life again, and points of orange and red filled the darkness, spitting out long trails of sparks into the sky. That wouldn’t last long, Derek thought, not once the rain started.
He turned in the direction of where the crash had sounded. He could see nothing. Then the lightning flashed again. He drew in his breath sharply. Not thirty feet away from where they stood, one of the towering hickory trees which surrounded their campground lay prone on the ground. He caught a momentary glimpse of the tangle of roots at one end.
He grabbed Josh’s arm and spun him around. “Look,” he shouted. “It took a tree down.”
Even as Josh peered into the darkness, waiting for the next flash, they heard the deep creaking sound again. Derek whirled and darted back to his shelter. With one mighty jerk, he ripped the framework up and let the wind take it. “Rebecca. Get the baby. Josh, get Benji!”
He grabbed Christopher by the arm and jerked him up. There was a sharp crack overhead and a large branch crashed down just beyond them. “Hurry!” Derek shouted, helping Rebecca get to her feet.
Others were shouting now too, and he saw shadowy figures when the lightning flashed. They stumbled away from their campsite, leaning heavily into the wind. Josh yelled something. A shaft of lightning slashed downward, momentarily bathing everything in light brighter than midday. There was a glimpse of another tree toppling with sickening speed. It smashed into a neighboring tree, and both went down together as men screamed and jumped out of the way. Again the ground trembled noticeably under the impact.
Now the rain began, slicing in like hail, instantly drenching them. In moments what had been dry dirt became thick mud. They stumbled and fell as they pushed their way through the darkness. Finally they were out in the open and far enough away that no tree could hit them if it fell.
“Here!” Derek shouted. He dropped to one knee, pulling Rebecca down beside him. Christopher followed and moved in close. Josh brought Benjamin in under his raincoat and moved in close as well. Turning their backs to the wind as much as possible, the six of them huddled together, drenched and miserable, shivering with both the cold and the fear. Benji was whimpering. The baby howled in protest, even though Rebecca tried to shelter her with her body.
Rebecca lowered her head and closed her eyes, her hair plastered to her face, the rain running in torrents down her body. And for the first time the doubts stole in.
What have I done?
she cried in her mind.
What have I done to my family?
Chapter Notes
Though they were joined by others later, the number of people and wagons given here by James F. Reed is the actual count of the Donner Party as they left Fort Bridger (see
Chronicles,
p. 109). The total does not include Peter, who is, of course, a fictional character.
The tall stories from Jim Bridger recounted in the novel were actually part of the “repertoire” of this famous mountain man and are only a sampling of the folklore of the indomitable group of traders, trappers, and explorers from that era (see Bernard DeVoto,
Across the Wide Missouri
[Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1947], p. 169).
The letter Edwin Bryant wrote and left with Louis Vasquez to give to James Reed (see pp. 203–6, 217, herein) was never delivered. When Reed finally met Bryant again in California, Bryant asked why Reed had ignored his warning. That was the first Reed knew of the Bryant letter. Reed later wrote, “Vasquez being interested in having the new route traveled, kept these letters” (as quoted in
Chronicles,
p. 108).
Most scholars believe that Bridger and Vasquez, who were characterized by more than one contemporary traveler as being honest and decent men, held these letters back with good intentions. The Greenwood Cutoff, which left the main trail at what is now called “The Parting of the Ways” near the Big Sandy, was becoming increasingly popular with emigrants. This bypassed Fort Bridger altogether, which would prove economically disastrous to Bridger’s outpost. But there is some evidence that the partners really believed the Hastings route was a better trail that saved hundreds of miles.