“Go, boys!” he screamed. “Lean into it.” The first twenty yards was level ground. They had to have the wagon rolling by the time they started up the hill or they wouldn’t make it.
Up ahead, five or six yokes forward, an ox went down. The teamster ran to it, screaming hoarsely, beating at its back with the butt of his whip. It was being dragged along, knees plowing furrows in the dirt. If he didn’t get it up, it would be severely injured and the wagon would stop on the slope. Peter darted forward. Other teamsters ran to help.
“Get him up! Get him up!” the teamster shouted. Peter jabbed at its rump with his ox goad. Another man reached in and yanked the chain away from its knees. Two men grabbed the end of the yoke and lifted mightily. Finally, eyes rolling wildly, nostrils flaring, the animal got to its feet—half dragged, half on its own effort. No one waited for thanks. Each teamster ran back to his place to urge on his own animals.
Two-thirds of the way up, the line of beasts faltered and the wagon slowed. Reed screamed at the teamsters. “Don’t stop! We’ll never hold it.”
“Ho! Ho!” Peter yelled into the ears of his animals. If the wagon rolled backwards it would take the teams with it. That was extremely dangerous. All up and down the line, panic broke loose. Teamsters became madmen, whipping and lashing at their teams. The men on the wagon threw their weight into it, eyes bulging, veins standing out on their heads and arms, sweat pouring in rivulets down their faces.
In all the time since they had left Springfield, Illinois—some four months now—Peter had never once laid his whip on the backs of his animals. But as he turned to see how the wagon was coming, Brindle, the wheel ox on the far side of the yoke, stumbled and went down on one knee. It bawled wildly as the yoke bit into its neck and began to drag it forward.
“Up, Brindle!” Peter screamed. “Go! Go!”
The animal was trying but without success. Blindly, barely realizing what he was doing, Peter stepped back and let the whip fly. It caught the animal on the back, just behind the shoulders. He saw the tip of the whip crack sharply, drawing blood. With one startled bawl, Brindle leaped forward, finding his footing again.
Shouting, screaming, yelling, begging, Peter laid the whip across their backs now, not popping them with the tip, but letting them feel the full fury of the lash. He started to run. The wagon was rolling faster now. Several men, leaning hard into the wagon, went down. But Peter didn’t see them. He felt his own legs buckling beneath him and screamed at himself not to stop.
And then they were over the top. The teams came to a stop, quivering and bawling frantically. Peter turned, peering through the sweat to make sure the wagon had really come over the crest. At their feet lay the wide expanse of the Great Salt Lake Valley. But he didn’t see that. Dimly he was aware of James Reed stumbling toward him, but he didn’t care for that either. He turned and fell on the shoulders of the nearest ox. He laid his head against the wet flank, mindful of the bloody welts. He felt the tears start to come. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Wednesday, August 26, 1846
Twenty Wells, on the Great Salt Lake Desert
My dearest Kathryn—
I am writing this letter in my journal. I do so because we go alone now, and we make our own road. There is no hope of seeing anyone who can take a letter back to you. I have debated long about writing this to you, but if something should ever happen to me, I wanted you to know that I was thinking about you at the last. If the Lord sees fit to reunite us, I shall tear this page out so that your eyes shall never see it.
A great sense of gloom has settled in upon me. This is far more than what I felt while you were still with me. It is like a deepening darkness closing in all around. The spirit of our little company grows more and more out of harmony with God each passing day. How can we, who claim to be followers of the Master, act in this manner and still claim the favor of heaven?
I am so glad that you are no longer here. It would make you heartsick to endure what is now commonplace. Tempers flare at the slightest provocation. Bickering has replaced brotherhood. Contention has overcome cooperation. Selfishness overrides service. We seem to curse God in the day when things are at their harshest, then wonder why he does not hear our cries at night around the fires.
All my love to you, dear Kathryn. By now I suppose you are feeling the first stirrings of life. I pray for our unborn child and for you every day. Oh, how I wish I could be there when the baby comes! Be safe. I pray earnestly each morning and night that we shall some day be reunited, but it is mostly without hope now. I have detailed, and shall continue to detail, the events of our journey, and that will help you understand why I write as I do. If you are reading this without me, then know that I never forgot you nor ceased to love you.
Forever bound together,
Peter
Wednesday, August 26, 1846
Twenty Wells, on the Great Salt Lake Desert
It has been four days since we came out of the Wasatch Mountains. We have moved slowly, resting our teams after the terrible last pull to get out of the canyon. They have improved somewhat, but we dare not take the time to recruit them as they need to be. We had a further delay when an axletree on one of Mr. Reed’s wagons broke. We had to ride fifteen miles for timber and then work all night to cut a new one.
The specter of winter in the Sierra stalks us like wolves following a wounded deer. We must press on or face the prospect of wintering this side of the mountains. Since we are already low on supplies and have some six or seven hundred miles left to go, that is not a possibility that we can accept.
The travel is much better now. The blue expanse of the Great Salt Lake has been on our right since we came into the valley. Here we have found several wells that have been a great blessing. The water is good and cold. These are not springs, but deep holes. We plumbed some with 70 feet of rope and could not hit bottom. They do not overflow, but when we drink water out of them, they immediately fill again.
I must say that I am greatly cheered by the aspects of the valley in which we now find ourselves. If this is where Brigham Young means to come with our people, it will be a pleasant home. The valley is wide—I’d guess about twenty miles—and perhaps thirty miles long. It is ringed on both east and west by beautiful mountains. There are many creeks which come down from the mountains to provide water. The soil seems rich and able to take crops if given water. The Great Salt Lake is like some great inland sea and sparkles a deep blue in the sunlight. The water is stronger than any brine you can imagine. Amazingly, one cannot sink in its waters. One night we camped just a few rods from the water, so after supper we went for a “swim.” It seems incredible, but when I sat down in the water, I bobbed like a piece of fat in a bucket of buttermilk. I did make the mistake of getting some of the water in my eyes, and it burned terribly. It certainly is not drinkable. But the valley of the Great Salt Lake is a beautiful place. It would make a wonderful home for our people.
We had our first death in our company since Mrs. Keyes died. A man by the name of Luke Halloran died of consumption with his head in Tamsen Donner’s lap. Gave him a decent burial.
We approach that point where Mr. Hastings says we have a hard forty-mile drive without water. Taking in wood, water, and grass to help us make that run.
Friday, August 28, 1846—Hope Wells
Bad news. Today we found a board with scraps of paper tacked to it. From the pieces of handwriting, it looked like another letter from Mr. Hastings. Unfortunately, it had been pecked to pieces by birds. Tamsen Donner—may that woman ever be praised—was not satisfied to let it go. We all searched and gathered up the pieces from the ground. She placed the board on her lap and fitted the pieces back together with great care as we all watched in fascination. It was a letter from Hastings, but not good. What they had been able to salvage read: “2 days — 2 nights — hard driving — cross desert — reach water.”
This terse message brings a great pall upon us. Two days and two nights? This has to be greater than forty miles. And we cannot possibly carry enough food and water to care for our oxen on a drive of that distance. Even if we only wet towels and bathe the animal’s tongues, I fear we will not make it. Once again Mr. Hastings is proving to be an unreliable guide.
Kathryn Ingalls stood back. At times like this she felt keenly that she was not part of this group, even though in every other way they had accepted her as one of their own. But now it was time for farewells. Their little company was settling in on the south side of the river across from Fort Pueblo. It was the first of September. Fall would quickly be upon them. There could be no delay.
The six men who had come without their families went down the line, shaking hands and hugging the women and children. John Brown, their company captain, was in the lead. With him went Brothers Crosby, Thomas, Holladay, Lay, Smithson, and Bankhead. The eighth man who would be leaving with them stood back, like Kathryn. He was Mister Wales Bonney, a non-Mormon who had only recently come to Pueblo. Incredibly, he had come from Oregon, traveling the two-thousand-mile trail totally alone. He was brave, he was experienced, and he knew the way to Independence. He would serve as a guide to the seven Mormons.
Kathryn felt a stirring in her stomach and for a moment wondered if the baby sensed her dismay. Then she chided herself for being so . . . well, like Jenny. It would be like Jenny to wonder such things.
She smiled, knowing even as she thought it what had taken her thoughts in that direction. Brother Brown was carrying a long letter Kathryn had written to the family that he would mail at Independence. In that letter were two full sheets just for Jenny. There was no way to write to Peter now, but next to him, she was closer to her sister than anyone else in the world. And with the letter, she had been thinking a lot about Jenny lately.
There were still fourteen families here, she reminded herself. It was not as if they were being left alone without men. And yet for a company as small as this Mississippi company, the loss of seven able-bodied workers and hunters was not to be taken lightly.
The men were finished with their farewells now, and John Brown climbed up into his saddle. As the others followed suit, he looked around. “Farewell, dear brothers and sisters. We shall return with our families as soon as possible.”
“How long?” someone called out.
He frowned. “We expect that it will take us about a month to reach Mississippi, then a week or two to prepare for departure, and about a month back. We should return sometime in November.”
Brother Crow, who would become the leader with Brother Brown’s departure, spoke up. “If something changes, you go to Council Bluffs and come with the main group. We’ll leave here as soon as the weather turns good in the spring and wait at Laramie for whoever comes first.”
Brown nodded, then turned to his men to see if there was anything else. When they shook their heads, he raised his hand again in a last farewell, then turned and spurred his horse forward. The others fell in behind him and splashed across the river.
The little company stood there silently until the eight men could no longer be seen; then they went quietly back to the work of building a settlement that would see them through the winter.
Chapter Notes
Today, not far inside Emigration Canyon, on the south side of the highway, a simple monument marks the site of Donner Hill. It was here that the members of the Donner Party chose to go up and over the ridge instead of continuing to cut a road along the creek. It is difficult for the mind to comprehend taking wagons and teams up that steep and treacherous slope. It seems odd that after cutting a road through thirty miles of difficult mountainous terrain, the last half mile or so should deter the Donner Party enough that they chose to go up and over the ridge. The only hint as to why they did so seems to be that by this time they were so mentally and physically exhausted that the ridge seemed a better option. The interchange between Peter and Mr. Reed is the author’s creation. There is no evidence that Reed opposed the ridge route. In fact, he doesn’t even mention the incident in his journal. It is from his stepdaughter, Virginia, and other emigrants that we learn of the difficult ascent. (See
UE,
pp. 24–28, 142–43, 186–88;
Chronicles,
pp. 120–31;
WFFB,
pp. 217–20.)
There are bitter ironies in the events of the Donner Party at this point in their journey to California. One of those ironies has to do with Lansford Hastings’s counsel that the better route to the Valley lay through the Wasatch Mountains rather than through Weber Canyon. Had his own group (the Harlan-Young Party) accepted that counsel and turned south at what is now Henefer, Utah, things would have turned out very differently for the Donners. With a larger number of able-bodied men, the Harlan-Young Party could much more easily have cut a road up and over the Wasatch Mountains. If Hastings’s group had chosen to go that way, the Donners would not have delayed four days while Reed went looking for Hastings, and also they would have been following a prepared road over the Wasatch instead of having to cut a new one. In those circumstances, they would easily have caught up with Hastings and accompanied the larger party safely to California.
A second irony is their decision to tackle Donner Hill. In July 1847 the Mormon pioneers, following the road cut by the Donners the year before, reached that same spot. When they saw where the Donner group went, they explored the creek route. They had a great many more working men than the Donner Party did, and that influenced their decision, but they chose the creek route. In a mere four hours they cut their way through and avoided Donner Hill altogether.