The Work and the Glory (606 page)

Yesterday they nooned in a gentle swale between two buttes, then about a mile farther on found a spring. Some thought it was Green Spring, or Pacific Spring, as it was also known, but others argued that since they hadn’t crossed the divide, it couldn’t be. They stopped at the spring for their evening meal, but decided to push on until they reached South Pass. After they had gone several miles, it was clear that the small creek spawned by the springs was headed west and was not going to circle around and join the Sweetwater. They also reached a place where they could see the land ahead for some miles, and it was all on a gentle downhill slope to the west. That’s when they realized the gentle swale between the two buttes had been South Pass.

Now Patty, the Reed’s eight-year-old daughter, poked her head out from beneath the roll of the wagon cover. “Will it be downhill all the way now, Peter?”

He laughed merrily. “I wish that were true, Patty. No, we’ve still got some high mountains to cross.”

Another head appeared beside hers. It was young James. He was five but bright enough to be two or three years older than that. “But how, then, can the water reach the Pacific Ocean?” he asked.

Peter hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t know, James. Perhaps it goes around the mountains on one side or another.”

“Then why don’t we go around the mountains?” he shot right back. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

Margret laughed and tousled her son’s hair. “Easier, yes, but not necessarily shorter. And if it’s not shorter, then it may not be easier.”

“Oh.” And with that he was satisfied and pulled his head back inside.

Patty withdrew hers as well, and Peter turned back to watch the road ahead. Thinking they were not yet to South Pass, they had stayed on the road until long after dark the previous night, going on about thirteen miles beyond Pacific Spring. That had been a serious mistake. The only water was a few brackish pools in a dusty riverbed known as the Dry Sandy. To Peter’s horror, Balley, one of Mr. Reed’s best oxen, died a day after drinking that water. George, another of the better oxen, was now exhibiting similar symptoms. To lose two of the best oxen was not only a costly loss but a personal one to Peter, who had come to think of the oxen as friends.

They rose early this morning and pushed on, heading for the next substantial water source, which was the Little Sandy. The rest of the oxen were terribly thirsty and hungry and were wearing out quickly. Peter peered ahead, trying to see any sign of green in this vast expanse of sage and rock outcroppings. Ahead he saw a jackrabbit, startled out of its hiding place by one of the Donner wagons, race away in a breathtaking burst of speed, its huge ears marking its darting path through the sagebrush. Then he saw a small cloud of dust up ahead, off to the left of the main train, and after a moment could make out the dark figure of a man on horseback. He turned back to Mrs. Reed. “I think I see Mr. Reed coming.”

She straightened, peering forward. “I think you’re right, Peter.”

The rider was coming at a steady lope, and it took only a minute or two to confirm that it was Mr. Reed on his mare. He slowed for a moment as he passed the lead Donner wagon, calling something to them, then spurred on to his own three wagons.

“We’re almost there, Peter.” He looked up at his wife. “Margret, the Little Sandy is only about two miles ahead.”

“Wonderful. Is it really a river?”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “Well, if you’re thinking in Illinois terms, no. If you’re thinking in terms of where we camped last night, it’s marvelous. It’s a stream of clear water about three feet deep and forty or fifty feet wide.”

“Really?” She clapped her hands in sheer anticipation.

Reed looked down at Peter. “There are several companies already there,” he said. “Boggs and his party, the Campbell group, Dunbar and West. We’ll have plenty of company.”

“Is there enough grass?” Peter asked, always concerned about his oxen.

“Oh yes.” He glanced at his wife, who had turned around to tell the children. He lowered his voice to a bare murmur. “The place where the routes separate is just a few miles beyond there. The Greenwood Cutoff leaves just west of the Little Sandy and heads for Fort Hall. We’re having a meeting tonight to decide which way to go.”

Peter nodded. “I don’t think our stock could take a long, dry stretch right now, Mr. Reed. But even if we don’t take the Greenwood Cutoff, we can still decide to go by way of Fort Hall once we reach Fort Bridger, can’t we?”

“That’s what I understand. Going that way is longer but has more water.”

“Are you still of a mind to take the Hastings route, sir?”

Reed nodded emphatically. “Without a doubt, Peter. Without a doubt.”

In the end it wasn’t much of a debate. The minds of most of the emigrants were already made up one way or the other. James Reed was the most enthusiastic supporter of the Hastings Cutoff and kept hammering at the idea of saving three hundred to four hundred miles over the Fort Hall route. He had made a copy of the Hastings letter brought east by Bonney and quoted from it liberally. “Listen,” he would say whenever it seemed appropriate, “the road around the Great Salt Lake is much nearer and better than the one via Fort Hall. Why extend the journey unnecessarily?”

But to those who had serious reservations about the new route and weren’t sure that Hastings was a sure guide, his words carried little weight. After half an hour of vigorous discussion, the vote was taken. Ex-Governor Boggs would lead the group going north to the Big Sandy, where they would rest a day to recruit their stock, then make the long, dry run to the Bear River. Several other companies agreed to accompany him.

Others decided that they didn’t want to risk the fifty-mile drive without water and determined to go to Fort Bridger. Then they would turn back north and head for Fort Hall. That was the more traditional Oregon Trail route.

On the other hand, James Reed, the two Donner brothers, Charles Stanton, Patrick Breen, the Murphys, and several of the German emigrants voted to try the new route. They would leave first thing in the morning and go straight for Fort Bridger to meet Hastings, who would then take them across his cutoff.

The two companies withdrew from each other to elect their new captains. Boggs was elected captain of those taking the Greenwood Cutoff. James F. Reed should have been chosen as leader of the group following Hastings. He was the natural choice; that was clear to everyone. But he was also the wealthiest member of the party, and with his lavishly equipped wagon and his thoroughbred mare, some resented him. He also made no secret of the fact that he was descended from Polish aristocracy. This too did not set well with good old-fashioned American democracy and those who mistrusted anything that smacked of being too European.

In the end George Donner was elected captain. It was a disappointment to Peter, but not unexpected. The younger of the two Donner brothers was sixty-two. Though he was also well-to-do, he was a farmer, not an aristocratic and wealthy businessman. Everyone called James Reed “Mr. Reed.” Everyone called George Donner “Uncle George.”

Peter’s employer was disappointed too but took it in stride. In reality, the Donners still depended heavily on his counsel, and he would take a leading role in the train’s government. But from henceforth their little group would be called after its captain and would be known as the Donner Party.

As the meeting broke up and they started back for their wagons, the Reeds were together, walking a short distance behind the Donner group. Peter watched Tamsen Donner, wife of George Donner, carefully. She had sat back during both the meeting and the voting. There was considerable excitement in the air, with the division of routes soon to be upon them. People spoke in animated tones to each other and speculated on what this meant for their arrival date in California. But Tamsen Donner, a woman of unusual grace and learning, was strangely quiet and said little. Now she walked alone and said nothing.

Margret Reed noticed her and moved out ahead to slip an arm around her waist. “Well, Tamsen,” she said brightly, “what do you think of our decision tonight?”

Tamsen turned to look at her. She was frowning deeply.

Margret smiled, though it seemed a little strained in the face of such gloom. “What? What is it, Tamsen?”

“I don’t feel good about this,” she muttered.

“Why not?” Margret Reed had been infused with the enthusiasm of her husband and this came as a complete surprise to her.

“How can we trust the statements of a man about whom we know nothing?”

“Hastings, you mean?”

There was a curt nod. “We’ve never even met the man. Who’s to say that he is not some selfish adventurer who wants us to come this way for his own reasons?”

Now James Reed moved up beside them. “Tamsen, Tamsen,” he soothed. “Mr. Hastings is a renowned explorer. He came across that route just this spring.”

“What if he is a liar?” she shot back.

That so surprised Mr. Reed that he was nonplused.

Seeing his reaction, Mrs. Donner backed off a little. “Well, maybe not a liar. But how can you and my husband think for one moment of leaving a known road to trust in the statement of someone about whom you know nothing?”

“It’s a four-hundred-mile savings, Tamsen,” Reed said earnestly. “That’s twenty days of wagon time. Twenty days! We can’t just ignore that.”

Mrs. Donner looked at him once, then looked away. Her whole body suggested resignation and surrender. “I don’t feel good about it,” she muttered again, then moved away from the Reeds to rejoin her husband.

It was midmorning when they reached the spot where the trail forked. The Donner Party had broken camp and started away first, and now they had no one out in front of them. Ahead of Peter a few dozen yards was a clear set of wagon tracks which turned to the right, angling off to the northwest across an endless sage-covered plain. Another set turned to the left, heading in a southwesterly direction. In the far distance, Peter thought he could see a smudge of green. That would be the Big Sandy, where both groups would camp for the night, though in different locations.

As he approached the fork, speaking softly to the oxen, he looked at the spot where the road joined. He was intrigued by it. At one point there was only one road. Then in what could be measured in inches, they began to diverge. In ten feet the tracks were separated by three or four feet. In fifty, they were two completely separate roads. In a mile they would no longer be in sight of each other. In a few days, they would be hundreds of miles apart.

It was a strange thought, and it occurred to him that in some ways life was like that. You came to a point where a decision had to be made. In many cases the choice seemed so inconsequential that you could barely tell the difference. But once the decision was made, you started off in a different direction. In a lifetime, one simple choice could bring you to widely separated destinations.

As his wagon reached the spot where the routes split, he popped the whip over the head of the lead oxen. “Haw, boys! Haw! Haw!” They swung their massive heads to the left. The wagon tongue creaked as it turned slowly in response to their pressure, and in a matter of moments they were on the left fork, moving on toward Fort Bridger. The road to the right lay empty and desolate, waiting for the companies coming behind.

About twenty minutes later, Peter peered to the north. Sure enough, there was a line of wagon tops crawling across the flat desert, slowly but surely moving farther and farther away from the company led by George Donner. The Boggs Party had reached and then taken the turnoff. Even as Peter watched, they seemed to be receding. No wonder they called it “the parting of the ways,” he thought. Then he turned his face to the southwest and began to watch for any signs of the Big Sandy.

On the morning of July twenty-first a thunderstorm rolled in from the west, and it began to rain and rain hard. Umbrellas were brought out and coats were put on. The air was cold and the wind stiff. The children huddled in the two wagons while the adults went ahead with their preparations to depart. By nine o’clock, the rain slackened, but it was still a steady drizzle. By noon, which was so typical of the weather of late, the sky was clear and the temperature hot again.

Six days earlier, Captain (now Colonel) James Allen marched out with four companies of the Mormon Battalion. They went as far as Traders Point to get their initial supplies, then stopped to wait. A steamboat was supposed to meet them there and take them downriver to Fort Leavenworth, but it never showed up. It was just as well. He brought them back to the main camp, and the additional time had given them a chance to fill up the last company. Of the desired five hundred men, Colonel Allen now had four hundred and ninety-six. For the second time he made the announcement that the battalion was about to depart.

On the sixteenth, when the battalion had gathered and marched away, there had been great excitement in the air. Today, the finality of their departure had set in and the mood was very much different. This time there were no speeches. The officers and noncoms shouted and yelled and pulled their companies into line in a matter of minutes. Once in position, they shouted up to Colonel Allen, who stood with his sword out of its scabbard at parade rest. When the last officer called out that his company was ready, Allen snapped to attention. “Bat-tal-
yun!
” His voice floated over the bluffs and the camps that covered them as not another sound was heard. Four hundred and ninety-six men snapped to attention. “
For-ward! March!
Hup, two, three, four. Hup, two, three, four.”

William Pitt, probably at the express command of Brigham Young, had brought his band together again. They were seated just behind where the colonel had stood. As the rhythmic stamp of feet began and Company A moved forward, Pitt brought down his baton. At march tempo, the band began to play “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

Tears came more profusely than the morning’s rain, and they were not confined to those who waved good-bye. Many a man marched by with his head held high and his cheeks stained with tears as his wife and children called out their final farewells.