CHAPTER 11

 

Virginia Reed, Fort Bridger, 1846

 

We reached Fort Bridger a few days later. There, our party had to make a final decision about which path to take. We could go back to the main route through South Pass in Wyoming and north to Fort Hall, and from there, take the well-established trail to California. This was the safer and better-known route. Or, we could take the new, unproven shortcut. On the map, the former option appeared to take us far out of our way, whereas the latter, which ran due west, looked as if it would cut weeks off our trip.

The temptation to follow Lansford Hastings’s new route was almost irresistible.

All the adults were on edge, so much so that the children noticed and grew subdued. It was dangerous to be traveling so late in the season, whichever trail we took. We needed to cross the mountains soon, or we would be forced to wait until spring. I suspected that most of those in the party did not have the money, supplies, or inclination to spend another season on the trail. Most felt there was no choice but to push on.

I trusted that the adults––especially Father––would arrive at the right decision and deliver us safely to our destination.

 

#

 

That evening, our leaders gathered to make the final decision. The fateful meeting was held inside the walls of Fort Bridger. They called it a fort, but it was barely more than a hovel surrounded by crude mud bulwarks. It was owned by Jim Bridger and his partner, Pierre Louis Vasquez, who ran a small trading post within it.

As he had many times before, Father spoke strongly in favor of the Hastings Cutoff. I wanted to stop him, to take him aside and tell him what I’d heard, especially when I saw Keseberg exchanging a smirk with another German, but I hesitated to interrupt Father in front of the others, especially when he was so certain of his position.

The argument seemed to go on forever, and my attention started to stray. I looked for Bayliss in the crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jean Baptiste caught my eye, then rolled his own in exaggerated exasperation at how long the meeting was taking.

The adults’ discourse was insistent and intense, but as the discussion dragged on, their voices became merely a droning in my ears. Then, suddenly, some of those voices were being raised in anger, and I began to pay closer attention.

“We should go with the others,” Hardkoop was arguing loudly. He was an older man, and his Belgian accent made it hard to understand him. He had missed the chance to join the bigger wagon train, and now he was stuck with us.

“You old coward,” Keseberg snapped at him. “Why didn’t you leave with the others, if you wanted to go that way?”

“You know why!” Hardkoop yelled. “I gave all my money to you. You will not give it back!”

“I would never have agreed to carry your old carcass if I had known you were so feeble,” Keseberg growled, looming over the smaller Hardkoop as if ready to strike him down. Keseberg was a big, harsh man, and as the trip went on, he was becoming harsher.

Father stepped between them, and Keseberg backed away. I was never so proud of Father as at that moment. He looked so tall and handsome, and had such a commanding presence compared to these petty-seeming, bickering men.

“I believe we should take the alternate route,” Father reiterated. “Mister Hastings has promised to meet us along the trail and show us the way. We will save weeks.”

Tamsen Donner spoke up. “I do not trust that man,” she said. “I think he’s nothing more than an adventurer.” Her husband frowned at her, but she ignored him. Several of the other women were listening and nodding silently. Her servant girl, Eliza, was sitting next to her, wide-eyed at her mistresses’ forwardness.

“What do you think, Mister Bridger?” George Donner asked. “How passable is this route?”

Old Jim Bridger spoke up. “I think you will find it an easy trip,” the rugged-looking mountain man said. And who could doubt him? You could tell just by looking at him that he had a wealth of wilderness experience. His face was wrinkled and weathered, with lively blue eyes whose intensity was piercing when he looked at you directly.

Of course, if any of us had thought about it, we would have realized his “fort” would make much more profit if more emigrants chose the southern route.

“There are few hostile Indians left in the area,” he said in a cracked, dry, but confident voice. “Best of all, there is water along the way.”

“What about the desert?” Breen asked, tension making his voice hard.

“I admit, there are two small deserts,” Bridger said. “But you should be able to cross those in less than two days.”

“If that is true,” said Breen, “why haven’t others taken this route before us?

“They have,” Bridger said. “As a matter of fact, Mister Hastings left Fort Bridger with a group of forty wagons only ten days ago. You need only follow his tracks to get where you want to go.”

Doubt still filled the air. I could see that even Father sensed that something wasn’t quite right. Bridger was making it sound too easy.

“You will save 350 miles.” Bridger dropped the words into the ensuing silence like meat to a pack of hungry dogs.

The men exchanged glances, and the women looked momentarily hopeful.

“If it is so easy, why has it taken so long to be discovered?” Breen persisted, raising the question that was on everyone’s minds.

There was some muttering at that, and the enthusiasm that had begun to build for the new route began to dissipate. Once again, it appeared as if there would be a stalemate. Without a nearly unanimous decision, we would probably turn back to the established trail. No one was fool enough to strike out on his or her own.

It was at that moment of indecision that Charles Stanton stepped forward. He had been with the wagon train almost from the beginning, and had hired three wagons to carry goods westward. He was a prosperous businessman, plump and a little older than most of the men, but with great stamina. He was also a very thoughtful fellow, rarely expressing an opinion without strong, hard evidence to back him up, so when he spoke, the others listened.

“My goods are growing stale on this trek; some of the merchandise is beginning to rot,” he said forcefully. “I simply cannot wait to take an extra month to get to my destination. I say we take a chance on the shortcut.”

That seemed to sway the tide of opinion. It wasn’t long before the rest of the family groups decided to join the expedition through Hastings Cutoff.

 

#

 

“Well, that’s it, then,” Father announced, breaking the silence that had followed the party’s decision. “All that is left is to name our leader.” He propped a booted foot up on the log next to Tamsen Donner, who looked affronted. “What say you?” He nodded at George Donner as if expecting a show of support. His face fell when no one spoke up. There was an awkward silence.

At this point in the journey, the party was divided into two main camps. There were the German families, who stuck together, and there was everyone else, and no clear leader had emerged.

Outside these two groups was the Reed family. Father seemed to feel that our family was different from the others, and everyone else seemed to share that feeling––but for a different reason. There was no doubt in Father’s mind that he was the best equipped to lead. There was no doubt in anyone else’s mind that he was overbearing and overconfident. The slow progress of our giant wagon had often delayed the entire party, and more than once, some of our fellow pioneers had threatened to leave us behind. Father had antagonized too many people. I knew that he was the right man for the job, but that didn’t seem to matter. It was obvious that few would support a German leader, but neither would they pick Father.

Finally, Jacob Donner, in his diffident way, suggested that his brother, George, should be elected leader. From the relief that swept through the others, it was clear that this was a popular choice.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I did not trust George Donner. He came across as good-natured and easygoing, but I saw something cold and calculating in his eyes. It was the first time I realized that people will trust the friendly more than the stalwart, the mild-mannered more than the righteous. The choice, however, was not mine to make.

It wasn’t even put to a vote, the decision was so clear.

Our leader having been decided by the adults, we were to leave early the next morning.

Everyone went back to his or her own camps, resolute and hopeful now that a route had finally been decided on. When I returned to the shadows of our great coach, I found Father alone. He was eating some of the pie that Mother had managed to bake in her spare Dutch oven. She and Patty had spent hours picking bucketsful of berries in the gullies around the camp.

Mother had gone to bed early, as usual, joined by Patty, as was her wont. Tommy and Jimmy were underfoot of the younger drivers and single men, who were drinking hard cider around their own fire. The boys had become something of a good-luck charm to them.

Father was stirring the coals with a frown on his face, the piece of pie neglected in his hand. He glanced up and gave me a tired smile. “Hello, Gina.”

I sat at his feet. “They are fools, Father.”

He looked ready to deny it, then shook his head ruefully. “Being right isn’t always enough, Gina. Remember that. A pleasant and agreeable demeanor can take you much farther in this life. As you likely know by now, being spirited isn’t always appreciated either, especially in a woman.”

He saw that I was about to take offense and quickly added, “You have a pleasant demeanor and a strong will, dear girl, which is the best combination of all. As for myself, well… I never learned to say the right things.”

His compliments gave me a warm glow. I leaned closer to him, and he reached out and put his hand on my head. It was comforting, something I’d been missing. Sometimes I was too independent for my own good.

“Father?” In that moment of closeness, I found myself daring to speak of my worries.

There must have been something in my tone, because he looked me in the eye and said sternly, “Yes, Virginia?”

“Can we not wait for another group to join?”

“Why would we do that?” he asked.

“I don’t trust Keseberg and the others.”

“Don’t trust them?” he asked. “Whatever do you mean, Gina?”

“I… I don’t think they are… quite human,” I said hesitantly.

A look of disappointment crossed his face, which I could not bear. “I’ve tried to teach you, Virginia,” he said, and sighed. “Just because they are foreigners doesn’t mean they are not deserving of respect. It’s true that we don’t always agree; but remember, all men are equal, and should be treated equally.”

“I mean, Father,” I persisted, “I don’t think they are men at all!”

“Not men?” He looked at me with puzzlement, which quickly turned into exasperation. “I thought we were done with your wild flights of imagination, Virginia. You are getting much too old for that.”

I wanted to tell him what I had seen––or what I thought I had seen––but the disappointment in his voice stopped the words on my lips. “I’m sorry, Father. They just… make me uncomfortable.”

He softened immediately. “I understand, Virginia. They are rough men. But we couldn’t join another party even if we wanted to. I think we are the last group on the trail. We will simply have to try to get along.”

“Yes, Father.” I was far too old to climb into his lap, as I used to do, but that didn’t keep me from longing to. Instead, I sat next to him and leaned my head against his shoulder. Sitting with him thus, I felt secure, and was almost relieved that he would not have to be the leader of the wagon train, and could spend more time with his family. As long as Father was with us, I felt I had nothing to fear.

I must have fallen asleep there by the campfire, leaning against him. In the morning, I found myself snug beneath my blankets, where Father must have lain me down so gently that I had not awoken.