CHAPTER 25

 

Diary of James Reed, Sutter’s Fort, October 28, 1846

 

The very day I arrived at last at Sutter’s Fort, haggard, buffeted by the wind, and worn down by my fears, Charles Stanton was preparing to head back into the mountains on a rescue expedition. I wanted to join him, but I could barely stand. I had to admit to myself that I was in no shape to conduct a rescue; that indeed, I would likely end up in need of rescue myself if I attempted such a thing.

I helped provision Stanton as much as I could. Two Indians are going with him, but other than that, he is alone. William McCutchen is still recovering from their arduous journey and cannot accompany him.

I clasped Stanton’s hands perhaps a bit too tightly as I made him swear he would take care of my family. He little resembles the robust businessman I first met in Independence. He is raw and lean, and there is more determination in his eyes than I would have expected from him. In contrast, my companion Walter Herron, who steadfastly helped me over the mountains, has disappeared entirely. I suspect I will never see him again.

Charles Stanton is a brave man, to return to the depredations of the Donner Party when he has no family there of his own. I am forever in his debt.

Having secured his promise to look out for my family, I released his hands. “It is not only the cold and hunger that stalks our people,” I ventured.

He nodded, eyes gleaming, and I could tell he knew to what I was referring. “I am returning with rifles and ammunition as well,” he said.

Again I clasped his hands, this time in gratitude. I had the urge to embrace him, for at that moment he was as dear to me as family, but refrained.

And with that, I saw him off.

I have not told anyone at Sutter’s Fort about what I saw in the mountains. The everyday bustle of activity in this settlement makes what I witnessed seem an impossibility, a fever dream. They would likely think me mad, but if by some miracle they did believe me, they would assuredly be unwilling to accompany me into the wilderness. Yes, it is better to keep what I have seen to myself.

But I know what I saw, and Stanton has confirmed it. I fear for my family, with such creatures around them.

I am already much recovered, and hope to leave in the next few days.

 

October 30, 1846

 

McCutchen has recovered enough to accompany me. I say recovered, though in truth we both look like skeletons with a thin layer of skin stretched over our bones, but food and two days’ rest have put me back on my feet, and I cannot sit idle while my family suffers.

We managed to find three mules for sale and weighed them down with supplies before setting forth. The trek up the western slopes was almost easy. It is a much gentler incline than the other side of the Sierra. Near the summit, we encountered snowdrifts that were beyond our ability to push through. We went around them where we could, but a few hundred yards from the summit, we found that the snow was equally deep in all directions.

We have fallen back and made camp, and will make another attempt tomorrow.

 

November 1, 1846

 

It is hopeless. A snowstorm blew in overnight, so we made even less progress today than we did yesterday. We need snowshoes with which to tamp down the path; but what we truly need is more men. After only a few hundred feet, I was exhausted beyond all endurance. My heart pounded as though it longed to escape my chest.

It was even worse when I stopped to rest; then the full toll of my futile exertions became clear. Though I am not yet an old man, I felt a tightness across my chest and a weakness in my limbs that left them shaking. McCutchen tells me my face turned bright red and I was moaning as I walked, though I was not aware of it at the time. But I was aware that my companion looked as though he was near death. He couldn’t move without grunting, as if taking each step was the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

It is clear to me that this won’t do. It was perhaps a selfish endeavor, anyway, for we had only enough supplies to feed our own families. I hadn’t thought how that would be for all the others.

We must have help. We need a fully manned and provisioned party that can see the rescue to completion.

 

November 15, 1846

 

It has taken me weeks to make any progress in assembling a rescue party. Unbeknownst to us, while our wagon train was crossing the Great Desert, America was preparing to go to war with Mexico. California is the prize, and a Colonel John C. Fremont and his men have arrived in Sutter’s Fort under the pretense of being a surveying party.

I know that it is a pretense because I have spoken to Colonel Fremont several times in the last few days, after waiting nearly a week for him to meet with me. He knew what I would ask and was prepared to refuse me.

I had failed to convince any of the men here to join me on my rescue mission, even though I was willing to pay them handsomely. This was incomprehensible to me until one of the teamsters took pity on me and explained that Fremont has forbidden anyone to leave the fort until the situation with Mexico is resolved. When I spoke to Colonel Fremont, it became clear that there will be no resolution without conflict. Fremont is determined to gain the California territory for the United States of America.

Several members of the Harlan-Young wagon train, who are well acquainted with the difficulties of the journey over the Sierra Nevada, finally agreed to help me, but at the last minute, the mules and horses I purchased were requisitioned by the military.

I stormed into Fremont’s office, brushing past a rough-looking man who moved to stop me.

“My family is starving,” I shouted, “and you play at being a soldier!”

“I assure you, sir,” Fremont said in a low, even voice, “I play at nothing.”

The lack of emotion in his response drained me of mine. I saw that I could not reach him by appealing to his better nature.

“They call you the Great Pathfinder,” I said. “What will they call you if you let an entire party of settlers starve to death without attempting to help them?”

“I have no care for how history will regard me,” he said.

I was speechless. I knew it wasn’t true. This man cares for nothing so much as his fame, except perhaps his fortune. This thought was a reminder to me to swallow my own pride. I tried to reason with him, then begged for his help, but he was adamant in his refusal.

Walking away from that meeting was the lowest point of my life. I felt I had failed my family. I pictured Margret lying in the snow with Virginia and Patty in her arms and young Jimmy and Tommy at her feet. I closed my eyes and, unbidden, a vision came to me of a pack of wolves with red eyes and bloody teeth slinking toward my loved ones.

“Excuse me, sir,” I heard a voice say.

I turned to see the man who had tried to stop me outside Fremont’s office. He was dressed in buckskins and wore a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. He was short and weathered-looking, and his blue eyes were bright and lively. He could’ve been anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. I surmised that he was an experienced traveler and outdoorsman familiar with these western lands.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion with the colonel,” he continued.

“Yes?”

“If you’ll allow me to offer some advice?”

I nodded, curious.

“If you suggest to the colonel that you’ll convince the other settlers to join our volunteer military force, I think he might be more agreeable to your rescue effort. Have you had military experience?

“I fought in the Black Hawk War.”

“I thought so,” the man said. “The colonel needs experienced men. Offer your services and see what happens.”

“I will do so,” I replied. “I thank you, Mister…?”

“Carson,” the man said over his shoulder as he walked away. “Kit Carson.” Then he turned back to me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t mention to the colonel that I said anything. We aren’t on the best of terms just now. He’s a great man, and I owe him my life, but he can be a stubborn cuss.”

So it was that I joined the volunteer brigade. I was given the rank of lieutenant, for as soon as Fremont heard that I had served in the Black Hawk War, he insisted on promoting me.

“You know Mister Abraham Lincoln, then?” he asked.

“Very well,” I said.

“He’s an… interesting man. Not quite committed to the cause, I believe. Are you committed to the cause, Mister Reed?”

“If you speak of abolition, then yes, with all my heart.”

He examined me closely, as if skeptical. Since I am not accustomed to lying, I was a little offended. Perhaps he saw that in my face, for he seemed amused. “Very well, Reed. We’ll get you your rescue party. All I ask is that you return within the month.”

“If we haven’t succeeded in a month, sir,” I said, “then it will be too late.”

 

November 20, 1846

 

Good news! We have been told that there are emigrants camped at Bear Valley, on the western side of the mountains. We should reach them within a day or two. I long to see my dear wife and children. I hope that we are near the end of our travails.

Past the accursed mountains, California is everything we were led to believe, with mild weather and fertile soil. I have already inquired about purchasing land. We can have a fulfilling life here, I believe, God willing. Soon, dear family!

Colonel Fremont was as good as his word and outfitted us with thirty mules laden with provisions. A dozen men have agreed to accompany us: several of the Harlan-Young Party as volunteers, and three men I have hired to take care of the pack animals, as well as McCutchen and myself.

We are well prepared, and I have every hope of success.

 

November 21, 1846

 

Bitter disappointment.

Only a few hours into the trip, McCutchen informed me that six of the mules and two of the mule drivers had disappeared. Just like that, nearly a quarter of our supplies were gone.

We reached Bear Valley only to find that the rumored survivors were a young couple, strangers to us, who had gotten separated from a larger party. They were starving, huddled under a leaky canvas lean-to, and would have died without our help. We left them with provisions and a mule and pushed on.

The others are losing faith already. I am not listening to their complaints, but continuing forward and upward. The others have fallen behind, floundering in the deep snows, but McCutchen and I loaded what we could into our backpacks and continued on to the Yuba Bottoms.

We are a mere ten miles from the summit. We will make a final push tomorrow.

 

December 2, 1846

 

I have not had the heart to write further in this diary until now. I fear that my family may already be lost. I will not stop until I reach them, but it appears that the Fates are conspiring against me.

William McCutchen and I tried to reach the pass from the Yuba Bottoms, but went barely a mile before we realized it was impossible.

In my despair, I tried to go on anyway, which would have been the end of me. McCutchen grabbed me and held me down until I came to my senses and agreed to turn back.

We returned to Bear Valley to find that the rest of our party had already departed for Sutter’s Fort. It seems that while others may want to help, only those of us with loved ones in jeopardy are willing to risk our lives––save for Charles Stanton, God bless him.

When we reached the fort, we discovered that everyone’s attention has been turned to a new danger.

The citizens of the Sacramento Valley in are a state of anticipation. Talk of war is everywhere. Fremont immediately requisitioned the horses and mules we’d taken and insisted that we fulfill our promise to join his expeditionary force. He expressed no concern for the lost Donner Party.

I will keep my word to him, for it is clear that I will have no help until this crisis is resolved. I hope that my efforts will be rewarded. I reject the nightmares that come to me. I think of Virginia––that indomitable little girl––and envision her as the protector of my dear wife and my younger children. She will fight to the end, I know. How I wish I was there to fight in her stead!