With the cattle which belonged to him he could have selfishly subsisted until relief came, but, whole-souled Irishman that he was, he gave food to the mothers and the children and went out into the waste of snow to perish of starvation! How many who live to-day owe their existence to Patrick Dolan's self-sacrifice! This blue-eyed, brown haired Irishman is described as being of a jovial disposition, and inclined to look upon the bright side of things. Remembering how he gave his life for strangers, how readily can we appreciate Mr. Breen's tender tribute: "He was a favorite with children, and would romp and play with a child." As a token of appreciation for his kindness, Mrs. Reed gave Patrick Dolan a gold watch and a Masonic emblem belonging to her husband, bidding him to keep them until he was rewarded for his generosity. The good mother's word had a significance she wot not of. When Mrs. Reed reached Sutter's Fort she found these valuables awaiting her. They had been brought in by Indians. Patrick Dolan had kept them until his death--until the angels came and bore him away to his reward.

This party of fifteen had taken provisions to last only six days. At the end of this time they hoped to reach Bear Valley, so they said, but it is more than probable they dared not take more food from their dear ones at the cabins. Six days' rations! This means enough of the poor, shriveled beef to allow each person, three times a day, a piece the size of one's two fingers. With a little coffee and a little loaf sugar, this was all. They had matches, Foster's gun, a hatchet, and each a thin blanket. With this outfit they started to cross the Sierra. No person, unaccustomed to snow-shoes, can form an idea of the difficulty which is experienced during one's first attempt to walk with them. Their shoes would sink deep into the loose, light snow, and it was with great effort they made any progress. They had been at Donner Lake from forty-two to forty-six days, and on this first night of their journey had left it four miles behind them. After a dreadful day's work they encamped, in full sight of the lake and of the cabins. This was harder for the aching hearts of the mothers than even the terrible parting from their little ones. To see the smoke of the cabins, to awake from their troubled dreams, thinking they heard the cry of their starving babes, to stifle the maternal yearnings which prompted them to turn back and perish with their darlings clasped to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, were trials almost unbearable.

The next day they traveled six miles. They crossed the summit, and the camps were no longer visible. They were in the solemn fastnesses of the snow-mantled Sierra. Lonely, desolate, forsaken apparently by G.o.d and man, their situation was painfully, distressingly terrible. The snow was, wrapped about cliff and forest and gorge. It varied in depth from twelve to sixty feet.

Mrs. M. A. Clarke (Mary Graves), now of White River, Tulare County, speaking of this second day, says: "We had a very slavish day's travel, climbing the divide. Nothing of interest occurred until reaching the summit. The scenery was too grand for me to pa.s.s without notice, the changes being so great; walking now on loose snow, and now stepping on a hard, slick rock a number of hundred yards in length. Being a little in the rear of the party, I had a chance to observe the company ahead, trudging along with packs on their backs. It reminded me of some Norwegian fur company among the icebergs. My shoes were ox-bows, split in two, and rawhide strings woven in, something in form of the old-fashioned, split-bottomed chairs. Our clothes were of the bloomer costume, and generally were made of flannel. Well do I remember a remark one of the company made here, that we were about as near heaven as we could get. We camped a little on the west side of the summit the second night."

Here they gathered a few boughs, kindled a fire upon the surface of the snow, boiled their coffee, and ate their pitiful allowance of beef; then wrapping their toil-worn bodies in their blankets, lay down upon the snow. As W. C. Graves remarks, it was a bed that was soft, and white, and beautiful, and yet it was a terrible bed--a bed of death. The third day they walked five miles. Starting almost at dawn, they struggled wearily through the deep drifts, and when the night shadows crept over crag and pine and mountain vale, they were but five miles on their journey. They did not speak during the day, except when speech was absolutely necessary. All traveled silently, and with downcast eyes.

The task was beginning to tell upon the frames of even the strongest and most resolute. The hunger that continually gnawed at their vitals, the excessive labor of moving the heavy, clumsy snow-shoes through the soft, yielding snow, was too much for human endurance. They could no longer keep together and aid each other with words of hope. They struggled along, sometimes at great distances apart. The fatigue and dazzling sunlight rendered some of them s...o...b..ind. One of these was the n.o.ble-hearted Stanton. On this third day he was too blind and weak to keep up with the rest, and staggered into the camp long after the others had finished their pitiful supper. Poor, brave, generous Stanton! He said little, but in his inner heart he knew that the end of his journey was almost at hand.

Who was this heroic being who left the beautiful valleys of the Sacramento to die for strangers? See him wearily toiling onward during the long hours of the fourth day. The agony and blindness of his eyes wring no cry from his lips, no murmur, no word of complaint. With patient courage and heroic fort.i.tude he strives to keep pace with his companions, but finds it impossible. Early in the morning he drops to the rear, and is soon lost to sight. At night he drags his weary limbs into camp long after his comrades are sleeping 'neath the silent stars.

It must be remembered that they had been accustomed to short allowance of food for months, while he had been used to having an abundance. Their bodies had been schooled to endure famine, privations, and long, weary walks. For many days before reaching the mountains, they had been used to walking every day, in order to lighten the burdens of the perishing oxen. Fatigues which exhausted them crushed Stanton. The weather was clear and pleasant, but the glare of the sun during the day had been like molten fire to their aching eyes.

On the morning of the fifth day Stanton was sitting smoking by the smoldering fire when the company resumed its journey. Mary Graves, who had a tender heart for the suffering of others, went kindly up to him, and asked him if he were coming. "Yes," he replied, "I am coming soon." Was he answering her, or the unseen spirits that even then were beckoning him to the unknown world? "Yes, I am coming soon!" These were his last words. His companions were too near death's door to return when they found he came not, and so he perished. He had begged them piteously to lead him, during the first days of his blindness, but seeming to realize that they were unable to render a.s.sistance, he ceased to importune, and heroically met his fate. He did not blame his comrades.

They were weak, exhausted, and ready to die of starvation. With food nearly gone, strength failing, hope lost, and nothing left but the last, blind, clinging instinct of life, it was impossible that the perishing company should have aided the perishing Stanton. He was a hero of the highest, n.o.blest, grandest stamp. No words can ever express a fitting tribute to his memory. He gave his life for strangers who had not the slightest claim to the sacrifice. He left the valleys where friends, happiness, and abundance prevailed, to perish amidst chilling snow-drifts--famished and abandoned. The act of returning to save the starving emigrants is as full of heroic grandeur as his death is replete with mournful desolation.

In May, 1847, W. C. Graves, in company with a relief party, found the remains of C. T. Stanton near the spot where he had been left by his companions. The wild animals had partially devoured his body, but the remains were easily identified by means of his clothing and pistols.

The following sketch of this hero is kindly furnished by his brother, Sidney Stanton, of Cazenovia, New York:

"Charles Tyler Stanton was born at Pompey, Onondaga County, New York, March 11, 1811. He was five feet five inches in height. He had brown eyes and brown hair. He possessed a robust const.i.tution, and although rather slender during his youth, at the age of fifteen he became strong and hearty, and could endure as great hardships as any of his brothers.

He had five brothers and four sisters, and was the seventh child. His grandparents, on his father's side, were well off at the close of the revolutionary war, but sold their large farms, and took Continental money in payment. Soon afterward this money became worthless, and they lost all. They were at the time living in Berkshire, Ma.s.sachusetts, but soon after removed west to the county where C. T. Stanton was born.

There were in his father's family fourteen children--seven sons and seven daughters."

In his younger days Stanton was engaged as a clerk in a store. He was honest, industrious, and greatly beloved by those with whom he came in contact. His early education was limited, but during his employment as clerk he used every possible endeavor to improve his mind. During his journey across the plains, he was regarded as somewhat of a savant, on account of his knowledge of botany, geology, and other branches of natural science. His disposition was generous to a fault. He never was happier than when bestowing a.s.sistance upon needy friends. His widowed mother, for whom he entertained the most devoted affection, was kindly cared for by him until her death in 1835. After this sad event he removed to Chicago. At Chicago he made money rapidly for a time, and his hand was ever ready to give aid to those about him. Charity and heroic self-sacrifice appear to have been his predominant characteristics. They stand out in bold relief, not only in his early history, but during his connection with the Donner Party. While in the mountains he had no money to give, but instead he gave his strength, his energy, his love, his all, his very life, for his companions.

That he had a premonition of the gloomy fate which overtook him in the Sierra, or at least that he fully realized the perils to which he was exposing his life, is indicated by the following incident: When he set out from Sutter's Fort to return to the Donner train with provisions, he left a vest with Captain Sutter. In one of the pockets of this vest was subsequently found a package directed to the Captain with the following memorandum: "Captain Sutter will send the within, in the event of my death, to Sidney Stanton, Syracuse, New York." The package contained a diamond breastpin. Mr. Sidney Stanton writes as follows concerning this keepsake:

"I will give you a short history or account of the pin which was left for me at Sutter's Fort, which Mr. McKinstry forwarded to me. This was an event so peculiar at the time. He visited me here at Syracuse, while he was prospering in Chicago. He was on his way to New York, and wanted a sum of money, which I advanced. Before leaving he fastened this pin on the dress of my wife, remarking that she must consider it as a present from him. Nothing more was thought of this event until he again wanted money. Misfortune had overtaken him, and this event gave him much pain, not so much on his own account as because he could not relieve the distress of dear friends when asked for aid. I sent him a little more money; I had not much to spare, and in talking the matter over with my wife, she asked, 'Why not send him the pin? It is valuable, and in time of need he might dispose of it for his comfort.' In saying this she took the ground that it was left with her as a pledge, not as a gift. I therefore handed it to my sister to send to him for this purpose. But it appears by his keeping it and sending it back in the way he did, that he did consider it a gift, and hence he would not and did not dispose of it for necessary things for his own comfort. This pin was the only thing of value which he had at the time of his death."

Stanton was an excellent writer. His descriptions of his travels from Chicago to the South would make a good-sized and a very interesting book. His last composition is given below. It is an appropriate ending to this brief outline of the history of one who should be regarded as one of the n.o.blest of California's pioneer heroes:

"To My Mother In Heaven."

"Oh, how that word my soul inspires With holy, fond, and pure desires!

Maternal love, how bright the flame!

For wealth of worlds I'd not profane Nor idly breathe thy sacred name, My mother."

"Thy sainted spirit dwells on high.

How oft I weep, how oft I sigh Whene'er I think of bygone time, Thy smile of love, which once was mine, That look so heavenly and divine, My mother."

"Thy warning voice in prayers of love, Ascending to the throne above With tones of eloquence so rife, Hath turned my thoughts from worldly strife, And cheered me through my wayward life, My mother."

"When death shall close my sad career, And I before my G.o.d appear There to receive His last decree My only prayer there will be Forever to remain with thee, My mother."

Chapter VII.

A Wife's Devotion The Smoky Gorge Caught in a Storm Casting Lots to See Who should Die A Hidden River The Delirium of Starvation Franklin Ward Graves His Dying Advice A Frontiersman's Plan The Camp of Death A Dread Resort A Sister's Agony The Indians Refuse to Eat Lewis and Salvador Flee for Their Lives Killing a Deer Tracks Marked by Blood Nine Days without Food.

Let no one censure Stanton's companions for abandoning their brave comrade. In less than twenty-four hours all were without food, unless, indeed, it was Mr. Eddy, who, in his narration published by Judge Thornton, states that on the day of Stanton's death he found half a pound of bear's meat which had been secreted in a little bag by his wife. Attached to this meat was a paper, upon which his wife had written in pencil a note signed, "Your own dear Eleanor." Mr. Eddy had not discovered this meat until the sorest hour of need, and the hope expressed in Mrs. Eddy's note, that it would be the means of saving his life, was literally fulfilled. There is something extremely touching in the thought that this devoted wife, who, as will presently be seen, was starving to death in the cabins, saved her husband's life by clandestinely concealing about his person a portion of the food which should have sustained herself and her infant children.

In the account given by Mary Graves, is mentioned the following incident in the fourth day's travel: "Observing by the way a deep gorge at the right, having the appearance of being full of smoke, I wanted very much to go to it, but the Indians said no, that was not the way. I prevailed on the men to fire the gun, but there was no answer. Every time we neared the gorge I would halloo at the top of my voice, but we received no answer."

On this day the horror of the situation was increased by the commencement of a snow-storm. As the flakes fell thick and fast, the party sat down in the snow utterly discouraged and heartsick.

Mary Graves says: "What to do we did not know. We held a consultation, whether to go ahead without provisions, or go back to the cabins, where we must undoubtedly starve. Some of those who had children and families wished to go back, but the two Indians said they would go on to Captain Sutter's. I told them I would go too, for to go back and hear the cries of hunger from my little brothers and sisters was more than I could stand. I would go as far as I could, let the consequences be what they might."

There, in the deep, pitiless storm, surrounded on all sides by desolate wastes of snow, the idea was first advanced that life might be sustained if some one were to perish. Since leaving the cabins, they had at no time allowed themselves more than one ounce of meat per meal, and for two entire days they had not tasted food. The terrible pangs of hunger must be speedily allayed or death was inevitable. Some one proposed that lots be cast to see who should die. The terrible proposition met with opposition from Foster and others, but slips of paper were actually prepared by some of the men, and he who drew the longest--the fatal slip--was Patrick Dolan. Who should take Dolan's life? Who was to be the executioner of the man who had so generously given up the food which might have sustained his life, and joined the forlorn hope that others might live? With one accord they rose to their feet and staggered forward. As if to banish from their minds the horrid thought of taking Dolan's life, they attempted to pursue their journey.

With the greatest exertion and suffering they managed to crawl, and stagger, and flounder along until they attained a distance of two or three miles. Here they camped, and pa.s.sed a most wretched, desolate night. The morning dawned; it was dreary, rainy, and discouraging. The little party set out as usual, but were too weak and lifeless to travel.

The soft snow clung to their feet in heavy lumps like snow-b.a.l.l.s.

Instead of making a fire in a new place, Mary Graves says they crawled back to the camp-fire of the night previous. Here they remained until night came on--a night full of horrors. The wind howled through the shrieking forests like troops of demons. The rain had continued all day, but finally changed to snow and sleet, which cut their pinched faces, and made them shiver with cold. All the forces of nature seemed to combine for their destruction. At one time during the night, in attempting to kindle a fire, the ax or hatchet which they had carried was lost in the loose snow.

A huge fire was kindled at last, with the greatest difficulty, and in order to obtain more warmth, all a.s.sisted in piling fuel upon the flames. Along in the night, Mr. Foster thinks it was near midnight, the heat of the flames and the dropping coals and embers thawed the snow underneath the fire until a deep, well-like cavity was formed about the fire. Suddenly, as if to intensify the dreadful horrors of the situation, the bottom of this well gave way, and the fire disappeared!

The camp and the fire had been built over a stream of water, and the fire had melted through the overlying snow until it had fallen into the stream! Those who peered over the brink of the dark opening about which they were gathered, could hear, far down in the gloom, during the lull of the storm, the sound of running waters.

If there is anything lacking in this picture of despair, it is furnished in the groans and cries of the shivering, dying outcasts, and the demoniacal shrieks and ravings of Patrick Dolan, who was in the delirium which precedes death. It was not necessary that life should be taken by the members of the company. Death was busily at work, and before the wild winter night was ended, his ghastly victims were deaf to wind or storm.

When the fire disappeared, it became apparent that the entire forlorn hope would perish before morning if exposed to the cold and storm. W.

H. Eddy says the wind increased until it was a perfect tornado. About midnight, Antoine overcome by starvation, fatigue, and the bitter cold, ceased to breathe. Mr. F. W. Graves was dying. There was a point beyond which an iron nerve and a powerful const.i.tution were unable to sustain a man. This point had been reached, and Mr. Graves was fast pa.s.sing away.

He was conscious, and calling his weeping, grief-stricken daughters to his side, exhorted them to use every means in their power to prolong their lives. He reminded them of their mother, of their little brothers and sisters in the cabin at the lake. He reminded Mrs. Pike of her poor babies. Unless these daughters succeeded in reaching Sutter's Fort, and were able to send back relief, all at the lake must certainly die.

Instances had been cited in history, where, under less provocation, human flesh had been eaten, yet Mr. Graves well knew that his daughters had said they would never touch the loathsome food.

Was there not something n.o.ble and grand in the dying advice of this father? Was he not heroic when he counseled that all false delicacy be laid aside and that his body be sacrificed to support those that were to relieve his wife and children?

Earnestly pleading that these afflicted children rise superior to their prejudices and natural instincts--Franklin Ward Graves died. A sublimer death seldom is witnessed. In the solemn darkness, in the tempestuous storm, on the deep, frozen snow-drifts, overcome by pain and exposure, with the pangs of famine gnawing away his life, this unselfish father, with his latest breath urged that his flesh be used to prolong the lives of his companions. Truly, a soul that could prompt such utterances had no need, after death, for its mortal tenement--it had a better dwelling-place on high.

With two of their little number in the icy embraces of death, some plan to obtain warmth for the living was immediately necessary. W. H. Eddy proposed a frontiersman's method. It was for all to huddle closely together in a circle, lie down on a blanket with their heads outward, and be covered with a second blanket. Mr. Eddy arranged his companions, spread the blanket over them, and creeping under the coverlid, completed the circle. The wind swept the drifting snow in dense clouds over their heads. The chilling air, already white with falling snowflakes, became dense with the drifting ma.s.ses. In a little while the devoted band were completely hidden from wind, or storm, or piercing cold, by a deep covering of snow. The warmth of their bodies, confined between the blankets, under the depth of snow, soon rendered them comfortably warm. Their only precaution now was to keep from being buried alive. Occasionally some member of the party would shake the rapidly acc.u.mulating snow from off their coverlid.

They no longer were in danger of freezing. But while the elements were vainly waging fierce war above their heads, hunger was rapidly sapping the fountains of life, and claiming them for its victims. When, for a moment, sleep would steal away their reason, in famished dreams they would seize with their teeth the hand or arm of a companion. The delirium of death had attacked one or two, and the pitiful wails and cries of these death-stricken maniacs were heart-rending. The dead, the dying, the situation, were enough to drive one crazy.

The next day was ushered in by one of the most furious storms ever witnessed on the Sierra. All the day long, drifts and the fast-falling snow circled above them under the force of the fierce gale. The air was a frozen fog of swift-darting ice-lances. The fine particles of snow and sleet, hurled by maddened storm-fiends, would cut and sting so that one's eyes could not be opened in the storm, and the rushing gale would hurl one prostrate on the snow. Once or twice the demented Dolan escaped from his companions and disappeared in the blinding storm. Each time he returned or was caught and dragged 'neath the covering, but the fatal exposure chilled the little life remaining in his pulses. During the afternoon he ceased to shriek, or struggle, or moan. Patrick Dolan, the warm-hearted Irishman, was starved to death.

Mr. Eddy states, in Thornton's work, that they entered this Camp of Death, Friday, December 25, Christmas. According to his version they started from the cabins on the sixteenth day of December, with scanty rations for six days. On the twenty-second they consumed the last morsel of their provisions. Not until Sunday noon, December 27, did the storm break away. They had been over four days without food, and two days and a half without fire. They were almost dead.

Is there a mind so narrow, so uncharitable, that it can censure these poor dying people for the acts of this terrible day? With their loved ones perishing at Donner Lake, with the horror of a lingering death staring them in the face, can the most unfeeling heart condemn them?

Emerging from the dreary prison-house, they attempted to kindle a fire.

Their matches were wet and useless. Their flint-lock gun would give forth a spark, but without some dry material that would readily ignite, it was of no avail.

On this morning of the twenty-seventh Eddy says that he blew up a powder-horn in an effort to strike fire under the blankets. His face and hands were much burned. Mrs. McCutchen and Mrs. Foster were also burned, but not seriously. For some time all efforts to obtain a fire proved fruitless. Their garments were drenched by the storm. Mrs. Pike had a mantle that was lined with cotton. The lining of this was cut open, and the driest portion of the cotton was exposed to the sun's rays, in the hope that it could be made to catch the spark from the flint. At last they were successful. A fire was kindled in a dead tree, and the flames soon leaped up to the loftiest branches. The famished, shivering wretches gathered round the burning tree. So weak and lifeless were they that when the great pine limbs burned off and fell crashing about them, neither man nor woman moved or attempted to escape the threatening danger. All felt that sudden death would be welcome. They were stunned and horrified by the dreadful alternative which it was evident they must accept.

The men finally mustered up courage to approach the dead. With averted eyes and trembling hand, pieces of flesh were severed from the inanimate forms and laid upon the coals. It was the very refinement of torture to taste such food, yet those who tasted lived. One could not eat. Lemuel Murphy was past relief. A boy about thirteen years old, Lemuel was dearly loved by his sisters, and, full of courage, had endeavored to accompany them on the fearful journey. He was feeble when he started from the cabins, and the overwhelming sufferings of the fatal trip had destroyed his remaining strength. Starvation is agony during the first three days, apathy and inanition during the fourth and perhaps the fifth, and delirium from that time until the struggle ceases. When the delirium commences, hope ends. Lemuel was delirious Sunday morning, and when food was placed to his lips he either could not eat or was too near death to revive. All day Mrs. Foster held her brother's head in her lap, and by every means in her power sought to soothe his death agonies. The sunlight faded from the surrounding summits. Darkness slowly emerged from the canyons and enfolded forest and hill-slope in her silent embrace. The glittering stars appeared in the heavens, and the bright, full moon rose over the eastern mountain crests. The silence, the profound solitude, the ever-present wastes of snow, the weird moonlight, and above all the hollow moans of the dying boy in her lap, rendered this night the most impressive in the life of Mrs. Foster. She says she never beholds a bright moonlight without recurring with a shudder to this night on the Sierra. At two o'clock in the morning Lemuel Murphy ceased to breathe. The warm tears and kisses of the afflicted sisters were showered upon lips that would never more quiver with pain.