She turned and fell into Rebecca’s arms, who was laughing and crying all at once. “I can’t believe my eyes,” Kathryn said. “You two here?” She finally pulled back. “But how? How come you are here?”
“That is a very long story,” Derek answered happily, “but I am pleased to say that we have all winter to explain it to you.”
Chapter Notes
Immediately upon reaching Sutter’s Fort, James Reed began to mount an effort to take supplies back to the emigrants who had driven him out. But it was too late. The same series of storms that closed the pass to the Donner Party blocked the route of the rescue team. Reed later wrote that it was Sutter’s argument that the emigrant group had enough cattle to survive that convinced the rescuers to wait until spring to try further. (See UE,pp. 193–95; OBH,pp. 102–4.)
What none of them could know, of course, was that after James Reed had left the wagon company, the Paiute Indians had ravaged the Donner Party’s herds. Collectively they had lost around fifty animals. The other thing they had no way of knowing was that these farmer-emigrants were not savvy enough to mark with long poles those places where their cattle died or were butchered. When the snows came, many of the animals were buried and could not be found again.
Because of his experience as an officer in the Black Hawk War back in Illinois, when James Reed first arrived at Sutter’s Fort he was asked to lead a company of men in the war with Mexico. Because of his need to return for his family, he declined. When he and McCutchen returned after their aborted rescue effort, Reed immediately accepted the invitation. There were probably two reasons for this. First, it would occupy his time until spring. Second, it would win him the acceptance of the locals, on whom he would have to depend for help when spring finally came.
In January, when the war ended, Reed returned to Yerba Buena and began working to put together a rescue party to make another attempt to cross the Sierra. He was engaged in that effort in late January when seven emaciated figures—out of seventeen who had started out on snowshoes—stumbled out of the mountains and reached Johnson’s Ranch with the horrible news of what had happened to the Donner Party. (See UE,pp. 195–97.)
The second detachment of the Mormon Battalion, which left Santa Fe on 18 October, arrived in Pueblo on 17 November. With the Mississippi Saints and the first and second detachments, the number of Latter-day Saints in Pueblo swelled to more than two hundred.
Chapter 32
Once the second detachment of the sick and the women and children were gone, Lieutenant Colonel Philip St. George Cooke began two things in earnest. The first was highly unpopular. Colonel Cooke immediately began to impose military discipline on the battalion. Guns were not to be fired in camp or out on the trail without the express order of one of the officers. Those caught sleeping on guard duty would be executed, standard procedure in a battle zone during wartime. Orders were issued and punishments inflicted immediately when they were disobeyed. One man was lowered in rank when he was late for roll call. Another man was tied to a wagon wheel overnight for trying to purchase extra food from the quartermaster. The men were to carry their own knapsacks and equipment and not load them in the baggage wagons. From the Mormon point of view, Cooke was being unnecessarily harsh. Many in the battalion saw his actions as just another extension of Lieutenant Smith’s dictatorial manner.
But Josh Steed did not agree. He could see that from a soldier’s point of view, especially a soldier like Colonel Cooke who had been trained at West Point, the battalion was in hopeless disarray. Men obeyed or disobeyed orders depending on whether or not they agreed with them. Privates often openly quarreled with officers. Cooke was tough, but he was fair. It was no more than Josh had expected an army commander would be, particularly when they were supposedly marching to war. There was a lot of grumbling, but gradually the men began to shape up into a much more orderly outfit, and Cooke began to earn their grudging admiration.
The second thing Colonel Cooke did was push the battalion to make a serious effort to follow General Kearny’s orders and march to California with as much dispatch as possible. He bought a few new mules or traded off the worst of the current lot for better ones. He ordered packsaddles for the mules so that the wagons wouldn’t be so heavily loaded. Mess groups were enlarged from six to ten, which significantly reduced the amount of cooking utensils needed. In addition, he ordered all skillets and ovens to be left behind. Each mess was allowed only one kettle.
From Santa Fe they turned south, following the route of the Rio Grande. Much of the road was deep sand, and the animals had great difficulty in pulling the wagons. The men were ordered to help push and pull. Some of the poorest animals began to die, and in many cases their hooves were split and bleeding. At a few settlements along the way they were able to purchase supplies and additional animals; often, however, they were met with quiet hostility by the Mexican inhabitants.
They reached Albuquerque in the Mexican province of New Mexico on the twenty-fourth of October, five days after leaving Santa Fe. There the natives were a little more friendly, and they were able to trade off thirty broken-down mules for fifteen good ones. Without stopping for more than one night, they pushed on, still going mostly south. Now the weather became their enemy. Cold, heavy rains left many men sick and the roads a nightmare. Even on clear days the men suffered as they sweated and baked in the day and froze at night. Influenza became commonplace, and even Colonel Cooke was stricken for a time.
On the third of November they experienced their first death since leaving Santa Fe. Private James Hampton of Company A had left his family in Illinois because they did not want to join the Church and go west. Now he was wrapped in a blanket and buried in a solitary grave and they would not see him again in this life.
They marched seventeen days—two hundred and twenty miles—without stopping for more than one night to rest. Now, even for the young and healthy like Josh Steed, the days became a mindless blur. One lowered the head and plodded on, trying not to think beyond the next step. Often men fell behind and would come into camp long after dark. Many of those seventeen days were spent pushing and pulling the wagons through deep sand or mud. As many as twenty men would have to help with each wagon. The mules became so exhausted that they no longer had to be staked out at night; they simply did not stray from where they were freed. The men, nearly in the same shape as the animals, begged Colonel Cooke to abandon the wagons and let them carry the supplies on their backs.
Seeing that they couldn’t keep up as they were, Colonel Cooke took yet another group of the sick and one of the five women who had been allowed to continue with them and sent them back to Pueblo. Between the three detachments, the deaths, and one desertion, they had lost one hundred sixty-two men, twenty-nine women, and forty-three children. The battalion’s strength, originally at four hundred and ninety-six, was now at three hundred thirty-five, just two-thirds of full strength.
Again, many of the men complained bitterly at the further separation of their group. Josh would have no part of it. If they continued dragging the sick with them, the deaths would only multiply. And by sending that many men back, in one stroke Colonel Cooke had extended his rations for another eight days. Fortunately, Josh’s health was still excellent, and for the third time he survived the cut.
A little even to his own surprise, he was pleased. He did not enjoy what was happening. Every day was one long, sustained misery. But he had come this far, and now the desire to see it through, to go all the way to California, was like a voice in his head driving him on.
On the day the third sick detachment turned back, Colonel Cooke finally agreed that most of the wagons had to be abandoned. Supplies and equipment were moved to the packsaddles. There weren’t enough mules to go around, and so packs were put on the backs of the oxen. Accustomed to a yoke and not a pack, they kicked and bellowed, whirled and fought, reared and bolted. But eventually they were brought to bear. More equipment was abandoned. Tent poles were left behind. From now on the men would use their
muskets to shore up their tents. And whatever wouldn’t fit on the backs of the mules and the oxen went on the backs of men. There was no complaint. There would be no more pushing and pulling the accursed wagons.
On November thirteenth, almost a full month after leaving Santa Fe, they finally left the Rio Grande and turned southwest for California. Now all of the hardships and sufferings and sacrifices of the previous months seemed but prelude. They jumped off into the desert, where water sources were separated by many miles. Often the only water, if there was water at all, was stagnant, insect-infested pools found in depressions in the rocks, or, in one case, in the footprints of buffalo (the buffalo dung had to be strained out before the water could be drunk).
Surprisingly, though the usual grumbling took place, the serious complaining and disgruntlement largely disappeared, and a sense of pride began to develop. In spite of the murderous terrain, in spite of the threat from hostile Indians and Mexican troops, in spite of short rations, filthy water, devastating thirst, blistering heat, numbing cold, blinding rain, raw blisters, and all-around misery, the men were enduring. The men had come to respect their commanding officer, who suffered equally with them, and he had come to respect these Mormons who seemed to have an infinite capacity to endure suffering. One man who had run out of ink was so determined to keep his journal current that he would poke himself in the arm each night, then make the entry in his own blood. The others quickly dubbed it the “blood journal.”
There was one day when it seemed as though there would be trouble again between Cooke and the men. When the guides could no longer find a route westward, a distress fire was built, and soon some Apaches and Mexicans came to see what it was. They reported that there was a good road that led into Sonora, which was deep into Mexico. Running short on rations and ordered by Kearny to find a wagon route to California, Cooke finally called the Mormon officers together and told them he was going to take that route. They objected strenuously. Marching deeper into Mexico only enhanced the danger. But Cooke could not be swayed.
The officers were so upset, that night they asked the men to pray that Cooke would change his mind. That took little urging. The men were greatly dismayed with the decision and feared that there would be clashes with Mexican regulars. They were isolated and with no chance of being resupplied. It seemed madness to go directly toward the enemy.
Never in all his young life had Josh Steed felt such a dark feeling. He had made up his mind to be loyal to Colonel Cooke as his commanding officer, and he didn’t often agree with the complaining spirit of the men. But this time he did. Every time he thought about marching farther southward, the darkness seemed to swell within him. That night, he knelt on his bedroll and prayed with more fervency than he could remember having ever prayed before.
The next day, completely adamant in the face of the men’s feelings to the contrary, Colonel Cooke started them southward. Then, after just two miles, the battalion reached a small knoll. Cooke, out front on his horse, reined in. Ahead as far as he could see, the trail stretched to the southeast, not to the southwest as he had been told. He swung around, suddenly determined.
“Gentlemen, this is not my course.” He glanced back at the trail behind him. “I was ordered to go to California.” He swore. “And that I will do or I will die in the attempt!”
He jabbed his finger at the bugler. “Blow the right!” he commanded.
Behind him, the long string of men were watching the scene up at the front with curiosity and some misgivings. But when the notes of the bugle sounded, a cheer went up and down the line. One of the men near the colonel who had heard what he said could not contain himself. “God bless the colonel,” he shouted.
Colonel Cooke spun around, his eyes narrowed, searching for the man who had said it. Then his face relaxed. There was a faint smile and a brief nod of satisfaction. “Thank you. To the right, gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s go to California.”
Private Josh Steed wiped his razor against his pant leg as he peered into the tiny square mirror he had propped up against his knapsack. “Why do you suppose there are only bulls and not any cows or calves?”
Sergeant Luther T. Tuttle was methodically packing his knapsack. He didn’t look up. “My guess is that the Indians have killed the cows and calves because the meat is so much more tender.”
Josh grunted, pulling a face. “That makes sense. I may as well have eaten my belt as the piece of meat I got last night.”
“I thought we wereeating our belts,” Tuttle said dryly.
Josh laughed, then walked to his knapsack and stored his shaving gear. “How many cattle must there have been originally?” he wondered aloud.
Tuttle straightened. “Probably hundreds, if not thousands. Remember, it’s been fifteen years since the Apaches drove the Mexicans out of San Bernardino. It was a large ranch, and fifteen years is a long time.”
Nodding, Josh dropped to his knees and began to gather up the rest of his gear. On the last day of November they crossed the Guadalupe Mountains and began their descent into a broad, pleasant valley. To their great surprise, they began seeing wild cattle in significant numbers. On the second of December they reached a deserted Mexican town known as Rancho San Bernardino. Now the wild cattle were everywhere. They were told that fifteen years earlier there had been a huge cattle ranch here, but eventually the Apaches drove the Mexicans out and scattered their cattle. No one had ever come back to gather them in.
It was a welcome treat for the battalion after more than three weeks of hard marching. They had crossed uncharted territory, making their own way and creating the wagon road that General Kearny wanted to California. They had been on shortened rations, and game had become scarce. When something was killed their appetites were so ravenous that they ate head, feet, hide, tripe, and everything else that was possibly edible. At the ranch the hunters killed over twenty of the wild cattle—most of which were bulls—and they had taken a day to build frames of mesquite and dry the meat. Once they marched on, they constantly saw signs of the wild bulls but rarely cows or calves. Even now, more than a week later, they were still seeing the bulls on a regular basis.
“That’s why that meat those Indians sold us was so good, wasn’t it?” Josh asked. A short time after the battalion left the ranch, several Indians had ridden into camp with about two hundred pounds of very fat and juicy meat.
Tuttle grunted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Indians have rounded up the cows and calves and have got them corralled somewhere.”
“Probably,” Josh agreed. “I hope they come selling some more.”
Just then they heard the bugler sound assembly. Tuttle shouldered his knapsack and picked up his musket. “We’d better go. Don’t want to miss roll call.”
Josh grinned. “If we’re late, they can bust you to private. But what can they do to me?”
The sergeant growled something which he didn’t understand. Josh laughed and shouldered his pack as well. Together they started to where the rest of the men were lining up.
The battalion left the San Pedro River shortly after departing camp and wound their way through some low hills for a couple of hours, then dropped down to the river again. The drovers took the cattle ahead of the main column so that they could water at the river while the men came up to join them. As they were approaching the river bottoms, suddenly rifle shots rang out. Startled, Josh swung his musket off his shoulder, looking around wildly. There was another shot, then another. Sergeant Tuttle had his rifle at the ready now too and bawled at the men to stay alert. Cries of “Ambush” and “We’re under attack” ran up and down the line. Men scrambled for protection as they readied their weapons. Josh found himself behind a large rock, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart pounding.
After a minute or two, one of the officers came riding down the line. “It’s all right,” he called. “Some wild bulls got in with our cattle and the drovers had to shoot them.”
Sheepishly the men got to their feet again, laughing and talking in re
lief.
“We’ll take an hour’s break at the river,” the officer said. He gave the men a mocking look. “Keep your weapons handy, men. You never know what’s going to jump out at you.” Then he rode away, laughing uproariously to himself.
Josh sat beside the river—not really much more than a wide creek at this time of year—holding his stomach. After some of the water they had been forced to drink over the last several weeks, this was delicious and he had drunk until his belly hurt. Across the stream, the drovers were skinning and cleaning the bulls they had shot earlier. Every now and then the air would stir slightly and he would smell the ripe odor of blood and death. But he could live with that. There would be fresh meat tonight. It would be tougher than saddle leather, but it would be fresh.
He turned to where Sergeant Tuttle and the rest of his platoon were lying side by side, hats over their eyes to protect them from the sun. Now, that wasn’t a bad idea, he thought. They still had half an hour before the call to move again would sound. Josh had learned that in the army you grabbed sleep whenever and wherever you could. With a soft moan of pleasure, he lay down in the soft sand and closed his eyes.
Three minutes later, just as his mouth was sagging in that final relaxation before sleep, there was a bellow from somewhere behind him. He opened his eyes. It was deeper than that of an ox. Then there was a scream and a rifle shot. He sat bolt upright, looking around in confusion.
The riverbed itself was wide and mostly sand, with the stream being only a few feet wide, but all along the banks there were thick stands of underbrush—willows, manzanita, some mesquite and other desert brushes. As he leaped to his feet, a dark shape burst out of the undergrowth about fifty yards from where he and the others were standing. It was a huge bull, black as a coal bin, with massive horns that curved to wicked-looking tips. It whirled to the right, hooves kicking sand outward. Directly in front of it was one of the few wagons the battalion still had with them. With a bellow that rumbled like thunder, the beast lowered its head and charged. Men yelled and exploded in panic. There was a tremendous crash as the bull hit the wagon at full charge. One horn went through the wood sideboard as if it were paper. The wagon rocked violently; then, as the bull lunged forward, twisting with its massive neck, the wagon lifted and slowly tipped over, spilling sacks and boxes out as it hit the ground.
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