The Fateful decision
By Gil Garcia
Dear Diary, April 15th, 1846 it’s been three weeks now since we left Springfield. Pa, and Mr.
Russell (The wagon Master) is hoping to make the Great Salt Lake by
September. We would have to average
twenty five miles a day. Crossing the
Sierra would be a struggle if misfortune takes us with delays. Most are immigrants looking to strike it rich
in California. But, many families are looking to be land
holders and farm the rich soil when California becomes a U.S. Territory.
Dear Diary, May 19th, 1846---Today
we arrived in Independence,
Missouri. Pa says, we will restock our supplies, and
meet up with a smaller over land party captained by Mr. George.D., and his
brother Jacob who are the co-owners of the nine wagons.
Dear Diary, May 24th 1846 – My
brother Jessie and I were keeping cool today by skipping in the cool water of a
creek that ran beside the trail. Pa said
it would be fine as long as we stayed within eyesight of the wagon. Grandpa Williams was leading our horse team
with great skill. Grandma Williams took
to caring for Ma, since the new baby come the night before last. I now have a little sister named Abigail. My
brother Jessie is now my responsibility, since Abigail come into this
world. She is so small but makes a
stinky mess, and that’s why Jessie and I rather walk.
Dear Diary, June 25th 1846 – My
Pa headed out this morning with the wagon master Mr. Russell, to scout Otters
Creek Pass, Mr.Russell is planning to make camp there tonight. He told Pa that we can find large prairie
chickens, wild onions and with any luck, a hearty buck or two. Right now Grandma’s venison stew sounds like
a welcome change from the potato and onion soup we’d been a having the last two
nights.
Old cravings come a rising to the top of my mind, as soon as
I heard Pa might shoot one.
Just the thought of meat and potatoes, fresh baked butternut
brown muffins make my mind think I died and gone to heaven.
This afternoon we reached the campsite and Pa was there
skinning the biggest buck I’d ever seen.
He had already built a fire, and Mr. Russell was a finishing a corral
built for the stock. Jessie and I played with the Mitchell boys till
supper. Berry and Harold Mitchell were
both strong as an oak and funnier than a mule with two heads. They both together could lift a crippled
loaded wagon, and hold her steady while you change the spoke wheel. I am glad
to have them as my friends, and not my enemies.
Ma, brought Abigail closer to the campfire to keep the
baby’s warmth to a tolerable level.
Grandma Williams was tending to her squash blossom vines she
uprooted in Springfield the night before we left. They had been a bearing a fresh squash or
two, every couple of days.
Dear Diary, June 27th.1846--Grandma Williams had found some
Blueberries earlier today, down by a creek bed, and thought to surprise my
little brother Jessie, for today was his birthday. But, at supper time, Mr.
Bigalow’s wagon caught fire, and nothing could be done, except push the burning
vessel away from the rest. The Bigalows,
managed to save their featherbed and blankets before the fire consumed all
their belongings. Mr. Russell and my Pa unloaded the piano to make room for the Bigalow’s bedding. That fire continued to burn hot and dog gone,
if little Jacom Russell who has been accused of being a pea brain had not
come up with a peach of an idea. He told
his Pa that we should make good of the hot embers and make coffee for the
grownups, and hot Coco for us kids.
Grandma Williams smiled and proceeded to do just that. Ma surprised us with her new found energy, and
had made some blueberry muffins with a sugar blueberry frost smeared over the
crust. Mr. Russell, and the Bigalows joined us indulging in Ma’s creations.
Grandma startled us by playing happy birthday for little Jessie on Mr.
Russell’s piano. It turned out to be a
grand night after all.
Dear Diary, July 19th, 1846—There
are now eighty seven members in the train with a total of twenty-three wagons,
and Mr. George D. and Mr. Russell have been quarreling for days. When we
reached Fort Bridger the argument came to a head; George wanted to take the
short cut where the Hastings cutoff began.
Dear Diary, September 28th -- We
road all day, and just east of the Great Salt Lake we came to a stop. George insisted that they take the western
Hastings trail, which he heard to be a short cut across the Sierras. The plan was to go north of the Great Salt
Lake, because it was the customary route, and had been established to be a safe
route for wagons. They could not come to an agreement. The wagon train divided with some taking the
N.W. route and the rest following George across the Great
Salt Lake desert to the Sierras.
Dear Diary, August 28th, 1846---
We are now traveling with the wagons led by George, but because of the many
setbacks, we are now three weeks behind schedule.
Dear Diary, October 15th 1846, --We have finally reached the
base of the Sierras, and this morning we pulled up steaks and broke camp early,
to start our climb over the mountains.
No sooner we reached the tree line; we found the remains of what seem to
be a family. There were arrows still
stuck between their bones that lay their like ghosts of misfortune in the white ground fog. Pa and Pastor Slone,
buried them proper, with the saying of words from pastor Slone’s bible. Grandma Williams thought we should not go on,
but settle in the tree lined meadow till winter was over. She didn’t want our
lives to end as this nameless family did.
She said, this was someone else’s dream to fine gold. She tried to remind us that we were farmers
not miners. We could find happiness
right here in this fine meadow. Look she
said, there are plenty of trees to build fine homes. There’s good fertile soil to plant crops,
with fish in the streams and plenty of game in the woods. What else could you buy with gold that we
couldn’t get for free right here! Just a
little hard work! That’s all it
take....just a little hard work.
George argued that the farmland was richer in California and he was
boss. He said, Lord help you, if you
were to go against me, I will shoot the first to do so. I swear I will. You just ask anyone if George Donner is not
true to his word. So I suggest you keep
your ideas to yourselves. From now on, this Wagon Train will be known as the
Donner Party and by-golly, if you ask anyone, they will tell you, I mean what I
say.
Dear Diary, October 26th. 1846--- With the days growing
colder our hopes are growing dimmer that we could make the other side of the
Sierras before winter sets in whole. We have begun to see flakes of snow, and
all hope is fading. Grandma and Grandpa
Williams have been taken ill. They are
freezing and I fear, they will not make it.
Dear Diary November 22nd, 1846 --One
by one, we begun to loose the live stock and people too! Pa helped bury five
today, including two children.
Dear Diary December 19th 1846-- We made
little progress, as the full of winter brings sickness to every family. Baby Abigail, now lays sick and the pneumonia
has set ma and Grandma without strength nor abilities. Pa, has taken to caring for us all, but he
too grows weak.
Dear Diary January 28th 1847 --Grandma and
Grandpa were found froze this morning; they were locked in an embrace, trying
to keep themselves warm. The ground will
not give up its earth when we tried to dig them proper graves. We are too weak for such an effort.
Dear Diary January 29th 1847, we
laid together last night to keep from freezing.
There is no progress forward, and the snow grows too deep for
walking. I am afraid, of what this day
will bring us; brother Jessie might not survive the night. The snow is blinding, and it hurts me to
breathe the cold air. If for some
reason, I do not make the night, I want those who may find my diary to know, my
name is Jack Pence, my brother’s is Jessie.
Ma and Pa was Emma and Henry Pence form Illinois.
Grandma and Grandpa were Daniel and Norien Williams of Springfield.
Please may I kindly ask you to say some proper words for us? We were a God fearing family with good
intentions.
The Search
The afternoon sun has fallen behind the thunderheads that
linger above the distant summit. This
day’s conclusion was met with mixed feelings.
It was a day of great physical and emotional exercise. I had not slept in the wilderness in a long
time, but tonight I would do so alone.
It has been a week since my eight year old sister vanished by the
river. She had been playing a game of
hide-n-seek with her friends, but not a one of them had a hint of what had
happened to her. It was as if she had
been wiped off the face of the earth!
For the past seven days, police with dogs, friends, and
neighbors of this mountain community have searched the countryside from sun-up
to sundown. To my parents’
disappointment, the police have called off the search. A few close friends and I have promise my
parents that we would not give up till Martha was found.
It had rained all night with occasional thunder and
lighting. I could only think of the many
possibilities that may have befallen my little sister. She was out there alone, cold, wet, scared,
and maybe injured. Mountain lions had
been spotted in the past week descending from the mountains in search for food. I brought my father’s hand gun, but I knew it
was only good at close range. I broke
camp early, and hoped that this would be the day we would find her.
My friends Steven, Michael, John and I, returned to the
location where she had last been seen, and then split up. I went North, Michael South, Steven East and
John West. We had a pre-determined
signal that if one of us were to find her, we would fire three shots in rapid
succession, then head for the ranger’s watchtower and Miner’s Peak. There, we could find safety from the
elements, food, medical supplies and a radio to call for help.
I was exhausted, and I knew my friends were too. We had searched all day non-stop and the
thunder storm last night did not afford us much sleep. It would take a great deal of fortitude to
make it through this new day, but I have made it my goal to find her, no matter
how long it takes.
That evening, just about sunset, I had taken a spill just
south of my new camp site. I had tripped
backwards on a rock lacerating my upper arm on a fallen tree branch. I tore my T-shirt and wrapped the wound, but
continued with my plans to find enough dry wood and build a large enough fire
in hopes Martha would spot it. I kept
the fire stoked late into the night but fell asleep just before midnight.
A not to distant sound of a roaring mountain lion woke me, and
then came a shrill so loud it echoed through the valley floor. It was Martha! “Martha!” I yelled as loud as
I could. She heard me and screamed back,
“I’m over here!” I ran in the direction
of her voice with my gun and flashlight in hand. She screamed again, “Hurry!” Then the lion
roared again. When I broke into a
clearing I startled the mountain lion, but it was not about to give
ground. Its front paws were perched up
on the vertical ledge with her rear paws planted on the ravine floor. It was searching the ledge above. When I raised my flash light above the animal
I saw the reflection of Martha’s eyes in a small cave. She screamed again, “Hurry, hurry, please
hurry!” I took aim at the lion and fired just as the animal leaped upward
towards Martha. It fell to the base of
the ravine wounded but not dead. I
approached the animal slowly and fired off a second shot that killed it.
Martha was still whimpering when I reached her. I spent the night in the cave with my little
sister. Her eyes looked so tired. She must have cried the entire time. She fell asleep in the comfort of my arms,
and in the morning I fired off the three shots and began our trek to the ranger
station. I carried her on my back most
of the way.
After hearing the two shots the night before, Steven, Michael
and John had instinctively begun to make their way to Miner’s Peak. At daybreak, when they heard the three shots,
they realized they had made the right decision.
Michael reached the Ranger station first and called the sheriffs, who
called the paramedics and were there to meet us when we arrived. They attended to Martha first, dressed her
scratches, and wrapped her in a warm blanket, then redressed my laceration.
Martha’s injuries would not leave her with any major scarring. I, on the other hand, would have a scar that
I would be proud of. It would remind me
of the new bond that I now have with my little sister.
When asked of how she came to
disappear she said that she had chosen to hide in a row boat that was moored by
the creek and all was well until she tried to get out. She had fallen and hit her head on a seat,
and that’s all she remembered. When she
woke she had no idea where she was. She
had found wild berries and drank from the creek but that was all she had eaten
since the accident.
Martha was taken to the hospital by ambulance where my
parents were there waiting for her. She
was dirty, tired, and had lost some weight, but otherwise OK. My parents were overwhelmed with joy to have
their little one home again, and so very thankful to Steven, Michael, John, and
I for not giving up.
This day would end in celebration,
long after the fallen sun. That
afternoon, my mother made Martha her favorite soup with some fresh baked hot
biscuits. She also prepared a huge meal the following Sunday and invited all
the towns people who had helped in the search to our house to celebrate. Needless to say, Martha was pampered for many
days to come.
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