%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
|
Dear Mama, My fears have become our reality. We had just passed through what is called Echo Canyon when we found a note left by Hastings telling us to wait for him to show a better way since our route would soon prove to be impassible. We will camp here for a while. It is August 8th. It is just a few days after my last note. A few families have joined us but there has been no word from Mr. Hastings. Mr. Reed and two other men have gone off to search for him. August 12th, Mr. Reed has come back saying he found Mr. Hastings refusing to come back and help us. Instead he gives us directions for our new route. Mr. Reed appears to be very frustrated, as we all are, and he returned without the two men he left with. We have turned around no, and the men Mr. Reed took with him have been found safe. It is taking us long each day to make little or even no progress. August 26th, we have reached the Salt Lake Valley. Luke Halloran, the man brought in by the Donners, has died from his consumption. I am searching ardently for hope that this was the right choice. We are all exhausted from making our way through the mountains. The children are tired too and look sickly. They are no longer running and playing in and around the wagons. There isn’t any happy cheering even from them. August 28th, we have collected dry grass for our oxen to feed them while we cross a desert. Wagons have been destroyed and oxen run off. We have kept our own wagon and animals thankfully, but there is little room for moving around since a few individuals without families have joined our wagon. Another event was the finding of another note from Hastings. Mrs. Donner read it aloud saying that there would be two days and two nights of hard driving. I know we can endure this new trial. Though we are all certain of this, it does not raise anyone’s spirits. It is now the fourth day of traveling on the Great Salt Desert and we see the end of it. We left on the 30th. Our water ran out on the 3rd day, and the Reeds are walking since their oxen are gone. We have no more room in our wagon or we would offer our own. I cannot look at them for the guilt at my inability to help them. I have to make decisions for the wellbeing of my own family. The wagons sink in the dry earth to the moisture underneath, and the oxen are even more exhausted than ourselves for thirst. The heat of the days is grueling, but the discomfort is only a hardship in comparison to the torture of the cold nights. We are all huddled together so we won’t freeze, our entire wagon. Propriety is tossed to make way for survival. September 5th, many wagons are abandoned since many of the livestock are gone. William and a man named Charles Stanton are going ahead to find help. Our food supply is low. I didn’t want William to go, but I am afraid that it is the only way we will survive this. Yes, I worry for our lives. A snowstorm during the night only encouraged this negativity. I call it negativity, but for the first time since we left I am being completely realistic. I no longer have a romantic spirit for adventure, and I wish we’d never come. Heather is braver than our entire wagon. September 10th, we continue forward. The remaining wagons have been as best as we could make them, and a few runaway oxen have been found. More mountains and I think I will be permanently tired of them. September 26th, we have finally reached the main trail. Our ‘shortcut’ took us longer than we could have imagined, far longer than it was advertised, and longer than the main route would have taken us.. Our mistake is costing us greatly. Many people are losing hope of ever getting through, including me. Heather is hungry and cries so much, but I can do nothing. I wish so terribly that I could ease her pain, even slightly. But it is impossible. October 5th, people are losing control of their tempers. Just as I was writing this, a commotion broke out. Mr. Reed has just stabbed John Snyder during a fight about oxen. This makes me long for William even more. Mr. Reed has been taken to a tent and guarded. I, and anyone who wishes to reside in my wagon, will stay out of this, if only for Heathers’ sake. It has been decided that Mr. Reed will leave us. He is banished from our train and William Herron will go with him. I wish them the best of luck. I believe that they will have a better chance than the rest of us. I feel for the Reed family and often sympathize from a distance. They long for he as I long for William. But I cannot get involved or I could be caught up with the tempers that started this whole heinous situation. These are not terrible people, but the worst of us all is showing plainly. October 12th, there was an attack on the night of the 6th. A group of Indians wounded and drove off our oxen. Such and assault is terrible for our chances. Since then Mr. Hardcoop has been left behind, since he is old, and I dare not even hope for his survival, though I am praying for him as earnestly as for my own family. I harden myself daily to the troubles of others in order to insure Heathers’ and my own survival. Yet I cannot seem to harden myself enough and I cannot bear to think of the judgment I am under by God for the atrocities I turn my back to. My only will to survival is Heathers’. Without her I would pray for my own death. Mr. Wolfinger has also died. He was attacked by Indians while trying to fix his wagon. He might have lived if more people had stayed with him. Two men caught up with us to tell us of his demise. I wish they hadn’t. October 15th, we have reached the Truckee River. We will soon begin to climb the Sierra. Charles Stanton has returned alone with supplies and two Indian guides, and at first I feared the worst for William. But I have been informed that he has fallen ill and remained at Fort Sutter. For once I can rejoice at misfortune, it may have bought his survival. As the days pass, more misfortunes commence. Snow is falling and we are cold, but we move in haste so as not to be trapped here by a blizzard. William Pike has been shot on accident, and killed. We head on to Truckee Lake without the Donners who have a broken axle. November 1st, we have been left to hang onto what little life we have yet at the lake. The pass was closed with snow. Here by the lake we have trees for shelter and level ground. We have just as good a chance here as anywhere else, but I feel as if this horrid sight will be the last I see. Everyone’s faces have a look death. We are all haunted by what we have done, leaving others to die. But somehow everyone still has enough left in them for anger and irrational griping. There is a cabin here already, and the men have built two more. We are all hoping and praying that the snow will melt for just a short while to allow us to escape. We are still trying for our lives. Not all of us have given up completely yet. No matter how bleak the future appears. We have killed the last of our cattle and attempted to hunt. Little to no success on the latter activity, and the cattle are going quickly. We are so hungry and there are so many of us to feed. December 6th, I have felt for a while now that there is no purpose in writing you. But I have found myself hoping again as Charles Stanton, now one of the few sane left, and Franklin Graves are trying to make it through the pass once more. They have made snowshoes and will make a rescue effort from the other side. I have decided to go with them. This may seem very selfish of me, but I believe that if I am to save Heather, I should at least take this chance at a means for escape. If we do stay here, it is certain that we will die. We, the group leaving, are called the Forlorn Hope. It is an appropriate name. December 15th, Baylis Williams has died and I am more determined than ever to be a part of the Forlorn Hope. There are four other women, besides myself, eleven men, and a 12 year old boy. The Indian guides Charles Stanton brought back are coming with us. They know better than the rest that our chances of survival depend on those of us who are leaving. If Heather would make it, I would bring her. But for now I can only pray she remains safe back at the lake. December 16th, It is our first day trying through the pass on snowshoes. Twho have left us already and 15 of us trek on. Mary Graves is writing with me. We have become very close this past year and I have left Heather with her family. December 25th, Charles Stanton has fallen behind. I and others wish to go back, but the Indians urge us to continue. They say it is the only way. I am writing by firelight in our small enclosure we made of snow. We are in a blizzard and it took us a long time to make this tiny flame. Our fire has gone out. We are dying, and we know it. December 26th, Antonio, Patrick Dolan, Franklin Graves, and Lemuel Murphy are dead. Dolan died after losing his mind. We had decided one of us would be a sacrifice so the rest of us would not die of hunger. I am not sure how we began to rationalize this, or who thought of it first. But we didn’t have the courage, or the weakness, to kill Dolan when he drew the slip of paper. December 27th, we have eaten our own dead. I don’t know why I joined in. We all looked away as we did it. My eyes were closed and I swallowed before I could taste what was in my mouth. I do not know whether it is worth my survival. I can only hope that those at the Lake do not resort to this wickedness. I would rather hope that they had died I think. January 17th, we are safe at Johnson’s Ranch. I expected to feel relief, but I feel as if I should turn around now and walk back to the death I deserve. The Indians are dead as well as Jay Fosdick. I will not write more of what we did. We call it our camp of death. There is nothing more I can say on the matter for my shame. I believe I will go mad soon, if madness does not explain what I have done. I live from both cowardliness and to save others from my own fate. February 5th, the first rescue team has left Johnson’s Ranch. If Heather has not lived, all would be for naught. March, I do not know the day. All the days have stretched out and conformed into one eternal day while I waited for news from the rescue parties. When the first came back, I was informed that Heather had died. I have not cried. I can’t seem to cry or feel anything. I am grateful that she had died, though, before the horrors began. She was not fed the flesh of our neighbors and she did not have to watch as others went mad. I wish I could trade my life for hers, and all the times she cried out and I was not there to answer- I wish I could erase them all. I do not have room to display all my regrets. The events at the lake were every bit as terrible as those of the Forlorn Hope. But those who lived through it will be rescued. But if they feel as I do, they will wish they hadn’t. April 5th, William and I have been reunited. I was finally able to cry. He was unable to console me, no matter how hard he tried. I am forever changed. We all look away when we see eachother, the survivors. We do not speak. I was the not the only one to find family here I am thankful to see. William has forgiven me, and I pray I will someday forgive myself. He has convinced me that we will one day be able to rebuild our family. My survival of my conscious might forever be as difficult as my survival to the west. Mother, I will not send this letter to you. I will rewrite it giving the brief story. The moment I am finished with this I will either hide it or destroy it. I am yet still unsure. I have discovered how some people can record their lives daily. We do this so that we can explain our existence to ourselves. Once we can see our lives laid out like a plan, we can remember the things we wish, forget the things we don’t, and forgive the things we must. I know I cannot undo what has happened. I want to forget it, but I know I never will. The least I can do for those who died bravely, and who died the ways they did, is to remember. I know I will live for Heather. Her history was short, but I can not allow it to be erased. Goodbye. You Mother, have represented the life I left so willingly before. The life I wish I had. It is that part of me that writes this in shame. But it is that part of me that will keep surviving. Yours, Amanda McCutchen |
| This book is currently empty. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
