Old Bones, page 3
“So they split up. The Donner Party went southwest into Utah, following the cutoff. The new trail took them through the rugged Wasatch Mountains. Donner and the rest began to realize something was wrong when the mountains turned out to be far worse than Hastings had described. But it was too late to turn around. Once out of the mountains, they were forced to cross the Great Salt Lake Desert. As they struggled on, they began to suffer terribly from lack of water. Some of the children were given flattened bullets to suck on, to relieve their desperate thirst. They ran low on food. Things started to fall apart. Arguments flared up. Indians stole some oxen and shot others full of arrows. Several travelers were also hit—potshots taken from behind rocks and trees—resulting in wounds. Another man, who became unable to walk, was put out of his wagon and left to die by the trail. And all this time, Tamzene Donner kept a careful record of events in her journal.
“As they were crossing the Nevada desert, Wolfinger’s wagon became mired. The rest of the train continued on while he stayed behind to dig it out. Soon afterward, two men named Reinhardt and Spitzer volunteered to go back and help Wolfinger. They were gone a few days. When they later caught up with the wagon train, they explained that they’d been attacked by Indians and that Wolfinger had been killed.
“By the time the emigrants reached the foothills of the Sierras in late October, they were badly behind schedule and already starving. But the mountains were still free of snow, and they hoped to hurry across before winter arrived in earnest.
“They almost made it. Less than a day’s travel from the top of the pass, a sudden blizzard buried them. At the time, the pack train was strung out along the mountain trail. The blizzard literally froze everyone in their tracks—and there they would remain. Fifty-nine people in the vanguard were caught near Truckee Lake and forced to hunker down. Another twenty-two, including George and Tamzene and their five little daughters, were stuck six miles back in a meadow by Alder Creek. These two camps have been found and excavated by archaeologists.
“But the historical record mentions a third camp—usually referred to now as the ‘Lost Camp.’ It was a small group in the rear, consisting in part of Reinhardt and Spitzer, a family named Carville, and one Albert Parkin, who deserted his family to seek a new life in California. Nobody is sure what happened but it’s likely that, in the confusion of the snowstorm, this group lost the trail and went up a dead-end canyon beyond the mouth of the Little Truckee River. They ended up snowbound deep in the mountains, miles from the main party. Some said the Lost Camp was located in a dark valley, cut off from the sun, encircled by rocky cliffs. So many legends have grown up about the camp that it’s hard to tease out the truth.
“At any rate, all the stranded travelers remained snowbound for months, as storm after storm dumped twenty-five to thirty feet of snow on them. It buried the rough lean-tos and crude shelters they had managed to cobble together. In these filthy hovels, they huddled and starved and began to die, one by one. They ate the last of their supplies. Then they ate their oxen and horses. Then they ate their dogs. And then they started digging up the frozen bodies of their companions.
“They peeled off the flesh and cooked it. They went for the organs, eating the livers and hearts, intestines and lungs. They cracked the bones for marrow and split open the skulls for the brains. When all that ran out, they boiled the bones for grease.”
Benton took a moment to shift in his chair and glance at the distant horizon. Nora and Salazar were silent.
“I should add that not everyone partook. Many refused to eat human flesh. Even today, historians debate just how many of the party became cannibals. As more died of starvation, it meant more food became available for those left alive. It’s almost impossible to imagine what it must have been like, day after day, week after week, stuck in those dreadful camps, overcrowded with men, women, and children in stuffy dens, where the air was so foul from fecal waste and rotting human flesh that it could hardly be breathed. In desperation, a group of fifteen men finally set off to cross the mountains into California to summon help. Seven made it—and then only by eating their companions who had died along the way.
“In February, the first relief expedition arrived. They saw scenes of horror that almost defy comprehension. One rescuer later described coming across some children sitting on a log, their faces smeared with blood as they ate the half-roasted liver and heart of their own father, body parts scattered around them.
“That first rescue expedition could only save a few: they themselves almost starved to death crossing the Sierras to reach the stranded travelers. Tamzene and George Donner were still alive when the first relief party arrived, but Tamzene refused to leave her husband, who was dying of a hand infection. A second rescue expedition brought additional people out of the mountains, and a third, but Tamzene refused to leave George, even while her own children were carried out.
“At some point during all this, a man named Asher Boardman showed up at Donner camp by Alder Creek. It was at the end of February. He had fled the Lost Camp, and alluded to how the place had descended into a kind of cannibalistic madness. Boardman was an itinerant preacher and said he’d run away when his own wife, Edith, tried to kill and eat him. Boardman ended up dying of starvation and exhaustion a few days later, about the time the third rescue expedition arrived.
“All this and much more Tamzene recorded in her journal.
“Finally, in April, the fourth and final relief effort arrived. But in the aftermath of the third rescue expedition, many more had died and the cannibalism had actually accelerated. What those last rescuers found was even more shocking than what had come before. In the Alder Creek camp, they found no one alive. George Donner was dead, his body lying in the melting snow, butchered and partially dismembered, his head split open and brains removed. There was, however, no sign of Tamzene. The rescuers went on to a rude campsite nearby, where they found a single living man named Keseberg. Next to him was a frying pan with a human liver and lungs in it. Under pointed questioning, he admitted they were the remains of Tamzene. He had been eating her body for weeks, he said, and the liver and lungs were all that was left.
“At any rate, that final relief expedition brought out the last of the survivors. The story of the Donner Party became a tale for the ages, retold, reprinted, and sensationalized until it was almost unrecognizable. It has never ceased to fascinate.
“Which brings me to why I’m here. As I mentioned, two primary campsites were identified—the camp near Truckee Lake and the one along Alder Creek. But the Lost Camp has never been found. It was visited by only one member of the third search party. We don’t know many details of what he found there, but we do know that after witnessing it he refused to go back. Bad as the two main camps were, what happened in the Lost Camp was apparently worse—much worse. The rescuer found only one survivor in that camp, and brought him out, but he died raving not long afterward.
“The elusive stories about the Lost Camp haunted me. For half a dozen years I searched, following one dead end, one false lead after another…until I dedicated myself to finding Tamzene’s diary. Of course, there were plenty of sensational newspaper stories, letters, secondhand accounts of dubious accuracy—but this crucial primary source had been lost for almost two centuries. Everyone believed it must have been left behind, just so much mulch rotting into the forest floor. Thinking it was lost, nobody undertook a systematic search for it. I’ll spare you the details, but my patience was finally rewarded in not one but two ways. First, I managed to find the journal—just in the nick of time. And second: it includes not only a list of everyone who was stranded at the Lost Camp, but directions to it as well. Asher Boardman, the man who escaped the Lost Camp, shared information about it with Tamzene before he died. Beyond that, her journal contains notes with landmarks, and a hand-drawn map showing the locations of all three camps. The Lost Camp may have a particularly infamous reputation—and the horrors that occurred there may never be fully known—but we now have a road map to it.”
Benton paused again, leaning forward. “And that’s the job I’m offering you: to lead an expedition to find the Lost Camp.”
5
November 29
THE ASSISTANT OPENED the door and Nora stepped into the office of Jill Fugit, PhD, president of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. Clive Benton followed behind. The office itself, though not large, was warm and cozy and, Nora thought, had a friendly feeling—with an old Spanish tiled floor, adobe walls, and a small fireplace. The windows along the far wall overlooked a garden, now blanketed in white from the previous night’s snowfall. A 1920s Two Grey Hills rug adorned another wall, while a shelf displayed a row of Zuni ollas from the late 1800s.
Dr. Fugit raised her head from a stack of papers and rose, shaking both their hands. Her smartly tailored suit, long blond hair, and habitual sense of style were hardly the standard image of a fussy, unimaginative academic—something Nora silently applauded. Fugit had been a controversial choice for president when the post became vacant a few years earlier, but her credentials were impeccable, while her keen and at times acerbic intellect was a pleasant change from the usual mumbling fossils who’d inhabited the office. The Institute was already showing the tangible benefits of her business and fund-raising acumen.
“Nora, nice to see you,” she said briskly. “And you must be Dr. Benton. So good to meet you. Please sit down.”
She indicated seats for them on either side of the fireplace. Dr. Fugit resumed her seat at the desk and looked at them both with a pleasant but searching expression.
“Can I offer anyone coffee or tea?”
One of the perks of working in the Old Building at the Institute was the coffee service. Fugit picked up the phone and put in their requests. She then pulled a manila folder off the top of the stack, slid it in front of her, and opened it. “So, Dr. Benton. I see you’re a Stanford graduate.”
“For my PhD, yes. I did my undergraduate work back east.”
“My alma mater as well. But let’s get down to it. I’ve read through the report you and Dr. Kelly prepared.” She paused. “I knew about the Donner tragedy, of course, and I’m somewhat familiar with earlier archaeological work on the two main camps. But the details you’ve outlined are remarkably vivid—particularly of this Lost Camp, apparently a scene of exceptional deprivation and despair.” She closed the folder. “I couldn’t help but notice your spelling of Mrs. Donner’s first name. She was perhaps the central figure of the tragedy, and one of the most studied by historians, but I recall her name always being spelled as ‘Tamsen.’”
“That’s correct. Her mother’s name was ‘Tamesin’ and that was the name she was given at birth. However, she chose to spell her own name as ‘Tamzene’—and I’ve tried to respect her wishes.”
“Of course.” There was a brief pause. “So—Dr. Benton, you want the Institute to sponsor a search for this camp and excavate it.”
“Exactly. I’m a historian, not an archaeologist. The Lost Camp is almost certainly in the Tahoe National Forest, on federal land, so we’d need to get state and federal permits to excavate. The prestigious reputation of the Institute would be extremely helpful.” He paused. “And I’m convinced Dr. Kelly is the perfect person to lead this expedition.”
Fugit’s penetrating gaze did not waver. As usual, Nora found herself unable to read the president’s expression with any accuracy.
“Well, as I said, the proposal is admirably thorough. I’ve given it much thought. But I don’t think it’s right for us at this time.”
This flat-out surprised Nora. “Why not?” she asked, a little more forcefully than she intended.
“For one thing, high-quality excavations have already been undertaken at the other two camps. Frankly, what more is there to learn?”
Nora took a deep breath. “Dr. Fugit, the last excavation was over twenty years ago. We have new techniques—especially in DNA extraction.”
“I’m aware of the new techniques.”
“Of course. Sorry.” Nora was used to dealing with bureaucrats out of date with technology. “As you can understand, then, with a fresh dig site to work with, we might be able to finally identify some human remains by name. We can figure out who died when, and who…” She paused, trying to make it sound least objectionable. “Who, ah, consumed whom.”
At this point the coffee service arrived: a rickety cart pushed by a fifty-year employee of the Institute named Jones, with an urn, cups, cream and sugar, and stale ladyfingers. The discussion paused while they were served.
“At this point, is there tangible scientific value in knowing who consumed whom?” Fugit asked. “Besides, although Dr. Benton’s evidence is persuasive, you’re assuming you’ll be able to find the Lost Camp. But most fundamental is the question of cost.”
Nora knew this was coming. Ten years ago, the Institute had fallen into financial difficulties. Now, with Fugit in charge, they were no longer pinching pennies. But one reason for that was because the president was very careful with their budget.
“It’s true that, until now, the Lost Camp was, in fact, totally lost,” Nora said. “But Dr. Benton’s discovery changes all that. By all accounts, the eleven people trapped in this camp underwent some highly unusual sociological and psychological changes. This is an incredible opportunity for the Institute, a high-profile excavation that’s sure to get a lot of press.”
Fugit turned to Benton. “Dr. Benton, do you have any grant monies to bring to the table? I don’t see any mention of support in the proposal.”
“No, frankly, I don’t.”
“Do you intend to apply for grant monies?”
“No.”
“Just a moment,” Nora interrupted. “Of course we’re going to apply for grant monies, but we need the Institute’s stamp of approval first.”
Fugit continued to look at Benton. “Surely you weren’t assuming the Institute would fund it?”
“I was, in fact, assuming that.”
Nora frowned. Benton was suddenly on the brink of screwing everything up. But as she opened her mouth to put things back on track, he continued.
“There is one aspect to the story that I didn’t put in our proposal,” he said.
Fugit put down her saucer. “Which is?”
“It’s a part of the story that needs to be kept under wraps—for reasons you’ll soon understand.”
Fugit waited, hands folded.
“You’ll recall from the proposal that a man named Wolfinger was carrying a chest of gold.”
“I do recall that.”
“Then you’ll recall that when Wolfinger’s wagon became stuck while crossing the Great Salt Lake Desert, two men—Reinhardt and Spitzer—volunteered to go back and help dig it out. Those two men returned, claiming Indians had killed Wolfinger.”
“Yes, yes,” Dr. Fugit said, concealing a growing impatience.
“Well, that was a lie. Even at the time the members of the party were suspicious that something untoward had happened to Wolfinger. Reinhardt and Spitzer were viewed with a great deal of suspicion, and the two men afterwards kept to themselves and were somewhat ostracized by the rest. When Reinhardt was dying of starvation in the Lost Camp, he made a deathbed confession: Wolfinger had not been killed by Indians. Reinhardt and Spitzer had gone back, murdered Wolfinger, and taken his gold.” He paused. “This information has been known to historians for over a century, but nobody, incredibly enough, thought to ask the next question: what happened to the gold?”
“Please continue.”
“Naturally, they must have carried the strongbox back to their own wagon and hid it. And they transported that gold as far as the mountains, where they were snowbound. Because the two of them were basically ostracized, they were forced to make their own shelter some distance from the others. There they died of starvation. Nobody mentioned finding gold or taking it out. Which brings us to the question: where is it?”
A long silence filled the room.
“Are you saying the gold is still hidden somewhere in the vicinity of the Lost Camp?” Fugit asked.
“Precisely. And in fact, probably close to that crude shelter they built from their wagon boards.”
Nora stared at Benton, surprised and annoyed. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”
“I’m sorry. I had to be super careful. Think what would happen if this got out. During their snowbound months, they must have hidden the box. With all that snow they wouldn’t have been able to hike very far to hide it. Which is why I think they hid it near their shelter.”
Fugit looked searchingly at Benton. “How did you come by this information?”
“Nobody else had thought to do the research. I searched through old bank records from where Wolfinger worked and lived. And in the basement of the historical society, in an old ledger book from the First Depository Bank of Springfield, Illinois, I found a page—dated six days before the expedition’s departure—showing a large withdrawal of ten-dollar ‘Liberty Head’ gold eagles: all dated 1846 and uncirculated, fresh from the Philadelphia mint.”
“How many?”
“One thousand.”
“And the record specified that the withdrawal was made by Jacob Wolfinger?” Nora asked. She was still smarting from having been kept out of the loop.
“No—I couldn’t get the name of the withdrawer. That particular ledger page had been damaged by silverfish. But I have corroborating evidence.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out an old piece of paper, sandwiched within archival plastic. “In an adjoining file cabinet, I came across a letter from the First Depository Bank to Wolfinger, dated the following day, hoping he’d found the withdrawal transaction had been to his satisfaction and thanking him for his business.”
