Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A party of the Mormon Battalion, returning from southern California to Utah by way of the San Joaquin Valley in the summer of 1848, sent scouts ahead to find a way across the Sierra. About the middle of July the main party, about thirty seven in number, advanced into the mountains. Because of the rarity of the book, the incident is here quoted in full:
“Some four or five miles took them to what they named Tragedy Springs. After turning out their stock and gathering around the spring to quench their thirst, some one picked up a blood-stained arrow, and after a little search other bloody arrows were also found, and near the spring the remains of a camp fire, and a place where two men had slept together and one alone. Blood on rocks was also discovered, and a leather purse with gold dust in it was picked up and recognized as having belonged to Brother Daniel Allen. The worst fears of the company: that the three missing pioneers had been murdered, were soon confirmed. A short distance from the spring was found a place about eight feet square, where the earth had lately been removed, and upon digging therein they found the dead bodies of their beloved brothers, Browett, Allen and Cox, who left them twenty days previously. These brethren had been surprised and killed by Indians. Their bodies were stripped naked, terribly mutilated and all buried in one shallow grave."
It is hard for any observer to examine history without feeling a sense of loss for all of the dramatic human moments that we are only given clues to, and will never know the full truth of. History gives us a footprint in the sand only long after the deed has been done, leaving us with too little of the full person who had taken the path, and broader tale of their journey's end.“The company buried them again, and built over their grave a large pile of rock, in a square form, as a monument to mark their last resting place, and shield them from the wolves. They also cut upon a large pine tree near by their names, ages, manner of death, etc. Hence the name of the springs.”
from the Journal of William H Brewer
Part of me thinks that there has to be a way to know more, if only I could close my eyes tight enough, make myself quiet enough, and put myself there at that moment, at that place, and at that time. The breeze on my cheek, the cool morning air, and a nervous pack horse underneath, huffing and chomping at the bit, sensing something that lay in the trees up ahead.
