The Best Land Under Heaven by Michael Wallis

Author:Michael Wallis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Liveright
Published: 2017-06-05T16:00:00+00:00

37. THE STARVING TIME

JANUARY 1847

The surviving snowshoers—five men and five women—spent the final days of 1846 regaining their strength in the Camp of Death. One after one, the bodies of Patrick Dolan, Antonio, William Graves, and Lemuel Murphy were systematically dismembered with knives, and the fleshy and fatty parts were sliced into various cuts. Smaller pieces of flesh were roasted for immediate consumption. Livers, hearts, lungs, and brains were extracted and eaten. Much of the meat was dried over the fire and packed away.

Those doing the butchering made every effort to ensure that no one ate the flesh of a relative. Everyone shared the flesh of the single men, Dolan and Antonio. The Graves daughters avoided going near their father’s corpse, just as Murphy’s sisters and brother-in-law stayed away from his body. Despite the precautions, heartbreaking incidents occurred. The worst was the evening Sarah Murphy Foster sat by the fire, deeply grieving the death of young Lemuel. She looked up and noticed some of the emigrants on the other side of the fire roasting meat spitted on sticks. Suddenly, Sarah realized she was watching someone eat the broiled heart of her cherished younger brother.1 Immediately, William Foster rushed to his hysterical wife and spirited her away.

Many years later, the survivors spoke little about the cannibalism, and several of them vehemently denied that it had ever happened. But there was no denying that on December 30, 1846, the snowshoers, bearing packages of dried flesh, departed the Camp of Death.2 Not one of them turned to look at the remains of their four companions whose deaths had saved their lives.

Back on the move after a long layover and reenergized by the meat, the emigrants also were in pain. Their frostbitten feet were so swollen that the skin cracked and burst. They wrapped strips of blankets and rags around their bloody feet, but the pain was agonizing. By the end of the day, they had walked only four miles. That night, William Eddy felt so weak and faint from lack of any food that he could barely stand. The others implored him to eat some of their rations of dried flesh, and he reluctantly agreed. He could not hold out any longer.3

The next day, the last one of the year, the snowshoers managed to make six miles after traversing a steep ridge and crossing ravines on tenuous snow bridges. By the time they camped on the edge of a deep canyon, a trail of blood from their feet marked the snow behind them. That night, still cursing the loss of their hatchet, the emigrants set fire to a pine tree. Basking in the glow, they silently ate the last of the dried human flesh. Eyes darted from face to face, but no one spoke. There was nothing to say. All that mattered was when they would have their next meal and who would provide it.

Back at Truckee Lake, some of the emigrants had given up on the snowshoe party. They had been gone more than two weeks, which seemed like plenty of time to find help.

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