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The Bad Luck and Good Luck of James Frazier Reed
by James D. Houston
James Frazier Reed is best known as a
co-organizer of the Donner Party, the infamous wagon train caught in the early winter of
1846-47. That story is a saga of people pushed to the limits of human endurance and
beyond, pushed there, in part, by their own divisiveness, some poor decisions, and a run
of very bad luck. Reed's role in this grim, near-mythic episode has given him a place in
the history of western settlement. Yet accounts of his deeds seldom include the
extraordinary good luck that came to him not long afterward, luck he shared with numerous
others, the settlers and deck hands and dreamers and schemers who happened, by whatever
means, to be in California by 1848.Reed
was twice an immigrant. Born in Ireland, he crossed to the United States as a young boy
with his widowed mother. When he rolled out of Springfield, Illinois in April 1846, he was
bound for what was still a northern province of Mexico. He was then in his mid-40's, a
prosperous farmer and businessman, with a wife and four young children. He had land, a
home, a sawmill and a furniture shop. He also had a serious case of California Fever. In
partnership with his friends, George and Jacob Donner, he left it all behind and joined
the Great Migration, heading father west.
In the story of the Donner Party that
has come down to us, Reed is part culprit and part hero, a capable but hot-tempered man,
proud to a fault, with admirable tenacity, devotion to family and great physical courage.
His family wagon is one example of what
went wrong. It was a double-decker, built to make the trip easier for Margaret, his wife,
who suffered from crippling headaches. Both admired and resented by the group, it was
dubbed "The Palace Car," by all accounts the largest and most elaborate vehicle
anyone had thus far attempted to move from one side of North America to the other. When
the trail got rough, its very size and bulk contributed to the party's slowing pace.
Reed's voice, moreover, was among the
loudest in support of a shortcut being promoted that year by Lansford Hastings, the trail
guide and entrepreneur. His notorious "Cut-off"-bearing south around the Great
Salt Lake, rather than north-proved to be a disaster, costing them five weeks instead of
saving three. It had been a communal decision to attempt this route, but Reed took much of
the blame.
In early October, as they reached the
Humboldt River in central Nevada, supplies were perilously low, animals were dying, days
were hot and tempers short. While driving his wagon up a steep, sandy slope, the young
teamster John Snyder began to beat his oxen with a whip handle. Reed intervened, and
Snyder's frustration turned on him. With the butt of his whip he slashed Reed's forehead.
Reed drew a knife, in self-defense. Snyder struck again, and Reed stabbed him in the
chest. Within half an hour the young man was dead. Feelings against Reed ran so strong,
some wanted to hang him. But others spoke out in his behalf. A compromise was struck, and
he was banished.
He had to leave his family and ride on,
crossing the Sierra just ahead of the early snows that trapped the rest of the party east
of Donner Summit. He spent the next four months trying to get back into the mountains with
relief supplies. His first attempt, in early November, was blocked by snow. Returning to
Sutter's Fort, he hoped to mount a larger effort, only to be told that weather would make
the mountains impassable until February. What's more-by a freak of timing-the struggle
between the U.S. and Mexico for control of California was just then coming to a head. Any
men he might have relied on were now riding south with John Fremont's battalion to put
down the recent uprising in Los Angeles.
Sutter's advice was to petition the
military commander based in San Francisco Bay. So Reed set out on horseback for Yerba
Buena, via the San Joaquin and the Diablo Range. Upon reaching San José pueblo, he too
was recruited, and played a role in what came to be called The Battle of Santa Clara, in
early January 1847, the last armed encounter in northern California.
He made some allies in this campaign,
which in turn opened the door for a commitment of support and resources from the U.S.
military's Northern Department. From Yerba Buena he sailed for Sonoma, then crossed into
the Sacramento Valley, gathering horses and men along the way. He re-entered the Sierra in
late February, and this time made it through to Donner Lake. His was one of four relief
parties that brought out the 47 survivors of the terrible ordeal, his wife and four
children among them.
This is where the story usually ends, as
they leave the mountains behind, emaciated but alive, and enter a spirit-lifting
springtime. In fact, their life out west was just beginning, and Reed's luck had already
begun to turn.
While his family recuperated near
Sutter's Fort and later in Napa Valley, Reed served briefly as sheriff of Sonoma. But the
time spent around San José had kindled an interest in the long fertile valley that was
once a southern extension of San Francisco Bay. Having farmed in Illinois, he recognized
the rich, well-watered bottomland. Ten miles north of the pueblo, at Mission San José, he
had seen the acres of fruit frees planted by padres, now long neglected yet still bearing
well. He leased these orchards and in the summer of 1847 gathered and dried pears, apples,
figs and quince, which he shipped to Hawaii, trading for sugar, cocoa, coffee and rice.
In San José a new council of regidores
was replacing the alcalde system, and Reed was among its first members, elected while he
and his family still lived in tents among the fruit trees on the mission grounds.
Eventually, they moved down into the Pueblo, renting what was available-a one-room,
dirt-floored adobe with a stiffened ox hide for a door. Their fifth child was born there,
just about the time Reed got wind of the tantalizing reports that soon would empty every
California town: Gold had been discovered on the American River.
That spring he was heading again for the
Sierras, where he struck rich diggings near what would become the town of Placerville. By
the following fall he had returned to the pueblo, his saddlebags literally bulging. Reed
had found his El Dorado and had come back home, and the famous year that would be our
synonym for the western pursuit of sudden fortune was still two months away.
In December 1848, when President James
Polk informed the wider world of the far west's new bonanza, James Frazier Reed was
beginning his third year in California. He was 48 years old, the father of five and a
pillar of the community, compared with the foot-loose argonauts who would soon pour into
the region. He had already begun to invest his winnings and his considerable energy in the
valley where he and his wife had decided to settle and raise their children. San Jose, he
believed, could become a thriving town, a commercial center, perhaps a state capitol.
From a Californio land-grant family he
had purchased a square mile of open acreage south and east of the market plaza. He planted
some wheat and built a large adobe ranch house, completed in November 1849. He hired a
surveyor to subdivide the surrounding land into sellable lots, as he had seen John Sutter
and other entrepreneurs do near the Sacramento River. He advertised in the San Francisco
papers. The map resulting from this survey, called The Plan of the Pueblo de San José,
included the whole town, as then projected, and offered the first accurate look at the
community's growth in the post-Mexican period.
In the transient and shifting social
terrain of mid-century California, Reed was one of those who had come to stay. In Illinois
he had been an aggressive community leader and devoted family man, and his habits had not
changed. By the time the state entered the Union, the Reeds already had an established
look. In her Diary of a Pioneer Girl, 14-year-old Sallie Hester recorded her family's
journey from Bloomington, Indiana, to San Jose, and made this entry on June 3, 1850:
"We have pitched our tent near the
house of Rev. Owens. Have met Mrs. Reed's family. They crossed the Plains in 1846. They
were of the Donner Party. . . . Mattie Reed is a lovely girl with big brown eyes. She is
near my own age. She has a piano, and Mrs. Reed has kindly asked me to come there and
practice."
She referred to a famous square piano
Reed purchased from a Boston sea captain soon after they moved into the ranch house. It
had recently come around Cape Horn. Eager to head for the gold fields, the captain sold it
to Reed for a thousand dollars. When it appeared on the dock in San Francisco a large
crowd gathered to ponder its elegant rosewood lines. One of the first to reach these
shores from the faraway eastern seaboard, it was known as "The Pioneer Piano," a
feature of the Reed family parlor for decades to come.
During the Constitutional Convention,
Reed led the move to have San José chosen as the state's new capitol, an honor that would
boost civic pride and also boost the price of land, a boon for early investors like
himself. Before the Constitutional Convention, he had sent letters up and down the coast.
In September 1849, he rode the 70 miles to Monterey, leading a contingent of local
businessmen to lobby the assembled delegates. Several towns were in the running, among
them San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, Sacramento and Benicia, as well as the
former capitol, Monterey. To strengthen their appeal, Reed and his colleagues promised
they would have a suitable building ready for the first legislature by December 15. It was
a bold gesture, since the town fathers did not yet possess such a building. When San José
(the accent was dropped in 19) won the convention's vote, the lobbyists galloped back
home, with 10 weeks to make good on their guarantee.
In three years the pueblo had swelled
form 700 inhabitants to around 3,000. It was a sprawl of tents and wooden shacks and small
adobes, some with no windows. But on the east side of the market square there stood a
recently built, uncompleted two-story adobe, originally meant to be a hotel. Forty feet by
seventy, it had windows above and below, and a long verandah. When the town council
offered to buy it the owners balked, and rightly so, wondering if the
as-yet-unincorporated township would be able to secure the note. Reed and his colleagues
came forward, securing the note, as private citizens, for the $34,000 purchase price, thus
opening the way for the first session of the first California legislature to convene on
time.
Or almost on time. By December 15 the
ground floor of the State House was still not ready to occupy. While the Assembly met
upstairs, the Senate met for the first two weeks at the nearby home of Isaac Branham. This
was a minor inconvenience, compared with the weather. That season, 36 inches of rain fell
in the Santa Clara Valley. On opening day, neither house had a quorum. Some roads were
impassable. The square was a lake of brown taffy. Like the State House, the town was
semi-built, in sudden-growth transition, short on hotels and eating places, so that some
legislators slept on dining room floors, while others took rooms where they could find
them.
Most California towns that winter would
have faced similar discomforts (the previous fall, some delegates in Monterey had slept in
tents or under trees). But in what came to be known as "The Legislature of a Thousand
Drinks," there were many grumblings, and an early motion proposed that they look for
a better site.
Again, James Reed spoke up, pleading for
time. He offered four city blocks, enough space to house all state offices, together with
168 town lots to be sold at auction, which would in turn provide funds to build the
necessary buildings. Other San Joseans followed suit, with offers of money and more land.
But this time they were bidding against one of the wealthiest men in the west.
General Mariano Vallejo, former
Commandante of Alta California's northern frontier, controlled more land than all the
Yankees in San Jose combined. He envisioned a capitol in a town not yet laid out, which
would be named for himself. To this end he offered 156 acres and $370,000 in cash. The San
Joseans couldn't top it. When the issue was put to a public vote that fall, the general's
proposal carried the day, and the legislature commences its leapfrog journey, from San
Jose to Vallejo in 1852, back to San Jose, to Benicia, and on to Sacramento in 1854.
Reed had not lost faith in his town's
future. After the legislature's first session ended, he went ahead and deeded over several
large parcels "for the use, benefit and behoof of the aforesaid city of San Jose
forever"-115 town lots and five squares, including St. James Square, now a historical
midtown park, and Washington Square, later the core of California's first state college
(established in 1857), today's San Jose State University.
The family name lives on in the 60-block
grid he laid out in 1849. His "Reed Addition" is still found on city maps today,
including a venerable row of streets near the university campus that keep alive some
family names. South of Reed Street there is Margaret (his wife), then Virginia, for their
older daughter, Keyes for Margaret's side of the family, and Martha, for their younger
daughter, also called Patty, whose famous Donner Party doll, her companion during the
Donner Party ordeal, has long been on display at Sutter's Fort.
James D. Houston is the author of six novels and several non-fiction
works, most recently In the Ring of Fire: A Pacific Basin Journey (Mercury House, 1997).
He lives in Santa Cruz in the house once occupied by Patty Reed, where he is completing a
novel based upon her family's experiences during 1846-47.
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