MOURNING EMBLEMS AND MILITARY POMP.
Leaving the Modocs to wrangle over their troubles, suppose we listen now to the wails of anguish and grief that burdened the air of the Lost-river country, and especially at Linkville, when the mutilated bodies of the slain citizens were brought in for interment.
When the news of the Lost-river battle had spread over the sparsely-settled country, a feeling of terror pervaded the hearts of the people; but when, on the following morning, the grief-stricken, heart-broken Mrs. Boddy, Mrs. Schiere and Mrs. Brotherton, arrived at Linkville, after a long night of horrors, the excitement became intense. Armed parties, taking with them wagons, repaired to the scene of this awful tragedy.
Let those whose lives are spent where they are protected by the strong arm of law, go with me for a day, while we hunt up the victims of this wholesale murder.
Perhaps, if we are honest, and our hearts are open to conviction of truth, and we are actuated by the impulses of Christian sympathy, we may suspend our charitable emotions for the “noble red man,” by the time we hear the dull thud of the clods at Linkville cemetery mingle with the sobs and shrieks of the widows and orphans.
From one who was with a party who went out onthis sorrowful mission, I learned something of the scenes that met them.
On arriving at the grove of timber where Brotherton was killed, they found his body lying stark and cold, with his glassy eyes wide open. He had been pierced by four Modoc bullets. Near him was found his axe, with the handle painted with his own blood. Then another was found on a wagon, lying across the coupling poles, with his face downwards. He, too, was stripped of his clothing.
Another was found a few rods from his work, with his bowels beside him, and his heart taken from his body, and hacked to pieces. This was the work of Hooker Jim.
Thus the party went on from one to another, until thirteen bodies were found. Some of them were off from roads, where they had evidently run in their attempts to escape.
While the kind-hearted settlers were performing this sad duty, they were continually on the lookout for an attack. Let us follow this heavily-laden train of wagons, and be with them when they arrive at Linkville. Can human language depict the agony of that hour? We may tell of the outburst of grief, when the widows gather around that solemn train, preparing to unload its ghastly freight, and how, with frantic movements, they threw themselves on the remains of husband, brother and father. But we may not tell of the grief that overwhelmed their hearts in that darkest hour, when beholding loved ones mangled and mutilated by the hands that had so often received gifts from them, now so stiff and cold in death.
There are moments in life when the great fountains seem broken up as if by some terrific explosion, until even the very streams that otherwise would flow out are dried up.
Oh, how dark the world becomes to the wife and mother when the sunlights of life go out, and they stand amid the gloom, unable to recognize the hand of our heavenly Father!
Slowly and sadly the sorrowing friends start up the hill with the remains of Boddy and Schiere, while the bereaved and heart-broken widows follow the sad funeral pageant.
How can we bear to hear the cry of anguish that parts their lips when the first clod of earth falls, with sepulchral noise, on the coffin lids that cover the faces of their dead forever!
My humane, kind-hearted reader, who has a soul overflowing with kindness that goes out for “Lo! the poor Indian,” look on this scene a moment, and in your mind exchange your happy home for a cabin on the frontier wilds, where you meet these Indian people, and where, from the fulness of a great heart overflowing with “good will to man,” you have uttered only kind words, while you shared your homely fare with them in sympathy for their low estate. Remember how often you have almost ruined your own family that you might in part compensate them for their lost homes; how you have dropped from your hands your own duties as a wife or mother that you might teach these dark, sad-eyed savage women the little art of housewifery. Think how many hours you have labored teaching them the ways of civil life in dress and manners; while yourmemory of childhood’s lessons in Christianity reconciled you to the labor and the sacrifice with this comforting assurance, “Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these, ye did it also unto me.” Remember all these, and then gaze on the dark emblems of sorrow that envelop Mrs. Boddy, Mrs. Schiere, Mrs. Brotherton, and tell me, have you still Christianity that enables you to say, “Thy will be done,” nor let your lips breathe out a prayer for power to avenge your bursting heart? Will you censure now the brave and manly friends on whose arms these widows lean, while they go back to a home with the sunlight gone? If these friends, in sympathy with the bereaved, do swear to anticipate a tardy justice, do you still have hard words for the pioneers who brave danger and drink deeply from the fountain of bitter grief when in madness they cry for revenge?
It is one thing to sit through a life-time under the persuasive eloquence of ministers who have never walked side by side with such sorrow, and gradually form an ideal or real monitor in the soul, until human nature seems lost in the divine power that prepares humanity for higher life, and until we think we can at all times, when smitten on one cheek, turn the other. It is quite another thing to break old family associations, and, leaving the scenes of childhood behind you, with strong and brave hearts, open the way for emigration; plant way-marks that point to a future of prosperity; sow the seeds of civilization in unbroken wilds, fairly to represent your race before the savage, and live in the exercise of a religious faith that honest dealings and the overshadowing exercise of brotherly love will be a sure guaranty of final reward.To go out on the bleak plains of Lost river, and by industry and economy transform the sage-brush deserts into fruitful fields, to rear the unpretentious cabins, and open your doors to the thirsty and hungry of every race and color, and then, when you have done all this, to stand in your cabin-door and smile back at the waving fields, and listen to the lowing herds, while you rejoice in your instrumentality in making the great transformation; looking hopefully to a future, when, from neighboring valleys, shall come up sounds of friendly recognition; longing for the hour when you may catch sight of children returning from the country school, and for the advent of the itinerant minister, who will bring with him a charter under which you may work toward a brotherhood, whose ties will bind on earth and reunite in heaven,—when, suddenly, more direful than mountain torrents or heaving earthquake, comes athwart your life a scene like that enacted on Lost river,November 30th, 1872.
That scene, with all its horrors, has been repeated over and over again, and will continue to be until this Government of ours shall come squarely up to the performance of its duty, and shall have clothed worthy men with power to do and make good its promises of fair and impartial justice to each and all those who sit down under the shadow of its flag.
Tell me truly, do you still feel scorn for the frontier people, whose lives are embellished with episodes and tragedies like these that I have here painted in plainest colors, and nothing borrowed from imagination,—no, not even using half the reality in making up the picture?
My words cannot call back the dead, or flood the rude cabins of the stricken and bereaved with sunshine and hope. No. There, on the hill, beside Linkville, the thirteen little mounds lie out in winter’s storm and summer’s sun; and they who prematurely sleep there will wakeno more.
There, on the plains, stand the vacant cabins where these once lived. There, walking with the spirits of the departed by their sides, the widows go; while orphans’ faces wear reproach, in saddened smiles, against a Government that failed to deal justly, and who, with light and careless hand, pointed out its ministers of law without thinking once how much of human woe and misery might be avoided by a few well-studied words of command.
The dead are buried, and the notes of coming strife succeed those of bitter wailing; the winter’s sun gleams from the brass mountings of officers; the zephyrs of the mountain are mingling with martial music; the great plains of sage brush are glittering with polished bayonets. The United States are at length aroused. The State of Oregon,too, is waxing very wroth. The doom of the Modocs is sealed; andwar!war!war!is the word.
From the half-dozen little military posts in the Lake country is seen coming a grand army of—well—two hundred soldiers. “That’s enough to eat up Jack’s little band. Keep cool, my dear friends. Let ’em go for ’em. They need alickin’bad. There won’t be a grease-spot left of ’em.”
(Such was the speech in a hotel not far from Linkville, Oregon.)
“Look-er here, stranger, I’ll bet you a hundred headof cows, that Captain Jack licks them there two hundred soldiers like h—l; so I will. I know what I’m talking about,I do. I tried them Modoc fellows long time ago; they won’t lick worth a d—m; sothey won’t. If Frank Wheaton goes down there a puttin’ on style like a big dog in ‘tall rye’, he’ll catch h—l;so he will. I’m going down just toseethefun.”
“You’re a crazy old fool. Frank Wheaton with two hundred soldiers will wipe ’em out ‘fore breakfast,” suggested a listener.
“Look-er here if I’m crazy the cows aint; come come, if you think I’m crazy, come, up with the squivlents, and you can go into the stock-raisin’ business cheap.You can.
“Major Jackson went down there tother day with forty men, and Jack hadn’t but fourteen bucks with him, and he licked Jackson out of his boots in no time, and that was in open ground, and Jackson had the drap on the Ingens at that; and by thunder he got the worst lickin’ a man ever got in this neck woods;so he did. Then another thing, Captain Jack aint on open ground now; not by a d——d sight. He is in the all-firedest place in the world. You’ve been to the ‘Devil’s garden,’ at the head of Sprague river, haven’t you? Well, that place aint a patchen to that ere place where the Injuns is now. I’ve been there, and I tell you, it’s nearly litenin’, all rocks and caves, and you can’t lead a horse through it in a week,—and then the Injuns knows every inch of the ground, and when they get in them there caves, why it taint no use talking, I tell you, you can’t killnary an Ingen,—you can’t. I’m a-going down just toseethefun.”
The reporter who furnished me the foregoing speeches did not learn whether a bet was made, or whether any army officers overheard the talk; but the truth is, those who had this nice little breakfast job on hand were somewhat of the opinion of the fellow whose “cows were not crazy, if he was.” They were willing to havehelp.
This little Modoc affair was a favorable thing for Oregon and California, in more ways than one. To the politician it was a windfall; for no matter what the cause of war may have been, it is always popular to have been in favor of the last war. It makes opportunity for brave men to win laurels and undying fame. It clothes their tongues with themes for public harangue until the last war is superseded by another. Then again it was aheroicthing to rush up to the recruiting office andvolunteertowhip the Modocs.
It is not at all likely that the movement of armies over railroads, or toll-roads, or steamboat lines, was a desirable thing for a country where there was no money in it. Then no man was base enough to wish for war for motives so mean; neither could it be possible that any sane man, with ordinary judgment, could see any speculations or chances for greenbacks in war.
Californians did intimate that the Oregonians were a little mercenary in their anxiety for war; but with what unanimity our press repelled the mean insinuation!
Our Governorvery promptly sent forward two or three companies of volunteers,—California,but one.
Listen, ye winds, to the neighing steeds and clashing sabres, and see the uniformed officers and the brave boys, all with faces turned toward the Lava Beds, going down to vindicate the honor of the State whose soil had beeninvadedby a ruthless savage foe.
The regulars are in camp near the Modocs, waiting for the volunteers to come up. They come, with banners flying, and steeds prancing, and hearts beating triumphant at the prospect of a fight.
Some of these men were living several years ahead, when they could from “the stump” tell how they bared their bosoms to the Modoc hail; how they carried away Modoc scalps; how the ground was bathed in mingled blood of Modoc and white men.
The army now numbering four hundred, all told, of enlisted men, approaches the Lava Beds. One or two companies encamp at Fairchild’s. They drill; they go through the mimic charges; they espy a few Modoc women and children encamped on the creek near Fairchild’s house,—they propose to take them in. “Knits make lice,—let’s take them, boys,—here goes.”
A middle-sized grey-eyed man, with his whiskers dyed by twenty years’ labor on “the coast,” steps out and says, “No you don’t, not yet.Take me first.No man harms defenceless women where I am, while I am standing on my perpendiculars.”
“Who are you?” says one fine-looking young fellow.
“Try me, and you will find out that I am John Fairchild.” These brave fellows had not lost any Indians just then, they hadn’t. Bah!
“Who are your officers?” said Fairchild.
The information was furnished, and soon the grey-eyed man was reading a chapter not found in the Talmud, or the Bible either. As reported, it waseloquent, though notclassical.
Preparations were being completed for a forward movement. One-half the army was to move to the attack from the south, while the other was to move down from the north. The 16th of January, 1873, the two wings were within a few miles on either side. Orders were given to be in motion before daylight the following morning. Some spicy little colloquies were had between the members of the volunteer companies; some, indeed, between officers.
One brave captain of volunteers said to another, “I have but one fear, and that is that I can’t restrain my men, they are so eager to get at ’em; they will eat the Modocs up raw, if I let ’em go.”
“Don’t fret,” said Fairchild; “you can hold them; they wont be hard to keep back when the Modocs open fire.”
“I say, Jim, are you going to carry grub?”
“No. I am going to take ModocSirloinfor my dinner.”
“I think,” said a burly-looking fellow, “that I’ll take minerare.”
Another healthy-looking chap said he intended capturing a good-looking squaw for a—dishwasher. (Good-looking squaws wash dishes better than homely ones.)
A number of humane, chivalrous, civilizing, kind people intended to capture some littleIngensfor servants. One fellow declared that Captain Jack’spacing hossshould be his.
To have heard the camp talk the night before the battle, you would have supposed that sundown, next day, would find these brave men loaded with Indian plunder and military glory, going toward home in fine style, with great speeches in rehearsal to deliver to the gaping crowds, who would hang, with breathless interest, on the words that they would deal out with becoming modesty.
That night was a long one to ambitious, noisy men; and, sad to say, alastone to some of the bravest of the army.
But the guard is stationed for the night, the council of officers has been held, and the moon settles slowly away; the soldiers sleep. The orders for the morrow are understood, and quiet reigns throughout the hopeful camp.
No doubt crosses the minds of the men, and, perhaps, of but few officers, so sanguine are they of success. The greatest fear expressed was, that the fight would not last long enough to giveall a fair showto win distinction.
Rest quiet, my poor, deluded countrymen! Some of you are taking your last sleep but one,—the sleep of death.
If you had asked the opinion of Maj. Jackson and John Fairchild, or Press Dorris, they would have set your hearts at ease, about having an opportunity to fight a little on the morrow. You will have a chance to try your metal, never fear, my dear friends.
PEACE OR WAR—ONE HUNDRED LIVES VOTED AWAY BY MODOC INDIANS.
Leaving our soldier friends to dream of glory to be won in the coming battle, let us pick our way from their camp to the head-quarters of Captain Jack.
Our starting-point now is from a little grove of mountain mahogany trees on a high plateau, a few miles south of the California and Oregon boundary line, and within a short distance of the extreme southern end of lower Klamath lake. The trees are dwarfed, stunted, and bent before the stormy winds that have swept over them so continually.
As we leave this military camp, a long, high, sharp ridge extends northward and southward, falling away at either end to hills of lesser height. Climbing to the top, and looking eastward, we see Tule lake, named on the maps of this country Rhett lake. It is a beautiful sheet of water, of thirty miles from north to south, and fifteen from west to east. We see also, with a field-glass, across the lake, the lone cabins where the strong hands of Boddy, Brotherton, and others have laid the foundation of future homes. They stand like spirit sentinels on the plain.
Look again at the trail leading out of the sage-brush plains; follow with your glass down to where a high stone bluff crowds against the lake, and forcesthe wagon trail into the edge of the water, until it disappears in the high tule grass.
In September, 1852, a long train of wagons, drawn by worn-out oxen, driven by hardy, venturesome pioneers, came down that trail.
They never came out again, save the two or three persons, as related in a former chapter.
That place isBloody Point.
Turn your glass northward, and see the trail emerge from the tule grass; follow it until it turns suddenly westward and reaches the natural bridge on Lost river. Turn your glass up the river one mile, and you see the favorite home of Captain Jack, where we found him in 1869, and where Major Jackson found him on the morning of “November 30th, 1872;” and, had you been looking at that spot at 4 P.M. of the 23d day of April, 1873, you would have descried a four-horse ambulance, with a mounted escort of six men on either side, and standing in the front end of that ambulance a woman, with a field-glass, eagerly scanning the surface of the lake. That woman shows anxiety in her blue eye and earnest face while she changes the direction of the glass, expecting each moment to catch sight of a boat crossing the lake. She is cool, calm, and self-possessed, although no other lady is nearer than twenty-four miles.
There is a reason for her presence there; and she will need all her self-command when the looked-for boat arrives. Why, that lone woman is there, on that 23d day of April, we will tell you in good time.
Turn your glass back now to Bloody Point, and follow down the shore of the lake. Ah! there standsa white-looking object near a bluff that is black with a low growth of trees. The white object is Miller’s house, just as he left it the morning before hisfriend, Hooker Jim, murdered him. The black-looking bluff near it is whereBen Wrightmet the Modocs, in a peace talk, in 1852. Swing your glass round to the right, following the shore of the lake, and, at the extreme southern end, you will see the cabins of Lou-e Land, and near them Col. Barnard’s head-quarters.
The white tents of the soldiers look like tiny playthings, even under a field-glass. Col. Barnard is there with one hundred “regulars,” and one company of “volunteers.” Look closely, and you will see that half the volunteers are red-skinned men. Their captain is a tall, fine-looking white man, who addresses them in the ancient jargon of the Klamaths,—this is Oliver Applegate.
See the Indian soldiers, with each a white badge on his head; it is not an army regulation cap, but is simply to prevent accident; that is, it is a mark to distinguish the white man’s ally from his enemy.
In this camp are men about as anxious to march on the Modocs as those on the north side; some of these red soldiers are the boys who made Jack’s stay on Klamath Reservation, in 1870, so uncomfortable.Theyareloyal, though, to the Government, and are willing to help the white men exterminate their cousins (the Modocs). Then thepro rataof annuity goods will be so much the larger. They don’t mean any harm to the Modocs, although since 1864 they have been receiving regularly the price the Government has paid forthe home of the Modocs;except on one or two occasions, when the latter were present.
These red-skinned boys are anxious to capture the Modoc ponies; for, running with Jack’s band of horses, are several that once carried these Klamath boys flying over the plains; until, in an evil moment, they were weak enough to stake them, as many a poor, weak-minded, infatuated white man has done his home, all on the hazardous chance of certain cards turning up at the right time. Well, let these fellows take rest, for they will need all their nerve before another day passes.
Move your glass round to the right, what a sight do we see! A great flat-looking valley stretches out south and west from the ragged shore line of the lake. On the further boundary see the four low buttes standing in a line; while behind Mount Shasta raises his white head, overlooking the country around on all sides for hundreds of miles.
This valley, lying so cold and cheerless, seems to have been once a part of the lake. It is devoid of timber, save one lone tree, that stands out on what appears to be a plain, of almost smooth prairie; but we forget we are one thousand feet above this valley.
Let us follow now the zigzag trail that leads to the gap just where the valley and the lake unite.
Better dismount, for wagons never have been, nor ever will go down that bluff. Horses, indeed, need arough-lockto get down in safety. Oh! but thisissteep; we are now half-way down,—let us rest, and meanwhile take your field-glass and “see what we can see.” Why! it don’t look as it did from the top of the bluff. Oh! I see now why you call this place the“Lava Beds.” From this stand-point it presents the appearance of a broken sea, that had, when in wild commotion, suddenly frozen or crystallized; except that the surface is a grayish color. Sage brush grows out from the crevices of the rock, and, occasionally, “bunch grass” may be seen.
Near the foot of the bluff is a small flat of a few acres that is free from rocks. A bay from the lake makes up into the rocky field; then a long point of stony land runs out into the lake.
Follow the shore-line, and another bay, or arm of the lake, runs out into the lava rocks. Look carefully, and, on the next point of lava rocks, running into the lake, you will discover a gray smoke rising. There, if you will steady your glass, you will see dark forms moving round about the fire.
They are not more than two miles from our point of observation, and this is the 16th day of June, 1873.
See that man standing above the others. He is talking. Wonder who he is, and what he is saying. Since we are talking of Indians, suppose we adopt Indian spiritualism, and in that invisible capacity we will hear and see what is going on.
We will pick our way over the dim, crooked trail, first in real person, and take items as we pass along. The trail is very dim, it is true—only seen by the rocks misplaced to make footing for the Indian ponies. Now we wind around some low stony point, and pick our way down into a rocky chasm.
Slowly rising, we climb up twenty feet of bluff, and out on a plateau. Looking carefully for the road, we follow a half-round circle of two hundred feet on the left; and, sloping from every direction, the broken lavarocks tend toward a common centre, forty feet below the level of the plateau. As we pursue our way another great basin is in sight, of similar character and proportion; and thus this plateau, that appeared almost smooth from the mountain-top, is made up of a succession of basins, all lined with broken rock, from the size of a dry-goods box to that of a meeting-house.
Just ahead, we see rising above the rocky plain a craggy ledge, standing like an immense comb, the spikes of lava forming great teeth. On the right and left it looks as if the teeth-like crags are broken midway, and our trail is pointing to one of these breaks.
Before reaching it, we see on either hand where the breaks are filled with stones, piled in such a way that port-holes are left, through which the Modocs propose to fire on the advancing foes when they come to the attack.
Passing between upright spires of lava, we come out on a smooth plain of fractured stones; and, passing near the end of the second little bay, we find rough, sharp ledges rising to intercept our way.
Picking our steps, we stand on the summit of the ledge. Shut your eyes now while we pass over a chasm of thirty feet in depth, and with walls almost perpendicular. Our bridge has been made by a gorge of loose rocks that fill the chasm to its lips. Some of these have been rolled in by Indian hands, and some by old Vulcan himself, when he spilled the lava there.
Come, follow the trail,—now we stand a moment and, looking right and left, we see great fissures and caverns that look dark and forbidding; suggesting ambush. No danger here now,—we left the Modoc sentinel behind us, at the huge comb-like ledge. Heis not afraid of us, and all the other Modocs are in council. Climbing a cliff that overlooks a deep, wide chasm, we catch sight of the sage-brush fire, and suddenly half a hundred warriors, in half dress of “Boston,” half of savage costume,—some of them are bare-armed, and have curious-looking figures on them made of paint.
This is not safe now, for sharp eyes scan the surroundings, and while this council is going on, the Modoc women are doing duty. Some of them are piling on the sage brush to keep the fire going. Others are standing, apparently pillars of stone; sphinx like, they gaze outward, for although this council is being held in a place secure from gaze of pale-faced man, the Modocs, Indian like, are ever on the alert, and do not intend to be taken by surprise. Since this is not safe for us, we had better play Indian spirit, if we would see and hear what is going on. What we lack in catching the words in the spirit correctly, we will obtain from some friendly Indian hereafter. See that fellow there; his face looks familiar; yet he is not a Modoc. Oh! yes; we recognize him now; we saw him at the peace meeting, taking the Modocs by the hand then, and afterwards taunting them with their poverty and cowardice while they were on Klamath Reservation in 1870. That fellow isLink-river Jack. He is a natural traitor.
He has crept cautiously into the Modoc camp to give them warning of the soldiers coming. He is the Modocs’friend now; he tells them that a large army is coming; that they are on the bluff almost within sight.
This was not news; for the Modocs had counted the soldiers, man by man, and knew exactly how many was in either camp. They knew, too, that half the soldiers were citizens with whom they had dealt for years. Link-river Jack tells them of the feeling outside against them; that peace may be had on the surrender of the Modocs who killed the settlers. We did not hear him tell them that if they would hold out a few days, the Klamaths and Snakes would join them; but our friendly Indian asserts that he did.
All eyes turn now to the chief, Captain Jack. He rises with stately mien and says, “We have made a mistake. We cannot stand against the white men. Suppose we kill all these soldiers; more will come, and still more, and finally all the Modocs will be killed; when we kill the soldiers others will take their places; but when a Modoc gets killed no man will come to takehisplace; we must make the best terms we can. I do not want to fight the white man. I want no war; I want peace. Some of the white men are our friends. Steele and Roseborough are our friends; they told us not to fight the white men; we want no war; soon all the young men will be killed. We do not want to fight.”
Old Schonchin John arose; his face was full of war;hewas in for a fight. He recalled the “Ben Wright” massacre; he said, “We have nothing to expect from the white men. We can die, but we will not die first. I won’t give it up; I want to fight. I can’t live long. I am an old man.” Schonchin sat down. He had no hope for his life; his crimes were all arrayed against him, and he knew it.
Scar-face Charley rose to talk. He said, “I was mad on Lost river; my blood was bad. I was insulted. I have many friends among the white men. I do not want to kill them. We cannot stand against the white men. True, I am a Modoc. What their hearts are, my heart is. May be we can stop this war. I want to live in peace.”
Curly-haired Doctor, who was with the murdering gang in Lost river, arose and said, “I am a Modoc. My hands are red with white man’s blood. I was mad when I saw the dead women and children on Lost river. I want war. I am not tired. The white men cannot fight; they shoot in the air. I willmake a medicine that will turn the white man’s bullets away from the Modocs. We will not give up. We can kill all that come.”
The discussion is ended, and now comes the vote. They divide off,—those who were for war walked out on one side, and those who favor peace on the other. These people are democratic;the majority rules.
The vote is of vast importance to others than the Modocs. One hundred and fifty soldiers and many citizens are interested in that vote. Gen. Canby, Dr. Thomas, and your writer, are to be very much affected by that vote. Millions of dollars hang on the decision.
Hold your breath while each man elects for himself. The chief, Captain Jack, walks boldly out on the side of peace, but, O my God, few dare follow him. The majority vote for blood, and gather around Schonchin John, and the Curly-haired Doctor. The die is cast, war is inevitable; let us see who is with Captain Jack. There goes “Scar-face Charley,” “William” (the wild gal’s man), “Miller’s Charley,”“Duffey,” “Te-he Jack,” “Little Poney,” “Big Poney,” “Duffey’s Boy,” “Chuckle-head,” “Big Steve,” “Big Dave,” “Julia’s man,”—fourteen men, no more.
The bloodthirsty villains who held the balance of power are, “Schonchin,” “Curly-head Doctor,” “Bogus Charley,” “Boston Charley,” “Hooker Jim,” “Shacknasty Jim,” “Steamboat Frank,” “Rock-Dave,” “Big Joe,” “Curly Jack,” and the remainder of the band, numbering thirty-seven, all told. There are two strange Indians there, also; they are Pitt river thieves, they do not vote. The doctor’s speech has done the work. These infuriated thirty-six men believe in him, and his promise to make medicine that will turn the bullets of the white men. This has more power than the clear, logical reasoning of Captain Jack. Having turned the current of so many lives, the doctor, exulting in his success, repaired to his cave to fulfil his promise.
Suppose we follow him and see how this thing is done. He calls the singing women of the band together, and, having prepared roots and religious meats, he builds a fire, and, with a great deal of ceremony, he places the sacrifice thereon; then inhaling the smoke and odor of the burning mess, he begins his religious incantations; calling down the good spirit, calling up the bad spirit, and calling loudly for the spirits of the dead Indians to come; while the women, having pitched a tune to his words, begin to sing, and with their shoulders touching each other, they start off in a rough, hobbly kind of a dance, singing meanwhile; and a drummer, too, joins in with a hideous noise, made on a drain of peculiar shape, with but one headof dried rawhide, or untanned buckskin, drawn tightly over a rough-made hoop.
Round go the singing dancers, and louder grow the voices of the doctor and the women; both increasing in fury until exhausted nature gives proof of the presence of the various spirits.
The braves stand looking on to see what the prospects are; satisfied that the medicine is getting strong enough, they saunter back to the cave of the chief, where he sits with thoughtful brow, planning in a low voice the defence of the morrow; repeating again, “This is the last of my people; I must do what their hearts say; I am aModoc, and I am not afraid to die.” Then giving orders for the fight,—designating where each man should be stationed, and appointing women to carry water and ammunition to the various stations, while they fight,—he inspects the arms, and estimates how long the powder and lead will last, tells the women to mould bullets for the old-fashioned rifles; he then turns sadly away to his sister, Queen Mary, and declares that he is now going to do what he thought he never would do,—“fight the white man.”
We leave the howling doctor and the sad chief and return to the soldier camp on the top of the bluff. The sentinels are walking the rounds; all is quiet, and the boys are taking their rest,—some of them their last rest save one. Ah! Jerry Crook, you jumped down from a stage-driver’s box to help whip the Modocs. Your heart is beating steadily now; it will beat wildly for a few minutes to-morrow afternoon, and then its pulsations will cease forever. George Roberts, too, has left a good position to come on thismission, promising, as he fondly hopes, a dream of glory, which he will share with his comrades when hereafter he cracks his whip over the teams of the Northwest Stage Company. Enjoy it now, my dear fellow, for the vote in yonder camp has sealed your fate. Others may tell how bravely you died, but you will not live to tell of the shout of victory that the M-o-d-o-c-s will send over your dead body to-morrow night. Sleep soundly, my soldier boys; thirty of you will not answer the roll-call after the battle of the morrow.
Brave Gen. Frank Wheaton, why do you still walk back and forth, arm-in-arm with Col. John Green and Maj. Jackson? You do not feel so sanguine about to-morrow. Jackson has said something that has driven sleep from your eyes. You might find comfort in consulting Gens. Miller and Ross, and Col. Thompson, of the “Salem Press,” and Capt. Kelley, of the “Jacksonville Times.” They are State militia officers, it is true, but they are old Indian fighters, and can tell you how quickly you can whip Captain Jack in the morning. They are leading men, who may behard to restrain, but they will take the advance. Don’t say a word to Capt. John Fairchild; he knows the Modocs, as does Press Dorris. They know the Lava Beds, too; they have hunted cattle over this country, and understand the lay of it better than any white men in the camp.
Theyare not sovery confident. They said, to-day, to some impatient boys, “Don’t fret; you will get enoughto do youbefore you see your mother again. The Modocs areon itsure!”
MODOC STEAK FOR BREAKFAST—GRAY-EYED MAN ON THE WARPATH.
Four A.M.,January 17th, 1873.—The tattoo is beaten, and the soldiers throw aside their blankets. They dress themselves; the blankets are rolled together; the men sit around, the mess-table on the ground, and partake of coffee and “hard tack.” The volunteer State militia also jump out from undertheirblankets, and, making their toilets as soldiers do, prepare fordutyandglory.
The weather is cold, very cold. Breakfast is over, and the order to “Fall in” sounds through the camp. The blue uniforms take places like automatons; the roll is called. “Here!” “Here!” comes out along the line. Poor fellows! somebody else must answer for some of you to-morrow; you cannot do it for yourselves.
The line of march is taken. The California volunteers, under the gray-eyed man, lead the way toward the bend of the ridge. Cautiously they approach the river. It is not daylight yet; theymust go slow. Look over the valley below us—the day begins to dawn. Oh, yes; you are looking at the upper side of a great bank of fog. The signal that was to be given Col. Barnard “to move” cannot be made. But he will come to the attack on the south at the same time with the assault from the north.
The soldiers are unencumbered by blankets andknapsacks; they have left them with a guard at camp,expectingto return in a few hours. They move cautiously down the bluff into the misty scene below. The cavalry-men are dismounted, leaving their horses in camp, and answer to the call of the bugle. The two hundred men are at the foot of the bluff, at the edge of the Lava Beds.
The lines are formed; each company is assigned a position. In the dim daylight, mixed with fog, they look like ghostly mourners out on the rampart of the spirit world. Hark! “Forward—march!” rings out in the cold morning air, and the bugle repeats “Forward—march!” The line moves, stretching out along the foot of the bluff. The regulars advance very steady, for Maj. Jackson’s company that was in the Lost-river fight were in no great hurry to hear the music of battle again.
The volunteers start off rapidly, while Gen. Ross and Col. Thompson say, “Steady, boys,—steady.” “Steady, my boys,” repeats Capt. Kelley, of the Oregon volunteers.
“Go slow, boys, go slow. You’ll raise ’em directly,” says the gray-eyed man, who commands the Californians. Cautiously the line moves over the rocky plain. On, still on—no Modocs yet. On again they go through the thick fog. “Just as I expected; they’ve left. I knew they wouldn’t stand and fight when the volunteers got after them.”—“They knew we was a comin’.” Such speeches were made by men who were hungry for “Modoc sirloin.” “Steady there; we’ll raise them pretty soon,” says gray eyes. “They haint run; they’rethar sure. Go slow, boys; keep down, boys—keep downlow, boys.”
Hark! again; what is that rumble, like a train crossing a great bridge? Bang—bang—bang—bang comes through the fog bank. “Barnard’s opened on ’em. Now we will go. Hurrah! We will take ’em in the rear. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah for h—l,” sings out a Modoc-eating fellow.
“That’s right; every man hurrah for the country he’s going to,” comes from a quiet regular on the left.
Through the mist a gleam shoots out, and then a rattle of muskets just in front of the advancing line. Hey! what means that? Did Roberts stumble and fall? Yes, he fell, but he cannot get up again; his blood is spurting from his neck on the rocks. Look to the right. Another has fallen to rise no more.
“Fire!” says Col. Green. “Fire!” says the bugle. “Fire!” say the volunteer officers, and a blaze of light burst forth along the line. To see the flame from the guns, one would suppose they saw the enemy on some cliff above them, although the Modoc flame was on a level.
Here the lava beds provide natural crenellations and tortuous paths that heavily favor the defenders as they shoot back.Modocs on the Warpath.
Perhaps the Modocs have changed their base. No, that cannot be, for, see! again it blazes out just in front, and, oh, see the soldiers fall.
On the right of our line, among the rocks, a level blaze follows the Modoc volley. There is somebody there who knows what he is about. “Charge!” rings out the voice of Green. “Charge!” repeats the bugle. The line moves forward at a double-quick, over the rough waves of hardened lava.
On, on, still on the shattered line moves, for several hundred yards. Still no howl of pain from Modoc lips.
“They’ve run,” exultingly shouts a voice; but beforethe echo of that voice had repeated the lie, through the rocky caves another blazing line appears in front. Bang, bang, now comes from the further side; again a charge is ordered, and, climbing over chasms and caverns, the now broken line move as best they can; no groan of agony tells of Modocs with bayonets or bullets pierced. No eye has seen a redskin, but four hundred pairs of ears have heard the Modoc’s war-whoop, and four hundred hearts have trembled at the sound.
The line still moves forward, firing at the rocks, and—and another brave white man falls.
The investment must be completed; junction must be made with Col. Barnard. Where are the volunteers? The gap in the line must be closed. Where is Capt. ——? The caves answered back, “Where?”
But Donald McKay, the scout, says “They are behind the ledge yonder, lying down.”
“Order them up,” says Gen. Frank Wheaton.
An aide-de-camp fails to open communication with them.
The gallant Green is trying now to close up the line. “Forward, my men,” he shouts. “Mount the cliff.” The foremost man falls back pierced with Modoc bullets. Green quickly leaps upon the cliff—a dozen rifles from the cave send flame and balls at him. “Come, my men. Up, up,” and another man reels and falls. “Come up,” again shouts the brave colonel, still standing with the bullets flying around him. Another blue blouse appears, and it, too, goes backward; thus the little mound of dead soldiers grew at the foot of the cliff, until, at last, the gray-eyed man, taking in the situation, points out to hismen the Indian battery that commanded this position, and then the sharp, quick rifles, mingle smoke and bullets with the muskets and howitzers, and Green’s men pass over the cliff.
The fog is lifting now, but scarce an Indian yet seen. Still the circle of bayonets contracts around the apparently ill-starred Modoc stronghold.
Take a station commanding a view of the battle. Do you hear, amid all this din of exploding gunpowder, the shrieks of mangled white men, and the exulting shouts of the Modocs? Look behind you; the sun is slowly sinking behind Mount Shasta, tired of the scene. The line is broken again, and, where a part of it had stood, see the writhing bodies in blue, half prostrate, some of them, and calling loudly for comrades to save them.
A council is called by Gen. Wheaton; the fighting goes on; the line next the lake gives back. “Draw off your men!” is the order that now echoes along the faltering lines; the bugles sound “Retreat.” The men are panic-stricken. Hear the wounded, who understand the bugle-call, shouting to comrades, “Do not leave us.” The volunteers halt; they return to the rescue. The Modoc fire is fearful. One of the wounded men is reached in safety, but when two of his comrades lift him up, one of them drops.
Fairchild’s men now go to the rescue, crawling on their faces; they almost reach the two wounded men; one of the rescuers falls; they cannot be saved. One wounded man begs to be killed. “Don’t leave me alive for the Modocs.” The cry is in vain.The army of four hundred men are on the retreat.They fall back, followed by the shouts and bullets of theModocs, and soon leave the voices of the wounded behind them. Is it true that our army is retreating now from fifty savages?
Is it possible that our heroes, whowere to dine on “Modoc sirloins,”are scrambling over the rocks on empty stomachs, after a ten-hour fight? Is it true that the cries for help by wounded soldiers are heard only by theModocs? Yes, my reader, itistrue. Every effort to save them cost other lives.
Our army grope their way in darkness over the rocks they had passed so hopefully a few hours since. They climb the bluff, expecting an attack each minute; the wounded, who are brought off the field, are compelled to await surgical aid until the army can be placed in asafe position.
The camp on the north is reached, and, without waiting for morning, they fall back to “Bremer’s” and “Fairchild’s.”
When the roll is called in the several companies thirty-five regulars and volunteers fail to answer. Their dead bodies lie stark and cold among the rocks. The Modocmendisdain to hunt up victims of the fight. The squaws are permitted to do this work. It is from Modoc authority, that they found two men alive at daylight next morning, and that they stoned them to death; finally ending this long night of horror by one of the most cruel deaths that savage ingenuity could suggest. Look now in the Modoc camp when the squaws come in, bearing the arms and clothing of the fallen United States soldiers. See them parade these before the Indian braves. See those young, ambitious fellows, with those curious-looking things. Here are “Hooker Jim,” “Bogus Charley,” and “Boston Charley,”“Shacknasty Jim,” “Steamboat Frank,” and several others, holding aloft these specimens of God’s handiwork and their own.
You ask, What are they?
Go to yesterday’s line of battle, scan the rocks closely, and you will see some of them are dyed with human gore; look closely, and you will see a bare foot, may be a hand, half-covered with loose stones; examine carefully, move the rocks, and you will find a mutilated white body there, and if you will uncover thecrushed headyou will see where the articles came from that the Modoc braves are showing with so much pride.
Suppose you count the Modoc warriors now. We know they had fifty-three yesterday morning, for we have the names of all the men of the whole tribe, and we have taken pains to ascertain that every man who did not belong to Captain Jack’s band was at “Yai-nax,” under the eye of the old chief “Schonchin” and the Government agent, while the battle of yesterday was going on, except three Modocs—Cum-ba-twas—and they were with Capt. Oliver Applegate’s company during the fight. There is no miscount. Fairchild, Applegate, Dorris, and Frank Riddle know every one personally. Call the roll in Jack’s camp, andevery man will answer to his name, except one man who was wounded in a skirmish on the 15th, with Col. Perry’s company of regulars. This statement is correct, notwithstanding the Telegraph said the Modocs hadtwo hundred men in the fight.
Listen to Curly-haired Doctor. He is saying, in his native tongue, “I promised you a medicine that would turn the white man’s bullets. Where is theModoc that has been struck with the white man’s bullets? I told you ‘Soch-a-la Tyee,’ the Great Spirit, was on our side. Your chief’s heart was weak; mine was strong. We can kill all the white men that come.”
Schonchin John says: “I felt strong when I saw the fog that our medicine-man had brought over the rocks yesterday morning. I knew we could kill the soldiers. We areModocs.”
The chief (Captain Jack) arose, all eyes turn toward him, and in breathless silence the council awaits his speech.
He does not appear to share in the general rejoicing. He is thoughtful, and his face wears a saddened look. He feels the force of the doctor’s speech; Schonchin’s also. He knows they are planning for his removal from the chieftainship.
“It is true we have killed many white men. The Modoc heart is strong; the Modoc guns were sure; the bullets went straight.We are all here; but hear me, O muck-a-lux (my people). The white men are many; they will not give up; they will come again; more will come next time. No matter how many the Modocs kill, more will come each time, and we will all be killed after a while. I am your voice. My blood isModoc. I will not make peace until the Modoc heart says ‘peace,’ We will not go on the warpath again. Maybe the war will stop.”
After the several braves have recounted the various exploits they have performed, the council adjourns.
See the squaws bringing great loads of sage brush. They are preparing for a grand scalp dance. This is to be a great demonstration. The women dress in bestattire and paint their faces, while the men, now wild with triumph, prepare for the ceremonies of rejoicing.
The drum calls for the dance to commence. They form around the fire on the bare rocks, each warrior painted inblack and red, in figures rudely made on their arms and breast, indicating the deeds they may boast of. Each bears on the ramrod of his gun the scalpshehastaken. The medicine-man begins a kind of prayer or thanksgiving to the Great Spirit above, and to the bad spirit below, for the success they have won. The dances begin,—a short, upright hop, singing of the great deeds of the Modocs, the warriors meanwhile waving the ramrods with the scalps.
Round and round they move, stepping time to the rude music, until they are exhausted. The blood of the warriors is at fighting heat.
The chief takes no part. He is ill at ease; his mind is busy with great thoughts concerning the past and the future of the Modoc people.
Leaving the Modocs to exult and quarrel alternately, let us hunt up our disappointed army. A part of them have returned to Col. Barnard’s camp at Lone Lands; another part, the volunteers, have collected at Fairchild’s ranch. Great, unauthorized councils are being held; a hundred men give wise opinions. Gen. Frank Wheaton is declared “incompetent,” and some underhand work is going on to have him relieved of his command. It will succeed, although he was brave and skilful, and did as well as any other man could have done under the circumstances.
But that is not the question now, hemustbe relieved; it is enough that he did not succeed, and it isnecessary now to send a new man and let himlearnsomething of the country. True, Gen. Wheaton has experience and would know how to manage better than a new man. Political power is triumphant, and this worthy man is humbled because he could not perform animpossibility. He had raw recruits, that were unskilled in Indian wars, and he was attacking with this force the strongest natural fortress on the continent.
Let us listen to some of the pretty speeches being made in the volunteer camp.
“I tell you aint them Modocs nearly thunder though? But the ‘regulars’ fired from the hip; they could notget downand draw a fine bead.”
“It takesVolunteersto fight Ingens. Ruther have one hundred volunteers anytime than a regiment of ‘regulars.’”
“The captain says he’s going to raise a new company, picked men; and then the Modocs will get h—l. Won’t they though?”
Our unpopular gray-eyed man strolled into the volunteer camp. He is a little caustic sometimes. Sauntering up to the fellow who was so brave a few days before, he said:—
“How did you like your ‘Modoc sirloin,’ eh? putty good, eh? didn’t take it raw, did you? Where’s that feller who was going to bring home a good-looking squaw for a—dishwasher? Wonder how he likes her about this time? Where’s thatotherfellow who was going to ride Captain Jack’spacing hoss?
“Wonder if those boys who were spoiling for a fight are out of danger?
“Say, boys, there’s some old squaws over there nearthe spring; they aint got any guns, aint no bucks there; may be you can takethem.” Tossing his head a little to one side, a habit of his when full of sarcasm, he went on to ask the captain of a certain company, “if he found any difficulty in holding his boys back. Where wasyouduring the fight, anyhow? I heard Gen. Wheaton asking for you, but nobody seemed to know where you was, ’cept Donal’ McKay, and he said you was down on the point; said he saw your general there with a mighty nice breech-loadingbird gun, and that once in a while some of you would raise your heads and look round, and then Shacknasty Jim would shoot, and you would all lie down again.
“Now, captain, let me give you a little bit of advice; it won’t cost you nothing. When you raiseanothercompany to fight theModocs, don’t you take any of them fellows that you can’t hold back, nor them fellows who want to eat Modoc steaksraw; they aint a good kind to have when you get in a tight place. Why, Shacknasty Jim could whip four of them at a time. Them kind of fellers aint worth a continental d—m for fightin’ Modocs. Better leave them fellers with their mammies.”