Meacham Ranch, Wild Horse Creek, April 17th, 1873.My dear Nephew:—I have just heard of the death of your father.... Eleven months since we kneeled with him beside your Uncle Harvey’s coffin and pledged our lives to care for his widow and orphan children.... You and I, George, areall that are left to care for two widows and two families of orphans. ... The stroke is heavy to be borne.... I will try to be a father to them. We must be men.Your uncle,JOHN MEACHAM.
Meacham Ranch, Wild Horse Creek, April 17th, 1873.
My dear Nephew:—I have just heard of the death of your father.... Eleven months since we kneeled with him beside your Uncle Harvey’s coffin and pledged our lives to care for his widow and orphan children.... You and I, George, areall that are left to care for two widows and two families of orphans. ... The stroke is heavy to be borne.... I will try to be a father to them. We must be men.
Your uncle,JOHN MEACHAM.
Again we stand on the bluff, at this hour, overlooking the Lava Beds. In a little tent among the hundred others the Iowa veteran is telling his brother-in-law that his wife will be in camp by seven. A courier arrives saying that the Modocs are hanging about the trail leading down the mountain. The officers are aware of the near approach of Mrs. Meacham. They decide that she cannot come to the camp with safety. A detachment is ordered to escort Commissioner Dyer up the mountain to meet her and take her to Linkville.
While he is working his way under escort, the Modocs are seen creeping towards the road. At the top of the mountains Dyer meets the ambulance. He assures the woman that she cannot reach the camp; that her husband is well cared for, and that she must go back to a place of safety.
She remonstrates, saying, “I must—Iwillgo to my husband.” She alights from the ambulance and starts on foot, but is intercepted and forced to go again to the ambulance, with the assurance that “her husband will be sent out to her within a day or two”.
No language can portray the feelings and emotions of this woman when, after travelling three hundred miles on stages and in ambulances over the Cascade mountains, through a hostile country, she is compelled to turn back when within three miles of her woundedhusband, with those ominous words saying, like a funeral dirge, “Your husband will be sent out to you in a few days”.
While she is yet pleading for the privilege of seeing him the mountain’s sides reverberate with the sounds of rifle shots coming up from a point half way to the camp, volley answering volley. While she is in a half-unconscious condition, the team drawing the ambulance is turned about, and the guard take their places on either side, and the team moves away towards the frontier.
When the woman returns to consciousness, she exclaims, “Take me to my husband! I must see him before he dies.”
The kind heart of Mr. Dyer is moved. He pleads with her to abandon the attempt, consoling her with Christian assurances that “God does all things well.” With the guard in skirmishing order the party hurries away.
The mutilated body of young Hovey is lying stark and cold, beside the road where he fell.
Sundown is announced by the repeated volleys of musketry at the cemetery, as the bodies of the soldiers are laid away in their last sleep.
The friends of the young lad obtain permission, and the necessary facilities, from the quartermaster, to bring in his body. A coffin is prepared, and in it is placed what was, a few hours since, a noble-hearted youth full of life.
A part of the army is resting, and a part is bombarding the Modocs. Captain Jack has kept the “flat” cleared, and now, while the shot and shell are being tumbled in around his camp, he draws his peopleout under cover of darkness, and leaves the soldiers to fire away at his empty caves until morning, when another order to charge is made, and the lines close slowly up with great care, like fishermen who feel sure they have a big haul, until they land the seine, and discover that a great rent has let the prize escape. See the soldiers’ line! How carefully it contracts to the centre, the soldiers expecting each moment that the Modocs will make a break, until, at last, the lines come together like a great draw-string, only to reveal the fact thatno Indians are there, except one old man, whom all declare to be Schonchin, who was wounded by Meacham’s Derringer last Friday.He shall not escape, and a dozen bullets pass through him. He falls over, and the men gather around and scalp the old fellow.
“Meacham shall have a lock of his hair,” says one; and he cuts it fromone of the scalps.
Then the old Indian’s head is severed from his body, and kicked around the camp like a foot-ball, until a surgeon interferes, and saves it from further indignities by sending it to the camp, where the face was carefully skinned off, and “put to pickle” in alcohol. The men shout and hurrah while exploring the caves, expecting to find Captain Jack, like a wolf at bay, somewhere, determined to “die in the last ditch.” Instead of Modocs, they find the remains of soldiers who have been killed, ammunition that had been captured, and dried beef that had not been required; but no evidence of any “Modoc bodies having been burned.”
While they were rejoicing in the capture of this great natural fortress of the Modoc chief,hewas in anew position with his people, resting and recruiting from the three days’ battle, and so near his old “stronghold” that he could hear the reports of the soldiers’ muskets when they finished up the supposed Schonchin.
MUSIC DON’T SOOTHE A SAVAGE—FIGHTING THE DEVIL WITH FIRE A FAILURE—“WE’LL BURY THE OLD MAN ALIVE.”
The expectant man has waited, watched, listened for the sound of a voice that would bring joy to him. His attendant carefully breaks the disappointment, fearing the consequences.
Friday morning, and a Warm Springs soldier is sitting beside the commissioner. A look at his face, and we recognize him as the man who stood out so long in the meeting at Warm Springs Agency, in 1871.
Pia-noose had come in to vent his feelings and to express his friendship. After the usual ceremony of salutation on his part, he remarked that the white men did not know how to fight Modocs. “Too much music.Suppose you take away all the music, all the big guns, all the soldiers, and tell the Warm Springs, ‘Whip the Modocs,’all right. Some days we get two men, some days we get more, and by and by we get all the Modocs. Warm Springs don’t like so much music,”—referring to the bugle.
This morning Gen. Canby’s remains are lying in state in Portland, and a whole city weeps with the widow who does not—cannot look on the beloved face.
In San Francisco bells are tolling, and a vast concourse of sad-hearted citizens are following the dark-plumedhearse that conveys the Rev. Dr. Thomas to his last resting-place in Lone Mountain Cemetery.
Mrs. Meacham is sitting in a small parlor at Linkville, and expecting each moment the arrival of a courier that will confirm her worst fears. Mrs. Boddy—whose husband was murdered last November by the Modocs—is with her. The two mingle their tears. They are kindred, now that sorrow has united them.
Gen. Gilliam has called a council of war, and plans for future operations are being discussed. The hospital gives out a sad murmur of mingled moans, curses, and groans. Two soldiers are going toward the burying-ground; one carries aspade, the other a small, plain, straight box, in which is the leg of a soldier going to a waiting-place for him. Riddle and his wife, Tobey, are cooking and washing for the wounded. Riddle often calls on Meacham, bringing refreshments prepared by his wife. Col. Tom Wright calls on Meacham this morning. A spicy colloquy ensues. He remarks that the Modocs are nearly “h—l.” Meacham says, “Where is your two thousand dollars now? Suppose you and Eagan took them in fifteen minutes, didn’t you?” Col. Wright: “Took ’em,not much,—we got the prettiest licken ever an army got in the world.” Meacham: “What kind of a place did you find, anyhow, colonel?” Col. Wright: “It’s no use talking; the match to the Modoc stronghold has not been built and never will be. Give meone hundred picked men, and let me station them, and I willholdthat place againstfive thousand men,—yes, ten thousand, as long as ammunition and subsistence last. That’s about as nearas I can describe it. Oh, I tell you it is the most impregnable fortress in the world! Sumter was nowhere when compared with it.” Meacham: “What kind of a fighter is Captain Jack, colonel?” Col. Wright: “Fighter; why, he’s the biggest Ingen on this continent. See what he’s done; licked a thousand men, killed forty or fifty, and has not lost more thanthreeorfourhimself. Westarvedhim out, wedidn’t whiphim. He’ll turn up in a day or two, ready for another fight. I tell you, Jack’s a big Ingen.”
Let us see where this distinguished individual and this gallant band of heroic desperadoes are at this time. From the signal-station on the mountain side, above Gilliam’s camp, we can look over the spot, but they are so closely hidden that we cannot locate them; not even a curl of smoke is seen. Follow the foot of the bluff around three miles, and then strike off south, or left, two miles more, and amid an immense jumble of lava rocks we find them. Go carefully; Indian women are on the picket-station, while the warriors sleep. Since sundown last evening they passedbetweenthe soldier camp and the council tent and brought water to the famishing. A man sits upon a jaded horse, at the gate of a farm-house, near Y-re-ka. Children are playing in the front yard. A watch-dog springs to his feet and gives warning by loud barking. A stout-built man looks out from a barn to ascertain the meaning, while a middle-aged woman comes to the kitchen door. The whole, together, is the picture of a western farmer’s home,—happiness and contentment. The horseman takes in the scene, and while he views the photograph he recognizesin it the home of young Hovey. A painful duty is his. He hesitates. He knows that his words will send a dark shadow over this household. The farmer comes towards him. The dog is hushed; the children cease their sports; the mother stands waiting, waiting, listening, and the throbbing of her own heart prepares her for the awful tidings. “Is this Mr. Hovey?” the horseman says, while from his inside coat pocket he withdraws a letter. “That is my name,” the farmer replies. “I have a letter for you, Mr. Hovey?” The children gather around the father, looking attentively at him and the horseman, while the latter, with trembling hand, passes the envelope that is so heavy ladened with sorrow. “Where’s the letter from?” asks the anxious mother, while the father tears it open. “The Lava Beds,” replies the horseman, turning away his face. The paper shakes in the hands of the farmer, while his face changes to ashy paleness. “What is it, father? Oh, what does the letter say?” cries the mother, as she comes to his side and glances over his arm. Let us not intrude on this scene of sorrow.
Hanging toHooker Jim’sbelt is a fair-haired scalp, still fresh; the blood of young Hovey still undried upon Hooker’s clothing, giving him no more concern than if it had come from the veins of a deer or an antelope. The lock of hair had once been blessed by the hands of a tender mother, who for nineteen years had watched over her first-born son. Now it is dishonored, used only as a record by which a savage makes proof of excellence in performing feats of fiendish heroism.
The “Iowa Veteran,” with an eye always out forsport, remarks, “Old man, there’s going to be some lively fun in a few minutes; wish you could see it. There’s fourteen Indians going for water, and a company has started out to capture them. Two to one the Modocs lick ’em.” Taking a station at the tent door, he continued: “I’ll keep you posted, old man; keep cool. The Modocs are taking position. They aint more thaneight hundredyards from here. Now look out,—the fun will begin pretty soon.”Bang,bang, and there is a rattling of rifles mixed with the Modoc war-whoop. “Here they come back,carryingthree men; but the Modocs are following up. Don’t that beat the devil and the Dutch?” remarks the irate veteran; “you’ve seen a big dog chase a cayote until the cayote would turn on him, and then the big dog would turn tail and run for home with the cayote after him, haven’t you? Well, that’s exactly what’s going on out here now. This whacks anything I ever witnessed, by Jupiter!Twoto one, the Modocs take the camp. By gorry, old man, don’t know what we are to do with you. You can’t run; you can’t fight; you are too big for me to carry;wish I had a spade,I’d bury you now until the funis all over; but it’s too late. Can’t help it, old man, you needn’t dodge; it won’t do any good; just lay still, and if they come,play dead on ’em again.You can do that to perfection, and there aint a darn bit of danger of their trying to get another scalp off of you. Too big a prairie above the timber line for that. ‘Boston’ was a darn fool to try it before.”
While this speech is being made, the Modocs are coming towards the soldier camp, firing occasional shots in among the tents. “By Goshens, we’ll havefun now. They’re a-going; shell ’em; ha! ha! ha! Shell a dozen Modocs!Ha! ha! ha! don’tthat beatsulphur kingout of his boots? Ha! ha! ha! Steady, old man, steady now. Keep cool. They’re ready to fire. The Indians are in plain sight! Yip-se-lanta; there it goes, screeching, screaming, right in among the rocks where the Modocs are, and explodes.” The smoke clears up. The Indians come out from behind the rocks, and, turning sideways to the soldier camp, pat their shot-pouches at the Boston soldiers. Shell after shell is fired and each time the Modocs take cover until they explode, and then, with provoking insolence, they pat their shot-pouches at an army of five hundred men,—that is, what is left of that army. “Cease firing!” commands Gen. Gilliam, from the signal-station. The shell guns are covered with the nice canvas housing. The Modocs now organize an artillery battery, and, taking position, elevating their rifles to an angle mocking the shell guns, Scar-faced Charley stands behind and gives the order, “Fire!” and the Modoc battery is now playing on a camp where there are no rocks for cover. Several shots spit down among the Boston soldiers.
“I went with Grierson through Alabama, with Sherman through Georgia, but that whacks anything ever I saw.Twoto one they attack the camp, by thunder! and if they do they’ll take it sure. B’gins to look pretty squally, old man. If they come, your only show is to play dead. You can do it. I don’t like to leave you, but I’ll have to do it, no other chance. We’ll come back and bury what they don’t burn up.”
The gray-eyed man, Fairchild, comes to the tent-door and engages the veteran in a talk. “I say,captain, don’t you wish we had Capt. Kelly’s volunteers here now? Wouldn’t they have a chance for Modoc steaks, eh? They’re the fellows that could take the Modocs. I’ve been out home and just come in. Where are the Warm Springs’ scouts all this time?” The veteran—Capt. Ferree—replies: “Oh, they are out on the other side of the Lava Bedssurroundingthe Modocs; to keep them from getting away.” Fairchild: “They aint going to leave here, no fear of that. But did you ever see anything like this morning’s performances?—fourteen Indians come out, kill three men, insult the whole camp, mock the shell guns, threaten the camp, scare everybody most to death, and then retire to their own camp. That caps the climax. Say, old man Meacham, how you making it, anyhow? Going to come out, aint you? You wasn’t born to be killed by the Modocs, that’s certain. That old bald head of yours is what saved you, old man, no mistake.” Veteran: “I’ve just been telling him that I’ll have a spade on hand next time the Modocs come, so I canburyhim until the fun’s over.” Fairchild: “Bully! that’ll do; just the thing. I think you had betterhavethe holeready. No telling whatmight happen. Them Modocs mighty devilish fellers; just like ’em to attack the camp; and if they do they’ll take it, sure; wish we had the Oregon volunteers here now to protect us.”
Four P.M.—and a long line of carriages are returning from Lone Mountain, leaving Dr. Thomas with the dead.
Another long line of mourners are following a hearse down Front street, Portland, to the steamer Oriflamme,which has been detailed by Ben Holliday to bear the remains of Gen. Canby to San Francisco. The widow is supported by the arms of officers. Anderson and Scott walk beside the hearse. A city is weeping, while they pay respect to the memory of the noble-hearted Christian General, who hears not the signal gun of departure. Couriers are bearing despatches to Y-re-ka. “The Modocs cannot escape; we have them surrounded. The Warm Springs scouts are out on the outpost. The Modocs cannot escape. Lieut. Sherwood died last night. Lieut. Eagan, improving. Meacham may recover, though badly mutilated and blind.” The salute of honor over the grave of young Hovey announces his burial by the kindly band of army officers.
“Extermination to the Modocs!” says Gen. Sherman. “Extermination,” repeat the newspapers. “Extermination,” says an echo over the Pacific coast. Extermination is the watchword everywhere. “It does look like extermination, that’s a fact, with half a hundred upheaving graves filled with soldiers near the camp; a hospital overflowing with wounded; an army demoralized, and lying passive seven days after the assassination of Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas; while every day the Modocs waylay and kill unguarded men almost in sight of camp, strip and scalp them, and then heap rocks on their bodies. This looks like extermination, but not of theModocs. Perhaps it suits those who were so free with denunciation of the Peace Commission. But whether it does, or not, this condition of the plan ofexterminationis to some extent attributable to the infuriated, senseless, cowardly, and unmanly opposition that was made against Canby and the Peace Commissioners, whosawandfelt howcostly in human life a peace made through the death-dealing bullets must be.
Saturday morning, and Modoc emissaries are crawling into the camps of theKlamaths,Snakes, and Wall-pa-pahs, endeavoring to induce these people to join the Modocs in the war. They paint in glowing colors the great success they have had, and declare that the time has come when red men should unite against a common enemy. It cannot be denied that in every Indian camp along the frontier linethere were sympathizers with the Modocs; but nowhere were they in sufficient force to precipitate a general war, although the new religion proclaimed by “Smoheller” had found followers everywhere, and was gaining strength by every victory won by Captain Jack. How nearly the frontier came to witnessing a great Indian war is not understood by the people of the Pacific coast.
A Warm Springs Indian, who does not belong to the scouts, is going carefully along the northern shore of the lake. His destination is Linkville. His mission is to bear a letter to Mrs. Meacham. The letter contains a message that will cause her almost to leap for joy:—
Lava Beds, Saturday, April 19, 1873.... Hire an escort and meet us at the mouth of Lost river to-morrow at noon, and we will deliver yourhandsome husbandover to you in pretty good shape.... We will cross the lake in a boat. Be on time....D. J. FERREE.
Lava Beds, Saturday, April 19, 1873.
... Hire an escort and meet us at the mouth of Lost river to-morrow at noon, and we will deliver yourhandsome husbandover to you in pretty good shape.... We will cross the lake in a boat. Be on time....
D. J. FERREE.
Saturday passes away without an episode that is worthy of record. Not a Modoc has been seen. The scouting parties have brought no tidings of them. Thesentinels walk the rounds. The surgeons are visiting the wounded. The hospital gives out moans, and furnishes another victim for the grave-yard, and a volley of muskets says, “Farewell, comrade!” Meacham is counting the hours as they pass. He is impatient. The long night wears away, and morning breaks at last. Another messenger is stealing away along the lake shore. An ambulance, with a mounted escort of citizens, is drawing toward the mouth of Lost river. “Are you ready to take me to meet my wife?” says a voice in a small tent. “No; the surgeon saysthe air is raw,and the lake is too rough. We have sent a message to your wife that we can’t go,” replies Capt. Ferree. After a few minutes’ silence the disappointed man replies, “That is not the reason. The wind does not blow.” Very serious thoughts are passing through the minds of both the hearer and the speakers. “I want to know why I am not going.”—“The doctor says you could not stand it to go; the lake is too rough.”—“You and the doctor are cowardly. You think I am going to die.”—“If you force me to be candid, I must tell you the truth. The doctor says you have not more thantwenty chances in a hundred to recover.”
Another silence of a few minutes, and the invalid replies, “I’ll take the twenty chances.I must live; I have so many depending on me.”
“If you pass midnight, the doctor says youmay live.”
The ambulance, with the mounted escort, is standing on the battle-ground of November 30th, 1872. A woman is in the front end, with a field-glass, scanning the lake. No boat is in sight. Her hopes andfears alternate, when she suddenly catches sight of the messenger on the lake shore. The glass drops from her hands, and she sinks down on the seat and waits the coming of the messenger. He holds out the letter. The woman grasps it, and as she reads, her lips quiver. “Why, oh why is this?The air is not chilly. The lake is not rough.” Words are too poor to express the torturing suspense that follows while the ambulance carries her back to Linkville. Hope sets alternately with despair in the heart. For ten days has this woman felt the presence of each as circumstances bade them come and go. Two more days is she yet to walk beneath a sky that is half hidden by dark clouds. ’Tis midnight, Sunday. The surgeon, De Witt, and Capt. Ferree are sitting beside the woman’s husband.
“I can tell you in another hour. If he comes out of this well, he is all right.” Dr. De Witt, with his finger on the patient’s pulse, nods to Ferree, “He is all right.” The patient awakes, and finds the doctor there. “How am I, doctor, shall I live?”—“I think you will, my dear fellow.You have passed the crisis.” “Thank God!” comes from every lip. “Keep quiet; don’t get excited. We can save you now, but you had a very close call.If you had been a drinking man all the surgeons in Christendom could not have saved you.Rest quiet until morning, and I will come in again.” Oh, what a change a few hours have wrought! Yesterday the sun went behind a dark cloud, and the invalid withstood the shock of “Twenty out of a hundred” for life. Now the sun of life comes again, and makes the vision clear of a loving family, home and friends. The transitions from despair to hope havebeen so frequent with this man that he can scarcely realize that he is again led by the angel of hope.
It is morning. Dr. De Witt and Capt. Ferree are in council. “I think he is on the safe side if he is careful,” remarks the doctor. Another messenger is despatched to Linkville, with a letter making another appointment at the mouth of Lost river for the next day.
Donald McKay is in camp to receive orders. He reports that his scouts have circled the Lava Beds. “The Modocs have not escaped; they must be in there somewhere.” Couriers arrive bringing newspapers, containing obituary notices of Gen. Canby, Dr. Thomas, andA. B. Meacham. Fairchild, Riddle, and Ferree were in Meacham’s tent, reading. Ferree remarks, “See here, old man, they have had you dead. You can know what the world will say about you when youdodie. Some of them say very nice things. Here’s one fellow that knows you pretty well.... ‘Meachamwasa man of strong will and positive character, who made warm friends and bitter enemies.’” ... “There, that will do; when I die I want those words put on my tombstone,” replies Meacham. “Here, how do you like this? ... ‘Served him right.He knew the Modocs better than any other man; why did he lead Canby and Thomas to their death? On his skirts the blood must be,’ ... Here is another that’s pretty good. This fellow has found out you aint dead, and he is mad about it. It’s a Republican organ, too, at that.... ‘If Meacham could be made to change places with Canby or Thomas few tears would be shed. He is responsible for all this blood.Heknewthe Modocs.Theydid not. We are not disappointed. We expected that this fanatical enthusiast would do some foolhardy thing, and we can only regret that he did not suffer instead of innocent men.’ ... There, how do you like that, old man? That’s what you get for not being a general or a preacher. They pay you a high compliment,—sending Canby and Thomas to their death. Big thing, old man! You are somebody. Now, I’ll tell you if you don’t get through to straighten this thing out I’ll do it, if it costs my life.”—“Call on me, captain, I know that Meacham did all in his power to prevent the meeting,” says Riddle. Fairchild remarks, “If they had listened to Meacham, they would have been alive now. I know what I am saying, I know all about the whole thing, and I know that Meacham did his best to keep them from going. I can tell those newspaper men some things they would not like to hear. They abused Meacham all the way through, while Canby escaped their slander, when he was in truth as much a peace man as Meacham, and more too. I have been with the commission. All I have to say is that it was a d——d cowardly contemptible thing from the beginning to the end the way the Oregon papers ‘went for’ the peace policy. I guess they are satisfied now. They wanted war, and they’ve got it. TheModoc-eatingOregon papers and volunteers haven’t lost any Modoc themselves. Better send some more volunteers down here to eat up the Modocs, like Capt. ——’s company did the day that Shacknasty Jim held a whole company for seven hours in check, d——n ’em.” Capt. Ferree replies, “Fairchild, you had better go slow. Almost every editor in Oregon is afighting man. Two or three of them were down here once, and they may come again for more Modoc news, and if they run across you you’re gone up.” Fairchild: “Yes, they’re ‘on it,’ seen ’em try it. Shacknasty tried ’em. One of them came down here looking for Squire Steele, of Y-re-ka, and when a man pointed out Steele to him, this fighting editor rode out of his way to keep from meeting him. It’s a fact! An other one was going to scalp old Press Dorris. He didn’t fail for the same reason that Boston Charley did on the old man there,—cause he hadn’t any hair;—no, that wasn’t the reason. He rodetoo good a horse himself; that’s why. Press was around all the time. He didn’t keep out of the way; fact is, Press was anxious for the scalping to begin. If any of those fighting editors come down here, well, set Shacknasty after them, and then you’ll see themgit. Bet a hundred dollars he can drive any two of them before him.”—“Look here, here’s something rich,” says Ferree, turning the paper: ... “‘Gov. Grover will call out volunteers to assist the regulars. They will make short work of it. The regulars are eastern men, and cannot fight Indians successfully.’” Fairchild says, “That’s rich. One thousand soldiers here now, and more Oregon volunteers coming, towhip fifty Modocs. All right; the more comes themore scalpsthe Modocs will take; that’s about what it’ll amount to.”
Monday passes slowly away to join the unnumbered days of the past. No sound of war is heard. Quiet reigns until the sunset volley announces that the decomposed lava is covering up another one of the fruits of the demand for blood, and the cry for vengeancewent up so loudly that even the Modocs in the Lava Beds heard it.
Tuesday morning.The ambulance is leaving Linkville, escorted by a mounted guard of citizens, destined to the Lost-river battle-ground. Hope is leading the woman who is making this second journey to this historic place. The miles are long to her who has been so many days alternating between joy and sadness. Surely, she will not be disappointed this time.
“Old man,” Dr. DeWitt says, “you cannot go this morning. I think it is unsafe, and it may cost your life.”—“I’m going; I’ll take the risk. I cannot bear to disappoint my wife again.” A stretcher is brought to the side of the mattress whereon the speaker lay. Strong arms lift the mattress and man upon it. When he was carried on the stretcher, a few days since, he weighed one hundred and ninety-six pounds, less the blood he left on the rocks. Now he weighs one hundred and fifty pounds. “Lieut. Eagan’s compliments, with a request for Mr. Meacham tocall on him before leaving.” The stretcher is carried into Lieut. Eagan’s tent, and set beside the wounded officer’s cot. The salutations commonly given are omitted, or half performed. Eagan lays his hand on Meacham’s arm and says, “How do you make it, old man?”—“First-rate, I guess. I am going home. Are you recovering from your wound?”—“Very fast. Be about in a few days. Want to help finish up this job before I go home.”—“Good-by, Eagan.”—“Good-by, Meacham.”
These men were old-time friends, and this parting was suggestive of sad thoughts. Both wounded. Will they ever meet again?
As the latter is being borne to the shore of the lake, a half cry is heard from Tobey. “I see him, Meacham, one time more. May be him die. I no see him ’nother time.” A small white hull boat is waiting in the little bay. Lieut. M. C. Grier,A. A. Q. M., is managing the preparations for the departure. With thoughtful care every possible arrangement is made. Mattresses, awnings, oarsmen, buckets for bailing, and arms for defence are provided; and while many officers of the army gather around the boat, the wounded man is carried on the stretcher and carefully laid on a mattress. “Old Fields” is placed in command. Dr. Cabanis sits in the stern; the veteran beside the wounded. The departure is made with “God bless you!” from the officers. A small squad of armed men are starting up the lake shore to prevent the possibility of the Modocs capturing the party in the boat.
Steadily the soldier oarsmen pull along near the land, while the inveterate jokers, Dr. Cabanis and Capt. Ferree, beguile the time in story-telling and witticisms; some of them at the expense of the man on the mattress. “Say, Meacham, what will you give me not to tellhow much brandyyou drank the other day while you was on the stretcher at the council tent? It’s all right for you to humbug the Good Templars by saying that you never drink; but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. No man ever drank acanteen fullthefirst drink, as you did that day; it won’t do, Meacham.”
Suddenly a dark cloud moves up, and a strong wind comes off the shore. Landing is out of the question; to put to sea in a whitehall boat with eightmen in it, and nearly to the edge, is hazardous. But there is no alternative. The prow cuts across the waves, the water leaps over the bow. Fields, Ferree, and two of the oarsmen, bail for life, now, while Cabanis holds her head to the sea. “Steady, boys, or we’ll swamp her,” says Fields. “Old man,playing deadwon’t save you this time; if we swamp her you had betterpray like old Joe Meek did. Promise the Lord to be a good man if he will save us this one time more.”—“Save the brandy, doctor, we may need it if we get out into the water,” says Fields, and continues, “Steady, boys, steady! I’ll be —— if she don’t swamp. Look out, boys, what you’re doin’.” The waiting woman in the ambulance catches sight of the boat as it rises on the crest of a wave and sinks again into the trough of the sea. Language is not competent to describe her emotions as she holds the glass on the threatening scene before her. One moment, hope,—another,despair; there, again, as the boat comes in sight, she thanks God; a moment more, and prayer moves her lips. “Can it be that he could live through all he has suffered only to be drowned?”
“Fear not, brave woman, the Hand that was let down out of the dark cloud that passed over the bloody scene when your husband was in a storm of bullets, will calm these waters. Your husband’s work is not yet finished!”
“That was a close call, boys.I tell you it was; but we are all right now,” says old Fields. “They are there waiting for us,” remarks Ferree. “Is Mrs. Meacham there? Can you see her?”—“Yes, yes, old man; she is there, standing in the wagon, looking at us with a glass. Lay still, old man, she is there.You’ll be with her pretty soon.”—“Thank God!” goes up from the mattress. “How far off are we now, Fields?”—“’Bout a mile. Be patient. Yes, old man, there’s your wife, sure. She is standing on the ground now, looking through a glass. Be patient, old man; I’ll introduce you to her. She wouldn’t know who it was,—if I didn’t tell her.”
The “old man” was wondering if it is possible; shall I see her again? Am I dreaming? Is this a reality? Won’t I wake and find it all a delusion? Oh, how slow this boat! “How far now?”—“Only a little piece; keep cool, you’ll be there in a few minutes,” quietly remarks Fields. Ferree, putting his finger on his lips, nods and smiles at his sister.
That smile has lifted despair once more from this woman’s heart. But a moment since she had caught sight of the whitened face of her husband, so motionless and pale. She felt a pain in her heart, for she thought him dead. Now, her brother’s smile has reassured her; but “Why does my husband lie so still?” The keel of the boat grinds on the gravelled margin of the river. Fields jumps ashore, with rope in hand. The woman stands beside the ambulance; she does not come to meet the party. Her joy is too great; she must not, dare not, now express her feeling.
“Well, Orpha, here’s the old man; he is not very pretty, but he’s worth a dozen dead Modocs yet.” The “old man” is carried to the ambulance, and placed on a mattress, and his wife sits beside him, reunited after a separation of five months, during which time one of them had passed so close to theportals that death had left the marks of his icy fingers upon him; and the other through a terrible storm of grief and suspense. The driver mounts his box; the veteran beside him. The escort mount their horses and range themselves on either side. The Modocs have not been heard of for several days and may be looking around their old home to waylay travellers. “Old Dad Fields” calls his crew; Dr. Cabanis cautions the driver about fast-driving, and also “the old man” about humbugging temperance people. The boat leaves the shore, the oars dip the waters. The driver cracks his whip, and one party is returning to the soldiers’ camp; the other is crowding forward to Linkville, half expecting to see a blaze of rifles from the sage bush. Twenty-five miles yet to-night. Over all the smooth road they go at a gallop. At midnight a light glimmers in the distance. It is Linkville. The moon is up, and shines now onthirteen little moundsby the roadside, beneath which sleep thirteen men who were killed by the Modocs last November. Uncle George’s nurse is waiting at the hotel door to receive the old man Meacham once more. Thank God for big, noble-hearted men like Uncle George and his partner, Alex. Miller! “The old man” is sleeping, but wakes up with a start as he has done every hour since the eleventh of April. The glaring eyes of old Schonchin, the horrid yells, the whizzing bullets, all come fresh to the brain when left without direction of his will. He wakes with a sudden start to find himself in a comfortable room, a soft hand on his brow; a familiar voice of affection reaches his ear, and he falls away to sleep again, soothed by the low murmur of a woman’s prayer.
AMEN OUT OF TIME—FRIENDLY ADVICE FROM ENEMIES—BETRAYED.
Teno’clock, Wednesday morning, April 22d, Meacham is being transported to Ferree’s ranch at the south end of the Klamath lake twelve miles from Linkville. We have been here before. It was on the 27th of December, 1869, when conducting Captain Jack’s band on to Klamath Reservation.ThenCaptain Jack acknowledged the authority of the Government and was endeavoring to be a man.Now he is an outlaw.After a stormy passage across Tule lake last night, Fields and Dr. Cabanis landed at Gilliam’s camp. The surgeons are visiting the hospitals. Some of the patients are improving, but on one poor fellow we see the signet of the grim monster. The sunset gun tonight will not disturb him.
Lieut. Eagan is still improving. Fairchild is in camp, and assuring Gen. Gilliam that as “soon as the Oregon volunteers arrive, the Modocs will throw down their guns and come right out and surrender;” Riddle and wife in camp also, and assisting to care for the sick. “Muybridge,” the celebrated landscape artist, of San Francisco, is here with his instruments, photographing the “Lava Beds,” the council tent, and the scene of the assassination. “Bunker,” of the “San Francisco Bulletin,” is on the ground reporting for his paper. “Bill Dad,” with his long hair floating in thewind and a pipe in his mouth, slipshod and sloven, still hovers around to keep the readers of the “Record” posted.
Gen. Gilliam is consulting with his officers; they are indignant at the inaction manifested. Donald McKay and his Warm Springs Indians are scouting under the direction of army officers. Both Donald and his men are disgusted with thered-tape way of fightingModocs.
Captain Jack and his people are quiet this morning. They are so closely hidden that even the sharp eyes of Donald McKay cannot discern their whereabouts. Captain Jack’s men are anxious to be on the warpath; but the chief restrains them. They, in turn, reproach him with want of courage. He insists that they must act on the defensive. Bogus, Boston, Shacknasty Jim and Hooker Jim are rebellious and threaten to desert. Couriers are bearing despatches to Y-re-ka announcing that “the Modocs cannot escape.”
A gun from the deck of the “Oriflamme” tells the people of San Francisco of her arrival with the remains of Gen. Canby. An immense concourse of citizens escort the hearse to the head-quarters of the army.
The widow sits in a carriage, with unmoistened eyes, while the populace pay homage to the great character of her husband. The body of Dr. Thomas is quietly resting with the dead, while he in spirit is enjoying the glories of eternal life; his last sermon preached, his trials over.
The three children of Meacham are drying their tears, and thanking God that they are not fatherless, and for the love of a brotherhood that brings to their home sunshine in the faces and words of SecretaryChadwick and Col. T. H. Cann, who have called this morning.
Away up in Umatilla, a young man, who has been bowed down with grief over a second great bereavement, this morning reads to the little orphans that climb on his knees, and their widowed mother, the telegram signed by Capt. Ferree, announcing the recovery of his brother. His joy is unbounded. A great load has been lifted from his shoulders and his heart.
Midway between the oceans and near Solon, Iowa, in the sitting-room of an old homestead, a group is kneeling around a family altar. The bent form of a silver-haired man is surrounded by his aged second wife, his two living daughters; and perhaps, too, the invisible presence oftwodaughters and two sons that have gone before, andtheir ownmother, are also there. His voice is tremulous while he leads in prayer and recounts that half of his family has gone and half remains; blesses God that the dark sorrow that threatened them has passed away, and invokes Heaven’s blessings on the living loved ones.
Thursday morning, and we are in a cabin at Ferree’s ranch. The proprietor enters, holding a letter in his hand. “See here, old man, I don’t know but what you have jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. How does this suit you?”
Klamath Agency, Thursday morning, April 23.Friend Ferree:—Be on your guard. The Klamath Indians were in war council last night.... We have sent our women and children to Fort Klamath for safety....L. S. DYER,Agent Klamath.
Klamath Agency, Thursday morning, April 23.
Friend Ferree:—Be on your guard. The Klamath Indians were in war council last night.... We have sent our women and children to Fort Klamath for safety....
L. S. DYER,Agent Klamath.
“That don’t look wholesome for us, old man; but you are all right, you canplay deadon ’em again, and theycan’t scalp you nohow. We are pretty well stockaded and well armed. We can play them a merry string, if they do come. If we have to fight, why, you can’t do much, that’s so, except as old man Jones did at the camp-meeting last year. He said he couldn’tpreach, he couldn’t praymuch, but he could sayAmenas well as anybody; and all through the meeting old Father Jones was shouting ‘Amen!’ ‘A-men!’ until they stopped the old fellow. Didn’t I never tell you about that? Well, brother Congar was preaching brimstone pretty lively, and Father Jones was shouting Amen occasionally. Brother Congar was saying to the congregation, ‘If you don’t repent and be baptized, you’ll all go to hell, shure as you’re born,’—‘Amen! Thank God!—Amen!’ shouts Father Jones. Brother Congar stops. ‘Father Jones, you didn’t understand what I was a-sayin,’—‘Yes, I guess I did, Bro. Congar, you told me if we come over here that, whenever you said anything powerful smart, I was to say ‘Amen!’ You said you couldn’t preachworth a centunless I did, and I’ve done it, so I have. If it aint satisfactory, I quit and go back home,’—‘Amen!’ shouted brother Congar, and went on with the preaching. Now all we will ask of you, ‘old man,’ is to say ‘Amen,’ but don’t act the fool about it like Father Jones did, that’s all. We’ll tend to administering sulphur in broken doses, if they try to take us in. Don’t think there’s any danger though. Dyer isn’t over the scare he got in the race withHooker Jimyet.”
Friday morning, April 24th.—The army at theLava Beds is performing some masterly feats of inactivity that would have been a credit to Gen. McClellan on the peninsula. The wild fowls that fly over the Lava Beds look down on the army of a thousand recuperating after the big battle of last week. Col. Miller is in charge of Captain Jack’s stronghold. The Warm Springs are divided up, and assigned to duty with the different squadrons of cavalry. Quartermaster Grier is having a coffin made and a grave prepared for a soldier that is dear to somebody somewhere, who is in blissful ignorance of his fate.
Ferree’s Ranch, Sunday morning, April 25, ’72.—A horseman arrives, and, taking Ferree aside, he informs him that a reliable friendly Indian had come in to Linkville and reported that it was understood that Meacham had killed Schonchin, and that some of Schonchin’s friends had been to Yai-nax—an Indian station on Klamath Reservation—and learned that Meacham was at Ferree’s. Further, that it was thought advisable that he be immediately removed to Linkville, lest the Modocs should make an attack on the ranch, seeking revenge for the death of Schonchin. The ambulance is ordered out, and the convalescent Peace Commissioner was again on wheels. Here we take leave of our inveterate joker—the Iowa veteran—Capt. Ferree leaving him to administer “saltpetreandblue-pills” to the red skins in the event of an attack.
Lava Beds, Gilliam’s Camp, Sunday morning, April 26th.—Something is to be done to-day. The location of the Modocs has been ascertained through the efforts of the Warm Springs Indian scouts. A reconnoissance of the new stronghold is ordered. The detachment designated for this purpose consistedof sixty-six white men and fourteen Warm Springs Indians under McKay; the whole under command of Capt. E. Thomas of 4th Artillery. First Lieut. Thomas Wright—spoken of in this volume as Col. Wright of Twelfth Infantry, a son of the gallant old General Wright—is of the party, and in immediate command of his own and Lieut. Eagan’s companies.
Lieut. Arthur Cranston and Lieut. Albion Howe of Fourth Artillery, Lieut. Harris also of the Fourth, Assistant Surgeon B. Semig, H. C. Tichnor as guide, Louis Webber, chief packer, and two assistants; the whole, exclusive of Warm Springs scouts, seventy-six. I may be pardoned for making more than mere mention of this expedition and the manner of its organization, because of its results; to understand it fairly, it should be stated that the parties named, except the Warm Springs scouts, were all of the army camp at the foot of the bluff, the head-quarters of Gen. Gilliam, commander of the army in the Modoc campaign.
The Warm Springs scouts were encamped near the old Modoc stronghold, and had been ordered to join the command of Capt. Thomas, whileen route, or at the point of destination, which was a low butte or mound-like hill, on the further side of the Lava Beds, from the several camps. The outfit of this reconnoitring party, aside from the men and arms, consisted of a small train of pack mules. This train of packs was suggestive. Tacked on to theapparahos—pack-saddles—were subsistence and medical stores for the party, and also severalstretchers. The object of the reconnoissance was to ascertain whether the field-pieces could be planted so as to command thenew position of theModoc General, Jack Kientpoos. Shells had donewonderful executionin the three days’ battle, and, of course, werethe thing to fightModocswith; provided, however, that the fools of the Modoc camp were not all dead; for it is an undoubted fact that out of only two or three hundred tossed into the Modoc stronghold,one of them had done more executionthanall the bullets fired by the soldiersin the three days.
Capt. Thomas was instructed, in “no event, to bring on an engagement.” The point of destination was in full view of the signal station at Gilliam’s camp, and not more than three miles distant. The command proceeded with skirmishes thrown out, and proper caution, until their arrival at the foot of the butte. The Warm Springs scouts had not joined the command. Capt. Thomas remarked that, since no Indians were to be seen, the command would take lunch. Lieut. Wright replied, that “when you don’t see Indians is just the time to be on the look out for them.” The skirmish guards were called in, and the whole command, except Lieut. Cranston and twelve men, sat down to bivouac for an hour; Cranston, in the mean time, remarking that he “was going to raise some Indians,” proceeded to explore the surroundings. In so doing he passed entirely out of sight of the main party. The foot of the butte is similar to other portions of the Lava Beds, thrown into irregular ledges, or cut into chasms and crevices.