Wigwam and War-path Or the Royal Chief in Chains Part 48

The Modocs are taking position. They aint more than _eight hundred_ yards 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, _carrying_ three 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! _Two_ to 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 fun_ is 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 have fun now. They're a-going; sh.e.l.l 'em; ha! ha! ha! Sh.e.l.l a dozen Modocs!

_Ha! ha! ha! don't_ that beat _sulphur king_ out 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. Sh.e.l.l after sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l 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. _Two_ to 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 Beds _surrounding_ the 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 sh.e.l.l 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 can _bury_ him until the fun's over." Fairchild: "Bully! that'll do; just the thing. I think you had better _have_ the hole _ready_. No telling what _might 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 hea.r.s.e 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 hea.r.s.e. A city is weeping, while they pay respect to the memory of the n.o.ble-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 pa.s.sive seven days after the a.s.sa.s.sination 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 the _Modocs_.

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 of _extermination_ is to some extent attributable to the infuriated, senseless, cowardly, and unmanly opposition that was made against Canby and the Peace Commissioners, who _saw_ and _felt how costly in human life a peace made through the death-dealing bullets must be_.

Sat.u.r.day morning, and Modoc emissaries are crawling into the camps of the _Klamaths_, _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 line _there were sympathizers with the Modocs_; but nowhere were they in sufficient force to precipitate a general war, although the new religion proclaimed by "Smoh.e.l.ler" 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 sh.o.r.e 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, Sat.u.r.day, April 19, 1873.

... Hire an escort and meet us at the mouth of Lost river to-morrow at noon, and we will deliver your _handsome husband_ over to you in pretty good shape.... We will cross the lake in a boat. Be on time....

D. J. FERREE.

Sat.u.r.day pa.s.ses away without an episode that is worthy of record. Not a Modoc has been seen. The scouting parties have brought no tidings of them.

The sentinels 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 pa.s.s. He is impatient. The long night wears away, and morning breaks at last. Another messenger is stealing away along the lake sh.o.r.e. 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 says _the 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 pa.s.sing 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 than _twenty 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 pa.s.s midnight, the doctor says you _may 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-gla.s.s, scanning the lake. No boat is in sight. Her hopes and fears alternate, when she suddenly catches sight of the messenger on the lake sh.o.r.e. The gla.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed the crisis._" "Thank G.o.d!" 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 have been 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, and _A. 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 you _do_ die. Some of them say very nice things. Here's one fellow that knows you pretty well.... 'Meacham _was_ a 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. _He knew_ the Modocs. _They_ did 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. The _Modoc-eating_ Oregon 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 a _fighting 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 rode _too 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 them _git_. 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 a.s.sist 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, to _whip fifty Modocs_. All right; the more comes the _more scalps_ the Modocs will take; that's about what it'll amount to."

Monday pa.s.ses 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 vengeance went 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 to _call 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 sh.o.r.e 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 "G.o.d bless you!" from the officers. A small squad of armed men are starting up the lake sh.o.r.e 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 tell _how much brandy_ you 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 a _canteen full_ the _first drink_, as you did that day; it won't do, Meacham."

Suddenly a dark cloud moves up, and a strong wind comes off the sh.o.r.e.

Landing is out of the question; to put to sea in a whitehall boat with eight men 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 dead_ won't save you this time; if we swamp her you had better _pray 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 gla.s.s on the threatening scene before her. One moment, hope,--another, _despair_; there, again, as the boat comes in sight, she thanks G.o.d; 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 pa.s.sed over the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gla.s.s. Lay still, old man, she is there. You'll be with her pretty soon."--"Thank G.o.d!" 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 gla.s.s. 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 rea.s.sured her; but "Why does my husband lie so still?" The keel of the boat grinds on the gravelled margin of the river. Fields jumps ash.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.sed so close to the portals 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 on _thirteen little mounds_ by 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 G.o.d for big, n.o.ble-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.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

AMEN OUT OF TIME--FRIENDLY ADVICE FROM ENEMIES--BETRAYED.

Ten _o'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. _Then_ Captain Jack acknowledged the authority of the Government and was endeavoring to be a man. _Now he is an outlaw._ After a stormy pa.s.sage 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.