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 on this 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 your memory 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 wake _no 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; and _war!_ _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 a _lickin’_ 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 head of 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; so _they 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 to _see_ the _fun_.”
“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 kill nary
an Ingen,——_you can’t_. I’m a-going down just to _see_ the _fun_.”
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 have _help_.
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 a _heroic_
thing to rush up to the recruiting office and _volunteer_ to _whip 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 Governor_ very 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
been _invaded_ by 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 was
_eloquent_, though not _classical_.
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 Modoc _Sirloin_ for my dinner.”
“I think,” said a burly-looking fellow, “that I’ll take mine _rare_.”
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 little _Ingens_ for servants. One fellow declared that
Captain Jack’s _pacing hoss_ should 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, a
_last_ one 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 give _all a fair show_ to 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.