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
forces the 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 is _Bloody 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 stands a 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 his _friend, Hooker Jim, murdered him_. The
black-looking bluff near it is where _Ben Wright_ met 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. _They_ are
_loyal_, though, to the Government, and are willing to help the white men
exterminate their cousins (the Modocs). Then the _pro rata_ of 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 for _the 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 a _rough-lock_ to get down in safety. Oh! but
this _is_ steep; 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
lava rocks 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. He is 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 is _Link-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
take _his_ place; 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; _he_ was 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 will _make
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 head of 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 a _Modoc_, 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
this mission, 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 be _hard 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.
_They_ are not so _very confident_. They said, to-day, to some impatient
boys, “Don’t fret; you will get enough _to do you_ before you see your
mother again. The Modocs are _on it_ sure!”