WHO HAD BEEN THERE——WHO HAD NOT.
Let us change the scene, and transfer ourselves to the marquee of Gen.
Gilliam. Gen. Canby is sitting on a camp-chair, and near him Col. Barnard.
On the camp-bedstead sits Gen. Gilliam, and by his side Col. Mason; the
chairman of the Peace Commission on a box almost between the parties. The
talk is of Modocs, peace, treachery, Ben Wright, battle of 17th January,
the stronghold. Gen. Gilliam remarks, addressing Gen. Canby: “Well,
general, whenever you are through trying to make peace with those fellows,
I think I can take them out of their stronghold with the loss of
_half-a-dozen men_.” Canby sat still, and said nothing. Gilliam continued:
“Oh, we may have some casualties in wounded men, of course; but I can take
them out whenever you give the order.” Silence followed for a few moments.
Gen. Canby, fixing his cigar in his mouth and his eye on Col. Mason, sat
looking the question he did not wish to ask in words.
Col. Mason, seeming to understand the meaning of the look, said: “With due
deference to the opinion of Gen. Gilliam, I think if we take them out with
the _loss of one-third of the entire command, it is doing as well as I
expect_.”
The portly form of Col. Barnard moved slowly forward and back, thereby
saying, “I agree with you, Col. Mason.” Col. John Green came in, and, to
an inquiry about how many men it would cost, he replied evasively, saying,
“I don’t know; only we got licked on the 17th of January like ————. Beg
your pardon, general.” Canby continued smoking his cigar, without fire in
it. Here were four men giving opinions. One of them had fought rebels in
Tennessee, and was a success there; the other three fought rebels also
successfully, and Modocs in the Lava Beds _unsuccessfully_. They knew
whereof they were talking. The opinions of these men doubtless made a deep
impression on the mind of the commanding general, and, knowing him as I
did, I can well understand how anxious he was for peace when he had the
judgment of soldiers like _Green_, Mason, and Barnard, that, if war
followed, about one in three of the boys who idolized him _must die to
accomplish peace through blood_.
Move over one hundred yards to another marquee; the sounds betoken a
discussion there also. Young, brave, ambitious officers are denouncing the
Peace Commission, complaining that the army is subjected to disgrace by
being held in abeyance by it.
Their words are bitter; and they mean it, too, because fighting is their
business. Col. Green, coming in, says, in angry voice, “Stop that! the
Peace Commission have a right here as much as we have. They are our
friends. God grant them success. I have been in _the Lava Beds once_.
Don’t abuse the Peace Commission, gentlemen.” The fiery young officers
respect the man who talks; they say no more.
Come down a little further. Oh, here is the Peace Commission tent, and
around a stove sits the majestic Dr. Thomas, grave, dignified, thoughtful.
Mr. Dyer is there also, quiet and meditative, with his elbows on his
knees, and his face is buried in his hands; Meacham occasionally
recruiting the sage-brush embers in the stove with fresh supplies of fuel.
A rap on the tent-pole. “Come in,” and a fine-looking, middle-aged officer
enters. Once glance at his face, and we see plainly that he has come for a
_growl_.
After the compliments are passed, Col. Tom Wright——for it was he——begins
by saying that he wanted to growl at some one, and he had selected our
camp as the place most likely to furnish him with a victim. “All right,
colonel, pitch in,” says Meacham.
The doctor just then remembered that he had a call to make on Gen. Canby.
“Well,” says the gallant colonel, “why don’t you leave here, and give us a
chance at those Modocs? We don’t want to lie here all spring and summer,
and not have a chance at them. Now you know we don’t like this delay, and
we can’t say a word to Gen. Canby about it. I think you ought to leave,
and let us clean them out.”
I detailed the conversation had in Gen. Gilliam’s marquee, and also
expressed some doubts on the subject.
“Pshaw!” says Col. Wright. “I will bet two thousand dollars that Lieut.
Eagan’s company and mine can whip the Modocs in _fifteen minutes_ after we
get into position. Yes, I’ll put the money up,——I mean it.”
“Well, my dear colonel, you might just say to Gen. Canby that he can send
off the other part of the army, about nine hundred men besides your
company and Eagan’s. As to our leaving we have a right to be here, and we
are under the control of Gen. Canby; and as to moving on the enemy, Gen.
Canby _is not ready until the Warm Spring Indians arrive_. I am of the
opinion that no peace can be made, and that you will have an opportunity
to try it on with the Modoc chief.” The colonel bade me “good-night,”
saying that he felt better now, since he had his growl out.
It is morning, and our soldier-cook has deserted us, and deserted the army
too. It seems to be now pretty well understood that no peace can be made
with the Modocs, and several of the boys have deserted. Those who have
_met_ the Modocs have no desire to meet them _again_. Those who have not,
are demoralized by the reports that others gave; and since the common
soldiers serve for pay, and have not much hope of promotion, they are not
so warlike as the brave officers, who have their stars to win on the field
of battle. Money won’t hire a cook, hence we must cook for ourselves.
Well, all right; Dyer and I have done that kind of thing before this, and
we can again.
While we are preparing breakfast a couple of soldiers come about the fire.
“I say, capt’n, have you give it up tryin’ to make peace with them Injuns
there?”
“Don’t know; why?” we reply.
“Well, ’cause why them boys as has been in there says as how it’s nearly
litenin’; them Modocs don’t give a fellow any chance; we don’t want any
Modoc, we don’t.”
“Sorry for you, boys; we are doing all we can to save you, but the
pressure is too heavy; guess you’ll have to go in and bring them out.”
Squatting down before the fire, one of them, in a low voice, says, “Mr.
Commissioner, us boys are all your fre’ns,——_we are_; wish them fellers
that wants them Modocs whipped so bad would come down and do it
theirselves; don’t you? Have you tried everything you can to make peace?”
“Yes, my good fellow, we have exhausted every honorable means, and we
cannot succeed.”
“Bro. Meacham, where did you learn to make bread? Why, this is splendid.
Bro. Dyer, did you make this coffee? It’s delicious.” So spoke our good
doctor at breakfast.
“Good-morning, Mr. Meacham,” said Gen. Canby, after breakfast. “Who is
cooking for your mess now?”
“Co-pi, ni-ka,——myself.”
“What does Mr. Dyer do?”
“He washes the dishes.”
“Ha, ha! What does the doctor do?”
“Why, he asks the blessing.”
The general laughed heartily, and as the doctor approached, said to him,
“Doctor, you must not throw off on Bro. Dyer.”
Explanations were made, and these venerable, dignified men enjoyed that
little joke more heartily than I had ever seen either of them, on any
other occasion.