HARNESSED LIGHTNING CARRYING AWFUL TIDINGS——HE
“MAKES IT”——A BROKEN FINGER WON’T DISFIGURE A
CORPSE.
It is night, and in the solders’ camp a wail of anguish is heard coming
from the tent nearest Gen. Canby’s late quarters. Grief weighs down the
heart of Orderly Scott, who is giving vent to his anguish in stifled sobs
and vows of vengeance on the perpetrators of the foul deed. He rises from
his bed, and, with face half buried in his hands, looks again on the
mangled form of his benefactor, and, in renewed paroxysms of grief, is
borne away by his friends.
The sound of hammer and saw disturbs the midnight hour, while the
carpenters are transforming the wooden gun-cases into coffins for the
dead. Two are in progress, but the mechanics are economizing the rough
boards, for the probabilities are that the _third_ will be needed on the
morrow.
The steward is holding a lamp while Drs. Semig and Cabanis are dressing
the wounds of the only patient in the hospital tent. He is unconscious,
while the ugly, ragged wound in his face is being carefully bound, and the
long crooked cut on the left side of the head is being closed with the
silver threads, and his ear is being stitched together. He flinches a
little when the flexible silver probe is following the trail cut through
his right arm made by the pistol ball that struck it outside of the
wrist, and, passing between the bones of the fore arms, came out on the
inside, midway between the hand and elbow. The left hand is laid out on a
board, and the wounded man is told that “the forefinger must come off.”
“Make out the line of the cut, doctor,” says Meacham.
“There, about this way,” the doctor replies, while with his scalpel he
traces a cut nearly to the wrist.
“I can’t hold still while you do that, without chloroform,” says Meacham.
The doctor feels his pulse, and says, “You have lost too much blood to
take chloroform.”
“Then let it stay until I am stronger,” rejoins Meacham.
For once doctors agree, one of them saying, “The finger would not
disfigure a corpse very much.”
“Please ask Gen. Gilliam to send to Linkville for my wife’s brother, Capt.
Ferree,” comes from the bloodless lips of the wounded man.
“My dear fellow,” replies the kind-hearted doctor, “the general sent a
courier for him hours ago.”
This thoughtful act of kindness, on the part of Gen. Gilliam, has touched
the heart of the sufferer. When he awakes again Capt. Ferree was bending
over him and remarking, “He will be blind if he recovers, won’t he,
doctor?”
“He won’t be very handsome, that’s a fact,” says the nurse.
In the Modoc camp, when the murderous bands arrive with their scanty
plunder, a general quarrel ensues, and bitter reproaches are heard against
Hooker Jim for not securing Mr. Dyer, and against Curly Jack and
Curly-haired Doctor, for the escape of Maj. Boyle, and on account of the
clothing taken from the murdered men. Captain Jack claims the uniform of
Gen. Canby. Bogus and Boston divide the clothing taken from Dr. Thomas,
and Shacknasty Jim, Hooker Jim and old Schonchin are awarded the clothing
and effects of Meacham.
Preparations are making for defence, as the Indians do not doubt that an
attack will be made immediately. Many bitter recriminations are uttered;
but it is war, war to the last man! They hush all their quarrels in the
necessity for united action. They pledge themselves to fight until the
_last man_ is dead. The Curly-haired Doctor calls his assistants around
him and begins the _Great Medicine Dance_. All night long the sound of
drum and song is heard. The Modocs expect every moment to hear the signal
of their sentinel on the outposts announcing the “soldiers!” No sleep
comes to this camp to-night.
The morning comes, but no blue-coats are seen among the rocks. The army of
one thousand men _are not ready yet_.
The Modocs exult; they are jubilant; they have _scared_ the Government.
“_It is afraid. It will grant us, now, all we ask._” Captain Jack and
Scar-face Charley do not assent to this unreasonable view of the
situation.
“The soldiers will come. Our victory is not complete. We must fight now
until all are dead. The Modoc heart says ‘We must fight!’” Captain Jack
affirms.
Saturday morning, April 13th, finds the three camps side by side, and each
on the lookout for an attack.
Strong hands are bearing two rough-looking boxes up the steep bluff. In
the foremost one is the body of Gen. Canby; in the other, all that is
mortal of Dr. Thomas. Slowly they mount the rugged hill. They reach the
waiting ambulances. The bodies are each assigned an escort. Sitting beside
Gen. Canby’s coffin are his adjutant, Anderson, and the faithful Scott.
How changed the scene! a few hours since all were hopeful. Now, all are in
despair, crushed under the affliction of the hour. While they move
cautiously under escort, the terrible news is flashing along thousands of
miles of telegraph lines, over mountains, under rivers and oceans. Before
the sun sets the hearts of millions of people are beating in sympathy with
the bereaved. Extras and bulletins are flying from a thousand presses. The
newsboys of America are shouting the burden of the terrible telegram. The
Indians along a thousand miles of the frontier have already learned that
something of dreadful import has happened.
About the middle of the afternoon of this day a woman sitting in her room
on State street, Salem, Oregon, raises her eyes, turning them towards the
street. Perhaps the sound of steps on the wooden pavement attracts her
attention. She sees two familiar faces turned towards her window. “Oh, see
her! How pale she is!” She drops her work, and runs hastily to meet the
two gentlemen.
“Is he dead? Is he dead? Tell me! Has my husband been killed by the
Modocs?” the woman cries.
The gentlemen are speechless for the moment, while the lady pleads. They
dare not speak the truth too plainly, now; she cannot bear it.
[Illustration: DOCTOR THOMAS.]
One of them replies, “Gen. Canby and Dr. Thomas have been killed by the
Modocs, and Mr. Meacham is sli——” “mortally wounded!” shrieks the lady
sinking to the floor.
Three young persons are coming home. The eldest is a young lady of
eighteen. The lad that walks beside her is her brother of sixteen; and the
other is an auburn-haired girl of fourteen. There is something in her
appearance that connects our thoughts with the mutilated, almost bloodless
man who is lying in the hospital in the Lava Beds.
They turn the corner leading out of the Plaza and in sight of home. They
see men and women hurrying across the front yard.
“Has father been killed by the Modocs?” bursts from their lips as they
fly.
Dr. Hall meets them and says, “Your father is slightly wounded. He is not
dead.”
The three frightened children gather around the _tearless_, pale-faced
mother, who says, “Don’t deceive me. I am strong now. I can bear it. Tell
me the worst.”
The friends exchanged glances. Dr. Hall shakes his head, slightly
motioning towards the elder girl, whose face is buried in the bosom of
Mrs. Dr. Smith.
“George, run to the telegraph office and bring the despatch,” says the
mother to her son. “I must know the truth.”
The boy bounds away towards the office, and is met by Prof. Powell, who
says, “Come back, George. I will go home with you, and tell your mother
all about it.”
The two return, and the professor, with faltering voice reads the
despatch: “Canby and Thomas killed. Meacham mortally wounded.” The
marble-faced wife arises, saying, “I am going to my husband.” Her friends
remonstrate with her.
“I am going to my husband. Do not hinder me,” she repeats.
“My father! my father!” cries the elder daughter, as she is borne to her
room.
“My father will not die. He must not die. _My father will live_,” the
younger daughter insists. Her brother is trying to hide his tears while he
talks hopefully.
“Father is a very strong man. He may get well. I think he will,” he says.
It is midnight, and sympathizing friends are in the sitting-room and
parlor. The daughters and son have sobbed themselves to sleep. The mother
and wife, with bloodless face, is on bended knees, and, with uplifted
hands clasped, is whispering a prayer.
At this moment her brother is bending over her husband three hundred miles
away, watching his breathing; while thoughts of a widowed sister and her
orphan children sadden the heart of the veteran who has passed through the
war of the Great Rebellion. A silent tear drops on the mangled face
beneath him.
Donald McKay, “the scout,” with seventy-two picked men, is dismounting at
Col. Mason’s camp. Leaving them, he is challenged by the picket guard and,
passing in, reports himself to the officer of the day.
His men stand waiting his return. Meanwhile we will go close enough to
inspect them. They are dressed in the uniform of the soldiers of the
United States. Their arms are the same, and in the moonlight they appear
to be “Regulars.” If the wounded man in the hospital were here they would
salute him with, “Tuts-ka-low-a?” (“How do you do, old man Meacham?”) And
he would reply, “Te-me-na, Shix-te-wa-tillicums.” (“My heart is all
right.”)
These boys are Warm Spring Indians, and the same men who were in the
council tents in 1856, when the Government swindled them and their fathers
out of their homes in the beautiful “Valley of the Tygh.” They were also
in the revival meeting at the Warm Springs Agency in 1871, when the
Superintendent of Indian Affairs, who now lies in yonder hospital, and
Agent John Smith, took so many red hands in their own and recognized a
brotherhood with them. They are the same men, too, who have for years
past, each Sunday morning, joined their beloved agent in prayer and song.
They have left behind them humble homes, in a poor country, where the
Government placed them, and where it still keeps them by the strong arm of
the law, without consulting their wishes,——a home they cannot leave, even
for a day, without a “pass.” Their manhood was acknowledged in making a
treaty; but denied as soon as the compact was completed, until in 1866,
when the Government found it had an expensive war on hand with the Snake
Indians, and then it offered these men the privilege of volunteering to
whip the Snake Indians. This offer they accepted, and were rewarded for
their services with a few greenbacks, worth fifty cents on a dollar, and
an invitation to a new treaty council, in which they were _cheated_ out of
a reserved right to the fisheries on the Columbia river, near “The
Dalles;” and then they were summoned back to their unsought homes, subject
to the whims and caprices of Government officers, who were given positions
as a reward for political services. True, they agreed to the terms, and
they must be made to stand by them whether their pledges were made freely
and voluntarily, or under the shining bayonets of an army, and by reason
of the superior diplomatic talent of the Government officials who
outwitted them. It makes no difference. They are Indians, and
three-fourths of the people of the United States _believe_ and _say_ that
“the best Indians are all under ground.”
Anxious to demonstrate their loyalty to a Government that has been so good
to them, and to establish their right to manhood’s privileges, when an
opportunity offered, they enlisted by the advice and consent of their
agent, and, followed by his prayers, they are here to-night under the
famous scout, Donald McKay.
He evidently is not a “Warm Spring Indian,” yet they trust him, knowing,
from their experience with him in the Snake campaign of 1866, that he is
thoroughly reliable. Donald McKay is half brother to Dr. Wm. C. McKay. His
mother was a Cayuse woman. Being a man of extraordinary endowments, which
fit him for a leader, he has taken an active part in all recent Indian
wars of the Northwest. His _name alone_ carries a warning to refractory
“red-skins.”
As Donald approached his men on his return from head-quarters, several
voices inquire if “old man Meacham is dead.” Quietly leading their horses
inside the picket line, they unpack the kitchen, mule and blanket ponies.
It is now Sunday morning, the 13th of April. The sun finds couriers on the
road to Y-re-ka, bearing despatches announcing that “Meacham is sinking.
The surgeons have extracted four bullets from his wounds. The Modocs
cannot get away.”
A sad, anxious woman is leaving the depot at Salem, Oregon, destined for
the Lava Beds. At home her children are in tears, realizing how dark the
clouds of sorrow may become.
The childless widow of Gen. Canby sits with _broken heart_, in her parlor
in Portland, Oregon.
The family of Dr. Thomas, in Petaluma, Cal., are kneeling around the
family altar, and a bereaved widow is praying for resignation to this
dispensation of Providence,——is praying for strength to say “Thy will be
done on earth as it is in heaven.”
Monday morning, April 14th, opens amid the noises of camp life; the drum
and bugle calls, and human voices join in songs of praise. They are
strange sounds for a military camp on the eve of battle. There is an
uncommon accent to them, but they sound familiar. What! The sounds come
from the lips of men who were born in wild camps among the mountains of
Eastern Oregon. Can it be that these red men have so far advanced in
Christian civilization that they are now doing what not one of the five
hundred white men have the courage to do? Yes, my reader, _it is true_
that the Warm Spring Indians, who have learned from Agent John Smith these
songs of praise and the honor that is due to God, are faithful to their
pretensions, and _are worshipping_ Him, and seeking strength to sustain
them in the coming strife.
Blush, now, will you not, you who prate so loudly of the superiority of
the white men! of his sense of right controlling his actions! Here are
_red men_, who are but a few years removed from savage life, _living_ the
“_new religion_”——Christians in real earnest, and shaming the hypocritical
pretenders whose cant and whine make liberal-minded people turn away in
disgust. You Christian Indian-hater, look at these red-skinned people, and
learn a lesson in Christian honesty and moral courage!
The shadows of Van Bremers mountain come slowly over the Lava Beds. In the
Modoc camp the “medicine-man” is conducting the war-dance and working the
blood of Modoc hearts up to fighting heat. He promises his people that he
will make a medicine that will turn the soldiers’ bullets away. He points
to the great battle of January, and its results, to inspire confidence in
him. The chief is saddened, and fully realizes the situation. He is
desperate, and is resolved to fight to the bitter end. He has already
appointed the places for each of the warriors. He tells his people that
the hated Warm Spring Indians are now in the soldiers’ camp. He reminds
them that these people are their enemies; that it was the Warm Spring and
Tenino Indians who killed his father. He counsels them to remember his
father’s death. He knows that a thousand white soldiers are there and that
the “big guns” will reach his stronghold.
Some of his followers have superstitious faith enough in the medicine-man
to believe that they will outlive the war, and to believe the white men
are conquered already. The chief knows better.
In the soldiers’ camp preparations are making for the assault. The
Coehorn shell-guns are made ready for putting on the backs of mules. Food
for the soldiers has been prepared. The guard is stationed. The soldiers
in either camp well understand that the morrow’s sun will witness another
bloody struggle. Those of them who were in former battles shrink from this
one, knowing how nearly impregnable the “stronghold” will be.
“I say, old man, there is a little bit of fun going on. I wish you could
be up to see it.” Thus spoke Capt. Ferree to Meacham, and continued, “You
know Long Jim——a Modoc prisoner——is under guard. Well, the boys are going
to give him a _chance_ to run for his life without the knowledge of Gen.
Gilliam. They have everything all fixed, and I’ll bet fifty dollars he
‘makes it!’ They have him in the stone corral, and the plan is to station
the boys outside next to the Lava Beds and leave one or two men to guard
him. They will pretend to sleep, and Jim will jump the wall, and then the
boys will let him have it. Two to one he gets away! I thought I would just
tell you, so you wouldn’t get scared to death, thinking the Modocs were
attacking the camp.”
This man, Long Jim, had pretended to desert the Modoc camp during the
peace negotiations. He had a bullet extracted from his back while in the
commissioners’ camp, several weeks before. He was afterwards caught while
acting as an emissary to other Indians, and, by order of Gen. Canby, was
being detained under guard as a prisoner. Hence his presence. He stoutly
denied having any desire to return to Captain Jack’s camp.
The officers are assembled in Col. Green’s quarters. They are celebrating
a half-solemn, half-sentimental ceremony that is sometimes indulged in
before an engagement. To a listener who lies in a hospital it sounds
somewhat as does the medicine war-dance in the middle camp. Indeed, its
results are the same, although the design is different. In the Modoc camp,
the dance and medicine are for the purpose of invoking spiritual aid and
stimulating the nerves of the braves to heroic deeds. In the soldier camp
the intention is to celebrate the stirring scenes passed, to exchange
friendship, to blot out all the personal differences that exist, and
pledge fidelity for the future.
They tell stories and pass jokes and witticisms until a late hour. Before
adjournment they join in singing a song that is sung nowhere else and by
no other voices. The wounded man in the hospital tent hears only the
refrain. It sounds melancholy, and has a saddening effect.
“Then stand by your glasses steady,
This world’s a round of lies——
Three cheers for the dead already,
And hurrah for the next who dies”——
rings out from the lips of brave men who dread not the strife of battle
under ordinary circumstances; but to meet an enemy who is so thoroughly
protected by chasms and caverns of rock does not promise glory that
inflates men’s courage previous to battle.
Col. Tom Wright and Lieut. Eagan drop into the hospital, and, sitting down
beside the wounded commissioner, assure him that they will remember Canby
and Thomas, and will avenge his own sufferings. They retire with
expressions of hope for his recovery. They meet Maj. Thomas and Lieut.
Cranston coming to pay a visit. Exchanges of sympathy and friendship
follow, and they return to quarters to sleep before the battle, leaving
behind them but one wounded man. He is peering into the future, wondering
_who_ of all the five hundred men and officers will be his _first
neighbor_.
The camp is quiet. Midnight has passed. The relief guard has been
stationed. In the corral Long Jim is _sleeping_. He shows no sign of any
intention to escape. The guard _is discouraged_. The boys outside are
impatient. What if Jim should not make the attempt? It would be a huge
joke on the boys who planned this little side scene. Truth is, nearly
everybody who is in the secret is cursing Jim for a fool that he don’t try
to escape. A consultation is held. Something must be done. “I’ll fix it,”
says a “little corporal.” Going to the corral he says, “Don’t go to sleep
and let the prisoner get away.” Everything becomes quiet and the two
guards sit down, one at each side of the corral.
“I’m so d——d sleepy I can’t keep awake,” says one to the other.
“Sleep, then. I won’t say a word,” rejoins his companion. “He can’t get
away from me. He’s sleeping himself.”
The first speaker soon hangs his head and _sleeps_. Soon the other’s chin
rests on his breast and he begins to _snore_. Long Jim slowly raises _his_
head. All is quiet. There sit the two guards, sleeping. One is snoring.
Jim listens. His love for his own people and for liberty burns in his
heart. He has picked up many items that would be valuable. He knows that
the attack will be made on the morrow. His friends must be notified. He
listens a moment, and then, cautiously laying aside his blanket, he stands
erect. One of the guards sits in the gateway of the corral. The wall
around him is higher than his head. He cannot see over it. Laying his
hands on the stone and summoning all his strength he _springs_. A blaze at
either end of the corral, then bang! bang! go the guns outside like the
firing, of a string of China crackers, only louder. Twenty shots are
fired, and still Jim does not fall. He reaches the outer picket line. _Two
more guns are fired off_, lighting up the track for the runaway, and still
he flies. The boys reload and send a parting volley in the direction Jim
went.
“_He ‘made it’; and a madder set of fellows you never saw._ I knew they
couldn’t hit him. I’ve tried that thing, and it can’t be done.” I need not
tell my readers who uttered this remark.
You may suppose that this little episode, “just before the battle,” roused
the camp. No such thing occurred. Gen. Gilliam, it is true, jumped to his
feet, but was reassured when he was told that it was nothing——only Long
Jim escaping.
Before daylight this distinguished individual was “a-tellin’ the Modocs
the news,” as one of the sleeping guard declared. So he was, with his
clothing pierced by half-a-dozen bullets, but “with nary a wound.”