HORIZONTAL PYROTECHNICS——THE SCALP MIRACLE——KILLED
IN PETTICOATS——THE PRESENTIMENT.
It is four o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th of April. The men
are silently falling into line. The mules are groaning under the heavy
weight of “mounted pieces,” or loaded with stretchers and other
contrivances for carrying the dead and wounded. The soldiers do not seem
to realize that some of their number will _return on these mules_, wounded
and helpless, or dead. Perhaps each one thinks and hopes that it will be
some one other than himself. From the immense preparations for war it
would seem that Captain Jack and his followers must be taken in a few
minutes. One thousand men and seventy-two Warm Spring Indians are taking
position around the ill-starred chieftain’s fortress. He is not ignorant
of their presence. His old women and children are hidden away in the caves
of the Lava Beds. The young women are detailed to attend the warriors with
water and ammunition. The Modocs are better armed than during the last
battle. Some of their guns were captured from fallen soldiers on the 17th
of January. A large quantity of ammunition that was taken has been changed
to suit the old rifles.
The men are at the stations assigned them. They are divested of all
unnecessary clothing, and their limbs are bandaged by folds of rawhide.
They are awaiting the attack. Each warrior holds a position made
impregnable by the formation of the rocks, or the condition in which the
great convulsions of nature which produced this indescribable country,
left them.
The sun is driving away the darkness, and soon the battle must begin.
In the hospital a veteran of the Second Iowa Cavalry is sitting beside the
wounded man, and preparing him for the shock that his nerves will feel.
“Don’t get scared, old man! It will begin very soon, and you will
presently have company enough,” he says.
The hospital attendants are making ready to care for the wounded.
Mattresses are placed in rows on either side. In a small tent, near by, a
surgeon is laying out lint and bandages.
The Iowa veteran is standing at the door, saying to Meacham, “I will tell
you when it opens. I can see the fire before you will hear the sound and
feel the jar. Don’t get frightened, and think that the mountain is coming
down on you, old man. There goes the signal rocket. Now look out!”
An instant more and the shells and howitzers join in a simultaneous demand
for the Modoc chief to surrender. The earth trembles while the reports are
reverberating around and through the chasms and caverns of the Lava Beds,
and before they have finally died away, or the trembling has ceased,
another sound comes in a continuous roar, proceeding from the left, and by
the time the belt of fire has made the circuit, it repeats itself again
and again. But no smoke of rifles is seen coming from the stronghold.
“Charge!” rings out by human voice and bugle blast, and a returning
series of bayonets converge. On they go, nearing a common centre. No
Modocs are yet in sight. The soldiers, now upright, are hurrying forward,
when suddenly, from a covert chasm and cavern, a circle of smoke bursts
forth. The Modocs have opened fire. The men fall on the right and left,
around the circle. “Onward!” shout the officers. “Onward!” But the men are
falling fast. The charge must be abandoned. The bugle sounds “Retreat!”
The line widens again, the soldiers bearing back the dead and wounded.
They now seek cover among the rocks. The wounded are sent to the hospital,
by way of the lake, in boats or on the mule-stretchers. The battle goes
on. The wounded continue to arrive. The shadows of the mountains from the
west cover the Lava Beds, and still the fight goes on. A volley is heard
near the hospital.
“What’s that?” asked the startled patient.
“Burying the dead,” quietly responds the veteran nurse.
A few minutes pass, and another volley is fired, and another soldier is
being laid away to rest forever. Still another, and another yet; until
five volleys announce that five of the boys who started out with United
States rifles in the morning are occupying the narrow homes that must be
theirs forever.
At irregular intervals during the night the fight is continued. The Modocs
are constantly on duty. The soldiers relieve each other, and are in
fighting condition when Tuesday morning comes. No cessation of firing
through the day. No rest for the Modocs.
One of the camp sutlers, well known all over the West as a game fellow,
unable to restrain his love for sport, and being PAT-riotic, goes to
quartermaster Grier and demands a _breech-loader_, and also a _charger_ to
ride, saying he wanted to do something to help whip the Modocs. Mr. Grier
informed _Pat_ that he could _not_ issue arms without an order. Pat was
indignant, and made application successfully to a citizen for the
necessary outfit for war. He mounted Col. Wright’s mule and repaired to
the scene of action.
On reaching the line of battle he looked around a few minutes, and, to a
word of caution given him by an officer, replied, “Divil an Indian do I
see. I came out to git a scalp, and I’m not goin’ home without it.”
The officer who had given him the friendly advice watched the bold sutler
as he kept on his way with his “Henry,” ready to pick off any Modoc who
might be imprudent enough to show his head. The soldiers shout, “Come
back! come back!” but on goes the fearless sutler, carefully picking his
way. Look very closely, now, and we can see what appears to be a _moving
sage-bush_. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it creeps over the ledges. If
Pat would only look in the right direction he could see it and have a
chance at the travelling bush; and as he is a good shot, he _might_
scatter the leaves, besides boring a hole through _Steamboat Frank’s_
head. A puff of smoke comes out of the now immovable bush, and the report
mingles with the roar of battle. Pat’s mule _drops_ under him, and he
slips off and takes cover behind a low rock. The mule recovers its feet,
and, with almost human sense, makes its way back to the soldiers’ line.
Pat, anxious to discover his man, raises his head above the rocks. Whiz!
comes another bullet, so close that Pat drops back quietly,——indeed, so
very quietly that the soldiers report him dead; and noble-hearted Pat is
named among the slain. But let us see how he really is. After lying
contented awhile, he again slowly lifts his head, and another shot comes
so close that Pat again drops behind the rock, and a second time the
soldiers shout, “They’ve got him this time, sure!”
Not so, however. Pat is not hurt yet. Again and again he attempts to move
from behind the rock, scarcely large enough to protect him, and each time
Steamboat fires. No one who knows Pat McManus ever doubted his courage,
but he deserves credit, also, for remembering that “Discretion is the
better part of valor.” He finally arranges himself for a “quiet snooze
behind the rock,” as he expressed it, and awaited the welcome shades of
evening. He then crawls out to the soldier line. It is said that he stood
the fire of the soldiers who mistook him for an Indian, until he shouted
to them, “Dry up, there! It’s me! Don’t you know a white man on his knees
from an Injun on his belly?”
Directly west of Captain Jack’s stronghold is a flat an almost level plain
of lava rocks of six hundred yards in width, but commanded by the
stronghold, while it does not offer protection to those who attempt to
hold it. To complete the investment it is necessary to take this “flat.”
Lieut. Eagan is ordered to the execution of this enterprise. He is a
daring leader, and, calling to his men to follow, moves forward. It is
known to be a hazardous undertaking, but Eagan is just the man. Away he
goes, jumping from one rock to another, calling to his men: “Come, my
boys! come!” he cries. But suddenly the Lava Rocks in front belch forth
Modoc bullets, and the gallant lieutenant _drops_. Then a soldier, and
then another. Eagan shouts, “Fall back!” Pell-mell they go, stooping,
jumping and shouting, leaving the brave fellow alone, while his men take a
position where they can prevent the Modocs from capturing their leader.
Dr. Cabanis,——who seems to bear a charmed life, hearing of Eagan’s fall,
goes to him. The Modocs open fire on him. Steadily the gallant doctor
moves forward, sometimes taking cover as best he can, again moving, half
bent, from rock to rock, and when he reaches the wounded man a shout goes
up from the soldiers. The wound is dressed, and the doctor, unable to
_carry_ his patient, leaves him and returns again to the line.
While this battle is going on, two coaches of the Northwest Stage Company
meet, one going north and the other south. Observing a custom common among
western stage people, they halt and exchange news items. In the stage
going north is the body of Gen. Canby, in charge of his adjutant,
Anderson, and Orderly Scott. In the other stage is Mrs. Meacham,
accompanied by a stranger. Indeed, she has found a new escort at almost
every station, who would announce himself as “your husband’s brother.”
Members of this brotherhood have been informed by telegraph all along the
road that “A Brother’s Wife is _en route_ for the Lava Beds. Look out for
her wants. See that she is escorted and send the bills to No. 50, F. A.
M., Salem.”
Anderson goes to the other coach. Mrs. Meacham anxiously inquires, “Did
you see my husband after he was wounded?”
“I sat beside him half an hour,” he replies. “He is doing well.”
“Will he recover?” questions Mrs. Meacham. “Is he mortally wounded?”
“We hope he will get well. His wounds are not necessarily fatal,” replies
the adjutant. “A great deal,” he continues, “depends on good treatment.
_Your brother_ is with him. Everything that can be done is being done.”
Anderson walks sadly back to his charge of the lamented general.
The driver of the other stage dismounts and accosts Mr. Anderson as he
resumes his seat.
“Is there any hope for Mr. Meacham?” he asks.
“Not the least in the world; but his wife must not know it now,” replies
Anderson, in a low voice; but O my God! _loud enough for the quick_ ears
of Mrs. Meacham to catch the words.
The drivers take up the lines. The stages pass. In one Gen. Canby’s body
is being borne to his heart-broken wife. In the other a heart-broken wife
is going to her husband, with the thought that she would be northward
borne in a few days, with her husband confined in a dark coffin. The
southern-bound stage reaches Jacksonville. The strange gentleman assists
Mrs. Meacham to alight, and attends to her baggage while the change of
coaches is being made. He then introduces another stranger to Mrs. Meacham
as “your husband’s brother, who will go to Y-re-ka with you.”
It is Wednesday evening when the stage is slowly climbing Siskiyou
mountain. The occupants are but two, one a lady. She does not speak. _She
has no hope now._ The gentleman is silent. He, too, has lost hope in the
recovery of the lady’s husband.
[Illustration: BRINGING IN THE WOUNDED.]
Lieut. Eagan is being carried to his tent. The hospital is full of
patients groaning with pain. Near the door lies a Warm Springs Indian
scout. The surgeons are probing his wound, while he laughs and talks to
the attendants, making sarcastic remarks about “the Modocs using powder
that couldn’t shoot through his leg.”
The Iowa veteran announces to his brother-in-law that his wife will be in
Y-re-ka that night.
The Modocs are out of water. The ice they had stored in the caves is
exhausted. They determine to cut their way to the lake, but a few hundred
yards distant. They concentrate their forces, and, enveloped in sage
brush, they crawl up near the line of soldiers and open fire in terrible
earnest. Soldiers fall on right and left. The Modocs yell and push their
line. The white soldiers are massing to resist. The fire is awful. Peal
after peal, volley after volley, and still the Modocs hold their ground.
All night long the Modoc yell mingles with the rattle of musketry, and the
shouts of defiance from the soldiers. One party is fighting in
desperation; the other from duty.
While this battle is raging, the stage-coach from the North arrives at
Y-re-ka, and stops at the hotel. A gentleman says a few words to the
driver. The street-lamp before Judge Roseborough’s door throws its light
on the faces of several ladies and gentlemen who stand waiting to receive
the lady passenger. She is met with warm-hearted kindness, although every
face is new. Supper is waiting. Every effort is made for the lady’s
comfort. She weeps now, although this great sorrow of her life had seemed
to dry up the fountain of tears until the warm hearts and kind words of
strange voices had touched, with melting power, her inner soul. A short
sleep, and she arises, to find a four-horse carriage awaiting to bear her
to the Lava Beds. A new escort takes his place beside her.
Just after daylight, and while leaving the Shasta valley, a few miles out
of Y-re-ka, the driver announces a courier coming from the Lava Beds. As
he approaches, he draws from his “cantena”——a leather pocket carried on
the saddle-front——a paper, and, waving it while he checks his panting
horse, says, “For Mrs. Meacham.” Oh, the power of a few words! How they
can change darkness into light! The letter read as follows:——
LAVA BEDS, Tuesday Eve., April 15.
DEAR SISTER: Your husband will recover. His wounds are doing
well, but he will never be very handsome any more.
Your brother,
D. J. FERREE.
This inveterate joker cannot resist the temptation to mix the colors of
the rainbow in all he does. But we forgive him.
This morning, as the sun dispels the darkness, the Modocs abandon the
attempt to reach the lake. For two days and nights they have fought
without sleep. They are suffering from thirst and long-continued fighting;
but _no signs of surrender are anywhere visible_. The chief has called a
council. It is decided to evacuate on the approach of night, and the
braves are ordered to hold their fire unless to resist a charge.
A few of the Modocs have passed outside the lines by way of the “open
flat,” and are crawling towards the soldiers’ camp at the foot of the
bluff. Gen. Gilliam, Dr. McEldry and others have passed over the route
unharmed. The horse-stretchers have passed and repassed with their mangled
freight. The pack-ponies are all busily engaged, and the team horses, that
were ordered by the quartermaster into service, are employed in carrying
the dead. The pack-trains and teams belong to private citizens, and have
been employed by the Government in carrying and hauling supplies. It was
not expected, however, that they would be required to carry bleeding and
mangled human freight.
“Necessity knows no law.” In the beginning of the battle, the citizen
teamsters were ordered to this place for duty. Among them was a
fair-haired boy of nineteen years of age, who had trained his team horses,
on the first and second days of the battle, to walk between the poles that
made the mule-stretchers. The poles were about twenty feet long, and at
either end a stout strap was attached to each. These straps were thrown
across the saddles on the horses, one being immediately in front of the
other, and between them canvas was secured to the poles, thus constituting
a “horse-stretcher.” This boy had proved himself very efficient, and had
won the commendation of the officers, and the gratitude of the wounded
men. Dr. McEldry had requested the quartermaster to continue young Hovey
in the service, because in managing the stretchers he was careful and
trustworthy.
A presentiment had this morning filled the mind of this noble young fellow
with dread. He made application to Quartermaster Grier to be excused from
further duty with the stretchers, stating his reasons. Mr. Grier expressed
his sympathy with him and endeavored to allay his fears, remarking that
Dr. McEldry had paid him a high compliment for his efficiency and
requested him——Mr. Grier——to send him out again this morning.
The boy——_too brave to refuse_, although no law could have compelled him
to go, though his horses might have been pressed into service——assented,
remarking that, notwithstanding he had made _several trips safely_, he
should _not get back from this one_.
After preparing his horses for this unpleasant labor he goes to a citizen
friend, and gives him his watch and other valuables, saying that he _did
not expect to return_, as he had had a presentiment that he would not; and
he gave to this friend a message to his father, another for his mother,
and mentioning the names of his _brothers and sisters_, left a _few words
of love for each_. The grandeur of character and heroism exhibited by this
boy stand out among the few instances that are given to mankind in proof
of the divinity that controls human action. Nothing but godlike attributes
could have sustained young Hovey when calmly performing those manly
actions which entitle his name to be enrolled among the heroes of the age.
So let it be recorded, and let it stand with the nineteen summers he had
lived, _accusing_ and _condemning_ those who so _wildly howled_ for blood
when the Peace Commissioners were laboring to prevent what might have
been only a terrible phantasmagoria, but which has become an awful
reality.
Young Hovey, accompanied by one assistant only, started on his way to the
battle-field with four horses and two stretchers. No guard was deemed
necessary, because it was understood that the Modocs were surrounded and
“could not escape,” and it was so reported, by the general commanding, to
his superiors. Hovey and his companion had passed by the scene of the
tragedy of the Peace Commissioners but a few rods, and but a few hundred
yards behind Gen. Gilliam, when, from the cover of the rocks, a Modoc
bullet, shot by Hooker Jim, went with a death-dealing power through his
head. The monsters, not content with his death and the capture of his
horses, rush upon him, and while he is yet alive, scalp him, strip him of
his clothing, and then, with inhuman ferocity, the red fiends crush his
head to a shapeless mass with huge stones. His companion escapes unhurt.
This outrage was committed almost within sight of the army, which was
investing the stronghold, and the camp at the bluff.
Having despatched young Hovey, the Modocs then turned towards the latter
camp. Lieut. Grier, who was in command, immediately telegraphed to Col.
Greene, in command at the Lava Beds, that “The Modocs were out of the
stronghold and had attacked the camp.” He, also, called together the
citizens and his own forces, as Assistant Acting Quartermaster, and,
arming them, prepared to resist. But a few shots were fired by the
Indians; however, one or two balls landed among the tents near the
hospital. The Modocs presently withdrew.
The day is passing away with the almost useless expenditure of powder and
shells. However, there was a _shell sent_ in yesterday that did not
explode when delivered, and the Modocs are anxious to see what is inside
of it. How to do so is a question in the Modoc mind. Several plans are
tried unsuccessfully, until an old Cum-ba-twas, with jaws like a cougar,
taking it in his hands and clinching the plug with his teeth, produces a
combustion that _he does not anticipate_. _That shell does execution. In
fact_, _it is worth about five hundred thousand dollars to the
Government_, rating its services pro rata with the total cost of killing
Modoc Indians. When the plug starts, the head of the old fellow who is
holding it goes off his body in a damaged condition. Another younger man,
who stands by waiting the result of the experiment, is blown all to
pieces, cutting his scalp into convenient sizes for the soldiers to divide
to advantage.
Two or three old Indian women pass through the lines to the water. A young
brave dons woman’s clothes and comes to the line. After slaking his thirst
he starts to return. Something in his walk creates a suspicion.
“That’s a man,” says a soldier.
The Indian runs. _A dozen rifles command, “Halt!” The Indian halts._ The
soldiers _take five or six scalps off that fellow’s head_, and would have
taken more, had the first ones been less avaricious. However, soldiers are
kind-hearted and unselfish fellows, and the scalps are _again divided_, so
that, at last, ten or twelve are happy in the possession of a scalp.
It is now five P.M. Let us see how the several parties are situated at
this time. Couriers are _en route_ to Y-re-ka with despatches, telling the
world about the terrible slaughter, and, _by the authority_ of the general
in command, assuring the powers that be, in Washington, “The Modocs cannot
escape. They are in our power. It is only a question of time. We have them
‘corralled.’”
In Portland, Oregon, an immense concourse of citizens are awaiting the
arrival of the train bearing the remains of Gen. Canby. The streets are
hushed. The doors of business houses are closed. A general feeling of
sorrow is everywhere manifest. Officers of the army and a delegation from
a Great Brotherhood are there. On every hand flags are at half mast.
Emblems of sorrow meet the eye. The grief-stricken widow sits in her room,
cold, comfortless, inconsolable.
The Fraternal and Church Brotherhoods and thousands of mourning friends
crowd the wharf in San Francisco, eagerly watching the coming of a steamer
from Vallejo with flags at half mast. This boat is bringing home for
interment the body of another great man, whose spirit went to its Maker in
company with the Christian General, for whom the city of Portland, Oregon,
mourns. Nearest to the dark tabernacle two young men are standing. They
are the sons of Dr. Thomas.
While the two cities of the western coast are exchanging telegraphic words
of sympathy, kind-hearted friends are filling a parlor where three
sorrowing children are weeping without the presence of parents. The
friends are repeating the hopeful telegrams of the Iowa veteran, and
assuring them that their mother is with their father by that time as she
left Y-re-ka the previous morning.
At this hour a young physician is hurrying to the bedside of an aged man,
who has passed threescore years and ten, near Solon, Iowa. A glance at his
face and we are reminded of the wounded Peace Commissioner in the Lava
Beds, three thousand miles away. Five days ago he had read the telegram
that said, “Meacham mortally wounded.” He threw himself on his bed then,
saying, “If my son dies I never can rise again,——my first-born soil who
went with me through all my dark hours on the frontier, twenty-five years
ago. Must he die? Can I bear it? Thy will be done, O Lord!”
For five days has he laid hanging between life and death. His physician
has watched the telegraph, and now, with the words of the Iowa veteran, he
is hurrying to the bedside of his patient.
“Your son will recover!” the doctor exclaims before reaching him.
The white-haired man rises on his elbow, saying, “Do I dream? Is it true,
doctor? Will my son live?”
About this hour, away up on Wild Horse Creek, Umatilla County, Oregon, a
young man is writing a letter that seems to come from an overcharged heart
submerged in grief. The letter runs as follows:——
MEACHAM RANCH, WILD HORSE CREEK, April 17th, 1873.
MY DEAR NEPHEW:——I have just heard of the death of your
father.... Eleven months since we kneeled with him beside your
Uncle Harvey’s coffin and pledged our lives to care for his
widow and orphan children.... You and I, George, are all that
are left to care for two widows and two families of orphans. ...
The stroke is heavy to be borne.... I will try to be a father to
them. We must be men.
Your uncle,
JOHN MEACHAM.
Again we stand on the bluff, at this hour, overlooking the Lava Beds. In a
little tent among the hundred others the Iowa veteran is telling his
brother-in-law that his wife will be in camp by seven. A courier arrives
saying that the Modocs are hanging about the trail leading down the
mountain. The officers are aware of the near approach of Mrs. Meacham.
They decide that she cannot come to the camp with safety. A detachment is
ordered to escort Commissioner Dyer up the mountain to meet her and take
her to Linkville.
While he is working his way under escort, the Modocs are seen creeping
towards the road. At the top of the mountains Dyer meets the ambulance. He
assures the woman that she cannot reach the camp; that her husband is well
cared for, and that she must go back to a place of safety.
She remonstrates, saying, “I must——I _will_ go to my husband.” She alights
from the ambulance and starts on foot, but is intercepted and forced to go
again to the ambulance, with the assurance that “_her husband will be sent
out to her within a day or two_”.
No language can portray the feelings and emotions of this woman when,
after travelling three hundred miles on stages and in ambulances over the
Cascade mountains, through a hostile country, she is compelled to turn
back when within three miles of her wounded husband, with those ominous
words saying, like a funeral dirge, “_Your husband will be sent out to you
in a few days_”.
While she is yet pleading for the privilege of seeing him the mountain’s
sides reverberate with the sounds of rifle shots coming up from a point
half way to the camp, volley answering volley. While she is in a
half-unconscious condition, the team drawing the ambulance is turned
about, and the guard take their places on either side, and the team moves
away towards the frontier.
When the woman returns to consciousness, she exclaims, “Take me to my
husband! I must see him before he dies.”
The kind heart of Mr. Dyer is moved. He pleads with her to abandon the
attempt, consoling her with Christian assurances that “God does all things
well.” With the guard in skirmishing order the party hurries away.
The mutilated body of young Hovey is lying stark and cold, beside the road
where he fell.
Sundown is announced by the repeated volleys of musketry at the cemetery,
as the bodies of the soldiers are laid away in their last sleep.
The friends of the young lad obtain permission, and the necessary
facilities, from the quartermaster, to bring in his body. A coffin is
prepared, and in it is placed what was, a few hours since, a noble-hearted
youth full of life.
A part of the army is resting, and a part is bombarding the Modocs.
Captain Jack has kept the “flat” cleared, and now, while the shot and
shell are being tumbled in around his camp, he draws his people out under
cover of darkness, and leaves the soldiers to fire away at his empty caves
until morning, when another order to charge is made, and the lines close
slowly up with great care, like fishermen who feel sure they have a big
haul, until they land the seine, and discover that a great rent has let
the prize escape. See the soldiers’ line! How carefully it contracts to
the centre, the soldiers expecting each moment that the Modocs will make a
break, until, at last, the lines come together like a great draw-string,
only to reveal the fact that _no Indians are there_, except one old man,
whom all declare to be Schonchin, who was wounded by Meacham’s Derringer
last Friday. _He shall not escape_, and a dozen bullets pass through him.
He falls over, and the men gather around and scalp the old fellow.
“Meacham shall have a lock of his hair,” says one; and he cuts it from
_one of the scalps_.
Then the old Indian’s head is severed from his body, and kicked around the
camp like a foot-ball, until a surgeon interferes, and saves it from
further indignities by sending it to the camp, where the face was
carefully skinned off, and “put to pickle” in alcohol. The men shout and
hurrah while exploring the caves, expecting to find Captain Jack, like a
wolf at bay, somewhere, determined to “die in the last ditch.” Instead of
Modocs, they find the remains of soldiers who have been killed, ammunition
that had been captured, and dried beef that had not been required; but no
evidence of any “_Modoc bodies having been burned_.”
While they were rejoicing in the capture of this great natural fortress of
the Modoc chief, _he_ was in a new position with his people, resting and
recruiting from the three days’ battle, and so near his old “stronghold”
that he could hear the reports of the soldiers’ muskets when they finished
up the supposed Schonchin.