LAST HIDING-PLACE——HANGING-MACHINE UNTRIED——MODOC
BUTCHERS OUTDONE.
For an account of the immediate circumstances attending the final
surrender of the Modoc chieftain, I subjoin the following from the pen of
Samuel A. Clarke, of Salem, Oregon, who was on the ground, and had
abundant opportunity to learn the facts and incidents connected therewith.
He was correspondent for the “New York Times,” from which paper of June
17, 1873, this graphic account of one of the most important events of 1873
is taken:——
BOYLE’S CAMP, TULE LAKE, Modoc Country,
Tuesday, June 3, 1873.
The Modoc campaign is considered at an end. The eight or ten of
the lately hostile band who have not been captured dare not
commit any depredations, and efforts are being made to secure
them without further contest. It remains to sum up the last few
days, and present the facts of the capture of Captain Jack and
his band, and I am now prepared to give a full and complete
statement of the closing movements of the campaign.
The beginning of the end was when Bogus Charley and his band of
Cottonwoods and Hot Springs Indians, which means those who were
brought up in the vicinity of Dorris’ and Fairchild’s ranches,
which are on the creeks so called, came in and surrendered,
about two weeks ago. The attempt made to surprise the train and
camp at Sorass lake, over three weeks ago, was a failure, and
though the Indians inflicted some damage, they still suffered
defeat, being driven off with the loss of most of their own
horses and their loads. This discouraged them, and disaffection
took place. The troops followed them up persistently; many who
had supported the war with reluctance complained of their fate;
bickerings led to separation, and Captain Jack was left with
scarce more than half his force to carry on the desperate
struggle as he could.
I have described the manner of the campaign in former letters,
and told how three squadrons of cavalry and artillery mounted,
accompanied by detachments of Warm Springs Indians, have been
put in the field. Then came the startling proposition from Bogus
Charley, Steamboat Frank, Hooker Jim, and Shacknasty Jim, that
they would join the troops and act as guides, and lead them to
Captain Jack. They gave it as their opinion that Jack and his
men would be either at Willow creek, in the cañon east of Clear
lake, or at Cayote Springs, south-east of there, or at a place
ten miles from Boiling Springs, on Pitt river, hard to find and
easily defended; or, fourth, at a cañon near Goose lake, much
further off, on the very verge of Modoc territory. They inclined
to the opinion that he was at Willow creek, because it is a
strong natural position, and in a good neighborhood for a supply
of roots, herbs, game, and fish; and the result proved that
their first surmise was correct.
General Davis and a squad of cavalry left with them eight days
ago, and proceeded to Boyle’s camp, east and south of the Lava
Beds, whence the four renegades proceeded on their way Tuesday,
a week ago, to hunt for the Modoc trail. They were entirely
successful, and returned the next day with an interesting
account of their expedition. Striking out south of Tule and
Clear lakes, they found and followed the trail to Willow creek
cañon, fifteen miles east of Applegate’s ranch on Clear lake. As
they approached they found Modoc pickets out four miles in
advance; the pickets went with them to within about a quarter of
a mile of the Modoc camp, and the Modoc warriors, twenty-four in
all, came out and formed a line. Jack ordered the spies to give
up their guns; but they refused to do so, and retained their
guns in their hands during all the talk that followed. The
Modocs wanted to know what they came for, and who sent them;
they recognized that they rode Fairchild’s horses, and wanted to
know how that came. The four Peace Commissioners gave for answer
the precise facts that had occurred; stated the fact of the
surrender of Fairchild’s place, of all the Cottonwoods, and the
way they had been treated, and advised them all to give up the
war and do the same.
At that point Bogus Charley and his comrades wanted to have a
free talk with their old friends, but Captain Jack forbade it.
He said he would never surrender; he didn’t want to be hung like
a woman, without resistance, but was determined to die fighting
with his gun in his hand, as a warrior should. He told them not
to talk any more about surrender, to go back to the whites and
stay with them if they wanted to, but never to come back to him
again, for if they did he would certainly kill them. He wanted
to receive no more messages and hear no more talk.
But Jack’s power was evidently on the wane; he was no longer a
dictator, with unlimited confidence and authority. Scar-faced
Charley and some of the rest very deliberately declared they
would talk; they told Bogus they were tired of fighting, and
didn’t want to be driven around all the time, afraid of their
lives, and obliged to live like dogs. They complained bitterly
of their hardships and poverty, and that they could not see
their friends as of old time. Bogus told them that the soldiers
and Warm Springs Indians were coming right after them; that Gen.
Davis had ordered them to hunt the Modocs down, and they would
do so. Then they wanted to know when the soldiers would come;
the answer was, at any place and at any moment. Some of them
bitterly asked if they four were intending to bring the soldiers
there; but Bogus evaded that by saying the soldiers would come
anyhow. Despite Jack’s command, and his refusal to talk, the
four spies had a long, free conversation with their old
associates, and the result was to greatly increase the
demoralization existing in their ranks. The talk ended without
any promise being made, and the four spies returned the next
afternoon, and were intercepted at Applegate’s ranch, on Clear
lake, Gen. Davis having in the mean time removed to that place.
The spies were detained there, and word was sent to have the
troops immediately move, and the next morning (Thursday), at
daybreak, they were in motion, bound for the last Modoc
stronghold.
The Modoc spies seem to have acted in the most perfect good
faith. They, with Fairchild in company, went with the troops,
which were under command of Col. Green, and led them directly
to the place, warning them as they drew near that they might be
ambushed, and advising every necessary precaution. The troops,
in three squadrons, each with a detachment of Warm Springs
Indians, moved to within three miles of the Modoc camp about
eleven o’clock Thursday morning, and were then divided.
Hasbrouck and his command, guided by Hooker Jim, taking the
north side of the cañon; Col. Green and the remaining force,
with Steamboat Frank as their guide, going on the south side;
Fairchild and the other two spies being in company. The Modocs
seem not to have dreamed that the troops could reach them so
soon, and had no strict watch out. No one was seen until within
less than a mile of Jack’s centre, when the troops ran on four
Modoc sentinels. Frank gave advice to surround the camp by
sending men around and over a little mountain, and, this being
done, a march was ordered and the Warm Springs got within three
hundred yards of three Modocs, who hallooed not to shoot, and
wanted to know what they were bringing so many men there for;
they wanted to talk. Fairchild and the Modoc guides were sent
for, and a talk had. Boston Charley came over to see Fairchild,
and laid his gun down; the Warm Springs Indians all laid their
guns down, and came over and shook hands with him in the most
amicable manner. Movements were stopped to give opportunity for
the surrender of the band, and a talk was progressing, when an
unfortunate accident made the Modocs scatter in apprehension.
Modoc Frank, one of the guides, happened to have his gun
accidentally discharged by the hammer catching as he turned his
horse. The Modocs evidently supposed that Boston Charley, who
had been sent to talk, had been shot, and that caused a
stampede, and prevented the surrender that evening. Boston said
they all wanted to quit the fight, and he was told to go back
and tell them all to come in and lay down their arms. While he
was attempting to do this, Hasbrouck’s men closed up on the
other side and made him prisoner, not knowing the errand he was
engaged on. Donald McKay sent word over to let him go free, as
the Indians wanted to come in; but Boston had been delayed an
hour and a half, and he came back at dark with word that the
Indians had all run away, except seven squaws, including Captain
Jack’s sister and some children, who were captured.
At early day, on Friday, the troops moved up each side of the
cañon, skirmishing for three miles, when scouts came in and
reported that the trail led off north, toward Gainox, and laid
on high ground, where it was difficult to track. The troops
followed it until noon, when they struck Langell’s valley in
twelve miles. The Modocs were in scattered bands. About one
o’clock Fairchild, the Modoc guide, and some Warm Springs
Indians struck a plain trail, and followed it for about six
miles north-east, and discovered three bucks ahead, who called
back and then ran away. They were headed off, and ran down into
a cañon and hid. During the day thirteen bucks and a number of
women got into the same cañon, and were discovered by the Warm
Springs Indians. A few shots were fired by Captain Jack himself,
but it was thought that he didn’t try to hit anybody, and only
fired to keep them off. They called to each other, and
Scar-faced Charley came down off the bluffs and talked with Dr.
Cabanis. Scar-face said Captain Jack was there, and they all
wanted to give up. Dr. Cabanis went up and talked with Jack, who
wanted to know what they would do with him. He said he would
surrender the next morning; it was late then, and their women
were tired. He said they were out of food and clothes; that
their feet were sore, and that all hands would come in in the
morning and give up their guns.
That happened on Friday evening, the 30th of May. The troops
then went down to Lost river, five miles, and camped. Dr.
Cabanis and Modoc Mose, one of the captured Indians, afterwards
went back to the Modoc camp, and carried them a supply of bread,
and stayed all night. They returned the next morning with the
word that Jack had gone before their return, and left behind
some pretext that he went to find a better camp on the bluff.
But that morning Scar-faced Charley came in and laid his gun
down, and did it with an exceeding sorrowfulness, as if he felt
and understood all that he surrendered in doing so. Scar-face is
more respected than any other Indian, and there is much sympathy
felt for him among the whites, as he went to war unwillingly,
and has done his work in open warfare, and not been engaged in
any savage and merely murderous work. He is considered the best
and bravest of the entire Modoc band of braves. Next came
Sconchin John, the old villain, who drove the tribe to war more
than almost any other man, and who is considered responsible for
many of the inhuman acts committed. He laid down his repeating
rifle, with a look of the most profound and savage mistrust and
gloomy sorrow. His manner was untranslatable, for he had much
to dread, and all his fears and half his hate of white men were
visible in his sullen manner. The lesser lights then came up in
turn, and went through the form of surrender. There were twelve
or thirteen in all who gave up their guns, and all of them gave
evidence of gloomy terror. They were shown a place to camp on
Lost river, in Langell’s valley, and the next morning were sent
with Fairchild, Lieut. Taylor, of the artillery, and sixteen
mounted light-battery men, to Gen. Davis’ quarters, at Jesse
Applegate’s, on Clear lake.
In the mean time Gen. Davis had sent Maj. Trimble, with his
squadron, including some Warm Springs scouts, with young
Applegate and Jesse Applegate’s nephew, Charley Putnam, as
guides, to intercept Captain Jack, in an easterly direction.
They struck the trail ten miles north-east, and followed it five
miles south, back to the Willow creek cañon, below the first
Modoc place of retreat or stronghold. Then part of the force
crossed to the south side and skirmished up the cañon. The
scouts soon discovered a Modoc man, named Humpy Joe, a
hunchback, who is half-brother to Captain Jack. He asked for
Fairchild, and Charley Putnam told him he was on the other side
of the creek, and asked where Captain Jack was. Humpy said he
was down the creek, hid in the rocks, and would surrender
to-morrow. Charley said they had him surrounded, and he must
surrender now. He and Maj. Trimble went with Humpy Joe, who
called for Captain Jack to come forth, and the famous chief
stepped boldly out on a shelf of rock, with his gun in his hand.
He showed no timid fear or trepidation, and his conduct
commanded the admiration of those who were his captors, for a
certain sort of native dignity was apparent, and even in defeat,
and at the moment of his surrender, the great Modoc chief was
self-possessed, and acted a manly part. Major Trimble went up to
him and demanded his gun. He also asked if Fairchild was there,
and, learning that he was near, gave up his trusty Springfield
rifle, a remodelled breech-loader. Thus ended the Modoc war, for
its soul and leading spirit of evil stood there a captive, with
his arms given up, and powerless for future evil. There were two
others with him, and four squaws and their children made up the
list of prisoners taken at that time. Captain Jack had two
wives, and one of them had a bright little girl of six years
old.
Captain Jack then walked coolly up to where the Warm Springs
Indians were, and they, with a commendable spirit of
forbearance, and no doubt with an appreciation of the heroism
that had so long and successfully resisted them, laid down their
guns, and all around shook hands with the Modoc chief. They
talked some with him; but he is not much of a talker either in
English or Chinook, and his half brother, Humpy Joe, did most of
the talking. Captain Jack then called up the squaws and
children, and they were all mounted behind the Warm Springs
Indians, and started for Gen. Davis’ camp, ten miles distant. It
would seem as if the Modoc chief must have felt crest-fallen,
and have been humiliated to find himself mounted in the same
manner; but those who saw it say that, mounted behind a Warm
Springs Indian, he still bore himself with dignity, and sat
there like a Roman hero, as my informant graphically expressed
it. He never moved a muscle or bore evidence in his look that he
felt humiliated at his defeat. He bowed to Fairchild as he
passed him, but made no other sign.
Captain Jack was looking rather shabby when discovered, and was
allowed to don his better suit before being taken to
head-quarters; for it is not too much to say that the chieftain
was in a very dirty guise; his favorite wife, too, was looking
rather untidy; the wife improved her attire by the very simple
process of donning a new delaine dress, not exactly made in the
latest style, but she put it on over the plainer calico, which
was too much soiled to be presentable. I do not learn that any
portion of Gen. Canby’s dress was found when he was taken.
[Illustration: SCHONCHIN AND JACK IN CHAINS.]
He was taken, under guard, to the Modoc camp on Clear lake,
where the rest of the prisoners were placed. This happened
Sunday afternoon, June 1. The Warm Springs Indians were jubilant
over the fact that they had finally run the fox to earth.
Captain Jack’s stoical fortitude must have been sorely tried as
he rode, a captive, behind one of them; for, as the procession
moved, it assumed the appearance of a triumph, and he formed a
part of and listened to the triumphal chant, the song of
victory, that swelled along the line of his captors as they bore
him away to await his fate. But they who saw it say he gave no
token, by look, or word, or act, that would have shown that he
was interested, or that he resented the rejoicing over his
defeat. Again the song of triumph rose and swelled as they
approached the camp on Clear lake, and rode into the presence of
Gen. Davis and Gen. Wheaton. The commander-in-chief can
certainly congratulate himself that his well-directed efforts
have been successfully rewarded, and that the efficiency of the
army has been maintained under extraordinary circumstances. The
Warm Springs band came up to head-quarters, ranged in a long
line, with their strange, wild chant ringing on the air, and
delivered their prisoners, who were ordered under guard with the
rest.
A greater humiliation still awaited the discomfited Modoc chief.
Gen. Davis ordered leg-shackles to be made for Captain Jack and
Schonchin, and toward evening they were led out to be ironed.
Great excitement pervaded the Modoc camp as these leaders were
taken from it, and led away, they knew not where. They were
taken to the blacksmith under a guard of six men, and for the
first time Jack showed apprehension. As his guards passed where
Fairchild stood, he stopped and asked his old friend where they
were taking him. I allude to Fairchild here as his friend,
because, while he has never excused their war conduct, he has
been always, for many years, well acquainted with them, and has
possessed great influence over them. They have learned to place
great confidence in him, and have never found it misplaced. So
in all their movements of surrender they have wanted to have him
present, and have done it at his advice when otherwise no one
could have induced it. He gave Captain Jack no answer but to
tell him kindly to go on with the men, and he went on
unhesitatingly. He may have thought he was going to execution,
but he went on nevertheless. At Fairchild’s suggestion,
Scar-face Charley was sent for to act as interpreter. Scar-face
speaks good English, and he explained to Jack and Schonchin that
they were to be shackled to prevent any attempt at escape. They
made the most earnest protestations that they had surrendered in
good faith; that they had no desire to get away, and under no
circumstances should make such an attempt. It was really an
affecting scene to witness the grief with which they submitted
to have the shackles placed on them; but when they saw that
their fate was inexorable, they made no complaint or resistance,
though they keenly felt the indignity, but stood silently to let
the rivets tighten to bind them in chains they will never cease
to wear, for it is probable they will be tried by a military
tribunal, and that they will suffer the penalty of their crimes
as soon as the form of a trial and securing of evidence to
convict them can be gone through with.
The short and decisive campaign that has resulted in practically
ending the Modoc war has been a rough one. The troops were fully
equipped, and the horses all shod and in good order; but the ten
days’ scouting through a terribly rough country has left men and
horses considerably worse for wear. It is now ordered that the
troops under Col. Mason shall move to this place from
Fairchild’s ranch. This place will be head-quarters until the
whole matter is wound up. There are still eight or ten Modoc
warriors out; but they will not undertake to make a fight, and
only time and good management are required to lead them also in
and bring the end.
Captain Jack maintains a gloomy reserve, and will not converse
with his captors on any subject. It is safe to say that he will
make no explanation or revelations, but die and make no sign.
Bogus Charley says all the men expect to die, and await their
fate without fear. Captain Jack himself has no fears of what the
result may be, and waits it with stoical fortitude. He will die
heroically, I have no doubt, for he has evidently less regard
for life than the rest of the Modoc warriors.
This was substantially the end of the great Modoc war. The closing scenes
were very exciting. Some of them are worthy of mention as having an
immediate bearing on the question of Peace and War as between the
_superior race_ and the original _inheritors_ of the soil.
Time, June 8th, 1873. Location of the scene, Rocky Point, near the mouth
of Lost river.——Characters in this tragedy: first, _Civilized
Christianized white men_; second, Helpless Modoc captives.
James Fairchild——a brother to John A., the “gray-eyed man”——left
Fairchild’s ranch on the morning of the 8th, with a four-mule team, and a
wagon filled with Modoc _men_, _women_, and _children_, who had
surrendered and were entirely unarmed.
Very little things sometimes turn the current of great events. When
leaving Fairchild’s ranch on the morning in question, the entire party
consisted of seventeen Modoc captives and the brothers Fairchild. Among
the captives were Bogus Charley and Shacknasty Jim. Before arriving at
Lost river the party divided, James Fairchild driving the team and going
by a longer route, on account of crossing Lost river at a wagon ford; John
A. Fairchild, together with Shacknasty Jim and Bogus on horseback, going
by a shorter route. The latter party, not mistrusting danger, continued on
their way, not waiting for the team to come up to the junction of the
roads.
While James was crossing the river he encountered a body of Oregon
volunteers, under command of Capt. Hizer. The soldiers gather around the
wagon and question Fairchild. He explains to them that the Indians under
his care are Modoc captives, all of them Hot Creeks; that he is taking
them to the head-quarters of General Davis on “the peninsula,” to deliver
them up; that none of them have been accused of being parties to any
murder or assassination. This seems to satisfy the soldiers, and they
retire to their camp. Fairchild passes on towards his point of
destination. After proceeding a few miles he sees two men going towards
the road, with the evident intention of intercepting him. The Indians in
the wagon also make the discovery, and beg Fairchild to turn back, to save
them. He feels that trouble is brewing. He looks in vain for his brother
John and the Indians that are with him. The two men have halted by the
roadside. Fairchild comes up to them. They order him to halt, and
accompany the order with a heavy “_persuader_” in close proximity to his
head. The music made by “_spring steel_” under the manipulation of a man’s
hand has but two notes,——a short tick and a long click; and then the
“_persuader_” is ready for business. Fairchild, hearing this kind of
music, _halts_, and to the “Get down, you old white headed ————,” etc.,
demands, “By whose authority?” “By mine. I am going to kill them Ingens,
and you too, ———— you!”
One of the civilized white men cuts the mules clear of the wagon.
Fairchild leaps to the ground, still clinging to the lines. The unarmed
captive women beg for mercy. They plead with Fairchild to save them. They
raise imploring hands and cry, “Don’t kill! don’t kill!” The four Indian
warriors are mute; they know resistance is in vain. Fairchild entreats the
white men to desist. The muzzle of a needle-gun is within six inches of
his ear. A shot, and _“Little John’s” brains_ are scattered over the women
and children. Another, and “_Te-hee Jack_” is floundering among them.
Another, and “_Poney’s_” blood is spurting over his wife and children.
Still another shot, and “_Mooch_” falls among shrieking squaws. One more,
and _“Little John’s” wife_ is shot through the shoulder. The five are
writhing in the death agony together, and the blood of the victims is
streaming through the floor of the wagon and dropping in puddles on the
ground beneath. A dust is seen rising from the road. The civilized white
murderers decamp in haste, leaving Fairchild holding to his mules, while
the uninjured Modoc women are extricating themselves from the dead bodies
which had fallen on them. The blood of this civilized butchery still drops
from the wagon. Sergeant Murphy and ten men, Battery A, of the Fourth
Artillery, came upon the scene. The civilized _butchers_ are fleeing. _No
effort_ is made to arrest them. Sergeant Murphy had not been ordered to
arrest them, and, of course, he had no right to arrest _white men without
an order_. Capt. Hizer’s company of Oregon volunteers is within a few
miles also. The country is open; the murderers have but a few miles the
start. But Capt. Hizer has _no orders_ to arrest white men either. He is
not there for that purpose; and no one can censure him because he did not
catch the civilized _white murderers_. Those men were seen by Fairchild
before and behind the wagon. They were on the watch for _John Fairchild_.
Had he and his party been with the team when the attack was made, the
census return of that county would not have been quite so large as it is,
especially on the Anglo-Saxon civilized list. _Pity he was not there_, for
_he_ is “a dead shot.” The commiseration is due, however, to the community
that furnished homes for the fellows who covered themselves with glory by
performing this heroic feat. True, they dare not boast of it _now_, but
they will by and by. The grand jury of Jackson County _did not_ find bills
of indictment against them. No effort has ever been made to discover the
names of the perpetrators of this deed. True, there were those that
claimed to know who the persons were, but they never tell; neither would
they tell, if placed on the witness stand. I would not have my reader
suppose that the _people_ of Oregon approved of the crime——very far from
it. They condemned it in unstinted terms, and with one voice shouted,
“Shame! Shame!” So they would have done if the tables had been turned. No
State in the Union has a more orderly, law-abiding, peace-loving people
than Oregon; none that venerates justice more highly. True, they have
sometimes been lenient to the white men of bad character. But no more so
than other States where votes are necessary to elevate men to power. Like
all other peoples they are tender-hearted towards _all_ men who control
votes. As a people they are brave, without a doubt; but among them
occasionally may be found specimens of _cut-throats_, who kill unarmed
people; and once in a great while, just as in the States of Massachusetts
or New York, an editor who does the same kind of work with his pen, when
he thinks he can do it with impunity. But the respectable editors, there
as elsewhere, have learned sense enough to let a man alone when he is
down, until they are sure he can’t get up before they kick him. With great
unanimity those of Oregon and the whole Pacific coast denounce the killing
of helpless, unarmed Indians, as they did the killing of settlers after
the battle of Lost river, Nov., 1873,——only not quite strong enough to
_justify_ the authorities in making _any_ efforts to bring the offenders
to _justice_.
The scene changes to a military camp on the “peninsula,” at the south end
of Tule lake. A hundred white tents declare this to be the head-quarters
of the army that whipped the Modocs,——that is to say, the army to whom the
Modoc traitors turned over their chief. One hundred and twenty poor,
miserable specimens of humanity are under guard. There is great rejoicing
over the victory. The Modoc women and, children are contented, in one
sense at least,——they are well fed, and have rest. The Government teams
have just arrived from the mountains with timber. The quartermaster’s
forces are engaged in rough carpenter work. Curious-looking building they
are erecting,——looks something like a country butcher’s windlass; but it
is not that, for there is more of it. The Modoc captains wonder what it is
for. They are unsophisticated in civilized modes of appeasing outraged
justice.
Scar-face Charley asks a soldier, “What for that thing they make?”
“To hang Modocs,” laconically replies Mr. Soldier.
A wail of savage woe breaks the air. The medicine-man says he “can beat
that thing.”
“May be so, Curly-haired Doctor; but unless some other medicine interferes
you can have a chance to try it, and, in the mean time, to reflect on the
inhuman manner in which you and Hooker Jim killed Brotherton, Boddy, and
others.”
Not far from the gallows we see an artist with his camera, and going
toward it two men under guard. One of them shouted “Kau-tux-ie” at the
council tent the 11th of April. The other one was his right-hand man then.
They are inseparable now, as they have been for years past; but this time
a few links of log chain, as well as bloody crimes, unite them. They cast
anxious eyes towards the gibbet. They meet John Fairchild, and ask him
where they are going. “Go on; it’s all right,” he replies. They take
places before the camera. The artist lifts his velvet cloth, and Captain
Jack looks squarely at what appears to him to be “a big gun.” To his
surprise the big gun is again covered up, and he is then assured that it
will not shoot. It was under such circumstances that the likeness of
Captain Jack, which accompanies this book, was taken. Old Schonchin is
next made a target. They smile when led away, for they had _expected to
die_.
Some satisfaction to know that the old fellow endured suspense, even if it
was temporary. They are taken back to the guard-house, and, as they march
under escort, they see Hooker Jim, Bogus Charley, Shacknasty Jim, and
Steamboat Frank, walking around unfettered, unguarded, well clothed, well
fed, and well armed. The chief restrains himself until he arrives at the
tent used for guard-house, then he gives way to a tempest of passion, and,
in true Indian style, declaims against the injustice of what he sees and
feels. True, Captain Jack, you are wearing chains that _properly belong to
those villains_. True, you pleaded with all your eloquence for peace, and
against the assassination of the commissioners. True, they voted against
you. True, that Bogus first proposed to kill Gen. Canby, and that he was
also first to betray you to your enemies. It is also true, that for this
double treachery he is now being rewarded with liberty. True enough, that
that cut-throat, Hooker Jim, is the very man that put the woman’s hat on
your head, and taunted you to madness, until at last you yielded against
your judgment, and consented to commit the first great crime of your life.
True, that he was the man who followed your trail, day and night, like a
hound, until he pointed the steps of the soldier to your last
hiding-place. It is for this _damnable act of treachery to you that he is
now being rewarded_. True, also, that Steamboat Frank and Shacknasty Jim
fired as many shots at the commissioners as you did; and that they, too,
voted against you while you were trying to make peace, and that they boast
yet of the number of soldiers they have scalped. They joined Bogus and
Hooker Jim in hunting you, carrying each a breech-loading rifle, and
wearing the uniform of the United States soldiers, and were with your
captors when your star fell. It is for these last-named heroic acts that
they are now enjoying the boon for which you have pleaded all your life,
from the same Government that pets them, and almost fawns upon them as
heroes. Certainly your cup is full of grief, while theirs runs over with
joy. If you were a _white man_ we would commiserate you, and half the
people of America would join in an effort to save you; but you are an
Indian. No Indian can be an “honorable man;” the idea is an insult to
every _Irishman_, and _German_, and the whole Caucasian race besides. You
are simply unfortunate in being born in the land of the free, and the home
of the brave, with a _red skin_. Better you had been born across the sea,
and with any brogue in the world on your tongue. If you had only been
blessed with a _white skin_, and had that kind of manhood that would have
permitted you to wear some rich man’s collar, fawn upon and toady to the
whims and caprices of your masters, at the sacrifice of your own
self-respect, and that of the rest of mankind, then your crimes might have
been condoned. But you are _now_ a _citizen_, and you may enjoy a
citizen’s privilege of being punished for other men’s crimes as well as
your own.
Gen. Davis has invited the settlers of the Lost-river country, to “come in
and identify the murderers, and stolen property captured from the
Modocs.” Among others who availed themselves of the opportunity are two
women. We have seen them before,——the first time on the afternoon of
November 29th, 1872, when the red-handed villain who walks around camp,
the _lion_ of the day,——Hooker Jim,——came to them with his hands red with
the heart’s blood of their husbands; and again, when a funeral procession
was slowly wending its way to the Linkville cemetery. We recognize them as
Mrs. Boddy and her widowed daughter, Mrs. Schiere. Gen. Davis, with the
heart of a true man and soldier, receives them kindly, and assigns them to
a tent; patiently listens to the sad story of their great bereavement.
He calls on them again, taking with him Hooker Jim and Steamboat Frank.
Mrs. Boddy identifies Hooker as one of the Indians concerned in the
massacre. When questioned as to the robbery of Mrs. Boddy’s house, Hooker
Jim replies, “I took the short purse, and _Long Jim_ took the other
purse.”
The women are much excited and are crying. They lose self-control. Mrs.
Boddy, drawing from her pocket a knife, dashes at Hooker Jim’s breast.
Mrs. Schiere, with a pistol, attempts to shoot Steamboat Frank. The man
who would not brook insult from Gen. Nelson could not see these women
commit a crime; with almost superhuman strength and agility he disarms
both women before they have sipped from the cup of revenge, accidentally
receiving a slight wound in one hand from the knife held by Mrs. Boddy.
The savages stand unmoved and make no effort to escape. Let the reader be
charitable in judgment on the actions of these widows. They were alone in
the world. Their protectors had fallen by the hands that have since been
washed by a _just Government_, when in its dire necessity it accepted
their services as traitors. Ah! double traitors to a reluctant, but brave
leader. If the men who killed the unarmed captives in Fairchild’s wagon
yesterday can go unpunished after killing Indians that had not harmed
them, let charity extend to these broken-hearted women, nor censure them
for a thirst for vengeance, especially when they realized that justice has
hid her face to these inhuman monsters who are reeking with blood, and
guilty of the most damnable treachery. True, these are women; but the
accident of sex does not change nature, and never should be urged against
those whose wrongs drive them to desperation.
The quarter-master’s carpenters are putting on the finishing strokes to
the extempore instrument of a _partial_ justice to be administered without
even the farce of an _ex-parte_ trial. The _trap_ is being arranged. Eight
or ten ropes are hanging from the beam. Gen. Davis is preparing a
statement of the crimes committed _by the_ captives, and, also, his
verdict, which he proposes to read to these unfortunate subjugated
warriors before he tests the strength of the dangling ropes with
live-weight. A courier arrives from Y-re-ka. A message is received by Gen.
Davis, ordering him to hold the prisoners subject to further instructions
from Washington.
The work on the hanging-machine is suspended. The Modoc medicine-man
assures his friends that he has won another victory. Gen. Davis is
thoroughly chagrined. _The disappointment is great._ Modocs enjoy it;
white man does not. The brittle thread of life has been strengthened for
the temporary benefit of a few vagabonds whose existence is no blessing to
mankind outside of the Modoc blood; whose death would cause a shout of joy
over the civilized world. Not because it would bring back the dead, and
cause them to stand in the flesh again, but because justice has been done
to a man with a red skin who dared claim the privileges of manhood; and,
being denied, had resisted a good Government in which he had no part.
The scaffold stands untried. Nobody knows whether it is a good
hanging-machine or not. The camp is broken up; the war is over, and the
Modocs are _now_ where they can be _controlled_. They are _en route_ to
Fort Klamath, under guard.
The chieftain who, a few weeks since, was over-matching the best military
talent of the army, holding in abeyance twenty times the number of his own
forces, and defying a great, strong Government, is now a captive and in
chains, compelled to travel under an _escort_ over the route he had passed
so often in the freedom of days gone by. Familiar objects greet his eyes
as he raises them from the last look he will ever take of the scene of his
glory as a chief; and his shame as an outlaw.
The first place of historical interest on this last ride of the Modoc
chief, as he leaves “the peninsula,” is where Ben Wright killed nearly as
many warriors as Captain Jack has had in his command. If the angel of
justice accompanies this conquering army with its dejected captives, she
will cover her face while it passes the spot where Modoc blood watered
the ground _under_ a _flag_ of _truce_, when she remembers that the
perpetrators of that deed were _honored_ for the act. A few miles only,
and the vacant cabin of Miller stands, accusing Hooker Jim, the murderer
of its builder and owner, for _his_ treachery, and upbraiding a Government
that excuses _his_ crimes, because he can be made useful in hunting to the
death the chief who led where such a villain forced him to go.
Justice uncovers her face when this army reaches Bloody Point, for now she
remembers that it was here that a train of emigrants were waylaid and
cruelly butchered, and she shows no favors to the descendants of those who
committed the crime. Again the eye of the conquered chief glances over the
scene of his childhood, and, too, over the field where he fought his first
battle. Since it would be pronounced sickly “sentimentalism” to ponder
over the scenes of such a man’s boyhood, and lest we should offend some
_white man’s_ fine sense of pride that he is a white-skinned man, though
he may have little else of which to boast, we pass along up Lost river,
with simply recalling the fact, that this man’s——Captain Jack’s——early
home abounds with _traditional literature_ connecting his name with the
savage scenes of the past, and linking it with the tragic events of
1872-3.
The conquering army marches over the spot where the white murderers “wiped
out” some of the wrongs committed against _our race_. The tramping of
soldiers’ feet and the iron-shod hoofs of mule teams erases the dark spots
in the road, where the tokens of requited vengeance were painted by the
dropping blood from Fairchild’s wagon on the eighth of June.
_This blood does not cry out_ loud enough to catch the ear of the sober,
honest-faced angel who has been perching on the victorious emblem of the
free white American! No danger that those dark spots will ever trouble
that great angel. The blood that made them was drawn from the wrong kind
of veins for that.
While the army marches over the trail, effacing footprints of the fleeing
avenger, a shot is heard. Quick almost as lightning flash every soldier’s
hand grasps his arms. The thought that the Modocs are attempting escape
passes through every mind. “Halt!”——rings out the cavalry bugle. Above one
of the Government wagons a small puff of smoke is rising in the clear
morning air, while behind and beneath it the spattered drops of blood
announce that another tragedy is now being enacted. The wagon halts, and
now through the floor the current runs in streams, while its splashing on
the ground makes melody for ears of white men and soothes the dying senses
of _Curly-haired Jack_.
A few words of explanation, and the fact is established that _treason_ is
still among the Modocs, treason to the Government of the United States,
committed _by Curly-haired Jack_, in blowing out his own brains, thus
cheating the aforesaid government out of the great privilege of hanging
him for the murder of Lieut. Sherwood, under a flag of truce, on the
eleventh of April, 1873.
Poor, conscience-stricken self-murderer! his body is mixed up again with
his native land, and his friends are denied the privilege of mourning for
him.
The army, with its costly coterie of famous guests, encamps at Modoc camp
on Klamath Reservation. This is the spot where Captain Jack and his people
settled in the beginning of 1870. How changed the fortunes of this man!
_Then_ his limbs were free, though his manhood was half disputed; _now_
every motion of his limbs rings clanking music in his ear, constantly
reminding him that his manhood has obtained recognition at the cost of
life and liberty. _Then_ he was restless under the restraints of
civilization, because it denied to him a clear pathway to its privileges
and blessings; _now_ he is passive under the persuasive influence of a
power that compels his crushed spirit to submission. _Then_ he was the
hero chief of Hooker Jim and Bogus Charley, and the daring band that
surrounded him; _now_ he is the humbled, crest-fallen victim of _their
treachery_.
_He_ sits behind a guard whose glittering bayonets warn him of the folly
of resistance. _His betrayers_, unfettered, ramble over the ground where
the Modocs had begun their new home in 1870.
_He_ steals glances at the great witness tree where Modocs and Klamaths
buried the hatchet. _They_ dance with joy over the results of its
resurrection.
The army moves out of camp. The captive chief catches sight of four
rough-hewn timbers on the left of the road. These were once designed for
use in making that chief a house, wherein he was to have passed through
probation, looking toward his ultimate attainment of citizenship under the
“Humane Policy of the Government.”
The Klamaths, who badgered him into the abandonment of his new home in
1870, have not disturbed the house-logs referred to. They never will; and
the probabilities are that these logs will remain as monuments, marking
the sepulchure of broken hopes.
A few miles before reaching Fort Klamath the cavalcade passes through
_Council Grove_,——the place where Klamaths and Modocs made the treaty of
1864 with the United States.
At last the shattered companies of soldiers reach the fort, having left
behind them many of their comrades; but having in charge a distinguished
prisoner and his companions. When they pass inside the irregular circle of
forest trees that shut Fort Klamath up into a grand amphitheatre, the
outside is shut out from four, at least, of the prisoners forever.