Wigwam and War-path Or the Royal Chief in Chains Part 33

(the wild gal's man), "Miller's Charley," "Duffey," "Te-he Jack," "Little Poney," "Big Poney," "Duffey's Boy," "Chuckle-head," "Big Steve," "Big Dave," "Julia's man,"--fourteen men, no more.

The bloodthirsty villains who held the balance of power are, "Schonchin,"

"Curly-head Doctor," "Bogus Charley," "Boston Charley," "Hooker Jim,"

"Shacknasty Jim," "Steamboat Frank," "Rock-Dave," "Big Joe," "Curly Jack,"

and the remainder of the band, numbering thirty-seven, all told. There are two strange Indians there, also; they are Pitt river thieves, they do not vote. The doctor's speech has done the work. These infuriated thirty-six men believe in him, and his promise to make medicine that will turn the bullets of the white men. This has more power than the clear, logical reasoning of Captain Jack. Having turned the current of so many lives, the doctor, exulting in his success, repaired to his cave to fulfil his promise.

Suppose we follow him and see how this thing is done. He calls the singing women of the band together, and, having prepared roots and religious meats, he builds a fire, and, with a great deal of ceremony, he places the sacrifice thereon; then inhaling the smoke and odor of the burning mess, he begins his religious incantations; calling down the good spirit, calling up the bad spirit, and calling loudly for the spirits of the dead Indians to come; while the women, having pitched a tune to his words, begin to sing, and with their shoulders touching each other, they start off in a rough, hobbly kind of a dance, singing meanwhile; and a drummer, too, joins in with a hideous noise, made on a drain of peculiar shape, with but one head of dried rawhide, or untanned buckskin, drawn tightly over a rough-made hoop.

Round go the singing dancers, and louder grow the voices of the doctor and the women; both increasing in fury until exhausted nature gives proof of the presence of the various spirits.

The braves stand looking on to see what the prospects are; satisfied that the medicine is getting strong enough, they saunter back to the cave of the chief, where he sits with thoughtful brow, planning in a low voice the defence of the morrow; repeating again, "This is the last of my people; I must do what their hearts say; I am a _Modoc_, and I am not afraid to die." Then giving orders for the fight,--designating where each man should be stationed, and appointing women to carry water and ammunition to the various stations, while they fight,--he inspects the arms, and estimates how long the powder and lead will last, tells the women to mould bullets for the old-fas.h.i.+oned rifles; he then turns sadly away to his sister, Queen Mary, and declares that he is now going to do what he thought he never would do,--"fight the white man."

We leave the howling doctor and the sad chief and return to the soldier camp on the top of the bluff. The sentinels are walking the rounds; all is quiet, and the boys are taking their rest,--some of them their last rest save one. Ah! Jerry Crook, you jumped down from a stage-driver's box to help whip the Modocs. Your heart is beating steadily now; it will beat wildly for a few minutes to-morrow afternoon, and then its pulsations will cease forever. George Roberts, too, has left a good position to come on this mission, promising, as he fondly hopes, a dream of glory, which he will share with his comrades when hereafter he cracks his whip over the teams of the Northwest Stage Company. Enjoy it now, my dear fellow, for the vote in yonder camp has sealed your fate. Others may tell how bravely you died, but you will not live to tell of the shout of victory that the M-o-d-o-c-s will send over your dead body to-morrow night. Sleep soundly, my soldier boys; thirty of you will not answer the roll-call after the battle of the morrow.

Brave Gen. Frank Wheaton, why do you still walk back and forth, arm-in-arm with Col. John Green and Maj. Jackson? You do not feel so sanguine about to-morrow. Jackson has said something that has driven sleep from your eyes. You might find comfort in consulting Gens. Miller and Ross, and Col.

Thompson, of the "Salem Press," and Capt. Kelley, of the "Jacksonville Times." They are State militia officers, it is true, but they are old Indian fighters, and can tell you how quickly you can whip Captain Jack in the morning. They are leading men, who may be _hard to restrain_, but they will take the advance. Don't say a word to Capt. John Fairchild; he knows the Modocs, as does Press Dorris. They know the Lava Beds, too; they have hunted cattle over this country, and understand the lay of it better than any white men in the camp.

_They_ are not so _very confident_. They said, to-day, to some impatient boys, "Don't fret; you will get enough _to do you_ before you see your mother again. The Modocs are _on it_ sure!"

CHAPTER XXV.

MODOC STEAK FOR BREAKFAST--GRAY-EYED MAN ON THE WARPATH.

Four A.M., _January 17th, 1873_.--The tattoo is beaten, and the soldiers throw aside their blankets. They dress themselves; the blankets are rolled together; the men sit around, the mess-table on the ground, and partake of coffee and "hard tack." The volunteer State militia also jump out from under _their_ blankets, and, making their toilets as soldiers do, prepare for _duty_ and _glory_.

The weather is cold, very cold. Breakfast is over, and the order to "Fall in" sounds through the camp. The blue uniforms take places like automatons; the roll is called. "Here!" "Here!" comes out along the line.

Poor fellows! somebody else must answer for some of you to-morrow; you cannot do it for yourselves.

The line of march is taken. The California volunteers, under the gray-eyed man, lead the way toward the bend of the ridge. Cautiously they approach the river. It is not daylight yet; they _must go slow_. Look over the valley below us--the day begins to dawn. Oh, yes; you are looking at the upper side of a great bank of fog. The signal that was to be given Col.

Barnard "to move" cannot be made. But he will come to the attack on the south at the same time with the a.s.sault from the north.

The soldiers are unenc.u.mbered by blankets and knapsacks; they have left them with a guard at camp, _expecting_ to return in a few hours. They move cautiously down the bluff into the misty scene below. The cavalry-men are dismounted, leaving their horses in camp, and answer to the call of the bugle. The two hundred men are at the foot of the bluff, at the edge of the Lava Beds.

The lines are formed; each company is a.s.signed a position. In the dim daylight, mixed with fog, they look like ghostly mourners out on the rampart of the spirit world. Hark! "Forward--_march!_" rings out in the cold morning air, and the bugle repeats "Forward--march!" The line moves, stretching out along the foot of the bluff. The regulars advance very steady, for Maj. Jackson's company that was in the Lost-river fight were in no great hurry to hear the music of battle again.

The volunteers start off rapidly, while Gen. Ross and Col. Thompson say, "Steady, boys,--steady." "Steady, my boys," repeats Capt. Kelley, of the Oregon volunteers.

"Go slow, boys, go slow. You'll raise 'em directly," says the gray-eyed man, who commands the Californians. Cautiously the line moves over the rocky plain. On, still on--no Modocs yet. On again they go through the thick fog. "Just as I expected; they've left. I knew they wouldn't stand and fight when the volunteers got after them."--"They knew we was a comin'." Such speeches were made by men who were hungry for "_Modoc sirloin_." "Steady there; we'll raise them pretty soon," says gray eyes.

"They haint run; they're _thar sure_. Go slow, boys; keep down, boys--keep down _low_, boys."

Hark! again; what is that rumble, like a train crossing a great bridge?

Bang--bang--bang--bang comes through the fog bank. "Barnard's opened on 'em. Now we will go. Hurrah! We will take 'em in the rear. Hurrah! hurrah!

hurrah for h--l," sings out a Modoc-eating fellow.

"That's right; every man hurrah for the country he's going to," comes from a quiet regular on the left.

Through the mist a gleam shoots out, and then a rattle of muskets just in front of the advancing line. Hey! what means that? Did Roberts stumble and fall? Yes, he fell, but he cannot get up again; his blood is spurting from his neck on the rocks. Look to the right. Another has fallen to rise no more.

"Fire!" says Col. Green. "Fire!" says the bugle. "Fire!" say the volunteer officers, and a blaze of light burst forth along the line. To see the flame from the guns, one would suppose they saw the enemy on some cliff above them, although the Modoc flame was on a level.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MODOCS ON THE WARPATH.]

Perhaps the Modocs have changed their base. No, that cannot be, for, see!

again it blazes out just in front, and, oh, see the soldiers fall.

On the right of our line, among the rocks, a level blaze follows the Modoc volley. There is somebody there who knows what he is about. "Charge!"

rings out the voice of Green. "Charge!" repeats the bugle. The line moves forward at a double-quick, over the rough waves of hardened lava.

On, on, still on the shattered line moves, for several hundred yards.

Still no howl of pain from Modoc lips.

"They've run," exultingly shouts a voice; but before the echo of that voice had repeated the lie, through the rocky caves another blazing line appears in front. Bang, bang, now comes from the further side; again a charge is ordered, and, climbing over chasms and caverns, the now broken line move as best they can; no groan of agony tells of Modocs with bayonets or bullets pierced. No eye has seen a redskin, but four hundred pairs of ears have heard the Modoc's war-whoop, and four hundred hearts have trembled at the sound.

The line still moves forward, firing at the rocks, and--and another brave white man falls.

The investment must be completed; junction must be made with Col. Barnard.

Where are the volunteers? The gap in the line must be closed. Where is Capt. ----? The caves answered back, "Where?"

But Donald McKay, the scout, says "They are behind the ledge yonder, lying down."

"Order them up," says Gen. Frank Wheaton.

An aide-de-camp fails to open communication with them.

The gallant Green is trying now to close up the line. "Forward, my men,"

he shouts. "Mount the cliff." The foremost man falls back pierced with Modoc bullets. Green quickly leaps upon the cliff--a dozen rifles from the cave send flame and b.a.l.l.s at him. "Come, my men. Up, up," and another man reels and falls. "Come up," again shouts the brave colonel, still standing with the bullets flying around him. Another blue blouse appears, and it, too, goes backward; thus the little mound of dead soldiers grew at the foot of the cliff, until, at last, the gray-eyed man, taking in the situation, points out to his men the Indian battery that commanded this position, and then the sharp, quick rifles, mingle smoke and bullets with the muskets and howitzers, and Green's men pa.s.s over the cliff.

The fog is lifting now, but scarce an Indian yet seen. Still the circle of bayonets contracts around the apparently ill-starred Modoc stronghold.

Take a station commanding a view of the battle. Do you hear, amid all this din of exploding gunpowder, the shrieks of mangled white men, and the exulting shouts of the Modocs? Look behind you; the sun is slowly sinking behind Mount Shasta, tired of the scene. The line is broken again, and, where a part of it had stood, see the writhing bodies in blue, half prostrate, some of them, and calling loudly for comrades to save them.

A council is called by Gen. Wheaton; the fighting goes on; the line next the lake gives back. "Draw off your men!" is the order that now echoes along the faltering lines; the bugles sound "Retreat." The men are panic-stricken. Hear the wounded, who understand the bugle-call, shouting to comrades, "Do not leave us." The volunteers halt; they return to the rescue. The Modoc fire is fearful. One of the wounded men is reached in safety, but when two of his comrades lift him up, one of them drops.

Fairchild's men now go to the rescue, crawling on their faces; they almost reach the two wounded men; one of the rescuers falls; they cannot be saved. One wounded man begs to be killed. "Don't leave me alive for the Modocs." The cry is in vain. _The army of four hundred men are on the retreat._ They fall back, followed by the shouts and bullets of the Modocs, and soon leave the voices of the wounded behind them. Is it true that our army is retreating now from fifty savages?

Is it possible that our heroes, who _were to dine on "Modoc sirloins,"_ are scrambling over the rocks on empty stomachs, after a ten-hour fight?

Is it true that the cries for help by wounded soldiers are heard only by the _Modocs_? Yes, my reader, it _is_ true. Every effort to save them cost other lives.

Our army grope their way in darkness over the rocks they had pa.s.sed so hopefully a few hours since. They climb the bluff, expecting an attack each minute; the wounded, who are brought off the field, are compelled to await surgical aid until the army can be placed in a _safe position_.

The camp on the north is reached, and, without waiting for morning, they fall back to "Bremer's" and "Fairchild's."

When the roll is called in the several companies thirty-five regulars and volunteers fail to answer. Their dead bodies lie stark and cold among the rocks. The Modoc _men_ disdain to hunt up victims of the fight. The squaws are permitted to do this work. It is from Modoc authority, that they found two men alive at daylight next morning, and that they stoned them to death; finally ending this long night of horror by one of the most cruel deaths that savage ingenuity could suggest. Look now in the Modoc camp when the squaws come in, bearing the arms and clothing of the fallen United States soldiers. See them parade these before the Indian braves.

See those young, ambitious fellows, with those curious-looking things.

Here are "Hooker Jim," "Bogus Charley," and "Boston Charley," "Shacknasty Jim," "Steamboat Frank," and several others, holding aloft these specimens of G.o.d's handiwork and their own.