Wigwam and War-path Or the Royal Chief in Chains Part 45

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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sing 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, s.h.i.+x-te-wa-tillic.u.ms." ("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 "pa.s.s." 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 G.o.d, are faithful to their pretensions, and _are wors.h.i.+pping_ 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 superst.i.tious 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 a.s.sault. The Coehorn sh.e.l.l-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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a.s.sembled 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 pa.s.sed, to exchange friends.h.i.+p, to blot out all the personal differences that exist, and pledge fidelity for the future.

They tell stories and pa.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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 circ.u.mstances; 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, a.s.sure 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed. 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 rea.s.sured 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."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

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 quant.i.ty of ammunition that was taken has been changed to suit the old rifles.

The men are at the stations a.s.signed 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.