Part 46 (1/2)

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 sh.e.l.ls 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 pa.s.s, 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 n.o.ble-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 McMa.n.u.s 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.