This little Modoc affair was a favorable thing for Oregon and California, in more ways than one. To the politician it was a windfall; for no matter what the cause of war may have been, it is always popular to have been in favor of the last war. It makes opportunity for brave men to win laurels and undying fame. It clothes their tongues with themes for public harangue until the last war is superseded by another. Then again it was a heroic thing to rush up to the recruiting office and volunteer to whip the Modocs.
It is not at all likely that the movement of armies over railroads, or toll-roads, or steamboat lines, was a desirable thing for a country where there was no money in it. Then no man was base enough to wish for war for motives so mean; neither could it be possible that any sane man, with ordinary judgment, could see any speculations or chances for greenbacks in war.
Californians did intimate that the Oregonians were a little mercenary in their anxiety for war; but with what unanimity our press repelled the mean insinuation!
Our Governor very promptly sent forward two or three companies of volunteers,—California, but one.
Listen, ye winds, to the neighing steeds and clashing sabres, and see the uniformed officers and the brave boys, all with faces turned toward the Lava Beds, going down to vindicate the honor of the State whose soil had been invaded by a ruthless savage foe.
The regulars are in camp near the Modocs, waiting for the volunteers to come up. They come, with banners flying, and steeds prancing, and hearts beating triumphant at the prospect of a fight.
Some of these men were living several years ahead, when they could from “the stump” tell how they bared their bosoms to the Modoc hail; how they carried away Modoc scalps; how the ground was bathed in mingled blood of Modoc and white men.
The army now numbering four hundred, all told, of enlisted men, approaches the Lava Beds. One or two companies encamp at Fairchild’s. They drill; they go through the mimic charges; they espy a few Modoc women and children encamped on the creek near Fairchild’s house,—they propose to take them in. “Knits make lice,—let’s take them, boys,—here goes.”
A middle-sized grey-eyed man, with his whiskers dyed by twenty years’ labor on “the coast,” steps out and says, “No you don’t, not yet. Take me first. No man harms defenceless women where I am, while I am standing on my perpendiculars.”
“Who are you?” says one fine-looking young fellow.