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 assault from the north.
The soldiers are unencumbered 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 assigned 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.