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 balls 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 pass 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.