Friday morning, and a Warm Springs soldier is sitting beside the commissioner. A look at his face, and we recognize him as the man who stood out so long in the meeting at Warm Springs Agency, in 1871.
Pia-noose had come in to vent his feelings and to express his friendship. After the usual ceremony of salutation on his part, he remarked that the white men did not know how to fight Modocs. “Too much music. Suppose you take away all the music, all the big guns, all the soldiers, and tell the Warm Springs, ‘Whip the Modocs,’ all right. Some days we get two men, some days we get more, and by and by we get all the Modocs. Warm Springs don’t like so much music,”—referring to the bugle.
This morning Gen. Canby’s remains are lying in state in Portland, and a whole city weeps with the widow who does not—cannot look on the beloved face.
In San Francisco bells are tolling, and a vast concourse of sad-hearted citizens are following the dark-plumed
hearse that conveys the Rev. Dr. Thomas to his last resting-place in Lone Mountain Cemetery.
Mrs. Meacham is sitting in a small parlor at Linkville, and expecting each moment the arrival of a courier that will confirm her worst fears. Mrs. Boddy—whose husband was murdered last November by the Modocs—is with her. The two mingle their tears. They are kindred, now that sorrow has united them.
Gen. Gilliam has called a council of war, and plans for future operations are being discussed. The hospital gives out a sad murmur of mingled moans, curses, and groans. Two soldiers are going toward the burying-ground; one carries a spade, the other a small, plain, straight box, in which is the leg of a soldier going to a waiting-place for him. Riddle and his wife, Tobey, are cooking and washing for the wounded. Riddle often calls on Meacham, bringing refreshments prepared by his wife. Col. Tom Wright calls on Meacham this morning. A spicy colloquy ensues. He remarks that the Modocs are nearly “h—l.” Meacham says, “Where is your two thousand dollars now? Suppose you and Eagan took them in fifteen minutes, didn’t you?” Col. Wright: “Took ’em, not much,—we got the prettiest licken ever an army got in the world.” Meacham: “What kind of a place did you find, anyhow, colonel?” Col. Wright: “It’s no use talking; the match to the Modoc stronghold has not been built and never will be. Give me one hundred picked men, and let me station them, and I will hold that place against five thousand men,—yes, ten thousand, as long as ammunition and subsistence last. That’s about as near
as I can describe it. Oh, I tell you it is the most impregnable fortress in the world! Sumter was nowhere when compared with it.” Meacham: “What kind of a fighter is Captain Jack, colonel?” Col. Wright: “Fighter; why, he’s the biggest Ingen on this continent. See what he’s done; licked a thousand men, killed forty or fifty, and has not lost more than three or four himself. We starved him out, we didn’t whip him. He’ll turn up in a day or two, ready for another fight. I tell you, Jack’s a big Ingen.”
Let us see where this distinguished individual and this gallant band of heroic desperadoes are at this time. From the signal-station on the mountain side, above Gilliam’s camp, we can look over the spot, but they are so closely hidden that we cannot locate them; not even a curl of smoke is seen. Follow the foot of the bluff around three miles, and then strike off south, or left, two miles more, and amid an immense jumble of lava rocks we find them. Go carefully; Indian women are on the picket-station, while the warriors sleep. Since sundown last evening they passed between the soldier camp and the council tent and brought water to the famishing. A man sits upon a jaded horse, at the gate of a farm-house, near Y-re-ka. Children are playing in the front yard. A watch-dog springs to his feet and gives warning by loud barking. A stout-built man looks out from a barn to ascertain the meaning, while a middle-aged woman comes to the kitchen door. The whole, together, is the picture of a western farmer’s home,—happiness and contentment. The horseman takes in the scene, and while he views the photograph he recognizes
in it the home of young Hovey. A painful duty is his. He hesitates. He knows that his words will send a dark shadow over this household. The farmer comes towards him. The dog is hushed; the children cease their sports; the mother stands waiting, waiting, listening, and the throbbing of her own heart prepares her for the awful tidings. “Is this Mr. Hovey?” the horseman says, while from his inside coat pocket he withdraws a letter. “That is my name,” the farmer replies. “I have a letter for you, Mr. Hovey?” The children gather around the father, looking attentively at him and the horseman, while the latter, with trembling hand, passes the envelope that is so heavy ladened with sorrow. “Where’s the letter from?” asks the anxious mother, while the father tears it open. “The Lava Beds,” replies the horseman, turning away his face. The paper shakes in the hands of the farmer, while his face changes to ashy paleness. “What is it, father? Oh, what does the letter say?” cries the mother, as she comes to his side and glances over his arm. Let us not intrude on this scene of sorrow.