Monday passes slowly away to join the unnumbered days of the past. No sound of war is heard. Quiet reigns until the sunset volley announces that the decomposed lava is covering up another one of the fruits of the demand for blood, and the cry for vengeance
went up so loudly that even the Modocs in the Lava Beds heard it.
Tuesday morning. The ambulance is leaving Linkville, escorted by a mounted guard of citizens, destined to the Lost-river battle-ground. Hope is leading the woman who is making this second journey to this historic place. The miles are long to her who has been so many days alternating between joy and sadness. Surely, she will not be disappointed this time.
“Old man,” Dr. DeWitt says, “you cannot go this morning. I think it is unsafe, and it may cost your life.”—“I’m going; I’ll take the risk. I cannot bear to disappoint my wife again.” A stretcher is brought to the side of the mattress whereon the speaker lay. Strong arms lift the mattress and man upon it. When he was carried on the stretcher, a few days since, he weighed one hundred and ninety-six pounds, less the blood he left on the rocks. Now he weighs one hundred and fifty pounds. “Lieut. Eagan’s compliments, with a request for Mr. Meacham to call on him before leaving.” The stretcher is carried into Lieut. Eagan’s tent, and set beside the wounded officer’s cot. The salutations commonly given are omitted, or half performed. Eagan lays his hand on Meacham’s arm and says, “How do you make it, old man?”—“First-rate, I guess. I am going home. Are you recovering from your wound?”—“Very fast. Be about in a few days. Want to help finish up this job before I go home.”—“Good-by, Eagan.”—“Good-by, Meacham.”
These men were old-time friends, and this parting was suggestive of sad thoughts. Both wounded. Will they ever meet again?
As the latter is being borne to the shore of the lake, a half cry is heard from Tobey. “I see him, Meacham, one time more. May be him die. I no see him ’nother time.” A small white hull boat is waiting in the little bay. Lieut. M. C. Grier, A. A. Q. M., is managing the preparations for the departure. With thoughtful care every possible arrangement is made. Mattresses, awnings, oarsmen, buckets for bailing, and arms for defence are provided; and while many officers of the army gather around the boat, the wounded man is carried on the stretcher and carefully laid on a mattress. “Old Fields” is placed in command. Dr. Cabanis sits in the stern; the veteran beside the wounded. The departure is made with “God bless you!” from the officers. A small squad of armed men are starting up the lake shore to prevent the possibility of the Modocs capturing the party in the boat.
Steadily the soldier oarsmen pull along near the land, while the inveterate jokers, Dr. Cabanis and Capt. Ferree, beguile the time in story-telling and witticisms; some of them at the expense of the man on the mattress. “Say, Meacham, what will you give me not to tell how much brandy you drank the other day while you was on the stretcher at the council tent? It’s all right for you to humbug the Good Templars by saying that you never drink; but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. No man ever drank a canteen full the first drink, as you did that day; it won’t do, Meacham.”
Suddenly a dark cloud moves up, and a strong wind comes off the shore. Landing is out of the question; to put to sea in a whitehall boat with eight
men in it, and nearly to the edge, is hazardous. But there is no alternative. The prow cuts across the waves, the water leaps over the bow. Fields, Ferree, and two of the oarsmen, bail for life, now, while Cabanis holds her head to the sea. “Steady, boys, or we’ll swamp her,” says Fields. “Old man, playing dead won’t save you this time; if we swamp her you had better pray like old Joe Meek did. Promise the Lord to be a good man if he will save us this one time more.”—“Save the brandy, doctor, we may need it if we get out into the water,” says Fields, and continues, “Steady, boys, steady! I’ll be —— if she don’t swamp. Look out, boys, what you’re doin’.” The waiting woman in the ambulance catches sight of the boat as it rises on the crest of a wave and sinks again into the trough of the sea. Language is not competent to describe her emotions as she holds the glass on the threatening scene before her. One moment, hope,—another, despair; there, again, as the boat comes in sight, she thanks God; a moment more, and prayer moves her lips. “Can it be that he could live through all he has suffered only to be drowned?”
“Fear not, brave woman, the Hand that was let down out of the dark cloud that passed over the bloody scene when your husband was in a storm of bullets, will calm these waters. Your husband’s work is not yet finished!”