Chapter 11

January 17–18, 1873

At sundown on 17 January the short but electrifying Wheaton finally moved up close enough to the Stronghold to see for himself the lack of progress made after more than twelve hours of march and skirmish.

The thick, whitish ocean of mist lifted for the first time since sunrise. On every high point from the Lava Beds to the rough-cut rumpled bluffs themselves, the Modocs lit signal fires of greasewood. Beneath a blackening, moonless sky, no soldier seeing all those flickering fires could help but catch the “yellow flu” already running its course through the command.

By the time Wheaton arrived on the scene, he found only a handful of Oregon volunteers and fifteen regulars left from Green’s entire command who had started out that morning assured of an easy victory.

He waved his adjutant to his side. “Signal Captain Bernard’s command. The attack is suspended.”

“Suspended?”

Wheaton snapped at the lieutenant, “This battle’s over, goddammit!”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant colonel scanned the knots of men huddled behind the boulders from the cruel wind and Modoc bullets, then found the leader of the Oregon militia.

“General Ross?”

“Colonel.”

“I now believe it will be impossible to carry the enemy’s position by another direct attack, unless more artillery is used.”

“We had two howitzers at your disposal today, Colonel.”

“And we could have damn well killed a lot of our own men in that fog too. As it is, I have seven dead regulars and nineteen seriously wounded. Have you assessed your own casualties?”

Ross looked a little sheepish with his answer. “Only two dead, Colonel. And nine wounded. I’m afraid two of those won’t last the trip back to Van Bremmer’s ranch.” He cleared his throat, then spoke his mind. “Wheaton, my men feel that we could have wiped out that Stronghold—had you turned us loose earlier in the day—”

“My good General!” snapped Wheaton like a broken mainspring in a pocket watch. “The problem is not with me—nor is the solution resting with your volunteers.”

“Colonel—”

“I’ll break one of my own hard and fast rules, Ross—speaking my mind to a civilian. Something I rarely do,” he hissed, shutting Ross up. “Today proved one thing to me if nothing else. Your volunteers learned the hard way that the Modocs will fight—that they won’t run when you or my soldiers draw near. I think these men of yours are far less eager to fight now than they were this morning.”

Ross glanced at some of his men, including battalion commanders Applegate and Kelly. Every one of the volunteers wore a chastised look, unable to meet Wheaton’s gaze.

“What would you suggest we do now?” Wheaton asked of Ross.

The general wagged his head as it sank between his shoulders. “We’d better get out of here, by God!”

Wheaton’s hands clenched into fists as he finally choked on the failure of his own soldiers and the volunteers. In the end his anger subsided just as quickly. He sighed. “General Ross, I leave this matter in your hands.”

Both the remaining soldiers and what was left of the Oregon volunteers watched as Wheaton disappeared with a few members of his staff into the deepening twilight.

Ross stood, stretching. “I figure it’s dark enough now to get this outfit out of here without taking any more casualties. Let’s move back up the bluff.”

To follow Ross in pulling back were less than seventy-five men remaining on that west side of the Stronghold. The rest of the volunteers had been wounded and were already evacuated, or they had simply abandoned their positions when the shooting really heated up, many leaving behind their weapons and their rations in a frantic wholesale retreat.

In their hurry what with full darkness descending, the hungry and the cold took only a few of their wounded with them in that retreat. They hauled the battered and bleeding over the rugged rocks in improvised stretchers made of gray army blankets. The dead and those wounded they could not safely reach were left behind among the cold, black lava flow.

“For God’s sake—don’t leave me here for those butchers!”

Listening to the whimpering cries from the nearby battlefield raised the hair on the back of Donegan’s neck as the night came down.

“In the name of all that’s civilized…” another voice called pitiably, “someone shoot me, please shoot me!”

He looked at his uncle in what moonless light the starry sky had to shed on them as they sat protected by the boulders, the humid air crackling with frost about them all.

For better than ten hours four hundred men had hopelessly thrown themselves against a mere fifty—that fifty and the formidable fortress of the Lava Beds.

Ian O’Roarke shook his head in resignation. “I doubt that’s the first time you heard men begging for someone to kill ’em, nephew. You fought that war.”

Seamus sighed, his head slung between his shoulders like a worn-out singletree. “That was a long time ago, Uncle. And a lot farther away. We fought white men.”

“And you’re saying white men don’t butcher their wounded prisoners? If you are—you’re a ruddy fool. Ben Wright and his bunch come to the Modocs at Bloody Point twenty years ago, with murder in their heart, dead set on wiping every last one out: man, woman and child. Wright and his butchers are as much to blame as Captain Jack or Curly Headed Doctor for what’s happened this day.”

For the longest time Donegan stared off to the east where Green’s troops had abandoned the wounded in their passage. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get used to fighting Indians, let’s say. More than six years since I killed my first on a hot day near a trickle of a stream called the Crazy Woman Crossing—and I bloody well know this won’t be my last fight with the h’athens, Ian.”*

“Heathens, you say. Ah, now—be wary you’re in the right, nephew. Whenever you’re fighting—no matter who or when—make ruddy sure you’re in the right before you go raising your fist or pointing your gun.”

“Who’s right here?” Donegan asked quietly.

Ian wagged his head, watching the eerie reflection on the lake’s cold and tortured surface of the huge bonfire the Modocs were building nearby to celebrate their victory. “I doubt there’ll ever be a right in this bloody little war.”

As the white men sat brooding over their failure in the day, the Klamaths began calling out to their long-time enemies. One of the Californians translated what he could—learning that at the beginning of the battle the Klamaths had guaranteed they would not shoot at the Modocs. And now when the fighting was all over, it was plain to see written on each Klamath face the undisguised contempt they had for the white soldiers and volunteers who instead of bravely attacking the Modoc Stronghold had held back under the protection of the ever-present rocks.

Wary of any treachery, Bernard suggested the Klamaths be ordered back to their reservation.

Agreeing, the slightly built Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton wrote in his report, “Our enlisted Klamath scouts have proved to be utter failures. We want Warm Springs Indians. Donald McKay, my district guide, will take charge of them.”

Later in his dispatch to General Canby, Wheaton admitted the lack of solid accomplishment by his troops after a whole day of fighting.

… all they did was to take about eighty [ponies] from the Indians … [my men are so near to the breaking point that] they could hear the whizzing of the balls, and the War-whoop of the Indian … besides, two-thirds of the command was so badly bruised and used up that they are limping about yet …

Then, stretching the truth, he claimed,

We fought the Indians through the Lava Beds to their stronghold which is the center of miles of rocky fissures, caves, crevices, gorges and ravines, some of them one hundred (100) feet deep.

In the opinion of any experienced officer of regulars or volunteers, one thousand men would be required to dislodge [the Modocs] from their almost impregnable position, and it must be done deliberately, with a free use of mortar batteries. The Modocs were scarcely exposed at all to our persistent attacks. They left one ledge to gain another equally secure. One of our men was wounded twice during the day, but he did not see an Indian at all, tho’ we were under fire from eight A.M. until dark. No troops could have fought better than all did, in the attack advancing promptly and cheerfully against an unseen enemy over the roughest rock country imaginably. It was utterly impossible to accomplish more than to make a forced reconnaissance, developing the Modoc strength and position. It is estimated that (150) one hundred and fifty Indians opposed us.

… Please send me three hundred foot-troops at the earliest date … Can the Governor of California send volunteers to protect this threatened portion of his state, which is open to Modoc raids?

Having no better option with Wheaton himself retreating for the night, Green decided to take Bernard with him and withdraw to Land’s ranch. That slow, sad withdrawal of walking wounded began just past ten-thirty P.M. Forced to move carefully in the moonlit darkness through the blackened Lava Beds, stopping often to rest for the wounded and those carrying them alike, the last soldiers did not arrive until after one A.M. the next morning.

Those who were hungry enough waited for coffee to boil at greasewood fires. Those who had had enough hardtack for the day collapsed to the ground and were quickly asleep where they fell.

While the cold stars whirled overhead, Donegan and O’Roarke snored as loud as any.

*   *   *

As darkness sank over their Stronghold, the Modocs had no desire to sleep. In every breast tingled the energy brought of resounding victory. They gloried in not only holding the soldiers at bay—but in driving the white man back from the Lava Beds.

Not a single Modoc had been seriously injured, much less killed, in the day-long fight, although they had been outnumbered by more than six to one. For all of that, the band was giving thanks … to Curly Headed Doctor.

But Captain Jack knew the white men would be back. Despite the victory dancing of the mystical shaman and the keening squaws—the soldiers would not give up.

Of that he was certain.

Jack realized it now might be up to him alone to keep his fighting men ready when the next assault came. To convince them not to let down their guard because of one day’s victory. But to continue to steadfastly hold out against so many, his people needed food, weapons and bullets.

When the moon came up splaying silver light over the blackened, bone-sharp landscape, the warriors moved out. Crawling over the positions once held by the enemy, they found haversacks filled with pig meat and hard crackers, a Springfield rifle here and there, along with some much-needed ammunition picked up at every turn. Ironic that they were now better armed than they had been more than twelve hours before, when the battle had started.

Among the jumble of boulders a few warriors found some of the bodies still warm and unconscious, others attempting to crawl away in a clatter of sharp lava rock as the Modocs came close. They plunged knives into hearts or slashed the throats of those soldiers still living—rather than waste a precious bullet or ruin the scalp by bashing in the white heads with war-clubs. And there were always the dark blue, wool uniforms the warriors stripped from the white bodies—clothing that would protect Modoc man and woman alike until the coming of a fateful spring.

Besides the pair of army field glasses they picked up on the battlefield, the hotbloods carried back many fresh scalps to the Doctor’s victory celebration held in the freezing darkness of that early morning.

“My red war rope protected our people with its great power!” exclaimed the shaman. “The powerful magic given me by Ka-moo-cum-chux turned the white man’s bullets to water!”

“We will drive them all back over the mountains!” vowed a warrior.

“Those soldiers we don’t kill will run home to his mother’s skirts!” cried another.

Jack listened as the warriors joined the noisy squaws now in a wild orgy of dancing and feasting at their bonfire reflecting from the choppy surface of the nearby lake. They would go on like this until sunrise caused many to finally crawl off to sleep in their caves and blanket-shelters.

His heart was heavy, yet—his heart was Modoc. Their chief, Kientpoos, would not make peace until his people wanted peace.

The cold grew inside him like a cold wave off the lake crashing against the side of his canoe. Worst of all, Jack could not shake the feeling that he would not live to see his beloved Lost River country again.

With a gnawing of deep, personal pain at that loss, the chief of the Modocs prayed his people would remain strong, resolute and united the next time the white man came. And the next time. And the next …