Devil's Backbone: The Modoc War, 1872-3

by Terry C. Johnston

  Wheaton looked over his shoulder. “A settlement, huh? Perhaps we can get this wrapped up before Gillem comes in to take over command.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wheaton’s adjutant agreed at the colonel’s ear. “If you can get the Modocs to surrender before Gillem shows up—it would be a feather in your cap.”

  Wheaton slapped both thighs as he settled atop a sack of white beans. “A meeting, is it?”

  “How about us going along?” O’Roarke asked of Fairchild and Dorris. “You two and me?”

  “Why you three? This is an army matter,” Wheaton protested.

  O’Roarke smiled, handing the woman another hard cracker. “Jack and his bunch don’t know you soldiers. Don’t trust you. But they do know us.”

  Wheaton brooded on it but a moment. “If that’s the way it must be to get Jack to come in to surrender,” and he rose to his feet with a clap of his hands, “so be it. You men go to the bluff as soon as you can make ready in this storm—and see what Jack has on his mind about surrendering.”

  Chapter 13

  February 1873

  When the three civilians had been escorted by Lieutenant John Adams to the bluff on the western outskirts of the Lava Beds to meet with Captain Jack, what the ranchers learned was of a growing rift among the Modocs in the Stronghold. While Jack and Scar-Faced Charley led a faction that wanted to negotiate peace with the army, there was a strong and growing number of noisy warriors led by Curly Headed Doctor, Hooker Jim and Shacknasty Jim. If not intimidated into silence, Jack’s supporters were threatened with death if they did not go along in continuing this big fight with the white man.

  Nor was it the best of times for the regulars awaiting the arrival of their new commander. Already the Oregon volunteers had gone the way of the four winds. And the less than two hundred regulars who remained were stretched between two camps situated some thirty miles apart.

  From the attack suffered by Bernard’s supply wagons on the twenty-third, it was plain to see that the Modocs were free to roam from the Lava Beds at will. Rumors ran thick and fast that other tribes in the surrounding countryside were debating the wisdom of joining Captain Jack in the Stronghold. Officers argued among themselves over petty matters, and the enlisted brawled daily over one slight or another.

  It was not a camp where high morale reigned.

  When the weather cleared enough for Colonel Alvan C. Gillem to break through the snowbound countryside from Yreka, the first order of business for the new commander of the Modoc campaign upon arrival at his new headquarters on 7 February was to send Wheaton packing from the Lost River camp, back to duty at Camp Warner in Oregon. It was not the first, nor would it be the last, unpopular order ever issued by Gillem, commander of the First Cavalry.

  Born of no-nonsense Tennessee mountain stock, he had long been a personal friend of former President Andrew Johnson. When Johnson was no longer in office, the future did not bode so brightly for the West Point graduate who constantly feared himself passed over for advancement. Yet Gillem was not the sort to wear the tunic of a desk commander: he fought his first Indians in Florida during the Seminole War. As one of the few southern officers to remain loyal to the Union at the outbreak of the Civil War, Gillem was held in high favor although he was not a brilliant tactician in the field.

  Following Appomattox, Gillem was awarded his full colonelcy in the regular army and sent to Mississippi to command the occupation troops before he was transferred to California when Grant moved into the White House in 1869.

  Although he had resentments of his own, the man himself was even more resented by those who had served under him. Gillem’s lack of popularity among his officers apparently stemmed from the fact that his colonelcy had been acquired too easily, and much too quickly for those line officers who had to struggle for seniority in the postwar army. Gossip among the Pacific Coast army had it the man with the rapidly receding hairline was susceptible to flattery from some of his subordinates, while he dealt harshly, even capriciously, with others.

  The men who had served under Wheaton were in no way pleased to welcome Gillem to their war-effort. And the line troops were in no way eager to have another go at the Modocs in the Lava Beds.

  “Give the man credit,” Donegan said to Lieutenant Wright the next evening at their mess fire.

  “For stirring things up?”

  “Bloody time someone should stir things up! How long you figure to sit on your arse, waiting for the Modocs to come to their senses?”

  Wright snorted, then finally laughed. “Damn, but you’re right. Perhaps I should give Gillem credit—he’s the first commander of this campaign who finally believes that we’ve been snookered by no more than fifty-five to sixty warriors.”

  “How many troops does Gillem have here and on their way to reinforce you?”

  “A little over five hundred.”

  “I rest my case, Lieutenant!”

  “Damn you, Irishman,” Wright said, then chuckled. “Maybe that old war-horse will get something done now that we’ve got those bloodthirsty bastards outnumbered ten to one.”

  “I doubt it.”

  They both turned to find Major Edwin C. Mason striding up.

  “Good evening, Major,” Wright said, saluting.

  “You have any coffee brewed?” Mason asked, holding out his cup. “I’m damned tired of what my mess sergeant thinks passes for coffee.”

  Seamus picked up the bail of the blackened pot and poured. “You’re welcome to all your bladder can walk off with, Major.”

  Wright waited for Mason to settle himself near the fire. “Why do you doubt we’ll get anything accomplished soon, Major?”

  “Because no sooner did Gillem arrive than did word come in that Washington’s formed a peace commission to negotiate a settlement with the Modocs.”

  “A peace commission?”

  He nodded, blew on his coffee and sipped before answering. “Former superintendent A. B. Meacham heads it. Along with Jesse Applegate and his nephew Oliver Applegate, who’s the agent up at Yainax. And a fella named Samuel Chase, an agent from somewhere off in Oregon.”

  “The Modocs trust any of these fellas?” Donegan asked.

  Mason eyed him a moment in the firelight. “Far as I’ve learned from your uncle and the other Californians who ought to know—the Modocs trust only Meacham.”

  “The commissioners on their way?” Wright asked.

  Mason nodded. “From what I’m told, they’ll be here in a couple days.”

  “You know what they’re planning to do?”

  “Get the Modocs to talk peace.” Mason wagged his head. “Word is—Jack wants to talk peace to Fairchild and a squawman by the name of Riddle … but the rest of that medicine man’s bunch won’t let him talk peace. They’re all hammering for more war.”

  * * *

  In the third week of the Moon of Stars Falling, Captain Jack received emissaries from the soldier camp: Bob Whittle, who operated a ferry on Link River, and his Indian wife, Matilda. Also along was a Modoc woman, Artina Choakus, commonly called One-Eyed Dixie because of a childhood infirmity that had left her blind in one eye.

  At that first brief conference, Jack’s head men agreed to these initiatives by saying they would talk the terms of settlement with rancher John Fairchild and Frank Riddle, a trapper and hunter and sometime-resident of Yreka who had earned the Modocs’ confidence more than a decade before by marrying into their tribe. His wife Winema was called Toby among her husband’s people.

  In the shadow of that long backbone of ridge overlooking the Lava Bed stronghold, the Riddles interpreted for Fairchild when he rose to speak to the Modoc leaders.

  “I come with words of making peace from the white leaders,” Fairchild began.

  “Tell us these words you have written on your talking paper,” Jack instructed. He was praying the white men would say something to magically lure his warriors from the seductive grasp of the shaman. It was a thin hope all the same.

  “To Captain Jack, Schonc
hin John and others:

  Captain Fairchild will talk for us a few things. We have come a long way to see you in behalf of the President and have brought you no bad words. Our instructions say we must look into the trouble that caused the war. We want to hear both sides and then we can say to the President what we think is best. He wants us to write down all about it. What Mr. Fairchild says we will agree to, about when and where the talk will be held. It is a disgrace for either side to take advantage while we are fixing for a council. Ben Wright did wrong—”

  At the mention of the murderer’s name by interpreter Riddle, anger flared among the Modocs like kerosene thrown on a fire. Jack whirled, his arms out and waving to calm them.

  “Quiet—the white peace talkers say that Ben Wright did wrong.”

  “I say we kill these white men who come to us—reminding us of the treachery of Ben Wright’s white-skinned butchers!” shouted Hooker Jim as his father-in-law, Curly Headed Doctor, chanted to the sky for blood and scalps.

  “No!” shrieked Scar-Faced Charley. “These come in peace—they must go in peace. The first to lay a hand on them must come through me!” He leaped past Captain Jack and stood, defying Hooker Jim’s cutthroats.

  “There is too much talk of blood,” Captain Jack said evenly, quietly, “when we should be talking of peace.”

  “Yes,” Scar-Faced Charley agreed. He looked at Riddle. “Finish the talking paper from the white men.”

  Riddle swallowed hard, his hands shaking slightly as he continued with Meacham’s letter.

  “Ben Wright did wrong. The white men do not approve of such things. What our men agree to do they will stand by.

  A. B. Meacham, Chairman of the Peace Commission.”

  “Does he say to us that what the peace-talkers decide with the Modocs—that all white men will abide by?” Jack asked, feeling a surge of hope for his people, yet wary not to allow his feelings too dizzy a ride.

  Fairchild nodded and spoke. Riddle interpreted.

  “We must stop fighting now while we are talking about peace. No more should your men go out from the Lava Beds and fight the Hot Creek band. No more should your men go out to steal cattle from other ranches. This should be a time when you show the white man that your word is straight and true.”

  “We should show the white man that we think his talk of peace is squaw’s talk!” Curly Headed Doctor roared.

  Several of his supporters hooted and cheered.

  Jack waited for the explosion to subside, then turned back to Fairchild.

  “It is good to talk of no more killing and stealing while we talk of peace between us,” he began, then waved first his right arm toward the rocks behind him. Twenty Modoc warriors stood.

  Watching the expression on the white faces, Jack waved his left arm. More than twenty more warriors stood, showing themselves for the first time.

  Now he spoke in his bad English while he walked straight up to his old friend. “My men shoot not first bullet, Fairchild. Jack keep Modocs here all time we talk peace to you.”

  * * *

  What followed between the Modocs and the Californians in early March was one inconclusive and unsatisfactory meeting after another. The two sides could not even agree on a place for the peace commission to meet with Jack and his head men.

  “Meacham will not come with his peace talkers unless some soldiers come along as his escort,” Ian O’Roarke said, then waited while Frank Riddle interpreted. He glanced at Fairchild quickly to see what his friend’s face told.

  Jack waited for the words to be spoken in Modoc, then shook his head and sighed. He appeared exasperated.

  “No, I say again. We cannot agree to have the soldiers come with the peace talkers. If our concern is to talk of peace—why are there soldiers coming?”

  This time O’Roarke sighed. Another fruitless meeting. “The soldiers come to escort the peace talkers—just as your warriors come to escort you here to talk with us, Jack.”

  “No. I have said it for the last time. Enough talk on these soldiers coming. No more talk now. I am tired of so much talk. If white man wants peace with the Modoc—let us see your peace talkers come in peace.”

  Ian glanced over at the gathering of warriors who attended every one of these frustrating meetings. In reading those smug smiles painted across the faces of Bogus Charley and Boston Charley, he thought he saw some hint of sinister victory. Near the pair sat Hooker Jim, Schonchin John, and the shaman himself. His instincts made him instantly suspicious.

  “John,” Ian whispered to Fairchild as Riddle went ahead interpreting. The two ranchers put their heads close. “All these weeks gone by—and those two jokers show up over in Gillem’s camp every day.”

  “Bogus and Boston?”

  Ian nodded. “That pair is up to no good.”

  “What you mean, Ian?”

  “Smooth talkers, aren’t they?”

  “Always have been,” Fairchild replied. “But we’ve been on to ’em for sometime.”

  “Soldiers aren’t.” He watched the light come on behind Fairchild’s eyes. “That’s right, John. Every day they come in, friendly as can be. Get fed and drink whiskey with the soldiers—sometimes the officers. But they reap much more for all the time they spend in camp than a full belly and a hangover.”

  “Those bastards have been carrying vital information back to the Stronghold, haven’t they?”

  “Those two aren’t the simple-minded fools the soldiers take them for.”

  “Goddamn,” Fairchild hissed.

  O’Roarke straightened, putting his hand on Riddle’s shoulder to silence the interpreter a moment. “Jack—I want to ask you something very important. Your men there—those two,” and he pointed. “Bogus Charley and Boston Charley—they come to the soldier camp every day, don’t they?”

  Jack nodded as Riddle’s Modoc words caught up.

  Ian smiled slightly. “Tell us what those two have been telling you about the soldier talk in our camp.”

  “They have not been telling us anything of soldier talk.”

  Shaking his head, Ian’s smile disappeared. “Tell me, Kientpoos,” O’Roarke said, using the chief’s formal Modoc name, “they have been telling you bad things about the hearts of the white men for the Modocs—haven’t they?”

  Jack appeared stunned by the sudden sting to O’Roarke’s words. Behind the chief some of the others began shifting nervously as Riddle translated. Both Bogus and Boston licked their lips and ran their palms down the front of their soldier pants. Ian and Fairchild kept their eyes more on the gathering behind Captain Jack than on the chief himself.

  He finally relented. “Yes—the two tell us that the white men have a bad heart for me and my people.”

  “We do not have a bad heart—”

  “You may not—for we have been long friends, O’Roarke. You and Fairchild are fair men. My friends in Yreka too—men like Elisha Steele. I want Steele to come to talk with me too.”

  Ian glanced at Fairchild, who nodded. “I think we can get Steele to come with us next time.”

  “It is good,” Jack replied, his lips pursed in a line of stern determination. “Good to have my white friends here with me when I talk of serious things. A few of your kind are fair men. But these soldiers talk with two voices. One we hear through you—and it is filled with kind words of hope that we can settle this trouble.” He sighed, taking his hat off and scratching his head. “The other voice we hear is what the soldiers say behind our backs. They want to kill us—man, woman and child—for the time they came to attack us in the Lava Beds and we killed the soldiers to protect our families.”

  “Vengeance is not what this is all about, Jack,” Fairchild said.

  “We hear talk in the soldier camps that they want to capture us—to hang us from a tree. This hanging is very bad, Fairchild.”

  “I know, I know,” the settler answered. “I will not lie to you and tell you that every soldier heart is truthful and that every soldier will not wish you harm. My heart
speaks the truth to you when I say that there are a few—a very few soldiers—who would like to paint themselves in Modoc blood.”

  Jack smiled as Riddle translated, wearing that smug, self-assured look that could drive an adversary into a frenzy. “I know there are many who want to kill us.”

  O’Roarke shook his head, taking a step closer to Jack, watching the chief back up that same single step. “Kientpoos—look at your own men—now. See how many of them who stand behind you at this moment—how many want to kill us. Fairchild and me. Without good reason—just because we are white men. Look for yourself and then judge us fairly.”

  Eventually Jack turned and studied the faces of his men. When he looked back at O’Roarke, the chief’s dark eyes were lit with a dark fire.

  “Yes, my old friends. Neither of us must ever forget that there are Modocs who would kill you both just because you are white men.”

  Chapter 14

  March 1873

  Elisha Steele was promptly summoned to the army’s camp from Yreka by commissioner Alfred B. Meacham.

  After a day of conferring with the peace commission, attorney Steele selected his delegation to accompany him to the Modocs’ stronghold. Not only would he need Frank and Toby Riddle as interpreters, but Steele requested two of his fellow Californians along because they too were held in high esteem by Captain Jack: John Fairchild and Ian O’Roarke. Ian then convinced the Yreka lawyer that his nephew, Seamus Donegan, would be a good man to ride along: a level head, and good in any sort of scrape, whatever came of the council.

  Rounding out the delegation was H. Wallace Atwell, a California newspaperman who wrote under the name “Bill Dadd” and had invited himself along to cover the momentous meeting with Captain Jack’s “renegades.”

  The horses were loaded with provisions, a rubber poncho and several blankets needed by each delegate, who, because of the distance to be covered, would be required to stay the night in the Modoc Stronghold.

  Donegan was perhaps alone in feeling a thick and pervasive wall of suspicion in the Modoc camp, sensing the dark, smoldering eyes on him as well as the other visitors the moment they emerged from the maze of catacombs and fissures, guided by Scar-Faced Charley and two others into the center of the Lava Beds where Captain Jack’s people had held out for better than three months.