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

by Terry C. Johnston

  Why was it, Jack had been wondering as the sun sank that day, that the white men could not read in his words, see in his eyes, that he desperately wanted to make peace if the terms of peace were fair to his people?

  But there was a great racket from the other forces in this camp among the cold, black rocks. No man boasted of his own power more than did the Curly Headed Doctor. His red medicine rope had kept the soldiers out of their rocky Stronghold. But more than that, the shaman now claimed he alone had kept his people free from the white man for years.

  “Is there a man among us tonight who refuses to see that we have not been a slave to the ways of the white man for many winters?”

  Hooker Jim and Bogus Charley hollered their agreement with the shaman, leading a chorus of the Doctor’s supporters that echoed from the rain-slicked rocks encircling the central cavern.

  “Ho! And is there one among you,” the Doctor went on, glaring now at Captain Jack, “who will say that it was not my power to keep these talks with the white man from making any progress?”

  “We do not want peace at the white man’s terms!” Hooker Jim shouted.

  “Let it be war! Let your medicine lead us!” others yelled.

  Jack listened to the words, watched the faces screwed in anger—knowing more and more of his band were desiring war. They did not want to give in now that their strength had shown itself time after time.

  But there was a quiet voice that rose among the tumult. “You do wrong to talk about our chief not wanting war when what he wants to do is protect the lives of our women, lives of our old ones and babies,” spoke William Faithful, a young warrior. “We must not dwell on war—let us wait for the white man to give us back Lost River.”

  “Yes!” hissed the Doctor, quickly turning to regain control of the crowd. “But at the same time the white man waits for us to shrivel up and die in here. He sits out there with his army on both sides of us. This will not do! How can we drive the white man out of our land forever if we do not have a war? And how can we get the soldiers to fight us when he will not come in among these rocks to fight our powerful warriors? There is one choice only—we must start the war ourselves!”

  “Tell us when we can attack, holy one!”

  The Doctor shook his hands high. “No—we will not attack. They are too many.”

  “What—we cannot cower in here like frightened geese!” Hooker Jim protested, grabbing his father-in-law’s coat.

  “Yes, yes!” the shaman replied. “They must come in here to get at us!”

  “But the soldiers cower in their camps.”

  The shaman turned on Boston Charley. “You are right—so we must get the soldiers to come in after us.”

  “How? Tell us how.”

  He whirled again, his face contorted in primal pleasure. They were in the palms of his hands. “We will kill the peace talkers!”

  Jack stood, suddenly frightened. “No!”

  Curly Headed Doctor leaped for him, stopping when his toes touched the chief’s. “Yes! Kill them—butcher them—as the soldier guards watch from their camps! It will show the white man my medicine is strongest.”

  “The soldiers will come attack us!” Boston Charley shouted.

  “We will wipe them out like before—send the rest running home far from here!” agreed Hooker Jim.

  “Those men come to talk with us in peace!” Jack shrieked, growing more frightened as the firelight reflected from the angry faces in a noose tightening about him. “Your blood is hot as fire now—let us speak of this matter another—”

  “The peace talkers want us to give ourselves up!” Hooker Jim screamed. “We will not be hanged by the white man.”

  As well as any man could, Jack knew how terrible a death it was—this hanging. A man’s spirit could not fly from his mouth when he died. Both body and soul suffered death.

  He wagged his head, reluctantly. “No—I cannot give you over to be hanged by the white man.”

  The Doctor waved his arms dramatically. “And when our people surrender, walking from these rocks—won’t the soldiers shoot down our women and children?”

  “I cannot say—I can only trust Fairchild and O’Roarke … perhaps too the old white man, Mee-Cham—”

  “Stop!” yelled the shaman. “The time for talk is over.” He waved an arm, signaling his son-in-law forward.

  Hooker Jim confronted the older Captain Jack as if what the twenty-two-year-old warrior had to say had already been planned. “I can see you no longer have the heart to be chief of the Modocs. You are a squaw!”

  Jack felt the hot breath flung in his face by his antagonist. “I am no squaw.”

  There was cackling laughter, led by the shaman, echoed from the black rocks surrounding their firelit council.

  “Old squaw!” Hooker Jim continued. “You have done no fighting yet—and a chief is supposed to lead his men in fighting. I think you are no longer fit to be our chief!”

  “I am your chief—and I have others to worry over in my heart. The little ones, the sick—”

  “A chief leads his men into battle.”

  Jack patted the butt of an old pistol he carried in his belt. “If the soldiers come, I will fight.”

  Ellen’s Man George pushed forward. “What do you need a gun for, Jack?” he sneered, showing the gaps in his teeth. “You don’t fight. You don’t shoot white men with it Here—give it to me. I will do the job of a chief with your gun. I will kill the chief of the white peace talkers—with your gun I will kill their tyee—since you don’t have the stomach for it!”

  The wild, mocking laughter rang in Jack’s ears, making them hot with the pounding of his blood.

  “Kientpoos must quit sitting here on these rocks, waiting for our people to run out of food,” the shaman urged, moving back up. “Fight with us, Jack—or get out of our way and stay with the women.”

  “Wait!” yelled Scar-Faced Charley.

  For a moment Jack clung to hope that this talk of killing the white men would end. Charley was his oldest and most reliable supporter. A strong fighter with a quick mind. He would settle things now …

  Charley stepped up to Jack, placing a hand on the chief’s shoulder. He spoke quietly. “There is the time for talking, my friend. And the time for fighting. No more talking. This is the time for making war.”

  “What of the others—the children, our old ones?”

  “Perhaps your heart has grown weak, Jack,” Charley went on. “Perhaps you do have the heart of an old squaw.”

  No man’s words could have stung more than did Charley’s at that moment. “You are … are going with Hooker Jim?”

  Charley nodded, smiling, his eyes firelit. “Yes. I will go in your place—and help kill the peace talkers since you do not have the stomach for it.”

  “You are my old friend. How can you ask me to kill the soldier tyee? To shoot him when we are talking of peace would be the act of a coward!”

  “No,” shouted Scar-Faced Charley. “We are asking you to do a brave thing.”

  “I cannot kill the soldier tyee!” Jack shrieked.

  “Here!” announced Bogus Charley, pushing through the crowd.

  Jack saw the warrior carried a woman’s woven dress.

  “Give that to me!” cried Hooker Jim. “I will put it on the old squaw with no warrior’s heart.”

  Hooker Jim knelt to lap the woven reed dress around Captain Jack’s waist. As he was done tying it, Jack’s shoulders sank at the humiliation.

  “Jack has a heart like a little bird!” a female voice cried out, flinging a woman’s shawl over the heads of the crowd. “He must wear a squaw’s clothing.”

  “You must wear this too—if you are going to have the heart of a squaw,” said Scar-Faced Charley as he turned back from one of the women with a squaw’s tule-reed hat in his hand. This he jammed atop the chief’s bowed head.

  The laughter grew louder, accompanied by shrieks of derision from the women, who no longer hid their sneers behind their hands. He
was mocked, standing before his people totally shamed as they backed off—pointing, doubling over in laughter, dancing around him and gyrating their hips like men who wanted badly to rut with a woman.

  In anger that boiled over like a cauldron too long left untended, Jack flung a flat hand out, smacking one of the young warriors across the jaw. His other hand flew upward like a mighty bird taking wing—another warrior stumbled backward into the noisy crowd, crying out in pain.

  For the space of two heartbeats, the warriors surged forward, hands before them like the claws of angry beasts. But with a look into the eyes of their long-silent chief, they held. Stopped. And reconsidered.

  This was unlike any look they had ever seen on Captain Jack’s face.

  He flung the squaw’s cap back into Hooker Jim’s sneering smile. Jim wiped the sting away yet did not move to provoke his chief.

  Jack tore the tule-reed dress from his waist, held it before him as he ripped it asunder. Eyes wild with the terror of his own long-pent emotions, Captain Jack flung shards of the garment over the crowd.

  “If there is a man among you strong enough to step before their chief and call him squaw—let him show his face now!”

  Slowly he turned, watching their eyes fall, watching many of the younger warriors shuffle backward a step. The immense quiet that fell over that cavern in those brutal black rocks was now matched by only the black, pin-pricked sky overhead as the chief hissed his vow.

  “Kientpoos—chief of the Modocs—will prove to you I am no squaw. In my heart I know we will kill some white men—but they will kill all of us.”

  He stepped up to the shaman and Hooker Jim, throwing down the woman’s shawl at their feet. “You tell me you want war. We will have war!” He pounded his chest once with a fist, then held the same hand high, brandishing his pistol.

  “Remember my words for all time—Captain Jack will no longer be the one who asks for peace!”

  * * *

  For two nights Jack kept to his cold, damp cave. Refusing food. Taking only water. Unable to sleep.

  Worrying how this bloody task could be taken from him.

  Now that Scar-Faced Charley had crossed over to join the shaman in calling for the murder of the peace talkers, Jack was left with few allies. One of the most stalwart was William Faithful—young, but never lacking in courage.

  “You asked me to come?” William said, squatting beside his chief.

  “Go to every cave, every fire. Tell them I wish to speak.”

  Without a word William rose and left to spread the news. In a matter of moments the Modocs of the Lava Beds had gathered, silently awaiting the speech of their chief.

  He strode into their midst, then stopped before Hooker Jim’s most hardened murderers. With his arms crossed haughtily, Jack glared at them each in turn. Not a one met and held his gaze.

  “My heart tells me I am among strangers now. I thought I was chief of a brave people. But it is a coward’s errand you send me on, to murder the soldier tyee.”

  Jack watched the Doctor shift as if ready to rise, intending on interrupting. He waved the shaman down with a stiff arm.

  “Do not make me commit this treacherous act—take it from me, I beg you!”

  His fervent plea surprised the assembly. Especially those who stood closest and could see the mist gathering in the chief’s eyes.

  “A chief does not beg!” shouted the Doctor.

  Jack turned on him. “Yes—I beg you. Do not hold me to that promise to kill the soldier tyee.”

  “Yes—you will kill him!” Hooker Jim shouted.

  He whirled on the young warrior. “You make me do this—our people stand at the edge of our graves!”

  “You gave us your word!” said Scar-Faced Charley.

  “I spoke when my blood was hot,” Jack replied, his hands imploring the warriors. He straightened slightly. “I will ask you all again—those who would have me kill the soldier tyee, stand with Curly Headed Doctor. And those who believe to do such a thing would be the act of a coward—stand behind me.”

  There was a loud shuffling of bodies. But the movement did not take long. In a matter of seconds the warriors who stood behind Captain Jack numbered only what he could count on two hands.

  The rest stood glaring with wicked smiles behind the hate-crazed shaman.

  Jack shuddered with the revulsion it gave him to see those faces. “You force me to kill the soldier chief?”

  “Or you are not our chief.”

  His mind awhirl, swimming against the black, ugly tide of cruel things awash against his soul, Jack fought for his breath, his heart thundering in his ears.

  He licked his lips, then gazed back into some of the faces leering in the firelight around him.

  “It is decided. I will kill Canby.”

  Celebration erupted: shouting, pounding backs, women trilling their tongues in joy.

  Holding up his hands, Jack eventually gained their silence one last time. “I have said it—I will keep my vow. But first I will ask the soldier chief to give us our homes back on Lost River.”

  “If he says yes—that we can live again on our old homeland?” asked the Doctor.

  “Then his life will be spared.”

  Hooker Jim inched forward. “And if the soldier tyee says no?”

  Jack pulled the pistol from his belt—and stuffed the muzzle into Jim’s belly. “Then—I will kill him.”

  The warrior glanced down at the pistol. And smiled. “That means that the rest of the white peace talkers must die as well.”

  “I do not care,” Jack replied. “I have vowed to kill the one called Canby.”

  In a furious burst of crazed bravado, many of the warriors argued over who would have the honor of killing the others when the time came.

  “We can kill the white men when they come to talk peace,” said Curly Headed Doctor. “All of them!”

  Chapter 18

  April 8–10, 1873

  “I am convinced that Jack truly desires peace,” said Alfred B. Meacham as he sank on the canvas camp stool inside General Canby’s Sibley tent, which served as commission headquarters at Colonel Gillem’s camp.

  Seamus watched the rotund Reverend Thomas lean back and lock his fingers together across his ample belly.

  “They’re beginning to see the light, I take it. Praise God!”

  “Not so fast,” John Fairchild added hastily. “Jack’s fighting the tide.”

  “Like salmon swimming upstream to spawn,” Ian O’Roarke muttered.

  “Only natural,” Seamus finally said. “The ones holding out for war are the ones with nothing to lose.”

  “Murderers,” hissed agent L. S. Dyar. “Cold-blooded murderers.”

  “But I saw some hope when Jack finally showed he wasn’t dead-set on having his Lost River reservation,” O’Roarke added.

  Meacham nodded. “Perhaps some hope there, yes.”

  “His people will never let you move them out of this part of the country,” O’Roarke reminded them.

  “Jack’s in a dilemma,” the reverend said, drumming his fingers across his vest buttons. “The devil’s at work among that shaman’s warriors. I trust God Himself will be at work on Jack’s side.”

  O’Roarke snorted. “God, Reverend Thomas? Aren’t you preachers all alike now? God, you say? Why, God hasn’t been in those Lava Beds all winter—and I don’t see any sign He’s about to go walking in there now.”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  O’Roarke started to rise as Thomas pushed himself up from his stool. Donegan was there with his uncle, already restraining him.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” O’Roarke apologized, sitting back down. “I did not realize the reverend here was under the influence of his own foolish gruel.”

  “I’ll have you know—”

  “Reverend, please take your seat,” Meacham instructed. “Yours too, Mr. Donegan.”

  “What about this plan of yours you mentioned a few minutes ago?” Dyar asked.

 
“Yes—tell me what you think of it,” Meacham replied. “Offering the Modocs a chance to send out every woman, child and man who do not want to fight, before Canby moves his forces in for the kill.”

  “Yes, a grand idea to save the innocent,” Thomas added.

  O’Roarke shook his head, looking at Fairchild. “I think John agrees with me that it’s a good idea that won’t work. The warriors won’t let the women and children out where they can’t protect them from the soldiers.”

  “And the women simply won’t leave their men behind,” Fairchild said.

  “A depressing alternative, I assure you, gentlemen.”

  They all turned to find General Canby pushing through the tent flaps, accompanied only by his orderly, Private Scott. The officer settled atop a case of hardtack and removed his dripping hat.

  “I’ve just come from an informal round-table with my officers.”

  “Any new ideas?” Meacham asked, drawing a black cheroot from a vest pocket.

  Canby was a few moments in replying. “In fact, there was a new idea.”

  Thomas inched forward on his stool. “Tell us, General.”

  “The officers asked me to come to you—the peace commission—with a proposal of sorts.”

  “What sort of proposal?” Dyar inquired.

  “To have you gentlemen suspend your talks while my soldiers have a good crack at the Modocs.”

  Meacham straightened like a shot. Thomas gasped. And Dyar dropped his head into his hands.

  “No—not when we’re just making some movement with Jack on this matter of Lost River.”

  “Besides, General,” Seamus said, snagging Canby’s attention and pointing at Meacham, “at what cost to your men would you want to destroy the negotiations of this man?”

  “Some of my line officers are ready to put money on it that they can whip those fifty or sixty warriors inside of minutes.”

  Donegan shook his head. “I’d wager meself that those officers who wish to be soon parted from their money were not here last January seventeenth.”

  Canby nodded, grudgingly. “Don’t let word of this spread, gentlemen—but the past few mornings we’ve noticed an increase in desertions on morning report.”