Four A.M., January 17th, 1873.—The tattoo is beaten, and the soldiers throw aside their blankets. They dress themselves; the blankets are rolled together; the men sit around, the mess-table on the ground, and partake of coffee and “hard tack.” The volunteer State militia also jump out from under their blankets, and, making their toilets as soldiers do, prepare for duty and glory.

The weather is cold, very cold. Breakfast is over, and the order to “Fall in” sounds through the camp. The blue uniforms take places like automatons; the roll is called. “Here!” “Here!” comes out along the line. Poor fellows! somebody else must answer for some of you to-morrow; you cannot do it for yourselves.

The line of march is taken. The California volunteers, under the gray-eyed man, lead the way toward the bend of the ridge. Cautiously they approach the river. It is not daylight yet; they must go slow. Look over the valley below us—the day begins to dawn. Oh, yes; you are looking at the upper side of a great bank of fog. The signal that was to be given Col. Barnard “to move” cannot be made. But he will come to the attack on the south at the same time with the assault from the north.

The soldiers are unencumbered by blankets and knapsacks; they have left them with a guard at camp, expecting to return in a few hours. They move cautiously down the bluff into the misty scene below. The cavalry-men are dismounted, leaving their horses in camp, and answer to the call of the bugle. The two hundred men are at the foot of the bluff, at the edge of the Lava Beds.

The lines are formed; each company is assigned a position. In the dim daylight, mixed with fog, they look like ghostly mourners out on the rampart of the spirit world. Hark! “Forward—march!” rings out in the cold morning air, and the bugle repeats “Forward—march!” The line moves, stretching out along the foot of the bluff. The regulars advance very steady, for Maj. Jackson’s company that was in the Lost-river fight were in no great hurry to hear the music of battle again.

The volunteers start off rapidly, while Gen. Ross and Col. Thompson say, “Steady, boys,—steady.” “Steady, my boys,” repeats Capt. Kelley, of the Oregon volunteers.

“Go slow, boys, go slow. You’ll raise ’em directly,” says the gray-eyed man, who commands the Californians. Cautiously the line moves over the rocky plain. On, still on—no Modocs yet. On again they go through the thick fog. “Just as I expected; they’ve left. I knew they wouldn’t stand and fight when the volunteers got after them.”—“They knew we was a comin’.” Such speeches were made by men who were hungry for “Modoc sirloin.” “Steady there; we’ll raise them pretty soon,” says gray eyes. “They haint run; they’re thar sure. Go slow, boys; keep down, boys—keep down low, boys.”

Hark! again; what is that rumble, like a train crossing a great bridge? Bang—bang—bang—bang comes through the fog bank. “Barnard’s opened on ’em. Now we will go. Hurrah! We will take ’em in the rear. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah for h—l,” sings out a Modoc-eating fellow.

“That’s right; every man hurrah for the country he’s going to,” comes from a quiet regular on the left.

Through the mist a gleam shoots out, and then a rattle of muskets just in front of the advancing line. Hey! what means that? Did Roberts stumble and fall? Yes, he fell, but he cannot get up again; his blood is spurting from his neck on the rocks. Look to the right. Another has fallen to rise no more.

“Fire!” says Col. Green. “Fire!” says the bugle. “Fire!” say the volunteer officers, and a blaze of light burst forth along the line. To see the flame from the guns, one would suppose they saw the enemy on some cliff above them, although the Modoc flame was on a level.

Perhaps the Modocs have changed their base. No, that cannot be, for, see! again it blazes out just in front, and, oh, see the soldiers fall.

On the right of our line, among the rocks, a level blaze follows the Modoc volley. There is somebody there who knows what he is about. “Charge!” rings out the voice of Green. “Charge!” repeats the bugle. The line moves forward at a double-quick, over the rough waves of hardened lava.

On, on, still on the shattered line moves, for several hundred yards. Still no howl of pain from Modoc lips.

“They’ve run,” exultingly shouts a voice; but before the echo of that voice had repeated the lie, through the rocky caves another blazing line appears in front. Bang, bang, now comes from the further side; again a charge is ordered, and, climbing over chasms and caverns, the now broken line move as best they can; no groan of agony tells of Modocs with bayonets or bullets pierced. No eye has seen a redskin, but four hundred pairs of ears have heard the Modoc’s war-whoop, and four hundred hearts have trembled at the sound.

The line still moves forward, firing at the rocks, and—and another brave white man falls.

The investment must be completed; junction must be made with Col. Barnard. Where are the volunteers? The gap in the line must be closed. Where is Capt. ——? The caves answered back, “Where?”

But Donald McKay, the scout, says “They are behind the ledge yonder, lying down.”

“Order them up,” says Gen. Frank Wheaton.

An aide-de-camp fails to open communication with them.

The gallant Green is trying now to close up the line. “Forward, my men,” he shouts. “Mount the cliff.” The foremost man falls back pierced with Modoc bullets. Green quickly leaps upon the cliff—a dozen rifles from the cave send flame and balls at him. “Come, my men. Up, up,” and another man reels and falls. “Come up,” again shouts the brave colonel, still standing with the bullets flying around him. Another blue blouse appears, and it, too, goes backward; thus the little mound of dead soldiers grew at the foot of the cliff, until, at last, the gray-eyed man, taking in the situation, points out to his men the Indian battery that commanded this position, and then the sharp, quick rifles, mingle smoke and bullets with the muskets and howitzers, and Green’s men pass over the cliff.

The fog is lifting now, but scarce an Indian yet seen. Still the circle of bayonets contracts around the apparently ill-starred Modoc stronghold.

Take a station commanding a view of the battle. Do you hear, amid all this din of exploding gunpowder, the shrieks of mangled white men, and the exulting shouts of the Modocs? Look behind you; the sun is slowly sinking behind Mount Shasta, tired of the scene. The line is broken again, and, where a part of it had stood, see the writhing bodies in blue, half prostrate, some of them, and calling loudly for comrades to save them.

A council is called by Gen. Wheaton; the fighting goes on; the line next the lake gives back. “Draw off your men!” is the order that now echoes along the faltering lines; the bugles sound “Retreat.” The men are panic-stricken. Hear the wounded, who understand the bugle-call, shouting to comrades, “Do not leave us.” The volunteers halt; they return to the rescue. The Modoc fire is fearful. One of the wounded men is reached in safety, but when two of his comrades lift him up, one of them drops.

Fairchild’s men now go to the rescue, crawling on their faces; they almost reach the two wounded men; one of the rescuers falls; they cannot be saved. One wounded man begs to be killed. “Don’t leave me alive for the Modocs.” The cry is in vain. The army of four hundred men are on the retreat. They fall back, followed by the shouts and bullets of the Modocs, and soon leave the voices of the wounded behind them. Is it true that our army is retreating now from fifty savages?

Is it possible that our heroes, who were to dine on “Modoc sirloins,” are scrambling over the rocks on empty stomachs, after a ten-hour fight? Is it true that the cries for help by wounded soldiers are heard only by the Modocs? Yes, my reader, it is true. Every effort to save them cost other lives.

Our army grope their way in darkness over the rocks they had passed so hopefully a few hours since. They climb the bluff, expecting an attack each minute; the wounded, who are brought off the field, are compelled to await surgical aid until the army can be placed in a safe position.

The camp on the north is reached, and, without waiting for morning, they fall back to “Bremer’s” and “Fairchild’s.”

When the roll is called in the several companies thirty-five regulars and volunteers fail to answer. Their dead bodies lie stark and cold among the rocks. The Modoc men disdain to hunt up victims of the fight. The squaws are permitted to do this work. It is from Modoc authority, that they found two men alive at daylight next morning, and that they stoned them to death; finally ending this long night of horror by one of the most cruel deaths that savage ingenuity could suggest. Look now in the Modoc camp when the squaws come in, bearing the arms and clothing of the fallen United States soldiers. See them parade these before the Indian braves. See those young, ambitious fellows, with those curious-looking things. Here are “Hooker Jim,” “Bogus Charley,” and “Boston Charley,” “Shacknasty Jim,” “Steamboat Frank,” and several others, holding aloft these specimens of God’s handiwork and their own.

You ask, What are they?

Go to yesterday’s line of battle, scan the rocks closely, and you will see some of them are dyed with human gore; look closely, and you will see a bare foot, may be a hand, half-covered with loose stones; examine carefully, move the rocks, and you will find a mutilated white body there, and if you will uncover the crushed head you will see where the articles came from that the Modoc braves are showing with so much pride.

Suppose you count the Modoc warriors now. We know they had fifty-three yesterday morning, for we have the names of all the men of the whole tribe, and we have taken pains to ascertain that every man who did not belong to Captain Jack’s band was at “Yai-nax,” under the eye of the old chief “Schonchin” and the Government agent, while the battle of yesterday was going on, except three Modocs—Cum-ba-twas—and they were with Capt. Oliver Applegate’s company during the fight. There is no miscount. Fairchild, Applegate, Dorris, and Frank Riddle know every one personally. Call the roll in Jack’s camp, and every man will answer to his name, except one man who was wounded in a skirmish on the 15th, with Col. Perry’s company of regulars. This statement is correct, notwithstanding the Telegraph said the Modocs had two hundred men in the fight.

Listen to Curly-haired Doctor. He is saying, in his native tongue, “I promised you a medicine that would turn the white man’s bullets. Where is the Modoc that has been struck with the white man’s bullets? I told you ‘Soch-a-la Tyee,’ the Great Spirit, was on our side. Your chief’s heart was weak; mine was strong. We can kill all the white men that come.”

Schonchin John says: “I felt strong when I saw the fog that our medicine-man had brought over the rocks yesterday morning. I knew we could kill the soldiers. We are Modocs.”

The chief (Captain Jack) arose, all eyes turn toward him, and in breathless silence the council awaits his speech.

He does not appear to share in the general rejoicing. He is thoughtful, and his face wears a saddened look. He feels the force of the doctor’s speech; Schonchin’s also. He knows they are planning for his removal from the chieftainship.

“It is true we have killed many white men. The Modoc heart is strong; the Modoc guns were sure; the bullets went straight. We are all here; but hear me, O muck-a-lux (my people). The white men are many; they will not give up; they will come again; more will come next time. No matter how many the Modocs kill, more will come each time, and we will all be killed after a while. I am your voice. My blood is Modoc. I will not make peace until the Modoc heart says ‘peace,’ We will not go on the warpath again. Maybe the war will stop.”

After the several braves have recounted the various exploits they have performed, the council adjourns.

See the squaws bringing great loads of sage brush. They are preparing for a grand scalp dance. This is to be a great demonstration. The women dress in best attire and paint their faces, while the men, now wild with triumph, prepare for the ceremonies of rejoicing.

The drum calls for the dance to commence. They form around the fire on the bare rocks, each warrior painted in black and red, in figures rudely made on their arms and breast, indicating the deeds they may boast of. Each bears on the ramrod of his gun the scalps he has taken. The medicine-man begins a kind of prayer or thanksgiving to the Great Spirit above, and to the bad spirit below, for the success they have won. The dances begin,—a short, upright hop, singing of the great deeds of the Modocs, the warriors meanwhile waving the ramrods with the scalps.

Round and round they move, stepping time to the rude music, until they are exhausted. The blood of the warriors is at fighting heat.

The chief takes no part. He is ill at ease; his mind is busy with great thoughts concerning the past and the future of the Modoc people.

Leaving the Modocs to exult and quarrel alternately, let us hunt up our disappointed army. A part of them have returned to Col. Barnard’s camp at Lone Lands; another part, the volunteers, have collected at Fairchild’s ranch. Great, unauthorized councils are being held; a hundred men give wise opinions. Gen. Frank Wheaton is declared “incompetent,” and some underhand work is going on to have him relieved of his command. It will succeed, although he was brave and skilful, and did as well as any other man could have done under the circumstances.

But that is not the question now, he must be relieved; it is enough that he did not succeed, and it is necessary now to send a new man and let him learn something of the country. True, Gen. Wheaton has experience and would know how to manage better than a new man. Political power is triumphant, and this worthy man is humbled because he could not perform an impossibility. He had raw recruits, that were unskilled in Indian wars, and he was attacking with this force the strongest natural fortress on the continent.

Let us listen to some of the pretty speeches being made in the volunteer camp.

“I tell you aint them Modocs nearly thunder though? But the ‘regulars’ fired from the hip; they could not get down and draw a fine bead.”

“It takes Volunteers to fight Ingens. Ruther have one hundred volunteers anytime than a regiment of ‘regulars.’”

“The captain says he’s going to raise a new company, picked men; and then the Modocs will get h—l. Won’t they though?”

Our unpopular gray-eyed man strolled into the volunteer camp. He is a little caustic sometimes. Sauntering up to the fellow who was so brave a few days before, he said:—

“How did you like your ‘Modoc sirloin,’ eh? putty good, eh? didn’t take it raw, did you? Where’s that feller who was going to bring home a good-looking squaw for a—dishwasher? Wonder how he likes her about this time? Where’s that other fellow who was going to ride Captain Jack’s pacing hoss?

“Wonder if those boys who were spoiling for a fight are out of danger?

“Say, boys, there’s some old squaws over there near the spring; they aint got any guns, aint no bucks there; may be you can take them.” Tossing his head a little to one side, a habit of his when full of sarcasm, he went on to ask the captain of a certain company, “if he found any difficulty in holding his boys back. Where was you during the fight, anyhow? I heard Gen. Wheaton asking for you, but nobody seemed to know where you was, ’cept Donal’ McKay, and he said you was down on the point; said he saw your general there with a mighty nice breech-loading bird gun, and that once in a while some of you would raise your heads and look round, and then Shacknasty Jim would shoot, and you would all lie down again.

“Now, captain, let me give you a little bit of advice; it won’t cost you nothing. When you raise another company to fight the Modocs, don’t you take any of them fellows that you can’t hold back, nor them fellows who want to eat Modoc steaks raw; they aint a good kind to have when you get in a tight place. Why, Shacknasty Jim could whip four of them at a time. Them kind of fellers aint worth a continental d—m for fightin’ Modocs. Better leave them fellers with their mammies.”