It is four o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th of April. The men are silently falling into line. The mules are groaning under the heavy weight of “mounted pieces,” or loaded with stretchers and other contrivances for carrying the dead and wounded. The soldiers do not seem to realize that some of their number will return on these mules, wounded and helpless, or dead. Perhaps each one thinks and hopes that it will be some one other than himself. From the immense preparations for war it would seem that Captain Jack and his followers must be taken in a few minutes. One thousand men and seventy-two Warm Spring Indians are taking position around the ill-starred chieftain’s fortress. He is not ignorant of their presence. His old women and children are hidden away in the caves of the Lava Beds. The young women are detailed to attend the warriors with water and ammunition. The Modocs are better armed than during the last battle. Some of their guns were captured from fallen soldiers on the 17th of January. A large quantity of ammunition that was taken has been changed to suit the old rifles.

The men are at the stations assigned them. They are divested of all unnecessary clothing, and their limbs are bandaged by folds of rawhide. They are awaiting the attack. Each warrior holds a position made impregnable by the formation of the rocks, or the condition in which the great convulsions of nature which produced this indescribable country, left them.

The sun is driving away the darkness, and soon the battle must begin.

In the hospital a veteran of the Second Iowa Cavalry is sitting beside the wounded man, and preparing him for the shock that his nerves will feel.

“Don’t get scared, old man! It will begin very soon, and you will presently have company enough,” he says.

The hospital attendants are making ready to care for the wounded. Mattresses are placed in rows on either side. In a small tent, near by, a surgeon is laying out lint and bandages.

The Iowa veteran is standing at the door, saying to Meacham, “I will tell you when it opens. I can see the fire before you will hear the sound and feel the jar. Don’t get frightened, and think that the mountain is coming down on you, old man. There goes the signal rocket. Now look out!”

An instant more and the shells and howitzers join in a simultaneous demand for the Modoc chief to surrender. The earth trembles while the reports are reverberating around and through the chasms and caverns of the Lava Beds, and before they have finally died away, or the trembling has ceased, another sound comes in a continuous roar, proceeding from the left, and by the time the belt of fire has made the circuit, it repeats itself again and again. But no smoke of rifles is seen coming from the stronghold. “Charge!” rings out by human voice and bugle blast, and a returning series of bayonets converge. On they go, nearing a common centre. No Modocs are yet in sight. The soldiers, now upright, are hurrying forward, when suddenly, from a covert chasm and cavern, a circle of smoke bursts forth. The Modocs have opened fire. The men fall on the right and left, around the circle. “Onward!” shout the officers. “Onward!” But the men are falling fast. The charge must be abandoned. The bugle sounds “Retreat!” The line widens again, the soldiers bearing back the dead and wounded. They now seek cover among the rocks. The wounded are sent to the hospital, by way of the lake, in boats or on the mule-stretchers. The battle goes on. The wounded continue to arrive. The shadows of the mountains from the west cover the Lava Beds, and still the fight goes on. A volley is heard near the hospital.

“What’s that?” asked the startled patient.

“Burying the dead,” quietly responds the veteran nurse.

A few minutes pass, and another volley is fired, and another soldier is being laid away to rest forever. Still another, and another yet; until five volleys announce that five of the boys who started out with United States rifles in the morning are occupying the narrow homes that must be theirs forever.

At irregular intervals during the night the fight is continued. The Modocs are constantly on duty. The soldiers relieve each other, and are in fighting condition when Tuesday morning comes. No cessation of firing through the day. No rest for the Modocs.

One of the camp sutlers, well known all over the West as a game fellow, unable to restrain his love for sport, and being Pat-riotic, goes to quartermaster Grier and demands a breech-loader, and also a charger to ride, saying he wanted to do something to help whip the Modocs. Mr. Grier informed Pat that he could not issue arms without an order. Pat was indignant, and made application successfully to a citizen for the necessary outfit for war. He mounted Col. Wright’s mule and repaired to the scene of action.

On reaching the line of battle he looked around a few minutes, and, to a word of caution given him by an officer, replied, “Divil an Indian do I see. I came out to git a scalp, and I’m not goin’ home without it.”

The officer who had given him the friendly advice watched the bold sutler as he kept on his way with his “Henry,” ready to pick off any Modoc who might be imprudent enough to show his head. The soldiers shout, “Come back! come back!” but on goes the fearless sutler, carefully picking his way. Look very closely, now, and we can see what appears to be a moving sage-bush. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it creeps over the ledges. If Pat would only look in the right direction he could see it and have a chance at the travelling bush; and as he is a good shot, he might scatter the leaves, besides boring a hole through Steamboat Frank’s head. A puff of smoke comes out of the now immovable bush, and the report mingles with the roar of battle. Pat’s mule drops under him, and he slips off and takes cover behind a low rock. The mule recovers its feet, and, with almost human sense, makes its way back to the soldiers’ line. Pat, anxious to discover his man, raises his head above the rocks. Whiz! comes another bullet, so close that Pat drops back quietly,—indeed, so very quietly that the soldiers report him dead; and noble-hearted Pat is named among the slain. But let us see how he really is. After lying contented awhile, he again slowly lifts his head, and another shot comes so close that Pat again drops behind the rock, and a second time the soldiers shout, “They’ve got him this time, sure!”

Not so, however. Pat is not hurt yet. Again and again he attempts to move from behind the rock, scarcely large enough to protect him, and each time Steamboat fires. No one who knows Pat McManus ever doubted his courage, but he deserves credit, also, for remembering that “Discretion is the better part of valor.” He finally arranges himself for a “quiet snooze behind the rock,” as he expressed it, and awaited the welcome shades of evening. He then crawls out to the soldier line. It is said that he stood the fire of the soldiers who mistook him for an Indian, until he shouted to them, “Dry up, there! It’s me! Don’t you know a white man on his knees from an Injun on his belly?”

Directly west of Captain Jack’s stronghold is a flat an almost level plain of lava rocks of six hundred yards in width, but commanded by the stronghold, while it does not offer protection to those who attempt to hold it. To complete the investment it is necessary to take this “flat.” Lieut. Eagan is ordered to the execution of this enterprise. He is a daring leader, and, calling to his men to follow, moves forward. It is known to be a hazardous undertaking, but Eagan is just the man. Away he goes, jumping from one rock to another, calling to his men: “Come, my boys! come!” he cries. But suddenly the Lava Rocks in front belch forth Modoc bullets, and the gallant lieutenant drops. Then a soldier, and then another. Eagan shouts, “Fall back!” Pell-mell they go, stooping, jumping and shouting, leaving the brave fellow alone, while his men take a position where they can prevent the Modocs from capturing their leader.

Dr. Cabanis,—who seems to bear a charmed life, hearing of Eagan’s fall, goes to him. The Modocs open fire on him. Steadily the gallant doctor moves forward, sometimes taking cover as best he can, again moving, half bent, from rock to rock, and when he reaches the wounded man a shout goes up from the soldiers. The wound is dressed, and the doctor, unable to carry his patient, leaves him and returns again to the line.

While this battle is going on, two coaches of the Northwest Stage Company meet, one going north and the other south. Observing a custom common among western stage people, they halt and exchange news items. In the stage going north is the body of Gen. Canby, in charge of his adjutant, Anderson, and Orderly Scott. In the other stage is Mrs. Meacham, accompanied by a stranger. Indeed, she has found a new escort at almost every station, who would announce himself as “your husband’s brother.” Members of this brotherhood have been informed by telegraph all along the road that “A Brother’s Wife is en route for the Lava Beds. Look out for her wants. See that she is escorted and send the bills to No. 50, F. A. M., Salem.”

Anderson goes to the other coach. Mrs. Meacham anxiously inquires, “Did you see my husband after he was wounded?”

“I sat beside him half an hour,” he replies. “He is doing well.”

“Will he recover?” questions Mrs. Meacham. “Is he mortally wounded?”

“We hope he will get well. His wounds are not necessarily fatal,” replies the adjutant. “A great deal,” he continues, “depends on good treatment. Your brother is with him. Everything that can be done is being done.”

Anderson walks sadly back to his charge of the lamented general.

The driver of the other stage dismounts and accosts Mr. Anderson as he resumes his seat.

“Is there any hope for Mr. Meacham?” he asks.

“Not the least in the world; but his wife must not know it now,” replies Anderson, in a low voice; but O my God! loud enough for the quick ears of Mrs. Meacham to catch the words.

The drivers take up the lines. The stages pass. In one Gen. Canby’s body is being borne to his heart-broken wife. In the other a heart-broken wife is going to her husband, with the thought that she would be northward borne in a few days, with her husband confined in a dark coffin. The southern-bound stage reaches Jacksonville. The strange gentleman assists Mrs. Meacham to alight, and attends to her baggage while the change of coaches is being made. He then introduces another stranger to Mrs. Meacham as “your husband’s brother, who will go to Y-re-ka with you.”

It is Wednesday evening when the stage is slowly climbing Siskiyou mountain. The occupants are but two, one a lady. She does not speak. She has no hope now. The gentleman is silent. He, too, has lost hope in the recovery of the lady’s husband.

Lieut. Eagan is being carried to his tent. The hospital is full of patients groaning with pain. Near the door lies a Warm Springs Indian scout. The surgeons are probing his wound, while he laughs and talks to the attendants, making sarcastic remarks about “the Modocs using powder that couldn’t shoot through his leg.”

The Iowa veteran announces to his brother-in-law that his wife will be in Y-re-ka that night.

The Modocs are out of water. The ice they had stored in the caves is exhausted. They determine to cut their way to the lake, but a few hundred yards distant. They concentrate their forces, and, enveloped in sage brush, they crawl up near the line of soldiers and open fire in terrible earnest. Soldiers fall on right and left. The Modocs yell and push their line. The white soldiers are massing to resist. The fire is awful. Peal after peal, volley after volley, and still the Modocs hold their ground. All night long the Modoc yell mingles with the rattle of musketry, and the shouts of defiance from the soldiers. One party is fighting in desperation; the other from duty.

While this battle is raging, the stage-coach from the North arrives at Y-re-ka, and stops at the hotel. A gentleman says a few words to the driver. The street-lamp before Judge Roseborough’s door throws its light on the faces of several ladies and gentlemen who stand waiting to receive the lady passenger. She is met with warm-hearted kindness, although every face is new. Supper is waiting. Every effort is made for the lady’s comfort. She weeps now, although this great sorrow of her life had seemed to dry up the fountain of tears until the warm hearts and kind words of strange voices had touched, with melting power, her inner soul. A short sleep, and she arises, to find a four-horse carriage awaiting to bear her to the Lava Beds. A new escort takes his place beside her.

Just after daylight, and while leaving the Shasta valley, a few miles out of Y-re-ka, the driver announces a courier coming from the Lava Beds. As he approaches, he draws from his “cantena”—a leather pocket carried on the saddle-front—a paper, and, waving it while he checks his panting horse, says, “For Mrs. Meacham.” Oh, the power of a few words! How they can change darkness into light! The letter read as follows:—

This inveterate joker cannot resist the temptation to mix the colors of the rainbow in all he does. But we forgive him.

This morning, as the sun dispels the darkness, the Modocs abandon the attempt to reach the lake. For two days and nights they have fought without sleep. They are suffering from thirst and long-continued fighting; but no signs of surrender are anywhere visible. The chief has called a council. It is decided to evacuate on the approach of night, and the braves are ordered to hold their fire unless to resist a charge.

A few of the Modocs have passed outside the lines by way of the “open flat,” and are crawling towards the soldiers’ camp at the foot of the bluff. Gen. Gilliam, Dr. McEldry and others have passed over the route unharmed. The horse-stretchers have passed and repassed with their mangled freight. The pack-ponies are all busily engaged, and the team horses, that were ordered by the quartermaster into service, are employed in carrying the dead. The pack-trains and teams belong to private citizens, and have been employed by the Government in carrying and hauling supplies. It was not expected, however, that they would be required to carry bleeding and mangled human freight.

“Necessity knows no law.” In the beginning of the battle, the citizen teamsters were ordered to this place for duty. Among them was a fair-haired boy of nineteen years of age, who had trained his team horses, on the first and second days of the battle, to walk between the poles that made the mule-stretchers. The poles were about twenty feet long, and at either end a stout strap was attached to each. These straps were thrown across the saddles on the horses, one being immediately in front of the other, and between them canvas was secured to the poles, thus constituting a “horse-stretcher.” This boy had proved himself very efficient, and had won the commendation of the officers, and the gratitude of the wounded men. Dr. McEldry had requested the quartermaster to continue young Hovey in the service, because in managing the stretchers he was careful and trustworthy.

A presentiment had this morning filled the mind of this noble young fellow with dread. He made application to Quartermaster Grier to be excused from further duty with the stretchers, stating his reasons. Mr. Grier expressed his sympathy with him and endeavored to allay his fears, remarking that Dr. McEldry had paid him a high compliment for his efficiency and requested him—Mr. Grier—to send him out again this morning.

The boy—too brave to refuse, although no law could have compelled him to go, though his horses might have been pressed into service—assented, remarking that, notwithstanding he had made several trips safely, he should not get back from this one.

After preparing his horses for this unpleasant labor he goes to a citizen friend, and gives him his watch and other valuables, saying that he did not expect to return, as he had had a presentiment that he would not; and he gave to this friend a message to his father, another for his mother, and mentioning the names of his brothers and sisters, left a few words of love for each. The grandeur of character and heroism exhibited by this boy stand out among the few instances that are given to mankind in proof of the divinity that controls human action. Nothing but godlike attributes could have sustained young Hovey when calmly performing those manly actions which entitle his name to be enrolled among the heroes of the age. So let it be recorded, and let it stand with the nineteen summers he had lived, accusing and condemning those who so wildly howled for blood when the Peace Commissioners were laboring to prevent what might have been only a terrible phantasmagoria, but which has become an awful reality.

Young Hovey, accompanied by one assistant only, started on his way to the battle-field with four horses and two stretchers. No guard was deemed necessary, because it was understood that the Modocs were surrounded and “could not escape,” and it was so reported, by the general commanding, to his superiors. Hovey and his companion had passed by the scene of the tragedy of the Peace Commissioners but a few rods, and but a few hundred yards behind Gen. Gilliam, when, from the cover of the rocks, a Modoc bullet, shot by Hooker Jim, went with a death-dealing power through his head. The monsters, not content with his death and the capture of his horses, rush upon him, and while he is yet alive, scalp him, strip him of his clothing, and then, with inhuman ferocity, the red fiends crush his head to a shapeless mass with huge stones. His companion escapes unhurt.

This outrage was committed almost within sight of the army, which was investing the stronghold, and the camp at the bluff.

Having despatched young Hovey, the Modocs then turned towards the latter camp. Lieut. Grier, who was in command, immediately telegraphed to Col. Greene, in command at the Lava Beds, that “The Modocs were out of the stronghold and had attacked the camp.” He, also, called together the citizens and his own forces, as Assistant Acting Quartermaster, and, arming them, prepared to resist. But a few shots were fired by the Indians; however, one or two balls landed among the tents near the hospital. The Modocs presently withdrew.

The day is passing away with the almost useless expenditure of powder and shells. However, there was a shell sent in yesterday that did not explode when delivered, and the Modocs are anxious to see what is inside of it. How to do so is a question in the Modoc mind. Several plans are tried unsuccessfully, until an old Cum-ba-twas, with jaws like a cougar, taking it in his hands and clinching the plug with his teeth, produces a combustion that he does not anticipate. That shell does execution. In fact, it is worth about five hundred thousand dollars to the Government, rating its services pro rata with the total cost of killing Modoc Indians. When the plug starts, the head of the old fellow who is holding it goes off his body in a damaged condition. Another younger man, who stands by waiting the result of the experiment, is blown all to pieces, cutting his scalp into convenient sizes for the soldiers to divide to advantage.

Two or three old Indian women pass through the lines to the water. A young brave dons woman’s clothes and comes to the line. After slaking his thirst he starts to return. Something in his walk creates a suspicion.

“That’s a man,” says a soldier.

The Indian runs. A dozen rifles command, “Halt!” The Indian halts. The soldiers take five or six scalps off that fellow’s head, and would have taken more, had the first ones been less avaricious. However, soldiers are kind-hearted and unselfish fellows, and the scalps are again divided, so that, at last, ten or twelve are happy in the possession of a scalp.

It is now five P.M. Let us see how the several parties are situated at this time. Couriers are en route to Y-re-ka with despatches, telling the world about the terrible slaughter, and, by the authority of the general in command, assuring the powers that be, in Washington, “The Modocs cannot escape. They are in our power. It is only a question of time. We have them ‘corralled.’”

In Portland, Oregon, an immense concourse of citizens are awaiting the arrival of the train bearing the remains of Gen. Canby. The streets are hushed. The doors of business houses are closed. A general feeling of sorrow is everywhere manifest. Officers of the army and a delegation from a Great Brotherhood are there. On every hand flags are at half mast. Emblems of sorrow meet the eye. The grief-stricken widow sits in her room, cold, comfortless, inconsolable.

The Fraternal and Church Brotherhoods and thousands of mourning friends crowd the wharf in San Francisco, eagerly watching the coming of a steamer from Vallejo with flags at half mast. This boat is bringing home for interment the body of another great man, whose spirit went to its Maker in company with the Christian General, for whom the city of Portland, Oregon, mourns. Nearest to the dark tabernacle two young men are standing. They are the sons of Dr. Thomas.

While the two cities of the western coast are exchanging telegraphic words of sympathy, kind-hearted friends are filling a parlor where three sorrowing children are weeping without the presence of parents. The friends are repeating the hopeful telegrams of the Iowa veteran, and assuring them that their mother is with their father by that time as she left Y-re-ka the previous morning.

At this hour a young physician is hurrying to the bedside of an aged man, who has passed threescore years and ten, near Solon, Iowa. A glance at his face and we are reminded of the wounded Peace Commissioner in the Lava Beds, three thousand miles away. Five days ago he had read the telegram that said, “Meacham mortally wounded.” He threw himself on his bed then, saying, “If my son dies I never can rise again,—my first-born soil who went with me through all my dark hours on the frontier, twenty-five years ago. Must he die? Can I bear it? Thy will be done, O Lord!”

For five days has he laid hanging between life and death. His physician has watched the telegraph, and now, with the words of the Iowa veteran, he is hurrying to the bedside of his patient.

“Your son will recover!” the doctor exclaims before reaching him.

The white-haired man rises on his elbow, saying, “Do I dream? Is it true, doctor? Will my son live?”

About this hour, away up on Wild Horse Creek, Umatilla County, Oregon, a young man is writing a letter that seems to come from an overcharged heart submerged in grief. The letter runs as follows:—

My dear Nephew:—I have just heard of the death of your father.... Eleven months since we kneeled with him beside your Uncle Harvey’s coffin and pledged our lives to care for his widow and orphan children.... You and I, George, are all that are left to care for two widows and two families of orphans. ... The stroke is heavy to be borne.... I will try to be a father to them. We must be men.