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

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Fairchild?” Jack called out.

  “He’s not here,” Trimble shouted back, shading his eyes with a hand.

  The chief took a single step forward. “Fairchild—that you?”

  Trimble glanced back at Donegan, waving the civilian forward.

  “He’s across the creek, Captain Jack,” explained the Irishman as he stepped more into the light.

  “Fairchild not here?”

  “Soon. He’ll come soon.”

  Jack appeared very tired as he took a few more steps forward, the rifle still slung carelessly beside him, then he appeared to think better of it and collapsed slowly to the nearby shelf of rocks.

  Tremble and Donegan moved forward warily, both watching the rest of the trees for anything that could spell an ambush. But in less than a minute they both stood feet from the chief of the Modocs.

  Dressed in tattered soldier britches and a dirty, bloodied army tunic, Captain Jack looked up at them, his eyes red and puffy from the smoke of many fires and too many nights without sleep. He shielded his eyes with a hand as he looked them both over. There was no flinching, no indication of fear as he gave himself over to his captors.

  Then his eyes dropped to the ground, where he laid the rifle at Trimble’s feet.

  Jack dragged a hand beneath his runny nose, quietly snorting. He wagged his head wearily and sighed, as if a great burden had been lifted from him.

  Two more warriors now appeared, off to the right, as if they had been waiting—watching the scene. They slowly moved down to stand near their chief and surrendered their rifles. Seconds later the first of the squaws and children came into the tiny clearing. Five women and seven youngsters stood with the men, every one of them looking emaciated and exhausted, having hung on during the chase of the last few days by nothing more than sheer will alone.

  Kientpoos, chief of his people to the end, looked over those of his band who had come into the tiny clearing to stand around him. Then Jack squinted up at the white men and spoke quietly.

  “Jack’s legs give out.”

  Chapter 37

  June 1–14, 1873

  “You are Captain Jack?” Trimble asked his prisoner.

  The Modoc nodded, scratching at the back of his neck for a louse. “I am Jack.”

  “Chief of the Modocs.”

  He squinted up at the officer for a moment. Then gazed back at the ground. “Yes, I am Kientpoos. Chief of the Lost River Modocs.”

  Captain Trimble turned, signaling. “Sergeant McCarthy! Bring the men up! We have captured Captain Jack!”

  As the sixteen soldiers and pair of scouts came into the clearing, William Trimble himself ripped his hat from his head and tossed it into the air with a throaty cheer. The rest of the men did the same, each one of them rushing forward to get a look at the ragged, forlorn figure of the man they had been making war on for more than six months.

  “He don’t look so mean to me,” muttered one young soldier.

  “It ain’t how he looks,” commented another. “It’s what a black-hearted bastard like that does that’ll give you bad dreams, boy.”

  Seamus Donegan listened to the not so quiet mutterings of the soldiers as they encircled their few captives, all the while never taking his eyes from the man who had stood off the might of the United States Army with less than seventy warriors, with no supply lines and no logistical support, for more than half a year.

  The longest Indian war in history.

  “I’ll bet he ain’t no older’n you,” commented Private Shay as he came to stand beside the Irishman.

  “Lot younger than any of us would’ve thought.”

  After the captured Modocs performed the social rite of shaking hands all around with the Tenino scouts, and Sergeant McCarthy had signaled Captain Perry on the far side of the narrow canyon, Trimble gave the order to move out. Each of the four warriors was placed behind a soldier on horseback. Then each of the five squaws and children were ordered to climb behind a soldier as well. The scouts turned the party down the trail toward the Willow Creek crossing, where they met the expectant Captain Perry, Donald McKay and John Fairchild.

  As the entire band of Warm Springs scouts drew closer to Colonel Davis’s camp sprawled on the grounds of Applegate’s ranch, they began to sing victory songs one after another, each one louder than the one sung before.

  Ian O’Roarke stood with the others, soldiers and civilians, newspapermen as well, who had heard the distant singing that early Sunday afternoon, sensing those songs meant something momentous. In moments hundreds of people lined the main path winding through camp, bodies parting like a wave, cheering and crying out, waving at their prisoners and throwing their hats in the air as the procession of Perry’s cavalry plodded into camp.

  Ian shouldered his way out of the crowd and was at Seamus’s side, trotting along beside the horse. “The Modoc War is over, lad. Welcome … welcome home.”

  Remembering for a moment the far-off life they had shared in Ireland—thinking now of a young boy carried bouncing down muddy, rocky roads on his tall uncle’s shoulder—Seamus reached down, gripping his uncle’s hand for but a moment Then he lifted the young Modoc boy who had ridden down the mountain on Donegan’s horse, handing the youngster to Ian.

  The words came hard then. “This one needs something to eat in a bad way, Uncle.”

  Ian stopped, rubbing the youth’s wounded shoulder as Seamus pulled his horse out of the long procession. “Let’s find us all something to eat.”

  “And, maybe we can talk Cabaniss out of some of his brandy,” Seamus added quietly, eyes smarting.

  Ian smiled, his own eyes glistening. “It has been a long, long and dirty war for us all, Seamus. I don’t think the surgeon will see a damned thing wrong with the two of us having a toast—for medicinal purposes.”

  The Warm Springs scouts made a grand show of presenting their prisoners to Colonel Davis in the sunlight of that Sunday afternoon. Davis received Jack without ceremony, then ordered that the chief immediately be taken to a regimental blacksmith and fitted with leg shackles.

  “Lock him to Schonchin John,” the colonel ordered. “I want this one to run no more.”

  As the two warriors were separated from the rest of the entire band, rejoined just moments before in the soldier camp, the Modocs’ fears grew palatable. Six soldiers appeared, nudging the two leaders away. Other soldiers held the rest of the Modocs at bay. Children began to scream when squaws set to wailing, keening in grief.

  “They think those two are being taken for execution,” explained John Fairchild as the guard marched their prisoners by.

  “Fairchild!” Jack called out, his eyes wild, filled with fright “Where they take me? Time now to kill Jack?”

  The civilian pushed aside a young guard to walk alongside the Modoc chief. “No. Not time now, Jack. They’re taking you to put irons on your legs.”

  “Irons?”

  “Heavy chains. So you will run no more.”

  Jack wagged his head again. “Jack no can run no more, Fairchild. Legs very tired. Jack ready to die now.”

  Fairchild turned from the guards, looking for an officer. When he found one, he suggested that Jack would need an interpreter: Scar-Faced Charley.

  The chief and Schonchin John both protested vehemently when they arrived at the blacksmith’s forge to find they were to be chained together. When Charley explained that protest was useless, both men submitted to the long, hot process of wrapping sheet iron around the ragged cuffs of the army trousers they both wore. John and Jack were in this way wedded by the army for the rest of their lives.

  Bogus Charley stood on the side, watching, himself wailing to the late afternoon sky. “Now all Modocs will hang. We all die now, Jack!”

  That evening, as twilight sank over Tule Lake and the victorious Teninos began their night-long celebration of dancing and feasting, Davis sent orders to Major Mason to bring the rest of the prisoners from Fairchild’s ranch and meet him at the Peninsula camp. Most o
f the soldiers watched that entire, barbaric performance by the Warm Springs scouts into the long evening, as the Teninos acted out each incident of the war, accompanied by drums, war-cries and firing their guns in the air.

  Over the next few days Davis learned that some of the Oregon militia had run across a few of the remaining Modocs in the northern part of the Langell Valley, looking for someone who would accept their surrender. General Ross was preparing to turn his prisoners over to the Jackson County sheriff for execution.

  At hearing that news, Jefferson C. Davis grew livid with anger. He immediately dispatched an escort of soldiers to return all Modocs held by the Oregon militia to his camp as prisoners of war. In a tersely-worded message, the colonel informed Ross of the consequences he faced if any of the Modocs were tried in civil courts, for he believed Oregon held no jurisdiction over the prisoners.

  Ross at first intended to ignore the federal government and the U.S. Army as well, until his men began showing the captured Modocs to the widows of the slain settlers. Neither of the women were able to conclusively identify any of the murderers.

  “You can now take possession of them all,” Ross informed Davis indignantly. “Prisoners of war, murderers of Oregon civilians—all.”

  By Friday, 6 June, when all the troops and the Modocs were gathered in the Peninsula camp, the colonel assured Ross that executions would be held, for he had ordered his regimental carpenters to construct a gallows he would use to hang the Modoc leaders.

  “I firmly believe the best way to bring an end to all Indian trouble across the breadth of the frontier is to summarily execute every leader of this ignominious Modoc War as quickly as possible, with the end in mind of showing by example what awaits other red men who would take up arms against us.”

  He was prepared to hang at least seven of the ringleaders at sunset that Friday night.

  Yet in an eleventh-hour telegram from General William Tecumseh Sherman, Davis’s superiors could not authorize the hangings unless the murderers could be positively identified and convicted in a court of law. In addition, Davis was told to spare the lives of the four warriors who had helped track down their chief.

  “Damn!” Davis blurted out as he read the last part of the telegram. “They wish to reward murder—as long as these butchers have seen the light and hunted Jack down!”

  “They actually want you to spare those fiends who killed the civilians?” asked Major Green.

  “Damn them—sitting back there—making decisions for me a whole country away!” Davis fumed. “If I had any way of making a living for my family outside of the army, I would resign today!”

  “I suggest you write General Sherman, sir,” said Major Mason.

  “Yes, I’ll damn well tell them that I believe delay will destroy the moral effect that the prompt execution of these red devils would have upon other tribes, as well as dampening the inspiring effect their execution would have upon the troops.”

  Then he suddenly turned, as if struck with a thought, and pushed through his tent flaps. In a flurry of motion, Davis led his staff and officers fluttering behind him as he hurried to the compound where the Modocs were held. As the sun sank behind the mountains, the colonel let fly with his anger. He stepped up before the sullen Captain Jack, shaking his fist in the chief’s face.

  “From the first contact my people had with the Modocs, yours has been a history of murder and rapine, plunder and thievery. Even among your own Indian neighbors you are known as a domineering and tyrannical tribe. Old settlers in the country report as many as three hundred murders committed by your people …

  “For these many crimes, no adequate punishment upon the guilty, even as a tribe or individually, has been made …

  “A few years ago, regardless of these acts of treachery, the government gave you a reservation of land for a home, where, if you chose, you could have remained and enjoyed the annual bounties of the government unmolested …

  “You all went upon the reservation, and part of your tribe has remained, but you and your band seemed to have preferred the warpath. You left the reservation, you spurned the kindness of the government, and even resisted the soldiers in the execution of their duty in forcing you to the reservation …

  “Now that I have recounted your history and that of your tribe, the recent acts of yourself and your band, I will close this interview by informing you that I have this day directed that you and your confederates, members of your band, be executed …

  “But while I was preparing a list of those I intended to execute, a courier arrived from Washington, saying, ‘Hold the prisoners till further orders.’”

  Davis was on his way back to his tent when the reporter from the New York Herald dashed up to inform the colonel that the two widows were trying to kill some of the prisoners.

  The colonel and his party found Mrs. Schira jabbing at a cowering Hooker Jim with a large, double-edged knife. Nearby, Mrs. Boddy was trying to get a pistol cocked.

  Davis was himself nicked by Mrs. Schira’s knife in disarming her.

  * * *

  Two days later Seamus found himself sitting in afternoon shade with his uncle and a handful of civilians near the newly constructed gallows. A soldier dashed into camp shouting in panic that some Modocs who had come in to surrender at Fairchild’s ranch had been attacked on the road to the Peninsula camp.

  “They’ve been murdered! Modoc prisoners coming in from Fairchild’s ranch—up at Adams Point!”

  John Fairchild, Pressley Dorris and Ian O’Roarke were on their feet, bolting toward their horses.

  “My brother—James!” cried Fairchild, the words seizing in his throat as he galloped away from the soldier camp.

  Spurring their mounts to a lather down the Pit River Road, they found the horrid, bloody scene. Already at the site they found a squad of ten soldiers who had hurried to the Fairchild wagon when they heard the repeated gunfire.

  “James!”

  “John!” young Fairchild called out, recognizing his brother’s voice amid the crying and wailing of the Modoc women as they rubbed their hands over their dead husbands.

  The brothers embraced, tears in each man’s eyes as they stared into one another’s face.

  “How close … so many times how close we have come to death, James.”

  “They spared me,” the younger man said.

  As the other civilians came up, glancing over the bloody scene, John asked his brother, “Tell us what happened, James.”

  He drank another short swallow from Dorris’s canteen, then started. “Four warriors came in yesterday. With their wives and children. About a dozen altogether. Gave themselves up to Millie and me. We started out for here yesterday afternoon.”

  “Who knew you were coming over?” Seamus asked.

  James shook his head. “It was no secret, I suppose. But, far as I knew—no one had any idea I was heading here.”

  “Go on,” John asked of his brother.

  “As we crossed the Lost River Ford, north of here, we were met by some Oregon volunteers—under a fella named Hyzer.”

  “They cause you trouble?”

  “No. Not really. Just looking the bunch over in the wagon real hard. I know a couple of those men on sight. Raised like we was here in Klamath country.”

  “They went on down the road?” Dorris asked.

  Fairchild nodded. “West. And I kept on east another seven miles or so—right here—when two strangers come up from the trees with their guns out.”

  “You ever seen ’em before?” O’Roarke said, bristling.

  “Never.”

  “Were they wearing uniforms of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Had to be them volunteers,” Dorris hissed. “Tell us the rest.”

  James Fairchild nodded. “They ordered me down from the wagon, waving their guns at me. I thought they were joking at first, but they wasn’t. While one of ’em kept me covered, the other one cut the mules free and drove them off. That’s when I knew the fat wa
s in the fire. I started to tell them two just to go and nothing would come of it, when they up and turned their guns into the wagon and started shooting it up.”

  “They killed the four warriors and wounded one of the squaws before they lit out,” O’Roarke said, turning at the sound of hoofbeats.

  Lieutenant John Kyle arrived on the scene with a squad of another fifteen troopers.

  “Mr. Fairchild,” Kyle said as he slid from his horse, quickly surveying the scene. He stepped back after looking at the bodies. “You have any clues who did this?”

  John Fairchild shook his head. “My brother was driving the wagon. He didn’t know either one of ’em.”

  “You here to catch the murderers, Lieutenant?” asked Pressley Dorris.

  “No, sir. General Davis sent us along to bury the dead and escort the rest into camp.”

  “You’ll bury ’em here?”

  Kyle looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Alongside the road there, I suppose.” He turned away and began giving orders to his squad to busy themselves with shovels.

  “That’s four more won’t get cremated,” John Fairchild muttered.

  “Meaning their Modoc souls can’t be freed if they aren’t,” explained Ian O’Roarke.

  * * *

  On 11 June, Colonel Davis dispatched Captain Jackson to take Troops B and K of the First Cavalry back to Fort Klamath, where they were instructed to build a stockade and adequate shelter for the Modoc prisoners: forty-four men, forty-nine women and sixty-two children.

  Three days later, on the fourteenth, Davis marched his prisoners north, escorted by Mason’s Twelfth and Twenty-first Infantry. That first night out, a pair of prisoners shackled together thought they saw their chance to escape. Black Jim and Curly Headed Doctor did not get far into the darkness before the chain between them snagged on a clump of sagebrush and brought them both crashing down.

  Soldiers dragged their cursing prisoners back to the night’s camp.

  The next night another prisoner determined to escape or die trying. He had sworn he would not hang at the end of the white man’s rope.

  Curly Headed Jack, one of the trio who had boasted of shooting Lieutenant Sherwood east of the Stronghold just moments before the murders at the peace tent began, had somehow gotten his hands on a pistol in the past few days and kept it hidden under his clothes.