Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📗

secure. No leaks. No damage that I can see to the buoyancy tubes.”

The radio chirped to life. “Dispatch to Marine Two. You are ordered to hold at a safe distance. Beware of increased maritime traffic.”

“Roger that, Dispatch. Marine Two will hold at eight hundred yards.”

“What do you think command is up to?” Brandt said.

“I’ll wager they called the Coast Guard,” Lopez replied. “I think the Coasties always have at least one patrol boat on station at Yerba Buena Island. Even one of those boats will rip a new one in those assholes.”

“They could use the hostages as shields.”

“Maybe,” Lopez said. “But my guess is they’ll shit their pants and drop their weapons when the Coast Guard pulls up. I have activity.”

Brandt and Tozer each grabbed binoculars and spied the dock area. It was difficult to get a clear view, given the distance and rocking of the Zodiac.

“Looks like they’re splitting up,” Brandt said.

“Yeah,” Lopez said. “A group of four assailants took off up the path.”

“I see ’em,” Tozer replied.

The group had already passed through the sally port, and was nearing the top of the island.

“They’re heading for the cell block,” Tozer said. “There’ll be a lot of tourists inside the old prison.”

“That’s only the half of it, boss.” Lopez kept looking through the optics. “Look back at the dock area. They’re rounding up the hostages.”

With the threat from the police watercraft eliminated—at least for the moment—Sacheen had ordered most of her team to gather up the civilians who’d been gawking at the spectacle unfolding before their eyes. She ordered four of her soldiers to herd the tourists into the movie theater room of the old barracks building, while another team was dispatched to take control of the massive reinforced-concrete cell house. The remaining men on the dock set to work making preparations for the next phase of the operation.

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With her pistol tucked in her waistband, Sacheen approached the Indigenous American protestors. The group numbered about twenty, and like most of the other civilians, they had their cell phones out and were taking pictures.

She addressed the group. “My brothers and sisters, you are witnessing a historic event. Today marks the beginning of a new era. An era in which we will finally have our rightful lands returned. An era in which we will regain our sovereignty.”

A murmur swept through the protestors. They all held her gaze while the dock landing was being cleared of tourists, all shepherded at gunpoint into the old barracks.

“We share a common heritage,” she continued. “My name is Sacheen Crow Dog. My mother gave me the name of the great activist and Hollywood actress, Sacheen Littlefeather, and I carry forward her work with pride. I invite you to join our cause—the Indigenous Peoples Movement. Claim your place in history, alongside my warriors.”

Toby stepped forward. “I came here to protest peacefully. To educate people about the inequalities our people face. Violence is not the path I have chosen.”

Sacheen approached Toby until they were face to face.

“And what nation are you from?”

Toby raised her chin. “I am Klamath and Modoc.”

Sacheen drew her lips tight in a mocking grin. “You say violence is not your path. But the Modoc have often chosen violence against the white man to resist oppression and resettlement.”

Toby stared into her eyes. She, too, knew her people’s history. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, nearly all nations fought bloody battles against the US Army and white settlers intent on taking Indian lands. In most cases, the land was protected by treaties which were conveniently broken for monetary gain.

“You have a strong spirit,” Sacheen said. “What is your name?”

“Toby. Toby Riddle.”

Sacheen’s eyes widened. “You don’t say. Now that is interesting. Are you related to the famous Modoc of the same name?”

Toby straightened her posture and pulled her shoulders back.

“I am. She was named Winema by her people, before she took her English name. And she was my great-great-great-grandmother.”

“I see.” Sacheen paused. “One of my passions is the history of our ancestors. I’ve studied the chronicles of the North American Indigenous People, focusing on the past one hundred fifty years.” She placed a finger to her lips, then wagged it at Toby. “If I recall correctly, Toby Riddle—”

“Winema. Her name was Winema. It means woman chief, in the Modoc language.”

Sacheen smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

“As I recall, Winema was employed as an interpreter during the Modoc War of the early 1870s. It was in that capacity that she earned her notoriety, if I’m not mistaken.”

Toby’s face flushed at the insult. “You mean, her fame.”

“You are reimagining historical fact. Winema was a traitor. She married a white settler and then betrayed her own people during the Modoc War.”

“It is you who is twisting history to suit your purpose. Yes, it is true that Winema shared information she’d overheard from a council of Modoc warriors. They were planning to murder the peace commissioners rather than allow negotiations to continue that would have ended the war. She cautioned General Canby of the planned ambush, but Canby ignored her warning and went on with the meeting. Winema was there serving as translator. None of the commissioners carried weapons. They were meeting with Captain Jack, the Modoc Chief, and other tribal leaders. Captain Jack shot Canby in the face. Other Modoc warriors killed Reverend Eleazor Thomas. The other commissioners were wounded, including Alfred Meacham. Winema saved his life, preventing Captain Jack from taking his scalp.”

“Even by your account, Winema betrayed her tribe. She sided with the white man.”

“She was on the side of the Modocs, trying to prevent their slaughter. She knew, as Captain Jack did, that the Modocs could never win the war. There were too many US soldiers. A negotiated peace was the only solution. After the murder of General Canby, the Army sent one thousand soldiers to drive my people to the Klamath Reservation, and to the Indian Territories, more than a thousand miles away.”

“Peace.” Sacheen scoffed. “Captain Jack was a warrior. He did not support peace