Bloody Dawn (3 page)

Just over the line the column rode up a small lane leading west toward Spring Hill. Shielding them on the right was a diminishing row of trees along the headwaters of the Grand. To save strength in the terrific heat, horses were held to a fast walk, occasionally a trot, but never more. Still, a large cloud of dust rose in their wake. The first test was coming soon, just up the road.

“Make no attack unless fired upon,” was the command.
¹⁵

Some of the four hundred, such as Anderson and Younger, were kin to the dead girls at Kansas City. Most, such as Todd and Yager, were not. Many had little left in life to lose except that life, and a majority didn't consider this much to risk. Half were farmers, such as the ones who had joined that morning or the fresh-faced recruits who had come along for the ride. The other half—guerrillas like Anderson, Todd, Younger, and Yager—the other half, at this moment, were the most dangerous men on earth.

After hearing the farmer's story, Captain Pike ordered his men to saddle and mount. Before he left Aubrey, however, Pike quickly jotted out two messages—one to Coldwater Grove in the south, the other to Little Santa Fe in the north—warning these posts that 700 Rebels were on the state line. Riders were given the notes and sent on the double-quick
.
¹⁶

Pike then mounted and led his force south. After a short ride the captain halted, and as his men drew their carbines and revolvers, he formed a line of battle.
¹⁷
Above the trees of the Grand, a mile or so in the distance, a large cloud of dust could be seen. In a few minutes, as the brush gave way to open ground, the first of the invaders slipped into view, then more and more until the entire guerrilla force was passing to Pike's front—more such horsemen than he or his troops had ever seen before
.

Suicide, the captain thought
.

And thus, as the Rebels continued their progress west, Pike turned and led his company back to camp. Once there the nervous officer dispatched a second rider north, bearing the word that 800 bushwhackers were in the state and on the move. Pike then settled in at Aubrey, awaiting developments
.
¹⁸

In retrospect, the border war of 1861 must have seemed like light and carefree sport. Looking back on it all from the dark days of 1863, Kansans could be forgiven if in their hearts there was a longing for a return to those simpler ways of life; back to that joyous time of springtide war when, with flags and banners flapping, the jayhawkers had swooped across the state line to crush the rebellion for God and the Union and in the process pluck old Missouri clean for God and themselves. Like so many children loose in a farmer's orchard, the war had been more a wonderful game back then. And like children at the peak of their excitement and greed, few seemed mindful of another day or the ultimate consequences of their rash acts. But as always, a new day did finally arrive. And when it did, the “game,” for all practical purposes, was up.

With the dawn of 1862, Kansans awoke to find vengeance-hungry Missourians crossing west of the line much as the jayhawkers had crossed eastward the year before. And thus with this sobering reality upon them, and with both sides of the border suddenly locked in a vicious little war, Kansans began to clamor for protection.

Various theories were tossed about as to which method of safeguarding the state was best. When all was said and done, however, the answer was usually the same. With few exceptions Kansans agreed that the only sure way to gain relief from Missouri was simply to seal it off by placing a permanent army along the border as one might place a fence—a fence of scouts, pickets, and patrols watching day and night, spreading alarm to the interior when a Rebel force did approach, then concentrating with overwhelming might to chase, corner, and finally, to destroy them. To the amazement and utter disgust of Kansans, however, no Federal commander viewed the problem in quite the same light. The most effective way to gain security for Kansas, these officers argued, was by killing bushwhackers where they lived, in Missouri. When a new raid on Kansas demonstrated the weakness of this policy, the embarrassed officials tried to mute the outcry by rushing men to garrison the stricken communities. But then, when the furor had faded, the troops were quietly withdrawn, the same course was pursued, and the same results soon followed. Despairing of ever gaining relief, Kansans sometimes banded together and watched the line themselves. In the end, however, this also proved ineffective, because after the excitement had passed, farmers were always forced back on fields to work neglected crops.

The want of a reliable border defense would have been frustrating enough. But then there was also an unfortunate run of military commanders, none of whom could quite measure up to the task. The latest, Brigadier General James Blunt, seemed at last a man for the times. Physically awesome, aggressive, a Kansan himself, Blunt had earlier suggested that a system of signals and patrols be adopted along the border to warn of attack from Missouri.
³
Nothing of substance came of it, however, and Blunt was soon seen by many for what they felt he really was: a “holiday officer,” a heavy-handed, political would-be whose harsh measures only fueled the hatred and will of the bushwhackers. His gala banquets and late-night revelries proved entertaining for some, and the former doctor's penchant for grand reviews was inspiring for others—but the death
and destruction continued, the garrisons were again rushed in, and Kansas under Blunt was more vulnerable than ever.

“This method of protecting burned towns, dead bodies and destroyed private property, don't suit us,” snapped an irate journalist. “Give us a
live
man to take charge of Kansas.”
⁴

Perhaps no family in Ohio was so prominent or so accustomed to power and success than were the Ewings of Lancaster. The patriarch, Senator Thomas Ewing, a master statesman with an ambition that fully mantled his giant frame, was a man honored and esteemed nationwide. And at the sunset of an illustrious career the father could with confidence pass along the family baton to any of seven children—which included a foster son, William Tecumseh Sherman—and expect each to add to the Ewing legacy.
⁵

One of the children, Thomas, Jr., seemed especially promising. And like the grand old man whom he loved and admired, the son's horizons were as broad and boundless as they were bright with hope. In the late 1850s, with opportunity beckoning, the younger Ewing turned west and, with his brothers Hugh and “Cump” Sherman, cast his fate to Kansas Territory. Once settled, the three Ohioans opened a law and real estate office in Leavenworth.
⁶

After weighing his many options, however, Thomas Ewing aligned with the free-state party, became active politically, cultivated friends, and watched while his star dramatically ascended. Soon, with lofty aims and, as he admitted, “big plans a foot,” the son of Senator Ewing was a political force in his own right. As a result he was awarded the first chief justiceship of Kansas.
⁷

This well-charted course didn't reckon on war, however. Already by the autumn of 1862 Cump was a major general and the other brother and former law partner, Hugh, was rising almost as spectacularly. Consequently, Thomas abandoned his lofty though lackluster position and began recruiting and organizing the Eleventh Kansas Cavalry. At its completion, the man with no prior military experience was in turn commissioned colonel of the regiment. Shortly thereafter, the Eleventh engaged Rebel forces in Arkansas, and in the resulting battle the regiment performed so well and the colonel conducted himself with such distinction that by spring 1863, less than seven months after his entrance into the service, Ewing was elevated to the rank of brigadier general.
⁸

On the morning of June 16, 1863, three months after his latest promotion, Thomas Ewing, without “fuss or parade,” entered his office at the finest hotel in Kansas City, the Pacific House, and assumed his duties as commander of the District of the Border.
⁹

At first glance, the task might have seemed simple. On closer inspection, however, the thirty-three-year-old general found himself facing the greatest challenge of his young life. The District of the Border was a huge region encompassing most of settled Kansas and the two tiers of Missouri border counties lying roughly between the Osage and Missouri rivers. East of the state line existed a bitter and generally hostile populace just beginning to recover from the ravages of 1861. Guerrillas roamed the land almost at will and the Missouri farmer, through “fear or favor,” was obliged to help them. Conversely, west of the line was Ewing's home and seat of ambition. Here the loyal people of Kansas resided, and even though the state was liberally laced with thieves, rogues, and scoundrels, all in the end were voters and all in the end demanded protection. Ewing well understood that by accepting the border command he inherited the old territorial battleground in which hatred—black, abiding hatred—had become a firmly rooted fact of life. The challenge was staggering. Much, perhaps the impossible, would be expected of him. And undoubtedly, should he stumble along the way and meet with a reverse or two, those who now waited so hopefully for miracles would quickly turn against him. But if the challenge was great, Ewing felt himself greater still and more than man enough for the job ahead.

Tall, broad-shouldered like his father, cool, confident—vain, some thought—Tom Ewing entered the hotel overlooking the big river and quietly took his post.

General Ewing's tenure began on a tragic note. The day following his arrival in Kansas City an extremely bloody ambush took place near Westport in which fourteen of his new command were slain. Federal scouts swiftly ran down and killed three of the attackers, however, then held to the track of the rest. In the next few days more and more bushwhackers were “put through” until stunned Kansans suddenly realized that not only had a new man stepped onto the scene but a new and rare energy had arrived as well. “Hurrah for Ewing,” one editor cheered. “Put in the licks, General, the very biggest you can lay on, and all the people will say amen.”
¹⁰

A week later, before a crowd at Olathe, Ewing kept the excitement alive and exhibited his mettle by assuring Kansans that the recent success was no charade. “I hope soon to have troops enough on the Missouri side not only to prevent raids into Kansas, but also to drive out or exterminate every band of guerrillas now haunting that region. I will keep a thousand men in the saddle daily in pursuit of them and will redden with their blood every road and bridle path of the border.”
¹¹
Although admittedly he wasn't much of a speaker,
these were the very words Kansans needed so desperately to hear, and the general was applauded warmly.

Then Ewing turned to his chief concern—the defense of Kansas. From his headquarters at Kansas City in the north to beyond the banks of the Osage in the south, there ran a sixty-mile border open to any and all who cared to cross. The very nature of this border was manifest when the jayhawkers of 1861 crossed and recrossed and crossed again, a favor the bushwhackers returned in 1862. Much of the line for ten to twenty miles on either side was devastated, yet beyond, the interior of Kansas lay unscathed. This, at all costs, had to be saved. With less than four thousand men present for duty, from buglers to clerks, and with many needed actively in the field, the chore would be difficult.
¹²
Yet Ewing was not dismayed.

With Kansas City the anchor of the north, a series of stations was established along the border linking up respectively at Westport, Little Santa Fe, Aubrey, Harrisonville, Coldwater Grove, Rockville, and the Trading Post. With the exception of Westport and Harrisonville, each site was an insignificant speck on the map and hardly warranted such attention. But the value of each, as perceived by Ewing, was in its unique location. At approximately thirteen-mile intervals, from Westport to the Trading Post, a station was situated, thereby assuring that in any given crisis a camp would be within rapid supporting distance of another. Every day and every night mounted troops would leave these posts, patrol the border, communicate with men of the next station, scan the eastern horizon, then turn and ride back to their base. Over and over this procedure would repeat itself. And although this system—this virtual human wall—would greatly facilitate alerting other posts and towns to the rear, this was not its sole purpose. The border camps' importance rested also in their strength. Each of the seven stations contained a complement of over one hundred well-armed, well-mounted men. No guerrilla raiding party yet had ventured over the line in numbers sufficient to risk an engagement with or face pursuit by a force such as this.
¹³

A program of this magnitude was expensive. Supply was ponderous and the tedium of camp crushed young spirits. Hundreds of men needed to hunt bushwhackers were thus held back. Despite the many drawbacks, the value of the guard was never doubted and, Ewing felt, for the defense of Kansas it was well worth the investment. And grateful Kansans could not have agreed more. To allay fears even further, the young general sent a small number of soldiers to garrison several border towns and issued arms and rations to the militias in the area.
¹⁴
Satisfied, Ewing turned his sights east once more, to Missouri and “those devils in the bush.”