Bloody Dawn (8 page)

“As the sun went down… Osceola was a heap of smouldering ruins,” wrote a brigade correspondent. Later a visitor was shocked to find “not half a dozen houses” where before there were hundreds and
less than a score of people where formerly there were thousands. Osceola, as a point on the map, had ceased to exist.
²⁵

That autumn, 1861, the senator and his jayhawkers thoroughly scourged the Missouri border, and the name “Jim Lane” inspired a terror fully equal to that of Jennison. “Destroy, devastate, desolate. This is war,” cried the Kansan, his Mexican spurs jingling as he rode along. And like a prairie fire the brigade swept on, murdering, pillaging, and blackening a swath up and down western Missouri. As the flames shot up, Lane looked, to one New York correspondent, like “Nero fiddling and laughing over the burning of some Missouri Rome.”
²⁶

Although the exploits of the senator from Kansas were widely applauded in the North and nationally his star was rising, no group of men could have been prouder or happier than those of his home state, most of whom savored the lesson being taught in “Secessia.” And as John Speer of the
Lawrence Republican
smugly added, what his friend had done thus far was but a warm-up for what he would do in the future: a “miniature picture,” warned Speer.
²⁷

Only Governor Robinson and a few others gave voice to dissent. Ever mindful of his adversary and well aware that Lane's stock always soared during periods of strife, Robinson reportedly spoke early in the war with Missouri governor Claiborne Jackson in hopes of snuffing the border war before it began. When this fell through the governor turned to the military, begging them to force the jayhawkers from the line before the Rubicon was crossed. Finally, when nothing came of this, Robinson rolled up his sleeves and continued the battle both orally and in print. The governor mocked the senator's claim in which he boasted that his brigade had routed “a greatly superior force” at Osceola. Lane's tenure on the border, wrote Robinson to the newspapers, was a history of theft, arson, and murder—of “pouncing upon little, unprotected towns and villages, and portraying their capture as splendid victories.” The governor even insinuated that President Lincoln refused all reports from Kansas unless first endorsed by James Lane. He continued, “If our towns and settlements are laid waste by fire and sword … we will have Gen. Lane to thank for it.”
²⁸

The senator easily brushed aside criticism from Robinson. Any man who made deals with traitors such as Claib Jackson, hissed Lane before a tumultuous crowd in Leavenworth, had no business talking about thievery and such. The gallows were the only high office the governor should hold, he concluded, “and I here arraign Charles Robinson as a Traitor to his country.” To this the audience hotly agreed.
²⁹

Shortly after the Leavenworth speech, and when the anti-Robinson ball had started to roll, the senator closed in for the kill. Sniffing feverishly among the sale of state bonds, Lane announced that profits were filling the pockets of individuals, not of the public. Then came the trial, thus beginning the end of a once-promising career. Battling gamely, Robinson refused to fold and continued the fight as did his dwindling cast of supporters. But soon the governor was forced to retire, beaten and disgraced.

With his long-time enemy now out of the way, and with western Missouri a blackened waste, Lane turned once more to Kansas and set about crushing what little political opposition remained. And with his popularity at an all-time high, and with a horde of more than willing henchmen to help out, it was a simple matter. By the summer of 1863 the “most radical of radicals” found himself in complete control of Kansas, both politically and militarily—a virtual king without a crown. Most men would have relaxed following such an achievement. After a seven-year climb to the top most men would have chosen to savor their triumph somewhat and bask in the warm glow of victory. But James Henry Lane was quite unlike most men. And whatever else the tireless senator was, stupid he was not. Well did he understand the volatile and precarious nature of Kansas politics, and when he saddled the radical tiger in 1855 he, above all others, knew that he could never dismount without being devoured. To keep his name dancing in the public's mind was and always would be his goal—never to let the people forget it, not for a month, not for a moment—for if the words “Jim Lane” were on everyone's lips there was no time to utter the name of another. And to keep his name there, as in the past, almost any excitement or pretext would do.

Now, a bit after midnight on August 21, Lane was back home following a railroad meeting at the Eldridge. Asleep were his grown daughter and teenage son. Also in bed, Mary Lane, a tired, troubled woman whose aging and careworn face spoke without words her tempestuous life with the senator. Throughout the mansion there were trophies and mementos: a shining sword, compliments of Winfield Scott for service in the war with Mexico; a beautiful black piano in the parlor, silk dresses hanging in the closet, and other appointments, courtesy of western Missouri.

General, senator, king; Jim Lane was riding the tiger in Kansas, and he had every intention of holding hard in the saddle.

Outside, others plodded home from the meeting. Save for this the town was still and the night black as a tomb.

A short distance from the Lanes lived the mayor of Lawrence, George Washington Collamore. A tiny, balding man with large, smiling eyes, George Collamore, like most of the leading citizens, was an early and active free-soil fighter. Mayor Collamore was also, like his old friend and law partner, Massachusetts governor John Andrew, an administrator who believed strongly in efficiency and the letter of the law in government. And like everyone else after 1862, the safety of Lawrence was the source of his greatest concern. Hence, upon entering city hall in the spring of that year Collamore had made some changes.

Although the old citizen guard had served a purpose, to the new mayor's way of thinking it had served it rather poorly. Unsophisticated, unreliable, though most had posted about the town cheerfully enough, other guardsmen had begged off or fallen asleep when they did show up for duty. It was a job best left to professionals. Thus from General Ewing the mayor sought and received soldiers for the task, much to the relief of everyone. Then, too, there was the town's weaponry. For much of the war the Lawrence militia used an odd array of arms with no uniformity whatsoever. When drill and target practice were through for the day each gun went to each man's home to suffer neglect and abuse in one form or another. Again the mayor petitioned and again the army delivered, this time with rifles and shot, enough to arm the militia. Unlike the past, however, Mayor Collamore insisted on storing these weapons in the Massachusetts Street armory where, after the town had rallied to any given alarm, a rapid and smooth distribution of arms could be effected.

It was in the midst of these preparations that the bottom had suddenly fallen out of the war—Vicksburg, Gettysburg, the appointment of Ewing—and two weeks ago, when Hadley and his guards left, even the mayor was convinced they were needed no longer. And after the full moon scare and all the ribbing he took, Collamore, the “nervous mayor,” saw no reason to call back the citizen patrols, for even without a guard any emergency could be met by every man in town ready and waiting at the armory; this in fifteen minutes, thirty at the latest.
³⁰

Like Lane and Collamore, other prominent men were now home from the Eldridge, taking in something cool, a bite to eat, a quick glance at the newspaper before bed.

One by one the last lamps in Lawrence flickered out. Windows were thrown wide open to catch the absent breeze of a hot, sultry night, the kind of night when a person turned and tossed and shifted the pillow continually to the cool side, kicking sheets to the floor, rising tired and sweaty for a ladle of water. One o'clock, two o'clock, three—only the twinkling stars kept the vigil. All else slept. The war was over.

No one in the sleeping town would have guessed that, in fact, nearly two more years of smoke and death lay ahead. Even had the predictions been correct and had the Rebel army buckled on all fronts, few in Lawrence understood that for a good many Southerners, particularly in Missouri, the war was not over. Win or lose, the killing would never end now, at least not until the debt had been paid, not until someone paid and paid dearly for the destruction of their homes, for the loss of their loved ones, for the death of an age.

The signs were all there. Had any in the sleeping town bothered to study these signs they might have seen that the time for collecting this debt had come. But no one studied the signs and no one was awake. And no one would have guessed that at that moment, like a great heavy fog, dark and deadly, the collectors were flowing down through the bluffs into the quiet Kansas Valley, not a dozen miles away. Leading them was the only man who could, the man who by stealth and boldness had paralyzed the border for the past two years, and a man whose very name was the most feared word in Kansas. This man and those who followed were two hours from their destination—Lawrence.

By 3:00
A.M.
Captains Coleman and Pike had discovered where the trail of the invaders rejoined—a trail now six hours cold. From Spring Hill the pursuers followed as rapidly as possible, northwest toward Gardner. A messenger sent back by Coleman to Aubrey ordered all arriving troops to push on without delay
.

At the same time, fifteen miles to the southeast, Lt. Col. Charles Clark at Coldwater Grove received a message. It was a hastily written note from Coleman informing him that the guerrillas had crossed the border and that he, Pike, and 180 men were in pursuit. Throughout the night Clark had awaited more information from Pike. What were the Rebels doing on the Missouri side? Had they crossed the line? In what direction? Clark had called in scores of men from other posts and was prepared to march at once. But no further word arrived, and the troopers were sent back. Now came first news of invasion. With only a handful of horsemen, Clark quickly saddled up
.
³¹

One year before, Olathe also slept. Although nothing separated the city of a thousand from “Dixie” except a ten-mile stretch of prairie, Olathe had earlier been lulled by numerous false alarms. The first came one night in August 1861, when a horde of Missourians were reportedly on the march to loot and burn the city. Even though the fear had been widespread and men, women, and children flew wildly about, dawn and scouts revealed not “a wolf, owl, or secessionist.” It had been a terrible, yet groundless alarm. But as everyone later agreed, grounds for concern remained. And if it had done little more than redden faces, the embarrassing panic had at least hammered home one valuable lesson. Henceforth, an armed patrol would guard the town, just in case.

Later another false alarm rocked Olathe. But this time the city was ready. Still later, another scare hit the town and once more the people responded. And so on.
²

Finally, in July 1862 the vigilance of Olathe was rewarded when three Missourians rode into town, robbed the deputy sheriff, then rode out again. The excited militia rapidly formed, and after a brief but furious chase the thieves were brought to bay. With that, townsmen buried their prey, congratulated one another on a job well done, and promptly returned to life and business as usual.

“Missouri had better send a few more of their bushwhackers through Olathe,” laughed a proud resident.
³
And so, one dark night two months later, Missouri did. Except for the saloon, which was jammed with soldiers, Olathe was asleep and very unprepared as over one hundred shadowy horsemen drifted quietly through the streets. The first that anyone knew of their plight came with a simple midnight rap on the door. And suddenly, like some distorted dream, every man in town found himself standing in the square, huddled and helpless.

Then, from the crowd of Rebels a tall, graceful figure appeared. Instantly, most of the groggy townsmen were stunned. He seemed so different. Although dressed much like the rest, he was cleaner, neater, almost fastidious. His blond hair was trim and much shorter than the others', and quite unlike the fierce, mocking eyes all around, his were soft, easy, friendly. And when this strange man finally spoke his voice had a ring as clear and reassuring as his appearance. The man announced to the gathering in the square that his name was William Quantrill. If everyone kept their wits and remained calm no one would get hurt. They had come only for horses, guns, and ammunition, he went on, not to harm or destroy. Private property would even be respected, he added,
if
no resistance was made.

With that the raiders began the roundup of horses. One man protested, however. Drawing a butcher knife from his boot, the Kansan went for his mount. Just as he rose to swing in the saddle a shotgun blast ripped the top of his head off. While the horrified citizens watched on, the corpse flopped up and down on the street in wild death convulsions. Another man, an enraged soldier, grabbed a pistol and snapped the hammer at a Rebel three times. But each click was
a dud, and before he could squeeze out a fourth his body was riddled with balls. And thus began the sack of Olathe. Guards watched the captives while shouting men broke away and kicked in the stores. Hotels and their guests were robbed. Another soldier was killed when he failed to leave his room as ordered. The offices of the two newspapers were demolished. The jail was thrown open and baffled inmates set free. Items were plucked from the citizens: jewelry, watches, miniature photographs of comely women. At dawn the guerrillas herded up the horses, loaded the plunder into wagons, and quietly marched from town.
⁴

Olathe never recovered from the trauma of September 7. Businessmen whose stores were gutted chose not to reopen and risk another such loss. One editor was totally ruined and could not continue his paper. Many families moved away. Those who remained admitted they did so only because of the troops that now garrisoned the town. Even then most were apprehensive.
⁵
Indeed, so too were the residents of other border towns and farms, for the ease with which Olathe was taken left nothing secure. In one night one man erased for all Kansans any fine notions they might have had about the war, about wealth, about old age. In one night one man became to Kansas what Lane, Jennison, Montgomery, and Hoyt had been for months to Missouri—the blade of Western war.

Quantrill was no stranger to Kansas. A number of men in the crowd that night recognized their captor, and some actually spoke with him. Although he was remembered by many as not much more than a boy named Charley Hart, Quantrill had once been a friend during the territorial years and had even lived among them briefly. But all that was past. Things had changed. He was no longer Charley Hart, nor was he a boy. And Missouri was now his home, not Kansas. More important, when the war came it was the South with which he chose to side and not his native North.

Quantrill's war began innocently enough. Eagerly rushing off with the army of Sterling Price, he fought as a private in the opening battles for Missouri—Wilson's Creek, Drywood, Lexington. It was after the Rebel victory at Lexington, however, that a change was made.

Despite the best of Southern hopes, Lexington—a bitter, hard-won affair—came to nothing because Price soon retreated without a parting shot. And when he did, a veil of gloom and despair lowered over all Missouri secessionists. As the regular conflict receded south it left hundreds of Rebel soldiers in its wake. Some, maimed and crippled, would never fight again. Others, fed up with war and sensing that the cause was already lost, took the oath of loyalty and quietly returned to their homes. There were a few, however, who left the army only to pursue a more active, independent role. Quantrill was one of them.
⁶
Above the others he rose to command. Brave, intelligent, affable, from the start it was Quantrill's aim not simply to spar with the enemy in ravaged western Missouri but also to take the hard hand of war to untouched Kansas, and to do it as often as possible. So long as he led this would be his guiding star.

On a cold dawn in March 1862, a small, determined group of men took their first ride into Kansas. Quantrill, George Todd, and over thirty more ventured across the line to settle accounts with several jayhawkers living in Aubrey. As the guerrillas entered the village, they were fired upon from the hotel and were soon followed by three men who bolted from the building. They were swiftly chased down in a field of dry cornstalks and shot. In the melee others were wounded. The store was ransacked, horses taken, and although he was later released, a Union officer was led away as prisoner.
⁷

The sack of Aubrey, although traumatic to those involved, was not a cause of major concern throughout the rest of Kansas. That a huddle of buildings a short jog across the border should be captured created no panic, although it did stir some interest. More important, to many who supposed that the war had retreated south with Price, it did come as a mild shock to find that it had not entirely. And although John Speer asked his Lawrence readers if they remembered Hart, it was the mysterious, foreign-sounding name “Quantrill” that swirled along the border from that day forward.
⁸

A week later Quantrill reportedly swooped down and captured the Union garrison at Liberty, Missouri, a dozen miles northeast of Kansas City. After paroling the soldiers the guerrillas showed up next on the Missouri River, where they robbed a steamer after forcing it to land. A short time afterwards the bridge over the Blue River was burned, a soldier and tollkeeper killed, and suddenly Quantrill was everywhere.
⁹
Others took the cue and joined the war once more. Indeed, before the month of March was out, loyal Missourians and their brethren in Kansas began to hear the name
Quantrill
with disturbing regularity. But also before the month had passed, the cause for all the anxiety very nearly ended when the leader and over twenty of his men were surrounded one night while at a home on the state line. After a furious gun battle in which several were killed, the bushwhackers made a miraculous, fiery escape.
¹⁰

But life got no easier from that point on. Within the next thirty days there were two other narrow escapes, a desperate encounter each, and each with loss of life.
¹¹
As a result Quantrill disappeared
altogether for the next few months, moving from place to place—the timber and bluffs above the Blackwater River; the hills and hollows along the Blue, a deep, dark wilderness east of Kansas City; or the even more tangled and vast Sni-a-bar country, a nightmare world of snakes, ticks, and flies accessible only by hog path or deer run. With his departure the guerrilla war in western Missouri perceptibly cooled.

April and May 1862 passed quietly. In June, however, there was activity, and then, in early July near Pleasant Hill Quantrill reappeared. Here the Rebels and a like number of Federals dueled for hours; first in a running firefight, then locking up for a savage handto-hand struggle in the underbrush. When the smoke had cleared nearly thirty men lay dead and many wounded, including Quantrill, shot through the leg.
¹²
More fighting broke out elsewhere. Adding a new dimension to the war, blue uniforms were stripped from the dead and donned by bushwhackers.

With reason, loyalists grew impatient. Because the military seemed unable to deal with the partisans there was talk of starting an Opposition Amateur Bushwhacking Company. Others began insisting that wives accompany them wherever they went because no man had yet been troubled by guerrillas while in the presence of a woman. And with both Union soldiers and bushwhackers now wearing blue, life in western Missouri became a double-edged game of survival with loyal and Rebel citizen alike never sure as to who they were facing.
¹³

In light of the recent outbreak, drastic measures were deemed necessary if the exasperating war was ever to end. Thus from angry military commanders rolled a series of unfortunate acts that slammed the door on any sane solution to the border war. One such act issued from the quill of James Blunt. Characteristically exploding at the renewed fighting—because as district commander the millstone sat squarely on his back—that brash, headstrong individual responded by hoisting the black flag, transforming what had been until then a sputtering, reasonably humane fight into an allout war of extermination: