Bloody Dawn (4 page)

“One thing is certain,” warned William T. Sherman, an officer who had his own problems with partisans, “there is a class of people, men, women, and children, who must be killed or banished before you can hope for peace and order.”
¹⁵

On this score the two brothers saw as one. So long as the families and friends of guerrillas remained, thought Ewing, there could be no hope of pacifying Missouri. For quite some time he had toyed with the notion of clearing these players from the board by exiling “several hundred of the worst” Rebels to the hills and brakes of Arkansas. With the most fanatical supporters out of the way and the
country relatively quiet, Ewing believed he could then “offer terms” to those who remained.
¹⁶
Kansas would thereby gain greater security and in Missouri much of the fighting would end. Such was the plan and such was the course he now embarked upon. So certain was he that his immediate superior would countenance the plan that Ewing had already directed his troops to begin the roundup of families before a formal order of expulsion had been written.

During the first week of August 1863, Ewing's confidence in the border situation enabled him to leave his post at Kansas City and travel downriver to St. Louis. There he met with Maj. Gen. John Schofield and sought permission to carry through with the plan.

John Schofield was a plump, balding, undramatic sort of fellow without a trace of the pomp and flourish most men naturally looked for in a general. Nonetheless, to command the most delicate of all border states President Lincoln wanted none other.

Although quite aware of the valuable service he performed in Missouri, Schofield thoroughly despised the job and longed to join the great armies of the East. Since the beginning of the war, when he was caught between lectures as professor of physics at Washington University in St. Louis, Schofield had seen no assignment other than the West. After breathing the smoke of battle at Wilson's Creek in 1861 where he was “ever in the lead, foremost, coolest,” Schofield for the most part sat at one uneventful desk job after another, albeit influential posts for which he was handsomely rewarded, but drab, inglorious, enervating posts as well.
¹⁷
Thus in the spring of 1863, when he was ordered to report for active duty in Tennessee, John Schofield was quick to go.

The transfer proved temporary, however, for in less than a month a surprised and travel-worn general found himself back in St. Louis and, by direction of the president, in charge of the Department of the Missouri. In the choice of commander Lincoln found a man, a fellow Illinoisan, who knew Missouri as did few others, and just as important to the president, Schofield was a political moderate with no strings attached.

“Exercise your own judgment,” wrote Lincoln, “and do right for the public interest.… Let your military measures be strong enough to repel the invader and keep the peace, and not so strong as to unnecessarily harass and persecute the people. It is a difficult role, and so much greater will be the honor if you perform it well.”
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Petulant and moody, resentful of the “promotion” that forced him back to the Missouri desk, Schofield, the West Pointer, would nonetheless stay and perform a soldier's duty as the president asked. At the same time he would never miss an excuse to escape Missouri and take the field. Lincoln's choice, although politically unpopular, was nevertheless a good one, for no matter how weak and bending John Schofield might appear outwardly, he was in fact inwardly a very strong man.

The Department of the Missouri was comprised of Kansas and Missouri and those parts of Arkansas and the Indian Nations held by Federal troops. To guard this huge area Schofield had some forty-three thousand men. In June 1863, however, the general sent nearly half the soldiers in his department downriver to reinforce U. S. Grant in his campaign against Vicksburg. Although Washington was heartily pleased with the move and Schofield himself was “willing to risk it,” as he said, “in view of the vast importance of Grant's success,” the risk left his department dangerously undermanned.
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One way of making up the difference was by mustering into service tens of thousands of Missouri militiamen. Another was to cut back and eliminate needless assignments. Yet another way to ease the troop shortage and possibly cool the guerrilla war was by hearing suggestions such as Thomas Ewing now proposed.

The two men—one the scion of an important national politician, the other the son of a Baptist minister—discussed the plan of removal confidentially, of its necessity, scope, and value. While Ewing soon returned to Kansas City, Schofield held off on a decision, requiring several more days to weigh the merits of the move. Then on August 14, 1863, the St. Louis commander telegraphed his approval. Along with the approval, however, were certain stipulations: because of “expense and trouble” and the suffering of children, the people removed must be kept to a minimum—only those, wrote Schofield, of the “worst character.” He also cautioned Ewing to be alert during the following weeks; because of the banishment of their relatives, guerrillas might in some form or another seek retaliation.
²⁰

And so Ewing signed into law General Orders, No. 10, the forced removal of bushwhacker families and friends and their exile from west Missouri. Throughout August his troops continued the sweep begun in July, herding scores of men, women, and children to prison prior to their passage downriver.

On into the weeks of August, Tom Ewing busied himself with the many affairs of his district. And with each passing day the general's
faith in his ability to tame the border grew. Even before he assumed the difficult assignment in June, Ewing had already owned a veritable river of self-confidence—the result of a life unsullied by failure. And as of late, the shower of public acclaim and attention could not but help give the flow a mighty, swift rise. There was some criticism, however, political in nature mostly. A number of hard-shelled abolitionists hammered on Ewing's slavery stand, or as they said, the want of it. Others pointed to the renewed rumblings in the woods of western Missouri as proof that the new commander was no better than the rest. Even more were irate at the general's tough handling of the jayhawking problem and his declaration of martial law in Mayor Dan Anthony's Leavenworth, the well-known black market capital of the West. And some, with little else to carp about, just called Ewing “selfish.”

But the overwhelming majority of loyal, honest men would hear none of it. They could plainly see all about them the results of an active policy conducted by a man of intelligence and energy, of the return to calm after a reign of terror and near anarchy. The reasons for the general's success were clear for any who cared to look. Brigandage along the border had been throttled by martial law in Leavenworth and was nearly at an end. Also, as soldiers became adept in brush tactics there was a sudden swing in the balance of fighting. At no point in the war was the morale of the troops higher, for after a series of “petty skirmishes and engagements” the Federals had come away with the decided advantage. Additionally, Ewing's spies had infiltrated the guerrilla ranks so thoroughly that it was felt no move by large bodies of Rebels could be made without the general soon learning of it. In the past few weeks alone a band of bushwhackers had been scattered by just such information.
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There was, as Schofield predicted, a noticeable surge in guerrilla activity throughout western Missouri. But once again Ewing felt confident that the trouble could be contained until the completion of Order No. 10. And the order itself was progressing smoothly. Except for the incident at the prison in which the five women were killed, the transfer had come off without a hitch.

But undoubtedly, of all his many achievements, the source of Ewing's greatest satisfaction was the border guard and the protection he had given Kansas.

“No General in command of the District has … given so much peace to the border,” rang one admirer.
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“Everything seems to have taken new life since Gen. Ewing came,” echoed another.
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Indeed, Thomas Ewing could take pride in his labors, for in less than two months he had raised from raw material something that none of his predecessors, during the past two years, had been able to construct—he had rebuilt a solid sense of safety and security over the western border. In that same speech at Olathe, shortly after assuming command, Ewing had told Kansans: “I can assure you there is little at present to fear on this side of the border from guerrilla bands.” What seemed true then seemed doubly so on August 20, 1863. In two short months the sweet breeze of peace and hope had come flowing over the line in waves unlike any time in the past, and since the onset of war Kansas had never experienced such tranquility. And in the minds of the people of that state, only one person could take the credit. Thankful Kansans, searching so long for that one general, that one “live” man, were convinced they now had found him.

“The terrible state of affairs,” wrote one editor, expressing the mood of many, “is coming to an end.…
Ewing is the man
.”
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Near midnight on August
20,
1863, Capt. Charles Coleman and his company reached the camp at Aubrey. Probably no Federal officer on the border had adapted to the guerrilla war as well as Coleman; he seemed born to it. When he entered the woods of western Missouri he lived as the bushwhacker lived, fought by stealth and surprise as the bushwhacker did, and understood the tricks of the game and knew his dangerous adversary as well as any. His record and the roll of Rebel dead bore this out. Incontestably brave, clever, daring to a fault, Coleman's élan had caused near disaster three weeks before. Hunting guerrillas one hot, tension-filled night in July, the captain and his men came stealing up behind a large force presumed to be that of the foe. Actually, it was another Federal outfit on the same hunt with a band of Indians riding rearguard. Coleman charged, the Indians broke, and with wild screams and feathers flying the rest of the panic-stricken company was carried into the night. Fortunately, only one man was killed by the error, but Union troops were thereafter mindful when Charles Coleman was in the vicinity
.
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Learning that Captain Pike had failed to send any warning west and that only one message had been relayed south to Lt. Col. Charles Clark, Coleman hastily sent a courier of his own to Clark, informing him that Kansas had been invaded. Then, with their forces combined, Coleman, Pike, and nearly two hundred troopers struck for the trail of the invaders
.
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At approximately the same time, twenty miles to the north, the second dispatch rider sent by Captain Coleman was entering the long, wooded lane south of Westport. The moon was down and the way north was black and frightening. Even though Kansas City and General Ewing's headquarters were only five miles away, the exhausted mount could not be held to more than a trot in the smothering heat. If out of curiosity the courier struck a match and read the message he carried, a practice not uncommon, then he would see that at 6:00
P.M.
that day 800 guerrillas had crossed the state line just south of Aubrey. When last seen they were headed west. To any Kansas soldier, “west” meant one of three places: the first two, Olathe and Paola, both short hops from the border, were lately always alert, now continually defended by troops and militia; the unlikely third, fifty miles from the line and by far the largest of the three, was Lawrence
.
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At 9:00
P.M.
, January 29, 1861, the first news of statehood reached the darkened streets of Lawrence. Word spread rapidly from house to house until in a moment the sounds of celebration echoed from every corner of the snow-covered town. While church bells pealed, while homes and shops were illuminated, while a cannon boomed out one hundred salutes, men and women laughed and shouted, danced and hugged, kissed and cried. They built huge bonfires, singing away the night, while toasts were lifted again and again.

It was an occasion the people would remember for as long as they lived. But wonderful though the news was, the celebration was more than merely a salute to statehood—much more. It was a paean of victory, a victory of freedom over slavery. For as the new state picked itself up and “moved to America,” it moved not as a slave state, as everyone in the South had earlier predicted, but as a free state, as everyone in Lawrence had hoped and prayed. And if the people of Lawrence laughed a little harder, sang a little louder, and danced a bit longer than other folks in Kansas it was with good reason, because it was here, more than in any other place and more through their efforts than anyone else's, that the victory over slavery had finally been won.

But it had not been easy.
Ad astra per aspera
ran the new state motto—To the stars through difficulties. Although the stars had not quite been reached yet—indeed, they were hardly in sight—everyone celebrating in the streets of Lawrence, and throughout Kansas as well, would have agreed that the little New England colony by the banks of the Kaw had already passed through more than its share of difficulties.

Behind them now were the dark days of fear and uncertainty, the days of “bleeding Kansas” and the uphill struggle to rescue the territory from slavery. Gone were the awful, anxious, though blood-free days during the siege of Lawrence when men from the North and men from the South had for the first time, after years of vowing to do so, glared at one another down the sights of their guns. Gone too were the days when gangs of Missouri “Border Ruffians,” drunk and swaggering, had bullied to the polls to ensure a proslavery government. Behind them also was that memorable day when free-staters, heeding a “higher law,” had met in Lawrence to form their own government. And no more would the people hear those hideous taunts and curses when the men of Lawrence were called “white-livered abolitionists,” “black-hearted Yorkers,” “nigger heroes,” and such and were warned to clear out or face death by lead, hemp, and fire.

“We shall have Kansas—we won't be cheated out of it,” growled Southerners back then. “We are going to have Kansas if we wade to the knees in blood to get it.”

But Lawrence was made of sterner stuff, and although they should have been, the citizens were not cowed in the least. Missourians were dared to come on and make a war of it, then jeered and spat upon as “drunken rif-raf,” “white-trash,” and “pukes.”

And finally, for those singing and laughing in the streets this night, behind them was the time most remembered of all—the time when, after months of threats and vows, their town was at last invaded and sacked. Lawrence had always held a special place in Missouri hearts. Everyone knew this. Because it was peopled by the most troublesome free-staters in Kansas, and because it was the headquarters of the detested New England Emigrant Aid Society, slavers had always bristled to “burn out” the hated abolition nest and have an end of it. Thus when the golden opportunity presented itself one day in May of 1856, a mob of Border Ruffians eagerly swarmed into town. The free-soil leaders were quickly collared and jailed, the newspapers and hotel were destroyed, and then several homes were looted and another burned, just for good measure. Although none of the townsfolk were injured in the affair, it was one dismal day to recall nonetheless.

But looking back on it now, anyone could plainly see that, black cloud though it was, the sack of Lawrence had its silver lining as well. For no sooner had word of the outrage reached the East than a fierce cry of indignation went up. Where before there had been merely a trickle of help, now money, guns, and men—angry men—flooded into the territory, enough so that any further doubts about the outcome were quickly erased. Thus, even in its hour of apparent defeat, Lawrence had sown the seeds for freedom's victory and had, in the process, sealed the doom of the South. The irony: the people of Lawrence loved it.

Ad astra per aspera
—although the phrase was hoisted for Kansas, nobody was fooled. The words were written at Lawrence, written in fire. It was here against odds that the war to end slavery was begun; it was here during the darkest days that the battle was continued; and finally it was here, fittingly, gloriously, triumphantly, that freedom was ultimately won. Those dancing and singing in the snowy streets of Lawrence this memorable eve knew this simple lesson in history, and now, all too clearly, all too painfully, Missouri knew it as well.

As everywhere throughout America, the spring of 1861 was a suspenseful, breathtaking time in Lawrence. Statehood … South Carolina … secession … it was a hissing fuse of events that finally exploded in one word—Sumter! President Lincoln's call for men to suppress the rebellion had no greater reception anywhere in the nation than in Lawrence, for here at last was the war all had waited for: the war to end human bondage. No longer was it simply a defense of
freedom in the territory, but a direct assault on treason and slavery in Missouri. It was also a time of thrill and high pageantry.

Lawrence men, “Old '56 Boys,” eagerly rushed to arms and formed companies overnight. Behind them, teenagers banded together into the Union Cadets and behind them still, noisy children marched with paper hats and wooden swords. The ladies of Lawrence bestirred themselves with patriotic committees and the sewing of flags and tunics. Troops from the interior, bound for the border, were “almost constantly” tramping up flag-bedecked Massachusetts Street, and with band music blaring, each green outfit received a hero's welcome. Daily the small city armory filled as guns, powder, and bayonets arrived.
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“The martial spirit of the people is fully aroused,” huzzahed Hovey Lowman, editor of the
Lawrence Journal
. “All around the eye meets the gleam of the freshly burnished Sharp's rifle, and the ear catches the significant click of the newly oiled revolver.”
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Then, one night in early May, Lawrence was thrown into a commotion reminiscent of the territorial days when Missourians were reportedly on the march to seize the city and its armory. The scare was brief, however, and by morning everyone was ready “to welcome invaders to ‘hospitable graves.' ” In fact, the emergency only added spice to the wonderful war mood as well as confidence in the town's preparedness.

“We invite any number of Border Ruffians to visit any part of our State,” goaded the
Journal
. “The nearer they come to Lawrence the better!” Nevertheless, scouts were sent ranging and the militia found new call to quicken its step.
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“Fight for fun,” trumpeted John Speer of the
Lawrence Republican
as more troops arrived in the city.
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And following them hundreds more from outlying counties came down the valley, bivouacked for a night or two, then pushed east, all the while giving the town the thump and boom of an important military post. The Lawrence Guards, with Ens. Joshua Pike, joined the parade as did other city companies. And a great many had the supreme satisfaction of marching and camping among their old foes at Kansas City and Westport, never missing an opportunity to exhibit their patriotism and, “in every possible way,” their contempt.
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Other local adventurers dashed off in their dust to “spread terror,” free slaves, and lay claim to Missouri loot.

Then in late July 1861, when the camps had cleared and when an unusually calm and lonesome mood settled upon the town, a second rumor of an impending raid came. Excited citizens once more rushed to arms, and over a hundred militiamen rallied from the country. In the end, however, the report proved just as unfounded as before. Still, apprehension was duly aroused. Coming as it did on the heels of the Union debacle at Bull Run and the continued Rebel resistance in Missouri, men soon realized that the war would not be over in a few months as predicted. Sidewalk idlers speculated that a dozen or so daring horsemen could steal into Lawrence some night, burn a portion of the town, then escape across the border unmolested.

Even though several new militia companies were rapidly formed, the scare passed, and by late autumn the war again seemed far away. In fact, looking back over the year, most all of Lawrence would agree that 1861 had been a memorable, enjoyable time generally, a time when all the world seemed hued in red, white, and blue, or, as everyone had prayed for in January, a “year of peace and plenty.” War had raged to the east and wild rumors had caused some excitement, but slight was the effect in Lawrence as men, women, and children sat down to roast turkey and oyster pie and enjoyed Thanksgiving “in true New England style.” But while others held seasonal parties and crowded around warm firesides, a few individuals watched events taking shape on the border. What they saw worried them. Because of the unbridled rampage of Jennison and other jayhawkers, thousands of Missourians were going hungry and homeless this winter. Some felt the punishment only fit the crime and quietly reveled in its execution. But the chilling question still arose: “How long before Lawrence may expect a return visit? Home guards drill! drill! drill!”
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The following spring, 1862, a fresh wave of troops flooded up the Kaw Valley bound for duty in New Mexico. “Lawrence … citizens seem as much pleased to gaze on a military display as when the first squad of soldiers passed through her streets,” noted the
Journal
.
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This benign attitude soon began to crack, however, then crumble. Unlike previous troops these newcomers were illmannered and rowdy and chafed at the thought of service in the desert Southwest. During the day there were fistfights, drunkenness, and shootings, and at night there was singing and howling when most of the town was abed. Theft became more commonplace. Consequently, soldiers were kept from the city as much as possible and not allowed to enter at all after sundown.
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Troops weren't the only visitors to enliven Lawrence during the early years of the war; there were also slaves by the hundreds. Some
Missouri runaways crossed the line and went no further than their first step on free soil, settling for good in Wyandotte, Leavenworth, and Atchison. But more, it was observed, “as they break their fetters … strike for the center of abolition.” And that center, as everyone white and black knew, was Lawrence.
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