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  After a wait of fifteen minutes the stragglers joined and the order to march was given. But just then, a short distance to the east, a large body of men were spied emerging from the woods. As the blue-clad riders were forming into a wide front, the Federal column halted to watch. Everyone, including the commanding general, assumed that these were troops from the fort beginning daily exercises. In a few moments the riders advanced.

  Five minutes later James Blunt was several miles away lashing a fleet horse over the open prairie—hatless, saberless, no cigar, no brandy. Behind him, as the dust settled, the wagon train was ablaze and most of his men lay scattered about the road, each with a neat black hole burned into his head.47

  Word traveled slower this time, back up the lonely Fort Scott Road with survivors; from there by couriers along the state line—the Trading Post, Aubrey, Kansas City, upriver to Leavenworth; by telegraph from here, across Missouri, fanning out until word had finally spread, “QUANTRILL AGAIN!”

  That same day, as the corpses were being laid out for burial in the south, far to the north in Lawrence spades were also turning the earth. Two more bodies were pulled from a well.48

  11

  WHEN PATHS JOIN

  “Such is the excitement and terror of the people caused by last year’s experience,” wrote editor Hovey Lowman, “that the report ‘they are coming,’ will create almost as much consternation as if they were upon us.”1

  And that spring, 1864, like a gathering black cloud on a clear southern horizon, they were coming. All reports arriving from the south, and there was a storm of them, indicated that Quantrill, Todd, and Anderson had broken winter camp in Texas and were weaving their way north with hundreds—some said thousands—of followers. Frantic efforts to intercept and slow their progress were to no avail. Finally, in early May the guerrillas reached their Sni and Blackwater lairs. The nightmare began anew. For Missouri it proved the bloodiest, most ferocious summer of the war. Seldom did an hour pass without death and destruction. Reckless Federal patrols led by green officers stumbled into ambush and were annihilated; steamboats were riddled with rifle fire; railroad and stage lines stopped running; towns were captured; nightly, homes and barns shot orange sparks heavenward while in the fiery glow owners were beaten, tortured, or killed.

  “The very air seems charged with blood and death,” wailed a Kansas City journalist. “Pandemonium itself seems to have broken loose, and robbery, murder, … and death runs riot over the country.”2

  Understandably, such savagery and strife across the line kept Kansas churning in dreadful anticipation. Awesome though it was, Kansans viewed the renewal of the vicious war in Missouri as merely a prelude of things to come, for there were no doubts in that state about the bushwhackers’ ultimate ambition. Consequently, each city, town, and farm suffered its share of terror during the panic of 1864. And although each bloodcurdling report proved in the end a false alarm, it mattered naught to Kansans. “We must take all these reports with many grains of allowance,” warned one high-ranking officer, “but there must be some fire where there is so much smoke.”3

  When the spring sun rose on Lawrence that year, it unveiled a transformation quite unlike anything seen in the brief history of Kansas. The most obvious change was Camp Lookout. Glowering over the wide valley the outpost crowning Mount Oread surveyed all movement on the roads leading into town. Built of rough, heavy logs, the stockade also housed several big cannons, which glared menacingly from the gunports. Fifty men ate, slept, lived in the fort night and day, without exception.

  Below Mount Oread, carving the city up like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, stretched a system of trenches, pits, and breastworks capable of containing hundreds of men. Down Massachusetts Street two solid blockhouses anchored the heart of town. Others were scattered about at key points. Eight men remained at each bastion continually, four inside, four out. Five companies of city militia marched and drilled more often than not and stood ready at a moment’s notice. Although armed by the state, one dissatisfied company bought the best repeating rifles available. Every able-bodied man belonged to the militia. Exemptions were few. Two companies of U.S. regulars also guarded the town permanently.

  Scouts ranged the countryside, patrolling the Santa Fe Road from the border west as far as Council Grove. Strangers crossing the earthworks by day were questioned and watched, sometimes roughed up and arrested, and no one entered the town at night without being stopped. Failure to do so could mean death.4 Forts, cannons, drums, bugles, pickets, scouts, signs, and countersigns—in six months the place had become one of the most fortified towns in the West. Lawrence was a citadel.

  And when the people weren’t working on the defenses or standing guard or watching strangers, visitors, and very often one another, they were busy rebuilding their town. Blackened lots on broad Massachusetts Street began to sprout new shops and stores, some raised by former merchants, some by new. Homes were also rising, grander and more ornate than ever. Altogether over one hundred and fifty various buildings had been constructed since the raid, including more than a score on the opposite side of the river. There were other improvements as well.

  Spanning the Kaw, the new wooden bridge connected the two sections of town, making the cumbersome ferry all but obsolete. Beyond, grading for the long-awaited Pacific Railroad had been completed to Lawrence; citizens eagerly watched for smoke from the first locomotive. And the telegraph had reached town: overnight Lawrence found itself only a finger tap away from the thoughts of Chicago, New York, and Boston; more important, at least while the war lasted, Lawrence also had instant contact with Leavenworth, Kansas City, and Olathe. There was a modest immigration to the city as well, which eased the labor shortage. The influx of eligible males also did much to put sparkle into the lives of a large number of widows and maturing young women. And for the town as a whole the arrival of new faces was a spectacle that was bound to boost sagging spirits, for it was reassuring to know that others felt so confident in Lawrence that they were actually willing to move there.

  The work went on without letup. Sawmills ran night and day and the sounds of the hammer and trowel were notes both constant and comforting. Optimism soared as the paint dried on each new shining home, and each proud store shingle signaled business as usual. “If Quantrell will let us alone, the anniversary of his butchery will see Lawrence fully revived,” waxed John Speer in his new paper, the Kansas Tribune.5

  Whether intended or not Speer expressed a sentiment that, despite outward appearances, always ran deep and would remain the dominant theme of day-to-day thought—Quantrill. Although Lawrence was a fortress and through hard work and courage had made itself invulnerable to guerrilla raids, no one truly believed in its safety. The general mood in town was “it can be done again,” as Hovey Lowman noted. “Such great crimes … seldom repeat themselves. Civilization don’t crimson its pages with such an awful deformity but rarely. We trust in God it may never happen again. To guard against it, we must watch without ceasing. Eternal vigilance alone is our protection.”6

  Every man, regardless of occupation, went to work each day with a musket on his arm and at least one revolver under his coat. An accidental discharge of a gun or a rider galloping through the streets at night was more than enough to rally the militia, and when the sawmill whistle went off one dark morning the entire town flew to the alarm. Later it was discovered the whistle had simply been stuck, and everyone laughed in relief. But these same people jumped just as quickly at the next alarm and the next.7

  June and July came and went with similar panics, but other than the terrifying rumors, nothing whatsoever was heard of Quantrill. Nevertheless work on the fortifications continued, and as the anniversary of the raid approached, three additional cannons plus hundreds of extra troops and militiamen arrived.8 But except for one more nervous day and one more sleepless night, Sunday, August 21, 1864, passed without incident.

  Then in September a telegram arrived that sent a cold, violent shiver through the town. Quantrill h
ad finally been captured. Arrested as a spy in Indiana, a man fitting his description was currently sitting in an Indianapolis jail cell within days of execution. His name—Charles Hart. Several Missourians had already viewed the prisoner and agreed that he was the man, but to make absolutely certain the Indiana commandant wired Kansas requesting further information. When that message was returned, last doubts were removed. Asking the authorities there to delay execution, a committee of four men, including Peter Ridenour, was quickly appointed to rush east and bring William Quantrill back to Lawrence for trial and punishment. And within forty-eight hours of leaving, the cell door swung open and the Kansans stood staring into the eyes of the prisoner.

  A few days later, amid great anticipation, the committeemen returned to Lawrence. To the dismay of the people, however, they came back alone. There were many similarities, argued Ridenour to the incredulous townsfolk, and to be sure it was a terrible, fantastic chain of coincidence, but beyond doubt the Hart of Indiana was not the Quantrill of Kansas. And thus the prayers of thousands went unanswered.9

  Following the excitement, September faded quietly away. In fact, although Missouri was abroil, and despite the awful alarms, the summer of 1864 had proven the most peaceful and uneventful of the war. But that all began to change when the leaves began to fall.

  In mid-September, with his band playing “Dixie,” Gen. Sterling Price crossed over from his Arkansas exile and marched into his beloved home state. Behind “Old Pap” followed nearly 12,000 Rebel cavalrymen, Missourians for the most part, many rugged veterans toughened by three years of fighting. Price’s objectives were as varied as recruiting men for the drained Confederacy to swaying public opinion in the November elections, but the old general’s chief ambition was nothing less than the recapture of Missouri. Initially, his first target was the metropolis of St. Louis.10

  From his headquarters by the banks of the Mississippi, new Department of the Missouri commander, William S. Rosecrans, sent urgent messages alerting the state and ordering a concentration of troops around St. Louis. Far downriver a small force was standing by, but for the time-being no sufficient body of Union soldiers stood between the Rebel army and St. Louis. If Price moved swiftly he might soon hold the keys to the seventh largest city in America. At the moment only a scratch outfit of 1,000 men could be placed anywhere near Price’s advance. But to Rosecrans’s mind the sacrifice was necessary, and to buy time this unit was sent forward to try to slow the Rebel host.

  At age thirty-three, John Schofield left his St. Louis desk to join William T. Sherman in his epic campaign for Atlanta. Without question the bright, young general was glad to be rid of the hopeless Missouri quagmire. He had tried to find an answer for the “evil on the border,” as he called it, but to the best of his abilities he had not. Schofield had survived, however. And although no one in Kansas or Missouri mourned his departure, he left with his reputation intact. Not only had the one-time physics professor shown himself to be a wise and capable administrator, but shortly the record would prove him a valuable field commander as well. Later, success in conflict was crowned in peace when in 1888 John Schofield was appointed commanding general of the United States Army.

  During the final days of September the army of Sterling Price marched nearly one hundred miles into Missouri without a trace of Federal opposition. There was even talk of taking the war to Iowa as confidence swelled in the ranks.

  Then, on September 26, in the shadow of a towering crag called Pilot Knob, Price suddenly found his path barred. A small Union force had settled in behind earthworks to meet the onslaught. Twice the Rebel general demanded surrender and twice he was refused. Thus Price deployed his thousands and sent them charging against the works, hoping to root the Federals out with as little time lost as possible. But two days of fierce fighting and 1,500 Rebel casualties later, Tom Ewing and his hard-pressed little band still held the pass.

  Time had run out, however, and with the railroad to his rear destroyed and hope of reinforcements out of the question, Ewing withdrew his exhausted force and led it away to safety.11

  As most demanded, as everyone expected, Thomas Ewing by his own request was replaced as commander of the border. By March 1864 he found himself in the District of St. Louis, an area that had been a military backwater and all signs indicated it would remain so until the end of the war. But fate and Sterling Price intervened, and Ewing was given a last opportunity to revive his failing career. After the war, however, and all but friendless, Ewing saw no reason to return to his adopted home in Kansas. Practicing law for a time in Washington, he returned to his native Lancaster, Ohio, and as expected he then set sail on a political voyage worthy of his father.12 And when he did, his foremost foe was right there, ready and waiting.

  “It will be adequate,” said George Bingham as he laid down the brush from his latest painting. For five long years the artist had pressed ahead with the huge oil, despite entreaties from friends to let old wounds heal. But Bingham was not like that. The bitter little man meant each and every word that day at the Pacific House, and passing time, if a balm to some, only fueled his determination. His attacks on Ewing were tireless, and when he wasn’t exhibiting the monumental work “Order No. II” or distributing prints of it to Ohio politicians, the Missourian was wielding the pen like a rapier: “Scarcely was the ink dry upon the paper, when like a pack of infuriated and starved bloodhounds they were unleashed and turned loose upon the horror-stricken communities. … Never was a robbery so stupendous, more cunningly devised or successfully accomplished, with less personal risk to the robbers.”13

  Much through Bingham’s efforts, Ewing’s first bid fell short when Ohio leaders failed to back his name for office. But several years later, and with the aid of his illustrious brother “Cump” and old commander Schofield, Ewing fought back and won for himself a seat in Congress. Then began the stretch for the governorship, which in the eyes of all was the next stepping-stone to the White House in 1880. But once again and with renewed vigor Bingham and other Missourians rose to the attack. More copies of “Order No. 11” were circulated; essays increased in virulence. Finally, when the crucial votes for governor were counted Thomas Ewing had fallen by a 3-percent margin. And with that the political dreams of a lifetime ended.

  Years later, talking with a visitor in his New York law office, the aging man reminisced about his life in Kansas, the war, and George C. Bingham. “I suppose my military order changed the lives of a lot of people,” he confided. “It changed mine, I know.”

  “You might have been President of the United States or should I say now, an ex President?”

  Ewing sat quietly, listening, contemplating the words. “It is in the past now,” he finally answered, “but I sometimes wonder if I had not issued that order … what might have happened.”

  Crossing to his downtown office on January 21, 1896, Thomas Ewing, Jr., was struck by a streetcar and died from injuries a few hours later. He was sixty-six.14

  The Battle of Pilot Knob dashed whatever hope Sterling Price had of capturing St. Louis. Two days had elapsed, two precious days that gave Union forces in Missouri the much-needed margin to work with. Consequently, when Price’s army left the battlefield it marched not north toward St. Louis, but west toward the Kansas border. And as it did large numbers of guerrillas came out of the woods to ride along. The sight of these half-wild creatures was a jolt to regular soldiers and a graphic, sickening comment on the condition of the war in Missouri. Proudly displayed around the necks of their horses or dangling from bridles were trophies of human ears and freshly torn scalps.15

  On September 27, 1864, Bill Anderson, George Todd, and several hundred bushwhackers swarmed in and around the village of Centralia, Missouri. The day was hot, the whiskey plentiful. Shortly before noon a train pulled into the station. Among the passengers were more than twenty Union soldiers, many returning home on leave from Georgia. These helpless men were taken from the car, hustled to a nearby wall, and then, despite pleas for mercy, sho
t.

  Not long after the Rebels left, a patrol of over one hundred raw militiamen rode into Centralia and started off on the trail at once. After a short ride the militia found itself on a small hill. And suddenly, as if arisen from hell, the land all about them was ringed with the most experienced killers in the West. Surrounded, outnumbered, frightened, the issue was never in doubt. Anderson charged, then Todd, and after a harmless volley by the militia the great slaughter began. Those who died quickly were blessed. Those who surrendered suffered most. When Federal troops arrived the following day they were overwhelmed by the scene spread about them. “The war has furnished no greater barbarism,” muttered a stunned Union general.16

  Legend has it that when the last knot was added, the silk cord carried by Bill Anderson had fifty-three tied into it. The first fourteen were knotted at Lawrence. “I have fully glutted my vengeance. I have killed many. I am a guerrilla.”17

  One month after Centralia, with two musket balls in the back of his head, Bill Anderson at age twenty-five was dead. At twenty-four, so too was George Todd. And soon, many more young men would join them. Their fight for Missouri was over.

  In five smoke-filled days, from the nineteenth of October 1864 to the twenty-third, the Civil War on the border effectively came to an end. During that time the Rebel army under Sterling Price engaged the combined might of Kansas militia and Union regulars, and after several bloody assaults near Kansas City the climactic Battle of Westport was fought. The result sent Price reeling south in total retreat. As the beaten Confederates fled down the state line with the Federals hard at their heels, there was no chance to go further into Kansas and gather the military stores so desperately needed. Nor did Missouri soldiers find the time to go and get “their things.” It was enough to escape. And escape they did—down the desolate border, through southern Missouri, with hunger and death stalking every mile of the way. By early November Price’s army of “half-starved bushwhackers and brutish vagabonds” crossed the Arkansas River never to return.18