Bloody Dawn Read online

  “God might have made a more lovely country, but I am sure He has never done it.”2

  Thus spoke an inspired world traveler as he stood high atop Mount Oread surveying the beautiful scenes around him. Indeed, for those who made the steep climb up this day the panorama more than repaid their efforts. Looking west, the viewer beheld the historic California Road, gracefully winding its way to the horizon through a pleasant plateau of prairie and field. To the north, at the base of the hill, they saw the broad Kansas River suddenly but quietly slide into view as it rolls east, watering a wide, sandy valley of cottonwood and willow. Facing south, the dusty Fort Scott Road was spied descending through checkered farmland until it reaches the belt of timber along the Wakarusa River. There, at three miles, the road crosses the tiny, sheer-banked stream at Blanton’s bridge; a few miles further it breaches the forested bluffs and disappears on the high prairie. Eastward, the California Road fades away through green meadows for several miles, then enters the village of Franklin. Another two miles and the road vanishes into the woods and fords the Wakarusa at Blue Jacket’s crossing.

  And down the eastern face, directly below the windswept summit, the viewer received his fit and final reward as he gazed on the “fairest city in Kansas”—Lawrence, August 20, 1863. From the heights the town lay open like a book. Because most lots had been stripped of trees and brush earlier, only saplings and shrubs betrayed a landscape almost bleak. Yet by frontier standards Lawrence was a well-plotted, trim, even pretty town of three thousand souls; its population in Kansas was second only to Leavenworth—a fact that troubled the residents not a whit. Second in numbers, as the adage went, first in integrity.

  “Lawrence the commercial, literary and political center of the State,” boasted one proud citizen. “More building going on here than in any other place west of the Mississippi!”3 And so it was. New homes were “going up like magic.” Already several hundred of the finest homes in Kansas graced the town. While building was stagnant elsewhere and other communities were failing because of the war, Lawrence had actually flourished. Nowhere was a house left unoccupied. Moreover, demand in lots was so intense that often two or three families shared a single home while awaiting completion of their own. And there seemed no end in sight.

  Down the northern face of Mount Oread lay the limits of the city. Here, in West Lawrence, many of the town’s prominent and wealthy citizens lived, and here too reposed most of the newer and more “tasteful” residences. To the east the older sections of the city began, and running three blocks from the river, East and West Lawrence were cleanly divided by a narrow but deep-sided ravine almost in the center of town. Several short bridges spanned the chasm and here, lining its banks, the city’s only considerable growth of trees stood. Parallel with the ravine and a few blocks east was the business district. Beyond that, in the eastern river bottoms, the shantytown of nearly a thousand blacks had sprung up almost overnight.

  From his home high on Mount Oread, George Bell, a former Union officer and current county clerk, could view the entire southern extent of Lawrence as well as the traffic coming up from the Wakarusa. He could also see the roads branching off to the city from the California road, one of which is the main thoroughfare, Massachusetts Street. Here in the south, the long business artery begins and reaches north through the heart of town to end at the banks of the Kaw over a mile away.

  Up broad, dusty Massachusetts, seven blocks from the river, the South Park begins.

  Nestled in the northwest corner of the park was the home of the Reverend Hugh Fisher, his wife Elizabeth, and their five small children. Although he wasn’t exactly a legend in his own time, thirty-nine-year-old Hugh Fisher with his coy, wry smile could nevertheless claim title to a growing reputation, not only in Lawrence but along the border as well.

  In 1861, when a brigade of jayhawkers made a sweep through western Missouri, Fisher tagged along as chaplain. The temptations on all sides were great, however, and shortly, like the men in his spiritual charge, the reverend joined the looting frenzy, even to the point of stripping “secesh” churches—just a few months before he had scolded children about “profane swearing … rum drinking and tobacco.” The lord’s work was carried a step further when the Kansan began coaxing slaves from Missouri masters. The spectacle of newly freed blacks—some joyous, some sobbing, all eternally grateful—was like scripture from the Book of Exodus; for Fisher it proved an appealing, satisfying side of the war. Later, the preacher became superintendent of contrabands, aiding displaced or runaway slaves by relocating them in Kansas. It was a rewarding but exacting job, and early that spring duties as superintendent even came within a whisker of proving fatal.

  When guerrillas under George Todd stopped the steamer near Sibley, Missouri, one dark morning in March, they knew from informants downriver that escaped slaves were on the boat. But more importantly, Todd had high hopes of locking an iron grip around the throat of their escort, Fisher, who reportedly was also on board. When a search from stem to stern failed to flush out the quarry, the Rebels threatened three times to apply the torch if the jayhawker didn’t come out. But the intended victim did not appear, and after murdering a number of the contrabands the bushwhackers finally left. Fortunately for the preacher, plans had suddenly been changed, and he chose to travel by rail rather than by the precarious Missouri River.

  In mid-August Hugh Fisher returned to his home in Lawrence. Since the beginning of war he had seldom been around much, and even now it was not a visit but an ailment that brought him back. Quinsy, a debilitating throat infection, left the uncommon minister stretched on the sickbed.4

  On New Hampshire Street, a block from the park, stood the just-completed brick home of the newlyweds Louis and Mary Carpenter. Judge Carpenter was a kindly, affable young man from New York who despite his age was one of the rising names in Kansas politics. Open and honest, Carpenter had recently served as probate judge to the county and in the past year had just missed in a bid to become the state’s attorney general. Many a campaign was in store for this man of talent and drive, however, and the judge’s future as a Kansan of the first order was as bright as it was certain.5

  A block north of the park, in an open space on the west side of Massachusetts, a score of black recruits were encamped under the charge of the Reverend Samuel Snyder, captain, Second Kansas Colored Regiment.

  On the opposite side of the street, a block down, twenty-two white recruits of the Fourteenth Kansas had also pitched their tents in a vacant lot. They were young local boys mostly—“babes,” snickered adults—below the age for actual duty, yet eager and preparing for military life all the same. Although they wore their blue uniforms manfully and tried to play the role, when or if they would soon receive weapons was anyone’s guess.6

  From there for the next three blocks Massachusetts Street was framed by a series of solid, handsome structures that, said one admirer, “would be an ornament to any Eastern town.” It was, in fact, the finest commercial street in Kansas with many two-and some three-story buildings. Much of the way was covered by shaded sidewalks with stores, shops, and offices occupying the ground floors and family apartments and more offices on the levels just above. Allen’s Hardware, Fillmore’s Dry Goods, Sargent & Smith’s Meat Market, Marcy’s Bowling Saloon, DaLee’s Photography, Storm’s Farm Machinery. Inside Storm’s, a mockingbird showered the street with notes from “Old John Brown.”7

  A few doors down was Ridenour & Baker’s. On the shelves of the two-story building known locally as “R & B’s” was one of the most complete grocery selections in Kansas—everything from flour, sugar, and salt to cove oysters and canned figs.

  The business began in the fifties when the two men, Peter Ridenour of Ohio and Harlow Baker of Maine, met, talked, became friends, and thereupon decided to form a partnership. It was an open-ended deal, however, for as both agreed, after three years the pact would be null and void and each could go his separate way.

  Unlike other frontier merchants who sold dr
y goods, hardware, and such, as well as groceries under the roof of one general store, Ridenour and Baker chose instead to devote their entire attention to foodstuffs, not a novel idea but in a sparsely populated country certainly a daring one. “You can’t make a living selling groceries alone,” laughed a local competitor. “We sell that line at cost to bring trade for our other goods.”

  Undismayed, the men set to work, rising early, staying late, loading and unloading, buying, selling, cutting corners here, cutting costs there, dealing plainly yet fairly with their customers, learning each day and gaining while they did. In two years Ridenour and Baker bought out the merchant who laughed, and at the conclusion of three years the partnership had become so lucrative that ending it was out of the question. Soon a clerk was hired to handle retail while the owners began buying and selling wholesale. As the volume of trade increased the store itself was enlarged until it reached right up to the back alley. And as the hard work passed to others, the two owners assumed lighter tasks. By 1863 the once humble pair of grocers had become the strongest, most prosperous tandem in town.

  On hand at R & B’s was the largest inventory in the store’s history. During a recent buying spree in New York, Ridenour had taken advantage of the fall in gold prices to sink every cent into fresh supplies. The times were so good, moreover, that he had also signed several thousand dollars’ worth of vouchers.

  Peter Ridenour also brought back a new employee. When a wealthy New York associate who wanted his son to learn business from the bottom—as well as distance him from bad sorts in the metropolis—asked his friend to take the boy west, the Kansan agreed, but not until after a good-natured protest. As Ridenour pointed out, the youth was a dandy, didn’t know the meaning of labor, and would soon be writing home for ticket money east. But the boy had matured much since his discharge following the Battle of Gettysburg; he was big and athletic, had a pleasant disposition, and, insisted the father, he would work! In the end the New Yorker won out and the plan did go as hoped. By the time two weeks elapsed the son had smoothly made the shift; he found the hard work and clean air invigorating, the quaint, quiet village amusing in many respects yet comforting and somehow very reassuring. And not least, the crop of young females made the days and nights quite interesting. He and a fellow employee nearly the same age now shared an apartment above the store.8

  Clark’s Furniture, Eastern Bakery, Pollock’s Cut-Rate Clothing, the Lawrence Bank, Arthur Spicer’s Beer Hall, Danver’s Ice Cream Saloon. Down Massachusetts Street, two blocks from the river, sitting on the corner solid, heavy, and proud was the keystone of Lawrence, the Eldridge House. Rebuilt defiantly on the foundation of the ruined Free-State Hotel, the four-story edifice was the most imposing structure in town.

  Up the front steps of the Eldridge, under the arched passageways fancied with wrought iron trimming, through the dark wooden doors and onto the ground floor, an arcade of shops and offices was located. A wide flight of stairs led up from the street to the second-story landing. On this floor was the lobby, more offices, and a spacious dining hall. A noisy dinner gong nearby called the guests to meals. On the hotel’s third and fourth floors were rooms and several elegant suites. Sixty patrons were currently lodged at the Eldridge, including a group of Eastern businessmen, a bishop and his circle of traveling priests, and in a room overlooking Massachusetts, the state provost marshal Alexander Banks.

  A platoon of employees catered to the needs of the visitors, including the hotel seamstress, Sallie Young, a “bright and witty Irish girl.” It was one of the largest, most luxurious inns beyond the Mississippi, and for the citizens of Lawrence the Eldridge always had been and always would be the seat of great pride and good memories. “Magnificent,” praised a former guest, New York editor Horace Greeley.9

  On Massachusetts just north of the Eldridge was the courthouse with a cannon parked nearby. A few doors down was the armory, and half a block further, by the riverside, sat the palatial home of Dr. Charles and Sara Robinson.

  The first governor of the state, one of the wealthiest men in Kansas, just turned forty-five in good health; Charles Robinson should have been the happiest man in Lawrence. But he wasn’t. Instead, the quiet, native New Englander was perhaps the most disconsolate and forlorn person in the state of Kansas.

  To the best of his abilities he had tried. From the day he entered the territory in 1854 and staked his claim in Lawrence, it was Charles Robinson’s hope that a sane, peaceful solution could be found for troubled Kansas. He more than any was responsible for holding back the storm by leading his free-state followers on a firm, yet moderate course.10 “We must have courage,” the balding, bewhiskered doctor had insisted, “but with it we must have prudence!”11

  And for almost two years his strategy had worked. His calm and wise decisions, his solid, steady leadership when radicals on both sides were pounding for war proved a blessing both for Kansas and the nation, and when all else seemed about to go under in an angry red sea of hatred and violence Robinson held forth like a rock for all to grasp. And to show their appreciation free-soil settlers had simply ignored the proslavery territorial government and voted Robinson their man for governor. But then came the sack of Lawrence in 1856, the burning of his home on Mount Oread, and the imprisonment of free-state leaders, including Robinson himself. And it was the cruelest of ironies that the doctor’s internment as much as the plundering of Lawrence was the source of his waning popularity, for even from his prison tent near Lecompton one day he heard the free-state cannon shots that graphically thundered a change in philosophy. In his prolonged absence, the reaction caused by proslavery aggression gave the radicals of the Free-Soil party the unchallenged ascendency. Acts of violence in the next few years were the rule while Robinson and moderation were all but shoved aside.12 Even so, the doctor’s dedication to freedom was not forgotten, and when the issue had finally been settled and Kansas was admitted to the Union he was in fact awarded the laurel of governor. It was the crowning moment of his life.13

  Charles Robinson was sworn in on February 9, 1861, as the first governor of Kansas. Within weeks he found that he had also become a war governor. Although privately he bristled at the sight of treason and revolt in neighboring Missouri, the new head of state stood by his old policy of moderation publicly, and hence the safety of Kansas became his chief concern, not the pillaging of western Missouri.14

  “If we are careful,” other moderates added, “it strikes us that Kansas will suffer proportionally less than any other State.”15 But the radicals, still riding high from the territorial days, would have none of it, and the governor’s wishes were once more ignored as the jayhawkers swarmed across the border.

  “It is true small parties of secessionists are to be found in Missouri,” argued Robinson to military authorities, “but we have good reason to know that they do not intend to molest Kansas in force.” If the jayhawkers could be forced from the line, he pleaded, peace might yet be restored and then, the governor confidently announced, “I will guarantee Kansas from invasion.”16 His entreaties were to no avail.

  Later that year, incensed at what they termed his cowardice—yet in truth, Robinson was the last check to their designs on the border and political primacy in Kansas—a smear campaign was whipped up by the radicals and efforts were made to unseat him. Then, early in 1862, articles of impeachment were handed down against the state auditor, the secretary of state, and finally, against the governor himself. The charge was “high misdemeanors” regarding the sale of state bonds—stealing. Although the two cabinet members were found guilty as charged, Robinson was acquitted by a nearly unanimous vote. Nevertheless the odor of guilt by association lingered long after the judgment, and the governor found himself a ruined man.

  At the end of his two-year term, Robinson retreated to his home by the riverside, a pariah in the land of his making. Lawrence and Kansas were more his creation than any other could claim, and perhaps, deep within a troubled soul, they were the children he was never allowed to
sire. Now even the fatherhood of these was denied him. Somewhere amid the broken hopes and shattered dreams of his mind was the faith that healing time would erase the memories of the scandal and enable his comeback. Then, once more, Dr. Charles Robinson could assume the position in Kansas he so rightfully deserved.

  At the river’s edge where Massachusetts Street ends, down from the huge liberty pole with its gigantic U.S. flag, construction on the new bridge was under way. One of the workers milling about was Jim O’Neill of Lecompton. Originally from Ireland, he and his large family were forced out during the famine of 1847, and all chose America as their ark. Much of the clan drifted south, and with war three brothers had entered the Rebel army. O’Neill was an antislavery man, however, and had been all along. He enjoyed his new home on free soil as did his wife and their six small children. Because of the distance, O’Neill chose to live in Lawrence during the work week and return to his family only on weekends.17

  Across the wide river, brown and deep after heavy rains to the west, the sandy Leavenworth Road led up from the ferry and disappeared into a tall forest. A dozen soldiers were camped here performing guard duty on the Delaware Indian Reserve.

  One block east of the liberty pole, on New Hampshire Street, stood the City Hotel. Nathan Stone ran the brown, two-story inn with help from his wife and son and attractive daughter, Lydia.

  There were few businesses on New Hampshire, homes mostly, and much was the same with its partner across Massachusetts, Vermont Street. But in the second block of Vermont, on the west side, was the blacksmith and assembly shop of Ralph Dix. A little to the south was Dix’s three-story home. The lower level of the house was used as a work place for the business, while the family—Dix, his wife, Getta, their children, and the three Dix brothers, all from Connecticut—lived on the upper floors. Adjoining the building on the south was a tiny barber shop, and one door further was the second-best hotel in Lawrence, the Johnson House.