Wreaths of Glory

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Behind another building, above the roaring of the inferno, the wails of women and children, a cry came out: “Please don’t murder me! Please don’t murder me!”

  And a callous reply, “No quarter for you redleg sons-of-bitches!” was punctuated with a pistol’s report.

  Alistair wanted to wake from this nightmare.

  Here walked a Jackson County kid named Meyerhoff, hatless and horseless, Starr revolver in his left hand, holding a girl, maybe four years old, in his right arm. The girl’s face was covered with soot, streaked from tears. Oddly enough, so was Meyerhoff’s. He stopped as they rode by, calling out: “Hey, this little girl can’t find her mommy. Have y’all seen her mommy?”

  No one answered. Few even dared to look at those poor lost souls.

  Through the smoke, dust, and haze, Alistair could see the camp of the white soldiers on New Hampshire. Bodies, a least a dozen, most still in their muslin undergarments, lay dead on the grass. One lay pitched face down in a smoldering cook fire. Beside him squatted a man in a blue embroidered bushwhacker shirt, sipping coffee and chewing on a piece of hardtack. Partisan Rangers walked among the corpse-lined field, drinking whiskey they had liberated from one of the saloons, plundering through knapsacks, saddlebags, trunks, and carpetbags. One of the boys, crazy old Larkin Skaggs, already well in his cups, sat in a camp chair, his boots propped up on a wooden table, singing loudly between gulps from a clay jug.

  John Brown’s body lies a-molderin’ in the grave,

  John Brown’s body lies a-molderin’ in the grave,

  But his soul ain’t worth a damn.

  Glory, glory, hallelujah,

  Glory, glory, hallelujah,

  His soul is burnin’ in Hell.

  Deeper into the chaos they rode.

  Some boys had grabbed Dan Palmer in front of his gun shop, had bound his hands to that of another bloodied Kansan. Now the bushwhackers dragged the men toward the burning building.

  Oll Shepherd reined up, and the others followed suit, watching. As the Missourians threw the two men through the front door into the raging fire, Shepherd breathed out an oath. Screams of the burning men drowned out all the other hellish sounds. Behind Alistair, one of the boys retched.

  The shrieks quickly died.

  The murderers laughed, and moved on.

  All of which proved too much for Maura. She let out a wail, a groan, slumping in her saddle, almost toppling into the dirt. Meacham eased his mount beside hers, put his arm around her, saying: “There, there, missy. You …”

  She recovered instantly, recoiling from his touch, screaming at him, urging her horse forward. “Keep your damned hands off me!” Her words matched the fury on her face, and she kicked the white, moving down to a house that was not burning.

  A slender woman followed two Missourians out of her home, begging, pleading. Henry Wilson carried two pillow cases filled with plunder; the other bushwhacker carried a bottle of wine.

  Maura met them at the warped gate of the picket fence that surrounded the front yard. “Leave her be!” she barked, and pointed. “Trash, hand back that stuff!”

  The man with the wine stared dumbly.

  Cursing, Henry Wilson opened the gate.

  “I said you’re not stealing that. Put it down, I say,” Maura insisted.

  Henry stopped, suddenly unsure of himself.

  “Haven’t you done enough?” Maura’s voice choked.

  Stepping back, Henry Wilson scratched his head, then silently lowered one pillow case, its contents clattering, a volume of Tennyson falling into the dirt. Next he handed the sobbing woman the other pillow case, and, head down, hurried through the gate and down Massachusetts toward the river. The other guerrilla lowered the bottle, and gave it to the woman.

  “Beg pardon, lady.” He tipped his hat, and followed Henry Wilson down the street.

  * * * * *

  The Eldridge House was a fury of fire, although one white sheet dangled from an open third-story window, not burning, not blackened, not smoking, not touched. Yet. The courthouse had been consumed. The boys had even torched Danver’s Ice Cream Saloon.

  Shepherd called out to George Todd, who was mounting his horse, smoking a black cigar, gold chains dangling from his neck: “Where’s the colonel?”

  Todd hooked a thumb. “City Hotel.”

  So they cut down to New Hampshire, and approached the Kaw River.

  * * * * *

  The City Hotel was an oasis. Bushwhackers stood guarding horses, those they had ridden from Missouri, those they had stolen here in Lawrence. Many others sat on one side of the front porch, sipping coffee, smoking cigars, guzzling whiskey. Ladies and children of Lawrence filled the other side of the porch, not speaking. In the front yard, Kansas men sat glumly, heads bowed, wondering if and when they would be shot dead. Many wore only their nightshirts. Others were bootless. A few were bloodied.

  Alistair spotted Beans’ mount. He swung down, wrapped the reins of the blood bay around a stump, saw Maura Shea walking through the pathway toward the steps.

  A woman, black hair disheveled, skirt ripped, sleeves stained from ash and blood, rose quickly, meeting Maura on the steps. “Traitor!” the woman screeched. “Murderess! Bitch!” She spit in Maura’s face, then drew back to strike the stunned girl, but Cole Younger had risen from his rocking chair, and caught the woman’s arm.

  “There, there, ma’am,” Younger said, turning the woman around. “You go find you a shady place to sit and relax.”

  Glaring, the woman jerked her hand free, but did as ordered.

  Maura reached up, tentatively touching the saliva on her nose and cheek, before letting out a tormented wail, and hurrying into the hotel.

  Walking past Younger, Alistair wished he were dead.

  “It’s a grand day of butchery,” Younger said, “ain’t it?” He patted Alistair’s back, and moved back to his rocking chair. Beside him, Frank James sat in brooding silence, face blackened by smoke and rage, reloading a brace of .44 Remingtons.

  * * * * *

  “Alistair! Shepherd!” Quantrill rose, holding a half-filled flute in his left hand, smiling. He sat at the head of the dining room table, a king holding court. “Please, join us. And Miss …” He snapped his fingers. “Shea, isn’t it? Please, do us the honor.”

  The hotel’s owner, Nathan Stone, sat on Quantrill’s right, his lovely daughter next to him.

  Three Missourians rose, abandoning their seats for Maura, Alistair, and Oll Shepherd.

  Flutes were filled by timid waiters, who quickly brought plates of eggs, ham, bacon, potatoes, and biscuits and gravy.

  “Nathan and dear Miss Lydia did me a kindness when I lived in Lawrence years back,” Quantrill said, nodding at the trembling hosts. “I was deathly ill, but Miss Lydia nursed me back to health. Back then, they knew me as Charley Hart, of course.”

  “If only she had known,” Maura said underneath her breath. She had recovered from the shock, and calmly tilted the flute, pouring the champagne onto the floor.

  Quantrill might not have heard her words, but he saw what she did. Sitting again, a forkful of ham in his right hand, he lowered the meat back onto the china plate, and laughed. “You have grit, Miss Shea. All of your Kansas ladies have gumption.” He saluted, laughed, and tore into breakfast like a famished man.

  Oll Shepherd drained his champagne, then barked out to one of the waiters for coffee. He found Beans Kimbrough and asked: “What about Lane?”

  Beans shrugged. “He fled, if he was home.” He raised a jeweled sword. “But I got this.”

  A waiter slid a cup of coffee in front of Shepherd’s plate, then hurried back into the kitchen.

  “You are a bunch of cowards.” Maura’s eyes held Alistair’s. “All of you.”

  “Really?” Quantrill beamed. “I’ve spared this hotel. I’ve spared all the women
and children, even some men. The icehouse isn’t burning, either.”

  “Iffen that ice ain’t melted!” slurred a drunken raider at the far end of the table.

  Quantrill laughed, and sipped champagne. “You will not find a church burning, dear lady, not even the one belonging to your self-righteous, hypocritical, murdering Methodists.”

  Confusion masked Maura’s face.

  “Tell her, Beans,” Quantrill commanded.

  Hushed voices flowed among the Lawrence citizens.

  “Beans.”

  “That’s Beans Kimbrough.”

  “There’s the butcher.”

  Beans’ face hardened, but not from the whispers. He stared at his plate, started to reach for the flute, but stopped, making himself look at Maura Shea, to mutter: “The pews in that church, ma’am. The church you attend.” He took a deep breath. “They come from a church in Osceola.”

  “Stolen,” Quantrill added, “by your fine Lawrence men. And trust me, Miss Shea, those redlegs had no mercy when it came to ransacking Osceola. They burned our houses of God, after they’d looted them.”

  “Nevada City, too,” another bushwhacker muttered.

  Maura’s head fell. Her fingers balled into fists.

  “You’re …” A balding man with his right arm in a bloody sleeve, having heard the whispers, rose from the table. “You are … Beans … Kimbrough?”

  “The butcher himself,” Quantrill said. He raised his glass. “To my most loyal butchers. My eyes and ears. Among the first to join our cause. To Beans Kimbrough. And Alistair Durant.”

  Glasses clinked, but Alistair had not moved. Couldn’t move. He sat paralyzed, sick.

  Outside came the sound of another building collapsing. Horses whinnied.

  Cole Younger suddenly barged through the door. “Colonel!” he called out, spurs chiming as he made his way to the dining room. “Kennard just come from the lookout. Says there’s dust risin’ to the east. Lot of dust.”

  The clock chimed. 9:45. Maybe four hours, only four, had passed since they’d hit Lawrence.

  Quantrill’s face turned serious, and he rose from his chair, putting his hands on the table. “Shepherd, find Todd, find Anderson and Jarrette. Cole, assemble the men. God help any who is too drunk to ride. We make for Blanton’s Bridge.” His eyes changed again, and he turned, bowing graciously at the Stones, reaching over, taking Lydia’s trembling hand, kissing it. “I wish,” Quantrill said softly, “my strongest desire, Miss Lydia, dearest savior, Nathan, my old friend, is that we shall meet again, under circumstances much more convivial than this loathsome war.”

  Shepherd was already through the door, Younger right behind him. The Missourians scrambled from their seats, wolfing down bacon, slurping the last of their coffee or champagne, knocking over chairs as they fled outside.

  Alistair made his legs move, somehow got to his feet. Someone tossed him a hat. It was a tight fit, but he jammed it on his head. Quantrill walked ahead of him, out the door. Beans Kimbrough raced past them, finding his horse, leaping into the saddle, riding down the river road.

  On the porch, Quantrill tipped his hat to the ladies, then took in a deep breath, as if the air were fresh, clear, not clouded by smoke, grime, death.

  “The ladies of Lawrence are plucky and brave, Alistair,” Quantrill said. “But the men … they are a pack of craven cowards.”

  A hard hand pushed Alistair aside, and he had to catch himself on a wooden column. Maura Shea sped down the steps. Meacham grabbed her, saying: “Hold on there, honey.”

  She clawed his face, and he fell backward, stunned, reaching for his revolver.

  “Leave it, Meacham,” Quantrill ordered.

  Maura spun, blinking, her eyes falling on Younger, who had stopped to tighten his saddle girth. “Where did he go?” she yelled.

  “Who?”

  “John Benedict. I mean … Beans Kimbrough.”

  Another bushwhacker answered. “He taken off that way, ma’am.”

  “God.” Maura took a step, hesitated for just a second, then lifting her skirts, she raced through the crowd of stupefied men. “God! God!” After she rounded the corner, a cloud of smoke swallowed her.

  Alistair inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, and made a beeline for the blood bay. He knew where Maura was running. Where Beans must be bound.

  The Shea house. If it still stood.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Old Larkin Skaggs was sitting in front of a burning building, holding the reins to his chestnut gelding, lifting a jug to his lips, swaying, saying in a singsong voice: “Let ’em Feds come. I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I kills me as many as Bloody Bill.”

  Blackened corpses lined the street.

  Dogs wailed mournfully.

  Women and children sobbed.

  Bushwhackers piled their plunder on the backs of their horses, or onto the horses, mules, or cattle they had stolen.

  The heat was oppressive. Alistair spurred the blood bay between privies and buildings ablaze, cut over past Massachusetts, headed up Vermont, coughing, eyes burning again from smoke, cinders, the smell of roasting flesh, of death, of blood. The Methodist church stood untouched, dazed women and boys already carrying corpses inside. Flames consumed the Johnson House. The building next to it by now was smoldering ash and charred timbers. Beyond Eighth Street, Vermont became impassable, so he left the road, following the ravine, then up into the clearing, riding into the next street near a burning home.

  The three-story Shea home still stood, though homes next to it were lost amid the wretched black smoke.

  He leaped from the saddle before the bay had even stopped, wrapping the reins around the post. The gate had been knocked off its hinges, and horses grazed among the flowers and herbs Mrs. Shea grew in her front yard. He did not see Beans Kimbrough’s horse, but saw the fresh scalps dangling from the bridle of a buckskin stallion tethered to a rose bush by the steps. The front door was open. He did not see Maura, either.

  Alistair barged inside, glanced at two bushwhackers going through the desk and cabinets inside the parlor, moved through the foyer, and into the dining room. Upstairs, bushwhackers laughed. On her knees by the fireplace, Iris Shea cried, her hands clasped in prayer.

  “Please … please … please …”

  Conor Shea, in his stockings, pants unbuttoned, suspenders dangling at his sides, a muslin undershirt damp with sweat, his hair unkempt, said nothing. He couldn’t talk because of the barrel of the Colt that Bloody Bill Anderson had thrust into his mouth, breaking two front teeth.

  “Don’t!” Alistair heard himself cry out.

  Anderson had just eared back the hammer. He looked, eyes reddened, deadly.

  Alistair stopped, caught his breath. “This man is not to be harmed.”

  “By whose orders?” Anderson did not withdraw the .44.

  “Colonel Quantrill.”

  Iris Shea stopped sobbing. She sank onto her rump, staring in disbelief. “Jim?” Her voice creaked. “Jim Alistair?”

  “To hell with Quantrill.” Anderson tightened his finger on the trigger. “This man’s a damned redleg.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  A ruction erupted behind Alistair. He heard Maura, but did not dare take his eyes off Conor Shea and Bloody Bill.

  John McCorkle raised a sheet of yellow paper. “It says right here …” He dangled the list of names.

  “Listen,” Alistair said, “this is a good man. He and his wife nursed me back to health when I almost died falling into the river.”

  “He’s a redleg bastard!” another Missourian roared.

  “He’s no redleg.”

  “Then explain these!” McCorkle pointed to those Moroccan leather leggings someone had dangled over a plush sofa.

  “His son’s,” Alistair lied. “His son was a redleg, sure, but h
e was killed at Olathe.”

  “Then it’s time he joined his boy,” Anderson whispered, but Alistair stepped closer. He could see Maura in the mirror, one bushwhacker tightly clutching her right arm. To his surprise, he did not see Beans Kimbrough.

  Another one of Anderson’s murderers knocked Maura’s guard’s arm with a candlestick. “Leave her be,” he said. “This be the lady who helped us find redlegs and jayhawkers.”

  Then Beans Kimbrough stepped into the frame, coming from the foyer. He had just arrived. Maybe he hadn’t come to kill Conor Shea, or maybe, more than likely, Bill Anderson had just beat him here. But so had Maura. He shook his head. There was no time to figure out that mystery.

  “Don’t kill him,” Alistair said, trying to ignore what was going on behind him, focusing on Bloody Bill Anderson and Captain Conor Shea. “He’s not to be harmed, according to Colonel Quantrill.” He knew it was no use. His right hand dropped for one of the Navy Colts.

  “You wanna kill Yanks!” Beans called out behind him, “you’ll soon get another chance. Feds are on their way. The colonel’s ordered us to ride out. Now. Best save powder and lead, Bill. Chances are you’ll have need of it directly.”

  Alistair and Maura had both misread Beans. He hadn’t come here to kill Conor Shea, after all, or had changed his mind. Now Beans was confirming every lie Alistair had been spreading in the Shea home. Except the approaching Yanks. That part was true.

  “You’re one lucky son-of-a-whore,” Anderson hissed, and jerked the barrel out of Shea’s mouth, chipping another tooth, then slammed the butt against Shea’s head, sending him tripping over his wife, and onto a cabinet. He clutched the back to keep himself from toppling to the rug, but almost pulled the piece of cherry wood down on top of his head.

  McCorkle was already gone. Other bushwhackers followed. Lifting her head toward the ceiling, Iris Shea began praying, thanking the Lord for His deliverance. With a glare and an oath, Bill Anderson holstered his Colt, and stormed out of the room, shoving Alistair aside, barking something unintelligible at Beans, but tipping his plumed hat at Maura.

  “Let’s ride!” Anderson shouted from the foyer. “And be damned quick.”