Bloody Bill Anderson

by Albert Castel

  Mr. Editors:

  In reading both of your papers I see you urge the policy of the citizens taking up arms to defend their persons and property. You are only asking them to sign their death warrants. Do you not know, sirs, that you have some of Missouri’s proudest, best, and noblest sons to cope with? . . . But listen to me, fellow-citizens; do not obey this last order. Do not take up arms if you value your lives and property. It is not in my power to save your lives if you do. If you proclaim to be in arms against the guerrillas I will kill you. I will hunt you down like wolves and murder you. You cannot escape. . . . I commenced at the first of this war to fight for my country, not to steal from it. I have chosen guerrilla warfare to revenge myself for wrongs that I could not honorably avenge otherwise. I lived in Kansas when this war commenced. Because I would not fight the people of Missouri, my native State, the Yankees sought my life, but failed to get me. Revenged themselves by murdering my father, destroying all my property, and have since that time murdered one of my sisters and kept the other two in jail twelve months. But I have fully glutted by vengeance. I have killed many. I am a guerrilla. I have never belonged to the Confederate Army, nor do my men. A good many of them are from Kansas. I have tried to war with the Federals honorably, but for retaliation I have done things, and am fearful will have to do that I would shrink from if possible to avoid. . . . Young men, leave your mothers and fight for your principles. Let the Federals know that Missouri’s sons will not be trampled on. I have no time to say anything more to you. Be careful how you act, for my eyes are upon you.

  Colonel McFerran:

  I have seen your official report to General Brown of two fights that have taken place in Johnson and La Fayette Counties with your men. You have been wrongfully informed, or you have willfully misrepresented the matter to your superior officer. I had the honor, sir, of being in command at both of those engagements. To enlighten you on the subject and to warn you against making future exaggerations, I will say to you in the future let me know in time, and when I fight your men I will make the report. . . . [McFerran’s troops] are such poor shots it is strange you don’t have them practice more. Send them out and I will train them for you.

  To Burris:

  Burris, I love you; come and see me. Good-by, boy; don’t get discouraged. I glory in your spunk, but damn your judgment.

  General Brown:

  General: I have not the honor of being acquainted with you, but from what I have heard of you I would take you to be a man of too much honor as to stoop so low as to incarcerate women for the deeds of men, but I see that you have done so in some cases. I do not like the idea of warring with women and children, but if you do not release all the women you have arrested in La Fayette County, I will hold the Union ladies in the county as hostages for them. I will tie them by the neck in the brush and starve them until they are released, if you do not release them. . . . General, do not think I am jesting with you. I will have to resort to abusing your ladies if you do not quit imprisoning ours. As to the prisoner Ervin [sic] you have in Lexington I have never seen nor heard of him until I learned that such a man was sentenced to be shot. I suppose he is a Southern man or such a sentence would not have been passed. I hold the citizens of Lexington responsible for his life. The troops in Lexington are no protection to the town, only in the square. If he is killed, I will kill twenty times his number in Lexington. I am perfectly able to do so at any time.

  Yours, respectfully,

  W. Anderson

  Commanding Kansas First Guerrillas

  (Editors will please publish this and other papers copy.)

  Presumably by the same means that he received the newspapers, Anderson had the letter conveyed into Lexington, where it came into the possession of Colonel McFerran, who sent it to General Brown at Warrensburg. Brown in turn passed it on to departmental commander Rosecrans in St. Louis “as a curiosity and specimen of a guerrilla chief’s correspondence.”5 As a result, twenty-odd years later it finally was published—in the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, probably the sole document of its kind in that mammoth 128-volume compilation of reports and correspondence. It tells us that Anderson wanted to be perceived as an invincible warrior fighting to avenge unforgivable personal wrongs suffered at the hands of dastardly foes, and it also reveals that he was not without a sense of humor—at least of sorts.

  Anderson lurked for several days more around Lexington, waiting for a response to his letter either by word or act. With none coming, and knowing that it was dangerous for guerrillas to linger in one place too long, he and twenty-one followers, late on the afternoon of July 11, used a skiff to cross the Missouri River into Carroll County, where they promptly went on a rampage, murdering nine civilians in less than four hours. One victim, on being told that he was going to be shot because he was a Unionist, cursed Anderson, whereupon Little Archie knocked him down with a pistol butt, then cut his throat from ear to ear with a bowie knife. Another unfortunate, a young German farmer named Solomon Baum, suffered in some ways an even worse fate. Thinking that the bushwhackers were militia because they all wore Federal uniform jackets, he declared himself to be a loyal Unionist although in fact pro-Confederate (a rare thing for a “Dutchman” to be in Missouri). Not until a rope was being placed around his neck did he realize his mistake, whereupon he fervently proclaimed his true sentiments and his reason for concealing them—to no avail. Anderson merely said, “Oh, string him up. God damn his little soul, he’s a Dutchman anyway.”

  The bushwhackers’ blue coats brought on a similar fate, but in a different way, for their next victim. Riding on, they came to the farm of Cyrus Lyons, who was digging a well with the aid of a neighbor while another friend watched. Anderson called Lyons to the fence and asked:

  “Why ain’t you in the service?”

  “I do belong to the militia,” Lyons answered, thinking that Anderson was a Union officer.

  “Well, why in hell ain’t you out trying to drive out the bushwhackers? Didn’t you know they were in the country?”

  “No—nobody’s told me that. But I belong to Captain Calvert’s company of Moberly’s regiment, and while in service, I always try to do my duty and am ready to do it again.”

  “Well, I guess you have done enough. I am Bill Anderson, by God!” And so saying, Anderson shot Lyons dead.

  Several other guerrillas then leaped their horses over the fence and did the same to Lyon’s two companions. Resuming their march, the gang halted only to rob a family, threatening to kill both the husband and his wife, and at nightfall crossed the Grand River into Chariton County.6

  Such was Anderson’s first unforgettable visit to Carroll County. And it would not be the last.

  After a short rest, the band continued eastward through Chariton into Randolph County. There, just as night began to give way to light on the morning of July 15, the raiders entered Huntsville by way of the Keytesville Road. Because the horsemen in advance wore blue uniforms, the few townspeople who were up and about at first paid them little heed—until the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood filled the air. While some of the bushwhackers kicked in doors and looted the stores, others roused merchants and clerks to open the safes. Since there were no soldiers in or near the town, the bushwhackers went about their work methodically

  Old acquaintances scarcely recognized Bill Anderson—eight years or more had passed since he had left the family farm near Huntsville with his mother, brothers, and sisters to go to Kansas. Most remembered him as a rather shy, slow student in school, a quiet boy who much preferred spending his time outside playing with bows and arrows to reading and writing indoors. Now, sitting astride a big charger and clad in a gold-trimmed black hunting shirt, the old schoolmate had obviously changed. For a while, as Jim and he chatted with friends, their homecoming resembled a “social gathering.”

  Like nearly everyone in Huntsville, George Damon was sound asleep when the guerrillas rode into town. Up from St. Louis on business, Damon’s fi
rst hint of trouble came when men outside his hotel door pounded for him to open it. Doing so, the salesman found himself staring into the bores of several big pistols. The men holding the guns took Damon’s money, allowed him to dress, then led him down to the street, where he joined other prisoners. Nearby, some bushwhackers using hammers and crowbars struggled to open a safe they had wrestled to the sidewalk. Suddenly one of them spotted Damon’s military belt buckle inscribed with “U.S.” Cursing, the bushwhacker ordered Damon to remove the buckle and declared that he intended to shoot him. Nervous fellow captives whispered to the trembling salesman to stay calm and do nothing rash.

  Bill Anderson overheard the curses and threats. Glancing over at Damon, he, too, saw the buckle with the big “U.S.” stamped on it.

  “Come here,” he growled.

  The pressure was too much for Damon. Panic-stricken, he sprang from the crowd and ran up the street.

  “Damn you,” the bushwhackers yelled as they followed, “stand when we tell you!” The salesman kept running. Just as he rounded a corner, a volley of shots rang out. He went down but an instant later was up, and amid the whoops and shouts of his pursuers, he raced among some houses.

  Setting spurs to his mount, Anderson himself gave chase. As the terrified salesman began climbing the fence at the rear of the hotel, the chieftain rode up, aimed, and fired. Damon pitched over into the yard. With blood pouring from his numerous wounds the dying man dragged himself toward the hotel, crying for water. When the innkeeper started forward to help, Anderson pointed his pistol. “If you don’t go away and let that man alone,” he warned, “I’ll shoot you.” The innkeeper backed away.

  Anderson watched as the victim painfully inched his way into the hotel. Finally he motioned to two of his men: “Go and finish him!” he ordered.

  The two bushwhackers stomped into the dining room, where they met the hotel owner’s wife. Sobbing, she pleaded with them not to shoot, only to be told, “We would shoot Jesus Christ or God Almighty if he ran from us.” Then, laughing, they bent down to listen for Damon’s heartbeat. Hearing none, they holstered their revolvers and turned to leave. Spotting Damon’s ring, one of them paused long enough to pluck it from the dead man’s finger and place it on his own.

  At sunup, with fresh horses and nearly $50,000 in cash, the bushwhackers left Huntsville. Jim Anderson, with a small band, headed one way; Bill and the rest, another. Soon afterward, a Federal patrol came stealing up behind Bill’s company south of the town. For the next several miles a running battle took place along a road littered with abandoned plunder—but not the greenback-stuffed valise carried by Bill. Eventually the guerrillas’ horses pulled away, and the pursuit ceased. Bill Anderson’s return to Huntsville did not begin to compare with Quantrill’s return to Lawrence. Even so, the people there would remember him for the rest of their lives.7

  For most of the ensuing week Anderson operated along the Missouri River, occupying the village of Rocheport and firing at steamboats. Then on the morning of July 23 his gang struck the North Missouri Railroad at Renick, where it looted stores, tore down the telegraph wires, and set fire to the depot before moving northward on to Allen (present-day Moberly), with the object of seizing a train due to arrive there at noon. This scheme was frustrated, however, by the unexpected presence at Allen of a forty-man Union detachment sent from Glasgow to collect a shipment of arms and ammunition. Although taken by surprise while eating lunch, the Federals quickly converted the station house into a fort by barricading the windows with salt barrels and bales of hay. They held their assailants at bay until a troop-filled train that had been summoned by telegraph from Macon compelled the guerrillas to ride away. Neither side suffered any casualties, but before departing, the guerrillas shot twenty horses tethered outside a tobacco warehouse.8

  Twenty-seven soldiers and twelve civilian volunteers gave pursuit. They killed two of the raiders and wounded several more but could not overtake the main body, which scattered into the brush. The following day the soldiers, who belonged to the Seventeenth Illinois Cavalry, headed back to their base at Glasgow via the Fayette Road. Having chased and dispersed the supposedly fearsome Anderson gang as if it were a pack of cowardly dogs, they saw no need to take any special precautions and so did not. This proved to be a mistake. Suddenly, near Huntsville, a horde of bushwhackers attacked from an ambush, revolvers blazing. The soldiers tried to fight back, found that they couldn’t, and fled, leaving behind two dead. Dismounting his big horse, Little Archie rolled up his sleeves, drew a sharp knife, and went to work on the corpses. First he scalped them; then he cut a circle of skin the size of a “Spanish dollar” from the forehead of one and a strip of skin from the forehead of the other. When he finished, Anderson scrawled a note on a piece of paper and pinned it on the coat collar of one of the bodies. It read:

  YOU COME TO HUNT BUSH WHACKERS. NOW YOU ARE SKELPT. CLEMYENT SKEPT YOU. WM. ANDERSON.9

  From the Huntsville area Anderson struck off in a northeasterly direction. On the morning of July 27, the raiders burst into the quiet square of Shelbina on the Hannibal & St. Joseph Railroad. After lining up and robbing the male inhabitants, they looted the stores, pillaged several houses, and burned the depot and two railroad cars. During the holdup Anderson singled out a nattily dressed young man wearing a stovepipe hat. But on being ordered to “shell out,” the young man handed over only a dollar coin.

  “That’s all you have?”

  “Yes.”

  Contemptuously, Anderson tossed the coin back. “A man dressed as fine as you are and with only a dollar in his pocket needs money worse than I do.”

  The bushwhackers next rode east five miles and torched the depot at Lakenan. A few miles farther brought them to the bank of the Salt River. Here they set ablaze the 150-foot-long railroad bridge and destroyed a house, the water tank, and an abandoned blockhouse built earlier in the war to protect the span. They then headed south, having stopped through traffic on the Hannibal & St. Joseph, the only railroad to traverse the entire breadth of Missouri. Not since 1861 had any Confederate force, regular or irregular, accomplished such a feat.10

  Three days later, after being rejoined by brother Jim and his followers, Bill Anderson again approached Huntsville. From friendly civilians he learned that the town now had a garrison and that the father of the officer in charge resided on a farm two miles south. At once Anderson and the band went to the farm and demanded that the father, a seventy-two-year-old former judge, tell where he kept his money. The old man refused. The bushwhackers then slipped a noose around his neck and suspended him from the crossbeam of a gateway. When he began to lose consciousness they let him down, only to jerk him back up after he still refused to tell. One of the raiders, finding a heavy whip, began flogging him “unmercifully.” A screaming and sobbing little girl ran into the yard and begged the guerrillas to stop hurting her grandpa. They dropped him to the ground, but after shoving the girl back into the house, they once more pulled him up and resumed whipping him.

  Meanwhile, a black servant of the judge ran to Huntsville with word of what was happening on the farm. Men had to grab and hold the garrison commander to prevent him from rushing to the rescue of his father—and to a sure and terrible death in what was an obvious trap.

  Back at the farm, the old man’s body stopped twitching. Thinking he was dead, the bushwhackers gave him some parting lashes, then remounted and rode rapidly west. Incredibly, though, the judge still lived. And even more incredibly, on regaining consciousness he half staggered, half crawled all the way to Huntsville, the noose still around his neck.

  The bushwhackers now split into two parties. One, numbering eleven and led by Bill Anderson, rode due west. The other, commanded by Jim Anderson, headed northwest. On the morning of Sunday, July 31, the second group came to a schoolhouse, where thirty-two young men and boys were holding a religious service. Jim’s band took them prisoner and marched them northward to a church in Macon County. Here Jim asked those men who would fight for the South
—if they would fight at all—to step forward. Twenty-four did so, whereupon they were released. The bushwhackers then subjected the eight recalcitrants, to quote a subsequent account in the Huntsville Randolph Citizen, “to all sorts of indignities, such as being stripped of their clothing,” whipping two of them while shaving the heads of four more, and forcing two others to “kneel in prayer under threats of immediate execution.” Having thus amused themselves on the Sabbath, the band then allowed the eight to go free and proceeded west into Chariton County.

  The next morning, August 1, Bill Anderson’s party forded the Grand River and entered “the Gourd,” an area in southeast Carroll County between the Grand and Missouri, obviously so called with but a glance at a map. Now in what was largely unfamiliar territory, Anderson compelled the first civilian he met to come along as a guide and did the same with a second. Toward evening he stopped at a farmhouse, where he ordered the four women present to provide supper for him and his men. After eating, some of the bushwhackers stretched out in the yard and fell asleep while others played tunes on a fiddle or flirted with the women. Anderson did not bother to post a picket or sentinel—a cardinal mistake for guerrillas, one that would cost Quantrill his life a year hence in Kentucky.