Bloody Bill Anderson

by Albert Castel

  Altogether, more than a hundred corpses, most horribly mutilated, carpeted the ridge and the field behind it. Bushwhacker casualties totaled two killed outright, one mortally wounded (he died of lockjaw), and ten wounded. The Civil War produced many slaughters and many of them had much higher butcher bills. But few of them were as one-sided as this one three miles southeast of Centralia, Missouri, and none equalled it in gruesome, obscene viciousness. It was the war’s epitome of savagery.8

  Presiding over the slaughter had been Bill Anderson. Some claim that George Todd and John Thrailkill conceived and directed the entire operation.9 Much more likely is that all of the bushwhacker chieftains present conferred and agreed on the plan, which was merely a standard guerrilla tactic. In any case, Anderson had the leading role and performed it perfectly. More than that, it was his name that became linked to what happened in and near Centralia on September 27, 1864, with the result that he achieved a reputation that rivaled, and in some respects surpassed, that of Quantrill, as witness this editorial that appeared in the Leavenworth Daily Bulletin of October 7, 1864:

  As Anderson is taking the place of Quantrel [sic] in the management of cutthroats in Missouri, the question is often asked, “Who is this Anderson, who is more bloodthirsty than Quantrell!” He is more of a fiend, if possible, than Quantrell. . . .

  Henceforth he would be known, and remain known, as Bloody Bill—Bloody Bill Anderson of Centralia.

  Sturgeon: Late Afternoon

  James Clark was doing all he could to get out of Sturgeon. When a southbound train arrived, he told its crew of what had happened in Centralia and at once obtained permission to hook his locomotive onto its cars and head north to Macon City with his passengers. Then two survivors of Johnston’s command dashed through the town, yelling that the guerrillas were right behind them. Clark promptly climbed into his cab, yanked open the throttle, and steamed from the station.

  But not far. Almost too late he discovered that he had no fuel and so pulled up at a woodshed north of Sturgeon. As he did so, the passengers in the cars began screaming—a horde of horsemen was approaching across the prairie. Clark called for help to load wood onto the tender. Soon there was more than enough, and once again he sent the train racing north. Nearing Renick, he saw blue-clad riders around the depot. With the throttle wide open, the train rumbled on through the village, much to the astonishment of the waiting Federal troopers. Glancing out and recognizing an officer—Lieutenant Draper of the Ninth Missouri—Clark slowed just long enough to shout out to him the news about Centralia and Johnston. Then the train resumed hurtling up the track to Macon City and safety.10

  Centralia: Late Afternoon to Evening

  Bushwhackers drifted in and out of Centralia. Many rode back from the chase to Sturgeon joking and laughing with one another, as if returning from some great fox hunt. One bragged that while riding at full gallop, he shot two Federals from their saddles at fifty yards; when he inspected his handiwork, each man had a hole neatly drilled through the head. During the eight-mile dash to Sturgeon, those guerrillas on the fleetest horses sometimes halted to borrow loaded weapons from slower comrades. Archie Clements, whose gun and knife had wreaked the most havoc, had had the satisfaction of killing his final victim within sight of the drawn-up garrison at Sturgeon.

  The last rays of the sun reddened the western horizon, and whiskey continued to flow like a river in Centralia as the bushwhackers celebrated what they all hailed as an “extra occasion”—which indeed it had been. Counting those taken from the train, they had killed at least 146 soldiers plus three civilians.11 This surpassed Baxter Springs and in some ways Lawrence, where all the victims had been unarmed and there had been no resistance, and it avenged the fiasco at Fayette with compound interest. Furthermore, they had demonstrated—and this no doubt gave special satisfaction to Anderson and Todd—that they got along quite well, thank you, without Quantrill leading them. Finally, by capturing and destroying a passenger train, they would surely cause the Federals to shut down the North Missouri Railroad and perhaps the Hannibal & St. Joseph, as well, or else have to employ thousands of troops to ride the rails and guard the towns along them. Sterling Price had asked them to “raise hell” north of the Missouri River, and by God they had!

  When it started turning dark, Anderson ordered his men to return to the camp on Young’s Creek. Soon they straggled out of Centralia, many so drunk that they could barely stay in their saddles. They left behind, in addition to the corpses of the murdered soldiers and civilians, the bodies of the two comrades killed in the charge. Unlike the other dead, these two lay buried in the village cemetery, encased in wooden coffins that Anderson had had a local carpenter construct. They also left behind images of ghastly horror that would linger in the memories of the people of Centralia for as long as they lived.12

  Anderson’s Camp Beside Young’s Creek: Night, September 27, 1864

  Tom Goodman, still clad only in his underwear and without a blanket, lay on the bare ground. On either side of him, his two guards slept, as did all the other bushwhackers, except for a few pickets posted around the camp. Anderson had told them that they could have three hours of shut-eye prior to moving on. Given what they had done during the day, hundreds if not thousands of vengeance-seeking Federals would be heading for the Centralia area, and it was best to get a good start on them. Already Todd and Thrailkill had marched off to a separate bivouac several miles away.

  Goodman wanted to sleep and tried to sleep. But again he couldn’t. In his mind he kept seeing the bushwhackers bursting into the passenger car, his comrades being mowed down, and Val Peters’s desperate death struggle. For a brief while, as Goodman had ridden with his guards as the guerrillas advanced to attack the blue-clad troops on the ridge, the hope that he somehow might escape had grown brighter and brighter—only to dissolve into the darkness of despair when the bushwhackers literally swarmed over their hopelessly outmatched opponents. Far worse, though, was what had followed: the torture and murder of the still-living soldiers, the mutilation and mockery of the dead ones. It had been a scene out of Hell—or, rather, in Hell, for that was where he was now, surrounded by demons.

  Later, back in Centralia, he had watched those demons hunt down and slay still more victims. They had wanted to kill him, too, and being aware of Anderson’s order that he be spared, some of them sought to evade it by handling their weapons in a deliberately careless fashion so as to make shooting him seem like an accident. Several times his guards saved him from death by knocking up the barrel of a revolver or carbine as it spewed out a bullet intended for him.

  Now he lay on the hard, cold ground in the bushwhackers’ camp. Abandoning any attempt to sleep, he opened his eyes and gazed at the silent stars, thinking once more of all that had happened this bloody day of September 27, 1864.

  And then he wept.13

  Chapter Eight

  Reserved

  Boone and Howard Counties, Missouri: September 28–October 8, 1864

  It was the dying time. The chill of autumn hung heavy on the night air. The old season fell prey to the death and decay of the new. Above, black clouds spread a somber shroud across the land. So still, so impenetrably dark, was this world that it might have been the silent, black void of a tomb. No life stirred in this strange realm; no currents rippled its deathlike calm.

  Then came a sound—a faint hissing in the darkness. Suddenly, like the dawn of creation, the world exploded in a blinding flash. A bright ball of flame cast an eerie blue glow over the prairie. Like phantoms frozen in ice, the long column of horsemen stood stark and motionless in the road. The fire soared through the sky, slowed, hung for a moment or two, and then finally fell sputtering to earth.

  “Signal men!” cracked a sharp voice at the head of the column. “Advance!”

  Three mounted figures galloped forward from different points. Another rocket shot up over the land, briefly throwing its lurid glare down on the riders before the world returned to blackness. Several minutes passed. S
uddenly two fiery comets, one red and the other white, soared up from the head of the column, arced through the sky, and disappeared. Again all became dark, the sole sound the haunting hoot of an owl. Then, off to the right, hoofbeats approached the head of the column, ceasing when they reached it.

  The column resumed moving. At first low murmuring drifted up from it, but after a while fatigue set in, and only the clop of hooves, the creak of wagon wheels, and the jingle of spurs disturbed the night. Many of the riders dozed or even slept while they jogged along, an ability acquired through much experience with nocturnal marches.

  As the sun began rising, the column descended into brush-covered bottoms along a creek. Here, at the edge of a clearing, it halted. Anderson rode forward a short distance to survey the ground. Like a bird of prey, his eyes scanned the scene with quick, darting glances. No movement in the trees. No sound on the hill. No smoke in the valley. Brush on three sides, a farm on the fourth. Stacks of oats and hay (the horses would eat), water in the creek (the horses and men would drink). . . . It would do. He waved his hand and pickets went out. The rest of the guerrillas rode into the clearing, spread out, and dismounted for a short rest.

  Among them was Tom Goodman.1 Yet in a sense he had ceased to be Tom Goodman and instead had become a thing, a mere object. When his captors looked at him, he saw in their eyes nothing but hatred and loathing. When they spoke of him, he heard them say such things as, “I would like to kill the damn Yankee.” And if they spoke to him, the mildest thing they said was “Hellfire is too good for you, you son of a bitch!”

  They would kill him, of that he was sure. The only question was when and how. All he could do was pray that when death came, it would be quick. If there was a God Almighty above, it would be quick.

  At midmorning the bushwhackers resumed their march. For the next several hours they moved steadily south, holding to the back roads and lanes, availing themselves of the concealment provided by brush as much as possible. Around noon they halted to await darkness. When it came, they pushed on into more open country, traveling swiftly and silently, for during the afternoon a scout had brought word that large numbers of Federals had been spotted the day before, quite likely in quest of Anderson.

  They were. After describing the Centralia massacres, a correspondent of the St. Louis Republican in its September 30 edition declared that “Bill Anderson roams over the prairies and forests of northern Missouri as free almost as the air he breathes.” Now every available Union soldier, militiaman, and home guard in central Missouri had been assembled to hunt him down and put an end to his breathing—and his killing.2

  Toward midnight, by which time they had reentered woodlands, the bushwhackers stopped to camp. Using their saddles for pillows, they quickly fell asleep. Not so Goodman. He lay on the bare ground shivering with cold, hungry from having nothing to eat since leaving St. Louis, and weak from the terrible stress. His restless mind would not allow him to sleep, as it constantly churned away at thoughts of escape—thoughts that included fantasies of bribing his captors with gold made alchemy-like from the soil around him. Finally, mercifully, sheer exhaustion brought him sleep and with it temporary rescue from the nightmare in which he now existed.

  The sun rose, and strong hands shook him awake. His two guards took him to where Anderson’s horse was feeding and told him to curry and saddle it. Although he was loath to do so, he set to work with a will; indeed, he gave the horse such a thorough grooming that the animal would remember it, he thought, “as long as he is a horse.”

  The grooming pleased Anderson. An hour or two later, while on the march, he reined up beside Goodman and asked: “Well, my old fellow, how do you get along?”

  “Very well, sir,” Goodman replied.

  “You, my man,” Anderson continued, a flicker in his steely eyes, “are the first being whose life I ever spared who was caught in federal blue!”

  “That’s so, Colonel!” some nearby guerrilla shouted in confirmation.

  They addressed Anderson, it should be noted, by a title that hitherto had been accorded solely to William Clarke Quantrill among Missouri partisans. Anderson surely knew this and just as surely derived great satisfaction from it. Not George Todd, Quantrill’s supplanter, but he, Bill Anderson, who had been humiliated by Quantrill back in 1861 and insulted by him in Texas, was now the de facto king of the bushwhackers.3

  Shortly after Goodman’s brief conversation with Anderson, a tall, handsome man attired in a gray uniform, and evidently a Confederate officer, joined the column. Observing Goodman, the officer rode up to his guards and asked, “Who is this man?”

  “A prisoner,” the guards answered simultaneously, saluting as they spoke. “Taken, sir,” one of them added, “at Centralia.”

  “I thought you took no prisoners, my man.”

  “This one, Colonel, by orders, you see.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Anderson’s—no, only reserved by his orders.”

  “Aha, I understand. Anderson was right.”

  The officer then rode on, leaving behind a puzzled and worried Goodman. “Reserved,” he thought—but for what purpose? Presumably it was something special. He saw in his mind again the soldiers on the ridge south of Centralia and how they had first begged to be allowed to live and then pleaded to be permitted to die. He shuddered inwardly and resolved to try to escape the first good chance he had.

  The march continued until about noon, whereupon the bushwhackers halted within the shelter of a large grove of trees near a cultivated field. They dismounted, fed their horses, and sent out a foraging party to procure food for themselves. A bare twenty minutes later the foragers galloped back, yelling, “The Yankees are coming! The Yankees are coming! Ride as though hell was after you!”

  The guerrillas leaped into their saddles, formed in a column of twos, and rode rapidly out of the woods and back onto the road, Anderson in the lead and Goodman with his guards not far behind. Then they heard a boom, and something invisible shrieked overhead and exploded in some timber a hundred yards to the right. A six-pound shell, judged Goodman. Anderson held up his hand as a signal to halt. Even as he did so, another boom reverberated through the air, and a second shell crashed near the same place.

  Visibly frightened—artillery was something new for most of them—the bushwhackers returned to the woods, swung through them in a half-circle, and emerged on the other side where they beheld, to their joy, a broad, open prairie. Pleased at having escaped what they believed to have been a trap, they shouted out words of derision for the Federals and their cannons as they galloped toward a lone, high hill.

  When they reached its crest, the shouts abruptly ceased. On every side, for miles around, blue-clad cavalry dotted the brown plain. Instead of evading a trap, the raiders had entered one. The shelling had successfully flushed them, like quails, from their cover.

  Wheeling his horse around, Anderson screamed a strange cry, whereupon his followers broke into groups of five to eight, then scattered in all directions down the hill. Anderson himself, though, remained. Accompanied by eight men, he rode over to Goodman and his guards.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Anderson gazed at the bedraggled sergeant; his eyes, as always, revealed nothing. Was this the end? Goodman wondered. Was he about to be killed? When he saw the Union troops all around, hope of being rescued surged through him. Now all he asked for was that Anderson shoot him and be done with it—and not use a knife. . . .

  Finally Anderson spoke, and what he said was not what Goodman expected to hear:

  “Prisoner, you must now ride for your life! Boys, we all must!”

  For his life! He still lived, but in a world turned upside down. To win was to lose, to lose was to win, his saviors were his destroyers; his destroyers, his saviors. Goodman raced down the hill with the others; to dash away and perhaps escape a bullet in the back would be to ride toward the blue pursuers and receive a bullet in the front. The entire world was after him, thirsting for his blood, keeping hi
m alive only to prolong the terrible torture. There was no choice. He must ride like a madman and pray that he and his future murderers escaped.

  Galloping far in front, Anderson steered his men into an opening between the oncoming columns. Only by the swiftness of their mounts did they elude the first wave of Federals, and only through the strong nerves and sharp instincts of the man leading them did they avoid several ambuscades. The rattle of revolver and rifle fire in the distance announced that others were less fortunate.

  Hour after hour the game of hide and seek continued: over brown prairies, along brushy ravines, among rolling hills, from one stand of timber to the next. Once Anderson rode off alone after instructing his band to stay on their southward course. An hour later, as they were about to enter a thicket, he swooped back from nowhere and stopped them in their tracks. A Federal outpost, he said, was just beyond the trees. They turned and headed north.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, they made their way into woodland and, after riding about twenty-five minutes, came upon a camp inhabited by twenty or so of Todd’s men, two of whom were badly wounded. They were now in the Perche Hills, and there they were safe. Federals rarely ventured into those dense forests and labyrinthine ravines, and when they did, they even more rarely found any guerrillas—unless the guerrillas chose to find them.

  More and more raiders arrived, singly and in groups. To Goodman’s astonishment, many were drunk, including George Todd, who seemed to be in a bad humor. The camp itself was obviously a regular place of refuge, for it contained crude shelters of poles covered with bark and boughs, as well as large caches of food and whiskey.

  That night the latter flowed freely and copiously. Before long almost all of the bushwhackers were drunk—so drunk that they acted like madmen, whooping, running, jumping, and yelling. Never had Goodman beheld such a spectacle or heard such profanity. He felt as if he were in Hell itself.