With the dawn of 1862, Kansans awoke to find vengeance-hungry Missourians crossing west of the line much as the jayhawkers had crossed eastward the year before. And thus with this sobering reality upon them, and with both sides of the border suddenly locked in a vicious little war, Kansans began to clamor for protection.
Various theories were tossed about as to which method of safeguarding the state was best. When all was said and done, however, the answer was usually the same. With few exceptions Kansans agreed that the only sure way to gain relief from Missouri was simply to seal it off by placing a permanent army along the border as one might place a fence—a fence of scouts, pickets, and patrols watching day and night, spreading alarm to the interior when a Rebel force did approach, then concentrating with overwhelming might to chase, corner, and finally, to destroy them. To the amazement and utter disgust of Kansans, however, no Federal commander viewed the problem in quite the same light. The most effective way to gain security for Kansas, these officers argued, was by killing bushwhackers where they lived, in Missouri. When a new raid on Kansas demonstrated the weakness of this policy, the embarrassed officials tried to mute the outcry by rushing men to garrison the stricken communities. But then, when the furor had faded, the troops were quietly withdrawn, the same course was pursued, and the same results soon followed. Despairing of ever gaining relief, Kansans sometimes banded together and watched the line themselves. In the end, however, this also proved ineffective, because after the excitement had passed, farmers were always forced back on fields to work neglected crops.
The want of a reliable border defense would have been frustrating enough. But then there was also an unfortunate run of military commanders, none of whom could quite measure up to the task. The latest, Brigadier General James Blunt, seemed at last a man for the times. Physically awesome, aggressive, a Kansan himself, Blunt had earlier suggested that a system of signals and patrols be adopted along the border to warn of attack from Missouri.3 Nothing of substance came of it, however, and Blunt was soon seen by many for what they felt he really was: a “holiday officer,” a heavy-handed, political would-be whose harsh measures only fueled the hatred and will of the bushwhackers. His gala banquets and late-night revelries proved entertaining for some, and the former doctor’s penchant for grand reviews was inspiring for others—but the death and destruction continued, the garrisons were again rushed in, and Kansas under Blunt was more vulnerable than ever.
“This method of protecting burned towns, dead bodies and destroyed private property, don’t suit us,” snapped an irate journalist. “Give us a live man to take charge of Kansas.”4
Perhaps no family in Ohio was so prominent or so accustomed to power and success than were the Ewings of Lancaster. The patriarch, Senator Thomas Ewing, a master statesman with an ambition that fully mantled his giant frame, was a man honored and esteemed nationwide. And at the sunset of an illustrious career the father could with confidence pass along the family baton to any of seven children—which included a foster son, William Tecumseh Sherman—and expect each to add to the Ewing legacy.5
One of the children, Thomas, Jr., seemed especially promising. And like the grand old man whom he loved and admired, the son’s horizons were as broad and boundless as they were bright with hope. In the late 1850s, with opportunity beckoning, the younger Ewing turned west and, with his brothers Hugh and “Cump” Sherman, cast his fate to Kansas Territory. Once settled, the three Ohioans opened a law and real estate office in Leavenworth.6
After weighing his many options, however, Thomas Ewing aligned with the free-state party, became active politically, cultivated friends, and watched while his star dramatically ascended. Soon, with lofty aims and, as he admitted, “big plans a foot,” the son of Senator Ewing was a political force in his own right. As a result he was awarded the first chief justiceship of Kansas.7
This well-charted course didn’t reckon on war, however. Already by the autumn of 1862 Cump was a major general and the other brother and former law partner, Hugh, was rising almost as spectacularly. Consequently, Thomas abandoned his lofty though lackluster position and began recruiting and organizing the Eleventh Kansas Cavalry. At its completion, the man with no prior military experience was in turn commissioned colonel of the regiment. Shortly thereafter, the Eleventh engaged Rebel forces in Arkansas, and in the resulting battle the regiment performed so well and the colonel conducted himself with such distinction that by spring 1863, less than seven months after his entrance into the service, Ewing was elevated to the rank of brigadier general.8
On the morning of June 16, 1863, three months after his latest promotion, Thomas Ewing, without “fuss or parade,” entered his office at the finest hotel in Kansas City, the Pacific House, and assumed his duties as commander of the District of the Border.9
At first glance, the task might have seemed simple. On closer inspection, however, the thirty-three-year-old general found himself facing the greatest challenge of his young life. The District of the Border was a huge region encompassing most of settled Kansas and the two tiers of Missouri border counties lying roughly between the Osage and Missouri rivers. East of the state line existed a bitter and generally hostile populace just beginning to recover from the ravages of 1861. Guerrillas roamed the land almost at will and the Missouri farmer, through “fear or favor,” was obliged to help them. Conversely, west of the line was Ewing’s home and seat of ambition. Here the loyal people of Kansas resided, and even though the state was liberally laced with thieves, rogues, and scoundrels, all in the end were voters and all in the end demanded protection. Ewing well understood that by accepting the border command he inherited the old territorial battleground in which hatred—black, abiding hatred—had become a firmly rooted fact of life. The challenge was staggering. Much, perhaps the impossible, would be expected of him. And undoubtedly, should he stumble along the way and meet with a reverse or two, those who now waited so hopefully for miracles would quickly turn against him. But if the challenge was great, Ewing felt himself greater still and more than man enough for the job ahead.
Tall, broad-shouldered like his father, cool, confident—vain, some thought—Tom Ewing entered the hotel overlooking the big river and quietly took his post.
General Ewing’s tenure began on a tragic note. The day following his arrival in Kansas City an extremely bloody ambush took place near Westport in which fourteen of his new command were slain. Federal scouts swiftly ran down and killed three of the attackers, however, then held to the track of the rest. In the next few days more and more bushwhackers were “put through” until stunned Kansans suddenly realized that not only had a new man stepped onto the scene but a new and rare energy had arrived as well. “Hurrah for Ewing,” one editor cheered. “Put in the licks, General, the very biggest you can lay on, and all the people will say amen.”10
A week later, before a crowd at Olathe, Ewing kept the excitement alive and exhibited his mettle by assuring Kansans that the recent success was no charade. “I hope soon to have troops enough on the Missouri side not only to prevent raids into Kansas, but also to drive out or exterminate every band of guerrillas now haunting that region. I will keep a thousand men in the saddle daily in pursuit of them and will redden with their blood every road and bridle path of the border.”11 Although admittedly he wasn’t much of a speaker, these were the very words Kansans needed so desperately to hear, and the general was applauded warmly.
Then Ewing turned to his chief concern—the defense of Kansas. From his headquarters at Kansas City in the north to beyond the banks of the Osage in the south, there ran a sixty-mile border open to any and all who cared to cross. The very nature of this border was manifest when the jayhawkers of 1861 crossed and recrossed and crossed again, a favor the bushwhackers returned in 1862. Much of the line for ten to twenty miles on either side was devastated, yet beyond, the interior of Kansas lay unscathed. This, at all costs, had to be saved. With less than four thousand men present for duty, from buglers to clerks, and with m
any needed actively in the field, the chore would be difficult.12 Yet Ewing was not dismayed.
With Kansas City the anchor of the north, a series of stations was established along the border linking up respectively at Westport, Little Santa Fe, Aubrey, Harrisonville, Coldwater Grove, Rockville, and the Trading Post. With the exception of Westport and Harrisonville, each site was an insignificant speck on the map and hardly warranted such attention. But the value of each, as perceived by Ewing, was in its unique location. At approximately thirteen-mile intervals, from Westport to the Trading Post, a station was situated, thereby assuring that in any given crisis a camp would be within rapid supporting distance of another. Every day and every night mounted troops would leave these posts, patrol the border, communicate with men of the next station, scan the eastern horizon, then turn and ride back to their base. Over and over this procedure would repeat itself. And although this system—this virtual human wall—would greatly facilitate alerting other posts and towns to the rear, this was not its sole purpose. The border camps’ importance rested also in their strength. Each of the seven stations contained a complement of over one hundred well-armed, well-mounted men. No guerrilla raiding party yet had ventured over the line in numbers sufficient to risk an engagement with or face pursuit by a force such as this.13
A program of this magnitude was expensive. Supply was ponderous and the tedium of camp crushed young spirits. Hundreds of men needed to hunt bushwhackers were thus held back. Despite the many drawbacks, the value of the guard was never doubted and, Ewing felt, for the defense of Kansas it was well worth the investment. And grateful Kansans could not have agreed more. To allay fears even further, the young general sent a small number of soldiers to garrison several border towns and issued arms and rations to the militias in the area.14 Satisfied, Ewing turned his sights east once more, to Missouri and “those devils in the bush.”
“One thing is certain,” warned William T. Sherman, an officer who had his own problems with partisans, “there is a class of people, men, women, and children, who must be killed or banished before you can hope for peace and order.”15
On this score the two brothers saw as one. So long as the families and friends of guerrillas remained, thought Ewing, there could be no hope of pacifying Missouri. For quite some time he had toyed with the notion of clearing these players from the board by exiling “several hundred of the worst” Rebels to the hills and brakes of Arkansas. With the most fanatical supporters out of the way and the country relatively quiet, Ewing believed he could then “offer terms” to those who remained.16 Kansas would thereby gain greater security and in Missouri much of the fighting would end. Such was the plan and such was the course he now embarked upon. So certain was he that his immediate superior would countenance the plan that Ewing had already directed his troops to begin the roundup of families before a formal order of expulsion had been written.
During the first week of August 1863, Ewing’s confidence in the border situation enabled him to leave his post at Kansas City and travel downriver to St. Louis. There he met with Maj. Gen. John Schofield and sought permission to carry through with the plan.
John Schofield was a plump, balding, undramatic sort of fellow without a trace of the pomp and flourish most men naturally looked for in a general. Nonetheless, to command the most delicate of all border states President Lincoln wanted none other.
Although quite aware of the valuable service he performed in Missouri, Schofield thoroughly despised the job and longed to join the great armies of the East. Since the beginning of the war, when he was caught between lectures as professor of physics at Washington University in St. Louis, Schofield had seen no assignment other than the West. After breathing the smoke of battle at Wilson’s Creek in 1861 where he was “ever in the lead, foremost, coolest,” Schofield for the most part sat at one uneventful desk job after another, albeit influential posts for which he was handsomely rewarded, but drab, inglorious, enervating posts as well.17 Thus in the spring of 1863, when he was ordered to report for active duty in Tennessee, John Schofield was quick to go.
The transfer proved temporary, however, for in less than a month a surprised and travel-worn general found himself back in St. Louis and, by direction of the president, in charge of the Department of the Missouri. In the choice of commander Lincoln found a man, a fellow Illinoisan, who knew Missouri as did few others, and just as important to the president, Schofield was a political moderate with no strings attached.
“Exercise your own judgment,” wrote Lincoln, “and do right for the public interest.… Let your military measures be strong enough to repel the invader and keep the peace, and not so strong as to unnecessarily harass and persecute the people. It is a difficult role, and so much greater will be the honor if you perform it well.”18
Petulant and moody, resentful of the “promotion” that forced him back to the Missouri desk, Schofield, the West Pointer, would nonetheless stay and perform a soldier’s duty as the president asked. At the same time he would never miss an excuse to escape Missouri and take the field. Lincoln’s choice, although politically unpopular, was nevertheless a good one, for no matter how weak and bending John Schofield might appear outwardly, he was in fact inwardly a very strong man.
The Department of the Missouri was comprised of Kansas and Missouri and those parts of Arkansas and the Indian Nations held by Federal troops. To guard this huge area Schofield had some forty-three thousand men. In June 1863, however, the general sent nearly half the soldiers in his department downriver to reinforce U. S. Grant in his campaign against Vicksburg. Although Washington was heartily pleased with the move and Schofield himself was “willing to risk it,” as he said, “in view of the vast importance of Grant’s success,” the risk left his department dangerously undermanned.19 One way of making up the difference was by mustering into service tens of thousands of Missouri militiamen. Another was to cut back and eliminate needless assignments. Yet another way to ease the troop shortage and possibly cool the guerrilla war was by hearing suggestions such as Thomas Ewing now proposed.
The two men—one the scion of an important national politician, the other the son of a Baptist minister—discussed the plan of removal confidentially, of its necessity, scope, and value. While Ewing soon returned to Kansas City, Schofield held off on a decision, requiring several more days to weigh the merits of the move. Then on August 14, 1863, the St. Louis commander telegraphed his approval. Along with the approval, however, were certain stipulations: because of “expense and trouble” and the suffering of children, the people removed must be kept to a minimum—only those, wrote Schofield, of the “worst character.” He also cautioned Ewing to be alert during the following weeks; because of the banishment of their relatives, guerrillas might in some form or another seek retaliation.20
And so Ewing signed into law General Orders, No. 10, the forced removal of bushwhacker families and friends and their exile from west Missouri. Throughout August his troops continued the sweep begun in July, herding scores of men, women, and children to prison prior to their passage downriver.
On into the weeks of August, Tom Ewing busied himself with the many affairs of his district. And with each passing day the general’s faith in his ability to tame the border grew. Even before he assumed the difficult assignment in June, Ewing had already owned a veritable river of self-confidence—the result of a life unsullied by failure. And as of late, the shower of public acclaim and attention could not but help give the flow a mighty, swift rise. There was some criticism, however, political in nature mostly. A number of hard-shelled abolitionists hammered on Ewing’s slavery stand, or as they said, the want of it. Others pointed to the renewed rumblings in the woods of western Missouri as proof that the new commander was no better than the rest. Even more were irate at the general’s tough handling of the jayhawking problem and his declaration of martial law in Mayor Dan Anthony’s Leavenworth, the well-known black market capital of the West. And some, with little else to carp about, just called Ew
ing “selfish.”
But the overwhelming majority of loyal, honest men would hear none of it. They could plainly see all about them the results of an active policy conducted by a man of intelligence and energy, of the return to calm after a reign of terror and near anarchy. The reasons for the general’s success were clear for any who cared to look. Brigandage along the border had been throttled by martial law in Leavenworth and was nearly at an end. Also, as soldiers became adept in brush tactics there was a sudden swing in the balance of fighting. At no point in the war was the morale of the troops higher, for after a series of “petty skirmishes and engagements” the Federals had come away with the decided advantage. Additionally, Ewing’s spies had infiltrated the guerrilla ranks so thoroughly that it was felt no move by large bodies of Rebels could be made without the general soon learning of it. In the past few weeks alone a band of bushwhackers had been scattered by just such information.21 There was, as Schofield predicted, a noticeable surge in guerrilla activity throughout western Missouri. But once again Ewing felt confident that the trouble could be contained until the completion of Order No. 10. And the order itself was progressing smoothly. Except for the incident at the prison in which the five women were killed, the transfer had come off without a hitch.
But undoubtedly, of all his many achievements, the source of Ewing’s greatest satisfaction was the border guard and the protection he had given Kansas.
“No General in command of the District has … given so much peace to the border,” rang one admirer.22
“Everything seems to have taken new life since Gen. Ewing came,” echoed another.23
Indeed, Thomas Ewing could take pride in his labors, for in less than two months he had raised from raw material something that none of his predecessors, during the past two years, had been able to construct—he had rebuilt a solid sense of safety and security over the western border. In that same speech at Olathe, shortly after assuming command, Ewing had told Kansans: “I can assure you there is little at present to fear on this side of the border from guerrilla bands.” What seemed true then seemed doubly so on August 20, 1863. In two short months the sweet breeze of peace and hope had come flowing over the line in waves unlike any time in the past, and since the onset of war Kansas had never experienced such tranquility. And in the minds of the people of that state, only one person could take the credit. Thankful Kansans, searching so long for that one general, that one “live” man, were convinced they now had found him.
Bloody Dawn Page 3
