Bloody Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  “The terrible state of affairs,” wrote one editor, expressing the mood of many, “is coming to an end.… Ewing is the man.”24

  Near midnight on August 20, 1863, Capt. Charles Coleman and his company reached the camp at Aubrey. Probably no Federal officer on the border had adapted to the guerrilla war as well as Coleman; he seemed born to it. When he entered the woods of western Missouri he lived as the bushwhacker lived, fought by stealth and surprise as the bushwhacker did, and understood the tricks of the game and knew his dangerous adversary as well as any. His record and the roll of Rebel dead bore this out. Incontestably brave, clever, daring to a fault, Coleman’s élan had caused near disaster three weeks before. Hunting guerrillas one hot, tension-filled night in July, the captain and his men came stealing up behind a large force presumed to be that of the foe. Actually, it was another Federal outfit on the same hunt with a band of Indians riding rearguard. Coleman charged, the Indians broke, and with wild screams and feathers flying the rest of the panic-stricken company was carried into the night. Fortunately, only one man was killed by the error, but Union troops were thereafter mindful when Charles Coleman was in the vicinity.25

  Learning that Captain Pike had failed to send any warning west and that only one message had been relayed south to Lt. Col. Charles Clark, Coleman hastily sent a courier of his own to Clark, informing him that Kansas had been invaded. Then, with their forces combined, Coleman, Pike, and nearly two hundred troopers struck for the trail of the invaders.26

  At approximately the same time, twenty miles to the north, the second dispatch rider sent by Captain Coleman was entering the long, wooded lane south of Westport. The moon was down and the way north was black and frightening. Even though Kansas City and General Ewing’s headquarters were only five miles away, the exhausted mount could not be held to more than a trot in the smothering heat. If out of curiosity the courier struck a match and read the message he carried, a practice not uncommon, then he would see that at 6:00 P.M. that day 800 guerrillas had crossed the state line just south of Aubrey. When last seen they were headed west. To any Kansas soldier, “west” meant one of three places: the first two, Olathe and Paola, both short hops from the border, were lately always alert, now continually defended by troops and militia; the unlikely third, fifty miles from the line and by far the largest of the three, was Lawrence.27

  4

  THE DARKEST HOUR

  The messenger sent west from Olathe stopped short when almost to Gardner. Here he was met and warned that a large body of men had just passed through town riding down the Santa Fe Road. Confused, afraid, alone, the trooper turned his horse and rode back up the trail toward Olathe.1

  At almost the same time, 12:30 A.M., August 21, a second message reached the Pacific House in Kansas City. Maj. Preston Plumb, chief of staff, read the dispatch and quickly ordered what cavalry there was in the town to saddle and prepare to move. Before he left the major sent urgent notes of his own directing all available men in the area to mount and strike for the south. Then, shortly after 1:00 A.M., Plumb and fifty troopers crossed the state line and raced down the road to Olathe.

  The commander of the border, Thomas Ewing, knew nothing of all this. He had left his desk the day before and traveled upriver to Leavenworth on what he claimed was official business. A telegraph wire stretched between there and Kansas City, but it was no use trying to reach him because the office in Leavenworth closed at 11:00 P.M. “for want of … operators.” They would not open again for another seven hours.2

  At 9:00 P.M., January 29, 1861, the first news of statehood reached the darkened streets of Lawrence. Word spread rapidly from house to house until in a moment the sounds of celebration echoed from every corner of the snow-covered town. While church bells pealed, while homes and shops were illuminated, while a cannon boomed out one hundred salutes, men and women laughed and shouted, danced and hugged, kissed and cried. They built huge bonfires, singing away the night, while toasts were lifted again and again.

  It was an occasion the people would remember for as long as they lived. But wonderful though the news was, the celebration was more than merely a salute to statehood—much more. It was a paean of victory, a victory of freedom over slavery. For as the new state picked itself up and “moved to America,” it moved not as a slave state, as everyone in the South had earlier predicted, but as a free state, as everyone in Lawrence had hoped and prayed. And if the people of Lawrence laughed a little harder, sang a little louder, and danced a bit longer than other folks in Kansas it was with good reason, because it was here, more than in any other place and more through their efforts than anyone else’s, that the victory over slavery had finally been won.

  But it had not been easy. Ad astra per aspera ran the new state motto—To the stars through difficulties. Although the stars had not quite been reached yet—indeed, they were hardly in sight—everyone celebrating in the streets of Lawrence, and throughout Kansas as well, would have agreed that the little New England colony by the banks of the Kaw had already passed through more than its share of difficulties.

  Behind them now were the dark days of fear and uncertainty, the days of “bleeding Kansas” and the uphill struggle to rescue the territory from slavery. Gone were the awful, anxious, though blood-free days during the siege of Lawrence when men from the North and men from the South had for the first time, after years of vowing to do so, glared at one another down the sights of their guns. Gone too were the days when gangs of Missouri “Border Ruffians,” drunk and swaggering, had bullied to the polls to ensure a proslavery government. Behind them also was that memorable day when free-staters, heeding a “higher law,” had met in Lawrence to form their own government. And no more would the people hear those hideous taunts and curses when the men of Lawrence were called “white-livered abolitionists,” “black-hearted Yorkers,” “nigger heroes,” and such and were warned to clear out or face death by lead, hemp, and fire.

  “We shall have Kansas—we won’t be cheated out of it,” growled Southerners back then. “We are going to have Kansas if we wade to the knees in blood to get it.”

  But Lawrence was made of sterner stuff, and although they should have been, the citizens were not cowed in the least. Missourians were dared to come on and make a war of it, then jeered and spat upon as “drunken rif-raf,” “white-trash,” and “pukes.”

  And finally, for those singing and laughing in the streets this night, behind them was the time most remembered of all—the time when, after months of threats and vows, their town was at last invaded and sacked. Lawrence had always held a special place in Missouri hearts. Everyone knew this. Because it was peopled by the most troublesome free-staters in Kansas, and because it was the headquarters of the detested New England Emigrant Aid Society, slavers had always bristled to “burn out” the hated abolition nest and have an end of it. Thus when the golden opportunity presented itself one day in May of 1856, a mob of Border Ruffians eagerly swarmed into town. The free-soil leaders were quickly collared and jailed, the newspapers and hotel were destroyed, and then several homes were looted and another burned, just for good measure. Although none of the townsfolk were injured in the affair, it was one dismal day to recall nonetheless.

  But looking back on it now, anyone could plainly see that, black cloud though it was, the sack of Lawrence had its silver lining as well. For no sooner had word of the outrage reached the East than a fierce cry of indignation went up. Where before there had been merely a trickle of help, now money, guns, and men—angry men—flooded into the territory, enough so that any further doubts about the outcome were quickly erased. Thus, even in its hour of apparent defeat, Lawrence had sown the seeds for freedom’s victory and had, in the process, sealed the doom of the South. The irony: the people of Lawrence loved it.

  Ad astra per aspera—although the phrase was hoisted for Kansas, nobody was fooled. The words were written at Lawrence, written in fire. It was here against odds that the war to end slavery was begun; it was here during the darke
st days that the battle was continued; and finally it was here, fittingly, gloriously, triumphantly, that freedom was ultimately won. Those dancing and singing in the snowy streets of Lawrence this memorable eve knew this simple lesson in history, and now, all too clearly, all too painfully, Missouri knew it as well.

  As everywhere throughout America, the spring of 1861 was a suspenseful, breathtaking time in Lawrence. Statehood … South Carolina … secession … it was a hissing fuse of events that finally exploded in one word—Sumter! President Lincoln’s call for men to suppress the rebellion had no greater reception anywhere in the nation than in Lawrence, for here at last was the war all had waited for: the war to end human bondage. No longer was it simply a defense of freedom in the territory, but a direct assault on treason and slavery in Missouri. It was also a time of thrill and high pageantry.

  Lawrence men, “Old ’56 Boys,” eagerly rushed to arms and formed companies overnight. Behind them, teenagers banded together into the Union Cadets and behind them still, noisy children marched with paper hats and wooden swords. The ladies of Lawrence bestirred themselves with patriotic committees and the sewing of flags and tunics. Troops from the interior, bound for the border, were “almost constantly” tramping up flag-bedecked Massachusetts Street, and with band music blaring, each green outfit received a hero’s welcome. Daily the small city armory filled as guns, powder, and bayonets arrived.3

  “The martial spirit of the people is fully aroused,” huzzahed Hovey Lowman, editor of the Lawrence Journal. “All around the eye meets the gleam of the freshly burnished Sharp’s rifle, and the ear catches the significant click of the newly oiled revolver.”4

  Then, one night in early May, Lawrence was thrown into a commotion reminiscent of the territorial days when Missourians were reportedly on the march to seize the city and its armory. The scare was brief, however, and by morning everyone was ready “to welcome invaders to ‘hospitable graves.’ ” In fact, the emergency only added spice to the wonderful war mood as well as confidence in the town’s preparedness.

  “We invite any number of Border Ruffians to visit any part of our State,” goaded the Journal. “The nearer they come to Lawrence the better!” Nevertheless, scouts were sent ranging and the militia found new call to quicken its step.5

  “Fight for fun,” trumpeted John Speer of the Lawrence Republican as more troops arrived in the city.6 And following them hundreds more from outlying counties came down the valley, bivouacked for a night or two, then pushed east, all the while giving the town the thump and boom of an important military post. The Lawrence Guards, with Ens. Joshua Pike, joined the parade as did other city companies. And a great many had the supreme satisfaction of marching and camping among their old foes at Kansas City and Westport, never missing an opportunity to exhibit their patriotism and, “in every possible way,” their contempt.7 Other local adventurers dashed off in their dust to “spread terror,” free slaves, and lay claim to Missouri loot.

  Then in late July 1861, when the camps had cleared and when an unusually calm and lonesome mood settled upon the town, a second rumor of an impending raid came. Excited citizens once more rushed to arms, and over a hundred militiamen rallied from the country. In the end, however, the report proved just as unfounded as before. Still, apprehension was duly aroused. Coming as it did on the heels of the Union debacle at Bull Run and the continued Rebel resistance in Missouri, men soon realized that the war would not be over in a few months as predicted. Sidewalk idlers speculated that a dozen or so daring horsemen could steal into Lawrence some night, burn a portion of the town, then escape across the border unmolested.

  Even though several new militia companies were rapidly formed, the scare passed, and by late autumn the war again seemed far away. In fact, looking back over the year, most all of Lawrence would agree that 1861 had been a memorable, enjoyable time generally, a time when all the world seemed hued in red, white, and blue, or, as everyone had prayed for in January, a “year of peace and plenty.” War had raged to the east and wild rumors had caused some excitement, but slight was the effect in Lawrence as men, women, and children sat down to roast turkey and oyster pie and enjoyed Thanksgiving “in true New England style.” But while others held seasonal parties and crowded around warm firesides, a few individuals watched events taking shape on the border. What they saw worried them. Because of the unbridled rampage of Jennison and other jayhawkers, thousands of Missourians were going hungry and homeless this winter. Some felt the punishment only fit the crime and quietly reveled in its execution. But the chilling question still arose: “How long before Lawrence may expect a return visit? Home guards drill! drill! drill!”8

  The following spring, 1862, a fresh wave of troops flooded up the Kaw Valley bound for duty in New Mexico. “Lawrence … citizens seem as much pleased to gaze on a military display as when the first squad of soldiers passed through her streets,” noted the Journal.9 This benign attitude soon began to crack, however, then crumble. Unlike previous troops these newcomers were illmannered and rowdy and chafed at the thought of service in the desert Southwest. During the day there were fistfights, drunkenness, and shootings, and at night there was singing and howling when most of the town was abed. Theft became more commonplace. Consequently, soldiers were kept from the city as much as possible and not allowed to enter at all after sundown.10

  Troops weren’t the only visitors to enliven Lawrence during the early years of the war; there were also slaves by the hundreds. Some Missouri runaways crossed the line and went no further than their first step on free soil, settling for good in Wyandotte, Leavenworth, and Atchison. But more, it was observed, “as they break their fetters … strike for the center of abolition.” And that center, as everyone white and black knew, was Lawrence.11

  From the earliest days bondsmen looked upon Lawrence as the “city of freedom.” Unlike other states where runaways were forced to flee—Illinois, for instance, considered a bill to punish any black crossing its border with a fine, imprisonment, and thirty-nine lashes—Negroes here were greeted with open arms. In ten days during the winter over one hundred entered the town; on another day twenty-seven more followed; and on another day still jayhawkers escorted an additional throng of dancing and banjo-playing contrabands through the streets. Later, they came “thicker and faster until they were coming by scores”; so many, in truth, that some people “almost regretted” the city’s reputation.12 And yet, when the ledger was tallied, many would have it no other way. Even though the financial burden on the town was great, even though the reality of the black was not always what most imagined, there were the rewards as well. But more than any one factor, just the former slaves’ presence in Lawrence was itself a reward, for here was undeniable proof that the war was indeed being won. And in essence each bondsman who successfully reached Lawrence was a walking, talking, laughing nay vote to rebellion and another scoop of sod on the grave of the South. This to the old-time New England stock was comfort and reward enough.

  Although certainly the most valuable, chattel was not the only Missouri property to make its way to the town. Since the start of war and the first jayhawking sweeps across the border, Lawrence had been one of the prime recipients of Missouri loot. Early in the war returning raiders brought back carriages, pianos, furniture, silverware, linens, and anything else that was portable. Homes were suddenly and lavishly furnished; ladies appeared on the streets in new silk finery; farms were outfitted; even churches were adorned with the booty. Later, however, most of the plunder came on the hoof—horses and mules, cattle and sheep—brought out by men like George Hoyt and his Red Legs, or arriving with fugitive slaves, or as was often the case, herded along by common thieves. To “save their bacon,” most free-booters chose not to tarry in Lawrence but with a sly wink passed further west, beyond the law. Still, the city received more than its share of jayhawked contraband. Missouri owners had long ago ceased efforts to recover their livestock that had “strayed” the fifty miles to Lawrence—the few who did were run fro
m town at gunpoint.

  Certainly, some upright citizens recoiled at the thought of the thieving contagion spreading over their homes. But livestock nevertheless continued to find its way into local stables and barns, and for the great majority their sentiments were expressed thusly: “Horse hunters, from Missouri, must learn to talk less when they visit Lawrence; or the halter with which they hope to capture their stray horse, may be used to suspend an ass.”13

  Ever since the territorial days and the sack of 1856 there had been no question of the special hatred felt by Missourians for Lawrence. Life and progress would not permit the people to brood on the matter, yet the possibility of an attack never ventured far from their minds.

  Unlike the harmless excitements of 1861, which stirred more thrill than alarm, the year 1862 gave rise to a host of terrifying rumors, threats, and panics. And the disheartening mire of Federal defeats in the East only compounded the gloom and made not only Kansas but all the Union seem agonizingly weak. Hardly had the new year begun when in March a band of men crossed the border and captured the village of Aubrey. Property was stolen and several men killed. In August Independence, Missouri, was taken by a small army of Rebels. Although the town was soon retaken and the secessionists scattered, Kansans increasingly began to regard the border with greater concern. And as fear grew so too did the demand for protection. But if speeches were long and promising, they were after all only speeches, and no military commander could seem to match his words with deeds. In September the heaviest blow to hit the state thus far came when a large party of guerrillas surrounded and sacked Olathe. Once again men were killed and a vast amount of property was stolen or destroyed; once again the raiders managed to escape unharmed. The sheer boldness of the attack—the capture of a small city ten miles inside the state line—spread panic up and down the border and started a frenzy of local defense measures.