Bloody Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  As Sunday wore on, the women, arms scorched, hair singed, continued their labors with an air of increasing confidence. Some optimistically saw in their great trial a hidden treasure. Although they left little else in Lawrence, the guerrillas overlooked something very precious nonetheless, something that could not be burned with a torch or strapped on a packhorse: courage, the only thing in life that really mattered. When all else was taken, this at least remained and gleamed more brilliantly than ever before. Then others took note and drew inspiration from a familiar sight at the river’s edge. Amid the ruin and devastation the old liberty pole stood straight and tall, defiantly holding its ground. Even the tortuous hot spell was at an end. Late in the day a refreshing north wind kicked up, clearing and cooling the air. If the truth be known, for many of these women, as well as the surviving men, there was within them the dawning of that warm and golden glow that shines only in the hearts of those who have faced off with the worst in life and come away victorious. For Lawrence, the worst had come. The trial had passed. There was nothing more from life to fear.

  As the work progressed into the evening, a lookout on Mount Oread, watching the activity below, happened to glance south toward the Wakarusa. There to his horror he saw rising from the valley floor an all-too-familiar sight—smoke and flame. Without a second thought the rider flew down the hill and galloped into town, screaming with all the power in his lungs, “They are coming again, they are coming again; run for your lives, run for your lives.”

  With these startling words reserves cracked, then crumbled, and suddenly there was nothing left. In a moment, as if from one mind, panic seized all, and like a cannon shot the race from Lawrence instantly became a mad stampede. Someone rang the armory bell but no one was fool enough to rally. Men who had naively held to their homes at the onset of the first raid and who thus experienced the most terrifying hours of their lives didn’t wait around for the second, but broke from town at a run, hair streaming in the wind. Women, whose courage hadn’t wavered during the Friday attack and whose poise had been a comfort to all, now caved in completely and became “utterly unstrung.” Men, women, children—all raced blindly, filling the streets with a bedlam of sobs, shrieks, and shouts, expecting the slaughter to overtake them with every bound. Run for your life … Quantrill is coming back and will kill all of us. … Run to the country, Quantrill is coming.… Take your children and run … Quantrill is coming!

  After a few short minutes the dust had settled. The town was deserted. Except for a few wounded, not a soul, black or white, resident or visitor, was left in Lawrence. As time passed, men on the opposite shore anxiously watched for the attack to begin. But mysteriously, there was only silence. Shortly, one hundred citizens recovered sufficiently to cross back and pass out weapons from the armory. Their plans for a stand went for naught, however, for they soon learned the cause of the lookout’s alarm—imprudently, a farmer had chosen this moment to burn off a field of straw.

  Knowledge of the error came too late to reach the majority of people, however. Some were far away and still running while others were even further along and had no intention of ever stopping, like the clerk at R & B’s, who this time would not pull up until he reached New York and absolute safety. But for the rest, many carrying footsore children, there was no run left, and they simply alit in fields and thickets fringing the town.

  That night proved to be one of the coldest, cruelest summer nights in border memory. The temperature plunged, the rain and hail came in sheets, the lightning cracked, the thunder roared, and the wind blew with all the fury of a cyclone. But still—soaked, frozen, and huddled as they were—few ventured back, for the wind and cold and rain were far preferable to Lawrence, where they firmly believed Quantrill was adding the final touches to the bloody work begun on Friday.19

  One of these miserable refugees, seeking an answer to it all, later questioned his aged father. “Why have we been so terribly punished? Why so infinitely worse than any other place in all the history of this war? Why beyond comparison and precedent?” After brief reflection on the territorial days of the fifties, the war on the border and the sagging fortunes of the South in the sixties, of the bloody days of rampage when Lane, Jennison, and their jayhawkers had turned western Missouri inside out, the son found the answer to his own question. “It has come,” he finally admitted, “and they have had their revenge.”

  But another, angrier than the first, and speaking for a great many more than the first, considered the scales once more uneven.

  “Oh! God!” he implored heaven, “Who shall avenge?”20

  Who shall avenge? Surely they had not been forsaken. Surely, no matter the past sins, surely they had not been so entirely and utterly abandoned. Surely a just and righteous God, even while his children were being returned to dust, must have parted the clouds and sent fiery bolts, red with uncommon wrath, thundering down to smite the devil’s host. Surely somewhere between heaven and hell the fiends had been brought to bay and slaughtered as they stood. Surely they had. Where then had it happened? When had it occurred? Who then, oh God, had indeed avenged?

  9

  THE CHASE

  At dawn on Friday, August 21, Charles Coleman, Joshua Pike, and almost two hundred cavalrymen rode into Gardner. As the troopers paused to water their mounts, residents revealed that the trail they were following was now six hours old, that the raiders had passed through before midnight riding west on the Santa Fe. Once more Coleman sent runners to alert the region, and as the sun rose to his back the captain led his command west. After but a short distance, however, it quickly became obvious that scanning the ground for hoofprints as he had done the past ten hours would no longer be necessary. From then on he need look only to the sky above Lawrence, twenty miles away, to know precisely where the path would lead. Coleman pushed his horse harder.1

  Seven miles to the northeast, Maj. Preston Plumb and forty troopers were just entering Olathe. They found the town wild with excitement, a condition that had existed throughout the night. As he was making inquiries among the people Plumb’s gaze was attracted to the west. There an immense black thunderhead appeared to be building in the otherwise cloudless sky. After a stunned, silent moment the major turned to his command. “Quantrill is in Lawrence,” he shouted.

  Gathering the men available in Olathe, including Lt. Cyrus Leland, Jr., Plumb quickly led his force cross-country toward the smoke. Along the way messengers were sent north to warn the Kaw Valley, and as they passed fields, gaping farmers were told to get their guns.

  Several miles behind Plumb, nearly one hundred Federals hastily gathered at Kansas City were pushing ahead.2 To the rear others gained their bearings as the sun lit the landscape. Near Paola, Lt. Col. Charles Clark and thirty men were angling north toward Gardner. At the same time, two hundred regulars and a piece of artillery were moving up from Spring Hill. Another fifty followed.

  At Westport, as news arrived, Maj. Linn Thacher hurriedly outfitted men drained from Missouri. As the morning wore on an additional eighty troopers were sped west while Thacher remained to organize more streaming from the countryside.3

  Indeed, by mid-morning and under an already-blazing sun, all of eastern Kansas was marshaling to arms. Military couriers traced and retraced the area, spreading the word while civilian volunteers did the same. And as the messengers arrived, farmers dropped their axes and scythes, grabbed muskets, and ran to join their militias. For the first time in the war, most of settled Kansas sprang to a common alarm. But for those living in the six counties surrounding Lawrence, no messenger was needed to interpret the dark sign in the sky.

  By 10:30 A.M., Captain Coleman and his men were less than an hour from Lawrence. At Blue Jacket’s crossing they reined for a short rest before the final jog into the burning town. In a few moments, to his surprise, Coleman was joined by Major Plumb. With Plumb assuming command the Federals forded the Wakarusa and rode onto the flats of the Kansas Valley. After clearing the timber, however, it soon became obvious not
hing could be done to save Lawrence. Plumb’s duty now was to head off a similar disaster on the Rebels’ line of retreat. To the west he saw a row of smoke columns extending south along the Fort Scott Road, as well as a large cloud of dust. The guerrillas were moving south! After a word or two Plumb wheeled his men back across the river, striking south for Baldwin City and the Santa Fe Road.4

  A few minutes later, thirty miles northeast, amid the cool splendor of towering cottonwood and elm, a messenger rode into Fort Leavenworth and delivered a handful of telegrams to the commanding general. The telegraph office had opened on schedule at eight but only now did Thomas Ewing read the unbelievable words that came screaming from the notes: Invasion! The border guard had been broken. Somewhere in Kansas bushwhackers were loose. Another message: The guerrillas, 800 strong, had passed through Gardner, heading west. Holding for no more, Ewing ran to gather the troops at the fort. Slashing protocol he commandeered several hundred men outfitting for service on the plains, five companies of the Eleventh Ohio. But alas, many of the Ohioans were without horse or weapon, and for the next two hours the shaken general would race in a desperate bid to get them equipped while time ticked off and events unfolded miles away, beyond his control.5

  Down the Fort Scott Road they came. Some were riding fresh mounts and leading their old, while most made do with the same poor beast that had brought them there. Many were drunk and reeling. All were very tired. And all had some form of plunder either hanging from saddle horns or strapped on packhorses—boots, shoes and coats, fancy lace shawls, bolts of cloth, silverware, tea services, picture frames, clocks, gadgets of all kinds, even ladies’ sidesaddles. Most wore new hats, shirts, and trousers. Many had pockets stuffed with paper, jewelry, and gold. All had a share according to his taste.

  The column continued down the road four abreast, raising an immense cloud of dust. Along with the horsemen creaked the ambulance with several injured raiders inside; driving it was a Lawrence captive. At the Wakarusa, when everyone was over, attempts were made to burn Blanton’s bridge. Once across the river, squads fanned out on both sides of the road. Farm homes, most of their occupants having long since fled, were looted and put to the torch, as were barns and outbuildings. Tinder dry crops in the field and recently stored grain were also set alight. After two miles or so, the squads rejoined to make the steep climb out of the valley.6

  Upon gaining the high, open prairie, the guerrillas advanced a few miles until they reached the deserted hamlet of Brooklyn at the crossing of the Santa Fe Road. Since it seemed impossible to attempt a retreat via the shortest route, the California, or back the way they had come, Quantrill announced his aim to march toward Osawatomie where, by using the cover of the Marais des Cygnes timber, they would try to escape far to the south. But before that, he yelled, they would lay waste everything in their path—a charred swath one mile wide and fifty long. His men loudly agreed. At Brooklyn this plan went into effect.

  Shortly, with the sun directly above and with the village and surrounding countryside engulfed in flames, a cloud of dust was sighted back in the smoke-filled valley. Unsure just who or how many there were, the raiders ran for their horses and were soon headed up the Santa Fe, two miles from Baldwin City.7

  A few minutes passed. From the north, the cloud of dust approached Brooklyn and soon the first of the riders slowed and cautiously entered the burning town. More came on. In fact, strung down the road came the rest of the pursuers—a fantastic mix of farmers, merchants, and boys, some clad in nightclothes, some in their underwear—armed with everything from shotguns to corn knives. A few had good mounts but most rode mules or mares with colts tagging behind. And bouncing atop his plowhorse with blinders, and clad in a filthy nightshirt tucked into ridiculously large trousers, in rode the senator from Kansas, James H. Lane.

  Already, as the guerrillas passed, men were emerging from their hiding places and “swarming on the trail.” Around Brooklyn alone, over one hundred came crawling from the brush and cornfields. After a brief halt Lane and the van of this growing force tumbled east on the Santa Fe, where the dust of the Rebels was only minutes away.8

  Unseen several miles up the trail, Major Plumb was advancing west. By 1:00 P.M. he and his men had finally covered the eight miles from the Wakarusa and cleared the forest above the valley. Without dismounting, famished troopers snatched bread and water from generous farm wives. The forced march also took its toll on the young mounts. Some could go no further; ascending the final slope they simply dropped dead, quivering in their tracks. Near Baldwin City Plumb learned that the raiders were still thought to be moving south on the Fort Scott Road. Indeed, he could already see smoke over Brooklyn several miles west, and spurring ahead the major led his men down the Santa Fe hoping to block the retreat somewhere beyond. Another company of regulars followed close behind, as did local militias.9

  Between Lane and Plumb, on a road framed by fence-lined cornfields, Quantrill advanced. The rear of his column was already crowding toward the front as the menacing cloud of dust near Brooklyn gained steadily. At last the guerrilla leader reached the crest of a small hill. He abruptly halted. Ahead, for the first time in three days, he saw the inevitable blue line of approaching cavalry—a large force at that. The route east was closed. Behind, an unknown; maybe as many, maybe more than faced his front. To stand meant disaster. Through the cornfield a narrow lane ran south. There the captain pointed his men, who even now were shaking off plunder to lighten the load. After a short distance the Missourians stopped at a small crossroads where Quantrill spoke hastily with Todd and other lieutenants. Should they attempt the Santa Fe around Baldwin or try the Fort Scott below Brooklyn? All agreed—the Fort Scott! With that, Todd and sixty of the best-mounted, best-disciplined men fell behind and formed a rear guard while Quantrill led the rest toward the Fort Scott Road.10

  A few minutes later the militia and citizens under Lane joined with Plumb on the trail down which Quantrill escaped. No sooner had the two forces met and revealed what had happened in Lawrence than Senator Lane demanded complete control of the operation. Startled yet firm, Major Plumb absolutely refused. Wildly, “General” Lane again demanded control. Once more the major refused and “high words” passed while above the corn the fleeing raiders could plainly be seen. Ignoring Lane, Plumb and his men hurried down the road followed closely by the militia and citizens. Upon reaching the tiny crossroads Charles Coleman was ordered up for a charge on the Rebel rear just in the distance. Only two hundred horses were found still able to move above a walk. Nevertheless, the bold captain led his two hundred down the lane, followed by farmers and three companies of militia. With the rest of the regulars Plumb rushed south in an attempt to bar the ford at Ottawa Creek, less than a mile away. Along with him went the remaining militiamen and at his elbow, Jim Lane, who continued to badger and curse the major for total control.

  Moving rapidly, Coleman’s force gained on the raiders and soon came up with them. There, spread across the road were George Todd and thirty guerrillas. Behind a short distance were another thirty. Instantly the Rebels opened fire. Bullets whistled up the lane, sending most of the militia diving for cover. More rounds were exchanged as the troopers opened with carbines. Todd and his thirty then wheeled and fled west behind the remainder of the rear guard, who waited across the road. When the cavalry crept close, another volley was fired, and so on, until Quantrill had finally put his command back on the Fort Scott Road and started south. Seeing this the Federals ripped down a fence and went racing through the cornfield in an attempt to strike the flank of the retreating guerrillas.

  Hearing the rattle of gunfire to the west and aware that he could not possibly keep pace with the fresh mounts of the militia, Major Plumb turned and rode back toward the fight. Lane, by his side, managed to gallop ahead.

  Through the field raced the soldiers and militia, rustling and trampling the corn stalks, shouting, hats flying, sweating and cussing they came on. Suddenly they reached the fence at the field’s end; there t
he headlong rush slammed to a halt. As if from nowhere, facing them on the prairie to the south stood George Todd and his rear guard. Surprised and exhausted, the Kansans watched the Missourians while the Missourians watched the Kansans. Minutes went by, the two sides staring at one another, neither group moving. Finally, the calm was broken when crashing through the field came Jim Lane. Raging at the halt when Quantrill was in plain sight less than a mile away, the senator demanded that the fence be thrown down and the charge started anew. No one moved. Leaping from his horse, Lane tore into the fence himself, shouting “with all his command of language” for everyone to begin the attack. At last Coleman yelled to his men, “Dismount and give them a round or two.”

  Quickly the troopers jumped down, and using the fence as a rest, a loud volley was fired up and down the line. The blast startled the horses. Rearing and bucking, many bolted through the field and a number of men broke from the line to give chase. At that moment Todd made his move. With a wild war whoop the guerrillas sprang forward at a run. And at this terrifying sight, and at this even more terrifying sound, a complete panic seized the Kansans. Forgetting discipline or valor, it was simply every man for himself. Hundreds of soldiers, civilians, and riderless horses stampeded back through the corn, bumping and trampling one another as bullets whizzed and screaming bushwhackers pounded closer. Only then, when everyone else had fled did Lane—who was still struggling with the fence—look around and realize his predicament. And when the lead Rebel, with both pistols blazing, was almost upon him, Lane too dashed back through the corn, dodging this way and that.

  Finally, the breathless Union men reached the fence from which they entered. No one had been killed in the rout, although a few had scratches and bruises, but the fear had been perfect. Gathering up their more manageable mounts the Federals began to regroup as Lane came in. Looking back over the demolished field the Kansans were forced to watch miserably as the Missourians laughed and hooted, waving their hats mockingly in the air. At length, when all were remounted, the pursuers crossed the field once more and there, uncontested, they saw the last of the raiders fording Ottawa Creek.11