by Paul Colt
“You think that’ll keep it fair?” Jennison asked.
“It may, but I say we don’t take no chances.”
“What do you mean?”
“We got from now to August to run as many pro-slavers out of the territory as possible.”
“The governor will call out the army,” Montgomery said.
“Them bushwhackin’ Missouri men won’t sit by idle,” Jennison said.
“You’re both right. But we need to win that election. It starts with eliminating the opposition.”
Both nodded.
“Doc, you take the southeast. James and I will take the northeast. We know who the slavers are. We give ’em fair warning. Slavery ain’t welcome in Kansas. Get out or we burn you out.”
“How we gonna do that?”
“I’ll have notices printed. We post ’em, so as those they’re meant for can’t mistake the message. ’Bout the time they figure we mean it, we’ll get our election.”
Lecompton, Kansas
April 20, 1858
Three days of rain cleared out to the promise of a fine spring day. Campbell Carter stepped onto his cabin porch and stretched. He faced a good day to finish his spring planting. It would be a hard day. He smiled. With passing the Lecompton constitution, soon enough he’d ease his burdens with a field hand or two.
A flutter on the breeze caught his eye. It looked like someone had tacked a paper on the fence post. He crossed the yard, tore the flier off the fence, and read.
Notice: Slavery not welcome in Kansas.
Get out, or get burned out.
Carter glanced north and south along the wagon road for some sign of anyone who might be responsible for posting such a thing. He crumpled the paper in a calloused fist. No free-soiler was going to run off a former Tennessean. Sure as hell not when the law was on his side.
He stomped back to the house, shouldered his musket, patch, and powder, and headed for the field.
May 7, 1858
Lane and his men drew rein in the trees. Dark, running clouds muted the moon to an eerie glow. The cabin, corral, and outbuildings stood silhouetted in the clearing, marked only by the light of a single lamp shining from one cabin window. A whisper of smoke from the chimney floated on the breeze. Peaceful night sounds were mildly disturbed by the groan of saddle leather, stomp of a horse hoof, or a jangle of tack.
“Looks like Carter didn’t get the message,” Lane said as much to himself as to his second.
“What do you aim to do?”
“Burn it down—outbuilding, cabin, the whole place.”
“What about Carter?”
“Leave him to me.” He looked to his men. “Is that understood?”
A dozen dark figures nodded.
“Then get to it.”
Matches flared. Torches bloomed in the darkness. Jayhawks stormed the clearing. Lane followed his men into the clearing. He held his horse off the cabin door.
The door threw open a shaft of light as the clearing grew orange in firelight. Carter stood framed in the door, musket in hand.
Lane cocked his colt and leveled it at the man’s chest. “Drop the gun, Carter. You got but one chance now.”
The man dropped his gun.
“You was warned, Carter. Now you got but one chance. Get out. Get out or you’re next.”
“Who are you?”
“A Jayhawk. A slaver’s worst apparition. Now get out before I change my mind about letting you go.”
Carter set off, walking down the road into town.
Lane’s second rode up. “You let him go. Why?”
“So he spreads the word to his friends. It’s time for slavers to leave.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
* * *
Trading Post
Kansas Territory
May 19, 1858
William Clarke Quantrill came to see it as a duty. Southern interests were being unjustly persecuted in Kansas. The Jayhawk campaign to rid the territory of pro-slavery sentiment went too far. Guerrilla bands known as Bushwhackers rose to oppose them. A simple school teacher, he’d come to the ranks of a band, known as the north ferry men, by chance association. In time, he’d come to see their cause as righteous retribution by the lights of their leader, Jacob Herd.
A slender man of modest stature with light hair and a hint of a moustache beneath a prominent nose, his drab, shabby appearance would easily disappear in a crowd. One day, his reputation would not. He rode with the Bushwhackers when they took Trading Post by surprise.
They stormed the town and rounded up eleven Montgomery men known to be responsible for a recent raid in southeastern Kansas. They herded the men into a nearby ravine. Little more than a foot soldier in this band, Quantrill took his place in the rank of mounted executioners facing the accused. Herd, the infamous slave catcher, cocked his pistol. Realization dawned. These men were not merely accused; they were condemned. A man at the end of the rank turned toward Herd.
“You can’t just shoot these men in cold blood.”
“Shut up!”
“I’ll not be party to murder.” He wheeled his horse out of line.
“Get back in rank. Do your duty, you yellow-bellied coward!”
The man spurred away.
“Close rank,” Herd said.
“If you shoot, shoot straight,” one of the condemned said.
Herd leveled his pistol. “Fire!”
The Bushwhacker line exploded powder smoke. Quantrill did as ordered.
Two men fell dead. Eight more went down wounded. One blood-spattered man fell unscathed. As if by unspoken instinct, all the survivors feigned death.
Herd dismounted. He climbed down into the gully followed by Quantrill and another man. He kicked the first body he came to.
“Make sure they are dead.”
The next man he kicked gave up a groan. He leveled his pistol at the man’s head and scattered his brains at point-blank range.
Up the gully Quantrill’s second shot finished another. Two more shots dispatched a third.
Satisfied their work was done, Herd climbed the ravine to his horse. He toed a stirrup, swung into the saddle, and swept his gaze over the dead and presumed dead. He wheeled his horse east. The band lined out for Missouri.
Washington City
June 19, 1858
Senator Douglas gathered the morning paper and settled in at his desk with a cup of coffee. A glorious summer day poured through the windows lighting his office. Lincoln’s speech to the Republican state convention delegates promised an interesting read. According to reports he’d received, his opponent had gone to extremes on the slavery issue, turning the biblical phrase “A house divided against itself cannot stand” to his moralistic purpose.
The text wandered over the legal intricacies of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, Lecompton constitution, and the Supreme Court Dred Scott decision in an effort to taint Douglas with the perpetuation of slavery in the whole of the republic. It was a ridiculous notion at best. It did single out the gangly backwoods country lawyer for his abolitionist leanings, thus permitting Douglas the luxury of a more moderate free-state position, sympathetic to southern states’ rights. The effect of the Dred Scott ruling might render all that moot, as it appeared to strike down a state’s right to prohibit slavery; but that was a matter for the future to decide. The Illinois electorate would be comfortable with his views, while Lincoln could easily be painted the extremist.
Douglas scanned back to the top of the article, choosing his opponent’s more inflammatory statements for his use. “The government cannot endure” half slave and half free. He claims not to see the Union dissolved, but only a house that ceases to be divided. He asserts that moral authority will ultimately sustain his position. One man’s moral righteousness may impinge upon another man’s civil rights. The house may indeed cease to be divided, but the finality of Dred Scott may not produce the resolution our dewy-eyed idealist envisions.
He took a swallow of coffee. No, there was more than enou
gh here to secure his re-election to the senate. From there, the White House beckoned.
Lawrence
August 2, 1858
Eldridge House once more served as polling place on a sweltering election day. Micah drew the team to a halt not far up the block. He climbed down and dropped the tie-down weight. He stepped up the boardwalk and started down the block to the hotel. Two blue-coated cavalry troopers stood by the front entrance. Micah nodded to them as he stepped inside. James Lane and Charles Robinson stood off to the side watching the parade of voters claim their ballots, mark them, and deposit them in locked boxes. They were accompanied by a familiar cavalry officer.
Micah took his place in line, signed for his ballot, marked his “No” vote to reject the Lecompton constitution, and deposited it in the ballot box. He nodded to Lane.
“How we doin’ this time?”
“Nothin’ but familiar faces.”
“Good.” He extended a hand to the officer. “Lieutenant Stuart, I believe.”
He accepted the offered hand. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“Micah Mason. I did have the advantage of you last fall when you ran that Arapaho war party off my place just west of here. You rode off in such a rush I never did get to properly thank you.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. Pleased we could be of service that day.”
“Not half so pleased as we.”
Stuart chuckled. “You think that little scrape might have ended badly?”
“I have no doubt of it. My thanks belatedly.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s what we’re paid to do.”
When the votes were counted, Kansans rejected the Lecompton constitution by a wide margin. The newly elected free-state legislature would begin repealing the slave laws in the next session.
Wakarusa Creek
December 19, 1858
Minister Stewart’s stockade stood in a clearing served by a creek. John Brown, accompanied by sons Salmon and Owen, drew rein at the gate amid a late afternoon swirl of snow.
“Yo, Brother Stewart!” Brown hailed.
A portal in the gate cracked open. The gate followed in recognition. Brown and his sons rode into the yard and stepped down at the house. John Stewart, also known as the fighting preacher, stepped out to the porch.
“Brother Brown, welcome.” By way of benediction the sometime Methodist minister offered what passed for a smile. “Come in, come in out of the cold. See to their horses,” he instructed the gatekeeper.
Stewart led the way into a comfortably spacious cabin warmed by a cheery fire on the hearth.
“Coffee?”
“That would be most welcome,” Brown said.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to a long, rough-cut table with benches where meals were served. A stout woman of severe demeanor with steel-gray hair emerged from the kitchen carrying a heavy steaming pot and cups. She passed the cups and poured.
“Will ye be stayin’ for supper?”
“Of course, my dear,” Stewart replied for his guests. “It’s much too late to continue travels this day.” He took his seat at the head of the table and blew steam off his cup. “Now what brings you all this way on a winter’s day, Brother Brown?”
Brown and his boys warmed their hands on their cups.
“Emancipation, God willing,” Brown said.
“Noble purpose, good friend. Might you be more specific?”
“Taylor Caldwell. His slaves cry for freedom.”
“I’d not heard that.”
“I have in prayer. Now will you and your men join us?”
“What do you propose?”
“We shall go to the farm and free them.”
“Caldwell shall surely resist.”
“Should we ride together, that would be a most unwise decision for his part. Still, you are likely right in your estimation. For that we should expect to add livestock and stores to our liberation.”
“Useful in trade and sustenance. You can count on our support. When do you plan this divine emancipation?”
“Might you be prepared to ride in the morning?”
“I shall see to it.”
The following afternoon the Caldwell farm came into view shortly before dusk. A wisp of smoke drifted to the sky darkening in the east. Sun slanting across an expanse of prairie at the raiders’ back hid them from their quarry. Still, they could make out the main house, slave quarters, a barn, and a corral.
“Rest here until full darkness,” Brown said.
They dismounted to take a cold supper. Darkness fell. Lights winked on in the house and slave quarters. The raiders mounted and rode in to circle the yard. Brown hailed the house. The door opened to the figure of a man silhouetted in light.
“Who goes?”
“The righteous have come to set your Negroes free.”
Caldwell reached inside the door for a rifle. Stewart fired. Caldwell clutched his chest and fell at his own doorstep. A woman screamed.
“Salmon, see to the Negroes,” Brown said.
Salmon and his brother rode off to the slave quarters.
Stewart turned to his men. “Tend the stock, while Brother Brown and I search the house.”
Brown and Stewart stepped down, leaving their horses to browse in the yard. They climbed the porch to the grieving widow.
“Why? Why have you done this terrible deed?”
“It is just retribution for practicing the sin of slavery, madam,” Brown said.
“Murder. You murdered him, and you speak righteously of sin? You’ll see your vile self in hell one day.”
“Not likely, madam, for it shall be overcrowded by slave holders.”
They stepped over her and commenced searching the house. They stripped it of food, clothing, and blankets, which they distributed to eleven slaves Salmon and Owen liberated from their quarters. Stewart’s men produced a wagon, mules to pull it, and a yoke of sturdy oxen.
Brown and Stewart appraised the booty from the porch.
“A fair night’s work,” Brown said.
“The stock shall fetch a fine price.”
“To that you are welcome, Brother Stewart. My soul is satisfied by the faces of freedom I behold before me.”
“Shall we burn the house and buildings?”
Brown cast an eye on the sobbing woman. “She has paid enough for her husband’s sins. Leave it be.”
They mounted their horses and rode into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
* * *
North Ferry Tavern
Quantrill read the notice printed in the latest edition of the Missouri Democrat.
$500 Reward
Offered by Order of the Governor of Missouri
Dead or Alive for the Murder and Plunder of Taylor Caldwell
Reverend Stewart. It had to be. How best to collect? He folded the paper and stared into his tankard of beer. Lively conversation and jovial laughter surrounded him but were no distraction. How to collect? Stewart knew him. He had enjoyed the man’s trust for his free-state sympathies on first arriving in Kansas. His sympathies had changed, though Stewart had no way of knowing that. He could trade on that. The man had a streak of greed he might use to entice him into a trap in Missouri. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his thin moustache. The germ of a plan sprouted in his mind’s eye. He drained his tankard and scraped his chair away from the table.
Wakarusa Creek
Quantrill arrived at the Stewart compound confident in his plan. He gained admission to the stockade and invitation to sup with the fighting preacher. While putting up his horse in the stable, he was approached by a black man.
“Here, suh, let me help you wid dat.”
“I shouldn’t have thought Reverend Stewart would keep slaves.”
“Oh, I ain’t no slave no more. The Reverend an’ Brother Brown freed us. I’s waitin’ on travel to Canada.”
“Were you taken from the Taylor Caldwell farm?”
The question furrowed the black ma
n’s brow. “Let me get you some grain for that horse.”
The man was clearly uncomfortable with the answer to his question—answer enough as far as Quantrill was concerned. It made for another enticement to add to his offer. With his horse put up for the night he made his way to the house. Reverend Stewart greeted him at the door.
“Come in, William. Have a seat. Supper will be served presently. Would you care for a cup of cider while we wait?”
“That would go down good on a parched throat.”
Stewart poured two cups from a pitcher and took his place at the table.
“Now, William, to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of your company?”
“A prize I find worthy of your consideration.”
Stewart lifted a questioning brow. “My consideration? What sort of prize?”
“The Morgan Walker farm. The stock alone makes a grand prize, though some say he holds gold on the premises. Of course, there is the just cause of some thirty slaves we might free.”
“Tempting as all that may be, Missouri has become somewhat inhospitable to me in recent days. I’m afraid I must decline. Perhaps Brother Brown would find merit in emancipating so large a number of the enslaved.”
“He may. Then again, he may disapprove of taking livestock and gold.”
“He may. One never knows his need at the moment. Perhaps Jennison then. You’ve only to say gold or stock to him.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. Or perhaps I shall find it necessary to scale back my ambition.”
“Well, William, if you find yourself in possession of stock you wish to sell, I might be of service to you there.”
Quantrill smiled. “Why, yes, Reverend, I believe that might be arranged.”
North Ferry Crossing
The ferry crossing provided the inn and tavern Jake Herd’s border ruffians called home. Quantrill and Herd sat at a corner table in the dimly lit rough-hewn public room. Herd smoked his pipe and nursed a whiskey as he listened.
“Stewart’s got ’em. All we got to do is take his compound and return ’em to the Caldwell family for the statutory reward. If they’ll not stand for it, we sell ’em on the open market for their full value.”
