Noted Guerrillas
Or Warfare Of The Border
By John N Edwards
NOTED GUERRILLAS, OR THE WARFARE OF THE BORDER. BEING A HISTORY OF THE LIVES AND ADVENTURES
OF QUANTRELL, BILL ANDERSON, GEORGE TODD, DAVE
POOLE. I"LETCHER TAYLOR, PEYTON LONG, OLL
SHEPHERD, ARCH CLEMENTS, JOHN MAUPIN, TUCK
AND WOOT HILL, WM. GREGG, THOMAS
MAUPIN, THE JAMES BROTHERS, THE YOUNGER
BROTHERS, ARTHUR McCOY, AND NUMEROUS OTHER WELL KNOWN GUERRIIIAS OF THE WEST. JOHN N. EDWARDS, AUTHOR OF "Shelby
And His Men," "Shelby's Expedition to Mexico,"
etc. ILLUSTRATED. ST. LOUIS, MO. BRYAN~BRAND & COMPANY CHICAGO, ILL., THOMPSON &
WAKEFlELD. San Francisco, Cal., A. L. Bancroft
Co. 1877. CHARLES WILLIAM QUANTRELL GEORGE TODD COLEMAN YOUNGER THE WARFARE OF THE BORDER JAMES YOUNGER COLE YOUNGER PAYS A DEBT WILLIAM ANDERSON FRANK JAMES JESSE J.AMES JOHN JARRETTE PEYTON LONG ALLEN PARMER DAVID POOLE E.
P. DE HART GEORGE MADDOX DICK MADDOX ARCH CLEMENTS FLETCHER TAYLOR CLARK HOCKENSMITH WILL HULSE LEE McMURTY T.
F. MAUPIN TUCK HILL WOOT HILL OLL SHEPHERD GEORGE SHEPHERD "The standing
side by side till death. The dying for
some wounded friend, The faith that
failed not to the end, The strong
endurance ttl1 the breath, And body took
their ways apart,, I only know. I
keep my trust, Their vices!
earth has them by hear Their virtues I
they are with their dust." CONTE
NTS. CHAPTER
1. INTRODUCTORY
PAGE CHAPTER
II. THE CAUSES THAT
PRODUCED THE GUERRILLA. CHAPTER
III. AMERICAN
GUERRILLAS
COMPARED WITH THOSE OF OTHER COUNTRIES. CHAPTER
IV. QUA.NTRELL. CHAPTER
V. QUANTRELL AND
THE KANSAS JAYHAWKERS. CHAPTER
VI. QUANTRELL'S
FIRST BATTLES OF THE CIVIL
WAR. CHAPTER
VII. BATTLES AND
SURPRISES. CHAPTER
VIII. INDEPENDENCE CHAPTER
IX. LONE.
JACK. CHAPTER
X. THE MARCH
SOUTH. CHAPTER
XI. QUANTRELL
VISITS RICHMOND. CHAPTER
XII. LAWRENCE. CHAPTER
XIII. A
COUNTER-BLOW. CHAPTER
XIV. QUANTRELL
AGAIN. CHAPTER
XV. PREPARING FOR
PRICE'S RAID. CHAPTER
XVI. AFTER
CENTRALIA. CHAPTER
XVII. THE DEATH OF
QUANTRELL. CHAPTER
XVIII. AFTER THE
WAR. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. I WRITE of an organization
whose history might well have massacre put over against it as an epitome.
I do not say epitaph, because
only the u
perhaps, are entitled to epitaphs. He who wore the blue or the gray-if
starred, or barred, or epauletted-needed simply the recognition of a
monument to become a martyr. But the Guerrilla had no
graveyard. 'What mutilation spared, the potter's field finished. No
cortege followed the corpse; beneath the folds of the black flag
there was no funeral.
Neither prayer, nor plaint of priest, nor penitential pleading went up for
the wild beast dead by his lair, hard hunted yet splendid at last in the
hopeless equanimity of accepted death. But the wild beast was human. The
sky was just as blue for him; in the east the dawn was just as strange for
him; the tenderness of woman was just as soft for him; the trysting by the
gate was just as clear to him; the cottage hearth was as warm for him, and
the fields beyond the swelling flood were just as green for him, as though
upon the crest of the blithe battle he had ridden clown to the guns as
Cardigan did, impatient bugles blowing all about him-or, scarfed and
plumed, he had died as Pelham died, the boy cannoneer. Just as the spring
came laughing
through the
strife With all its gorgeous cheer." Some of the offspring of
civil war are monstrous. The priest who slays, the church which becomes a
fortress, the fusillade that finishes a capitulation, the father who fires
at his son, the child who denies sepulcher to its parent, the tiger
instinct that slays the unresisting, the forgetfulness of age, and the
cruel blindness that cannot see the pitifulness of women-these sprang from
the loins of civil war, as did also the
Guerrilla-full-armed-full-statured, terrible! his mission was not to kill,
alone, but to terrify. At times he mingled with the purr of the tiger the
silkiness of the kitten. Hilarity was a stage in the march he made his
victim take to the scaffold. Now and then before a fusillade there was a
frolic. Harsh words were heard only when from the midst of some savage
melee a timid comrade broke away or bent to the bullet blast. The
softer the caress the surer the punishment. The science of killing seemed
to bring a solace with it, and to purl' also meant to he amiable. Sharing
his blanket like Rhoderick Dhu shared his plaid, on the morrow his
Coliantogle Ford was the contents of his
revolver. It
is not easy to analyze this species of murder, all the more certain
because of its calculation. The time to refuse quarter is in actual
conflict. Conscience then-a sleepy thing in civil war at best-is rarely
aroused in time to become aggressive. Through the smoke and the
dust it is difficult to see the white, set face and the haunting eyes of
the early doomed. In the rain of the rifle-balls, what matters the patter
of a prayer or two? Discrimination and desperation are not apt to ride in
the same squadrons together, and yet the Guerrilla, with a full revolver,
has been known to take possession of his victim and spare him afterwards.
Something, no matter what-some memory of other days, some wayward freak,
some passing fancy, some gentle mood, some tender influence in earth, or
air, or sky-made him merciful when he meant to be a murderer.
The warfare of the Guerrilla
was the warfare of the fox joined to that of the lion. He crept from the
rear, and he dashed from the front. If the ambuscade hid him, as at Lone
Jack, the noonday sun shone down full upon the open prairie slaughter of
Centralia. In either extreme there was extermination. Death, made familiar
by association, merged its constraint into comradeship, and hid at the
bivouac at night the sword-blade that was to be so fatal in the morning.
Hence all the roystering in the face of the inevitable-all that
recklessness and boisterousness which came often to
its last horse, saddle and bridle, but never to its last gallop or
stratagem. There are things and men one recognizes without ever having
seen them. The Guerrilla in ambush is one of these. Before a battle a
Guerrilla takes every portion of his revolver apart and lays it upon a
white shirt, if he has one, as carefully as a surgeon places his
instruments on a white towel. In addition, he touches each piece as a man
might touch the thing that he loves. The words of command arc given in low
tones, as if in the silence there might be found something in mitigation
of the assassination. Again, he is noisy or indifferent to his
purposes. He acts then upon the belief
that doomed men, whose sense of hearing is generally developed to the
greatest acuteness, lose effect in this advance upon the
unknown. And how patient they
were-these Guerrillas. One day, two, three-a couple of weeks at a
stretch-they have been known to watch a road-cold it may be, hungry most
generally, inexorable, alert as the red deer and crouching as the panther.
At last a sudden ring of rifles, a sudden uprearing of helpless steeds
with dead men down under their feet, and the long vigil was over, the long
ambuscade broken by a holocaust. Much horse-craft was also
theirs. Born as it were to the bare-back, the saddle only made it the more
difficult to unseat them. Create a Centaur out of a Bucephalus, and the
illea is fixed of their swiftness and prowess. Something also of Rarey's
system must have been theirs, us a matter of course, for the Guerrilla was
always good to his horse. He would often go unfed himself that his horse
might have corn, and frequently take all the chances of being shot himself
that his horse might come out of a close place unhurt. In situations where
a neigh would amount
almost to annihilation, even St' much as a whinny was absolutely unknown.
Danger blended the instinct of the one with the intelligence of the other.
For each there was the same intuition. Well authenticated instances are on
record of a Guerrilla's horse standing guard for his master, and on more
than one occasion, when cut off from his steed and forced to take shelter
from pursuit in fastnesses well nigh inaccessible, the Guerrilla has been
surprised at the sudden appearance of his horse, no more desirous than
himself of unconditional captivity. Much, therefore, of humanity
must have entered into the relationship of the rider with his steed. He
had to blanket him of nights when the frost was falling and the north wind
cut as a knife; he had to talk low to him, rest him when he was tired,
feed him when he was hungry, spare the spur when there was no need for it,
slacken the girth when the column was at rest, cast aside as inhuman the
accursed Spanish bit, and do generally unto him as the Guerrilla would
have been done by had nature reversed the order of the animals and put a
crupper in lieu of a coat. Kindness makes cavalry. Murat said once that
the best among the cuirassiers were those who embraced their horses before
they did their mistresses. He found a trooper walking, one day, who was
leading a horse. Both were wounded", the dragoon a little the worst. " Why
do you not ride?" asked the Prince. The soldier saluted and answered:
"Because my horse has been shot." "And you? " " I have been shot,
too, hut I can talk and my horse cannot. If he could, maybe he would say
that he is harder hit than l am." Murat made the cuirassier a
captain. The Guerrilla also had a
dialect. In challenging au advancing enemy the cry of the regular was:
"Who goes there?" That of the Guerrilla: "Who are you"
The regular repeated the question thrice before firing; the Guerrilla
only once. No
higher
appreciation had ever desperate courage, or devoted comradeship, or swift
work in pitiless conflict, or furious gallop, or marvelous endurance, than
the Guerrilla's favorite summing up: "Good boy to the last." If upon a
monument he had leave to write a folio, not a word more would be added to
the epitaph. Sometimes the Guerrilla's
dialect was picturesque; at other times monosyllabic. After Lawrence, and
when Lane was pressing hard in pursuit, a courier from the rear rode
hurriedly up to Quantrell and reported the situation. "How do they look?"
enquired the chief. "Like thirsty buffaloes making for a water course."
"Can't the rear guard check them:" "Can a
grasshopper throw a locomotive off the track, Captain Quantrell
?"
"Once," relates a Lieutenant of a Kansas regiment, "I was shot down by
a
Guerrilla and
captured. I knew it was touch and go with me, and so I said what prayers I
remembered and made what Masonic signs I was master of. The fellow who
rode up to me first was stalwart and swarthy, cool, devilish-looking
and evil-eyed. Our
dialogue was probably one of the briefest on record, and certainly to me
one of the most satisfactory. 'Are you a Mason?' he asked. 'Yes.' 'Are you
a Kansas man?' 'Yes.' 'G-d
damn you!' This did not. require an answer, it appeared to me, and so I
neither said one thing nor another. He took hold of his pistol
and I shut my eyes. Something began to burn my throat. Presently he said
again, as if he had been debating the question of life and death rapidly
in his own mind: 'You are young, ain't you?' 'About
twenty-five.'
''Married?' 'Yes.' 'Hate to die, I reckon?' "Yes." 'You are free!' I tried to thank
him, although I did not at first realize his actions or understand his
words. He got mad in a moment, and his wicked eyes fairly blazed. 'You are
free, I told you! D-n your thanks and d-n you!' "From that day
to this," the Lieutenant continued, "I am at a loss to know whether my
wife saved me or the Masons." Neither; and yet the
Guerrilla himself might not have been able to tell. Perhaps it was fate,
or a passing tenderness, or something in the prisoner's face that recalled
a near one or a dear one. Some few among them, but only a few, believed
that
retaliation should be a punishment, not a vengeance; and these, when an
execution was unavoidable, gave to it the solemnity of the law
and
the condonement
of civilization. The majority, however, killed always and without ado.
They had passwords that only the initiated understood, and signs which
meant everything or nothing. A night bird was a messenger; a day bird a
courier. To their dialect they had added woodscraft, and to the caution of
the proscribed men the cunning of the Infill. They knew the names or the
numbers of the pursuing
regiments from the shoes of their horses, and told the nationality of
troops by the manner in which twigs were broken along the. line of march.
They could see in the night like other beasts of prey, and hunted most
when it was darkest. No matter for a road so only there was a trail, and
no matter for a trail so only there was a direction. When there was no
wind, and when the clouds hid the sun or the stars, they traveled by the
moss on the trees. In the day time they looked for this moss with their
eyes, in the night time with their hands. Living much in fastnesses,
they were rarely surprised, while solitude developed and made more acute
every instinct of self-preservation. By degrees a caste began to be
established. Men stood forth as leaders by the unmistakable right of
superior address and undaunted courage. There was a kind of an aristocracy
of daring wherein the humblest might win a crown or establish a dynasty.
Respect for personal prowess begat discipline, Bad discipline-strengthened
by the terrible pressure of outside circumstances-kept peace in the midst
of an organization ostensibly
without a government and without a flag. Internal feuds came rarely to
blows, and individual quarrels went scarcely ever beyond the interests of
the contending principals. Free to come and go; bound
by no enlistment and dependent upon no bounty; hunted by one nation and
apologized for by the other; prodigal of life and property; foremost in
every foray and last in every rout; content to die savagely and at bay
when from under the dead steed the wounded rider could not extricate
himself; merciful rarely and merciless often; loving liberty in a blind,
idolatrous fashion, half reality and half superstition; holding no crime
as bad as that of cowardice; courteous to women amid all the wild license
of pillage and slaughter;
steadfast as faith to comradeship or friend; too serious for boastfulness
and too near the unknown to deceive themselves with vanity; eminently
practical because constantly environed; starved to-day and feasted
to-morrow; victorious in this combat or decimated in that·; receiving no
quarter and giving none; astonishing pursuers by the swiftness of a
retreat, or shocking
humanity by the
completeness of a massacre; a sable fringe on the blood-red garments of
civil war, or a perpetual cut-throat in ambush in the midst of contending
Christians, is it any wonder that in time the Guerrilla organization came
to have captains, and leaders, and discipline, and a language, and
fastnesses, and hiding places, and a terrible banner unknown to the winds,
and a terrible name .that still lives as a wrathful and accusing thing
from the Iowa line to the Pacific Ocean? CHAPTER II. CAUSES THAT
PRODUCED THE GUERRILLA. IT IS the province of
history to deal with results, not to condemn the phenomena which produce
them. Nor has it the right to decry the instruments Providence always
raises up in the midst of great catastrophes to restore the equilibrium of
eternal justice. Civil war might well have made the Guerrilla, but only
the excesses of civil war could have made him the untamable and unmerciful
creature that history finds him. When he first went into the war he was
somehow imbued with the old fashioned belief that soldiering meant
fighting and that fighting meant killing. He had his own ideas of
soldiering, however, and desired nothing so much as to remain at home and
meet its despoilers upon his own premises. Not naturally cruel, and averse
to invading the territory of any other people, he could not understand the
patriotism of those who invaded his own
territory. Patriotism, such as he was
required to profess, could not spring all in the market-place at the
bidding of Red Leg or Jayhawker. He believed, indeed, that
the patriotism of Jim Lane and Jennison was merely a highway robbery
transferred from the darkness to the dawn, and he believed the truth.
Neither did the Guerrilla become merciless all of a sudden. Pastoral in
many cases by profession, and reared among the bashful and timid surroundings of agricultural
life, he knew nothing of the tiger that was in him until death had been
dashed against his eyes in numberless and brutal ways. and until the blood
of his own kith and kin had been sprinkled plentifully upon things that
his hands touched, and things that entered into his daily existence. And
that fury of ideas also came to him slowly which is more implacable than
the fury of men, for men have heart. and opinion has none. It took him
likewise some time to learn that the Jayhawk's system of saving the Union
was a system of brutal force, which bewailed not even that which it
trusted; that it belied its doctrine by its tyranny; stained its arrogated
right by its violence, and dishonored its vaunted struggles by its
executions. But blood is as contagious as air. The fever of civil war has
its delirium. When the Guerrilla spoke he was a giant! He took in, as it
were, all at a single glance, all the immensity of the struggle. He saw
that he was hunted and proscribed; that he hall neither a flag nor a
government; that the' rights and the amenities of civilized
warfare were
not to be his; that a dog's death was certain if he surrendered even in
the extremist agony of battle j that the house which sheltered him had to
be burnt; the father
who succored
him had to be butchered; the mother who prayed for him had to be
insulted; the
sister who carried food to him had to he imprisoned; the neighborhood
which witnessed his combats had to be laid waste; the comrade shot down by
his side had to be put to death as a wild beast-and he lifted up the black
flag in self defense and fought as became a free man and a
hero. Much obloquy has been cast
upon the Guerrilla organization because in its name bad men plundered the
helpless, pillaged friend and foe alike, assaulted non-combatants and
murdered the unresisting and the innocent. Such devil's work was not
Guerrilla work. It fitted all too well the hands of those cowards
crouching in the rear of either army and courageous only where women
defended what remained to themselves and their
children. Desperate and remorseless as
he undoubtedly was, the Guerrilla saw shining down upon his pathway a
luminous patriotism, and he followed it eagerly that he might kill in the
name of God and his country. The nature of his warfare made him
responsible of course for many monstrous things he had no personal share
in bringing about. Denied a hearing at the bar of public opinion, the bete noir of all the loyal
journalists, painted blacker than ten devils, and given a countenance that
was made to retain some shadow of all the death agonies he had seen, is it
strange in the least that his fiendishness became omnipresent
as well as
omnipotent? To justify one crime on the part of a Federal soldier, five
crimes more cruel still were laid at the floor of the Guerrilla. His long
gallop not only tired but infuriated his hunters. That savage standing at
bay and dying always as a wolf dies when barked at by hounds and
bludgeoned by countrymen, made his enemies fear him and hate him. Hence
from all their bomb-proofs his slanderers fired silly lies at long range,
and put afloat unnatural stories that hurt him only as it deepened the
savage intensity of an already savage strife. Save rare and memorable
instances, the Guerrilla murdered only when fortune in open and honorable
battle gave into his hands
some victims
who were denied that death in combat which they afterward found by ditch
or lonesome roadside. Man
for man,
he put his life
fairly on the cast of the war dice, and when the need came as the red
Indian dies, stoical and grim as a stone. As strange as it may seem
the perilous fascination of fighting under a black flag-where the wounded
could have neither surgeon nor hospital, and where all that remained to
the prisoners was the absolute certainty of speedy death attracted a
number of young men to the various Guerrilla bands, gently nurtured, born
to higher destinies, capable of sustained exertion in any scheme or
enterprise, and fit for callings high up in the scale of science or
philosophy. Others came who had deadly wrongs to avenge, and these gave to
all their combats
that sanguinary
hue which still remains a part of the Guerrilla's legacy. Almost from the first a
large majority of Quantrell's original command had over them the shadow of
some terrible crime. This one recalled a father murdered, this one a
brother waylaid and shot, this one a house pillaged and burnt, this one a
relative assassinated, this one a grievous insult while at peace at home,
this one a robbery of all his earthly possessions, this one the force
which compelled him to witness the brutal treatment of a mother or sister,
this one was driven away from his own like a thief in the night, this one
was threatened with death for opinion's sake, this one was proscribed at
the instance of some designing neighbor, this one was arrested wantonly
and forced to do the degrading work of a menial; while all had more or
less of wrath laid up against the day when they were to meet face to face
and h:md to hand those whom they had good cause to regard as the living
embodiment of unnumbered wrongs. Honorable soldiers in the Confederate
army-amenable to every generous impulse and exit in the performance of
every manly duty-deserted even the ranks which they had adorned and became
desperate Guerrillas because the home they had left had been given to
the
flames, or a
gray-haired father shot upon his own
hearth-stone. They wanted to avoid the
uncertainty of regular battle and know by actual results how many died as
a propitiation or a sacrifice. Every other passion became subsidiary to
that of revenge. They sought personal encounters that their own handiwork
might become unmistakably manifest. Those who died by other agencies than
their own were not counted in the general summing up of a fight, nor were
the solacements of any victory sweet to them unless they had the knowledge
of being important factors in its achievement. As this class of Guerrillas increased, the warfare
of the border became necessarily more cruel and unsparing. Where at first
there was only killing in ordinary battle, there became to be no quarter
shown. The wounded of the enemy next felt the might of this individual
vengeance-acting through a community of bitter memories and from every
stricken field there began, by and by, to come up the substance of this
awful bulletin: Dead such and such a number-wounded none. The war had then
passed into its fever heat, and thereafter the gentle and the merciful,
equally with the bush and
the revengeful, spared nothing clad in blue that could be
captured. CHAPTER
III. AMERICAN
GUERRILLAS COMPARED WITH THOSE OF OTHER
COUNTRIES. THERE, have been Guerrillas
in other countries, notably in France, Spain, Italy and Mexico. Before the
days of breech-loaders and revolvers, and in fields of operation almost
wholly unfit for cavalry, it was easy warfare for irregular bands to lie
along mountainous roads, or hide themselves from ordinary pursuit in
tangled thickets and stretches of larger timber.
They fought when they felt
like it, and were more formidable in reputation than in prowess. The
American's capacity for war can be estimated in a great degree by the
enterprising nature of his individual efforts. If, as a Guerrilla, he can
guard defiles, surprise cantonments, capture convoys, disappear in the
mountains, make at times and before superior numbers the difficulty not so
much in fighting him as in finding him, discover and hold his own passes,
learn the secrets of nature so that the rain or the snow storm will be his
ally and the fog his friend-be sure the seeds are there for a harvest of
armed men-no matter whether regular or irregular-that need only the
cultivation of sensible discipline to become the most remarkable on
earth. Essentially a nation of
shop-keepers, trades-people and farmers Before the great civil struggle
began, the rapidity with which armies were mobilized and made into
veterans, was marvelous. Nothing like a Guerrilla organization had ever
before existed in the history of the country, and yet the strife was
scarcely two months old
before prominent in the field were leaders of Guerrilla bands more
desperate than those of La Vendee, and organizers and fighters more to be
relied upon and more blood-thirsty than the Fra Diavolas of Italy, or the
El Empecinados of Spain. La Vendee, among other
things, was the war of a republic upon a religion of Marat, which meant
pandemonium, upon the Pope, who meant Christ. The cities fought the
country, the forests were attacked by the plains. In the gloom of the
fastnesses giants were developed. Beneath the mask of the executioner was
the cowl of the monk, and behind the judge of a
court martial
sat the implacable embodiment of Jacobin
surveillance. On one side cynicism, on the
other ferocity, on one side blind fury buttressed upon fanaticism, on the
other the airiness of a skepticism which denied the priesthood that it
might succeed to its possessions. From amid this chaos of contending
devils-preying alike upon the province which held to the town, or the city
which had adoration for the Directory, La Rochejacquelin was born. He w:tS
an inferior Quantrell wearing a short sword instead of a six-shooter. He
went often to Mass, and on the eve of every battle he took the
sacrament. Sometimes he fought well and
sometimes badly. A word unknown to border warfare belonged to his
vocabulary, and history has repeated it often when writing of Hoche and
Houchard. It was Panic. Victory
was near to La Rochejacquelin often, but just as his hands opened wide as
it were to lay hold thereon and close again in exultation, Panic dashed
them aside as though smitten by a sudden sword-blade. It was so at
Martigne Briant, and Vibiers, at Vue and at Bonquenay. These desperate
Guerrillas of La Vendee-these monks in harness and high priests in
uniform-made bonnets rouge out of buckskin, and fled from imaginary
grenadiers who were only shocks of wheat. It was also a war of
proclamations. In the charges and
counter-charges, the appeals on the one side to the good God and on the
other to the omnipotent Committee of Public Safety, many a forlorn
Frenchman, given over to contemplated death, slipped through everybody's
fingers; another evidence of palpable weakness which was as foreign to the
Missourian's executive economy as the word panic to his vocabulary.
Michael Pezza, surnamed Fra
Diavolo, from his diabolic cunning in escaping all pursuit, was an
Italian. half patriot and balf brigand. Much of his reputation is
legendary. but for all that it has inspired one or two operas and a dozen
romances. He was to Italy what El
Empecinado was to Spain, Canaris to Greece, and Abd-el-Kader to Africa.
Born amid the mountains, he knew the crags by their sinister faces, and
the precipices from the roar of their cataracts. Before he fought
Napoleon he had
stopped travelers upon the highway. When he had use for the robber,
however, Ferdinand IV. made him a colonel and a duke and set him to guard
the passes of the Apennines. A dozen audacious deeds will
cover the space of his whole career-one which was unquestionably void hut
scrcc1y enterprising. All who spoke his language were his friends. He had
eyes like the eagle, and fought fights where, when he was shot at, it was
declared to be like shooting at the sky. Beyond a convoy or two made to
lose their property, and a struggling
hand or two cut
to pieces, he did no devil's work in a twelve month of splendid
opportunity for all who hated the insiders and saw from their mountain
fortresses the very blackness of darkness
overshadow a laud that wore perpetually the garments of Paradise. Finally
a French detachment-especially charged to look after the much dreaded
Guerrilla struck his trail and followed it to the end. The French numbered
eight hundred, the Italians
fifteen. Take
Quantrell, or Todd, or Anderson, or Pool, or Coleman Younger, or Jesse
James, or Haller, or Frank James, with fifteen hundred men, and put to
catch them eight hundred Federals! What analyst now, in the light of past
history, will say that out of the eight hundred six might safely return
alive to tell the story of the slaughter. The hunt went on, the hunted
having every advantage over the hunters. They saw him, touched him, had
him, suddenly nobody was there. He did not fight; he only hid himself and
ran away. Nothing stopped the pursuit, however. Neither mountain torrent,
nor full-fed river, nor perpendicular rock, nor tempests by night, nor
hurricanes by day. 'When brought to bay at last, Fra Diavola did what
never Guerrilla did yet of Anglo Saxon birth or raising, he disguised
himself as a charcoal -dealer, mounted an ass, deserted his followers, and
sought to creep out of
the environment as best he could. He did not succeed, but the effort
exhibited the standard of the man. The list is a long one to choose from, but apposite selections are difficult to handle. At every step taken toward~ a contrast between a Missouri Guerrilla and a Guerrilla of foreign reputation, there is an obstacle. Nowhere exists the same civilization. In no single instance are
the surroundings and the institutions the same. One common bond, however,
ill the fiery crucible of
civil war, and by this and from out this must they come to
judgment, standing or falling. There was EI Empecinaclo,
the Spaniard. He did in the Pyrenees what Fra Diavolo did in the
Apennines. Each system was the -same-perpetual skirmishes, mostly
unimportant, and sudden disappearance. Both fought the French. The
nobility were for Napoleon, the peasants against him, and this added
intensity to the strife. But to beat EI Empecinado was to accomplish
nothing. His band scattered on all sides into fastnesses where it was
impossible to find them, and reorganized at some place in the mountains
which they had intrenched, provisioned l, and made inaccessible. He was
the creature of the Junta, and the Junta was the hunted mother of liberty
In Spain. Hurled from village to
village, threatened hourly, attacked at all times, having the chief seat
of its administration in some ruined chapel, some hovel in the shrubbery,
or some hole in the ground, it decreed, notwithstanding it all, the
independence of Spain. But in fight after fight EI Empecinado was so badly
worsted that he began to be accused of treason by his own men and
suspected by the Junta. Finally, and after many races, and chases. and
ambuscades, he was brought to his last assurance and stratagem at
Cifuentes. The war of the thickets and the ravines was over. Having in his
favor the enormous advantage of four men to his adversary's one, he stood
forth in battle against General Hugo, of the French grenadiers, and was
destroyed. At Centralia, and with the odds reversed and largely on the
other side, George Todd rode over and shot clown a superior column of
Federal infantry massed upon open ground and standing in line, shoulder to
shoulder, with fixed bayonets and loaded muskets.
There were the bands of Mina
and EI Pastor, who instead of being Guerrillas were barbarians. By these
neither age nor sex was spared. Not content with killing women and
children, they tortured them; they burned them alive. The elder Mina had
carried before him in battle a flag bearing the device of vae victisk
As he was more formidable and unsparing than either EI Empccinatlo or
Fra Diavolo, he was to the same extent more popular. Success, however
unsatisfactory, made him dangerous in more ways than one to the invaders.
Germans, English, Italians, and even French, deserted to him. In the
course of the days fifteen hussars, twenty artillerymen, a company of
British sappers, and fourteen French foot soldiers came over to his
banner. Of course none of these could ever surrender, and became in time
the most ferocious of this ferocious band. Underneath all the terrible
vigilance taken by these Guerrillas there was the undying consciousness of
terrible wrongs. Fra Diavola had been tied up in a public market place and
scourged brutally by the public executioner; El Empecinallo had his ears
slit; the younger
Mina,'s mistress had been outraged before his eyes.
her piercing
cries haunting his sleep for months thereafter; EI Pastor's old father, in
returning late from a country town, had been first robbed and then beaten
to death j and Xavier, the youngest of the Junta's bloody instruments and
the most chivalrous, knew scarcely anything of the war until he had barely
escaped assassination with his life. Does not history repeat itself?
From the brooding vision of
Quantrell there was never absent the white, set face of a murdered
brother. To make tense the nerves and steel the heart of Coleman Younger,
there, wet with his life's blood, were the white hairs of a hallowed
father slain upon the highway. Anderson remembered to his dying day his
beautiful sister buried beneath the falling walls of the prison house, and
another so disfigured that when those dearest to her dug her out from the
wreck they did not know her. Of the Minas there were
two-uncle and nephew. It was the strange destiny of the elder to have to
encounter in his own field of operations a woman. Unnatural as it may
appear the most ferocious hand which infested Biscay was commanded by a
woman named 1\1artina. So indiscriminating and unrelenting was this female
monster in her murder of friends and foes alike, that Mina felt himself
compelled to resort to extermination. Surprised with the greater
part of her following, not a soul escaped to tell the story of the
massacre. One wild beast had devoured another, and that was all! Treachery
of comrades is a somewhat pr6minent feature in all these records of'
Spanish Guerrilla warfare, but in Missouri it was absolutely unknown. Mina
himself had a sergeant named Malcarado who attempted to betray him to the
enemy. He succeeded so far as to lead a French patrol to the room in which
his chief was still sleeping in bed. But suddenly aroused, 1\1ina defended
himself desperately with the bar of the door and kept the attacking party
at bay until Gustra, his chosen comrade, assisted him to escape. Taking
Malcarado afterwards he shot him instantly, together with the village cure
and three alcaldes implicated in the effort at kidnapping. In Mexico,
under Maximilian, the French had an organization known to the army of
occupation as the Contre Guerrillas, that is to say Imperial Guerrillas,
who fought when they could and exterminated where they could the
Republican Mexican Guerrillas. Colonel Dupin, who commanded
them, more nearly assimilated Quantrell in his manner of fighting than any
other leader of Guerrillas history has
yet passed in
review. He was desperately cruel, but he fought fast und hard. Distance
was nothing to him, nor fatigue, nor odds, nor the difficulties of a
position necc8sary to assault, nor any terra incognita the tropics
could array to ride into. He had the flexibility of the panther and the
grip of the bull-dog. Nothing uniformed and allied to Juarez ever lived
after he once laid hold upon it. Past sixty, bronzed brown as a bag of
leather, a school girl's face, covered with decorations, straight as
Tecumseh, he led his squadrons through ambuscades sixty miles long, and
made the court martial bring up eternally the rear of the combat. Any
weapon fitted his hand, just as any weapon fitted the hand of Quantrell.
Ruse, stratagem, disguise,
ambushment, sudden attack, furious charge, unquestioned prowess, desperate
resolve in extremity, unerring rapidity of thought-all these elements
belonged to him by the inexorable right of his profession, and he used
them all to terrify and to exterminate. With Dupin also in Mexico
was Captain Ney, Duke of Elchingen, and grandson of that other Ney who,
when thrones were tumbling and fugitive kings flitting through the smoke
of Waterloo, cried out to D'Erlon: "Come and see how a Marshal of France
dies on the field of battle." Ney had under him au
American squadron, swart, stalwart fellows, scarred in many a border battle and
bronzed by many a. day of sunshiny and stormy weather. Names went for
naught there. Hiding themselves in the unknown beyond the Rio Grande,
those cool, calm men asked one of another no question of the past. Nothing
of retrospect remained. Content to march and fight and be prodigal of
everything save brag or boast, they carried no black flag and they often
ga.ve quarter. And how they fought!
Dupin-taking note of many other things besides-took note also of this.
Once when a day of battles opened ominously, and when from the fur front
the story came back of repulses savoring strongly of disaster, he chose
this little band alone for a desperate charge and patched with it swiftly
the riven ranks of his routed soldiery. When the hot work was over and
done, and when not anywhere in street, or town, or chapparal beyond the
town, an enemy struggled save in the last sure agonies of death, he bade
the balance of the regiment defile past their guidon and salute it with
sloping standards and victorious music. In that day's fierce melee
rode some of Quantrell's best and bravest. Their comrades knew them
not, for they made no sign; and yet thrice was the sword of Captain Ney
put out to save the foremost back-it being a point of honor with a French
cavalry officer to permit no subaltern to pass him in a charge-and thrice
d:d he cry aloul1. and warn the boldest that if they went by him they went
by at their peril. One of these pressing thus
hard behind the gallant
Ney was John C. Moore,
once a member of Marmaduke's staff,
and later a
trained athlete in the arena where Shelby's giants struggled
only for renown
and glory. War found him an enthusiast and left him a philosopher. He
drifted into Mexico
a little behind
the tide which bore his chieftain out, and for want of other things to do
joined the Contre Guerrillas. He was always merciful in combat, and fought
in the reckless old style just because it was fashionable to fight
so, and because
he gave so little thought
to-day whether the morrow would be peaceful in bivouacs or stormy with
sudden ambuscades. He was the centre of a group of dauntless spirits who
dreamed of empire in the land of the Aztecs, and who never for a moment
lost faith in the future or saw need for despair in the present until
imbecility rose upon and mastered resolution and forced Maximilian from a
throne to a dead-wall. There were no Guerrillas in
the days of the revolution, for in no sense of the word could General
Marion and his men be considered as such. Strictly partisan in some
respects, and fighting here, there, and everywhere as occasion or
opportunity permitted, he never for a moment severed communication with
the government his patriotism defended, nor relied for a day upon other
resources than those of the departments regularly org:ll1izcd for military
supremacy. As part of the national army, he entered as an important factor
in the plans of every contiguous campaign. His swamp warfare made him
formidable but never ferocious. He rarely killed save in open battle, and
being seldom retaliated upon, he did nothing to retaliate for in the way
of an equilibrium. It required, indeed, all the excesses of the civil war
of 1861-5 to produce the genuine American Guerrilla-more enterprising by
far, more deadly, more capable of immense physical endurance, more fitted
by nature for deeds of reckless hardihood, and given over to less of
penitence or pleading when face to face with the final end, than any
French or Spanish, Italian or Mexican Guerrilla notorious in song or
story. He simply lived the life that was in him, and took the worst or
best as it came and as fate decreed it. Circumstances made him unsparing,
and not any predisposition in race or rearing. Fought first with fire, he
fought back with the torch; and branded as an outlaw first in despite of
all reason, he made of the infamous badge a birthright and boasted of it
as a blood-red inheritance while flaunting it in the face of a
civilization which denounced the criminals while condoning the crimes that
made them such. CHAPTER IV. QUANTRELL. ONE-HALF the country
believes Quantrell to have been a highway robber crossed upon the tiger;
the other half that he was the gallant defender of his native South.
One-half believes him to have been an avenging Nemesis of the right j the
other a forbidding monster of assassination. History cannot hesitate over
him, however, nor abandon him to the imagination of the romancers-those
cosmopolitan people who personify him as the type of a race which
reappears in every country that is a prey to the foreigner-the legitimate
bandit in conflict with conquest. He was a living, breathing, aggressive,
all-powerful reality-riding through the midnight, laying ambuscades by
lonesome roadsides, catching marching columns by the throat, breaking in
upon the flanks and tearing a suddenly surprised rear to pieces; vigilant,
merciless, a terror by day and a superhuman if not a supernatural thing
when there was upon the earth blackness and darkness.
Charles William Quantrell
was to the Guerrillas their voice in tumult, their beacon in a crisis, and
their hand in action. From him sprang all the other Guerrilla leaders and
bands which belong largely to Missouri and the part :Missouri took in the
civil war. Todd owed primary allegiance to him, and so did Scott. Haller,
Anderson, Blunt, Poole, Younger, Maddox, Jarrette, the two James
brothers-Jesse and Frank-Shepherd, Yager, Hulse, Gregg-all in fact who
became noted afterwards as enterprising soldiers and fighters. His was the
central figure, and it towered aloft amid all the wreck and overthrow and
massacre that went on continually around and about him until it fell at
last as the pine falls, uprooted by Omnipotence or shivered by its
thunderbolt. The early life of Quantrell
was obscure and uneventful. Born in Hagerstown, Maryland, July 20, 1836,
and raised there until he was sixteen years of age,
he remained
always an obedient and an affectionate son. His mother had been left a
widow when he was only a few years old, and had struggled bravely and with
true maternal devotion to keep a home for her children and her children in
it. Inheriting self-reliance in
an eminent degree, and something of that sadness which is the rightful
offspring of early poverty, the boy Quantrell was
taken in his
sixteenth year to Cleveland, Ohio, by an old friend of his family, a
Colonel Toler, and there given an excellent English education. He never
saw his mother again. His first separation was his final
one. As early as 1855 Missouri
and Kansas had been at war, Seward's Irrepressible Conflict began
then-passed from its quiescent to its aggressive stage then. and opened
the crevasse in the embankment then which was to let through
all the floods
of sectional bitterness and strife and deluge the whole land with the
horrors of civil war. Men were baptized then who were to become later
notorious apostles of plunder and invasion, Old John Brown was a creature
of that abolition madness which began at Osawatomie Creek and ended at
Harper's Ferry. Jim Lane killed his first
man in that war; :Montgomery came first to the front after the adoption of
the Lecompton Constitution, and learned too well the uses of the torch
that later he burned Rome, Georgia, wantonly, and hung a dozen or so of
its non-combatants; Jennison gave something of the robber promise that was
in him; General John W. Reid added greener laurels to his Mexican wreath;
Jo. Shelby, that eagle of the foray, first, changed his down for his
feathers; there were fierce sectional fires lit all along the border j the
two States hated each other and harried each other's accessible lands;
from Leavenworth south to Fort Scott dragon's teeth were sown broadcast as
wheat is sown in the fall, and so then the first drum beat was heard in
1861, and when the first bugle note was sounded, the throat-cutting had
already begun. For some time preceding
1855, Quantrell's only brother had been living in Kansas. He was older by
several years than Charles, had been more of a father to him than a
playmate, and was then the mainstay of the struggling widow, still
fighting the uncertain battles of life heroically and alone. The strife
along the border had somewhat subsided, and something of comparative peace
had succeeded to the armed irruption, when the elder Quantrell wrote to
the younger and urged him to come at once to his home in the disputed
Territory. A trip to California was
contemplated, and the one in Kansas would not go without the one in Ohio.
About the middle of the
summer of 1856 both brothers began their overland journey, each having a
wagon loaded with provisions, four good mules each, and more or less money
between them. One negro man was also carried along-a sort of general
utility person-part hostler and part cook. In addition he was also free.
The three were together when
that unprovoked tragedy occurred which was to darken and blacken the whole
subsequent current of the younger brother's life, and link his name
forever with some of the savagest episodes of some of the most savage
Guerrilla history ever recorded. Although there was comparative peace at
that time, armed bands still maintained their organization throughout the
entire State. Some were legitimate and some illegitimate. A few lived by
patriotism, such as it was, and a good many by plunder. Here and there
worse things than stealing were done, and more than one belated traveler
saw the sun set never to rise again, and more than one suspected or
obnoxious settler disappeared so quietly as scarcely to cause a ripple of
comment upon the placid surface of neighborhood events. Especially
implacable were one or two companies owing allegiance to Lane. In the name
of Abolitionism they took to the highway, and for the sake of freedom in
Kansas great freedom was taken with other people's lives and property.
Camped one night on the Little Cottonwood River, en route to
California, thirty armed men rode deliberately up to the wagons where the
Quantrells were and opened fire at point-blank range upon the occupants.
The elder Quantrell was killed instantly, while the younger wounded badly
in the left leg and right breast-was left upon the bank of the stream to
die. The negro was not harmed.
Scared so dreadfully at first as to be unable to articulate, he yet found
his speech when the robbers began to hitch up the teams and drive off the
wagons, and pleaded eloquently that food and shelter might be left for the
wounded man. " Of what use? " the leader of the Jayhawkers sneered, "he
will die at best, and if we did not think that he would die, we would be
sure to finish him." And so they drove away, taking not only the wagons
and teams, but the tent and the negro, leaving Quantrell alone with his
murdered brother, the wide wilderness of prairie and sky above and about
him everywhere and death's door so close to his own hands that for the
stretching out
he might have
laid bold thereon and entered in. Not content, however, with being robbers
and cut-throats, they added petty thieving to cowardly assassination. The
pockets of both were rifled, every dollar was taken from each, a ring from
a finger of the living and a watch from the person of the dead.
It was two days before the
wounded brother was found-two days of agony, retrospects, and dreams it
may be of a stormy future. Something of the man's wonderful fortitude
abode with him to the end. He heard the clangor of ominous pinions and the
flapping of mysterious wings that splotched the prairie grass with hateful
splotches of beak and claw. He dragged himself to the inanimate heap lying
there festering in the summer's sun, and fought a desperate double fight
against the talons that would mutilate and the torments of fever and
thirst that were burning him up alive. And in the darkness came other
sounds than the rising of the night wind. A long, low howl at first that
had the subdued defiance of hunger in it, and then the shuffling of
creeping feet and the mingling of gray and darkness in the nearest cover.
The wolves were abroad coming ever closer and closer, and crouching there
in the prairie grass, knowing scarcely aught of any difference between the
living and the dead. He did not cry out, neither did he make moan. All
night long by the corpse he watched and defended-seeing on the morrow the
sun rise red out of a sea of verdure, and hearing agf1.in on the morrow
the clangor of ominous pinions and the flapping of mysterious
wings. From the road to the stream
it was fifty good steps, and between the two an abundance of luxuriant
grass. The descent to the water was very steep, and broken here and there
by gullies the rains had cut. Until an intolerable thirst drove him to
quit his watch by his brother's corpse, and quit his uncomplaining fight
against buzzard and prairie wolf, he never moved from the dead man's side.
In the two nights and days
of this mournful vigil he did not sleep. He could not walk, and yet he
rolled himself down to the river and back again to the road-dragging his
crippled body over the broken places and staunching his wounds with the
rankest grass. He would live! He has never thought how necessary life
could become to him. There was mncl1 to do. The dead had to be buried, the
murder had to be avenged, and that demand-fixed as fate and as inexorable
had to be made wl1ich required sooner or later an eye for an eye and a
tooth for a tooth. What he suffered during the two days and nights, when
the mutilated brother watched by the murdered one, he would never tell.
Indeed, he rarely referred to his past, and spoke so little of himself
that those who knew him longest knew the least of his history, and
those
who questioned
him the most assiduously got less satisfaction than those who questioned
him not at all. Early in the morning of the
third day, and just after Quantrell had dragged himself back from the
river to the road, suffering more and more of agony from his already
swollen and inflamed wounds, an old Shawnee Indian, Golightly Spiebuck,
happened to pass along, and became at once the rough but kindly Samaritan
of the Plains. The dead man was buried, and the wounded one placed gently
in the Indian's wagon and carried by easy stages to his home, a few miles
south of Leavenworth. Spiebuck died in 1868, but
he often told the story of the rescue. It took him four hours to dig the
grave deep enough for the dead man, There was neither coffin, nor shroud,
nor funeral rite. Dry-eyed and so ghastly white that he looked to Spiebuck
like the ghost of the departed come back to claim the due of decent
sepulchre, Quantrell watched the corpse until the earth covered it, and
then he hobbled to his knees and turned his dry eyes up to where he
believed a God to be. Did he pray? Yes. like Caligula, perhaps, and that
the whole Jayhawking fraternity had but Ii single neck, capable of being
severed by a single blow. CHAPTER
V. QUANTRELL AND
THE KANSAS
JAYHAWKERS. QUANTRELL recovered slowly.
He had youth, a fine physique, great energy and determination of
character; but his mind appeared to dominate over and hold his body in
subjection. He would by for hours at a
time with his hands over his eyes-his pale cheeks lit up with a kind of
hectic flush, and his respiration so noiseless and imperceptible that
Spiebuck's old Indian wife and nurse more than once declared him dying.
But he was not dying; he was thinking. Afterwards there came weary weeks
of the stick and crutch. Summer was dead on the hills, and autumn had
already begun to frighten the timid leaves with the
white ghost of
the snow. The cripple had come to he a convalescent,
the
convalescent had become to be a man-a little pale, it may be, but cured of
his wounds and his injuries. If any knew of the murder and the robbery
upon the Cottonwood, they had forgotten both. Either was so familiar and
so matter of fact that the law regarded the their complacently, and public
opinion took sides with the murderer-thus making for each an equal
justification. One man remembered, how everyone calm, grave man,
something of a set
sadness always about his features, and now and then an eager, questioning
look
that seemed to
appeal to the future while recalling and reestablishing the
past. Quantrell was very patient.
Sometimes tigers lick the crucifix; sometimes sheep become wolves. He took
a school; taught
the balance of
the year 1856; got into his possession all the money he needed; paid Mr.
and Mrs.Spielmek literally for every care and attention; shook hands
cordially with the good old Indians on the 15th day of August, 1857, and
went to Leavenworth. As he had never permitted confidences, he had no need
of a disguise. The simple Charley Quantrell had become to be the simple
Charley Hart, and that was all. The Nemesis
was about to
put on the national uniform. The lone grave by the Cottonwood river had
begun to have grass upon it, and there was need that it should be
watered. Leavenworth City
belonged at that time to the Jayhawkers, and the Jayhawkers to
all
intents and
purposes belonged to Jim Lane. The original Jayhawker was a growth
indig0nous to the soil of Kansas. There belonged to him as things of
course a pre-emption, a chronic case of chills ann. fever, one starved cow
3.nd seven dogs, a longing for his neighbor's goods and chattel, a
Sharpe's rifle, when he could get it, and something of a Bible for
hypocrisy's sake-something that savored of the real presence of the book
to give backbone to his canting and snuffling. In some respects a
mountebank, in others a scoundrel, and in all a thief-he was a character
eminently adapted for civil war which produces more adventurers than
heroes. His hands were large, hairy and red-proof of inherited
laziness-and a slouching gait added to the ungainliness of his figure when
he walked. The type was as of a kind.
The mouth generally wore a calculating smile-the only distinguishable gift
remaining of a Puritan ancestry-bat when he felt that he was looked at the
calculating smile became sanctimonious. Slavery concerned him only as the
slave-holder was supposed to be rich; and just so long as Beecher presided
over emigration aid societies, preached highway robbery, defended
political murder, and sent something to the Jayhawkers in the way of real
fruits and funds, there surely was a God in Israel and Beecher was his
great high priest. Otherwise they all might go to the devil together. The
Jayhawker was not brave. He would fight when he had to fight, but he would
not stand in the last ditch and shoot away his last cartridge. Born to
nothing, and eternally out at elbows, what else could he do but laugh and
be glad when chance kicked a country into war and gave purple and fine
linen to a whole lot of bummers and beggars? In the saddle he rode like a
sand bag or a sack of meal. The eternal "ager
cake" made a
trotting horse his abomination, and he had no use for a thoroughbred, save
to steal him. When he abandoned John Brown and rallied to the standard of
Jim Lane -when he gave up the fanatic and clove unto the thief-he simply
changed his leader without changing his
principles. General James H. Lane, for
some time previous to the breaking out of the war and for sometime
afterwards, was omnipotent in Kansas. Immense bonhommie, joined to
immense vitality, made him a political giant. Of infinite humor, rarely
skilled in the arts of judging human nature, passably brave, though
always from
selfish impulses, brilliant in speech, exaggerated in sentiment, vivid in
expression, and full of that intangible yet all-mastering pathos which has
ever and will ever find in the West its most profitable employment, he
soon became the Melchisedec of the Kansas militia and the founder of a
line of Jayhawkers. Blood had already stained his hands. The civilization
to which his principles owned origin permitted him the wives of other
people if he could win them, and he went about with the quest of a
procuress and the encompassment of Solomon. Reversing the alphabet in
the spelling out of his morals, he made v the first letter of the new
dispensation, because it stood for virility. The mantle of John Brown had
fallen upon his shoulders, and yet it did not fit him. John Brown was the
inflexible partisan; Jim Lane the ambitious man of talent. One would have
given everything to the cause which he espoused did give his life; the
other stipulated for commissions, senatorial robes, and political power.
John Brown could never have
passed from the
character of destructive to that of statesman; but Jim Lane,
equal to either extreme, put readily aside with one hand the business of
making raids, and took up with the other the less difficult though more
complicated business of making laws. Jennison was of inferior
breed and mettle. None of his ideas ever rose above a corral of rebel
cattle, and he made war like a brigand, and with a cold brutality which he
imagined gave to his unsoldierly greed the mask of
patriotism. Montgomery, dying by inches
of consumption, and feeling a craving for military fame without having
received from society or nature the means of acquiring it, was content to
become infamous in order to become notorious. He was the patron of the
assassin and the incendiary. These three embryonic
embodiments of all that was to be forbidding and implacable in border
warfare carne in and out of Leavenworth a great deal in those brief yet
momentous months preceding
that mighty drama which from a small Kansas prologue was to overshadow and
envelop a continent. Quantrell, known now as
Charles Hart, became intimate with Lane, and ostensibly attached himself
to the fortunes of the anti-slavery party. If, in order to advance an
object or to get a step nearer to the goal of his ambition, it became
necessary to speak of John Brown, he always spoke of him as of one for
whom he had great admiration. General Lane, at that time a Colonel, was in
command of a regiment whose headquarters were at Lawrence. Thither from
Leavenworth went Quantrell, and soon became enrolled in a company to which
belonged all but two of the men who did the deadly work at the Cottonwood
river. If the whole Quantrell episode had not been forgotten, however,
certainly there was nothing to recall it in the sad face, slender figure,
drooping blue eyes and courteous behavior of the new recruit. He talked
little and communed witl1 l1imself a great deal. While others amused
themselves with cards, or women, or wine, Quantrell rode over the country
in every direction, and made himself thoroughly acquainted with its
geography and topography. Who knows but what even then
the coming events of that terrible sack and pillage were beginning to cast
their shadows before. First a private and then an
orderly sergeant, Quantrell soon won the esteem of his officers and the
confidence of his men. It was getting along pretty well through 1858, and
what with brushes with the Border Ruffians, as the Missourians were
called, also scouting after depredating Indians, Lane's command was kept
comparatively active. It was required also to furnish covering parties for
trains running on the Underground Railroad, and scouts along the whole
line of the border from Kaw River to the Boston Mountains. One day
Quantrell and three men were sent down to the neighborhood of Wyandotte to
meet a wagon loan of negroes coming out of Missouri under the pilotage of
Jack Winn, a somewhat noted horse-thief and abolitionist. One of the three
men failed to return when Quantrell and his comrade did, nor could any
account be given of his absence until a body was found near a creek
several days afterward. In the centre of the forehead was the round,
smooth hole of a navy revolver bullet. Those who looked for Jack
Winn's safe arrival were also disappointed. He had been shot just inside
the fence of a cornfield, and in falling had fallen face foremost in some
rank weeds and briars which completely covered him. People traveling the
road passed and repassed the corpse almost hourly, but the buzzards found
it first and afterwards the curious. There was the same round hole in the
forehead, and the same sure mark of the navy revolver
bullet. Somebody's hand-writing was
becoming to be legible; next, four companies received marching orders for
service down about Fort Scott, and Quantrell's was among the
four. The Missourians of late had
been swarming over the border thick in that direction, and Lane wanted to
know more of what they were doing. Some skirmishing ensued, and now and
then there was a sudden combat. Quantrell was the first in every
adventurous enterprise and the last to leave upon every skirmish line.
Of the four companies detailed to do duty in the vicinity of Fort Scott,
all the members of each returned except sixty. The death of forty-two of
these was attributed to the enemy, of the other eighteen to the manifold
calamities of war. Two of the eighteen bodies were recovered, however, and
there was the same round, smooth hole in the middle of the forehead.
Evidently the Border Ruffians had navy revolvers and knew just where to
shoot a man when it was intended to shoot him only
once. Things went on thus for
several months. Scarcely a week passed that some sentinel was not found
dead at his post, some advanced picquet surprised and shot at the
outermost watch station. The men began to whisper one to another and to
cast about for the cavalry Jonah who was in the midst of
them. One company alone, that of
Captain Pickens-the company to which Quantrell belonged-had lost thirteen
men between October, 1857, and March, 1858. Another company ha\d lost two,
and three one each. A second Underground Railroad conductor named Rogers
had been shot through the forehead, and two scouts from Montgomery's
command named Stephens and Tarwater. From the privates this talk
about a Jonah went to the Captains, and from the Captains to the Colonel.
Just as Lane began to busy himself with this story of an epidemic whose
single symptom was a puncture in the forehead the size of a navy revolver
bullet, Quantrell was made a Lieutenant in Pickens' company. Therefore if
this Jonah was in the line of promotion, it certainly was not in
contemplation to cast him overboard to the
fishes. Quantrell and Pickens became
intimate-as a Captain and Lieutenant of the same company should-and
confided many things to each other. One night the story of the Cottonwood
River was told, and Pickens dwelt with just a little of relish upon the
long
ride made to
strike the camp of the unsuspecting emigrants, and the artistic execution
of the raid which left neither the dead man a shroud nor the wounded man a
blanket. The Lieutenant turned his
f.tce away from the light of the bivouac fire and essayed to ask a
question or two. Could Pickens just then have seen his eyes-scintillate,
and dilated about the pupils as the eyes of a lion in the \light-he might
have been tempted to try over again the argument of the Cottonwood
crossing-place. He did not see them, however, and so he told allow the
plunder was divided, the mules sold, the money put all together in one
pile and gambled for, the kind of report made to headquarters, and the
general drunk which succeeded the
return and ushered in forgetfulness. Three days thereafter Pickens and two
of his most reliable men were found dead on Bull Creek, shot like the
balance in the middle of the forehead. This time there was a
genuine panic. Equally with the rest, Quantrell exercised himself actively
over the mysterious murders, and left no conjecture unexpressed that might
suggest a solution of the implacable fatality. Who was safe? What
protection had Colonel Lane in his tent, or Lieutenant-Colonel Jennison in
his cabin? The regiment must trap and shy this hidden monster perpetually
in ambush in the midst of its operations, or the regiment would be
decimated. It could not fight the unknown and the
superhuman. For a time after Pickens'
death there was a lull in the constant conscription demanded by the
Nemesis. Mutterings of the coming storm were beginning to be heard in
every direction, while all over the political sky there were portents and
perturbations. Those who believed that the nation's life was at hazard had
no time to think of men. The new Lieutenant bought himself a splendid
uniform, owned the best horse in the
Territory, and
instead of one navy revolver now had two. It is not believed that at
this time Quantrell was suspected, for in a long conversation held with
him by Lane, the full particulars of the plan adopted to discover and
arrest the mysterious murderer were discussed in every detail. He waited
several weeks to see what would become of the exertions made to trace the
handwriting on the foreheads of the victims, and then apparently dismissed
the subject from his mind. At all events he no longer referred to it in
conversation, or expressed an opinion upon it one way or the other. He had
his duties to perform as an officer of cavalry, and he had no inclination
to help on the work of the detectives. Probably two months after his
conversation with L:llle, Quantrell was ordered to take his own company
and details from three others-amounting in the aggregate to one hundred
and fourteen men-and make a scout out towards the
extreme western border of the Territory. Although the expedition saw
neither a hostile Indian nor a Missourian, thirteen of the Jayhawkers
never again answered at roll-call. The old clamor broke out again in all
its fury, and the old suspicions were extravagantly aroused. Quantrell was
called upon to explain the absence of his men, and reported calmly all
that he knew in the premises. Detached from the main body and ordered out
on special duty, they had not returned when their comrades did. The bodies
of three of them ha been found shot through the forehead, and although he
had tried every art known to his ingenuity to learn more of the causes
which produced this mysterious fatality, he was no nearer the truth than
his commanding officer. Not long after this report two men from another
company were missing, and then an orderly attached to the immediate
protection of Colonel Lane. This orderly had been killed under peculiar
circumstances. The citizens of Lawrence
gave a supper one night to some distinguished Eastern people, and Colonel
Lane presided at the table. His orderly was with him, and as the night
deepened he drank freely and boasted a great deal. Among the things which he
described with particular minuteness was an attack upon a couple of
emigrants nearly two years before and the confiscation of their property.
Quantrell was not at the banquet, but somehow he heard of the orderly's
boast and questioned him fully concerning the whole circumstance. After
this dialogue there was a dead man. There came also from the
East about this time some sort of a disease known as the club mania. Those
afflicted with it-and it attacked well nigh tile entire population-had a
hot fever described as the enrollment fever. Organizations
of all sorts
sprang up-Free Soil Clubs, Avengers, Men of Equal Rights, Sons of Liberty,
John Brown's Body Guard, Destroying Angels, Lane's Loyal Leaguers, and
what not--and every one made haste to get his name signed to both
constitution and by-laws. Lawrence especially affected from the Liberator
Club, whose undivided mission was to find freedom for all the slaves in
Missouri. Quantrell took its latitude and longitude with the calm, cold
eyes of a political philosopher and joined it among the first. As it well
might have been, he soon became its vitalizing influence and its master.
The immense energy of the man-making fertile with resources a mind bent to
the accomplishment of a certain fixed purpose-suggested at once to the
Club the necessity of practical work if it meant to make any negroes face
or punish any slaveholders. He knew how an entire family of negroes might
be rescued. The risk was not much. The distance was not great. The time was opportune. now
many would volunteer for the enterprise? At first the Club argued
indirectly that it was a Club sentimental-not a Club militant. It would
pray devoutly for the liberation of all the slaves in all the world, but
it would not fight for them. What profit would the individual members
receive if, after gaining all Africa, they lost their own scalps?
Quantrell persevered, however, and finally induced seven of the Liberators
to co-operate with him. His plan was to enter Jackson county, Missouri,
with three clays' cooked rations, and ride the first night to within
striking distance of the premises it was intended to plunder. There-hidden
completely in the brush and vigilant without being seen or heard-wait
again for the darkness of the second night. This delay of a day would also
enable the horses to get a good rest and the negroes to prepare
for their
hurried journey. Afterwards a bold push and a steady gallop must bring
them all hack safe to the harbor of Lawrence. Perhaps the plan really was
a daring one, and
the execution
extremely dangerous; but seven Liberators out of eighty-four volunteered
to accompany Quantrell, and in a week everything was ready for the
enterprise. Morgan Walker was an old
citizen of Jackson county-a veritable pioneer. He had settled there when
buffalo grazed on the prairies beyond Westport, and when in the soft sands
along the inland streams there were wolf and moccasin tracks. Stalwart,
hospitable, broad across the back, old-fashioned in his courtesies and his
hospitalities, he fed the poor, helped the needy, prayed regularly to the
good God, did right by his neighbors and his friends, and only swore
occasionally at the Jayhawkers and the Abolitionists. His hands might have
been rough and sun-browned, but they were always open. None
were ever
turned away from his door hungry. Under the old roof of the homestead-no
matter what the pressure was nor how large the
demand had been-the last wayfarer got the same comfort as the first-and
altogether they got the best. This man Morgan Walker was the man Quantrell
had proposed to rob. Living some five or six miles from Independence, and
owning about twenty negroes of various ages and sizes, the probabilities
were that a skillfully conducted raid might leave him without a
servant. Between the time the
Liberators had made every preparation for the foray and the time the eight
men actually started for Morgan Walker's house, there was the space of a
week. Afterwards those most interested remembered that Quantrell had not
been seen during all that period either in Lawrence or at the
headquarters of
his regiment. Everything opened
auspiciously. Well mounted and armed, the little detachment left Lawrence
quietly, rode two by two and far apart until the point of the first
rendezvous was reached, a clump of timber at a ford on Indian Creek. It
was the evening of the second day when they arrived, and they tarried long
enough to rest their horses and eat a hearty
supper/ Before daylight the next
morning the entire party were hidden, in some heavy timber two miles to
the west of Walker's house.. From this
safe retreat none of them stirred except Quantrell. Several times during
the day, however, he went backwards and forwards ostensibly to the fields
where the negroes were at work, and whenever he returned he always brought
something either for the horses or the men to
eat. Morgan Walker hall two
sons-true scions of the same stock -and before it was yet night these two
boys and also the father might have been seen cleaning up and putting in
excellent order their double-barrel shot-guns. A little latter three
neighbors, likewise carrying double-barrel shot-guns, rode up to the
house, dismounted, and entered in. Quantrell, who brought note of many
other things to his comrades, brought no note of this. If Ile saw it he made no
sign. The night was dark. It had
rained a little during the day, and the most of the light of the stars had
been put out by the clouds, when Quantrell arranged his men for the
dangerous venture. They were to proceed first to the house, gain
possession of it, capture the male members of the family, put them under
guard, assemble the negroes, bid them hitch up all the wagons and teams
possible,
and then make a
rapid gallop for Kansas. Fifty yards from the main
gate the eight men dismounted and fastened their horses. Arms were looked
to, and the stealthy march to the house began. Quantrell led. He was very
cool, and seemed to see everything. The balance of the marauders had their
revolvers in their hands; his were in his belt. Not a dog barked. If any
there had been aught save city bred, this, together with the ominous
silence, would have demanded a reconnaissance. None
heeded the
surroundings. however, and Quantrell knocked loudly and boldly at the
oaken pal.els of Morgan Walker's door. No answer. He knocked again and
stood perceptibly to one side. Suddenly, and as though it had neither
bolts nor bars, locks nor hinges, the door flared open and Quantrell
leaped into the hall with a bound like a red
deer. 'Twas best so. A livid sheet
of flame bur t out from the darkness where he had disappeared-us though au
explosion had happened there-followed by another as the second barrels of
the gun were discharged, and the tragedy was
over. Six fell
where they stood, riddled with buckshot. One staggered to the garden,
bleeding fearfully, and died there. The seventh, hard hit and unable to
mount his horse, drugged his crippled limbs to a patch of timber and
waited for the dawn. They tracked him by his blood upon the leaves and
found him early. Would he surrender?
No!
Another volley,
and the last Liberator was liberated. Walker and his two sons, assisted by
three of his stalwart and obliging neighbors, had done a clean night's
work and a righteous one. Those who had taken the sword had perished by
it. Events traveled rapidly
those fiery and impatient days, and soon all the county was up and
exercised over the
attack made upon Morgan Walker's house, and the deadly work which followed
it. Crowds congregated to look upon the seven dead men, laid one
alongside
of another, all
to see what manner
of a man
remained a prisoner. Thus was Quantrell first introduced to the
citizens
of Jackson
county, but little could any tell then of what iron nettle that young
stripling had, what grim endurance, what inexorable purpose to make war
practical and unforgiving. Morgan Walker kept his own
counsel. Quantrell was arrai6ued before a grand jury summoned especially
for the occasion of his trial, and honorably acquitted. The dead were
buried, the living was let go free, and the night attack soon became to be
a nine days' wonder. Men had their suspicions and that was all. Some asked
why seven should be taken and the eighth one spared, but as no answer came
in reply, the question was not repeated. Little by little public interest
in the event died out, and Quantrell went back to
Lawrence. There, however, the hunt was
up, and he saw at a glance and instinctively that the desperate game he
had been playing had to be played, if played any longer, on the edge of a
precipice. Salvation depended alone
upon something speedy and sure. His intention at this time was undoubtedly
to have killed Lane before he abandoned Lawrence forever, and he went
deliberately to his quarters for that purpose. Called away in the
forenoon. to some point thirty miles distant, Lane had not returned when
Quantrell's blood-thirsty preparations had all been finished.
Time pressed, and he could
not wait. Associating with himself two desperate frontiersmen from
Colorado, and openly defying the Jayhawkers and the Abolitionists,
Quantrell simply changed the mode of his warfare without mitigating aught
of its effectiveness. Infuriated at the intrepid actions of the man, and
learning more and more of that terrible disease whose single symptom has
already been described, Lane offered heavy rewards for the Guerrilla's
head. Quantrell laughed at these
and fought on in his own avenging fashion all through the balance of the
year 1860 and up to within a few months of the fall of Fort Sumter in
1861. He probably told but twice in his career the true story of his life
in Kansas-once to George Todd, and once to Jesse and Frank James. Each
time he dwelt upon the fact that out of the thirty-two men who killed his
brother and wounded him, two only escaped the final punishment, and these
because they left the Jayhawkers and moved to California. Every .Jayhawker
shot in the forehead hall been shot by his own hand, and every sentinel
killed at his post, and every picquet left dead at the outermost station,
was but another victim offered up as a sacrifice to appease the unquiet
spirit of the elder Quantrell. The younger never made an official estimate
of the number slain in this manner, but the evidence is almost
indisputable that a few over a hundred fell by his hand and the hands of
the two Colorado trappers who joined him about nine months before the war
commenced. The raid upon Morgan Walker
was the work of Quantrell's contriving. Understanding in a moment that
only through their fanaticism could three of the original thirty-two who
murdered his brother and who belonged to the Liberator Club-be made to get
far enough away from Lawrence for an ambuscade, he set the Jackson county
trap for them, baited it with the rescue of a negro family, and they fell
into it. His week's absence preceding the attack was spent in arranging
its preliminaries. Neither Walker nor his friends were to fire until he
had abandoned the balance of the party to their fate, and each time that
he had left the camp in the woods the day that was to usher in the bloody
night, he had been to Walker's house and gone through with him, as
it
were, and
carefully a rehearsal of all the more important parts of the sanguinary
play. No consuming passion for
revenge-no matter how constantly fed and persistently kept alive-was
ade1uate to the part Quantrell played in Kansas from 1857 to 1861.
Something his character had-some elements of nerve, cunning, and intellect
belonging to it by the inherent right of training and development that
carried him successfully through the terrible work and left his head
without a single gray hail', his face without a single altered feature.
The attitude must have been superb, the daily equanimity royal. The march
was towards ruin or deification, but yet day after day he anointed
himself, made awry things smooth before a mirror, put perfume upon his
person, and a rose in his button-hole. Under waning moons of nights, by
lonesome roadsides and haunted hollows, he took kid gloves from his hands
as he writ legibly the writing of the revolver. Women turned back upon him
as he passed them on the streets, and felt to stir within their hearts-as
the blue eyes lit up in courtly recognition and the pale face flushed a
little in glad surprise-the girls' romantic hunger for the men. He
never boasted.
So young, and yet he was a Sphinx. Eternally on guard when he was not in
ambush, he no more mispronounced a word than he permitted rust to appear
upon his revolver barrels, If it could be said that he ever put on a mask,
the name for it was gravity. He never endeavored to make death ridiculous,
for he knew that in the final summing up death had never been known to
laugh. He ate with those doomed by his vengeance, touched them, knee to
knee, as they rode in column, talked with them of love, and war, and
politics, lifted his hand to his hat in salute as he bade the stationed
guards of the night be vigilant, and returned in an hour to shoot them
through the forehead. Dead men were brought in, slain undoubtedly by the
unerring hand of that awful yet impalpable Nemesis, and he turned them
nonchalantly over in the sunlight, recognized them by name, spoke
something of eulogy or comradeship by the wet blankets whereon they lay,
and wrote in his dairy, as the summing up of a day's labor: "Let not him
that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that putteth it
off." If any-thinking strange
things of the plausible, reticent, elegant man going his way and keeping
his peace-shot some swift, furtive glance at him as he stood by the dead
of his own handicraft, the marble face moved not under the scrutiny. He
had mastered all human emotion, and sat superbly waiting the denouement
as though he felt to the uttermost that "The play was
the tragedy Man, And its hero
the Conqueror Worm." There are those who will
denounce him for his treachery and seek to blacken his name because of the
merciless manner in which he fought. He reeks not now of either
extreme-the comradeship that would build him a monument durable as
patriotism-or the condemnation which falsified his motives in order to
lessen his heroism. For Ql1antreII the war commenced in 1856. Fate ordered
it so, and transformed the ambitious yet innocent boy into a Guerrilla.
without a. rival and without a peer. It was the work of Providence-that
halt by the river, that murderous
onslaught, that two days' battle with things which mutilated, those hours
given for the revenge of a lifetime to be concentrated within a single
span of suffering-anrl Providence might well cause this for epitaph to be
written over against the tomb of Quantrell: "The standing
side by side till death, The dying for
some wounded friend, The faith that
failed not to the end, The strong
endurance till the breath And body took
their ways apart I only know. I
keep my trust. Their vices I
earth has them by heart; Their virtues I they are with their dust." |
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