Before Lawrence: Antebellum
The first chapter from Before Lawrence. The Andersons arrive in Independence in July 1861, guided by Francis Chouteau on their journey to Osceola, Missouri.
This is the first chapter of Before Lawrence. To learn more about the purpose of writing this story, check out the “Forward.” Before Lawrence is part of The Missouri Chronicles. Follow the story by subscribing on Substack, contribute your thoughts, and check out the added resources.
Francis Chouteau awoke after a rather fitful night of sleep, attempting to keep cool in what amounted to a hot, humid, breezeless evening. Add to that the snoring and groans of other men in the room, he longed for the night to be over, to have the new day begin. He was going to meet a family of folks at the docks on the Missouri River and he could not wait to be on the road back to Osceola, to once again breath fresh air and sleep under the stars.
As expected, he found it difficult to find a room in Independence, Missouri. This small town was quite busy. In many respects, it was similar to Osceola. It’s main industry was outfitting hundreds of settlers who started their journeys west, north and south, purchasing wagons, mule teams or oxen, stores to fill the wagon for what could amount to a year’s supply. There were leather workers, blacksmiths and wheelwrights. And the land office was always crowded with people. Missouri, in 1861, was largely settled, but lands were still available, especially along the western border. And land was being resold, with postings scattered throughout the community.
But the people Francis was going to meet were not farmers. The man of the family was going to be the pastor of the Methodist church. Their destination was a small parsonage in town. A man of faith, evidently, because he was proceeding to Osceola with absolutely no idea of what he was getting into, at least Francis assumed. He breakfasted at a nearby cafe. It was a big meal of cured ham and eggs. Being mid-July, potatoes were not quite ready, but the cook provided two thick slices of bread which Francis used to sop up the red-eye gravy. This would have to be the last meal till the evening.
He walked down the street and over a block until he reached the livery stable. There he retrieved his horse and his mules. He inspected the wagon. He had been commissioned by John Weidemeyer to purchase a freight wagon. Francis had brought with him four mules from his farm. With some assistance from the stable hand, he hooked them up to the wagon, tied his horse to the wagon and paid the balance for care of the animals. He drove them just outside of town until they reached a dock that had been built along the Missouri River. The lowlands were hot and muggy, still heavily forested, with a clearing here or there where farmers were attempting to transform the wetland into farmland. Along one part of the road he passed a crew of slaves, laboring in the intense heat and humidity, digging a drainage canal. He tipped his hat to the foreman who was sitting atop his horse nearby.
The steamboat arrived about noon, black smoke pouring from its funnel, as the steam engine labored against the steady current of the Missouri River. As it neared, Francis only could marvel at the technology. For the brave man he was, he still did not trust steamboats. He had heard of too many explosions. The steamboat slipped behind the eddy as it neared the wharf where men received ropes that were thrown by the crew. In a few minutes the boat was secured and two gangplanks were laid: a narrow one for the passengers and a heavy, broader gangplank for animals and freight.
Francis had no picture, but he knew he was looking for two adults with two children. Several families passed before he made contact with a man who seemed to be looking for someone. The man called out, “Are you the guide to Osceola?”
Francis, his shirt moist from sweat and sleeves rolled up, held out his hand. “Francis Chouteau.”
“David Anderson.”
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Anderson.”
“Feel free to call me David. We will be spending a lot of time together. No need to be formal.”
“Certainly. Meet me over by the luggage.”
Francis carefully guided the mules closer to the collection of luggage. Securing the reigns, he joined David and two slaves who helped load their luggage onto the wagon. Francis observed how David was glancing at the slaves. No doubt new to the institution.
Francis invited everyone onto the wagon. “We will drop by the general store to get provisions. After that, we will be on our way. My mules will probably be a bit skittish, so I will drive the wagon until we get out of town.”
The wagon was stocked. Some strips of jerky were purchased to assuage the hunger until supper. As regards water, Francis asserted, “We will be stopping for water south of town. It is cleaner.”
So the adventure began. For Francis, it was just one more long journey through the western Missouri prairie. But for the Andersons, it was a whole new world. The canvas was rolled up to allow for a breeze and the kids and the misses could now see the land. This day had largely passed, so they would not be traveling far. Francis learned that these folks had never been camping, so he decided to pull off the road earlier than usual. They had just filled the barrels with clear water. Francis looked on for a moment and realized that he would have to lead them by the hand for a while.
“David, would you like to give a hand collecting firewood.”
David looked on as he saw Francis lead his extra mule next to the wagon and secure a harness over his back. “We can put the sticks in these sacks.”
Francis seemed to know how to select a good camp spot. It was exposed to a gentle breeze, was protected from the sun and had plenty of firewood nearby. Before long they had an ample supply of firewood for the evening. A fire was built and Mrs. Anderson took over from there. Without formal introduction, Francis would eventually learn her name. Paula. The kids were too young to help with chores but old enough to wander about and explore. Their names were Scott and Melissa.
It was evening and everyone was really tired, and Francis had to tend to the mules and horse. So not much conversation. That would change in the nights to come. The following day they reached the village of Harrisonville and set up camp south of the town. They pulled over earlier, providing more time to prepare the meal and feed the livestock. The open prairie provided ready forage for the horse and mules. During the previous day, Francis coached David on driving the mules. He discovered that “the reverend” grew up on a farm, so he was rather skilled in handling the wagon and mules. You never know about mules, however.
“Another hot day,” said David as Francis took a seat nearby.
“Yep. I suppose the good news is that the roads are in good shape. We’ll make good time if this keeps up.”
“You said in Independence you were thinking five to six days.”
“Most likely. We just passed through Harrisonville and the next village is Clinton. But we will be turning before then heading south. There is a shallow place along the Deepwater where we can cross safely. We should be able to head toward Osceola from there. We will take a ferry to cross the Osage.”
“So how long have you lived in Osceola?”
“I actually do not live in the town, but several miles southwest. But I am one of the few older people you will meet who can actually claim to be born here. My father ran a trading post amongst the Osage before the treaty.”
“The treaty that required the Osage to move west.”
“Yes. Unfortunate. But the land was beginning to fill with settlers. Their world was changing, as was mine. I am descended from the French who first traded on the Osage River. I am part Osage. It was sad to see them move to the west. Some were of my family. But I had a nice farm. Have a nice family.”
“So you are married. Have children?”
“Three. Two boys and a girl. What about yourself, David? I hear that you are to be the next pastor of the Methodist church and schoolmaster.”
“Yes. I understand Osceola has a large school. How many people live in the town? My correspondence indicates nearly 3000.”
“That’s about right. It is one of the larger towns in Missouri.”
“And in the middle of nowhere. Why is that?”
“Osceola is the furthest you can go on steamboat up the Osage. It is the warehouse of southwest Missouri. The riverside is lined with several warehouses. From there supplies are distributed by wagon to other towns. For the past ten years the region has even produced a surplus, so more and more things are floated downstream to St. Louis.”
“Remarkable. When was the town settled?”
“Oh, it was after the treaty was signed. About 1830. Before then, the Osage had title to the country. Settlers would come before then, but there was no obligation by the federal government to protect them. And … they did not have permission from the Osage. The Osage nation was generally peaceful, but they were also strong. You had to respect them.”
“So how is it they moved west?”
“I rightly don’t know. No attacks from our government, but they sent troops down to the trading post. The tribal leaders knew that it would be impossible to stop them. The Osage found little to attract them to farming and changing their ways. Indian Territory was preferable? Maybe. It is still a mystery to me. So where did you grow up?”
“Ohio. Union County. About in the middle of the state.”
“How did you hear about this position in Osceola?”
“The Methodists have itinerant riders going all over the place and two missionaries returned from a journey up the Osage. I was in the room when they made their report. I was intrigued and before long the congregation in Osceola sent an invitation to the seminary I was attending. After several exchange of letters, they offered me the position and I decided to take it.”
“Well, you will be joining most everyone in Osceola in one respect – you all are a long way from family.”
“Yes.”
They made good progress the next day, camping just outside the Deepwater valley. The next day they would ford the stream. They all got wet, the cool water providing some refreshment. But they did not tarry for long. That night a prairie thunderstorm passed over the camp. Once again the Andersons noted the camping skills of Francis Chouteau. He had placed the wagon on high ground, yet behind trees that would block the prevailing winds. He never said much about his past unless asked. Yet it was often the kids that pulled from him some of his secrets. They learned he was a scout for many years. He was an expert hunter. His rifle was a bit unusual – a Sharp. He also had on his belt another firearm – a six-shooter. It made Paula and David a bit nervous, but neither one of them pressed him on the matter. Why carry a six-shooter?
But that evening David had to ask. Francis stood up and walked over to his saddle and pulled out the Sharp. “This. This is for food.” He next lifted from his holster the six-shooter. “This is for protection, whether it is a human or snake.”
“The newspapers in Ohio occasionally post stories of the border war. Burning Kansas they call it.”
“Osceola has escaped the conflict so far. We are about 30 miles east of the Kansas border and marauders would be riding through unfriendly territory. But they have attacked villages near the border. Harrisonville being one of them. It is the main reason I veered east. We could have headed straight to Butler and then over to Papinsville, cross the river and head east into Osceola. But that would have put us within riding distance of the Kansas border. For that reason, I carry the pistol.”
“Do you think we can be attacked now?”
“I think it is unlikely.”
David Anderson hesitated for a moment. Everything was quiet around the campfire. The children were asleep and Paula Anderson had been listening to the conversation when she asked, “Mr. Chouteau. Forgive me if I am forward, but do you own slaves?”
“No. Never intend to, either.”
“How many slaves are in Osceola?”
“Probably a lot fewer than you find in nearby Kentucky. I can only guess because I, and almost everyone else in the town, don’t go to a lot of trouble to count unless you are the property tax collector.”
Some laughter from the Andersons.
“I would venture to guess two to three hundred slaves in the area.”
David Anderson responded, “Is that all? Goodness, we stopped in Arrow Rock and I think the slaves outnumbered the white folks.”
David then asked, “How did the town respond to the last election?”
“Went Unionist, followed by the Douglas Democrats. I haven’t bumped into anyone who would claim to have voted for Mr. Lincoln.”
“Interesting. So what do the people think of the state leaving the union?”
“I think you will find as many opinions as people in Osceola. Senator Waldo Johnson hails from Osceola. He is a unionist. But many are not comfortable with federal troops patrolling our state. He continues to serve in the Senate despite everything. In general, few in Osceola trust Mr. Lincoln.”
Paula hesitated for a moment and then asked, “What is your stance?”
“I can tell you what most everyone in St. Clair county wants – to be left alone. No one wants a civil war. Our greatest concern is those folks in Kansas. Jayhawkers we call them. They take the law into their own hands. One thing you will discover once you are in Osceola is that you are a long ways from civilization. Somehow all your neighbors will need to be your friend, whether they own slaves or not. I personally detest the practice. The Osage traded slaves, selling their captives to the French. Hated it as a young man, and still hate it today. But it is what it is. It is not worth fighting over in my opinion.”
Paula responded, “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Chouteau. I never realized the Osage also traded in slaves.”
“Yes. It is sad.”
The following evening would be their last before reaching the Osage. The Andersons were looking forward to ending the camping and moving into the parsonage. Francis, for that matter, was looking forward to returning to his farm and family. Francis quipped to David that he was getting good at driving the mules. “Think you may need to change your profession, David.”
“I doubt that will ever happen. But I must admit that I like doing farm work from time to time. Think I can drop by and pay you a visit some time?”
“Sure. I can show you the farm, introduce you to the family, and maybe walk to the bluffs so you can see the Sac and Osage rivers and a few miles of the country.”
The two men were walking about, gathering wood. Looking back toward the campsite, it was evident that Paula was mastering the art of setting up camp. David, while gathering a few sticks said, “Francis, I like to talk to you about the Kansas raiders. I don’t want Paula to hear this.”
“What do you need to know.”
“In my correspondence with the church board and the school board, nothing was said about a threat from Kansas. I need to know, truthfully, has the town had any concerns about an attack?”
Francis looked off into the horizon toward Kansas. “Yes. As I said earlier, Osceola is a considerable distance from the Kansas border. Any raiders would have to ride through hostile territory. Despite our bad roads, we have enough scouts and runners in this county to rapidly report any attacks. Having to confront half a county of young men with muskets and rifles would most likely scare off any raiders. As you can observe, the countryside has gotten hillier. It will get even more so as we approach the river. It would be easy for a local militia to hide in the woods or up in the hills.
“But we are concerned. Some in the town have attempted to organize their own militia. It was the governor that quashed that idea. And he was sympathetic. He just didn’t want every county and town forming militias without the state controlling them. So Osceola has formed an informal militia. I think it is about 400 men or so.”
“Are you part of it.”
“Not really. I live too far out.”
“Does it concern you and your family that you are out there alone?”
“Yes. But we can’t base our lives on unfounded fears. We live far enough off the road to scarcely be noticed. I can only pray to our God that I learn of danger before it finds me.”
“You speak well. Perfect love casts out fear. And it is best to place into His hands the things we cannot control.”
Francis nodded and proceeded to pick up more wood.
The following day they reached the Osage. The ferry soon had them over the river and the Andersons saw for the first time the city that God had called them to, a village that was alive with activity. The town square was lined with wagons, horses and mules. The dock had two barges tied to the piers, one unloading a delivery of supplies from St. Louis, and another about to disembark with crates of lead from the mines in Kansas. It also carried several passengers. David and Paula saw the warehouses, and moving in and out of them were several slaves who worked alongside several white men. Being from central Ohio, the Andersons worked at hiding their emotions. This was the first time they were close to slaves, living in a world where slavery was a part of life. They had discussed it before making the decision to come to this country. But inside them was a mixture of anger, disgust and grief. Being good Methodists, they walked through the village with ambivalence. It would be the following week that their concerns were confirmed. Just as Francis had shared, the congregation wanted no war, but about a third of them owned slaves, another third despised the institution and another third had no opinion. David would have to minister to all of them – somehow. And all that would change.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
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