Before Lawrence: August 10, 1861
Third chapter from Before Lawrence. The last normal day in Osceola, Missouri.
This is the third 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.
August in Missouri was nothing short of being a foretaste of Hell. The days were scorching hot. Even slaves were permitted to rest in the afternoon shade. Most folks with any sense worked from sun-up until noon, lunched and then rested, returning to the fields in late afternoon. For Dr. Lawrence Lewis, the only doctor of the remote settlement of Osceola, Missouri, August would be one of the busier months as the most vulnerable would suffer from the heat. Along with February, August would see the most deaths.
This August in 1861 was most peculiar. David Anderson observed it from the pulpit, looking down at a congregation where scarcely a young man was present. Many of the younger men had left Osceola to serve in the Missouri Guard currently located outside Springfield, leaving the farms to the older men, leaning on the labors of the few slaves that resided in the area. The people of this small village, whether pro-Union or pro-Confederate, would agree that it felt like they were living in a bad dream. It really did not sink in that the country was dividing until they got word from a courier that several thousand Union soldiers were marching from Rolla toward Springfield.
The news caused an uneasy relationship between neighbors. When the Andersons first arrived in the middle of July, news had just been received about the Battle of Bull Run where almost 900 men perished. Senator Johnson was still endeavoring to bring the two sides together, but his efforts were in vain. It was now clear to everyone that Lincoln was going to fight. David could see that a majority of the people were vocally angry about federal interference in local affairs. But it wasn’t until the news was received about troops heading toward Springfield that the people began to realize that the war was not in Virginia, but only two counties away, that the men who were to die in battle were not faceless and nameless soldiers from eastern states, but young men who they knew.
David and Paula began to pray earnestly for the Lord’s guidance on how to deal with the tension in their congregation. The news of an impending battle had introduced an element of mistrust and caution. Would it ever be possible that neighbor would fight against neighbor, that two families who attended the same church could one day be carrying guns out into the fields to guard against an attack? They could only wonder at this point and prayed that it would never come to that.
No, on the morning of August 10, 1861, life went on in Osceola. Aside from a few farms that grew tobacco, crops were still ripening out in the fields, leaving most of the work on the farms directed at building or repairing. Gardens were rich in vegetables and fruit was beginning to ripen. Women started the annual ritual of boasting about their latest relishes, pickles and jams. The river was running low, so the port was quiet. Yet the ping-ping-ping of the blacksmith’s hammer could be heard. The warehouses, normally busy with commerce, had slowed considerably. Everyone was waiting for news of an impending battle that would be engaged at any moment.
August 10th was a Saturday, and David could see that the town square would once again fill with wagons and horses. Everywhere he went he could overhear men and women talking about an impending battle near Springfield. Yet, for the people of Osceola, work still had to be done, groceries procured and news to be shared.
Absent on this Saturday was the group of men he had met on the courthouse lawn. David bumped into Jack Pierce outside one of the supply stores. “Plan on meeting the others this afternoon?”
“No. Not today. Working with the militia today.”
“Militia? Oh, yes.”
David felt a bit uncomfortable, fearing that the next question from Pierce would be whether he was going to join. But Jack responded, “Being a reverend and all, and new to town beside, I don’t expect you to be joining. Right?”
“You are correct. But I am interested. Many of the men in my church have stated they are training with the militia.”
“Well, nice to know the Methodist are in this fight. I can speak for the Presbyterians. Just about everyone of us are involved in one way or another.”
“I’ll be praying for you, Jack. Hope we never have to call on the militia to protect us.”
Wondering into the town from the south road was a man in his 30’s, on a wagon pulled by a horse. He was like any other visitor to Osceola. No one seemed to take notice of him. He visited the supply stores, filling a portion of the wagon with sacks of flour and sugar. From the hardware store he procured a spade. From the blacksmith he picked up a plow that was being repaired. He lunched at one of the cafes in the town square. The tables were full except for one place next to a man he had never seen before. This suited him well.
“Mind if I eat here?”
“No, not at all.”
David looked at the man for a moment, allowing him an opportunity to enjoy his meal.
“David Anderson.”
“Pleased to meet you. Obediah Smith.”
“Do you live in Osceola, or are you visiting?”
“I live near the Cedar County border, south of here.”
“That’s a long ride.”
“For certain. A man must ride a long way for a shovel. So do you live in Osceola?
“Yes. Just moved here, in fact. I am the pastor of the Methodist church and I also serve as the schoolmaster.”
“A pastor? That’s interesting. I also preach. And like you, I have another profession. Farmer.”
Obediah smiled, vigorously chewing a piece of his pork steak.
So the two men talked for some time about their congregations and experiences. David thought the guy was rather likable, albeit a bit rough around the edges. Obediah appeared to be the typical frontier preacher, self-taught, a rudimentary theology, and plain-spoken.
As soon as he had finished his meal, he placed his hands on the table and said, “Well. Pleased to meet you reverend. I need to be moving on. Have a long way to go before reaching home.”
“Pleased to meet you, Obediah. Be sure to look me up the next time you are in town. You are always welcome.”
“Sure thing.”
So David would gradually work his way back home, stopping frequently to chat with people who attended his church. Obediah untethered the horse from the hitching post and led him slowly into the street, climbed up into the wagon and slowly worked his way down the hill south of the town square. He pulled over to a clearing and started checking the reigns and brushing the horses, all the while looking to a clearing below where he observed dozens of men conducting drills of some sort.
Obediah remained in that spot for some time, watching the militia below. He finally remounted the wagon, wheeled his horses around and headed back to town, turning on a street nearby, heading west until he reached Market Street. From there he turned south again, heading up a steep incline, passing by an elegant mansion where two black men worked trimming the grass. He saw a black woman coming out onto the porch shouting out, “Samuel. I need some firewood.” Samuel replied, “Yes, mam,” and immediately put down his scythe and headed to the back yard.
Further up the street on his right he saw two children playing in the yard. One was crippled. He saw a black woman sitting on the porch peeling turnips. Reaching the top of the hill, he veered right and headed west, proceeding down the road to Roscoe.
As for Cindy, she never paid any attention to Obediah. Never saw the man before. Her mind was on the Sunday meal. While it was true that the Johnson home was empty, she was using the kitchen to prepare meals for her fellow slaves. Behind the house sat two small cabins which normally housed anywhere from two to four more people. Today it was four. Another twenty resided on the farm. She slept in the house, along with one of the children.
So it was that Sunday would be the weekly common meal. Summers being hot, there was an outdoor kitchen where meat could be grilled and other things prepared. But bread still needed to be baked and that was done in the house. Cindy already had a busy day Friday, going down to the town square to order flour and sugar. Being a slave, she did not carry cash with her, so she put it all on the Johnson account. The store owner knew her, but he normally would not have done commerce with just any black person that walks through the door.
As she stood standing on the steps behind the house, she looked out and wondered how much responsibility it was to feed and house their kind. She waved over at Alice who was taking clothes down from the line. She and Missy would be joining them tomorrow. Cindy wondered if they had yet to pick any apples.
August 10th was also another hot, summer day for another person. Her plight was somewhat different from Cindy’s. Like Cindy, she was forever bonded. But her situation was much different. Her perspective on life was grated by a harsher reality. Jane had spent all her life growing up on the farm of Jacob Coonce. The world she knew had never exceeded that of visiting neighboring farms. She had never been in a town. To her, Osceola was only something she could imagine. It was a world she could only dream of seeing some day, for by seeing it she would only do so by earning the trust of a taciturn old master, or by being sold in the slave market. Yet her mind was sharp. There were only four slaves on the farm and they were close. One thing they could say about ol’ Jake was he at least kept them together. They would spend the early evening hours sitting outside and sharing stories and singing songs.
And rumors somehow managed to reach this isolated farm. Rumors that stirred up hope. Jake could be overheard speaking to the foreman about this or that, and the news would reach the slaves. There were some things Jake spoke of that they had absolutely no clue as to its shape or form. What in the world was a steamboat? A telegraph? These folks scarcely ever saw a book and none of them knew how to read. But the rumors took shape. An army was heading there way. A battle was going to be fought. They may be free some day!
The drudgery of existence on a farm that was a days ride from the nearest town took affect on Jane. She wasn’t an unattractive young woman. But her cynicism kept everyone at a distance. Jake had a lot of trouble with her. But he was getting on in years. He needed her in the house from time-to-time to cook and clean. Her snappy temperament kept him at a distance. He wasn’t a cruel man, but he was always a tough one, having first come as an explorer, then as a scout and finally as a farmer. But that was years ago and now he was experiencing old age. The slaves were often ignored more than just neglected. They all knew enough to keep the farm in operation. They depended on the farm for food. They never ran away because where would they run to? Indian nations? Hide out in the mountains? And then what? No. The farm is where they had food and shelter, however poor the rickety old cabins may be.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
Previous Chapter: The Town Spuare
Next Chapter: August 12, 1861
Your comments are welcome. Feel free to send a message.