Before Lawrence: September 12
Chapter nine of Before Lawrence, James Lane begins his march into Missouri.
This is the ninth 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.
On September 12, “General” James Lane arrived at Trading Post, Kansas. So far his expedition had proceeded without complication. The Kansas region was largely sympathetic to their cause and they used the provisions in the wagons to feed themselves and their stock. Locals were more than willing to sell them supplies and refill their water barrels.
But Lane was anxious to move on. He had heard reports that Union troops in Lexington, Missouri, would likely be under siege. He told his officers it was time to proceed to Butler. He had to make clear to them their mission. With nearly 1500 men under his command, his booming voice and rhetorical skills would come into play.
“Men! Word has been received that our brothers in Lexington will be under siege. They are vastly outnumbered. It is our mission to destroy the source of supplies for the rebel forces, to stir up enough trouble to bring General Price and the Missouri State Guard away from their march down the Missouri River. This is harvest season. We will burn their crops, seize their livestock, burn their farms and towns. Everything.”
Someone in the ranks, apparently with a conscience, called out, “What if they are pro-Union? What if they don’t own slaves?”
Lane was not happy to be openly questioned. He was sitting on his horse and he steered it down to the man, looked sternly in his eyes, and said, “You won’t find Union sympathizers in these parts. We believe in a war of extermination; there is no such thing as Union men in the border of Missouri. I want to see every foot of ground in Missouri burned over, everything laid waste.”
One of the officers asked, “What about marauding? The men want to know if they can keep a little for themselves?”
“Everything disloyal, from a shanghai rooster to a Durham cow, must be cleaned out.”
As the men disbursed, the officer that inquired told his friend, chuckling, “I suppose that means we keep whatever we find.”
But the officers would soon learn that Lane was lying. Not everyone in Missouri was against the Union. They saw a couple of strangers walk into Lane’s tent. An hour later, they left the tent, got some grub, and then mounted their horses and rode away.
Lane sat in his tent, pleased by the news.
“You heard them. Price has stripped the counties clean of fighting men. There may be no one to stop us.”
On that same day, about 70 miles to the east, life in Osceola went on as normal except for the absence of three hundred young men. For a small town amidst a newly settled wilderness, the absence of these young men was quite apparent. And no one understood that better than John Weidemeyer. He was the captain of the local militia. What he was left with from the area was a mere one hundred men he could count on. Theoretically, he should have four hundred. But these men were farmers, scattered throughout St. Clair County. Getting all these men to the field just outside of Osceola was a near impossible task, especially during the harvest. Yet from the 100 men he now faced, he had some measure of hope of putting together a fighting force.
He looked them over. These were not the sort of men who could face an organized fighting force. These were the sort who would be most effective fighting from behind fences and bushes. Word had arrived that General Fremont in St. Louis had declared martial law. If federal troops appeared in the town, there was little they could do but to lay low and hope for the best. He met with the county officials and shared his thoughts.
“I will be frank. While many in this room were more than glad to serve the Missouri State Guard, providing three hundred of our best young men was not a wise move. From what our scouts are telling me, several of the counties in this part of Missouri are stripped bare of fighting men.”
The sheriff, Robert Cooke, spoke up. “I know we will need every man in this county if the Jayhawkers show up.”
Judge Rickman inquired, “We have received word that General Fremont has declared the entire state under martial law. What will we do if federal troops march into this town?”
Weidemeyer did not hesitate. “There will be little we can do against a trained, organized military unit. We lay low. They may just occupy the town and leave everything as is. I recommend we focus on the Jayhawks. They have personal scores to settle and I fear the worst.”
So it was determined that the militia would be directed toward any trouble from Kansas.
And so on the afternoon that “General” James Lane marched from Trading Post, Kansas, Captain John Weidemeyer worked with his men. All of them knew how to handle a musket. Some even had rifles. Yet for all the drills, Weidemeyer knew that his best resource would be a handful of scouts. There was simply no way to keep a force of 400 militia on alert. So they drilled on Tuesday and Saturday, but on Wednesday and Sunday he worked with men who would be the eyes and ears he desperately needed. These could be older men, even some women. These folks knew every trail and ideal observation post. Runners on horseback would be used to spread the alarm. Weidemeyer could only wonder if it would be good enough to effectively place the militia into a winnable position.
No one had a better reputation as a scout than Francis Chouteau. While it may be said that Osceola as a village did not begin to take shape until the late 1830’s, Francis Chouteau was already a third generation inhabitant of the region. He was the descendant of Pierre Chouteau, a wealthy trader from St. Louis who had an Osage wife. Pierre had established a trading post near the Osage village. One of his sons would continue to serve the village as a translator as the trading post would move to a different location. Jean Paul Chouteau would settle down and begin to farm, building a lucrative trade in livestock and horses. Francis would continue the tradition. He was independent, often aloof of the affairs about Osceola. Yet he was frequently invited to explore the region when the settlers first arrived. His knowledge of the land and his skills at survival would be the difference between failure and success for many of the men who came to know him.
So it was while he was in town, loading his wagon with supplies, he was approached by several leaders of the community.
Francis looked up and quipped, “Seeing so many of you gentlemen here in one place either means I am serious trouble or you are looking for a contribution.”
Judge Rickman smiled and spoke for the other men, “No, Francis. It is neither. In fact, it is the whole town that may be in trouble. Have you been keeping track of the news from down south?”
“Hard to miss it.”
“Well, Sterling Price just left this village and left us with hardly a soul to defend it.”
“That I know quite well. Price’s men came by the farm and I sold them, or should I say leant them, six draft horses.”
It comforted the men to hear that. Not everyone was certain that Chouteau was sympathetic to the southern cause.
“What we need, Francis, are scouts. We wondered if you would be interested.”
Francis hesitated. Looking over the men, he knew he could not deny their request.
“How many men have volunteered to be scouts?”
“We have about a dozen so far. But we need more if we are to cover all directions and have someone in the field every day.”
“You can count me in. I can cover the area around my farm. That will help cover the approach from Roscoe, plus I can get a good view from the bluffs. What exactly am I looking for?”
“We don’t know. We only hear rumors of red-leg raids along the border. We are a long ways from there, but we need to be certain.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t be out and about much, but I tell you what. Send one or two men to my farm. I’ll put them up and feed them. We can run a rotation.”
The men smiled. One patted Francis on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
Francis smiled back. “Always glad to help.”
And so he was. But Francis was a man who kept politics to himself. He was strangely absent from public gatherings, especially when people brought up politics. Obvious to anyone visiting his farm was that there were no slaves, despite being a large operation. He paid all his help. He never told anyone, but he absolutely despised the institution of slavery. Yet he grew up around Osceola. His immediate concern was not to see harm befall his neighbors, much less he and his family. As regards selling horses to the Missouri State Guard, he would have done the same if the Union troops had made a similar offer.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
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