Before Lawrence: September 2 -- The Battle of Dry Wood Creek
Chapter seven of Before Lawrence, James Lane's Kansas Brigade has their first encounter with the Missouri State Guard.
This is the seventh 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.
James Lane sat on a blanket upon the ground, his back against his saddle. He, and the men who traveled with him, packed light. What they had to eat and drink was what would fit into two saddle bags, along with all the ammunition they could carry. They had planned on having a supply train of mules trailing behind them. One mule carried enough ammunition, food and water to support five to ten men, an important consideration when riding into territory where most of the civilians were sympathetic to the southern cause. But now the supply train was gone. His men were in ill-temper. Demoralized? Maybe not. Disappointed? Certainly. Angry? Most certainly.
A very difficult night had passed. The day before had not been a good day for he and his men. They rode into Missouri to confront the rebels. As the country descended into Civil War, the men of Kansas were eager to do their part fighting for the Union. To do so they would have to find the army of rebels that they heard was forming in southwest Missouri under General Sterling Price.
With the comings and goings of volunteers, Lane struggled to know exactly how many men General Price had as he traveled north along the western border of Missouri. His scouts provided him with sketchy information, having to ride in open country through farms that were largely hostile towards Kansans. Fortunately for him, there were spies scattered along the border region. Contacting them was a challenge. They were far dispersed and discretion was critical. Yet enough information was obtained to point Lane’s scouts in the right direction before the campfires of the Missouri State Guard came into sight. It was September, and the weather was dry and warm. There was no need for campfires for the Kansas Brigade. His men would live off of jerky. Lane saw an opportunity. He had no idea how many men Price’s army contained, but judging from the campfires, he feared it was near the rumored amount of 10,000. He was determined to make the move north as costly as possible. He looked over the land and guessed where Price would be heading. He picked his spot, a place the locals called Dry Wood Creek. It was appropriately named as thick brush and trees lined the stream that was shallow enough to walk across. Like much of Kansas, this part of Missouri was largely flat and covered with a mix of struggling farms and the remnant of a vast prairie. It was such country that Price wanted to travel, but he needed supplies and those supplies would be found at Osceola, nestled in the hills along the Osage River far from the Kansas border.
Lane’s scouts were not alone in their wanderings. Approaching from the south were rebel cavalry units doing reconnaissance. Symptomatic of the amateurish evolution of the Civil War, security was virtually non-existent. Informers were everywhere and Price had learned that Jayhawkers were possibly lying in wait. In this respect, Lane was successful. Price could not afford to leave his rear exposed to a contending force. His scouts eventually detected the presence of Lane’s men, already easy to identify by the peculiar red leggings they wore over their boots. Most of Price’s men had no uniforms, but many were adopting some shade of gray or chestnut.
And so it was that Price’s cavalry spotted Lane’s men racing across the prairie heading west toward the tiny village of Deerfield. They began their pursuit. Brigadier General Alexander Steen turned to his Lieutenant.
“Send a runner to General Price. We need infantry.”
As the officer departed, Steen mumbled to himself, “I wonder if they will appear before the sun sets.”
It was about ten in the morning. Steen did not want to lose them. Yet as soon as they began their pursuit, a prairie storm descended on both friend and foe. With few trees nearby, they had to turn off toward a nearby valley where trees grew along a creek, seeking cover from the torrential rain. Tantamount to such a situation was keeping the powder dry. Positioned at the top of a rise, two of his men lay in the grass in the pouring rain with spy glasses peering into the forest to the west.
Lane had a rather successful military career in the Mexican war, commanding two regiments. His current strength was roughly the same. He was comfortable handling this many men in battle. And he felt himself quite fortunate to have entered a wooded thicket along the east bank of Dry Wood Creek. He inspected the opposite bank. It was no higher, but it was also wooded. He appointed James Montgomery, his most reliable officer, to take a dozen men to the edge of the wood east of Dry Wood Creek to see if the Missouri State Guard was in pursuit. He quickly positioned his men on the west bank to surprise Price’s troops as they approached the stream.
Climbing a tree, a Jayhawker scanned the horizon with a spyglass. Below, Montgomery was nervous. He kept his concern to himself. He knew enough about Indian ways to know that if the Missouri State Guard dismounted and wandered through the tall prairie grass, they might be upon them before they knew it. The hours passed. The storm may have delayed Steen’s men, but it provided time for a small contingent of infantry to come up. Together, they slowly proceeded over the rise, descending down a long gentle slope of prairie to a dense thicket along the creek. Lucky for Montgomery, he heard his watchman whisper down the tree,
“They are comin’ sir. There must be a thousand. I’m guessing about 500 cavalry.”
Montgomery turned and ordered a soldier to send a message back to Lane. Next to him was Corporal Wesson. “I think we can take them on. They will have to cross that clearing to get here. General Lane may want to move more men up to the front.”
Lane eventually appeared. The minutes passed. He could see the Missouri State Guard approaching, mounted, easily visible above the tall grass.
“Sir, there are more of them. And I am seeing infantry. Counting about 1200.”
Lane remarked, “Good Lord.” He stood silently for several minutes.
“We can take them on. Smythe. Over here.”
A young man approached. “Take word back to Captain Jennison to bring the men up.”
Within fifteen minutes, the men that were on the west bank joined the men on the east bank. Everyone could see the hats of the approaching cavalry. Montgomery walked up and down the line.
“Don’t fire until commanded,” he repeated.
The minutes passed, when the watchman announced, “Five hundred yards.”
Lane ordered, “Prepare to fire.” Along the line one could hear the metallic clicks of the hammers as they were pulled back.
And so the minutes passed. The watchman then called out, “One hundred yards.”
Lane could not wait much longer. “Fire.”
And so a barrage of musket fire echoed through the forest around Dry Wood Creek. The hats of the cavalry began to vanish into the grass. Lane could only hope they had fallen, but within a few minutes a storm of lead came out of the prairie grass. The two sides exchanged sporadic fire for the next two hours. Hardly anyone was hit. There were no orderly attacks. This was bush warfare, not open field battle.
Suddenly, Lane heard a thud near him. On the ground was the watchman, writhing in pain. Lane instinctively peered through his binoculars. To his horror he could see coming over the brow of the hill a thousand infantry. He knew he and his men were in serious trouble. The infantry appeared to be endless.
“Damn! Is it his entire army?”
Outnumbered as he was, he did not want to risk losing all his men in this battle. He gave the signal to retreat and return to the little town of Deerfield just to the north. From there they could regroup, mount their horses and ride back to Fort Scott.
“Fall back!”
His intention was to have Jennison and Montgomery position their men on the west bank. It appeared to work as the men turned, hid behind trees and open fired. But they were using single-cap fired muskets, and they were fending off a force that was possibly five times their number. What Lane saw unfold before his eyes was an unorganized, disorderly retreat. It turned into a rout. As Lane took stock of the men, he noticed that no one had guarded the mules. All their supplies were on those mules! He was livid. It was obvious that this group of men were not soldiers. In the chaos of battle and the panic of retreat, there were fifty mules running crazy. Upon arriving to Deerfield, the men looted what they could find around the tiny village, headed back across the Kansas border and waited. To their relief, Price had not pursued. Lane ordered the men back to Fort Scott.
Lane ignored the remonstrances of the Union officers at Fort Scott. He was determined to get resupplied and return. He had learned some important lessons. He now had an estimate of the fighting force of Price and this information would be relayed by a new technology of war, the telegraph. He had also learned that his men would never be able to take on a trained military force. No, they would have to fight a different kind of war, the kind of warfare that was not fought by trained soldiers, but a peculiar blend of martial and brigandry skills.
In the meantime, General Sterling Price was delighted with the victory in what amounted to a small skirmish. But capturing fifty mules loaded with supplies was a godsend, as well as a but of laughter for the weeks to come. Price had to proceed to Osceola along terrible roads. This was not rich farm country, so it was not well-traveled. Almost all the provisions went through Osceola, a prosperous village of 3000 people. Price would find there a sympathetic population. He found ample provisions, merchants willing to extend credit, and recruits eager to join the fight. The town had a small contingent of militia that he felt was adequate to guard the town. It was, after all, a long way from Kansas.
It would be a fatal miscalculation.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
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