Before Lawrence: September 22
Chapter fourteen of Before Lawrence, the Kansas Brigade enters Osceola.
This is the fourteenth 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.
The advanced warning provided Captain John Weidemeyer precious little time to prepare. The good news was that it appeared that if the Red-Legs continued as they were, they would be facing 200 men on horseback. If all his men showed up, the odds of ambushing them were much greater, possibly enough to dissuade the Jayhawks from entering the town. The bad news was that they would be facing at least a thousand men and they had no answer to artillery. He was discouraged to see only a few men appearing that morning. It was Sunday, after all. No doubt many of his men felt the need to attend a house of prayer that fateful morning. For all they knew, it could be their last church service.
As the sun rose in the sky, a few more of the militia trickled into the village, but it appeared that the men he could count on would be the ones who lived in the town. He could only guess that the militia that lived on the farms were doing the same as Francis Chouteau had done. They were taking care of their own. Another unintended consequence of the deposits of coin being returned to the depositors was that farmers were out burying their money.
Knowing from which direction the Jayhawks were approaching enabled Weidemeyer to use what precious little resources he had more efficiently. Scouts were now deployed toward the Waldo crossing. They regularly returned to report the movement of the Red-Legs. They had broken camp and were coming up the road from Roscoe. Weidemeyer waited. He needed to be sure where the Red-Legs were heading before deploying his men. It had to be the longest day he could have ever imagine. It was a pleasant day, the sort of day that made Missouri like paradise. But it was little comfort.
It was about six in the evening when he felt certain that the Red-Legs were going to come up the Roscoe road. He could see why. It was a well maintained road for these parts. They would be approaching from the high ground, entering the town from its highest point. The area was one large clearing, with a cemetery that followed a gentle slope toward the town. Weidemeyer knew they had artillery pieces and from the high ground they could bombard the town center and the riverfront. As a military officer, he knew that establishing the high ground was critical in battle. But he did not have an army that could engage a fight on open ground. This battle would be fought by a different set of rules.
The road followed along a ridge before descending toward the town. It would pass the cemetery. Beyond the cemetery and above the road, the ground was covered in thick brush, his men would be under cover and looking down onto their targets. This was perfect for Weidemeyer as he deployed his men within the brush. He posted several men near the cemetery to prevent them from being flanked. On the other side of the road, the ground dropped quickly. He had only one hundred men and could not afford to post his men on the other side. They would be divided and, Lord knows, these men were not soldiers. He felt it best to keep them together.
Hours passed. With a full moon he could easily see movement, and like ghostly shadows men on horseback appeared. Weidemeyer could only hope that they were unable to make out any of his men hidden in the brush. He had his watch with him, but he had little interest in the time. He was tired. He began to wonder if the Red-Legs would wait it out till morning. If they did, half his men may be asleep. But it may have been around midnight when he heard movement up the road.
It was a clear night. The Red-Legs spread out, drifting through the cemetery, approaching a portion of the lane that was flanked by underbrush on both sides. It looked suspicious, but the brush was too thick to ride through. The grade dropped considerably on the left side of the lane, so the riders began to squeeze toward the right side of the lane, guns glittering in the moonlight, marching past the houses atop Market Street. From this position, Colonel Montgomery could vaguely see the structures and, to the north, the glint of moonlight reflecting off the Osage River. For a moment, after the horses had paused, all was silent except for the breath of the horses. To the rear, Lane listened intently, unable to see what was happening in the town. As for Montgomery, in that short moment, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind. This was too easy. Where was the local militia? Was there a local militia? He was almost ready to proceed further down the street when behind him gunfire erupted. Weidemeyer’s men opened fire on Montgomery’s men as they sat in their saddles along the lane. Several men were knocked off their horses. Montgomery was spooked. He immediately retreated back up the lane, picking up the wounded who could still walk. But three men were left behind.
The ridge behind the cemetery overlooked the exchange of gunfire. Lane wasted no time. He ordered the two cannon to be secured on top of the ridge. As the last of Montgomery’s men returned, Lane got a briefing from Montgomery about the situation in the town.
“I am quite certain they are in the brush above the road to the right. I could not count how many.”
“Well, we’ll soon see how well they do under artillery fire.”
Lane turned to his gunnery officer and in a quiet, stiff voice, declared, “Fire into that brush.”
Distinguishable in the moonlight, the area where the militia hid was easy to identify. Smoke from the musket fire lingered over the area. The cannon fired two shots. The explosion could be heard for miles as it echoed off the hills. In the background, Lane could see that the town of Osceola was awakening as lamps began to dot the night sky.
In war there are scars that rest in one’s mind, those events that seem surreal. To all that stood that night along that lane into Osceola, they would never have dreamed as younger men and boys that a quiet village like this would be disturbed by the loud percussion of cannon fire. For many of Montgomery’s men, this was their first encounter with gunfire, the full realization that someone is out there pointing a muzzle at you with the intention of killing you. For two of Montgomery’s men, that memory would be short lived as they lay dead or dying on the lane on a dark, moonlit night, with the acrid smell of gunpowder lingering in their last breath.
Yet so too was the unique sound of men in panic. Shouts could be heard from the brush as the local militia were also experiencing for the first time artillery fire. Groans could be heard, evidence that the shells hit their mark. Lane could hear their officers shouting to their men to remain at their post. But Lane knew that this time he had the upper hand.
To Montgomery, he ordered “Take your men back down that road. We will put two more shells into that brush and you ride through.”
To another officer he directed that he take his infantry up the ridge and approach from the top. “Fire when you can, but watch for crossfire. Montgomery’s men will be on the road below. You need to get their attention.”
To both of the men he said, “I will lead the rest of us from the cemetery. They will be surrounded on three sides. We can flush them out.”
He paused for a moment. Another first experience in war. “Hampton! Light a fire and prepare torches! Montgomery, your men will ride in with the torches. Looks like this town needs to pay the price for rebellion.”
Two more shells were deposited in the brush above the lane. As that was happening, infantry went along the top of the ridge while Montgomery’s men charged down the lane, some firing their pistols into the darkness, while others carried torches. For a second, the psychology worked as the town’s militia stared at the torches. But Weidemeyer whispered his order to fire. Incredibly, the men were able to fire not one, but two rounds at Montgomery’s men. But it was in vain as the horses raced by them. Weidemeyer soon saw he was being attacked from three sides. His only allies were darkness and familiarity with the terrain. He ordered a retreat.
This time Montgomery’s men returned to the top of Market Street and took positions around a house. They could see a placard hanging from a pole advertising a doctor. Montgomery took note.
“How lucky can we get. Get the wounded into that house.”
Before long Lane joined Montgomery. Montgomery could see that Lane was nervous. Here he was deep in enemy territory looking over a town he barely knew, all along wondering where the militia may be lingering. He expected gunfire at any moment.
Turning to one of his officers he ordered that someone climb up a tree and tell him what he sees. Lane, with his spotting scope, could see much of the town. But the gunpowder smoke lingered near the ground. The blazing torches did not help either.
The scout shouted down, “Nothing much is going on. Atop the courthouse is a flag of the Missouri Guard or some such.”
Lane mumbled to his officers, “No doubt the militia is holed up in that courthouse. It is also abundantly clear on which side this town is on. Bring up the artillery and lets take a couple shots at that courthouse.”
One of his officers responded, “Don’t you think it would be better to wait till light of day? We can barely see.”
“Darkness is our friend. They can’t see us either. And time is our enemy. If we linger too long, help from other militia could show up and we would be surrounded. No, this is hit and run.”
As that was being done, the wounded were carried to the doctor’s house. Montgomery’s men began to widen the perimeter, slowly working their way down Market Street. Halfway down, on the left, emerged an elegant mansion. Montgomery immediately knew it was the home of Missouri’s last senator, Waldo P. Johnson. Montgomery ordered the mansion to be occupied and cleared of all occupants.
“In fact, clear out everyone along this street. Get them out of here.”
In the meantime, as the cannon were put into position, Lane went into the doctor’s house. Meeting him at the door was Mrs. Mary Lewis.
“Where is the doctor?”
“He is not here. I am a trained nurse. I see you have wounded men. I can treat them until my husband returns.”
“When do you expect him to return?”
“Sooner, depending on you.”
“I won’t burn you out if you’ll take care of my wounded men.”
He looked about the parlor and into the adjacent rooms. He saw nothing of interest to him, merely a fleeting glance at six year old Bettie as she sat atop of a wooden box. Fear raced through Mary Lewis but not panic, praying that this horrific man would not approach her daughter. The box contained their family silver.
Lane, visibly peeved at the tart response of Mary Lewis, gave the order to fire upon the courthouse as soon as he was out the door. The shells were incendiary, and the courthouse quickly started to burn. But Lane was angered when he heard that only a few men ran out of the building.
He whispered to himself, “Where is the militia?” He also noted that there were no major explosions. Scouting reports hinted that ammunition had been stored there.
Lane ordered, “Secure the town square. Our next stop is the bank!”
Lane’s men quickly secured the town square. Along the way, homes were evacuated. Lane noticed that few men were present. Mostly women, children and slaves.
He turned to Montgomery, “Where are the men? Somewhere out there is the militia.”
Just then gunfire erupted from the bank. A couple of Lane’s men went down. Montgomery had his men take positions around the bank, returning fire. Glass broke everywhere. It was soon apparent to the men trapped inside that this was a battle they were not going to win as gunfire rained into the building. The Red-Legs stormed the building pointing their pistols and muskets at the men who cowered behind the desks and bank windows, hands raised, shouting “We surrender!”
“Keep your hands up!” one man shouted.
Another added, “Get up slowly and walk out the front door.”
Someone had the foresight to ask, “Is anyone else in the building out back?”
One of the captives responded, “No. Just us.”
Nine captives were led out into the street and lined up opposite the bank. Lane’s men quickly brought in dynamite. They blew open the safe. Lane rushed to the gaping door and gazed into the safe as the smoke dispersed. To his crushing disappointment, there was no gold or currency. He went into a rage and stormed out of the bank.
He ordered to anyone who was near, “There is ammunition and gold in this town. We need to find it. After every house is cleared, burn it!”
He then turned to the nine men who cowered in the darkness in front of the short stone wall before the courthouse.
He signaled to his officers.
“I want you all to be witnesses to this trial.”
Turning to the captives, he declared, “You men are rebels. You have fired upon federal troops. That is an act of treason. You fly a rebel flag above the courthouse. That is an act of treason. You supplied a rebel army. That is an act of treason. In this town is gold and ammunition. And somewhere about here is your militia. Where is the gold? Where is the ammunition? Where is your militia?”
One of the captives responded, “We don’t know and we won’t tell!”
“Anyone else have anything to add?”
No one said a thing.
“Line them up against the side of the bank.”
The men were led to the side of the bank which was a solid brick wall. As they were pushed against the wall by men with loaded muskets, one of them shouted back, “What you are about to do is an act of murder. We are prisoners. We surrendered.”
Lane responded coldly, “You are traitors. And traitors are executed.”
Lane leered at them. “One last time. Where is the gold? The ammunition? And your militia?”
Nothing but silence.
A makeshift firing squad was assembled. Lane stood with them.
“Follow my command.”
On “Ready” Lane raised his pistol. The other men raised their rifles.
“Aim.”
A brief pause.
“Fire!” All the men collapsed to the ground.
Lane added, “Make sure they are dead.” And he walked off.
Lane gathered his officers together. “Montgomery, you have the river district. Jennison, you check all the houses. Hampton, you stay with me in the town center. All of you, gather every wagon, horse and mule you can find. I want every building checked in this town for ammunition and anything of value, particularly food and provisions. Once a building is cleared, burn it. As for slaves, they are free and will leave with us.”
No one voiced opposition. These were not soldiers. None of them had been drilled. None had any guaranteed pay for that matter. These were in any other time and place outlaws. They were the lowest rung in American society, lower than slaves. After all, crime amongst slaves was rare. Crime in this crowd was a living. They obeyed this order with relish.
Yet even amongst evil there is a flicker of light, some self-doubt that the acts they perform are not good, but evil. Once Lane was finished with his order and the men dispersed, one officer stayed behind.
“Sir, I respectfully ask you reconsider your last order.”
It was Colonel William Weer.
“These people are civilians. They are mostly women and children. What is the military objective?”
“Colonel. Your objection is noted. But everyone in this town is against the Union. There is only one military objective here. General Price will not find anything when he returns this way. And return he will because of what we are doing tonight. No more discussion on this matter.”
Yet Weer wasn’t alone. As each house was emptied, some men hesitated to torch the home. They assisted the women and children to safety, even helping them carry out things they valued. But it was only for a moment as house after house was torched with efficiency. Some too efficiently as screams could be heard coming from the flames. It was night, after all. Darkness blanketed the town except where torch and flame illuminated the night. In the confusion, some would linger too long in the house as some soldiers took little time to check. Even the Johnson mansion went up in flames, this home and family that was the flower of Osceola. The Kansan arsonists looked on in wonder as the slaves of the Johnson estate stood outside and wept. And as wagons were found, horses and mules were led out of the barns and corrals, bridled and tied to the wagons. The wagons were filled with transportable food items, most predominantly flour, sugar and cured pork. Here and there fancy furnishings were seen, even a piano or two.
As for Montgomery’s men, their prey was of a different sort. Here there were no women or children to deal with. The warehouses were unusually empty for this time of year, having provisioned the army of General Sterling Price. But what was discovered was the great preservative of pioneering life: whiskey. Of all the scouting reports Lane had received about this town, one item proved accurate – that Osceola had an abundance of the stuff. Word got back to Lane and he quickly sent orders back to have it all destroyed.
“The last thing I need are 1200 men rip-roaring drunk.”
It was one order that was not well received. Montgomery had the barrels destroyed. But he could not proceed fast enough. 150 barrels had been broken, but the other 300 barrels vanished into the night. The men started to drink. As they moved door-to-door, they got increasingly intoxicated, took less time and care in clearing out homes and simply torched them. The screams that came from the flames were largely ignored as they went to the next house.
Ironically, one third of the homes were pro-Union. No, at this moment in time, this war was not about freeing slaves or maintaining the Union. This war was personal. The side you chose would be whatever enabled you to protect your own. It was this lesson that would eventually spread throughout the state, a realization that just because an officer wore a blue uniform did not mean he could be just.
Dawn exposed a haunting, grotesque landscape. The entire valley was blanketed by thick black smoke. The acrid smell of burnt timbers tinged the lungs as soldiers and civilians went about the town coughing. What was once a thriving village of homes and farms was now an apocalyptic landscape. Some homes continued to burn, as did most of the buildings in the town square and river port. In the center of the town square, adjacent to the half-burnt courthouse, a growing pile of goods was gathered. Each store was emptied of its merchandise. Once the goods were sorted, some were loaded onto wagons but most of it was stacked in the pile. Then it was torched.
One of the men laughed as he watched some of the women nearby looking at the merchandise.
“Take what you want.”
It was rather entertaining to see women scramble for the loot, even salvaging bolts of fabric that were afire. But the fire was intense, and little was saved. Another first memory of war, of women desperately attempting to salvage food and clothing because what burned in that pile was all that remained for their survival.
Lane now had to focus on getting out of the town as fast as he could, bedraggled by a wagon train of loot that was growing by the minute. He looked about him and saw standing alone in the apocalyptic landscape the modest home of Dr. Lawrence Lewis. Before a single wagon left Osceola, he had to account for his men.
He took up a contingent of soldiers to the Lewis home, dismounted and walked into the house.
Earlier that night, two of the local militia were found wounded and taken to the Lewis house. As they were being treated, as many as twenty-five of Lane’s men entered the house for breakfast and rest. They interrogated the wounded militia. From them they learned that the estimated size of the local militia amounted to two or three hundred men, but in their delirium the count dropped to as low as forty. One would die.
Mary Lewis dealt with all this while also caring for six year old Bettie and babies Ed and Sam! She did what she could, observing that some of the men were sixteen and seventeen years old, in considerable pain, crying and homesick. The best she could do was play the piano to provide some measure of comfort. It was an eerie sight, a woman playing a piano while appearing through the window, in the dark of night, flames rising throughout the city.
As for the two slaves, Alice and Missy, they were no where in sight.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
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