Before Lawrence: September 23
Chapter fifteen of Before Lawrence, the Kansas Brigade leaves Osceola a smoldering ruin.
This is the fifteenth 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.
In the early hours of September 23rd the entire town of Osceola seemed to be engulfed in flames. Lane was visibly exhausted but no one could sleep because of the heat and the thick smog that settled into the river valley. Once he had finished checking with officers at the wharf, he rode his horse up Market Street to the Lewis house, which had become both a hospital and base camp for the Red Legs. He rested in a rocking chair observing the chaos below, approaching a state of near-sleep when he was tapped on the shoulder.
Nearly a half day’s ride south of Osceola, while Jacob Coonce was off hiding his gold and silver, Jane stole away in the dark and headed north, but not before taking one of the ponies from the corral. She knew that a slave riding a horse would immediately appear suspicious, but her hope was that she could proceed until the light of day, leave the horse and continue on foot. Throughout her journey she looked in terror at the glow of light in the distance. The glow got brighter, a brightness that she had never seen before or seen since. And then there was the smell, the heavy mix of burning wood and tar. Despite a lifetime of mistreatment and unmitigated labor, she could not help but put her hand to her mouth and nearly faint from the horror she beheld. As she approached the edge of the village, she was stopped short by a Red Leg.
“Hold it right there! Stop where you are!”
At first Jane was a bit confused, for she had never seen a soldier before. She blurted out, “I have something for your leader.”
“What sort of information?”
“Only for him to know.”
“Sassy nigger.” The soldier, in disgust, rode into the town and found Lane, with Jane following. As they meandered through the streets of the town, she was horrified at what she beheld. She had been isolated on that farm for most of her adult life. She had been to Osceola only a few times before, brought along to help with supplies. But what she saw before her eyes was a seen from hell. There was not a house left standing. As they approached the home of Mary Lewis, she looked down the street and beheld the burning ruins of the Johnson mansion. She began to have doubts about these men she had hoped would be liberators. Were they liberators, or demons?
They dismounted and approached an uniformed officer who was resting in a rocking chair, evidently half asleep. The soldier tapped on his shoulder.
“General. Says she has something important to tell ya’.”
The soldier lingered. Jane turned to Lane. “Your ears only.”
Lane signaled the soldier away. “What do you have?”
“I knows where gold is buried.”
“How much”
“Dunno. But it is a lot.”
Lane had a lot on his mind. He feared Sterling’s army returning, or a random patrol. He had all the loot to load onto wagons, slaves and livestock to round up.
He signaled to Montgomery to come closer, whispering in his ear, “Assign a patrol to follow this woman. She says she knows where gold is buried.”
So it was, as the first light of dawn fought to appear through the smoke, a small patrol left the village led by a black woman, no longer a slave but free. She led them to the island and to her relief the gold was found. They would return to Osceola by noon with $8000 delivered to James Lane. The rest of the $10,000 was evidently divided up between Leck Walmsley, Jake Coonce and sundry Red Legs.
Lane and all his troops were exhausted, they had to round up wagons, horses and mules, and a mountain of loot. Amongst his troops was a chaplain. Reverend Hugh D. Fisher, not to be outdone, had all the church pews and the pulpit from the Presbyterian church loaded onto wagons, destined for his church in Lawrence. Lane had in the convoy a fine carriage, a piano and silk dresses for his wife. Slaves, most visibly glad to be free, were allowed to gather whatever loot remained that could be carried on their backs. Fortunately, spare wagons were commandeered and their loot was thrown into the wagons. Most critically, the Red Legs took almost every provision of food and all the livestock that could be found, including 350 horses and 400 cattle.
Lane could only quip to Montgomery, “Certainly makes up for the mules lost at Dry Wood Creek.”
As afternoon approached, the wagon train proceeded up the road to Roscoe. Remarkable that in a space of three weeks this tiny village on the banks of the Osage River would see an army of around 15,000 men, with all their horses and wagons laden with supplies, followed by a night of horror where a train of about 300 wagons would leave with all their possessions, including all the slaves.
Just upriver from Osceola emerged a bluff above the Sac River near where it joined the Osage River. Hiding in the forest, Francis Chouteau held his spyglass, observing a line of wagons that extended for miles, a sight he would have never thought he would ever see. He was relieved that they did not veer off toward his farm, but looked on with dread knowing how utterly alone they were. He wondered what had happened to the militia. Yet he also noted something peculiar about the Red Leg situation. No longer were they concerned about marauding and disrupting the rebel army. Their primary concern was what to do with the loot. Their soldiers were too busy corralling the livestock to fight.
His family and livestock secure in their hiding place, he had ventured back out onto the bluff. He waited some time before the last wagon had crossed the river. This was followed by the chaos of uncounted cattle, horses and mules, herded by a mix of former slaves and Jayhawkers. He was torn as to what to do next. He returned to the hiding place where his family had spent the previous night. Leading them back to the farmhouse, he told his wife, “I think the Jayhawks have gone. I need to ride to Osceola and see what happened. The Jayhawks had a wagon train of loot that must have been more than a mile long. It looks like every slave in St. Clair County went with them.”
His first stop was the farm of Jake Coonce.
“Jake. Have you heard anything about what happened in Osceola.”
“Nothin’. But you sure can smell it.”
“I spied the Jayhawks on the road to Roscoe. The wagons of loot must have been more than a mile long. I wonder what happened to the militia? It’s clear to me that this was not a military venture. This was nothing more than robbery.”
“What I do know is that I am missing a slave. Jane. You may have known her. A sassy little bitch. She must of stole one of my horses and lit off.”
“Sorry to hear that. Think you could ride into Osceola with me?”
“Sure do.”
The two men rode into the town from the south road, following the path that Jane had taken the night before. And like her, they had to pause in shock as they beheld the ashen remains of the entire town.
Jake remarked, “My God.”
Chouteau responded, “I don’t think God had anything to do with this.”
As they rode up the hill and rounded the ridge to the town square, they beheld the darkest nightmare. The brick structures in the town square stood half-burned, walls partially collapsed. The county courthouse was half destroyed. Not one building was left untouched. But it was what greeted him beyond that conveyed to him the scope of damage. Only one house stood atop the hill on Market Street. He recognized it as the doctor’s home. Everything else was burned completely to the ground. All that remained were the masonry and brick chimneys.
Roaming about the streets were women, children and seniors, many countenanced with a blank look of shock. Their clothes were coated with ash and suet, their faces darkened from ash, dust and tears. Francis stood speechless. Where does one begin? If most folks stayed in the town, he guessed close to 2700 people were without shelter, food or transportation. September was generally a pleasant month, but rain could come at anytime, and the temperature could drop to freezing any day.
He spotted the county clerk emerging from the ruins of the courthouse.
“Daniel!” Francis waved his hand to get his attention.
Daniel appeared disoriented, overwhelmed.
Francis needed no explanation. He got directly to the point. “Daniel. Has anyone gone to get help for these people?”
Daniel looked up to him as if he hadn’t heard.
“Daniel. I need your attention. We have got to get help. Has anyone gone to Warsaw or Clinton?”
“I am not certain. The Red Legs raided several farms around the area. There are no wagons, no horses and little food.”
“Has anyone gone to Warsaw? Any idea what happened with the militia?”
“Last I heard, the militia fled to Warsaw.”
“Warsaw?” What Francis wanted to say was “Fled?” But he figured that question would be answered later.
“Daniel, what about helping these folks?”
“What I am seeing is that some folks are getting help from kin who live in nearby farms. I believe word is getting out, but farms south of here got raided as well and there simply is not many wagons or horses left.”
Francis looked about and noticed that one other thing was strangely missing: slaves. He said nothing about that. He thought to himself how, for some of these folks, this would be the first time in a while that they got their hands dirty. He could see that these people were desperate for help. Maybe the best thing they needed was Hope. He saw poking through the ashes of his office Leck Walmsley. Francis hardly knew the man. He never had much use for lawyers. He also wondered how a guy could ever get a name like “Leck.”
“Hey, Leck.” Walking over to him, he placed his hand on his shoulder and softly asked, “How ya’ doin’?”
“Well, hello Francis. How am I doin’? My home is burned and so is my office, with all the papers. My wife and two kids are alive. At least I have them.”
“Hey, Daniel! Come over here!”. Francis waved him over. He soon joined them.
“From what Daniel tells me, the Red Legs hit our farms pretty hard south and west of here, but they were too busy with the loot to head over the river. I can ride along the north bank and head over to Warsaw. Could you two men round up some others and organize some support for these folks? The first people who ride into town can be recruited to get help. We need someone to head east toward Iconium, and others to head to Clinton.”
Leck responded, “Sounds like a good plan. The courthouse is still partially functional and a few people are already staying in the Lewis house.”
Francis put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “You all take care of these folks as best as you can. I will get the word out. I’m riding to Warsaw.”
And so Francis rode down to the waterfront onto a waiting barge that transported him across the river. He stopped at every farm along the way and got the word out. Warsaw was about 30 miles away, which on horseback was a very long day’s ride. Riding throughout the night, he stopped at dawn to rest. He was powerfully hungry and weary beyond measure. He rolled out his bedroll and immediately fell asleep. Thirty minutes later, he woke and sprung back up on the saddle. He pulled out a twist of jerky and headed on toward Warsaw.
He did not have to ride for long before he came across John Weidemeyer with the militia and several other men and wagons from Warsaw.
Francis was relieved. “Thank God. John have you heard anything about Osceola?”
“No. What’s happened?
“The damn Jayhawks burned down the entire town.”
The men sat in shock, mumbling curses under their breath.
Francis could only reply, “None of us would have thought they would stoop so low. From what I observed, there was little you could have done to stop them.”
Weidemeyer shook his head, his face looking to the ground. “It was impossible to keep the men together. Everyone ran back to their farms with the exception of a few us who returned to Warsaw to get more help.”
Captain Weidemeyer turned in his saddle, “Jack! Ride back to Warsaw and spread the word. We will need every wagon and sack of grain that can be spared. These people will be needing shelter. See if we can get the churches to open their doors.”
“Will do.”
The men began their return to Osceola. It would not be until morning that they would arrive.
But what of those who remained? Amongst all the ruin, there were the murders of nine men. Amongst the dead was Champion Guinn, his widow with two children, weeping beside him. John McClain, the son of William McClain, dead. Beside him stood his father. Gone was his home, his bank and now his son. But as the bodies were being sorted out, a cry of pain came from one of them. It was Micayah Dark. He was an older man, too old to be a threat to anyone. Alas, he was still alive! They rigged up a stretcher, carefully placed his body onto it, and worked their way up the hill to the Lewis home.
But for the Andersons? Their nightmare began the previous night as a drunken Jayhawk came to their door and forced open the door.
“Everyone get out of this house now. You! Nigger woman! Get over here now!”
A soldier grabbed Bernice by the arm, but she pulled it away.
“The missus is sick. She needs my help.”
She stormed back to the bedroom as the two children ran to their father crying uncontrollably in fear.
“Get those kids out of here.”
He pointed a rifle at David and motioned toward the door. David walked out of the house, turning anxiously for Paula. Soon Bernice came out with Paula. The next thing he beheld was his house going up in flames.
“What are you doing?”
A soldier explained, “You support rebels, you pay. Should teach ya’ a lesson.”
“What do you mean? We are pro-Union. We are against slavery.”
“Like hell you are.”
As the flames began to grow, he noticed that one of the soldiers left with some of Paula’s finer dresses and another carried out the silver.
He would have said more, but felt the wiser for it, focusing instead on his children and Paula. They felt endangered here. Neighbors were all standing out in the street, families huddled together, children crying. Paula fainted in his arms. He had no idea how he was going to handle all of this. It was then he realized that Bernice was gone. He looked down the street and saw her being led away by a Jayhawk. He saw her look back, as if apologizing, crying.
There were no heroes here. No one with a wagon. No one to assist him. All he could do was lean over Paula as she lay on the ground, hoping to keep the embers from landing on her. In the distance he heard a woman screaming uncontrollably.
“My baby is still in there!”
For Mary Lewis, she was left with a parlor filled with two wounded men. Lane had retrieved his wounded and placed them in wagons. Alice and Missy were gone. She looked out of her home to the north where once stood the majestic Johnson mansion. Cindy was no where to be found. She looked out her front porch to behold a sight from Armageddon and began to weep uncontrollably. Her children gathered around her, holding onto her. She just prayed, “Please, dear Lord, keep Lawrence safe.”
She scarcely could spend a moment in grief when she saw the first of many approach her home. It was clear why. Hers was the only one left standing.
For Cindy, Alice and Missy, it was with mixed feelings that they departed. For Cindy, she fought and resisted until a soldier rudely forced her into a wagon.
“Don’t you understand, silly woman, that you are free. Stay here.”
Alice and Missy soon joined her. Both were in tears.
“This is so terrible. What will they do to us now?”
It was clear to Cindy that they were just as mystified by the Red-Legs as she was. Free? Free for what? This? Yet for Alice and Missy, it was with ambivalence that they declared, “Cindy, we are free.”
For Jane? She was escorted to a wagon, having lost the service of the horse. She was glad. She had no connection to these people in Osceola. They had it comin’.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
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