Before Lawrence: September 24
Chapter sixteen of Before Lawrence, the citizens of the town of Osceola struggle to survive.
This is the sixteenth 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.
Late in the night Francis and the Osceola militia bedded down for a short rest. Not only were the men exhausted, but the horses and mules as well. While the men pried him for more information, it was clear to them that he was too tired to talk. Francis couldn’t recall sleeping so hard as that night. They had stopped at a farm of which John Weidemeyer was familiar. It had a large home and barn, large enough to provide thirty men shelter and rest. For Francis, it meant sleeping on a couple layers of blankets on an otherwise hard floor. Yet he slept like a log. He had been up for almost three straight days with short naps here and there, spending a majority of his time out in the open. He was up at dawn and the militia were quickly on their way, skipping breakfast, chewing on jerky and parched corn.
Weidemeyer had organized what few men he had to run patrols before them to be sure there were no Red Legs in the area. Francis rode alongside Weidemeyer. He could tell he was gravely concerned about the welfare of his family. He did not see Weidemeyer’s wife, Lelia, when he was last in Osceola. He could see the same look of anxiety in the eyes of the other men. They rounded the ridge above the Osage River valley to confront a sight from the book of Revelation. Where once was a thriving frontier town was now nothing more than charred remains. Ghostly portals of chimneys arose everywhere, monuments of the worst of mankind. As the ferry approached, Weidemeyer exhorted his men to see to their families.
“But I ask that you return to the courthouse after one hour. People will need us to organize support, and I may add that we may have some work to do regarding the Jayhawks.”
Exclamations of approval arose from the ranks.
The ferry could only carry about a half-dozen horses at a time. As each group arrived on the opposite shore, they charged up the embankment and raced to their homes. For most, they would find their wives and children still alive. For some, they would learn that a wife or a child, or both, had perished in the flames. For all, a steely resolve emerged to get even.
As they returned, Francis could see in their eyes that these folks were beginning to reconsider their place in this horrible conflict. While their sympathies were with the secessionists, it was just sympathies. He could see that some of these men did not care to fight anyone. They just wanted to live their lives, work their farms. But what happened in Osceola was changing them. If that was the way the Union was going to fight this war, then it was personal. As they milled around the darkened shell of the courthouse, they realized how alone they were. No one was going to protect them except themselves.
Yet as the conversation evolved, he could see they sensed that they had neither the ways or the means to take on mounted troops directly. No, they were not talking about a conventional war. They knew that if they were to survive, it would have to be done differently. Francis could only wonder how he was going to survive, normally working alone on a farm that was far from any town. Except for a couple of neighbors a mile down the road, who was he going to go to? He did not say much, but he knew deep inside that if federal troops rode up to his farm he would not have many options. The best he could hope for would be to escape into the woods with his family, but more than likely they would be surrounded. One thing was for certain. Despite his Unionist leanings, he was not going to give much quarter to a man in a blue uniform.
Weidemeyer called the men together.
“Men! I am asking for a dozen volunteers. Just twelve men, who will join me in pursuit of the Jayhawks. From what Francis shared, they are strung out for a mile with loot and livestock. We can hit their rear! Maybe we will get lucky and recover a wagon laden with food. Maybe some livestock.”
Almost all the men stepped forward. Weidemeyer picked twelve.
“As for the rest of ya’, help is coming. I want you to scavenge for food and construct shelters for these folks. It is possible that we may find food and clothing.”
Francis rode alongside Weidemeyer, joining the twelve men.
“Mind if I come along?”
“Not all Francis. I appreciate all that you have done.”
He did not say anything to John Weidemeyer, but Francis had noted that no one in the village had derided him for abandoning the town. Everyone in the town could see how the men in the militia had grieved, how they embraced their families. No, now was not the time to destroy one of their own. Now was the time to pull together.
As the men rounded the corner of Market Street and the Roscoe road, passing the burnt shell of the school, they quickened the pace. As they proceeded westward, David Anderson walked down to his church for the first time.
“My goodness. They even burned a church.”
All he could see were the blackened forms of wooden pews, the frame of the sanctuary collapsing around the half-burnt stump that was once a hand-crafted pulpit. He knelt and prayed, “Oh God. Why did you bring me here? Is it to see how evil men can be?”
He would later return to the town square where he and his family had constructed a make-shift shelter where Champion Guinn had once crafted wagon wheels. The heavy timbers of his shop had somehow withstood the flames, leaving three walls standing. Several families had made this their home. For David’s children, it was a dark nightmare. Where had their home gone? Where were their beds? And where was Bernice?
Anderson happened to come across Reverend Saunders. Seeing him, he thought to himself, “How ironic that I have never spoken to this man, nor he to me.”
The pastor of the Presbyterian Church was an older man. His church had the reputation of being the church of the town “upper class.” The building was quite elegant for a frontier town. Yet in this dark hour, the two men came together, both humbled in a different way. For David Anderson, it was the sudden realization that being against slavery did not make you morally superior. For Charles Saunders, it was seeing his church looted before being burned. As he shared with Anderson,
“Some fool’s idea of a church pastor headed up a pack of thieves to rip out several of the pews and even took off with the church organ and piano. He even introduced himself to me: the ‘Reverend’ Hugh D. Fisher.”
“Sorry to hear that. We did not suffer such indignity. They just burned it down.”
“Well, Reverend Anderson. Lets see what we can do together to help these folks get through another day. Is your family well?”
“I expect they are about as well as anyone else. They have shelter at the Guinn shop. And what of yourself.”
“Clarissa and I will do fine. The Lewis family has provided us shelter.”
The two men took a liking to each other, but what bonded them was not their professions being discussed over tea, but the task of survival. While most every house and store had been consumed in the flames, the outbuildings were often still standing. Some were slave quarters, storage sheds or root cellars. While the owners may have chosen to stand their ground and protect what they had, their better nature was affirmed when trickling into the town late afternoon were a few wagons laden with food. Neighboring farms left untouched by the ruffians needed no crier to announce the news. They had seen the red glow in the night and smelled the acrid smoke that crowded the hills.
At least for this night, they had some food, mere morsels shared amongst 2700 souls.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
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Next Chapter: September 25
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