Before Lawrence: September 26

Chapter eighteen of Before Lawrence, a small victory yet a sobering reality for the people of Osceola.

This is the eighteenth 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.

Obediah Smith sat on the bench of his wagon, looking over the procession of loot and livestock. What fascinated him the most were the former slaves. Yes, former slaves. His perspective was much different than David Anderson’s and Samuel Thompson’s. As a Baptist preacher, he considered the life of Jesus a clear example of how a Christian was to live, and Jesus never owned a slave or even endorsed the institution. He considered men like Charles Saunders “double-minded” at best, if not apostate, for excusing slavery. He did not know what to think of David Anderson. He did not know him well enough.

Obediah was a simple, principled man. As he looked at the consequences of his actions, he saw the good and the bad. He considered men like John Brown worthy of admiration, but he would never cross the line and take the life of another man unless it was to protect his own. But when he saw the loot and the livestock, he began to reason to himself that James Lane was the rod of God’s wrath, that the hypocrites of Osceola had it coming. Yet deep inside, he had great misgivings. He had overheard from the slaves he was hauling in his wagon that James Lane had burned down the entire town. He knew good people in Osceola, some of whom attended Anderson’s Methodist church. He realized that a valuable source of supplies and services were now gone. Innocent people suffered, including himself in some sense. The destruction was needless.

Yet when he turned around and looked into his wagon, the side of slavery he experienced was the unveiled joy and excitement of being free. He knew that slavery in his part of the world was rare, but he knew the most horrible tales of Negro men and women who suffered whippings and rape. And he knew of some who had attempted to flee from their masters, only to be caught and punished. Few had the nerve to escape down to the Indian territory where there was no guarantee that the native tribes would be sympathetic toward a Negro. The poor souls were simply imprisoned by walls of wilderness and half-settled ground, the fear of Indians and of the wilderness itself. Even if they fled south into the Ozark Mountains and survived, they were destined to a life of loneliness and fear.

Some of the black men volunteered to herd the cattle and horses. This relieved the over-extended soldiers of the Kansas Brigade. For Obediah, he could only hope that the wagon train could safely reach Fort Scott, if not for his own sake, but for that of the two hundred former slaves.

His reverie, however, was interrupted by the crack of gun fire in the distance far to the rear of the wagon train. He tapped the reigns and got his wagon moving down the trail as quickly as possible, but the road was deeply rutted from being over-traveled. The livestock had been kept to the rear to keep the dust down, but the loud noises spooked them, causing them to run through the brush and fields on either side of the road. Several men of the Kansas Brigade rushed to the rear.

The gunfire came from John Weidemeyer and his group of twelve volunteers. Francis laid back and watched the whole thing from a ridge above, his Sharp rifle at his side. The procession was so involved with working their way down the road that they did not notice earlier in the day the Osceola militia spying them from the hills. What the militia saw was hard to believe.

Weidemeyer noted, “If we act quickly, we can hit that last wagon and head back before any of them can fight back.”

Unbelievably, the last few wagons were left unprotected, mostly filled with food and whiskey. The poor soul driving the wagon never knew what hit him. The first shot went through his upper torso, killing him in minutes. The wagon stopped, allowing the militia to surround it as one of the men mounted the wagon and turned it around.

For Francis, he had to make a decision. He had never wanted to shoot a man before in his life, and he cared not to do so today. Yet he could see four riders coming up the road toward the militia, out of their sight. Within seconds they could ambush the militia. He decided to do the next best thing. With one knee on the ground, he gauged the wind, and then took aim. To exhale his breath, he said to himself, “I suppose I will shoot at the next best thing.”

The shot was for several hundred yards. The odds of hitting anything at that distance was low, but Francis took another breath, aimed at the lead horse and fired. The poor animal was hit in the flank and stumbled to the ground. The rider plunged forward. The explosive fire of the rifle was heard by the militia, who headed up the road to confront the Red Legs. On seeing them, they fired. One man was hit, but still on his saddle. The Jayhawks were spooked, turning their horses and fleeing back to the wagon train.

For Weidemeyer, this wagon was a major success. He looked through it and commented, “This will feed the town for another day. And we have done so without losing a man. So far.”

He gathered his men and signaled to Francis to join them. They headed back to Osceola.

Weidemeyer asked him, “Did you see anything else up there?”

“Not sure, but I saw a man sitting on his wagon, looking over the wagon train. Looked like Obediah Smith. Phillip Jackson told me that he has frequently been in Osceola.”

“Hmm.”

“Other than that, once you fired off your guns, it was total chaos, with all the livestock running around.”

Meanwhile, back in Osceola, William McClain and Leck Walmsley had a job to do. They knew that if the town was to ever rise up from the ashes, it would need to have money. The $10,000 they had buried in the ground would be the seed money that could purchase supplies for the winter, allowing time for people to rebuild and prepare for the coming planting season. They were relieved that most of the bank holdings had been transported to St. Louis. But $10,000 would encourage many of the survivors to stay. The problem was finding horses to take them to the Jake Coonce farm. Two were finally located where the owners were willing to lend them out. It was a long ride to the farm, but they finally got there and found Jake Coonce working out in the field with two slaves.

Once out of earshot of the slaves, Thomas said to him, “Jake. We need to get the gold.”

Jake nodded his head. “Let’s head back to the barn, get a drink of water and I will saddle up my horse.”

It was still a long walk back to the farm, but within the hour they were riding toward the tiny island on Bear Creek. Jake was an expert wilderness tracker and he saw the signs before any other of the men, but said nothing. The forest understory had been trodden down in several places. He saw countless hoof prints. He was not surprised by what he saw next, but was just as disappointed as the other two men. The gold was gone!

Jake cursed, then said. “It was that damn nigger girl. Jane. She must have overheard us, Leck. She was in the house. She is gone now and she took one of my horses.”

The two other men were also furious. They rode off immediately, leaving Jake alone. They took the shortest way possible back to the road toward Osceola. It was early evening by the time they returned to share the bad news.

“The gold is gone.”

At this point, many in the village had lost trust in their leaders.

“First the militia runs off. Now its the bankers.”

Trickling into the town throughout the day were wagons from Warsaw and Clinton. But it was a sad situation. The townspeople had food for another day. But it was becoming clear to everyone that the town that two generations had devoted themselves to build would need to be abandoned. The next day John Weidemeyer would return with the wagon they captured. But while some were happy that they had some measure of revenge, it was not enough to encourage the people any further. Even William McClain, probably the last of the remaining “wealthy” townspeople remaining, was considering the options. He was a banker, a man who looked at the long view, a man who understood that if Osceola was to rise again from the ashes, it would have to do so because it had a future. With the railway being constructed from Rolla to Springfield, the days in which Osceola would be the supply hub to southwest Missouri were numbered. And like everyone else, the immediate future was his primary concern: how to feed himself, his family and neighbors another day. And how to find shelter with the coming storm.

© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner

Previous Chapter: September 25

Next Chapter: September 30 — Abandonment

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