Steve awoke, startled. Something was
wrong. It was still dark and he could hear a horse pawing the ground by the
front steps. He rose, throwing on his coat and boots. When he opened the door
he could barely see John in the darkness, saddling up on Molly’s back.
“John!” he shouted. That’s Pap’s
best horse! Get down from there!” He stepped closer, taking Molly’s reins.
“I’m not changing my mind,” John
told him. “I’m joining Pap. There’s Union Redlegs, Hessians in Cass County
burning homes. I won’t stay and listen to your Yankee drivel. Let go the
reins!”
“You’re just a boy. You don’t know
what you’re doing. You’ll get yourself killed.”
“What I’m doing! How about
you? Teaching those Rebel boys over at Pleasant Hill. I don’t want any part of
your business. At least Ma’s safe here at home.”
“I’m not trying to change the boys’
opinions about the war. They need an education.”
“Oh, yes you are. You’ve tried it
here at home. You’ve turned against everyone who cares about you – with all
your educated ideas. Pap knows you don’t approve of his saloon. He left ‘cause
you’ve gotten too high and mighty for us all.”
Steve stepped back, unable to
conceal his shock.
John put his boot on Steve’s chest
and shoved him away. He grabbed the reins as Steve fell back, and spurred Molly
forward.
Steve watched them vanish into
breaking dawn. John was headed Southeast for Price’s army at Blue Springs.
Inside, his mother had dressed. She
held Pap’s letter in her hands. She turned away to hide the tears and tried to
move her wheelchair into the kitchen. Steve gave her his handkerchief and
kissed her softly on the cheek.
###
Steve finished his exam in Columbia.
He was confident the results would meet his expectations. He could visit Sallie
en route to Kansas City. He intended to return first to the Cass County school
for his belongings. He could then prepare applications for employment. He
couldn’t tell anyone of his secret Union enlistment. The terms included an
assignment to eavesdrop among his students, hoping for clues to the locations
of their guerrilla hide-outs. He was to report these to Union headquarters. At
least six of the young men in his school belonged to Quantrill’s band, raiding
with him at night and on weekends. At first, he’d resisted the scheme to track
them, but finally realized it could save lives and reduce mayhem.
After the exam, a sudden sense of
control returned. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from him.
Confidence buoyed, he set out for Pleasant Hill alone. Halfway there, he
recognized a path beside a broken split rail fence. It was a narrow road to an
abandoned farmhouse, which he’d been told Quantrill’s men often used as a
meeting place. Perhaps twenty yards beyond the fence line he saw a break in the
underbrush, and a large oak tree a little farther on. Thinking to find a good
vantage point, he entered the scrub. There might be some sign of Cole Younger
and the raiders.
“You there!” called a voice behind
him. “Halt and dismount. Don’t turn around.”
Suddenly three men stepped out from
the other side of the oak tree. They held cards and were dressed in disheveled
Union uniforms.
“Look a here,” one said, spitting
tobacco toward Steve’s boot as he approached.
“As I live and breathe!” said the
tallest of the three. “If it ain’t a dandy out here in the canebrake.”
The unseen man behind Steve poked
him with a rifle, then came around to look directly at him.
“What’s your business in this
thicket?” he asked. “Thinkin’ to spy on soldiers’ whereabouts?” He peered at
Steve through filthy spectacles and the wart on his nose nearly overpowered the
yellow scum on his teeth. He felt a cloth being tied over his eyes and behind
his head.
There was no escape. Just short of
the campsite he heard the sound of many men moving about and talking in lowered
voices.
“Kneel!” his captor commanded,
whacking the back of Steve’s knees with something heavy. He tumbled forward and
struggled to rise. Nearby, a familiar voice gave his name.
“That’s my old schoolteacher, Steve
Elkins!”
It was the voice of Bertie Ketchem,
a rowdy teenage miscreant who covered a broad circuit in his district. The
criminal prodigy was also one of Steve’s some-time students.
Steve felt Ketchem’s rifle smack him
across the face, and fell senseless. When he awoke, blood trickled from his
nose and down the side of his face. He heard another familiar voice cursing his
abuser. They took the blindfold away.
“You little half-wit, you god-damned
lazy son-of-a-bitch! That man’s the most decent person you’ll ever know.” The
man knocked Ketchem to the ground and punched him several times before another
man came along to intercede.
Steve’s defender was Cole Younger,
another student of his. Cole and his family were friends and Cole’s mother had
begged Steve’s mother to have him find her son.
A crowd gathered around the scene.
Someone came up from behind and ordered them away.
“What’s going on here?” the stranger
asked.
Cole spoke first. “This here upstart
tried to batter a hostage I know to be a loyal Rebel. Jake and the boys on
sentinel brought him in on your alert, sir.”
“Are you sure he’s a genuine
Confederate?” the man asked.
Steve recognized him as he leaned
toward his face to examine him. It was Quantrill himself.
“His father and brother are both at
Blue Springs with General Price,” Cole explained. “He’s stayed home with his
mother who’s in a wheelchair.”
“That’s Steve Elkins, our teacher
and a Yankee snitch. Everyone down home knows it,” Ketchem wailed.
“The dirty little bugger is no
better’n a liar and a guttersnipe!” Cole said of Ketchem. “Pay him no mind.”
“What are you doing here?” Quantrill
asked.
“I’m going to school for my
belongings,” he answered.
“And then where will you go?”
“Home to my family who depend on me
to survive.”
“Swear you’re true to the
Confederacy, young man, and you can go,” Quantrill told him.
“As true as can be, I swear!” Steve
answered.
“Now say you hate the Union and
would give your life to see it burn!”
“I would give my life to see the
Union burn,” Steve told him, biting his lip and clenching his fists in pain.
“Now you’ve done right by your
brother and father, you can go,” Quantrill told him. “But I better not learn
otherwise or my men will find you wherever you are. And they’ll give you a
painful parting from this world.”
###
Safely at home once more, he
doctored his injuries and claimed he had fallen from the back of a wagon. It
was time now to visit Sallie in Wellington. He would travel with others to ensure
his safety.
When he arrived in Wellington, it
was a warm August day. He and Sallie left the house to walk in the garden where
the scent of mock-orange filled the air.
“I can stay a few hours,” he told
her, “but I must take mother to an appointment tomorrow.” He drew her to him
and kissed her. When he let go, he removed the net covering her golden hair. He
smoothed its silken gloss with his hands, gratified by the sensation.
“Our time together has been too
short, Steve,” Sallie said, lips trembling. “How long will it be until we’re
married?”
He struggled for words. “There has
to be a way for me to start a practice despite the war.”
“What are you considering? Has
anyone offered to apprentice you?”
“Not yet. The war retards business
and attorneys suffer,” he explained. “As soon as I get my papers, I’ll send out
letters.” They sat down together on a bench.
She looked at him so trustingly. Her
hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced between her open hands in a gesture
she often used to question him. He recalled how he’d comforted her when her
father died. He couldn’t disappoint her now.
“Try not to worry about John, Steve.
Your dad will watch over and guide him. He’s seen service in the Seminole wars
and will have his preference as to where John’s assigned. Your father will see
that he’s kept in the back lines, away from the fighting, if there is any.”
“You mean, if John agrees to it.
He’s stubborn, and fighting Union soldiers is not like Indian wars.”
“At least war can’t break out here.”
“That’s not a certain thing,” Steve
cautioned.
“What do you mean? Do you know
something else?”
He shook his head and looked away.
“What is it? Do you suspect
something like another battle?”
“Don’t trouble yourself with things
no one can anticipate.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. “I won’t let
the war hold us back. I’ll find a way to make a good living, and soon. I know I
can’t depend on Pap to help me or the boys. He’s wasted everything Grandpa left
us. I’ll have to help all of us.”
“Whatever happens,” Sallie said, “it
will be all right. I’ll always be here for you, my darling.” She held him,
placed a hand behind his neck and drew him close. “I’ve saved money for us to
live on.”
He held her against him, longing for
her. There had to be a route out of the chaos of this violent and ungodly
division called war. When would the senseless killing end and normal life
resume? He couldn’t tell Sallie all able bodied loyal Union men were ordered to
enlist and join Colonel Buel as part of the state militia. He would sign the papers
in Kansas City. It was time to take action.
###
It was August, and in Union blues
the heat was oppressing. The soldiers trudged silently, following the lantern
carriers and creaking artillery wagons in the dark. Steve carried the rifle
he’d vowed never to hold. If the Rebels suffered for the likes of Quantrill and
his raids, the Union likewise suffered the atrocities wrought by Captain Irvin
Walley of the 5th Missouri Federal Militia. But Cole’s risk in
saving his own life must be repaid. Walley’s murder of Cole’s father, his part
in the destruction of Cole’s home and the terrorizing of Cole’s family, must
not be allowed to drive Cole further into Quantrill’s outlaw designs.
Cole was reputed to be serving as
courier to Rebel Colonel Upton Hayes. Cole sent an August 1 message to his
mother through one of his brothers. Cole’s mother then sent it to Steve’s home.
The letter arrived on August 12 as Steve traveled toward Springfield.
Colonel Hughes from Pea Ridge near Independence raised Rebel
flag to taunt Colonel Buel. Men & ammunition needed. Contact Colonel Upton
Hayes. Send help!
En route with several other men,
Steve learned that Independence was taken by the Rebels. The same message
reported that Quantrill was headed for the Lone Jack area where Confederate
forces would connect with reinforcements from Arkansas. Steve and his Union
companions joined Major Emory Foster’s troops. Others were ordered to wait for
General Fitz Henry Warren and the 1st Iowa Cavalry to ensure their
safety, as an attack was imminent.
An officer gave him the Union
private’s uniform he wore at the outset of their platoon’s drive toward Lone
Jack. They marched at the rear of Major Foster’s company. Union scouts revealed
the enemy had 1600 men. Their own troops were composed of 800. Nevertheless,
Major Foster followed orders. He opted for surprise and they routed the
Confederate companies just north of Springfield. They withdrew to Lone Jack for
their meeting with General Warren.
Late that night they set camp and
heard Foster’s pickets reporting in the early morning. Fourteen hundred men
under Colonels Upton Hayes and Gideon Thompson were just over the hill. There
was no sign of General Warren. The sounds of battle came nearer and their
company was ordered to fire.
Suddenly, a blast of cannon fire lit
up the sky, spewing grapeshot pellets near their front line. Steve stood on a
hilltop, overlooking cornfields and rock fences. The gunfire had ceased, but
smoke filled the air. Bodies lay everywhere. Cries and moans came from the
wounded. A little farther on and beyond a creek, a mass of mounted men had
gathered.
A scout rode up to Foster’s front
line. An officer turned and shouted back to the men. “Take cover! Here they
come.”
Within moments enemy horsemen
trampled the field before them, their mounts jumping over the dead and wounded,
stumbling occasionally, the men’s cries of anger and revenge muffling the
sounds of pain and artillery fire.
Steve crouched among his companions,
his sweating hands scarcely able to hold his gun.
Horsemen flew over the first hedge
and fell upon them, shouting and cursing. There were no Confederate regulars.
Steve spotted their flag and recognized Quantrill’s Raiders. Their numbers had
greatly increased. He nearly choked in horror to fire on friends and neighbors.
“Fire!” an officer shouted. He aimed
and froze while the brittle shots of rifle fire cracked all around him. The
first volley struck the raiders, bullets felling horses and riders. Men were
crushed beneath the weight of their mounts, breaking bones, taking lead,
screaming and dying in agony.
A bullet struck the man beside him,
and Steve felt warm blood hit his cheek. He gasped and retched. The stink of
gunpowder and sulfur glutted the atmosphere. A second volley broke the raiders’
charge and horses were wheeled around in retreat. It was over quickly, and
orders were given to bivouac at Pleasant Hill. Steve lingered to walk the field
and look for any sign of Cole’s body. As he searched, the medics picked among
the bodies for those who could be saved. Finally, Steve gave up, found a horse
and mounted to join the other Union men.
Confederate reinforcements arrived
continuously and Steve learned the Union was surrounded. He and others of his
company were ordered to take cover in a general store. He felt deathly tired
and ill. Crouching beneath a window, he watched the Rebels advance.
Outside, the enemy traded rifles for
shotguns and their popping sound was endless. Glass shattered in the store, and
one of Steve’s companions fell near him. Pellets of shot and shards of glass
struck his face and he clawed to remove the pieces. He sensed that death was
near, and struggled to reload his rifle.
Fire and smoke concealed the
movement of people in the street. It was unclear whether the moving bodies were
civilians, enemy, or allies. Occasionally there would be a clearing. The first
time the air cleared, he saw graycoats. Later, a soldier in blue wandered into
the gunfire, dazed, missing his lower jaw, bloody threads hanging from his
cheeks.
The Union cannon had held the Rebels
at bay with deep, booming thuds, blasting their hiding places into pieces.
Steve saw a Union officer ride up to the guns with a queer expression on his
face. For a few moments the sound of the Confederate shotguns seemed to cease.
“Retreat! Pull back! We’re all lost!
All’s lost!” the officer shouted before riding off. The men gave way,
abandoning the guns.
Another officer rose up, his face
bloody. “Men, you stay here!” A shot rang out and he grabbed his chest. The
artillery line was broken and confused.
Graycoats came from all directions
to seize the guns. The last cannon was captured and turned on the Union forces.
The hotel beside the company store they hid in burst into flames, then came the
sound of burning men as they ran screaming into the dusty street for relief.
The fire burst through the building, blasting the ammunition inside.
When gunfire finally ended, the
graycoats at last fell back. Steve heard the groans and moans of burned men
dying. They lay in spasms on the ground, covering their faces and shuddering in
pain. A lone surgeon ran about in the carnage, his hands dripping with blood.
An officer grabbed Steve by the shoulder
and shook him. “Your commander has been killed, private, you’re with us now.
More Confederates are coming from the north. We’re to retreat to Lexington.”
Steve gasped for breath and rose to
fall in line. His hands had been gripping his rifle so tightly that when he
tried to move them, he found they were numb. He fell into step with the others.
As they made their way down an alley, he saw the small blackened corpse of
Bertie Ketchem. The boy’s head had been bashed open by an artillery shot.
He left the fearsome sinkhole of
Lone Jack behind – the sullen, angry hell of Missouri.
