Bloody Dawn (21 page)

“Whenever one of those Lawrence murderers is caught,” echoed another man, “let him hang until the buzzards fat on his carcass. But let us not imitate his barbarous example by an indiscriminate butchery of innocent persons.”
²⁴

As ever, Lane turned a shrewd eye to all forms of criticism. To keep the pressure building and the Paola movement burning he called for yet another meeting at Leavenworth, scheduled for September 2.

By the first of September, little had changed in Lawrence since the weekend of the attack. A few individuals, then a few more had cleared the debris sufficiently to begin rebuilding, but it was a slow, painful process, and between staying clothed and fed and guarding the town, no real headway was made. Happily, work on the new bridge continued. And to ease the housing shortage there was talk of hauling the old proslavery Legislative Hall from Lecompton to the town. Both Hovey Lowman and John Speer began stirring to revive their newspapers. “Lawrence is not to ‘wink out,' ” wrote Speer, with more defiance than reason. “We have a glorious record; and a destiny. We are to be one of the largest cities west of the Missouri. There is no possibility of mistaking that.”
²⁵

One of those who felt as Speer did was Peter Ridenour. On the Monday after the raid he began the long climb back. With what little money remained the grocer hired several blacks to clear the ash and debris from the store cellar. To the rear of the gutted building stood a corncrib untouched by the raiders; here Ridenour set up shop, throwing a lean-to on the side and planting a U.S. flag atop it all. The once-wealthy merchant then began selling the only thing in stock—salt. Taking a few dollars aside for expenses, he used the rest to pay as much to Eastern creditors as possible, which came as a shock to those who had read the names
Ridenour
and
Baker
among the list of dead. And because of the gesture and R & B's past honesty, letters from the East arrived in turn, telling Ridenour that his rating, despite his poverty, was still sound. Supplies did come in bit by bit and
the tiny profits were used to pay for labor and material on the new store—a hod of bricks, a keg of nails, a load of boards—or to purchase a few more items to stock the corncrib.

Rising with the sun, clearing the rubble, waiting on customers with soot-smeared face and hands, still Peter Ridenour was never so tired at day's end that he could not return to the bedside of his friend. And to his great relief, he watched as Harlow Baker's condition improved with each passing day. Although his partner could speak, he still suffered much, and little was said between the men, and not a word about the business. Then one evening, quite unexpectedly, Baker looked up at his old friend and smiled. “Now, tell me what you are doing,” he whispered. From that moment on, the last doubt vanished and Peter Ridenour knew they had won. The bond would not be broken.
²⁶

Money and supplies began to reach Lawrence in greater amounts. Although the East rose to the crisis, Leavenworth continued to give and do the most by far. Funds there were solicited anew and the machines of hastily formed sewing circles whirred night and day, stitching out clothes, sheets, and pillows. But the catastrophe was great, the resources of the state limited.

“For God's sake,” wrote a citizen of Leavenworth to a wealthy Chicago friend, “This is no ‘shrieking Kansas cry.' ” Having just returned from Lawrence he could vouch for that. The Kansan beseeched his friend to send as much clothing as possible for, he said, the survivors were almost naked.
²⁷
And for the people of Chicago the tragic stories of the past two weeks suddenly became much more than black ink and statistics when a host of widows and orphans stopped for a day in the town. The women, noted a journalist, were “exceedingly painful to behold.” They were “pale and haggard, as if just risen from a long illness, with an expression of terror and fright.… They seemed to tremble at every slight noise.”
²⁸

Like this pathetic group, hundreds more with no recourse were compelled to return to families in the East. Although only half the original population remained in Lawrence, recovery did continue. And with most admitting that a terrible mistake had indeed been made, Sallie Young returned from Fort Leavenworth, free of all charges.

Early on Wednesday, September 2, John Schofield stepped off the ferry and walked up through the streets of Leavenworth. Behind followed an impressive staff, gold and silver glittering on blue coats, revolvers on hips. Entering the Planter's Hotel the officers from St. Louis got down to business.

Schofield first spoke with Governor Carney and his aides. Once more the governor pledged his support and determination to reestablish peace on the Kansas-Missouri line. Satisfied, the general then “asked and obtained” a long interview with his most bitter accuser, James Lane. Coming to the point, he asked Lane about the Paola movement and his plans for September 8. Speaking in his own inimitable way, the senator rehashed his views, the views of Kansas, so he said, the determination of the people to march from Paola to Missouri and make a “desert waste.” Little or nothing could prevent the inevitable, he added, and a prudent man wouldn't try. Unimpressed, the general replied that no unauthorized force would enter Missouri.

Surprised at Schofield's inner toughness, Lane tried to strike a sly deal, offering to the hard-smoking general—the man he was hoping to see unemployed within a fortnight—a position as supervisor of the Paola affair. If the general would oversee the operation then not only would he gain grace with Kansans, but he would also be on the spot to judge how the thing was handled, or so the reasoning went. John Schofield was no fool. And he had not traveled all the way from St. Louis just to hear this. To accept the offer, unthinkable as it was, would temporarily salve Kansas but place the blame firmly on his shoulders should pillage and murder erupt. To refuse, as Lane knew he must, would set him at odds with not only Kansans but radicals everywhere, and the senator would use it for all it was worth. Again the general's response was a flat no.

Lane continued the argument and tried to bargain but Schofield, not swayed in the least, only shook his head. No mob, under any circumstances, would cross the line, and now the senator from Kansas knew it! Lane warned the commander to consider what he had just said and digest it slowly, for if he persisted in his refusal to allow Kansans the “right” to search for their property, he would lay the case at the feet of his close friend and confidant, President Abraham Lincoln. With that the stormy duel ended. And John Schofield, facing down one of the most powerful men in America, had not budged an inch.
²⁹

That evening as promised Jim Lane delivered his second speech in less than a week. As before he spoke to a large audience in front of the Mansion House. Once more the senator called on the people to rise up and march on Missouri, assuring the crowd that the military would not interfere; on the contrary, he said, they would even cooperate with the expedition. The speech rambled on in a similar vein, Lane touching upon politics and himself, railing into the night against Missouri and treason.
³⁰

On the day following his joust with Lane, General Schofield steamed downriver and met with Thomas Ewing. The two men discussed at length the crisis along the border and the best means of dealing with it. Just speaking with a few leaders was not enough, they agreed, and so the generals issued a proclamation, spelling out in black and white the government's position. “No armed bodies of men,” ran the decree, “will be permitted, under any pretext whatever, to pass from one State to the other.”
³¹
The statement was brief, yet clear; how the majority of Kansans would react remained to be seen.

When the dawn of September 8 came, the date appointed for the invasion of Missouri, dark and heavy skies hung low over the border. Throughout the morning men continued to arrive in Paola, a place that had seen its share of excitement in the past two weeks. One hundred blacks were on hand, and even some women joined the crowd. Although the gathering was large for such a small town, it was not the 5,000 men asked for, certainly not the 10,000 promised. But everyone agreed that if the turnout was disappointing, their numbers were still more than enough, and just as important, the spirit of vengeance was very much alive.

Then as promised, and with a claque at his coattails, James Lane stalked through the crowd and mounted the stage. “I know not what course others may pursue,” the senator began, “but as for me, I don't intend to leave this town until I have indemnity for the past, and security for the future.”

With that the clouds broke open and the rain came down in a roar. As the drenched crowd gathered about the speaker's stand, Lane began a rant that continued in the deluge for three solid hours. Unlike the Leavenworth harangues, however, talk of invasion was noticeably lacking. The few times he alluded to it his speech was halted by loud applause, which only caused the senator to quickly shift to slavery, Schofield, or Quantrill.

“Why the devil don't Schofield go after him, and if he can't catch him, why don't he let us? We are entitled to protection.… We've got the brains on Schofield, big! I don't pretend to hold Old Abe responsible for the acts of Schofield; I hold that officer himself responsible, and I don't think another man so deficient and wanting in brains as Schofield could be found.”

“Let's go to Missouri,” came an impatient voice over the pounding rain. “Down with Schofield and Ewing.”
³²

But other than this, little occurred save Lane telling the waterlogged crowd that Schofield would not grant them the right to enter
Missouri. And with that the meeting wound down by tamely passing resolutions. Thus, as the dispirited men splashed back home, the much-vaunted expedition to Missouri came to an end. Undoubtedly, a number of fair-weather soldiers were kept away by rain and muddy roads. A far greater number, however, had indeed taken a “sober second thought,” and when their anger cooled sufficiently it was easy to see the truth of the matter—that Generals Schofield and Ewing, along with nearly all Kansans, were striving to achieve the same goal: an end to the border war. But probably most bitter and embarrassing of all, especially for those swept right into Paola, was the dawning that once more they had been diced up and skewered for yet another political barbecue.

Even as excitement swirled in Kansas over the Paola movement, just east of the line the gears of Order No. 11 were grinding on and hurling the people from the land. At first the evacuation had been hesitant; some who left early returned again and again to haul away possessions. But as the deadline drew nigh, the trickle of refugees on the roads soon became a swift stream. Most packed what little they owned into broken-down wagons and once-splendid carriages, hitched a mule with washboard ribs, took a backward glance, and left their homes forever. The journey alone would have been enough. But there were other hazards. Ewing's men, composed almost entirely of Kansas troops, were on the roads too, waiting at fords and crossroads, ensuring that the order was obeyed, searching for weapons and other contraband. Many showed only a thimble of restraint and seized the chance to punish their old foes and steal what little remained. A number didn't even wait for the Missourians to clear their dwellings, but burst in, pushing and shoving, looting and setting fires. To protest was to invite a drawn pistol, a beating, or worse. Some were arrested and thrown into prison and never heard from again, whereas others showed up days later, floating face down in the Missouri.
³³

Near Lone Jack, shortly before the deadline, a group was loading the last of its belongings, “straining every nerve” to escape the doomed region. Just as the people were about to leave, a party of Federals rode up. After interrogating the menfolk, two were allowed to continue with the women and children but six others ranging in age from seventeen to seventy-five were held for further questioning. When the families had gone about a mile, shots were heard back up the road. Returning to the area, six bodies were found sprawled on the grass, “shockingly mangled,” some unrecognizably so. The widows could do little more than weep, bury the dead, and hurry in their
flight. “The world will doubtless be told that six more bushwhackers have been cut off,” lamented a survivor.
³⁴

As promised, George Caleb Bingham set to work on his next painting. Bingham was wealthy, and for him money had ceased to be
a concern in life. Not only was he the most sought after portraitist in Missouri but he was also one of the most accomplished landscape artists in America. Unlike his previous works, however, which so vividly expressed his own free spirit and winging optimism, Bingham knew that, when completed, the next would be stiff and ugly to behold; in creating it each stroke of the brush would be a bitter, painful reminder of a deep and personal tragedy. Passing along the roads of western Missouri, the former Union soldier witnessed for himself the suffering and confusion of his beloved countrymen. Each cruel scene that met his burning gaze became yet another terrible sketch seared forever in his mind. Eventually, the outline was complete. As for Thomas Ewing, a seat of honor in the painting was being reserved especially for him, and more than ever before the little artist was determined to cast down to “eternal infamy” the man and the deed, as he had vowed.
³⁵

But no amount of painting could undo what was already done. By September 9, two weeks after Ewing signed the paper, western Missouri was bleak and silent. Order No. 11 had been carried out, as one officer put it, “to the letter.” By day the smoke hung thick in the air, and at night the clouds above the border were streaked with red. From that time forth, the region so happy and prosperous prior to the war came to be known as simply “the burnt district.”