residence of Samuel Clark, situated three miles southeast of Stony
Point, in Jackson County. He had spent the night there and was
waiting for breakfast the next morning when Captain Peabody, at the
head of one hundred Federal cavalry, surprised the Guerrillas and
came on at the charge, shooting and yelling. Instantly dividing
the detachment in order that the position might be effectively
held, Quantrell, with nine men, took the dwelling, and Gregg, with
eight, occupied the smoke house. For a while the fighting was at
long range, Peabody holding tenaciously to the timber in front of
Clark’s, distant about one hundred yards, and refusing to come
out. Presently, however, he did an unsoldierly thing--or rather an
unskillful thing--he mounted his men and forced them to charge the
dwelling on horseback. Quantrell’s detachment reserved fire until
the foremost horseman was within thirty feet, and Gregg permitted
those operating against his position, to come even closer. Then,
a quick, sure volley, and twenty-seven men and horses went down
together. Badly demoralized, but in no manner defeated, Peabody
rallied again in the timber, while Quantrell, breaking out from
the dwelling house and gathering up Gregg as he went, charged the
Federals fiercely in return and with something of success. The
impetus of the rush carried him past a portion of the Federal line,
where some of their horses were hitched, and the return of the
wave brought with it nine valuable animals. It was over the horses
that Andrew Blunt had a hand-to-hand fight with a splendid Federal
trooper. Both were very brave.
Blunt had just joined. No one knew his history. He asked no
questions and he answered none. Some said he had once belonged to
the cavalry of the regular army; others, that behind the terrible
record of the Guerrillas he wished to find isolation. Singling
out a fine sorrel horse from among the number fastened in his
front, Blunt was just about to unhitch him when a Federal trooper,
superbly mounted, dashed down to the line and fired and missed.
Blunt left his position by the side of the horse and strode out
into the open, accepting the challenge defiantly, and closed with
his antagonist. The first time he fired he missed, although many
men believed him a better shot than Quantrell. The Federal sat on
his horse calmly and fired the second shot deliberately and again
missed. Blunt went four paces toward him, took a quick aim and
fired very much as a man would at something running. Out of the
Federal’s blue overcoat a little jet of dust spurted up and he
reeled in his seat. The man, hit hard in the breast, did not fall,
however. He gripped his saddle with his knees, cavalry fashion,
steadied himself in his stirrups and fired three times at Blunt in
quick succession. They were now but twenty paces apart, and the
Guerrilla was shortening the distance. When at ten he fired his
third shot. The heavy dragoon ball struck the gallant Federal fair
in the forehead and knocked him dead from his horse.
While the duel was in progress, brief as it was, Blunt had not
watched his rear, to gain which a dozen Federals had started from
the extreme right. He saw them, but he did not hurry. Going back
to the coveted steed, he mounted him deliberately and dashed back
through the lines closed up behind him, getting a fierce hurrah of
encouragement from his own comrades, and a wicked volley from the
enemy.
It was time. A second company of Federals in the neighborhood,
attracted by the firing, had made a junction with Peabody and were
already closing in upon the houses from the south. Surrounded now
by one hundred and sixty men, Quantrell was in almost the same
straits as at the Tate house. His horses were in the hands of
the Federals, it was some little distance to the timber, and the
environment was complete. Captain Peabody, himself a Kansas man,
knew who led the forces opposed to him and burned with a desire
to make a finish of this Quantrell and his reckless band at one
fell sweep. Not content with the one hundred and sixty men already
in positions about the house, he sent off posthaste to Pink Hill
for additional reinforcements. Emboldened also by their numbers,
the Federals had approached so close to the positions held by the
Guerrillas that it was possible for them to utilize the shelter the
fences gave. Behind these they ensconced themselves while pouring
a merciless fusillade upon the dwelling house and smoke house in
comparative immunity. This annoyed Quantrell, distressed Gregg
and made Cole Younger--one of the coolest heads in council ever
consulted--look a little anxious. Finally a solution was found.
Quantrell would draw the fire of this ambuscade; he would make the
concealed enemy show himself. Ordering all to be ready and to fire
the very moment the opportunity for execution was best, he dashed
out from the dwelling house to the smoke house, and from the smoke
house back again to the dwelling house. Eager to kill the daring
man, and excited somewhat by their own efforts made to do it, the
Federals exposed themselves recklessly. Then, owing to the short
range, the revolvers of the Guerrillas began to tell with deadly
effect. Twenty at least were shot down along the fences, and as
many more wounded and disabled. It was thirty steps from one house
to the other, yet Quantrell made the venture eight different times,
not less than one hundred men firing at him as he came and went. On
his garments there was not even the smell of fire. His life seemed
to be charmed--his person protected by some superior presence.
When at last even this artifice would no longer enable his men to
fight with any degree of equality, Quantrell determined to abandon
the houses and the horses and make a dash as of old to the nearest
timber. “I had rather lose a thousand horses,” he said, when some
one remonstrated with him, “than a single man like those who have
fought with me this day. Heroes are scarce; horses are everywhere.”
In the swift rush that came now, fortune again favored him. Almost
every revolver belonging to the Federals was empty. They had
been relying altogether upon their carbines in the fight. After
the first onset on horseback--one in which the revolvers were
principally used--they had failed to reload, and had nothing but
empty guns in their hands after Quantrell for the last time drew
their fire and dashed away on the heels of it into the timber.
Pursuit was not attempted. Enraged at the escape of the Guerrillas,
and burdened with a number of dead and wounded altogether out of
proportion to the forces engaged, Captain Peabody caused to be
burned everything upon the premises which had a plank or shingle
about it.
Something else was yet to be done. Getting out afoot as best he
could, Quantrell saw a company of cavalry making haste from toward
Pink Hill. It was but a short distance to where the road he was
skirting crossed a creek, and commanding this crossing was a
perpendicular bluff inaccessible to horsemen. Thither he hurried.
The work of ambushment was the work of a moment. George Todd,
alone of all the Guerrillas, had brought with him from the house a
shotgun. In running for life, the most of them were unencumbered.
The approaching Federals were the reinforcements Peabody had
ordered up from Pink Hill, and as Quantrell’s defense had lasted
one hour and a half, they were well on their way.
As they came to the creek, the foremost riders halted that their
horses might drink. Soon others crowded in until all the ford was
thick with animals. Just then from the bluff above a leaden rain
fell as hail might from a cloudless sky. Rearing steeds trampled
upon wounded riders; the dead dyed the clear water red. Wild panic
laid hold of the helpless mass, cut into gaps, and flight beyond
the range of the deadly revolvers came first of all and uppermost.
There was a rally, however. Once out from under the fire the
lieutenant commanding the detachment called a halt. He was full
of dash, and meant to see more of the unknown on the top of the
hill. Dismounting his men and putting himself at their head, he
turned back for a fight, marching resolutely forward to the bluff.
Quantrell waited for the attack to develop itself. The lieutenant
moved right onward. When within fifty paces of the position, George
Todd rose up from behind a rock and covered the young Federal with
his unerring shotgun. It seemed a pity to kill him, he was so brave
and collected, and yet he fell riddled just as he had drawn his
sword and shouted “Forward!” to the lagging men. At Todd’s signal
there succeeded a fierce revolver volley, and again were the
Federals driven from the hills and back towards their horses.
Satisfied with the results of this fight--made solely as a matter
of revenge for burning Clark’s buildings--Quantrell fell away from
the ford and continued his retreat on towards his rendezvous upon
the waters of the Sni. Peabody, however, had not had his way.
Coming on himself in the direction of Pink Hill, and mistaking
these reinforcements for Guerrillas, he had quite a lively fight
with them, each detachment getting in several volleys and killing
and wounding a goodly number before either discovered the mistake.
“The only prisoner I ever shot during the war,” relates Captain
Trow, “was a ‘nigger’ I captured on guard at Independence,
Missouri, who claimed that he had killed his master and burned his
houses and barns. The circumstances were these: Captain Blunt and
I one night went to town for a little spree and put on our Federal
uniforms. While there we came in contact with the camp guard,
which was a ‘nigger’ and a white man. They did not hear us until
we got right up to them, so we, claiming to be Federals, arrested
them for not doing their duty in hailing us at a distance. We took
them prisoners, disarmed them, took them down to the Fire Prairie
bottom east of Independence about ten miles, and there I thought
I would have to kill the ‘nigger’ on account of his killing his
master and burning his property. I shot him in the forehead just
above the eyes. I even put my finger in the bullet hole to be sure
I had him. The ball never entered his skull, but went round it. To
make sure of him, I shot him in the foot and he never flinched, so
I left him for dead. He came to, however, that night and crawled
out into the road, and a man from Independence came along the next
morning and took him in his wagon. This I learned several years
afterwards at Independence in a saloon when one day I chanced to be
taking a drink. There I met the ‘nigger’ whom I thought dead. He
recognized me from hearing my name spoken and asked if I remembered
shooting a ‘nigger.’ I said ‘Yes.’ I had the pleasure of taking a
drink with him.”
Jayhawkers and Militia Murder Old Man Blythe’s Son
Quantrell and His Company Were on Foot Again and Jackson County
was filled with troops. At Kansas City there was a large garrison,
with smaller ones at Independence, Pink Hill, Lone Jack, Stoney
Point and Sibley. Peabody caused the report to be circulated that
a majority of Quantrell’s men were wounded, and that if the brush
were scoured thoroughly they might be picked up here and there and
summarily disposed of. Raiding bands therefore began the hunt. Old
men were imprisoned because they could give no information of a
concealed enemy; young men murdered outright; women were insulted
and abused. The uneasiness that had heretofore rested upon the
county gave place now to a feeling of positive fear. The Jayhawkers
on one side and the militia on the other made matters hot. All
traveling was dangerous. People at night closed their eyes in dread
lest the morrow should usher in a terrible awakening. One incident
of the hunt is a bloody memory yet with many of the older settlers
of Jackson County.
An aged man by the name of Blythe, believing his own house to be
his own, fed all whom he pleased to feed, and sheltered all whom it
pleased him to shelter. Among many of his warm personal friends was
Cole Younger. The colonel commanding the fort at Independence sent
a scout one day to find Younger, and to make the country people
tell where he might be found. Old man Blythe was not at home,
but his son was, a fearless lad of twelve years. He was taken to
the barn and ordered to confess everything he knew of Quantrell,
Younger, and their whereabouts. If he failed to speak truly he was
to be killed. The boy, in no manner frightened, kept them some
moments in conversation, waiting for an opportunity to escape.
Seeing at last what he imagined to be a chance, he dashed away from
his captors and entered the house under a perfect shower of balls.
There, seizing a pistol and rushing through the back door towards
some timber, a ball struck him in the spine just as he reached the
garden fence and he fell back dying, but splendid in his boyish
courage to the last. Turning over on his face as the Jayhawkers
rushed up to finish him he shot one dead, mortally wounded another,
and severely wounded the third. Before he could shoot a fourth
time, seventeen bullets were put into his body.
It seemed as if God’s vengeance was especially exercised in the
righting of this terrible wrong. An old negro man who had happened
to be at Blythe’s house at the time, was a witness to the bloody
deed, and, afraid of his own life, ran hurriedly into the brush.
There he came unawares upon Younger, Quantrell, Haller, Todd, and
eleven of his men. Noticing the great excitement under which the
negro labored, they forced him to tell them the whole story. It
was yet time for an ambuscade. On the road back to Independence was
a pass between two embankments known as “The Blue Cut.” In width it
was about fifty yards, and the height of each embankment was about
thirty feet. Quantrell dismounted his men, stationed some at each
end of the passageway and some at the top on either side. Not a
shot was to be fired until the returning Federals had entered it,
front and rear. From the Blue Cut this fatal spot was afterwards
known as the Slaughter Pen. Of the thirty-eight Federals sent out
after Cole Younger, and who, because they could not find him, had
brutally murdered an innocent boy, seventeen were killed while
five--not too badly shot to be able to ride--barely managed to
escape into Independence, the avenging Guerrillas hard upon their
heels.
The Low House Fight
The next rendezvous was at Reuben Harris’, ten miles south of
Independence, and thither all the command went, splendidly mounted
again and eager for employment. Some days of preparation were
necessary. Richard Hall, a fighting blacksmith, who shot as well as
he shod, and knew a trail as thoroughly as a piece of steel, had
need to exercise much of his handiwork in order to make the horses
good for cavalry. Then there were several rounds of cartridges to
make. A Guerrilla knew nothing whatever of an ordnance master. His
laboratory was in his luck. If a capture did not bring him caps, he
had to fall back on ruse, or strategem, or blockade-running square
out. Powder and lead in the raw were enough, for if with these he
could not make himself presentable at inspection he had no calling
as a fighter in the brush.
It was Quantrell’s intention at this time to attack Harrisonville,
the county seat of Cass County, and capture it if possible. With
this object in view, and after every preparation was made for a
vigorous campaign, he moved eight miles east of Independence,
camping near the Little Blue, in the vicinity of Job Crabtree’s.
He camped always near or in a house. For this he had two reasons.
First, that its occupants might gather up for him all the news
possible; and, second, that in the event of a surprise a sure
rallying point would always be at hand. He had a theory that after
a Guerrilla was given time to get over the first effects of a
sudden charge or ambushment the very nature of his military status
made him invincible; that after an opportunity was afforded him to
think, a surrender was next to impossible.
Before there was time to attack Harrisonville, however, a scout
reported Peabody again on the war path, this time bent on an utter
extermination of the Guerrillas, and he well-nigh kept his word.
From Job Crabtree’s, Quantrell had moved to an unoccupied house
known as the Low house, and then from this house he had gone to
some contiguous timber to bivouac for the night. About ten o’clock
the sky suddenly became overcast, a fresh wind blew from the east,
and rain fell in torrents. Again the house was occupied, the horses
being hitched along the fence in the rear of it, the door on the
south, the only door, having a bar across it in lieu of a sentinel.
Such soldiering was perfectly inexcusable, and it taught Quantrell
a lesson to remember until the day of his death.
In the morning preceding the day of the attack Lieutenant Nash,
of Peabody’s regiment, commanding two hundred men, had struck
Quantrell’s trail, but lost it later on, and then found it again
just about sunset. He was informed of Quantrell’s having gone from
the Low house to the brush and of his having come back to it when
the rain began falling heavily. To a certain extent this seeking
shelter was a necessity on the part of Quantrell. The men had no
cartridge boxes, and not all of them had overcoats. If once their
ammunition were damaged, it would be as though sheep should attack
wolves.
Nash, supplied with everything needed for the weather, waited
patiently for the Guerrillas to become snugly settled under
shelter, and then surrounded the house. Before a gun was fired the
Federals had every horse belonging to the Guerrillas, and were
bringing to bear every available carbine in command upon the only
door. At first all was confusion. Across the logs that once had
supported an upper floor some boards had been laid, and sleeping
upon them were Todd, Blunt and William Carr. Favored by the almost
impenetrable darkness, Quantrell determined upon an immediate
abandonment of the house. He called loudly twice for all to follow
him and dashed through the door under a galling fire. Those in
the loft did not hear him, and maintained in reply to the Federal
volleys a lively fusillade. Then Cole Younger, James Little, Joseph
Gilchrist and a young Irish boy--a brave new recruit--turned back
to help their comrades. The house became a furnace. At each of the
two corners on the south side four men fought, Younger calling on
Todd in the intervals of every volley to come out of the loft and
come to the brush. They started at last. It was four hundred yards
to the nearest shelter, and the ground was very muddy. Gilchrist
was shot down, the Irish boy was killed, Blunt was wounded and
captured, Carr surrendered, Younger had his hat shot away, Little
was unhurt, and Todd, scratched in four places, finally got safely
to the timber. But it was a miracle. Twenty Federals singled him
out as well as they could in the darkness and kept close at his
heels, firing whenever a gun was loaded. Todd had a musket which,
when it seemed as if they were all upon him at once, he would point
at the nearest and make pretense of shooting. When they halted
and dodged about to get out of range, he would dash away again,
gaining what space he could until he had to turn and re-enact the
same unpleasant pantomime. Reaching the woods at last, he fired
point blank, and in reality now, killing with a single discharge
one pursuer and wounding four. Part of Nash’s command were still on
the track of Quantrell, but after losing five killed and a number
wounded, they returned again to the house, but returned too late
for the continued battle. The dead and two prisoners were all that
were left for them.
Little Blue was bank full and the country was swarming with
militia. For the third time Quantrell was afoot with unrelenting
pursuers upon his trail in every direction. At daylight Nash would
be after him again, river or no river. He must get over or fare
worse. The rain was still pouring down; muddy, forlorn, well-nigh
worn out, yet in no manner demoralized, just as Quantrell reached
the Little Blue he saw on the other bank Toler, one of his own
soldiers, sitting in a canoe. Thence forward the work of crossing
was easy, and Nash, coming on an hour afterwards, received a
volley at the ford where he expected to find a lot of helpless and
unresisting men.
This fight at the Low house occurred the first week in May, 1862,
and caused the expedition against Harrisonville to be abandoned.
Three times surprised and three times losing all horses, saddles,
and bridles, it again became necessary to disband the Guerrillas
in this instance as in the preceding two. The men were dismissed
for thirty days with orders to remount themselves, while
Quantrell--taking Todd into his confidence and acquainting him
fully with his plans--started in his company for Hannibal. It had
become urgently necessary to replenish the supply of revolver caps.
The usual trade with Kansas City was cut off. Of late the captures
had not been as plentiful as formerly. Recruits were coming in, and
the season for larger operations was at hand. In exploits where
peril and excitement were about evenly divided, Quantrell took
great delight. He was so cool, so calm; he had played before such a
deadly game; he knew so well how to smile when a smile would win,
and when to frown when a frown was a better card to play, that
something in this expedition appealed to every quixotic instinct of
his intrepidity. Todd was all iron; Quantrell all glue. Todd would
go at a circular saw; Quantrell would sharpen its teeth and grease
it where there was friction. One purred and killed, and the other
roared and killed. What mattered the mode, however, only so the end
was the same?
Quantrell and Todd Go After Ammunition
Clad in the full uniform of Federal majors--a supply of which
Quantrell kept always on hand, even in a day so early in the war
as this--Quantrell and Todd rode into Hamilton, a little town on
the Hannibal & St. Louis Railroad, and remained for the night at
the principal hotel. A Federal garrison was there--two companies
of Iowa infantry--and the captain commanding took a great fancy to
Todd, insisting that he should leave the hotel for his quarters and
share his blankets with him.
Two days were spent in Hannibal, where an entire Feneral regiment
was stationed. Here Quantrell was more circumspect. When asked to
give an account of himself and his companion, he replied promptly
that Todd was a major of the Sixth Missouri Cavalry and himself
the major of the Ninth. Unacquainted with either organization, the
commander at Hannibal had no reason to believe otherwise. Then
he asked about that special cut-throat Quantrell. Was it true
that he fought under a black flag? Had he ever really belonged to
the Jayhawkers? How much truth was there in the stories of the
newspapers about his operations and prowess? Quantrell became
voluble. In rapid yet picturesque language he painted a perfect
picture of the war along the border. He told of Todd, Jarrette,
Blunt, Younger, Haller, Poole, Shepherd, Gregg, Little, the
Cogers, and all of his best men just as they were, and himself
also just as he was, and closed the conversation emphatically by
remarking: “If you were here, Colonel, surrounded as you are by a
thousand soldiers, and they wanted you, they would come and get
you.”
From Hannibal--after buying quietly and at various times and in
various places fifty thousand revolver caps--Quantrell and Todd
went boldly into St. Joseph. This city was full of soldiers.
Colonel Harrison B. Branch was there in command of a regiment
of militia--a brave, conservative, right-thinking soldier--and
Quantrell introduced himself to Branch as Major Henderson of
the Sixth Missouri. Todd, by this time, had put on, in lieu of
a major’s epaulettes, with its distinguishing leaf, the barred
ones of a captain. “Too many majors traveling together,” quaintly
remarked Todd, “are like too many roses in a boquet: the other
flowers don’t have a chance. Let me be a captain for the balance of
the trip.”