A GORY RECORD.
"Oh, the dread of by-gone days!--
A fearful tale they tell,
When rung the woodland echoes round
To warlike shout and yell,
When fiercely met the hostile bands,
And deadly grew the strife,
And wildly, with the clash of arms,
Went up the shriek for life."
The cruel strife of the border can never be forgotten. Those were
tragic days, the very remembrance of which comes like a dream of
sorrow and desolation of soul. It is well that such terrible times
have passed away, for to those who were exposed to the fury of
that tidal-wave of passion, which swept over the fair borderland,
physical existence must have been a wheel of pain. But the mighty
procession of the ages, sweeping by, will soon obliterate the
traces of the storm's ravages, and only the dim legends of horrible
deeds will remain.
In that dreadful ebullition of human hatreds, Frank and Jesse James
played no laggard's part. As boys, they accepted service under
Quantrell, and became renowned for caution and daring even in the
days of their youth. Members of a partisan organization, famed even
in the early days of the strife for daring deeds and extraordinary
activity; a band, every man of which was a desperado of great
cunning and prowess, these two callow-youths, taken from a country
farm, speedily rose to the eminence of leading spirits among the
most daring of men. Both sides in the border counties of Missouri
and Kansas prosecuted war with a vindictive fury unparalleled in
modern history. The scene of the operations of the Guerrillas was
at first confined to the limits of Clay, Platte, Jackson, Bates,
Henry, Johnson, and Lafayette counties, in Missouri, and along the
Kansas border.
These men rode far and fast in the night time, and fought their
foes at early dawn. Living in out-of-the-way neighborhoods were
their friends. When pressed hard they disbanded and scattered, and
rendered all pursuit futile.
Frank and Jesse James early discovered those traits of character
which have rendered them famous as the greatest outlaws and
freebooters of modern times. They became scouts and spies for
Quantrell at the beginning of their career, and showed themselves
possessors of remarkable capacity for such service. They were cool
and brave, fertile in resources, and marvelous in cunning.
After Lawrence came the disbandment, and with the disbandment
came that strange training in individual development and personal
reliance which have made the Boys objects of fear to the people of
many regions, and enabled them to plunder at will, baffle pursuit,
and defy the civil authorities of great States.
They had hiding places with friends in Clay, Platte, Jackson,
Johnson, Cass and Lafayette counties, and when the Guerrilla band
to which they belonged scattered in order to evade pursuers, the
Boys retired to the dwellings of their friends and rested in peace
till the time of re-organizing, when an enemy was to be punished.
Perhaps no two individuals ever lived on this continent who have
taken so many lives, as the James Boys. Emerging from the seclusion
which they could always find in the Hudspeth neighborhood, in
the eastern part of Jackson county, in July, 1863, with Captain
George Todd, a redoubtable Guerrilla chieftain, with whose command
Frank and Jesse often fought, they struck the road leading from
Pleasant Hill to Blue Springs. Major Ransom, a Federal officer with
a cavalry force, was traveling that road at the time. A collision
took place. The fighting was savage. The volleys of revolver
bullets fired by the Guerrillas proved awfully destructive to
their opponents. Jesse and Frank James have been credited with a
tremendous destruction of life--Jesse killing seven, and, Frank
eight men in the Federal ranks during that encounter.
One night Frank James and five or six of his comrades were detailed
to capture and kill the militia men who were accustomed to frequent
a bagnio, four miles east of Wellington, in Lafayette county.
Frank James preceded the little band, and, creeping up under
the window, he saw the company inside. There were eleven men in
dalliance with the women. James returned to his comrades, reported
the result of his observations, and the Guerrillas rode to the
house. A peremptory summons brought the militiamen to the yard. The
Guerrillas poured a volley of bullets among them. The ten men fell,
pierced by the deadly missiles. But where was the eleventh man?
There had been that number in the house when James saw the company,
and the man could not have left the place. A search was instituted.
The man could not be found. But there was one woman more in the
party than had been seen before. A candle was procured and a
search instituted among them. They all appeared to be women. Frank
James discovered the man. He was a youth, fair skinned and blue
eyed, with long brown hair. His features were handsome, and in the
garments of a woman he appeared not unlike a fresh country girl.
Of course he expected to die there. His ten companions presented
the spectacle of a ghastly wreck of humanity in the yard as they
lay there cold in death. But he plead for his life. He was so young
to die. "Here, Frank, take him," said the leader. "You discovered
him; he is yours to deal with." It was a sentence of death, they
said. The boy thought so, and hope vanished. "Come," said Frank,
"come along and be shot." The poor youth trembled in every nerve.
He could scarcely walk. His supposed executioner had to assist him
down the steps and out through the yard. They passed the ghastly
heap of corpses, lying there in the dim starlight. They went away,
into the darkness under the sombre trees, down the road. Poor boy,
he thought of his mother. Under the wide-spreading branches of an
ancient oak they halted. "Here! we are far enough," said Frank
James. The poor youth almost fell to the earth from excess of
emotion. To die, and so young, and in such a way, too! "Oh, spare
me for the sake of my mother!" he wailed. "You are free to go! I
give you your life. You are outside of the pickets, outside of
danger. Go, and be quick about it!" And at that moment Frank James
fired a pistol shot upward through the branches of the oak, and
the fair haired boy soldier disappeared in the darkness--spared
for the sake of his mother by the youthful desperado. Frank James
returned to his comrades. They had heard the shot and naturally
concluded that it meant one more life ended. Frank assumed a grave
expression. "Quick work," remarked a comrade. "Yes," returned the
Guerrilla, "babies and boys are not hard to kill." He never spoke
of that better deed he performed out there, with only the stars and
God as witnesses.
[Illustration: A Deed of Mercy.]
And the border strife went on. Frank and Jesse rode with Quantrell,
sometimes with Todd and Poole, then again they fought at unexpected
times by the side of John Jarrette, and Bill Anderson, and Arch
Clements. One week they would be charging Blunt's Body Guard in
Southeastern Kansas; the next they would ambush a moving column
of Federal militia in Lafayette, or Jackson county, Missouri.
It was fighting--cruel, savage fighting, all the while. In the
bottom lands along the Blue, or among the Sni hills, when hotly
pursued, they would find hiding places, from whence they emerged
only to deal out destruction and death. Down to Texas, marching
with the close of autumn, like migratory birds, they returned
to their old haunts with the bright spring days. Deceiving and
cutting to pieces Lieut. Nash's small command in the road west of
Warrensburg, on a Monday, we hear of their successfully ambushing
a column of Union militia on the banks of the Little Blue on the
succeeding Wednesday, and a few days afterwards we hear of Frank
and Jesse playing "the trumps" of revolver bullets among a squad
of rollicking soldier gamesters at Camden; then again they are
heard of with Todd, riding down the road from Independence toward
Harrisonville, where, seven miles from the former place, they
encounter Captain Wagner, of the Second Colorado Cavalry, and
engage in a terrible hand-to-hand conflict in which Jesse James
takes the life of the Captain, and with his deadly aim sends seven
of Wagner's men to the bourne of the dead. On the same occasion
Frank, riding furiously among the Federal cavalrymen, deals death
to eight of them. So the spring and summer of 1864 was passing with
these men engaged in deeds of blood.
It was in the last days of July of 1864, that Arch Clements and
Jesse James were riding along a country road one evening, when they
discovered four militiamen in an orchard gathering apples. Two of
the men were in one tree and two in another. Without ceremony
the Guerrillas shot them as they would have shot squirrels from a
forest tree, and jested of the deed as they might have jested over
the fall of wild beasts.
It was about this time that Frank James had a thrilling adventure.
He had been ordered out on a scout to ascertain the movements
of the Federals in Jackson and Cass counties. It was a period
of deep anxiety to the Guerrilla leaders, as it appeared that
special efforts were being made by the Federal militia, and several
companies of the Second Colorado Cavalry, to capture all the
irregular Confederates found in the State of Missouri. Frank had
reached the Independence and Harrisonville road at a point about
midway between the two towns. As he passed through the country
he ascertained that a force of infantry and cavalry were at a
house some miles away from the road. How many there were in this
detachment he could not learn. But he resolved to investigate.
Taking a neighborhood path, not much traveled, he rode toward
the Federal encampment. On the roadside was a lonely cabin, now
uninhabited, as he believed. He examined the indications, and rode
on. At the cabin the road made a short turn. When Frank turned
around the corner of the old cabin, two militiamen presented their
muskets and commanded him to halt. In an instant the ready pistol
was snatched from its place by the Guerrilla, and even before
the militiaman could fire, the bullet from Frank's pistol had
penetrated his brain, and he fell in the agonies of death to the
earth. At the very instant of firing, Frank put spurs to his horse
and galloped away, turning and firing at the remaining guard as
he did so, and wounding him unto death just as he was in the act
of firing at the daring rider. The bullet from the militiaman's
gun whistled within an inch of Frank James' ear as it sped on its
harmless mission. The picket post where the firing took place was
within a few hundred yards of a camp where a hundred militiamen,
and half that number of cavalrymen, who rode good horses, were
taking their dinners. Frank, surmising that the two soldiers with
whom he had the combat were on guard duty close to camp, and that
an alarm and pursuit would follow, rode with all speed toward the
Guerrilla camp. He was pursued, as he expected, but he easily
eluded the Coloradoans.
[Illustration: A Narrow Escape.]
In August--it was the 12th day of that month, 1864, that Jesse and
Frank participated with their comrades, Todd, Anderson and others,
in a desperate conflict in Ray county, Missouri. Again the deadly
revolvers, in the hands of the boys, accomplished fatal results.
Between the two, seven fellow-beings were sent to the silent realms
of death.
Two days afterward they were at the Flat Rock Ford, on Grand river,
and a desperate struggle with some Federal militia and volunteers
ensued. During that fight Jesse was struck by a musket ball which
tore through his breast, cut into and through his left lung,
and caused him to fall. His comrades carried him away. At length
he was transported to the house of Captain John A. M. Rudd. The
wound was a dangerous one, and all expected it would prove fatal.
Jesse believed so himself, and took from his finger a ring which
he charged his friends to carry to his sister, Miss Susie James,
and give her also his dying message, which was, "I have no regret.
I've done what I thought was right. I die contented." This event
occurred August 16th, 1864. By the 7th of September he had so far
recovered as to be able to ride and fight again.
On the 12th of September Jesse and Frank rode away with Lieutenant
George Shepherd, from the Guerrilla rendezvous at Judge Gray's,
near Bone Hill, Jackson county, for a raid into Clay county. At
this time he visited his mother. On the 16th of September Jesse
James killed three militiamen in an encounter near Keytesville,
Chariton county, Missouri. He was now so far recovered as to
perform the services of a scout.
On the 17th he rode twenty-nine miles in the night time, through
a country swarming with militia, to advise Todd concerning the
movements of the Federal forces.
On the 20th of September, 1864, occurred the battle of Fayette,
Missouri. The whole of Quantrell's band was concentrated for the
purpose of making this attack. All the chieftains were present,
Quantrell and Anderson, Poole and Clements. During the assault
on the stockade, Lee McMurtry was desperately wounded close up to
the enemy's position. Jesse and McMurtry were comrades, and he
would not allow his friend to fall into the hands of the Federals
if he could help it. He rushed up to where the wounded man lay,
and though exposed to a terrible fire, he carried away his wounded
friend without receiving any injury. The Guerrillas were driven
from Fayette.
At this time the various bands seemed to accept the leadership of
Bill Anderson, who was then gathering forces for the Centralia
expedition. Quantrell separated from him, and returned to a secure
place of repose in Howard county.
Todd and Poole and the James boys, Pringle, the scalper, the
two Hills and Clements, indeed, all of the most desperate of
the Guerrilla gang followed the black banner of the most savage
Guerrilla that ever trod the soil of Missouri.
The 27th of September, 1864, must ever be a memorable day in the
annals of the civil war in Missouri. On that day, with a flag black
as the raven's wing, and ominous of the coming night of death, Bill
Anderson rode to Centralia, a village in the northeastern part of
Boone county, Mo., on the line of the St. Louis, Kansas City and
Northern Railroad. He was not long idle. A train of cars drew up
to the depot. There were soldiers and citizens on that train. Very
few of the former, however, were armed. Only a few guns, at any
rate, were fired. The train and its passengers were completely
at the mercy of the Guerrillas. The Federal soldiers and citizen
passengers were formed in a line. Then a separation of citizens
and soldiers took place. Twenty-eight soldiers and four citizens
who wore blue blouses were selected, marched out and shot with an
atrocious haste that would make even the cruel Kurds shudder. In
this bloody tragedy, Frank and Jesse James were prominent actors.
Scarcely had this butchery been consummated, when Major Johnson,
in command of about 100 Iowa cavalrymen, came upon the scene.
The force of the Guerrillas under command of Todd numbered more
than two hundred men, and as both were determined, a desperate
fight ensued. But the impetuous charge of the Guerrillas, led by
George Todd, broke the lines of the Iowans, and a panic ensued
among them. Major Johnson made gallant effort to rally his men. It
was in vain. The furious riders dashed among them and shot them
down like so many panic-stricken sheep. Jesse James, mounted on a
superb horse, rode directly at Major Johnson. The issue was not
doubtful. The deadly aim of the Guerrilla soon laid him stark and
still on the prairie. It was all over with him, and also for the
men he commanded that morning. Appeals for mercy were of no avail.
The vanquished Federals were massacred. Frank James was equally
active with his brother. He is credited with having taken the lives
of eight men that day. It was a day of horror, and the partisan
rangers revelled in the carnage.
After Centralia came hard knocks. In one of the fights immediately
succeeding the Centralia holocaust, Dick Kinney, a noted Guerrilla,
received his death wound. He was Frank James' comrade, and he fell
heir to the pistol which Kinney had worn. On the handle of this
weapon were fifty notches, each notch signifying one. He had killed
fifty men. Frank James probably has the pistol yet.
In a corner of Clay county lived an old man named Banes. He was a
staunch Union man, and blessed the Guerrillas with the same kind of
blessing that Balak desired Balaam to bestow upon Israel. Banes was
particularly severe in his condemnation of Jesse and Frank James.
One night the boys went to Bane's house under the guise of Colorado
troopers. The old man received them gladly, and at once unbosomed
himself freely in regard to the Guerrillas. In the course of his
remarks he animadverted on Mrs. Samuels, the mother of the boys, in
bitter terms. He denounced her as being "the mother of two devils,
Jesse and Frank James." The boys secured his confidence, and then
a promise of immediate assistance in hunting up the desperadoes.
Banes got his gun and pistols and saddled his horse, mounted and
rode out to his death, for when the trio had gone about half a mile
away from the house, the pretended soldiers announced themselves as
the James boys, and gave him no space for repentance. Two pistol
shots rang out on the still night, a heavy body fell to the earth,
and then the living men rode away, leaving a cold form of mortality
out under the stars.
With difficulty the Guerrillas made their way to their haunts
on the Blackwater. Fighting was going on constantly. The shadow
of death was gathering over many a bold rider of the Guerrilla
band. Moving out from their camp on the Blackwater, one day, the
Guerrillas fell into an ambuscade, and several received wounds.
Among those thus wounded was Jesse James, who had his horse killed
and received a shot through the leg.
Todd was sent out to skirmish with the advance guard of the
Federal army then following the retiring army of General Price. At
every creek there was a battle, and at every encounter there was
bloodshed. In one of these fights, when the leaves were all falling
on the brown earth, George Todd was killed. In the night time his
followers came to pay the last tribute of respect to his remains.
There were not many who gathered there in the gloom of the midnight
to gaze for the last time on the face of the courageous Guerrilla,
but among them were Jesse and Frank James, and they pointed their
pistols toward the cloud-veiled, teary sky, and swore to avenge his
death.
But the old band was broken up. Late in October, 1864, Jesse and
Frank parted, the former with Shepherd went to Texas, the latter
with Quantrell to Kentucky.
It proved to be the final dissolution of Quantrell's once
formidable force of partisans. George Todd, the Paladine of the
command, the leader who was persistent and daring, slept quietly
after the fierce turmoil of life's battlefield had ended. John
Poole, another hard rider, desperate fighter and dauntless leader,
mouldered in a gory grave. John Jarrette and Cole Younger had
sometime before separated from the band, and were operating in the
far South where the magnolias grow and the moss-bearded live-oaks
stand sentinels in the fever-haunted swamps. Fernando Scott
was dead. Bill Anderson had fallen in a terrible combat while
endeavoring to effect a crossing of the Missouri river in Howard
county. As he had lived for some years, grimly fighting, so in
the last extremity when the odds were all against him and unseen
messengers of death burdened the air with their low-hummed dirges,
his life went out while he still fought in the very shades of
despair. Kinney was dead, and many more had surrendered life in the
hot simoon of battle.
And what a band it had been, which was now broken! Its deeds must
ever remain a part of the history of Missouri, and the chapter
wherein the record is made will always be read with a shudder,
and in years to come men will remember the mournful story of
devastation and death with feelings of painful regret that human
beings could so revel in the miseries and misfortunes of whole
communities.
To those who can calmly sit and look down the vista of the dead
years and recall without prejudice the history of men who were
authors of deeds so notable--actions which, performed under other
circumstances, would have made heroes of deathless fame, there must
come a feeling of regret that such men should have been the victims
of a baleful destiny.