there was none to invoke a blessing on him. General Robinson went out to
receive him, and some one suggested that the chief magistrate appointed
by the President ought to be received with cheers. The door of the room
where the murdered body lay was open, and men saw it, as they passed in
and out. The sobs of the broken hearted widow were heard from the room
adjoining. His reception was very much like that of Richard Third, who
caused the murder of his brother’s children. John Bradford went through
a formal introduction to Governor Shannon, but Katie turned quickly
away, saying, “If _he_ had done his duty, this would not have happened.”
The brothers of William Bruce turned away also, and said coldly, “We
have no faith in that man.” The Governor saw plainly enough that the
blood of Kansas was up to fever heat, and that it was prudent to cool it
down. He was very courteous and conciliatory, and promised to disperse
the bands of ruffians at Franklin and elsewhere. General Robinson
co-operated with him in these efforts at pacification. He addressed the
people in a speech setting forth mutual mistakes and misrepresentations,
which he trusted time would correct. He had always shown himself brave
in danger, and they knew that he was cautious for the good of Kansas,
not for his own interest or safety. Most of them yielded to his
arguments, and accepted his invitation to a supper at the Free State
Hotel, in honor of peace restored. But some walked away, contemptuously,
saying, “Governor _Sham_!”
The settlers, far and near, formed a procession to escort the body of
William Bruce to its last resting place. Alice kept up her strength to
witness all the ceremonies, and only low stifled sobs came from her
breaking heart when the coffin was lowered from her sight. But after
that she broke down rapidly. The long-continued pressure of fears and
horrors had completely shattered her nervous system. She rejected food,
and seemed never to sleep. As she appeared to feel more at home with
Katie, than she did with any one else, they concluded to establish her
in the humble apartment where she had first lived with William. Pale and
silent she had been ever since she lost him; but gradually a strange
fixed expression came over her face, as if the body was vacated by the
soul. Soon she was utterly helpless, and Katie fed and tended her, as
if she were an infant. The winter proved, as the Indians had predicted,
cold beyond any within the memory of man. The settlers, many of them
plundered of all their money, and most of their clothing, suffered
cruelly. Not a few of them returned to their homes in Ohio,
Pennsylvania, and New England. Indications multiplied that peace would
be of short duration. Poor Kate! How she had changed! Thin as a
skeleton, with eyes so large and bright! But thinking always of others
before herself, she said, “Mother, dear, worse troubles are coming upon
us, than we have ever had. John and I have resolved that, living or
dying, we will abide by Kansas. But had’nt you, and Flora, and Tom,
better return to Massachusetts?”
The mother looked at her younger children and awaited their answer. “I
have lived through scenes that make men of boys,” said Thomas. “I will
have a free home, or a grave, in Kansas.”
“And you Flora?” inquired the mother.
“The men of Kansas have need of nurses for the sick and wounded,” she
replied, “I will stay and help Katie.”
“I will abide by my children, my _brave_ children,” said the mother.
“God help us all to do our duty!”
Alice sat bolstered in her chair by the fire, unconscious of the solemn
compact. “Alas,” said Katie, “how I wish we could convey her safely to
her mother! but she is too feeble to be removed.”
Emerging from the terrible winter of 1855, the returning sunshine
brought some gleams of hope to the suffering colony. They hoped that
more emigrants would come in, and they knew the fertile soil would yield
abundant crops, if there were hands to till it. But the Border Ruffians
soon dashed the cup of pleasant anticipation from their lips. They swore
they would stop all Yankee emigrants from going into Kansas; and they
renewed their threats to “wipe out Lawrence.” Again they made inroads
into the Territory, robbing the already impoverished settlers, and
especially seeking to deprive them of arms. During one of these forays,
they seized a woman, whom they suspected of concealing ammunition, and
dragged her into the woods, where she was subjected to their brutal
outrages.
When Kate Bradford heard of this, her naturally pleasant countenance
assumed an expression stern almost to fierceness. “I called them
_savages_” she said, “when they scalped some of their victims; but I did
injustice to the savages; for, in their worst cruelties, _they_ always
respected the modesty of women.” From that time, she practiced with
rifle and pistol, and became expert in using them. A similar spirit was
roused in several of the women, who agreed to act under her command, if
the emergencies of the time required it. Circumstances had goaded her
to this. Her nature was kindly as ever, and she prayed fervently to God
that no blood might ever rest upon her hands. All along, she had been
sustained by the belief that aid would come to Kansas. She had such
pride in American institutions, she _could_ not believe that the
government of her country was in league with such abominations and
outrages, until the return of messenger after messenger sent to
Washington, made the damning proof too strong to be resisted. Then her
old love of New England increased a hundred-fold; for all her hopes
centred _there_. The Pilgrims that came over in the May Flower, the men
and women of ’76, had always been the heroes of her imagination; and the
crisis, in which she now found _herself_ living and acting, rendered
_their_ crown of glory more luminous in her memory. “Massachusetts will
help us,” she was wont to say, with somewhat of filial pride in the
confident tones of her voice. “_Massachusetts_ will not look on with
indifference, while her emigrant children are driven into a pen-fold to
be slaughtered like sheep, by those whom long habits of slaveholding
have made familiar with every form of violence and wrong.”
Drearily, drearily, the weeks passed away. Men and women were limping
about, with feet that had been frozen during the winter’s severest cold.
Many had no guns to shoot game, to protect them from the wolves, or from
enemies far worse than wolves. Their ammunition had been stolen from
them, provisions were intercepted on the way, and every breeze brought
rumours that the ruffians were making ready to “wipe out Lawrence.”
Newspapers from the North, and letters from friends, were long delayed,
and often destroyed on the way. The haggard settlers looked at each
other with forlorn helplessness. They had reached the extremest point of
desolation. Still John and Katie said, “Massachusetts will help us.
_Depend_ upon it, Massachusetts will not desert her children in their
utmost need.” And other brave hearts responded to the cheering words,
saying, “Ohio will help us.” “Connecticut will not forget us.” “Illinois
will come to the rescue.”
They had said this to each other, at the close of one of their darkest
days, when lo! a messenger, sent to Kansas city for letters and papers
consigned to a friend there, was seen riding across the prairie. Through
various perils, he had brought the packages safely to Lawrence. They
were seized and torn open with eager, trembling hands. A crowd of men
and women assembled at the printing-office, to hear the news. Mr.
Bradford was reading aloud to them, when his countenance suddenly fell.
“Go on! Go on!” cried the anxious listeners. He gasped out,” “The
Legislature of Texas has voted to give fifty thousand dollars to make
Kansas a Slave State.”
“And Massachusetts? What has Massachusetts done?” asked Kate, with
nervous eagerness.
He lowered his eyes, as one ashamed of his mother, while he answered,
“The Legislature of Massachusetts has voted not to give one dollar to
make Kansas a Free State.”
In the midst of all the sufferings that had harrowed her soul, Katie had
always remained calm and collected. Now, for the first time, she groaned
aloud; and, throwing her arms wildly toward heaven, she exclaimed, in
tones of bitter anguish, “Oh, Massachusetts! How I have _loved_ thee!
How I have _trusted_ in thee!” Then bowing her head in her hands, she
sobbed out, “I _could_ not have believed it.” But Massachusetts was far
off. The Governor and Legislature of her native state did not hear her
appeal. They were busy with other things that came home to their
_business_, not to their _bosoms_.
* * * * *
On the 21st of May, 1856, Lawrence _was_ “wiped out.” Companies of
Ruffians encamped around it; a furious tipsy crew, in motley garments.
One band carried a banner with a tiger ready to spring; the motto, “You
Yankees tremble! and abolitionists fall?” Another carried a flag marked,
“South Carolina,” with a crimson star in the centre, the motto,
“Southern Rights.” Over Mount Oread floated a blood-red pirate flag, fit
emblem of the Border Ruffians; and by its side, a suitable companion for
it now, floated the United States flag. What cared New England that
_her_ six stars were there, in shameful “Union” with that blood-red
flag?
President Pierce issued a proclamation, which made it treason for the
citizens to defend themselves. The best and truest men were arrested and
imprisoned as traitors, because they had no respect for the laws passed
upon them by a Missouri rabble, with bowie-knives and revolvers.
The printing-press was broken in pieces; the types scattered; the Free
State Hotel demolished; General Robinson’s house, with its valuable
library, burned to the ground; and many of the cabins set on fire. No
time was allowed to remove any thing from the dwellings. Trunks and
bureaus were ransacked; daguerreotypes and pictures of dear home friends
were cut and smashed; and letters scattered and trampled in the mud. The
women and children had been ordered out, at the commencement of these
outrages. Mothers were weeping, as they fled across the prairies, and
the poor bewildered little ones were screaming and crying in every
direction.
What cared New England that _her_ six stars were looking down upon the
scene, in shameful “Union” with that blood-red flag?
Above the noise of tumbling stones, and crackling roofs, and screaming
children, rose that horrid yell of the Border Ruffians. “Damn the
Yankees!” “Give ’em hell!”
A figure, tall as Ajax, loomed up above the savage crowd, calling out,
“I’m down on all _sich_ fixens. Allers tole yer ’twas darned mean to
come over into the Territory an vote for these fellers. I’m pro-slave
myself. I’d like to see him that dar’d to call me an abolitionist; but I
tell yer what, boys, this ere’s cuttin up a little _too_ high.” He was
interrupted with shouts of, “Hold your jaw!” “Shut up! you damned ole
fool!” Still he remonstrated: “This is a breakin down the rights o’
American citizens. You might jist as well smash my ole woman’s bureau.
Them ar traps are personal property. I’m down on all sich fixens.”
“Pitch into him!” cried the rabble; and they did “pitch into him,” amid
yells and laughter. Tom Thorpe was silenced. He learned the uselessness
of trying to moderate slavery, or ameliorate murder.
Katie’s first care had been to consign little Johnny to her brother; and
the next was to place the helpless Alice in her mother’s arms, to be
conveyed to a hut half a mile off. Then she held a hurried conference
with her husband about a suitable place to conceal some fire-arms for
future use; and snatching up a box of letters and small valuables, she
fled with Flora, pistol in hand. When Alice had been cared for, as well
as the exigencies of the moment would permit, she ran back to aid some
of her sickly neighbours, who were breaking down with the weight of
their clinging children. Then, swift as an ostrich, the daring woman ran
back to Lawrence, to pick up some of the scattered clothes and bedding,
which her husband and his neighbours carried off as fast as she could
heap it on their shoulders. The Ruffians were so busy with the
printing-press and the Hotel, and she watched opportunities so
cautiously, that she had rescued many things from the wreck, before they
noticed her. They drove her off with oaths and ribald jests. She stood
within sight of her blazing home, and her hand was on her pistol. The
temptation was strong. But she remembered the oft-repeated words of
General Robinson: “Act _only_ on the defensive. Make no aggressions.
Keep the cause of Kansas sacred.” She only turned upon her pursuers to
say, “You _think_ you have silenced the Herald of Freedom, because you
have demolished the printing-press; but you are mistaken. That trumpet
will sound across the prairies yet.”
“What a hell of a woman!” exclaimed one of the mob; and they laughed
aloud in their drunken mirth, while the lurid flame of blazing homes
lighted her across the prairies.
What cared New England that _her_ six stars were looking down upon the
scene, in shameful “Union” with that blood-red flag?
* * * * *
The rapid removal of Alice, and the discomforts of her situation in the
empty hut, brought on fever. In states of half wakefulness, she murmured
continually, “I want my _mother_! I want to go home to my _mother_!”
“Yes, dear, you _shall_ go home,” said Katie, tenderly smoothing back
her straggling hair. “Who _are_ you?” inquired the sufferer. “I am
Katie. Don’t you know Katie?” The words seemed to waken no remembrance.
She closed her eyes, and tears oozed slowly from them, as she murmured
piteously, “I want to go home to my _mother_.”
In this state of half consciousness she lingered two or three days. It
was a mild, bright morning, and the terraced hills looked beautiful in
the golden light, when she woke from a deep slumber, with a natural
expression in her eyes, and asked, “Where am I?” “You are in Kansas,
dear,” replied Katie. A shadow passed quickly over the thin pale face,
and she pressed her emaciated hand against her heart. Again the eyelids
closed, and the tears oozed through, as she answered feebly, “Yes--I
remember.”
All was still, still, in the wilderness. The human wolves were for the
present glutted with their prey, and Lawrence lay silent in its ruins.
Mr. Bradford was in prison, in danger of a traitor’s death. The inmates
of the hut looked at each other mournfully, but no one spoke. Presently,
the invalid made a restless movement, and Katie stooped over her, to
moisten her parched lips. She opened her eyes, which now seemed
illuminated with a preternatural, prophetic light; and, for the first
time since her husband was murdered, she smiled. “Oh, Katie,” she said,
“I have been with William, having such a happy time walking over the
hills! From Mount Oread, he showed me the prairies all covered with
farm-houses and fields of corn. Bells were ringing, and swarms of
children pouring into the school houses. All round the horizon were
church-spires, and beautiful houses, with windows glittering in the
sunlight. When I told him it seemed just like dear New England, he
smiled, and said, ‘This is Free Kansas!’ Then he pointed to a great
University on the highest of the hills, and said, ‘Little Johnny is
President, and the Blue Mound is called Free Mont.’”
“I hail the omen!” exclaimed Kate. The thin lips of Alice quivered
tremulously. It was her last smile on earth.
I WANT TO GO HOME.
There once wandered with me a beautiful child,
With eyes like the antelope, lambent and mild;
And she looked at me long, with an earnest gaze,
As I watched the sun sink in a golden haze.
She knew not the thoughts that were floating away,
Through the closing gates of that radiant day;
But a something she read in my dreaming eyes,
Of the pale autumn leaves, and the sunset skies;
And a chill came over her, she knew not whence--
’Twas the shadow of older experience.
She looked up afraid at the heaven’s blue dome,
And murmured, “I’m _tired_. I want to go _home_.”
The child’s timid glance, and her quivering tone,
Came gliding like ghosts, when my soul was alone;
And oft, when I gazed at the heaven’s blue dome,
She seemed to be saying, “I want to go _home_.”
She grew up a woman, that lovely young child,
With eyes like the antelope, lambent and mild;
But she lived not to see life’s drear autumn day
Fade slowly in silence and darkness away.
In her spring-time of freshness, fragrance, and bloom,
Disease stole her roses to strew on the tomb.
Then often she looked at the heaven’s blue dome,
And sighed, “I am _tired_. I want to go _home_.”
My autumn of life is fast passing away,
Bringing on the long night, and cold winter day;
And I often remember her childish sigh,
As she turned from my face to the twilight sky.
When I sit on her grave, at sunset, alone,
Her voice seems to speak in that tremulous tone;
And longing I look up to heaven’s blue dome,
Saying, “Father! I’m _tired_. I want to go _home_.”
THE END.