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  With the marshal’s departure, Atchison marched on Lawrence with the main body of Missouri men.

  “Sheriff, what is the situation?” Atchison asked.

  “We are clearing this pest house for destruction, Senator. We’ve encountered no resistance to this point.”

  “Very good. Dispatch some men to dismantle the Free State printing press and offices while we await demolition of this atrocity.”

  Jones issued his orders. Men stormed down the street and smashed in the door and windows of the newspaper office. Someone produced an axe and proceeded to hack the printing press to bent steel and splinters. Drawers of printer’s type were torn from their cabinets, carried out, and thrown in the river. Barrels of printer’s ink were opened by axe and spilled on the floor. The last man to leave the premises set a torch to it.

  With the hotel cleared of its furnishings, the Missouri men opened the stores to plunder, including contents of the wine and whiskey cellars. These passed among the men, fuelling the mob mentality. As liquid jocularity spread among the rioters, Jones ordered the cannon brought into line.

  Atchison looked on in approval as Jones prepared to level Eldridge house at point-blank range by ball and grape. With matches burning sulfur smoke to a celebratory row, Jones commenced.

  “Fire at will!”

  The Eldridge took volley after volley. Doors and windows blew through. Brick gouged and pocked, yet she stood defiant, her structure strong and true.

  “ ’Tis a waste of shot and powder, Sam,” Atchison said. “Mine her with powder charges and blow the damn thing up.”

  “Aye, sir.” Jones rallied his men. They rolled kegs of powder into the lower floors and armed them with fuses. Torches set fuses alight. The mob pulled back away from the impending destruction. Explosions burst one after the other, finishing windows spared the cannonade, and still she stood firm against assault.

  “Burn the damn thing down!” Jones vented frustration. “Burn the town!”

  The mob broke and ran to plunder. Torches flared to light.

  Atchison watched Lawrence looted and burned. “Carry on, Sheriff.” He mounted his horse and rode east into descending twilight.

  Smoke still hung thick as morning fog as Micah and Caleb rode the buckboard toward town. Charles Robinson’s house atop Mount Oread and the burnt-out ruins of Eldridge House epitomized the devastation. Lawrence was laid waste, a smoldering black scar on the land.

  “Trouble be more than comin’,” Caleb said. “Trouble be here.”

  “It sure looks that way.”

  Wood smoke and charred remains colored the air as they drove up Main Street toward the center of a once vibrant town. A crowd gathered at the Eldridge House ruin. Micah recognized Owen Brown among them along with the familiar figure of his father. He drew rein and climbed down. Caleb rounded the buckboard at his shoulder.

  “What happened?”

  “We only arrived this morning, so we are still trying to piece the story together,” Owen said. “Best we can tell, the district court in Lecompton issued a warrant for Charles Robinson’s arrest and condemned Eldridge House and the Free State Herald for public nuisances. Sheriff Jones showed up with a posse the size of an army. They arrested Charles and took him off to jail before looting the town and burning it to the ground.”

  Off to the south, two riders galloped up Massachusetts stirrup to stirrup. James Lane and Doc Jennison drew their mounts to a halt and leaped down. The crowd cleared a path for Lane with Jennison in tow.

  “Who is responsible for this?” Lane demanded.

  “Sheriff Jones,” John Brown said. “Sheriff Jones and an army of Missouri men burned the town. They are but the agents of evil. Who is responsible? That raises a deeper question.”

  “That may be so, Brother Brown, but deeper questions can’t pay for what has been done here,” Lane said.

  “All may be redressed, but the evil here runs deeper than a drunken mob of border ruffians. They are but instruments of unlawfully elected usurpers of Kansas’s rightful sovereignty. They embody the evil of slavery in the Lecompton legislature. They are led by no less than the illicit governance of President Pierce’s appointed puppet, Wilson Shannon. The wrongs done Lawrence cannot be assuaged by the blood of a few border ruffians. To redress the wrongs done Lawrence we must root out the evil at its source and wherever that evil finds nourishment. The evil is slavery and the institutions of government that sustain it. It is that evil we must root out, in its every form, wherever we find it. Redress it we shall by blood and by fire. By blood and by fire, so help us a righteous God!”

  The crowd roared approval. Lane glanced at Jennison.

  “Me? I’m startin’ with Missouri blood.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Capitol Hill

  Washington City

  South Carolina Representative Preston Brooks seethed at the back of the deserted Senate chamber. He’d had enough of the self-righteous abolitionists’ moralizing rhetoric. Senator Charles Sumner sat at his desk alone near the front of the chamber. Sumner had given a speech condemning the Kansas-Nebraska Act as whoremaster to the southern house of slavery. He’d maligned Douglas for it; he berated James Mason of Virginia; but worst of all he’d slandered the good name of Brooks’s home state and his infirm uncle, Andrew Butler, senior senator from South Carolina. Such insult to the family honor and home could not be allowed without redress.

  Brooks started down the aisle, silver-headed cane in hand. His pace quickened along with his rage as he advanced on the unsuspecting Sumner.

  “Harlot’s spawn to slavery, are we?” He brought the silver-knobbed hickory down hard across Sumner’s hunched back and head with a sickening crack.

  Sumner twisted in his seat, wide-eyed with surprise and pain. He raised his arms in feeble defense of his head, a failed attempt to fend off the blows falling upon him like a rain squall. He struggled to rise from his desk. His lanky frame caught in a too-tight space. The beating poured on.

  Sumner shuttered his eyes against red gouts of pain. Light grew dark at the margins, fading darker still. He lurched free of his desk, managing to stagger into the aisle.

  Brooks pressed his attack. The cane head broke off. Still he rendered retribution with what remained of the hickory until he spent himself and his rage.

  Sumner sank to his knees and slumped to the floor senseless and bleeding.

  Brooks dropped the cane. He strode up the aisle to the back of the chamber, vindicated by light of his honor.

  The White House

  May 23, 1856

  Jefferson Davis paced the polished floor of the reception secretary’s office, waiting to see the president. Colonel Sumner’s report on the incident in Lawrence was disturbing to say the least. The situation in Kansas was deteriorating rapidly.

  “The president will see you now, Mr. Secretary.” Pierce’s assistant backed away from the open office door, allowing Davis to pass. The door closed behind him.

  “Good morning, Jefferson. What’s on your mind this fine morning?”

  “Not such fine news, I’m afraid, Mr. President.”

  “Oh? Have a seat.”

  He took a chair across from the president’s desk. “I received a report from Colonel Sumner last night. Colonel Sumner, you may recall, is commandant at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.”

  “One could hardly forget the name. Dreadful business about the senator. I don’t often agree with his politics, but caning him with such brutality on the floor of the Senate is not to be condoned. What does the colonel have on his mind?”

  “Lawrence was sacked two days ago.”

  “Sacked?”

  “Burned to the ground.”

  “By whom?”

  “A so-called sheriff’s posse, dispatched by Governor Shannon’s Lecompton district court to arrest the leader of the Free State party for treason and condemn two properties the court judged public nuisances.”

  “And that precipitated sacking the town?
Was there armed resistance?”

  “None.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “The sheriff’s posse more closely resembled a vigilante mob composed primarily of Missouri men. Colonel Sumner advises that former senator Atchison was involved. It’s the same faction that had a hand in electing a pro-slavery legislature. Lawrence has become the center of free-state opposition.”

  “Hence the treason charge.”

  “It would appear. The question is: what is to be done about it?”

  “Yes. Couldn’t have come at a worse time with my re-nomination hanging in the balance. Unfortunately, the Douglas popular sovereignty provision seems to have unraveled from some people’s perspective. It may be Douglas’s doing, but the disaffected will lay responsibility at my doorstep.”

  “I appreciate the political delicacy of the matter, Mr. President, but what’s to be done about civil unrest? The free-state adherents cannot be expected to take this lying down. Colonel Sumner believes we may be on the brink of all-out war between Kansas and Missouri.”

  “That would be altogether too dire. We can’t allow that to happen.” He drummed his fingers on the desk in thought. “I will wire Governor Shannon and order him to disband the sheriff’s posse. If he needs force to maintain peace and order, I will instruct him to call on Colonel Sumner. I suggest you remind Colonel Sumner of the possibility and instruct him to support Governor Shannon as the governor sees fit.”

  Davis sat silent, composing his thoughts. “As we have discussed, sir, the use of federal troops in a civil matter is dicey constitutional policy.”

  “I’ve heard your reservations on that before, Jefferson. In this case the constitution be damned. I must maintain law and order on that border. Everything depends on it.”

  His re-nomination depends on it.

  Pottawatomie Creek, Missouri

  May 24, 1856

  The cabin stood at the center of a small clearing mottled in moonlight by the passing of broken clouds. Somewhere inside a lamp illuminated the front window. A single outbuilding stood shadowed beside a corral. John Brown and his sons drew rein under cover of trees surrounding the clearing.

  “Light the fire of righteous wrath,” Elder Brown said.

  Matches and torches flickered to light along the irregular file of horsemen. Satisfied they were ready, Brown spurred his horse into the clearing. At the sound of riders fast approaching, someone inside huffed out the lamp. The raiders circled the cabin and outbuildings, setting them ablaze. Brown and sons Salmon and Owen dismounted and advanced to either side of the cabin door. Orange firelight danced over the shadows, gleaming on drawn short swords.

  The cabin door burst open to a billow of smoke. A muzzle flash exploded inside. The gunman stumbled out, choking and blindly firing a dragoon at shadows. Brown leveled his pistol and fired. Muzzle flash and smoke staggered the man. He fell still.

  Four more men left the cabin. Brown and his sons met them with swords, hacking them to unspeakable gore. Save the fire, it ended as suddenly as it had begun.

  “Now, God’s righteous wrath hath smote this first of the evil doers! In the days ahead we shall mete out still more blood and fire.” Brown wheeled his horse to the ride back to Kansas.

  Franklin, Missouri

  May 25, 1856

  Sheriff Jones stood in Atchison’s library, hat in hand, ashen with horror and rage.

  Atchison considered the news. “Who’s responsible for this?”

  “Jayhawkers, Bindly said. He thought the leader might be John Brown, but he couldn’t be sure. He called ’em Jayhawkers before he succumbed to his wounds.”

  “This Bindly died, then.”

  “Yes, sir. They must’a took him for dead where he fell. Them others was hacked to pieces somethin’ terrible.”

  “Jayhawkers . . . what do you make of that?”

  “Them Kansans that freed young Brown from my posse after they burnt out Franklin Coleman last year called themselves that. Some Irish say it’s a mythical bird, part hawk and part jay.”

  “Part bird of prey and part noisy thief. I guess we know what we’re up against.” Atchison tapped forefinger to lips in thought. “John Brown, he said.”

  Jones nodded.

  “It appears the old brimstone preacher has decided preaching blood and fire isn’t enough. He’s decided to mete out his own brand of blood and fire. Clearly, we didn’t eliminate public nuisance when we rooted the vipers out of Lawrence.”

  “You want the governor to call up a posse to go after Brown, Senator?”

  “No, Sam. Not this time. Shannon won’t do things our way on this one. President Pierce has authorized him to call on the army. They might make some arrests, but they won’t inflict the brand of justice these fanatics deserve. I intend to make an example of Brown and his people. We’ll show them they can’t get away with this. Captain Pate has raised an irregular militia. Let’s turn this one over to him. He can pursue the culprits without need to maintain the pretense of law enforcement you’re obliged to carry. I’ll send for the captain. Your work is done for the moment, Sam.”

  Brown’s Station

  Osawatomie, Kansas

  May 31, 1856

  Dark clouds spit rain on a chill breeze. Owen Brown galloped into the compound, his coat billowing in the wind. Chickens and pigs scattered in his path. He drew rein at the cabin and leaped down.

  “They’s comin’, Pa!”

  John Brown appeared in the cabin door. “Who’s comin’?”

  “Missouri men. An army of ’em.”

  “Where?”

  “Day’s march from Black Jack Springs.”

  “They’ll likely camp there. Salmon, get yourself a fresh horse and ride to Lawrence. Tell James Lane we need his men, Doc Jennison, too, and that Methodist preacher.”

  “Montgomery?”

  “That’s him. Tell them to meet us in the hills north of Black Jack Springs tomorrow. Now, ride!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  * * *

  Black Jack Springs

  June 1, 1856

  Cook fires dotted the banks of Captain’s Creek, suggesting a camp of some fifty border ruffians. Captain Henry Clay Pate walked the camp seeing to the readiness of his men. The muted conversation of men anticipating battle spread over the usual night sounds punctuated by the snap and pop of the cook fires.

  “Evenin’, Cap’n.”

  “Evenin’, Smythe.”

  “You figure them Jayhawks for a fight, or we gonna have to chase ’em clear to Lawrence?”

  Pate shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I can’t see Brown and his wild-eyed clan putting up much of a fight against these odds. We should be on them before they know what hit them.”

  “I s’pect you’re right, Cap’n. These boys’ll be disappointed if they don’t see some action, though. What do you figure to do with the old firebrand hell-hound?”

  “Hang him.”

  June 2, 1856

  The camp began to rouse at the first hint of pre-dawn. Cook fires stirred to light, heating coffee. Men wandered into the trees lining the creek bank to relieve themselves. The man called Smythe scratched his beard and yawned as he watered a bush beside a beech tree. The crack of a branch across the creek cut his eyes to the gloom, searching for some critter come down to the creek to water. Someone somewhere shouted something indistinguishable. The far creek bank exploded in a wall of muzzle flash and blue smoke advancing a rolling volley of small-arms reports. Smythe staggered back against the tree, his gaze drawn to the dark stains spreading across his chest as darkness closed in on him.

  Up and down the near shore, Missouri men fell, seized their weapons, or dove for cover behind whatever they could find. Pate rallied his men behind three wagons. They turned them over to form a makeshift barricade. They returned fire in sporadic bursts in response to measured volleys lashing the campsite from across the creek. A veil of powder smoke floated over the still morning air.

  The
sun slowly crept over the gently rolling hills to the northeast where Brown and the Jayhawkers held the high ground. Midday burned off morning haze. The air hung heavy and moist. Little disturbed the scene, save fat buzzing flies and occasional exchanges of fire. Back and forth across the creek shots lashed out at targets of opportunity or suspected targets, with neither side inflicting decisive injury following the initial fusillade.

  Brown felt justified. They’d caught the Missouri men unawares. He summoned Lane and Jennison to parley behind the lines.

  “We’ve got them pinned down,” Brown said.

  Lane nodded. “We have the advantage to strike a decisive blow.”

  Brown measured their resolve. “Doc, take your men across the creek on the right flank. Mr. Lane will cross on the left. Set a line on the high ground and train your fire on their horses and mules. Doc, you flank their wagons and advance from the right. When they pull back from your advance, they will come under Mr. Lane’s guns. That should put them to flight.”

  Jennison flashed a yellow-stained grin.

  Brown raised his arms in blessing. “The Almighty bears a swift sword. Now, go.”

  Heat rose thick and wet along the creek bank. Sweat burned Pate’s eyes as he searched the tree line across the creek for movement. His linen soaked in perspiration. A man hunched low ran toward him through the trees from his left flank. An errant shot followed him, biting tree trunk to no ill effect. The man dropped to his belly beside Pate.

  “We’ve got movement on the left. Some of ’em’s crossing the creek. We can hear ’em.”

  “Have you deployed a line to hold them?”

  “We have, though there’s no tellin’ how many they is.”

  The Jayhawks circle. They have the initiative. Pate toyed with the idea of a counter advance from his right flank. Dividing his command without knowing the enemy strength troubled him. He waited. Time passed.

  Word passed up the line from his right. Jayhawks are crossing the creek further upstream. Movement on both flanks. The news gathered sour in Pate’s gut. They could be enveloped. They might be overrun. Shooting from the hillock on the right rained on the picket lines. Squeals of death rose from horses and mules as they fell defenseless before a winnowing fire. Pate rummaged in his kit for a kerchief, fastening a white flag to his saber. He lifted the flag and waved it to signal a truce.