Sycamore Promises Page 23

  “What’ll we do with the prisoners, Captain?” The scout Ames spoke.

  Jennison scratched his chin. “Seems like these folks meant to give shelter to rebels. I ’spect we should oblige ’em. Have the prisoners dig a trench there on the green. Make sure it’s big enough they all rest in peace.”

  The prisoners dug their ditch. Jennison ordered them lined up beside it and shot.

  Harrisonville, Missouri

  One Week Later

  They stood huddled in the town square, the heat of a warm summer night intensified by the inferno enveloping their homes and businesses. Orange light rendered the scene a hellish pageant in leaping flame, dancing, dark shadows, and towering billows of smoke. Mounted raiders galloped to and fro up and down the street. Men on foot carried armloads of plunder from homes and buildings not yet torched, piling it in wagons taken from those being looted.

  “Damned Jayhawkers!” someone shouted.

  “Worse than that,” said another. “Some of them is black men.”

  “The slaves is risin’! Lord a’ Mighty, save us.”

  “Ain’t their own doin’. That hellion Doc Jennison done freed ’em.”

  “Armed ’em, too.”

  “It’s the work of Satan his-self.”

  “Hades has been visited on Harrisonville. May God have mercy on us all.”

  Lebanon, Missouri

  August 5th

  Lane halted the column on a ridge overlooking the road south. He drew out his glass and fitted it to his eye, inspecting the column further north on the road. Blue coats. He snapped the glass closed.

  “It’s Lyon, or an advance element of Lyon. We’ve caught them in time. We best not ride in on him unannounced. With no unit colors or uniforms he’s as likely to take us for bushwhackers as friends. Micah, ride on down there and meet the column. Offer the general my compliments and the services of the Kansas brigade.”

  “Yes, sir.” Military order still felt strange on his tongue. He nudged the bay down the ridge to the road.

  “Dismount!” echoed behind.

  He loped up the road to the north. The column drew a halt at his approach. He raised a hand in greeting and drew rein.

  “General James Lane of the Kansas brigade sends General Lyon his compliments. Might you direct me to him?”

  “You found him.”

  The intense man with fire in his eye seemed young for a general officer. Micah gave his best effort at a salute. “The general’s compliments, sir. The Kansas brigade awaits your pleasure on that ridge yonder.”

  “Very well. Invite the general and his troops down to the road. We can discuss our coordination from there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Micah picked up his salute and wheeled away at a gallop.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  * * *

  Wilson Creek

  August 9, 1861

  Cicadas serenaded a camp at rest. Fireflies winked in the black void beyond the perimeter. Night air hung heavy like a sweat-soaked sheet. Micah stood at Lane’s shoulder. The two generals hunched over a crudely drawn map spread out on a camp table. Lamplight lined their features in shadow. Sweat trickled down his chest and stung his eyes. He wondered what the two would make of it. The situation as described by the reconnaissance patrol sounded grim. They were outnumbered nearly two to one. Price’s volunteers were ragged and raw, much like the Kansas brigade. The Confederate regulars under General Ben McCulloch were another matter. Lane broke the silence.

  “Any word from General Fremont?”

  “None.”

  Lyon’s terse response was laced with contempt. Lane described the general’s frustration with his commander the day after they joined Lyon’s column. Despite Lyon’s repeated requests for munitions and reinforcements, the Union commander in the west, General John C. Fremont, ignored the plight of his Missouri command as he basked in the glow of his own self-assured celebrity.

  “Does he not understand? If Price takes Springfield, Missouri may fall to the Confederacy. If that happens, Kansas and the western theater cannot be far behind,” Lane said.

  “The fop can’t see beyond his own glittering behind. If the West is to be saved, it falls to us to do it,” Lyon said. He bent over the map, studying the dispositions.

  “Price is the weakness.” He traced the line. “He is dug in and fortified on Oak Hill, but his men are ill equipped and unprepared. He’s vulnerable to a flanking maneuver. If we strike his soft belly hard, we may put them to flight.”

  “A gambit such as that risks all. Might it not be prudent to fortify Springfield and hold it until Fremont or some clear-thinking head comes to his senses?”

  “We haven’t the troop strength or munitions to hold it long. I wager we couldn’t even withdraw given the strength of McCul-loch’s cavalry. Our only hope for victory is a successful attack. I’ll send Seigel’s Dutch to the flank. When they strike, we shall assault the hill. If we break Price, I doubt McCulloch will commit his cavalry against the high ground.”

  Lane bunched his brows. High stakes.

  August 10th

  Sigel’s Dutch struck Price’s left like a lightning bolt released in the morning fog. Lyon and Lane fixed glasses on the advance.

  “Skirmishers and small-arms fire. Sweet sound,” Lyon said.

  “Sweet sound?”

  “The absence of cannon.”

  “They’re emplaced on our path.”

  “Look there.” Lyon pointed. “They’ve broken through. The rebs are pulling back up the ridge.” He snapped his glass closed. “James, I’ll take the point with two infantry brigades. You hold here until we breach the breastworks. That will be your signal to charge the breach and secure the route.”

  Lane nodded.

  Lyon swung into his saddle.

  The throaty rumble of six-pound, smooth-bore howitzers greeted Lyon’s advance. The ground shook with the impact of shot; gaping holes opened in the Union line. Lane swung his glass over the Oak Hill breastworks. Powder smoke marked out six battery emplacements. The line filled in the gaps and surged up the hill.

  On the right, Sigel’s advance slowed. Lane’s glass revealed a breakdown in unit discipline. Men stopped their advance to rifle the possessions and pockets of the fallen.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  Micah heard alarm. “Who, sir?”

  “Sigel. The fool’s advance is breaking down with the enemy in retreat.”

  Another cannon volley summoned Lane’s glass to Oak Hill. Men dropped to the ground. Gouts of earth and bloody clots of gore rained down. Lyon exhorted them. They rose and continued the ascent.

  “It won’t be long now,” Lane said.

  The air split on the clarion call of a bugle. The banshee howl of rebel yell rose on a thunderous cavalry charge. The Stars and Bars wheeled around the Oak Hill far slope; chestnut, bay, black, and gray, the horde bore down on Sigel’s exposed flank. The beleaguered general attempted to form a skirmish line. Too late. The cavalry overrode his position, scattering the Dutch line in disjointed retreat.

  Lane swung his glass back to Lyon. They’d soon breach the breastworks.

  “To horse!” Lane ordered.

  The Kansas brigade scrambled to their mounts.

  “Column of two’s.” The command echoed down the line.

  “Forward!” Lane spurred his horse. He led the column at a gallop up the slope.

  Micah held his mount on Lane’s flank. He drew his Colt. His gut and knees turned liquid. Ahead on the summit a blue haze of small-arms and artillery smoke hung like a pall over the crest of the hill. The breastwork erupted in another thunderous roar. Incoming ball screamed in his ears, falling short and long in thunderous eruptions of dirt and stone. The column climbed through fallen bodies and carnage of uncertain provenance.

  The infantry charge reached the rebel lines. Lyon urged his men on, visible by the red plume on his hat and the flash of his saber. Frozen in a moment, he turned, red gore at his breast. Lyon fell as McCulloch’s cavalry
wheeled toward the Union right flank. A brigade commander called retreat.

  Lane wheeled his column right, sealing McCulloch’s left. The Kansas brigade harassed the rebel cavalry, covering the infantry withdrawal down Oak Hill.

  Price’s men rose to cheer their victory. They showed no sign of pursuit. In truth, they were all but out of ammunition. McCulloch reined in his men, allowing the Kansans to cover the Union infantry retreat toward Springfield.

  With no pursuit, the Kansas brigade rear-guard action followed the remnants of Lyon’s infantry and Sigel’s Dutch into the capital.

  Springfield

  The remains of Lyon’s command turned to the daunting task of fortifying the capital under direction of the surviving brigade commander. Lane watched the hasty construction of breastworks with Micah at his side.

  “They’ve no chance to hold it without relief,” he said as much to himself as his aide.

  “Surely Fremont will reinforce us.”

  “He’s shown little inclination before despite Lyon’s continual pleading. If relief is coming, it should be on its way by now. With no word of that, I can only conclude anything now would amount to too little too late. No, I’m afraid Springfield is doomed to fall to the Confederacy and with it the whole of southern Missouri.”

  “Then what?”

  “Therein lies the crux of the matter for Kansans. Price will need time to regroup and resupply, but, once done, his rebel overlords will order him into the West. That means our homeland, Micah. We must play the board one move ahead.”

  “What do you mean to do, sir?”

  “Withdraw to Fort Scott and prepare to meet the assault.”

  Fort Scott

  Kansas Territory

  With the outbreak of war in 1861 the old fort found its way back to military service. Built and garrisoned in the ’40s and early ’50s, Scott provided a strategic outpost to confront Indian hostilities for explorers and settlers on the way west. Abandoned to civilian purposes in 1854, Lane and the Kansas brigade established headquarters there following their withdrawal from Springfield. In August, a courier arrived with word of the inevitable.

  “General Lane, General Fremont sends his compliments.” The courier held his salute. Lane returned it. He handed over the courier pouch. “Shall I await the general’s reply?”

  “Thank you, Corporal, that will be all for now.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Micah showed him out.

  Lane opened the case, unfolded the dispatch, and settled in at his cluttered desk. He skimmed over the flowery, imperial salutation and cut straight to the meat of the message. He refolded the order, giving thought to his reply.

  “Anything the matter, sir?”

  “Springfield has fallen. Fremont expects Price is preparing to march west. We are ordered to engage and stop the advance.”

  “As part of a larger defensive force?”

  Lane cast a wry, sidelong glance. “Apparently, no. It would seem from the general’s lofty perch, we should be all the defense necessary.”

  “He can’t be serious. We engaged Price at four times our current strength and still were outnumbered two to one.”

  “I wish it were a joke, Micah. I’m afraid the old popinjay remains blinded by his own fawning press and self-glorification. It seems it is our turn to toe Lyon’s line.”

  “How will you respond, sir?”

  “Not as I should like, for all the good that did poor Lyon. We shall do our duty as ordered. The question is how?” He stood and crossed the room to a large map on the wall. He fingered the stubble on his chin, tracing a line from Springfield to Fort Scott. He paused at Drywood Creek.

  “There. Micah, I need couriers to summon Jennison and Montgomery. They both have a dog in this fight. Reprisal for Jayhawk raids no doubt enters the blood in Price’s thinking. I need them here, prepared to march as soon as they are able.”

  “That will help, sir, but even with their men can we possibly defeat such a force?”

  “I don’t intend to defeat Price, Micah; I intend to turn him.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Since General Fremont seems content to sit his ass above the fray while he lets others do his fighting for him, perhaps we can engage him if the fighting comes closer to his regal tail feathers.”

  “Now I know I’m a simple farmer.”

  “We are going to give General Price a bloody nose and leave him a clear road north.”

  “But doesn’t that risk an even greater prize?”

  “Perhaps. But the risk is no greater than asking a force as overmatched as ours to secure defense of the entire western theater. If we can turn Price north, Fremont will be forced to consider his part in joining a defense of the west. Now get me those couriers and a reconnaissance patrol to scout the road east. The first order of business is to find Price.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  * * *

  Drywood Creek

  September 2, 1861

  Lane spread his line in the wood and scrub along the creek bottom southeast of the ford, flanking Price’s line of march. He posted Montgomery’s cavalry west of the ford at the point with a heavy mountain howitzer. The Missourians would cross a broad grassy plain, approaching Drywood Creek. They’d allow the advance element to cross the creek before driving them back with the big gun and Montgomery’s assault. Lane hoped to create the illusion of a superior force. Montgomery would strike from across the creek, pressing Price’s column from the south. Lane and Jennison would form the main body, disguising their inferior numbers by the trees and undergrowth screen along the creek bottom. Cover, surprise, and rapid-fire Sharps carbines must carry the day. If they could make Price believe he faced a superior force, his relief lay to the north. They waited.

  The column appeared in the distance at midafternoon, winding its way to the creek. Montgomery studied the line that seemed to progress without end. In fact, Price’s Missouri guard had grown in strength since Wilson Creek, now numbering nearly twelve thousand. As the length of the column grew in his glass, the size of the task grew evermore daunting. When at last advance elements spilled over a low ridge into the shallow creek bottom, Montgomery cast the die.

  “Is the gun primed?” Mongomery inquired of his second.

  “On your order, sir.”

  “Very well.” He let the advance party cross the creek to the wagon road west. Thirty he reckoned, enough for his purpose.

  “Fire!”

  The howitzer thundered and smoked. The ball screamed hellish warning before shattering the Missouri column at the base of the valley wall.

  Montgomery’s cavalry stormed out of the trees, charging east down the wagon road and flanking the crossing from the south. The Missouri advance broke in retreat across the river, pursued by volley of howitzer ball and grape to the thunder of cavalry charge.

  Price rallied his column to halt retreat from the creek bottom at the foot of the valley wall. The howitzer pounded the withdrawal, scattering undisciplined formation.

  With Price’s left flank exposed, the wood and scrub along the creek bottom erupted in sheets of small-arms fire. The Missourians were caught in the open with little cover save tall prairie grass.

  Montgomery trained his glass on the defenses forming on the slopes above. He smiled as they wheeled up a battery of six-pounders. He passed his glass to his gunnery officer. The officer returned the glass with range and elevation orders to his men. The first Rebel gun disappeared in gouts of dirt and smoke before it could reload a second targeting shot. The other two soon followed.

  Small-arms volleys raked the hillside and wooded creek bottom. Despite their numbers the Missourians were armed with older muskets and shotguns that lacked the range and firepower of the Kansans’ arms.

  As the sun began to sink in the west, Montgomery considered the need for a timely withdrawal.

  Price, of a similar mind, thought better of the cost he might incur dislodging such entrenched oppositio
n. He couldn’t fully assess the enemy’s strength, but he knew his own lack of firepower. He turned north to the promise of softer prizes.

  Sycamore

  Dear Ma and Pa,

  It has finally come to war. We prayed it would not, but, in our hearts, we feared the worst. The governor has called out the militia in response to provocations in Missouri. I write to tell you Micah has joined the Kansas brigade. He is serving as aide to General James Lane. I pray he will not be exposed to the fiercest fighting, though I know war is uncertain. Caleb agreed to stay behind, so Elizabeth and I are well protected.

  Our crop is in the ground, so with good weather we should be fine for the season. We hope and pray Micah will be home by harvest time. More so, I pray for his safety.

  Clare

  Thorne drew rein. Golden afternoon light spread over the ripening fields. Such a handsome crop would fetch a fine price if they could get it out of the fields. It struck him as a daunting task for one Negro and two women. She’d refuse his offer, of course, unless he might play on her fears. Yes, that was it. He kneed his mount up the wagon road to the house. He passed the Negro’s wife returning to her cabin without acknowledgement.

  Miriam watched him step down. Now what deviltry is that man up to? She hurried on her way.

  Clare stepped out on the porch, drawn to the sound of horse and rider.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Mason.”

  “Mr. Thorne. To what do we owe your call?”

  “Might you have a drink of water for a thirsty traveler?”

  “Dipper’s there by the bucket. Fresh drawn this noon.” He found his way to his drink. He didn’t stop to slake his thirst.

  Thorne wiped his chin on a linen kerchief. “I heard your husband is riding with Lane. The reports from Wilson Creek set me to wondering if you’d had word of him.”

  “What reports?”

  “Heavy fighting, casualties, I understand our Kansas boys were there in the thick of it.”

  She winced at his words. “I’ve had no word. I’m sure Micah is safe. He rides as General Lane’s aide.”