Meanwhile, large numbers of Centralia’s residents fled the village, most heading in any direction except south. Among them was James Rollins. He would be late for the convention at Mexico but did not mind in the least. That was better than being dead—or for that matter alive and a prisoner of the bushwhackers.13
Chapter Seven
The Lord Have Mercy
The Guerrilla Camp, Young’s Creek: 2:00–3:00 P.M.
“I say, Bill, I wonder how in the hell Anderson has permitted this damn Yankee to live so long?”
“Dunno, can’t say, lest like ’twas a Providence, for taint like Old Bill, is it?”
No, thought Tom Goodman, who overhead his two guards talking, it is not like Anderson at all. The big sergeant lay on the ground. Around him, most of the bushwhackers were sleeping off the whiskey they had guzzled. He, too, had tried to sleep but in vain. He simply could not stop wondering what Anderson intended to do with him—or, rather, to him.
He looked about and observed the guerrilla chieftain sitting with George Todd, John Thrailkill, and other leaders, apparently discussing future operations. Can, he thought, yon pale, sad looking man be this fiend in human shape? Anderson’s face, when passive as it now was, did not look like that of a man to be feared. Even his cold and expressionless eyes revealed nothing; they were “unfathomable.” So what had made him what he so terribly was? The best that Goodman could think of was a scrap of poetry remembered from school days: “Man’s inhumanity to man/Makes countless thousands weep.”
Suddenly a rider came racing full speed across the prairie toward the camp. At the same time another horseman, coming from the north, rode up to Anderson, who along with everyone else sprang to his feet. Goodman could not hear what the second rider said to the chieftain, but within minutes the guerrillas had mounted their horses and formed into squads of ten or twenty. While they were doing so, the first rider reached Anderson, who asked him a couple questions, after which a bushwhacker came over to Goodman and spoke to his guards: “Have your prisoner saddle yon gray horse, and mount him quick—and mark me, if he attempts to escape in the battle, kill him instantly!”
As he saddled and mounted the designated horse, a wave of hope surged through Goodman. There was going to be a battle! Forgetting the threat of death hanging over him, he could think only of the battle. He longed to see a line of Federal blue dealing retribution, like avenging angels of God, to the murderers of his comrades.1
Should this happen, perhaps he would be rescued and so live to see his wife and children again after all. . . .
Centralia: 3:00–3:30 P.M.
Major Johnston and his men rode into Centralia from the east, having headed straight for the place on seeing columns of smoke rising from its vicinity.2 Nothing they had ever encountered or imagined matched the dreadful scene they now beheld. The few people of the village who had not fled or remained cowering in their homes stood around as if transformed into statues, mute, pale, and with vacant eyes staring from frozen faces. Debris from the looted stores littered the streets. Alongside the railroad track lay heaps of smoking ashes. Far worse were the bodies which seemed to be everywhere. One sprawled near the burned depot was a black and almost shapeless mass. Behind the station was a huge, nude form literally shot to pieces. Next to the track were two chalk-white legs and close by a dismembered trunk. And on the south side of the track, lying in pools of reeking blood and covered by swarms of blowflies, was a long row of twisted, bullet-torn corpses, most of them attired in underwear but some stark naked.
Some of Johnston’s young soldiers, most of whom were still teenagers, struggled not to vomit. The eyes of others blazed with anger, and still others shuddered as if suddenly chilled despite the warm September sun. They had heard what bushwhackers did to captured soldiers. Now they saw it for themselves.
Johnston asked several villagers about the size of the guerrilla force and what direction it had taken on leaving. All answered that it numbered no more than eighty and that it had headed south. Then, led by Dr. A. F. Sneed, Thomas Sneed’s brother, Johnston went to the Boone House Hotel and climbed up to the attic. Through his field glasses he scanned the prairie to the south and sighted a group of horsemen riding toward Centralia from the belt of timber along Young’s Creek.
“There they are now!” he cried, then raced down the stairs. Dr. Sneed followed and asked him if he intended to attack the bushwhackers.
“I do,” snapped the major, who then asked: “How many are there are of these fellows?”
“I do not know exactly, but they are said to number about four hundred. They outnumber you.”
“But you told me a little while ago there were only eighty of them in town this morning.”
“Yes, but the remainder of them are in camp. Besides, they all have revolvers and they are better mounted than your men.”
“They may have the advantage of me in numbers, but I will have the advantage of them in arms. My guns are of long range and I can fight them from a distance.”
“It’s folly to fight them,” pleaded Sneed—who, ironically, was a Southern sympathizer. “They are well-trained and desperate men.”
For a moment Johnston said nothing. All around him were the wreckage, the burned building, and the bodies—most of all, the bodies. Finally he spoke: “I will fight them, anyhow.”
He mounted his horse and rejoined his command. First he sent a courier speeding back to Sturgeon with a request for reinforcements. Next he instructed Capt. Adam Theiss, commander of Company H, to remain in Centralia with thirty-three of his men and two teamsters to guard the wagons. Then, with the remainder of his troops, about 115 in number, he set forth on the Columbia road to engage the enemy.3
Southeast of Centralia: 3:30–4:15 P.M.
Once beyond Centralia, the major sent forward an advance guard of twenty-five skirmishers at a trot to flush out any guerrillas who might be lurking in ambush. After about a mile they saw ten or so of them two hundred yards up ahead. The bushwhackers at once retreated southward, passing through a previously made opening in a rail fence. The advance guard pursued, followed by Johnston with the main body, now moving at a “brisk walk.” Once, then again, the bushwhackers halted to fire a flurry of revolver shots, then resumed their flight. “Wait for us, you damned cowards!” Johnston yelled.
Two miles from Centralia the guerrillas swerved off to the east and disappeared over a ridge. Some of the excited soldiers raised a cheer and galloped ahead. Cursing, their officers ordered them back into line. A little farther on anxious troops again broke away and again had to be shouted back. Intent on holding formation, Johnston and his officers failed to note the small but ever-deepening ravines on either side of them and the increasing amount of brush and weeds that grew there.
The soldiers reached the top of the ridge. Spread out before them lay a broad, open plain sloping gently a quarter of a mile to a belt of trees along Young’s Creek. From the trees, their horses moving at a slow walk, emerged lines of bushwhackers. They were not running after all—they were coming out to fight. At a glance Johnston could see that there were only around eighty of them. He could whip that many, He would whip them. . . .
A short distance from the trees the advancing bushwhackers suddenly halted and dismounted. This puzzled Johnston. “They will fight on foot,” he muttered to an officer nearby. “What does that mean?”
He quickly had an answer. The bushwhackers flung off their Union blue jackets, tied them to the back of their saddles, rolled up their shirtsleeves, tightened saddle girths and adjusted bridles, and then checked their revolvers, spinning cylinders and making sure that the caps were solidly in place. Satisfied, they remounted their horses and reformed their line into a single rank in front of which, slightly overlapping it on the left, was the squad that the Federal skirmishers had been chasing. Dave Poole led it, and he had perfectly performed his mission: lure the enemy to where he now was.
Realizing the obvious—that the guerrillas intended to make a mounted c
harge—Johnston ordered all of his troops to dismount except for twenty-three whom he sent to the rear with the horses. He then deployed his remaining ninety-odd soldiers in a double row about 150 yards long and told them to fix bayonets.
“My God, the Lord have mercy on them!” exclaimed one of the bushwhackers. “They are dismounting to fight!”4
An eerie calm reigned over the ridge and the plain below. Not a whisper of wind stirred the tree leaves, now beginning to turn yellow. From a clear blue sky the golden rays of an early-autumn sun slanted down. For several minutes the opposing forces merely gazed at each other.
Johnston grew impatient. Weren’t the bastards going to attack, after all? He rode forward, a big Colt revolver grasped in his right hand, and yelled angrily, “We are ready, come on!”
The bushwhackers remained motionless.
Seconds later a horseman, attired entirely in black, rode along behind the bushwhacker line. It was Bill Anderson. As he passed, he repeatedly said, “Boys, when we charge, break through the line and keep straight on for their horses. Keep straight on for their horses.”
He then rode out slightly in front of his men, lifted his hat in the air, and gave it a twirl. Up and down the line came the sharp click of revolvers being cocked. Anderson then raised and lowered his hat three times, after which he placed it back on his head, pulled a pistol from his belt, and started forward at a slow walk. His men followed at the same pace.
Johnston watched the guerrillas advancing. Good. It was what he wanted, hoped for, longed for. Now let them get within effective killing range, say three hundred yards, and—
His blood froze. From out of the woods emerged a second line of raiders, a huge one more than double the size of the first. At the same time, from out of the brush-filled ravines on either side of the Federals came still more bushwhackers, with those on the south being headed by George Todd and Si Gordon and those on the north by John Thrailkill and Tom Todd. Johnston had marched his men into a trap from which there could be no escape and in which there could be only one outcome.
Johnston must have realized this. And now he would pay for his blunder. Dismounting, he cocked his revolver, unsheathed his sword, and turned to face his fate.
His eyes riveted on the ridge above, Anderson pushed his steed into a faster walk. His men followed suit. So, too, did the second line. From more than a thousand rapidly pounding hooves a vast cloud of dust rose in the attackers’ wake.
Ahead, Anderson saw the enemy begin to waver as soldiers threw down their muskets and broke to the rear. The time had come.
“Charge!” he screamed, digging spurs into the flanks of his horse.
His followers raised a bloodcurdling shriek that ripped the air apart. The soldiers fired a ragged, feeble volley. Many, paralyzed by fear, did not fire at all. Of those who did pull triggers, most fired too high. Only two or three guerrilla toppled from their saddles. The rest kept coming in a veritable avalanche of death. Forty yards from the crest they opened up with their revolvers. Seconds later they swept through and over the soldiers, some of whom were frantically trying to reload their Enfields. Obeying Anderson’s instructions, they headed straight for the horse holders, who already were in panic-stricken flight. One by one the raiders overtook and shot them until none were left.
On the ridge, the guerrillas emerging from the ravines surrounded and gunned down the surviving soldiers, all the while yelling, “Surrender! Surrender!” A few of the bluecoats fought back with the bayonets; incredibly, they wounded a couple of assailants. Most of them, though, threw down their muskets and raised their arms or else sank to their knees, sobbing and begging for mercy. An exception was Ave Johnston. Standing beside his dead horse, he fired away with his revolver until felled by a bullet. A rider dashed over, leaned down, and shot him in the head. Just to make sure.
The firing ceased. For a moment the bushwhackers sat on their horses, looking at their helpless captives. Their eyes, hitherto filled with the fire and fury of battle, took on a frightening gleam. Then they holstered their pistols and dismounted. Several picked up officer’s swords from the ground. More grabbed rifles with their eighteen-inch-long bayonets. Most pulled out great, sharp knives. The prisoners stared at the cold steel in stunned disbelief, then they looked into the faces of the men approaching them.
“I always spare prisoners!” cried a Yankee captain.
“I am a Mason!” pleaded another soldier.
The bushwhackers grinned and continued approaching. . . .5
Centralia: Approximately 4:15–5:00 P.M.
Dr. A. F. Sneed and Lt. J. E. Stafford of Company H stood together by the attic window, gazing intently southward. They had followed the course of Johnston’s column as it pursued the guerrillas. Then mysteriously it had swerved off to the east, halted atop a ridge, dismounted, and formed a thin blue line. Several minutes passed, and then on both sides of the soldiers the brush seemed to be moving. Moments later everything along the ridge disappeared in a cloud of smoke and dust, and a sound came rolling up that reminded Sneed of a “heavy hailstorm beating on glass roofs.”
For about three minutes the two men watched and listened in breathless anticipation. Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the roar of battle ceased. Soon afterward they saw a soldier madly lashing his horse toward Centralia on the Columbia road. A string of riderless horses followed him. Lieutenant Stafford scrambled down the stairs and reached the street just as the horseman entered the village. At once Stafford recognized him: Lt. Thomas Jaynes, commander of Company G.
“Get out of here! Get out of here!” Jaynes shouted as he sped by. “Every one of you will be killed if you don’t!”
Terror-stricken, most of the soldiers Johnston had left behind in Centralia leaped on their mounts and whipped them either north up the road to Paris or west toward Sturgeon. Others, however, ran around wildly, seeking places to hide.
Anderson’s and Poole’s men smashed into the village like a tornado, shooting left and right at the fleeing Federals. Most of them, including Archie Clements and Frank James, never broke stride and with wild whoops gave chase along the road to Sturgeon. The rest pulled up and began searching houses and other buildings for more victims.
One soldier ran into a woman’s home and dived under a table. Moments later two bushwhackers burst through the door. Assuring the woman that they “wouldn’t kill a dog in a lady’s house,” they dragged their victim outside and killed him there—proving that they were men who kept their word.
Another fugitive, caught in the open, sought refuge in a privy. Unfortunately for him, several guerrillas saw him enter this convenient, but also highly vulnerable, place of concealment. “Come out!” they demanded. Receiving no reply, they shouted that all of his comrades had been taken prisoner, and he would be treated the same as them. So assured, he opened the door and, beholding friendly faces, smiled with relief. Shots then rang out and he dropped dead. These guerrillas, too, had spoken truly.
Tired and thirsty, a raider rode up to a house and asked for a glass of water. As he started to reach for it he noticed a soldier break from cover and leap a fence. Wheeling his horse around, he gave chase. Soon the sharp crack of a pistol shot came from beyond the fence. Then the guerrilla reappeared and rode back to the house.
“I’ll take that drink now,” he said blandly.
Another bushwhacker, apparently looking for somebody else to kill, found several women and a driver, a young express agent, sitting in a wagon behind a barn. They all were endeavoring to escape the hell that Centralia had become. One of the women, possibly assuming that she could act with impunity because of her sex, said something that angered the bushwhacker, who responded by striking her with the barrel of his pistol. Outraged, the driver grabbed the barrel, and the two men briefly struggled. The bushwhacker jerked his weapon free and, as the women screamed, shot their would-be protector to death. He then rode away, having found what he had been looking for.
Elsewhere, a group of drunken raiders—whi
skey as well as blood was again flowing in Centralia—smashed their way into a house. One of them made an insulting remark to a woman, whereupon she slapped him. Instantly, he knocked her to the floor—but that was all. The taboo against raping or killing women still held.6
Southeast of Centralia: Approximately 5:00 P.M.
Dave Poole returned to the battlefield—or, rather, slaughter ground—where he demonstrated a new way to count enemy dead: hop from body to body. It was easy to do because they lay so closely massed. Guerrilla chieftain Thomas Todd, who was a Baptist preacher, protested that this was “inhuman.” Poole merely laughed. “If they are dead I can’t hurt them. I cannot count them good without stepping on them. When I got my foot on one this way I know I’ve got him.”7
Figure 7.1 Dave Poole.
COURTESY OF THE STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF MISSOURI.
But there were far worse things here than a drunken murderer dancing on corpses.
Some of the dead soldiers, almost all of whom had been stripped naked, lay twisted and crooked in their death agony, pinned down like bugs by bayonets.
A dozen or so, including Ave Johnston, had been scalped. Still more were eyeless, earless, or had dark, oozing holes where their noses had been.
Many lay with heads flattened into mush or smashed open like melons.
Then there were those who had no heads. These had been cut off, stuck on rifle barrels, tied to saddles, or placed atop fence posts and tree stumps like jack-o’-lanterns. If a corpse had a head, it was likely someone else’s.
Here and there were bodies lacking hands and feet or arms and legs.
Worst of all, though, was the naked body of a soldier whose genitals had been sawed off and then stuffed into his mouth. His contorted face testified that this had been done to him while still alive.
Bloody Bill Anderson Page 12