Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  “Yes, I suppose he would be fine then, though General Lyon fell in the final assault.”

  “Mr. Thorne, what bearing does any of this have on your visit? Am I to believe it is purely out of concern for my husband’s well-being?”

  “It does after a fashion. You’ve a fine crop in the field, Mrs. Mason. It would be a shame to see it perish for lack of harvesting. I am prepared to add a fair price for the crop to my offer for the purchase of your land. It’s a handsome proposal. You receive the value of a crop you can’t possibly harvest along with the price of your land. You and the child would be well provided for should something untoward have befallen your husband.”

  “That is the most despicable suggestion I’ve ever heard. Have you no scruples? Playing on the possibility of misfortune where there is none. Worse yet, seeking to do so at the expense of a man fighting to protect your holdings in this state. Now, I’ll thank you to get off my property.”

  “I wouldn’t be too hasty, Mrs. Mason. You are one telegram away from losing everything here. I am merely trying to point out the uncertainty of your situation and offer you safe passage to the future.”

  “Get out!”

  “Now let’s not get emotional. Perhaps you need a little time to think, a little time to see reason. I’m a patient man.”

  “You heard the lady. She said get out.”

  Thorne turned.

  Caleb stood by, shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.

  “And what business might this be of yours, boy?”

  “Family business.”

  “Family business? Do you always allow such uppity behavior, Mrs. Mason?”

  “Caleb, Miriam, and Rebecca are family, Mr. Thorne. Micah asked Caleb to look after things while he is away, and that is precisely what he is doing. Now, good day to you.” She turned on her heel and went back in the house.

  “My advice is you be careful where you point that thing, boy. This ain’t over by a long shot. You best be careful you don’t wind up low hanging fruit.”

  “You pick you poison however you like, Thorne. You pick mine, I be happy to oblige.” He shifted the Colt to his right hip, muzzle to the sky.

  Thorne swung into his saddle with an angry scowl and wheeled away down the road.

  Caleb watched him go. He cocked an ear to the house as Miriam turned into the yard.

  “What’s he want?”

  “The usual trouble makin’. I can look after him. You best see to Clare. I think he said somethin’ to upset her.”

  Miriam climbed the porch and entered the house. Clare sobbed beside the dining table. She crossed the room and put a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder.

  “Say now, what’s all the fuss here?”

  Clare turned to her arms. “Thorne talkin’ like Micah might be killed.”

  “That man don’t know nothin’ but mean.”

  “I know. The thought he might be hurt or worse is never far from my heart. I keep it where it belongs unless someone throws it up in my face.”

  “There, there, girl. You said it yourself. The man don’t know nothin’. He’s just tryin’ to scare you into what he wants. You ain’t gonna give in to him, is you? No. You’s gonna fight.”

  Clare nodded into her friend’s tear-stained dress. “You’re right.” She sniffed and wiped her nose. “I shouldn’t let him upset me so.”

  “It’s only natural with your man off to war. He’ll be fine and be comin’ home soon.”

  “I pray you’re right. I do pray you’re right.”

  “Oh, I’m right enough. Miriam knows things.”

  “You do, don’t you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Osceola, Missouri

  September 23, 1861

  Price marched north. Lane’s Kansas brigade trailed behind at a safe distance, obedient to Fremont’s order without risk of engaging the enemy. Fremont would have to climb down from his throne long enough to mount his own defense. All unfolded according to Lane’s plan until they approached the outskirts of Osceola.

  A messenger from the column’s advance guard galloped down the road toward the main body. Lane drew a halt. The rider slid to a stop.

  “Rebs, sir. Flanking the road into town.”

  “Can you determine their strength?”

  “No, sir. We didn’t take heavy fire. No cannon.”

  Lane scratched his chin. “Likely a thin rear guard or maybe a token force intended to turn us away from Osceola. Osage River port makes a handy supply depot. Also makes us a fat prize. Tell the men up front to hold their position. We’ll hit ’em in force to see what they’ve got.”

  The column advanced on the town. The skirmishers withdrew, offering no further resistance. The town lay before them, peaceful and sleepy on a late summer afternoon. A prize ripe for picking.

  “Spread out. Every available wagon to the warehouses on the wharf,” Lane said.

  They marched through town, commandeering wagons drawn by horses, oxen, and mules. They liberated warehouses at the wharf of useful goods, food stuffs, powder, shot, and kerosene . . . these the legitimate spoils of war.

  Men began to slip away into town. Looting began quietly enough. The first fire started as though it might be an accident. Others followed. Micah waited for the general to put a stop to it. He didn’t. A vision of his own barn and Caleb’s cabin burned in his mind’s eye. It didn’t seem right. This was the work of border ruffians. Jennison and Montgomery were known to employ such tactics. He hadn’t approved of those reports, but they spoke of distant events and anonymous places. Osceola was here and now. He had a hand in it, if by no more than standing aside.

  The town burned. Smoke blackened the sky. The nobility of battle for a just cause turned ugly drenched in soot and ash.

  It started as a trickle down dusty roads. Day by day it grew to a steady stream. Tributaries swelled to a dark river of humanity. Slaves, escaped from their masters, poured into the Kansas brigade ranks.

  “They only make more mouths to feed, General,” the sergeant said, shadowed in campfire light.

  “He’s right, sir,” Micah said. “What’s to be done about it?”

  Lane sipped a cup of coffee. “We can’t send them back. We don’t have weapons enough to arm them even if we had time to train them in their use. They only know field work.”

  “We’ve got crops in the fields back home. They’ll need harvesting soon enough,” Micah said.

  “We do, don’t we. Seems like trading one master for another.”

  “There’s a difference, sir. This time we ask them. If they do so, it is of their free choice.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  They assembled the following morning. A ragtag band formed loosely in ranks. Hopeful faces glistened in the heat awaiting instructions. Lane sat astride his horse before them, the better to be seen and heard.

  “Men, we welcome your support to our just cause. You have taken your freedom. Now it is up to you to put it to good purpose. We know you are prepared to fight with us. We applaud your courage. Unfortunately, we lack the arms and the time needed to train you to that purpose. What’s more, armies march on their bellies. We live off the land barely able to feed ourselves. Your number is more than we can reasonably provender. You cannot come with us. You are free to go where you will and engage in purposes of your own choosing. For those of you who wish to help, I can tell you the men of this brigade left their homes with crops in the field. Those crops will soon need harvesting. You know that work. Should you choose to undertake it, we will provide you with a guide to take you to Kansas territory. How many are with us?”

  A chorus of cheers went up in reply.

  Lane nodded.

  They marched west that morning, a relief column to the fighters’ fields. Gone by choice in rebellion against the task master’s command.

  Sycamore

  October, 1861

  Two black men stood in the front yard, scarecr
ow thin, clothes hanging in tatters. Clare stepped out on the porch with a quick glance up the wagon road toward Caleb and Miriam’s place. She saw Caleb coming down the road. Her anxiety eased.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We be hopin’ to help you,” the taller one said. “General Lane sent us to help with the harvest.”

  “He did, did he?” She smiled.

  Caleb turned into the yard. “What these boys want?”

  “Help with the harvest. James Lane sent them.”

  “Well I’ll be. That solve a problem, now, don’t it?”

  “It does. One I doubt Mr. Thorne will appreciate. Caleb, why don’t you show these men to the barn while I stir up a hot meal for them. They look like they could use it.”

  “You boys got names?”

  “This here’s Jethro,” the taller one said. “I go by Joseph.”

  “I’m Caleb. That fine lady is Mrs. Mason.”

  “You the overseer?”

  “We don’t have overseers here. Just owners.”

  “You the owner?”

  “Own some. The barn ain’t much. Best we got just now.”

  “We ain’t used to much.”

  “That’ll make you feel right to home then.”

  Clouds of war brushed aside on a brisk autumn breeze. Freedom tended to her fields at harvest. They cut and raked and bundled. They loaded the wagon for the drive through the shade of her boughs to the river. Day by day, field by field, the work of the season completed. She turned out her finest color in pride and gave up a few leaves in farewell to the barge

  Jackson County, Missouri

  October, 1861

  They met at Andrew Walker’s home on a blustery fall evening. A crackling fire warmed the chill with help from a jug of corn liquor passed freely. Firelight cast the parlor in an eerie, shadowy glow. The scent of wood smoke mingled with clouds of tobacco.

  “It ain’t right,” Andrew said. “Somethin’s got to be done to stop them damn Jayhawkers from raidin’ our farms and terrorizin’ our womenfolk.”

  Heads nodded around the solemn assembly that included Quantrill, Cole Younger, Frank James, and Bill Anderson.

  “What do you figure we should do, Andrew?” Younger said.

  “Fight fire with fire. The good book says, ‘An eye for an eye.’ Them damn Yankee sympathetics got no less comin’.”

  “We can all agree on that. That’s what the governor appointed a militia for,” James said.

  “Where the hell are they, then?” Andrew said.

  Quantrill spoke up. “Price nips at Fremont’s heels and runs clear to Arkansas to hide behind a Confederate skirt. He figures he’s wagin’ war.”

  “That don’t do us no good,” Anderson said.

  “No, it don’t. Andrew’s got a point. If anything’s to be done for us, it’ll be up to us to do it,” Quantrill said.

  “Then you best tell us what to do, William,” Younger said.

  “That’s right,” James said. “You got military experience to go with all that book learnin’. You be captain of the outfit, and we’ll follow your lead.”

  Walker and Anderson nodded agreement.

  “All right, boys, if that’s how you want it, I shall take your captaincy and consider it an honor. We’ll need more men, of course . . . horses and munitions, too.”

  “Bill and me can recruit good men,” James said.

  “Pa and I got horses. Cole can help too, I reckon,” Walker said.

  Younger nodded.

  “Let’s get to it, then. I’ll start sniffin’ for targets while we see what you boys come up with.”

  January, 1862

  They gathered again, huddled around Andrew Walker’s hearth, fending off a bitter cold. Outside a light snow fell, swirled on a light northerly wind.

  “Fifteen capable men,” Frank James reported.

  “More will come when we show some success,” Bill Anderson said.

  Quantrill turned to Andrew. “What about horses?”

  “I’d say we can mount them as needed.”

  Cole Younger nodded agreement.

  “You come up with a target yet, William?” Andrew said.

  “I believe I have. One that will serve a number of our purposes. We have a nest of Yankee sympathy in our midst we’d do well to make an example of.”

  “Independence,” Anderson said.

  “Aye, Independence. It’s a prize that’s ours for the taking. It will attract others to our standard and fill our need for arms, powder, and ball. Are ye with me?”

  “Aye,” said all around.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  * * *

  Independence, Missouri

  February 22, 1862

  Morning fog shrouded the river town known to harbor Yankee sympathies. Quantrill and his raiders struck in a dawn fury of muzzle flash and powder smoke. The town retreated within itself as fifteen marauders stormed the central square from the east. Looting had little more than begun when federal cavalry entered the square from the northwest. They appeared out of the fog as a dark apparition pricked in powder flash and small-arms reports.

  The counter attack caught Quantrill and his men by surprise. The raiders met the enemy charge with a volley of pistol fire as they scrambled to their horses. Quantrill wheeled away out of town on Spring Branch Road, with his men strung out behind and the federals in full firefight pursuit. The raiders pounded down the road, creating some distance from the Yankee regulars. Quantrill drew rein by the side of the road, waving his men to scatter.

  With the last of his command gone by, he put spur to flank as a federal ball took his horse from under him along with a piece of his flesh. His horse went down hard, pitching him into a roadside ditch. He crawled into the undergrowth and scrambled up an embankment to the cover of some boulders. The Yankees stormed past in the heat of the chase.

  The raiders’ superior mounts pulled away from the regulars, and in practiced guerilla tactic they melted into the countryside to regroup once the danger had passed.

  Quantrill bound his wounded leg with a strip of cloth torn from his blouse. Left afoot, he walked to the home of a nearby sympathizer, where he sought shelter. He was soon joined by Bill Anderson, Cole Younger, and a few of their men. They set out pickets and took supper.

  “Cursed luck, be those Yankees close by,” Anderson said.

  Quantrill nodded. “Did we lose any men?”

  “I saw two fall besides yourself,” Younger said. “Won’t know if they are wounded or lost until we rally back to the Walker farm.”

  “And the Yankees?”

  “Hard to track smoke in a wind.”

  “Good.”

  Younger collected the plates.

  “Let’s get some rest. We can return to the Walkers’ in the morning.”

  10:00 PM

  A soft glow of moonlight seeped through a rumpled blanket of cloud. The house stood in dark shadow.

  “Quiet as a church yard, Capt’n.” The civilian scout’s words floated on the chill night air in soft puffs of steam.

  “I can see that. You think they lit here?”

  He spit a dark tobacco stream. “No way to know for sure. Quantrill’s known to take comfort from sesesh sympathizers. This place be one of ’em.”

  “All right, then, let’s have a look. Sergeant, form a line. Encircle the house. Port arms. Forward at a walk. I shall approach the front door.”

  Dark-blue shadows fanned out, arms ready, horses breathing a light, steamy fog. They moved forward on the creak of saddle leather and the soft jangle of bridle brass.

  The captain rode ahead, crossing the yard to the house. He stepped down. The porch step gave out a mournful groan in greeting. He drew his heavy Colt dragoon, using the butt to rap sharply on the door.

  “United States Cavalry, open up!”

  Muffled scuffle sounded inside.

  “Who’s there?”

  “United States Cavalry, open up.”

  “That’s what I thought yo
u said.”

  A section of the door exploded in a powerful blast, the ball narrowly missing the captain. He ducked low outside the door frame.

  “Throw down your arms, Quantrill, and come out with your hands up. I have the house surrounded.”

  “Barricade the doors and windows, boys,” came the muffled reply.

  “Suit yourself, Quantrill.” The captain swung into his saddle and returned to his line. “Fire at will!”

  The Union perimeter erupted in a volley of muzzle flash and smoke.

  The guerillas returned fire with heavy-gauge shotguns and revolvers.

  “This is your last chance, Quantrill. Throw down your arms and come out, or I’ll burn the place down around your worthless neck.”

  The raiders responded with yet another volley.

  “Sergeant, fire detail. Burn it down.”

  Three men fanned out across the front of the house with lit kerosene lamps.

  “Covering volley!” the sergeant shouted. “Fire!”

  The men dashed forward behind a wall of ball and smoke. The man closest to center went down in return fire. The man on the left threw his lamp from afar. It fell harmlessly short, spreading a pool of flame in the yard. The man on the right made a mighty throw, dove into the dirt, and rolled away from the ensuing shooters. His lamp arced toward the log cabin wall. It shattered, spreading flame across the right face of the house.

  “Time’s on our side now, Quantrill.”

  “They sure ’nuf got it lit,” Younger said.

  “We best find a way out.” Quantrill headed for the back of the house.

  Smoke seeped through the window frame, chinks in the logs, and under the door.

  “Back here, boys!”

  Younger, Anderson, and the rest scrambled away from their posts to the back of the house.

  Quantrill held up a lamp beside a trapdoor. “This leads to a storm cellar. There’s a second door outside. Shotguns first. You boys lay down fire. The rest of us follow. Cross the yard to the woods and scatter. We rally at the Little Blue headwaters campsite. Spread the word.”