Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  “Now carry,” Cora said.

  “The one, one plus one is two . . . twenty one!” Rebecca beamed.

  “Very good,” Cora said. She glanced at Miriam. “Do you see what she did?”

  Miriam nodded.

  “Let’s try this one.” Cora wiped the slate clean and took the chalk from the child.

  Caleb watched Clare and Elizabeth turn into the yard from the lane. His mouth watered at the sight of one of Clare’s fresh baked pies. Elizabeth ran ahead, smiling brightly at the sight of Miss Allen.

  Miriam met Clare at the porch step. “Mmm, that looks good. Here, sit yourself down. Let me take that inside before that man decides to start his dinner with dessert.”

  Clare smoothed her skirt and sat on the porch step.

  “Any word from Micah?” Caleb asked.

  She nodded. “I just received a letter.”

  “What’s the news?”

  “They’ve marched deep into southern Missouri. It seems General Price and the Missouri militia have abandoned the state and taken refuge in Arkansas under the protection of Rebel troops there. Union forces including the Kansas brigade have halted their pursuit. Micah says it’s one thing to engage Price and another to mount an attack on Rebel regulars.”

  “They plannin’ on comin’ home any time soon?”

  “They are. General Lane says they can’t accomplish much watching the border. He says the men are needed at home come harvest time.”

  “I’m sure for havin’ him home in time for harvest.”

  Miriam clapped her hands. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Lawrence

  July, 1863

  The Kansas brigade returned home without fanfare on a hot, windy summer afternoon. Townsfolk set aside their daily business long enough to watch and cheer the men as they rode down Massachusetts Street to Eldridge House. There General Lane drew a halt and wheeled his horse to address his command. He rode the length of the column as he spoke.

  “Welcome home, gentlemen. You have acquitted yourselves honorably in support of our noble cause. The people of Kansas are indebted to you for your service. I am proud and privileged to have led you. We prevailed where we were needed. Now it is time to tend our needs here at home.”

  “The war in the East advances. Righteous freedom shall undoubtedly prevail. For now, we shall stand down, but hear me: keep your powder dry, your blades sharp, and your weapons by, as the need of them may yet again arise.”

  “You are hereby dismissed. Go to your homes.”

  The men cheered and began to disperse. Lane stepped down at the hotel rail.

  “Will you be needing anything further, sir?” Micah asked.

  “Only that you accept my thanks, Micah. I’ve come to value your ear and your wit. Should the need arise, I hope you will again serve as my aide.”

  “Indeed, sir. What of my mount?”

  “You’ve earned him. Now go home to that lovely wife and daughter of yours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Blue Springs

  Jackson County, Missouri

  August 15, 1863

  The camp stirred, alert to the sound of a fast horse approaching. Horse and rider resolved out of the forest, galloping through the trees to a sliding stop. Bill Anderson leaped down from his lathered mount.

  “They’re dead.” Tears streaked his cheeks.

  “Who’s dead?” Cole Younger asked.

  “Your sisters and mine.”

  Quantrill and his men gathered around the new arrival.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Younger said.

  “That rat trap on Grand Avenue where they was keepin’ ’em collapsed. All them inside was crushed dead.”

  “What!? How?”

  “Termites they say. I say bullshit! If it was termites, they was Yankee termites. They done it on purpose to get us ’cause they ain’t been able to catch us. Murdered ’em they did, sure as I’m standin’ here.”

  Anderson and Younger turned to Quantrill. “What are we gonna do about it, William?” Cole demanded.

  “An eye for an eye!” Anderson said.

  Quantrill raised a calming hand and smoothed his moustache. “You’ll have your eye, Bill. The questions are how, where, and when. We can’t take on the whole Yankee garrison at Kansas City. That’d flush us out and play right into their hands. We got plenty of blood accounts to settle with the Yankees and them free-state Jayhawkers. First Osceola, now your sisters.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and dropped his head in thought, giving his audience up to bird calls and buzzing flies. At length, he nodded to himself.

  “Lane and his Kansas brigade finished chasin’ Price with the Yankees. He’s disbanded the outfit.”

  “So?” Anderson wiped tear-streaked grime on his shirtsleeve.

  “That serves up a target ripe for our vengeance.”

  Recognition lit Younger’s eye.

  “Lawrence.”

  Quantrill nodded. “Lawrence.”

  “You call that an eye? One piddlin’ town ain’t no more’n a start,” Anderson said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  * * *

  Lawrence

  August 21, 1863

  Dawn. Quantrill headed a column swollen to more than four hundred strong. They sat in the tree line on the road into town. Morning fog rose over the river, draping a gauzy veil over homes and businesses slowly waking from slumber. Despite their numbers, he suspected some among his command might be overtaken with misgivings at the magnitude of their target. Fatigue brought on by a long night’s ride drew a man’s thoughts to home, hearth, and safety.

  “There she is, boys. Home and comfort to James Lane, Doc Jennison, and the rest of them red-leg butchers. You’ve seen their work up and down the border. Is there a man among you who hasn’t suffered loss or atrocity of family or friend by their hand?”

  His words struck chords. Will stiffened.

  “They’ve a thin garrison now. Not more than raw recruits to the Union side. They shall scatter before our winnowing blades. They’ve shown us no quarter. We shall show none in return. Every able-bodied man is a Union loyalist. Cut them down where they stand. Mark me now, bring no harm to womenfolk or children. Leave them unharmed to mourn the loss of their menfolk and the comforts of home.”

  He squeezed up a lope down the road to the north. They passed a farm. A handful of men peeled away. They found the owner milking a cow. They shot him before he could rise from his stool.

  Quantrill dispatched lookouts west to Mount Oread and a detachment to secure the east end of town. He led the main body in a charge up Massachusetts Street to Eldridge House.

  Lane woke with a start at shots being fired. Quantrill! The name burst both accusation and conviction in his mind. He leaped out of bed and stumbled into his trousers.

  “What is it, dear?” His wife blinked back her sleep.

  “Bushwhackers. Get dressed and get out of the house as fast as you can. Stay with the neighbors. You’ll be safe.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I must raise the militia.” He ran down the stairs, two at a time to the back of the house. He dashed across the yard to a field, where he took cover in a drainage ditch. He watched the raiders spread through town raising dust clouds punctuated by gunfire and plumes of powder smoke. There’s a bloody business afoot here, and I likely top the list of those to be killed. He looked west. If I can but make it to Micah’s, I can borrow his horse.

  Quantrill stepped down at Eldridge House as his raiders fanned out across the length and breadth of town with his admonishment to kill ringing in their ears. Osceola and all the Jayhawk atrocities would be avenged by the blood of Lawrence.

  A company of recruits to a Kansas volunteer brigade was encamped on the outskirts of town. Bill Anderson and his men overran the camp. Men were trampled beneath horses’ hooves or were shot down unarmed. Blue coats ignited a bloody black rage in Anderson. He carried four pistols, twenty-four shots in all. He cr
ied for his sisters as he counted his victims with each shot he fired. He carried two fully loaded pistols when he wheeled away from the volunteer camp and galloped into town.

  A Negro regiment, similarly encamped nearby, were alerted to the raid by gunfire. Not yet armed, they scattered, running for their lives in fear of guerilla forces for whom their new blue coats would serve only as a death warrant.

  Certain commanders had orders to see to specific targets. These men, known Jayhawks or Unionists, were dragged from their homes and beds, marched into the street, and shot, to the horror of their families. Their homes and properties were put to the torch.

  Raiders broke into saloons and whisky shops, pouring strong drink on raging blood lust. Before long, horsemen holding bottle and reins in one hand and pistol in the other raced up and down the streets shooting in the air or at any man daring to show his face. Anderson wasted none of his bullets on meaningless noise. Each one exacted a measure of vengeance for Union atrocities done his family and sisters.

  Quantrill seized the livery cabriolet and drove out to inspect the progress of his raid. He found every hotel and boardinghouse in town under similar assault. Inhabitants turned out to the streets under pretense of safe passage. There, all were robbed and the women made to watch as their husbands, brothers, and neighbors were shot down in cold blood. With the killing complete, houses and properties set ablaze, a pall of black mourning smoke spread over the town, searing the tears of those helpless who had only to stand in horror and watch.

  He drove on to the Lane house. His men found it empty. In anger, he ordered it burned to the ground. He turned back to the center of town, choked in thick black smoke, a hellish inferno walled in flame. He wheeled the carriage west out of town and drove to the summit of Mount Oread, where he took in a lofty view of his destruction set against the backdrop of Charles Robinson’s home leaping in flames. He indulged a satisfied smile as smoke drifted toward the summit, a burnt offering to justice done in the name of vengeance.

  Sycamore

  The afternoon was well advanced when a lone bedraggled figure jogged up the wagon road to the yard. Micah hung Delilah’s harness on a peg in the barn as Caleb called.

  “Looky here.”

  Micah stepped into the barnyard. “General!” He waved and ran to meet Lane with Caleb at his heel. The man’s clothes were mud-spattered and torn. His hair, seldom groomed, stood in wild disarray.

  “What happened?”

  “Quantrill hit Lawrence this morning.”

  “He what?”

  “Look there.”

  The black cloud five miles away may have been a rain squall. “Lawrence?”

  “Burning to the ground. Every able-bodied man murdered without quarter. May I have the use of your horse?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean to raise the militia, though I fear we shall all be too late.”

  “This way. Caleb, see if Clare might have a bite of something for the general.”

  “Shore ’nuf.” He ran off to the cabin.

  Micah led Lane to the barn and set about saddling the gelding.

  Lawrence

  September 1863

  Late summer spread golden across northeastern Kansas masking the whisper of autumn to come. Only the burnt scar that was Lawrence marred the glory of a breezy sunny day. They pitched a tent behind the Eldridge House ruins by way of promise to rebuild. Charles Robinson sat at a camp table with James Lane and Titus Thorne, quietly talking over soft flapping canvas.

  “The Kansas brigade is ready to ride,” Lane said.

  Robinson rubbed his forehead in thought. “To what purpose, James?”

  “To avenge this.” He spread his arms over the charred remains.

  “And how will you avenge it? With more carnage, burnings, and lootings? Will that put it right?”

  “This atrocity cannot go unanswered.”

  “No, it can’t; but I think we might find a more suitable answer.”

  “I don’t follow you, Charles.”

  “I must say I’m a little lost myself,” Thorne said.

  “The war in the east has turned against the south both morally and militarily. The Confederacy will be defeated as it most assuredly must be. War’s end will be followed by a period of rebuilding. Here in the West, we have the opportunity to begin rebuilding now. The most powerful statement we could make to our rebellious neighbors in Missouri is to rebuild. The railroad is coming. The prosperity it brings will put an economic end to the evils of slavery more powerful than the triumph of the sword. We here in Kansas should be first to avail ourselves of the opportunity. Let us put aside our arms and channel our talent and treasure to a new beginning. Let’s rebuild Lawrence and let her stand as a beacon to freedom, equality, and the prosperity of a newly united nation.”

  “Wise words,” Thorne said. “Your vision is much as my own, though you phrase yours more eloquently in those grandiose terms.”

  “And what is your vision, Titus?”

  “Only a more practical start.”

  “How so?”

  “I propose we charter a bank to finance the rebuilding.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Robinson said. “Do the right thing and get on with it. An excellent plan I shall thoroughly support.”

  “Thank you, Charles. Your standing and support will mean much to the success of the enterprise.”

  “A bank, Titus?” Lane said. “Now I must say, I’m a bit surprised. It doesn’t exactly strike me as your cup of tea.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan to run it. We shall hire a professional for that. I merely seek to organize the capital needed to start it. That, of course, and hold some stock in the enterprise.”

  “A necessary first step, Titus,” Robinson said. “You shall have more than my moral support. If you’ve a place for me as an investor, I should be more than happy to join your syndicate.”

  “I’d be honored, Charles.”

  “Very well, then. Do keep me informed of your progress. Now, I must be off to another matter. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Lane watched him depart through the tent flap. He lifted a brow at Thorne. “Since when have you become so community minded?”

  “James, you wound me by your obvious suspicion of my good intention.”

  “No suspicion to it, Titus. I know you.”

  “Ah, yes, there is that.”

  “There’s more here than good intention.”

  “Perhaps. If you must know, the railroad comes with right-of-way land grants. Those grants must be developed. A bank provides a useful vehicle to participate in the prosperity sure to grow out of that.”

  “My faith is restored.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “You’re still a scoundrel.”

  “Pleased I could oblige.”

  Sycamore

  Dear Ma & Pa,

  I am sure reports of the tragic raid on Lawrence caused you concern for our safety. I write to assure you we were spared this time. All our family and properties are fine. The same cannot be said for our many friends and neighbors in Lawrence. They were subjected to vile brutalities and destruction. Any men and boys the raiders found were murdered in cold blood, most within sight of their loved ones. Much of the town was burned to the ground, leaving the widows and orphans of the dead homeless. Mere words cannot justly describe the devastation. We are left to ask, where will it end?

  General Lane intended to call out the Kansas brigade to seek retribution. Such would have taken Micah back into service. Thankfully Governor Robinson stood against it. The community devotes its efforts to rebuilding. Micah says the war in the East has turned against the South. He believes at long last it may soon be over. I pray he is right. The violence must end. We wonder if the conflict ever will. Feelings run deep and strong on both sides. The wounds are raw and painful. They will be slow to mend. One wonders if they are ever to be reconciled peaceably. We are left to pray. For now all is well.

  Clare

  CHAPTER FIF
TY

  * * *

  Sycamore

  April 1864

  Slowly spring sun roused her from her winter slumbers. Ice cracked, dripping crystal. Her creek ran a trickle, drawn to the river below. She lay bare, releasing stiff frost from her bones. The old tree stretched out mighty limbs to the breeze, watching over all. Redbud burst among pale, green shoots. Bluebonnet spread carpet patches. Gentle spring rain moistened her fields, beckoning a lover planting seed.

  Sampson leaned into his traces, drawing the plough to a clean straight furrow. Caleb followed, guiding the blade, Sampson’s lines draped over his shoulders. The scent of freshly turned earth mingled with a light spring shower on a gentle breeze. Micah followed along, seeding the furrow. Gray clouds drifted east among patches of blue. If a man was to ask for a favorable planting, he couldn’t improve on the day. Caleb made the turn at the end of the row and drew the mule to a halt. Micah straightened and stretched his back.

  “You feel like takin’ the plough for a spell? It be a might easier on the back.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll trade a little stiff back for your rows. I can’t cut ’em near as straight as you.”

  “Better cuttin’ my rows than them as belong to a massa.”

  “A man takes pride in what’s his.”

  Caleb nodded. “Well, this field won’t plough itself. Hup there, mule!” He pushed off down the row.

  May

  Seed clutched to her belly, sprouting green and tender. Roots dug deep, drawing precious moisture from the soil. Stems stretched out to blue sky and the promise of summer sun. Birdsong filled the morning air, stirred by gentle breeze. The old tree stretched to the horizon filled with new life.

  The sky overhead arced bright and blue. Micah hoed, willing the dust away. Caleb walked the rows, snatching a weed here, a bramble there. Miriam fed the men and minded the girls. Clare gathered spring wildflowers in the shade of the old sycamore. Day by day, spring wiled into summer.

  June

  Each day sunrise cracked the darkness without hint of red or pink. Bright summer sun at midday bleached the sky overhead. Harsh wind blew hot and dry. She parched. Her seedlings thirsted. Their cries produced no tears. The old sycamore cast a long shadow over the land.