Two years ago I began an historical column for a local newspaper, which included a six-month series on locals Frank and Jesse James. Little did I know that another six-month series would continue the following year, or that I would officially become a James family historian and be asked to serve on the Friends of the James Farm board.
Jesse and Frank James were more than mere outlaws. They were men born before the mid-1850s in Missouri. It was before Missouri was truly settled and populated, before Kansas City was the hub that it is today, and before the Missouri/Kansas border wars or the Civil War.
They were the sons of evangelist Robert James, who began three churches in Clay County, Missouri and who was one of the founders of William Jewell College in Liberty, Mo.
The boys' upbringing started right, but in 1850, Robert had left for the gold fields of California in order to preach to the heathens mining those fields and died about as soon as he reached California. This is the first in a series of events in the lives of these two boys that set them down the road of their future. The following is the beginning of a fairly short story I wrote – fiction that is based on factual events – regarding their mother, Zerelda.
Zerelda was a tall, imposing woman who was not afraid to stand her ground. She went through many trials and tribulations in her lifetime including the death of her first husband, a very bad second husband, the torture hanging of her third husband, Reuben, the death of her young son Archie and the partial loss of her right arm during the famous bombing of the James farm by Pinkerton's detectives, and of course - the loss of her beloved Jesse at the hands of gang member, Bob Ford. She also lost her daughter, Susan, not too many years after Jesse and had to have her husband institutionalized due to the long-term affects of the 1863 hanging by Union soldiers.
I have been fascinated by Zerelda and what went through her mind. Surely the tragedies she survived took a toll on her, whether she displayed the effects publicly or privately.
The following is part one of this short story about the first exhumation of Jesse James, who had been buried in the yard of the farmhouse in Kearney, where his mother could see the grave from her bedroom and thus watch over her son's resting place.
Zerelda sat down in her chair by the window of the hotel in Kearney and looked out to the street. There were families walking, crossing the street – fathers, mothers, children. They looked so carefree. she could scarcely remember a time when she felt like that.
She missed her children – Susan, Archie, and her beloved Jesse, shot down like a dog in the back of the head 20 years ago.
Zerelda sighed and looked down at her right sleeve, pinned up where her hand and arm should be – bitterly remembering that cold January day when Pinkerton's detectives had thrown a bomb into the house, blowing her arm off and killing her young Archie.
Life had been difficult and she was feeling every bit of her 75-plus years.
Zerelda looked back out to the street and saw men she recognized cross the street and head toward the hotel and she knew what today meant, though she had not officially been told.
Today was the day they were going to dig up her Jesse from his grave just outside the cabin on the farm in Kearney.
Zerelda had insisted that he be buried in the yard, close to the house, where she could keep watch over him through the years – making sure no one would have access to him, dig him up and use his bones for profit.
She'd sworn she was going to watch over Jesse in death. And so she had, but the time had come to move her beloved son and place him next to his wife Zee, buried now in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Kearney.
Zerelda never liked Zee much. She would not have liked anyone whom Jesse chose for his wife, no one would ever have been good enough for her Jesse. But he loved Zee with all his heart and so she grudgingly gave in when he married her.
And now Zee was gone herself – dead at 55. Zerelda knew Zee died of a broken heart – she never recovered from losing the love of her life.
In the years after Jesse was killed, Zee stayed away from Zerelda and the farm, never accepting help from the James family. It was as if it was too painful to see their faces and be reminded of the years she'd had with Jesse.
"Well no never mind," said Zerelda as she turned back to the window. "All of that is in the past and I can't change the past."
Another man crossed the street and entered the hotel door below. Zerelda knew them all. They were former guerrillas who had ridden with Frank and Jesse when they were with Quantrill and "Bloody" Bill Anderson. They were men who had survived the bloodiest war in American history. Men who had done unspeakable things and yet lived to make something out of their lives.
Zerelda was sure they all had their memories that were hard to forget. Lord knows she had some of the same memories as she thought about her husband, Reuben.
One sunny day in May of 1863, Jesse had been out in the fields working. Union soldiers had ridden onto the property and found Jesse first. They beat him to a bloody pulp and left him laying in the field. Then they found Reuben and, laughing like hyenas, they threw a rope over a tree limb near the house and strung him up.
The soldiers hung Reuben until he was nearly dead – three times – trying to learn where the guerrillas were staying. Reuben finally told the soldiers that the guerrillas were out in the woods behind the house. The soldiers ambushed the guerrillas and several were killed, but Frank and a few others managed to escape. In the end, he and a very pregnant Zerelda were arrested and jailed.
Zerelda sighed again as she thought of her husband, who was never the same after that day. He was now housed in a mental institution in St. Joseph – mostly unaware of his surroundings.
A knock came to her door and Zerelda rose to answer it. Standing there was her grandson, Jesse Junior. "Gran," he said, "We've done it."
She knew today was the day – somehow she knew. She and Frank had discussed removing Jesse from his grave because they were no longer living at the farm and were concerned about leaving the grave unattended. The time had come to move him to a grave by Zee.
Zerelda took her grandson's arm as he led her down the stairs of the hotel, where Frank, J.T. and the old guerrillas waited to join her for lunch before leaving for the farm.
Frank, who had been sick in his bed with the grip was told by his doctor not to attend the exhumation or the burial. Nevertheless, he had been in Baltimore when his brother was killed and could not attend Jesse's first funeral, so he was determined not to miss this one.
Little did they know that this was just the first of three exhumations of the remains of Jesse James.
No comments:
Post a Comment