Jesse James was born to be an outlaw – he just never succeeded at anything else

Somehow when Jesse discovered horse racing while living in Tennessee, I've wondered what his evangelical father would have said about it. Horse racing requires betting, which the Bible frowns upon. Nevertheless, Robert James would most likely disapproved of the way both his sons turned out – robbers and killers.

It's all Robert's fault – if he hadn't been so insistent on heading to the gold fields of California in 1850 and dying there, life would have been different for the James family. But then, Zerelda wouldn't have married Reuben Samuel and some of my current friends – descendants of the Samuel clan – wouldn't be here today.

Jesse adopted the name Dave Howard and settled in Humphreys County, Tennessee (west of Nashville). In addition to horse racing, Jesse tried to carry himself off as a gentleman farmer and grain speculator. He and Zee were popular and held many a party and attended many a church social – no one in their circle ever guessed their true identities.

Jesse was a chameleon and could adapt to any circumstance in which he found himself. Surprisingly, that was probably due to his years as a bushwhacker – pretending to be a Union soldier, getting out of difficult situations quickly and perfecting the art of escape from the robberies he committed.

Jesse's horse, Red Fox, was rumored to be the fastest in Humphreys County and one of the fastest in the state – only Jesse would have strived for that nugget. But it also served him a purpose – should he need a quick escape, Red Fox would be able to get him away and fast.

Jesse, AKA Mr. Howard, still had to look over his shoulder constantly and be on alert every minute. He always kept people from coming up behind him by standing with his back against the wall, or positioning himself at a table on the far side where he could look out at the room.

He carried a pistol at all times, though that was fairly common in the late 1870s. He was still Jesse, however, and there were a few occasions where he showed off his incredible marksmanship by killing a dog at a BBQ who had stolen some food and by joining a contest at a fair in which men were trying to shoot the flame off a candle. He also occasionally challenged another man, but would catch himself just in time and insert a little humor into the situation – narrowly avoiding a confrontation.

It went against Jesse's genetic make-up to behave. He just couldn't do it and he was very lucky to not have been discovered.

Meanwhile, Frank and Annie finally made it to Tennessee, where they rented some land near Whites Creek, just north of Nashville. It was said that Frank was known to put in at least 10 hours a day working the land. I'm sure it gave him plenty of time to think about the direction his life had taken and to thank his lucky stars that they were living a quiet life for a while.

Frank went by the name of Ben J. Woodson (there's that Woodson name again – the boy's paternal Uncle Drury's middle name was Woodson and it was Jesse's middle name too). Annie added an "F" to her name, making her Fannie Woodson.

This is one of the more famous photos of
Jesse James and is authentic. It shows what
he actually looked like at the age of about 28,
and is believed to have been taken in Nebraska.
Note the lines on his neck and ruddy complexion
 – he was probably quite tan from living outside
and looked older than his 28 years.

Jesse wasn't the only one who found it difficult to let go of the outlaw lifestyle of living on the run. Frank also had his troubles.

One day, a son of a neighbor came to visit Frank while he was in the fields planting corn. The young man yelled to Frank, who hollered back "who is it?" When the young fella didn't respond quick enough, he quickly found himself looking down the barrel of not one, but two six-shooters.

Frank's finely honed skills in his guerrilla and outlaw lifestyles also crept into play occasionally as when he would sit down to a game of poker. One friend said, "Although Frank (Ben) looked like a preacher, he could play poker like a politician."

Even Annie forgot herself. She once offered a neighbor woman an opportunity to pick an item from her jewelry box to wear to a party and the woman was astounded by the amount of high quality jewelry a simple sharecropper's wife had in her possession.

Still, no one ever suspected the friendly couple Ben and Fannie Woodson of any shady past or present. They were well-liked by all of their acquaintances, as were Jesse and his wife.

Typical Jesse, however, quickly got himself involved in one too many financial binds, overspent, and over-played several friends and business acquaintances, finding himself being sued for bounced checks and accruing other debts. The hot water was rising and he was chaffing to make a change.

He was used to earning money the quick way – by stealing it – not by the old-fashioned way of having to work for it.

Jesse got to feeling a little too bold and was letting his guard down too frequently and by December of 1878, he realized it was getting a bit too "hot" for him in Humphreys County. So, he packed up his family and headed to Nashville where he could reconnect with his brother.

In late 1878 or early 1879, Frank rented a farm east of the Clarksville Pike, northwest of Nashville, which stood on a knoll overlooking the pike. It created a great outlook for Frank to see who was approaching the property.

It was to Frank's new home that Jesse, Zee and their children headed after leaving Humphreys County.

I've found the following a very interesting description of the two men as something that fit not only their known personalities, but that of two men on the run from something very bad.

"They were very quiet men. They spoke very little and attended their own business ... Frank was the quieter of the two, though Jesse never talked a great deal ... Frank used to sit off by himself on the track (race track) and whittle a stick and seemed to think a great deal. Neither of the men ever joked and they laughed but little (proof that the art of living on the run and incognito was wearing on the brothers). They both gambled a great deal. They were said to play poker right smart and play all sorts of games big and little." (Aleck Ament, bartender at the Crockford Saloon, Nashville - Nashville Daily American, Oct. 12, 1882 edition)

Jesse was getting itchy again, however. He liked robbing trains and banks and he liked the lifestyle it afforded him. Early in the summer of 1879, he made a trip west of the Mississippi that took him to the railhead of the brand new Santa Fe line at Las Vegas – perhaps to look for a new place to settle down, far away from Missouri law enforcement, or to look for new gang members.

This photo has been circulating for a long time and alleges
that it is of Billy the Kid (left) and Jesse James (second from
right). It is not Jesse in this photo and clearly does not even
resemble him. There are tons of photos out there alleging to be
of Jesse and/or Frank and even some of their family
 and many of them are fakes.

It is said that while in Vegas, Jesse met another notorious man – William McCarty, AKA "Billy the Kid." However, one can rest assured that Jesse remained known as Mr. Howard during this meeting because of other, questionable people present.

Still, legend has it that Jesse did reveal himself to Billy the Kid and had sought him out to see if he would join the gang. But Billy was not into robbing trains or banks, he preferred rounding up the livestock of others and taking it for his own.

Something tells me no gang would have had enough room for the personalities of Jesse James and Billy the Kid.

It seems that Las Vegas was too big for the likes of Jesse, as he witnessed other gangs that had been lured to the wild western town – mostly known as the Dodge City Boys. They began robbing a number of stagecoaches and some trains, so Jesse hightailed it back to Missouri.

And there, back in his old stomping grounds ... Jesse assembled what would be the last James gang and the beginning of the end.

Fifteen years until his death – bold, brave and feared by many – who was Jesse James?

The images appear before my mind like a vignette from an early 1900s movie. Jesse age 2 1/2 clinging to his father's leg, Jesse age 15 – plowing the field and beaten near to death by enemy soldiers. Jesse growing angrier by the day over the injustices done to neighbors as well as his own family. Jesse watching his stepfather being hung repeatedly to torture him into disclosing where Frank and fellow bushwhackers are hiding. Jesse's mother pregnant and being hauled off to jail. Jesse at war, a hole shot in his chest and spending that cold, frightening night in the creek.

These things defined the boy who became a very angry man. The man Jesse became is the one we are still talking about 131 years after his death.

He was complex, youthful, gregarious, aggressive, a prankster, a bloodthirsty killer, a lover, a father, a son, a brother, a vengeful desperado.

It's easy to criticize what Jesse and his brother did throughout those years following the war. Like other guerrillas, the war didn't end for them, it continued and they seemed to want to keep it alive.

They wanted to keep their hatred alive and right the wrongs they saw during the war. This is where they've gotten the Robin Hood image and it's a distorted one. They didn't rob from the rich and give to the poor. They went after entities that they felt wronged them.  Once in a while they were lenient on a victim, other times they weren't.

As the boys drifted between the states of Missouri, Texas, Arkansas, Nebraska and Kentucky, and occasionally, somewhere on the east coast, during the years leading up to 1874, they sometimes committed the robberies of which they've been accused and other times they did not – though they were blamed.

It would have been easy to lay the blame on the James gang.

One needs to remember too, that greed and sleazy doings were occurring all over the United States and not just being committed by criminals, but by those appearing to be upstanding citizens. Somehow, somewhere the romanticism of the James gang was cast at them and it stuck, forever cementing them in the minds of the public – then and now – as the first, the baddest, the biggest, the meanest bandits in the world.

Over these ensuing years, the boys were on the run – a lot. They had to live off the land, they rode hard, and they had to constantly be looking over their shoulders.

They aged very quickly. By 1873, Frank was 30 years old, just about middle-aged for the mid-19th century and he had to be growing tired of the lifestyle by now ... longing to settle down with a wife and children and stop looking over his shoulder. Frank would marry Anna Ralston of Independence in June of 1874.

Jesse was still in a very long engagement to his cousin Zee, who herself, had to be tired of waiting for her man to decide to settle down. They wouldn't marry until April 24, 1874.

Jesse just wasn't the type to settle down. He was always looking for the next hit, the next kick, the next con he could come up with. He was adept at lying, at discerning who was friend or foe and he was good at what he did, as was Frank.

These two just never got caught.

In January of 1875, the horrific attack at the James/Samuel house in Kearney by the Pinkerton detectives left the boy's little brother, Archie dead and their beloved mother without her right arm.

It was one more travesty enacted on their family that added to their anger and fueled their thirst for revenge.

In September of 1876 when Jesse and Frank, Cole, Bob and Jim Younger, Charlie Pitts, Clell Miller and Bill Chadwell headed to Northfield, Minnesota to rob the bank, little did they know that they would create the perfect storm of mistakes and choose a town that stood up and fought them tooth and nail.

Only two of the eight men would escape.

Clell Miller and Bill Chadwell were killed right in Northfield. Inside the bank, Frank got tired of the clerk who wouldn't open the safe, Joseph Heywood, and with mayhem erupting in the street between citizens standing up to the crooks who were supposed to be the lookouts, Frank put a gun to Heywood's head and shot him dead.

Joseph Lee Heywood, the bank clerk from
the Northfield, Minn. robbery who refused
to open the safe for Frank James. James shot
Heywood in the head, killing him instantly,
when he was urged to hurry up and leave,
due to the gun battle raging outside in the
street between citizens and outlaws.

Nicholas Gustafson, a Swedish immigrant who understood and spoke little English, was killed in the crossfire in the streets. That left four dead in Northfield – two robbers and two innocent men and the citizens and law enforcement out for more blood.

Cole, Bob and Jim Younger escaped with Jesse and Frank, along with Charlie Pitts, but the three Younger men were injured. Jim was shot in the jaw, a bullet lodged in the roof of his mouth and Bob's elbow was shattered, rendering his firing hand useless. Cole was shot in the thigh, and Frank had been shot in the leg as well.

The men all took off, but their horses quickly became winded and were frothing at the mouth. Day after day passed as the men rode through swamps, pouring rain, through field and forest just a bare step ahead of the posses that had been assembled and were chasing them with vengeance on their minds.

Finally, after several days of attempting to escape, exhausted, hungry and the three injured Younger men vowing they couldn't go any further, Jesse and Frank split from the Youngers, and Pitts, who was so tired he just couldn't go any further.

Cole Younger after his capture by the posse
from the botched Northfield, Minn. bank
robbery. He was shot in the head, which
caused the swollen right eye.

It wasn't long before the posse caught up to the Youngers and Pitts. Gunfire erupted and Pitts was quickly shot dead. The Youngers surrendered and surprisingly, were not lynched, but instead tried and sentenced to life in prison. It was as if the men were so exhausted and beat from their wounds and being on the run that they'd had enough and relieved in a way, to be caught.

They led lives in Stillwater prison as model prisoners. The youngest, Bob Younger, would died in prison of tuberculosis in 1889, while Jim and Cole would be paroled in 1901. However the tragedy continued. Jim committed suicide on Oct. 19, 1902 when he realized that as a condition of his parole, he could not return to Missouri and marry his love. In 1903, Cole's parole conditions were changed and he was told he was to leave Minnesota, but must never return.

Throughout it all, Cole Younger refused to divulge the identity of the two men who got away.

It was always ... honor among thieves.

Returning to September 1876, as Jesse and Frank parted from the Youngers and Pitts, they cut a wide trek through Minnesota and neighboring states (Dakota territory, Iowa, Nebraska) until they found their way back to Missouri – the posse coming extremely close to catching them, but never quite getting close enough.

They were the slipperiest of crooks.

Frank and Jesse spent many days and nights in the cold and rain, with little food or sustenance, and Frank himself was suffering from a bullet wound to the leg. Sometimes the boys had horses to ride, sometimes they walked. Their boots, made for riding not walking, were worn through and the prosperity they expected to reap from the robbery in Northfield a distant memory as the only thought in their heads was to keep going and elude the men after them.

I am guessing, however, that their years of riding with Quantrill had built these two brothers into men who could endure just about any condition – for they not only escaped like ghosts in the night, they survived the conditions as well.

Little is known about the men during the winter after Northfield. It has been rumored that they went to Adairville, Kentucky and stayed with their Hite cousins. Other rumors had them in Arkansas. Still, after the botched robbery and the capture of their most trusted gang members, it appeared that life on the lam was about over.

It was over 10 years since the war had ended and Reconstruction had come to an end. Life was changing in the U.S., people were moving forward and there was a lot less sympathy for Frank and Jesse James.

The men took their families – Jesse, Zee and Jesse Jr., and Annie, Frank and young Robert James, and moved to Baltimore, Maryland for a time, then left Maryland and headed to Nashville, Tennessee.

It was time to lay low. It would be one of the few times the two brothers attempted to live normal lives with their wives and children – trying to hold down jobs, and always ... always ... under an alias.

Meanwhile, Jesse discovered horse racing.

His frenetic mind was always thinking, conniving and  planning.

The war is over, but Jesse James' life is fragile and fraught with pain for years to come

The last few days of the War Between the States, would mark the end of good health for Jesse James and scar him for the rest of his life, contributing – I believe – to his early death at the hands of Robert Ford on April 3, 1882.

On May 11, 1865, Archie Clement wrote a letter to the commander, Maj. B.K. Davis, at Lexington, in which he threatened retaliation if any of his friends were hurt.

"Sir: This is to notify you that I will give you until Friday morning, 10 a.m., May 12, 1865, to surrender the town of Lexington. If you surrender, we will treat you and all taken as prisoners of war. If we have to take it by storm we will burn the town and kill the soldiers. We have the force and are determined to have it. I am, sir, your most obedient servant. A. Clement"

So polite when making threats!

May 12 came and went without so much as a burp on the radar.

There were, however, about 100 guerrillas that had made it known they wanted to surrender, but wanted to be treated as citizens and not punished for war crimes. Nevertheless, according to James friend and biographer, Jesse Edwards, Jesse and Archie Clement were not in favor of surrender.

So it was that on May 15, 1865, part of the Third Wisconsin and perhaps a few of the Johnson County militia skirmished with guerrillas southeast of Lexington, in the area now known as Tabo Creek.

A Major Davis reported that he believed Clement was on the Missouri River scouting for a way to cross and that he and his group were fired upon the previous day about six miles out on Salt Pond Road as they returned from the Missouri River.

Jesse himself said that he and a handful of guerrillas were headed for Lexington to surrender when they ran into some drunken soldiers.

"My horse was killed and I was shot through the breast," he said. "I was running through the woods, pursued by two men on horseback ... they were pressing me hard, every jump that I made, the blood would spurt out of my wound.

"That ended the fight. I was near a creek. I lay in the water all night, it seemed that my body was on fire. The next morning I crawled up the bank and a man was plowing nearby and he helped me get to my friends."

While the guerrillas had been looking for a way to cross the river, it seems they were looking to flee to Mexico instead of surrendering. No matter what the plans were, Jesse now was in no shape to surrender.

The farmer who found Jesse, took him to a Mr. Bradley's home on Tabo Creek, where Bradley's wife nursed him back to a point where they could bring him into Lexington to surrender.

About 18 months ago, a group of us researchers went looking for Salt Pond Road and believe we found it – a narrow gravel road right off Tabo Creek that is still marshy and surrounded by cornfields. I can never pass this area without thinking of Jesse lying in that creek throughout that night after being shot.

Fellow guerrilla and sometime James gang member Jim Cummins later remarked about the location and that it was not far from the Higginsville Confederate home and indeed, that is true.

Jesse was cared for by the kindly farmer's wife until May 21, when he was put in a wagon and driven to Lexington, about nine miles north of Tabo Creek, where he surrendered at the Virginia Hotel. It was there that he also took the oath.

It is believed that John Jones of the Third Wisconsin is the man who shot Jesse and allegedly, Jesse met the man before he departed Lexington. Oh to know what was said betwixt the two!

This was the second shot to the right lung that Jesse had sustained in a short period of time. This shot, however, left a lead minie ball in his lung – something that I believe caused much of his bizarre behavior in distant years from lead poisoning.

His wound was very serious and it was over a month before he could travel anywhere, but a Captain Rogers, upon learning of Jesse's mother and stepfather's exile to Nebraska, arranged passage on a steamboat up the Missouri to Kansas City where Jesse was to stay with his aunt and uncle, Mary James and John Mimms. These are the same folks who cared for him after his 1864 shot to the same lung.

And, they were the parents of Jesse's future wife, Zee Mimms – Jesse's first cousin, whom he would later marry.

Jesse stayed with the Mimms' through the rest of June and first half of July. Jesse recounted that, "Dr. Johnson Lykins ... visited me daily and did everything for my wound possible ... So did Dr. Jo Wood ... on the 15th of July, 1865, I went up the river to Rulo, in Nebraska, where my family were."

The trip was hard on Jesse and despite having a physician for a stepfather, Jesse's wound was very bad. His mother reported that "Jesse was often so near death in the eight weeks he was with me in Nebraska that I would bend over his bed and put my ear to his breast to see if he was breathing or his heart was beating."

One day, after two months in Nebraska, Jesse shakily whispered to his mother that he didn't want to be buried in a Northern state.  So Zerelda arranged careful passage for Jesse to return to Kansas City.

He was in such poor shape and so weak that four men had to carry him to the steamboat landing and get him on a boat. Even with being carried, Jesse fainted dead away. When he awoke, he asked his mother where he was going and she said he was on a boat going home.

"Thank the Lord," he said.

Zerelda took Jesse back to Harlem, now Kansas City, where the Mimms' lived. She said that he was "wounded so badly he could not sit up in bed."

Cousin Zee nursed Jesse through the end of August and into the latter part of October and it was during this time that the two cousins fell in love with each other – becoming secretly engaged. It wasn't until the end of October before Jesse could even begin to walk a little and at that time, he returned to his family's farm in Kearney.

For a while, Jesse remained at the family farm recuperating from his wound. In 1866, he joined Mt. Olivet Baptist Church, was baptized, and "for a year or two, acted as if he was a sincere and true Christian," said Dr. W.H. Price, a resident of Kearney at the time. "After he came out of the army, he was quiet, affable and gentle in his actions. He was liked by every one who knew him."

If one considers the extent of the wound Jesse had in his chest – remembering that it was a SECOND shot to the right lung – he was having difficulty recovering. His mother once recalled that every time he breathed, pus would come out of the wound. He was in a great deal of pain, weak and fragile and lost a lot of muscle weight that he'd had while living as a guerrilla during the war.

It is my personal opinion that Jesse was too fragile, too weak and not in a place during the first couple of years after the war, where he could ride a horse and rob banks, while living on the run. That means I am of the opinion that he did not commit the first daylight robbery of the bank in Liberty, nor the bank in Richmond, Missouri (May 23, 1867) in which several men were killed.

Jesse was simply too unwell to carry these deeds out.

This photo, taken while Jesse and Frank were
in Kentucky after the war, shows a very gaunt,
skinny Jesse – evidence of the toll his lung
injury took on his health. From left is their old
guerrilla buddy Fletch Taylor, Frank (sitting and in
Confederate clothing) and Jesse.

In fact, by June of 1867, Jesse was still so incapacitated by his wound, that it was recommended that he consult with the famous Confederate surgeon, Dr. Paul Eve, of Nashville, Tenn. Eve, among his other great accomplishments, was renowned for performing the world's first successful hysterectomy, along with his record with war wounds.

"I went there in June 1867 and remained under his care for three weeks," recounted Jesse.

Despite the skills of this most famous surgeon, the doctor did not have a good prognosis for Jesse James.

"He told me that my lung was so badly decayed that I was bound to die and that the best thing I could do was to go home and die among my people," said Jesse.

However, in later years, Jesse would remember that he did not intuitively feel he was going to die from this wound, but he left Eve's care anyway and went to stay with relatives in Adairville, Kentucky, where his father was from.

At some point in Kentucky, Jesse was joined by his brother, Frank, and the boys decided to head to Paso Robles, California, where their father's brother, Drury Woodson James, was living and co-owner of a large ranch that contained some mineral waters of which Jesse hoped to partake.

Known for their curative powers, the springs contained sulfur – much as the later-discovered many springs in Excelsior Springs would produce by 1880 – two years before Jesse was killed. Excelsior Springs was an area that Jesse and Frank had, many a time, traveled through – indeed – it now houses the golf course on which the two Battles of Fredericksburg were held in 1863. However, in 1867, the springs were unknown to the James boys and they headed to California.

It is believed they traveled by sea from New York via Panama. And while in California, the boys attempted to find the grave of their father, but were unable to locate it.

Gaining some healing from the sulfur waters did help his constantly infected lung begin to heal, though it never was the same again and breathing was difficult at best.

Jesse and Frank returned from California in the fall of 1868 and Jesse requested that Mount Olivet Baptist Church remove his name from its membership. Perhaps he was feeling spiffy enough to get out on the road and start robbing a few banks and trains.

His withdrawal from the church was "for the stated reason that he believed himself unworthy," according to an April 11, 1874 Kansas City Star article.

Jesse always did have a strong sense of intuition, one that would develop as the years began to pass, his life on the run began to take its toll and that old lead minie ball began to leach poison throughout his body ... day by day.

Jesse James, handsome, fit, charismatic, yet a killer ... he was a desperado

He was known for his piercing blue eyes. With no color photography prior to 1882, it's hard to imagine the known photos of Jesse James – picturing these intense blue eyes that have been written about for 150+ years.

Yet, I find myself studying those men whose photos I come across who have piercing blue eyes and wonder whether Jesse's looked like this one or that one. The actor Bradley Cooper comes closest to what I believe Jesse looked like – next time you see a photo of Cooper, check out his eyes.

When you become an historian of people like the James family, you find yourself hungering for more and more information. You want to know height, weight, hair color, eye color, personality, voice inflections, habits.

Jesse had many habits and oddly, reports of those have been recorded, so I have gotten an image in my head of Jesse James and I guess one could say I've become fixated. That is one of the caveats of studying these men as perhaps my Jesse pal, Michelle, would say – it's a controversy. Jesse and Frank were, after all, bushwhackers and outlaws. They robbed and killed many a man. Yet they were human beings with feelings – they had dreams, aspirations and each was married to the love of their lives, two surviving children for Jesse and one for Frank.

The things Jesse's piercing blue eyes saw in his 34 years can boggle the mind even today. At the age of 2 1/2, a young, Jesse James clung to his father's leg as he prepared to leave for California, just as any child would, were a parent getting ready to leave on a lengthy journey. Perhaps deep down, the toddler knew he would never see his father again.

He was right and that would forever change his life.

Little is known about Jesse and Frank from those early years. They attended school, their mother remarried and promptly filed for divorce, her second husband dying before divorce proceedings could move forward. Zerelda married again, this time for good – to Dr. Reuben Samuel – a gentle country doctor. At least this union would be a happy one for her and for her three children by Robert James.

The boys seemed to like their stepfather for he was good to them and importantly, good to their mother.

As the 1850s grew to a close and the Missouri/Kansas border wars grew hotter and hotter, one could almost hear the talk around the supper table – Zerelda hot-headed and opinionated, Frank quiet, studious, yet fired up to defend the Confederate cause; and Jesse - only 13 1/2 when the war broke out in 1861 – hormones raging, even more opinionated than Frank and Zerelda together, and ready to go out and kill himself a bunch of Federals.

It was Frank who would go off to war first, being four years older than Jesse. Frank first served in the Missouri State Guard, fighting in the bloody Battle of Lexington (Missouri), also known as the Battle of the Hemp Bales, in which the Confederates won, and the Battle of Wilson's Creek. After that battle he contracted measles and ended up being sent home.

Frank signed the loyalty oath to the Union and paid a $1,000 bond on it, but it was just a piece of paper and soon he was hooting and hollering with the rest of the Rebels, heading off to join William Quantrill and his raiders in early 1863.

One can imagine Jesse, a young teenager, sitting rapt at the kitchen table listening to his brother's tales of guns firing, cannons blasting, the blood flying, men falling, the screams, the terror of battle – making Jesse swell with determination and pride that he would go out and join in the fight.

And so he did.

After the terrible beating Jesse took around May 25, 1863, following the Missouri City raid in which several Union soldiers were ambushed and killed, resulting in a unit of Federals coming to the James farm looking for the bushwhackers, Jesse's ire was up and he was determined to join Quantrill.

It would be a while before he could, yet he probably had plenty of time to fester on what was happening all around him. Southern sympathizers were being burned out of their homes, crops razed, families displaced, and in many cases, the Federals were raping the women, while killing the menfolk.

Jesse had seem some of this first-hand when, after beating him and leaving him for dead in the field of hemp in which he was working, Union soldiers – two of whom were former neighbors – proceeded to torture Jesse's stepfather by hanging him until he nearly passed out ... three times ... until they got him to confess as to the whereabouts of Frank and his fellow bushwhackers.

Jesse had spent time practicing with his gun, to the point that early on, he shot off the tip of his left middle finger, either while cleaning his gun or due to a misfire. The incident most likely made him more determined to become an expert for he was frequently described as such. He became proficient with firearms and accurate in hitting his targets.

He had to be efficient – or be killed.

Jesse James, about 1864 – age 16, wearing
a guerrilla shirt with multiple pockets – to
hold the extra pistols needed. You can see
his eyes, intense, penetrating – a handsome
youth, not yet jaded by years of living in the
wild, on the run and witnessing the horrors
yet to come.

Once Jesse left home to ride with Quantrill and then Bloody Bill Anderson, he never came back to live permanently. From the age of 16 until he died at 34, he never lived anywhere for very long. He spent most of his time living on the run – in the fields and forests, foraging for food along the way, often depending on the kindness of strangers who opened their doors and fed the outlaws.

He saw a lot in those years with Anderson. I've written about some of the atrocities committed. It is unknown what Jesse actually participated in. Knowing his charismatic, take-charge personality, I frankly think he may have been right up there participating. No one will ever know. It's not something he ever disclosed, nor did any of his fellow bushwhackers. Their code prohibited it.

In fact, even after the three Younger brothers, Cole, Bob and Jim, were captured after the Northfield, Minnesota raid in September 1876, they all steadfastly refused to name Jesse or Frank as the two that "got away," even though they knew they themselves were going away for a long time.

Every time I drive past Tabo Creek a few miles south of Lexington, I think of Jesse, lying wounded in the creek, a bullet in his right lung – the same lung in which he'd been shot less than a year before. The creek was muddy, cold, and had critters in it. I imagine he could hear Union soldiers searching for him, perhaps far off gunfire and he knew his comrade Archie Clement was dead.

The thoughts that must have run through his head ... did he think he would survive the night? What was going to happen to him if he did? And then there was the deflating knowledge that the war was ending and the northerners were going to win. He would have believed that all that fighting, all the blood that was shed, it was all for nothing.

He knew Frank was in Kentucky with Quantrill. Anderson was dead as was Clement. Jesse's family was in Nebraska in exile – he had to have felt more alone that night than any other time previous. And he probably thought he was going to die alone.

Did he stare up at the stars wondering if God existed? Did he wonder if he would join his father in heaven or had his heinous deeds cancelled out any hope of eternity for this young boy, not yet 18. Did he regret anything? Did he simply want his mother?

How blue were those eyes that night as he lay in that creek? Were they dark with evidence of his pain or fading as he struggled to breathe. His breathing was, at most, difficult and wheezy. He had been living off the land for nearly two years by now and despite being wiry and strong, it was a hard life – even for a 17-year-old. He'd been shot several times by now, beaten, and I've often wondered if he just wanted to give up that night in Tabo Creek. Did he think he could just close his eyes and let God take him home?

Not Jesse James. The fire that kept him going all the years after the war was already in him during the war and must have grown strong that night. For in the morning a farmer found him, took him home and nursed Jesse's wound until he was strong enough to be brought into Lexington, now in Union hands – where he could surrender.

The war was over, but it would not end for Jesse until the coward Robert Ford put a bullet in the back of his head 17 years later.

Order #11 – Blood and Ashes Program – 150th anniversary of the order

Today is a simple blog to inform anyone in the Kansas City area about the events occurring in Kansas City on Tuesday, August 27 regarding Order #11 - the 150th anniversary of that order.

It should be interesting to note that Zerelda Cole James Samuel and her husband, Reuben Samuel and their young children were exiled even though they did not live is the counties expected to be depopulated – they were in Clay County, but it was their ties to Frank and Jesse James, thus Quantrill and his raiders that caused them to be sent away. They went to Nebraska and stayed there until the end of the war. However, they were lucky enough that they did not lose their lands nor their home.

Elizabeth Rains Johnson

Below is the press release I received through the Friends of the James Farm from the Alexander Majors House and Wornall House, hosts, along with the Jackson County Historical Society.

HISTORIC HOUSES LAUNCH NEW AND BOLD EDUCATIONAL PROGRAMMING

(Kansas City, MO)— On Tuesday, August 27 from 6:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m., the Alexander Majors House Museum (8201 State Line Road, Kansas City) will offer a lecture, panel discussion, and two living history tours that comprise the second event for Blood & Ashes: A Civil War Trilogy, a series of commemorative programs observing the 150^th anniversary of General Order No. 11 issued by Union General Ewing on August 25, 1863.  Blood & Ashes is being produced by the Jackson County Historical Society in cooperation with The Wornall/Majors House Museums, Wide Awake Films, Wine Walk on Delaware, and The Rice-Tremonti Home.  

In 1863, eighty percent of the population in the Missouri counties along the Kansas border were supporters of Southern guerrillas.  In an effort to suppress the secessionists, the Federal commander issued General Orders No. 9 and No. 10 compelling Southern sympathizers to be forcibly removed from the state and their property, including slaves, confiscated.  Following the raid on Lawrence, Kansas, Order No. 11 instituted the complete evacuation and depopulation of all citizens regardless of their political support for the south or the north from the western border counties of Missouri located within the District of the Border (the Counties affected were Jackson, Cass, Bates and Vernon County, north of the Osage River).  

On August 27, the Alexander Majors House, located at 8201 State Line Road, Kansas City, will offer two living history tours with vignettes at 6:00 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. in the Majors House and operational blacksmith’s shop; a lecture by Dr. Diane Mutti Burke at 7:00 p.m. in the Majors Barn; and a panel discussion immediately following the lecture with Dr. Mutti Burke, Dr. Timothy Westcott, and Ralph Monaco in the Majors Barn.  Dr. Mutti Burke’s lecture will place General Order No. 11 in the context of the larger refugee crisis that emerged in western Missouri during the Civil War.  The panel discussion and tours will explore the socio-economic, racial, and political complexities of Orders No. 9, 10, and 11.  

Dr. Mutti Burke is an associate professor of history at the University of Missouri – Kansas City and is currently serving as the Director of UMKC’s Center for Midwestern Studies.  Dr. Timothy Westcott is the Associate Professor of History and Department Chair of Social Sciences at Park University.  Ralph Monaco is the Vice President of Living History and Programming at the Jackson County Historical Society.  The vignettes are by local author and Wornall/Majors board member Hibberd Kline.  

Tickets are $10 per person and $5 for children ages twelve and under for both a tour and the lecture/panel discussion.  Tours will start at 6:00 p.m. (preceding the lecture) and 8:30 p.m. (following the lecture/panel discussion).  The lecture and panel discussion will start at 7:00 p.m.  To purchase tickets, call (816) 444-1858 or visit www.wornallhouse.org to make an online payment using PayPal.  Advance registration is recommended.  

“The Wornall and Alexander Majors Houses are vaulable educational resources.  Our August 27 program at the Majors House will launch a new series of dynamic and inclusive educational opportunities that we will offer over the next few years, especially with the 150^th anniversary of the Battle of Westport in 2014,” says executive director Anna Marie Tutera.  “Our goal is to create bold and enriching programs that appeal to a multigenerational and multicultural audience and that are created in collaboration with a diverse group of community residents including youth.  We strongly believe that understanding  your history is a critical compenent of building self-confidence and being a socially responsible member of society.  We are confident that we have the capacity to provide meaningful programs about history that also help to build community and foster both youth development and civic unity.”    

The other two events comprising Blood & Ashes will take place on Saturday, August 17 from 4:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. at the Pacific House and Delaware Street and Saturday, September 14 at the Rice-Tremonti Home.  On August 17, there will be a reading of Order No. 11 by General Ewing, the debate between General Ewing and George Caleb Bingham, period music, Union soldiers, and other period activities.  On September 14, there will be an all-day living history event showing the devastating effect of General Orders 9, 10, and 11 at the Rice-Tremonti Home, 8801 E. 66th St., Raytown, Mo. 64133, from 10:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. followed by a candlelight tour from 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.  For more information on these events, please visit www.ordernumber11.org.

                                                                           #####

The John Wornall House and The Alexander Majors House merged in 2011 and formed The Wornall/Majors House Museums, a nonprofit organization with a mission to “engage community by bringing history to life through innovative, hands-on programs and experiences.”  The Museums boast an impressive record of achievement, reaching over 8,000 visitors and program participants annually with a 2012 operating budget in excess of $250,000.  The Houses feature hands-on tours, including popular “ghost” tours and Holiday festivities.  Field trips by dozens of local schools introduce thousands of students to history and what it means to them.  The grounds of both Houses are filled with children’s laughter during sold-out summer camp sessions and often bustle with activity as history buffs and educators reenact the lives of Civil War soldiers and civilians.  Concerts and readings by regional authors and re-enactors round out the Houses’ programs.  For more information about The John Wornall House, log on to www.wornallhouse.org.  For more information about The Alexander Majors House, go to www.alexandermajors.com. 

Anderson splits from Quantrill, begins his descent into horror, starting with the Centralia Massacre

After the raid on Lawrence, things truly began to spiral downward for many of Quantrill's men, not the least of which was Capt. William T "Bloody Bill" Anderson.

Quantrill was having a difficult time controlling his men as they became more and more bloodthirsty, refusing to establish any kind of order. He was quickly losing standing with them.

Anderson had teamed up with George Todd, another guerrilla under Quantrill's command who was trying to wrangle control from Quantrill.

On the evening of Sept. 23, 1864, after the Battles of Fredericksburg over July and August, Anderson's band attacked a train of 18 wagons, about 14 miles from  Rocheport. The militia escort fled and the wagons emptied and burned. Not everyone got away – Anderson and his men rode off leaving 12 soldiers and three black teamsters dead on the road – all shot in the head – proof they were murdered after their capture.

Later that night, Quantrill rode into Todd's camp near Fayette, Mo., and the men, in an effort to set aside their quarrels, and trying to support General Sterling Price's incursion, bantered about whether they should attack Fayette. Throughout the talks, Anderson arrived with his group in tow that included a 16-year-old Jesse James. Anderson had scalps hanging from his bridles and it was possible that Jesse did too.

Todd and Anderson taunted Quantrill, callling him a coward for not wanting to head into Fayette. In the end, Quantril acquiesed and followed the men into the town. They led a full charge to the garrison, shooting down men along the way.

It was a foolhardy attack as the Federals within the garrison were behind the walls, guns sticking out where they could pick off any of the bushwhackers they wanted to – and they did. Men dropped like flies and still they charged – George Todd leading the second charge toward the fort and yet another – all repulsed by the Federals.

Thirteen Rebels were killed and 30 wounded, some of whom later died. A young Rebel wrote in his memoirs 50 years later and spoke of the stupidity of the raid, "Leading men, armed only with revolvers, charging an invisible enemy in a block-house to simply imbed bullets into logs," said Hemp Watts, "with no possible chance to either kill or inflict injury on the foe, was both stupid and reckless."

Quantrill watched the charge from a distance and despite having agreed to join them, he steadfastly refused to after seeing the foolhardiness of their attack on a fortified building. He quickly disappeared, angering Todd, who then snidely blamed the failure of the attack on Quantrill.

Anderson and Todd made their way through central Missouri after the failed Fayette raid, however, on the evening of Sept. 26, they camped three miles northwest of Centralia, a small village at the time of 25 homes and a station on the North Missouri Railroad line.

Still awaiting word on General Sterling Price's actions, Anderson was unaware that 130 miles southeast of where Anderson was camped, Price had headed toward Pilot Knob where Federal General Thomas Ewing had been dispatched for a reconnaissance in force, and was waiting with 1,000 infantry and civilian volunteers. Price made a decision he would later regret and attacked Ewing.

Despite Price having more men than Ewing, the Federals were ensconced inside the garrison and held off the attack, which went on for two days. In the end, Ewing suffered only 78 casualties, while Price lost 1,500 men.

Meanwhile, on the morning of Sept. 27, Anderson took his men into Centralia, attempting to learn the whereabouts of Price – leaving George Todd and his men behind in camp.

The events of that day in Centralia rival those of any other state during the war. They were heinous and bloodthirsty, sealing Anderson's already poor reputation as a psycho forever into the history books.

Those with Anderson that day robbed Centralia's two stores of all of their stock, including much of which they had no need for. They broke into the warehouse, delighted to discover four cases of boots and a large barrel of whiskey – of which they proceeded to down as quickly as they came upon it.

The Columbia stage pulled into the station at 11 a.m., and the occupants immediately found themselves surrounded. The men swore they were southerners, but the bushwhackers claimed they didn't care. Three dignitaries were in the group, a sheriff, former sheriff and U.S. representative. Yet as the men were being relieved of their papers, a shout interrupted the bushwhackeres, "The Train!"

The train was heading into the town, unaware of the horrors that awaited those on board.

The bushwhackers raced for the depot some 250 yards away. The train had three coaches, an express car and baggage car and was bound for St. Joseph on the western border of Missouri. It carried passengers and mail.

The bushwhackers, wearing blue uniforms as a disguise, began pulling the ties from the tracks, yet their blue uniforms confused the engineer, who upon seeing the discarded railroad ties, realized what he was facing and was forced to slow to a stop.

Bullets began hitting the engine and cars, shattering windows, killing two male passengers immediately.

Twenty-three of the passengers were unarmed Federal soldiers on furlough from serving in Atlanta under Sherman. They had never fought in the border wars or against any guerrillas and had no idea they were living their final moments.

"Surrender quietly," a bushwhacker told them, "and you shall be treated as prisoners of war."

The soldiers were marched outside along with a German passenger who was not a soldier but was wearing a blue shirt.

Meanwhile, the bushwhackers continued through the remaining cars, robbing men, women and children of money, jewelry, and other items of interest to them. Eventually, the civilians were told to leave the train and they did so, huddling together in a tight group - the women and children sobbing and terrified.

Anderson, accompanied by Frank James, led a group into the express car and forced the messenger to provide them with the keys to the safe, where they found $3,000 in money. They followed that gig to the baggage car and every piece of luggage and all boxes were opened, contents dumped on the floor yielding them about $10,000 in greenbacks.

Anderson exited the train and mounted his horse. The soldiers led off the train earlier were lined up a short distance away and stood in their underwear, having been divested of their clothing. Facing them was a large group of dirty, long-haired, long-bearded bushwhackers, well into their cups from the whiskey they had consumed – obviously aching to have a little fun with the hapless soldiers.

Guerrilla Archie Clement spoke to Anderson as the man approached the two lines of men, "What are you going to do with them fellows?" he asked.

"Why parole them," responded Anderson sarcastically.

Clement knew what Anderson meant and suggested two or three be held back to exchange for Cave Wyatt, a bushwhacker who had fallen into the hands of the Federals.  Anderson told Clement he only needed one for the exchange.

Anderson asked if there was a sergeant in the ranks and one stepped forward, Sergeant Thomas Goodman, who surely thought he'd be the first shot, only to find himself being escorted to safety by two bushwhackers.

Anderson signaled to the mob of bushwhackers and they began shooting at the nearly naked soldiers.

About a dozen fell quickly, shot through the head or heart. Others staggered about, crying out, their hands over wounds until they were shot and shot and shot at again – finally falling dead into the dusty ground.

Some were heard crying, "God have mercy!"

The German man who had errantly been lined up with the soldiers, moaned until he passed out dead.

The bushwhackers set the depot on fire and then began mutilating the dead soldiers - hacking at them with their sabers, hitting them with the butts of their guns. Some were thrown onto the train tracks where the engineer was forced to run them over. Some had their privates cut off and placed upon their chests.

The passengers that had been led off the train stood to the side, most struck dumb with the absolute horror they were witnessing. They had to be terrified – thinking "are we next?" What they witnessed had to have haunted them for the rest of their lives. The shots, the hoots and hollers of the bushwhackers as they plowed down the soldiers, the moans, cries of pain and fear of the dying men – ringing forever in the ears of those terrified passengers.

Anyone left on the train was made to get off of it and the engineer was forced to start the train up, get off of it and let it run, where it traveled 3 1/2 miles until it ran out of steam.

Sergeant Goodman was placed on a mule, as the bushwhackers tied boots filled with whiskey over their horses necks and rode out of town – cheering hurrahs to themselves all the way. Once back in camp, they partied with their looted whiskey until they fell into an alcohol induced sleep, most likely NOT plagued by nightmares of what they had done.

Again, Frank James was part of this group.

With the little studying I've done on Frank James, I've tried to imagine how he lived with the deeds he did this day. Even as an outlaw with Jesse, they never committed anything as heinous as what occurred at Centralia.

Frank went to his grave allegedly no longer believing in God – making me believe that the events he witnessed during the war, specifically Centralia and Lawrence, forced him to have anger at a God that he felt allowed this to happen, despite his own willing participation in it all.

Perhaps guilt is what plagued him – for he surely had enough to weigh him down for several lifetimes.

And Jesse? Yes - he was there too that day. He was younger and Frank and more impressionable. For all my research on Jesse, his undying love for his wife and children and the quarter he gave to many as an outlaw, he still committed acts that are as horrific as they are hard to imagine.

Was he rattled by guilt? I believe he was. The shot he took to the lung - a second shot within a short period of time – remained in his right lung until the day he died. He never fully recovered from the wound, and the lead sat there poisoning his body for at least 17 years.

Both James boys had a lot to reconcile with themselves and God. I believe they both took different paths. Frank escaped to quoting Shakespeare and wallowing in his anger at God, while Jesse took to reading his father's Bible and quoting scripture.

Most likely neither found the salvation they were seeking.

Anderson ... I'm not done with the varmint yet.

The devil and his clan rode into Lawrence 150 years ago, slaughtering, burning

As Wednesday, Aug. 21, 2013 rolls to a close, I can't help wonder if that day, 150 years ago, when Quantrill and his men rode into Lawrence, Kansas and executed over 150 men and boys in an act of vengeance, politics and bloodthirsty desire, was just like today.

Was it hot, muggy, sticky? Most likely it was. It was probably dusty too, lack of rain evident in the deep days of August. Horses were panting in the effort to reach their destination and despite superior horseflesh, the men had had to bring extra horses so their escape from Lawrence would be on rested, well-watered steeds.

What went through their heads that morning as they headed toward the devastation they would cause? Did they spend the time psyching themselves up to kill, burn houses and businesses down and plunder the contents? Did their minds wander to the sounds of the day? The crickets and cicadas loudly serenading the horrors, the prairie breeze fraught with smoke and the sounds of screaming, shots being fired and women sobbing overcoming all else their ears could hear?

As we've approached this anniversary of the sacking of Lawrence on Aug. 21, 1863, there have been a number of writers popping up and presenting their interpretation of just why William Clarke Quantrill and his raiders attacked the little town about 50 miles east of the Kansas/Missouri border. Some said it was politically motivated – yes, to a point. Some say it was retaliation for the collapse of the women's jail in Kansas City that killed Bloody Bill Anderson's sister and maimed another – along with a cousin of Cole Younger's and other relatives of the raiders. Still others say it was for no other reason than that the town was mostly comprised of Jayhawkers – northern sympathizers.

We may never truly know the truth of why Quantrill ordered the attack that day – but true Quantrill historians believe it was mostly because he was after Jim Lane, a U.S. senator and general – greatly despised by most southerners.

In truth, the raid on Lawrence was extensively prepared for with plenty of scouting and massive planning.

On Aug. 10, 1863, Quantrill called a meeting of his officers and the chieftains of allied bands at a camp near Blue Springs, Missouri. He told them of his plan to attack Lawrence and why. Quantrill encountered some resistance and thus the council dragged on for 24 hours before concluding amidst a few detractors.

Senator and General Jim Lane – a brutal
soldier who wreaked havoc on southern
sympathizers in Missouri, and one of the
main targets of William Quantrill.

Lane was known for his years of burning Missourians out of their homes – some in the dead of winter, killing the men and leaving the women without anything but the clothes on their backs. In one instance, he forced the wife to cook for him and his men and then made her burn her own house down.

He killed men and boys – he made no distinction. Quantrill hammered home his decision, "Lawrence is the great hotbed of abolitionism in Kansas. All the plunder – or the bulk of it – stolen from Missouri will be found stored away in Lawrence, and we can get more revenge and more money there than anywhere else in the state."

Following that and a scouting report from Fletch Taylor, Quantrill received his unanimous vote to raid Lawrence.

Preparations began. The chieftains and leaders did not disclose their target ahead of time to keep security as tight as possible. Guns were cleaned, ammunition prepared, horses rested, harnesses repaired.

Notice that the meeting in which the decision to raid Lawrence was held on Aug. 10 – before the infamous collapse of the jail in Kansas City in which the southern women were killed and maimed. Thus, in my opinion, the original reason for the raid was political – to go after Jim Lane, to go after a large target such as Lawrence, which was completely northern and to win – therefore making a statement to all their enemies.

Nevertheless, the collapse of the jail caused many a member of Quantrill's raiders to add another reason to their long list of causes for revenge – many of them had a relative or neighbor who was in that jail, or had been subjected to General Ewing's Order #11, banishing families who were southern sympathizers from Missouri.

My guess is that these things were on the minds of the men as they rode that day. Each one focused on his reason for the killing, the savagery that was about to be executed. It was most likely pent up inside of them and once they arrived in Lawrence, the massacre was unlike anything ever seen before. By the time Quantrill arrived in Lawrence, there were approximately 450 men riding with him, some of whom he had collected along the way.

As the men entered Lawrence, dawn had broke on the town – folks were just awakening from a restful night's sleep. The first victim, Rev. S.S. Snyder, a United Brethren Church minister, was milking a cow when two of the guerrillas broke away from the group, rode through his gate and shot him dead.

Most of Quantrill's men were wearing Federal uniforms, so at the beginning, many who were out and about that day were not alarmed until the shooting began, catching them unawares – and dead.

As the men continued to plunder the town, others were sent as lookouts for Federal troops to come to the rescue. There was no wire in Lawrence as of that date, so they were unable to plead for assistance quickly.

One victim was quoted as saying that the guerrillas rode as if they were experts – backs straight in the saddle, handling their superior horseflesh like pros, all of their revolvers loaded, cocked and shooting effortlessly at every man and house they passed.

All around them men and boys were falling dead. Women and children were frantically trying to grab whatever possessions they could before fire could spread in their homes.

Quantrill was described by a survivor as riding on a "magnificent brown gelding said to have been taken from Buel at the Battle of Independence. On Quantrill's head was a low-crowned, soft black hat with a gold cord for a band. His face sunburned and weather-beaten, with a few days worth of stubble and beard. He wore a brown woolen guerrilla shirt, which was,' noted the survivor,'ornamented with fine needlework and made for him by some devoted daughter of the south. Four revolvers were stuck in his belt and his grey trousers were stuffed into handsome calvary boots."

William Clarke Quantrill was in his mid-20s
at the time of the Lawrence Raid, truly a
man of nondescript looks or stature, yet
cold, calculating and intelligent.

As the men rode through town, so many were cut down. Men were shot and fell to the ground in front of their wives, not dead yet – their wives then threw themselves upon them, pleading with the guerrillas to spare their husbands. Yet it was not to be. The bushwhackers merely stuck their pistols between the woman and her man and finished the man off.

Wedding rings were yanked off the women's fingers, their prized possessions destroyed or stolen. While no women were shot nor apparently raped – they suffered the worse kind of trauma by witnessing the murder of their husbands and in some cases, their young sons, the burning of their homes, the overall horrors of that day – changing their lives forever.

The most ironic of all occurrences that day was the failure to kill the intended target, Jim Lane.

As soon as the gunfire erupted, Lane jumped out of bed and yanked his nameplate off his front door – knowing exactly what was going on and who was the top target of the day. For a man who had committed so many sins against the innocent, he was quite aware of what he had done and that someday he would pay.

Lane tore through his house and out the back door, fleeing through the cornfield behind his house, wearing only his nightshirt and in bare feet. He ran over hills and through many a field until he came to a deep ravine where he hid for awhile. He eventually came out of the ravine and found a farmhouse where he borrowed the owners straw hat, old shoes and a pair of pants.

Lane kept going, reaching yet another farm where he managed to procure a plow horse and blind bridle and rode bareback to warn area residents of the raid and to try to assemble a posse.

Lane, the coward – took off out of his house leaving his wife behind to face Quantrill herself. Despite Lane being the top target, Quantrill and his men were cordial to Lane's wife and permitted her to save many of her possessions before setting fire to the home. Despite Lane having removed the nameplate from his home, Quantrill easily identified his residence.

"Give Mr. Lane my compliments," Quantrill told his wife with ironic courtesy. "Please say I would be glad to meet him," he no doubt told Mrs. Lane with a wry smile upon his face.

The women of Lawrence were exceedingly brave that day. Many pled with the guerrillas to spare their men and homes. Many did what they could to save their homes and others, to save the men and boys, to do what they had to do.

Quantrill was apparently impressed with them, stating, "The ladies of Lawrence were brave and plucky, but the men of Lawrence were a pack of cowards."

There were descriptions of women standing up to the guerrillas and the men, despite their bloodthirsty lust, would not hurt them and often rode off. One woman wrote "southern" on the front of her home and thus was spared. Some outright lied by telling the guerrillas that they were southern and/or their men were already dead.

Jesse James was still too young to have joined Quantrill and therefore, did not participate in the raid. Frank James, however, was there that day. It is unknown whether he killed anyone or exactly what his actions were that bloody day in Lawrence. Yet, he was there – and coupled with his actions throughout the war and after – surely troubled his mind for the remainder of his life.

When the raiders were done, they turned and left as quickly as they had come, heading southeast down the Lawrence-Fort Scott Road. Next, Lane and the group he had assembled joined with another's, Major Plumb, and they began pursuit – the chase was on.

However, the Federal troops that had been assembled and joined in the chase never had very good horseflesh and they had already ridden 50 miles or more without food or drink – fatigue setting in. Meanwhile, the guerrillas had stolen fresh horses in Lawrence and extras too. Whenever a horse wore out, he was shot and the saddle thrown on the back of a fresh mount.

The Federals did manage to continue to chase Quantrill's men and began closing in to the point where the bushwhackers began lightening their load – ridding themselves of some of the plunder they had stolen in Lawrence.

Eventually, Quantrill ordered the men to begin breaking away with some holding the rear to hold off the encroaching Federals. The escape took several days and a lot of maneuvering before Quantrill and his men got away – though not all of them did. Some were caught by soldiers, angered Lawrence survivors and even an Indian who went by the name of White Turkey, a Delaware, who lifted the scalps of three guerrillas and cut off their ears as well.

With the escape through Kansas and Missouri, many farms, towns and businesses were plundered, men killed and possessions stolen. The daylight raid on Lawrence, Kansas had done much more harm than to the residents of that town. And still the Civil War continued without a hitch.

Before too long Quantrill would leave his own band of raiders and head for Kentucky – a story for another day.

So, whatever happened to Jim Lane? He never fully recovered from the raid on Lawrence. While he was spared viewing the killing and burning, he had been charged with cowardice for running and then failing to catch Quantrill.

His mind began to go despite being re-elected to the senate. After Lincoln's assassination, those who had supported him began to fall away and his career was sliding downhill quickly.

He jumped out of a St. Louis hotel room window, but survived. A doctor took him to a Leavenworth-area farm, clear on the other side of the state, where family and friends could watch over Lane. Nevertheless, a distraught Lane was riding in a wagon with a few relatives on Wednesday, July 5, 1866 and, when the wagon stopped for a gate to be opened, he jumped out of the wagon, ran to the back and produced a small derringer. He put the muzzle in his mouth after shouting, "Good-bye gentlemen!" and pulled the trigger.

Lane still didn't die right away. Due to the angle of the small caliber weapon, the bullet had exited through the top of his head and he lingered several more days before finally succumbing.

So you see, the raid on Lawrence had casualties on many sides – southern and northern. The guerrillas suffered, Quantrill was never the same either. Anderson himself would be killed a little over a year later after wreaking havoc throughout western Missouri.

The spilling of blood in every war throughout history has its detractors and supporters. An example is that even to this day, people have vehement opinions on whether Truman should have or should have not dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.

The debate goes on. Yet may we remember the many souls who were killed 150 years ago today in Lawrence, Kansas. Lest we ever forget the sacrifices of men, boys and the women.

The Battle of Albany – Bloody Bill Anderson's Reign of Terror Ends at Last

One early September day a few years ago, a gentleman, many years my senior, called me at the newspaper. "Hey Liz, can you go for a ride? I've got something to show you," he asked.

His name  was Frank and he had befriended me through chamber meetings that year. The retired founder of the favorite ice cream stand (Dari-B) in Excelsior Springs, Frank was also an avid historian and archaeologist. I knew he had something good to show me.

"Sure," I said. "I'll be ready and waiting."

I didn't have long to wait and he pulled up in front of the office in his 1970s era boat of a car, grinned at me and said to get in and buckle my seatbelt. Off we went.

Frank took me out of town and down a dirty, dusty road – pointing out his house to me at the edge of the golf course and the Battle(s) of Fredericksburg monument nearly across the street from his home, first taking me down to Lake Doniphan and then out through the twisty, turning dirt roads of the small foothills just out side of Excelsior Springs.

Fall had come a bit early and the trees were changing – their orange, gold and rust-colored leaves sparkling in the perfect afternoon sun. As he drove, Frank pointed out this place and that place – then began showing me where the ancient people had gathered, up at the tops of the foothills, along the riverbeds, the funeral mounds. He had stacks and stacks of artifacts he had collected in his home.

But the piece de resistance was when he turned to me and asked if I knew who Murrell Thomas was. "No," I replied. Frank informed me that the Battle of Albany (now called Orrick), in which Bloody Bill Anderson had been killed, was on Thomas' property and we were headed that way. I was fairly bubbling with excitement – what an adventure we were on!

Frank drove down a long, very winding dirt road and suddenly turned left onto another dirt road. On our left was a small foothill that ran for miles. On our right was the river bottoms – fertile land that is flat, and was heavily laden with golden soybeans on this day, which bordered the highway that ran very close to the Missouri River.

Frank took a sharp left turn up a driveway, meeting a car coming down. We got out to chat with the woman and I found her rather familiar. It turned out she was the mother of a close friend, with whom I had worked at my last newspaper job. Suddenly I realized that Murrell Thomas was my friend, Patty's, grandfather.

We were assured that we were welcome and after viewing the site, monument and graves, to go on up to the house and visit with Murrell – who was in his mid-80s.

A few feet up the driveway on our right was a small clearing. We parked and got out, climbing a few feet up an embankment to the beautiful, peaceful glen that was bordered on all sides by massive trees. There was a large monument marking the Battle of Albany, which took place on Oct. 27, 1864, listing the deaths of the Partisan Rangers who lost their lives that day in addition to Bloody Bill.

The Battle of Albany monument was erected on the site
in 1988 and also marks the site of the burial of the 8
Partisan Rangers who were buried here. (Photo by Liz Johnson)

There were other graves there too that supposedly belonged to the original occupants of the house, built in the 1820s – one of the oldest dwellings in Ray County. I turned to look at them, some of the tombstones were broken and lying flat, a few were upright – the words carved into them so long ago very difficult to read. Nestled between two of them was a tiny little headstone that must have marked the burial of a young child – the date was barely legible, but I could make out the year 1820.

I was in awe, taking in the peacefulness of the glen and trying to wrap my head around the bloody carnage that had taken place 147 years before.

When I research history, I like to go to the assorted places in which I'm writing about, to get a feel for them, the ambience, such as it is in modern times. I like to get a measure of what it might have been like all those years ago. This place had no evil associated with it. It was truly lovely and peaceful.

I asked Frank if we could go and chat with Murrell and he quickly agreed. It was proof positive of the way the older folks are when Murrell answered the door to find two total strangers standing there asking to come in and chat with him. He not only stepped aside to allow us to enter, but seemed thrilled we were there.

What a wonderful, gracious man he is. I sat down on his couch and listened.

Murrell had served in WWII and come home, married and bought the property and house where he and his wife could raise their family. Not long after settling into the house, Murrell found the graveyard.

"I started to town one day and saw the gravestones," he said, his eyes staring out the window as he remembered that day over 50 years ago. "I crawled up through the brush and verified there was a gravestone up there. I used a tractor and cleared the land, which was a blackberry patch with berries as big as your thumb," said Murrell smiling broadly.

He said he counted nine graves that day so long ago – and he's continued to keep it mowed and cared for these past 50-plus years.

I asked him how he knew some of the graves were from the Partisan Rangers because there were stones erected where the original settlers of the property were buried.

"There were indentations," he said, "where the soil had settled after being filled in around the bodies. There weren't any vaults in those days," he added, grinning at me.

"They appeared to be buried where they fell," he added, describing the hodge-podge manner in which the soldier's graves looked. However, fellow historians have disagreed with Murrell's assessment on that, because they say, the ambush most likely did not occur on that little spot of land in which they were buried.

It could very well be that the patch of land existed and when the men needed to be buried, they were carried up there, graves hastily dug and the corpses dropped into the ground quickly.

Murrell described what he knew about the short battle that took place.

"The driveway used to be the Albany Road," he said. "Two hundred of Bloody Bill's men were camped on the flats (what I described as the bottoms). Bloody Bill had just breakfasted down the road at Mr. Blythe's house," (William Riley Blythe).

Murrell said that Cole Younger, Jesse and Frank James were among those of the Partisan Rangers that were camped on the land that was now covered in soybean fields.

Historical accounts state that there were 300 men of the First Missouri State Militia Calvary (Union) and portions of the 51st and 33rd Enrolled Missouri Militia, led by Major Samuel P. Cox of Gallatin, Missouri – these soldiers were camped in another area of Albany.

Cox had gathered his men, determined to track down the infamous Bloody Bill Anderson and his men – the ambush and heinous murder/mutilation of local men Smith and John Hutchings, Phillip Siegel, Capt. Colley and George O'Dell from the Fredericksburg skirmish on Aug. 12, very fresh in the minds of the Union men.

Cox's men didn't have great weapons, while the bushwhackers always had plenty of high quality pistols, rifles, ammunition and horseflesh – something that always gave them an edge, including clothing that had extra pockets in which to have their pistols and ammunition ready as needed.

However, Cox's men were determined to take down Anderson and end his reign of terror. Cox learned from a woman in the area, allegedly a woman who was a northern sympathizer, but who had herself served Anderson his breakfast just that morning (can we just say "wow" to another brave 1860s woman?), that Anderson's men were camped nearby.

Cox decided to give Anderson a dose of his own medicine. That is, to take the man down in classic guerrilla style – by hiding out in the woods and ambushing the man and his men.

Cox positioned his men in some woods along both sides of a tree line – and if you were to see Murrell Thomas' 21st century property, you actually could almost imagine how this occurred.

According to Cox's own account, "Lieutenant Baker was sent ahead to reconnoiter and bring on the fight and then retreat through our line. Baker dashed up to where Anderson and his men camped and opened fire.  Instantly, Anderson and his men were in their saddles and gave chase to Baker, who retreated under instructions and came dashing through our line. Anderson and some 20 of his men came on, a revolver in each hand."

I can completely envision this. Baker enticing Anderson and the man, clearly a sociopath, not liking the idea of some upstart young Union fellow taunting him – taking off in a mad dash after him ... right into an ambush worthy of his own design.

"When my men opened fire," said Cox, "many of Anderson's command went down, others turned and fled, but Anderson and two of his men went right through the line shooting and yelling, and it was as Anderson and one of his men turned back that both of them were killed."

The bloody reign of terror that was Capt. William T. "Bloody Bill" Anderson was over at last.

Anderson's body was taken to Richmond where he was propped up on a board and a photo taken, as was the custom of the day.

Upon inspection of Anderson's body, the following was found: $273 in paper money, some silver change, a fine gold watch and chain, a silver watch, $323 in gold, seven pistols, small paper currency and $18 in Confederate money. Also in his pockets were two Rebel flags, one approximately two feet long and 10 inches wide, another was very small, yet fine about one foot long and four inches wide, 12 stars on one side and 11 on the other – this was made of fine silk ribbon.

This smaller flag was inscribed on the center stripe, "Presented to Capt. Wm. T. Anderson by his friend M.L.R.," and on the other side was, "Don't let it be contaminated by Federal hands."

Too late for that.

Orders found in Anderson's pocket completed his identification, and were directly from Major General Sterling Price. Also found on his person were the morbid remains of several scalps hanging from his saddle, including that of Capt. Colley, whom he had killed and scalped in the Aug. 12 Battle of Fredericksburg. He also allegedly had a string with 53 knots on it – supposedly one knot for each man he had killed.

Four Federal soldiers were killed during the Albany battle. The Partisan Rangers that were killed in addition to Anderson were: Hank (Henry) Patterson, Simonds (first name unknown), Anson Tolliver, Paul Debenhorst, Smith Jobson, Luckett (first name unknown), John McIlvaine and Jasper Moody.

The above men are all listed on the known roster of men who rode with William Clarke Quantrill.

Legend has it that Anderson's head was removed from his body and put on a telegraph pole and exhibited for all to see in Richmond, though that has never been proven.

Anderson is buried in Pioneer Cemetery, now known as the Mormon Cemetery in Richmond. Anderson was not Mormon, but the cemetery became a burial site for Mormons after his death. In 1908, Cole Younger returned to Richmond with his amusement show and, upon learning that Anderson's grave was unmarked, made a big show of holding a funeral for him, which exists in a far corner of the cemetery, far away from the Mormon graves.

Younger and another notorious man, Jim Cummins – who had not only ridden with Quantrill and Anderson, but who had ridden with the James gang as well – both spoke about the great deeds they felt Anderson did during his years as a Partisan Ranger. They cited the fact that Anderson was under direct orders from General Sterling Price himself, and thus justified Anderson's actions.

Bloody Bill's grave in the early 1900s.
(Photo from the Richmond News)

One can certainly debate those actions. War is one thing, killing is part of war – mutilation and senseless killing? That's another thing entirely.

Anderson was 24 years old at the time of his death. It would be over 100 years after his death, 1967 in fact, before an actual headstone would be installed at the grave site.

Note: I am curious as to the comments and opinions of my readers on Anderson. Was he justified in how he killed? I've been criticized for writing the facts of Anderson's reign of terror and stating my opinion, that those who descend from Quantrill's men feel I have unfairly portrayed the man as a fiend.

I merely report what I've researched from first-hand reports and some hearsay. The man once killed another soldier – a Union man – and reportedly stated that, "I am the worst fiend you will ever meet."

Even Anderson knew who and what he truly was.

My great-grandma Carrie Jane Allcorn Reed – a pip, a pistol, a true pioneer woman

I got busy today with other projects and left little time to write more on my Bloody Bill Anderson series, so sat down to work it out on my porch and then a dear friend sparked a wonderful memory of my great-grandmother, Carrie, and just like that – I felt Carrie's story pulling at me.

My great-grandma Carrie was born April 22, 1869, in Sedalia, Pettis County, Mo. Her mother, Harriet Dumsday Allcorn died giving birth to Carrie – there were no death certificates at the time, so I can only assume she died of unsanitary childbirth conditions, since Carrie lived. It would be what Harriet's granddaughter, Edna, – Carrie's only child – would died of when my mother was 18 months old, along with the stillborn baby boy she bore.

My maternal grandmother, Edna Reed
around age 10. She and my son were
exact lookalikes (except for the braids!)
at this age and my son still has some of her facial features.

When I was pregnant with my son, I suffered from amniotic fluid problems and since we were near Boston, it was decided I would go to see a genetic counselor, have weekly ultrasounds by a woman who was top in her field and twice-weekly non-stress tests the last 4 months. I was informed, after presenting my maternal family history back to and including Harriet, that my problem was hereditary and it often skipped a generation, which was why my mother had no problems carrying three children to birth.

I'm glad I'm here and I'm also glad my son was born healthy and has remained so these 24 years. I'm blessed by his presence on this earth.

But, I digress, this story is about Carrie.

Carrie was the youngest of three children born to William Smiley Allcorn and Harriet Dumsday Allcorn. Harriet was William's second wife – the first died young too. Harriet was the last of my ancestors on both sides of my family to have emigrated from overseas. She arrived in America from England in 1831 with her parents, a brother who was born once they landed in New York, and two older sisters, as well as her paternal grandparents.

Land was free in parts of Missouri so they headed out here by way of New Orleans, Louisiana. Harriet's two older sisters, her father and her grandmother would die in New Orleans from yellow fever – never making it to Missouri. But William Dumsday, Sr., Harriet's grandfather, persevered and he arrived in Pettis County with his daughter-in-law, granddaughter and grandson and they made the a life for themselves.

My great-great grandparents William Smiley
Allcorn  and his wife, Harriet Dumsday Allcorn
 in a tintype photo taken before 1869.

Harriet was married to William Allcorn by around the time the Civil War broke out – 1860 or '61, so she was well into her 20s by then. Nevertheless, her death at the birth of Carrie, left my great-grandmother with her first tragedy and no mother.

William remarried quickly to his last wife, Martha Paxton and they had at least three children, a son, and two daughters, Lizzie and Dorothy (Dollie), who became very close to my great-grandma Carrie and were to my mother as well.

Carrie grew into a lovely woman, and married William Sloan Reed on April 13, 1892, at her father's home just outside of Sedalia. It was a large property, that housed the small Allcorn Cemetery off the pasture behind the house, and several other homes on the same lane. Today, there is a road and other people's property between William's original house and Carrie's farmhouse – but at the time Carrie and Will Reed were given the property, there was no road and William Allcorn owned all that land.

Will Reed was a dark-haired, handsome man with a thick mustache in the few photos I have of him. Very little is known about him as there is zero correspondence and little history about his family – though I have tracked his paternal side back to one of the earliest known settlers of the Booneville area (William C. Reed), who came here to Missouri in 1813.

My great-grandfather William S. Reed
in a photo dated around the time he
died – 1906. I have no idea who cut
his hair! He needed a better barber.

In 1893, my grandmother Edna Vera Reed, was born. Sometime after 1900, Carrie, Will and Edna moved to Pueblo, Colorado, where they owned and operated a general store. I have a photo of the store with the three of them in the photo and when I blow up the photo, I can see on a wall calendar the amount of potatoes sold since 1900.

The Reeds were on the 1900 Pettis County census and by Dec. 27, 1906, Will Reed would be dead of what was called heart failure and he died in Pettis County. So their foray into Colorado took place somewhere in those years after 1900.

Photos of my grandmother Edna at the age of 10, show her to be the spitting image of my son at the same age – minus the pigtails of course. Even today at just one year younger than Edna was when she died, my son still very much resembles his great-grandmother.

It is unknown what made Carrie and Will head to Colorado. Pueblo was a young town at the turn of the last century. Mining was big in Colorado at the time and there was money to be had. For nearly the rest of her life, my great-grandmother corresponded with a few folks from Pueblo, whom I've never been able to identify – but it was proof that they made friends while there.

On Dec. 27, 1906, my great-grandfather, Will Reed, dropped dead while in the barn. He was 40 years old and I do know his father died at around 50, so heart trouble may have run in the family.

However ... when I began my interest in genealogy, my mother had already passed, so I as unable to ply her with questions, though my Dad more than made up for that lack I had. He told me, with a great chuckle, that it was rumored that Great-grandma Carrie had poisoned old Will because he was having an affair with the sheriff's wife.

Well, vengeance would have been a trait I am sure Carrie had – she was a pistol after all. Just one week before Will died, Carrie's father's brother, Thomas Jefferson Allcorn, had taken an accidental dose of arsenic (something they kept around in those days to kill rats in the barn) and died. His death made the papers. So, if it is true that Will cheated on Carrie and she knew it and she was mad, she got rid of the rat living under her roof.

There is no proof of this, but the coincidence of the uncle's death, the prevalence of arsenic in the home, the lack of anything other than a couple of photos of Will, leads me to believe there was something amiss about him.

My great-grandmother, Carrie Jane
Allcorn before she married. She was
20 in this photo, taken in 1889.
Note the bustle!

Carrie never remarried – she was too independent for it I guess. She ran that farm by herself until my mother decided she was too old to do it anymore, sold it for her and brought her out to Fredericksburg, Virginia to live with us in 1954.

Throughout those years after 1906, however, couldn't have been easy.  My grandmother Edna married her sweetheart, Harry Smalley Carson in 1916, gave birth to my mother on Feb. 2, 1917, and then died from septicemia (unsanitary childbirth conditions) after giving birth to a stillborn boy on July 25, 1918.

My great-grandma Carrie never forgave my grandfather for not calling the doctor back soon enough and she was apparently good at being a shrew.

Sometime during those 50 years after Will died, Carrie invited Will's much older sister, Josie, who was also widowed – to live with her on the farm. The two old ladies kept the farm up for many years. At one point, Carrie caused a scandal for hiring an ex-convict to work her fields.

My brother and sister remembered her well. They spent their childhoods with frequent visits to Carrie's farm, often staying with her for several weeks.

My sister loved to tell of how Carrie was full of mischief and they would share Grandma's old feather bed and giggle well into the night. Pris would arise the next morning to find Grandma in her kitchen frying up chicken and serving it up with mashed potatoes or steak and potatoes. Lard was Carrie's cooking tool and yet she lived to see her 93rd birthday.

Pris said Carrie alway smelled of horse liniment and had knobby feet from the cows stepping on her feet all those years. She hobbled when she walked and cackled when she laughed - which was often.

Once Pris threw a hammer down the well at grandma's and refused to tell Mom where it was – Grandma knew but never gave Pris up. They were kindred spirits.

Grandma was not afraid of anything. She had an old roller laundry tub on her front porch and a big old black snake loved to lie in it. When she'd get ready to wash clothes, she'd reach in, grab that big snake and throw him over her shoulder into the yard and proceed to do the laundry.

When she moved in with us in Fredericksburg, it was the first house in her life – 85 years – that had running water, indoor plumbing and electricity, AND a television.

Grandma spent hours watching westerns on TV and yelling at the box because she was sure the horses were not fed or watered enough – never understanding that it was actors she was watching.

She would sit by her window and watch the comings and goings at the church next door. If there was a funeral, she'd sob for hours over the deceased – whether she knew him or not.

Even at her ripe old age, she was full of mischief and loved to push my mother's buttons. She would mess up the dinner table after it was set, and tease my mother unmercifully.

When my mother conceived me in early 1956, she blamed Grandma on the accidental event ... seemed Grandma's unannounced entrances into my parent's bedroom at any time she pleased messed up their rhythm method of contraception.

Thanks to Grandma Carrie – I'm here today.

During Carrie's lifetime, she saw the industrial age, women's suffrage, race riots, television, movies, records, space travel, planes, two world wars and then some, numerous presidents, cars, motorcycles, dresses that went from having corsets and bustles to bras and panties, hosiery and hemlines that went from dragging on the ground to above the knee. She saw high-buttoned shoes and go go boots.

Carrie saw a lot happen in her lifetime. She lived and loved and lost and still put a gnarled foot forward each and every day. A true Missouri pioneer woman I am proud to call my Great-grandma.

Carrie Jane Allcorn Reed died in Sedalia on July 19, 1962.