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 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 victors write the history books. Having in fought in war myself and spent a good amount of time as a cop, I know only too well how quick SJW historians along with their friends in the MSM are quick to make accusations and pass judgement. In truth they had arrived at a verdict long before they were asked to deliver a verdict. As we get closer and closer to a real civil war in the 21st century, I wonder where these armchair commandos will be when the real shooting starts?
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