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.

Second Battle of Fredericksburg (MO) is a savage slaughter of local men by Bloody Bill Anderson and men

By 1864, three years into the war, two after Quantrill split from the Confederate Army and went on to form his own rogue band of men – the group had grown to around 450 guerrillas.

The infamous, bloody raid on Lawrence, Kan., had taken place Aug. 21, 1863, forever placing Quantrill and his men into the annals of Civil War history as some of the most brutal of killers. Interestingly, some historical accounts by those who witnessed the Lawrence raid have stated that Quantrill himself never killed a soul that day. But he sure did order the massacre of as many men as possible.

Indeed, over 150 men and boys were slaughtered in Lawrence that piping hot August day. Some of the men, wounded, were finished off as their wives clung to them, attempting to hiding their wounded husbands from the bushwhackers. The guerrilla would simply point his gun around the woman and finished off his victim at point-blank range. No women were killed during this raid.

It seemed as if Quantrill had not thought his men would resort to such heinous actions as occurred that day and afterward, it was as if he had lost his taste for blood. It wasn't long before he left for Kentucky with about 33 of his own loyal men following him, leaving the remainder to do as they wanted.

They were free to scout about Missouri and kill whomever they wanted, in whatever manner they wanted.

Captain William T. "Bloody Bill" Anderson was happy to take the reins from Quantrill. Born around 1840, Anderson moved to Kansas in the late 1850s and got involved in the Border Wars – ironically on the side of anti-slavery. He trafficked stolen horses and was the escort of wagon trains along the Santa Fe Trail. As an abolitionist, he joined an anti-slavery band of guerrillas known as "Jayhawkers." However, he quickly switched sides for some reason and joined a group of Confederate sympathizers known as "bushwhackers."

At this early point in the war, the guerrillas had little leadership and were more interested in robbery, looting and their own gain than that of the issue at debate – slavery.

In 1862, Anderson's father was murdered by a local judge during a confrontation with the man and an enraged Anderson and his brother, Jim, tracked down their father's killer and gunned him down, as well as the judge's brother-in-law, then proceeded to burn down a store owned by the judge. This is one of the first occurrences in the young man's life that presents an indication of his explosive, passionate personality. He became a fierce hater of all things Union and vowed revenge.

Anderson has been described as handsome and tall, with dark curly hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. I've always thought of him as much like modern day killer Charles Manson or Ted Bundy. As a sociopath, he was charismatic and thus able to easily coerce his followers to do his bidding. Again, I am reminded of Frank James' statement nearly 40 years after the war, where he said it was easy to train a group of teenage boys into bloodthirsty killers – they were ripe for teaching and didn't have the wisdom of older men to hold them back.

Anderson was a superb horseman and feared no man nor beast. He was a savage in battle and developed such a reputation for his butchery, that he was quickly nicknamed "Bloody Bill," for his propensity for scalping his victims and hanging their bloody scalps from his saddle, as if they were some sort of trophy.

General Thomas Ewing,  in command of the border – Kansas and the western border of Missouri – and aware of the viciousness of the guerrilla attacks, stepped up patrols and issued a command for his soldiers to find the women important to the bushwhackers – mothers, daughters, sisters – the one's whom the soldiers depended upon for warmth, clothing, shelter and food, and jail them where the men couldn't get at them. Additionally, Ewing knew the act of incarcerating the women would so anger the bushwhackers, that they would drop their cloak of secrecy, screw up their strategies and they'd be able to flush the men out.

But he would be wrong.

General Thomas Ewing outraged by the
bloodbath in Lawrence, Kansas, drafted
Order #11, expelling the families of
known guerrillas/southern sympathizers
from four western counties in Missouri
from the state until after the war.

Anderson's sisters were arrested and jailed in the facility, located at what is now 14th and Grand avenues in Kansas City, in an old three-story brick building. The building collapsed on Aug. 14, 1863, killing four women, including Anderson's sister, Josephine, 15, and maiming another sister, Mary, 18. Another sister, Martha, escaped without serious injury.

The jail was called #13 or known as the Thomas Building, and was located very near to where the huge Sprint Center building is today. The third floor of the building housed an art studio for famed Missouri artist George Caleb Bingham, who owned the building and the first floor was a Jewish grocery.

Ewing, it is believed, was aware that the building had been deteriorating, but was conveniently ignoring the fact. According to a Union surgeon who came forward 11 years after the disaster, more genteel women had been housed on the second floor of the building, while the more "questionable" women were put in the basement – "women of bad character and diseased," he said.

Apparently, soldiers located in the adjacent Cockrell Building had been removing supports on their side – allegedly to enlarge their side, or as some have stated, to get at the women on the other side. No one truly knows how or why, but the structure nevertheless came down like a house of cards.

The collapse of the building so enraged Anderson that all reasonable thought had escaped him by now and he became a "homicidal maniac."

It was the collapse of the building and death of the women that was the impetus Quantrill needed to order the raid on Lawrence. And Anderson was chomping at the bit to do it.

"Lawrence or hell," he shouted "but with one proviso, we kill every male thing." Anderson did not disappoint. He and his immediate group made the streets of Lawrence run red with the blood of the many shot up close and personal.

Joining Quantrill's group of guerrillas, Anderson quickly rose through the ranks to that of captain, his motivation – revenge on any man in blue, blaming them all on Josephine's death and Mary's injuries in the collapsed prison.

The second Battle of Fredericksburg occurred just four weeks after the first, on Aug. 12, 1864, and was reported in the Aug. 19, 1864 edition of the Liberty Tribune, "The bushwhackers were being chased out of Clay County by Col. Catherwood's men and the militia of this county under Captains Garth and Young, that on Friday, they left the county, going through Ray into Carroll. During their passage out, they encountered Capt. Colly [sic], of the Ray militia and killed him and his men ... Col. Catherwood, on learning of their killing Capt. Colly, immediately went out at the head of an additional force and pursued them into Carroll County."

Colley belonged to Company E. 51st E. M.M. – the militia group mentioned in the Liberty Tribune, was comprised of Ray County citizens who were guarding Albany (now the town of Orrick). These citizens – men – were not military trained, but normal, ordinary citizens who found themselves defending their fellow citizens from the most feared Confederate guerrilla of them all.

The bushwhackers were successful in their attacks because they used guerrilla tactics. They hid in the bushes and ambushed their targets.

This day, Anderson captured two of Colley's men while he waited for Colley to reach the ambush. Then Anderson proceeded to brutally murder the men – Ray County brothers, Smith and John Hutchings – by slitting their throats. According to historian Brian Smarker, the men's throats were slit so no shots would be fired, preventing additional soldiers from being alerted to the planned ambush by Anderson's men.

As Colley's men were ambushed, the assault became even more brutal. Shots were fired, killing George O'Dell. Pvt. Phillip Siegel was killed after his horse tripped over a log, throwing him to the ground – leaving him wide open for Anderson's men.

It has not been proven that Anderson himself killed Pvt. Siegel, in fact, it has been long rumored that one of Anderson's protege's, Archie Clement (another bloodthirsty young Rebel), is the one who killed Siegel. No matter what, Siegel, 21, had his throat slit and his heart cut out and placed on his body.

Siegel's horse ran home and the soldier's father took the heavily lathered horse out to a creek some distance from the home in order to temporarily hide him – the family feared that the guerrillas would come looking for the horse, connect the horse to the home and then slaughter the family because they were northern sympathizers.

I learned the above from Martin Siegel, a descendant of the Siegel family. Martin said that Phillip's brother Jacob, 2 years younger than Phillip, had enlisted with his older brother; they had fought together and Jacob was supposed to have gone out with Phillip that day, but his horse had gone lame, so he had remained at home – an act that saved his life.

It is believed that Jesse James was riding with Anderson that day, and possibly Frank too. Jesse rode with Archie Clement right until the end of the war. With this knowledge in hand, another interesting footnote is that the Siegel brothers younger brother, George, would later marry Amanda Ford, the sister of Robert "Bob" Ford and Charlie Ford – Bob would become infamous as the "dirty little coward who shot Mr. Howard" – Jesse James – on April 3, 1882 in St. Joseph, Mo.

Not only have I met descendants of the Siegel family, but also those of the Hutchings boys. The Civil War is fresh in the minds of these descendants out here, therefore you get a real good picture of how both sides felt about the bloody, savage War Between the States.

Pictured is Martin Siegel
at the Excelsior Springs
Museum & Archives, holding
a rifle owned by George
Siegel, a brother of the
murdered soldier Pvt.
Phillip Siegel. It is likely
that the rifle, given to
George by Jacob, may have
belonged to Phillip.
Photo by Liz Johnson

Martin Siegel said that Phillip was buried in the Siegel Cemetery, though his name was misspelled to further keep his identity hidden from the guerrillas and keep the focus off the family as well. Germans that had emigrated to Missouri were known for their northern sympathies. Many German families happened to settle in the southern settled area known as Little Dixie – along the Missouri River.

As the ambush continued, Anderson himself went after Colley, cornering him in a barnyard where Colley's horse refused to jump. Anderson shot Colley and then proceeded to scalp the captain, hanging the bloody trophy from his bridle where it was discovered and identified three months later after Anderson's death.

Colley, like many killed during the war, left behind family – his wife Rebecca, and three sons and two daughters. He was buried in Riffe Cemetery, north of Albany (now Orrick, Mo.).

The Hutching brothers were buried together in one grave at Enon Cemetery in Clay County, Mo.

The five killed in this second Battle of Fredericksburg were: Colley, age 37; Pvt. George O'Dell, believed to be between 35 and 39; Pvt. Smith Hutchings, 39; Pvt. John Hutchings, 30; and Phillip Siegel, 21. The men are also remembered in the Fredericksburg monument, along with the members of the 2nd Colorado killed in the first battle.

This brutal killing of local Ray County men would be the impetus that would finally take down Bloody Bill Anderson just a few months later.

First Battle of Fredericksburg (MO) leads to more bloody skirmishes

Imagine my confusion and then delight when I first heard about the two Battles of Fredericksburg out here in Missouri. "What?" I thought, "I was born in Fredericksburg, Virginia, where there was a huge, bloody Civil War battle – so what gives?"

My delight was when I saw the land on which the battles were fought – now Excelsior Springs, Missouri's  golf course – a land so green, lush and rolling with a beautiful pond, trees and a gentle breeze caressing the course, that one could not even fathom the idea of a bloody battle taking place there, much less two of them.

But take place they did.

They weren't large battles like the Virginia battle or even the Lexington battle in Sept. 1861, in fact, these two were more like skirmishes, yet they were important to the Civil War here in Missouri and they were important to the people who fought and died or survived them.

They are still important to this day, for there are descendants who still live among the same fertile, rolling hills of Clay County.

There is a monument that sits on the southeastern corner of the golf course – the only hint that men fought each other to the death on this beautiful acreage 149 years ago.

The monument to the two Battles of Fredericksburg (Missouri)
that sits on the southeastern corner of the Excelsior Springs
Golf Course, Excelsior Springs, MO. (Photo by Liz Johnson)

If you enter the golf course's clubhouse, however, one remnant of history remains. Inside sits the early 1800s O'Dell log cabin that has stood in the same spot all these years. I was once told by a 104-year-old O'Dell descendant that her great-grandmother O'Dell went into labor in that cabin as this first skirmish broke forth. Her husband got her up into the loft as she worked through birthing her child, amidst gunfire, horses screaming, shouts of victory and the death and dying assaulting the woman's ears as she carried her newborn into the world.

The golf course built its clubhouse around the cabin, forever preserving the structure, which can be toured by anyone visiting the golf course.

Fredericksburg, Mo., was a tiny little burg founded by William Estes in 1835. Estes owned and operated a general goods store. Along with his store were several homes, a blacksmith, a stagecoach inn, a doctor's office and a saloon.

The town was more of a trading post until after the war and the road, known as the Mormon Road, was heavily traveled by Mormons as they made their trek westward after the terrible Mormon wars of the 1840s.

The first Battle of Fredericksburg took place on Sunday, July 17, 1864, between about 300 guerrillas and 47 Union men from the 2nd Colorado Calvary, which included detachments from companies C and M, led by Captain Thomas Moses, Jr.  This Union group was part of a force of 140 Federals that had split into three groups to search for and flush out the bushwhackers.

The men from the 2nd Colorado were headed toward the city of Richmond, east of Fredericksburg, early on the afternoon of July 17. Just as they reached Fredericksburg, they saw a group of soldiers approaching them from the opposite direction, dressed in Union blue.

Momentarily fooled by the uniforms, Captain Moses rode to the front and made the signal to the soldiers in blue that was used by the troops, which was answered correctly. Moses then sent Capt. Lyman Rouell to move forward to the men, who failed to approach the 2nd Colorado group. Before Rouell could get very far, a volley of gunfire erupted from the men facing him.

The 2nd Colorado had just stumbled upon one of the largest Rebel forces in Missouri – and the most bloodthirsty.

It is believed that by this time, Capt. William T. "Bloody Bill" Anderson was leading a group of Quantrill's men on his own, of which Frank and Jesse James were members.  Quantrill himself had split off from his own group toward the end of 1863/early 1864 after his band of approximately 400 men wintered in Texas.  According to biographies about Quantrill, he believed his men had become too bloodthirsty and lost of sight of what their goals were as bushwhackers. He split off with men of his own and headed to Kentucky for the remainder of the war.

Anderson had his own group and they were most likely the most bloodthirsty of all of Quantrill's original raiders. Woe be it to anyone wearing a blue Federal uniform that came across their path as the 2nd Colorado men were to quickly learn.

Fletch Taylor, another feared bushwhacker, was one of the leaders of the guerrilla group that day and as his men opened fire on the 2nd Colorado and soldiers fell from their horses, the horses became frightened and unmanageable, causing the remaining Union soldiers to dismount and begin hand-to-hand combat.

After just 20 minutes of fighting, Captain Moses realized he was far outnumbered by the guerrillas and ordered his men to retreat.

Six men of the 2nd Colorado were killed that day and, regrettably, Moses had to leave them behind. He had not escaped injury either. A minie ball had grazed his forehead, and he had been hit by two other balls, which severed his saber belt and had cut through his coat. Moses' horse had also suffered a number of hits, but managed to lead Moses and the remainder of his men out of the melee. Just about every surviving Union soldier had sustained some sort of injury.

Captain Moses returned the next day for his dead soldiers with a reinforcement of 200 men, only to find his men lying naked on the ground, stripped of their clothing, arms and money. There were no reports of the six men being mutilated as was Captain Anderson's signature, so it has been speculated that Anderson was not the leader at this first battle, but two of his men, the aforementioned Fletch Taylor, along with Captain John Thrailkill.

The guerrillas were in the habit of stripping their victims of clothing and firearms, as well as other personal possessions. That's how they acquired the blue uniforms they wore in their surprise ambushes of Union soldiers.

J.C. Isley, the owner of the Fredericksburg general store was hired to gather the six Colorado men and take them to Pisgah Baptist Church (yes, the very same church that Jesse and Frank's father helped found and where he preached). The men were buried in an unmarked mass grave in the churchyard cemetery.

Sixteen Rebels were killed in the skirmish and allegedly buried in the Seybold family cemetery located behind the Seybold Tavern – the owner of the tavern at the time being a southern sympathizer. Research shows others saying Louis Seybold, the original owner of the tavern, was the man who offered his land for burial of the bushwhackers, however, land records of the time show that a Ralph Faucett owned part of the tavern's land at that time, and a Thomas F. Williams owned another section of the property.

According to oral legend, the Seybold Tavern was established in 1821 by Louis Seybold and his wife, however, land records show the first warranty deed passing out of the hands of the United States of America into that of Andrew McCrosky in March 1821 – not Louis Seybold. But that mystery is for another day.

The Seybold Cemetery was plowed over by one of the owners of the property in the mid 1900s, an illegal act that nothing was done about. The Seybold Tavern house itself burned to the ground in 1952 and at some point (March 1870), the property was owned, after the Civil War, by Bob and Charlie Ford's father's brother (John W. Ford).

Interesting how the lives of the Fords and James' sometimes crossed in strange ways.

Fletch Taylor, guerrilla co-leader of the first Battle of Fredericksburg, survived that battle with nary a scratch, however, on Aug. 8, 1864, he was seriously wounded in another skirmish about four miles outside of Independence. His right arm, shattered by buckshot, had to be amputated.

An interesting side note to the Fletch Taylor story:  After the war, he became a wealthy man from his lead mines in Jasper County, thus becoming an influential citizen of Joplin, Mo. He was elected as a state representative and served on the Missouri General Assembly. Taylor moved to California in 1892 and died in San Francisco on April 24, 1912.

So you see, some of those bloodthirsty guerrillas moved on after the war, became wealthy, leading citizens of the new industrial United States.

Sadly, the names of the six members of the 2nd Colorado who lost their lives were unknown for 140 years until Excelsior Springs High School teacher Brian Smarker began investigating the six men – successfully revealing their names in May of 2004.

It is not known why Capt. Moses did not identify the six men when he returned to the battlefield to bury them, but it was a busy war and the bodies had lay in an open field for close to 24 hours before he returned for them. Thus, they had to be buried quickly.

Five of the men were privates of the 2nd Colorado Calvary, Company B: Charles H. Godfrey, 17; David Good, 29; John Picard, 29; William W. Robson, 24; and Simon Simpkins, 20. The sixth was Sgt. Truman C. Greenslit of Company C, age 31.

This headstone was placed at the site of the mass burial of the six, previously unknown men
of the 2nd Colorado Calvary who were killed in action during a skirmish with guerrillas July 17, 1864.
The identification of the six men was due to the extensive efforts by Brian Smarker of
Excelsior Springs and Past Camp Commander, Westport Camp #64. (Photo by Liz Johnson)

One-hundred forty years after their deaths, the men were finally memorialized in a ceremony held Sunday, July 17, 2005 with a granite memorial presented  by the Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War Westport Camp #64, thanks to the extensive, exhaustive research of Brian Smarker.

Smarker was able to track down descendants of four of the six soldiers, and three were able to be present at the memorial dedication of their long lost ancestor. The fourth was Sgt. Greenslit, whose descendants were unable to attend, but in a stroke of excellent genealogical research, Smarker learned that he and his mother shared ancestry with Greenslit, thus were able to represent him at the ceremony.

Virginia's own Fredericksburg battles were bloody and offered up astounding casualties – 18,000 in the first, fought from Dec. 11-15, 1862 and the second, fought on May 3, 1863, yielded 2,000 casualties. Fredericksburg, Virginia's soil was thick with blood after those two battles, making the Missouri Fredericksburg battles seem inconsequential.

Whether casualty amounts were staggering or small, each loss represented a man who was a son, husband, father, brother or cousin. Each had his beliefs about the war and were fighting for those beliefs. Each endured extreme cold and heat, hunger and sickness, loneliness and fear.

So it should be, to remembering this, as one walks the battlefields today, most turned into parks, such as Fredericksburg, Virginia or Lexington, Missouri – or plays a round of golf on the lush grass of Excelsior Springs Golf Course – that men shed their blood on that very ground for a cause they believed in.

Lest we forget.

Why pay homage to bloodthirsty killer?

I admit, I am a Jesse James family historian and while I have pointed out reasons that the James boys were southern sympathizers, rode with William Quantrill and, following the war, spent the next 17 years as outlaws, I agree they weren't always angels or justified in their acts.

They were, at times, cold-blooded killers, yet they had their moments of kindness. Both Frank and Jesse James loved their wives and children, as well as their brothers and sisters, and they revered their beloved mother Zerelda.

Frank loved quoting Shakespeare and Jesse loved quoting the Bible. Both men were always clean and well-dressed. Their horseflesh was the finest and both were refined and educated well enough that they could pass for well off gentlemen no matter where they lived. From Nashville to Maryland to Kentucky to Kansas City – they lived anonymously among the more genteel of folks and made friends.

Their years as outlaws got bloody at times and yet, not all those robberies and killings could ever truthfully be proven that they committed the acts they were accused of. In fact, Frank James stood trial – twice – and was acquitted on all charges.

Jesse – he was convicted by a jury of two – Charlie and Robert Ford. Bob Ford waited until Jesse removed his gun belt, climbed onto a chair and turned his back before shooting Jesse in the back of the head, with the outlaw's two children and wife in the next room.

William "Bloody Bill" Anderson is another story.

Bloody Bill Anderson is being immortalized in a re-enactment of the Battle of Albany (now Orrick, MO) in which he was killed, around the 150th anniversary of the actual battle – late October of 2014. A local Civil War re-enactor who had two ancestors that rode with Quantrill is organizing the event, which have been highly advertised to the point that local historians have become so enraptured by the re-enactment next year, that they forget the heinous acts that Bloody Bill committed.

You decide just who Capt. William "Bloody Bill" Anderson truly was and should he be placed on a pedestal simply because he broke off from Quantrill and led a bunch of youngsters on horrific killing sprees?

I interviewed the re-enactor over a year ago who stated he was proud of his ancestor's deeds as bushwhackers and that he intended to "channel" Bloody Bill for the proposed re-enactment. Channeling smacks of mystical voodoo mumbo jumbo and could be dangerous considering the person he finds so intriguing. He has grown his hair and beard to resemble Anderson and has the locals so wrapped up in the proposed re-enactment that they have forgotten what is truth and what is fiction.

Following my interview last year with the re-enactor, he refused to allow me to interview him again because he claimed I wrote "unfavorable stories about Bloody Bill that would affect a successful re-enactment."  Frankly, how can reporting the facts of history be unfavorable unless the historical person committed "unfavorable" acts – or as in this case – heinous mutilations of his victims?

I simply told the facts.

One thing I've learned as I read my fellow historian's articles, books and journals, is that history seems to be relative. Many don't seem to care whether they write the facts or not. They interpret the facts as they want them to be and sometimes they write their own distorted view ... presenting it as factual.

To this end, it is now difficult to discern what is fact and what is fiction.

I've written glowing accounts of Jesse and Frank James' personalities, heralded their beloved father as the evangelical saint that he most likely was – but I have also written of their own terrible deeds. They cut a swath of death and destruction as bushwhackers and then as outlaws. Innocent men died at their hands as well as some not so innocent men.

When writing about events such as these, one must truly remember to state the facts as you know them and insert your opinion, objective or theory of what or why things happened the way they did. Opinion does not always equal the facts. But you must be clear that it is your opinion you are expressing, not muddy the facts and your opinion to the point where you have your readers sloshing around in a bunch of paragraphs that resemble nothing more than mire and muck.

If you've ever seen the insurance commercial where the guy is outside his townhouse in a big city and on his cell phone paying his bill, while a pretty gal comes out and starts chatting with him, then you know what I mean. The gal, wide-eyed with innocence announces that she's meeting a French model for a date whom she met on the Internet and "he has to be a French model because everything you read on the Internet is true."

No – not everything you read is truth and fact.

It is a fact that Jesse and Frank James did ride with Bloody Bill Anderson, and it is unknown if the James boys ever committed any of the mutilations, scalping and other heinous acts that Anderson was known for.

As I proceed with a new series on the bushwhackers of the Civil War, I intend to expose just what Anderson truly did, his own words about his acts and what those who wish to pay homage to the man have to say and what the descendants of Anderson's victims have to say – there are, after all – two sides to every story.

Consider this prior to jumping into future blogs on Anderson – he was 24 years old when he died. For me to put that in perspective, that's the age of my son. Considering the extreme bushiness of facial hair of the day, one can say with tongue in cheek that Anderson was relatively attractive with dark hair and piercing eyes. He had a difficult life, his father was murdered and sisters imprisoned in a woman's prison in Kansas City that collapsed – some died, some were maimed. He later claimed that his sister's suffering is what drove him to maim and mutilate his victims.

Put into perspective that at age 24 in 1864, Anderson would have been 21 at the start of the war. Involved in pre-war fighting, he was younger than that prior to 1861. Frank James once said that if you wanted to train a bunch of men to fight like the devil himself, to be cold and calculated about it, fierce and savage – then train young ones. He went on to say that most of the bushwhackers were under 25 years of age, many under the age of 20. He elaborated that those young ones had less of a conscience than the older men and they were easy to direct.

He might as well have described Bloody Bill Anderson – hero or fiend?