Born in Ohio in 1837, William C. Quantrill taught school in Illinois and worked a farm in eastern Kansas before turning to rustling and slave-catching shortly before the war. In 1862 he became the leader of a guerrilla band based in Jackson County, Missouri. Commissioned by the Confederacy as a captain of partisan rangers, Quantrill engaged in an increasingly bitter conflict with the Union army and “Jay-hawker” raiders from Kansas. On August 21, 1863, he led more than 400 men (among them the future bank robbers Cole Younger and Frank James) across the border in an attack on Lawrence. After killing more than 180 men and teenage boys, the raiders eluded pursuing Union cavalry and escaped into the wooded hills of western Missouri. Richard Cordley was the minister of the Plymouth Congregational Church in Lawrence and editor of The Congregational Record. Despite the destruction of his office during the raid, Cordley was able to write a narrative of the massacre for the September-October 1863 number of his church publication.
The destruction of Lawrence had no doubt been long contemplated by the rebels of the border. Ever since the war commenced, rumors have been constantly reaching us of the maturing of such a purpose. Each rumor called forth efforts for defense. The people had become so accustomed to alarms as to be almost unaffected by them. At several times the prospect had been absolutely threatening. This was especially the case after the battle of Springfield, and again after the capture of Lexington by the rebels. The people had never felt more secure than for a few months preceding the raid of last August. The power of the rebellion was broken in Missouri, and the Federal force on the Border, while it could not prevent depredations by small gangs, seemed to be sufficiently vigilant to prevent the gathering of any large force. No rumors of danger had been received for several months.
Still many of the citizens did not feel that the place was entirely safe. Mayor Collamore, early in the summer, prevailed upon the military authorities to station a squad of soldiers in Lawrence. These soldiers were under command of Lieut. Hadley, a very efficient officer. Lieut. Hadley had a brother on Gen. Ewing’s staff. About the first of August this brother wrote him that his spies had been in Quantrell’s camp—had mingled freely with his men—and had learned from Quantrell’s clerk, that they purposed to make a raid on Lawrence about the full of the moon, which would be three weeks before the actual raid. He told his brother to do all he could for the defense of the town, to fight them to the last, and never be taken prisoner, for Quantrell killed all his prisoners. Lieut. Hadley showed this letter to Mayor Collamore, who at once set about the work of putting the town in a state of defense. The militia was called out, pickets detailed, the cannon got in readiness, and the country warned. Had Quantrell’s gang come according to promise, they would have been “welcomed with bloody hands to hospitable graves.” Some one asked Quantrell, when in Lawrence, why he did not come before when he said he would. He replied, “You were expecting me then—but I have caught you napping, now.”
It may be asked, why the people of Lawrence relaxed their vigilance so soon after receiving such authentic evidence of Quantrell’s intentions? The city and military authorities made the fatal mistake of keeping the grounds of their apprehensions a profound secret. Nobody knew the reason of the preparation. Rumors were afloat, but they could not be traced to any reliable source. Companies came in from the country, but could not ascertain why they were sent for, and went home to be laughed at by their neighbors. Unable to find any reliable ground of alarm, people soon began to think that the rumors were like the other false alarms by which they had been periodically disturbed for the last two years. The course of the military authorities tended to strengthen this view.
Mayor Collamore sent to Fort Leavenworth for cannon and troops. They were at once sent over, but were met at Lawrence by a dispatch from Headquarters at Kansas City, ordering them back. A few days after, the squad of soldiers under Lieut. Hadley were ordered away. It was evident, therefore, that the military authorities at Kansas City, who ought to know, did not consider the place in danger. The usual sense of security soon returned. Citizens were assured that Quantrell could not penetrate the military line on the border without detection. They felt sure, too, that he could not travel fifty miles through a loyal country without their being informed of the approach of danger. The people never felt more secure, and never were less prepared, than the night before the raid.
There is no doubt Quantrell had spies in Lawrence for weeks before the raid, who kept him constantly informed of the condition of things. The sense of security felt by the people was so great, that everybody was permitted to go and come as he pleased. The familiarity of the rebels with the place and the people, abundantly proved this. Several of them, in all probability, came up the night before. One, asking where Jim. Lane was, was told that he was out of town. “No, he is not,” replied the rebel, “did n’t I see him at the railroad meeting last night?” Some ladies and gentlemen returning late the night before, saw horsemen stationed at the outskirts of the town. Supposing them to be citizen pickets they took no notice of the fact. So the town was guarded that night by rebel pickets. The design was doubtless to notice if any messenger came in to warn of danger, and to be sure that no alarm was given. They showed that they were familiar with the common expressions of the town. As they were riding round and doing their work of death, one cries to another—“Quantrell is coming!” “No he ’aint,” says another, “he can’t get here!”
Quantrell assembled his gang about noon on the day before the raid, and started towards Kansas about two o’clock. They crossed the border between five and six o’clock, and struck directly across the prairie toward Lawrence. He passed through Gardner, on the Santa Fe road, about eleven o’clock at night. Here they burned a few houses and killed one or two citizens. They passed through Hesper, ten miles southeast of Lawrence, between two and three o’clock. The moon was now down and the night was very dark and the road doubtful. They took a little boy from a house on Captain’s Creek near by, and compelled him to guide them into Lawrence. They kept the boy during their work in Lawrence, and then Quantrell dressed him in a new suit of clothes, gave him a horse and sent him home. They entered Franklin about the first glimmer of day. They passed quietly through, lying upon their horses, so as to attract as little attention as possible. The command, however, was distinctly heard—“Rush on, boys, it will be daylight before we are there. We ought to have been there an hour ago.” From here it began to grow light, and they traveled faster. When they first came in sight of the town they stopped. Many were inclined to waver. They said “they would be cut to pieces and it was madness to go on.” Quantrell finally declared that he was going in, and they might follow who would. Two horsemen were sent in ahead to see that all was quiet in town. Those horsemen rode through the town and back without attracting attention. They were seen going through the Main street, but their appearance there at that hour was nothing unusual. At the house of Rev. S. S. Snyder a gang turned aside from the main body, entered his yard and shot him. Mr. Snyder was a prominent minister among the United Brethren. He held a commission as lieutenant in the Second Colored Regiment, which probably accounts for their malignity.
Their progress from here was quite rapid, but cautious. Every now and then they checked up their horses as if fearful to proceed. They were seen approaching by several persons in the outskirts of town, but in the dimness of the morning and the distance, they were supposed to be Union troops. As they passed the house of Mr. Joseph Savage, half a mile from town, one of them entered the yard and called at the door. Mr. Savage was just up and was washing himself. Having weak eyes, he was longer washing them, and was delayed thereby in going to the door. When he opened the door the rebel was just going out of the gate. His weak eyes doubtless saved his life, as he did not suspect the character of his visitor. They passed on in a body till they come to the high ground facing the Main street, when the command was given—“Rush on to the town!” Instantly they rushed forward with the yells of demons. The attack was perfectly planned. Every man knew his place. Detachments scattered to every section of the town, and it was done with such promptness and speed that before people could gather the meaning of their first yell, every part of the town was full of them. They flowed into every street and lane like water dashed upon a rock. Eleven rushed up to Mount Oread, from which all the roads leading into the town could be seen for several miles out. These were to keep watch of the country round about, lest the people should gather and come in upon them unawares. Another and larger squad, struck for the west part of the town, while the main body, by two or three converging streets, made for the hotel. The first came upon a camp of recruits for the Kansas Fourteenth. On these they fired as they passed, killing seventeen out of twenty two. This attack did not in the least check the speed of the general-advance. A few turned aside to run down and shoot fugitive soldiers, but the company rushed on at the command—“To the hotel!” which could be heard all over the town. In all the bloody scenes which followed, nothing equalled, in wildness and terror, that which now presented itself. The horsemanship of the guerrillas was perfect. They rode with that ease and abandon which are acquired only by a life spent in the saddle amid desperate scenes. Their horses scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and the riders sat with bodies and arms perfectly free, with revolvers on full cock, shooting at every house and man they passed, and yelling like demons at every bound. On each side of this stream of fire, as it poured in towards the street, were men falling dead and wounded, and women and children half dressed, running and screaming—some trying to escape from danger and some rushing to the side of their murdered friends.
They dashed along the main street, shooting at every straggler on the sidewalk, and into almost every window. They halted in front of the Eldridge House. The firing had ceased and all was silence for a few minutes. They evidently expected resistance here, and sat gazing at the rows of windows above them, apparently in fearful suspense. In a few moments, Captain Banks, Provost Marshal of the State, opened a window and displayed a white flag, and called for Quantrell. Quantrell rode forward, and Banks, as Provost Marshal, surrendered the house, stipulating for the safety of the inmates. At this moment the big gong of the hotel began to sound through the halls to arouse the sleepers. At this the whole column fell back, evidently thinking this the signal for an attack from the hotel. In a few moments, meeting with no resistance, they pressed forward again, and commenced the work of plunder and destruction. They ransacked the hotel, robbing the rooms and their inmates. These inmates they gathered together at the head of the stairs, and when the plundering was done, marched them across the street on to Winthrop street under a guard. When they had proceeded a little distance, a ruffian rode up, and ordered a young man out the ranks, and fired two shots at him, but with no effect. One of the guard at once interposed, and threatened to kill the ruffian if one of the prisoners was molested. Quantrell now rode up and told them the City Hotel, on the river bank, would be protected, because he had boarded there some years ago and was well treated. He ordered the prisoners to go in there, and stay in, and they would be safe. The prisoners were as obedient to orders as any of Quantrell’s own men, and lost no time in gaining the house of refuge. This treatment of the prisoners of the Eldridge House shows that they expected resistance from that point, and were relieved by the offer of surrender. They not only promised protection, but were as good as their word. Other hotels received no such favors, and had no such experience of rebel honor.
At the Johnson House they shot at all that showed themselves, and the prisoners that were finally taken and marched off, were shot a few rods from the house, some of them among the fires of the burning buildings. Such was the common fate of those who surrendered themselves as prisoners. Mr. R. C. Dix was one of these. His house was next door to the Johnson House, and being fired at in his own house, he escaped to the Johnson House. All the men were ordered to surrender. “All we want,” said a rebel, “is for the men to give themselves up, and we will spare them and burn the house.” Mr. Dix and others gave themselves up. They marched them towards town, and when they had gone about two hundred feet, the guard shot them all, one after another. Mr. Hampson, one of the number, fell wounded, and lay as if dead till he could escape unseen. A brother of Mr. Dix remained in the shop, and was shot four times through the window, and fell almost helpless. The building was burning over his head, and he was compelled to drag himself out into the next building, which fortunately was not burned. The air was so still that one building did not catch fire from another.
After the Eldridge House surrendered, and all fears of resistance were removed, the ruffians scattered in small gangs to all parts of the town in search of plunder and blood. The order was “to burn every house and kill every man.” Almost every house was visited and robbed, and the men found in them killed or left, according to the character or whim of the captors. Some of these seemed completely brutalized, while others showed some signs of remaining humanity. One lady said that as gang after gang came to her house, she always met them herself, and tried to get them to talking. If she only got them to talking, she could get at what little humanity was left in them. Those ladies who faced them boldly, fared the best.
It is doubtful whether the world has ever witnessed such a scene of horror—certainly not outside the annals of savage warfare. History gives no parallel, where an equal number of such desperate men, so heavily armed, were let perfectly loose in an unsuspecting community. The carnage was much worse from the fact that the citizens could not believe that men could be such fiends. No one expected an indiscriminate slaughter. When it was known that the town was in their possession, everybody expected they would rob and burn the town, kill all military men they could find, and a few marked characters. But few expected a wholesale murder. Many who could have escaped, therefore, remained and were slain. For this reason the colored people fared better than the whites. They knew the men which slavery had made, and they ran to the brush at the first alarm. A gentleman who was concealed where he could see the whole, said the scene presented was the most perfect realization of the slang phrase, “Hell let loose,” that ever could be imagined. Most of the men had the look of wild beasts; they were dressed roughly and swore terribly. They were mostly armed with a carbine and with from two to six revolvers strapped around them. It is doubtful whether three hundred such men were ever let perfectly loose before.
The surprise was so complete that no organized resistance was possible. Before people could fully comprehend the real state of the case, every part of the town was full of rebels, and there was no possibility of rallying. Even the recruits in camp were so taken by surprise that they were not in their places. The attack could scarcely have been made at a worse hour. The soldiers had just taken in their camp guard, and people were just waking from sleep. By some fatal mistake, the authorities had kept the arms of the city in the public armory, instead of in each man’s house. There could be no general resistance therefore from the houses. When the rebels gained possession of the main street, the armory was inaccessible to the citizens, and the judicious disposition of squads of rebels in other parts of the town, prevented even a partial rally at any point. There was no time nor opportunity for consultation or concert of action, and every man had to do the best he could for himself. A large number, however, did actually start with what arms they had towards the street. Most saw at once that the street could not be reached, and turned back. Some went forward and perished. Mr. Levi Gates lived about a mile in the country, in the opposite direction from that by which the rebels entered. As soon as he heard the firing in town, he started with his rifle, supposing that a stand would be made by the citizens. When he got to town he saw at once that the rebels had possession. He was an excellent marksman and could not leave without trying his rifle. The first shot made the rebel jump in his saddle, but did not kill him. He loaded again and fired one more shot, when the rebels came on him and killed him; and after he was dead, brutally beat his head in pieces.
Mr. G. W. Bell, County Clerk, lived on the side hill overlooking the town. He saw the rebels before they made their charge. He seized his musket and cartridge box with the hope of reaching the main street before them. His family endeavored to dissuade him, telling him he would certainly be killed. “They may kill me, but they cannot kill the principles I fight for. If they take Lawrence they must do it over my dead body.” With a prayer for courage and help he started. But he was too late. The street was occupied before he could reach it. He endeavored then to get round by a back way, and come to the ravine west of the street. Here he met other citizens. He asked, “Where shall we meet?” They assured him it was too late to meet anywhere, and urged him to save himself. He turned back, apparently intending to get home again. The rebels were now scattered in all directions, and he was in the midst of them. A friend urged him to throw his musket away, which he did. Finding escape impossible, he went into an unfinished brick house, and got up on the joists above, together with another man. A rebel came in and began shooting at them. He interceded for his friend, and soon found that the rebel was an old acquaintance who had often eaten at his table. He appealed to him in such a way that he promised to save both their lives for old acquaintance sake, if they would come down. They came down, and the rebel took him out to about twenty of his companions outside. “Shoot him! Shoot him!” was the cry at once. He asked for a moment to pray, which they granted, and then shot him with four balls. His companion was wounded and lay for dead, but afterwards recovered. The treacherous rebel who deceived and murdered him, afterwards went to his house, and said to his wife, who was ignorant of her husband’s fate: “We have killed your husband and we have come to burn his house.” They fired it, but the family saved it. Mr. Bell was a man of excellent character, and leaves a wife and six children to miss and mourn him.
What little resistance was offered to the rebels, developed their cowardice as much as the general license given them developed their brutality. On the opposite bank of the river twelve soldiers were stationed. When the rebels first came into town, they filled Massachusetts street clear to the river bank, firing into every house, and robbing every stable. They even attempted to cut the rope of the ferry. But these brave boys on the opposite side made free use of their rifles, firing at every butternut that came in sight. Their minnie balls went screaming up the street, and it was not many minutes before that section of the town was pretty much deserted; and if one of the ruffians by chance passed along that way, he was very careful not to expose himself to the bullets from across the river. The result was, all that section of the town which stretched along the river bank was saved. In this section stood Gov. Robinson’s house, which was the first inquired for. Here was the armory, which they took possession of early, but left it with the most of its guns unharmed.
Another evidence of their cowardice was shown in the fact, that very few stone houses were molested. They shunned almost all houses which were closed tightly, so that they could not see in, when the inmates did not show themselves. There is a deep ravine, wooded but narrow, which runs almost through the centre of the town. Into this many citizens escaped. They often chased men into this ravine, shooting at them all the way. But they never followed one into the ravine itself, and seldom followed up to the brink. Whenever they came near to it, they would shy off as if expecting a stray shot. The cornfield west of the town was full of refugees. The rebels rode up to the edge often, as if longing to go in and butcher those who had escaped them, but a wholesome fear that it might be a double game, restrained them. A Mrs. Hindman lives on the edge of this cornfield. They came repeatedly to her house for water. The gang insisted on knowing what “was in that cornfield?” She, brave woman, replied, “Go in and see. You will find it the hottest place you have been in to-day.” Having been in to carry drink to the refugees, she could testify to the heat. The rebels took her word and left. So every little ravine and thicket round the outskirts of the town were shunned as if a viper had been in it. Thus scores of lives were saved that would otherwise have been destroyed.
In almost every case where a determined resistance was offered, the rebels withdrew. Mr. A. K. Allen lives in a large brick house. A gang came to his door and ordered him out. “No!” replied the old gentleman, “if you want anything of me, come where I am—I am good for five of you.” They took his word for it, and he and his house were thenceforth unmolested. The two Messrs. Rankin were out in the street trying to gain a certain house, when they were overtaken by six of the ruffians. They at once turned and faced their foes, drew their revolvers, and began to fire, when the whole six broke and fled. The cowards evidently did not come to fight, but to murder and steal.
We can only give a few of the incidents of the massacre as specimens of the whole. The scenes of horror we describe must be multiplied till the amount reaches one hundred and eighty, the number of killed and wounded.
Gen. Collamore, Mayor of the city, was awakened by their shouts around his house. His house was evidently well known, and they struck for it first to prevent his taking measures for defense. When he looked out, the house was surrounded. Escape was impossible. There was but one hiding place—the well. He at once went into the well. The enemy entered the house and searched for the owner, swearing and threatening all the while. Failing to find him, they fired the house and waited round to see it burn. Mrs. Collamore went out and spoke to her husband while the fire was burning. But the house was so near the well that when the flames burst out they shot over the well, and the fire fell in. When the flame subsided, so that the well could be approached, nothing could be seen of Mr. Collamore or the man who descended into the well with him. After the rebels had gone, Mr. Lowe, an intimate friend of Gen. Collamore, went at once down the well to seek for him. The rope supporting him broke, and he also died in the well, and three bodies were drawn from its cold waters.
At Dr. Griswold’s there were four families. The doctor and his lady had just returned the evening before from a visit east. Hon. S. M. Thorp, State Senator, Mr. J. C. Trask, Editor of the State Journal, Mr. G. W. Baker, Grocer, with their ladies, were boarding in Dr. Griswold’s family. The house was attacked about the same time as Gen. Collamore’s. They called for the men to come out. When they did not obey very readily, they assured them “they should not be harmed—if the citizens quietly surrendered, it might save the town.” This idea brought them out at once. Mr. Trask said, “If it will help save the town, let us go.” They went down stairs and out of doors. The ruffians ordered them to get into line, and to march before them towards town. They had scarcely gone twenty feet from the yard before the whole four were shot down. Dr. Griswold and Mr. Trask were killed at once. Mr. Thorp and Mr. Baker wounded, but apparently dead. The ladies attempted to come to their husbands from the house, but were driven back. A guard was stationed just below, and every time any of the ladies attempted to go from the house to their dying friends, this guard would dash up at full speed, and with oaths and threats drive them back. After the bodies had lain about half an hour, a gang rode up, rolled them over and shot them again. Mr. Baker received his only dangerous wound at this shot. After shooting the men, the ruffians went in and robbed the house. They demanded even the personal jewelry of the ladies. Mrs. Trask begged for the privilege of retaining her wedding ring. “You have killed my husband, let me keep his ring.” “No matter,” replied the heartless fiend, and snatched the relic from her hand. Dr. Griswold was one of the principal druggists of the place; Mr. Thorp was State Senator; Mr. Trask, Editor of the State Journal, and Mr. Baker one of the leading grocers of the place. Mr. Thorp lingered in great pain till the next day, when he died. Mr. Baker, after long suspense, recovered. He was shot through the neck, through the arm, and through the lungs.
The most brutal murder was that of Judge Carpenter. Several gangs called at his house and robbed him of all he had—but his genial manner was too much for them, and they all left him alive and his house standing. Toward the last, another gang came more brutal than the rest. They asked him where he was from. He replied, “New York.” “It is you New York fellows that are doing the mischief in Missouri,” one replied, and drew his revolver to shoot him. Mr. Carpenter ran into the house, up stairs, then down again, the ruffian after him and firing at him at every turn. He finally eluded them and slipped into the cellar. He was already badly wounded, so that the blood lay in pools in the cellar where he stood for a few minutes. His hiding place was soon discovered, and he was driven out of the cellar into the yard and shot again. He fell mortally wounded. His wife threw herself on to him and covered him with her person to shield him from further violence. The ruffian deliberately walked round her to find a place to shoot under her, and finally raised her arm and put his revolver under it, and fired so that she could see the ball enter his head. They then fired the house, but through the energy of the wife’s sister, the fire was extinguished. This sister is the wife of Rev. G. C. Morse, of Emporia, who was making her first visit to her sister’s house. The Judge had been married less than a year. He was a young man, but had already won considerable distinction in his profession. He had held the office of Probate Judge for Douglas county, and a year ago was candidate for Attorney General of the State.
Mr. Fitch was called down stairs and instantly shot. Although the second ball was probably fatal, they continued to fire until they lodged six or eight balls in his lifeless body. They then began to fire the house. Mrs. Fitch endeavored to drag the remains of her husband from the house, but was forbidden. She then endeavored to save his miniature, but was forbidden to do this. Stupified by the scene, and the brutality exhibited towards her, she stood there gazing at the strange work going on around her, utterly unconscious of her position or her danger. Finally one of the ruffians compelled her to leave the house, or she would probably have been consumed with the rest. Driven out, she went and sat down with her three little ones in front, and watched the house consumed over the remains of her husband. Mr. Fitch was a young man of excellent character and spirit. He was one of the “first settlers” of Lawrence, and taught the first school in the place. He was a member of the Congregational Church, and very active in both Church and Sabbath School. He was the man always to stand in the “gap.” If there was anything which others had left undone, he was the man to see it and do it. If a subscription for library, papers or any other object in Church or Sabbath School, fell short of the needed amount, he always made up the deficiency. All these things were done so quietly, that few ever knew of them. He was a firm but quiet man, taking little part in public affairs, and it seems strange that the rebels should have exhibited towards him such malignity. The only explanation is, that they were enraged by the Union flag which the children had set up on the wood pile.
Mr. Sargent, another member of the same Church, and a most excellent Christian man, was shot with his wife clinging to him. The revolver was placed so near as to burn his wife’s neck. He lingered some ten days and then died.
James Perine and James Eldridge were clerks in the “Country Store.” They were sleeping in the store when the attack was made and could not escape. The rebels came into the store and ordered them to open the safe, promising to spare their lives. The moment the safe door flew open, they shot both of them dead and left them on the floor. They were both very promising young men, about seventeen years of age.
Mr. Burt was standing by a fence, when one of the rebels rode up to him and demanded his money. He handed up his pocket-book, and as the rebel took the pocket-book with one hand, he shot Mr. Burt with the other. Mr. Murphy, a short distance up the same street, was asked for a drink of water. He brought out the water, and as the fiend took the cup with his left hand he shot his benefactor with his right hand. Mr. Murphy was over sixty years of age. Mr. Ellis, a German blacksmith, ran into the corn in the Park, taking his little child with him. For some time he remained concealed, but the child growing weary began to cry. The rebels outside, hearing the cries, ran in and killed the father, leaving the child in its dead father’s arms. Mr. Allbranch, a German, was sick in bed. They ordered the house cleared that they might burn it. The family carried out the sick man on the mattrass, and laid him in the yard, when the rebels came out and killed him on his bed, unable to rise. These are a species of cruelty to which savages have never yet attained.
But even the fiendishness of these deeds was surpassed. Mr. D. W. Palmer, formerly of Andover, Mass., but one of the early settlers of Kansas, kept a gun shop just south of the business part of the town, on the main street. His position prevented escape, but he and his shop were spared till near the last. As a large gang of drunken rebels were going out, they came upon his shop. Mr. Palmer and another man were standing by the door. They fired upon them, wounding both, and then set fire to the shop. The shop being old and all of wood, without plastering, burned rapidly. While it was burning, the rebels took up the wounded men, bound their hands together and threw them into the burning shop. A woman who was standing on the opposite sidewalk, says she saw the poor men get up among the flames and endeavor to come out, but were pushed back by the guns of the torturers. The fire having consumed the bandages from their hands, she saw Mr. Palmer throw up his hands, and cry, “O God, save us!” and then fall lifeless among the embers. The fiends all this time stood around the building shouting and cheering, and when the poor men fell dead, they gave one shout of triumph and passed on. We have been slow to believe this terrible story; but two reliable persons, in full sight, witnessed the scene, and a score of circumstances corroborate it. It comes the nearest to the old description of the fiends around the pit of anything we have ever heard.
The most severely wounded man was Mr. Thornton. After being awakened by the firing in the street and around him, he remained up stairs till the house was burning. He then came down and ran. The rebels fired at him, inflicting three wounds in his hip. As he was attempting to get over some bars into a yard, another shot struck him back of the shoulder and passed down through the whole length of the back and out at the hip. His wife followed him and clung to him to shield him from further violence. The rebel sat on his horse over them, and finally got his pistol between the two and fired again, the ball going through his hat, grazing his eye and passing through his cheek. The fellow then cried out—“I can kill you,” and began beating him over the head with the butt of his revolver, till the poor man fell senseless from exhaustion. The brute, not yet satisfied, leveled his revolver to shoot him again, but the wife flew at him, exclaiming, “You are not going to shoot him again,” and pushed the revolver aside. The fellow soon left, supposing his victim dead. Mr. Thornton still lives, but both his legs are helpless. He will probably be a cripple for life.
Age was no protection. Many of the oldest people in town were the most brutally murdered. It was said Quantrell ordered his men to burn no churches and kill no ministers. Still they burned the Colored Church in Lawrence, and the Congregational Church of Wakarusa. They did not set fire to the Colored Church, but they set fire to a little wood shanty right under its walls, and must have designed to burn the Church, as they must have known the Church would catch from the shanty, and there could be little object in burning the one except for the sake of burning the other. The Church at Wakarusa was just finished. It was five miles from Lawrence (south), and they took it on their way out. While it was burning, the whole band gathered around, cheering and yelling, as if they were doing some specially congenial work. The first and the last man killed were preachers—Rev. Mr. Snyder was the first, and Mr. Rothrock—a Dunkard preacher—the last. Mr. Rothrock was an old man of very excellent character. He lived ten miles south of the town, and on their way out several rebels stopped at his house and ordered breakfast. His wife cooked them a good breakfast which they ate with good relish. After rising, they inquired about the old gentleman, and some one told them “he was a preacher.” “We intend to kill all the d—d preachers,” and at once shot him and left him for dead. He lived, however, and may recover. Rev. H. D. Fisher, they hunted like a wild beast, and it was almost a miracle that he was not burned in his house. Rev. Mr. Paddock they inquired for repeatedly, shot into his house and shot at him. Rev. R. Cordley they asked for in a number of places, as “that negro preacher,” “negro harborer,” and as “that abolition preacher who had been preaching at Kansas City.” A lady, hoping to save his house, told one of them to whom it belonged, supposing they would spare a minister’s house. He immediately whirled his horse round and rode up to the house and set it on fire. However others might have fared, there can be no doubt but these three would have been killed if they had been found.
As we said before, age was no protection. Mr. Longley lived about a mile from town. He was about sixty years of age. He was a very quiet, peaceable man, taking no part in public affairs, any further than to perform the duties of a private citizen and a Christian. He and his wife were living quietly on their farm. Two of the pickets stationed outside the town, while their bloody work was being done in town, come to his house. His wife begged them to be merciful. “They were old people and could not live long at best.” They heeded none of her entreaties, but shot the old gentleman in his yard. The first shot not doing its work, they shot again and again, and then proceeded to burn the house. Through the energy of the old lady, the fire was put out and the house saved.
The colored people were pursued with special malignity, but they knew the character of their old masters so well that they all ran who could, at the first alarm. Few, comparatively, were killed, therefore. Most of the killed were the old and decrepid, who could not run. Old Uncle Frank, as he was called, was about ninety years old. He was born in “Old Virginia.” He said when he first came to Lawrence, “When I was a slave I pray de Lord to let me go some whar so as I could tend meetins all I wanted to. And now de Lord has answered my prayer.” He was a short, heavy set man, lame with “rheumatiz,” and compelled to hobble round on his cane. Still he would work, getting a job of chopping at one place and a job of hoeing at another. In this way, he earned what little his simple habits required. He always worked faithfully and did his work well, though slow. When the rebels came he was unable to escape. He was seen and shot. He fell and was left for dead. After a while, when he thought himself unobserved, he got up and endeavored to escape. Some of the rebels seeing him, dashed upon him and killed him.
“Uncle Henry” was another decrepid old negro. He hid in a barn, and was killed, and burned up in the building. Old man Stonestreet was a Baptist preacher among the colored people. He was about sixty. He also was killed, as was Mr. Ellis, another old man of about sixty. Anthony Oldham was another preacher and a man of fine character and of great influence. He was shot in his own door in the presence of his daughter.
There were many hair-breadth escapes. Many escaped to the cornfields near to town; others escaped to the “friendly brush” by the river bank. The ravine which runs almost through the centre of the town, proved a safe refuge to scores. The cornfield west of town and the woods east, were all alive with refugees. Many hid in the “Park” which was planted with corn. Many others, who could get no further, hid among the weeds and plants in their gardens. Mr. Strode, colored blacksmith, had a little patch of tomatoes, not more than ten feet square. He took his money and buried himself among the vines. The rebels came up and burned his shop, not more than ten feet off, but did not discover him.
Mr. Hampson, of whom we spoke before, lay wounded close by a burning building. It would be certain death to show signs of life. His wife, therefore, who stood by him, asked one of the rebels to help her carry her husband’s body away from the flames. He took hold of Hampson and carried him out of reach of the fire without discovering that he was alive. As soon as she could, his wife helped him on to a hand-cart, and covered him up with rags, and then drew the whole away out of danger. The rebels she passed thought her crazy for “drawing off that load of old rags.”
One of the most wonderful escapes was that of Rev. H. D. Fisher. We give an account of it in his own words, in a letter to a friend in Pittsburg:
“When Quantrell and his gang came into our town, almost all were yet in their beds. My wife and second boy were up, and I in bed, because I had been sick of quinsy. The enemy yelled and fired a signal. I sprang out, and my other children, and we clothed ourselves as quick as it was possible.
I took the two oldest boys and started to run for the hill, as we were completely defenceless and unguarded. I ran a short distance, and felt I would be killed. I returned to my house, where I had left my wife with Joel, seven years old, and Frank, six months old, and thought to hide in our cellar. I told Willie, twelve years old, and Eddie, ten years old, to run for life, and I would hide. I had scarcely found a spot in which to secrete myself, when four murderers entered my house and demanded of my wife, with horrid oaths, where that husband of hers was, who was hid in the cellar. She replied, “The cellar is open; you can go and see for yourselves. My husband started over the hill with the children.” They demanded a light to search. My wife gave them a lighted lamp, and they came, light and revolvers in hand, swearing to kill me at first sight. They came within eight feet of where I lay, but my wife’s self-possession in giving the light had disconcerted them, and they left without seeing me. They fired our house in four places; but my wife by almost superhuman efforts, and with baby in arms, extinguished the fire. Soon after, three others came and asked for me. But she said, ‘Do you think he is such a fool as to stay here? They have already hunted for him, but, thank God! they did not find him.’ They then completed their work of pillage and robbery, and fired the house in five places, threatening to kill her if she attempted to extinguish it again. One stood, revolver in hand, to execute the threat if it was attempted. The fire burned furiously. The roof fell in, then the upper story, and then the lower floor; but a space about six by twelve feet was by great effort kept perfectly deluged with water by my wife to save me from burning alive. I remained thus concealed as long as I could live in such peril. At length, and while the murderers were still at my front door and all around my lot, watching for their prey, my wife succeeded, thank God, in covering me with an old dress and a piece of carpet, and thus getting me out into the garden and to the refuge of a little weeping willow covered with ‘morning-glory’ vines, where I was secured from their fiendish gaze and saved from their hellish thirst for my blood. I still expected to be discovered and shot dead. But a neighbor woman who had come to our help, aided my wife in throwing a few things saved from the fire over and around the little tree where I lay, so as to cover me more securely.”
Mr. Riggs, District Attorney, was set upon by the vilest ruffian in the lot. His wife rushed to his side at once. After a short parley the man drew his revolver and took aim. Mr. Riggs pushed the revolver aside and ran. The man started after him, but Mrs. Riggs seized hold of the bridle rein and clung to it till she was dragged round a house, over a wood pile, and through the yard back on to the street again. Mr. Riggs was still in sight, and the man was taking aim at him again, when Mrs. Riggs seized the other rein and timed his horse round, and Mr. Riggs was beyond reach. All this time the man was swearing and striking at her with his revolver, and threatening to shoot her.
Old Mr. Miner hid among the corn in the Park. Hearing the racket around Mr. Fisher’s house near by, he ventured to the edge of the corn to gratify his curiosity. He was seen and immediately shot at. He ran back into the corn, but had not proceeded far before he heard them breaking down the fence. The corn was evidently to be searched. He ran, therefore, through the corn, and lay down among the weeds beyond. The weeds only partially covered him, but it was the best he could do. He had scarcely lain down, when the rebels came dashing through the corn, and stationing a picket at each corner of the field to prevent escape, they searched the field through but found no one. They did not happen to look among the grass almost at their very feet.
Near the centre of the town was a sort of out-door cellar with a very obscure entrance. A woman, whose name we have been unable to obtain, but who ought to be put on record as one of the heroines of that day, took her station at a convenient distance from this cellar. Every poor fugitive that came into that region, she directed into this hidden cellar. Thus eight or ten escaped from the murderers. Finally, the rebels noticing that their victims always disappeared when they came into this locality, suspected this woman of aiding in their escape. They demanded of her that she should show their hiding place. She refused. One of them drew his revolver, and pointing it at her, said, “Tell us or I will shoot you.” “You may shoot me,” answered the brave woman, “but you will not find the men.” Finding they could not intimidate her, they left.
Mr. Bergen was wounded and then taken off with six or eight other prisoners. After taking them a short distance, their captors shot all of them dead but Mr. Bergen. He was lying down exhausted from loss of blood, and for some reason they passed him by. There he lay among the dead, feigning death. After lying a short time, a rebel rode up, and discovering he was not dead, took aim at his head and fired. He felt the ball pass and instinctively dropped his head, and the rebel supposing he had completed his work, rode off. His head was now brought under the body of a young man who had been killed with the rest. There he lay, the living under the dead, till the rebels left town. At one time, the young man’s mother came to wash the blood from the face of her murdered son. Mr. Bergen begged her not to move her son’s body, as his only hope of life was in lying still with his head under the lifeless corpse.
Several saved themselves by their ready wit. An officer in the camp of recruits, when the attack was made, ran away at full speed. He was followed by several horsemen, who were firing at him continually. Finding escape impossible, he dashed into the house of a colored family, and in the twinkling of an eye, slipped on a dress and a shaker bonnet, passed out of the back door and walked deliberately away. The rebels surrounded the house, and then some of them entered and searched, but found no prey.
A son of John Speer hid for some time under the side-walk. The fire soon drove him into the street, which was full of rebels. He went boldly up to them and offered his services in holding horses. They asked his name, and thinking that the name Speer would be his death warrant, he answered “John Smith,” and he remained among them unharmed to the last.
One man was shot as he was running away, and fell into a gutter. His wife, thinking him killed, began to wring her hands and scream. The rebel thinking from this her husband was dead, left. As soon as he was gone, the man said, “Don’t take on so, wife, I don’t know as I am hit at all.” And so it proved.
Mr. Winchell, being hard pressed, ran into Mr. Reynolds’ house (Episcopal Minister’s). Mrs. Reynolds at once arrayed him in female attire, and shaved off his whiskers with a pen knife, and set him in a rocking chair with a baby in his arms, and christened him “Aunt Betsie.” The rebels searched the house, but did not disturb “Aunt Betsie.”
As the scene at their entrance was one of the wildest, the scene after their departure was one of the saddest that ever met mortal gaze. Massachusetts street was one bed of embers. On this one street, seventy-five buildings, containing at least twice that number of places of business and offices, were destroyed. The dead lay all along the side-walk, many of them so burned that they could not be recognized, and could scarcely be taken up. Here and there among the embers, could be seen the bones of those who had perished in the buildings and been consumed. On two sides of another block, lay seventeen bodies. Almost the first sight that met our gaze, was a father, almost frantic, looking for the remains of his son among the embers of his office. The work of gathering and burying the dead soon began. From every quarter they were being brought in, until the floor of the Methodist Church, which was taken as a sort of hospital, was covered with dead and wounded. In almost every house could be heard the wail of the widow and orphan. The work of burial was sad and wearying. Coffins could not be procured. Many carpenters were killed and most of the living had lost their tools. But they rallied nobly and worked night and day, making pine and walnut boxes, fastening them together with the burnt nails gathered from the ruins of the stores. It sounded rather harsh to the ear of the mourner, to have the lid nailed over the bodies of their loved ones; but it was the best that could be done. Thus the work went on for three days, till one hundred and twenty-two were deposited in the Cemetery, and many others in their own yards. Fifty-three were buried in one long grave. Early on the morning after the massacre, our attention was attracted by loud wailings. We went in the direction of the sound, and among the ashes of a large building, sat a woman, holding in her hands the blackened skull of her husband, who was shot and burned in that place. Her cries could be heard over the whole desolated town, and added much to the feeling of sadness and horror which filled every heart.
The whole number of persons known to be killed, or who died from wounds, was one hundred and forty-three. It is probable some others were killed and burned and never found. There were about twenty-five wounded, most of them severely. Only two of the wounded have since died—the rest are recovering. Several men are now walking our streets who had balls through their heads or lungs.
The loss of property has been variously estimated; some putting it as low as $750,000, and others as high as $2,500,000. We think it cannot fall below $1,500,000.
The business of the place was mainly on Massachusetts street, between Winthrop and Warren—a space of about 1,800 feet. This was one continued line of stores on both sides. In this space about seventy-five buildings were destroyed. Only one block, containing two stores, remained, and those two stores were robbed. On the lower end of the street there also remain two or three small buildings and one grocery store. In other parts of the town there were about seventy-five dwelling houses burned. As many more were fired, but saved by the women. The loss in buildings and goods could be very nearly estimated. But these by no means constitute the whole. All the rooms over the stores were occupied as offices or by families. The loss in the Eldridge House alone was beyond all the estimates yet made. The original cost of the house is said to have been $70,000. In the lower story were five stores and a law office. In these stores were doubtless $60,000 in goods. There were sixty inmates in the hotel, with their personal baggage. Many of these were families boarding permanently, with all their personal and household goods there. Estimating the building at its original cost, the loss in that house would not fall much short of $150,000. Then almost every house in town was robbed, and every man, woman and child that could be found.
On their way out of town, also, the rebels burned a large share of the farm houses along their route for about ten miles, when they were overtaken by citizens in pursuit.
In this narrative we have not pretended to give all the details, but only a part of those that have come to our knowledge in the regular performance of duty. Every house has a story almost as thrilling as any to which we have referred.
Lawrence has been stunned by the blow, but not killed. We feel confident she will rise from her ashes stronger than ever.