Bloody Bill Anderson Read online

  Copyright © 1998 by Stackpole Books

  Published by

  STACKPOLE BOOKS

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  Mechanicsburg, PA 17055

  www.stackpolebooks.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. All inquiries should be addressed to Stackpole Books, 5067 Ritter Road, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania 17055.

  Printed in the United States

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congres Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Castel, Albert E. and Thomas Goodrich

  Bloody Bill Anderson : the short, savage life of a Civil War guerrilla / Albert Castel and Thomas Goodrich.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 0-8117-1506-X

  1. Anderson, William T. 2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Underground movements. 3. West (U.S.)—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Underground movements. 4. Quantrill, William Clarke, 1837–1865. 5. Guerrillas—Missouri—Biography. 6. Soldiers—Missouri—Biography. I. Title.

  E470.45.A53C37 1998

  973.7'37'092—dc21

  [b] 98-34144

  CIP

  eBook ISBN: 9780811745383

  Contents

  Preface

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue This is the Way We Do Business

  Chapter One The Last Man You Will Ever See

  Chapter Two I’m Here for Revenge

  Chapter Three Such a Damn Outfit

  Chapter Four Let the Blood Flow

  Chapter Five There are Guerrillas There

  Chapter Six You All are to Be Killed

  Chapter Seven The Lord Have Mercy

  Chapter Eight Reserved

  Chapter Nine How Do You like That?

  Chapter Ten Good Morning, Captain Anderson

  Epilogue The Spirit of Bill Anderson Yet Lives

  Notes

  Bibliographical Essay

  Index

  Preface

  Why a book about William “Bloody Bill” Anderson? Let us answer that question with another question: Why not a book about him? His career was, to say the least, an eventful one, and for a brief but spectacular period he played the leading role in the most viciously violent arena of the entire Civil War, with the result that even before he died he had passed from life into legend—where he remains.

  “My name is Anderson. They call me Bloody Bill.”

  So says an actor at the outset of the film, The Outlaw Josey Wales. Viewers know what these words signify. They understand immediately why Josey Wales, a Missouri farmer whose wife has been murdered by Kansas raiders, joins Anderson’s guerrilla gang. He wants revenge. With Bloody Bill he will get it.

  Much has been written about Bill Anderson. With one exception, though, all of these writings have taken the form of either short articles or somewhat longer accounts of Anderson and his doings in biographies of William Clarke Quantrill and general histories of the guerrilla conflict in Missouri during the Civil War. The exception is Donald R. Hale’s They Called Him Bloody Bill: The Missouri Badman Who Taught Jesse James Outlawry, a slender paperbound volume published in 1975. It contains much useful information and has been of assistance in the writing of this book. But it is not, nor was it intended to be, a full-fledged account of Anderson’s career. Instead it devotes 70 of its 118 pages, many of which consist of illustrations, to Anderson’s activities during the summer and fall of 1864 and only 12 to what he did prior to then, with the remaining 30 pages dealing mainly with what happened to Anderson’s grave and to the postwar escapades of some of his followers. Thus this book represents the first attempt to present a complete account, insofar as available sources allow, of Bloody Bill’s prewar life, of how he became a guerrilla, and of the war that he and his men waged—a war that for some of them never ended until they died.

  In making this attempt, we encountered two major problems, both common to all serious historical endeavors but especially difficult given the nature of our subject. One was obtaining an adequate supply of authentic and reliable sources. But this is a matter best discussed in the bibliographic essay at the end of this book, and the interested reader is referred to it.

  The second major problem had to do with achieving objectivity in dealing with matters that remain controversial and about which people still have strong feelings. Compounding this problem was that one of the authors tends to be more critical than the other of the Missouri guerrillas and what they did. As it turned out, our conflicting attitudes proved beneficial rather than harmful in that they compelled us to try to reconcile them by compromise and thereby attain a greater balance in what we wrote.

  Aiding us in compromise was our agreement with what B. James George Sr., the son of a Missouri guerrilla, wrote in a 1958 letter to Dr. Richard S. Brownlee, author of the then newly published Gray Ghosts of the Confederacy: Guerrilla Warfare in the West, 1861–18651 “Many, many of the guerrillas were neither neurotic nor psychotic, nor did they come out of the war with any such tendencies. . . . It was my pleasure and pride for many years to have known a large number [of them] and very few were mentally sick. They were just human beings, I would say.”

  Yet in the same letter George also admitted that the guerrilla war in Missouri “attracted men of unsavory nature and reputation,” and he gave as his example Bill Anderson, whose deeds he described with the words “bitter bloodshed.”

  What follows is the story of that “bitter bloodshed.” It is often an ugly story, sometimes a tragic one, but at all times it is dramatic, for nowhere was the Civil War so savage as it was in Missouri, and nowhere did it produce a protagonist more savage than Bloody Bill Anderson.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost we wish to record our gratitude to full-time lawyer and part-time historian Charles F. Harris of Wichita, Kansas, for providing us with valuable source materials pertaining to the Kansas phase of Bill Anderson’s career; for his excellent article in the Missouri Historical Review on the collapse of the Kansas City military prison, in which one of Anderson’s sisters was killed and the other two injured; for his astute and persuasive critique of a new but flawed contention as to the cause of that collapse; and for obtaining what we had concluded would be impossible for him to obtain—photographs of a tintype of Bush Smith Anderson and (assuming that in fact it existed) of the silk cord with which Anderson kept count of the Union soldiers killed by him. His assistance was given willingly out of a love for history, and he has every right to say that he played a key role in the preparation of this book. We hope that he finds it to be of such a nature that he will wish to say this and say it proudly.

  We also wish to convey our thanks to Betty Pierce and Lorlei Metke for the data and other materials relating to Thomas Goodman and Maj. Ave Johnston that they provided. They made it possible to provide a much fuller portrait of both of these men, especially Goodman.

  Larry and Priscilla Massie of Allegan Forest, Michigan, gladly helped with illustrations. So, once again, thank you, Larry and Priscilla. Thanks, too, to Donald R. Hale of Lee’s Summit, Missouri, who unselfishly shared information about Bill and Jim Anderson and also allowed us to “lift” the photo of Bill Anderson’s gravestone.

  Finally, Albert Castel most sincerely thanks Linda Moore, Judy Leising, and “Squeaky” Barnett of the Hillsdale College Library for their highly professional and always courteous help, and the same to Richard Wunsch and his associates at t
he Volume I Used Bookstore in Hillsdale, Michigan, where the photocopier (temperamental though it may be) and the close proximity of the post office greatly facilitated his historical endeavors.

  Prologue

  This is the Way We Do Business

  Fayette, Missouri: Morning, September 24, 1864

  Pvt. Tom Benton of the Ninth Missouri State Militia Cavalry stood beside the road leading to the garrison’s camp on the northern outskirts of Fayette, Missouri. The morning sounds were gone now. On nearby farms the cocks no longer crowed and in neighboring pastures cows had ceased their lowing. Even the chirping music of songbirds had faded as the sun began to bear down. It was going to be a hot day.

  Normally sentry duty was boring. Not this time. Benton felt uneasy, even apprehensive. There was something in the air. It was intangible and unnameable yet for those very reasons all the more ominous. His eyes scanned the landscape with quick, nervous glances. The vista was familiar, but it was the unfamiliar that he looked for. Again he stared up the dirt road that led from the town; again he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The same held true for the timber along the creek to the east and the cornfield to the west, where the dry, brownish-yellow stalks rustled softly whenever stirred by a breeze. Good. But this only meant that whatever was out there had not arrived yet—not that it wasn’t coming. His tenseness increased.

  Benton was just a private. He had no office with maps on the wall, he read no dispatches, he had no “dark connections” in the form of scouts and spies. Nonetheless he sensed that today something was going to happen, something so terrible that he did not want to think about it yet could not think about anything else: an attack on Fayette by bushwhackers.

  That is what made it so terrible. Bushwhackers were not soldiers, at least not in the normal sense. They killed because they liked to kill, and they were merciless. If they came to Fayette, Tom Benton and his fellow militiamen would have only two choices if they wanted to live: fight or escape. To surrender meant a hideous, nasty death.

  Benton wanted to live. Should the attack come his way, he would fire his rifle to give warning and then run for it. He knew he could not make it to the camp—it was too far away, and the attackers would be riding horses. His best hope was the big brick building some 250 yards up the road west of the garrison’s camp that was being used as a hospital. But if he couldn’t make it there, either, he would hide in the cornfield.

  In town the hands on the courthouse clock pointed to 10:20. It was Saturday, market day, and scores of people from outlying farms and hamlets swarmed through Fayette’s business district, buying and selling, visiting friends and relatives, and, if they were men, having a drink or two, or maybe more, at one of the saloons. Fayette numbered barely a thousand inhabitants, but it was the seat of Howard County and the biggest town in that particular subregion of central Missouri. Why, it even had a female seminary. To be sure, because of the war the school no longer had any students. Instead, the three-story brick building had been turned into a hospital for sick or wounded members of the garrison. All the patients able to stand had rifles handy, and Benton counted on those convalescent soldiers to cover him if he had to flee. Like Private Benton, like the forty-five troops posted in and around the log huts of the camp, and like the thirty soldiers and pro-Union civilians stationed in the big stone, massive-columned courthouse, they were waiting.

  They were waiting because a spy had reported that an attack might be coming, and if it came, it would come “soon.” Of course, such reports or rumors had arrived before and each time proved false. But there was reason to think that this one stood a good chance of being true. For the past week or so a lot of bushwhackers had been roaming about central Missouri, ambushing army detachments and wagon trains, waylaying stagecoaches, ransacking villages, robbing people, and killing—always killing—ruthlessly and sometimes in ways that made death a deliverance. Consequently, on orders from the district commander, Lt. Col. Daniel Draper had set out from Fayette several days ago with Maj. Reeves Leonard’s battalion of the Ninth Missouri Militia Cavalry to track down and slay as many of the “wolves” as possible. The departure of this force reduced the town’s garrison to only 150 soldiers plus some civilian volunteers, commanded by a young lieutenant named S. S. Eaton. If there was going to be an attack, it would be hard to pick a better time than “soon.”

  High overhead the clock in the courthouse tower tolled the half-hour when its hands pointed to 10:30. Off to the south, a dust cloud rose above the trees along the road to Rocheport. Was it Draper and Leonard returning? They came in columns of four, riding slowly up Main Street toward the courthouse square. As they drew nearer, it could be seen that they wore blue Union uniforms. Everybody relaxed. There would be no attack. Up at the camp, sitting in his tent, Lieutenant Eaton resumed writing a letter.

  Figure P.1 Howard County Courthouse, Fayette, Missouri.

  COURTESY OF ROBERT H. BRAY.

  Standing on the sidewalk watching the column file by was a black man wearing a blue uniform jacket. Suddenly one of the horsemen drew a pistol and shot the man. These men in blue were bushwhackers!

  As civilians scurried for cover, the soldiers and armed citizens in the courthouse opened fire. Breaking into a gallop, the attackers dashed through the square and toward the camp. Only a few tarried to fire their revolvers at the courthouse, shattering windows. A hail of bullets from long musket barrels—all that could be seen of the defenders—answered them. One rider, a man with a flowing red beard, jumped from his horse, ran to the courthouse entrance, then blazed away at the heavy wooden doors. When his pistol was empty, he dodged back through the smoke and disappeared. So, too, did the other assailants. Nothing could be gained by popping revolvers at invisible foes in a stone building.

  Sweeping up the road where Private Benton had been standing sentry, some seventy-five attackers halted in a ravine, spread out in a battle line, then charged toward the log cabins up on the ridge, screaming and firing as they came. Orange-red flashes spewed from loopholes in the cabin walls. As usual when fired downhill at an advancing enemy, most of the bullets went too high. Even so, some saddles were emptied, in others men swayed, and horses stumbled and fell. The charging line halted, milled about, then retreated to the shelter of the ravine.

  A few minutes later another charge took place. With shouts of “Scalp them! Scalp them!” the bushwhackers got close enough to leap from their mounts and run forward to knock the chinking from the logs and set the log cabins ablaze. Inside one of the cabins a frightened voice cried out, “Don’t fire your revolvers until they get among us!” Fortunately, the attempt failed and with it the second assault. So did a third sally, but it was merely a feint designed to cover the removal of as many dead and wounded from the field as possible. That accomplished, the attackers formed into a march column, then headed westward along the Glasgow Road.

  Silence settled over Fayette, a silence that seemed strange, almost eerie, after the din of the battle. Had the enemy gone? Or were they getting ready to strike again from a different direction and with even greater ferocity? Lookouts up in the courthouse cupola shouted down that they saw a long cloud of dust moving west toward Glasgow. Soldiers began emerging from the cabins, the hospital, and the courthouse. Civilians likewise came out from their hiding places. Many felt as if they were awakening from a terrible nightmare. But the broken glass on the sidewalks, the dead men and horses lying in the streets and fields, and the smell of gunpowder smoke, gray wisps of which still floated among the trees, told them that this had been no dream. It had been as real as the sun shining bright and hot above, and when the bells of the courthouse clock sounded 11:30, they realized that it had all happened in less than an hour.

  Details of soldiers looked for enemy dead and wounded. They found five of the former, none of the latter. They placed the corpses in a row on the street. Their own loss seemed to be just one dead and two wounded. Then someone remembered Private Benton. Where was he?

  The answer lay in the cornfield
. His body was mangled by bullets. His scalp had been nailed to a fence. With it was a note: THIS IS THE WAY WE DO BUSINESS.

  Rage rose in the soldiers’ throats and burst forth in howls of primeval vengeance. Galloping into town, they rode their horses over and over the five bodies, trampling and mashing them into the dirt.1

  Such was the war in Missouri in 1864. It did not take place on the same scale as in Virginia or Georgia, where the contending armies numbered in the tens of thousands and casualties were counted in equal measure. But what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in sheer viciousness and horror. And while elsewhere Federals fought under the stars and stripes and Confederates beneath the stars and bars, in Missouri both sides served the same banner: a black flag, crimsoned with blood.

  It was a different war in Missouri—a very different war.

  Chapter One

  The Last Man You Will Ever See

  The Glasgow Road: Afternoon, September 24, 1864

  The pungent reek of blood hung over the long line of horsemen riding westward from Fayette. Some of the wounded remained mounted, slumping in their saddles. Many more lay twisting with agony in wagons and buggies taken, along with their teams, from Fayette itself and farmhouses along the way. Head wounds, gut shots, mangled arms and legs dripped blood, splattering the yellow dust of the road. Never before had they suffered such heavy losses: eight dead, more dying, and a couple dozen wounded, some badly. Never again, they resolved, would they attack an enemy they could not shoot but who could shoot them. Their object was to kill, and you could not do that if you got killed.1

  Almost all of them were in their late teens or early twenties and natives of western Missouri, in particular the counties bordering the Missouri River—the “Big Muddy.” With few exceptions their families had come from Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee to grow in the fresh, fertile soil of Missouri the same crops that they had produced in their home states, tobacco and hemp. Prior to the war the more prosperous had owned slaves—not many, as a rule, but some. Before the war, too, back in the mid-1850s their fathers, uncles, and older brothers had tried to turn the newly opened territory of Kansas into a slave state. They believed that Kansas naturally belonged to them, separated as it was from Missouri only by a line drawn on a map, and they resented the Yankees coming in from New England, New York, Ohio, and other Northern states with the avowed purpose of making it a free state where slaves, and thus slaveowners, would not be tolerated. They struggled to prevent this from happening, and Kansas became “Bleeding Kansas” as both sides fought, raided, and massacred each other. For a while it seemed that the Missourians—Border Ruffians, as they were called—would prevail thanks to the advantage of proximity, but in the end they went down before the overwhelming numbers of the Northern settlers, who turned Kansas into a Yankee fiefdom, an antislavery stronghold.