Chapter 1 May 24, 1856—Kansas Territory

Dan sat on the banks of the creek. The night was warm and muggy. The moon was full enough to see his trotline corks bobbing in the water and his damp clothes resting on the bank next to him. It shed enough light to see André splashing in the deeper part of the creek. The line of cottonwood trees hid the small log cabin the two of them had thrown up so hurriedly in the past two weeks since they had arrived in Kansas Territory. The cabin was just a temporary shelter until they could build something better, but getting in a crop on their forty acres was the most urgent necessity. It was all so different from Louisiana. Everything here was rough and primitive. Still he was glad to be here. So much had happened so fast since that night of his mother’s funeral. When he had left the plantation he headed for New Orleans to drink away the pain and sorrow. It was three days later in one of the sleazier cat houses when André came for him. André sobered him up and cleaned him up. It was André who made him realize he could not just drink away his life. He needed to either reconcile with his father or make his own way. Reconciling with Michael was not an option. Making his own way was a novel experience for which eighteen-year-old Daniel Kerry Fitzgerald had no familiarity. It was André who told him of the group of settlers coming from Montgomery, Alabama, by way of Mobile. Their steamship, Florida, had just docked in New Orleans. They were headed for Kansas Territory to support the Southern faction in making sure Kansas was admitted to the Union as a slave state. Their leader, Major Jefferson Buford, was willing to accept a few more emigrants. He offered free passage to Kansas and help for one year while the emigrants got settled on their claims. “He’s looking for ‘sober, industrious young men.’” André had stated. “So we’d better get you smelling a little fresher than you do now, Danny Boy.” It had never occurred to Dan to wonder about the fact that his young servant had been allowed to sit in while Mr. Douglas, the long-suffering tutor Michael had brought in to turn his wild hellion of a son into a true Southern gentleman, had expounded good grammar along with Latin and the classics. A lot of things had never occurred to him. Like why André was so much lighter than his mother. And why Dan’s own mother never seemed to have a word to say to her husband unless it related to the management of the household. Now it all made a bitter and perfect sense. They boarded the steamer America and arrived in Kansas on May 2. Dan had lied about his age: he needed to be twenty-one to file a claim on the forty acres of Kansas land. He had in his pocket the few hundred dollars of his money and Buford’s pledge of support in the new land. André had in his pocket the manumission papers making him a free man which Dan had hurriedly processed before they left New Orleans. They had rushed from the border to claim a plot of land here on Mosquito Creek near where it flowed into the Pottawatomie Creek. It was fertile and had lots of timber, some oak and cotton wood, that was easily felled and notched to let them get the cabin, if you could call it that, standing. The cabin had four walls, not yet caulked, and a rough chimney but only a dirt floor. Although most people in Kansas Territory assumed André was a slave, Dan filed a joint claim, making his brother a full partner. They had been putting all their energy into clearing a plot of land at least big enough for a vegetable patch and a cornfield for a cash crop. He was pulled from his reverie by the muffled but unmistakable sound of gunfire. André heard it too and was out of the water throwing on his half-dry trousers as Dan reached for his own. The two young men hurried back by way of the almost hidden trail to their cabin. The cabin was closer to reach than the horses which were penned in a rough corral on the nearby prairie land to graze. Dan had purchased two dray animals to pull the wagon and supplies he had been given based on the agreement with Major Buford. Jokingly named Trouble and Double Trouble, they were sorry specimens but better than many settlers owned. Nothing was disturbed, but there were some horse tracks and footprints in the loose dirt near the door. “Somebody was looking for us,” Dan observed. “Who would be calling after dark?” “Could be them Free-State men,” André replied. “I heard they were a bit upset by the ruckus Sheriff Sam Jones caused when he rode into Lawrence a few days ago.” “Yeah,” Dan replied. “Some ruckus." He had heard all about the burning of the New England Emigrant Aid Company hotel and the destruction of two Free-State Lawrence newspapers presses. Jones' men had also burned down bogus Governor Charles Robinson’s house. "At least no one was killed. It would all simmer down if they would just leave us Southerners alone. Well, let’s just head down to the Doyle’s cabin and make sure they are all right.” Before they reached their neighbor's cabin, they made a gruesome discovery. What appeared to be a dead body lay on the side of the road. Dan saw blood still flowing from the numerous slashes on the wounded man's hands and arm. “My God! It’s Drury Doyle.” He tried to staunch the bleeding and brushed away some of the blood from the head. Even in the moonlight, they could tell it was too late to help Drury. He was bleeding profusely from large cuts all over, and it was clear he was beyond help. Drury recognized his new friend, Dan, and tried to tell him what had happened. “Ol’ John Brown. He came to our cabin. There was eight of them. Took me and Willie and Dad. Shot Dad and cut Willie to pieces. I tried to escape. They caught me, slashed me with their swords.” The boy sank into a stupor, then seemed to find a last spurt of strength. “They went to your cabin first. Guess you weren’t there. Goin’ to Wilkinson’s now. Help us. Help Mom and Polly and the little uns.” Drury slumped once again. This time his life had flowed away. Stunned, Dan laid Drury on the side of the path, and André covered the boy’s face with his kerchief. "He was only twenty years old," Dan murmured. “Let’s get up to the cabin and see if he was right about Mr. James and Willie,” André said. Just about 200 yards from the Doyle cabin, they made the second gory find. James Doyle and his son, William, lay dead a few inches apart. James had been shot in the head and hacked by broadswords until his arm was almost severed. William had suffered the same hacking death as his brother. Dan spotted William’s detached hand and had to look away from the sickening sight. “Whoever did this is long gone now. Mrs. Doyle and the children should be safe enough for the moment. Let’s see if we can get to Wilkinson’s place in time.” Dan said. “There’s a short cut through the woods.” Allen Wilkinson, a member of the Kansas Legislature, was their next nearest neighbor. His wife, Louisa Jane, had been sick with the measles. Their children were all younger than Dan, so he didn't know them as well as he had known Drury and William Doyle who were just a few years older than him. The Doyle boys, their father and younger brother, John, had helped put up the small cabin Dan and André shared. They had hunted and shared meals together. Best of all they had accepted André as part of the crowd. How could someone kill another human being just because they came from a different part of the county, had different belief? Dan thought. This can’t be happening. When they reached the Wilkinson cabin, Dan saw it had happened again. Allen Wilkinson lay just about a hundred fifty yards from his cabin. He had been hacked to death and his skull split open. Dan was debating whether to go to the cabin and attempt to comfort Mrs. Wilkinson or try and guess where the marauders might strike next when hoofbeats alerted him. As one, he and André ducked into the nearby brush. It seemed like forever before the group of men on horseback had passed. It was that darkest hour just before dawn, so they could not make out any faces. “I think that must have been the murderers.” Dan was afraid even now to raise his voice above a whisper. “Yeah,” replied André. “They sure seemed happy, hooting and hollering like that.” The two young men tried to track the horsemen but soon realized it was useless. “Besides,” Dan reasoned, “they must have been headed back home or they would not have been making so much racket.” They doubled back to the Wilkinsons’ cabin intending to speak to Mrs. Wilkinson and offer what help they could before returning to the Doyles’ to do the same for Mrs. Doyle. As they arrived near the cabin, once again they heard horses and men approaching. They ducked into the bushes near the body. By now it was full daylight, and the bushes did not offer much concealment. As the second riders reached the clearing around the Wilkinson cabin, André whispered to Dan, “It's Mr. Harris. He has a claim not too far from here. Wonder who that lady riding with him is?" When Dan hailed him, James Harris seemed glad to see that it was Dan and André. He and the lady dismounted, and Harris handed the reins to André to tend. Mr. Harris explained what had happened after the killers left the Wilkinson house. “William Sherman and some others were staying overnight at my house. A short time ago, Old Captain John Brown and seven other men came there, and after taking some property, they questioned me and others. Then Old Brown asked Sherman to go out with him, and he did. I heard nothing more for about fifteen minutes. Two of the ‘Northern Army,’ as they styled themselves, stayed with us until they heard a cap burst, and then these two men left. At first light I started looking, and I found William Sherman dead, in the creek near my house. I took his body out of the creek and examined it. Sherman's skull was split open in two places, and some of his brains were washed out by the water; a large hole was cut in his breast, and his left hand was cut off, except a little piece of skin on one side. I’m telling you, boy, the devil is about this night." “After seeing this, I have a feeling the devil is going to trouble us for a lot longer than one night,” Dan replied. The lady with Harris coughed gently. He seemed to have forgotten her presence in the excitement. "Oh, sorry. All this has driven off all my manners. Daniel, this is Mrs. Whiteman. She was visiting at our cabin, and I could not leave her there to fend for herself." Mrs. Whiteman went to the cabin to tell Mrs. Wilkinson the sad news and provide what comfort she could. Harris decided to accompany her, and Dan and André proceeded to the Doyles’ cabin to offer what help they could. Harris and Dan agreed to organize a meeting of all the settlers around the area for the following day. Harris planned to notify the sheriff after he spoke to Mrs. Wilkinson. The front yard of the Doyle cabin was bedlam. Mahala Doyle stood sobbing hysterically over the bodies of her husband and William. John, the sixteen-year-old son, tried to comfort his mother while he kept brushing his own hand over his eyes surreptitiously. Little Polly Ann tried to calm her shrieking younger brothers, ten-year-old James, eight-year-old Charles and five-year-old Henry. John appeared pathetically relieved to see someone he perceived as the voice of authority even if it was only a neighbor a few years older than himself. “Danny, Ma’s out of her mind with the sorrow of it. I dinna know what to do. Da’s dead and Willie and Drury. What’s going to happen to us?” Dan shook the younger boy’s hand and offered a rough masculine hug. “I’ll talk to your ma, John. Don’t know if it will help any.” He approached Mrs. Doyle. “I’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am.” He didn’t mention that Drury had lived long enough to tell him some of what happened. Better for her to think he died quickly. The slashes denied any possibility of an easy death. “Jim was a good man. He just done what he had ta do to take care of his family. He might’a yelled at some of them Free-Staters, but he never killed no one. We had ta join the Pro-Slavery Law and Order Party. No un'll let a body stay neutral in Kansas.” She glanced over at André. “We never owned slaves. Never could'a afforded any nor wanted any no how. Why?” “Miz Doyle, I promise you I will do all I can to make those men pay for what they did.” “I do thank you for that. But it won’t bring 'em back. The black-hearted devil even killed Jim’s dog, Ol’ Patch. She had a pair of pups, but he must'a killed them too. We buried the dog over there near where we’re fixin' to bury Jim and the boys. She was starting to attract buzzards. John can build some coffins from wood that Jim had cut for a barn. I'd like fer you to say a few words along with some of the other folks around here. He was so impressed by you and felt you would do well in Kansas. He had gotten mighty fond of André as well. My Jim was well liked by folks 'round here and deserves a decent wake.” Her sweeping hand gesture indicated a small cleared plot of land on a slight slope where wildflowers still bloomed just past the cleared patch. “André and I will help John with the coffins this afternoon. We’re meeting tomorrow after all the burying to decide what we can do. Mr. Harris is riding over to Sheriff Jones to let him know about these killings.” Something in his face must have let her know there was more about the night she didn’t know. “There were others killed?” “Yes, ma’am. After they finished with Drury, they went to Wilkinsons’ and Harrises’ cabins. Killed Mr. Wilkinson and Mr. Sherman at the Harris place.” “Kansas Territory ain’t safe for me and mine no more. I’m giving up my claim. Jim and me, we worked this claim since November last year. Just wanted to make a home for us and the young uns. You can have it if you want it.” “Ma’am, I’ll help if you want to stay. André and I will do whatever we can to help.” “You’re a good boy, Danny, and you’ve been a good neighbor the few weeks you been here. No, I’ll not stay here a day more than it takes ta bury me dead. Then it’s back to Missouri or maybe our old place in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Only there ain’t nothing there for us now. Po' whites like us cain't make a livin' in a slave state.” “Thank you, Miz Doyle. I have a few dollars left out of my savings and I want to pay you something for the claim.” “I’d appreciate any money you could spare to buy the claim. We ain’t got much savings. I’ll get work and take care of the young uns somehow.” Young John had approached in time to hear the last part of the conversation. He added, “Don’t you worry none, Ma, I’ll find work and help out. Sure will miss Willy and Druey. And Pa.” Both of the older Doyles looked like they were about to break out in a fresh outburst of tears. The younger ones had never stopped sniffling. Dan offered the only comfort he could. “I can promise I will keep the gravesites cleared and tidy.” He knew it was cold comfort at best, but it was all he had to offer at the moment. He thought of one other thing that almost went without saying. “It looks like a war has broken loose, but I won’t forget Mr. Doyle or the boys. I’ll do everything in my power to avenge them. I give you my solemn promise as long as I stand on this Kansas soil, I will hunt down and kill those who did such a cruel thing.” At the meeting of the local settlers held the next day, Dan got his first taste of bureaucratic maneuvering. Naturally, all agreed to band together to protect one another. It was generally decided Captain Henry Clay Pate, the Kansas correspondent for the Missouri Republican, who headed the militia of the Law and Order Party, The Westport Sharpshooters, could be counted on to capture Old Brown and bring him and his men to justice. Pate was also appointed a deputy United States Marshal with power to arrest. Dan signed up for the militia, and Captain Pate told him to get his affairs in order and meet at their camp in three days. Meantime, he decided to take matters into his own hands and go to Lawrence and do a little spying. “It’s only for a few days, André. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.” “Don’t see why I can’t go with you,” André insisted. “Don’t be crazy. You’re a Negro and this is Lawrence we’re talking about, the Free Staters’ haven. Jayhawker Heaven.” “So what? I’m a free Negro even though no one seems to realize it here,” André replied logically. “They won’t in Lawrence either. You’ll just attract attention. I plan on riding in quietly, gathering information and returning back home again. Nothing to it. I’ll just get the information and cut dirt.” *** Lawrence had a raw new look to it. It also had the look of a prim New England town. The burned hulk of the Free State Hotel was the only incongruous note. Nothing like the lush softness of New Orleans. Dan left Double Trouble at the livery stable and walked toward the river. The Whitney House. Since the Free State Hotel was burned down in the raid, it’s as good a place as any to start. When he entered the lobby, luck was on his side. No one was behind the counter. I can sneak a peek at the register, and no one will be the wiser.. He quickly stepped behind the counter, keeping one eye on the door to the left behind it. He was thumbing through the register for the past few days when he heard the unmistakable click of a gun’s hammer. Dan looked over the counter and found himself staring down the barrel of a Colt Navy Revolver. It looked dangerous. But not half as dangerous as the person who held it leveled at his head. Some women just looked deadly in black.