All of the Horses
May 1, 1863 looked to be a very pleasant day. Martin had no doubt as he stood near the kitchen window early that morning, coffee in hand, watching the sunrise. The roads were dry to Martin’s eyes, and the wind was only mildly rustling the grass outside.
His wife, Margaret, stood at a wooden table, and punched dough for what would become bread at dinner later. As she punched and kneaded the dough, her belly bounced in time. She would deliver a baby soon. The town doctor in Hazelwood proclaimed yesterday, “She’ll be due any day now.” Everyone in the house was excited about the impending bundle of joy, a pillar of hope during these dark, desperate war torn times.
Martin hoped the baby would be a girl, so that she wouldn’t have to fight in the war. Only two years had passed since the war began, but having just returned from the fight a few months prior, he shuddered to think about how many children he saw die on the battlefield, day in and day out. Martin eventually deserted his post, unable to kill another person. He had no interest in sending his own into this war. "At least a girl would be safe, and useful for running the farm," Martin thought.
The door to the kitchen opened, and an older man entered. “Is there any coffee left? Or did you drink it all, Son?”
Margaret bustled past with a pan of biscuits, ready to go into the oven. “There’s more in the pot by the sink, Papa,” she said.
The man walked over to the pot, and poured some coffee into a pewter tankard. “Thank you kindly, Margaret,” he said with a smile. “Where’s my wife and the girls this morning?”
“They’re cleaning out the hen house,” Martin said, “Seemed the perfect day to do it, is what Ma said.” Martin drained his cup of coffee, and then began to wash the cup, lest he incur the wrath of his wife later on. Everyone did their fair share of cleaning around the stead, for they were modern farmers. “Are we taking the horses to the Depot today then?”
“Eeyap,” the man said, before giving the now empty tankard to Martin to wash. “They’re all ready to go, saddled up and everything. I think we’d best get on the road soon: I’ve heard tell of Bushwhackers in the area. I heard Bloody Bill’s with ‘em this time too. We get the horses to the Union, and then we won’t be sitting ducks. They’ll have no reason to bother us.”
Martin set the two now clean cups down on a towel to dry. He nodded at the man, and looked toward Margaret, who had just finished wiping the floured table clean.
“Margaret,” Martin said quietly, “I best be goin’ now. Take some rest while we’re gone, if you can?”
“Of course, dear,” she said, “Right after I bake this roast and do the wash. You be careful, both of you!”
Martin embraced his wife tenderly, and kissed the top of her head before heading out the door behind his father.
It was a two-mile ride into the center of Hazelwood Township, so Martin and his father could easily be back at the farm in time for dinner. The horses were cooperative, all eight of them, which made the ride easy. Martin’s father met with two Union soldiers outside the general store. Fearing retribution from his desertion months prior, Martin ducked inside the store to hide.
“They probably don’t care about it,” the store manager, William Murphy, said with a shrug to Martin. “They know we want no trouble with the war, so you need not hide here, son.”
“No matter,” Martin said quietly, “I need supplies for the homestead anyway. Rumor has it that there are Bushwhackers around these parts, so I’ll do my business here while Pa makes the trade.”
“You heard rightly,” Murphy said with a shake of his head. “Quantrill himself was spotted down in the next county. Seems he’s still upset with the Union for Osceola.”
“Osceola?” Martin stared at Murphy. “That sacking was well over two years ago! What d’ya reckon Quantrill will do?”
William Murphy shrugged. “I don’t pretend to even have any sort of idea what they’ll do. I think they’re all itching for an excuse to stir the pot. They claim to serve the Confederacy, but even their armies won’t touch Quantrill’s men. And Bloody Bill Anderson! He’s just as bad as William Clarke Quantrill. Two peas in a pod, they are. I pray they won’t reach Hazelwood.
“But I’ve also heard that Jayhawkers are coming from the north,” Murphy continued, “They are trying to free some of the towns under Confederate control. Good luck to them, eh? I don’t think this war will end anytime soon.”
Martin nodded.
Martin finished his business with Murphy just as Martin’s father finalized the trade with the Union soldiers. As the soldiers departed with six fine steeds, Martin came outside with bags of flour and oats. He strapped the supplies to the his and his father's horses.
“Murphy says that the raiders are due south of us. Reports have been coming in that Quantrill himself is with them.”
“Well then,” Martin’s father grunted as he mounted his horse, “time to get moving. I want everyone home before the raiders make it north.”
As they neared the farm, Martin thought he smelled roast wafting toward him. Martin’s stomach rumbled. The trade and gathering of supplies had taken a little longer, and Martin was hungry. Martin and his father quickly unsaddled their horses, distributed the oat feed at the stables, then made their way back to the house.
Margaret greeted the men as they entered. She handed them each a plate piled high with roast and baked root vegetables.
“Biscuits are on the table already. Eat them before the girls make off with them. Best hurry too, I saw riders heading up the road from Hazelwood. Looks like business?”
Martin swallowed. “No business today, I don’t think. But there are Bushwhackers to the south and Jayhawkers to the north. It will be just our luck if they come here.”
“I’ll round up Ma and the girls then, just in case. We’ll go to the cellar.” Margaret turned and walked out of the room calling to Martin’s mother and younger sisters.
“You eat, Martin,” his father said. “I’ll keep watch, in case there’s trouble. So eat quickly. I will eat when you’re finished. Don’t bother washing up the plate, we have little time.”
Martin shoveled food into his mouth, and ate without chewing. The roast was so tender, it dissolved on his tongue. The vegetables were a little cold. Still, he ate quickly and eagerly. Martin grabbed a couple of biscuits, and made his way to the front window. He handed a biscuit to his father, and indicated that they should switch stations. Moments later, Martin saw the gate to their walkway swing open. William Murphy approached the house.
Martin hastened to the front door, and opened it wide.
“Mister Murphy? What brings you here to the farm?” Martin stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.
“Funny thing all that talk earlier about Bushwhackers and Jayhawkers,” William Murphy said with a smile, as the gate opened again, “These Jayhawkers just came down from Marshfield. Showed up after you left. On special orders to free slaves over in High Prairie this evening.”
Several weathered looking men strode through the open gate into the yard, dust kicked up behind them. They wore black dusters and short hats.
Martin’s father came out of the house. He came to the group of assembled men.
“I’ll have no trouble here, Gentlemen,” the older man said.
Murphy coughed, “These gentlemen wish to procure horses for transport. I was telling Martin that they are Jayhawkers that came down from Marshfield.”
“Your farm holds a reputation for selling fine horses, does it not?” one of the strangers inquired.
“We do,” Martin said, “Although we currently only have colts, an old stallion, and two mares, having just sold off the last of our adult stock just this morning.”
“Name’s James,” the tallest of the strangers said as he tipped his hat, “See, we’re in a bit of a bind. My best mare had a lame leg. She was injured by gunfire yesterday. I had to put her down this morning.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Martin’s father said. “I’m afraid we cannot help you with only colts. Come back in two months, and my colts will be ready for ya. They’re not broken yet.”
“Oh, we can break them in just fine, I reckon,” James said. He smiled. “I know a thing or two about horses.”
Martin turned toward the men. These men appeared dangerous, but Jayhawkers were known to be fighting for a good cause. Perhaps they should give them the colts and be done with it. It was better for all involved.
After a silent agreement between Martin and his father, Martin nodded to the strangers. “Very well, we’ll trade.”
James smiled wide, and removed a pistol from his belt.
“Now you’re speaking my kind of language,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “We’ll trade those three colts for your lives.” James turned to his men. “One of you go tell Bill we have horses.”
The youngest of the men turned, and left.
“What?!?” William Murphy shouted. “That wasn’t the agreement, Sir!”
“There was no agreement, I said I wanted horses, and now I get to harvest filthy Union traders too! These farmers are so gullible, thinking us Jayhawkers! Ha, ha, ha, ha! You best run, Mister Murphy, lest we decide to kill you too.”
*** *** ***
Author notes: Missouri was rife with guerrilla warfare during the American Civil War. Jayhawkers used guerrilla tactics to free slaves, but Bushwhackers sided with the Confederacy. The most famous of the guerrilla raiders were William Quantrill, "Bloody Bill" Anderson, and of course, Jesse and Frank James. The guerrilla tactics were nasty, and Quantrill's Raiders in particular were notorious for causing many deaths and destroying entire towns.
*William Murphy originally ran a general store in Hazelwood Township, Missouri with his step son, Joseph McClurg. McClurg went on to become governor of Missouri in 1869.
*The character Martin is based on my third great uncle. His father was my 4th great grandfather. His name is omitted from the story to preserve family anonymity.
*The character James is an original character for this story.
*Thanks to zedmanauk for acting as beta.
Thank you for reading.
His wife, Margaret, stood at a wooden table, and punched dough for what would become bread at dinner later. As she punched and kneaded the dough, her belly bounced in time. She would deliver a baby soon. The town doctor in Hazelwood proclaimed yesterday, “She’ll be due any day now.” Everyone in the house was excited about the impending bundle of joy, a pillar of hope during these dark, desperate war torn times.
Martin hoped the baby would be a girl, so that she wouldn’t have to fight in the war. Only two years had passed since the war began, but having just returned from the fight a few months prior, he shuddered to think about how many children he saw die on the battlefield, day in and day out. Martin eventually deserted his post, unable to kill another person. He had no interest in sending his own into this war. "At least a girl would be safe, and useful for running the farm," Martin thought.
The door to the kitchen opened, and an older man entered. “Is there any coffee left? Or did you drink it all, Son?”
Margaret bustled past with a pan of biscuits, ready to go into the oven. “There’s more in the pot by the sink, Papa,” she said.
The man walked over to the pot, and poured some coffee into a pewter tankard. “Thank you kindly, Margaret,” he said with a smile. “Where’s my wife and the girls this morning?”
“They’re cleaning out the hen house,” Martin said, “Seemed the perfect day to do it, is what Ma said.” Martin drained his cup of coffee, and then began to wash the cup, lest he incur the wrath of his wife later on. Everyone did their fair share of cleaning around the stead, for they were modern farmers. “Are we taking the horses to the Depot today then?”
“Eeyap,” the man said, before giving the now empty tankard to Martin to wash. “They’re all ready to go, saddled up and everything. I think we’d best get on the road soon: I’ve heard tell of Bushwhackers in the area. I heard Bloody Bill’s with ‘em this time too. We get the horses to the Union, and then we won’t be sitting ducks. They’ll have no reason to bother us.”
Martin set the two now clean cups down on a towel to dry. He nodded at the man, and looked toward Margaret, who had just finished wiping the floured table clean.
“Margaret,” Martin said quietly, “I best be goin’ now. Take some rest while we’re gone, if you can?”
“Of course, dear,” she said, “Right after I bake this roast and do the wash. You be careful, both of you!”
Martin embraced his wife tenderly, and kissed the top of her head before heading out the door behind his father.
It was a two-mile ride into the center of Hazelwood Township, so Martin and his father could easily be back at the farm in time for dinner. The horses were cooperative, all eight of them, which made the ride easy. Martin’s father met with two Union soldiers outside the general store. Fearing retribution from his desertion months prior, Martin ducked inside the store to hide.
“They probably don’t care about it,” the store manager, William Murphy, said with a shrug to Martin. “They know we want no trouble with the war, so you need not hide here, son.”
“No matter,” Martin said quietly, “I need supplies for the homestead anyway. Rumor has it that there are Bushwhackers around these parts, so I’ll do my business here while Pa makes the trade.”
“You heard rightly,” Murphy said with a shake of his head. “Quantrill himself was spotted down in the next county. Seems he’s still upset with the Union for Osceola.”
“Osceola?” Martin stared at Murphy. “That sacking was well over two years ago! What d’ya reckon Quantrill will do?”
William Murphy shrugged. “I don’t pretend to even have any sort of idea what they’ll do. I think they’re all itching for an excuse to stir the pot. They claim to serve the Confederacy, but even their armies won’t touch Quantrill’s men. And Bloody Bill Anderson! He’s just as bad as William Clarke Quantrill. Two peas in a pod, they are. I pray they won’t reach Hazelwood.
“But I’ve also heard that Jayhawkers are coming from the north,” Murphy continued, “They are trying to free some of the towns under Confederate control. Good luck to them, eh? I don’t think this war will end anytime soon.”
Martin nodded.
Martin finished his business with Murphy just as Martin’s father finalized the trade with the Union soldiers. As the soldiers departed with six fine steeds, Martin came outside with bags of flour and oats. He strapped the supplies to the his and his father's horses.
“Murphy says that the raiders are due south of us. Reports have been coming in that Quantrill himself is with them.”
“Well then,” Martin’s father grunted as he mounted his horse, “time to get moving. I want everyone home before the raiders make it north.”
As they neared the farm, Martin thought he smelled roast wafting toward him. Martin’s stomach rumbled. The trade and gathering of supplies had taken a little longer, and Martin was hungry. Martin and his father quickly unsaddled their horses, distributed the oat feed at the stables, then made their way back to the house.
Margaret greeted the men as they entered. She handed them each a plate piled high with roast and baked root vegetables.
“Biscuits are on the table already. Eat them before the girls make off with them. Best hurry too, I saw riders heading up the road from Hazelwood. Looks like business?”
Martin swallowed. “No business today, I don’t think. But there are Bushwhackers to the south and Jayhawkers to the north. It will be just our luck if they come here.”
“I’ll round up Ma and the girls then, just in case. We’ll go to the cellar.” Margaret turned and walked out of the room calling to Martin’s mother and younger sisters.
“You eat, Martin,” his father said. “I’ll keep watch, in case there’s trouble. So eat quickly. I will eat when you’re finished. Don’t bother washing up the plate, we have little time.”
Martin shoveled food into his mouth, and ate without chewing. The roast was so tender, it dissolved on his tongue. The vegetables were a little cold. Still, he ate quickly and eagerly. Martin grabbed a couple of biscuits, and made his way to the front window. He handed a biscuit to his father, and indicated that they should switch stations. Moments later, Martin saw the gate to their walkway swing open. William Murphy approached the house.
Martin hastened to the front door, and opened it wide.
“Mister Murphy? What brings you here to the farm?” Martin stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.
“Funny thing all that talk earlier about Bushwhackers and Jayhawkers,” William Murphy said with a smile, as the gate opened again, “These Jayhawkers just came down from Marshfield. Showed up after you left. On special orders to free slaves over in High Prairie this evening.”
Several weathered looking men strode through the open gate into the yard, dust kicked up behind them. They wore black dusters and short hats.
Martin’s father came out of the house. He came to the group of assembled men.
“I’ll have no trouble here, Gentlemen,” the older man said.
Murphy coughed, “These gentlemen wish to procure horses for transport. I was telling Martin that they are Jayhawkers that came down from Marshfield.”
“Your farm holds a reputation for selling fine horses, does it not?” one of the strangers inquired.
“We do,” Martin said, “Although we currently only have colts, an old stallion, and two mares, having just sold off the last of our adult stock just this morning.”
“Name’s James,” the tallest of the strangers said as he tipped his hat, “See, we’re in a bit of a bind. My best mare had a lame leg. She was injured by gunfire yesterday. I had to put her down this morning.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Martin’s father said. “I’m afraid we cannot help you with only colts. Come back in two months, and my colts will be ready for ya. They’re not broken yet.”
“Oh, we can break them in just fine, I reckon,” James said. He smiled. “I know a thing or two about horses.”
Martin turned toward the men. These men appeared dangerous, but Jayhawkers were known to be fighting for a good cause. Perhaps they should give them the colts and be done with it. It was better for all involved.
After a silent agreement between Martin and his father, Martin nodded to the strangers. “Very well, we’ll trade.”
James smiled wide, and removed a pistol from his belt.
“Now you’re speaking my kind of language,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “We’ll trade those three colts for your lives.” James turned to his men. “One of you go tell Bill we have horses.”
The youngest of the men turned, and left.
“What?!?” William Murphy shouted. “That wasn’t the agreement, Sir!”
“There was no agreement, I said I wanted horses, and now I get to harvest filthy Union traders too! These farmers are so gullible, thinking us Jayhawkers! Ha, ha, ha, ha! You best run, Mister Murphy, lest we decide to kill you too.”
*** *** ***
Author notes: Missouri was rife with guerrilla warfare during the American Civil War. Jayhawkers used guerrilla tactics to free slaves, but Bushwhackers sided with the Confederacy. The most famous of the guerrilla raiders were William Quantrill, "Bloody Bill" Anderson, and of course, Jesse and Frank James. The guerrilla tactics were nasty, and Quantrill's Raiders in particular were notorious for causing many deaths and destroying entire towns.
*William Murphy originally ran a general store in Hazelwood Township, Missouri with his step son, Joseph McClurg. McClurg went on to become governor of Missouri in 1869.
*The character Martin is based on my third great uncle. His father was my 4th great grandfather. His name is omitted from the story to preserve family anonymity.
*The character James is an original character for this story.
*Thanks to zedmanauk for acting as beta.
Thank you for reading.