BUSHWHACKERS/THE MORNING OF DECEMBER 18, 1864 /A Historical Interpretation Based Upon the Murder of Alexander Tarlton

The five men stood beside their horses, reins in hand, staring without spoken word down the rock rubble of the road. Puddles in potholes were frozen with a crisp, hollow layer of ice. The road disappeared from their intense study a few hundred yards up around a curve among the sturdy trunks of a dense stand of hickory and oak. But, they stared intently nevertheless. As if the forests and hillsides did not impede their view at all of the community and homesteads a mile or so up the way.

It was just after daylight and a bitter cold morning. There had been a heavy frost the night before and every mile they had covered since leaving the relative security of Mingo Swamp seemed to drain their bodies of what precious little warmth they had left. Their breaths exhaled through the woolen scarves tied around their heads, over their ears and mouths leaving clouds of steam in the stillness of the December morning in Wayne County, Missouri.

Actually they weren’t scarves at all. Not anymore. Mostly they were just rags. But, every scrap tied underneath their slouch hats, pulled down sun and wind calloused cheeks and tied underneath tobacco-stained beards was cherished as an old friend. Long tresses of hair hung from beneath their hats to their shoulders. It wasn’t a matter of the hair simply being unkempt; the length was a statement of defiance and pride for those that were labeled as “Bushwhackers” by the opposing forces.

Gone, too was all the pomp and freshness of the gray uniforms and heavy greatcoats. Every garment was one and the same that had protected their bodies from bone-aching cold of bye-gone winters as well as the intense summer suns for over three years through bloody battles and guerrilla warfare along the rivers and streams, fields and forests of West Tennessee, Northeastern Arkansas, and Southeast Missouri. And often protected them in their hasty retreats through the unforgiving brush and brambles from those skirmishes as well.

Every one of the five men had belt buckles with the initials “sn.” At least that’s how it would appear to the casual observer. These men would tell you that the “sn” stood for Southern Nation, if you were inclined to ask. And your courage was to be admired if you were so bold as to do so. In actuality, each of the buckles was taken from a slain enemy soldier. The US buckles were turned upside down and worn as a badge of honor.

Captain David Reed was a now a gaunt man, but there was no mistaking the strength in the limbs and body of the former blacksmith from Lowndes. Some say he had been a likable enough man in the pre-war years, but there was no mistaking the cruel set of his mouth now, and the absence of that Divine spark in his eyes. Anyone that had ever seen such a man’s eyes never forgot it. This was a man who had lost much and taken much in return. And had very little left that he was willing to part with; had a lot that he wanted to take before the Union Militia “put him under.” Today he was going to take the life of Alexander Tarlton. And if he was lucky, maybe one of the other Tarlton men would be there as well, or one of the Wards, brothers of Alexander’s wife, Mahala. They were all enrolled in the service of the Northern Invaders.

Francis Marion Ward, the eldest of the Ward boys, was Alexander Tarlton’s brother-in law and had been instrumental in guiding the Union forces through the treacherous morass of swamps and securing success for them on more than one occasion.  He had aptly been named for the Francis Marion of the Revolution that baffled the British time and again in the “low country” of South Carolina earning the name of “The Swamp Fox”.  Should he be visiting, it would be an early Christmas for Captain Reed’s bushwhackers.

The Captain looked across his shoulder at the boyish, wispy-bearded face of the thin corporal standing beside him. He had been at his side since the beginning, from the enrollment at Lowndes in Company C, 2nd Missouri Volunteer Cavalry, C.S.A., and the campaigns with General Nathan Bedford Forrest east of the Mississippi. He had endured capture at Bloomfield in March of 1862, served some time in prison, and gladly signed the Yankee Oath of Allegiance promising to never take up arms against the Union again. Predictably, he had promptly returned to his old unit.

But, Captain Reed and many of the old company had deserted the regular army and returned to form their own company, eventually attaching themselves to the 15th Missouri Cavalry, C.S.A., to fight the local Union militias waging their own brand of guerrilla warfare in Southeast Missouri and Northeast Arkansas. And so finally, he too had returned home to the St. Francis River bottoms and swamps to reunite and serve with his Captain once more.

The young man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, before becoming aware of his Captain’s inquisitive gaze.

“You OK with this?” The captain asked.

“He’s got it coming.” The corporal replied.

The corporal’s own father had helped Alexander’s father, George, raise their last barn. His brothers and the slight, now sickly man up the road had raced horses together before the war, hunted deer, bear and turkey together. But, now his brothers were dead and most of his cousins, too. Hunted down and shot without quarter. His older brother had been shot so many times his torso had almost been hewn in two. And not one Tarlton man, all enrolled in the Union militias and army,  had been killed yet. 

Oh, he knew Alex had been recovering from the pneumonia. There were plenty of southern sympathizers strewn around, even if this particular area of the county leaned heavily pro-Union. The network of information about anyone remotely connected to the Yanks cause was incredibly fluid. That’s how he knew Alexander Tarlton would be in his home this day and not up and around in the bitter winter elements. The past few days had produced a relentless driving rain before turning so dreadful, bone-aching cold.

He himself and the dark-complexioned man with the intense blue- gray eyes had shared hot biscuits and chicken and dumplings from their respective mothers’ iron-cooking kettle at the camp arbor meetings on occasion. Like most who had met Alex, the Reb Corporal liked him. Admired him even. Heck, they were kin, but he couldn’t quite cypher through the exactness of their family ties. But today he was going to kill him. There was too much between their families now.

The younger man, turning once more to his leader continued, “Alex is a crack shot. He can shoot the eye out of a squirrel peeking around a Hicker-nut tree.” He looked back down the road. “And he’ll be wonderin’ about us all right. Probably wonderin’ where we are, what we are goin’ to do, and who are we goin’ to do it to. Captain, he might even be expectin’ us.”

There was no sign of an emotion in the captain’s flat stare and he said evenly in reply, “he’ll see it is you, even with your face covered he’ll recognize you, and he’ll pause for just a second. He won’t in that first instant believe that you would send him to hell. And Corporal, in that instant you will take advantage of that weakness and kill the man for the filthy blue coat that he is. I repeat, do not hesitate, but empty your weapon before the dirty republican can recover.”

Captain Reed continued to study the young man’s face for a moment or two, looking for any sign of weakness or apprehension. Finding none he nodded and turned away. In one swift, accustomed move he slung his shivering form over the back of his horse, adjusted his backside in the saddle, and addressed two of the privates still standing by their mounts.

“You two men stand back and cover our back trail about half way in. Wait for us. Fire a warning shot if anyone comes up the trail before we are finished. We’ll be in a hurry and stretching the horses out on our return. So, stay in the saddle. There ain’t a soul up that road that will not be on our scent as soon as the deed is done.”

Turning to the remaining private, a much older man that had been little better than a horse and slave thief before the war, that had experienced countless skirmishes and had no qualms about killing anyone, anytime, he ordered, “You go in with the Corporal and me.”

Receiving nods of affirmation from the two younger men that were to post picket along the way and a yellow, crooked smile from underneath the dirty mustache of the grizzled older man that was to accompany him, Captain Reed sharply commanded, “ Mount up, men.”

As soon as they had eased back onto their horses the Captain spoke again to the Corporal. “What about the older boy?”  He was referring to Alexander’s only surviving son from his first marriage to Ursula Phillips, she now buried on the old Tarlton Plantation.

“George?” The Corporal questioned. He studied the matter for a moment. “He won’t be armed but he’ll be old enough to be huntin’ after us for killing his Pa in a year or so. Or at the very least, signing up with the blue coat militia.”

Another pause. Then he suggested; “Maybe we can catch him on the way out and use him for a hostage until we get on up the road.”

Still getting no immediate response from his superior, he added “Judge Ward will have the neck stretched of any one of them citizens who fires a stray bullet into his grandson during our getaway. The boy may not be his blood kin, but the old man has taken a real fondness for the boy.  He has great plans for him.”

Moments passed as the Guerrilla Captain considered the suggestion of his well-seasoned junior N.C.O..  A fine flurry of snow swirled around his form, as he remained leaning forward in his saddle, hands resting on the strong neck of his chestnut mare.

Pushing upright in the saddle, Captain Reed nodded. “So be it.” Then, “but, if he resists too much, cut his throat.” He said this as casually as if telling him to pass a bowl of peas. Then added, “Sooner or later, he’ll be wantin’ his pound of flesh, too.”

Great bellows of steam arose from the nostrils of the horses as their breath was exhausted into the still winter air. They stood there, horses and men, just looking through the winter fog down that lonely, frozen road. Almost in unison they stretched their dirty bandannas across the bridges of their noses, pulled their .44 caliber, six-shot revolvers from their holsters and checked to insure that grease still sealed each chamber loaded with powder and ball, and that each percussion cap was seated firmly on its nipple. It took several minutes to perform this practiced ritual as each man carried no less than two pistols, and the rugged old private and Captain Reed each carried three. And they stood there yet for some time after the pistols were sheathed and locked under the russet tabs and loops or rammed under belts and sashes..

Momentary stillness was interrupted by a seemingly misplaced gust of winter wind causing horse and man alike to shiver in its abrupt delivery. Hair actually stood up on the back of the neck of the skinny corporal. Several moments passed
.
Finally, “let’s go,” grunted the captain through tight lips.

He goaded his mount into a slow, steady walk down that icy trail; the Corporal and the three Privates fell in single file hunched into their greatcoats, collars turned up, behind him. In a matter of moments their forms became hazy, almost appeared transparent as if transformed into specters. Then they disappeared altogether around the bend of the road and were swallowed by the winter morning’s mists.

It was December 18, 1864.



Author’s Footnote:

This narrative is naturally an interpretive historical attempt on my part to take you further into the black and white details of the Tarlton narratives previously published. For instance, The Corporal in this piece of historical fiction is based upon the real life person of Hugh McGee with Captain David Reed on that horrible morning. The old Tarlton Plantation was located not far from the McGee community, both on the perimeter of the original boundaries of Mingo Swamp.  General Tarlton, the grandfather of Alexander began the enterprise circa 1825.  One of his daughters married Thomas Jefferson McGee, so family familiarity between the Tarltons and McGees cannot be denied.

 So while it is based on Hugh McGee, this narrative is pure fiction in that regard  Feel free to substitute any name speculated during the years as a member of the Bushwhackers that day. I do know Hugh McGee was in the area at the time of Alexander’s murder, and that he and Captain Reed were well acquainted, enrolled together at Lowndes, and fought together on both sides of the Mississippi River.

The site of Alexander’s murder was likely at his home on Lost Creek.  The only other location possible is on property recently purchased, once a part of the old Tarlton Plantation just north of today’s Lake Wappappello.

It has been told by family often through the years, that George Tarlton, the oldest son of Alexander and Ursula Phillips Tarlton, hid from the Southern Guerrillas in the hayloft of the family barn the day of his father's murder.  George would live to become one of Southeast Missouri's most prominent and important physicians, sent by family to Cape Girardeau immediately after the events that occurred that fateful day.

When I do research, my mind takes me on trips of wonderment, trying for deeper understanding and trying to conjure a mental snapshot of the real life events that occurred. If I left this story as, “a grandfather was killed in his home in the Civil War”, while historically accurate, it is not particularly engaging and yields nothing in understanding on a deeper level.

So, if this story engages your imagination, that is all that is intended.  Names of the Southern Bushwhackers other than David Reed notwithstanding, something very close to this depiction happened on the morning of December 18, 1864 in Wayne County, Missouri.

Alexander Craig Tarlton was my Great-Great Grandfather.






 Copyright: Keith Wayne Ragan, August 1, 2009
May not be copied in part or entirety without the express written consent of the author.