The
February number of OSAGE contained a thrilling story of a terrible
human tragedy—the massacre in 1863 of a party of Confederate
officers by a band of Osage Indians at a point on the Verdigris
river about eighteen miles north of the Kansas-Oklahoma line.
In that account of the supposed utter annihilation of the party of
twenty-two Confederates it was stated that all of the Indians who
took part in it are dead and that the inherent reticence of the
Indian to talk concerning any encounter with whites had sealed
their lips while living, so that there was but the ghost of a
chance that any additional information would ever be secured.
But Fate sometimes weaves her web with slender threads. That
story in the February OSAGE fell into the hands of Mr. G. G. Lewis
of El Reno, editor of the El Reno American, and he printed
a part of it. The father of Editor Lewis lives at Montgomery
City, Missouri, and he in turn read the partial story in the American.
The gruesome narrative seemed strangely familiar to the elder
Lewis, a gray-haired Confederate colonel, and he secured a copy of
the February OSAGE. As he surmised, the story was that of
the most terrible chapter from his own life, but contained certain
inaccuracies and surmises that he wishes corrected. He is
the sole survivor of that awful slaughter with its more awful and
savage aftermath.
In the February OSAGE, it is stated that the bodies of twenty
Confederate officers were found by the Federal soldiers who
visited the scene immediately after the Indians had sent them the
news of the slaughter. There was an indication that possibly
two white men escaped, as there were tracks of two leading away
from the place where the last stand was made down to the water’s
edge. But it seemed impossible that these two had escaped
drowning or death in the wilderness.
But we will let Col. Lewis tell his own story in his own way as he
has sent it to OSAGE from his home in Montgomery City, Missouri.
The
Only Survivor’s Story of the Tragedy
In May, 1863, an expedition was organized on the western border of
Jasper county, Missouri, under command of Colonel Charles
Harrison, who had been commissioned by Major General Holmes* to
proceed to New Mexico and Colorado for the purpose of recruiting
into the Confederate service the men who had fled there from
Missouri and other states, to avoid being drafted into the Federal
army—of whom there was then supposed to be a large number,
anxious to make their way into companies, regiments and
brigades—and as soon as this was done to drop down into western
Texas and then unite with the main army. The plan appeared
feasible, though very hazardous; so much so that many of those who
had at first volunteered, finally refused to go.
Colonel Harrison appeared to be the man above all others to lead
such an undertaking, since his entire life had been spent upon the
western plains, and he had been a protégé of the celebrated
Indian fighter, General Kit Carson. He was tall, athletic,
and almost as brown as an Indian, of whose blood he was said to
have a mixture. He knew no fear, and he staggered at no
hardships. On the early morning of the 22nd day
of May, 1863, the mules were packed with rations for the men, rank
and file. The starting point was Center creek where it
crosses the line of the state in Jasper county. The route
pursued was westward over the trackless prairie in the Indian
Territory about 15 or 20 miles south of and parallel with the
Kansas state line.** There was no human habitation to be
seen and no living person discoverable, and no incident worthy of
note until the afternoon of the second day. After crossing a
ravine fringed with brush and small timber, we halted on an
eminence just beyond for rest and rations; our animals were
tethered to grass or left to roam at will, whilst we were resting
under the shade of some scattering oaks, inapprehensive of danger.
We had begun saddling up to renew our journey when we discovered a
body of men coming on our trail at full gallop. By the time
we were all mounted they were in hailing distance, and proved to
be a body of about 150 Indian warriors.*** To avoid a
conflict we moved off at a brisk walk, and they followed us.
We had not gone far until some of them fired and killed one of our
men, Douglas Huffman. We then charged them vigorously and
drove them back for some distance. My horse was killed in
this charge, and I was severely wounded in the shoulder with an
arrow. I mounted the mule from which Huffman was killed.
The Indians kept gathering strength from others coming up.
We had a running fight for eight or ten miles, frequently hurling
back their advance onto the main body or with loss.**** Our
horses were becoming exhausted, so we concluded to halt in the bed
of a small stream that lay across our path, to give them rest.
The Indians here got all around us at gunshot range, and kept up
an incessant fire. We had only side arms and pistols and
were out of range. Here Frank Roberts was shot through the
head and fell from his horse. I immediately dismounted the
mule and mounted Roberts’ horse. This incident was the
saving of my life. Colonel B. H. Woodson of Springfield,
Missouri, preferred this mule to his horse, and mounted it.
When our horses were rested, we made a dash for liberty. On
ascending the bank of the stream, the saddle of Captain Park
McLure of St. Louis slipped back and turned, and he fell into the
hands of the savages.***** Col. Harrison was shot in the
face and was captured. Rule Pickeral had his arm broken.
We broke the cordon as we dashed out, but from now on the race was
even and our ranks much reduced. It was about two miles to
the Verdigris river. When we were in about two hundred yards
of the timber, Woodson was caught. I tried to get the men to
halt and give them a fire so as to let him get into the timber but
did not succeed. We could not cross the stream with our
horses, owing to the steepness of the banks on both sides. I
went down to get a drink and heard the Indians coming to the bank
below us. John Rafferty stood on the bank above me, and I
said to him, “Follow me.” He obeyed. We made our
way up the stream under cover of the bank for about half a mile,
and noticing some fishing poles and some fresh tracks, and hearing
the barking of dogs on the other side of the stream, we concluded
it safest to secrete ourselves in some dense bushes near the
prairie until the darkness of the night came on.
We had just escaped a cruel death from savages. We were
without food and about eighty miles from a place where relief
could be obtained. We were without animals to ride, and our
journey lay through a trackless prairie beset by hostile Indians.
We dared not attempt to travel by day, for fear of being
discovered by roving bands of Indians and put to death. By
accident I lost my boots in the Verdigris river, so we took it
“turn about” in wearing Rafferty’s shoes, and used our
clothing to protect our feet when not wearing the shoes.
We concealed ourselves by day and traveled at night, with only the
sky for our covering and the stars for our guide. Just
before we reached the Neosho river we frightened a wild turkey
from her nest, and secured nine eggs in an advanced stage of
incubation. Rafferty’s dainty appetite refused them, but I
ate one with relish and undertook to save the rest for more
pressing need.
We found the Neosho river not fordable, and Rafferty could not
swim, so we constructed a rude raft with two uneven logs and bark.
I put the eggs in the shoes, and the shoes between the logs, and
undertook to spar Rafferty across the river. When we got
midway of the river, Rafferty became frightened, tilted the raft,
and we lost both the shoes and the eggs. On the morning
after the second night the Missouri line appeared in sight, and we
nerved ourselves for the final struggle. We reached the
neighborhood from which we had started about 11 o’clock
footsore, wounded and half dead. The good women concealed us
in the brush, and there fed us and nursed our sores until we were
strengthened and healed. Rafferty was soon after killed, so
that I, only, of the eighteen men who entered upon that fatal
expedition, survived the war.
On the 28th day of May, 1863, Major Thomas R.
Livingstone made a report to General Price from Diamond Grove,
Missouri, in which he said, among other things: “A party
of 16 men under command of a so-called Colonel Harrison were
attacked and killed by Indians upon the Verdigris river west of
Missouri, while on their way to the West,” etc. A few days
after the above tragedy an account was published in the Fort Scott
paper in which it was stated that sixteen men were killed by
Indians, and their heads cut off and piled up on the prairie.
The place where this unfortunate disaster occurred was in the
Indian
Territory, and only a short distance south of the present town of
Coffeyville, on the southern border of the state of Kansas, and
seventy-five or eighty miles west of the west line of Missouri.
Warner Lewis
Montgomery
City, Mo.
Continuing
his letter, with which Col. Lewis accompanied his story as above
given, the writer makes a suggestion that may find a response in
the generous hearts of those in position to grant the request.
He says:
“It would be a generous recognition of the heroism of this band
of gallant soldiers if the owners of the ground containing their
bones, would dedicate it to me as a perpetual remembrance of their
deeds, and the only survivor to give a true history of the
tragedy.”
