General Order No. 11

General Order No. 11

The Sanders are stunned as I read the order. They are not the only ones affected by the banishment order as all people, not just those with sympathies toward the south, or Partisans, are required to give up property some worked years to develop. Many argue they do not support the guerrillas and as loyal Union citizens should be exempt from the banishment order.

General Order No. 11 dictates all citizens in the designated counties must be out of the state by September 9th, 1863 and I lead my squad onto Sanders' farm, the seventh. I watch the Sanders slowly load their wagon, solemn expressions reveal pain, but their true agony is evident in their posture. Bent and broken of spirit, they trudge in and out of the house sometimes carrying only a small article. The sparkle in their eyes comes from moisture as they choke back tears. No anger is displayed, or perhaps they are too beaten to display it. Arms hang limply at their sides as they return bent and empty-handed into their house to retrieve another valuable.

Many of the men are young and impetuous, laughing at the hapless victims of General Order No. 11, cavorting around the farmhouse as its former inhabitants load prized possessions into wagons. These 'boys' make derisive remarks toward, and harass Mrs. Sanders. I holler at my squad members, "Hey! Knock it off! Leave her alone!" How callous and uncaring these young men are.

The last item loaded, the Sanders reach their hands to each other and look at the place they called home for twenty-six years. "Shall I torch it, Sergeant?" One of my squad asks.

"No!" came the immediate and emphatic cry from its former occupants. I have my orders and hang my head as I slowly nod. The Sanders watch horrified as flames lick the sides of the house, barn, and stable. Torches touch the nearly ripe corn and the field is soon ablaze. With heavy hearts and handing heads, the Sanders' wagon proceeds to the east as I and my squad silently watch.

This scene is repeated several times as we meet other despondent families heading east. Union soldiers headed west to drive teams of horses pulling wagons laden with precious household goods. They laugh and give me a mock salute as we meet. I shake my head in dismay.

Two women kneel beside fresh greaves, a house and barn smoldering in ruins behind them. One of my 'boys' starts to laugh. "Shut up!" I admonish quickly. The women do not acknowledge us as we pass quietly by.

A young boy climbs a tree while another boy waits below for the body of a man hanging from the limb. The rope is cut, the body falls heavily and the red-eyed boys silently begin to dig a grave. Perhaps the gravity of what we witnessed is finally getting to my 'boys' and there is no more laughter as we ride solemnly to Kansas City.