Two days after his safe arrival in Missouri from the Lawrence massacre, Quantrell disbanded the Guerrillas. Fully six thousand Federals were on his track. The savageness of the blow struck there had appalled and infuriated the country. The journalistic pulse of the North rose to fever heat and beat as though to its raging fever there had been added raving insanity. In the delirium of the governing powers impossible things were demanded. Quantrell was to be hunted to the death; he was to be hanged, drawn and quartered; his band was to be annihilated; he was to be fought with fire, persecution, depopulation and wholesale destruction. At the height of the very worst of these terrible paroxysms, Ewing’s famous General Order No. 11 was issued. It required every citizen of Jackson, Cass, Bates and a portion of Vernon counties to abandon their houses and come either into the lines of designated places that were fortified, or within the jurisdiction of said lines. If neither was done, and said citizens remained outside beyond the time limit specified for such removal, they were to be regarded as outlaws and punished accordingly. Innocent and guilty alike felt the rigors of this unprecedented proscription. For the Union man there was the same line of demarkation that was drawn for the secessionist. Age had no immunity; sex was not regarded. The rights of property vanished; predatory bands preyed at will; nothing could be sold; everything had to be abandoned; it was the obliterating of prosperity by counties; it was the depopulation of miles upon miles of fertile territory in a night.

General Ewing had been unjustly censured for the promulgation of such an order and held responsible in many ways for its execution. The genius of a celebrated painter, Captain George C. Bingham of Missouri, had been evoked to give infamy to the vandalism of the dead and voice to the indignation of history over its consummation. Bingham’s picture of burning and plundering houses, of a sky made awful with mingling flames and smoke, of a long line of helpless fugitives going away they knew not whither, of appealing women and gray haired non-combatants, of skeleton chimneys rising like wrathful and accusing things from the wreck of pillaged homesteads, of uniformed things called officers rummaging in trunks and drawers, of colonels loaded with plunder, and captains gaudy in stolen jewelry, will live longer than the memories of the strife, and keep alive horrible memories long after Guerrilla and Jayhawker are well forgotten.

Ewing, however, was a soldier. General Order No. 11 came from district headquarters at St. Louis where Scofield commanded, and through Scofield from Washington City direct. Ewing had neither choice nor discretion in the matter. He was a brave, conscientious, hard fighting officer who did his duty as it came to his hands to do. He could not have made, if he had tried, one hair of the infamous Order white or black. It was a portion of the extraordinary order of things, and Ewing occupied towards it scarcely the attitude of an instrument. He promulgated it but he did not originate it; he gave it voice but he did not give it form and substance; his name had been linked to it as to something that should justly cause shame and reproach, but history in the end will separate the soldier from the man and render unto the garb of the civilian what it has failed to concede to the uniform of the commander. As a citizen of the republic he deplored the cruelty of an enactment which he knew to be monstrous; but as a soldier in the line of duty, the necessity of the situation could not justify a moment’s argument. He had but to obey and to execute, and he did both—and mercifully.

For nearly three weeks Jackson County was a Pandemonium, together with the counties of Cass, Bates, Vernon, Clay and Lafayette. Six thousand Federals were in the saddle, but Quantrell held his grip upon these counties despite everything. Depopulation was going on in a two-fold sense—one by emigration or exodus, and one by the skillful killing of perpetual ambushment and lyings-in-waiting. In detachments of ten, the Guerrillas divided up and fought everywhere. Scattered, they came together as if by instinct. Driven from the flanks of one column, they appeared in the rear of another. They had voices that were as the voices of the night birds. Mysterious horsemen appeared on all the roads. Not a single Federal scouting or exploring party escaped paying toll. Sometimes the aggregate of the day’s dead was simply enormous. Frequently the assailants were never seen. Of a sudden, and rising, as it were, out of the ground, they delivered a deadly blow and rode away in the darkness—invisible.