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it was only a matter of time. Slipping into the smoke-filled cellar, the frantic woman spoke to where her husband lay.
    â€œYou must come out of there or burn alive; I can’t keep the fire back any longer.”
    â€œAlmost roasted,” the preacher decided it was his last chance. As he crept out the cellar door Elizabeth quickly threw a dress over him. Then as she lifted a heavy carpet the husband ducked under, and crawling as low and as close to the woman as possible, the two went out of the burning home. While the guerrillas watched on, the carpet was laboriously dragged across the yard until the weary wife at last dropped it down beside a small weeping willow. Running back to the house she grabbed chairs, bedding, and other items and stacked them over the rug. And finally, like candles on a cake, the mother sat her two children on top of the heap. After this, she could only wait and watch and pray the Rebels didn’t suspect.
    With guns in their grip the bushwhackers glanced from the house to the pile and back again. They always looked from a distance, however, and much to the woman’s relief, none of them approached.
    Sitting quietly by the baby, Elizabeth’s little boy was startled when he heard from far below a hoarse voice whisper for water. “Pa is here somewhere; I heard him speak,” he said, looking up to his exhausted mother. The child was quickly hushed and the father ordered from here on out to keep still . 42
    Not every raider had the stomach for it. Caught up in the pathetic efforts of a crying woman struggling to remove a divan, desk, or piano from her burning home, some could not hold back and soon found themselves wrestling over a piece of furniture just as frantically as the woman. And after setting a fire, not a few who imagined their hearts stone beyond hope caved in to tearful appeals and joined to save what they had intended to destroy.
    After fleeing her home one woman returned to find it ablaze, yet curiously, neatly laid under a tree was a box containing her family photographs. Other Missourians stared like children at the beautiful parlors they entered, and many simply could not bring themselves to destroy the pretty cups, saucers, and heirlooms. Had it been left to them, some would have spared even “marked” homes. But harder sorts were always just around the corner. “No, God damn the abolitionists,” shouted an angry guerrilla. “Why should this house be saved?”
    And most were not cold killers. Rummaging through homes, searching for plunder, many obvious hiding places were avoided, and often a raider either winked or turned his back while a man escaped. But others were quick to remind that these same Kansans were the ones who had been in Missouri “killing our people.” Most were not cold killers—but enough were.
    You have killed my husband; let me keep his ring?
    No matter . 43
    The Germans fared the worst. Their antislavery views were well known and, unlike other men, they couldn’t escape by lying; their tongues were judge and jury.
    â€œNicht versteh,” said one when the Rebels popped him a question.
    â€œGod damn you, we will make you versteh!” they shouted as they shot him dead.
    For some time the town’s German blacksmith had remained hidden with his little child amid a patch of corn in the Central Park. Later the baby grew restless in the heat and began to cry, prompting several passing guerrillas to venture in. When they left the father was dead with the child still crying in his once-powerful arms.
    At a German home, the people were ordered out while the Missourians sacked the contents and torched the place. Among the occupants, a man on his sickbed had to be carried from the house and placed upon a mattress in the yard. When the gang finished indoors they walked over to the invalid and pulled out their guns. With pistols staring down, the German strained on weakened arms to rise but was instantly