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The Strange Case of Reverend William Clark McCoyFrom Issue 134 April 2004 The Civil War was over. Men who had once watched their comrades in arms die on a thousand bloody battlefields were now faced with the task of rebuilding their homes and plowing the fields that had laid fallow for almost five years. For most men, their service for the Confederacy was a point of pride. Even the lowest private would spend hours rehashing past battles and remembering, and political careers would be built by men with the prefix of Captain or General added to their names. A few men, however, wanted to forget. They knew that even the mention of their names would make the Yankees start scurrying to place nooses around their necks. The Tennessee Valley, with its strong antiunion sentiment, was a perfect place for such a man to take on a new identity and hide. One of these men was William Clark McCoy, a Methodist minister who was ordained here in Huntsville. McCoy’s life was shrouded in mystery but many people claimed that during the War he had used another name, a name that become synonymous with bloody massacres and terror. While few people recognized the name McCoy, every one had heard of the other name, William Clark Quantrell. Our story began in 1857 on the Kansas border. An undeclared border war had been raging for several years between Unionists and Southerners. Bands of outlaws, Union sympathizers calling themselves Redlegs and operating under the guise of patriotism, murdered and pillaged the countryside. In this conflict there was no middle ground, you were either for them or against them. A choice either way made you eligible for a bullet in the back and your home burned to the ground. It was into this conflict that William Quantrell rode in the summer of 1857. Quantrell was a native of New Jersey whose older brother had moved to Kansas several years earlier. Shortly after Quantrell arrived, the two brothers decided to take a trip to California. The first part of the trip was uneventful and they reached Cottonwood, Kansas to make camp for the night. Late that evening after supper was finished, a group of Redlegs approached the camp. At first the brothers were not alarmed, as strangers were always welcome in their camp. Suddenly and without warning, the leader of the group pulled his gun and began firing at the hapless brothers. Quantrell was severely wounded, his brother killed, and all their worldly possessions stolen. According to legend, Quantrell lay there for three days, near death, until finally an old Shawnee Indian stumbled across the camp, helped bury the older brother and nursed Quantrell back to health. It took Quantrell almost a year to completely recover his health and the whole time he had but one thing on his mind, vengeance for his dead brother. During this time he listened and learned. He learned that the group of Redlegs that had ambushed him were part of a group operating under the leadership of a notorious guerilla chieftain by the name of Jim Lane. Quantrell grew a beard, changed his name and began making friends with the guerillas. Now known as Charles Hart, he was quickly accepted as a member of the band of cutthroats. He enrolled in a company that contained all but two of the men who had murdered his brother. Enlisting as a private, he was soon promoted to orderly, and as his leadership skills became evident, was advanced in rank to the position of sergeant. Before long, Redlegs began to mysteriously disappear. First one or two would be found hung, or maybe with a bullet in the back of the head. Then it got to the point where barely a week would go by without another dead body being found. Men began to whisper about the unknown Judas in their midst. Even the bravest men were terrified. A year after he joined the band, Quantrell was sitting around the campfire one night. One man brought up the story about the time he and a group of other men had ambushed two brothers on Cottonwood River. “It’s a funny thing,” said the murderer, “All those men are dead. I’m the only one left alive.” Minutes later another Redleg was on his way to burn in Hell. William Quantrell was a wanted man now, with a price on his head, dead or alive. Word of his exploits galvanized Kansas and Missouri and it wasn’t long before he began attracting recruits for his own private army. Jesse and Frank James, their homes having been burned by the Redlegs, joined as did Kit Dalton, Cole Younger and many other young men thirsting for vengeance. Though it has never been verified, rumor has always persisted that Quantrell was commissioned a Colonel in the Confederate Army. This, however, is highly unlikely due to his tactics. Quantrell’s army, fighting under the black flag, did not take prisoners. His most infamous deed was the August 21, 1863 raid on Lawrence, Kansas, where he and 273 of his men captured the city and put one hundred and fifty of its citizens to death. On May 10, 1865, Quantrell and his men took cover from an afternoon thunderstorm in a barn belonging to a Mr. Wakefield. Coming from the opposite direction was a column of 120 union soldiers commanded by Captain Edward Terrell. The union soldiers, seeing the fresh footprints leading to the barn, decided to investigate. Immediately shots rang out. During the furious gun battle, most of Quantrell’s men were able to make an escape, leaving only five men behind, two wounded and three dead. Captain Terrell, upon questioning the two wounded men, was shocked to hear one of the men confess his identity as that of William Clark Quantrell. The man purporting to be Quantrell was badly wounded. He had suffered gunshots to the shoulder and in addition suffered a broken back. It was obvious the man was mortally wounded and would soon die. “Please,” said the man, “Leave me here to die in peace.” After checking the man’s wounds, the union captain agreed to the wounded man’s request. Calling for his men to mount up, the officer led his men back to town, satisfied that he had caused the end of Quantrell. Unfortunately, his commanding officer was not as happy. Angry at the fact that his men had left Quantrell to die in peace, the Commander sent another squad of soldiers to recover the fallen chieftain. By most established reports, Quantrell died about two weeks later of his wounds while being held prisoner in Louisville, Kentucky. Before dying he was supposed to have been converted to the Catholic faith and made a full confession. His remains were buried in a local graveyard with no marker. The burial marked the beginning of a mystery that continues to this day. No one that had ever known Quantrell stepped forward to identify the body. The only proof the soldiers had was the wounded man’s own statement. Even the confession and the account that he had converted to the Catholic faith began to lose credence once it was pointed out that William Clark Quantrell was a Methodist. Even the local newspapers hesitated to identify the person as being Quantrell. The Louisville Times, May 14, 1865, reported: “Captain Twirl and his company arrived here yesterday from Taylorsville. They brought with them the guerilla who bears the name “Quantrell”. It is not the Quantrell of Kansas notoriety, for we have been assured that he was at last account a colonel in the rebel army under Price. This prisoner was shot through the body in a fight in a barn near Taylorsville on Wednesday last. Five others were killed at the barn but what their names are we have not been able to ascertain. The prisoner brought here is confined to the prison hospital and is in a dying condition.” Adding further to the confusion is a newspaper article dated June 7, 1865 that throws the whole question of a confession into doubt. “It will be remembered that a guerilla calling himself William Clark, captain in the Fourth Missouri Rebel Calvary, but generally supposed to be the infamous monster “Quantrell”, was wounded and captured on the 10th of May and placed in the military hospital of this city. He died of his wounds yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock”. If Quantrell had really confessed, why did the paper still identify him by the name William Clark and state that “he was generally supposed to be Quantrell?” And so, for lack of a better answer, the military authorities buried an unidentified body and wrote a finish to the bloody chapter of William Clark Quantrell. Or so they thought. When Quantrell’s mother had the body exhumed to move it to a family plot, the corpse was discovered to have red hair. Quantrell’s hair was black. Almost two years later, our story takes another bizarre twist. A young man by the name of William Clark McCoy appeared as a Methodist circuit rider in the Tennessee Valley. No one knew where he came from, or anything about his past, except that he had the approval of several Methodist bishops who had supposedly encouraged him to move to Huntsville. According to the few details given at the time, McCoy was supposed to have been an ex-soldier who had served briefly with Quantrell and then later joined Stonewall Jackson’s army as a courier. At the end of the war he learned there was a reward offered for members of Quantrell’s band, so instead of returning home, he made his way to Alabama where he became a minister. A search of all the records would later reveal no William Clark McCoy serving with Quantrell or Jackson. Even more confusing was the fact that years later his wife, before her death, admitted there was a $50,000 reward offered for the capture of her husband. Quantrell was the only member of his group who had a price on his head at the end of the war. Rumors surrounded McCoy as to his real identity from almost the first day he moved to the valley. Both he and Quantrell were the same height and weight, both had the same first names - William Clark, both had the first joint of their little finger missing and while McCoy had became a Methodist minister, Quantrell had taught at an eastern Methodist college. Even more telling was the fact that the only family member McCoy ever talked about was his brother whom he said had been killed by the Yankees. Quantrell’s brother had been bushwhacked by the Yankees. Although rumors of McCoy’s past life were widespread in the Tennessee Valley, surprisingly, no one at the time thought it was strange that the man once known as “Bloody Quantrell” was now seeking salvation through religion. McCoy became an active worker in the Methodist Church, riding horseback over a wide circuit and ministering to small churches. One of the anecdotes about McCoy handed down through generations had to do with him helping raise money for a church. The church was having a picnic along with games and contests. One of the contests was a shooting match with the winner receiving a freshly baked apple pie. Unfortunately, even with the low entrance fee of ten cents, the contest did not generate much interest. Some of the local men, having heard the rumor of Quantrell being in their midst, and noticing the brace of pistols he wore underneath his coat, appealed to McCoy to try his luck. Maybe, they thought, if the crowd saw him entering the contest it would encourage other men to do the same. At first McCoy refused but after many appeals to his charitable nature he finally agreed. The crowd grew silent as he approached the firing line. Twelve bottles sitting in a row at a distance of thirty paces formed the target. Slowly he pulled one pistol and after carefully taking aim, hit the first bottle dead center. The second shot came a few seconds later and another bottle disappeared. As the gun began to feel comfortable in McCoy’s hand again, the crowd watched with amazement as his body went into a crouch, firing at the bottles so rapidly that it was impossible to tell one shot from the next. Moving so fast that his hand seemed to be a blur, he dropped the empty pistol and drew the other one as bottle after bottle exploded into thousands of pieces of glass. People later said that after McCoy had finished firing, he stood there for a long minute, staring at the spot where the targets had stood, and as he slowly turned around to leave, reached down and unbuckled his gun belt, letting it fall to the ground. Though he later taught all of his children to become expert marksmen, and gave occasional shooting demonstrations, he never strapped on a gun belt again. During this time McCoy had been ordained as an elder in the Methodist church here in Huntsville. According to legend, when McCoy signed the notice appointing him as minister, he used the name William Clark Quantrell. The Bishop then penciled in the name “W. C. McCoy” and kept the papers in his personal collection. Word of his eloquence began to reach the church superiors and in almost an unbelievably short period of time he began to advance in his newly chosen career. Besides serving in the pulpit of churches in Guntersville, Birmingham, and Decatur, he was appointed the editor of the “Christian Advocate” in 1886. This too raised suspicions in many people’s minds who knew that Quantrell had once taught English at a Methodist college. Despite the good work that McCoy was doing, rumors persisted about the Quantrell connection. Neighbors and friends tried to get an answer from him, but McCoy, a man of God, refused to give any information about his past. As his children began to grow older they also heard the rumors. In attempts to learn the truth, his children questioned him about where he grew up. He refused to talk about it. They asked him about his family and again he would not talk. Finally, exasperated, they asked him if he really was Quantrell. McCoy, by this time one of the most respected ministers in Alabama, refused to either confirm or deny the stories. McCoy’s son, Dr. J.H. McCoy, who at the time when he related this story was a bishop in the Methodist church, told about an incident that seemed to confirm his father’s real identity. The sons had heard the rumors about their father being Quantrell and had also learned that Quantrell had a tattoo of an Indian maiden on his left forearm. Their father, however, always refused to take his shirt off. Even in the hottest part of the summer he refused to roll up his sleeves. One hot August day McCoy and his sons were working in a field next to a cool flowing creek. Late that afternoon the boys suggested a dip in the water to cool off. “Go ahead,” McCoy said, “I’ll be along directly.” After the boys had finished their refreshing dip, they dressed and went in search of their father, who in the meantime had disappeared. Walking down the creek they found their father with his shirt off, bathing in the creek. Seeing the tattoo of an Indian maiden on their father’s left forearm, the boys began to ask questions. McCoy, highly agitated, quickly put on his shirt and told the boys, “Now listen to me, you haven’t seen a thing, not a thing, you understand!” One evening while he was still a pastor at Haney’s Chapel near Guntersville, he read in the newspaper that Frank James was being held prisoner in the Huntsville jail. Summoning his brother-in-law to accompany him, he told his wife, “I must go to Huntsville and see Frank James.” After arriving in Huntsville they quickly received permission to talk with the prisoner. The Huntsville city jailer at that time and McCoy’s brother-in-law both verified what happened next. As the door to the cell opened, Frank James was sitting on an army cot idly glancing through a book. Looking up and seeing that he had visitors, he started to speak, and then fell silent with a look of astonishment on his face. “Bill”, James cried out, “Everyone said you were dead!” McCoy asked the other men to step outside so they might speak privately. Again, true to his character, he refused to ever reveal what they talked about. Later, when his wife questioned him, McCoy simply chuckled and replied that James had said, “If you can become a preacher, anyone can.” The years wore on and more people stepped forward claiming that Reverend McCoy was really Quantrell. He finally admitted to knowing and having been friends with Jesse and Frank James, the Younger brothers and numerous other members of the outlaw band but he still refused to give an answer to the question that was on everyone’s mind. In the late 1880s an attempt was made on his life by an ex-Union soldier who had served with the Redlegs in Kansas. McCoy escaped untouched and later refused to bring charges against the would-be assassin who quickly left town. Many people thought McCoy simply wanted to avoid a trial where the truth might finally be revealed. In 1891 William Clark McCoy died in Decatur, Ala. His children, knowing that their father kept a collection of old papers, wanted to settle the matter of who he really was once and for all. They were too late. Their mother, upon his death, had burned the papers. While she readily admitted that McCoy was not his real name and that there had been a $50,000 reward for his capture, she refused to reveal his real name. “I made your father a promise to never talk about it,” was all she had to say. McCoy’s children and grandchildren, some of whom went on to become noted professors, judges and pastors, have traveled thousands of miles, spent untold hours pouring over old records and interviewed countless people in order to establish a genealogical record of their family. In all of their research, the only thing they could establish was that no such person as William Clark McCoy existed before 1866. The only records are those that he chose to give. Even these records present a puzzle. In the course of twenty years, he listed four different places of birth and four different birthdays. Was the quiet-spoken Methodist preacher really the blood- thirsty William Clark Quantrell? Although his family believes it to be so, possibly no one will ever be able to prove it conclusively. The one thing that we can be certain of is that his name was not William Clark McCoy. |
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