Bar Raid

Of all the obsessions we harbor (drinking, the sport of curling), our fascination with the Lawrence Massacre ranks high on the list. So when we figured out that August 21 marked its 143rd anniversary, we had to stage our own reenactment. The plan? A drinking tour of the major spots that William Quantrill and his men hit, of course.

Just as Quantrill surely did himself, we grabbed a self-guided tour map at the Lawrence Convention and Visitors Bureau to prepare for our own raid.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Border War — beyond the KU and MU rivalry — here’s the Cliffs Notes version: Back in the mid-1800s, settlers in Kansas who called themselves the Jayhawkers had a grudge against pioneers in Missouri, who went by the name Bushwhackers. We’re not entirely sure why, but we suspect that the Jayhawkers took offense at anyone who bragged about whacking bushes.

Anyway, the two sides began staging cross-border raids. And Quantrill, one bad Bushwhacking asshat, led a band of men into Lawrence to burn the place down and kill everyone in sight. And — now this is close to our heart — he burned every bar he could find. The savage!

Just like Quantrill, we made our first stop the Eldridge Hotel. When Quantrill showed up at the fortresslike four-story brick building, guests waved bed sheets from the windows in a gesture of surrender. Quantrill moved the guests but burned the hotel down anyway, perhaps because he was offended by the low thread counts.

With that kind of history, perhaps it’s no surprise that the hotel bar is named the Jayhawker. Remodeled in 2005, the Jayhawker today looks like a sleek, sophisticated martini bar. In honor of the massacre, we ordered a $4 draft of Free State’s Copperhead pale ale. We sat at the rectangular bar, where we caught up with Research Assistants John and Cece. They had spent the afternoon at a historical reenactment of some battle. But the turnout of soldiers was paltry, prompting RA John to wonder whether they were reenacting Quantrill’s bar fight instead.

With no bar fights in sight at the Jayhawker, we instead encountered a typical Lawrence hotel bar crowd, which consisted mainly of older, yuptastic couples (and a smattering of students) guzzling wine. We amused ourselves by watching the antics of one middle-aged couple at the bar. The guy, who wore a plaid polo shirt, started making out with his female companion, who sported a button-down shirt over a low-cut tank top as well as frizzy, permed hair. When his hand began snaking down her cleavage, she slapped it away. Mr. and Mrs. PDA left a minute later, abandoning half a beer. The travesty!

We started chatting with the group sitting next to us, a friendly gaggle of collegiate-looking types in T-shirts and polo shirts. It turned out that 24-year-old Brian was a Lawrence native, as was his buddy, 23-year-old David, whom he met in first grade. Brian was also accompanied by his girlfriend, 22-year-old Jessica. They met at a gas station after last call, back in December. She was walking in when he yelled, “Dude, do you want to do anything tonight?” They’ve been hanging out ever since.

Because Brian was a native, we asked him about Quantrill. He recounted how he first learned about the massacre in elementary school. When he went to a KU-MU basketball game a couple of years ago, he saw some professionally made banners that read “Burn Kansas,” and “Support Quantrill.” Oh, it’s not tacky at all when fans recall murder and pillaging to support their team.

By then, we were off our tour schedule. We wanted to faithfully follow all of the stops, but we were scared away by the ominously named “wooded ravine” and instead stuck to Massachusetts Street. According to the map, the commercial district stretched between Sixth and Ninth streets in 1863. Because the Red Lyon was close to that area, we deemed it stopworthy.

Apparently, so did everyone else in town; the bouncers that night enforced a one-in, one-out policy. Finally, we were summoned inside, where we got a table and fought our way to the bar to order $12 pitchers of Newcastle.

Frattish madness reigned in the Red Lyon. Guinness-themed paraphernalia festooned the long, narrow space. Mirrors covered one wall; various British and Irish flags adorned another. Behind the bar hung a “Kansas: As Bigoted As You Think” bumper sticker as well as a digital clock that counted down the 54 days until the annual “Late Night in the Phog” midnight basketball practice that opens the season.

During a stroll around the bar, we met Bryant, a 36-year-old computer-software guy from Hoxie, a small town in northwest Kansas. “I’m a Free Stater, a true Kansas man,” he said. His take on Quantrill? “It’s like the Alamo — never forget.” Despite his anti-Missouri stance, we caught him drinking a Budweiser. Now there’s a sign that the true conqueror of Kansas goes by Anheuser.

As we chatted with Bryant, another guy approached the table. “Are you writing about porn?” he asked. Uh, no, we snootily said, we’re writing about Quantrill. Nick looked blank, so we filled him in on the history of the raid.

“Oooo-kay, I never knew that,” he said, then cheerily added, “More booze for me!”

Alas, it was 1:30, and last call was announced. As we waited for our tab, a couple who had ill-advisedly ordered two pitchers frantically tried to unload the beer before 2 a.m. They gave a glass to a bald guy, who thanked them profusely. “You guys are my new best friends!” he said. “It’s karma — I bought someone else a drink tonight.”

The spirit of Lawrence lives on.