The American Narrative Episode 3: The Battle of Liberty Place

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHpQWS085ZQ

DISCLAIMER (0:00) – The following program contains descriptions of violence and suggestive topics that may not be appropriate for younger audiences. Listener discretion is advised. 

Tim (0:09) – You’re listening to the American Narrative: Histories of a Nation, a podcast series by Discover America. I’m your host, Tim Murphy, alongside cohost Grant Shea. Welcome to episode three!

Grant (0:18) – All right, man! Excited to—third time’s a charm. We’re lucky number three. Excited to hear what we’re going to talk about today. 

Tim (0:26) – Grant, you previously mentioned that Reconstruction is one of the most underappreciated periods in American history, and also one of your favorite subjects to explore. Well, have I got the story for you tonight. 

Tim (0:36) – Today, we’ll be discussing the Battle of Liberty Place: the apex of political violence in Reconstruction Era Louisiana.

The advent of Reconstruction brought about a profound transformation in the sociopolitical landscape of the post-Civil War South. For generations, Southern society had been dictated by the hierarchal orders of plantation culture—a paternalistic agrarianism fundamentally dependent on slavery and white supremacist ideologies. However, this oppressive system was categorically undermined with the ratification of the 14th and 15th Amendments—which provided immediate citizenship and voting rights for formerly enslaved African Americans—and other legislative policies that advanced black enfranchisement, social progressivism, and the promise of civil equality. 

Confederate veterans returning home from war found many of their former institutions of power and authority occupied by their adversaries: Radical Republicans and Freedmen. Many Southerners—especially those committed to the antebellum status quo and white superiority—perceived these changes as tyranny. There was no consensus on how to deal with the punishing trifecta of military defeat, federal occupation, and emancipation—or even to accept these realities at all. This atmosphere of uncertainty and resentment fostered a volatile, and often racialized struggle for political power. Nowhere was this turmoil more intense than in Louisiana, where, according to the 1870 Census, African Americans constituted the majority of the population, giving them unprecedented political leverage, in principle. 

The ascendancy of the black coalition coincided with the proliferation of Yankee “carpetbaggers”—opportunistic Northerners who moved to the war-torn South to advance their own economic interests and political aspirations. Henry Clay Warmoth—affectionately known as the “Prince of Carpetbaggers”—was the epitome of Northern corruption. While serving as the 23rd Governor of Louisiana, his administration became synonymous with demagoguery and political grafting in southern folklore. When questioned about the integrity of his office, Warmoth cynically remarked, “I don’t pretend to be honest…I only pretend to be as honest as anybody in politics…Why, damn it, everybody is demoralized down here. Corruption is the fashion.”

Grant (2:45) – That’s not a—not necessarily the way to broaden your coalition.

Tim (2:54) – At least he’s forthright about it.

Grant (2:56) – Yeah, I mean, you know, he’s certainly just—he’s not putting on any airs, yeah. 

Tim (3:02) – Originally from Illinois, Warmoth first distinguished himself as an officer in the 32nd Missouri Infantry, later becoming the charismatic commander of Louisiana’s Grand Army of the Republic chapter. This prominent position elevated Warmoth’s profile among Union veterans and the state’s Republican constituency. Between November 1867 and March 1868, Warmoth served as a delegate to the Louisiana Constitutional Convention, where he vigorously campaigned for a progressive civil rights agenda. His efforts were instrumental in aligning the Republican Party with newly-enfranchised black voters. Warmoth also persuaded the convention to lower the proposed minimum age requirement for governor from 35 to 25, which conveniently made him eligible to run for office at just 26 years old. When the new State Constitution was ratified on April 17, 1868, Warmoth—bolstered by his popularity with Unionists and African Americans—secured victory in Louisiana’s gubernatorial election. 

For some Republicans, Warmoth’s meteoric rise—along with his moderatism, propensity to court conservative Democrats and former Confederates, and reluctance to sign comprehensive civil rights legislation—threatened their own political ambitions. Partisan infighting, personal enmity, and antagonism bitterly brewed within the Republican ranks. One of Warmoth’s detractors described him as “the Boss Tweed of Louisiana, except that that amiable villain, with all his infamies, is a gentleman and a saint compared with the unscrupulous despot who fills the executive chair.” 

Tim (4:29) – And for reference, Boss Tweed refers to William M. Tweed, the infamous leader of New York City’s Tammany Hall, a notorious political machine synonymous with greed, exploitation, and corruption.

Tim (4:40) – In 1871, mounting opposition against Warmoth coalesced in the form of the Custom House Ring—a powerful political alliance comprised of federally-appointed Radical Republicans—which derived its power through the management of custom duties, the primary source of federal revenue at the time. This anti-Warmoth coalition was primarily led by three men: Captain Stephen B. Packard, the U.S. Marshal for New Orleans; Oscar J. Dunn, Louisiana’s African American Lieutenant Governor and President of the State Senate; and James Casey, the Customs Collector of New Orleans. Because their authority relied directly upon support from Washington, members of this faction were largely immune to the effects of social and political ostracism from conservative whites and the Warmoth administration. They all enjoyed the backing of the national Republican Party and President Ulysses S. Grant, especially Casey, who happened to be Grant’s brother-in-law. 

There was some historical animosity between Grant and Warmoth. In May 1863, Warmoth was severely wounded during the Siege of Vicksburg and returned to Illinois to recover. While convalescing, Warmoth gave a candid interview to a local newspaper, detailing the recent setbacks and difficulties Union forces experienced in the Western Theater. Grant perceived Warmoth’s comments as an aspersion of his military campaign that fomented exaggerations of Union defeat. Grant summarily issued Warmoth a dishonorable discharge for this insubordinate conduct. Unwilling to accept such a stain on his record, Warmoth traveled to Washington and appealed directly to President Abraham Lincoln. The War Department ultimately reinstated Warmoth to his rank and regiment. 

Infuriated by Grant’s public support for his enemies in the Custom House, Warmoth aligned himself with the provisional, anti-Grant, Liberal Republican movement.

Both the Warmoth and Custom House coalitions understood that their ability to maintain control over Louisiana’s Republican Party depended on African American support. This essential constituency would prove critical in the forthcoming national and state elections of November 1872.

Pinckney Benton Stewart (P.B.S.) Pinchback—a prominent leader among black Republicans—recognized the impending implications of the upcoming elections: “As a race, [we] are between the hawk of Republican demagogism and the buzzards of Democratic prejudice.” Initially, Pinchback’s camp endorsed Warmoth’s renomination, but the incumbent adamantly refused to appear on the state Republican ticket alongside “the arrogant, dictatorial, and corrupt administration of General Grant.” Warmoth ultimately withdrew his name from consideration and threw his support behind the respective Liberal Republican candidates for governor and lieutenant governor, D.B. Penn and John Young. 

Pinchback eventually relented and realigned his caucus with the Custom House Ring. This ticket featured William Pitt Kellogg, a white carpetbagger from Vermont, as the gubernatorial nominee, with Caesar Confucius Antoine—a French-speaking gens de couleur libre (or free person of color) as his candidate for lieutenant governor. By pairing Antoine with Kellogg, Radical Republicans made a calculated appeal to black voters, wary of white Republican factionalism and Democratic hostility. 

Tim (7:41) – Now, this was just the discord between the Republican candidates. We haven’t even mentioned the other contenders yet.

Tim (7:47) – Earlier that June, a new Reform Party assembled in New Orleans, drawing together a coalition of former Whigs and moderate conservatives who refused to align themselves with the entrenched leadership of antebellum politics. The Reformers envisioned a government committed to civic improvement, fiscal responsibility, and the restoration of honest administration—a deliberate departure from the rampant cronyism that plagued both major parties. Despite their initial resolve, the Reformists faced a sobering reality: they lacked the statewide support necessary to mount a credible campaign. Party leaders then considered the possibility of merging their ticket with the Democrats, who nominated Lieutenant Colonel John McEnery for governor. McEnery—the former Confederate commander of the 4th Louisiana Battalion—was an intense, race-baiting orator who championed Black Codes and rejected ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment. The New Orleans Republican denounced McEnery as “representing the negro hating, schoolhouse burning, fire-eating Bourbonists.” Despite the obvious contradictions with their own political philosophy, the Reformists officially joined forces with the Democratic Party on July 18. 

On August 27, Democrat-Reformers and Liberal Republicans brokered an unusual alliance rooted in their opposition to the Grant administration. Together, they created a “Fusion” ticket to challenge the Radical Republicans, nominating John McEnery for governor and D.B. Penn as his lieutenant. Louisiana’s disillusioned governor Warmoth publicly endorsed this Fusionist campaign leading up to the November elections. 

The 1872 Louisiana gubernatorial election quickly spiraled into one of the most turbulent and fiercely contested events in the state’s history. Widespread fraud and voter intimidation characterized the electoral process. As one contemporary observer remarked: “[The voting was] so shot through with fraud that no one ever had any idea who had actually won…The election was dishonest, the count was dishonest, and there was no honest way in which the result could be decided.” Official validation of the election results was entrusted to the state Returning Board— a body whose own partisan interests and internal divisions only exacerbated the controversy.

During his tenure as Governor, Warmoth signed two key pieces of legislation that endowed the executive office with considerable leverage over state elections. The first Registration Law of 1870 empowered the governor to appoint voter registrars in each parish (or legislative district). This provision gave Warmoth the practical means to influence not just who could register to vote, but also to subtly pressure local officials into supporting candidates loyal to his administration. The second Election Law of 1870 established the state Returning Board—a five-member body, all handpicked by Warmoth, vested with the sweeping authority to review, amend, or discard parish vote returns in cases of suspected fraud or coercion. While intended to suppress voter intimidation and centralize electoral oversight, these laws quickly became tools for political maneuvering.

Grant (10:36) – Yeah. You know, I wonder, too, like...you know, there’s only so much oversight you can have with electoral—I feel like, at the end of the day, there’s this element of trust that’s inherent in vote tabulations and in running any voting process. Because it’s like, the more oversight you have, you know, you think ‘yes, that would help ensure accuracy,’ but it’s also—it can be influenced by the same forces that the underlying vote process does, like it’s just…there’s only so much you can do, you know? At the end of the day, it really—the final backstop—is just the trust and the faith you have in the vote counters.

Tim (11:21) – Yeah, and also, like, he’s using this legislation—his legislative authority—to influence the elections, too. Or at least bias the outcome of the elections, because he’s appointing these registrars, he’s appointing the state Returning Board to authorize the election, too. And, we’ll get to this a little later, but you know, the Returning Board’s ultimate authority is to say: ‘Okay, this vote is legitimate from this parish. But because we suspect coercion or voter intimidation, because the vote count trended in the opposite direction to like, the opposing party, we’ll say that that vote doesn’t count and we won’t consider it in out election.’ So it…

Grant (12:01) – Yeah.

Tim (12:02) – Yeah, it’s kind of a double-edged sword, as we’ll see. But it definitely—it kind of speaks to the corruption of Reconstruction politics. 

Grant (12:10) – Yeah.

Tim (12:12) – On November 14, the Louisiana State Returning Board met to certify the official ballot count. Although Warmoth had personally appointed these representatives, his influence within the Republican Party had significantly diminished. Intense lobbying efforts (and alleged quid pro quo) caused the Returning Board to split along party lines. Each side declared victory and dismissed the legitimacy of opposing board members.

The emergence of competing Returning Boards prompted Governor Warmoth to take decisive action. On November 20, he signed a new election law—passed by the legislative session earlier that year—which repealed the Election Law of 1870 and dissolved the existing Returning Boards. Pursuant to that new legislation, Warmoth established a third Returning Board with Fusionist-allied Gabriel DeFeriet as chairman. The DeFeriet Board subsequently declared McEnery the winner on December 4.

The Custom House Ring moved to procure the Grant administration’s endorsement and settle the disputed election in federal court. Unsurprisingly, the Republican-controlled judiciary ruled in Kellogg’s favor. 

At midnight on December 5, Captain Packard received a court order from U.S. Circuit Judge Edward H. Durrell authorizing him to seize the state capitol, ostensibly to “prevent the further obstruction of the proceedings in this cause, and further to prevent…the imminent danger of disturbing the public peace.” This directive was strengthened by U.S. Attorney General George Henry Williams, who instructed Packard "to enforce the decrees and mandates of United States courts no matter who resisted and General [William H.] Emory will furnish you with all necessary troops for that purpose.” 

At 2:00 A.M. on December 6, Packard—accompanied by his deputy marshals and two companies of federal infantry—forcibly occupied the state offices inside the Mechanics’ Institute. With General Emory’s troops guarding the statehouse, Custom House leaders arranged a special session of the state legislature three days later, and only admitted representatives certified by their own Returning Board. 

Inside the Senate chamber, Lieutenant Governor Pinchback publicly accused Warmoth of attempting to bribe him with $50,000 in exchange for “overriding the law and organizing the legislature according to direction.” These allegations were sent to the House of Representatives, which overwhelmingly voted to impeach the sitting governor. Under the rules of succession, impeachment automatically suspended Warmoth from office and elevated Pinchback to the governorship. Despite this unconventional ascension, Pinchback became the first African American to head a state government in U.S. history.

Grant (14:41) – Wow. That’s kind of a crazy way to get there, you know? Is it…Tim, do you happen to know if the impeachment proceedings if…I don’t know what the structure of the Louisiana state government would have been back then, but was it bicameral? Like, was there a House, or a House of Delegates, or whatever they structured in the Senate, or was it just one body?

Tim (15:10) – Yeah, so it was bicameral. So, the Senate—they issued the charges of impeachment, you know—attempting to bribe a public official. And in order for that to be recognized and authorized, they have to send that to the House of Representatives—the State House of Representatives—and they were the ones who ultimately said ‘yes, we have cause to believe that some sort of corruption occurred, and we grant the motion to impeach the governor.’

Grant (15:38) – Hmm. It’s interesting how like in the federal government, the House initiates it and the Senate has to abide to the two-thirds majority to approve it. And it’s just interesting from a political standpoint, too, how different countries and different governments handle impeachments very differently. Like, America has a pretty high threshold compared to a lot of parliamentary systems, you know, for impeachment or vote of no confidence or anything like that.

Tim (16:09) – And it’s funny that you mention the two-thirds majority with this impeachment process. If I remember correctly from the sources that I read, the vote total for impeachment was 58 – 6. 

Grant (16:20) – Wow.

Tim (16:21) – So it was overwhelming. It wasn’t even close. 

Tim (16:25) – Looking to consolidate his authority over the state government, Pinchback reorganized the ranks of the Louisiana State Militia—a racially-integrated military force composed of freedmen and a notable contingent of Confederate veterans. Pinchback removed officers with questionable allegiances, including his former political ally Hugh Campbell, who served as major general commanding. He subsequently appointed ex-Confederate general James Longstreet to assume the vacancy.

Longstreet was General Robert E. Lee’s most trusted lieutenant and served as senior corps commander within the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia. He played pivotal roles in several major battles, including First and Second Bull Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, and Chickamauga. In May 1864, Longstreet was severely wounded by friendly fire during the Battle of the Wilderness; however, he recovered and resumed command during the war’s final, desperate months. He ultimately witnessed Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Court House in April 1865. 

After the Civil War, Longstreet settled in New Orleans, where he entered the mercantile cotton trade and became president of the Southern and Western Life and Accident Insurance Company. Yet Longstreet’s presence extended far beyond commercial pursuits. In 1867, he published a series of letters in the New Orleans Times, contending that the Confederacy had been defeated “by the hazards of revolution.” Longstreet urged fellow Southerners to accept the permanence of black enfranchisement, acquiesce to Reconstruction, and even consider joining the Republican Party. 

Despite his pragmatic approach, Longstreet fielded intense criticism from all sides. Radical Republicans and many black constituents were skeptical of the general’s motives, suspecting that his engagement with Reconstruction masked a desire to reestablish white oligarchic dominance under the pretense of reconciliation. Meanwhile, white Southerners saw Longstreet’s willingness to accept corrupt Yankee republicanism as an act of betrayal. He was branded a “scalawag”—an expression of opprobrium describing a native Southerner who supported Radical Reconstruction efforts. Longstreet became a pariah among many ex-Confederates; a symbol of treachery and self-aggrandizement at the expense Southern ideals. 

The controversy surrounding Longstreet deepened during the 1868 Presidential Election when he openly campaigned for Ulysses S. Grant—his former Civil War adversary and longtime personal friend. Following Grant’s victory, Longstreet received a federal appointment as Surveyor of Customs in New Orleans, a powerful patronage position that further inflamed his Southern critics.

While Pinchback restructured the Louisiana State Milita, impeached Governor Warmoth recruited several dismissed militia commanders—all ex-Confederate officers—and assembled a force of nearly 500 men, which included an artillery regiment and two companies of infantry. This armed assemblage quickly commandeered the extensive weapons cache housed at the Carondolet Street Armory. 

On December 13, acting Governor Pinchback directed General Algernon S. Badger, Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police Department, to retake the disputed arsenal. Three hundred policemen mobilized to Carondolet Street, but by time they arrived, Warmoth’s force was too heavily-armed to seize the building without serious bloodshed.

Tim (19:32) – And just a quick note about the New Orleans Metropolitan Police: This integrated law enforcement organization was established in 1868 by Governor Warmoth to counter the surge of white supremacist violence affecting Louisiana. Reporting directly to the governor, the Metropolitans were initially intended to protect the Warmoth administration and its Reconstruction policies; however, amidst the factionalism within the Republican Party, the very police force Warmoth created was being used against him. When this confrontation took place, the Metropolitans had over 700 policemen at their disposal, including a contingent of mounted officers, a fleet of five riverboats, a telegraph corps, and even a special sanitary company for public health enforcement.

Tim (20:14) – The following day, Pinchback urgently wired President Grant, requesting permission to deploy federal troops “for the purpose of suppressing this mutiny.” Grant obliged and instructed General Emory to intervene. Emory dispatched an officer to deliver Grant’s directive to Colonel Eugene Waggaman—the Warmoth militia’s representative. Although Waggaman was hesitant to acknowledge Pinchback’s authority, he was equally unwilling to risk a confrontation with federal forces. Consequently, he agreed to withdraw. Warmoth’s militia vacated the armory, and the Metropolitans took possession.

Open resistance to the Republican regime continued into the new year. On January 3, 1873, the Fusionists organized a subversive shadow government within Odd Fellows Hall. In response, Governor Pinchback issued the following statement: “No pretended governor shall be inaugurated…no pretended General Assembly shall convene and disturb the public peace. Parties participating…are public wrongdoers, and shall be promptly dealt with as such. The whole force of the State shall be used for this purpose.”

Pinchback again telegraphed President Grant: “[To] prevent a subversion on the present State government and to suppress riot, it may be necessary for me, as executive, to use police or other forces to prevent this revolution.” However, because the 1872 gubernatorial results remained hotly contested, Grant advised Pinchback against the use of force: “I think there ought to be no forcible interference with any proceedings to inaugurate McEnery, if they are not accompanied by violence.” It was the administration’s belief that the McEnery government would “fade away after a few days of excitement.”

On January 13, both McEnery and Kellogg took the Governor’s Oath in separate induction ceremonies. The Daily Picayune—the leading conservative newspaper of New Orleans—provided coverage of McEnery’s inauguration. Disgraced governor Warmoth began the proceeding with a scathing farewell address before the Fusionist legislature: “The machinery of the National Government has not been used to promote good administration of the State Government, but the Federal office-holders have been constantly interfering with the State offices, forcing themselves into State positions and into the Legislature, and using the patronage under the Federal Government to embarrass the State administration, or to further schemes of plunder and spoliation in which they were themselves interested.”

McEnery followed Warmoth with his own Inaugural Address: “Fellow citizens—I present myself before you under extraordinary circumstances. Returned, as your elected Governor in the manner and according to all the terms of law, hitherto recognized in this and in other States of the Union. I find my right to this high office disputed on grounds altogether novel in the history of the Republic. A candidate who does not pretend that he received a majority of the votes—but expressly admits that the returns of the legal officials exhibit the contrary and place him in the minority—sets up a claim to the office of Governor of Louisiana. He bases this claim upon certain statements that a large number of qualified voters were illegally excluded from registration or from voting, which, if registered or permitted to vote, would have reversed the result. These are mere ex parte statements, allegations which have never been examined, and rest upon mere surmises, speculations, loose rumors, and partisan fabrications…And yet, upon such vague and unsupported averments of interested parties, and under the deceitful guise of a chancery proceeding, a United States Court has undertaken to avoid and set aside the regular returns of the lawful officers of the State and proposes to induct into its high offices the minority candidates therefor…without an investigation or trial and by aid of the military power of the Federal Government.”

The Fusionists subsequently launched a national campaign to rally public opinion and pressure lawmakers in Washington. Through a widely circulated document titled “An Address to the People of the United States,” they demanded that Congress either recognize McEnery as the rightful governor or dissolve the Kellogg government and restore military governance over the state. On January 16, Congress formed a special committee, headed by Indiana Senator Oliver P. Morton, to investigate the disputed gubernatorial election and assess the legitimacy of Louisiana’s state government. 

Morton’s committee spent nearly a month examining documents and questioning witnesses. Following this inquiry, the majority report—defended by Wisconsin Senator Matthew Hale Carpenter—recommended that Governor Warmoth resume executive office duties until a new, federally-supervised special election could be arranged. In contrast, the Democrat-supported minority report called for McEnery’s outright recognition as the legitimate governor of Louisiana. But Senator Morton denounced the Fusionists’ claim and defended Kellogg’s government: “I recommend masterly inactivity…If McEnery attempts to make any trouble, Governor Kellogg is able to take care of him without any assistance from the Government of the United States; but if he requires it he will get it. The President has said he would give it.” When Congress adjourned on March 4, 1873, it had taken no action to endorse either government in New Orleans, thus leaving Louisiana’s political crisis unresolved.

Frustrated by Congress’s inaction, McEnery issued a proclamation calling on all able-bodied men to organize for state militia service. He appointed ex-Confederate officer Frederick Nash Ogden as brigadier general and provisional commander of this paramilitary force, and instructed him to overthrow Kellogg’s government by force.

On March 5, Ogden assembled nearly three hundred militiamen for an attack on the Cabildo—an imposing Spanish colonial building that housed the Louisiana Supreme Court. The Cabildo’s proximity to the St. Peter Street Arsenal made it an especially strategic target. But the Louisiana State Militia and Metropolitan police were able to coordinate a preemptive defense, forewarned by Ogden’s own provocative statements to the press.

At 9:30 pm, Ogden and his men marched through the streets of the French Quarter, throwing up barricades at every intersection. As they proceeded, “a number of men…stopped at the gun store of J. Guilloux and J. E. Les, and forcing the doors, entered and ransacked the place, taking out everything in the shape of a pistol or gun.” They then reached the Cabildo, Ogden “stepped forward and demanded the surrender of the station, but was answered by several shots, one of which just grazed his right shoulder as he was turning to leave, making a rent in his coat.”

Suddenly, a sharp firefight erupted. As The Daily Picayune harrowingly described: “About 10 o’clock, the cry ‘Here they come, here they come,’ was raised, and several men came in and announced the POLICE WERE COMING, and that they had with them A TWELVE-POUNDER NAPOLEON GUN…FIRING immediately commended, and was kept up very briskly and determinedly for probably two minutes…The police advanced, firing all the time, to the middle of [Jackson] Square between Toulouse and St. Louis, and here the gun was unlimbered and pushed forward. THE DULL BOOM broke out on the air…followed by the falling and breaking of glass. The McEnery men…were seized with panic and retreated in great disorder down Chartres and onto St. Peter Street. 

[T]he boom the gun AGAIN SOUNDED, and this time it was followed by the whizzing of grape shot. The McEnery police and militia were crowded into St. Peters Street, utterly disorganized and replying to all the commands of their officers by saying, “Give us ammunition. How are we to fight without ammunition?”

The commander-in-chief sprang out into the street, which was becoming rather warm, and cried “My God! Can't I get any one to support me?” And in answer a small number sprang forward, and…they were very warmly welcomed…[T]he bullets whistled through St. Peters Street and the Jackson Square in a very unmusical manner.”

Within fifteen minutes, members of the 19th U.S. Infantry arrived under a flag of truce and ordered the Fusionist militia to disperse. Demoralized by his ignominious lack of success, Ogden disbanded his remaining forces. Local newspapers recorded two deaths and perhaps another twenty men wounded during the melee. Although fifty-three participants were arrested on state and federal charges, Kellogg ultimately declined to pursue their prosecution. The governor’s reluctance to hold his political adversaries accountable highlighted his administration’s tenuous grip on authority.

As reflected in the New York World: “The blood spilled in the streets of New Orleans…and the means by which order and quiet must have been temporarily restored, demonstrate the inherent weakness of the Kellogg usurpation. It calls itself a state government, and is recognized as such by President Grant. But…it possesses so little authority that it cannot stand its ground against two or three hundred armed assailants, and needs to be propped up by Federal bayonets…If it had, as it pretends, the support and approval of a majority of the people, it would not make such an undignified exhibition of helpless imbecility and cowardice.”

The Battle of the Cabildo, or the “First Battle of Liberty Place,” was an attempted insurrection against the federally-endorsed Kellogg government. And while the illegitimate Fusionist legislature was forcibly dissolved following the failed coup, the Republican victory was far from complete. 

In their ongoing struggle for political authority, both state governments appointed competing officials throughout Louisiana’s rural parishes. The recent reduction of the standing U.S. army and corresponding closures of military outposts made these backcountry communities particularly exploitable. In districts where black and white populations were relatively balanced—like Grant Parish—paramilitary terror and violent extremism became irresistible means to undermine Republican power and reassert white dominance. 

Situated along the Red River between Alexandria and Shreveport, Grant Parish, itself, was product of Reconstruction-era politics. Created in 1869, this new district—named in honor of President Ulysses S. Grant—was gerrymandered from portions of Rapides, Winn, and Natchitoches Parishes, providing newly-enfranchised blacks (and by extension the Republican Party) a narrow electoral majority. The parish seat, Colfax, commemorated Grant’s Vice President Schuyler Colfax.

Grant Parish’s political battleground pitted Fusionist candidates Alphonse Cazabat and ex-Confederate Captain Christopher Columbus Nash against their Republican-certified opponents, R.C. Register and Daniel Shaw, for the respective positions of district judge and sheriff. 

On March 25, Register and Shaw, determined to assert themselves as the rightful government authorities, broke into the Grant Parish Courthouse and were sworn into office. Outraged Fusionists threatened to reclaim the courthouse by force. Amid these escalating tensions, Captain William Ward—a Union veteran and black Republican state representative—mustered a militia company to defend the appointed Republican officeholders. Three hundred black volunteers answered the call; their families flocking to Colfax over the ensuing days. 

Fears of an attack were well justified. Just ten miles away in Montgomery, a hostile white paramilitary group began to organize. On April 1, Cazabat, escorted by twenty to thirty cavalrymen under James West Hadnot—a Confederate veteran and reputed leader of the local Ku Klux Klan—reached the outskirts of Colfax to discuss his political quarrel with Register. These attempts at negotiation proved unsuccessful, with Register promising to defend his claim to office by force, if necessary. Cazabat’s coalition returned to their camp, where their ranks swelled to several hundred men. 

Sensing the growing danger, Ward and Register departed for New Orleans on April 9, hoping to procure reinforcements from the Kellogg administration. In Ward’s absence, the Republican-allied Colfax militia was entrusted to Levin Allen, another black Union army veteran. 

Upon learning of the tensions brewing in Colfax, General Longstreet wanted to send a detachment of Metropolitan Police to bolster Republican rule. But Governor Kellogg hesitated, and instead deferred responsibility to General Emory’s armed forces. But Emory, lacking guidance from Washington about Louisiana’s de jure government, declined to intervene without explicit orders from federal authorities. Kellogg eventually agreed to send two state militia officers to investigate the state of affairs in Colfax, but his initial inaction proved costly. 

On April 13, 1873—Easter Sunday—nearly three hundred white supremacists descended upon Colfax. Opposing them were 150 black civilian-soldiers, armed primarily with shotguns, revolvers, and crudely fashioned cannons. Captain Nash offered the Colfax militia one final opportunity to surrender the courthouse, but acting commander Allen declined. Nash then allowed thirty minutes for women and children to evacuate before commencing his attack. 

At 12:30 pm, the white paramilitary advanced southward, unhindered by sporadic artillery and small arms fire. However, they encountered heavier resistance at center of town—black militiamen had fortified themselves behind earthworks surrounding the courthouse. For over an hour, the white attackers were unable to dislodge their Republican-allied adversaries. Stymied, Nash directed James Daniels to conduct a flanking maneuver along the riverbank west of the courthouse. This tactical adjustment proved devastatingly effective. By 2 pm, Allen’s defenders were exposed to a deadly enfilading fire and their resistance quickly crumbled. Dozens retreated into the courthouse while the remainder fled into the fields of Calhoun’s Plantation, relentlessly pursued by Nash’s cavalry.

Determined to end the skirmish, white insurgents coerced one of their black prisoners, Benjamin Brimm, to set fire to the courthouse roof. As flames engulfed the building, Nash sent Hadnot forward under another flag of truce to demand Allen’s immediate surrender. Amidst the smoke and chaos, shots rang out, and Hadnot fell mortally wounded—subsequent reports suggest he may have been accidentally shot by his own men.

Black militiamen who attempted to flee the burning courthouse were “ridden down in the open fields and shot without mercy, [while] the wounded lying about the courthouse were leisurely pinned to the ground with bayonets.” By time the conflict ceased around 3 pm, several dozen African Americans were dead with another forty taken prisoner. 

A small group of Southern extremists remained in Colfax to guard their prisoners. However, sometime after nightfall, they decided to dispose of those detained. According to contemporary accounts, black captives were assembled along the Red River and summarily executed with a single gunshot to the back of the head. Remarkably, several individuals survived their attempted executions. 

During the Colfax Massacre, only three white men lost their lives, while the precise number of black victims remains disputed. Theodore DeKlyne, the U.S. deputy marshal who investigated the scene, counted fifty-nine bodies interred by the burial party. However, the actual death toll was almost certainly higher. Accounts from survivors and local residents suggest that many casualties were never officially recorded, as some corpses were thrown into the Red River or removed for private burial. Modern historians estimate 80 to 150 black men killed, although some period publications claimed as many as four hundred fatalities. More likely than not, certain Republican newspapers in the North exaggerated these figures to provoke a stronger reaction to this atrocity. Regardless, the Easter Day Massacre at Colfax is recognized as the deadliest episode of Reconstruction-era violence. 

Tim (35:08) – And no one ever found the body of Levin Allen. His fate ultimately remains unknown.

Tim (35:14) – The brutality of the Colfax Massacre sent shockwaves across the nation. In Maine, the Portland Transcript reported: “The political complications and animosities of race unhappily existing in Louisiana have brought about a most horrible and barbarous massacre of blacks at Colfax…it is apparent that the assaulting party was animated by a vindictive and bloodthirsty spirit, and the whole affair has the character of a negro hunt. It nominally grew out of the taking possession of the Court House by the officials of the Kellogg government, aided by a party of negroes who were mostly unarmed. The whites then rallied and attacked the Court House, and being otherwise unable to dislodge the negroes they deliberately set it on fire, and the unfortunate colored men, to the number of two or three hundred, were literally roasted alive in sight of their enemies. The negroes were slaughtered as they left the burning building, after resistance had ceased. Thirty were taken to the bank of the river by couples, and shot and thrown overboard. Only two or three whites were killed or wounded. United States troops have gone to Grant Parish to preserve the peace, and the United States authorities intend making a thorough investigation of the affair for the purpose of bringing the guilty parties to justice.”

Later that May, the New York Evangelist published the following: “The massacre at Colfax, Louisiana…is one of those tragedies of which cannot be classed under the head of accidents. It has a social and political significance that cannot be overlooked. Two races occupying the same soil, and governed by opposing interests, furnish the tinder which it needs but a spark to inflame.”

But this sense of travesty was not equally reciprocated in the South, with the Shreveport Times reporting: “The battle between the races for supremacy…must be fought…boldly and squarely; the issue cannot be satisfactorily adjusted by a repulsive commingling of antagonistic races, and the promulgation of platforms, enunciating as the political tenets of the people of Louisiana, the vilest Socialist doctrines.”

Assertions of white superiority were also voiced in the North. That same New York Evangelist article went on to say: “On one side there is a feeling of defeated arrogance, envenomed by the hostility of an inferior race that has escaped from subjection. On the other is the memory of long continued wrong, and resentments that are feebly restrained by any considerations of prudence or justice…In some of the Southern States where the number of freedmen is large, the extension to them of the right of suffrage has made them objects of jealousy and political apprehension, by which they are alienated from public sympathy. Their own impulsiveness allows them to drift upon courses of action or settle into vicious habits which tend to confirm the prejudice that bars their progress.”

Grant (37:52) – You know, I think, too, something interesting or…you know, a narrative that is very much needed to understand the reality in that moment is the narrative that didn’t really have the resources or the platform to promote the [narrative]…Really long-winded way of saying, I think—you know, if we really want to understand the reality of those forces and the dynamics that were at play, you need to also have, or read about the narratives of the African Americans who, you know, were going through this in the South and in the rest of the country. You know, the fact that often times, the way history is taught throughout societies, it’s really a story told by whoever has the most capital, the most resources, the most infrastructure to share their narrative in the largest way, or to promote their narrative in the loudest and most influential way. But, all these African Americans, I mean, the story we just heard about the resistance and the courthouse and, you know, who died…the narratives that we hear are just from the perspective of northern white people in Maine or southern white people—but without hearing the narratives of the African Americans who are living and shaping that history, too, it’s really, you know, a one-sided—or not even just—it’s just lacking in all the perspectives that are at play. And it’s something that I wish, you know…when people read about history, they learn about history—whenever anything is happening to people or happening around people, something should go off in your brain that’s telling you: ‘Okay, I’m hearing about all these things that are happening to these people, because of these people or around these people, but I hearing from these people?

Tim (40:01) – No, but I mean you make complete sense. Like, I was hard-pressed to find any sort of black press detailing this horrific event. And I mean it was a massacre, like they are unsure to this day how many African Americans were summarily killed in what was a white supremacist paramilitary invading a county parish seat, just to institute their own puppets of power. And I’m just taken aback by the whole thing because I’ve never heard of this.”

Grant (40:30) – Yep.

Tim (40:31) – I’ve never heard of this at all.

Grant (40:33) – Yep.

Tim (40:34) – And this is something that should really be taught in schools, like in order to really understand what people were thinking back then—what the rationale was. And like you said, you know, we are devoid of some of those subjugated peoples—what their perspectives were—because they were just silenced and they couldn’t voice their opinions in a forum like we can today.

Grant (40:55) – Yep.

Tim (40:56) – It’s…like, the best we can do is like, you know…Republican publications from the North.

Grant (41:03) – Yeah.

Tim (41:04) – And even at that, the New York Evangelist was saying like, the African Americans were an inferior race…

Grant (41:09) – Yeah.

Tim (41:09) – And that their own behaviors propagated their stereotypes and their own problems. So, it’s just a very upsetting yet integral part of our nation’s history that really needs more exposure to be fully appreciated for what it is and what it represented.

Grant (41:25) – That’s something I always think, too, when you read the history. It’s like—there’s geography, there’s demography, there’s all these different “-phies” if you will, that really impact, you know—but they also overlap. There’s this intersectionality between all these difference courses. And to that point, building off of exactly what you were saying—I always think, when we think about narratives and storytelling, it’s how we make sense of the world that we’re living in—the past, the future, potentially—and it requires reflection, right? It requires time, it requires a pause, and it requires the energy, the time, the space to, you know, to learn—and to absorb this information and to find this information and to promote this information. And what it lends itself to is whoever has the best ecosystem, the best—I almost want to say like a “narrative infrastructure” if you will—like, I don’t want to say propaganda, but just something like, you know…we think of infrastructure like roads and railways and, you know, dams and bridges. But there’s something to be said for narrative infrastructure. Like back in those days, it would be who had the printing presses, who had newspapers, who had telegraphs, who had the couriers who could go out and deliver these newspapers. Today, we have social media, we have, you know…who dominates the narratives on social media platforms? And who’s setting up these algorithms, who’s pumping out the most content, who’s reaching the most people, and…it just goes to show that the best we can do to understand a moment is through narratives and through storytelling. But at the same time, there needs to be this element of critical thinking that we always keep in the back of our heads to calibrate ourselves as in: ‘Okay. All I’m hearing, right, is this person and this person arguing with each other while they’re talking about this person, who’s actually living and suffering and making…and not just a subject of forces that are creating history, they’re—they have agency and they’re making their own history, too. It’s just fascinating and it’s something that I think this is a really good example of, you know, just understanding how to make sense of historical narratives—plural—because there is just never one singular narrative.

Tim (44:03) – The day following the massacre, officers from the New Orleans Metropolitan Police began searching for the white perpetrators. Their efforts were reinforced by federal troops under General Emory two days later. Authorities ultimately indicted 97 men, though only nine were actually apprehended. The Department of Justice—invoking the Enforcement Act of 1870—charged the accused with conspiring to deprive African Americans of their constitutional rights to vote, petition the government, and bear arms. The first court case, conducted in February 1874, ended in a mistrial. Subsequent proceedings in May 1874 found three defendants guilty of conspiracy against peaceful assembly; however, these convictions were later appealed to the Supreme Court in United States vs. Cruikshank.

On March 26, 1876, the Supreme Court delivered its landmark Cruikshank decision. Chief Justice Morrison Waite, writing for the majority, opined that the Enforcement Act applied solely to actions taken by state governments, not private individuals or groups, and that a state's failure to protect its citizens did not constitute grounds for federal intervention. The Court reasoned that the First and Second Amendments represented limitations on congressional authority rather than affirmative rights conferred by the Constitution. 

The Justices further reaffirmed the doctrine of “state action” by ruling that the Fourteenth Amendment was only enforceable against state governments, and not private actors—in this case paramilitary organizations—unless state authorities were found complicit or directly involved. For the first time, the Court explicitly declared that the protections enumerated in the Bill of Rights did not constitute privileges or immunities of national citizenship. Thus, the federal government could only “see that the States do not deny the right.” In this context, the Colfax murders did not violate any constitutional rights and the federal government lacked the legal authority to prosecute. Justice Nathan Clifford was the sole dissenter from this interpretation. 

The Cruikshank decision overturned the convictions and remanded the case to the jurisdiction of Louisiana state courts. None of the paramilitaries involved in the Colfax Massacre were ever prosecuted again. Like the Battle of the Cabildo, the violent actions of insurrectionists ultimately went unpunished.

Grant (46:19) – You know, it’s a shame how often that ends up happening throughout history, right? But at the end of the day, these are institutions that are run by people, and they [in] some ways just manifest the same hesitations, quibbles, fears—and frankly just fear that people have in holding injustice to account, you know?

Tim (46:45) – Yeah, and I feel like these rights have to be absolute, too, especially if they’re codified in the Constitution, you know?

Grant (46:51) – Yeah.  

Tim (46:52) – So, personally, I disagree with how the Supreme Court interpreted the constitutional amendments and their scope of enforcement. And it’s just another travesty in this story of oppression. I mean, an estimated 150 African Americans were massacred by a white supremacist paramilitary organization, but since it was executed under the guise of political contention, the federal government is unable to investigate and their actions ultimately go unpunished? That just doesn’t make sense to me.

Grant (47:20) – And it’s these kinds of decisions and this kind of precedent that you see being formed—what year is it? 1868? I just want to make sure I’m keeping track.

Tim (47:31) – So, the decision itself was rendered in 1876, but the massacre occurred in 1873. 

Grant (47:38) – Got it. Okay, so 1876, and you realize—roughly twenty years later I think it was 1896 you get Plessy v. Ferguson—so what you’re just seeing is again, we have this post-Civil War Reconstruction Era that has the potential to lay the foundation for a society that would be more equitable and just and…but you just see this decision—I wouldn’t be able to track jurisprudence or anything, but—just from a big macro, like moral analysis kind of level, this sets the foundation for another and another, and then next thing you know, 1896—we get “separate but equal.” And it’s all these nuggets of knowledge and foundational precedent that are being set in the post-Civil War years that people aren’t taught about and, you know, in some ways we learn all about all battles of the Civil War and, you know it’s important to know that, but the things that have such historical ramifications during this “peace time” or whatever, I mean…going back to just the first episode when I said that I think Reconstruction is one of the most understudied but historically impactful periods in American history, like—every period is extremely impactful, but these are the kinds of things—this event, this massacre—that…I’m glad you’re digging into it, Tim. It’s great to put a light on this stuff, you know?

Tim (49:11) – And we’ve got plenty more to explore in this episode. 

Tim (49:15) – By 1874, the popularity of Radical Republicanism reached an all-time low across the South. In Louisiana, Governor Kellogg exercised tepid authority, as ongoing challenges by Democratic-Conservatives undermined his effectiveness. Critics, including the New Orleans Times, condemned the Kellogg administration as an illegitimate regime, describing it as “an odious usurpation, originated in fraud and tyranny, and maintaining itself merely through Federal support.” In an effort to galvanize electoral support, Kellogg selectively championed the enforcement of civil rights legislation. While this approach certainly mobilized black voters, it simultaneously alienated white moderates within the Republican Party, many of whom were fearful of so-called “Negro domination.”

Edward King, a writer for Scribner's Monthly, observed the following:  “The Louisiana white people were in such terror of the negro government that they would rather accept any other despotism. A military dictator would be far preferable to them;  they would go anywhere to escape the ignominy to which they were at present subjected.”

Akin to the Colfax Massacre, widespread resentment towards Republican officeholders and black enfranchisement contributed to the proliferation of militaristic White Leagues throughout Louisiana. As The Daily Picayune described: “The name “White League” has been chosen as explanatory of what the club is seeking…We, the white people of Louisiana, are in nowise responsible for our present condition. Although we believed the right of suffrage was given to the negroes too hastily, yet we thought it proper to acknowledge this right. We have tried to persuade the negroes that their interests are allied with ours. In vain. They are less qualified for the rights of government today than they were seven years ago. They believe that they can drive the white man from this State, and convert Louisiana into a second Hayti. We think the time has arrived for the white men of Louisiana to unite in defense of their families and civilization. And we believe that the superiority in State affairs belongs to the white people from their superiority in wealth, in education, and in numbers.” 

By August 1874, the White Leagues had organized in almost half of the state’s parishes, with as many as fourteen thousand men enrolled. The growth of the White Leagues underwrote a surge of sensationalist journalism that circulated stories of black depravity, carpetbagger corruption, and Southern redemption. 

The Alexandria Caucasian, the first newspaper explicitly dedicated to the White League, published its inaugural issue on March 28, 1874. Captain George W. Stafford, a former Confederate officer, served as its chief publisher. The Caucasian clearly articulated its racial animus: “There will be no security, no peace, and no prosperity for Louisiana until the government of the state is restored to the hands of the honest, intelligent, and tax-paying masses; until the superiority of the Caucasian over the African in all affairs pertaining to government, is acknowledged and established.”

The Daily Picayune unsurprisingly relished in this inflammatory rhetoric, publishing this very real article on June 30, 1874: “Information reached us yesterday of a determination on the part of the colored people now in our city to seize the occasion of the coming Fourth of July for a grand coup on the white people to enforce their “civil rights,” if need be at the point of the bayonet. 

On their march, and wherever they desired, they were to enter all saloons, soda water stands, and other places of public resort and demand eatables and drinkables, and if refused, they were to take them and break everything in the establishment. If resisted, they were to at once fire and kill the proprietor, and as many white men as possible, and then, supported by the other colored people who would rally to their support and, as was expressed, take it for themselves, kill all the men, and Keep all the Women.

This scheme may at first appear wild and not worthy of belief, but it was stated to members, and by them believed, that they would be supported by the authorities, and even after they had killed a lot of white men nothing would be done to them, and they would easily escape punishment.

In the face of all this, the question very naturally arises, will the white people of this city quietly submit to these threatened outrages? When it is publicly stated that every white man should be killed, and every negro have a white wife, certain it is that it is time to be up and Prepared for the worst.”

Grant (53:40) – You know, you read some—yeah, I mean—it’s like, you read a…You know what I think is really valuable about that writing, I feel like there’s this collective, kind of glossy, like foggy understanding that ‘oh, people were bad and that people were…’ you know. We need more of this empirical, just substantive examples of the racism in writing. I think one of the dangers of events happening so long ago is that they become more subject to manipulation, to…there’s this lack of proximity, right, because of just the sheer passage of time, and so people are able to try to spin the narratives or advance their own narratives of what they believe was happening at a certain time. But I mean, you read something like that, and it really makes you wonder like—you hear a lot of arguments in contemporary discourse about, oh what was, you know—you hear someone say, ‘oh what was the Civil War really about?’ If anything, I think it makes it plainly apparent what the culture of that society was that they’re seeking to advance and protect and…it’s pretty blunt. I mean it’s about as blunt and direct as like…there’s no, you know…it’s only 150 years later where people try to add all this nuance to it. And yes, there’s—again, I think we talked about it really in the first episode—like, as we get more removed, we can get a bird’s-eye view of different [factors]. You know, what people were saying and writing and publishing, there’s not as much nuance all the time. Sometimes it’s just pretty direct. 

Tim (55:46) – Absolutely. And this article came straight from the horse’s mouth. This came from The Daily Picayune’s archives and I just copied it word for word. I was like ‘this is incredible.’ 

Grant (55:57) – Yeah. 

Tim (55:58) – Like not in a good way. Like this is wild. 

Grant (56:00) – Yeah, yeah.

Tim (56:02) – Like, it’s crazy how normalized that rhetoric was. 

Grant (56:07) – Yeah. And the dialogue that preceded this dialogue I mean, you know, for hundreds of years. Yeah, it’s really interesting when you look at American history in the sense of what makes American history so unique. There’s been one really common thread throughout all of American history, and you see it again and again and again. And it’s the color line, as W.E.B. DuBois pointed out. And you know, conflicts and disputes and everything along [those] lines, but I found that, for me, what I think is one of the most unique things about American history is the sheer scale of the contradictions that comprise this country. Like, I think to be human is, to some extent, be a contradiction, right? If we consistent, we’d simply be robots, like programs, codes, you know? I don’t need to go off into the deep-end here, but it’s really this, you know…America, right? At its founding, you have our foundational text reading that ‘all men are created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights,’ and the person writing that owned human chattel. It’s not lost—we just can’t let it get lost on us how inconsistent and hypocritical the human condition is, and the sheer scale and scope of the good, the bad, and the ugly. I mean, it’s just…it’s breathtaking. 

Tim (57:53) – Yeah, absolutely. And kind of to your point, too. You know, that common thread. And I think the common thread—at least in this chapter of the narrative—is self-benefit, self-interest, right? You know, we’re looking at carpetbaggers—Northerners who moved South to take advantage of the post-war socioeconomic vacuum. Scalawags—Southerners who acquiesced to Reconstruction policies in the name of self-preservation and leniency. Governor Warmoth: staunch Republican, but when he became a casualty of factionalist politics, he flipped to the Fusionist Party during the 1872 Election in an effort to maintain some degree of relevancy. So, it’s all just a power grab gambit.

Grant (58:39) – Yeah, yeah. 

Tim (58:41) – This sophisticated campaign of political propaganda, which exploited the existing emotional and economic anxieties among white Louisianans, enabled Frederick Nash Ogden to form the Crescent City White League in July 1874. More than 1,500 men answered Ogden’s call for volunteers, many of whom were Confederate veterans previously enrolled in the Louisiana State Militia. Throughout the summer, League leaders discreetly stockpiled surplus Civil War weapons around New Orleans, gradually developing a formidable paramilitary force—one capable of challenging the Republican-controlled state militia and Metropolitan Police.

On the evening of September 12, the steamship Mississippi arrived in New Orleans, along with pestilent rumors that its cargo contained modern rifles and ammunition bound for the Crescent City White League. In response to these reports, General Badger dispatched nearly sixty policemen to confiscate the vessel.  Following this perceived unlawful seizure of property, League organizers blanketed New Orleans with handbills, emergently broadcasting a call to action:

“CITIZENS OF NEW ORLEANS – For nearly two years, you have been silent but indignant sufferers of outrage after outrage—heaped upon you by an usurping government. One by one, your dearest rights have been trampled upon, until, at last, in the supreme height of its insolence, this mockery of a republican government has dared even to deny you that right so solemnly guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States, which…declares that “the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” In that same sacred instrument…it was also declared that even Congress shall make no law abridging “the right of the people peaceably assemble and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” It now remains for us to ascertain whether this right any longer remains to us. We therefore call upon you on Monday morning, the 14th day of September 1874, to close you places of business, without a single exception, and at 11 o’clock a.m. to assemble at the [Henry] Clay statue on Canal Street, and in tones loud enough to be heard throughout the length and breadth of the land, Declare That You Are Of Right, Ought To Be, And Mean To Be, FREE.”

Approximately 5,000 people assembled the following day. 

Around midday, Robert H. Marr, a prominent Democratic attorney, delivered a fiery oration denouncing the illegitimate Kellogg administration. Following his address, Marr marched to the statehouse—accompanied by several other Fusionist leaders—to formally request Kellogg’s resignation. But the governor refused to abdicate and considered the Fusionist delegation a menace to lawful authority. About an hour later, Marr’s enclave returned to their anxious audience, announcing that their demands had been rejected. Amidst the mounting agitation, Dr. Cornelius Beard urged the crowd to overthrow the Republican government and “express the popular will of white Louisiana.”

While armed radicals mobilized, White League operatives sabotaged telegraph wires and railroad infrastructure around New Orleans—coordinated actions meant to paralyze the communication and transportation systems available to Republican leadership. 

Anticipating the coming conflict, Governor Kellogg retreated to the U.S. Custom House on Canal Street, which provided federal sovereignty and protection by a modest garrison of U.S. troops. Prior to his departure, Kellogg entrusted Superintendent Badger and General Longstreet to defend the Republican government. Their combined Metropolitan-Militia force—approximately 3,500 men—would face off against a White League paramilitary numbering over 8,000 insurgents. 

General Longstreet and his lieutenants assembled inside the statehouse to formulate a plan of action. Believing that the White League intended to seize both the statehouse and Jackson Square, Longstreet arranged defensive units around the capitol, notably including a 475-man, all-black militia under Major General Hugh Campbell. Meanwhile, the Metropolitan Police, supported by cavalry and artillery detachments, confronted the approaching columns of White League militants along Canal Street.  

Around 4 pm, General Badger directed his mounted officers to read the Riot Act and disperse the provocative crowd. The cavalry deployed in line and began advancing south towards Poydras Street, when suddenly, one of Badger’s sergeants fell, shot by an unseen sniper. 

Intense fighting erupted between the White League and Metropolitan Police. As the battle escalated, Longstreet ordered Badger to redeploy his officers along the levee to avoid being outflanked. While conducting this repositioning maneuver, Metropolitan forces inadvertently left one of their batteries dangerously exposed in the center of Canal Street. Seizing this opportunity, two White League companies stormed the overwhelmed Metropolitan artillery, capturing two Napoleon cannons and a Gatling gun in the process.  

General Badger vainly endeavored to rally his men, but his horse was shot from underneath him, pinning him to the ground. The hapless Badger sustained four additional gunshot wounds before being taken prisoner. Per The Daily Picayune’s casualty report: “[General] Badger was mortally wounded, being shot through the arm, leg and side…[His] wound is serious, but not necessarily fatal. If he dies it will be from loss of blood…He will certainly lose his leg.”

As the Republican militia began to waver, Colonel William J. Behan—who commanded five White League companies—ordered his men to charge the Metropolitan positions on Canal Street. The police, overcome by panic, quickly broke rank with many men fleeing in disarray. In the ensuing chaos, General Longstreet was thrown from his horse, badly reinjuring his right arm, but he managed to find refuge within the Custom House.

White Leaguers seized City Hall and ransacked police stations and military arsenals across New Orleans, including the Mississippi’s weapons cache. By midnight, the White League maintained effective control over most of New Orleans, except for the Statehouse, State Arsenal, and U.S. Custom House. 

The Battle of Liberty Place, as this armed insurrection came to be known, was brief but bloody episode of Reconstruction-era political violence. In just fifteen minutes of fighting, at least 35 men were killed. Contemporary sources indicate that the White League sustained 61 casualties, including sixteen deaths, while the Republican-aligned militia suffered 71 casualties, thirteen of whom died. In addition, six civilians lost their lives as a result of the conflict.

The next morning, White League officials offered amnesty to all Republican militiamen willing to disarm and return home. Governor Kellogg—operating from the relative safety of the Custom House—desperately ordered his remaining supporters to hold their positions at all costs; however, these commands were largely ignored, as Kellogg had effectively lost the moral authority and obedience of the Metropolitan Police and Louisiana State Militia. Dispirited defenders inside the State Arsenal and Statehouse summarily surrendered, leaving only a handful of Republican officials and several dozen militia members barricaded within the Custom House. 

News of the attempted coup quickly garnered national attention, with some publications—like the St. Louis Times—voicing support for the White League’s cause: “[T]he good people of St. Louis are heart and soul in sympathy with the citizens of Louisiana in their gallant struggle for liberty…New Orleans may be sure that the sentiments that have stirred her gallant heart, in the supreme effort she has put forth, find a responsive echo in the breast of her sister city of the Mississippi…If this is not popular sovereignty, what is it?”

Grant (1:05:54) – You know, I think that last line—“if this is not popular sovereignty, then what is it?”—it’s sovereignty for one group and, like, the subjugation of another group. Like, it’s just what we were saying, really. Like, the story of historical conflict can really be summarized as where the circle us end the circle of them begins, right? And building off of that—the scale of contradictions in American history—I mean, look at James Longstreet. What an arc, man. I mean, he…a Confederate war general, trying to bridge, trying to form unity post-Civil War, and now he’s defending a Republican government in Louisiana from a paramilitary, white supremacist organization. And it’s just like, everything came full circle for him, you know? How did he get there, you know? It’s amazing. 

Tim (1:07:04) – The White League moved quickly to establish the trappings of functioning government. They installed Fusionist D.B. Penn as acting governor in an attempt to convince federal authorities that he embodied the will of Louisiana’s electorate. But the White League’s triumph was short-lived. When word of the New Orleans putsch reached Washington, an incensed President Grant could hardly acquiesce the overthrow of a state government he publicly recognized. He promptly dispatched General Emory’s federal troops to New Orleans with explicit orders to “disperse turbulent and disorderly persons.”

On September 17, General Emory entered into negotiations with White League leaders, offering amnesty for all insurrectionists, provided that Republican rule was restored. Seeking to avoid a direct confrontation with federal authorities, the League relented, assuring that no additional use of force would be necessary. Two days later, Emory oversaw Governor Kellogg’s return to office.

Over the ensuing weeks, the War Department deployed an impressive array of military resources to New Orleans, underscoring President Grant’s steadfast support for the Kellogg administration and its embattled Reconstruction government. By November 1874, New Orleans housed the largest concentration of federal troops anywhere in the United States. But no amount of military oversight could address the irreparable damage inflicted upon the fragile Republican political machine. 

The consequences of the Battle of Liberty Place became fully apparent following the 1874 state elections, which witnessed a dramatic erosion of Republican power. When the new legislature convened on January 4, 1875, the Louisiana House of Representatives was evenly split: Republicans and Democratic-Conservatives each claimed 53 seats, while another five appointments remained in dispute. Against this tense political backdrop, the Republican-controlled Returning Board moved to certify the election results. But Democrats attempted to subvert this biased electoral process by illegally installing five of their own delegates. A chaotic brawl ensued on the House floor. Order was only restored when Governor Kellogg summoned General Philippe Régis de Trobriand and the 13th U.S. Infantry Regiment to remove the uncertified Democratic claimants from the State House chamber.

Later that evening, General Philip Sheridan—acting under special authority sanctioned by President Grant—took personal command of federal forces in New Orleans and the greater Department of the Gulf. Sheridan publicly affirmed his support for Louisiana’s Republican representatives and issued strong condemnations of the Democratic Party and its White League crusaders: “I think that the terrorism now existing in Louisiana…could be entirely removed…by the arrest and trial of the ringleaders of the armed White Leagues. If Congress would pass a bill declaring them banditti, they could be tried by a military commission. The ringleaders of this banditti, who murdered men near here on the fourteenth of last September…should in justice to law and order and the peace and prosperity of this southern part of the country be punished.” Despite Sheridan’s bravado, the White League remained a powerful threat to civil rights legislation and Reconstruction efforts across the South. 

During the 1876 Louisiana Governor’s Race, Custom House Republican Stephen Packard faced off against Democratic contender and former Confederate brigadier general Francis T. Nicholls. Just as in 1872, the election was marred by widespread fraud and voter intimidation. Both candidates claimed victory and established rival governments, wresting for control of the state.

On January 9, 1877, the longstanding tensions between Radical Republicans and white supremacists climaxed when Nicholls rallied nearly 3,000 members of the White League to seize the embattled Cabildo. Packard’s defenders—a meager force of 300 state troops and Metropolitan Police—surrendered the government offices without a fight. Packard withdrew his Republican coalition to the statehouse, hoping that he, like Kellogg, could rely on federal intervention to sustain his bid. However, the changing currents of national politics made this unlikely.

In the presidential election of 1876, Republican candidate Rutherford B. Hayes found himself locked in a bitter contest with Samuel J. Tilden, the Democratic governor of New York. Tilden had secured 184 electoral votes—just one shy of the 185 needed for victory—and led Hayes in the popular vote by about 250,000. However, twenty electoral votes from four states—Louisiana, Florida, South Carolina, and Oregon—remained in dispute due to widespread allegations of fraud, intimidation, and conflicting returns. For what seemed like eternity, the nation’s highest office hung precariously in the balance. 

Amidst this unprecedented political uncertainty, Congress established a special Electoral Commission in January 1877 to adjudicate the contested results. Meanwhile, political operatives from both the Republican and Democratic parties engaged in intensive, behind-the-scenes negotiations at the Wormley Hotel in Washington, D.C. It was during these private discussions that the essential framework for the Compromise of 1877—otherwise known as the “Wormley Compromise” or “Corrupt Bargain”—was negotiated. Under this unwritten arrangement, Southern Democrats agreed to withdraw their support for the filibusters obstructing Hayes’s certification as president, effectively ensuring his victory. In return, Republican leaders pledged to withdraw remaining federal troops from the South, thereby ending Reconstruction and restoring “home rule” to local conservative governments.

When federal troops were withdrawn later that April, Packard’s Republican administration collapsed. White Democrats quickly consolidated power, with the paramilitary White League serving as their extralegal enforcement arm—perpetuating racial segregation, institutional discrimination, and disenfranchisement policies that defined the Jim Crow Era South for nearly a century. 

Grant (1:12:43) – You know what’s crazy, Tim? I had a very cursory understanding of that, but the fact that I would guarantee like 90—at least 90% of Americans—don’t know that piece of history, and how, in some ways, it’s almost like a secondary ideological war/compromise. Like, just thinking about that, if you take away that time gap between when that happened and when the Civil War ended, it’s fascinating. I mean, and as we touched on earlier…the war was fought. People died. We have the battlefields that you can visit. There’s this glory, honor…but all the stuff that happens after that is just as in some ways important for shaping the future. It might not be as glamorous. It might just be backroom deals, but you’ve got to be vigilant, you know? It’s just something to think about when you’re living through times of transition, or times of important historical moments. Like there’s this famous quote—I think it’s Plato—and it’s “appearance tyrannizes over truth.” And it’s how we perceive a moment, or how we see it, or the symbology of the moment—we just need to make sure that we’re always calibrating our understandings in such a way. This is a perfect example of, ‘Oh, the Civil War was fought. The Union won.’ But then, if you let the appearance of that victory tyrannize over the reality and the truth of what happened shortly thereafter, and how it set the stage for Jim Crow South, I mean, you lose sight of moralistically like what really matters. It’s what I find so interesting about Reconstruction Era history.

Tim (1:14:35) – Yeah, exactly. And to your point, too, the Civil War is more of a spectacle, right? You can point to battles and casualty reports and everything. And it’s more tangible to the layperson, just to see, ‘Okay, this battle took place. So many people died. This led to this next movement.’ It’s very procedural. The Reconstruction Era is much more subversive. 

Grant (1:14:58) – Exactly. 

Tim (1:14:59) – And there’s a lot of actors at play, too. And even the parts of this story that should be considered spectacles, like the Colfax Massacre, nobody knows about that. I think unless you’re from Louisiana…

Grant (1:15:12) – Yeah. 

Tim (1:15:13) – You’re in the state education system—I’m sure you learn about that. But like, elsewhere in the nation, I…

Grant (1:15:18) – Never heard of it. 

Tim (1:15:20) – I never heard of that before. And I feel that should be at the forefront of our understanding of the post-Civil War South and just—as a nation as a whole—what Reconstruction was and how much of a struggle people went through to try to, you know, capitalize on the ideals of enfranchisement, and how ultimately, as we see at the end of here—at least in Louisiana—it failed miserably because the White League gained power. They were the paramilitary arm of Democrats, and that persisted for, like I said, nearly a century. 

Grant (1:15:57) – Yep. Yeah, and again, I think it’s just super important to…you realize how that was such an important transition period, right? You know, Civil War to the Colfax Massacre, and then you realize the series of actions that happened right thereafter. These periods of historical transition, they’re fairly narrow in how we view them, and it’s so hard to make sense of them when you’re living through them because they’re moving at such a rapid pace and there are so many layers; there’s so much chaos. All the institutions and the old formulas for safety, success, for understanding the world around you kind of crumbling down. Something else is being built as it’s crumbling down. Can’t really make sense of it as you’re living through it, but how those pieces get built set the foundation for such a long period of time. And, you know, you think Jim Crow South. How long did that last? I mean, it’s much longer than the five years of the Civil War. It’s…again, Reconstruction history is so, so important and so useful for understanding historical moments when you’re living through them.  

Tim (1:17:18) – Well, the chaos of Reconstruction continues in Episode Four, as we unpack thirty days of anarchy in Arkansas—a violent chapter so intense, some historians call it America’s Second Civil War. Don’t miss out on the next installment of The American Narrative: Histories of a Nation. 

PRINT SOURCES

1. Dufour, Charles L. “The Age of Warmoth.” Louisiana History: The Journal of the Louisiana Historical Association 6, no. 4 (1965): 335–64

2. “EVENTS OF THE WEEK.” Portland Transcript. April 26, 1873. 

3. Fortier, James J.A. Carpet-Bag Misrule in Louisiana: The Tragedy of the Reconstruction Era Following the War Between the States. 1938.

4. Hanger, Kimberly S. A Medley of Cultures: Louisiana History at the Cabildo. Louisiana Museum Foundation, 1996.

5. Hogue, James K. Uncivil War: Five New Orleans Street Battles and the Rise and Fall of Radical Reconstruction. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2011

6. Hogue, James K. “The Strange Career of Jim Longstreet: History and Contingency in the Civil War Era.” In The Struggle for Equality: Essays on Sectional Conflict, the Civil War, and the Long Reconstruction, edited by Orville Vernon Burton, Jerald Podair, and Jennifer L. Weber, 153–71. University of Virginia Press, 2011.

7. McCluskey, Martha T. “Facing the Ghost of Cruikshank in Constitutional Law.” Journal of Legal Education 65, no. 2 (2015): 278–97.

8. Pitre, Althea D. “The Collapse of the Warmoth Regime, 1870-72.” Louisiana History: The Journal of the Louisiana Historical Association 6, no. 2 (1965): 161–87.

9. Richter, William L. “James Longstreet: From Rebel to Scalawag.” Louisiana History: The Journal of the Louisiana Historical Association 11, no. 3 (1970): 215–30.

10. Rousey, Dennis C. “Black Policemen in New Orleans During Reconstruction.” The Historian 49, no. 2 (1987): 223–43.

11. Sipress, Joel M. “From the Barrel of a Gun: The Politics of Murder in Grant Parish.” Louisiana History: The Journal of the Louisiana Historical Association 42, no. 3 (2001): 303–21. 

12. "THE COLFAX TRAGEDY." New York Evangelist. May 01, 1873.

13. WILLIAMS, LOU FALKNER. “Federal Enforcement of African American Voting Rights in the Post-Redemption South: Louisiana and the Election of 1878.” Louisiana History: The Journal of the Louisiana Historical Association 55, no. 3 (2014): 313–43.

LINKS

-  https://64parishes.org/entry/battle-of-liberty-place

-  https://neworleanshistorical.org/tours/show/8

-  https://lasc.libguides.com/c.php?g=1000847&p=7246539