08/11/2025
The Story of William S. Jackson
🏛 Part 7 – The Sudden Departure of a Rising Star (1877–1880)
When 1877 opened, William S. “Bill” Jackson was firmly installed as Saline County Clerk, having fought his way through years of political distrust and factional infighting. Just the year before, he had survived one of the most contentious elections of his career—one that tested his political instincts, his public reputation, and his resilience in the face of relentless editorial attacks. Those disputes, fueled by his father’s legacy as Missouri’s secessionist governor and by Jackson’s own Civil War service as a Confederate guerrilla, had cast a long shadow over his ambitions. Yet by the start of 1877, the courthouse in Marshall was no longer the arena of political warfare—it was simply a place of work.
His first attempt to re-enter politics had been controversial, and it set the stage for that divisive 1876 campaign. In 1874, wary that his family name and wartime record might hurt him in a straight Democratic primary, Jackson had pushed for a county convention format, believing his extended family’s political clout could sway the delegates. On one hand, the maneuver worked—the convention was held. On the other, it failed—Jackson lost the nomination to J.R. Berryman, his longtime rival. That November, Jackson’s ally C.M. Sutherlin, running as a third-party “Radical” or Bourbon, captured the clerkship and promptly appointed Jackson as his deputy. When Sutherlin resigned in May 1876, Governor Hardin appointed Jackson to fill the vacancy—an act that sent his critics into a fury. In November, he stood before the voters in his own right and, to the surprise of some, won handily.
And by all accounts, he did well. Jackson’s name now appeared in the papers for the unremarkable but essential tasks of a county clerk—filing land deeds, recording official minutes, issuing licenses. Mentions of his past became increasingly rare. More often, he was cited for his role in the Grange, his support for expanding the railroad into Saline County, or his involvement with the Knights of Pythias. In March 1878, his wife’s name appeared among the many ladies who performed at a benefit concert for Sunday schools—a reminder that the Jackson family had integrated fully into the civic and social life of Marshall. He also served on the Saline County Fair Board, helping organize one of the community’s most important annual events.
By 1878, Jackson had quietly built a record strong enough to secure the Democratic nomination for another term as county clerk without significant opposition. When his name was printed on ballots that fall, it was accompanied in the press by phrases like “our efficient county clerk.” The election passed without fanfare, and his victory seemed almost inevitable. Even occasional mentions of his father’s stormy governorship failed to gain traction. The war years, for the most part, had receded into the background of public memory.
Fraternal ties remained central to Jackson’s public presence. He was active not only in the Grange but also in the Knights of Pythias, an organization that promoted mutual aid and community service. These affiliations broadened his network and reinforced his image as a man of the people—accessible, sociable, and dependable. His re-election in 1878 underscored that his wartime past no longer dominated his public identity. Saline County voters seemed more interested in his performance in office than in the politics of fifteen years earlier.
In August 1879, however, the past briefly resurfaced in an unexpected way. Fifteen years after his 1864 raid on Marshall had resulted in the burning of the courthouse, a petition appeared regarding county records—an ironic reminder that the very office he now held had once been the target of his wartime fire. Though no one said it aloud in the official proceedings, there must have been a few in the room who remembered the smoke rising from the square that day. The petition came and went without scandal, a testament to how far public perception had shifted. By early 1880, Jackson’s name appeared more often in connection with civic improvement projects and Democratic Party organizing than with any lingering war stories.
The year 1880 began with a flourish. In April, Jackson was elected alderman of Marshall’s 3rd Ward, adding municipal governance to his portfolio. That same month, he was chosen to chair Saline County’s delegation to the Missouri State Democratic Convention—a clear signal that his influence now extended well beyond the county courthouse. In speeches and meetings, he pressed for party unity, agricultural development, and infrastructure expansion. His political stock was rising fast; some even whispered that, if his trajectory held, he could be a contender for higher office in the years ahead.
Spring turned to summer, and Jackson’s schedule was relentless. Between clerkship duties, city council responsibilities, and party organizing, he was a constant presence in the public sphere. Then, without warning, the momentum stopped. On August 3, 1880, the Kansas City Times and other Missouri papers carried the stunning headline: “Death of W.S. Jackson—Prominent Saline County Official Expires Suddenly.” The cause was reported as “inflammation of the stomach”—a condition that, in an era before modern medicine, could prove swiftly fatal and which eerily echoed the stomach ailments that had claimed his father’s life. For a man whose existence had been defined by conflict, ambition, and recovery, the end came quietly, without the fanfare that had marked so much of his career. Tributes poured in from across the state, noting the contradictions of his life—a wartime raider turned steady-handed administrator, a rebel whose later years were devoted to building community institutions.
It is unknown whether Jackson knew before his death, but his wife was expecting their third child. On April 14, 1881—eight months after his passing—Van DeVere Jackson was born. His wife never remarried. Her oldest son lived until 1913 and is buried in the family plot at Sappington Cemetery, with descendants still living in various areas of the United States today. His daughter, Ethlyn, lived until 1964. The son he never knew passed away in Montana in 1963, where he had been living with his mother. She herself died in 1922 and was returned to Missouri to be buried beside her husband.
Bill Jackson’s life held no shortage of controversy, yet—when he had the opportunity—he exercised his office with consistency and competence. His career embodied a tension that Missouri itself wrestled with in the postwar era: the reconciliation of men once branded enemies into the fabric of public life. What Missouri would have looked like had a second Jackson held the reins of executive power is difficult to say. He would have been one of the few former bushwhackers to achieve a high government position. But his early death ended that possibility, and with it, the chance to see whether his brand of politics could have bridged the divide between rebellion and governance. In the decades that followed, his memory faded from the public mind—until now, when the story of his improbable journey from the power and privilege of his antebellum life - to his wartime bushwhacking - and to his postwar social and political rehabilitation - had once again been told.
Thanks for reading.
Eric, M2 Historian
