Sedalia is 188 miles south-west of St. Louis, and was an important military station at that time.
The people in that section were very disloyal and belligerent.
The train on which I journeyed was fired into three times the day I made the journey, by “bushwhackers,” men who carried on an irregular warfare.
The train was well guarded. There were at least fifty well-armed Union soldiers on board to guard it, who took turns on the platform, ready to spring off, gun in hand, if the train were attacked. But when a volley was fired into the train, before the engineer could stop it, and the soldiers could get started in pursuit, the enemy had mounted their horses, and were far away. When the second volley crashed into the train, a bullet passed through the window beside me, and whizzed very near to my eyes. If it had come a little closer, it would have gone through both of them. Fortunately I had just leaned back against the seat; for if I had been sitting in an upright position, as I was a few moments before, the ball would have gone through my head.
A mother and her little girl, who was five or six years old, sat in the seat in front of me. The poor little child was so terrified that she tried to hide under the seat. Her appeals, as she lifted her beautiful tear-stained face, were very touching.
“Do you think they’ll fire again, mamma?”
“I hope not, my darling,” and the mother would tenderly cover her with the skirts of her dress, and try to soothe her.
“O mamma! do get down on the floor; if you don’t, you might get killed.”
It was pitiful to see a child in such terror, crouching on the floor.
We did not reach Sedalia till midnight, and it was not till the train drew up at the station that the child could be comforted.