Out on the Gravois road, a few miles west of the city, lived a Baptist preacher. He had sandy hair, a florid face, a muscular frame, and was about six feet in height. While rough in his manners, he was a man of great force. Brought up, or as he said, “raised,” in Mississippi, he was an uncompromising rebel. Late in the autumn of 1861, up in the State, at the town of Mexico, in a dark night, he swiftly rode on horseback through the lines of the Federal troops stationed there, and as he did so holloed: “Hurrah for Jeff Davis.” He was tracked to his home and arrested. He appeared at my door about nine o’clock in the morning, in a buggy, sitting between two United States officers. One of them rang my bell and I went out to see their prisoner. While he heartily despised me for my loyalty, he had evidently concluded that I was just the man to help him in his dire extremity. I asked the officers on what charge he had been arrested. They said that they had not been informed. I then asked him the same question, and he said that he did not know. He told no lie, but at the same time he could have very accurately guessed. Still, he could not have been reasonably expected to incriminate himself before the officers who had him in charge. He blubbered over his sad plight and entreated me to intercede with the provost marshal on his behalf. His tears, however, were not on account of his misdemeanor; he evidently cried because he had been caught. Nevertheless, I told him that I would do what I could for him.

A heavy damp snow was falling fast. I had to go on foot through it fully a mile and a half to intercede for this enemy of my country; while he rode to his prison-house in a buggy at the government’s expense. On my way I met one of my deacons, a physician. He was by birth a Kentuckian, but staunchly loyal. Thinking that I had no right to expose myself to that pitiless storm, he asked me in peremptory tones where I was going. I told him. He then wished to know what offence the imprisoned preacher had committed. I replied that I did not certainly know, but a report was abroad that he had ridden in a dark night through the picket line of the Federal army at Mexico, and, having been called upon to halt, had put spurs to his horse, and had holloed as he rode at breakneck speed to elude the musket-balls of the soldiers, “Hurrah for Jeff Davis!” The deacon cried out in indignation, “You go home out of this storm and let him sweat.” But I could not break my word to the prisoner, so I trudged on, saw the provost marshal, and pleaded as earnestly as I could for my incarcerated brother. He said that he would grant me anything that I might ask within the bounds of reason, but on account of the imperative demands upon him, he could not try the prisoner until the next day. Having done my best at the office of the provost marshal, I walked a mile through the damp snow, that was still copiously falling, to the prison at the corner of Fifth and Myrtle Streets, to make known to my rebel neighbor the result of my effort on his behalf. When I told him that his case could not be heard till the next day, he said in a disappointed tone: “Then, I must stay here all night,—it is a horrible place.” “Yes,” I quickly replied, “it is a slave-pen.” His eyes filled with tears as he said, “I never sold a slave.” His reply made me regret the thrust that I had inconsiderately given him. But in a moment he added, “I wish that I had some apples and tobacco.” Though I did not use tobacco myself I went through the storm about a mile, purchased for him out of my own pocket the desired articles, carried them back to him, and giving him my best wishes, I bade him good day, leaving him in that old slave-pen to his tobacco, apples and thoughts.

The next morning he was brought before the Military court, which having heard his case, through its great leniency decided, in spite of his grave offence, to discharge him. Returning to his home he had to go by my door; but he did not call to thank me for what I had done on his behalf; neither did he write me, nor did he ever in any way express the slightest gratitude or appreciation of what I did for him on that stormy day in order to secure his deliverance from the slave-pen prison.

A word more in reference to so extraordinary a character may not be amiss. Many months afterwards he had the brass to come to me again. Without any allusion to our relations in the past, he at once went on to say, that General Schofield by a military order had taken away the firearms of all in his neighborhood, and among the rest his shotgun had been seized and confiscated; that wild turkeys were coming into his cornfield, and he wished me to ask the general to grant him a permit to buy a shotgun so that he might shoot them. Making no allusion to what I had done for him in 1861, I asked him, “Are you a Union man?” He replied, “Yes, in the Constitution.” “Why,” I said, “do you say in the Constitution? Why do you not say, yes, I am a Union man?” “Well,” he answered, “the fact is, I am a secessionist.” “Why,” said I, “did you not then honestly say so?” “Oh! I don’t want to talk about that,” he responded, “I want to get a shotgun.” I then said to him, “I will ask the general to grant you a permit to get one on the condition that, if Missouri becomes a free State, you will leave it forever.” He said that he would gladly agree to that since he would not live in a free State. So I went with him to the military headquarters and said to the general: “This is Rev. Mr. ——, a Baptist minister; under your order his shotgun was taken away from him. The wild turkeys are coming into his cornfield and he has nothing to shoot them with. I cannot vouch for his loyalty, but I feel quite sure that if he has a shotgun he will not shoot black-Republicans, and he wishes you to give him a permit to buy one.” The general replied, “I will grant the permit, if you say so.” “Well,” I responded, “I think it safe to do so;” and writing out the permit he handed it to the secession preacher, who went away happy. I never saw him again. A friend told me that a few months afterwards he heard him bitterly denounce me in a large public assembly.

But let us now turn to another scene. On Thanksgiving Day of 1861, a secession family, living next door to me, determined to cheer some of their disloyal friends shut up in the Gratiot Street prison, by setting before them an abundant and delicious dinner. Their neighbors of like political views threw themselves with ardor into the scheme. Early in the day baskets full of appetizing food were brought from every direction, until these parcels, piled one upon another, quite covered the floor of their front hall. Then a covered wagon appeared at the door. Into it all these tempting viands were hastily packed and carried to the military prison. Those in charge of them asked the officer of the day, if they could give the prisoners a Thanksgiving dinner. He assured them that it would give him great pleasure to receive the food that had been so thoughtfully and kindly provided, but since it was contrary to orders to allow any outsiders to enter the prison, he would himself distribute the contents of the baskets and be careful that the most needy should not be overlooked. Two Iowa regiments that had just arrived had been sent down to Gratiot Street to do guard duty. They were weary, cold and hungry. The officer who had received the food, sent by devoted secession women, deeming these newly arrived soldiers to be the most needy, gave to them the roast turkey, fried chicken, mince pies, cranberry sauce, roast pig and apple sauce, and kept the disloyal within the prison walls on wholesome, but coarser, diet. While that commanding officer told no explicit lie, the ethics of his act will hardly bear very close inspection. He may have justified his deception by the fact that we were in a state of war, and have erroneously thought that war excuses “a multitude of sins.”

A little later, one of my ministerial brethren was lodged in the same prison. After having been there for several weeks, being in great anguish of spirit, he sent for me. When I met him he entreated me to secure if possible his discharge from that repulsive place. My heart was touched at his distress, and I assured him that the military authorities would gladly release him if he would take the oath of allegiance to the United States. I urged that this was a very reasonable demand on the part of the government that had protected his property and person for many years, and had never interfered in the slightest degree with his rights or liberty. He was, however, unconvinced, and sullenly refused to do what I urged upon him. But a few days afterwards, sick at heart from lying in prison, he decided to take the oath, did so, and was discharged. But when he went out to his freedom his conscience smote him for what he had done. He walked along the street hesitatingly and in zigzag lines. At times he stopped and gazed intently on the pavement. One of his friends met him and asked: “What is the matter?” He replied: “Matter enough, I was overpersuaded to take the oath of allegiance to the awful government of the United States, and feel as if I should go to hell.”

Such were some of the military prisons and such were some of the prisoners in St. Louis during the civil war. Those who kept these prisons and guarded these prisoners were patriots, intent on preserving the Union; those who were incarcerated and guarded were equally intent on disrupting the Union and establishing the Southern Confederacy, whose corner-stone, according to its Vice-President, was slavery. Both could not have been right, but both believed themselves to be right, and suffered for their faith.

CHAPTER XIII
LYON IN CONFERENCE AND IN CAMPAIGN

War really began in Missouri at the taking of Camp Jackson. But many hoped against hope that the fire that then began to flame might be dampened and extinguished. Eminent citizens of St. Louis besought the Governor and his chief of staff, General Price, to ask for a conference with General Lyon, that, by a frank, honest interchange of views, some basis for peace might be discovered. This these officers reluctantly consented to do. When their request was presented to General Lyon, some men, who commanded his confidence, urged him to grant it, in order that no one in the future might be able to say that he refused to consider any measure by which war might have been honorably averted. Lyon, yielding to this reasonable solicitation, agreed to participate in the proposed conference. But with him time was precious. Harney had relinquished his command of the department on May 30th, and Lyon had assumed it on the following day. Since that time he had been exceedingly busy in gathering and equipping troops. To him war in Missouri, probably fierce and protracted, was inevitable, and he was bending every energy upon the work of preparation, that he might be able to wage it successfully. He considered any suspension of his activity as intolerable. Whatever was done by way of compromise must be done without delay. So he fixed an early day for the solicited conference. He announced that if the Governor and his general, or either of them, “should visit St. Louis on, or before, the 12th of June, in order to hold an interview with him for the purpose of effecting, if possible, a pacific solution of the troubles in Missouri, they should be free from molestation or arrest during their journey to St. Louis, and their return from St. Louis to Jefferson City.” Thus assured of safe-conduct, in the afternoon of June 10th, Governor Jackson, General Price, and one of the Governor’s aides-de-camp, Thomas L. Snead, left the State capital for our city. On the following morning, June 11th, they apprised Lyon that they were at the Planters’ Hotel. In the afternoon of that day, the conference took place.[[38]] The fact of that vitally important meeting became generally known. All intelligent persons in the city were full of interest, not to say anxiety, in reference to the outcome.