M’CULLOCH’S DESTRUCTION OF SIGEL.
When Sigel came upon the southern end of the Confederate camp the troops he encountered were Churchill’s Arkansas regiment, Greer’s Texas Rangers, and about 700 mounted Missourians under command of Col. James P. Major and Col. Benjamin Brown, of Ray county, the latter the President of the Missouri State Senate. These troops, taken unawares, were speedily pushed back up the valley across the Fayetteville road. It was at this point of the line,—the Confederate right is faced toward the east,—where McCulloch’s Confederates were stationed. When Lyon first opened and alarmed the camp, McCulloch hastened back from Price headquarters, and took up two of his best regiments (Hubert’s and McIntosh’s), to the assistance of his comrade-commander. The absence of these troops weakened the position of McCulloch very materially, and Sigel had matters his own way for a time. Pearce’s division of Arkansas State troops were put in position, somewhat in reserve.
When McCulloch became fully aware that the Federal attack on the south or right was so formidable and so fraught with danger to the entire army, he brought back the Louisiana and Arkansas regiments, and forming them with some of Pearce’s division, and Major’s and Brown’s cavalry, advanced to attack Sigel. The Louisianians and McIntosh’s regiment had got the worst of it, in the end, in the fight in Ray’s cornfield, but they came up to the work now in brave style. The attack was being made on Sigel’s and Salomon’s regiments, and the four guns of Schaeffer and Schuetzenbach. There was only scattering firing on the part of the Federals, who mistook the character of the advancing hosts. It was no fault of McCulloch’s men, however, that Sigel was deceived. The Louisianians were not to blame that they were mistaken for the Iowa regiment because of their dress.[12]
On they came, regardless of the short-sightedness of their foes, and not knowing or caring anything about their enemies’ mistakes until they were within almost grappling distance of Sigel’s cannon, when they sprang forward, and with one well contrived and well managed charge swept everything before them. Then followed the events heretofore described—the vain attempts to rally—the disorderly panic-stricken flight—the captures and the pursuit. It must not be forgotten that just before the charge was made, Reid’s Arkansas battery opened on the unsuspicious Federal Germans, and they were already in confusion when the Confederate infantry and cavalry were precipitated upon them. Capt. Hiram Bledsoe’s Missouri battery, from Lafayette county, with “Old Sacramento,” a noted 12-pounder, and three other guns, also did effective work against Sigel, under direction of Col. Rosser, or Weightman’s brigade.
As soon as Sigel’s destruction had been fairly accomplished (which occupied but a few minutes) McCulloch left the flying fragments to be looked after by sundry detachments of the cavalry, and returned with his infantry and a great deal of the cavalry to the assistance of Gen. Price. In the last efforts against Lyon’s column, McCulloch’s troops took a conspicuous part, as before detailed; and of course but for the part taken by McCulloch’s and Pearce’s men the victory could not have been won.
AFTER THE FAMOUS VICTORY.
Dies iræ! O, the moaning and wailing that were all over the land west of the great Fathers of Waters when the full tidings of the battle of Wilson’s Creek were learned! From Dubuque and Baton Rouge, from Iowa and Texas, from Louisiana and Kansas, and from every county of Missouri, there went up a sobbing prayer from many a household for strength to bear the bereavement of a father, a husband, a brother or a son slain that 10th of August, 1861, down by the beautiful little stream in the Ozarks.
There they lay, strewn all about over the ground, with faces white and waxen, or clotted with blood, these men who had died to please the politicians. In cosy, shady nooks where fairies might delight to dwell; out in the glare of the blazing sun, festering and corrupting; in cornfields with blade and tassel waving above them, in dells and glens, and vales, and on the hillsides—dead men everywhere. With a tiny bullet hole a baby’s finger might stop, marring no feature and mangling no limb; with bowels torn out, with faces shattered, heads torn to pieces, handsome countenances distorted into ghastly, grinning objects—dead men everywhere.
Wounded men everywhere. Crawling about, delirious with pain and agony; lying prone and almost motionless, staring up into the blue sky, dying slowly and making no sign; shrieking, groaning, cursing, praying, imploring help, begging for a bandage, for water, lying quietly, laughing even,—wounded men everywhere. In hospitals, under trees, in tents, in houses, in stables, with surgeons probing and cutting and carving and sawing and clumsily bandaging; in ambulances jolting off towards Springfield; limping along to hide and escape another hurt—wounded men everywhere.
Blood everywhere. On the blades and the silks of the corn; on the leaves of the pretty green bushes.