Any way, whatever the interview was, we had barely stretched out our weary limbs and folded our arms to sleep when the sergeant-major, that fellow that so often brings bad news, came tripping along through the encampment, hurrying from one company’s headquarters to another, saying: “Captain, it’s General McCulloch’s order that you have your men cook up three days’ rations, distribute all the ammunition they can get and be in their saddles, ready to march on the enemy, at eleven o’clock to-night.”
Sleep? Oh, no! Where’s the man who said he was sleepy? Cook three days’ rations? Oh, my! And not a cooking vessel in the regiment! But never mind about that, it’s a soldier’s duty to obey orders without asking questions. I drew and distributed the flour and meat, and left the men to do the cooking while I looked after the ammunition. Here the men learned to roll out biscuit dough about the size and shape of a snake, coil it around a ramrod or a small wooden stick, and bake it before the fire.
This Sunday afternoon and night, August 4, was a busy time in our camp. Some were cooking the rations, some writing letters, some one thing, and some another; all were busy until orders came to saddle up. We were camped on the main Springfield road, and General Lyon, with his army, was at Dug Springs, a few miles farther up the same road. We were to march at eleven o’clock and attack him at daylight Monday morning. There already had been some skirmishing between our outposts and his scouts. We had never been in battle, and we were nervous, restless, sleepless for the remainder of the day and night after receiving the orders.
Some of the things that occurred during the afternoon and night would have been ludicrous had not the whole occasion been so serious. In my efforts to obtain and distribute all the ammunition I could procure I was around among the men from mess to mess during all this busy time. Scores of letters were being written by firelight to loved ones at home, said letters running something like this:
Camp ——, Mo., Aug. 4, 1861.
My Dear ——:
We arrived at General McCulloch’s headquarters about 10 A. M. to-day, tired, dusty, hungry, and sleepy, after a long, forced march from Fort Smith, Ark. We are now preparing for our first battle. We are under orders to march at eleven o’clock to attack General Lyon’s army at daylight in the morning. All the boys are busy cooking up three days’ rations. I am very well. If I survive to-morrow’s battle I will write a postscript, giving you the result. Otherwise this will be mailed to you as it is.
Yours affectionately,
—— ——
Numbers of the boys said to me: “Now, Barron, if I am killed to-morrow please mail this letter for me.” One said: “Barron, here is my gold watch. Take it, and if I am killed to-morrow please send it to my mother.” Another said: “Barron, here is a gold ring. Please take care of it, and if I am killed to-morrow I want you to send it to my sister.” Another one said: “Barron, if I am killed to-morrow I want you to send this back to my father.” At last it became funny to me that each seemed to believe in the probability of his being killed the next day, and were making nuncupative wills, naming me as executor in every case, without seeming to think of the possibility of my being killed.