The Lost Army

by Thomas Wallace Knox

And so ended the battle of Booneville. The losses on the Union side were three killed and ten wounded; on the rebel side the number of casualties was never positively known, owing to the fact that many of the state troops fled directly to their homes and stayed there, or at all events were not heard from again. Eight or ten were known to have been killed, and about twenty wounded.

A year or two later an affair of this sort would have been regarded merely as a roadside skirmish, but at that time it was an occurrence of great moment. From one end of the country to the other the account of it was published, and it has become known to history as an important battle. Politically it was of great consequence, as it was the first battle fought in Missouri, if we leave out of consideration the incidents of Camp Jackson and the day after, which cannot be regarded as battles in any sense. It was the first trial of strength between the state authorities of Missouri and the national government, and as a trial of strength it showed the power of the United States and the resources and abilities of the government better than could have been done by a whole volume of proclamations.

Disciplined troops were brought face to face with raw recruits who had not received even the rudiments of military instruction. Many of them were not even organized into companies, but had come together hastily at the call of the governor, and on the day of the battle were trying to fight “on their own hook.” And they learned the lesson which is generally taught under such circumstances—that such a hook is a very poor one to fight on.

The greenness of the men is shown by some of the incidents of the day. Reverend William A. Pile, the chaplain of the First Missouri, was a muscular Christian, who showed such a fondness for fighting that he afterward went into the service and gained the rank of brigadier-general before the war was over. At Booneville he was assigned to look after the wounded, and for this purpose was given command of four soldiers, two of them from the mounted escort of General Lyon, and two infantrymen from the First Missouri.

While looking about the field after the rebels had been put to flight, the chaplain came suddenly upon a group of men who seemed uncertain what to do. Most of them had rifles and shotguns, and might have made it very uncomfortable for the man of religion.

He hesitated not a moment, but drew his revolver. He was mounted on a good horse, one of the steeds taken in the early part of the battle, and had all the dignity of a captain of cavalry.

Ordering his two cavalrymen to accompany him, and telling the infantry column—of two men—to follow as fast as they could, he dashed up to the group and presented his pistol as though about to fire.

“Throw down your arms and surrender!” the chaplain commanded, in a voice like the roaring of a young bull.

The men dropped their arms to the ground, and stood in that dazed attitude with which a cow looks at a railway train.

“About face, march!” shouted the chaplain, anxious to get the fellows away from their weapons before they had time to collect their senses and make it uncomfortable for their would-be captors.