The letter was long for Clarence, and written under great difficulties from date to date. For nearly a month he had tramped over mountains and across river bottoms, waiting for news of an organized force of resistance in Missouri. Begging his way from cabin to cabin, and living on greasy bacon and corn pone, at length he crossed the swift Gasconade (so named by the French settlers because of its brawling ways) where the bridge of the Pacific railroad had been blown up by the Governor's orders. Then he learned that the untiring Lyon had steamed up the Missouri and had taken possession of Jefferson City without a blow, and that the ragged rebel force had fought and lost at Booneville. Footsore, but undaunted, he pushed on to join the army, which he heard was retreating southward along the western tier of counties of the state.
On the banks of the Osage he fell in with two other young amen in as bad a plight as himself. They travelled together, until one day some rough farmers with shotguns leaped out of a bunch of willows on the borders of a creek and arrested all three for Union spies. And they laughed when Mr. Clarence tried to explain that he had not long since been the dapper captain of the State Dragoons.
His Excellency, the Governor of Missouri (so acknowledged by all good Southerners), likewise laughed when Mr. Colfax and the two others were brought before him. His Excellency sat in a cabin surrounded by a camp which had caused the dogs of war to howl for very shame.
“Colfax!” cried the Governor. “A Colfax of St. Louis in butternuts and rawhide boots?”
“Give me a razor,” demanded Clarence, with indignation, “a razor and a suit of clothes, and I will prove it.” The Governor laughed once more.
“A razor, young man! A suit of clothes You know not what you ask.”
“Are there any gentlemen from St. Louis here?” George Catherwood was brought in,—or rather what had once been George. Now he was a big frontiersman with a huge blond beard, and a bowie, knife stuck into his trousers in place of a sword. He recognized his young captain of dragoons the Governor apologized, and Clarence slept that night in the cabin. The next day he was given a horse, and a bright new rifle which the Governor's soldiers had taken from the Dutch at Cole Camp on the way south, And presently they made a junction with three thousand more who were their images. This was Price's army, but Price had gone ahead into Kansas to beg the great McCulloch and his Confederates to come to their aid and save the state.
“Dear mother, I wish that you and Jinny and Uncle Comyn could have
seen this country rabble. How you would have laughed, and cried,
because we are just like them. In the combined army two thousand
have only bowie-knives or clubs. Some have long rifles of Daniel
Boone's time, not fired for thirty years. And the impedimenta are a
sight. Open wagons and conestogas and carryalls and buggies, and
even barouches, weighted down with frying-pans and chairs and
feather beds. But we've got spirit, and we can whip Lyon's Dutchmen
and Yankees just as we are. Spirit is what counts, and the Yankees
haven't got it, I was made to-day a Captain of Cavalry under
Colonel Rives. I ride a great, raw-boned horse like an elephant.
He jolts me until I am sore,—not quite as easy as my thoroughbred,
Jefferson. Tell Jinny to care for him, and have him ready when we
march into St. Louis.”
“COWSKIN PRAIRIE, 9th July.
“We have whipped Sigel on the prairie by Coon Creek and killed—we
don't know how many. Tell Maude that George distinguished himself
in the fight. We cavalry did not get a chance.
“We have at last met McCulloch and his real soldiers. We cheered
until we cried when we saw their ranks of gray, with the gold
buttons and the gold braid and the gold stars. General McCulloch
has taken me on his staff, and promised me a uniform. But how to
clothe and feed and arm our men! We have only a few poor cattle,
and no money. But our men don't complain. We shall whip the
Yankees before we starve.”
For many days Mrs. Colfax did not cease to bewail the hardship which her dear boy was forced to endure. He, who was used to linen sheets and eider down, was without rough blanket or shelter; who was used to the best table in the state, was reduced to husks.
“But, Aunt Lillian,” cried Virginia, “he is fighting for the South. If he were fed and clothed like the Yankees, we should not be half so proud of him.”