Opposite Sigel’s position was the camp of the Arkansas Division:  though it was fully in my sight, and the tents and wagons were plainly visible, I could not get over the impression that they were far off.

The explosions of our shells, and the flashes of the enemy’s guns, a short distance up the slope on the opposite side of the creek, seemed to be at a considerable distance.

To what I shall ascribe these illusions, I do not know.  On subsequent battle-fields I have never known their recurrence.  Greater battles, larger streams, higher hills, broader fields, wider valleys, more extended camps, have come under my observation, but in none of them has the romance exceeded the reality.

The hours did not crowd into minutes, but the minutes almost extended into hours.  I frequently found, on consulting my watch, that occurrences, apparently of an hour’s duration, were really less than a half or a quarter of that time.

As the sun rose, it passed into a cloud.  When it emerged, I fully expected it would be some distance toward the zenith, and was surprised to find it had advanced only a few degrees.

There was a light shower, that lasted less than ten minutes:  I judged it had been twenty.

The evolutions of the troops on the field appeared slow and awkward.  They were really effected with great promptness.

General Lyon was killed before nine o’clock, as I very well knew.  It was some days before I could rid myself of an impression that his death occurred not far from noon.

The apparent extension of the hours was the experience of several persons on that field.  I think it has been known by many, on the occasion of their first battle.  At Pea Ridge, an officer told me, there seemed to be about thirty hours between sunrise and sunset.  Another thought it was four P.M. when the sun was at the meridian.  It was only at Wilson Creek that I experienced this sensation.  On subsequent battle-fields I had no reason to complain of my estimate of time.

The first shell from the enemy’s guns passed high over my head.  I well remember the screech of that missile as it cut through the air and lost itself in the distance.  “Too high, Captain Bledsoe,” exclaimed our artillery officer, as he planted a shell among the Rebel gunners.  In firing a half-dozen rounds the Rebels obtained our range, and then used their guns with some effect.  The noise of each of those shells I can distinctly recall, though I have since listened to hundreds of similar sounds, of which I have no vivid recollection.  The sound made by a shell, in its passage through the air, cannot be described, and, when once heard, can never be forgotten.

I was very soon familiar with the whistling of musket-balls.  Before the end of the action, I thought I could distinguish the noise of a Minie bullet from that of a common rifle-ball, or a ball from a smooth-bored musket.  Once, while conversing with the officer in charge of the skirmish line, I found myself the center of a very hot fire.  It seemed, at that instant, as if a swarm of the largest and most spiteful bees had suddenly appeared around me.  The bullets flew too rapidly to be counted, but I fancied I could perceive a variation in their sound.