At this time it can be safely said that nowhere, outside of hell, was there such a horrible condition as prevailed in Missouri.  Singly and in squads a good many of Price’s men returned from the South, and with local sympathizers forming guerrilla bands under such leaders as “Bill” Anderson, Poindexter, Jackson, and Quantrell, soon had practical possession of the greater part of the State.  The Radicals were the principal sufferers.  Conservatives, except by the occasional loss of property, were rarely molested.  Between them and the Rebels there was often an agreement for mutual protection—­in fact, it was not always easy to draw the line between them,—­but the Charcoals, especially if they were “Dutchmen,” could look for no compassion.  They were shot down in their fields.  They were called to their doors at night and there dispatched.  Their houses were burned and their stock stolen.  Many families of comparative wealth and refinement, including women and children, because of the insecurity of their homes, slept in the woods for weeks and months.  The Radicals were not always fortunate enough to escape bodily torture.  Having captured one of the best known among them, an old man and a civilian, some of “Bill” Anderson’s men set him up against the wall of his house as a target for pistol practice.  Their play consisted in seeing how near they could put their shots without hitting, and this amusement they kept up while his wife was running about in an effort to raise the amount of money that was demanded for his ransom.

So successful were the Rebel bands at this time that Missouri was not large enough to hold them.  One of them, led by Quantrell, crossed the Kansas line, captured the city of Lawrence, and butchered two hundred of its peaceable inhabitants, while the border towns and cities of Iowa and Illinois were greatly alarmed for their safety.

So intolerable did the situation become, that the Radicals from all parts of the State met in conference and decided to send a delegation to ask Mr. Lincoln to change the department commander, in the hope that it would bring a change of policy.

It is to be presumed that no President was ever confronted with such a motley crowd of visitors as the members of that delegation—­between seventy and eighty in number—­as they formed in line around three sides of the East Room in the White House.  Their garments were a sight!  Some of the men were in full military dress and some in civilian clothes, but the costumes of a majority were a mixture of both kinds, just as accident had arranged it, and pretty much all showed evidences of hard usage.  One of the most forward of the delegates had neither cuffs nor collar, and his shirt had manifestly not been near a laundry for a long time.  He apologized to the President for his appearance, saying that he had been sleeping in the woods where toilet accommodations were very indifferent.  Two or three of the men bore marks of battle with the guerrillas, in patched-up faces, and one of them carried an arm that had been disabled by a gun shot in a red handkerchief sling.  In speaking of these visitors, the President afterwards jocularly referred to them as “those crackerjacks from Missouri.”