I have spoken of the Camp Jackson affair.  Although the people in the Rebel encampment surrendered without a blow, the incident was attended with considerable bloodshed.  A mob of Rebel sympathizers, consisting largely of half-grown boys—­I was in the midst of the throng at the time—­with their pistols opened fire on a German Union regiment and killed several of its men.  The troops, in return, poured a volley into the crowd of spectators from which the shots had come, killing or wounding over forty persons, the most of them, as is usual in such cases, being inoffensive onlookers.  A man standing beside me and, like myself, a spectator, had the top of one ear clipped off by a Minie ball as cleanly as if it had been done with a knife.  I found when, soon afterwards, I reached the business center of the city, where the Rebel element then largely predominated, that the story of the tragedy had swelled the number of the victims to one thousand.  Intense excitement and the most furious indignation prevailed.  Hundreds of men, with flaming faces, were swearing the most dreadful oaths that they would shoot Frank Blair, whom they seemed to regard as wholly responsible, on sight.  Many of them were flourishing pistols in confirmation of their bloody purpose.  Just then the attention of the crowd was drawn to an unusual spectacle.  Down Fourth Street, which was then the leading business avenue of St. Louis, and at that time densely packed with the excited people, came the Union soldiers with the prisoners from Camp Jackson on their way to the United States Arsenal grounds.  At the head of the procession marched the men of the First Missouri volunteer regiment, their guns “aport” and ready for immediate service, and at their head—­the only mounted man in the regiment, according to my recollection—­rode their Colonel, who was Frank Blair.  He was in full uniform, which made him still more conspicuous.  No better target could have been offered.  I watched the audacious man, expecting to hear a shot at any moment from the sidewalk, or from a window of one of the high buildings lining the street, and to see him topple from his saddle.  He understood very well the danger he was braving.  He knew that in that throng, where everybody was armed, there were hundreds toying with the triggers of their guns, and trying to muster sufficient courage to shoot him down.  Slowly, and as calmly as if on ordinary dress parade, he led the way until he passed out of sight.  I thought then, and still think, it was the pluckiest thing I ever witnessed.

The effect of the breaking up and capture of Camp Jackson was something wonderful.  Up to that time, the Rebels of St. Louis and their sympathizers had been very demonstrative.  In portions of the city the Rebel cockade, which was a red rosette pinned to the side of the hat, was conspicuous, and any one not displaying that decoration was in danger of having his hat smashed upon his head.  After Camp Jackson’s surrender, I never saw a Rebel cockade openly worn in St. Louis.