“Rather than concede to the state of Missouri the right to demand that my Government shall not enlist troops within her limits, or bring troops into the state whenever it pleases; or move its troops at its own will into, out of, or through, the state; rather than concede to the state of Missouri for one single instant the right to dictate to my Government in any matter, however unimportant, I would” (rising and pointing in turn to every one in the room) “see you, and you, and you, and you, and every man, woman, and child in this state, dead and buried.”  Then, turning to the Governor, he continued, “This means war.  In an hour one of my officers will call for you and conduct you out of my lines.”

And thus, without another word, without an inclination of the head, he turned upon his heel and strode out of the room, rattling his spurs and clanking his sabre.

It did mean war.  In less than two months that indomitable leader was lying dead beside Wilson’s Creek, among the oaks on Bloody Hill.  What he would have been to this Union, had God spared him, we shall never know.  He saved Missouri, and won respect and love from the brave men who fought against him.

Those first fierce battles in the state!  What prayers rose to heaven, and curses sank to hell, when the news of them came to the city by the river!  Flags were made by loving fingers, and shirts and bandages.  Trembling young ladies of Union sympathies presented colors to regiments on the Arsenal Green, or at Jefferson Barracks, or at Camp Benton to the northwest near the Fair Grounds.  And then the regiments marched through the streets with bands playing that march to which the words of the Battle Hymn were set, and those bright ensigns snapping at the front; bright now, and new, and crimson.  But soon to be stained a darker red, and rent into tatters, and finally brought back and talked over and cried over, and tenderly laid above an inscription in a glass case, to be revered by generations of Americans to confer What can stir the soul more than the sight of those old flags, standing in ranks like the veterans they are, whose duty has been nobly done?  The blood of the color-sergeant is there, black now with age.  But where are the tears of the sad women who stitched the red and the white and the blue together?

The regiments marched through the streets and aboard the boats, and pushed off before a levee of waving handkerchiefs and nags.  Then heart-breaking suspense.  Later—­much later, black headlines, and grim lists three columns long,—­three columns of a blanket sheet!  “The City of Alton has arrived with the following Union dead and wounded, and the following Confederate wounded (prisoners).”  Why does the type run together?

In a never-ceasing procession they steamed up the river; those calm boats which had been wont to carry the white cargoes of Commerce now bearing the red cargoes of war.  And they bore away to new battlefields thousands of fresh-faced boys from Wisconsin and Michigan and Minnesota, gathered at Camp Benton.  Some came back with their color gone and their red cheeks sallow and bearded and sunken.  Others came not back at all.