Chapter 18 -
St. Louis Massacre

(Dream) “Get up, boy,” the woman hissed and kicked Hunter’s foot again.

Dazed, Hunter looked around.

“Get up, boy,” the woman hissed and kicked Hunter’s foot again. “We got to get going.”

“But I’m sick,” Hunter offered, confused.

“You’re going to be dead if I have to tell you one more time to get up.” The woman threw a Yankee forage cap at Hunter. “Here, put this on, and let’s go.”

Hunter did as he was told and got up from his cot. They were in the woods, and it was dark, cold and spooky. The dark ominous trees swished and swayed in the chilly breeze as their gloomy shadows undulated fitfully and slithered silently back and forth across the muddy ground. Confused, Hunter looked around. He felt sick at his stomach. Reluctantly, he squired the cap on his head and followed the woman as she crept silently through the woods.

She stopped behind some tall trees and dropped to her knee. Hunter did the same. Between the trees, Hunter could see a campfire burning less than a hundred yards away with men smoking and drinking and laughing around it.

“How many do you think?” the woman asked Hunter.

Hunter looked back over his shoulder to see if she was talking to him or somebody behind him.

“How many?” she hissed again. “You deaf or something, boy?”

“No, ma’am.”

The woman spun around and grabbed Hunter by the throat, pushed him hard against the trunk of the tree and hissed into his face, “Stop calling me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter caught himself and apologized. “I’m sorry…” Not knowing how to address this angry person, Hunter stuttered, “I’m sick, and I don’t think I should be out in the cold. I think it would be best if I went back to the camp hospital. I have the measles and been kicked in the head by a mule.”

“Ah, shut up. I don’t see any red dots on you.” The lady let go of Hunter’s throat, looked back in the direction of the campfire and grunted over her shoulder. “I think there are about eighty to a hundred rebel trouble makers out there.” She spun back around and hissed angrily in Hunter’s direction. “About a hundred of the governor’s men plotting to capture my arsenal and steal my guns and ammunition.” She clenched her teeth and almost spit the end of her sentence. “That, bucko, is what I think!”

As the lady said that, she pulled a gun out from under her dress and pointed it at Hunter. Hunter fell back against the big tree and gaped at the giant black hole at the end of the pistol’s barrel, paralyzed.

“You ready for some action?” As she said that, she pointed the gun up into the air and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded with a roar that split the serenity of the quiet night air in half. The sound was deafening. All Hunter could do was suck in his breath and hold it. His ears were ringing, and all he could smell was sulfur.

Suddenly, the woods came alive with soldiers on horses. Hunter pressed himself harder against the base of the big tree and watched with eyes the size of white saucers. Everywhere, men in blue uniforms, ten feet tall were riding giant horses, darting this way and that way. The huge sweaty beasts seemed angry and spoiling for a fight. Their shiny coats glistened and shimmered in the moonlight. Their giant moist glistening nostrils snorted gray smoke into the cold night air as they noisily grunted for each thunderous breath.

Hunter tried to fade into the bark of the big tree as all around him guns belched black smoke and spit showers of sparks into the night air. Men and horses smashed through the underbrush, careening around big trees and over small bushes. Swords were drawn. Their long sharp edges flashed and flickered in the bright silver moonlight, as men waved them angrily over their heads and screeched bone-rattling screams.

Hunter watched as the lady next to him jumped up from where they were hiding and started screaming at the top of her lungs, “Take them alive. Take them alive. I want to parade these rebel rats through the streets of Saint Louis, so others can see what happens when you try to come up against the United States of America.” She punctuated each word with a shot from her six-shooter, until it was empty.

Hunter watched in horror as the woman threw down her empty pistol and started ripping off her clothes. Much to his surprise, she was fully clothed underneath in men’s pants and shirt. Hunter realized she wasn’t a woman at all but was a man in woman’s clothing.

(Hospital) Peg spit a stream of brown juice onto the tent’s dirt floor, missing the spittoon completely. Apologetically, with the tip of his boot he covered the wet spot up with some loose dirt. Careful not to offend Patch’s delicate noise again, he moved only slightly closer and asked, “Could you reread that part again, please?”

Patch looked at the spittoon and looked at Peg but said nothing. He cleared his throat and started to read, “Union Capitan Nathaniel Lyon, a Radical Republican known for his brazenness, commanded the Federal troops in St. Louis. It was widely rumored that the Missouri State Militia intended to forcibly take possession of the hotly contested St. Louis Arsenal, which both Union and Confederate authorities desired, as the largest supply of weapons in the West were stored there. Lyon took quick action to prevent such an occurrence. He ordered the 2nd U.S. Infantry to seize the arsenal and move most of the weapons across the Mississippi River to Illinois for safekeeping. Afterwards, he used his newly mustered force of nearly 3,000 recruits to surround and capture the Missouri State Guard stationed at Camp Jackson, located several miles outside of the city limits.”

“Not that part,” Peg insisted. “Reread the part about Lyon wearing a dress.”

Patch cleared his throat again and read, “The temporary camp had been authorized by the governor and was a legal assembly. Lyon did not see it that way. He disguised himself as a farmwoman, to spy on the camp, and discovered that the Pro-Southern Governor Jackson indeed planned to seize the arsenal.”

“By doggies,” Peg snorted and slapped the knee of his good leg. “I would have loved to have seen that dadburn fool Yankee dressed up like a sissy, wearing ear-bobs and vanilla to smell nice and pretty and all.”

Patch waited until Peg quieted down before he continued to read, “Lyon was saddened and angered that one of his officers, Captain Constantin Blandowski, was killed during the Camp Jackson mayhem, becoming the first Union army officer to die in battle west of the Mississippi. With that Lyon roughly rounded up and arrested not only Governor Jackson’s newly appointed general, D. M. Frost, but 669 of what the Governor called the ‘St. Louis Minute Men.’ To add salt to insult, Lyon decided to march his prisoners through downtown St. Louis before providing them with a parole and ordering them to disperse. This lengthy march was widely viewed as a public humiliation for the state forces and immediately angered citizens who had gathered to watch the commotion.”

(Dream) “Get on the back of my horse, measles boy.” Capitan Lyon pulled Hunter’s arm, while a solider on the ground lifted Hunter up onto the back of the captain’s big white horse. “This is going to be fun.” The captain spurred his big horse, and it leaped into motion, almost knocking over a half dozen prisoners before they could get out of its way.

“Okay, mov’um out.” He laughed as he positioned his horse at the head of the column and started the long slow walk down the dark dusty road toward town.

It was just breaking dawn as the long column of prisoners and troops reached the city limits. News of their arrival had reached St. Louis long before they did, and the town was out in great numbers, lining the street to witness the event.

Hunter looked down at the angry faces as the captain’s white horse strutted past them. Hunter could not understand why they were so angry looking. They spit at the captain and screamed obscenities as his horse pranced by. Soon, it became clear.

“Get out of here, Yankees,” someone screamed from the back of the crowd. Another hollered, “Yankees, go home.” Hunter started to realize that there were more Confederates in the angry crowd than there were Confederate prisoners marching behind Capitan’s Lyon horse. Just about the time he realized that a tomato hit him. Soon, more fruits and vegetables were being hurled. The column stopped as rocks and paving stones were now being hurled at the captain and his soldiers.

“Give it back to them, boys!” the captain hollered, as his frightened horse reared up and danced into the crowd on its muscular hind legs.

Some of the Federal soldiers, as ordered, started hurling the rocks and paving stones back at the crowd while other soldiers kept their guns drawn on the column of restless prisoners.

Hunter had fallen off the back of the captain’s horse at the first buck and was now standing in the middle of the crowd. He was pushed against someone who had his gun drawn. The angry man knocked Hunter’s Yankee hat off with the barrel of this pistol and snorted, “Go home, you stinking abolitionist.”

As Hunter bent over to pick up his hat, someone from behind kicked him in the seat of his pants which sent him stumbling out into the line of prisoners.

When he put his hat back on, one of the prisoners knocked it off again and barked, “Go home, you stinking abolitionist.”

Hunter turned to his angry assailant. With tears in his eyes and a knot welling up in his throat, he apologized, “I’m sorry, sir. Really. I’m just trying to go home. I’m not from the South, you see. I’m for Boston. Well, not really. I was born in New Orleans but….” He got interrupted as the soldiers pushed the prisoners to get them started moving again. “Really, I’m not an abolitionist. I’m not an ‘abbo’ anything. I’m just trying…”

Before Hunter could finish his sentence, a Federal soldier picked up Hunter’s hat, slammed it into his chest and ordered him to get back up with the captain.

Hunter started to put his hat back on but thought better of it. He squeezed it in his hand as he walked backwards looking at the angry prisoner. Hunter had to scream over the noise of the crowd, “I’m not an abolitionist. I’m just….” ut before he could finish his sentence, a shot rang out. He and everyone around him dropped to a squat. For a long moment, total silence filled the cold morning air. Then, the earth began to shake from the thunderous roar as the North and South clashed on the cobblestone streets of Saint Louis.

The roar from rifles and handguns was deafening, and bullets were flying every which way. Hunter fell to the street and pressed himself flat against the cobblestones. Soon, it was nearly impossible to breathe; the air was filled with smoke and the smell of smoke. Those who could ran. Those who could not laid in the street bleeding.

Hunter looked down at his hands. They were hot and slippery and covered in blood. Hunter’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out.

(Hospital) Patch folded the paper in half but continued to read, “Exactly what provoked the Saint Louis Massacre remains unclear, but the most common explanation is that a drunkard stumbled into the path of the marching soldiers, sparking a loud altercation. Weapons were drawn by soldiers and civilians alike, and shots rang out, killing three militiamen. Some of the soldiers formed a line and fired into the nearby crowd of bystanders, injuring or killing a large number of men, women, and children. Violence continued for the next two days, resulting in the death of at least seven more civilians who were shot by Federal troops patrolling the streets.”

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