Wilson's Creek
It had been a surprise attack. Around four o’clock that morning, Jaris was awakened to the sound of panic. “They’re coming!” men were yelling. Soldiers were scrambling for their guns, trying to form a line, trying to stop the Yankees as they poured over the high ground in front of them.
Though Lyon’s men had used the element of surprise, it had not taken long for the Confederate forces to regroup. The fighting was extremely intense. Jaris’s men spent a great deal of time combating in a cornfield. He had done tremendously well, killing a number of Union soldiers, while still managing to keep his men from fleeing the field. Suddenly, about an hour into the attack, a large number of fresh Union soldiers swept over the hilltop, charging toward Jaris’s company. They seemed to be outnumbered. He looked around to see if any other troops were available to help, but then he realized the rest of the Confederate soldiers were giving up the ground, retreating toward a small, brick farmhouse. Jaris thought perhaps they could reform there, get some sharpshooters into that house. He fell back with his men, yelling for them to reform. Just as his men were getting into line, he felt a sharp stinging pain in his chest. He looked up and saw the Union soldiers closing in on them. He gave another order to charge, and his men went forward, moving the Yankees back the way they had come.
But Jaris couldn’t make the charge with them. He looked down at the place on his chest where the sting was now turning into a throbbing pain. He was amazed at first to see so much blood on his uniform. A lump formed in his throat. He wasn’t quite sure why there was so much blood. It was oozing out of his uniform now, spreading across the gray fabric, dripping off of the buttons. He felt his knees weaken. Sinking down to the ground, he reached up with his hand and wiped at the blood, only managing to smear it all over his white glove, which he stared at for a moment in disbelief. Suddenly, he couldn’t sit up anymore. He had to lie down—but how could he lie down in the middle of a battlefield? He tried to stand but couldn’t. He heard noise behind him. It sounded like some men were coming. Maybe they would bring a litter, get him to a medic. He was having trouble seeing. His vision was fading in and out. He couldn’t seem to understand what was happening.
And then, he saw her. Cordia, standing over him like an angel—her face hovering above him, outlined by the bright blue sky. And she was smiling that perfect smile of hers. He knew that he would be all right now. He knew that he would be fine because Cordia was with him.
* * *
Will and the rest of Sigel’s men had probably spent as much time standing around as they had marching, or so it seemed to men anxious to get on the battlefield. At 5:30, they approached a smaller creek, known locally as Tyrel’s Creek. The Union forces had mostly used their artillery to route the Confederate cavalry here. Will had gotten a few shots off, but he wasn’t sure that he had hit anything. Then, they advanced to another position near an old red farmhouse. Here they stood for some time, and the men were growing impatient. Finally, they saw gray uniforms coming toward them. The men steadied their guns, ready to open at the command. But their officers were very slow in giving their orders, and the gray-clad soldiers drew closer and closer. At last, word was passed down the line that those weren’t Confederate soldiers, but it was the First Iowa Infantry, who also wore gray. Though Will knew that not all of the uniforms were, in fact, uniform, something in the pit of his stomach told him that those soldiers coming at them were, indeed, the enemy. And his feeling was confirmed when those “friendly” soldiers opened fire. Some of the officers were stunned; others were hit in the first volley. Eventually, either someone gave the order to fire, or the enlisted men had enough sense to fire back, but now there was a battle on.
There wasn’t much to hide behind. They were essentially in open ground, standing across from each other. “A stupid way to fight,” Will thought to himself as he fired and reloaded his rifle. Next to him, he heard Frank scream in pain, and he looked down to see his friend bleeding badly from the leg. The Union line began to break. Will grabbed his friend and tried to help him fall back with the rest of the men. Frank was slowing him down, but he managed to make it back over a little hill, further out of the line of fire. There, one of the lieutenants was trying to reform a line. While Frank managed to hobble toward the rear on his own, Will joined in with the rest of his regiment, just as the gray storm cloud came into view. The Union soldiers fired, sending the first wave of Confederates back. But the Rebels regrouped and came again. This time, as Will pulled the trigger, his rifle jammed. He pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened. Around him, the line was breaking. The look of panic on the other Union soldiers’ faces, as they began to scream and run in horror, was demoralizing. Even the officers seemed to be breaking.
Will was determined not to run. He grabbed a weapon from a fallen soldier on the ground beside him and fired it into the onslaught of gray uniforms. Just then, he felt a pain in his upper right arm. He couldn’t tell exactly where he had been hit at first. He looked down to see if it was in his arm or his chest. Then, he felt another shot. This one hit him just below the neck, near the center of his collarbone. He stumbled backward, and then fell to the ground. He heard Skeet yelling his name, but he knew his friend could not get to him now. He saw a blur of boots flying around him as the Confederate charge carried the ground. He did his best to roll out of the way, trying not to be trampled. As the last of the boots went flying overhead, he suddenly began to feel intolerably cold. The thought occurred to him that he might be dying. Just before he slipped into unconsciousness, his mind wandered back to Lamar, back to Cordia’s arms, back home.
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