One unfortunate thing, brought about by the battle, was the fact that it produced, or rather made conspicuous, a large crowd of liars who are yet wont to brag and bluster about the various deeds of valor they performed at Wilson’s Creek, while the chances are that instead of displaying any remarkable quality of bravery or feat of extraordinary value, they were skulking in the bushes or sitting securely under cover somewhere, not firing a gun or harming an enemy. This is true of both sides. Pity ’tis that any man who wore either the blue or the gray should be a liar, but pity ’tis ’tis true. Deeds worthy of Rome or Sparta—aye, worthy of America, _were_ rendered that day of battle on Wilson’s creek, but these shameless liars one often meets with did none of them. From nearly every quarter of Missouri had come the Missourians who this day fought under the flag of the grizzly bears and against the stars and stripes. Slack had men from off the Iowa line; John B. Clark had men from the Northeast (properly belonging to Harris’ division, not then south of the Missouri) whose homes were in sight of Hannibal and of the great Mississippi farther to the north. Men fought who, when at home, could stand in their door-yards and look westward over on the prairies of the then territory of Nebraska. Many of McBride’s division were from Southeastern Missouri, from the swamps of Pemiscot, from the cypress forests of Dunklin. From the cities—from the warehouses, the counting-rooms and the law offices of St. Louis, St. Joseph and other Missouri towns, had come some men to fight against what they believed to be Federal tyranny and usurpation, and for the honor of old Missouri and the rights of the South. And men fought under Price that day whose feet were on “their native heath,” whose homes were in this county, in sight of the battle-ground. And they all fought well, those in line, whether advancing or retreating, firing or falling back. Not any better than the Federals, perhaps, but fully as well. There were some stragglers on both sides—not all of the cowards were in but one army. When early in the engagement Gen. Clark sent a mile and a half to the rear for his regiment of cavalry, Col. James P. Major, commanding, that officer was attacked by Sigel at the moment of receiving the order and driven back into the woods with all his force. After reforming and starting toward the front where Lyon was, to join their own division, Major’s men were all broken up by large bodies of other horsemen, who, seeking to escape from Totten’s grape and Dubois’ shells and the Kansas men’s musket balls, rode through Major’s ranks in all directions, dividing the forces and communicating their own terror to those about them, so that the colonel was left with only one company.