The next morning before sunrise, the 10th of August, he vigorously attacked the enemy, who were taken utterly by surprise. It is not within the scope of my purpose to attempt any description of the fierce and bloody battle that followed. It raged for fully six hours. According to the most conservative estimates, Lyon lost of his small army of four or five thousand men more than thirteen hundred in killed, wounded, and missing. The Confederates lost still more. Lyon was twice wounded, and afterwards, while leading a regiment of his troops in a desperate charge, was shot through the heart and instantly killed; but even after his death his plucky little army fought on for a time unflinchingly, and with a large measure of success. Nor did they abandon the well-contested field until the ammunition of a large part of their force was utterly exhausted. Even then they retreated in good order. They had inflicted a blow so terrible and unexpected that the Confederates were unwilling or unable to pursue them. Having rested a few hours at Springfield, they retreated unmolested to Rolla, with all their wagons, provisions, and munitions of war; while McCulloch and Price sat down at Springfield and wrote reports of their great victory at Wilson’s Creek. Some of their subordinate officers in their reports declared with refreshing frankness that Lyon, in his attack on their camp, had completely surprised them. A few days later came the last act of this sad drama. The body of General Lyon was brought back to us. It was borne through the city and across the Mississippi to the railroad depot. It was escorted by prominent citizens, city officials, regiments of soldiers, infantry, cavalry and artillery, marching with arms reversed. Conspicuous in this martial array was General Fremont, with his staff and body-guard. The bands played plaintive dirges. The bells tolled. The national flags of the city, encampments and Arsenal were draped and at half-mast. A great, sad, silent throng, on either side of the street along which the funeral cortège moved, stood with heads uncovered. The dust of one of the best friends the loyal of St. Louis ever had thus passed on its way to burial in Connecticut, the native State of the dauntless hero, who poured out his heart’s blood at Wilson’s Creek to save our commonwealth and city from secession. But strange as it may seem to the present generation, we were then and there so utterly divided in judgment and feeling that while many mourned, some rejoiced; tears stained some cheeks, smiles rippled across some faces.