The excitement produced in the city by the marching of Lyon’s troops through it, and by his investment and capture of the secession camp, was wide-spread and intense. To what deeds of violence it might lead no one could conjecture, but all feared some catastrophe. When the troops were moving towards the encampment, almost involuntarily I joined the throngs on the street that were hurrying thitherward. I met a large sandy-haired man, fully six feet in height, hat in hand, head partially bald, with shaggy over-hanging eyebrows. He was a stranger to me. He was not apparently in a rage, but his massive frame shook with emotion. He knew me, and with nervous, jerky gesticulation and in a loud tone of voice he cried, “This is the result of just such preaching as yours!” I replied, “What do you think Lyon is going to do?” With still greater vehemence he cried out, “He’s gone out to kill all the boys,—to kill the boys,” and strode on faster than I cared to go. He was a slightly exaggerated example of the agitation that swayed and impelled the thousands that were gathering in the neighborhood of that fated camp. It was invested at half past three in the afternoon. Then men came running from all directions with rifles, shot guns and pistols. When they heard of the movement of Lyon and Blair they had, by common impulse, started out, with such weapons as they could command on the spur of the moment, to re-enforce the brigade of Frost. It was a pity that they arrived too late. If they had been thirty minutes earlier the number of prisoners taken by Lyon would have been largely increased, and possibly the unfortunate and needless effusion of blood, which marked the close of the scene at Camp Jackson, would have been avoided.