It had been decided by the friends of Hayward, that a search for the captain would be useless, but it was hoped that Charles Campbell would give some information which would lead to his discovery, or that Fall-leaf, a celebrated Indian scout, who had now been absent many days on the very line of the enemy’s march, would return with some tidings, by which the actions of the captain’s anxious friends should be governed.
The Army of the Mississippi, having passed from Fremont’s command to that of General Hunter, had been ordered to fall back from Springfield, in two columns. The one by the way of the Osage and Warsaw to Tipton, Mo., on the line of the main Pacific road, and the other by way of Lebanon, on the main road between Springfield and Rolla, the south-western branch of the same road. Each place, in distance from Springfield, was about one hundred and twenty-five miles.
The march of the division to which Captain Hayward’s friends were attached, which was under the command of the brave Sigel, was commenced on the morning of November 20th. That division formed the rear of the entire army. It proceeded by the Rolla turnpike.
Nothing of note transpired until the division was ascending the rolling hill about two miles before reaching Lebanon, when a horseman, his face and head streaming with blood, rode rapidly along the lines, exclaiming:
He halted for no one to question him, but kept on his way. No guns were heard, and many expressed the opinion that it must be a strange fight. But, as a necessary precaution, the infantry-men were halted, their pieces loaded, and bayonets fixed. The artillery was charged, and flags unfurled. As the troops ascended the hill, and looked in vain for a foe, the question was asked: “Where is the fight?”
This was soon settled, as another messenger rode up and informed the General that a party or squadron of rebel cavalry, numbering about four hundred, had attacked a little band of “home guards,” of about thirty, which had been collected in a valley some twenty miles south of Lebanon, on the main road, in a place called “Bohannan Mills valley.” Most of the thirty “home guard” had been killed, wounded or dispersed by the guerrillas. Then all families in that vicinity known to entertain Union proclivities, were visited at the dead of night. “Murder and arson” was the cry. Many poor creatures soon were in the agonies of death. Husbands, who had rushed from concealment to defend their wives, had been cloven to the earth; children ran shrieking to and fro, only to be dashed to pieces by the savages of the Missouri Mountain. It was a carnival of lust and blood, over which the historian ever must dwell in horror. And yet, these fiends in human shape were protected by the ægis of the “Confederate” flag!