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By the time mid-July rolled around, my wife, Mona, and I were living in the Candletree Apartment complex just off Woods Chapel Road in Blue Springs. She had just established herself as a registered nurse at the Medical Center of Independence, while I was still 'pounding the pavement' looking for that ideal position in the graphic art community.
I had gotten a call from Steve Lillard early in the month to see if I was interested in going to a event at Glasgow,Missouri during the weekend of July 19-20. Usually he didn't like going to battle reenactment's, but because he wanted to shoot off his cannon, he would make the trip. He said I would meet reenactors from Columbia, Jefferson City, and possibly even St. Louis. "Bring all your infantry gear along", he told me. We would march and drill with all the other federal infantry and be in a parade on Saturday morning.
That Friday evening, my wife took me up to Higginsville to Steve's house. When I got there I was introduced to Richard Savage, who I learned was also part of the new artillery unit. I learned that he was going to some Bible college in southern Missouri and had aspirations of becoming a minister (which he eventually did 2 years later).The two of them were putting the finishing touches on packing Steve's car. The smooth bore Napoleon artillery piece was mounted on a trailer behind the car. It looked outstanding. The brass tube was polished and caught the sun. After kissing my dear wife goodbye, and telling her what time to expect us back on Sunday, we three civil warriors pulled out of town, heading east. (I don't recall for sure now, but I think I changed into my uniform before I left Blue Springs). About an hour later, we crossed the Missouri River into Glasgow ( by the way in which the river curved at this point, the town was located on the west bank of the river ). Railroad tracks ran east and west, bisecting the main part of town, which rose on a small bluff. To the south of the tracks was an industrial area, mostly commercial property with a lot of railroad structure's. There was also a river front park area here in which the confederate reenactor's were camped.
Steve drove over the tracks and headed into the park to unload the Napoleon. The artillery part of the battle would be held on some property near here and he didn't want to drag it all over town, so Richard and I helped him unhitch the trailer. While we there, I was introduced to some confederate reenactors who seemed to be milling about in various stages of dress. A few canvas tents were being pitched nearby. Most were drinking beer out of tin cups from the back of their pickup trucks. These men were part of a confederate unit near Liberty, Missouri called Crowley's Clay County Company. They all knew Steve, and while we were treated to an adult beverage, a brief time of jovial fellowship was enjoyed. It was beginning to grow dusk, so the three of us bid goodbye to Johnny Reb. "Watch out for the minnie' balls tomorrow, yank!", one of them cackled good-naturedly. We thanked them for the beers and drove out in search of the "yank" camp. Back across the northern side of the railroad tracks, Steve took us into the main part of town, to an area near the business district where the original federal fortification's had been.
As I had mentioned in my first chapter, I didn't know there had been any civil war battles in Missouri. Over the next ten years, I would be educated to the fact that there had been many 'altercations' between the blue and the gray in the Show-Me state. The battle that took place at Glasgow on October 15, 1864, would be my first history lesson on the civil war in Missouri. To be brief, an attempt was made by Confederate General Sterling Price to liberate Missouri for the south, and had illusions of occupying St. Louis and the capitol at Jefferson City as well. After the bloody fiasco at Pilot Knob, in which hundred's of his men died needlessly in an attempt to capture Fort Davidson, only to find the fort abandoned the next morning, Price sent a detachment under Brig. Gen. Jo Shelby to 'liberate' weapons and supplies rumored to be in the town of Glasgow. A federal garrison of approximately 800 men occupied Glasgow and after a brief battle, the federals were overwhelmed and forced to surrender. After a stay of three days, Jo Shelby's confederates took what weapons and supplies they had captured with them, and headed west to rejoin Price who was marching on toward Westport.
The site where the principal federal fortifications at been located, was now occupied by the downtown business district, including a convenience store, several homes, and a catholic church. The federal reenactors were set up in an area behind the St. Mary's Catholic Church on Third Street. The area was roughly the size of a grade school playground without the swing set or monkey bars. It was surrounded by a chain link fence, so we had to park about a block away, and take a sidewalk that ran behind the church and down some steps. As with the confederates we had met, the federal reenactors were in various stages of dress: a sack coat over blue jeans and t-shirt, maybe someone still in civilian clothes, but sporting a forage cap or black slough hat with some type of brass decoration on it. Tents were going up; the 'tink-tink-tink' of a hammer driving metal tent stake's into the ground. Mostly a lot of loud talking and beer drinking was going on (I was to learn that this type of social activity was common on a Friday evening prior to a civil war event). Steve Lillard seemed no less a stranger to these blue-clad boys, than he had their southern cousins. We were made to feel welcome, soon enjoying the offered cans of Bud they shared with us. Steve's wall tent was put up and I spent the rest of the evening getting to know some of these 'character's'. 
That night I met Dickson Stauffer, Bill Fannin, Ray Hamm, Boyd Wilson,and Brent Wilson just to name a few. The person I remember conversing with the most that Friday night was Boyd Wilson. It seems he had been in the Navy, so he and I had something in common-swapping stories about life on and off ship. I remember Boyd as a loud soldier. Not in an obnoxious way, because he was very courteous. He had a huge black beard, somewhat similar to Steve Lillard, but he also had shoulder length black hair. Boyd looked like someone you might find riding on a Harley in a motorcycle gang. Brent Wilson was Boyd's son-sometimes referred to as 'Son of Boyd'. Where Boyd was about 5' 8" , Brent was over 6 feet tall. Though very intelligent for a lad in his teens, he would sometimes act like a Baby Huey. He could easily pick his father up in a bear-like hug, muttering "Da-Da!" The other gentlemen I mentioned, I don't remember conversing with much, although they may have been in the conversations I had with Boyd.
Saturday morning dawned soon enough. There was no reveille, nor someone banging a drum to wake us. We all rolled out of our tents roughly the same time. I had slept on a cot inside Steve's tent. As I recall it, there was no activity planned that morning until 10 AM, when there would be a parade downtown, in which we would march in. I was informed that I would march with the infantry in the parade, so I said "OK!" After breakfast, I was quickly taught the manual of arms according to HARDEE'S TACTICS ( this was a published guide written about 1858 covering infantry movement's in march and drill). It may have been Ray Hamm, who was first sergeant, who showed me the different ways an infantry soldier carried his weapon. Before long, I had my brand-new .58 caliber Enfield musket flying all over my body. Somewhere, I got ahold of a cartridge box and sling. I think I had a canteen also. These items may have been loaned to me; I don't think I made any purchases, because my original plan was to serve on Steve Lillard's gun in the artillery.
Sometime that morning, before the parade was to start, a man and his wife came into the camp. This man had served with Steve and Richard Savage on the cannon at the Jesse James farm. I had seen his name on a roster Steve had prepared of the members of his proposed First Missouri Light Artillery, but had not until this moment met Gregg Higginbotham. Tall, and thin as a washboard, with black beady eyes set in a pinched face. He looked down a long Roman nose as he took my hand. He had come up from Independence just that morning with his wife Gail. They were both dressed out in period clothing, she in what was described as a lightly colored camp dress. It had long sleeves and a long skirt. A women of the Victorian era did not dare show any skin except the neck or the hands; whatever the weather. Higginbotham was attired similar as many of the men in camp were: sky blue trousers, white cotton shirt, dark vest, dark sack coat, and slouch hat.
As previously mentioned, this battle originally occurred on Oct 15, 1864. However, this was July 19, 1980 (don't know who decided on this date). It was shaping up to be one hot day. In fact one could say it was 'hotter than seven hells!'. When it came time for the parade, and we marched out, we passed a local bank on the way to main street, and (I swear this is the gospel truth) the electronic sign out front said 102 degrees. AND IT WAS ONLY 10 AM! We were in some kind of formation - known as a company front or line of battle. Two lines of men, one rank behind the other, shoulder to shoulder, stretching from one side of the street to the other. There was about 30 of us - fifteen in the front rank, fifteen in the rear rank. The tallest men on the right of the line, graduating on down in height to the left until you reached the midget's. We had all our buttons buttoned, brass polished, muskets at the shoulder. We weren't the only sweating pigs out on the street, oh no. Beside's our southern brothers- who were also in the parade - there was the local politician with his plastic smile and his wrist flapping in the air to both sides of the street. Members of the local VFW, a few Shriner's, and maybe a clown with a puppy dog on a leash. Someone else may have had a float of some sort, with patriotic bunting. Maybe some kids on their bikes, dragging tin cans behind them. It was a local celebration, and probably the most excitement the town had seen since Oct. 15, 1864.
We continued the march down main street until we started to get close to the podium, set up near the center of main street. The officer in charge of our group of federals, was Lieutenant Dickson Stauffer. Dick was smartly attired in a dark blue officer's uniform with shoulder boards, a dark slouch hat with a gold colored braid and he carried a wicked looking saber. He had drawn it from his scabbard as we began the march and had it resting up against his shoulder. One other remark about his appearance. Dick was the only man I had ever met who had a goatee which was blond on one half of his face, and gray on the other half. I mean you could have drawn a straight line from his lips to his chin. Now he halted us and raised the cold steel high over his head like a mad conductor. We had loaded our muskets with a cartridge before we left camp. Now Dick commanded us to raise our muskets to our shoulder and with a flourish of his saber, barked the word...
It was a wonderment to us, but there was a buffalo ranch nearby. Yes, by God, an honest to goodness farm where buffalo were raised. Sometime that afternoon, don't know if it was prior to or after the battle, the farmer of said buffalo ranch brought us a gift of buffalo meat. The meat of the buffalo was said to be very tender. However, this meat was still frozen and as hard as a brick. We had to have it thawed by one of the locals who had one of them new microwave oven invention's (this was 1980 - I don't think microwaves were as common as they are today).
Sometime before the 'battle', Steve informed me that I would have to serve with Dick Stauffer's infantry this day. Gregg Higginbotham and Richard Savage already had some hours operating the cannon at the Jesse James Farm, and since it would only take the 3 of them this day, I was the odd man out. I was a little upset, but Steve reassured me that we would be doing an artillery demonstration the next day, and I would be involved in that. Directly, the trio headed out to get the gun positioned and ready at the designated battlefield south of town. After the parade, we had had some kind of meager lunch, but now it was time to form up. First Sergeant Ray Hamm was getting us to line up, dress our ranks, and count off by two. Dick had us face to the right in a column of fours (after counting by two's and given the order to right face, all the number 2 men step around and stand to the right of the number 1 men. Now there is a rank of four men, followed by another four men, then another four men, and so on ). In this formation, we marched out of the church back lot, up the side alley and turned right, heading south. Now, we were marching right down the middle of Third Street. This was a residential neighborhood and people were coming outdoors to watch us pass, some sitting in their lawn chairs; dogs rapping nervously on the porch. The street ran downhill going south to the battlefield. Coming back we would be going uphill. And the temperature was only getting hotter.
To the "battlefield", was approximately a distance of maybe one-half mile. We remained in our formation, crossing over the railroad tracks. After a short distance, the pavement ended, to be replaced by a dirt lane. Continuing on, we entered a less populated area where there were several trailer homes on our right, and a thick woods on our left. In my group of four, I was closest to the woods, and I kept glancing nervously fearing the Johnny Rebs would burst from cover at any moment, screaming like indian's, and bushwhack us. Ahead of us was a high hill, about fifty feet in height, and extending for some distance east and west. Lieutenant Dick ordered us into a company front, and had us wait at the base of the hill, while he and Ray Hamm trudged to the crest. We waited for an eternity, it seemed. I didn't know what horrors awaited us over the hill. I glanced nervously to my right. A man was sitting on the makeshift front porch of the trailer, eyeing us with a blank expression. He drank beer from an iced washtub, his dirty bare feet on the porch rail.
Within a few moments, all hell broke loose. Explosion's ripped the air apart as the artillery opened up. This was Steve Lillard and his crew. They had been conscripted into the confederacy for this battle along with a gun brought by another fellow. We couldn't see them, because they were on the other side of the hill, but the noise was deafening. Two large smoke rings rose over the crest and over our heads. Lt. Dick and Sgt. Ray were scurrying down the hill at this time, and orders were barked to load with cartridge. The unholy screeching of the rebel yell made my fingers fly to their task. We knew that the foe would be advancing, we just couldn't see them yet. Dick ordered us to about face, and marched us away from the hill about 25 paces. Again an about face and from a safer distance, we awaited the first glimpse of the gray line.
The rumbling of many shod feet stamping on the dry earth drew closer and closer until I thought we were having an earthquake. In a few moments, the familiar dirty dishrag of the Confederacy appeared - as if rising from the bowels of earth. And then, like so many boils rising to the surface of the skin, the multi-colored multitude materialized. There were about 50 men. (This was not the long gray line of popular romances' and dime novels. These sons of the south had on a variety of different civilian clothing. No two men were dressed the same. Remember, this was Missouri. Because she was not officially part of the Confederacy, she received little or no aid from Richmond. What arms and materials they carried, they brought from home. Rather than called Confederates, these scarecrows were sneeringly referred by the federals as secessionists's or just plain 'sesch' ).
Ragtag though they were, they held my attention for a brief moment. Dick snapped me back to the land of the living by barking out a command to prepare to fire. My sweaty fingers located a cap from its pouch, then we were given the order to take aim. I tried to find the fattest 'sesch' puke I could, to rest my Enfield sights on. They looked like they were waiting for us to open the ball, so Dick obliged them. A cloud of our gun smoke obscured the hill briefly as we fired, then as it lifted, it appeared that our shots had been high. Not one 'sesch' had been hit. All of them were still on their feet, with not even a flesh wound on them. I could have sworn I'd had 'fatty' dead in my sights. (In reenactment's, especially when the temperature is over 100 degrees, there are very few casualties. No on wants to lie out in the hot sun). We about-faced and began to reload as we retreated, for we had stirred up a hornets nest. Behind us, the 'sesch' commander cracked out an order. A ragged volley - sounding like popping corn as it goes off, felt like a force against our backsides. The 'sesch' were cackling with delight at their accomplishment, then they wormed their way down the hill after us. For the next half mile, the two lines of infantrymen traded volleys; usually from about 50 paces apart. We would halt, fire, and fall back. They would halt, fire, and advance. Overhead the sound of thunder; the two cannon were belching, as if adding its own exclamation point to the volume of noise. And nobody died during this exchange.
We soon reached the railroad tracks. We turned about just on the other side and delivered another devastating volley, with the same non-lethal results. Just then, one of our group made the insane suggestion that we "charge them scarecrows!" It was immediately rejected and the author of the idea was verbally abused. ( I hate to remind the reader constantly, but it was damn hot! Remember at 10 AM that morning, it had been 102 degrees. Now, at about 1 PM, the temperature had probably climbed to 110. Even though the battle and the distance covered does not seem extreme, due to the heat, it was a bitch! )
Now we were at the edge of the main residential area; at third street. When we began, we marched down third street ( remember, I told you this was on a slight hill ). Now we had to march up third street. We continued to trade volleys with the 'sesch', but now our movement were slow, our legs beginning to feel like blocks of lead; tongue's hanging out. People in the neighborhood were gathering on either side of the street - coming out of their homes. 
Kids running about and being awed by the noise of the guns - babies crying at the same noise. Dick had told us we would surrender a couple of more blocks ahead, but I decided I would die a glorious death. I could honestly go no further. With a scream, I clutched my chest like I had been shot and - with a bit of overacting - I staggered out of line and fell convulsing like I was having a seizure. It just so happened that Bill Fannin had decided to 'bite the big one' also and so we both fell in the same yard, practically in each other's arms. I lay my head against a tree, and with a final gasp, and one final spasm - which drew an awe from some kids who had gathered around to watch my antics - I 'died'.
After the battle, and that evening, I don't know what happened. I think we ate the buffalo meat, now unfrozen. And more than likely had a beer or three. I don't recall any drilling or other activity. Everyone seemed 'fagged-out' from the humidity of the day. Steve Lillard, Gregg and Richard had of course come down after the fight, and they talked at length of their heroics behind the cannon. I think it was Steve who clapped me on my sweat streaked back, and asked me how it felt to have "seen the elephant." Confused at his choice of words, he explained. When a man faces combat for the first time, it is called receiving your "Baptism" or in civil war phraseology, called "seeing the elephant." Even though this was only a mock battle - the only difference between this and reality is no leaden projectile's are used - I had been allowed a glimpse of what combat may have been like during the civil war. For the first time in my life, I had perspired in a hot wool uniform, I had been fired upon, and fired back, I had been nervous and confused, or in other words, "I had seen the elephant!"
Sometime early Sunday I went with Steve and his crew back to the river park area where his cannon had been left after the battle yesterday. Steve had a wooden box - about the size of an army footlocker - that held his hand rolled artillery rounds. These rounds consisted of one-third of a pound of black powder each in a ball of aluminum foil. The box had a lid with a kind of seat cushion on it. Eventually he said, this box would go on a limber that would connect with the cannon by a hitch. Two men could then sit atop the box, or limber chest, while the whole contraption was pulled by a team of horse. He hoped to build this limber during the upcoming winter.
Inside the limber chest, he had leather gloves, odd and end metal parts, a lanyard, several rolled artillery rounds, and five or six metal coffee cans full of concrete. Steve said we would fire the coffee cans into the Missouri River. The gun was wheeled 10 feet from the edge of the river. Richard ran a thin wire brush inside the "touch-hole" just to make sure it was clean. Then he put on a piece of leather that just covered his thumb, and held it over the "touch-hole", while Higginbotham ran a ramrod in and out of the tube like a giant Q-TIP. When he pulled it out, there was a popping noise, like a "THUNK". ( By this method, a vacuum had been created; extinguishing any possible embers from a previous firing.) After about five minutes and these safety procedures were finished, Steve handed Hig one of the tin foil rounds. It was rammed into the tube, followed next by one of the concrete coffee cans. Richard pushed a long skinny nail, or spike, into the "touch-hole" to puncture the ball of black powder. Next Steve inserted a .22 caliber blank into the hole. A small spring-loaded object like a mouse trap - held by a leather strap - was over the hole, the upper lip held back by a pin, which was connected by the lanyard.
After these procedures were complete, Steve smiled as he handed me the lanyard. I thought I would wet myself on the spot. He told me to wait for his command, then he made a final adjustment with an aiming wheel which raised and lowered the tube. Hig and Richard had moved to opposite sides of the gun and also awaited the signal. Finally, Steve stepped back and raised a fist. He dropped it and I jerked the lanyard.