The Battle of Womack Mill

A Time to Remember
The Battle of Womack Mill
By Ronnie Powell

Dear Ma
There were fifteen of us this morning when we crossed a shallow creek below Fair Grove Town, all members of the 8th Missouri Home Guard. We’d been ordered to try and locate a large band of Confederates said to be bivouacked somewhere south of the town. We were also told not to engage the enemy and to return to camp as quickly as we could upon locating the Rebs. Rain fell most of the night, food is scarce and fearing ambush I dared not sleep a wink. But not to worry Ma, the Captain is a good man and knows what he is doing. I don’t rightly know when I’ll get this letter off to you. Each time we take a rest I’ll try and write a little more.
The creek was swollen a bit from the runoff and a bit murky and before reaching the other side I stumbled and dropped my musket. The Captain yelled at me to come on and leave the dang rifle in the creek and we would find it later. Luckily I’m carrying two pistols and can defend myself if necessary.
Night fog stills hangs over the creek and part of the field lying beyond us, so the Captain called a halt to hunker down in the grass to wait a spell and let it clear up a bit. I’m sure tired Ma and won’t write much this time. I’m gonna lay back in the grass and rest. It has been about an hour since we took cover and the fog is breaking up and I can see the sun breaking through. I reckon we’ll be moving out soon. Above us to the north the old mill is partially visible, grey and ghost like appearing abandoned and that ain’t a good sign.
The call to advance across the field came about fifteen minutes ago and we are near the base of a wooded hill. The hill is still shrouded in fog playing havoc with our imagination. The Captain motioned for us to get down for there seems to be movement up there, can’t tell for sure though, probably fog drifting over the hill. I tell you Ma if it was me in charge I’d go back to the creek where we have a bit more cover. I reckon its all clear though because the Captain is standing up and waving us on.
We’ve covered about two hundred yards and the sun is bright above us, a worrying thought since we’re like sitting ducks for any Johnny Reb up on the hill. The Captain doesn’t seem too worried and says we’re going up to the rail fence about a hundred yards further on. I got to give him credit; he’s a brave lad walking ahead of us like that along side the sergeant. I just hope….”
Ma we didn’t make it to the fence, a cannon above us opened up sending shot screaming down into the field. Two rounds exploded about fifty yards from where I stood, killing three men outright and another lays in the grass hollering something awful. The Captain shouted for us to charge them Rebels, but we didn’t get far when musket fire rattled above us cutting down four more men. A round from their cannon exploded in front of me and I took a hit in both legs and went down. A young Reb, not more than fourteen years of age jumped over the fence shouting and laughing. I took careful aim with Pa’s old pistol and shot the feller dead in his tracks and fired a couple more times into the deep shadows on the hill and heard a man scream. Gun smoke hangs heavy around us, but one by one I see my friends shot dead and then only the Captain and the sergeant are left standing firing bravely at the enemy. Several muskets fire in unison cutting the pair down and the battlefield is suddenly very quite, deathly quite. I’m watching a tall lanky Reb step over the fence and walk sort of cocky like down the hill to where the Captain and Sergeant lay. My revolver has one round left, but I ain’t gonna fire on the man. He kicks them and pulls the Sergeant’s shoes off and continues on to the next fallen man and laughs shooting the feller point blank. One by one he visits the fallen all the while getting closer to me. Hatred boils in me like I’ve never known before. I’ve pulled the hammer back on Pa’s gun and lay there waiting. Ma he’s almost here now, I can see the scuffed toes of his boots and Ma I’m gonna shoot him when he bends over to look at me. Adios

The story of the Battle of Womack Mill is not what it appears to be, but a scripted event of a small reenactment at Heritage Days in Fair Grove, Missouri a few years ago. I have added a bit of flavor for more detail. The only part not scripted was in the final scene when I rose up and shot the Reb as he was about to take my life. The feelings I experienced during the last moments of the event were real, raw emotions lashing out I suppose to the darkness of man’s cruelness to one another, justifying my act of cruelty. The sound of cannon was real; the explosions around us were real set off by remote control. The sound of muskets was real echoing against the hills. Real bullets and cannon balls were not present only a make believe battle for the crowd of onlookers to cheer or jeer to. It was a reminder of past events that nearly destroyed America. Living history is important to provide an intimate view of war, but I wonder, for on the hill that day there were those cheering for the Confederates and others were cheering for the Union, much like a football game. There were no victors, only friends who would later gather and rehash the adventure. Adios