rything we toyed with that day was loaded; loaded to kill.
The same with the enemy.
It was a Yankee shell at Helena, fired from the gunboat Tyler, which placed me on the retired list, where I have been since July 4, 1863.
I was an officer in Fagan's Arkansas brigade and I never enjoyed a picnic beforehand in my life, as I did that stealthy 1oo-mile march from Little Rock to give the Yankees in their works at Helena a Fourth of July surprise party.
You see, we had been lying idle all summefantry, and the way they handled the pieces made us wish we had met another kind.
But we knew very little of the actual situation until we struck it all of a sudden about daylight on Independence Day. Our three columns, Marmaduke's, Price's, and Fagan's, told off in storming parties and reserves, moved against the batteries and intrenchments lying across our paths.
There were six roads from the interior to the town, and the defenders, being ignorant as to the particular one or ones we would u