Read Online Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith - Free Book Online Page B

the cook’s mumbled threat. Jeff remembered his words in the army kitchen back at Leavenworth: “Clardy knows he wouldn’t dare talk like that to me. I could tell you something about Asa Clardy that he wouldn’t want you ner nobody else to know.”
    Thunderstruck, Jeff walked back to his post. Was Sparrow talking about Clardy? Had there been a murder or was the cook babbling from a drunken dream?
    Just thinking about it the rest of the night helped keep him awake. Relieved at four o’clock in the morning, he slept in his uniform a couple of hours before the army started marching again. Noah awakened him ten minutes before they lined up. Jeff was tired and logy. He just had time to wash his eyes in cold water and swallow some cold bacon and fried potatoes Noah had saved for him when he heard the cavalry bugles.
    That night they camped four miles north of Springfield. Jeff heard the staccato beat of a drum, coming from the Missourians’ mess. Suddenly he saw Jimmy, surrounded by German bandsmen.
    One was teaching him to beat the various calls. A parade drum hung from a strap around his shoulders. A pair of polished drumsticks was in his hands. When he saw Jeff, he beamed with pleasure.
    â€œGeneral Lyon says I won’t have to go home,” Jimmy said joyfully. “I’m going to be a drummer. They’re gonna let me hone the surgical instruments, draw maps, and carry water to the barbers. When I reach sixteen I get to go back into the army.”
    The next morning they marched into the edge of Springfield. Laborers in Union blouses were digging earthworks around the town. As one of the workers raised his pick, he looked familiar. With a glad shout Jeff ran to his side.
    â€œDavid!”
    David Gardner stared up wearily, despair written all over his freckled boyish face. His clothing was sweaty and dirt-begrimed, his hands dirty, calloused, and raw with blisters.
    A rough-looking guard with a sandy hawk-wing mustache stepped threateningly in front of Jeff.
    â€œMove on,” he commanded. “These is deserters. Cap’n says nobody’s to talk to ’em.”
    Jeff said, “He’s from my home county over in Kansas. If I could just speak a word to him . . .”
    The guard looked ugly and showed his teeth. “I don’ care if he’s yore long-lost brother! Move on or I’ll run you in.”
    Reluctantly Jeff moved on. As he walked he sighed with relief. At least David hadn’t been shot. When they had got back to Leavenworth from Linn County, Jeff had gone with David to Millholland, explaining that David was returning voluntarily to his outfit. Millholland had promised to pass on that information to the regimental court-martial handling David’s case. Apparently the sergeant had done as he promised.
    When the army marched into the streets of Springfield just before noon, the town was in a near panic. It was August 9, 1861. Everybody knew a battle would soon be fought. The whole town seemed frightened. All afternoon Jeff watched the excitement and the confusion, while the soldiers lay resting on the grass beneath several gigantic oak trees in the shady town square. Merchandise and household goods were being loaded into wagons, ready for flight. People were cooping their chickens, harnessing their teams, calling to their children. Storekeepers and citizens presented food and tobacco lavishly to the soldiers. Everybody was afraid that if the rebels won, they would ravish the town.
    A merchant’s wife gave Jeff two pairs of socks and a small sack of apples. Surprised, Jeff stammered his thanks.
    â€œGood luck,” the woman said. Then she added, “My, but yore awfully leetle and younglike to be fighting in a war. You ought to be home with your mammy.”
    After giving Jeff a long soulful look, she began sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with the bottom of her blue calico apron.
    Jeff didn’t like her pessimism. “Corn,”