Rifles for Watie, Page 3

  “Let her,” David replied unfeelingly. “Le’s go. This is the only way I’ll ever get to leave. Le’s go by the spring first an’ get a drink.”

  They walked under the trees. When they reached the Gardner spring, they came up behind Bobby, David’s six-year-old brother. He was on his knees busily shaping mud pies at the plashy edge of the water. David knelt beside him.

  “Good-by, Bobby. Tell Ma I’ve gone to Fort Leavenworth to enlist in the volunteers.”

  Bobby never looked up. With dirty hands he scooped up another double handful of mud and began calmly to fashion another pie.

  “Ma’ll skin you, Davy!” he warned suddenly in his shrill, quavering, old man’s voice. “You’re not old enough to go to war. You’ll git killed an’ we’ll find your bones bleachin’ on the prairie.”

  David snorted. Standing, he looked at Jeff and John, his face red with embarrassment.

  “Come on,” he said impatiently. They walked on. Jeff didn’t see how David could be so indifferent.

  His own family leave-taking that morning had been more painful. His mother had cried again. Although Jeff wanted to go to war worse than he had ever wanted anything else in his life, he even felt a little like crying himself. Until he got out of sight of the house.

  That took more time than he had counted on. Ring kept trying to follow, and it was hard to refuse him. Twice Jeff sent him back, but each time the faithful dog returned, showing his savage teeth in a loving grin and frisking all around, as though they were playing a game. In a hurry to get started, Jeff had finally thrown rocks at Ring to scare him home. But the dog still hadn’t understood.

  Picking up the rocks in his mouth, he brought them dutifully to Jeff, laid them at his feet, and looked up, tail wagging, waiting for Jeff to pet him. Jeff finally had to take him back and lock him in the barn. Bess volunteered to release him in an hour.

  “But I may turn him loose sooner,” she warned, sniffing bravely as her tear-stained face broke into a wan smile. “Then you’d have to bring him back, and I’d get to see you again.”

  Jeff felt sorry for Bess and the lonely, humdrum existence his sister would have to live on the farm. He was glad now that David and John were going with him. He hadn’t relished the long trip alone.

  They walked fifteen miles on the military road. Then they rested, eating most of the cold corn pone and potatoes Jeff’s mother had sent.

  In the afternoon they caught two different rides with settlers going northward for provisions, and after sleeping that night at the home of a hospitable farmer, they arrived the next afternoon at Fort Leavenworth, riding the last twenty miles in an army teamster’s wagon.

  A husky sentinel stopped them at the fort’s stone gate, his gun held diagonally across his chest. The three country boys stared with awe at his trim uniform. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons, blue trousers with a yellow braid down the sides and on his head a little, sloping, flat-topped blue cap. Jeff could hardly wait to get one himself.

  They told him who they were and that they wanted to join the Kansas Volunteers. The sentry admitted them and told them to go to the enrollment officer in Barracks “K.”

  The fort, an orderly cluster of neat white buildings, was beautifully situated on rising ground near the southern shore of the Missouri River. Bounded on both sides by dark green strips of woodland, the river flowed southeastward in oceanic grandeur. From his high vantage point Jeff could see the distant ferry rafts moving slowly across the river, like bugs crawling slowly in the sand. Beyond the river the light green sweep of the prairie ran endlessly.

  After being sworn in, the three Linn County boys were sent to the military hospital to take their physical examinations. On the way they passed hundreds of soldiers in blue blouses marching on the spacious green drill fields. Bugles were tooting. Officers crossing the parade grounds saluted smartly as they passed one another. Jeff watched with excitement. Apparently everybody was getting ready to fight.

  As Jeff, John, and David turned the corner of a barracks building, they heard a thunder of hoofbeats and were almost run down by a squadron of cavalry. Spurs jingling, sabers rattling, and the oaken butts of their carbines resting against their thighs, they thundered past grandly with a drumming of horses’ hoofs and a creak of leather. It was quite a sight for a boy fresh from the plow handles. Jeff could smell the horses’ sweat and see the metal ring bits on their bridles flashing in the bright Kansas sunshine. He wished he were joining the cavalry intead of the infantry. But the bushwhackers had stolen his horse.

  At the hospital the three boys were asked to strip to the waist while a gruff old army doctor with a fat paunch and tired eyes examined them. Jeff lined up with the scores of other men and boys awaiting their turns.

  “Come on, kid,” the old doctor said, finally beckoning to Jeff, “you shall have all the war you want.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Jeff. His father had carefully coached him never to forget that “sir” as long as he was in the army.

  “Humph!” grunted the old doctor as he worked. “Lots of fellers nowdays can’t wait to put on some blue clothes and go out and shoot at perfect strangers.” Noisily he spat a stream of brown tobacco juice all over a brass spittoon on the floor behind him and looked suddenly at Jeff. “Are you one of ’em?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jeff, promptly. “I want to shoot at them before they shoot at me.”

  The doctor tapped Jeff’s chest roughly with his dirty, horny knuckles and grunted again. “Humph! That’s a pretty good chest.”

  Jeff beamed modestly.

  “Jest right for the rebels to shoot Minie balls through,” the old doctor added. Jeff stared at him, feeling strangely depressed.

  Later, when they put their blouses back on, Jeff told John and David, “Far as I’m concerned, he could have left out that last remark.”

  They were surprised still more when they reported to the enlistment officer and one of the first questions he asked was, “Where do you want your pay sent if you are captured?”

  Pondering the question, Jeff felt better. He had been afraid the rebels would surrender and the war end before he could get into the fighting. And here was this fellow, suggesting he might be captured. Maybe he was going to see some action after all.

  As they stood in line before the quartermaster, Jeff strained his neck trying to get a look at the new Federal uniforms he was sure would be issued to them, like the handsome blue outfit he had seen on the sentry at the fort’s gate. But all they got was one light blue blouse, one pair of cotton socks, and one pair of drawers each.

  The new recruits fell to talking about why they had enlisted.

  “I came all the way from Seward County, down near Injun Territory,” said one. “My family’s Union. Mammy didn’t want me to go to no war. But we knowed the bushwhackers was hid out in the brush, stealin’ money and hosses and chokin’ boys my age when they found ’em. I didn’t wanta git choked. So I runned away. I wanted to run away sooner.”

  “I jined up fer a frolic,” laughed a tall fellow from Republic County with warts on his face. He turned to his messmate, a blond boy from Fort Scott. “Why did you come in?”

  “Wal, by Jack, because I thought the rebels was gonna take over the whole country.”

  “I joined up because they told me the rebels was cuttin’ out Union folks’ tongues and killin’ their babies. After I got here, I found out all it was over was wantin’ to free the niggers,” complained another, disgustedly.

  “I decided I’d jest as well be in the army as out in the bresh. Now I’m about to decide I’d druther be in the bresh,” snorted another. They were nearly all frowsy-headed, boot-shod, and lonely-looking, fresh from the new state’s farms, ranches, and raw young prairie towns. Before the war ended, Kansas furnished more men and boys to the Union forces in proportion to its population than any other state. And all of them were volunteers.

  Jeff smiled to himself and went on eating. He had heard his father discuss the issues so often that he
knew them forward and backward. But he saw no need for injecting them into the conversation here. Besides, he was too busy with his supper. The food was good, and there was lots of it.

  In bed that night in the barracks, Jeff turned on his stomach and sighed with satisfaction. At last he was in the army.

  4

  Captain Asa Clardy

  Next morning the bugle awakened them early. After breakfast they were assembled and taken to the drill field. Each man was issued an Enfield rifle and a bayonet.

  Through an error, Jeff, David, John, and the other late arrivals were assigned to fill out a company that, unknown to them, had already received several days’ instruction.

  “The captain’s a terror,” warned the man standing next to Jeff, in a whisper. “Name’s Asa Clardy. He fought in the Mexican War and hates being outranked here by volunteer officers who were farmers a few weeks ago. He takes it out on us volunteer soldiers.”

  Jeff dropped the butt of his rifle onto the ground. His father had fought in the Mexican War. Perhaps he knew Clardy. Jeff resolved to ask him next time he wrote home.

  “Fix bayonets!” roared Captain Clardy. He was a tall, spare-built man with gray sideburns and a long irregular scar on his left cheek. The sides of his black shoes were wet with dew. He had the look of a fellow who was always angry about something.

  Mystified by this command, Jeff, John, David, and the other new recruits never moved.

  The captain glared and stepped in front of Jeff. Jeff looked at him and felt a quiet shudder. What had he done wrong? On the man’s face was a savage, gloating expression.

  “Didn’t you hear me say fix bayonets?” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir,” Jeff replied, innocently, “but mine isn’t broken, sir.”

  A roar of laughter ran down the line. Jeff reddened with shame.

  “Silence!” shouted the captain curtly, “or I’ll run you all around the compound.”

  The officer scourged Jeff with another searching glare.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jefferson Davis Bussey, sir,” Jeff replied, speaking in a loud, clear voice as his father had taught him.

  This time the laughter was more subdued but again it was plainly audible.

  The captain’s face almost purpled with rage.

  “Then change your name!” he roared. “Jefferson Davis is the president of the traitorous Southern Confederacy we are now at war with.”

  Jeff felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. He neither liked the remark nor the man who delivered it.

  “Sir,” he said, looking the captain fearlessly in the eye and continuing to speak loudly, “I won’t change it. My father gave me that name. He knew Jefferson Davis before the Mexican War. He fought in Jefferson Davis’ regiment at the Battle of Buena Vista. Both were serving then under the Stars and Stripes.”

  Captain Clardy looked as if he was about to explode.

  “Fall out!” he roared at Jeff. “I’ll teach you to be impertinent. You volunteers never did know your places. You ought to be stripped, lashed to the wheel of a cannon and flogged with a mule whip.”

  Jeff stepped forward obediently, supposing he was about to receive the punishment the captain had described. To his surprise, he was punished in a different way. At the captain’s order, a private from the regular army escorted Jeff to the main kitchen, where for an entire week he was to wash pots and kettles, peel potatoes, and empty swill after he had spent all day at the drill field.

  Next afternoon Jeff was made to peel potatoes for Captain Clardy’s own mess. As usual the kitchen workers were discussing the officers in an uncomplimentary light.

  “Are you close to Captain Clardy?” one of them asked, cautiously.

  Jeff laughed. “I’ll say! I peel the same potatoes he eats. Why?”

  The man looked evasive and fell silent. But later one of the cooks, a muscular man with an American flag tattooed gaudily in red and blue on the inside of his right arm, came up to Jeff when the others had gone. His name was Sparrow.

  “What are you bein’ punished for?” he asked.

  Jeff told him about the incident on the drill field.

  Sparrow sneered. “Clardy knows he wouldn’t dare talk like that to me or—”

  “Or what?” Jeff asked curiously.

  A cunning look came into Sparrow’s swarthy face. “I’m not gonna shoot off my mouth but I could tell you somethin’ about Asa Clardy that he wouldn’t want you ner nobody else to know. I knew him back in Morris County.”

  Jeff was curious to hear more, but Captain Clardy himself walked up, frowning, and Sparrow scuttled back to the kitchen.

  Fifteen minutes before the supper call each night, Captain Clardy came on an inspection tour. The surly officer liked the tasty bean soup that was served regularly at the evening meal. Twice that week as Jeff was carrying the heavy soup kettle out of the kitchen, Clardy stopped him and, picking up a big metal spoon, lifted the lid of the kettle, scooped up a full spoonful of the delicious soup, and ate it.

  Next evening Jeff was careful to be carrying a soup kettle just as Clardy came into the kitchen. As usual Clardy stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

  “Here, you!” Clardy growled. “Give me a taste of that.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Jeff with enthusiasm. Holding the bail of the heavy kettle in his left hand, he saluted smartly with his right. Selecting a large spoon and dipping deeply into the kettle, Clardy greedily downed the contents of the spoon. Quickly he gagged and spat it out upon the floor.

  “Do you call that stuff soup?” Clardy roared, glaring angrily at Jeff.

  “No, sir,” said Jeff, with pretended innocence, “that’s dishwater.”

  Clardy stamped out of the kitchen without a word.

  The cooks all looked alarmed. “Lad, you’d best steer clear of that bucko,” one old fellow warned Jeff, kindly. “He’s cruel and vindictive. He’ll never forget that, long as he lives.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Jeff replied. “Thank you for warning me.” But as he performed his duties about the kitchen, Jeff felt repaid for the captain’s slur on his name.

  He did his work so well that on the sixth day he was dismissed an hour early and wandered down to the stables to see the horses.

  There he saw an old teamster leading half a dozen fine-looking cavalry mounts around and around the corral. The old man wore a white undershirt and blue army pants with scarlet stripes down the sides. He was muttering angrily to himself. The horses looked jaded, as if they had been ridden hard.

  Suddenly a gust of wind whipped a piece of paper across the corral. Frightened, one of the animals jerked loose from the man and started running for the open gate, his long rein dragging in the dust.

  “Ho! You black dog!” shouted the old teamster, but the horse paid no attention. The gate was near Jeff. Quickly he ran in front of it, raising his arms and calling to the horse soothingly. The animal plunged to a stop, eyeing Jeff distrustfully. Still talking to him, Jeff was able to recover the rein and return the horse to the teamster.

  “Sir,” said Jeff, saluting, “I was raised on a farm and know something about horses. I’ll be glad to help you walk ’em. Why are they in such a lather?”

  The old teamster must have been impressed by that “sir” and also the salute. He handed Jeff three of the halter reins.

  “These dom stable boys are no account,” the sergeant growled in his rich dialect. “If I send them to the crick to wather the horses, they bile the wather in them on their way back.”

  As they walked along, Jeff stole a sidelong look at his companion and saw that the teamster was small, wiry, and had lots of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. His face was covered with black whiskers, as though he hadn’t shaved in a week. Jeff judged him to be nearly sixty years of age.

  Later Jeff helped Mike Dempsey, for that was the teamster’s name, to rub down the animals, return them to their stalls, and feed them. As they worked, he told Mike all about himself and about his ru
n-in with Captain Clardy.

  Mike chuckled when Jeff related what he had said when ordered to “Fix bayonets.” Without a word, the old Irishman carefully knocked the ashes out of his cob pipe and stuffed it into his side pocket.

  Walking into his small office in the harness room, he came out with a bayonet and an old, well-oiled rifle. He showed Jeff every command involving bayonets in the manual of arms, then gave him the gun and bayonet and began to drill him. Jeff soon got the hang of it.

  “After this, me boy, you fix it whin he says to, whither it’s broke or not,” counseled Mike.

  In spite of his good intentions, Jeff found out next day that a volunteer soldier serving under volunteer officers has a lot to learn about military etiquette. Henry Slaughter, a neighbor from Linn County, had joined up earlier than Jeff and secured a commission. He approached Jeff on the drill field and handed him a letter from home.

  Jeff knew Slaughter well. They had hunted rabbits together many times in the Bussey cornfield.

  Grateful, Jeff blurted, “Thanks, Henry.” Slaughter drew himself up haughtily and cursed Jeff roundly for his familiarity. And Jeff learned that two neighbors of yesterday could today be separated by an impassable gulf when two bits’ worth of tinsel was pinned on the shoulders of one and not the other.

  When the men in Jeff’s outfit elected their own noncommissioned officers, they chose for sergeant Pete Millholland, a big, broad-beamed farmer with white hair and blue eyes, who had homesteaded along the Kaw River, near Lawrence. Jeff was surprised at the choice, since Millholland was green as a gourd about military procedure and wore his uniform in a slipshod manner.

  As a drillmaster, he must have been the worst in the regiment. His squad marched with their rifles down or held over the wrong shoulder. Their coats were unbuttoned, their pants legs stuck out of their boots. And when they attempted the bayonet drill, they stuck each other repeatedly.

  For three weeks the Kansas Volunteers marched and drilled at the fort. Jeff was afraid the war would be over before the First Kansas Regiment of Infantry would reach the battleground. His fear grew each day.