Rifles for Watie (24 page)

Lucy held up his blue coat. A shaft of late afternoon sunshine struck the cloth and the dark blue suddenly became lighter. An expression of strong emotion crossed the girl's face, as though the coat had aroused some unpleasant memory.

“I have no Union buttons,” she said, staring coldly at him. “All I have are some leftover buttons off my father's first uniform coat. Would wearing Southern buttons violate your Northern scruples, Mr. Bussey?”

Jeff said gently, “Mam, they'll do fine. I'll gladly wear them.” He felt vaguely uneasy. She looked as if she wanted to quarrel.

With a quick, deft motion of her right hand, Lucy knotted the end of the light blue thread and looked at him with thinly veiled hostility.

“Why do you make war on us?” she asked, looking him squarely in the eye.

Jeff was taken back by her directness. Then he felt a strange relief. At last some of the trouble between them was out in the open. Maybe at least she'd talk.

He took his time, feeling his way carefully and trying to stay calm.

“Mam, I think we make war upon the South for the sole purpose of restoring it to the Union. I know slavery's involved, too, but President Lincoln made it plain before he was ever elected that he didn't want to interfere with slavery where it now exists.”

She bit the thread off with her small, sharp teeth.

“But why won't Lincoln let the South have slavery in the new Western territory? After all, we helped win that country in the Mexican War. What's right about that? Why shouldn't the territories themselves decide what they want to do about slavery?”

“Because, mam, the Declaration of Independence itself forbids slavery. And the declaration is what we're supposed to live by in this country.”

“Not in my country,” she corrected him. “You're not in the United States now, Mr. Bussey. You're in the Cherokee Indian Nation. We have our own system of government here and you are bound by treaty to respect it. And anyway, what in your Declaration of Independence or your Constitution prohibits slavery?”

Warming to the argument, Jeff sat up straighter. He was sure of his ground here. “Mam, the declaration says that all men, and that includes Negroes as well as whites, are created equal. It says that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It doesn't say, mam, that just the rich man, or the white man, or the Anglo-Saxon white man, or the Kansas white man, is entitled to liberty. It says
all
men. Mam, no man or woman in slavery has any liberty.” Jeff saw her wince and a small shadow of doubt cross her eyes.

“But it doesn't specifically say we can't have slavery,” she argued stiffly. “There was slave trade in both north and south when your Declaration of Independence was written. And ever since it was written, slavery has existed and Congress hasn't tried to stop it. Can you quote me anything from it that comes right out and says that slavery shall not exist?”

“No, mam,” acknowledged Jeff truthfully, “not in the final draft. But did you know, mam, that in the original draft, the slave trade was called ‘an execrable commerce,' ‘a piratical warfare,' and ‘a cruel war against human nature'?”

Jeff had no trouble quoting the words accurately. He had heard his father repeat them scores of times. They were clearly engraved upon his memory as though etched there by needles of fire.

It was obvious Lucy hadn't known. Flushing, she looked at him with surprise. She hadn't dreamed that this boyish Union private would be so singularly well informed.

“Then why was it left out of the final draft?”

“Because, mam,” Jeff explained patiently, “two states disagreed. They were Georgia and South Carolina. All the other states, both North and South, agreed. But in order to preserve harmony, the expressions were omitted from the final draft. However, it showed what most of the country, even most of the South, thought about slavery. And that's why President Lincoln didn't want to see slavery started in the new territories.”

Lucy abandoned her arguments concerning the American Constitution. She thrust the needle through the underside of the coat and, threading one of the brass Confederate buttons through it, began vigorously to stitch it to the material.

Passionately she said, “Slavery and preservation of the Union have very little to do with the Cherokee Indian Nation. Your country took our homes and our land away from us once, back in Georgia and Alabama. And now you're getting ready to do it again. Is it any wonder we don't like the United States and that we made a treaty with the Confederacy?”

Jeff remembered Joe Grayson, the Cherokee boy, telling how his mother had lost her home in Georgia.

“What do you mean, mam, that my country is getting ready to do it again? Jackson was a Democrat. My government is Republican.”

She bit her lower lip. “That doesn't change anything. During the 1860 campaign, Seward, your leading Republican, wanted to seize our lands and fill them with white settlers. For years, the people of Kansas have wanted to get rid of their Indian tribes. Where do you think they'd send them, to Nebraska, or Missouri, or Colorado? They'd send them to our country and force us to give or sell to them cheaply our lands here. So why should we remain loyal to you? Besides, your government deserted us when the war started.”

“It's true, mam,” Jeff admitted, “that we had to take out our soldiers to keep them from being captured. We weren't prepared for war. We weren't planning a war. The South was. They were organizing home militia and making treaties with the Indians.”

Lucy lifted her chin proudly. “And it was the finest treaty we ever got. We can partition or sell our surplus lands. We can sell our personal property. We can move out intruders whenever we wish and the Confederate army will help us. No agent can be assigned to us without our consent. Funds that the United States owes us and won't pay us will be paid in full by the Confederacy. We have been given our own judicial district, just like any Confederate state. We are allowed our own delegate to the Confederate congress. All these things have been denied us by your United States government.” She had almost finished stitching on the last button. Her fingers began to tremble.

Jeff's lips compressed. Now she had him going. What a stupid war it was. To him, the issues seemed all mixed up. Each state in the Union seemed to have a different reason for fighting. In Kansas, it was the Free State party versus the proslavery people. In Missouri, the Union faction living in the southern part of the state was fighting the rebels living to the north. In the Cherokee Indian Nation, it was the Stand Watie Cherokees fighting the John Ross Cherokees over the old removal bitterness, and slavery seemed very little involved. In fact, he had heard that John Ross, leader of the Northern Cherokees, owned a hundred Negro slaves and apparently was satisfied with the custom. And in all the states and territories, gangs of bushwhackers who didn't know what they were fighting for, roamed and pillaged the war-torn country, defying both the Union and rebel armies.

“Mam, I had no idea all this had happened. It does seem that my government has treated your country badly. But . . .”

Jeff saw that she had grown suddenly pale. Her lips parted as if to speak. She took a long, tremulous breath.

She said, “What do you mean, it seems so? You raid our country, rob us of our valuables, despoil our property. Your officers are insolent and make us cook for them. Your soldiers, like those this afternoon, insult us. If my father or my brother wants to see us, they have to slip across the river like thieves in the night and risk being captured or shot. . . .” Her low voice, vibrant with passion, failed. She began to sew faster than ever. Jeff didn't dare speak.

Tears welled into her eyes. Suddenly she flinched and gave a little gasp of pain. A tiny spot of blood appeared on her finger. She had accidentally stuck it with the needle. Throwing his coat upon the floor, she ran weeping from the room.

Shaken, Jeff stood, looking after her in wonder and pain. Finally he stooped and picked up his coat. Clumsily he broke the remaining thread off the second button, noticing it was sewn on strongly and neatly. He thrust Lucy's needle into the padded top of her sewing basket, where she could find it, and stood indecisively. Corn, he'd never seen such a peculiar, independent girl.

Always foamed up about the war. In any war, there were robbing and killing and despoiling by both sides. Surely she knew that. Sighing, he shook his head helplessly. He had wanted to comfort her, but his courage had failed him.

Resignedly he drew a long breath and looked resentfully around the room with its elegantly upholstered furniture and its large Bible bound in blue leather with the name “Levi Washbourne” engraved proudly on it in silver letters.

He felt miserable. He guessed he was head over heels in love with Lucy. But he might just as well be in love with some girl living on a star. The only thing they had in common was the war, and they were hopelessly crossed on that. Why had he been so foolish as to fall for a rebel girl?

He put on his coat and buttoned it. Lucy did know a lot about politics. He had learned more in the last five minutes about the Cherokee Indian Nation than he had ever dreamed existed. He hadn't realized the Cherokees had a small republic of their own within the United States.

He had picked up his cap and turned to go when Mrs. Adair came into the room.

“Where's Lucy?” she asked, surprised.

Sheepishly Jeff shook his head. “We were arguing about the war, mam, when she stuck her finger with the needle. She began crying and ran from the room.”

Mrs. Adair stared at him thoughtfully, her hands clenched tightly in front of her. Jeff could tell she felt sorry for him. He guessed she could tell by his face how smitten he was on Lucy. But there was something else in her face, too. Something that bordered on fear. Lucy's sister seemed to be hesitating, as though weighing something carefully in her mind.

She said impulsively, “Mr. Bussey, even though you are in the Union army, I feel that I can trust you and that some explanation of Lucy's conduct is due you. We're all worried frantic about our brother Lee. We haven't told Mother yet, but he's been missing two weeks after being out on scout. Lucy, especially, has been prostrate with worry and fear. She and her brother are very close. She has a horror of Lee or Father being killed. That's why she can never talk rationally about the war.”

Jeff swallowed hard. No wonder Lucy hated the sight of a blue uniform. He'd never be able to make her like him so long as the war lasted, and it would probably last a long time.

He turned glumly toward the door, cap in hand. “Mam, please tell her that I'm grateful to her for sewing on my buttons. I mean her buttons. I mean her father's buttons. And that I'm sorry we have to fight against her brother and her father. And I hope her brother gets back safely from his scout.”

Mrs. Adair nodded. Tears came to her eyes, but her voice was steady. “Thank you. I'll tell her.”

As Jeff walked up the road, he wished he could help the Washbournes find Lee. But how would you go about trying to find an enemy missing on scout? The Union couldn't even keep track of its own men missing on scout.

  
15

Fate of the Brandts

A week later Jeff was standing at dusk near the north gate of Fort Gibson when he heard wagon wheels rumbling and hundreds of slow hoofbeats.

His heart leaped hopefully. Maybe it was a food train. Forage and provisions were running low. With Watie raiding so widely, no corn had been raised in the Cherokee country. The fort was wholly dependent now upon the food freighted overland by mule train from far-off Kansas, and upon the small acquisitions of flour and meal ground at Hildebrand's mill on Flint Creek from corn and wheat secured by stealthy dashes into nearby Arkansas. Weeks had passed since a supply train had come from Fort Scott. Everybody was tired of the weevily meat and the quarter rations of salt horse.

Besides, ten thousand rebels stationed along the south bank of the Arkansas River from Webbers Falls to the north of the Grand were poised for an attack. The fort's plight had become desperate. Jeff kicked at a small rock embedded in the ground. Federal blunders and indifference had done it. Located hundreds of miles west of the main theater of war, the fort had been virtually abandoned by Union authorities at St. Louis.

A double column of dusty figures rode horseback through the fort's great wooden gate. Their black campaign hats and their blue shoulders bobbed over the top of the fort's sharply pointed, close-set log palisades. As they drew closer, Jeff saw they were cavalry. Their faces were raw and swollen from the stings of horseflies and the scratches of tree branches striking them as they traveled through the woods. They looked as though they had been choking in their own dust all the way from Kansas.

Disappointed, he walked out to meet them, hoping they were escorting at least part of a food train. But only their own baggage wagons followed, and when he saw how easily the tired mules pulled the wagons, he knew they were loaded only lightly. When he tried to question them about where they had come from and how the war was going in the east, they stared at him and never spoke. Unabashed, he walked with them as they rode past the new stone supply buildings covered with slate that Colonel Phillips had ordered constructed atop the bluff overlooking Grand River. Moving on to the lowlands, they halted near the site of the original fort, now two decaying blockhouses.