Rifles for Watie (30 page)

“I'd rather have this. It tells me more than the courier would have. This is a dispatch from Cooper to General Cabell, the enemy commander in Arkansas, asking Cabell to hurry over here with his army. Cooper knows I'm here. He must anticipate I'm going to attack him. He's right. Maybe I can hit him before Cabell joins him.” Standing, the general began to bellow for his aides. . . .

After supper Jeff looked up Orff. He found the lieutenant enjoying a pipe in front of his tent, trying to forget his unhappy adventures of the afternoon. Jeff saluted.

“Sir, could I see that rifle you used in the battle today? The one you stopped the whole rebel army with?”

Orff's hazel eyes gleamed proudly. The rifle was his pride and joy. He ducked into his tent and produced the gun, pulling it out of his scabbard, and handed it to Jeff.

Jeff had heard about the new repeating rifles being manufactured in the North but this was the first time he had ever seen one. Curiously he passed his fingers over its smooth barrel of dark steel and its smooth walnut stock. He liked its lightness.

Orff took his pipe out of his mouth and gestured with it toward the gun. “She's a seven-shot Spencer. You load her through the aperture in the butt of the stock. You pump the empty shells out with the finger level there. Ammunition comes ready-made in brass cartridges and will always shoot, no matter how wet it gets. An' you can load her on a runnin' hoss.”

Jeff shook his head incredulously. He looked down at his own muzzle-loading one-shot Springfield and thought of all the trappings he had to have to make it shoot once—powder, charger, cap box, ramrod, Minie ball. He had believed it the best gun in the world. Now it seemed as obsolete as the ancient muskets George Washington's infantry had used at Valley Forge. He was frankly envious. Seven shots without loading!

“Corn!” he gasped. “You could load her on Sunday and shoot her all the rest of the week.”

“Prettiest little gun I ever owned,” Orff said, “I gave thirty-five dollars for it, all the money I had in the world. She'll shoot straight, too. I went down the river with it last week an' killed eleven squirrels in thirteen shots. An' I cut the forefoot off the twelfth, but he got away.”

Reluctantly Jeff gave the gun back to Orff. As he walked back to his tent in the darkness, he thought what a tremendous advantage an army would have if every soldier in it owned one of the new repeating rifles.

Next day was Sunday. Jeff's company, on scout, was camped on the Illinois River, four miles south of Tahlequah. He had the afternoon off so he decided to ride into Tahlequah and see Lucy.

He dreaded the trip, but he felt he should say how sorry he was about Lee. And tell them how courageous Lee had been. He wondered if Lee's body had reached them safely? They'd probably hate him because his company had witnessed the execution and provided the firing squad. Maybe they wouldn't even talk to him. Lucy would probably blame him. She always seemed to think the war was his fault. Also, he had to find out whether Lucy liked him even a little.

This might be his last chance to find out. Blunt was getting ready to jump off on another campaign. There would be a battle and lots of shooting. Jeff cleaned the mud off his boots with a cottonwood twig. That pistol shot Cooper's courier had taken at him was close. So was the rebel ball that had severed the sunflower six inches from his nose. He couldn't hope to keep dodging rebel bullets forever. This might be the last time he would ever see Lucy.

Obeying a whim, he took Dixie along. It was almost noon. The day was hot and humid. He jogged the dun slowly so the dog could stay up. It would be a good outing for her. With an air of mingled discouragement and keen expectancy, he trotted into the outskirts of the town.

  
18

Sunday

His heart swelling with excitement, Jeff rode up to the Washbourne home, and his body stiffened. Both the big log house and the premises around it looked deserted.

The lawn was unkept and full of thistles. The empty barnlot was hidden by tall weeds. The Washbourne women were gone. Lucy was gone. Appalled, he slid his left hand down the reins and leaned forward in the saddle, scanning the yard.

Then he saw that one of the flower beds was planted to potatoes, onions, peas, and beans. And that a kitchen window was open. On a clothes prop in the back yard, a petticoat fluttered lazily in the hot southwest breeze. Swinging off the dun, he tied the horse and the dog in the shade of one of the large sycamores in front of the gate.

Walking onto the front porch, he knocked. Inside the house, somebody's footsteps approached. His heart hammered madly against his blue hickory shirt. He squinted anxiously at the brown oaken door, the same door Lucy had opened that hot July morning a year ago. Would she slam it in his face now? Trembling, he swept off his hat.

Slowly the heavy door swung back, revealing a small, aged Negress. As she surveyed Jeff's faded blue shirt, his shaggy blue trousers with the yellow stripes of the Union cavalry down the sides, and his broken but neatly polished brogans, her thin, heavily veined hands began to shake.

Jeff asked, “Is Miss Lucy home?”

The Negro woman's eyes grew wider and wider, as though surprised that any Yankee soldier knew her young mistress. She shook her head vigorously. The whites of her eyes shone like glass. “Naw suh! She's gone down to Mary's to rub her mothah's back.” She started to close the door.

Frustrated, Jeff said, “When is she expected home?”

Before the woman could answer, Lucy's mother came to the door. She walked slowly and heavily. One look at the grief and sorrow apparent in her face, and Jeff knew Lee Washbourne's body had reached home safely. She recognized him instantly.

She stepped back, opening the door wider. “Won't you come in, Mr. Bussey?”

She spoke and moved with a well-bred restraint. Her low, deep voice sounded courteous. “Lucy has gone to my sister's home. My sister has been ill, and Lucy's visits seem to cheer her. She will be back soon. I know she'll be glad to see you.”

“Thank you, mam,” said Jeff. He knew the odds were about ten to one against Lucy being glad to see him. But he stepped inside.

Moving slowly, Mrs. Washbourne shut the door behind him. “Mr. Bussey, first of all, I want to thank you sincerely for your thoughtfulness in connection with my son Lee's death. It has been a sad time for all of us. Belle Lisenbee and Mr. Hicks got here about midnight with Lee's body. They had to awaken us. Of course, nobody slept any more that night. They stayed until the next morning, and Mr. Hicks dug the grave. We buried Lee on the same hillside where he and Lucy used to play with their sleds when they were children. It was God's will, I suppose, that my son died so young, but it has been very hard for me to bear.”

She led Jeff into the parlor. It was dark and cool there. He looked around and saw the same armchairs and divan, upholstered in blue. The spinning wheel stood neatly in a corner. The large family Bible lay on the same table.

Mrs. Washbourne turned around, her eyes wet. “I last saw Lee one night four months ago. He had ridden alone across the river, risking his life to see us. I heard him laugh at the back door and call, half in caution, half in fun, ‘Hello, Mama. Anybody here I don't want to see?' And then came that awful night when Belle Lisenbee and old Mr. Hicks knocked on the front door you just knocked on. As long as I live, when I hear someone knocking on that door, I shall be reminded of my son's death. It has been sultry today, hasn't it? Won't you sit down?”

“Thank you, mam.”

The back door slammed. “Excuse me. That must be Lucy now.” She left the room.

Jeff stood, breathless, twisting his hat in his hands, a look of shy longing in his pleasant, boyish face. His heart was thumping wildly again. He heard Lucy's skirts swishing and her quick step approaching through the back of the house. He knew it was she. When she entered and saw him, her small, round mouth parted with surprise.

Hungrily, Jeff stared at her. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes. She looked more subdued than he had ever seen her.

To his astonishment, she came right up to him and gave him both her cool little hands.

“Mr. Bussey,” she said, with a welcoming smile. “What a nice surprise.” She sounded as if she really meant it.

Flabbergasted, he took her hands and stammered, “Good afternoon, mam.” He released her hands, shyly, and stooped to pick up the hat he had dropped in his confusion.

She was brown as saddle leather. There were a few freckles on her nose, and Jeff thought he knew who had been tending the vegetables he had seen in the flower bed. The long blue cotton dress she was wearing emphasized her slim young figure.

“Mam, my patrol camped last night on the Illinois River, near here, and I thought I'd ride over and see you . . .”

He halted, awkwardly, rephrasing it. “I mean—see how you and your family were getting along.” Corn! There he went, messing things up again. He had a lot of nerve, announcing he had come to call on her when she wouldn't even wipe her feet on him.

But Lucy didn't seem to mind. She looked around for the Negro woman.

“Perce,” she called, “please bring Mr. Bussey a cool drink from the well. He's been riding in the sun.” She turned again to Jeff. “May I take your hat?”

Jeff looked at it. It was battered almost beyond recognition, but he couldn't help it. It had been months since the ordnance department had received replacement clothing from Fort Scott. Ashamed, he thrust it toward her. She took it, watching him, a little smile of pleasure on her face. Then her face grew suddenly grave. She sat down facing him, still holding his hat in her hands.

“Mr. Bussey, I can't begin to thank you enough—for—your kindness—regarding my brother. . . .” She was unable to go on.

Tears came into her eyes. She raised her oval chin and went on bravely, “Our whole family is sincerely grateful to you for going out of your way to do what you did—for sending Lee's body to us so we could bury him decently in our own family cemetery—and for paying Mr. Hicks to come with Belle and dig the grave . . .”

Jeff thought she was more beautiful than ever.

“Mam, I'm sorry there was so little I could do under the circumstances. Every soldier in our company was made to view the whole thing. None of us liked it. None of us even knew it was your brother until later. Your brother behaved very bravely. I'm heartily ashamed of my commander for ordering it, mam.”

She looked up at him, her wet eyes shining.

“Belle told us how you refused your captain's order to serve on the firing squad and how you were punished severely for it.”

Jeff dropped his eyes uncomfortably. That blasted Noah had done too much talking. Abashed, he shook his head. He didn't want credit for something he hadn't done.

“Yes, but mam—I didn't know at the time I refused—that it was your brother.”

He saw that he should change the painful subject. “As I rode up just now, mam, I could see that you haven't had a cow for some time. What happened to her?”

A shadow passed across Lucy's face. “The Yankees stole her and butchered her calf for veal. They came one morning at breakfast. They took the cow and the calf and all our food, too.”

Jeff moistened his lips, angry at the depredations of his own army. There were laws against looting.

Seeing the remorse in his face, Lucy added, practically, “There's no need for you to feel badly about it, Mr. Bussey. You've already shown us how you felt about the cow. Besides, these weren't infantry. They were cavalry.”

Jeff felt a slow crawl of shame. “I've changed services, mam, since I saw you last. I'm in the cavalry now.” He looked forlornly out the window where he had tied his horse in the yard, trying to think of something else to say. “That's my horse out there, mam. Would you like to see him?”

They went outside. Jeff untied the dun and got into the saddle. He turned him around a couple of times so Lucy could see how he handled.

Lucy stooped to pat the dog and bury her fingers in the thick hair behind Dixie's neck. “She's a beauty, Mr. Bussey. But why do you tie her?”

Jeff felt his ears reddening. “So she won't fight with your cat, mam.”

The corners of Lucy's mouth turned upward and this time she didn't try to suppress her smile.

“Then you can untie her, if you like, Mr. Bussey. Our cat is gone too. She left the same night the soldiers left.”

Jeff fell silent. Dad gum! Stealing the family cat while the family was still on the premises. How low could cavalry stoop? Lucy sat down on the wooden stile and rubbed the fur on Dixie's back.

He told her about Dixie drinking General Blunt's tea, and she laughed merrily. He wished he could make her laugh more.

“Mam, I'm a scout now,” he said proudly. Her laughter ceased. When he told her about Noah Babbitt's ride, she listened very quietly, and he saw the fear come back into her face. He guessed he was reminding her too much of Lee, so he switched to other things.