Free Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith

he told himself disgustedly. “She acts like we’re all going to be killed by the rebels. We can take care of ourselves.”
    General Lyon rode up on a big gray horse and, without dismounting, began to talk to the Kansas Volunteers. He was a short, slender, bony man of about forty-five, with a rough, homely face. A coarse reddish-brown beard ran up past his ears into his thick sandy hair. He wore a blue uniform with heavy yellow epaulets concealing his frail shoulders. Jeff knew that he had fought with honor in the Mexican War and against the Indians.
    The general said, “Men, we’re going to have a battle. We’re going to march out and try to hit ’em before they know we’re comin’. Don’t shoot until you are given orders. Wait until they get close. Fire low—don’t aim higher than their knees. And don’t get scared. It’s no part of a soldier’s duty to get scared.”
    Scared? Who was scared? Jeff felt a gay excitement. His chance to strike a blow for his new state had come at last. He reached toward the left side of his belt, feeling for his bayonet. It was there. His pack was on his back, and his musket was in his hand. He was impatient to get started.
    The thin, sweet trill of a bugle pealed in the early twilight. A dozen drums began to beat. An officer shouted, “Fo’wud mawtch!”
    Thousands of feet began to stamp the hard, dusty ground in unison. The soldiers’ heads rose and fell as one as they marched four abreast at quick step. The long blue column moved southward.

   7
    Battle of Wilson’s Creek
    General Lyon had decided upon a bold plan of battle. His smaller Union army had no reinforcements. Their provisions were running low. A superior force was in front of them and General William J. Hardee with nine thousand more rebels was reported marching to cut off their communications. Retreat seemed wise. But Lyon didn’t propose to retreat and be closely pursued all the way back to St. Louis. Boldly he decided to attack and hurt the enemy so he could not follow them.
    His plan was to march secretly at night the twelve miles to where Price’s and McCulloch’s rebel army was encamped, and strike at daybreak in a surprise onslaught. Lyon with thirty-eight hundred men and two batteries would hit the rebels from the north. Colonel Franz Sigel with twelve hundred men and one battery was to fall upon the Confederates from the south.
    As the infantry swung along briskly, clouds covered the western sky, and Jeff thought he could smell rain in the air. Millholland raised his bearded chin, eyeing the heavens hopefully.
    â€œA rain ud be jist right for us,” he said. “Might cause ’em to draw in their pickets. If they do, we’ll give ’em a real surprise.”
    â€œWonder what them rebels looks like?” quavered a frightened boy in the ranks.
    Jake Lonegan, the grizzled sergeant from Junction City, snorted. “They wear horns,” he croaked. “A common article o’ diet among ’em is young an’ tender babies.”
    As they moved nearer the enemy, there was silence in the ranks. The road grew rockier. Fearing that the enemy could hear them approaching, they stopped to bind the cannon’s wheels in blankets and the horses’ hoofs in sacks, then resumed the march. Jeff’s company, commanded by Clardy, was stationed near the rear. Behind them were the horse-drawn ambulances, their shelves filled with bottles and drugs, and the doctors and medical orderlies with their cases of sharp surgical instruments.
    The men were solemn, now that the hour of battle approached. Jeff could sense it in their white, wistful faces and hear it in their hushed whispering. They exchanged messages to be delivered to relatives and sweethearts back in Kansas in the event they were killed.
    Jim Veatch, a Westport boy who liked to play cards, tossed his deck into the sumac bushes at the side of the