Free Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith Page B

I’m not. My gun jest went off while I was marching.” He gave another howl of pain. “Oh, it hurts, awful!”
    â€œShut up your sniveling!” roared Clardy. “You were carrying the gun over your shoulder. It’s a long gun. You couldn’t have shot off your finger unless you stuck it over the muzzle. You’re jest a yellow-bellied coward, that’s all!” Their arguing became fainter and fainter as they passed toward the ambulances in the rear.
    The men began to mutter to one another in low voices as they marched.
    â€œWhat happened? What happened?” everybody asked, although everybody had a pretty good idea now.
    Jake Lonegan grunted, shifting the pack on his back with a single swagger of his powerful shoulders. “Cappen’s prob’bly right. The man prob’bly got so scared that he shot off his own finger jest to git a discharge. They do it in every war.”
    Leave the army, when they were just heading into their first battle? Jeff could hardly believe his ears.
    Jeff looked at Lonegan and sighed. He envied the brawny sergeant who had bulging muscles and weighed two hundred thirty pounds. In their training bivouac, Lonegan had shown a perfect mastery of the manual of arms and could throw down any man in the company. In the election of officers he had been the almost unanimous choice of his squad.
    The night deepened. The pace slowed. The road wound up and down several small, rocky hills covered with timber. Once Jeff saw the dark outline of a log house, although all the windows were dark and no dog barked. He felt thirsty and, without slackening his marching pace, took a drink out of his canteen. The water tasted cool and sweet. It was surprising how well you could see after you got used to the darkness.
    At one o’clock in the morning by Millholland’s big silver watch, they stopped in the roadside grass and rested a couple of hours. Jeff checked the priming and the hammer on his musket, then lay down on the rough ground and slept. At three o’clock he felt a hand shaking his shoulder and heard the sergeant’s voice whispering in his ear.
    â€œFall in and keep silent. We’re mighty close to the enemy.”
    It was cool on the ground. As Jeff got quickly to his feet, he could hear the June bugs droning sleepily from the grass roots. Their song sounded plaintive, almost hushed. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a small package containing the last of his rations, a strip of cold bacon, some stale corn pone, and two apples from the sack the lady storekeeper had given him at Springfield. He had given all the other apples away. He was too excited to eat much.
    A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, and Jeff saw that Zed Tinney, a quiet, religious boy who lived near Wabaunsee, was clutching in one hand a small Bible bound in black leather. Fear and despair ruled his face. Resigned to being killed in battle, he was praying quietly to himself. Lonegan saw him and stepped across the intervening space.
    â€œHello, Parson,” he taunted. “What time does the revival start?”
    Millholland walked up to Lonegan, scowling fiercely. In a low voice he said, “You shut up an’ git back over thar with your own outfit. Iffen anybody in my squad wants to pray, he shore can, an’ nobody’s gonna laugh at him, neither. You hear me?”
    For a moment the two big sergeants glared at each other. Then, to Jeff’s surprise, Lonegan walked obediently back to his own squad. And Millholland went up several notches in Jeff’s estimation.
    Tinney paid no attention to the incident. His mind seemed far away. “I’m glad I’ve always lived a good life,” Jeff heard him whisper. “I’m glad that I’ve never knowingly harmed a soul.”
    Again the army was put in motion. It now marched southeast in column by companies, the batteries by section, and a line of skirmishers in front. Disappointed because