Rifles for Watie Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    â€œCome on, kid,” the old doctor said, finally beckoning to Jeff, “you shall have all the war you want.”
    â€œYes, sir!” said Jeff. His father had carefully coached him never to forget that “sir” as long as he was in the army.
    â€œHumph!” 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?”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œJest 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