Rifles for Watie Read Online Free PDF Page B

taught him.
    This time the laughter was more subdued but again it was plainly audible.
    The captain’s face almost purpled with rage.
    â€œThen change your name!” he roared. “Jefferson Davis is the president of the traitorous Southern Confederacy we are now at war with.”
    Jeff felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. He neither liked the remark nor the man who delivered it.
    â€œSir,” he said, looking the captain fearlessly in the eye and continuing to speak loudly, “I won’t change it. My father gave me that name. He knew Jefferson Davis before the Mexican War. He fought in Jefferson Davis’ regiment at the Battle of Buena Vista. Both were serving then under the Stars and Stripes.”
    Captain Clardy looked as if he was about to explode.
    â€œFall out!” he roared at Jeff. “I’ll teach you to be impertinent. You volunteers never did know your places. You ought to be stripped, lashed to the wheel of a cannon and flogged with a mule whip.”
    Jeff stepped forward obediently, supposing he was about to receive the punishment the captain had described. To his surprise, he was punished in a different way. At the captain’s order, a private from the regular army escorted Jeff to the main kitchen, where for an entire week he was to wash pots and kettles, peel potatoes, and empty swill after he had spent all day at the drill field.
    Next afternoon Jeff was made to peel potatoes for Captain Clardy’s own mess. As usual the kitchen workers were discussing the officers in an uncomplimentary light.
    â€œAre you close to Captain Clardy?” one of them asked, cautiously.
    Jeff laughed. “I’ll say! I peel the same potatoes he eats. Why?”
    The man looked evasive and fell silent. But later one of the cooks, a muscular man with an American flag tattooed gaudily in red and blue on the inside of his right arm, came up to Jeff when the others had gone. His name was Sparrow.
    â€œWhat are you bein’ punished for?” he asked.
    Jeff told him about the incident on the drill field.
    Sparrow sneered. “Clardy knows he wouldn’t dare talk like that to me or—”
    â€œOr what?” Jeff asked curiously.
    A cunning look came into Sparrow’s swarthy face. “I’m not gonna shoot off my mouth but I could tell you somethin’ about Asa Clardy that he wouldn’t want you ner nobody else to know. I knew him back in Morris County.”
    Jeff was curious to hear more, but Captain Clardy himself walked up, frowning, and Sparrow scuttled back to the kitchen.
    Fifteen minutes before the supper call each night, Captain Clardy came on an inspection tour. The surly officer liked the tasty bean soup that was served regularly at the evening meal. Twice that week as Jeff was carrying the heavy soup kettle out of the kitchen, Clardy stopped him and, picking up a big metal spoon, lifted the lid of the kettle, scooped up a full spoonful of the delicious soup, and ate it.
    Next evening Jeff was careful to be carrying a soup kettle just as Clardy came into the kitchen. As usual Clardy stepped in front of him, blocking his way.
    â€œHere, you!” Clardy growled. “Give me a taste of that.”
    â€œYes, sir! ” said Jeff with enthusiasm. Holding the bail of the heavy kettle in his left hand, he saluted smartly with his right. Selecting a large spoon and dipping deeply into the kettle, Clardy greedily downed the contents of the spoon. Quickly he gagged and spat it out upon the floor.
    â€œDo you call that stuff soup?” Clardy roared, glaring angrily at Jeff.
    â€œNo, sir,” said Jeff, with pretended innocence, “that’s dishwater.”
    Clardy stamped out of the kitchen without a word.
    The cooks all looked alarmed. “Lad, you’d best steer clear of that bucko,” one old fellow warned Jeff, kindly. “He’s cruel and vindictive. He’ll never forget that, long as he