Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith Page A

Lyon’s first line of attack hurled itself down the ridge and across a small field filled with wheat shocks and onto the brown- and gray-clad Confederates who were trying frantically to form a battle line in front of their tents.
    Just before the two lines met and fused, there came a different sound, a menacing mutter and snarl, like thousands of beans being dropped into hundreds of tin pans. Jeff knew what that was—musket fire. Drawing in his breath, with solemn wonder he watched the Union line strike the Confederate one, bending it backward and driving it in confusion toward the creek.
    Feeling a wild thrill at the solid charge of the first Union advance, he yelled joyfully at the top of his lungs. It was time for the second line of advance—his line—to join the battle.
    Hoofbeats sounded behind him. A mounted staff officer in full uniform galloped up full tilt, jerking on his reins. As the bay horse slid to a stop, it kicked up a shower of small rocks and gravel. On the shoulders of his blue uniform coat, the officer wore the chevrons of a major. There was an urgent expression on his handsome face.
    â€œGot your line formed, boys?” he called stridently. “Be ready. We’ll give you the word in a minute.” He kept looking back impatiently over his shoulder. Then his nervous eyes swept up and down the line of men before him and fell on Jeff, the smallest one in the platoon.
    â€œBoy!” he barked, pointing with his gloved hand. “Something has happened to delay the quartermaster. Go to the rear and find him. Tell him to join us on the double. Hurry!”
    Jeff recoiled. “Sir,” he protested, saluting weakly, “can’t you please send somebody else? I want to stay with the boys here.”
    The major stared harshly at Jeff while he tried to control his plunging horse. Then he saw Jeff’s stricken face and his own countenance softened perceptibly.
    â€œDo as I tell you,” he ordered firmly. “Another time you shall have your chance to fight in battle. What’s your name?”
    Jeff swallowed miserably. He was the most disappointed man in Lyon’s army.
    â€œBussey, sir,” he replied tonelessly. “Jefferson Davis Bussey.”
    The officer looked at him sharply, then recovered himself. “Very good, Bussey. Better start at once.” Wheeling his horse around, he galloped off along the ridge.
    Wild with anger, Jeff stood and watched him ride out of sight. Recklessly he considered ignoring the command. Then Millholland stepped quietly to his side.
    â€œYou heared him, kid. Like it or not, it’s a order. Better git started.”
    Jeff looked defiantly at the sergeant. Millholland looked right back at him.
    Throwing one last yearning glance at his comrades, most of whom looked as if they would enjoy changing places with him, Jeff stepped back out of line. Still clutching his bayoneted musket, he trudged to the rear, descending the same slope they had marched up. Behind him the cannon were booming like thunderclaps, and he could hear the salvos of musket fire and the wild, frenzied shouting of the second line of advance, his line, as it charged down the ridge without him.
    Hot tears of disappointment stung his eyes. Twice he walked blindly into trees. Never again, he told himself, would he obey an order that took him away from his comrades.
    â€œBussey!”
    Jeff stopped abruptly and looked up. Before him in the growing daylight stood Captain Clardy, saber in hand. He broke into a volley of abuse.
    â€œGet back into line, you little yellow-bellied cur,” he stormed.
    Jeff’s patience, already threadbare, snapped. He matched Clardy, glare for glare.
    â€œI know where the line is,” he shouted back. “I don’t need no old grouch like you to help me find it.”
    Clardy seemed to gasp and explode, all in one motion. Raising his saber and waving it threateningly, he took a step toward Jeff. Jeff cocked