Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith

glazed eyes and kept walking.
    â€œThey whopped us,” one lanky fellow said, finally. “Lyon got killed an’ Sigel got lost. Hundreds of our boys got shot.”
    Another quavered, “No use fightin’ no more. We air done up the spout.”
    Shocked, Jeff could scarcely believe his ears. “Why, we were winning it when I left,” he said with disbelief. “What happened?”
    â€œThey was too many of ’em. We drove ’em back at fust, and I thought we had ’em licked. But they kept coming on, regiment after regiment, all on the double quick, until they had as many as three lines agin’ us in some places. Mister, you wouldn’t have a smoke on you, would you?”
    Jeff shook his head dully. It was a calamity. The army—his army—had been licked. He felt like bawling. Sobered by the bad news, he groped on, trying to find comrades from his own squad in each cluster of weary, discouraged men he encountered. Finally he discovered part of his company walking northward, through a potato field.
    Dirty and exhausted, they wore a dazed, disenchanted look on their smoke-blackened faces that suggested they had come straight from hell. John Chadwick was the first one Jeff recognized. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his left arm, where a rebel Minie ball had struck him. Pete Millholland had torn off most of his own shirt to dress the wound.
    â€œWhat happened?” Jeff asked.
    John just looked at him bleakly and, without answering, hurried on toward the rear as though to put as much distance as possible between himself and the horror he had seen. Noah followed, carrying John’s gun. He had lost his cap. There was dirt on his face and a long, red welt across his neck.
    â€œZed Tinney got killed,” Noah reported briefly. “Shot in the forehead when our line charged. Ford Ivey was probably killed, too. He fell when we were retreating. Several of our boys got hit. We were lucky to be in the second advance line. Our first line lost almost one third killed.”
    Zed Tinney dead. The news sobered Jeff. Blinking, he thought of Zed’s last words. “I’m glad I’ve always lived a good life.”
    Quickly Jeff fell into step beside Noah. He took John Chadwick’s gun and carried it himself. He would miss Ford Ivey, too.
    Pete Millholland lumbered wearily into view, carrying three muskets under one brawny arm. There was a dark circle around his mouth where the black powder had spilled as he tore open cartridge after cartridge with his teeth. He spat out his tobacco, wiped off his chin with his free hand, then wiped his hand on the leg of his homespun trousers.
    â€œWe’da whipped ’em if we’d had more men,” the big sergeant growled. “We chewed ’em purty good anyhow, I think. Your friend Jimmy the drummer boy is a cool ’un,” he told Jeff. “At the first rebel volley, Jake Lonegan threw down his rifle and run like a rabbit. Jimmy dropped his drum, picked up Jake’s musket with the bayonet on it, and charged right on with our boys. I saw him later an’ he asked about you.”
    Ashamed, Jeff felt his ears reddening. His bitterness returned. What must the men think of him! Desolate, he jammed his hat down over his eyes and fell in behind the others.
    They hiked all the way back to Springfield. Walking wearily into the town at dusk, they read their defeat in the frightened faces of the people staring at them on the streets. They didn’t look much like an army any more and they knew it. Disorganized, they would have been easy prey for a rebel pursuit. But the Southern army, as Millholland had said, and as Lyon had planned, was itself too badly battered to follow up its victory.
    Later Jeff found Jimmy gulping cold water from a well behind a tavern. He still had Jake Lonegan’s musket with him. Despite his heroism, his boyish face was crestfallen.
    â€œI lost my new drum, Jeffy,” he said