The water began to bubble. Listlessly he poured in the rice. They had pooled their rations, but he was afraid there wouldn’t be enough.
Soon the rice began to boil over and spill down the sides of the kettle. With a big spoon, Jeff tried to salvage the bubbling white overflow. But it was rising and swelling faster than he could ladle it out. Hurriedly he spread an old saddle blanket near the fire and, with his tin plate, scooped the cooked rice onto it. It made a big snowy pile.
The others plodded up wearily, found their camp plates, and gathered silently around the fire, looking loathingly at the rice. Jeff knew they were thinking about the stolen steaks.
“For them that don’t like rice, supper’s over,” Jeff said.
Ignoring their plates, they ate it off the blanket with their spoons.
11
Lucy Washbourne
Jeff stood on a rocky bluff and gazed through the shimmering distance at Tahlequah, capital of the Cherokee Indian Nation that had joined the Southern Confederacy in the war.
Surprise ruled his face. He thought the Cherokees were blanket Indians, like the Potawatomi and Miami near his Kansas home, and that Tahlequah would be a city of teepees scattered over the grassy prairie. Instead, he saw a good-sized town, much bigger than Sugar Mound and almost as big as Leavenworth. It was located among low, green-timbered hills at a picturesque spot near the Illinois River. Many of its town buildings were of brown stone and red brick. And instead of teepees, there were log houses chinked with red clay and chimneys of rock and mud. Spirals of gray smoke twisted lazily into the hot blue sky.
“Now lissen, you foot-sloggers!” bellowed Jim Pike, the new sergeant. “We’re comin’ into town. Cap’n Greeno says we’re to impress ’em with our sodjery bearin’. So smarten up! March good. No profanity. No talkin’ to civilians. No swipin’ fruit ner vegetables. Close ranks! March!”
Loyal to Millholland and slow to give his allegiance to any new officer, Jeff didn’t like Pike, a tall, flint-eyed, thin-shouldered fellow of nearly forty who spent much of his free time boasting about his experiences in the Mexican War. But Jeff marched “good,” as the new sergeant ordered.
It was one week after the death and burial of Millholland. As they plodded along, it seemed to Jeff that the town was slumbering and nobody in Tahlequah knew there was a war.
On the road winding southwest to Fort Gibson, a freighter’s wagon, hooped over with gray canvas, crawled through the sand like a June bug. Adjusting his eyes to the distance, Jeff saw what looked like a mail hack crossing the Illinois River at Beane’s Ford, the sun reflecting the tiny splashes of water kicked up by the wheels. A solitary Indian boy, humped forward in the saddle, jogged ponyback on a lonesome-looking trail that led toward the hills. Jeff wondered who he was and where he was going.
Jeff lengthened his stride to match the man ahead of him. Noah had told him their march had something to do with making a good impression on the Tahlequah people so that the hundreds of Cherokees who had been compelled to join the rebel army might want to come back to the Union side.
As the trim blue column tramped slowly into the outskirts and on to the town square, Jeff saw Indian people, mostly women and children but also some men, standing in their well-trimmed yards, curiosity and fear in their brown faces. Most of them were dressed like white people.
They looked like white people, too, and Jeff remembered what Joe Grayson had told him about the Cherokee mixed-bloods who governed the nation. They had two legislative houses elected by the people and a school system that surpassed that of many of the states. Colonel Weer had given strict orders that anybody caught stealing or looting private property would forfeit a month’s pay and have to work thirty days on fortifications.
Jeff stood beneath a big elm tree on the town square, fanning himself with his cap. He enjoyed being in a big town again. The horses around the shady capitol square fought off swarms of dog gnats with their tails and pawed the plank fence to which they were tethered. People milled about, talking and visiting in musical, low-pitched Cherokee voices. There was the clank of boots on the board sidewalks, the creak and jingle of harness, the measured ringing of a blacksmith’s anvil, the snarling of strange dogs meeting in the street, the mingled odor of fresh horse droppings and baking bread, and the whoop and laughter of children playing.
Jeff was assigned to a small escort that accompanied Captain Clardy and some of the Union officers. They wanted to find a house where meals might be procured. As they walked along the street, frightened faces watched them from around the edges of window curtains. Dogs walked up stiff-legged to accost Dixie, but she stayed close to Jeff’s heels and paid no attention to any of them.
In the middle of town they approached a handsome log house shaded by several majestic sycamores. Obviously its owner was a man of considerable wealth. They turned into its ornate front gate with wrought-iron hinges and walked up a path of gray chat bordered by bushes of yellow roses. Jeff saw that the rafters of the house were of peeled pine poles held together with wooden pegs. Behind the property were slave houses and a barn.
Ignoring the property’s magnificence, Clardy clumped boldly onto the wide front porch and, flanked by Jeff’s patrol, rapped sharply with his knuckles on the heavy oaken door.
The door opened from the inside and revealed a girl, a very pretty girl. Her black sun-streaked hair was caught in a dark green bow. She was carrying a big white Persian cat which at the sight of Dixie began to swell up angrily like a peacock.
Jeff’s mouth flopped open and he got a weak feeling in the pit of his stomach as though thousands of butterflies were beating their wings madly inside him. Although the girl’s skin had a brownish cast, her complexion was lovelier than wild strawberries. Breathless, he wondered what any girl that pretty was doing in this far-off Indian town.
When she saw the blue-clad Union soldiers, the girl shrank back quickly. Her small round mouth parted with surprise and displeasure.
“My officers and I are hungry,” Clardy growled. His sly, nervous eyes darted past her into the house. “Order your servants to fix us some supper.” As usual, his tone was surly and domineering.
The girl raised her oval chin a trifle and looked fearlessly back at him.
“Since you freed all the Negroes, we’re not even cooking dinner for ourselves,” she said. “We’re all rebels—to the backbone.” Proudly she gestured behind her. “My mother and two sisters live here. They all have husbands in the rebel army.” Her voice was melodious and low-pitched.
Jeff saw that despite her hostility, she was a girl who went well with July, even a hot, drouth-stricken July. She was wearing a long cotton dress of light green and looked as fresh and clean as a green shrub after a rain.
Clardy’s face purpled. “I’ll brook none of your rebel impertinence,” he roared in bullying tones. “Which will it be? Supper for us or must I burn your house down and set an example to the rest of this yappy Indian town?”
The girl didn’t back up an inch.
“I’ve no doubt, sir, that if any white man would stoop to that sort of barbarism, you’d be completely capable of it,” she said. Clardy stood on the porch sputtering helplessly.
A Union officer who wore the gold shoulder bars of a major on his blue dress coat stepped forward, smiling courteously.
“Firing the house won’t be necessary, Captain, I’m sure.” He faced the girl, sweeping off his black hat and bowing gracefully from the waist. “May I speak to your mother, please?” He was Major Thompson of the Ninth Wisconsin.
The girl’s stormy brown eyes settled on the major. She said, coolly, “Wait here, please.”
But as she started to withdraw, the big white cat in her arms flattened his ears and began to moan threateningly way back in his throat. Jeff’s dog Dixie, who had wandered up to the door, started calmly to follow the girl inside the rebel home, as though she had lived there all her life.
With an angry yowl, the cat jumped out of the girl’s arms and landed on Dixie?
??s back. Quickly he discovered he had overmatched himself. In an instant dog and cat swept past the girl and, vanishing into the dark interior, began a running battle through the house. With a little gasp of dismay, the girl ran after them.
Appalled, Jeff could hear the crash of china, the soprano screams and protestations of the women, the incessant barking and growling of Dixie, and the wrathful snarling of the cat. The soldiers on the porch were laughing uproariously.
Jeff stepped forward and looked imploringly at Major Thompson. He saluted. “Sir, that’s my dog. May I go get her—before she tears the place up?”
The major nodded. Jeff darted inside and felt his dusty brogans sink into the deep pile of a rug. Looking quickly about, he discovered the room was elegantly furnished with armchairs and divans upholstered in blue. The combatants weren’t there, but Jeff could tell they had been. A small candle stand with slender, tapered legs had been overturned. A tall spinning wheel, wound with orange yarn, lay on its side on the floor, still whirling round and round.
Jeff followed the uproar through a dining room and into the kitchen, where Dixie had cornered the cat atop a food cupboard. He snatched her up the quickest way he could, backward, her head behind him and her tail in front. Two other women, both young and well dressed, were chattering hysterically as they cringed along the wall. The girl was with them.
Jeff swept off his infantry cap. “Mam, I’m awfully sorry,” he apologized, backing out of the room with Dixie under one arm. As the dog squirmed to free herself so she could renew the battle, her tail kept swinging around and swabbing Jeff in the mouth.
Like a statue of cold fury, the girl stood. Her eyes were blazing.
“You—you—Yankee!” she began, unable to find the words she wanted. “Get out!”
“Yes, mam,” said Jeff. As he bore Dixie back through the elegant parlor, he saw lying on a table a large Bible bound in blue leather with the name “Levi Washbourne” engraved on it in silver. He blinked. He had never seen anything like this in Kansas. It seemed strange that he had to come clear to the Indian country to see a home as plush as this one. As he carried Dixie out the front door, her excited barking rang noisily through the halls.
Finally a young woman came to the door. She had the same proud lift of chin as the girl but looked older and seemed to have better control of her emotions. She told them that she was Mrs. Adair, an older sister. She looked pale and frightened.
Major Thompson swept off his hat and bowed. “I’m sorry to discommode you, mam, but my officers and I haven’t dined today. Is there anybody here who could fix us some dinner?”
“There isn’t any firewood,” she answered. “We have plenty of food but no fuel.”
The major told her that he would see that she got plenty of firewood. “And I’ll post a guard around your premises to see that you aren’t harmed,” he promised, noting the uneasy look she gave the soldiers. He turned to Clardy.
“Captain, may I borrow your escort as wood procurers and also for temporary guard duty?”
Clardy had no reason for refusal. He nodded and turned toward Jeff. Jeff knew Clardy was going to order him to cut the wood. He hoped he would. He wasn’t afraid of Clardy. He wasn’t afraid of work, either. Besides, the work might give him a chance to see that pretty rebel girl again.
“Bussey, here, will cut your wood,” Clardy said to the woman at the door. “And if you’ve any other odd jobs to do, like peelin’ potatoes or emptyin’ swill or diggin’ stumps or diggin’ graves, Bussey will be glad to do them, too. He’s had lots of experience. Haven’t you, Bussey?”
Jeff straightened, popped his heels together, and saluted briskly.
“Yes, sir.” He didn’t mind Clardy’s abuse any more. While he was cutting the wood outside the town limits, he learned from a Negro passing by that Levi Washbourne was a captain in Stand Watie’s Confederate Cherokee cavalry and that the girl was his sixteen-year-old daughter, Lucy.
Just before supper Jeff drove a wagon, heavily loaded with the chopped wood, up to the house. He knocked on the back door. The young woman who had identified herself as Mrs. Adair opened it a few inches. She carried a saucepan in one hand.
Jeff swept off his cap. “Mam, I’ve fetched the stovewood. Where would you like me to stack it?”
The woman seemed surprised at Jeff’s kindness. She showed him where to put the wood in the yard.
“Mam,” offered Jeff, “do you have a woodbox in the kitchen? If you want me to, I’ll be glad to fill it for you.” She hesitated, then nodded. When Jeff returned with his first armful, she showed him where to stack it. Two women with aprons tied about their waists were busily cooking supper for the officers. In an adjoining room he saw a big, heavy-legged dining table of oak spread with plates and silver. His jaw dropped. They ate in a different room than they cooked in.
Jeff could hear ham frying. He smelled what he thought were hot, mealy Irish potatoes roasting in a pan set in the fireplace ashes. He hadn’t tasted a roasted Irish potato in months.
“Thank you, mam,” he said, trying to hide his hunger as he backed out of the house after filling the box. He hadn’t seen the girl, although he knew she must be there.
Major Thompson, Clardy, and three other Union officers knocked on the front door. They were admitted. Jeff, on duty outside, could hear them talking and laughing. He heard the rattle of the crockery and the jingle of the silver. Later, when his nose caught the whiff of cigar smoke, he knew they had finished eating.
Glumly Jeff sat on the rock fence that ran around the property. He wondered if Lucy had helped serve them? For the first time in his life he envied the officers. They had the privilege of at least meeting her.
Corn, but he was hungry! Dad-gummed officers. It never occurred to them that their guard might be hungry, too.
Just before dusk the back door squeaked, and Lucy came out of the kitchen with a pail on her arm. Jeff’s heart leaped happily. He guessed she had come to do the evening milking.
The rest of the soldiers who comprised the Union guard were lounging against the fence. When the girl walked by, they strained their necks and eyeballed her from head to toe.
One of them whistled seductively and catcalled, “Yuh know, I hain’t hugged a gal fer so long I’m outa practice.”
The girl looked uneasy. At first Jeff thought it was because of the men. Then he found out that wasn’t the only reason.
With an assurance she apparently was far from feeling, she went to the barn, emerged with an armful of prairie hay, and dropped it awkwardly in a corner of the lot. Then she drove a brindle cow into the lot.
Jeff watched her with foreboding. Even before she sat down on the stool, he doubted she had ever milked a cow in her life. And when she sat down on the wrong side of the cow, he was sure of it.
A titter of amusement went up from the guard. The girl blushed scarlet. Jeff felt sorry for her, even if she was a rebel.
He got down off the fence and walked up to her. She saw the dog and recognized him.
As he drew near, Jeff felt dizzy. Again he had the peculiar butterfly feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dad gum! She was pretty as a basketful of red monkeys, twice as pretty as any girl he had ever seen before.
He took off his cap. For a fleeting moment he looked into large brown eyes that were fringed with the longest, blackest eyelashes he had ever seen.
“Mam, you’re supposed to milk from the cow’s right side, not her left. I’ve lived on a farm all my life. Why don’t you let me milk her for you?”
Angrily she arose, grasping the bail of the empty bucket in her hand and drawing it back threateningly as though she were going to belt Jeff over the head.
“Get out or I’ll call the major!” she breathed furiously. “Take your old Yankee dog and get out.”
Jeff stopped dead in his tracks. “All right, mam. Only she’s not a Yankee dog. She’s a Confederate dog.”
Back on the fence, his chin in his hands, he watched her gloomily. Corn! She was the sauciest
girl he had ever seen. Why couldn’t she forget the war long enough to let him help her milk the cow?
The rebel girl was dead game, even before an enemy audience. This time she began to milk from the correct side. The blue-clad guard applauded with handclaps and more catcalls.
No matter how hard she worked, very little milk came from the cow’s udder. Finally, after she had labored twenty minutes and had drawn about twenty teaspoons of milk, she went into the house, pursued by the jibes of the soldiers.
Vaulting the fence, Jeff walked into the stone smokehouse and found a small wooden pail with an upright stave as a handle. Although it looked clean, he drew fresh water from the well and washed it. Then he milked the cow and, carrying the milk to the back door of the house, he knocked. The door was opened by a third Washbourne daughter.
“Mam, here’s the rest of your milk,” Jeff said.
The young woman was taken aback. She stared at the piggin and the fresh, warm, bubbly milk in it.
“It’s clean, mam,” Jeff assured her. “I scrubbed the bucket carefully in your smokehouse.”
“We’re very beholden to you,” she told him and accepted it. “We’ve always had slaves to do our milking and, now that they’re gone, my mother has been doing it. But she didn’t feel up to it tonight, so Lucy said she’d try.”
She smiled a little and looked back over her shoulder at Lucy, who was washing the dishes in a large gray porcelain pan on the cupboard. Lucy blushed but didn’t say anything.
“You look most too young to be in a war,” the young woman continued, more kindly. “You ought to be home with your mother.”
Now it was Jeff’s turn to blush. His face flamed crimson. His hands tightened on his blue cap. If all the women in the country, both Union and rebel, kept telling him he looked like a schoolboy, it must be true.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, mam,” Jeff replied. What would Lucy Washbourne think of him now!