Raiding With Morgan (13 page)

A rifle barrel slanted in Ty's direction. The sights of the rifle centered on his chest. Ty dropped alongside Reb's neck, his pistol never losing track of the yawning muzzle's owner. The blue belly's bullet flew high. Ty pulled the Remington's trigger and blood spurted from the blue belly's throat. The brown-bearded Yankee dropped his rifle and frantically clutched his neck with both hands in a vain attempt to staunch the life-ebbing flow of blood. His eyes closed and he collapsed as Ty and Reb barreled by him.

The Yankee lines crumbled. Some blue bellies dropped their weapons and raised their arms. Most chased after militia already on the run. A host of Rebel troopers ignored buglers blowing “Recall” and kept after them, yelling and shooting like crazy men.

Ty slowed Reb to a walk. The fight was over. He had no desire to shoot fleeing Yankees or Ohio militiamen in the back.

He wasn't proud of the single Yankee he'd killed, face-to-face.

O
nce the raiders had regrouped, they resumed their straggling march without further delay. Ty checked his wounds from the saddle. The gouge in his left arm had stopped bleeding. His neck and knee burned like crazy, but he found no trace of blood on either wound—discoveries that reinforced the true meaning of a near miss.

Ty was delighted when Shawn Shannon and his father, both unscathed, rejoined General Morgan's entourage. Concern washed over Owen Mattson's face when he saw blood on his son's sleeve. “Hurt bad, Ty?”

“No, sir, just a minor wound.”

Lieutenant Shannon pulled a metal canteen from his saddlebag. “Splash some of the White brothers' corn likker on it. It might help. It can't hurt anything.”

The burning sensation on Ty's neck and knee felt cool compared to the raging fire the corn liquor ignited in the torn flesh of his arm. His eyes watered and he bit his lip to keep from swearing aloud. Neither his father nor Shawn Shannon reacted to his discomfort verbally, but Ty swore their shoulders were quaking with silent laughter. Once the spike in pain subsided, Ty couldn't avoid a chuckle of his own.

There was no recalling or discussion of the charge against the blue-belly regulars by his father and Shawn Shannon. Ty had come to appreciate that what lay ahead was what occupied his father and Shawn Shannon, not what had transpired. They assessed the past only in terms of what lessons they had learned and gave little thought to glory won or lost. They evinced a mature philosophy, which intrigued and inspired Ty.

Short of Chester, Ohio, a slow-running branch creek, four feet deep, bisected the road. The plank flooring of the stream's wooden bridge was missing and the struts had been partially burned, rendering it useless. Horsemen could ford easily. The opposite was true for the baggage train.

General Morgan waved the column's horsemen across, pointed at Owen Mattson, Shawn Shannon, and Ty, then said, “At the roadside, please.”

The four riders gathered together. General Morgan said, “Captain Mattson, we need a bridge built in a hurry. Organize the detail and oversee the construction as you did at John's Creek. Corporal Mattson will assist you. Lieutenant Shannon, seek out the rear guard and order them to close up the wagons and buggies as much as possible and send forward any militia we haven't paroled and the three farmers we captured for guides. They can tote with the sappers and miners. I don't want to be held here any longer than necessary.”

“Axmen, sappers, and miners, to the front!” Captain Owen Mattson bellowed. “Pass it back!”

The detail worked at a rapid pace. Axmen chopped down nearby trees and skinned the branches from them. Deadfall limbs were collected. The creek bed was layered with tree trunks and then interspersed with rocks hand carried by the sappers and miners. Two dozen disgruntled Ohio militiamen and the three captive farmers added additional muscle. It was hot, mean labor under a brutal July sun.

Captain Mattson and Captain Tyrell, of the sappers and miners, were right on top of the work, supervising from horseback. Captain Mattson motioned for Ty to cease helping the detail and present himself. “Corporal, scout upstream along both banks. The militia didn't burn them, so those missing planks have to be hidden close by.”

Ty checked the near bank first. Thickly grown brush overhung the bank, forcing him to proceed on foot. Twenty yards upstream, a bulky shelf of rock blocked his path. He thought of turning back, but his father's orders were to check both banks. He eased into the creek, holding his Remington revolver and leather bag shoulder-high, well above the muddy water.

His boots filled with water, and he slipped around the jutting rock and encountered a sizable defile, where floodwaters had cut the dirt bank away. The heavy bridge planks were stacked on end just out of the water against the wall of the defile, a clever hiding place that could not be seen from downstream at any angle.

Ty waded out into the creek until the old bridge and those working beyond it were in sight. He yelled and waved to catch somebody's attention. A sapper spied him and yelled at Captain Tyrell and his father. No further communication was necessary. Sappers and miners hustled upstream and the planks were soon flowing downstream via a chain of strong arms. The sappers leveled the makeshift bridge with shoveled dirt and topped it with the planks, creating a solid passageway for the heaviest wagons and the column's horse-drawn cannon.

While the final planks were being laid, Ty took time to dump the water from his boots. His tattered socks were “socks” in name only. He didn't attempt to remove them and wring them dry, for fear he'd have nothing left but a handful of useless rags.

General Morgan rode alongside Reb. “Fine job locating the planks, Corporal. You've made yourself quite useful.”

Ty appreciated the compliment, particularly in front of his father. He didn't want the general or his father displeased with how he conducted himself in any way. His grandfather had stressed that trust between men didn't come easy. Once established, it needed to be nurtured. Trust was the anchor for man's endeavors to survive and forge a meaningful life with his fellow humans.

General Morgan, Captain Mattson, and Ty had started across the replacement bridge when a trooper behind them growled, “Mount up, sappers. That includes you, Elam, you worthless turd. There's no need for us here now.”

The name “Elam” and the cadence of that gruff, rasping voice raised Ty's hackles. He twisted about in the saddle. A trooper was holding the reins of a red roan for a sergeant with yellow epaulets on his shoulders, the insignia of the sappers. The mounting officer glanced in Ty's direction and the sight of shaggy, pale blond hair and a bear trap jaw made Ty's heart pound.

“Something wrong, Corporal?” an observant Owen Mattson inquired.

Ty faced his father. “That sapper officer issuing orders a minute ago was the same trooper I overheard at the sinks and the night we skirted Cincinnati. I know it's him, sure as sleet is ice. He has blond hair and the heavy jaw, just like you said his father did.”

Ty started to turn his head for another look and his father said, “Keep your eyes straight ahead.”

“But, Father—”

“Eyes straight ahead. I don't want him thinking we have any interest in him. He's riding a red roan, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Twice this morning, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him staring at me. It wasn't a friendly or curious stare. It was one of pure hate. I had a chance to observe him later without his knowing it. I believe we've identified our would-be assassin.”

“What are you going to do, now that we've identified him?”

“Nothing at the moment. I don't know his name yet, but even if I did and I confronted him, it would be your word against his as to whether or not he told his cousin he planned to kill me. You didn't see him in the dark either time you heard his voice, so you can't identify him personally, and since he enrolled under a different name, there's no written record he's of Stedman blood. He's holding a royal flush, son.”

“Then we're really not much better off than we were.”

“Yes, we are. Knowing who to look for may give me the edge I need when he makes his move.”

Ty's frustration was unbounded. He wanted to scream “not if he shoots you in the back,” but he held his tongue. Stating the obvious was a waste of time that benefited neither him nor his father. What was to happen would happen. He remembered Shawn Shannon telling him how his father had said during the Comanche ambush at Blue Springs that cost Boone Jordan his leg, “An honest prayer isn't to be scorned in any situation.”

Ty took that advice to heart and didn't much care if anyone noticed his bowed head.

W
ith opposing forces reduced to the occasional bushwhacker, the raiders double-quicked the remaining five miles to Chester, Ohio, arriving at one in the afternoon. The town straddled the Salt River. Once the advance elements were across the bridge, the raiders invested the town and prepared to defend it against an attack from the northern and eastern points of the compass, as nobody knew for certain where the Union regular forces were located.

Ty dismounted at the foot of the steep hill in the middle of Chester. The county courthouse, an imposing stone structure with entryways on three levels, occupied the top of the hill. “Must be on important business if you climb that bugger,” Ebb White quipped.

The remark drew a meager laugh from a worn-down Ty. Now that the sheer excitement and terror of running the Pomeroy gauntlet and charging the Union regulars had subsided, he was spent and famished. The sight of Private E.J. Pursley and Corporal Sam Bryant bearing a stock of freshly stolen cheese, crackers, jerked beef, baked honey cakes, and jugs of hard cider set his mouth to watering. The mess cook and his helper had raided grocery baskets and boxes of goodies prepared to feed home guards gathering later in the day to blockade the town. Returned from his ride the length of the column, Shawn Shannon joined his messmates for the impromptu meal.

Sam Bryant watched his messmates feast on the baked honey cakes, shook his head, and laughed. “You boys remind me of children on their first visit to our Lexington confectionery. They spy all those cakes, pies, doughnuts, sweet breads, different colors and flavors of hard candy, and black licorice and their faces light up like the morning sun. If they're allowed, they'd eat till their bellies burst.”

Ebb White agreed, saying, “Yeah, and you need enjoy that kind of hurt whenever you can. You don't have many chances at sweets no matter how old you be, not at least where I hail from.”

Always seeking to lighten the moment, Given Campbell gave Sam a deadpan look and said, “Now, Private Bryant, I trust after the war, you intend to return to your candy making and making children happy. You've been with this outfit fourteen months and there's still more daylight between your butt and the saddle than the greenest cavalry recruit in the short history of the Confederacy. When you made the leap over that Corydon barricade and then back again, there wasn't a clean pair of drawers in our mess.”

That observation drew a guffaw from Ty and the others that made their ribs hurt. Before the laughter petered out, Given Campbell's roving eye for feminine lovelies struck again. He fettered out three young ladies studying the raiders from the door of a black-shuttered Baptist church. “Too bad we don't have the time to introduce ourselves. But then they'd just be fawning over Ty in a whipstitch.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ty responded. “Women never pay any attention to me that I've noticed.”

“That's because you don't pay them any attention,” Given said. “They gape at you in every town. He'll learn, won't he, Shawn? He'll learn the pretty gals like red hair, green eyes, and square shoulders. I've watched them swoon over your father till even I was embarrassed.”

Ty wasn't sure where the conversation was headed. Was he being kidded? He was glad to see his father approaching the mess. “Glad you're here, Lieutenant. You and Ty, come along with me. General Morgan is about to hold a council of war.”

Ty didn't hear any laughter behind him. Maybe Given Campbell wasn't joshing with him. Maybe he should start watching for friendly females as soon as the war was over. He found that a most pleasing prospect.

General Morgan's council of war convened in the yard of a large redbrick house encircled by a porch roofed with black shingles. In attendance were Colonels Duke and Johnson, the line officers of both regiments, Captain Byrnes, the artillerist, several of the general's aides, and those officers on detached duty with his personal staff.

Ty thought General Morgan's face lacked its usual high-spirited cast. For the first time, he appeared tired and his eyes were dull. It was a shocking sight for Ty. He had begun to believe John Hunt Morgan was immune to the stresses and strains of combat that taxed and ate away the enthusiasm of mere mortals like him.

General Morgan's gaze swept over the gathered officers. “Lieutenant Shannon, please step forward.”

The others parted to make way for Shawn Shannon, who saluted and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Shannon, did you deliver my orders to Colonel Gibbon's rear guard?”

“Yes, sir. They were working hard to close up the wagon and baggage train when I rode forward.”

“What is the status of the column, Lieutenant? I want the unvarnished truth and nothing less.”

“It's strung out and confused, sir. Companies are strewn together, and there are additional wounded to tend. Some horses are on their knees. They won't move, even if whipped.”

Ty observed officers nodding in agreement with Shawn Shannon's assessment. The raider's situation was growing more desperate by the hour. Everyone in the yard wished he were standing on the breeze-brushed bank of the Ohio instead of baking under the July sun, fifteen miles short of freedom and safety.

General Morgan said, “That confirms reports I've received since we arrived. Gentlemen, I'm not proceeding without a trustworthy guide. We will rest the men and horses and fill canteens and let the column form up until we find such a guide.”

Colonel Johnson objected—his tone firm, yet obedient.

“Sir, if we delay long, we won't reach Buffington Island before dark. The advance scouts confirmed a few minutes ago that the Ohio is still running high and a crossing in the night without boats would be very difficult. The scouts say the ford is free of Yankees and their gunboats, as of right now. Daylight today may be our only chance of saving the fighting elements of your command, sir.”

General Morgan shook his head. “Colonel Johnson, the men and horses need a breather, and I won't allow the wounded to fall into Yankee hands by default. We'll spare as many of them captivity as we can. We owe them dearly for their service. We will resume our march, once we rest and secure a reliable guide.”

Ty swore he saw a fleeting frown of disapproval twist his father's brow. One second, it was there; the next, it was gone, as if Owen Mattson had squashed the hint of disobedience at conception. “Son, we're in for a rude Yankee welcome tomorrow. I'm afraid the renowned battlefield luck of our general is about to run dry. But our commander has spoken and we Mattsons do our duty, come what may.”

Two hours later, the column was on the move again, without a reliable guide. Owen Mattson and Shawn Shannon joined the advanced guard. Ty stayed with General Morgan's entourage.

The way roughened beyond Chester. The column marched along dirt roads that wound to the crests of steep hills and then dropped sharply into ravines and small valleys overgrown by heavy brush. The troopers walked their flagging horses up the inclines and trotted them down the other side, sparing their mounts as much as possible. The squeal of dry wagon axles under great stress emanating from the baggage train sounded like screeching owls. Ty looked ahead and behind atop each crest, marveling how the column resembled an oversized worm crawling through tall grass, brown and gray skin contrasting with its sun-dappled, emerald-green surroundings.

The only rain the raiders had experienced since departing Brandenburg had been a single light shower a week past, and the ever-present cloud of hoof-stirred dust wrapped the column that afternoon, adding to the misery of troopers so close to collapse that many shifted constantly in the saddle to stay alert. A number of troopers wore stolen ladies' hats with their blue veils overlaid with bandanas, enduring the joshing and catcalls of their comrades in a vain attempt to deter the sun and the grit that miraculously coated every sliver of exposed skin.

Ty was longing to reach the Ohio. At the first opportunity, he planned to hop into its waters, muddy or not, boots and all. A mud bath beat no bath, hands down.

The memorable event of the hot, miserable trek occurred outside the hamlet of Bashan. The column encountered a funeral procession bound for the local cemetery. The boys in the advance guard halted the procession, removed the coffin from the hearse, laid it gently at the side of the road, and confiscated the hearse and the horses of both undertaker and mourners. Ty long remembered Ebb White's quip as they rode by the enraged, fist-shaking, cursing-in-God's-name preacher. “It will be the only time in the Hell-bender's ministry wounded soldiers replace a dead soul.”

As they neared their destination, Ty was clinging to his saddle horn with both hands, trusting a game Reb to maintain their place in line. It was shortly before dark when the column descended from the rugged hills into a narrow valley that ran parallel to the Ohio, the site of the Buffington Bar, and the village of Portland, which hovered over it.

Every trooper stood in his stirrups, seeking to sight the flooded river. Long before the others, Ty's keen eyesight picked out the faint sheen of its dark waters.

Silly as it was, he felt the joy of the traveler returning to shore after a long voyage at sea.