Raiding With Morgan (31 page)

Captain Farrell exhibited a decisive mind, which Ty suspected had earned him his promotions. “We checked our records regarding Corporal Mattson, the composition of his Confederate Cavalry regiment, and their place of capture. Being old and a noncombatant, this Pursley should have been released at Buffington Island and sent packing. I foresee no difficulty in dismissing him as infirm, Colonel. He would be one less mouth to feed.”

Colonel Sweet's ready acceptance of Captain Farrell's proposal validated his respect for his subordinate's judgment. Ty also suspected Sweet couldn't risk ruffling the feathers of his superior officers over a Rebel fully pardoned by the president for reasons no one had chosen to share with him.

“Yes, that will do quite nicely. Corporal Mattson, please report here in thirty minutes with your Private Pursley. Captain Farrell will escort you to and from your barrack.”

The arrival of Captain Farrell and Ty at Barrack Ten caught the attention of Snag and Mouse. The two Yankees were there with four other guards performing a spur-of-the-moment search designed, as usual, to harass more than locate any item warranting confiscation, even by the camp's mercurial rules and regulations.

“Captain?” an uncertain Snag inquired.

“Corporal Mattson and Private Pursley have been pardoned by the president of the United States.”

Ty swore the resulting expressions of Barrack Ten's main tormentors equaled that of confident political candidates so soundly defeated on Election Day they doubted their own mother's love for them. At the same time, the impact of Captain Farrell's pronouncement on Ty's Rebel inmates was instantaneous. The entire barrack rippled to attention as Ty entered E.J.'s kitchen.

“What's up, Corporal?”

“E.J., we don't have time to palaver. Grab that nothing coat of yours and follow me!” Ty ordered. “You're a free man and new employment awaits you.”

Astounded but thankful, E.J. Pursley, trusting the son of Owen Mattson would never deceive him or fun him, grabbed his threadbare coat and followed the quick-moving Ty. At the front door of Barrack Ten, Ty told Captain Farrell, “We're ready, sir.”

Word of the presidential pardons spread like wildfire. So scarce was good news for any of them, eleven thousand-plus Confederates, cheering at the top of their lungs, thronged the streets of Prisoner's Square, leaving a narrow path between them for Ty, E.J., and Captain Farrell.

An emboldened E.J. Pursley took the lead. The Barrack Ten chef hadn't been the point of attention in a crowd since the spontaneous midnight street parades of his New Orleans heyday. He thrust his shoulders back, chest out, and nose up; his strut matched that of a preening peacock. Ty hadn't laughed really hard in months, but he did then, until his sides hurt. The cheering grew ever louder as the three-man procession passed through the portal accessing Garrison Square and subsided only after the tall doors of the portal closed behind them.

Ty and E.J. were ushered into Colonel Sweet's office. Captain Farrell guided them to Sweet's desk, handed them pens, and pointed to copies of discharge papers, which officially recognized their dismissal from Camp Douglas. E.J. balked at his discharge listing him as “infirm.” A jab in the ribs from Ty slammed E.J.'s jaw shut and produced a series of hasty signatures.

Colonel Sweet then handed Ty his presidential pardon, a copy of his Camp Douglas discharge, and a single Federal greenback, the remaining funds from Ty's commissary bank account. “You are now civilians under the jurisdiction of the Federal Government,” Colonel Sweet said, “and will conduct yourselves accordingly. Show your papers at the main gate and you're free men. The gate guards will be expecting you.”

The Camp Douglas commandant didn't offer his hand and Ty didn't take offense. President Lincoln may have pardoned him, but he was still a stinking Rebel in the eyes of Federal Army personnel.

Ty walked beside E.J. across the parade ground of Garrison Square, struck by his good fortune during his imprisonment. It pained him greatly that so many of his fellow raiders had perished in ways no man should be made to die. But by prayer, luck, circumstance, and the iron will of Shawn Shannon, he was still standing and strong enough to hold his head high. And no matter how often horrifying memories of the Camp Douglas hellhole haunted him at night, he was gifted with wonderful dreams that hadn't yet come true. That prospect put a bounce in his step, lame hip be damned.

As he expected, his grandfather was outside the main gate with a horse-drawn Chicago carriage and a blanket-wrapped driver that seated four. Enoch Mattson was a mighty welcome sight in his knee-length worsted-wool coat, with the unruly red hair of the family lineage protruding from beneath a plain leather cap with a square bill. When it came to clothing, fancy was for others.

The green eyes of Enoch Mattson, which matched his grandson's, fixed an iron gaze on Ty. Ty broke the ice with an assurance and confidence he'd lacked the last time he'd spoken with his grandfather. “Good afternoon, Grandfather. I appreciate what you did on my behalf.”

“Didn't amount to all that much,” his grandfather responded, reaching into the carriage. “Political debts are easy to collect if done in the right manner.”

The elder Mattson brought forth a packet of letters tied together with a cord and passed them to Ty. “Boone Jordan thought these might be of considerable importance to you.”

Ty accepted the packet. When he read the return address on the top envelope, his racing heart nearly exploded. For there, before his very eyes, written in a neat, flowing hand were words he would forever treasure:
Miss Dana Bainbridge, Portland, Ohio.

His watching grandfather spared Ty a torrent of unmanly tears. “And who might this chap with you be?”

Ty slipped the packet of letters inside the flap of his shirt for safekeeping and said, ”Grandfather, I'd like you to meet Mr. E.J. Pursley, of New Orleans. He's our new chef.”

His grandfather's reaction to the making of a decision impacting the operation of the family household without consulting him first told Ty where he stood with Enoch Mattson going forward.

“Well, gentlemen, it seems we have another train ticket to purchase. We best hurry along.”

T
y dismounted, tied his horse to the gate of the iron fence surrounding the Bainbridge home, and started up the lane that looped around to the dwelling's front stoop. Tired and cramped from his ride from the depot at Pomeroy, Ohio, his limp was more pronounced than usual. His abiding fear of his upcoming call on Dana Bainbridge was that his game leg, withered frame, and the red splotches peppering his cheeks and neck made him look like the emaciated shell of a once-strong man, a far different man than the swashbuckling Rebel raider who had charmed her after barging into her kitchen in the dark of night. What kind of future did he offer a vibrant young woman in full health, with the best years of her life yet to be lived?

In her most recent letter, he'd learned that Dana's father had sent letters and collected the incoming mail for his entire household on his Saturday trips to Portland. It wasn't until after his death from heart failure that Dana had found every piece of written correspondence they had exchanged hidden away in his desk. Recent newspapers had contained fresh rumors of possible prisoner exchanges about the time of her discovery, and fearing that her undelivered letters might reach Camp Douglas after his departure, she had bundled them and mailed them to Boone Jordan per Ty's original instructions.

The fact she'd never stopped writing, despite receiving no answer from him, was what gave Ty the courage to be here at all.

He had been forthright and honest in his single letter to her since his discharge from Camp Douglas. Wanting true feelings, not pity, he'd refused to deceive her as to his physical condition. Nothing in life was ever dead certain and he was fully aware there was a chance she might reject him, once she saw him in person, which was her right. He could but hope and pray she was truly the girl who'd penned those spirit-renewing letters over many months.

Every part of him fully alert, he kept walking. Though she knew the date he was scheduled to make his appearance, no one was yet in sight on the porch of the white painted house. The high steps of its veranda loomed taller than a mountain to a bum-legged ex-soldier on the brink of exhaustion.

The front door of the house popped open and the raven-haired object of his undying love stepped from the front foyer. Ty's breath caught in his throat and his feet were suddenly lead weights that he couldn't move. She was even more beautiful than he'd remembered.

Dana Bainbridge shared none of his misgivings. Opening her arms, she bounced down the steps. Ty saw the joy in her sky-blue eyes and his doubts and fears vanished as her inviting smile filled his whole world. Then his lips were on hers and he buried himself in the warmth and lush smell of her.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

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Copyright © 2014 by Jim R. Woolard

 

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920824

ISBN: 978-1-6177-3268-3

First Kensington Hardcover Edition: May 2014

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-269-0
eISBN-10: 1-61773-269-9
First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2014