Raiding With Morgan (8 page)

Or he'd have no pride till his dying day.

A
t ten o'clock, the waiting line at General Morgan's tent had dwindled to a few officers. The general reposed in a canvas folding chair. His adjutant, Lieutenant Hardesty, was seated at his elbow behind a portable writing table.

A slender, narrow-shouldered male garbed in a rumpled black suit, sporting a severely receding hairline, sunken eyes, and shallow cheeks, was tendering his daily report to General Morgan.

“That's Lightning Ellsworth, Morgan's telegrapher,” Lieutenant Shannon whispered in Ty's ear. “See that battery box under his arm. He can loop into any telegraph line, listen awhile, and then impersonate the fist of any stationmaster exchanging messages, military or civilian. Colonel Duke claims Ellsworth is worth an armed division. He's so confused the Union Cavalry, the Yankees think we're four thousand strong.”

When their turn came, Ty's father and Lieutenant Shannon saluted and stood at attention. Ty had the sense to sweep his hat beneath his arm.

“Captain Mattson, it's too late for much talking,” General Morgan said. “I have need of your son's services. His rare eyesight was most helpful observing the battle for me today. He showed courage and excellent horsemanship under fire. I would like to assign him to my personal staff with the rank of corporal. He will have access to my personal string of horses, as you and Lieutenant Shannon do, to keep a fresh animal beneath him. If your son is agreeable, Lieutenant Hardesty will prepare the paperwork and the appointment will be effective immediately.”

Ty couldn't have dreamed a better outcome for the meeting. Instead of a regular trooper eating dust, he would be a junior-staff officer reporting to the raiders' commanding officer. Astonished by General Morgan's offer, he gave no thought to his meager military experience. Nor did he have a clue as to how a general's staff functioned on a daily basis.

What did hit home was the fact General Morgan had extended his offer without consulting Ty's father. Ty glanced sideways. His father showed no sign he had any objection to what the general was proposing. But then, it was General John Hunt Morgan doing the proposing.

“He'll be well watched after, Captain,” General Morgan said. “He will report to Lieutenant Hardesty at dawn with his horse and his weapon. You and Lieutenant Shannon will continue to ride with Quirk's Scouts and the Fourteenth Kentucky. Unless there's a situation that calls for you to report to me earlier, do so at Salem. Gentlemen, good evening.”

Dismissed, the two veterans and newly appointed corporal took their leave. “Ty, let's put your thinking in proper order. Shawn, chime in when you see fit. Your duty is to do General Morgan's bidding. Whatever his orders, don't hesitate to carry them out. You will accompany him throughout the day, until he dismisses you. He will decide where you mess and where you sleep.

“General Morgan naturally prefers the head of the column. His servants and grooms travel between the First and Second Brigades. Pay attention wherever you are to who's about and what's happening. Graves are filled with larking and gawking soldiers, seldom those who stayed alert. A surprise bullet from a bushwhacker hidden alongside the road kills you same as a bullet from the rifle of a blue belly barricaded in front of you. Anything else, Shawn?”

“Don't wear Reb out. Switch horses daily with another saddler in the general's gather. Lane Farrell was a Ranger colonel. He enjoyed his old age because he lived by two simple rules. Never be the one to lose the grip on things. And if you find yourself outnumbered, a hasty retreat bespeaks wisdom, not cowardice.”

The advice and counsel of his father and Shawn Shannon clarified Ty's role on General Morgan's staff and guaranteed he would report in the morning with a modicum of confidence and free of the shakes he detested. For that, he was thankful.

The fires of E.J. Pursley's mess were gray ashes. “Ty, the sinks are beyond the trees yonder, if you have need of them. I'll spread our gum ponchos and blankets.”

Ty had a true need. He picked his way through the narrow woods on a path beaten down by many boots. In the quiet night, he could hear his lungs pumping. A yard from the far edge of the trees and the acrid-smelling latrine, a voice close enough that Ty could almost reach out and touch its owner said, “Didn't have a clean shot at Mattson this morning, did you?”

Ty froze, every muscle rigid.
Mattson? Did that shadowy figure say “Mattson”?

“Naw, he's not a man to stay still for very long,” a voice that rasped like a saw cutting dry wood answered. “He was never in a position where it would look like the blue bellies nailed him.”

“Anybody catches you in the act, you know Morgan will hang you. You certain Mattson can't recognize you?”

“Cousin, I'm beginning to believe I made a mistake telling you my intentions. Mattson never laid eye on me back in Texas. I was hiding under the porch the day he shot my daddy and grandpa, and my real name's not listed on the muster rolls. Come along and keep your trap shut.”

Ty lingered until he was positive the two shadowy figures were well beyond earshot. He had no doubt they would have killed him if they had caught him eavesdropping on their conversation. He relieved himself, buttoned his trousers, and retraced his route to camp, one careful step at a time.

Ty believed every word he had heard. The speaker's threat to kill Owen Mattson had the undeniable ring of truthfulness. Revenge had spurred many murders throughout history.

Worse yet, how could the threatening trooper be identified? Ty had not seen his face in the dark and hadn't learned his first name, let alone his last.

He could be anybody. He could shoot his father from long range or walk right up and shoot him in the back, if he became desperate and was willing to sacrifice his own life.

Ty would warn his father that someone was out to kill him. He would at least know to watch those around him. But no one could watch every direction at once during a battle.

He wished he'd stopped short of the slit trenches. But then he wouldn't have learned his father was in danger. He couldn't keep from groaning aloud.

The happiest day of his life was ending on a sour, perhaps deadly note.

O
wen Mattson and Shawn Shannon were snoring merrily away. Since the night talkers had walked in the opposite direction, Ty decided he could tell his father the bad news in the morning. Totally exhausted, he slept soundly, without tossing and turning as he worried he might. Ty awakened clearheaded when the first bugle blew “Reveille.”

To his surprise, his father's saddle, gum poncho, and blanket were missing. He rolled out and joined his messmates at E.J. Pursley's breakfast fire for a quick meal of bacon, pole bread, and black coffee. He knelt beside Lieutenant Shannon with a full plate and cup. “Father's gone already?”

“Yep, a courier delivered a message from Colonel Duke at four
A.M.
Your guess is as good as mine as to where he headed. He didn't say and I didn't ask. With Owen, you let him do the telling, when he's good and ready.”

Ty lowered his voice and repeated every word he'd overheard at the latrine. A frown creased the lieutenant's sun-scorched features. “No names, but you're sure they were Texans, and Owen shot and killed the one's daddy and grandpa?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Shannon finished his coffee. “Owen maybe can provide a name. He shot a number of men in the line of duty as a Ranger. I'll wager he didn't put down a father and son together but once. Still, knowing a name isn't worth much if you can't tie it to a face. Gano's Brigade has a hundred-plus Texans on its rolls. Ty, sometimes you have to pray the luck of the draw saves you. This fellow could be killed or captured before he has a chance at Owen.”

E.J. Pursley collected their plate and cups. Ty and the lieutenant retrieved their saddles and bridles and toted them to the picket line. “We'll stay on Reb and my Buster until Salem and swap horses there. We best hustle along,” Lieutenant Shannon said, nodding at the growing light in the eastern sky. “General Morgan will be finishing breakfast, and then it's straight to the saddle for him with the last bite.”

General Morgan's tent was being struck when they arrived. Lieutenant Shannon gave Ty one final piece of advice. “We don't know how long this godforsaken war will last, where we'll fight next, or who we'll engage next. Riding with Morgan, you can observe how a whole cavalry division functions. You can't have too much knowledge serving in a general's personal entourage. The more you learn, the better you can serve, and a promotion or commendation might come in right handy before the shooting stops.” With that, Shawn Shannon pushed ahead to join the advance guard.

Ty reined Reb to the rear of the officers following General Morgan. Lieutenant Shannon's advice was sound as usual. By listening to the verbal exchanges between General Morgan, Colonels Duke and Johnson, Lieutenant Hardesty, line officers, and the youthful couriers who came and went, Ty acquired a basic knowledge of the workings of the division's two brigades when on the move.

Scout patrols rode the point beyond the advance guard, assessing the terrain, avoiding ambushes, and locating local guides they thought could be trusted. Meanwhile, flankers moved out four or five miles on each side of the main body. Each morning, the captains of companies appointed a man from each mess to sally forth in search of provisions. With two thousand troopers to feed and supply, these flankers traversed every country road in search of horses, food, and forage. Rarely did a healthy horse escape the flanker's roundup. The flankers rejoined the column between ten and twelve o'clock, with their booty of riding stock and sacks full of light bread, cheese, butter, preserves, canned peaches, berries, and wine cordial from family pantries, canteens of milk from springhouses, and ears of corn from barn cribs for horse forage.

Hearing the exciting and glowing reports of the couriers and the upbeat responses on the part of General Morgan and his fellow officers, Ty came to realize that while he hadn't suffered from privation or hunger when residing with his grandfather, the veteran raiders had spent two-plus years fighting in Kentucky and Tennessee counties where rural areas ravaged by war and hunger were commonplace. Even coffee, a main staple of soldiering, was scarce as dragon's teeth. For them, Indiana was the golden horn of plenty, with the riches free for the taking.

With two decent routes accessing Salem, General Morgan separated his two brigades—Quirk's Scouts leading one, the Second Kentucky the other—in a race along parallel roads to their objective. A detachment of two companies was sent westward to create a diversion in that direction.

It was Lieutenant Hardesty, ignoring the summer heat that would be insufferable by midafternoon, who answered Ty's question about General Morgan's tactics in splitting and weakening his division in hostile country.

“He's mastered the art of guerrilla warfare. He's most concerned about the Yankee cavalry chasing us. By cutting telegraph lines after Lightning Ellsworth spreads false stories as to our whereabouts, and by dividing us into sections, he confuses the local forces. The militia and home guards don't know where to concentrate and effectively oppose us. The Yankees are equally confused. They don't know where the general's headed, or where his main body is located at any given point in time. Watch his strategy succeed as we move toward Ohio. The locals are too weak to slow us down, and by burning bridges and trestles and making off with every horse that can carry a man, we make it damnably difficult for our pursuers to catch us from behind.”

They approached Salem whose church bells pealed continuously, a musical accompaniment so familiar along their line of march that many raiders swore every day was Sunday. General Morgan dispatched couriers to his separated brigades, gathered them together and advanced them at a trot. Lieutenant Hardesty positioned Ty beside the general. Ahead of them rode Lieutenant Welsh and a party of fourteen scouts, followed in turn by Major Webber and the Second Kentucky. Ty was certain his father and Shawn Shannon were with the scouts. They always seemed to be where it was the most dangerous, no small worry for Ty. Now that he had a father, he loathed the thought of losing him.

Major Webber's orders were to let nothing stop him, and nothing did. A detachment of enemy militia numbering 150 waited at the edge of Salem. Buglers blew “Charge” and Lieutenant Welsh and his fourteen scouts spurred their horses into a gallop and dashed down on them. The disorganized defenders' shaky bravery evaporated and they raced pell-mell for the safety of Salem's buildings. Their precipitous flight unnerved additional militia lined up in the town square; they took to heel, aiming for the far side of Salem, feverishly discarding muskets suddenly too hot for fingers to hold.

As the last of the fleeing home guards exited Salem, a full company of the Washington County Legion, commanded by Captain John Davis, marched carefree as you please into the town square to pick up arms and ammunition promised them by Union brass in Indianapolis, only to discover that weapon-bearing Rebels had them in their sights. The ease of capturing the Hoosiers provoked raucous laughter, which rolled through Salem's streets in waves. Ty saw one Southern trooper fall from the saddle, holding his stomach.

Lieutenant Hardesty stationed Ty on the brick sidewalk of the Hiram Brightway House, General Morgan's temporary headquarters, with instructions to observe the activity of the town square and be prepared to answer any questions that might be forthcoming from the general.

The square filled with troopers from both raider brigades, and the outright civilian pillage, which had concerned Ty in Corydon, began in earnest. Salem was a community of abundance, and Morgan's men were determined to treat the Northerners they hated the same as Generals Sanders and Grierson had treated Southerners during their brutal cavalry raids into their home states. To that end, the emptying of every mercantile store and business in Salem was paramount; yelling raiders descended like a swarm of locusts to pick them clean. Ransacking Rebels appropriated saddles, replacement clothing and boots, weapons, ammunition, blacksmith tools, horseshoes, medical supplies, and an infinite variety of foodstuffs—items that filled the needs of cavalrymen constantly on the move.

The theft didn't end there. Salem's loaded counters, shelves, and storerooms were an irresistible temptation for troopers long accustomed to doing without, and who had missed their chance at Corydon. What followed made the Corydon looting petty in nature. He watched troopers impress buggies, carts, and market wagons and stuff them with books, stationery, cutlery, bolts of calico, silks and satins, hoops, and other female garments. Raiders brazenly robbed Salem citizens of money, tobacco, and everything else that suited their fancy. Cally Smith ambled past Ty with sleigh bells draped over his shoulder. Not even caged canaries, ice skates, and chafing dishes were safe.

Ty could understand the taking of items required to keep men riding and fighting, but from his lessons with Professor Ackerman, a longtime student of military history, he was aware that the Corydon and Salem pillages were beyond the pale of civilized warfare, as was stealing from unarmed prisoners of war and civilians.

Though it went against his grandfather's passion for the sanctity of private property, Ty was sure he could steal whatever he required to stay in the saddle and support General Morgan. He would touch nothing else. That went too much against the Mattson grain.

Black smoke billowed beyond the buildings on the southern and western sides of the square. A sergeant, who was headed for the Brightway House, bragged the railroad depot, along with two bridges and wooden ties piled with iron rails, were afire.

After ninety minutes of watching, Ty sensed a changing mood amongst the looting troopers. The source of the change was easily pinpointed. Bottles of corn liquor were flowing from one hand to another like water over a dam. A fight between two troopers attracted a crowd and prompted a wild spree of loud betting as to the winner. A barber, apron tied about his neck, sailed from his shop and landed facedown in the dusty street. Ty hated snitchers, but he was bound by duty to insure that General Morgan was aware of the deteriorating situation in the square.

Thankfully, only General Morgan, Colonels Duke and Johnson, and Lieutenant Hardesty occupied the front room of the Brightway House. The absence of other officers allowed Lieutenant Hardesty to note Ty's presence without delay. “Yes, Corporal?”

Conversation ceased and all eyes fixed on Ty. “It must be a thing of great importance for you to interrupt General Morgan's meeting,” Lieutenant Hardesty said.

“Yes, sir. I believe you need to check the square. Troopers are drinking heavily and fighting amongst themselves.”

“Thank you, Corporal,” General Morgan said, turning to his colonels. “Gentlemen, our planning is complete. We have the ransom for the mill and we've burned what we can to slow our pursuers. The boys have obviously had their fun. We best clear out before they turn mean. I don't want any citizens to suffer bodily injuries, if it can be avoided.”

Ty waited and followed General Morgan's party from the room. The sight of General Morgan allowed provost guards and bellowing sergeants to restore order in the square. Stolen wagons, buggies, and carts holding stolen goods were lined out for departure.

“We'll have a baggage train a mile or two long trailing after us,” Colonel Duke predicted.

“If it starts to slow us down too much,” General Morgan said, “I'll issue orders to abandon the whole shebang.”

Ty departed Salem mounted on a bay, with one white stocking, provided by General Morgan's groom at the direction of Lieutenant Shannon. “His name is Duke,” the groom said when handing him the reins. “No need to worry. I take good care of your Reb.”

General Morgan opted for a two-horse buggy with fringed top cover to escape the heat. Two troopers swooped past his buggy with bolts of calico tied to their saddle horns, streamers of bright-colored cloth unfurling behind them. Not the least perturbed, General Morgan laughed and waved to them.

Ty stood in his stirrups for a last look at Salem. For a few seconds, he thought he was accompanying a different army, as a large number of troopers had donned stolen linen dusters in an attempt to keep hoof-stirred dust from coating their sweat-laden uniforms.

The black smoke from the roaring fires in Salem stained the entire western sky. Ty sighed. Whether done in the guise of war or not, rebuilding the destroyed structures would require much expense, time, and labor. He felt a twinge of sorrow for Salem's citizens.

Ty's father always seemed to arrive faster than a lightning bolt. He was aboard a seal-brown gelding, with a black mane and tail. “Sooner or later, there will be hell to pay for what we're doing. We have stuck a big stick in a very large hornet's nest. People are capable of anything when they're infuriated and scared. Mark my word, they will know we're coming, and they will stop at nothing to impede our progress until the Yankees overtake us.”

“Do you think the Yankees will catch us before General Morgan decides to cross the Ohio again?”

Owen Mattson looked Ty straight in the eye. “We're in a tight race, a mighty tight race. Odds are, we'll be lucky to escape with our lives and avoid a Yankee prison.”

While he had the opportunity, for there might not be another one for who knew how long, Ty said, “I overheard a conversation at the sinks after our meeting with General Morgan that I must tell you about.”

“I talked to Shawn Shannon earlier. He told me what happened,” Owen Mattson said.

Not wanting Ty to be distracted by the incident and neglect his duties, Owen Mattson continued speaking. “Trust me, the man you overheard isn't the first who's wanted to kill me for whatever reason, so don't spend time worrying about what he's supposedly planning to do. Never waste time fretting about anything until actions match words. Understand?”

Ty could only say, “Yes, sir.”