Raiding With Morgan

by Jim R. Woolard

  “Why, you’re the most brazen man I’ve ever met,” the sprig of a female said, lowering the hammer of her flintlock. “Damned if you ain’t.”

  The smile she flashed Ty was genuine. “You don’t look like those turds that took Paw’s horses. You’re too prettied up and clean. And, for certain, you aren’t a blue belly. Paw and I don’t favor any of those shooting each other—and with him missing a leg, he ain’t about to join in.”

  Butting her flintlock, the sprig laughed deep in her scrawny chest and said, “Off with you, Private Ty Mattson. Just make sure you ride straight past the next place with a white barn. No reason for Paw to learn I had my sights on a possible horse thief and didn’t fetch him home. Paw’s judgments are less lenient and a heap harsher than mine. He might hang you just so he’d feel better about losing his prize mares.”

  Ty lowered his hands, scooped up his hat and Reb’s reins, looped the reins over the gelding’s head, then mounted. Without saying a word, he turned the gray, pointed him toward the Garnettsville Road, and rode into the shielding trees. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he was thankful he’d never had to share a table with her unnamed family.

  Hadn’t Boone Jordan, reflecting on his Texas years, warned that a man fast and loose with a rope was to be respected and avoided?

  Be best to add his children, too, Ty thought, for he sensed the young female’s decisions matched her father’s more often than not.

  Once clear of the woods, he urged Reb into a trot. He took time, then and there, to thank the Lord for allowing lady luck to share his saddle.

  He surely owed her a big kiss for not deserting him.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Halt or be shot from the saddle!”

  Ty brought Reb to a standstill with a light squeeze of the reins. The Texas drawl, reminiscent of Boone Jordan’s, soothed nerves strung to the breaking point after hours of hiding from irate locals pursuing the marauding irregulars, a mail carrier, a doctor in a buggy, a Yankee patrol, a peddler with pots and pans clanging together on the canvas walls of his cart, and two Union Army freight wagons. But all that lonely, stealthy riding was behind him. He’d found General Morgan’s raiders!

  “What’s the password?”

  At close range, the road was darker than the back side of a fastened belt. Ty could not spot the sentry stationed in a copse of oak trees. Ahead, a mile up the road, he made out what seemed a thousand flickering campfires. It was the smell of wood smoke on the evening breeze that had kept him riding after sunset.

  “Whoever you are, you best speak up. I’m short on patience.”

  What to say?

  Ty tried a few responses in his head before he remembered Boone Jordan’s instructions. “My name is Ty Mattson. I’m Owen Mattson’s son. He’s assigned to General Morgan’s staff. I’m here to join him and fight the Yankees.”

  The hidden sentry snorted and laughed deep in the belly. “By damned, that’s a new one, huh, Frank? What do you think we should do with him?”

  Frank stepped from the trees. “Forget that he don’t know the password, Harvey. He isn’t dressed like no Yankee spy. He’s outfitted like you and those hotheaded Texas braggarts in Gano’s Brigade. Any which ways, we don’t want to chance upsetting Captain Mattson. Let’s escort him to Lieutenant Shannon.”

  “I’ll take that pistol, Mr. Ty Mattson,” Harvey said.

  Ty chanced angering the sentries. “I’d prefer to keep it. Father trained me never to hand over my weapon, no matter the circumstance,” he lied. “He’d have my hide.”

  “Brassy young sprout, isn’t he?” Harvey said.

  “Yep, but that clinches it for me,” Frank said. “That’s what Captain Mattson preaches when he drills us. Step down, Mr. Ty Mattson. You can bring your horse. You don’t mind, we’ll amble along behind you. Walsh and Parsons, you stay put. Harvey and I will risk a tongue-lashing for not disarming him. If you’ve lied to us, sprout, this-here rifle barrel of mine is going to raise a tall knot behind your ear. You’ll hear bells for a coon’s age. You first, Mr. Ty Mattson.”

  When they reached the fringe of Morgan’s camp, the sentry named Frank took the lead. They wound through countless fires, their passage attracting little attention.

  Ty studied each mess as they went by. Unlike the spanking blue-belly uniforms with shiny brass buttons he had observed in Elizabethtown, the most common uniform for General Morgan’s troopers was a nondescript grimy gray. Here and there, an occasional mess was outfitted in spotless white linen, showing much wear, or blue homespun.

  He saw troopers in ankle-length dusters, frock coats favored by gentlemen, and short jackets. A greater number had no coat whatsoever. Wide-brimmed hats, like his own, slouch hats worn by farmers and field hands, a few derbies, even a stovepipe hat, like that worn by President Lincoln in a newspaper picture, comprised the headgear of the dining companies. Weaponry of different calibers and loads ranged from pistols and rifled muskets to shotguns. Though they were mounted cavalry, few troopers possessed swords.

  Whatever similarities these troopers shared with the motley irregulars he’d encountered were negated by the cohesion of the messes and their adherence to a higher authority. He was in the midst of an organized army with a shared allegiance to a particular flag, not an undisciplined cadre of thieves and murderers.

  Beautifully proportioned Thoroughbreds and saddle horses of different breeds grazed in the Garnettsville meadows, with a few grass-fed work animals wide as barn doors. Ty grinned. Obviously, Morgan’s fast-moving riders couldn’t always be choosy. If you could saddle it, you best ride it or risk being left behind.

  The ages of the supposedly seasoned cavalrymen fascinated Ty the most. While officers tended to be older, into their late twenties and thirties, the bulk of the troopers weren’t much older than he was. A few actually appeared younger. Learning that, he felt a little less out of place. He’d been afraid he would be the youngest pup in a pack of old wolves.

  The smell of roasting meat and pole bread had Ty’s stomach growling. He’d polished off the cold chicken and hardtack biscuits provided by Boone Jordan that morning, devouring a four-day supply in two. It was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat, for he was in no position to beg for food and didn’t know when he would eat next.

  Ty’s destination was the largest house on Garnettsville’s single main street. Troopers jammed the porch and front yard of the Rainer home, a white-painted, two-story frame dwelling. Moving bodies passed each other behind parlor windows. Mounted messengers came and went in rapid succession. Ty figured he was approaching General Morgan’s temporary headquarters. Nothing else would account for such frenzied activity.

  Five Morgan troopers were seated around the fire in the woodlot on the right side of the house. Sentry Frank announced himself and a trooper on the near side of the crackling fire stood in response. “State your business, Sergeant Lockhart.”

  “Lieutenant Shannon, I’m fetching a squirt we captured on the south road, sir.”

  At first, Lieutenant Shannon was a shadow against the light of the flames. When he came forward, Ty made him out by moonlight and the yellow glow spilling from the windows of General Morgan’s temporary headquarters. The bareheaded lieutenant was broad-shouldered, with wavy black hair and midnight eyes. His Texas garb and scorched face bespoke a horseman who had spent considerable years where the blazing sun threatened to burn holes in the ground. Huge LeMat revolvers adorned both his hips. Those pistols, the intense midnight eyes, and the slight swagger in the lieutenant’s stride convinced Ty that he was about to be confronted by a dangerous, no-nonsense soldier capable of swift, forceful action.

  Without so much as a nod in Ty’s direction, Lieutenant Shannon said, “Sergeant Lockhart, this captive is a stranger in our camp and he’s armed. Please explain your violation of brigade regulations.”

  Questioning his own wisdom, Sergeant Lockhart shuffled his feet. “Sir, he’s no Yankee. He’s dressed like you. He says he’s Ty Mattson, Captain Mattson’s son. He told us
Captain Mattson trained him not to surrender his weapon or he’d be punished. That’s the same thing the captain pounds into us at drill. Sorry, sir, but I believed him.”

  “We’ll discuss this matter at length later this evening, Sergeant, and determine if punishment is warranted. You may return to your post.”

  Lieutenant Shannon finally acknowledged Ty’s presence. He minced no words. “Sprout, the question is what to do with you. Maybe you’re Captain Mattson’s son and maybe you’re not. He’s never mentioned a son, which seems mighty strange, if you ask me. The captain is not in camp to vouch for you. He’s at Brandenburg with Tenth Kentucky, securing boats for our crossing of the Ohio. It’d be best for both us if I follow regulations. Hand over that revolver. We’ll put you in manacles. You can ride in a commissary wagon until we reach Brandenburg.”

  Ty had no desire to part with Reb and his Remington and be imprisoned until tomorrow morning or longer in a bone-hammering army wagon traveling rough-rutted roads. Yet, he was bound there unless a superior officer intervened.

  Grandfather Mattson’s favorite dictum—“Don’t swim the stream when there’s a bridge handy”—seemed the best course to pursue. Ty knew of only one senior officer who could rescind Lieutenant Shannon’s orders.

  “General Morgan will vouch for me,” Ty said.

  Perplexed, Lieutenant Shannon’s fingers stopped short of Ty’s revolver. “He will, will he? Have you ever met the general in person? Has he even so much as laid an eye on you?”

  “No, sir. General Morgan has been a friend of my father’s since the Mexican War,” Ty answered. “I’m certain my father mentioned me to him.”

  Lieutenant Shannon’s sun-scorched face leaned within an inch of Ty’s nose. Silent seconds ticked away. The lieutenant straightened. “All right, General Morgan will decide whether or not you’re to be treated as a prisoner. I won’t risk insulting Owen Mattson by refusing his would-be son. Just remember, General Morgan is busy issuing orders for a midnight march. His subordinates may turn us away. That happens, it’s the wagon bed for you. Understood?”

  Ty nodded. He’d thrown his eggs in a single basket of his own choosing and would suffer the consequences without complaint.

  Lieutenant Shannon extended a hand. “I’ll have that pistol. I don’t disobey orders. Private Hargrove, tend to this lad’s horse.” Sliding Ty’s Remington behind his silver-buckled belt, Lieutenant Shannon said sharply, “Follow me, Mr. Ty Mattson.”

  Wending his way through the crowd occupying the porch of the Rainer home, Lieutenant Shannon managed to squeeze Ty through the front door. Inside, the parlor reeked of dried sweat, horsehair, cigar smoke, and coal oil fumes. Both Ty and Lieutenant Shannon were taller than almost all of the gathered troopers. Their height gave them a clear view of what held the troopers’ attention like a magnet gripping iron. A rectangular table blocked the doorway accessing the kitchen and behind it sat General John Hunt Morgan.

  Ty couldn’t help staring. He had heard and read of General John Hunt Morgan’s daring raids behind Union lines, his spectacular victories over superior forces, his numerous narrow escapes from pursuing blue-belly cavalry, infantry, and militia, but the significance of those feats paled upon sighting the general in the flesh.

  General John Hunt Morgan was strikingly handsome and dressed in a civilian suit of black broadcloth. A black hat, right side pinned up by golden wreath-around-a-tree embroidery, rested on the table at his elbow. His hands were small and white for a cavalryman. He had a fair complexion, and his mustache and imperial beard were finely trimmed. Dark auburn hair framed his high forehead. His keen gray-blue eyes sparkled with mirth, and the smile that greeted those stepping before him to report and receive orders displayed perfect white teeth.

  In a makeshift war room, ripe with tension and tiptoe hurry, he affected a casual air that relaxed his junior officers and their subordinates; yet he kept the proceedings moving at a steady, decisive pace. In Ty’s mind, Morgan was exactly as the Northern and Southern newspapers described him: the dashing, mounted cavalier who rivaled Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox” of Revolutionary War fame. There was no in-between ground with John Hunt Morgan. Like the pro-Union reporters stated repeatedly, you either loved him or hated him.

  Ty doubted that General Morgan would have time to bother with him. Preparing for a midnight march after a full day in the saddle was exhausting enough without adding the burden of a minor affair to his plate—one that could wait until morning.

  Fortunately, Lieutenant Shannon didn’t share his doubts. The lieutenant waved one of his huge revolvers back and forth above his head for what seemed an eternity. A bespectacled, blond-bearded lieutenant, the sleeves of his Zouave jacket studded with bright coral buttons, was bent over a mound of papers at the end of General Morgan’s table. He eventually spied the waving revolver. Recognizing Lieutenant Shannon, he pointed to the corner of the room directly behind him.

  “We’ll have our audience with General Morgan,” Lieutenant Shannon said, pushing into the crowd. “Lieutenant Hardesty is Morgan’s adjutant. He has his ear.”

  Once key orders were issued, an astonished Ty watched the Rainer parlor empty in less than a half hour, except for Lieutenant Hardesty and General Morgan’s grizzled black servant, Old Box, lingering with a last pot of coffee for his master. Lieutenant Hardesty signed a concluding document and stored his steel pen and capped ink vial in a leather case. Signaling to Lieutenant Shannon and Ty, he said, “Please state your business, Lieutenant.”

  “We need to talk briefly with General Morgan, sir.”

  “Is it really important, Lieutenant? Can’t it wait until the general gets some much-needed sleep?”

  Expecting Lieutenant Hardesty to protect his worn-down superior officer, Lieutenant Shannon assured him, “It’s a personal matter that involves Captain Mattson.”

  The mention of Captain Mattson’s name alerted General Morgan, who placed his coffee cup on the table and glanced over his shoulder. “Captain Owen Mattson, is it? Come around here, where I can speak with you, Lieutenant.”

  Ty’s hopes soared. Either his father was a sincere friend of the general’s or was held in utmost esteem as a member of the general’s personal staff. Maybe it was both. Still, his knees were shaking something awful when the general greeted him with his lady-killing smile. Ty discovered that standing before a great military leader was very intimidating, if not downright frightening.

  “Well, out with it, Lieutenant,” General Morgan ordered, “or we’ll be in the saddle again without any rest tonight.”

  “Sir, we captured this sprout on the south road. He claims he’s Captain Mattson’s son. While he’s never met you in person, he says you know of him and can vouch for him.”

  General Morgan frowned and said, “No, I don’t know of him. Owen has never acknowledged having a son.”

  Ty’s heart sank. It was a night in manacles for certain, and possibly nothing to eat, to boot.

  General Morgan’s keen gray-blue eyes locked on Ty. “But with that crazy red hair and green eyes, he could be Owen’s offspring. What’s your assessment, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, he certainly has Captain Mattson’s hair and eyes, and he’s dressed like the rest of us Texans fighting with you. Might interest you that he talked the sentries into keeping his pistol.”

  General Morgan’s smile vanished. “Are you that clever, young man, or our sentries so lacking in training and good judgment?”

  Ty prayed his explanation didn’t spark the reprimanding of Sergeant Lockhart. He spoke slowly to keep a tight rein on his nerves. “Sir, after I told the sentries my name, they asked for my Remington. I told them Father trained me to never relinquish my weapon. Sergeant Lockhart reminded the other sentries that Captain Mattson preached just that during drill, and they let me keep my weapon.”

  General Morgan smiled. “Given Owen’s zeal for training and his reputation, I can imagine that happening. Don’t be too hard on the sentries, Lieutenant. We’ll arrive in Brand
enburg just after daylight. I’m placing this young man in your custody. He may have use of his horse, but not his revolver. If he is Owen’s son, it will be interesting to observe how well he follows in his father’s footsteps. He has some mighty big boots to fill, mighty big.”

  With that, General Morgan’s amused chuckle of anticipation ushered Ty and Lieutenant Shannon into the night; with each stride, Ty’s worry mounted.

  Just how big were Owen Mattson’s boots?

  CHAPTER 3

  By midmorning of the next day, Ty Mattson was miserable. Except for a few minutes after midnight on the evening he departed Elizabethtown, and a brief respite following his audience with General Morgan and a hasty meal late yesterday evening, he hadn’t slept a wink in sixty-plus hours. Every solitary part of his body screamed for rest and sleep.

  Even worse, throughout the night, he rode at the tail end of the column with Lieutenant Shannon and the rear guard. The dust churned up by eight-thousand-odd hoofs filled the air with a thick, stifling dirt fog, which filled his ears, nose, and eyes. The dust covered his hat and shoulders and crept inside his shirt. He kept his mouth moist by sucking on a small white stone provided by the lieutenant.

  He vowed he would acquire a bandana before he swallowed another morsel of food. Better yet, though the chances were little to none for an individual not listed on the muster roll of any company in the column, Ty still wondered, what was required to gain the privilege of riding in the van instead of the rear?

  The length of Ty’s ride since Elizabethtown added to his discomfort. He’d never spent more than an entire morning in the saddle. On horse-buying and horse-selling jaunts to Lexington, Louisville, Georgetown, and Brandenburg, he and his grandfather had traveled by horse-drawn buggy. Livery servants had handled the loose animals both ways. The friction between his woolen trousers and saddle leather galled his thighs and spawned blisters on his hindquarters. He marveled that General Morgan’s troopers spent day after day in the saddle. There had to be some secret to their lower-body parts tolerating excessive time on horseback; at the first opportunity, ignorant Ty wasn’t above asking Lieutenant Shannon what that secret was.