The first pubic building spotted by the raiders, a small Presbyterian church, was converted to a field hospital for the wounded. The Confederate dead were placed beneath white sheets in the church’s fenced yard. Prisoners being excess baggage for Morgan’s rapidly invading command, home guard captives were herded into lines at the limestone courthouse for paroling without arms.
Shouts of indignation on the part of Corydon citizens attracted Ty’s attention. Raiders were helping themselves to horses and emerging from retail establishments carrying pants, shirts, boots, and hats by the armfuls, with the complaining sellers dogging their heels. Four Indiana merchants stepped in front of Glencoe and confronted General Morgan.
A florid-faced older male in a black suit, starched snow-white shirt, and red string tie spoke for the four of them. “By what right do your men take what they want and offer worthless Richmond greenbacks or no payment at all in return?”
General Morgan stood in his stirrups and pointed to the hundreds of troopers occupying the town’s entire center. “They, sir,” he said, “are my authority.”
Dropping back into the saddle, General Morgan said, “And what might your name be, sir?”
“Urea Haggy, sir.”
“What’s your position in this community, Mr. Haggy?”
Skeletal chest puffed, voice dripping with pride, Urea Haggy said, “I’m Corydon’s sole banker.”
“How fortunate, Mr. Haggy. You are the proper person to carry our demand to your fellow businessmen. My scouts reported there are three gristmills in the Corydon area. It is one o’clock by your courthouse clock. The ransom for each mill is one thousand dollars to be paid by two o’clock. If the monies aren’t forthcoming to the minute, we will burn the mills. Understood?”
“But those mills are no threat to you or your men,” the outraged Haggy protested vehemently.
“Banker Haggy, you Northerners have enjoyed a full belly and full larder far from the fighting. But the bloom is off the stem. Henceforth, we will provision ourselves from your rich land. Every horse, mill, bridge, trestle, depot, telegraph wire, Federal greenback, morsel of food, and ton of forage are now fair game. We will allow you to experience—as we Southerners have—the harsh bite and deprivation of conflict.”
Peering about, General Morgan located his adjutant. “Lieutenant Hardesty, where are we dining?”
“The Eagle Hotel, sir. First-class fare, according to the locals.”
Focusing his icy glare on the Corydon merchants again, General Morgan said, “That’s where you may bring the ransom. One hour, gentlemen, one hour.” His casual, dismissing wave infuriated Urea Haggy. The banker huffed and fumed; but aware any further protests would be of no avail, he shooed his companions toward a brick bank building across the crowded street, which displayed his name in gold-painted script on the front window.
With no specific orders, Ty reined Reb behind Glencoe and Lieutenant Shannon’s black gelding. The gist of the general’s lecturing of the Corydon citizenry stuck in Ty’s craw, for it declared a major shift in tactics for his raiders.
Ty was better educated than some of General Morgan’s officers. Grandfather Mattson had an extensive library and the Cincinnati, Louisville, and Lexington newspapers were delivered weekly to the family manse at his grandfather’s expense. From the time Ty was twelve years old, his grandfather had insisted that Ty read and digest the papers’ contents and be prepared to discuss them at dinner and in the evening hours before bed. Their discussions ranged from the selling prices of Thoroughbreds in the three cities to the seasonal status of the hemp and grain market.
With the advent of the conflict between North and South, the war became a daily topic for the grandfather and grandson. Ty learned early on that Grandfather Mattson believed guerrilla warfare behind established lines of defense was an abomination and violation of the proper conduct of war. To him, General John Hunt Morgan and his raiders were loathsome; they were an affront to decency, deserving nothing but the lynching rope.
Though he didn’t dare admit it openly, Ty admired the exciting and daring General Morgan. He could hardly wait for the details of Morgan’s latest venture behind enemy lines. He frequently met his grandfather’s courier at the bottom of the lane.
Ty didn’t sway Grandfather Mattson’s opinion whatsoever when he read to him how Morgan’s troopers respected civil property and didn’t result to horse stealing or general thievery. They destroyed warehouses containing military stores, depots, telegraph poles, railroad trestles and rolling stock, tore up iron rails and burned wooden ties, and misdirected troop trains with fake telegraphic messages—military tactics designed to disrupt the Union’s means of communication, reinforcement, transportation, and supply. Unless they armed themselves and joined the home guards or local militia and stepped into General Morgan’s path, civilians were in little danger of harm.
But as Ty had heard just minutes ago, those tactics had undergone a major transformation with the raiders crossing of the Ohio River into Indiana. Horse thievery, ransom for money, looting, and mill burning were now permissible with the blessing of General John Hunt Morgan himself.
Much as Ty wanted to succeed as a soldier and not embarrass his father, the thought of what was in store for the peaceful countryside of Indiana and Ohio made him shudder.
The fare of the Eagle Hotel, if not “first class,” a term new to Ty, was certainly belly-filling and tasty. The hotel owner—gray-haired, big-nosed, bull-necked, wearing a stained white apron tied off at the waist—refused to serve uninvited and what would be nonpaying guests, according to the rumors Ty was hearing.
“George Kintner feeds only those welcome at his tables. I leave you to my daughter. Sallie may do as she wishes,” the hotel owner said, disappearing into the kitchen.
Sallie Kintner was a yellow-haired, charming gal in her early twenties. She pooh-poohed her father’s rude exit and announced, ”Dinner is served.”
The kitchen door swung open and waiters appeared with platters of roasted beef and fried chicken, large bowls of boiled potatoes and pole beans, and smaller dishes of cove oysters, maize pudding, and sliced cheese. An abundant supply of freshly baked bread, butter, and beef-dripping gravy, along with pots of black coffee and pitchers of milk, reached the table next. Twelve hungry males ate as if they hadn’t tasted food for a year of Sundays.
General Morgan was his usual warm, engaging self after the ice-veined confrontation with Urea Haggy. He soon learned that Sallie and her father were originally from Virginia, and Sallie was not totally hostile to the Confederate cause.
Charmed by John Morgan’s openness, Sallie Kintner served him an Eagle Hotel delicacy: mint-flavored pudding with dried apples. “I certainly hope you fare better than General Lee and your soldiers at Vicksburg.”
“How do you mean that, my dear girl?”
Sallie hesitated, and then said, “Oh, my, you haven’t heard. General Lee has been defeated at Gettysburg, and the Confederate Army besieged at Vicksburg surrendered to General Grant.”
“Are you sure of what you say, young lady?”
Placing her coffeepot on a nearby sideboard, Sallie walked to the hotel lobby and returned with the latest editions of the Indianapolis Star and the Corydon Weekly Democrat. One glance at the headlines and dispatches from the Union War Department confirmed her truthfulness.
The instantaneous change in General John Hunt Morgan’s demeanor astonished onlookers. His eyes clouded and the corners of his mouth tightened. His crestfallen, mournful expression revealed a side of their commanding officer that his staff had not been permitted to see.
Their superior sat silently for a long minute. Straightening his shoulders, he gathered himself and perused every single face in the room. “Gentlemen, this is news we prayed we’d never receive. The righteous cause so dear to our hearts has suffered a serious blow. But make no mistake, that cause is not yet hopeless. It falls to us to do our duty and force our enemy to commit as many soldiers and militia to forestalling our
campaign as possible. We must terrorize and frighten the populace into demanding our capture—a clamor so loud it reaches President Lincoln’s desk. The longer we force the enemy’s attention on us, the more time our beloved country has to regroup and prepare for future battles. Are you with me?”
The depressed atmosphere of the room vanished. Chins lifted, backbones stiffened, jaws jutted, and heads nodded, including Ty’s. Morgan’s key men, thanks to the persuasive power of their leader, were able to set aside the bad news for now. They were full-bellied and eager for the saddle once more.
“Fellow officers, I believe that speech deserves a round of applause.”
Heads swiveled and there in the dining-room doorway stood the parent Ty was seeking. Captain Owen Mattson initiated the applause as he walked straight to Ty’s table.
“Good afternoon, son,” Owen Mattson said, extending his hand. “You must be Ty. You were riding Boone Jordan’s gray gelding, with that black splotch on his face, at the Brandenburg Wharf—and you’re the only other redhead in the room.”
Ty was taken aback. He’d often thought what might happen when he caught up with his father. How would they be introduced? What would they say in greeting each other? Would his father know him for certain?
His father’s simple greeting and offering of his hand answered those questions with such lightning speed that Ty had to swallow hard to free his tongue. Remembering his grandfather’s dictum that no Mattson tendered any man a limp wrist, he secured a good grip on his father’s palm and matched his strength. “Hello, Father.”
Owen Mattson’s warm smile told Ty he was pleased with his son’s handshake. Ty was thrilled that they seemed to be starting off on the right foot. He had a thousand questions to ask, but none would come to mind. He was so excited.
His father filled the void. “I understand, Lieutenant Shannon, that you took my son to meet the elephant this morning.”
Unsure whether or not his best friend approved of his untrained son being part of a cavalry charge under fire, Shawn Shannon was quick to answer. “He was safely in the rear, Owen, and that horse of Boone Jordan’s grabbed the bit on him. He done fine, though, once we were in the thick of it.”
The conversation so important to Ty was interrupted by the abrupt appearance of hard-breathing Urea Haggy with two tin boxes. The entire room watched with considerable interest as the banker, looking harried and distraught, bargained with General Morgan. As the haggling progressed and became contentious, the banker’s normally florid face turned the deeper brick red of a bonfire. Eventually an agreement of $700 per mill, rather than $1,000, was reached. Urea Haggy’s explosive, snorting sigh of relief told everyone present that was the exact amount in his tin boxes, and not a penny more. Morgan’s laughing officers showed no mercy. Haggy was hooted out the door.
A grinning General Morgan was on his feet. The room stilled. “Gentlemen, to horse,” he ordered. “We have miles to ride yet today.”
The hotel emptied with a rush. The general’s personal groom held the reins of Glencoe, Reb, Shawn Shannon’s black gelding, and Owen Mattson’s blaze-faced chestnut at the foot of the hotel’s front porch. “They been groomed, watered, and fed per Captain Mattson’s orders, General Morgan, sir,” the black youth said with a prideful smile.
Ty’s respect for his father gained a notch. Amidst the tension of the raiders’ occupation of Corydon and the luxury of a hotel’s hot meal, his father had seen to their horses first. It was a lesson he would take to heart. If he wanted to be a real cavalryman like his father, Reb came first, before his belly and other needs.
Stepping aboard Glencoe, General Morgan said, “Captain Mattson, since the would-be Ty Mattson is with you and not in handcuffs, I assume you have claimed him for your own. Please bring him to my tent this evening and we’ll discuss his future with my command.”
Ty was ecstatic. All in the same day, he’d looked the elephant in the eye, found his long-missing father, and been invited to a meeting with General Morgan that might enable him to enlist with the raiders.
He’d never been happier in his whole life.
CHAPTER 7
The raiders rode within sixteen miles of their next objective, Salem, Indiana, by late afternoon and went into camp with two encircling lines of pickets. Cooking fires were soon ablaze for hungry troopers who had gulped whatever food they could scarf up while on the move throughout the day.
Ty discovered that he was hungry, despite the big hotel meal in Corydon. When E.J. Pursley saw an opportunity to fill bellies, he seized it. Under his direction, his mess had absconded with cakes, candy, and peanuts from a Corydon confectioner; they took bacon, ham, and cheese from a Corydon grocer, and fresh eggs and root cellar potatoes from empty farmsteads. He served his feast from three skillets on two fires, designating Ebb White a temporary cook.
Their horses watered, fed, curried, and tethered, Ty and his father ate their fill with the others, hedging against the usual lack of vittles that occurred during a lightning-fast cavalry raid. Then they retired to the edge of the firelight, where their horses were picketed. They sat on gum ponchos draped over their grounded saddles.
“Boone Jordan’s gray held under fire, did he?”
“Yes, sir. He wouldn’t be left behind. Mr. Jordan didn’t mention Reb was cavalry trained and he caught me by surprise.”
“I’m just glad you weren’t hurt,” Owen Mattson said, patting his son on the knee.
Aware his presence was so new to his son that Ty might dissolve into a bundle of nerves trying to sustain a conversation, the elder Mattson said, “Ty, maybe it would help us get acquainted faster if I told you my history with your mother and your grandparents. Then you can ask any questions you like. That all right by you?”
A relieved Ty sighed and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Son, I love your grandfather, always have and always will. He taught me right from wrong with no in between. He provided me the same wonderful book and practical education he did you. He introduced me to horses and taught me how to breed, train, and care for them. We never exchanged a contrary word.
“On my twenty-fifth birthday, he sent me across the ocean to buy horses of Arabian blood in deserts where horse racing is king. On my journey, I met explorers, sheiks, and soldiers of fortune, who had fought in wars on four continents. I encountered a world where no two days were the same, where life was chancy and dangerous, where the enemy might be the next person you met, as every male bore arms.
“When I returned home to Elizabethtown, I wasn’t the same man who’d left thirty months earlier. I realized a life in which each day is planned in detail had no appeal for me. I craved the danger and uncertainly of living amongst the horse-loving sheiks that inhabit deserts and fortresses as old as time itself. There I was the outsider who had to prove his worth every minute of every day. It was like drinking fine wine from a glass with no bottom.
“Ty, your grandfather is a hidebound but loving parent. I was restless and bored and stayed over once too often to bet on the races after a horse-selling trip to Louisville. Enoch Mattson breeds, trains, and sells horses, and follows the results at the racing tracks, but he is too Baptist to race or bet on them personally. He took exception to his son engaging regularly in what he deemed sinful behavior and threatened to disown me.
“That’s what started the serious trouble between us. I resented his having the gall to tell a grown son what he could or could not do. Your grandmother tried to smooth things over. Your grandfather refused to talk to her, and the three of us went weeks without speaking at the supper table.”
Owen Mattson sipped water from a canteen, spat, and offered Ty a drink. Ty was immersed in his father’s story and nearly choked on a single swallow. He cleared his throat and nodded he was okay.
“It was my love for your mother that brought everything to a head,” Owen Mattson said. “Your mother was a red-haired, bewitching, high-strung girl. I fell in love with my first glimpse of Keena McVey at her father’s Louisville tave
rn and boardinghouse. Bran McVey’s Iron Gate was the favorite gathering place for horse owners, horse lovers, jockeys, and those anxious to learn the favorites for upcoming races. When she was six years old, Keena lost her mother to fever, and Bran McVey didn’t remarry. He saw that Keena never knew want. He enrolled her in the Louisville Female Academy and insisted that she graduate. Your mother always said the most enjoyable moments she spent with her well-to-do, snobby classmates in three years was her piano lessons in a private room.
“After her graduation, Bran McVey tried his best to make a schoolteacher of his daughter. Your mother refused. After three years of boredom at a female academy, a schoolroom offered the same dull bill of fare to a tavern rat like Keena McVey. She ragged on her father until he agreed to take her aboard as a partner in the Iron Gate. It was a decision he never regretted. He was soon bragging that his daughter was the belle of the Louisville racing scene. Horsemen and their wealthy guests, knowing the Iron Gate respected proper decorum, came from far and wide to listen to Keena McVey play the piano and partake of the most famous menu in the city. Your mother and her servers were treated as ladies and nothing less, without exception, or you were shown the back alley—same as any customer who overimbibed. The Iron Gate was the place to be seen in Louisville.”
Owen Mattson sipped more water. Ty was sorry for the brief delay. “I was searching for a table the last night of racing season and, by sheer chance, met your mother face-to-face. I’d observed her from a distance, and not being acquainted with anybody close to her, circumstances didn’t arise that would allow me to meet her properly. Our coming together by chance in the middle of the crowd that evening probably wasn’t what some called ‘proper,’ but I looked into Keena McVey’s violet eyes and sparks flew both ways, burning a hole in my soul.
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