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 c
loth 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.”
Since he lacked his father’s courage, that advice didn’t alleviate Ty’s fears. However, it was obvious from the tone of his father’s voice that the subject was closed for now.
And a good trooper obeyed orders.
Or tried to, as best he could.
PART 2
FOR THE OHIO
We crossed the Ohio-Indiana border and arrived at Harrison, Ohio this morning. We have covered 188 miles in 6 days since departing Brandenburg. Our most pressing need around the clock is suitable horses. By my rough estimate, we have impressed 1,850 mounts since crossing the Ohio. The exchange has been so rapid troopers are far past weeping over the loss of their beloved Thoroughbreds. To their disgust, their replacement mounts of indiscriminate breed last but a day or two, some not that long. Ahead awaits our greatest and most demanding challenge to date, a challenge that will test the stamina and lungs of every animal we ride, for General Morgan has decided we must skirt well-armed Cincinnati to the north in the dark of night, a beastly venture.
—Journal of Clinton J. Hardesty, Morgan’s Confederate Cavalry, 13 July 1863
CHAPTER 10
Ty leaned from the saddle and emptied his stomach in spasms of violent retching. Lieutenant Shannon reined close and studied his contorted features, especially the dark spittle dangling from his chin. “You sick, Corporal? Your face is yellow, green, and three shades of blue.”
Ty fought for breath. “Ebb White gave me a wedge of Mule Harness to chew. He told me it would keep the dust from drying my mouth out.”
“Ebb’s been chewing that black tobacco for years. If a mule isn’t used to it, it will make him blanch. I haven’t seen you spitting any.”
Ty’s innards growled something awful. “He claimed real chewers don’t expectorate. They swallow the juice.”
“Yep, they do after their stomachs grow an iron lining,” Shawn Shannon said with a hearty laugh. He reached into his leather shoulder bag and produced a handful of smooth white stones. “Like before, suck on one of these. They won’t make you sick, and be leery of that corn likker Ebb’s got hidden somewhere. That stuff will put a hammer inside your young brain for days.”
Ty’s naiveté disgusted him. He had disgraced his rank. Despite E.J. Pursley’s warning shake of the head, he’d made himself ill trying to stick his chest out in front of his messmates. Hadn’t Grandfather Mattson taught him stupidity comes at a cost most don’t want to pay?
The morning wasn’t a total loss. The yellow ointment Lieutenant Shannon obtained from a Salem apothecary had soothed the fiery pain besetting his blistered hindquarters and thighs into a dull ache. The cure had been a simple matter of asking for help without fear of embarrassment.
The road to Harrison, Ohio, descended between two bluffs to the Whitewater River. A stout bridge of heavy oak timbers spanned the fast-flowing waters. White church steeples, cornices of brick buildings, and a courthouse cupola caught Ty’s eye during the raiders downhill ride.
Iron shoes pounding the planks of the bridge reminded Ty of rolling thunder. The raiders entered Harrison at a trot without opposition. Once General Morgan’s entourage was across the river, he dropped back alongside Ty and Shawn Shannon. “Lieutenant Shannon, you and Corporal Mattson observe the destruction of the bridge. Rearguard scouts reported General Hobson and his four thousand troopers are only five hours’ riding time behind us. Once this bridge is down, they will be hours finding a ford suitable for their artillery.”
General Morgan winked. “Those Union boys don’t like to move too far in advance of their heavy guns.”
After the column’s wagons had crossed, troopers covered the near end of the bridge with straw and brush. The dry, weather-beaten timbers caught fire with a sudden whoosh, flame shooting fifty feet into the air. Finding the heat was so intense, Ty and Shawn Shannon eased their horses back a fair distance.
Ty had come to trust Shawn Shannon to keep private whatever he said, the same as he did with his shortly-known father. “Maybe I’m not meant to be a soldier. Burning valuable property and stealing just don’t seem right to me, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel any different. Does that make me a bad soldier?”
Lieutenant Shannon stepped down from his horse and knelt to watch the blazing fire. Ty dismounted and knelt beside him. “Corporal, I’ve been campaigning against either Mexicans, Comanche, or Yankees for half my years. Yet, I’ve never come to like or enjoy the killing, the burning and looting, and the shabby treatment of those not wearing uniforms. I’ve never taken pride in any killing. Trouble is, you usually don’t have a choice about joining the war. You join the army that believes the same as you. If you refuse to fight, you’ll hang or rot in prison.
“What keeps my bobber afloat is that everything about war isn’t mean, ugly, and bloody. Every now and then, you can smile and chuckle. Remember that ham factory in Dupont. We swiped two thousand hams. When have two cavalry brigades ever ridden away from a looting and not a single trooper could complain he was left out? How about that wagon full of lager beer at New Alsace? Dry as we were, swallowing road dust, wasn’t it grand to see foam on every lip as those kegs passed the length of the column? Then there’s Cally Smith. Remember how he thought he was drinking brandy, which was actually sweetened laxative? He was off his horse running for the bushes from Salem to Vienna. He turned dead white. I’ll never forget his moaning that he’d shat out everything up to his throat! And if he stopped talking, his tongue was gone, so just shoot him.”
Ty had to smile and chuckle.
“Maybe the best was General Morgan’s ruse outside Lexington,” Lieutenant Shannon said. “You weren’t with the van that morning. You were serving as courier. We rounded a bend in the road and encountered three hundred home guards resting in a grove of oak trees. Their horses were tied to the trees and a fence rail bordering the road. The old captain asked one of our men who we were and he shot back Wolford’s cavalry. The old captain was delighted to see blue-belly Kentucky boys and asked where Wolford was.
“Ty, John Hun
t Morgan is a mighty clever rascal. He rode up, introduced himself as Colonel Frank Wolford, First Kentucky Union Cavalry, and asked the captain what he was planning to do with all those horses and men. The old captain stated that John Hunt Morgan and his horse-thieving raiders were in the area, and they were hoping to give him what-for if they found him.
“Out of the blue, the old captain made a fatal mistake. Recognizing veteran cavalrymen when he saw them, he asked General Morgan to show his greenhorns a military drill. Our general declined, claiming his horses were too tired. The old captain told him to take his horses, and our dear general gladly obliged him. The Hoosiers actually helped switch our saddles to their fresh mounts.”
Ty had heard what happened next at the nightly mess fire. A firsthand account from an eyewitness made it even funnier. “We raiders mounted up and General Morgan took the point. Promising to execute an evolution the Hoosier captain had probably never seen before, the general told those home guards to line up on both sides of the road. Like sweet lambs headed for slaughter, they followed his orders. General Morgan whooped at the top of his lungs and we lit out at a gallop. Those green Indiana boys were absolutely dumbfounded, and we were out of range before a single one of them could fire a shot.”
The collapse of the burning Harrison Bridge timbers accompanied by rising clouds of steam stilled Ty and Shawn Shannon’s schoolboy laughter. Shawn Shannon sighed, mounted Buster, and waited for Ty to swing aboard Reb.
“Ty, it will help if you keep in mind your father’s words after that nasty brush we had with Federal troops at Tebbs Bend before you joined us. Owen said then, ‘It’s too late to jaw about who’s right and who’s wrong in this war. We fight it out to the end, win or lose, live or die, no matter who suffers or what’s destroyed. We’re riding a wagon rolling downhill with no brakes, and there’s no stopping it.’ Corporal, we best hunt up General Morgan.”
Raiding With Morgan Page 8