“Good God, Shawn,” Given Campbell said. “Didn’t you calculate we rode ninety miles avoiding Cincinnati? I don’t know if my tail can stand another one hundred miles without a month’s rest in a feather bed, with a fair maiden tending to my every want and need.”
After the mess finished laughing, Shawn Shannon said, “Owen, I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet. We’re accompanying Colonel Dick Morgan on a little twenty-mile ride down to the Ohio this morning. General Morgan wants a report on the status of the river.”
Ty enjoyed the ride to Ripley, Ohio, with the Fourteenth Kentucky and Quirk’s Scouts. Everyone involved was refreshed and invigorated after a full night’s sleep. They sang as they rode, as if there were no organized opposition or bushwhackers within miles. Troopers had confiscated two violins, a guitar, and a banjo. They accompanied the Kentuckians as they sang “My Old Kentucky Home,” “Juanita,” “Arkansas Traveler,” “Hills of Tennessee,” and their favorite, “Lorena.” The war seemed a long way off for a few hours.
The view from the hills overlooking Ripley shattered their festive mood. The Ohio, a wide expanse of brown, fast-moving, roiling water, was almost at flood stage—a most unusual occurrence for the month of July—and the local ferries were under heavy guard.
On the return trip, Ty was riding between his father and Shawn Shannon. “There’s nothing closer now than the Buffington Island ford, providing we can beat the gunboats there,” Owen Mattson said. “If we don’t, we’ll have to keep moving upriver to get beyond their reach.”
Shawn Shannon said, “Every hour we spend on Ohio soil is to Burnside’s advantage. We’ll keep losing men we can’t replace, and he’s yet to bring his full might to bear. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to deliver this news to General Morgan.”
The somber mood of their return ride was brightened briefly at Winchester, where boys from the Fourteenth Kentucky tied American flags to the tails of six stolen mules and galloped them through the town’s main street, rebel yelling to scare the locals. They were drawing down on Locust Grove, their rendezvous point with the main column, by six at night.
Though it was probably a waste of breath, given Ty’s next-to-nothing chance of spotting Jack Stedman’s son amongst the Texan members of Johnson’s brigade, he couldn’t resist asking his father, ”What did the Stedmans look like?”
“No different than most men, from the neck down,” his father answered. “What distinguished them was their pale blond hair, wide foreheads, bear trap jaws heavy on chinbone, and gray eyes cold as dead ashes. They never showed any feelings, unless they were liquored up.”
From Ty’s other side, Shawn Shannon said, “We’ll keep a sharp lookout, Owen. We’ve been lucky before in circumstances like these. Remember Buck Granger? He was wrapped up in a winter blanket, face hidden from the wind, riding past you in Wyattsville, intending to back shoot you. You saw his fancy hand-tooled boot sticking out from under the bottom of that blanket, knocked him from the saddle with your rifle, and we hauled him off to jail. I don’t think Buck’s shoulder ever healed right. Let me tell you, Ty, that was one wicked blow.”
“He was deserving,” Owen Mattson said.
CHAPTER 12
Throughout the ride from Brandenburg, enemy militia had frequently shot at the advance guard and tried to drop trees across roads to slow the raiders’ progress. Ty remembered General Morgan stating at their camp outside Harrison, Ohio, that he was pleased his men were free of Indiana, where every man, woman, or child was an enemy, every hill a telegraph, and every bush an ambush.
In two days, Ohioans gave General Morgan ample opportunity to dine on those departing sentiments with a seasoning of his choice. It was apparent from the reports of officers and couriers and Ty’s personal observation that the Ohio woods were swarming with militia, pressing the column from both sides. Planks were ripped from bridges, felled trees blocked narrow roads, and log blockades defended almost every crossroad and town. After exchanging a few shots, Ohio militiamen fled and escaped pursuit or were taken prisoner and paroled, slowing the column and further taxing the troopers and horses chasing after them.
The rolling terrain, dotted with heavy woods broken by ravines and steep hillsides, favored those in hiding—the bushwhackers—and they took full advantage by shooting and killing from cover that often extended the length of the column.
Ty heard a soft thump and the officer next to him flopped from his saddle. He tugged at Reb’s reins and there at his stirrup, on the hardpan of the road, lay Captain Duke Self—he of Virginia stock and West Point, a favorite of General Morgan’s, shot plumb through the heart, dead eyes staring up at Ty.
Ty shivered. He had harbored a silly, childlike belief that his father and Shawn Shannon had the capacity to shield him from harm. The blunt truth was that no one in the column was safe, ever, day or night. That admission made him want to hunch his shoulders. Mattson pride kept him from scrunching down in the saddle. He might be scared, but he was determined only he would know.
Troopers pulled Duke Self’s limp form from the road. General Morgan said a brief prayer over the body without dismounting while the column passed behind him. Then they rode on. Time was too short for proper burials. Ty was reminded of Professor Ackerman’s maxim that war was the mean, uncaring, selfish master of those who fought it.
Food, forage, and horses became scarcer the more miles the raiders traveled. With such a lengthy advance warning, the Ohio populous was more adept at hiding their animals. Many troopers had worn out five or more horses already, but by some miracle—and the fact he hadn’t been ridden around the clock—Reb hadn’t given out along the way. Ty was as attached to the big gray gelding, with the black-splotched cheek, as General Morgan was to his swell gelding, Glencoe. Ty refused to think of parting with him.
The raiders continued their eastward flight at the fastest pace possible—the pitiful crawl of their artillery, supply wagons, and buggies bearing the sick and wounded hampering their progress as much as the efforts of the harassing militia. Late in the afternoon of July 16, they ransacked Jasper, Ohio, on the bank of the Scioto River, searching for the smallest scrap of food and horses.
Ty and Shawn Shannon were near the front of the column on the western edge of the village when a scout for the Fourteenth Kentucky, fresh from a horse hunt in the nearby hills, reined to halt in front of them and saluted. “Private Justice reporting, Lieutenant. Sir, I just spotted three black Yankee horses, one a blooded stallion that would surely catch General Morgan’s eye. You know same as me how much he values a fine mount, him being top officer and all.”
Shawn Shannon seldom participated in the incessant foraging of the column and surprised Ty by saying, “Where are they, Private Justice?”
“A mile down the south road, sir. They’re in a paddock beside a big barn.”
“Are they guarded, Private?”
“Didn’t spot anybody round the house or barn, Lieutenant.”
“Why didn’t you bring them in, Private Justice?”
“Private Burton took sick and rejoined our company, and Sergeant Warthen don’t allow his men to go it alone. There must always be at least two of you in case the Yankees are armed and hiding inside, waiting to ambush us. And you don’t cross Sergeant Pudge Warthen, lessen you want the dirtiest, meanest details till the sun stops shining.”
Shawn Shannon scanned the horizon, turned in the saddle, and said, “There’s just enough daylight left. Lead the way, Private Justice. Corporal Mattson, Privates Campbell and Stillion, after me, if you please.”
Ty’s inclusion was as surprising as Shawn Shannon’s decision to engage in a quick foraging expedition. Had it appeared dangerous, Ty doubted he would have been allowed to accompany the others. He realized this short foray was taking place solely to present John Hunt Morgan with a surprise gift of fine horseflesh. Ty was continually fascinated by how much General Morgan’s men respected him and what he stood for. Impossible as it was, he was the officer they dreamed of being.
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br /> They trotted single file along a dusty lane that wound through a series of low hills. Around an angling bend to the west, away from the Scioto, they popped into a valley of lush meadows and standing corn. The wagon-wide lane ran straight as an arrow to the flowered lawn of a two-story frame house, which was shaded by tall oak trees. A large barn sporting a high hayloft, with a stable on the lower level, sat east of the house. A one-acre truck garden bristling with precise rows of various vegetables and a springhouse were visible on the opposite side of the house.
A substantial farm by any definition, Ty decided, too valuable to leave unattended, unless its owners had fled the premises out of fear for the havoc Morgan’s men might subject them to. The desertion of property before the raiders’ arrival had been a common thread of their long ride. The foragers had come to expect the tranquil scene before them.
When they reached the fringe of the lawn fronting the house, Shawn Shannon ordered the raider detail into a line abreast with Ty on the extreme right; they advanced at a slow walk. The paddock fence attached to the woods side of the barn, where the black head of a single horse lolled over its top rail, was solid of post and cross member and painted white. Ty immediately took note of the fact two of Private Justice’s three horses were missing from the paddock.
Where were they?
A shot rang out, echoing throughout the valley. Private Justice grunted, grabbed his upper chest, and slipped sideways from his saddle.
“Over there,” Given Campbell yelled, pointing toward the springhouse with one hand and drawing his pistol with the other.
The stable door of the barn swept open and a black stallion emerged at a gallop, bareback rider whipping hard with the reins. The big black swept around the paddock and headed for the woods beyond a pasture abutting the barn. His flight was directly away from Ty’s position on the end of the raider line.
Ty didn’t hesitate. He was closest to the galloping stallion. Without a direct order from the officer in command, or so much as asking permission, he booted Reb after the black and his rider.
Pistols barked behind Ty. No one called for him to halt and he concentrated on what lay ahead of him. Bending low over Reb’s neck, he spurred the gray into a full gallop. The former cavalry mount loved a good run and Ty felt his stride lengthen. The black stud beat Reb to the woods by a fair margin after Ty lost ground reining the big gray around cattle grazing in the pasture.
Unsure of what awaited him within the trees, Ty sank lower yet in the saddle, drew his Remington, and reined Reb into the woods, where he’d last seen the black’s rump. He was relieved to find they were following a game trail wide enough and worn down enough to provide sufficient space and solid footing for the flying Reb.
Though he lost sight of the fleeing Yankee, he could hear the beat of the black’s hoofs. A low-hanging branch tugged at his gun hand, but he shook it aside without losing his grip on his weapon. After a quarter of a mile, the trees to either flank seemed to be tightening around Reb; Ty wondered how long the chase could continue.
There was a break in the trees and a threatening gap filled with running water opened beneath Reb. Without breaking stride, the gray vaulted the high-banked stream and landed on his feet with a soft thud while Ty’s heartbeats were louder than thunder in his chest, even after the woods swallowed them again.
The drumming of the black’s hoofs gradually sounded louder and Ty knew he was gaining on the streaking Yankee. Beyond a sharp bend in the narrowing pathway, he saw a swatch of red and realized it was the back of the Yankee’s shirt.
The chase ended as abruptly as it had begun. The Yankee twisted in the saddle to check how close Ty was to him and a tree branch jerked him from the saddle. The red-shirted rider landed shoulder first, with a ringing scream of pain.
The Yankee was groaning and trying to get to his feet when Reb slid to a halt before him. Ty saw no sign his adversary was armed; but following Shawn Shannon’s training, he covered the Yankee with his Remington and said, “Stand up, turn around, and look me in the eye, you bastard of a blue belly. Make a wrong move and you’ll rot where you fall.”
Ty had a yarn of Ebb White’s to thank for his choice of words in this instance and he used them with conviction. Private Justice had been shot from ambush—someone had to be held accountable.
The Yankee struggled to his feet and steadied himself, then slowly turned. A grown, potentially dangerous adult enemy didn’t confront Ty, but rather a ten-year-old boy quite big for his age. The youngster’s ginger hair was ripe with twigs and leaves. His left cheek was badly scratched; tears coursed down both his cheeks. He was supporting his right elbow with his left hand.
The snort of a horse behind the lad drew Ty’s gaze. The black stallion had returned unbidden. He nudged the young Yankee’s shoulder with his nose and stood stock-still. Ty had once enjoyed the same kind of bond with a Denmark Thoroughbred from his foaling.
Ty found himself in a quandary. He should drag this pup and his pet stallion back to the farmyard and let Shawn Shannon deal with them. Instead, he hung fire in the saddle and stared down at his prisoners.
“What’s your name, Yankee?”
“Benjamin, Benjamin Larkin,” the crying lad squeezed out. “Are you gonna kill me . . . and steal my horse?”
Ty sighed. A ton of grief might be waiting at home for this youngster and Ty didn’t have the heart to heap more on the pile. This frightened boy hadn’t taken part in the shooting in his farmyard; Ty was reluctant to place any of the blame on him. As Ty had witnessed many times over in recent days, Benjamin Larkin was an unintended victim of an adult war that had left none but the lucky unscathed.
If Ty did what he was contemplating, General Morgan wouldn’t have a fine mount to add to his private gather. However, with a pitched battle looming for the raiders in the near future, the black stallion had the best chance of enjoying a long life with his current master. And no one would be the wiser if Ty handled the situation with care.
Holstering his Remington, Ty said, “I mean you no harm. Can you find your way home after dark?”
The Yankee lad nodded his head and dried his eyes with his palms. “Yes, sir, I can find my way home after dark by myself.”
“If you want to keep your horse, stay here until the moon is out. For certain, we’ll be gone from your farm by then. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir. Don’t move until the moon is out . . . and th-thank you, sir,” the young Yankee sputtered, fighting back fresh tears.
Ty reined Reb about, clucked him into a trot, and didn’t look back. He heard no gunfire in the distance and knew Shawn Shannon would be searching for him. He needed to concoct a believable alternative to what he had done on the spur of the moment that fit the circumstances. The explanation that made the most sense was one that portrayed his actions in the guise of a military decision, not an amateurish weakness for the underdog. The last thing he wanted was to appear less than a professional, dedicated cavalryman to Lieutenant Shawn Shannon and his father.
He was ready for the high-banked stream and touched Reb’s flanks with his spurs. The jump was no harder for the gray than before. The sun was a mass of purple and gold rays shredded by darkening clouds when Ty emerged from the woods; that sight spawned the necessary lie he was seeking.
A frowning Shawn Shannon met him a short distance from the game trail. He glanced past Ty and said, “Didn’t catch him?”
“No, sir,” Ty answered, appalled at how glibly he was lying to a superior officer. “It was growing dark in those trees. Near as I could figure, he dismounted and hid with his horse in a thicket where the game trail petered out. I didn’t know if he was armed, so I decided that stallion wasn’t worth risking my life over.”
Thankfully, Shawn Shannon made no mention of Ty racing off in pursuit without orders to do so and said, “You’re beginning to think like a soldier. Much as I hate losing that animal, you made the right decision. I would have done the same.”
Afraid his c
onscience might betray him, Ty quickly asked, “What happened here?”
“I learned from the father of the house that it was the oldest brother who wounded Private Justice in the shoulder against his strict orders to stand down. The shooter escaped on one of the mares. We can’t tarry here and fall behind the column. I agreed not to burn the house and the barn and kill his cattle if the father promised to summon a doctor for Private Justice. I took him at his word. Let’s collect the others and move out. We’ll take the second mare with us. We’re not leaving empty-handed, by damned, not when leaving one of our own behind.”
Though Ty wasn’t proud of his lie, he’d pulled it off. With Given Campbell leading the black mare, the raiders started out on the dusty lane. Now Ty did look back, realizing that he would never know, but wondering what would become of Benjamin Larkin and his magnificent stallion.
Wondering, too, given his true loyalties, if he had made the right decision.
Upon returning to Jasper, Ty’s detail learned that General Morgan, convinced Union Cavalry were gaining on his column, had ordered an all-night march. The raiders rode steadily for forty-five miles. At dawn, on the seventeenth of July, they reached Jackson, Ohio, with Buffington’s Ford still fifty miles away.
Ty dismounted on rubbery legs in front of a public watering trough and a raw stink assailed his nostrils. He stood sniffing, seeking its origin. The realization his own body was the source of the foul stench disgusted him. Every inch of his exposed skin reeked of stale sweat. His perspiration-soaked shirt, plastered with layers of road dust, clung to his body and gave off a skunk-like odor.
He rolled his sleeves to the elbow and ducked his head into the cold water of the trough. The head and arm bath provided little relief. Until he had a whole-body bath and replaced his shirt, he was stuck with his own stink. No amount of washboard scrubbing with lye soap could save his garment. Ty chuckled. Were she there, his grandmother, an ardent rag collector, would burn his shirt and tattered socks together, holding her nose all the while.
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