Raiding With Morgan

by Jim R. Woolard

  He understood her trepidation over confronting him so boldly in such a sharp tone. He remembered how he had looked in the hallway and dining-room mirrors: red-eyed, bearded, shirt filthy with caked road dust, trousers bullet torn at the knee, and a body stink strong enough to gag a maggot. He regretted his holstered revolver. He couldn’t appear more dangerous if he tried.

  Remembering his manners at last, he snatched his hat from his head, aware that his flame-red hair would be standing straight up in bunches and do nothing to soften his image. She had to think he’d stepped from the very depths of Hell, the realm inhabited by outlaw misfits and rabble-rousers.

  “Corporal Ty Mattson, of Elizabethtown, Kentucky, ma’am,” Ty said, keeping his voice low and calm, not wanting his unnaturally deep voice to startle her all over again. “I apologize for scaring you. I’m afraid my hunger got the best of me.”

  “You didn’t scare me, Corporal. We’ve just never had an armed Rebel scoundrel storm into our kitchen before, have we, Lydia?”

  “No, Miss Dana, never,” black Lydia said.

  The name, elegant and easy on the ear, matched her beauty. There was nothing Ty wanted more in the whole world right then but to watch her and talk with her. But military discipline ruled. General Morgan’s dinner had to come first.

  Given the age of Cordell Bainbridge, Ty chanced that Dana was his daughter and not his wife. “Miss Bainbridge, your father has invited General Morgan and his staff to be his guests this evening and dine with him. Will you please serve them when you are ready?”

  Dana Bainbridge placed her strawberry pie on the center table and removed her mittens. Fixing those sky blues on Ty once more, she said, “Your General Morgan must be quite diplomatic to wrest an invitation from my father without threatening him with a gun. He hates you Rebels with a passion.”

  Ty was totally smitten with Dana Bainbridge. A warmth and longing swept through him that made his chest ache and tightened his throat. He knew instantly how his father had felt when he met Keena McVey and realized in a flash she was the woman for him. But unlike that first meeting of his parents, there was no sign the magistrate’s daughter felt the same feelings for him whatsoever. She probably wanted the unshaven Rebel lout from Elizabethtown, Kentucky, out of her kitchen—jack quick—and who could blame her?

  One important thing was in his favor. She hadn’t corrected how he had addressed her. For what it might be worth, if by some remote chance he somehow found himself sharing her company later, she wasn’t married.

  “You are lucky, Corporal,” Miss Dana said. ”It is my father’s custom to dine after the house cools in the evening. Lydia and I were just completing our final preparation. You may inform Father and your General Morgan that we will be ready to serve them in thirty minutes. Will there be other diners?”

  Ty cleared his throat, swallowing instead of spitting, and said, “Yes, Colonels Duke and Johnson and Lieutenant Hardesty usually dine with him.”

  “And where and what will you eat, Corporal Mattson?”

  “With the cook’s permission, scraps on the rear stoop, Miss Bainbridge,” Ty said with a grin.

  Dana Bainbridge threw her head back and laughed. “I like a man with a sense of humor. We’ll do better than that for you, Corporal. Now pass the word to my father. Make sure you inform father first. We don’t want him thinking he’s not in charge. He has enough pride for ten of you males. I prefer a quiet evening meal without the usual shouting and haranguing with our visitors about the merits of this godforsaken war.”

  Ty was delighted. He was certain Dana Bainbridge was at least two years, if not three years, older than he; yet she had referred to him as a man, not a boy. Speculating about a relationship with her was undoubtedly a waste of time; but, then, weren’t dreams free for the making?

  “Corporal Mattson, you can’t stare at me and tell my father about dinner all at once,” Dana Bainbridge said with a sweet smile, “unless, of course, you carry a miracle in your pocket.”

  Face aflame, Ty fled the kitchen, angry with himself for lingering like a child with his mouth hanging open in awe of what his eyes were seeing, instead of paying attention to his soldierly duty.

  As he expected, Magistrate Bainbridge was seated in the family parlor across the hallway from the kitchen, not in the formal parlor at the front of the house with General Morgan. The general was adamant about preventing enemy civilians from eavesdropping on his meetings with his highest-ranking officers. In fact, the sliding doors of the front parlor were closed.

  Magistrate Bainbridge spied Ty in the hallway and laid his leather-bound book on a low table. “Yes, young man?”

  “Sir, Miss Bainbridge would like you to inform General Morgan that dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

  “I appreciate good manners and appropriate behavior, but in this unusual situation, it would be best if you delivered her message.”

  Ty nodded and walked to the front parlor doors, knocked, and waited. His father slid the oak doors open gently and bid Ty to enter. Ty whispered the status of dinner to his father, who, in turn, quietly informed Lieutenant Hardesty without disrupting the ongoing conversation of General Morgan, Colonels Duke and Johnson, and Captain Byrnes.

  “Gentlemen, I will not countenance an assault on the Yankee redoubt to open the ford for a night crossing,” General Morgan was saying. “We would be facing unfamiliar ground and we don’t know the size and quality of the enemy. Our men are exhausted, and I fear that if we are repulsed, they may panic and create a situation beyond our control.”

  “We could leave the baggage train, artillery, and the sick and wounded here and seek a ford upriver,” Colonel Johnson said.

  General Morgan rejected Johnson’s suggestion out of hand. “As I said at Chester, I would not abandon a single man. We will save all or lose all.”

  “Your orders then, sir,” Colonel Duke said.

  “Colonel Duke, you will prepare your First Brigade for an attack on the Yankee redoubt at dawn. Colonel Johnson, your Second Brigade will guard the approach from Chester Road. Please send out pickets and assess the enemy’s location to the west. Captain Byrnes, please station your guns so you may support Colonel Duke’s morning assault. Any questions?”

  When no questions were forthcoming, General Morgan said, “Lieutenant Hardesty, will we be dining soon?”

  “Twenty minutes, sir,” Lieutenant Hardesty said.

  A wan smile creased General Morgan’s cheeks. “Gentlemen, while not normally an imbiber, a taste of good brandy or sherry would be most delightful. An elected official, like Cordell Bainbridge, must have a supply of cordials for wooing votes. Captain Mattson, would you ask the magistrate to join us with a bottle of his choosing?”

  “I believe Corporal Mattson is up to the chore, sir.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Ty said, “but it might be best if the request came from a captain, not a lowly corporal.”

  General Morgan actually giggled. “Captain, given Bainbridge’s evident buffoonery, our young chap is on target.”

  In four short minutes, Cordell Bainbridge entered the parlor with a round wooden tray holding seven hand-molded glass goblets and a glass decanter filled with a shiny brown liquid. “This, General Morgan, is my very best cognac, saved for my most special guests.”

  Placing the tray on a side table covered by a knitted lace doily, Cordell Bainbridge filled each goblet with three fingers of cognac and passed a goblet to each of his guests. Ty accepted his goblet with some misgivings. To the grandson of Enoch Mattson, liquor was a forbidden indulgence, but how could he refuse it and insult Magistrate Bainbridge’s hospitality? Everyone lifted his goblet with General Morgan’s prayer that the war would end quickly. The memory of Shawn Shannon pouring Ebb White’s corn squeezin’s on his wounded arm made Ty cautious. He watched the others drink until he learned cognac was for sipping, not bolting. The first dab burned his throat a tad, but the warmth magnified a taste smooth as silk. Ty was sorry Shawn Shannon had volunteered to
look after their horses and missed a delightful repast.

  Apparently, if Ty was old enough to imbibe with General Morgan and his lead officers, he was old enough and important enough to dine with them, for the general himself invited Ty to join him at dinner. Ty was thrilled with the invitation. If Miss Dana Bainbridge knew anything about military protocol, a mere corporal dining with a general and his key staff might impress her favorably. Ty suppressed a temptation to smile and swagger, fearing he would appear an overjoyed child amongst mature soldiers.

  The evening temperature was dropping and the open windows of the dining room allowed a cross breeze, which cooled those seated at the Bainbridge table. Miss Dana and Lydia had gone to great lengths in a hurry to accommodate the large number of unexpected guests. The two ladies served up a veritable summer feast of corned beef, both hashed and with cabbage, sweet corn, pole beans with crumbled bacon, loaf bread, still warm from the oven, a crock of butter, cider, black coffee, and strawberry and blackberry pies. The ladies retired to the kitchen, and the head of the house and his guests ate with a passion, leaving no time for idle chatter.

  The quiet chewing and drinking was disrupted by a screeching yelp as the diners finished their pie. Before any inquiry as to the source of the nerve-jangling interruption could be made, the front door swung back against the hallway wall with a crash that threatened to shatter its glass panels. Shawn Shannon dragged what appeared to be a mere boy resisting his efforts into the dining room. One of his hands had a firm grip on the boy’s shirt collar and the other held an ancient, single-barrel, black-powder shotgun.

  “Don’t know who he is, General, but he was drawing a bead on you a few paces from the window,” Lieutenant Shannon said.

  God forbid, dignity blown to pieces, Magistrate Bainbridge shot to his feet, napkin flying from his collar and landing in the middle of his plate. “That’s my youngest son, Alex. Alex, cease that caterwauling this second. How could you contemplate such a heinous act?”

  Twelve-year-old Alexander Bainbridge came to rigid attention like a disciplined soldier, eyes cold with unfathomable hatred and said, “They killed my brothers, the bastards. I’ll kill them, generals and all, till they hang me for it. War or no war.”

  “Alex, go to your room,” Magistrate Bainbridge said. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in our home.”

  To Ty’s surprise, General Morgan didn’t object to the dispatching of his would-be executioner to his private quarters. Alex Bainbridge poked his nose into the air and marched from the room. Everyone heard his boots pounding up the stairs at the rear of the house.

  Cordell Bainbridge regained his composure. “My sincerest apology, General Morgan. I lost my two older sons at Shiloh and Gettysburg. Alex’s mother died of what I’m sure was pure grief just a few weeks after Franklin was killed at Shiloh. Alex can think of nothing but becoming a soldier and extracting a measure of revenge for his brothers. I was unaware Alex had a weapon. He was staying overnight with my brother’s family in Portland.”

  Bainbridge harrumphed to strengthen his faltering voice. “There are no other weapons in my house, sir. You may search room to room, if you prefer.”

  General Morgan’s response was a soothing smile. “That won’t be necessary. I understand young Alex’s feelings. I lost my youngest brother, Tom, to a Yankee ball at Lebanon, Kentucky, just thirteen days ago.”

  General Morgan’s deep sigh equaled a gust of wind. “No matter who emerges the victor in this brutal conflict, Magistrate, the tragic loss of life will forever haunt those wearing both blue and gray who perpetrated it and fought it.”

  Magistrate Bainbridge sank back into his chair. “General, I never thought I’d admit it, not in a hundred years. You Rebels aren’t so easy to hate at close range. I’d be proud to share another cognac with you.”

  General Morgan emptied his coffee cup, pushed back his chair, and stood. “I’m afraid I must decline your offer, sir. Much remains to be done for the morrow.”

  Magistrate Bainbridge rose from his chair again. “I fully appreciate that, General. There are two spare bedrooms above us. Use them, as you see fit. I will be retiring. My daughter will do so after the kitchen chores are completed. I will make sure Alex is not a problem.”

  “What about your family? If a battle breaks out in the morning, as I expect it will, you may not be safe here.”

  “General, there’s a deep root cellar beneath the house. We will take shelter in it if the situation requires. I bid you good night, sir.”

  Magistrate Bainbridge departed with a nod that General Morgan returned. The General’s eyes surveyed the room. “Lieutenant Shannon, your vigilance in the matter of young Alex is much appreciated.”

  “No problem, sir. He came across the cornfield behind the barn. I caught a glimpse of him sneaking to the corner of the house. He hid in the bushes along the side of the house. I waited and jumped him the second he sighted that old shotgun on the open window. You were an easy shot, with your back to him.”

  “The ‘Thunderbolt of the Confederacy’ assassinated by an Ohio farm boy while dining in a Northern Yankee home,” General Morgan said. “Good Lord, how the Union correspondents would have treasured that headline.”

  That remark garnered a hearty laugh from everyone present. “Lieutenant Shannon, if you have not eaten, I’m certain the ladies of the kitchen will provide for you. You may tell them we are finished with their fine meal. Gentlemen, we will repair to the living room for a final review of our strategy for the morning.”

  Ty followed Shawn Shannon into the hallway. The kitchen door was closed. “Make sure you knock,” he warned.

  The evening didn’t conclude as Ty prayed it would. He did learn during the second parlor meeting that the main preoccupation of General Morgan and his officers was the location of the Yankee gunboats. The current height of the Ohio’s flooded waters raised the distinct possibility that the gunboats could steam upriver to Buffington Island. Even with an exclusion of the baggage train, a fording by Morgan’s troopers under their relentless fire was problematic at best. General Morgan closed the meeting by repeating his firm orders to have the cannons properly placed to support Colonel Duke’s assault and the entire column—every man who could stand and fire a weapon—ready for action at daybreak.

  Ty hustled to the kitchen. He was too late. The stove fire was banked for the night; the cleaning up completed; Miss Dana Bainbridge and Lydia gone. He’d longed for one last look at Dana Bainbridge in all her beauty.

  Shawn Shannon stepped through the rear door of the kitchen. “I’m disappointed that Bainbridge gal retired for the night so quickly.”

  “Me too,” Ty said, wishing he hadn’t.

  Shawn Shannon grinned slyly. “If you hadn’t noticed her with those field glass eyes of yours, I’d be worried you’d gone blind on me or you’re too young to kiss a woman. Now, don’t get your knot tied double on me, but I think she was taken with you.”

  “How could you tell that?” a doubting Ty asked.

  “She asked if you were married and how old you are. That’s kind of unusual for a female after a chance meeting with an armed enemy combatant you’ve never laid eyes on before.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her you aren’t married and that you’re twenty years old.”

  “Why did you lie about my age?”

  “I didn’t want to scare her off straightaway. You mad I fibbed to her?”

  “No,” Ty said. “You know more about women than I do, and the odds are that I won’t ever see her again, anyway.”

  Shawn Shannon shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t discount anything in this-here world, my boy. Only the Lord knows in advance what will come to pass, and He hasn’t yet chosen to tell me or you ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ in advance.”

  CHAPTER 16

  With the conclusion of the evening’s festivities and military strategy sessions, Ty bedded down on the rear porch of the Bainbridge home. His gum poncho made the hardness of the roug
h planks tolerable, and the roof of the porch offered protection against the heavy morning dew common to river bottoms. His thin blanket was sufficient to ward off the chill spreading through the narrow valley.

  Ty was as comfortable as he’d been any other night and desperately tired, but he couldn’t sleep. His chance meeting of Dana Bainbridge had started him thinking about what kind of future he might have if he survived the battle tomorrow and whatever came afterward.

  Ty had willingly severed his ties with Grandfather Mattson to search for his father, which most likely meant he wasn’t welcome to grace that Elizabethtown doorstep anytime soon. The key question, then, for Ty was what were his father’s postwar intentions? Would Owen Mattson invite Ty to follow him home to Texas? If he did, what would they do to provide themselves sustenance and shelter? If his father became a Texas Ranger again, was Ty old enough to be sworn in with him, if the Rangers would accept him? If not, what could Ty do to make his own way as Shawn Shannon had said Ranger pay supported the officer in fair style, but often left a meager amount for the man’s family.

  The things Ty knew best were horses and farming. From observing his grandfather, he knew the secret to acquiring land and animals was securing the necessary credit. But what did a former Ranger and his son have to offer a bank in return for financial backing?

  Ty realized that chill dark night on the Bainbridge porch that he’d been buried in the details of his sheltered life—hearty meals morning and evening year-round, library brimming with books, lessons with Professor Ackerman, evening discussions with Grandfather Mattson, colts to break and train for the races, crop fields to inspect, and a few hard chores—to the exclusion of any future planning if anything went awry. He’d forever assumed he would live with his grandfather until, as Enoch Mattson had said, “You are grown enough to sit at my desk.”

  Ty sighed. If his being a Rebel, and she the daughter of a Rebel hater, didn’t negate a relationship with Dana Bainbridge, his prospects were so dim and uncertain that the only worse situation he could imagine was writing to her from the moon, begging her to abandon her father’s cozy quarters to marry a former soldier with empty pockets and no assurance where their next meal would come from. Dreams might be free for the making, but Ty was beginning to understand that a man needed a mountain of luck for a few of them—perhaps those he cherished the most—to come true.