Raiding With Morgan

by Jim R. Woolard

  Your friend,

  B. Jordan

  Ty wasn’t concerned that Boone Jordan’s greenbacks weren’t in the envelope. The Union censor had written the dollar sign followed by the number twenty and his initials on the front of the envelope. The money had been deposited in the prisoner’s bank maintained by the camp commissary officer in Ty’s name. At his discretion, he could spend the money on credit at the commissary or obtain sutler checks for an equal amount.

  He put the envelope in his pocket to retain written proof of his bank funds, unwrapped the express package, and held up his new coat. The coat was made of black wool and sported brass buttons, deep front pockets, and the wide lapels and hood of a military greatcoat.

  “Hell’s bells, Corporal,” Given Campbell said, “there’s boys would pay dearly to wear a coat like that to the sinks if they weren’t afraid the guards might shoot them. Good thing is, with us stuck in Chicago, you got plenty of winter left to enjoy it. See how she fits.”

  A grinning Sam Bryant held the coat for Ty and said in a servile voice, “Your garment, sir!”

  Ty slid his arms into the coat’s sleeves and Sam slipped it over his shoulders and drew the hood over his head. The coat fit perfectly.

  “Looks like someone surely knew your size,” Given Campbell said. “If there’s a finer winter-courting coat anywhere else, I ain’t laid eye on it. I know a sprightly gal that would love to snuggle against a wool coat like that. She’d be the same way with you, Corporal, if you weren’t so filly shy.”

  Ty laughed along with everyone else. He owed Boone Jordan a huge thanks for his gifts. The greenbacks were a virtual fortune for him to relinquish. As a livery owner in a small city, cash was a scarce commodity for him in peacetime, more so in wartime. Both Union and Confederate forces had pressed his horse stock on occasion without offering to pay a thin dime. The stalling and feeding of town horses, when he didn’t have horses he had bred and broken to sell, barely kept a roof over Boone Jordan and corn liquor in his jug.

  Ty didn’t want the fun of celebrating his new coat to end. He was sure Mr. Boone wouldn’t think what he had in mind was a waste of his money. “Private E.J. Pursley,” he boomed, “front and center! That’s an order.”

  E.J. marched from the kitchen with a frown on his face, brandishing a large knife. “Which one of you jackanapes wants to interfere with my cooking?”

  ”You cook the same lousy rations every blessed day. We can’t be interrupting much,” Cally Smith deadpanned. “Ty gave the order, you old buzzard.”

  Learning that garnered a toothless grin from E.J. “Yes, Corporal?”

  “Can you secure a pass to the commissary?”

  E.J.’s eyes twinkled. “What’s your game, Corporal?”

  Prudent Ty was determined not to spend more of Boone Jordan’s gift than necessary. “I received twenty greenback dollars in today’s mail and this coat. I want to celebrate being warm for the first time in weeks with a meal befitting a prince, something better than just beef and bread, thin soup and lousy coffee. Can you do it?”

  The twinkle in E.J.’s eyes became shooting sparks. Nothing excited a chef like a culinary challenge. “The lieutenants aren’t as strict as they were back in the middle of the winter. Cally can buy a pass to the commissary for him and me with a small bribe. Do you have cash money?”

  “No, credit at the commissary. Will they let you buy under my name?”

  “They will if Cally has an envelope with your name and the amount written on it. The commissary sergeant has permitted that kind of purchase in the past. He’s a gem for a Yankee. Money talks right smart to him and you get what you pay for.”

  Ty said, “Just remember, I want something special and we’ll fire up the stove for you. I want a meal that hasn’t been cooked to death on top of the boiler.”

  “Have no fear, Corporal, I know what you’re after,” E.J. said, handing his knife to Billy Burke. “Come along, Cally. Put your best conniving smile on your ugly puss. It’s time for a little real grub.”

  Given the monotony of being confined to the barrack by days of rain and eight-inch-deep mud that made fatigue work impossible, E.J. and Cally were as full of joy as schoolboys racing for the door.

  “If those two tadpoles don’t trample each other or sink out of sight in the mud,” Given Campbell said, “E.J. might fill a plate right smart for a change.”

  Billy Burke said, “What about Snag and Mouse, Corporal? Won’t they make us put out the stove? They’ve done that in the other barracks.”

  “Naw, they don’t come on duty until the midnight watch, and Sergeant Winters has the biggest sweet tooth in the whole Union Army.”

  With nothing to do but wait, barracks life returned to normal. Cards, checkers, and chess resumed. Books with their covers worn away occupied a few heady souls. Quiet conversations centered on life after the war ended and they were freed, who had escaped Camp Douglas and their fate, where General Morgan was campaigning, the progress of the war outside the stockade, the wild ride across three states with General Morgan, the fighting, drinking, and looting escapades that accompanied it, the best weapons for killing men and four-legged animals, how the pretty girls of the North compared to those of the South, memories of family and siblings, and a keen subject discussed in the quietest of tones: the illnesses of their comrades.

  Amongst the disease-stricken Kentuckians scattered throughout Barrack Ten, at least one man per bunk was unable to eat solid food, or was so overwrought with pain and misery he was unaware of the excitement spawned by Ty’s new coat. In a usual day and night, two or more of their lot would perish. Ty had taken his turn with the burial detail and was learning firsthand that the aftermath of war for the wounded and the diseased was crueler than the battlefield.

  Ty was sincerely concerned about Shawn Shannon. The lieutenant had remained in his bed during roll call that morning. He had mentioned a fierce headache and hadn’t communicated with anyone since.

  Ty approached the lieutenant’s bunk and found Shannon lying absolutely still, gaze riveted on the underside of the bunk above him. “How you feeling?”

  Only Shawn Shannon’s eyes moved. “Bad pain in my lower back now and my head is about to split open.”

  Ty’s heart froze for a beat. Headaches and back pain were symptoms of smallpox. Another symptom was a sore throat and Shawn Shannon’s voice was very hoarse.

  “Have you been vaccinated, Lieutenant?”

  It was an effort, but he managed to say, “At Union gunpoint on Valentine’s Day, like the rest of you. But I’m not certain it took. The dose tore my stomach up and I squeezed as much of it out of my arm as I could.”

  Ty gulped. He had done the exact same thing in hopes of calming his own innards. Yet he had no smallpox symptoms, to date. He leaned over Shawn Shannon. “Show me your arms.”

  “No need to, Ty. I don’t have any bumps anywhere that I can find. How about on my face?”

  Leaning forward until his nose practically touched the lieutenant’s chin, Ty studied his forehead, cheeks, and the skin of his neck. “No, not a speck of black. Nothing.”

  “That’s good. No sense getting up a fret over nothing. I’ve been sick this way before. I remember hurting damn near everywhere for three weeks. The Rangers used to call it ‘Comanche Revenge,’ when your bowels let loose and joined in.”

  Ty straightened, praying silently with his fingers crossed that Shawn Shannon had correctly diagnosed his condition. Beyond Ty’s open admiration for him, the lieutenant had become a substitute father, whom Ty relied upon to tell him what to watch out for and how to conduct himself. And while it hinted of selfishness on Ty’s part, he was depending on Shawn Shannon’s offer of employment after the fighting ceased, an opportunity to make a fresh start in Texas. He couldn’t foresee a long ride on his own to find Uncle Paige Shannon. For all he knew, Uncle Paige wasn’t aware Ty existed.

  A ruckus at the door indicated Cally and E.J. had returned with the supper fixings. Shawn Shannon cleared
his throat the best he could and said, ”Go have your fun. The boys need it something awful.”

  Ty joined the mass of prisoners blocking the door. A frustrated E.J. Pursley, both hands holding large hemp bags, yelled, “Out of my way or I’ll feed the Yankees instead of you louts!”

  At the kitchen door, he turned and said to those trailing after him, “Cally, Ebb, and Sam will help me with the cooking. Ty, you stand clear. This is your surprise supper. You paid for it.”

  Waiting became doubly difficult when expectations grew in concert with the rich odors soon wafting from behind a kitchen door no one dared open, for fear he might be greeted with a skillet to the skull. Someone opined aloud he smelled roasts of beef cooking, not bones, shanks, and flanks. “And what’s that baking? It surely isn’t plain bread. Too sweet for that.”

  Wild guessing as to what exact dishes E.J. planned to serve helped while away the time. The seven o’clock bugle echoed within the stockade and, as expected, Sergeant Fletch Winters filled the doorway. A hush silenced the barrack. Had Ty’s assessment of the sergeant’s sweet tooth been accurate?

  A vast sigh of relief shot through the room when the squat Sergeant Winters lifted his snout, sniffed like a quartering hound, grinned, and dashed for the kitchen door.

  “Seems we’ll have a guest for supper,” an astute Kentucky private observed.

  There was no need for a call to dinner. An audience of seated prisoners, with forks poised and appetites primed, greeted Sam Bryant and Ebb White and their steaming platters of roast beef and onion-garnished potatoes. Next came warm baking pans, which brought tears to more than one eye. After months of going without, the Kentuckians could finally partake of honeyed corn bread, a dish they’d been fed from the cradle and craved like no other. Crocks of fresh butter, jars of pickles, a round of cheese, and pots of black coffee, blistering hot on the tongue and sweetened with sugar, completed the main course.

  E.J. Pursley loved building suspense at the dinner table and withheld dessert until all the plates and cups were clean to bare metal and his diners were leaning back and grunting their satisfaction. He nudged the kitchen door open with a baking pan held high in the air, hiding its content as long as possible. “Was you New Orleans gals, I’d expect a kiss from every cussed one of you.”

  He set the pan of oven-browned rolls of dough, with an orange filling, in the center of the table with a flourish. “Peach roll, boys. May be hard for you to believe, but besides the gals, the mayor of New Orleans kissed me on the forehead before he took a single bite. Dig in, boys.”

  No further encouragement was needed. Because the peach roll disappeared so quickly, Ty thought somebody would surely do without, but E.J. delivered another pan and started it around at the opposite end of the table. “A true cook sees no one is denied.”

  It was a grand evening from start to finish, and it wrapped up with a toast to Ty’s thoughtfulness and generosity by Given Campbell, which left Ty blushing. The only sour note was the absence of Shawn Shannon, who was much too sick to laugh or eat.

  Lieutenant Shawn Shannon’s condition worsened during the night. By morning, he had developed a fever; his throat was no better; a headache pounded between his ears. Ty found the dreaded black spots on the lieutenant’s cheeks. Aware smallpox had an incubation period, he asked, “How long have you been under the weather, Lieutenant?”

  “About ten days,” Shawn Shannon croaked. “I held it off until night before last.”

  Ty’s worry about the lieutenant ballooned. “Dr. Craig is due in an hour. I’ll bring him to you.”

  Gray-haired, with handsome features, kindly blue eyes, an erect carriage, despite his profession, and personally stone-cold sober, without a trace of alcohol on his breath—a rarity with wartime physicians—Dr. Amos Craig arrived on schedule. After he had treated Kentuckians for various ailments he had treated before, he came to Shawn Shannon’s bunk at Ty’s request. The Confederate physician’s examination required less than a minute.

  “He has smallpox,” Dr. Craig said. “I’ll send an ambulance for him. Several patients died the past three days and we have open cots at the hospital.”

  Without warning, Shawn Shannon heaved up in protest, for he loathed the Smallpox Hospital as much as Ty did. His strength failed him and he toppled back into his bunk. Dr. Craig closed his bag, turned to Ty, and said, “It’s his best chance of surviving. We have medicines that help you fight the disease. They may well work with him.”

  Though he shared a sincere friendship with the remaining Morgan men and was battle scarred, it surprised Ty that the prospect of barrack life without Shawn Shannon petrified him. Not until that moment had he realized just how much he leaned on the former Texas Ranger for inspiration and counted on his ability to read men and their intentions and keep their prison existence on an even keel. He’d watched Shannon’s extraordinary calm prevail in tense situations and restore order again and again—a trait vital to survival in an overcrowded stockade housing eleven thousand frustrated Confederate prisoners of war.

  “Can I visit him?” Ty pressured the doctor.

  Dr. Craig frowned. “Possibly, but be advised, we don’t encourage visits. We isolate patients to isolate the disease. The exceptions we normally make are for the nurses.”

  Ty was assisting E.J. in the kitchen when the ambulance came and Shawn Shannon was away before word reached him. He spent the balance of the day in a grumpy mood, which had his fellow prisoners avoiding him. He sought his bunk right after supper and endured a restless night. What if he never saw Shawn Shannon again? Had he been yanked from Ty’s life as swiftly as Jack Stedman’s bullet had taken his father from him?

  He vowed he would ignore the horror stories he’d heard about the Smallpox Hospital and somehow obtain a visitor’s pass. If Shawn Shannon was meant to die, Ty refused to countenance letting him die with his final wishes unheard. He owed the former Ranger more than he could repay in a dozen decades.

  Ty believed a man was privileged to meet and know but a few people who profoundly impacted his life, and he needed to cherish, thank, and remember each one of them. The Lord had gifted him with three such men: his father, his grandfather, and Shawn Shannon. And he would do anything to help Shawn Shannon stay alive, including praying with all his heart for his recovery.

  When he dropped from his bunk the following morning, Ty’s legs felt weak for a few steps. He was on the morning detail with Given Campbell. Their assignment before roll call was to fetch a barrel of water for the sinks. The shinbone-deep mud of the prison yard added to their burden. Before they reached the sinks with the heavy barrel, Ty’s strength evaporated. A case of the blind staggers beset him and he came within a whisker of passing out on his feet.

  The weakness of limbs persisted. During roll call each morning, Ty requested and received permission to leave the line. He rested in his bunk until breakfast. Once at the table, he discovered he had no appetite, so he limped back to his bunk and tried to catch some sleep.

  On day four, his forehead became damp with a feverish sweat and chills continued to wrack his body after he donned his winter coat. He remained prone the entire day, unable to consume any kind of nourishment. By the next morning, he felt a tad better and secured a basin, intending to wash his face and hands at the outside water hydrant.

  Ebb White stopped him at the door. “Let’s have a gander at your face, Corporal.”

  Rough fingers pulled and probed at the skin of Ty’s cheeks. “You can barely see the spots, but you’re coming down with the pox. You don’t dare wash. Get back to your bunk and stay off your feet till Dr. Craig makes his morning rounds.”

  Ty couldn’t determine whether he should be afraid or excited. If Dr. Craig confirmed he had contracted the disease, the problem of visiting Shawn Shannon was resolved. On the other hand, many people died of the pox, and it was not a pretty death, if there was such a thing.

  The doctor confirmed Ebb White’s diagnosis and squashed Ty’s misgivings. “You have a light case of sma
llpox. You should recover. I’ll call for an ambulance.”

  Ty almost smiled. He was undoubtedly the first prisoner in the history of Camp Douglas delighted that he was bound for the Smallpox Hospital as a patient.

  Leaving his new coat in Given Campbell’s custody, Ty donned the tattered garment Shawn Shannon had provided him earlier and waited at the door for the smallpox ambulance. He spied the vehicle at a distance, for it was painted a brilliant red to distinguish it from regular prison vehicles and warn the healthy to stand clear, a waste of paint given the prevalence of the affliction throughout the barracks.

  Seven others joined him for the trip to the hospital. They were counted at the guard post, passed into Garrison Square, where a Yankee doctor reexamined them, and then driven through the south gate out of Camp Douglas to the hospital, standing seventy yards away, near the Douglas Institute and Monument.

  The passengers tumbled out of the ambulance under their own power and sought the warmth of the hospital stove to escape the raw cold of the late-April wind blowing off Lake Michigan. To the stockade-imprisoned Ty, the open expanse of the lake’s blue waters was breathtaking. It was his first clear, unimpeded view in seven months of how beautiful the outside world was.

  Ty was the last prisoner up the porch steps. He went through the door with a hurried stride. There, across the room, beside the stove fire they sought, dressed in the brown smock issued to Rebel nurses and puffing on a corncob pipe, stood Jack Stedman’s son.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ty looked left and right and saw open doors in both directions that led to additional wards. He chose the ward to his left, walked past the stove down the center aisle between patient cots, and kept his gaze focused straight ahead. He gave no indication he’d recognized his father’s murderer.