Raiding With Morgan

by Jim R. Woolard

  The discovery of a Confederate body beneath Barrack One launched the most thorough search for bladed weapons in the brief history of Camp Douglas. Prisoners were stripped naked and their clothing, boots, bunks, and blankets torn apart. When a Yankee patrol found a bloody stiletto between the deadline and the stockade wall, and no prisoner could be coerced into claiming ownership, Commandant Sweet, lacking credible eyewitnesses, moved on to bigger issues than the death of a single secesh. Ty prayed his father was resting easier in the grave. As Grandfather Mattson preached, justice might be a long time coming, but she always got her proper due.

  Without the company of his messmates, the monotony of the daily grind behind guarded palisades overseen by enemies who detested him doubled for Ty. The one constant that helped keep his spirits from sagging into total despair was the eternal optimism of E.J. Pursley. The old chef found something positive in whatever befell them. If Snag and Mouse lingered in Barrack Ten, they weren’t harassing raiders in the other barracks. If the ground froze overnight, it was easier to walk to the sinks, an important advantage for ancient legs that ached without warning. If they had but ten potatoes in the kitchen, ten was better than five. There was always a new way to season the same old fare. It was a matter of learning what new spices might be available from the blue-belly commissary. And the bottom rung was that when all else seemed bleak as warmed-over death, there was food on the table. Though short rations continually contributed to illness amongst the prisoners, no raider had yet to starve to death.

  When Ty asked E.J. what he would do once they were free men, the goateed ladle wielder rubbed his chin and surprised Ty by saying, “Family’s gone. I got no prospects. But that don’t concern me too much. I been thrown out with the garbage before and landed on my feet. I can beg to cook at one of those fancy Chicago hotel dining rooms, if need be. I’d have to start out washing pots and pans. That don’t really matter much. Before I croak, I’ll have my own stove again and hungry mouths to fill.”

  Adhering to E.J.’s outlook, Ty gained a smidgen of hope from rampant rumors that the Yankees were planning to institute a large prisoner exchange by the last day of the year. In succeeding weeks, Ty spent his time contemplating his future as a free man.

  He wrote again to Dana Bainbridge—she was never absent from his thoughts—reaffirming his intentions and his love for her. The lack of any response to his entreaties was worrisome and kept him on edge. Had he totally misread her feelings for him? Had it been merely pity and kindness on her part, as he had feared earlier, but dismissed because his deep attachment to her foolishly led him to believe otherwise?

  To keep his wits about him and not succumb to the hopeless stupor he saw turn many inmates into walking zombies, he resolved that his first destination as a free man was Portland, Ohio. He would call on Miss Bainbridge, and if she had reservations regarding his sincerity, he would overcome them. He would worry later about his ability to provide for her financially. For Ty, Dana fulfilled dreams he hadn’t imagined before meeting her—dreams that were too precious to relinquish until she personally, God forbid, said she had no true interest in him.

  When he wasn’t dwelling on Dana Bainbridge, Grandfather Enoch Mattson occupied the balance of his private waking hours. He felt no guilt whatsoever for killing Jack Stedman’s son. But the wrong he had perpetrated on his grandfather began to plague him every minute, day and night. It wasn’t a matter of his writing to beg for forgiveness. The deed was done and couldn’t be undone, nor could any hurt he might have caused his grandfather be erased. The question that needed answering was very simple: Was Ty enough of a man to apologize, knowing his letter might be burned without even a cursory reading?

  He mulled it over another day and then seated himself at E.J.’s private kitchen table. With blank paper in front of him and pencil firmly grasped, Ty wrote:

  30 November 1864

  Dear Grandfather Mattson:

  I wish to apologize for deserting your home unjustly and without warning. When I learned my father, your son, was riding with General Morgan, I feared he might be killed in action before I had the chance to meet him. As Mr. Boone Jordan informed you, I departed Elizabethtown that very night and caught up with Morgan’s men near Brandenburg on the Ohio River. I met Father the next day and rode with him until his death at the Battle of Buffington Island.

  Though he departed my life nearly as quickly as he entered it, or so it seemed to me, I cherish every minute I spent with Father. It seldom happens that a young man’s lifelong dream comes true. Mine did. I pray this letter finds you in good health and your personal affairs as you want them.

  Best regards,

  Ty

  Ty read over what he had written three times, decided no editing was warranted, secured envelope and postage from his stash, and went directly to the Prisoner’s Square post office. He stood in line until the hazel-eyed, cigar-loving Yankee sergeant he had dealt with before was available. The smoke-wreathed sergeant recognized Ty without any introduction, stamped his letter approved without opening it, affixed his initials, and dropped it into his outgoing mailbox.

  Ty didn’t feel the biting cold and the usual raw-edged wind barreling through Camp Douglas that afternoon during his hasty walk back to his barrack, not when he’d just dumped a mighty heavy weight from his shoulders. Shucks, even the weak late-fall sun added a cheery note to what was a fine, good day to be alive.

  Three weeks later, Snag barged into E.J.’s kitchen after roll call and halted a step from Ty. With mouth exuding a cloud of sewer gas, he blurted out, “I’ve come for you, secesh, and I don’t want a word out of you. I’m not in the mood for no questions. You’re to report to Colonel Sweet this minute and I’m bound to transport you.”

  The disruption of Ty’s normal routine didn’t unsettle him. He was not the unsure, inexperienced lad who had ridden free of Elizabethtown sixteen months previous. Reb grabbing the bit on him at Corydon, his father’s violent murder, and the midnight ambush by Jack Stedman’s son had taught him that part of a man’s attention best always be attuned to unseen developments that spring upon him with lightning quickness. He had no clue as to why the camp commandant wanted him in his office without delay. If an eyewitness to his killing of Jack Stedman’s son had come forward, he might well face the dungeon, possibly a hanging rope. But then, there might be another explanation, though he couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be.

  The cold weather refused to abate, forcing Ty to quail within his best winter garment, a thin blanket wrapped about his body, on the wagon ride to Garrison Square and Colonel Sweet’s headquarters. He wondered which Yankee bastard was wearing Boone Jordan’s confiscated greatcoat. At least he was somewhat presentable in the clothing given him upon his discharge from the hospital.

  His one regret as he was conveyed to an unknown fate was his failure to tell Dana Bainbridge how much he had loved her before he was whisked from her father’s Portland home under cover of darkness. How could he have allowed that to happen? His father wouldn’t have, and neither would he, by all that was holy, given another opportunity.

  The lack of activity at Yankee headquarters surprised Ty. He had expected the beehive gyrations of General Morgan’s staff meetings. A blue-belly corporal wet enough behind the ears he wasn’t shaving yet was seated behind a desk piled high with bulky ledgers. The Yankee sprout’s eyes jumped from his detail work when Snag said in an unnecessarily booming tone, “Reporting with Ty Mattson as ordered, sir!”

  The Yankee corporal’s disapproving hunch of his shoulders was lost on Snag, who left Yankee headquarters in a huff, without waiting to be dismissed. A grin tweaked the corporal’s mouth. “Sergeant Oden is such an intolerable bore on every occasion. Now, to the business at hand.”

  Lifting a muster roll of Rebel prisoners from the pile on his desk, the corporal thumbed through the company rosters, paused, and said, “You are Corporal Ty Mattson, Quirk’s Scout Company, Fourteenth Kentucky Regiment, Morgan’s Confederate Cavalry, are you not?
”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Ty responded.

  “You hail from where, Corporal Mattson?”

  “Elizabethtown, Kentucky, sir.”

  “Your birth date?”

  “July 12, 1846,” Ty answered, concern growing. The Yankee brass seemed to be going to great lengths to be certain they hanged the right Rebel.

  The corporal laid the muster roll aside and came to his feet. “Excellent, we have the man we want. Follow me, Corporal Mattson.”

  The blue-belly corporal knocked on a door with a sign reading, COMMANDANT. A firm voice with the slightest lisp bade him to enter.

  Colonel Benjamin A. Sweet, beard and mustache dense and neatly trimmed, widow’s peak exposing a high forehead and brown eyes shining with interest, inspected Ty from behind a massive wooden desk. Though his uniform tunic was devoid of decoration, its double row of polished brass buttons sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the window of his office.

  The shaggy-haired captain with the lisp standing at the corner of Colonel Sweet’s huge desk announced, “This is the secesh officer cited in the document, sir.”

  Colonel Sweet licked his lips, wiped them with his fingers, and, with a final glance at the sheet of paper that had triggered the meeting of a Yankee superior officer and a lowly Rebel prisoner, said, “Corporal, what I have before me is a full pardon for you and for any offenses you may have committed in pursuit of your duties as an officer of the Confederate Army. You will be pleased to know the pardon was signed by President Abraham Lincoln.”

  With this incredible news, Ty’s knees trembled and threatened to desert him. If he had been asked to list five things he would least expect to happen to him before his death, a full pardon from President Abraham Lincoln defied odds of a million to one. Speechless, he could but stare at the bemused Colonel Sweet. He had been handed a reprieve from a sea of uncertainty.

  “Corporal Mattson,” Sweet said, “whoever secured this pardon for you has political clout beyond my comprehension. Pardons for Confederate prisoners of war have been nonexistent for months. You are a very lucky man to have the support of properly placed people.”

  Not people, Ty rejoiced, but a prime leader of the Kentucky Republican Party. Ty read every newspaper brought to his barrack and frequently purchased them from his own pocket. While President Lincoln had not carried Kentucky in the 1864 presidential election, Ty knew from his daily reading that a certain elder of the Elizabethtown Baptist Church had turned out large numbers of Republican voters in northern Kentucky counties, and the pardon on Colonel Sweet’s desk had to be President Lincoln’s personal thank you for such ardent support in the face of fierce political opposition.

  Ty crouched slightly to steady his legs, burning with embarrassment at how badly he had misjudged the depth of his savior’s love for his own blood. He would be a long while forgetting such rampant stupidity on his part.

  To his amazement, Colonel Sweet had additional news of great import. “Corporal Mattson, a letter from Secretary of War Stanton accompanied your pardon. You are to be released from Camp Douglas this date in sixty minutes at high noon. For the sake of my career, it is most fortunate that my subordinates responded with alacrity to the dictates of my superiors. You will be provided a railroad pass to a destination of your choice, and any funds deposited by you in the commissary bank will be returned to you posthaste. Do you have any questions?”

  “The pass won’t be necessary, sir,” Ty said with conviction. “Transportation will be waiting for me outside the main gate. I do have one request, sir.”

  Never having heard of a prisoner declining free transportation home, a most curious Colonel Sweet stiffened in his chair. “And what would that be, Corporal?”

  Ty ratcheted up his nerve. What he was about to ask resulted from a snap decision. “Private E.J. Pursley, of Barrack Ten, was a noncombatant during our months in the field. His rank was honorary. He was never sworn to duty and never carried a weapon. He was, and still is, a civilian cook. With your permission, I would appreciate your freeing of him with me. He is elderly and has no home to return to after the war.”

  Colonel Sweet didn’t refuse Ty’s request out of hand. He turned, instead, to the shaggy-haired Yankee officer waiting patiently by his desk. “Captain Farrell, your opinion, if you please?”

  Captain Farrell exhibited a decisive mind, which Ty suspected had earned him his promotions. “We checked our records regarding Corporal Mattson, the composition of his Confederate Cavalry regiment, and their place of capture. Being old and a noncombatant, this Pursley should have been released at Buffington Island and sent packing. I foresee no difficulty in dismissing him as infirm, Colonel. He would be one less mouth to feed.”

  Colonel Sweet’s ready acceptance of Captain Farrell’s proposal validated his respect for his subordinate’s judgment. Ty also suspected Sweet couldn’t risk ruffling the feathers of his superior officers over a Rebel fully pardoned by the president for reasons no one had chosen to share with him.

  “Yes, that will do quite nicely. Corporal Mattson, please report here in thirty minutes with your Private Pursley. Captain Farrell will escort you to and from your barrack.”

  The arrival of Captain Farrell and Ty at Barrack Ten caught the attention of Snag and Mouse. The two Yankees were there with four other guards performing a spur-of-the-moment search designed, as usual, to harass more than locate any item warranting confiscation, even by the camp’s mercurial rules and regulations.

  “Captain?” an uncertain Snag inquired.

  “Corporal Mattson and Private Pursley have been pardoned by the president of the United States.”

  Ty swore the resulting expressions of Barrack Ten’s main tormentors equaled that of confident political candidates so soundly defeated on Election Day they doubted their own mother’s love for them. At the same time, the impact of Captain Farrell’s pronouncement on Ty’s Rebel inmates was instantaneous. The entire barrack rippled to attention as Ty entered E.J.’s kitchen.

  “What’s up, Corporal?”

  “E.J., we don’t have time to palaver. Grab that nothing coat of yours and follow me!” Ty ordered. “You’re a free man and new employment awaits you.”

  Astounded but thankful, E.J. Pursley, trusting the son of Owen Mattson would never deceive him or fun him, grabbed his threadbare coat and followed the quick-moving Ty. At the front door of Barrack Ten, Ty told Captain Farrell, “We’re ready, sir.”

  Word of the presidential pardons spread like wildfire. So scarce was good news for any of them, eleven thousand-plus Confederates, cheering at the top of their lungs, thronged the streets of Prisoner’s Square, leaving a narrow path between them for Ty, E.J., and Captain Farrell.

  An emboldened E.J. Pursley took the lead. The Barrack Ten chef hadn’t been the point of attention in a crowd since the spontaneous midnight street parades of his New Orleans heyday. He thrust his shoulders back, chest out, and nose up; his strut matched that of a preening peacock. Ty hadn’t laughed really hard in months, but he did then, until his sides hurt. The cheering grew ever louder as the three-man procession passed through the portal accessing Garrison Square and subsided only after the tall doors of the portal closed behind them.

  Ty and E.J. were ushered into Colonel Sweet’s office. Captain Farrell guided them to Sweet’s desk, handed them pens, and pointed to copies of discharge papers, which officially recognized their dismissal from Camp Douglas. E.J. balked at his discharge listing him as “infirm.” A jab in the ribs from Ty slammed E.J.’s jaw shut and produced a series of hasty signatures.

  Colonel Sweet then handed Ty his presidential pardon, a copy of his Camp Douglas discharge, and a single Federal greenback, the remaining funds from Ty’s commissary bank account. “You are now civilians under the jurisdiction of the Federal Government,” Colonel Sweet said, “and will conduct yourselves accordingly. Show your papers at the main gate and you’re free men. The gate guards will be expecting you.”

  The Camp Douglas commandant didn
’t offer his hand and Ty didn’t take offense. President Lincoln may have pardoned him, but he was still a stinking Rebel in the eyes of Federal Army personnel.

  Ty walked beside E.J. across the parade ground of Garrison Square, struck by his good fortune during his imprisonment. It pained him greatly that so many of his fellow raiders had perished in ways no man should be made to die. But by prayer, luck, circumstance, and the iron will of Shawn Shannon, he was still standing and strong enough to hold his head high. And no matter how often horrifying memories of the Camp Douglas hellhole haunted him at night, he was gifted with wonderful dreams that hadn’t yet come true. That prospect put a bounce in his step, lame hip be damned.

  As he expected, his grandfather was outside the main gate with a horse-drawn Chicago carriage and a blanket-wrapped driver that seated four. Enoch Mattson was a mighty welcome sight in his knee-length worsted-wool coat, with the unruly red hair of the family lineage protruding from beneath a plain leather cap with a square bill. When it came to clothing, fancy was for others.

  The green eyes of Enoch Mattson, which matched his grandson’s, fixed an iron gaze on Ty. Ty broke the ice with an assurance and confidence he’d lacked the last time he’d spoken with his grandfather. “Good afternoon, Grandfather. I appreciate what you did on my behalf.”

  “Didn’t amount to all that much,” his grandfather responded, reaching into the carriage. “Political debts are easy to collect if done in the right manner.”

  The elder Mattson brought forth a packet of letters tied together with a cord and passed them to Ty. “Boone Jordan thought these might be of considerable importance to you.”