Spake As a Dragon

by Larry Hunt

CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Morgan’s Maurauders

  Luke ventures south into the woods a couple of miles, sits down on a log and attempts to plan his escape. He tries hard to remember his geography he had learned while in school. He knows the Chesapeake Bay bounds the southern peninsula of Maryland on the north, and on the south by the Potomac River. Luke figures it must be about ten miles to the Potomac. It is late in the afternoon; if he can find a place to hide out overnight he should be able to reach the river sometime tomorrow. Once across the river, he will be back in the good old Confederate States of America, the state of Virginia in particular. He believes he can get to Richmond. From Richmond, he might work his way west to the Shenandoah Valley. The Yankees have raided the Valley so many times that the residents there hate the Yanks with a passion, and he believes they will be very sympathetic to his plight. From the Valley of the Shenandoah, it is only a couple of day’s journey to Knoxville, then down to Chattanooga. From Chattanooga, he can easily continue south to Huntsville, Alabama, then, up Sand Mountain to Albertville and home.

  It is sundown, and darkness begins to envelope the forest. Luke must find suitable shelter for the night. He finds a large, overturned oak with a massive trunk. From its look, it has not fallen too long ago. The branches, still covered with leaves, will make a suitable place to slip under to bunk down for the night. If he only had some food, he would be quite comfortable. Earlier during his trek through the woods he ran across a place that, apparently, had been used as a campsite by the Yankees a few days earlier. He did not find any food, but he did uncover a powder horn half-full of powder, a cartridge case with ten percussion caps and a rifle with a broken stock and barrel. Apparently a forgetful Yank left the items. It appears a bullet or a piece of shrapnel struck the barrel deforming it greatly. He strikes the musket against a tree trunk breaking off the useless barrel. All he wants is the trigger group with the percussion cap nipples.

  Luke places more branches around his campsite creating a small hidden enclosure; he piles up a mound of leaves for a bed. A few twigs and a couple pieces of wood he has readied himself the makings of a small campfire. He pours a small amount of black powder under his pile of kindling places a percussion cap on the nipple of the broken rifle, holds it close to the black powder and pulls the trigger. The flash sets the gun power on fire, it in turn sets the kindling ablaze. Perfect, now that he has a small fire, the warmth of its glow makes him feel better already.

  Luke crawls into the pile of leaves exhausted. In the distance, a couple of whip-poor-wills endlessly chant back and forth to each other. Directly overhead the hooting of a great horned owl lets the forest know he is alert and on guard. Off in the wood’s far recesses the mournful cooing of a dove is heard calling its mate. Luke listens to this magnificent symphony of nature – they are free, and so is he. In a moment, he drifts off in to a peaceful, sound sleep.

  It is still dark an hour or so before sunup, but the northern mockingbird is already up mimicking every bird it has ever heard. The bird is not the only one up this early summer morning - someone gently taps Luke on the forehead with a pistol’s cold, steel barrel. Luke, still deep in sleep, grunts and turns over. The intruder gives Luke a swift kick to his hind side – this quickly gets Luke’s attention.

  “Getup,” the uninvited guest demands. “Who are you? And what are you doing out here in my woods?”

  Luke still half asleep cannot think of a quick answer.

  Poking Luke in the stomach with the end of a Colt revolver the man clearly annoyed repeats his question, “Who are you I say?”

  His head clear, Luke replies, “Luke Scarburg... Private Luke Scarburg recently of the Army of Northern Virginia.”

  “You a Reb, huh? What’s you doin’ hidin’ under this here tree?”

  Luke explains how he had participated at Gettysburg with his brother and father. How both of them had been wounded or killed. Luke tells of being captured, and put on a wagon train to Point Lookout, Maryland. The wagons were attacked by a force of Confederates, he escaped, made his way through the woods, and until rudely awaken was enjoying a restful sleep under this fine old oak tree.

  The man, dressed in civilian clothes, asks Luke’s plan of escape. Luke explains how he has envisioned his path from Maryland to Alabama. He tells the unknown fellow with the pistol how he is through with fightin’, and is now heading home.

  “Why do you care? You’re a civilian, why are you so concerned about my direction of travel?”

  “If the truth be known, Private Scarburg, I’m not a civilian. I’m Captain Benjamin Hardin of General John Hunt Morgan’s band of guerillas; we’re a clandestine operation and don’t use uniforms or visible rank.”

  “In other words, you all are spies. If caught, you will be hung.”

  “No, hardly, we’re a partisan force that operates legally behind the enemy lines. The 1862 Partisan Patriot Act was passed by the Confederate Congress authorized the formation of units like ours and gave us legitimacy, which places us in a different category than the ordinary 'bushwhacker.’ Allow me to comment on your plan of escape. I don’t know how you figure to make it across the Potomac, but let’s suppose you find a way then you will be facing the 6th Michigan, the 10th New York, and the 28th Ohio. They will be between you and Richmond. If, by chance you make it to Richmond, the trip to the Shenandoah will be over trails, there are no passable roads that are not swarming with Yankees. You might make it the rest of the way south, but your chances are very slim.”

  “Well, that’s fine Captain, but I have no idea where my old unit is and even if I did I have no way to get to them. What am I supposed to do – I don’t want to spend the rest of the War in a prisoner of war camp.”

  The Captain asks, “Come with me to our camp.”

  “I have no skills that you could use Captain!”

  “You can shoot and ride a horse can’t you?”

  “Well, yes, yes of course I can do that.”

  “Then we can use you, come with me and I will introduce you to General Morgan.”

  Leaving Luke’s campsite, the Captain and Luke ride double for a couple of miles through the thick underbrush of the forest. After an hour or so Luke smells smoke from a campfire, he can hear whinnying of horses and the muted talk of men. Rounding a curve in the trail the Captain and Luke are stopped by two sentinels, a word or two from the Captain and they are allowed to pass. Luke is in the midst of John Hunt Morgan’s camp. Morgan’s men have the white Army tents arranged in a semi-circle – the Yankees have only one way in and one way out. General Morgan’s tent occupies the center. Two soldiers armed with muskets stand guard on either side of the opening to his tent.

  Dismounting Captain James barks orders to the two sentries standing guard, “Restrain this man, he is a Union spy. Tie him to that tree over yonder.”

  “Wait! Hold on, I tell you I am no spy...I am a Rebel escaped prisoner of war.”

  As the guards grab Luke the Captain says to Luke, “So, you thought I was buying all that hogwash talk about you escaping, and all those other lies...what do you think I am, a fool?”

  Luke couldn’t resist, “I’m sorry Captain, I don’t know you that well.

  “Bound this funny man to the tree,” orders the Captain.

  “But, seriously Sir all I said is the honest truth.”

  “Sergeant,” the Captain said, speaking to a soldier running up. “Assemble a firing squad, we’ve got ourselves a Yankee spy who thinks he is a comedian.”

  Luke is bodily dragged to a nearby tree. His hands lashed securely behind, and five men with muskets assemble themselves in a line about ten paces to his front.

  “Do you require a blindfold?” Questions the Captain.

  “No, but wait, wait you are making a terrible mistake, I am not a Yankee spy.”

  “Men of the firing squad, ‘Make ready your weapons!” The men raise their muskets, pull the hammers back in to the ‘ready position’ and wait for the order to fire.

  The Captain
raises his sword high above his head, “Ready... Aim...” an instant before the command to “Fire” Luke interrupts.

  “Wait,” said Luke, “I’m telling you, I really was with the 48th Alabama Infantry. Hear me! The 48th Alabama! I am not a spy!”

  A slightly built man steps to the opening of the tent. His dress is that of a Confederate General. A long cavalry saber hangs from his waist; so long, in fact, its end drags the ground. He is slightly bald, sports a mustache and goatee. Luke figures him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His steel gray eyes seem to pierce Luke through and through.

  “Hold on! Did he say the 48th Alabama?” The General asks. “Unlash him and bring him to my tent.”

  Luke enters the commander’s headquarters. General Morgan is sitting at his camp table writing. Without looking up, he motions Luke to take a seat.

  Placing his pen on the table, Morgan stares at Luke. Luke remains sitting ramrod straight, at attention. “So, I see by the absence of stripes on your sleeves you must be a private, is that right son?” Before Luke can answer the General continues, “You must not be much of a soldier or you would have been promoted. Am I right?”

  Again Luke isn’t given time to answer, General Morgan gets up, walks across the floor and stands in front of Luke, “You a deserter? A coward? Or are you a Yankee spy as the Captain says? You better defend yourself and convince me or its back to the firing squad!”

  The General hesitated after asking these questions. Luke also arose and comes to attention, “No, no Sir, I’m not a deserter, nor a coward, and I am certainly not a spy. I belonged to the 48th Alabama Infantry, or what is left of them, I guess, and I fought in every battle they were engaged in, up to and including Gettysburg.”

  “A yellow-hammer,” the General referring to Alabama’s state bird, “Alabama boy, huh? Then tell me what are you doing in my woods?”

  “Well Sir, you see General I fought to that stonewall at Gettysburg, but their forces overwhelmed us. Once I was captured those blue-bellies were hauling us to the prison at Point Lookout, Maryland. Our Yankee prison wagon train was attacked by a sizeable force of Rebs, and I saw my chance, took it and ran off into the woods.”

  “Escaped you say? Where’d you think you were goin’, back to Alabama?”

  “Sir, yes Sir, that was my plan.”

  “Foolish lad...foolish. You’d been lucky to get across the Potomac, much less get all the way to Alabama. I know of what I speak, I was born in Huntsville.”

  “Huntsville?” asks Luke. “My family lives in Albertville, just twenty-five miles away.”

  “Albertville you say... I suppose a Yankee spy would never have heard of Albertville. Have you ever heard of Guntersville, Alabama?”

  “Of course General, Guntersville is on the Tennessee River mid-way between Huntsville and my hometown of Albertville.”

  “Good life-saving answer son, if you aren’t a deserter and want to keep fightin’ the blue-bellies I have a proposition for you – join up with us. You’ll see all the fightin’ you want. What you say ‘Alabam’?”

  “Well, uh, well, after further thought, if it’s all the same to you Sir, I think I might continue on my way south.”

  “Before you give me your final answer I must warn you of a few things. First we fight behind enemy lines; we wear civilian clothes and our mission is to find and destroy the Yankee’s supply lines; cut telegraph wire, and wreck trains and kill the blue-bellies in their sleep, if the chance arises. But, one rule – you cannot contact your family, in any method. No communication whatsoever. You cannot write a note or letter to the folks back home. To them you are either dead or missing in action. Albertville, as of this date, no longer exists for you. We officially do not exist, neither will you, and we want it to stay this way. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “If you want to kill Yankees, and help end the War sooner, riding with me is the place to do it. A couple of other things I need to mention, “Alabam.” You can join up with me, which I suggest strongly, and secondly, I believe you are a Reb from Alabama, as you say; however, I can’t take a chance on you getting caught and exposing the existence of our unit to the Yankees. If you do not choose to ride with me, sad as I may find it, I will have you shot!”

  Thinking for only a brief moment Luke replies, “Thank you Sir, now that I have given considerably more though to you proposal, I believe riding with you would be an honor.”

  “Good... right choice.” The General reached across the table and grasped Luke’s hand. As the two men shake hands the General recognized the secret Masonic handshake Luke used. “Ah,” said General Morgan, “I see you are a traveling man?”

  “Yes General, Lodge 663, Albertville, Alabama.”

  “Daviess Lodge 22, Lexington, Kentucky,” the General replied, showing Luke his gold ring with the compass and square Masonic insignia. The General grabs Luke and hugs him as a fellow ‘Brother’ in the Masonic Order.

  Stepping back Luke said, “General everything I have told you is on the square.” General Morgan knew exactly what Luke was saying. This expression between Master Masons is indisputable evidence of a true statement.

  “Recognized and understood my Brother I now know without a doubt what you have told me is the truth. Most of my men are raw recruits, but you are an experienced soldier, as of this moment I am promoting you to Lieutenant. You will command Company F, Captain Thornton was killed during our last raid; I need someone experienced to take his place.

  “Thank you General, I’m your man.”

  “Come over to my table Lieutenant and I will show you our next excursion into the North.”

  General Morgan has a large topographical map on his desk. It covers the area from Virginia all the way to Indiana and Illinois. Pointing at a section on his map he explains: “I am hoping to divert Union troops and resources in conjunction with the Confederate operation in Vicksburg. I am calling this campaign “Morgan’s Ride for Freedom”, and I intend to cross the Ohio River, and raise havoc across southern Ohio and Indiana.”

  In late summer 1863, General Morgan’s Ride for Freedom ends at a little place called Corydon, Indiana. His raiders confront the Union Home Guard in a battle that results in eleven of his Confederates killed, and five of the Home Guard killed or wounded.

  After the battle, Morgan’s men ride ten miles southwest and set up camp on the banks of the Ohio River. The sun is down, and darkness is upon them, the moon is full. Luke is out walking around the tents checking on his men. Off in the distance he hears a soft melody being played on what he believes is a harmonica. He stops and listens intently. It is a harmonica, but playing bugle calls. Over and over different calls are being played, ‘Reveille’, ‘Boots and Saddle’, ‘Gallop’, ‘Charge’ and ‘Commence Firing’. Luke recognizes them all. He begins to weave through the tents looking for the source of the soothing musical refrain. Turning the corner of one tent, he finds a young man sitting by a campfire playing his harmonica. Seeing Luke, the youthful lad snaps to attention. “At ease soldier,” says Luke, “sit back down and tell me what you are doing.”

  The young soldier explains he is Norton, Private Oliver Norton, the new bugler, and needs practice, but the bugle is too loud, so he is using his harmonica. Luke asks if he knows a soft, melodious bugle call he can play as the troops are bedding down for the night. Something calming that will settle them down, and put the men to rest after a hard, exhausting day. Oliver explains to the Lieutenant he has a bugle call he has written himself that should fit the requirement, but he has never played it to any of the troops. He said he called it ‘The Army’s Perfect Sonata.’

  “Play it for me.” Oliver places the harmonica to his lips and begins to play, when he finishes, Luke sits there, amazed. The composition was beautiful. Finally, Luke speaks, “That is the perfect tune!”

  “But one suggestion Oliver, the name is too long. Why not just call it the first letter of each word - T.A.P.S., and beginning tonight I want you to
play TAPS each evening at precisely 9 p.m., without fail.”

  Later Luke enters his tent and begins to unbuckle his cavalry sword when he hears the peaceful refrain of Oliver’s lullaby echoing through the stillness of the camp. Listening to the blissful sound, he thinks of these words to accompany the notes:.

  Work is done, set the sun,

  Over the hills, by the lake,

  In the sky,

  All is good, safely sleep,

  Gods on high.

  He checks his grandfather’s gold, pocket watch – 9 p.m., right on the dot.