Each messmate nodded as he was introduced. “Corporal Sam Bryant, in the spotless uniform and ruffled shirt, owns a candy store with his family in Lexington. These two bashful Texans are Privates Given Campbell and Harlan Stillion. They followed me into this cussed fighting. They charge blue-belly companies for the sheer hell of it. You already know Private E.J. Pursley. There may not be much of him, and he’s old as dirt, but he’s the finest camp cook in this-here army. He can have your mouth watering with a stalk of rhubarb and a pinch of salt.”
“What’s in that skillet, E.J.?” asked Ebb White.
“You’re mighty lucky this morning, gents. Colonel Johnson’s foragers happened on a gristmill five miles east before daylight. The owner refused payment in Richmond greenbacks, so our boys burned his mill and helped themselves to five barrels of flour. And while the bunch of you sawed logs with Satan, I raided that big chicken coop over behind the hay barn. So you’re about to enjoy E.J. Pursley’s New Orleans ‘waker upper.’ Flour and eggs mixed with water and seasoned with salt and a dab of bacon fat. The Creole girls thought it was the hair of the dog after drinking too much champagne.”
“You going to talk us to death or feed us, E.J.,” Cally Smith said.
“He’s right, E.J.,” Lieutenant Shannon said. “If we don’t hurry it up, we’ll be short on time for saddling.”
The messmates joshed and jabbered throughout their breakfast, eating from tin plates with twined forks. To Ty, they appeared a close-knit mess that avoided fussing with rank or authority when the occasion allowed. They would not readily accept strangers. You were one of them when they invited you to join their mess, not because of an officer’s order.
Cally Smith said out of the blue, “That a Remington pistol you’re toting, lad? Like to have a look at it, if you don’t mind.”
Ty hesitated, not certain how best to refuse. He preferred not to be disrespectful to any trooper, regardless of rank, but he wasn’t about to relinquish his revolver to someone who was not a superior officer, and he’d met just fifteen minutes ago, come what may.
Ty’s hesitation riled Cally, who was seated next to him and saw nothing wrong with what he thought was a harmless request spawned by his natural curiosity about firearms. “Pass it along, pup,” Cally said sharply, thrusting his hand toward Ty. “I won’t steal it, for God’s sake.”
Almost before he realized what he was doing, Ty reached beneath his tin plate, grasped the butt of the Remington, yanked it from his holster, and cocked it as he aligned its sights with Cally Smith’s chest.
“Seems to me you’ve prodded a young rattlesnake mighty touchy about his pistol, Cally,” Given Campbell said in his burry drawl. “Down Texas way, that can get a man killed right quick.”
Cally leaned backward, glaring at Ty.
“Ask yourself, Cally,” Lieutenant Shannon said, tone soft and patient, “would you have dared demand that of his father?”
The anger ran out of Cally Smith fast as water thrown from a fire bucket. The marble merchant raised placating palms and said, “No offense intended. I was out of my pen.”
Ty holstered the Remington and offered Cally Smith his hand. “No offense taken, Private Smith. I’m new to the cavalry. I’ve no real training and I’m not always certain what’s expected of me.”
Ty and Cally shook hands and exchanged smiles. It was a satisfactory resolution in Shawn Shannon’s mind to a minor set-to, one that could have resulted in bad feelings and grudges, the bane of the battlefield. He wouldn’t forget, though, that Ty Mattson had shown a lot of sand for his age.
“Empty your plates, boys. By all that commotion at the farmhouse, General Morgan’s about to make an appearance.”
General John Hunt Morgan appeared fresh and rested despite the ordeal of his march across Kentucky. He spoke from the farm porch with an inclusive gaze filled with such personal warmth that each officer and trooper believed he was being talked to personally. “We are on Indiana soil at last, are we not?”
Hats flew and lusty cheers rang out in every corner of the barnyard. Positioned at General Morgan’s side on the covered porch, Colonels Basil Duke and Adam Johnson, commanding officers of the First and Second Brigades, joined in with much verve.
General Morgan called for quiet. “We face a momentous task. Our orders will take us to the far corners of Ohio. The enemy soldiery will outnumber us twenty to one. Telegraph lines stretching across the country in every direction will constantly report our movements. Railways will bring assailants against us from every quarter. We will have to run this gauntlet for six hundred miles. It will be a long, hard, dangerous ride, but never forget for a moment that General Bragg is counting upon us. President Davis is counting upon us. The entire Confederacy is counting upon us. We must not fail. Defeat and disgrace are becoming to no man and to no country.”
General Morgan paused, and then he flashed his famous smile. Nodding at Colonels Duke and Johnson, he said, “To horse, gentlemen. The enemy expects us. Let’s not disappoint him.”
The speech sent Ty’s blood racing. He couldn’t wait to engage the Yankees. He felt sorry for the hundreds of troopers who weren’t present and would be told of this magnificent speech secondhand, for any man hearing it in person would deny their leader nothing—even if it meant sacrificing his own life.
After a final round of cheers for General Morgan, the barnyard became a swarming beehive. Orders for the day were issued and mounted messengers hustled from camp to deliver them. Mess gear disappeared into storage trunks. Cooking fires were doused and canteens filled at the nearby creek. Horses were saddled and cinches double-checked. Firearms received a final inspection for clear barrels and proper charges.
“Is your Remington revolver fully loaded, Ty?” Lieutenant Shannon inquired.
“Yes, sir, it is,” Ty said.
“Take the cap from the ball beneath the hammer so that chamber can’t fire by accident. When you’re riding hard, you’d be surprised how easy it is to shoot yourself in the leg or kill a fine horse. I saw it happen, same as your father.”
Lieutenant Shannon watched Ty remove the cap. “Did Boone Jordan supply you with extra cylinders?”
“Yes, sir. They’re in my shoulder bag, but I haven’t loaded them yet.”
“Load them with powder and ball, but not with caps. Capped cylinders bounce against each other in your bag and they might fire off a round.”
Ty absorbed Lieutenant Shannon’s instructions with the concentration of a green recruit. Everything the lieutenant taught him diminished the chance he would embarrass his father.
He finished loading the chambers of his spare cylinders with powder and ball, returned them to his shoulder bag, and hoped he wasn’t being too forward when he asked, “Where’s Captain Mattson this morning, Lieutenant? He wasn’t at General Morgan’s headquarters, was he?”
“No, he’s out front. He’ll be where the next battle will be fought. That’s his prime skill. Seeing the elephant close enough to look him straight in the eye is second nature to him.”
Ty had no clue what the lieutenant meant by “seeing the elephant.” But in light of General Morgan’s speech, he didn’t think much time would pass before he did.
The stripling messenger Ty had watched board the John B. McCombs ahead of General Morgan fetched Lieutenant Shannon his written orders for the day. The lieutenant read the single sheet of paper and motioned for his messmates to gather around Ty and himself. “We’ve been assigned to the Fourteenth Kentucky Cavalry Advance Guard, under the command of Colonel Richard Morgan, General Morgan’s brother. Colonel Morgan will lead the advance. We’re to join Quirk’s Scout Company. Given and Harlan, you’ll feel right at home with that bunch of rowdy roughnecks. Our next objective is Corydon, Indiana. Ty, you can ride with us, if you prefer.”
Ty gladly accepted the lieutenant’s invitation. He didn’t want to be detailed to the rear guard or another mundane function buried in the column. He’d already eaten enough dust for three lifetimes.
> The road to Corydon wound through alternating patches of ripening corn and woodland, rowed trees defining individual properties. Each farmhouse encountered was carefully scouted, though the occupants had fled in haste, leaving doors wide open. With the locals aware of the horse-stealing talents of the raiders, good horses were scarce in number. Nags were plentiful.
“They learn we’re coming by saddle telegraph. They run for the nearest cave or town,” Cally Smith said. “Mean and decrepit as we appear, I believe I’d be right on their heels, was I in their shoes.”
Ty found the dust from trailing after thirty horses versus two thousand was child’s play. His thighs and buttocks still ached, but much less after just a few hours out of the saddle. He was certain the pain would return as the day advanced and his raw blisters burst anew.
Lieutenant Shannon’s verbal instructions and training continued as they rode. “Ty, whenever we meet the enemy, you’re to remain in the rear, and I mean what I say. I don’t want you wrapped in a burying blanket when your father comes calling. Understood?”
At Ty’s nod, the lieutenant asked, “Is your horse gun broke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever fired a revolver from the saddle of a horse?”
“No, sir.”
“On the outside chance you might find yourself in a skirmish with the blue bellies or their home guard militia, shooting from a standing horse is the same as target practice on the ground with your arm fully extended. From a running horse, you rise slightly in the stirrups for better balance with your arm half extended, body turned toward the target. Again, whether at a trot or gallop, shoot with your arm half extended and body turned toward the target. And always remember there’s a horse under you. Many a green trooper gets excited in battle and shoots his own horse in the head.”
Lieutenant Shannon swiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “There won’t be time for any serious field training, fast as we’ll be moving day and night. I’ll stick to what will keep you alive, the same as Owen would.”
The terrain gradually melded into rolling hills overshot with ravines and abrupt changes in elevation. Every sharp rise of ground or hairpin turn in the road was a mystery as to whether the enemy lurked ahead. With church bells in Corydon pealing a warning to the local populace, the scout company finished climbing a low hill, about two miles short of the city.
At the bottom of the hill, a patrol of home guards in slouch hats and cotton frocks reined their horses about and spurred madly to the north. A half mile ahead of them, a solid barricade of logs, wormwood fence rails, and rocks festooned with gun barrels on the far side blocked the road—the first sign of organized resistance in Indiana.
Lieutenant Shannon and Ty rode forward alongside Colonel Richard Morgan. “Colonel, this young man has remarkable eyesight. Ty, who’s manning that barricade?”
Ty took his time, wanting to insure the information he passed to Colonel Morgan was accurate. “There are about four hundred of them, which I can see. They’re mostly militia in field clothes and mechanic’s overalls, armed with squirrel guns, muskets, and an ancient blunderbuss matching the one on the wall in my grandfather’s library. His father brought it to Kentucky from the old country.”
Colonel Morgan whistled between his teeth. “That’s the most succinct observation I’ve ever heard from a scout without a telescope. Who is this young man, Lieutenant?”
“His name is Ty Mattson, sir.”
Colonel Morgan enjoyed a barking laugh. “Oh, Captain Owen Mattson’s mysterious, unclaimed son, huh? General Morgan mentioned his presence at our morning staff meeting. Staff officers are betting each other on what will happen when the two meet each other.”
Ty was beginning to wonder if every member of General Morgan’s staff hadn’t heard he and his father’s story. Maybe he should have stayed home and joined the blue-belly army; there he would have been a common soldier, like everyone else, and not the object of so much public speculation, which made his stomach downright queasy.
Captain Thomas Hines, of Quirk’s Scouts, reported for orders. “They’re untrained militia,” Colonel Morgan informed him. “We’ll notify Colonel Johnson’s Second Brigade and call for support, if needed. The speed afoot of retreating home guards is legendary. They’ve never held against us. Prepare to charge, Captain Hines.”
Quirk’s Scouts, followed by the Fourteenth Kentucky, eighty-seven total troopers, descended the hill in ranks of four at a trot. At the bottom, they fanned out with the widening of the road and spilled over into the planted fields bordering its hard surface, forming a line forty yards wide and three troopers deep, cornstalks slapping against the chests of the trotting horses.
Instigated by Colonel Morgan, the cry of “Buglers, blow ‘Charge!’ ” sounded clarion clear, a fateful command that unraveled the peaceful, hot, sun-bright morning with brain-numbing speed.
Ty was in the extreme rear, per Lieutenant Shannon’s orders, with every honest intention of remaining there. He was standing in the stirrups for a better view of the barricaded militia when bugles echoed in the valley; the front line of troopers broke into a gallop and Reb lunged ahead without any warning. Nearly unseated, he grasped the saddle horn with both hands, giving Reb a free rein. In five strides, the gray gelding was running at a full gallop and Ty was charging the enemy, orders be damned.
He sawed on the reins, but Reb had the bit in his teeth, determined to catch his hoofed cohorts. Ty’s initial fear ebbed and he carefully drew his Remington, fingers locked on its walnut grips. Clods of dirt torn loose by the racing animals in front of him peppered his face and eyes, and he dropped beside Reb’s neck. Under the same earthen assault, Reb didn’t falter. Boone Jordan hadn’t told Ty about Reb’s whole history, but the horse surely had been a cavalry mount in the past.
Ty was suddenly spurring Reb, completely immersed in a reckless, dangerous, and spontaneous undertaking that might cost him his life any second. Screeching rebel yells rose from the ranks of the raiders. Ty drew breath into lungs starved by excitement and joined them.
Lancing flame erupted the length of the barricade blocking the road; wisely, the home guard had waited until the onrushing enemy was virtually in their laps before firing their first volley. At close range, the barricade seemed too high for a jumping horse to clear. Not a single raider tugged on his reins.
Ty watched leaping horses fall short, smash into the breastworks, and slew sideways in a mass of thrashing hoofs and flailing human arms and legs as their riders struggled to avoid the crushing impact of a nearly two-thousand-pound animal. Other horses cleared the barricade without difficulty, their riders firing downward at defiant militia while in the air.
Ty sensed Reb gathering his legs beneath him; then the big gray soared upward. He leaned forward, too busy maintaining his seat in the saddle to search for targets beneath the gray’s belly. Reb’s rear hoof clipped the top rail of the barricade. They landed with Ty still in the saddle and galloped onward through terrified home guards desperate to avoid Reb’s iron shoes.
The scurrying crowd bumped into each other, and the gathering crush of bodies slowed Reb to a walk. Fingers trying to drag Ty from the saddle clutched his sleeves and pants leg. Realizing he would quickly be overwhelmed on the ground, Ty fired a bullet into the crowd and wheeled Reb on his rear legs, scattering home guards like windblown leaves.
A coal-black gelding cut in front of Reb, his rider’s huge nine-round LeMat pistols shooting left and right simultaneously. Somehow Lieutenant Shannon’s shout was louder than the roar of guns. “They’re blowing ‘Recall.’ Follow me.”
The killing whirlwind on horseback cleaved a clear path to the home guard barricade. Ty was so anxious to escape capture, he even forgot his Remington contained four live rounds. There was no hoof clipping of the top rail this jump.
Hunched low in the saddle to present the smallest possible target, Ty and Shawn Shannon maintained a full gallop until they were beyond rifle range.
&
nbsp; Now that the excitement and uproar had ended, the danger was past, and they were safe, Ty was shaking all over.
“Well, lad,” Lieutenant Shannon called out, grinning. “You’ve looked the elephant in the eye. Right big, ain’t he?”
CHAPTER 6
Ty’s adventures wielding a pistol were finished for the day.
General Morgan arrived and agreed with Colonel Johnson, of the Second Brigade, that the Corydon breastworks were too high and too well defended for mounted cavalry to breach. The resulting strategy was the encirclement of both flanks of the barricade, while an on-foot frontal assault, supported by two howitzers, occupied its defenders.
At Lieutenant Shannon’s suggestion, an intrigued General Morgan agreed to Ty serving as his “eyes” from the low hill overlooking the battlefield. Ty had stopped shaking from his close brush with death and looked forward without any qualms to watching the conclusion of the battle from safer ground. A hero he was not.
The home guard center repulsed two charges by dismounted raiders before they wilted under heavy cannon and small-arms fire and their flanks collapsed. Realizing their situation was hopeless, the green militia enlistees panicked and fled, discarding weapons, accouterments, and any other possession that might hinder their hasty departure. Ty cheered with General Morgan and the general’s fellow officers at the sight of so many Indiana citizens in full flight.
After a quick reconnaissance of the battlefield by their subordinates, Colonels Duke and Johnson informed General Morgan that preliminary counts, yet to be confirmed, indicated raider losses of eight killed and thirty-three wounded and the taking of 340 prisoners. The front lines of the raiders were at that moment in hot pursuit of the retreating enemy not already under guard.
“Gentlemen, mount up,” General Morgan said. “We have a town to subdue, prisoners to parole, and dinner to find.”
The subduing of Corydon proved a minor affair. With the field secured, a Parrott gun battery was established within easy range of the town. Two shells were fired. One was a dud. Ty saw the second explode in the center of town’s main street. He didn’t discern any real damage for General Morgan, but the single explosion was sufficient. Colonel Lewis Jordan, of the Indiana Legion, hoisted a white flag and surrendered the town.
Raiding With Morgan Page 5
