Raiding With Morgan

by Jim R. Woolard

  “She treated me to a smile that melted my heart and curled my toes. I wasn’t going to miss my chance. I sucked up my courage, bowed at the waist, and proclaimed, ‘Miss Keena McVey, you’re the most beautiful lady in God’s realm.’ Her response was what every man longs for in his dreams. ‘And you’re Owen Mattson, of Elizabethtown. You’re respected for your knowledge of horses, Mr. Mattson, and not many men are built like you or look like you. You are a man I’ve asked about and wanted to meet, without appearing too forward.’

  “Ty, your grandmother was prone to say certain things were meant to be. Your mother and I talked until dawn, after the Iron Gate closed. In a mere month, I was asking her father for her hand in marriage. Bran McVey trusted his daughter’s judgment and gave us his blessing.

  “I never lied to your grandparents. Your grandfather was livid when I told him of my pending marriage to the daughter of a tavern owner. Keena’s education, her musical talents, the fact she was co-owner of a respected Louisville business establishment, frequented by the governor of Kentucky, fell on deaf ears. Enoch Mattson refused to admit anyone to his home associated with the serving of alcoholic spirits, the same as he threatened to bar a son who imbibed and gambled.”

  Ty watched a grim sadness wash over his father’s face. “His reaction didn’t surprise me. Your grandmother was weeping, and it near tore my guts apart that if I married Keena McVey, I’d most likely not see either of them again unless it was your grandmother on the sly. Lord, how she would have loved your mother’s high spirits and her music.

  “I left that stone wall of silence behind me for good. Bran McVey had always wanted to own racehorses. He provided the money and I provided the horse knowledge. We bought a farm, south of Louisville, and established Iron Gate Stables. That fall, your mother became pregnant with you. It was a happy, busy time for us. Then came the war with Mexico. Your mother was familiar with my adventures in the Arabian Desert. She understood my restless nature, and that nothing would keep me from fighting for God and country. I enlisted with John Hunt Morgan’s cavalry unit in Lexington and headed west. I wasn’t worried about leaving your mother in her condition. I had faith in Bran McVey to care for the two of you until I returned.

  “But as they will, things went awry while I was off glory seeking. Your mother died giving birth. It was weeks before I learned that. I couldn’t desert the army, and Bran McVey was now in full charge of you, so I wasn’t terribly worried about your welfare. The situation quickly took a second turn for the worse. One afternoon, Bran’s buggy horse ran wild as he drove to Iron Gate Stables. The buggy crashed into a fence post and Bran was killed.

  “Bran’s sole living relative was his brother, Dagon. By Bran’s will, Dagon inherited a one-third interest in everything his brother owned. Dagon managed the taproom at the Iron Gate. He had a wild eye and a loose wallet. He did make one good decision. Being a bachelor who liked the ladies his brother wouldn’t admit to the Iron Gate, he had no intention of assuming responsibility for a child not yet a year old. He hired a wet nurse and together they traveled to your grandfather’s farm.

  “According to your grandmother’s letter, it must have been a onetime occurrence, never to be repeated. Dagon banged on the front door with that big brass knocker Mother loved to hear announce guests. Your grandfather answered the door. Without any exchange of greetings, Dagon set your bassinet on the stoop and told an astonished Enoch Mattson, ‘Here’s your grandson, Tyler Owen Mattson. His mother’s dead and his father’s in Texas, killing stinking Mexicans. You raise him. I don’t have the time or the interest.’ And with that, he climbed into his buggy and whipped his horse down the lane, fearing your grandfather might fetch a gun and shoot him.”

  Ty was brimming with questions. “What happened after Dagon left?”

  “Well, for certain, your grandfather’s bobber had gone under. An upstanding Baptist elder didn’t dare shun his own blood. He could disown a straying son, but renouncing a helpless infant would subject him to public scorn. That’s a fate worse than death for a hard-shell believer.”

  The cooking fires were smoldering embers and General Morgan was expecting them. Ty hurriedly asked, “What became of Dagon McVey?”

  “I hired a friend, a Louisville lawyer, to investigate the status of Bran McVey’s holdings after Bran’s death. By Bran’s will, I wasn’t given a stake in them. Your mother was granted the other two-thirds interest, not held by Dagon. Upon her father’s death, that portion passed to you. Bran’s faith in his brother was misplaced. Soon as Dagon had control of a substantial sum of money, gambling became his prime interest. Unfortunately, he was a poor judge of horseflesh and a sucker for a hot tip from hangers-on, who knew even less. His debts totaled in the thousands after a single racing season. He ducked his creditors for a while, but those he owed grew tired of his excuses and came calling with drawn pistols.

  “That’s when the money-grubbing leeches grabbed control of the Iron Gate. They cut the spirits with water and cheapened the food, wanting to gain a quick, fat purse. Without the draw of Keena’s piano, Bran McVey’s charm, and the superb menu, the quality people drifted away. The end wasn’t pretty. Bran McVey’s assets—the tavern, the farm, and the horses—sold at sheriff’s sale for far less than what they were worth. Dagon was found severed in half on the L and N Railroad tracks. The authorities ruled his death a suicide. Given the ruthless bunch of scalawags he dealt with, I believe he had help.”

  Lieutenant Shannon approached Ty and his father with a tin cup in each hand. “Coffee laced with Corydon’s best brandy,” he said, “courtesy of E.J.’s private stash. It’s time, Captain. General Morgan’s messenger said he’s ready for us.”

  Accepting the offer of coffee and brandy, Owen Mattson said, “Give us a couple of more minutes, Shawn.”

  Ty found E.J.’s mixture quite tasty. His ears perked anew when his father said, “Ty, I had good reasons for staying in Texas after the war. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to claim you or raise you. With Dagon’s demise and the loss of the McVey fortune, I decided the safest and best place for you was with your grandparents. I was a poor ex-soldier in a Texas known for its Comanche, cattle rustlers, horse thieves, outlaws, and cutthroats. I rode with the Rangers and arrested or killed all of their kind at one time or another. My knowledge of horses gained me partnerships in a cattle ranch and a freighting company. We lost the ranch to rustlers, twisters, and droughts, and the freighting outfit to renegades with red, brown, and white skins.”

  Owen Mattson drained his cup and stood. Ty did the same. “Ty, Texas is more dangerous than the Arabian Desert for a stripling with no mother and a footloose father with empty pockets. Trust me, I haven’t liked being separated from you all these years. You know your grandfather as well as anybody. If you live with him, it has to be on his terms. I can’t, so I stayed away.”

  Owen Mattson’s smile was a mile wide. “Maybe it will all work out. I suspect your grandfather reared a son for me that I’ll be proud of when this campaign is over. Now, before we try our general’s patience, let’s see what he has in store for you. Just be prepared for anything. John Hunt Morgan is a very resourceful military officer.”

  Ty tried to keep his mind clear during their walk to General Morgan’s tent. It was nearly impossible. Questions that had kept him awake many sleepless nights and questions that wouldn’t have dawned on him to ask had been answered in one conversation with his previously missing father. It would take a while to come to grips with all he had learned.

  His father had gained in stature in his eyes. Owen Mattson was not afraid to put forth the truth. He hadn’t asked Ty to forgive him for skipping his son’s life until today. And Ty hadn’t expected he would.

  The past was the past. Whatever future he shared with his father commenced with Captain Owen Mattson’s wish to have a son he could be proud of when General Morgan’s great raid was over. If Ty wanted his father’s respect, he must earn it. That’s how it worked with the descendants of Enoch Mattson. Nothing
was free. It was a hard road to travel. Ty knew in his heart that he preferred that path to anything else.

  Or he’d have no pride till his dying day.

  CHAPTER 8

  At ten o’clock, the waiting line at General Morgan’s tent had dwindled to a few officers. The general reposed in a canvas folding chair. His adjutant, Lieutenant Hardesty, was seated at his elbow behind a portable writing table.

  A slender, narrow-shouldered male garbed in a rumpled black suit, sporting a severely receding hairline, sunken eyes, and shallow cheeks, was tendering his daily report to General Morgan.

  “That’s Lightning Ellsworth, Morgan’s telegrapher,” Lieutenant Shannon whispered in Ty’s ear. “See that battery box under his arm. He can loop into any telegraph line, listen awhile, and then impersonate the fist of any stationmaster exchanging messages, military or civilian. Colonel Duke claims Ellsworth is worth an armed division. He’s so confused the Union Cavalry, the Yankees think we’re four thousand strong.”

  When their turn came, Ty’s father and Lieutenant Shannon saluted and stood at attention. Ty had the sense to sweep his hat beneath his arm.

  “Captain Mattson, it’s too late for much talking,” General Morgan said. “I have need of your son’s services. His rare eyesight was most helpful observing the battle for me today. He showed courage and excellent horsemanship under fire. I would like to assign him to my personal staff with the rank of corporal. He will have access to my personal string of horses, as you and Lieutenant Shannon do, to keep a fresh animal beneath him. If your son is agreeable, Lieutenant Hardesty will prepare the paperwork and the appointment will be effective immediately.”

  Ty couldn’t have dreamed a better outcome for the meeting. Instead of a regular trooper eating dust, he would be a junior-staff officer reporting to the raiders’ commanding officer. Astonished by General Morgan’s offer, he gave no thought to his meager military experience. Nor did he have a clue as to how a general’s staff functioned on a daily basis.

  What did hit home was the fact General Morgan had extended his offer without consulting Ty’s father. Ty glanced sideways. His father showed no sign he had any objection to what the general was proposing. But then, it was General John Hunt Morgan doing the proposing.

  “He’ll be well watched after, Captain,” General Morgan said. “He will report to Lieutenant Hardesty at dawn with his horse and his weapon. You and Lieutenant Shannon will continue to ride with Quirk’s Scouts and the Fourteenth Kentucky. Unless there’s a situation that calls for you to report to me earlier, do so at Salem. Gentlemen, good evening.”

  Dismissed, the two veterans and newly appointed corporal took their leave. “Ty, let’s put your thinking in proper order. Shawn, chime in when you see fit. Your duty is to do General Morgan’s bidding. Whatever his orders, don’t hesitate to carry them out. You will accompany him throughout the day, until he dismisses you. He will decide where you mess and where you sleep.

  “General Morgan naturally prefers the head of the column. His servants and grooms travel between the First and Second Brigades. Pay attention wherever you are to who’s about and what’s happening. Graves are filled with larking and gawking soldiers, seldom those who stayed alert. A surprise bullet from a bushwhacker hidden alongside the road kills you same as a bullet from the rifle of a blue belly barricaded in front of you. Anything else, Shawn?”

  “Don’t wear Reb out. Switch horses daily with another saddler in the general’s gather. Lane Farrell was a Ranger colonel. He enjoyed his old age because he lived by two simple rules. Never be the one to lose the grip on things. And if you find yourself outnumbered, a hasty retreat bespeaks wisdom, not cowardice.”

  The advice and counsel of his father and Shawn Shannon clarified Ty’s role on General Morgan’s staff and guaranteed he would report in the morning with a modicum of confidence and free of the shakes he detested. For that, he was thankful.

  The fires of E.J. Pursley’s mess were gray ashes. “Ty, the sinks are beyond the trees yonder, if you have need of them. I’ll spread our gum ponchos and blankets.”

  Ty had a true need. He picked his way through the narrow woods on a path beaten down by many boots. In the quiet night, he could hear his lungs pumping. A yard from the far edge of the trees and the acrid-smelling latrine, a voice close enough that Ty could almost reach out and touch its owner said, “Didn’t have a clean shot at Mattson this morning, did you?”

  Ty froze, every muscle rigid. Mattson? Did that shadowy figure say “Mattson”?

  “Naw, he’s not a man to stay still for very long,” a voice that rasped like a saw cutting dry wood answered. “He was never in a position where it would look like the blue bellies nailed him.”

  “Anybody catches you in the act, you know Morgan will hang you. You certain Mattson can’t recognize you?”

  “Cousin, I’m beginning to believe I made a mistake telling you my intentions. Mattson never laid eye on me back in Texas. I was hiding under the porch the day he shot my daddy and grandpa, and my real name’s not listed on the muster rolls. Come along and keep your trap shut.”

  Ty lingered until he was positive the two shadowy figures were well beyond earshot. He had no doubt they would have killed him if they had caught him eavesdropping on their conversation. He relieved himself, buttoned his trousers, and retraced his route to camp, one careful step at a time.

  Ty believed every word he had heard. The speaker’s threat to kill Owen Mattson had the undeniable ring of truthfulness. Revenge had spurred many murders throughout history.

  Worse yet, how could the threatening trooper be identified? Ty had not seen his face in the dark and hadn’t learned his first name, let alone his last.

  He could be anybody. He could shoot his father from long range or walk right up and shoot him in the back, if he became desperate and was willing to sacrifice his own life.

  Ty would warn his father that someone was out to kill him. He would at least know to watch those around him. But no one could watch every direction at once during a battle.

  He wished he’d stopped short of the slit trenches. But then he wouldn’t have learned his father was in danger. He couldn’t keep from groaning aloud.

  The happiest day of his life was ending on a sour, perhaps deadly note.

  CHAPTER 9

  Owen Mattson and Shawn Shannon were snoring merrily away. Since the night talkers had walked in the opposite direction, Ty decided he could tell his father the bad news in the morning. Totally exhausted, he slept soundly, without tossing and turning as he worried he might. Ty awakened clearheaded when the first bugle blew “Reveille.”

  To his surprise, his father’s saddle, gum poncho, and blanket were missing. He rolled out and joined his messmates at E.J. Pursley’s breakfast fire for a quick meal of bacon, pole bread, and black coffee. He knelt beside Lieutenant Shannon with a full plate and cup. “Father’s gone already?”

  “Yep, a courier delivered a message from Colonel Duke at four A.M. Your guess is as good as mine as to where he headed. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. With Owen, you let him do the telling, when he’s good and ready.”

  Ty lowered his voice and repeated every word he’d overheard at the latrine. A frown creased the lieutenant’s sun-scorched features. “No names, but you’re sure they were Texans, and Owen shot and killed the one’s daddy and grandpa?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Shannon finished his coffee. “Owen maybe can provide a name. He shot a number of men in the line of duty as a Ranger. I’ll wager he didn’t put down a father and son together but once. Still, knowing a name isn’t worth much if you can’t tie it to a face. Gano’s Brigade has a hundred-plus Texans on its rolls. Ty, sometimes you have to pray the luck of the draw saves you. This fellow could be killed or captured before he has a chance at Owen.”

  E.J. Pursley collected their plate and cups. Ty and the lieutenant retrieved their saddles and bridles and toted them to the picket line. “We’ll stay on Reb and my Buster unt
il Salem and swap horses there. We best hustle along,” Lieutenant Shannon said, nodding at the growing light in the eastern sky. “General Morgan will be finishing breakfast, and then it’s straight to the saddle for him with the last bite.”

  General Morgan’s tent was being struck when they arrived. Lieutenant Shannon gave Ty one final piece of advice. “We don’t know how long this godforsaken war will last, where we’ll fight next, or who we’ll engage next. Riding with Morgan, you can observe how a whole cavalry division functions. You can’t have too much knowledge serving in a general’s personal entourage. The more you learn, the better you can serve, and a promotion or commendation might come in right handy before the shooting stops.” With that, Shawn Shannon pushed ahead to join the advance guard.

  Ty reined Reb to the rear of the officers following General Morgan. Lieutenant Shannon’s advice was sound as usual. By listening to the verbal exchanges between General Morgan, Colonels Duke and Johnson, Lieutenant Hardesty, line officers, and the youthful couriers who came and went, Ty acquired a basic knowledge of the workings of the division’s two brigades when on the move.

  Scout patrols rode the point beyond the advance guard, assessing the terrain, avoiding ambushes, and locating local guides they thought could be trusted. Meanwhile, flankers moved out four or five miles on each side of the main body. Each morning, the captains of companies appointed a man from each mess to sally forth in search of provisions. With two thousand troopers to feed and supply, these flankers traversed every country road in search of horses, food, and forage. Rarely did a healthy horse escape the flanker’s roundup. The flankers rejoined the column between ten and twelve o’clock, with their booty of riding stock and sacks full of light bread, cheese, butter, preserves, canned peaches, berries, and wine cordial from family pantries, canteens of milk from springhouses, and ears of corn from barn cribs for horse forage.