Raiding With Morgan

by Jim R. Woolard

  Much as he hated it, Ty had no alternative but to pray Alexander’s hatred of those who had taken his brothers from him didn’t trump the wishes of his father and his sister. He had no desire to cause Alex grief by telling Magistrate Bainbridge and Dana what had happened, and there was no means by which he could secure a firearm. The magistrate might endure the presence of an enemy soldier within his abode for a specified length of time; the arming of that same enemy was beyond Ty’s imagination.

  CHAPTER 19

  Aknock at the door interrupted his rumination. A foot pushed the door open and Dana Bainbridge, carrying a large round tray, popped into the room. The smell of the steaming tray’s contents brought Ty upright, pain or no pain. He discovered he was hungrier than a posthibernation bear.

  Dana had to hear his stomach growling. She grinned and said, “Dr. Gates says you may eat. I brought Mama’s cure for whatever ails you—the broth from a boiled chicken, soft biscuits, and freshly churned butter. If you have no stomach upset today, tomorrow you may have the meat of the chicken.”

  She placed the tray on Ty’s lap, poured a mug of broth from a china pitcher, and buttered a biscuit with a silver knife. “Can you hold the mug yourself, or shall I do it for you?”

  Feeling a little unsteady, and wanting to bring her closer, Ty said, “If you would, please?”

  The broth was scalding hot. Ty had to blow on it to cool it, and then drink it sip by sip. The aroma of the broth was divine—hers more so. She reminded him of the spring wildflowers his grandmother picked to decorate the front hallway and the dining-room table. Grandfather forbade posies in his library, preferring the smoky fragrance of an evening cigar, his solitary sin.

  Ty finished the broth and the biscuits without a single pause. “I haven’t seen anyone hungrier since Father’s last winter hunt, when I was a child,” Dana said. “He vowed he’d never roam the woods hungry again in any season, and he hasn’t.”

  She lifted the tray from Ty’s lap, rested it on a marble-topped table beneath the bedroom windows, pulled Dr. Gates’s chair to the edge of the bed, and seated herself. “If you’re up to it, I have news—not good, unfortunately—that is of interest to you. It concerns General Morgan.”

  “Quite frankly, I’m not expecting good news,” Ty said. “The battle went against us, almost from the beginning. Did General Morgan survive?”

  Dana Bainbridge pushed a lock of raven hair behind her ear, a gesture so feminine and beautiful that Ty knew he had to have her, whatever the price. Forget his Baptist upbringing. Selling his soul to Satan, the most sin-rewarding devil in Hell, wasn’t too great a stretch for him.

  Unaware of how much she had stirred Ty’s deepest feelings, Dana said, “General Morgan is alive. He and his remaining men were captured near Canton, Ohio.”

  “Where are they n-now?” Ty asked, stumbling over the simple word “now.”

  Grab the halter, he raged inwardly. This woman has no interest in a boyish man, other than nursing me. If she saw Ty in that light, he had as much of a chance of sharing a life with her as the moon had of kissing the sun.

  Dana hesitated and said, “Papa told me the enlisted men are being transported by steamboat and rail to Camp Douglas, near Chicago. General Morgan and his officers will be jailed at the Ohio Penitentiary at Columbus.”

  Ty sighed. “If he was captured with the others, Shawn Shannon is with General Morgan.”

  “The lieutenant was certainly loyal to you. When I saw how hard his face was, I realized nothing was going to prevent him from carrying you straight to this bed.”

  “Your father didn’t object?”

  Dana treated Ty to a coy smile. “He did, but he doesn’t always have the final say in this house. He didn’t when my mother was with us, and he doesn’t now. He understands my mother’s sister wants me to join her in Cincinnati, where a proper education for a young lady is available. Papa can’t stand the thought of losing me.”

  “You are something special, Dana Bainbridge!” Ty exclaimed. “I’ve never met a female with your kind of spunk.”

  Dana’s head tilted. “I bet a man like you says that to every lass he meets.”

  “What do you mean by ‘a man like you’?” a puzzled Ty said.

  “Corporal Mattson, don’t act as if you’re not aware how that red hair and those green eyes can make a girl’s heart flutter, to where she might swoon. Makes a girl wonder how handsome you are without that awful beard.”

  Ty was as joyful as a newborn colt. She was attracted to him as a man, not just out of sympathy for a wounded soldier. Shawn Shannon’s little white lie in the Bainbridge kitchen about Ty’s age was proving helpful, after all. He’d tell her the truth at the proper time. It made no sense to squash a potential romance before it had a chance to spread its wings.

  Despite his excitement, Ty couldn’t suppress a big yawn. Dana jumped from her chair. “We’ve talked long enough for one morning. We don’t want to tire you unnecessarily. You rest and I’ll bring you more broth after Papa’s noon meal. Mama spoiled him with three meals per day. Given his belly, two would have sufficed quite nicely.”

  Scooping up her tray and pitcher, Dana said, “Have a restful sleep,” and she was out the door and gone.

  Ty missed her company immediately. Unlike the young ladies Ty spoke with during social gatherings at the Elizabethtown Baptist Church, Dana Bainbridge was without pretense and had no difficulty relating to the men around her. She wasn’t shy or backward or nervous. She was just herself, and that only added to her beauty.

  Ty smiled at the ceiling. It had been a grand morning. He pushed aside his pain, the lad who wanted him dead, and the fact a day of reckoning with the Yankees was unavoidable and fell asleep, praying he would dream of Dana.

  Nothing to honestly bother the Lord with, but he couldn’t resist.

  A different face confronted him upon awakening. This one was black and lively and so unexpected that it startled him.

  “Now don’t take on so, Corporal,” Miss Lydia said, her wide smile puffing her cheeks. “I’m come to cut away your beard and shave you, not scare you to death.”

  A pan of water, a towel, a bar of soap, a pair of scissors, and a razor filled the bedside chair. A leather belt for stropping the razor was draped over Miss Lydia’s shoulder. Her confident manner relaxed Ty. “I done shaved the master when that fever put him abed. I’ll do right by you, too, Corporal Mattson.”

  Miss Lydia trimmed his beard to the nub with the scissors, wet his remaining whiskers, lathered his face and neck, and stropped the razor. Concentration tightened her mouth. She shaved him with short strokes, nicking him but twice when he inadvertently moved his chin fighting off an itch. After a final draw of the razor, she dampened the towel, wiped his face, and pulled a narrow-necked bottle from an apron pocket.

  She saw the questioning lift of his brows. “Florida Water, the master’s favorite,” Miss Lydia said. She applied it liberally on Ty’s razor-sensitive skin. He flinched and Miss Lydia giggled.

  “You won’t be sorry. It makes you smell good, but not ripe. Miss Dana likes it better than her brother’s cheap cologne that fool doctor splashed all over you. He was trying to hide a poor washing was what he was doing.”

  Miss Lydia emptied her water pan out the window and placed the soap, scissors, razor, and towel into the empty pan. “We’ll cut that hair another day. Then with some proper clothes on you,” she said, her nose pointing upward. “You might be taken for a gentleman instead of one of those rowdy Texas outlaws that done scared the wits out of folks hereabouts.”

  A broad smile showed her white teeth. “Like Miss Dana say, it surely was exciting while it lasted.” The smile faded quickly. “Just remember, those folks you scared to the bone will be mighty mad and upset they learn you’re holed up in the master’s house. They’ll likely tar and feather you or hang you. I seen it done afore. They might do the same with the master. The hate for you Rebels is deeper than the roots of a tall tree on the bank of the Ohio. I heard t
he master hisself say so.”

  After dispensing that piece of sage advice, Miss Lydia hefted her pan, wriggled her fingers at Ty, and scooted through the door.

  Before Ty could digest her warning and what all it might entail, Dana Bainbridge returned with another tray of food. Now she was wearing a yellow cotton dress that clung to her body in the intense daytime heat of the bedroom. Ty nearly whistled aloud. She was what Given Campbell called “a lush-figured gal.”

  Ty ground his teeth and pushed himself into a sitting position, the pain sharp but not making him breathless. Dana laid her tray on the bedside chair and surprised Ty by settling on the bed beside his knee.

  “My, my, is this the same man I fed earlier? You certainly don’t resemble that wild-bearded, gun-toting Rebel, with huge spurs, who burst into my kitchen last week.”

  “You can thank Miss Lydia’s razor. She’s quite a barber.”

  “Contrary to what Father thinks, she’s the backbone of this family. Let me show you what I brought you.”

  Assuming Ty was capable of feeding himself, Dana passed him a stout mug with a handle. “You did so well eating this morning, I cut the breast of the chicken into little pieces and added it to the broth. Here’s a spoon.”

  Dana followed the broth and breast meat with generous helpings of custard made with cream, sugar, and a dusting of ground cinnamon. Ty had never enjoyed a meal of any kind more.

  A refreshed Ty stretched out after Dana fluffed his feather pillows. Without further ado, she placed the mug and white china bowls on her tray and prepared to depart.

  “If you’re not too tired, my father would like to speak with you,” Dana said.

  It wasn’t something Ty was looking forward to, but sooner or later, it was inevitable. He was welcome in the Bainbridge house so long as the magistrate acceded to his daughter, a tenuous thread that he dared not stretch too thin.

  “I’ll be glad to talk with him.”

  Dana smiled, then said, “Good, but be warned. Papa will want to discuss what must be done, once you’re on your feet and able to travel.”

  That was the subject that concerned Ty the most. How firm was Magistrate Bainbridge about turning him over to the Federal authorities? Was there the slightest chance he might be persuaded differently? Maybe have pity on a shot-up young Rebel adrift and homeless? Hadn’t Ty’s grandmother claimed that mercy becomes the biggest of men?

  Magistrate Bainbridge was dressed in a white shirt, with a starched high collar, brown trousers, and suspenders. The bulge of his belly nearly preceded him through the door. Sweat gleamed on his bald head. Though his remaining hair was black and his eyes blue, his features were heavy and lacked the refinement of his daughter’s, indicating Dana’s mother was the source of her beauty.

  Tugging the bedside chair away from the prone Ty to make more room, Cordell Bainbridge fell into it and wiped his brow and throat with a large red handkerchief.

  Ty moved to sit up, out of respect to his visitor.

  “Rest easy, Corporal Mattson, I will not linger. I believe my daughter informed you of my intentions. We will provide you quarters here until it is safe for you to be transported. We will then proceed to Pomeroy, Ohio, where you will become the property of the United States Government.”

  Bainbridge struck the sober face of a sentencing judge. “The Union Army will decide your ultimate fate. You will, of course, initially be classified a ‘prisoner of war’ and sent to a prison camp in the North.”

  The red handkerchief wiped skin again. “As I told my daughter, I cannot countenance participating in the escape of a Confederate soldier. I am loyal to the Union and Mr. Lincoln, mind and soul. I am a rabid antislaver. But I’m also enough of a father that I will allow my daughter certain latitude, providing it does not endanger the health and well-being of what remains of this family. My agreeing to secure medical treatment for you and serve as a private hospital without my family coming to grief, or worse, was based on my standing in Pomeroy. I sat the county bench for fifteen years and own property within the town.

  “My story is that you were wounded in my yard, which is literally the truth—and, war or no war, as a humanitarian, I could not simply turn my back and allow you to die. There will be no mention made of Lieutenant Shannon and General Morgan’s involvement whatsoever. That would inflame the whole countryside.”

  Cordell Bainbridge rocked forward and stood. “Be advised, your father’s burial on my property is not known outside this house. Lieutenant Shannon hid his body in my barn and he was buried that night after dark by my freed farmhands. Lathrup is Miss Lydia’s husband. He and his brother are well treated and fiercely loyal to me and will never mention it happened.”

  Pocketing his handkerchief, Bainbridge said, “Once again, we will leave for Pomeroy as soon as Dr. Gates says you can withstand the journey. We can’t prolong your stay. It’s one thing to provide critical medical treatment to a wounded enemy, quite another to appear to harbor and succor him while our boys in blue are dying on the battlefield. I’m sure you appreciate the precarious nature of my situation, Corporal Mattson.”

  Ty groaned as the door swept shut behind Cordell Bainbridge. There would be no reprieve. There would be no escaping across the Ohio.

  The blunt truth was he did appreciate Bainbridge’s position. Morgan’s Raiders had earned the hatred, resentment, and condemnation of Indiana and Ohio citizens for the bodily and emotional terror they’d caused them and the destruction of their property. As his father had said when Ty was observing the cloud of black smoke hovering over Salem, Indiana, “Sooner or later, there will be hell to pay for what we’re doing.” Well, the bill had come due and Ty was one of those holding it.

  But no matter how steep the price, he would not waste Shawn Shannon’s saving of his life. Somehow he must survive.

  Quitting wasn’t an option, particularly not for the son of Captain Owen Mattson, General John Hunt Morgan’s best soldier.

  CHAPTER 20

  Two weeks later, during a surprise visit by Dr. Gates, Ty gained his feet at the doctor’s urging. The pain was less than he anticipated. It was a slow burning sensation that clenched his jaw, but not his fists. He swayed to and fro at first before his knees locked and kept him upright.

  “That’s excellent, young man, just excellent!” a delighted Dr. Gates exclaimed. “You still don’t show any sign of the fever or proud flesh that frequently accompany gunshot wounds. We’ll have you out of that bed, for good, in a week.”

  Ty gulped. Though he was sleeping through the night and eating solid food, Dr. Gates’s prognosis seemed terribly optimistic. There was a heap of difference between standing and walking and eventually riding in a horse-drawn wagon.

  He knew his opinion counted for naught. He suspected Dr. Gates’s sudden appearance in the bedroom doorway was at the request of Magistrate Bainbridge and reinforced what he’d told Ty the prior week. Bainbridge wanted to shed the worry of sheltering an enemy who might be discovered by hostile Portland residents and county militia.

  Ty had learned that the magistrate’s fear for his safety and that of his family was legitimate. Dana had described to him how the Raiders had ransacked Portland homes and businesses the night before the big battle. The local hatred for the Rebels spawned by those few hours of looting—intensified by the raiders’ wanton discarding of valuable personal possessions belonging to their fellow Ohio citizens on the battlefield—was at a fever pitch. Hanging was too good for any captured Johnny Reb. The true hotbloods preferred to draw and quarter him. Prison was an afterthought.

  Holding Ty’s arm, Dr. Gates had him walk to the door and back, a total of ten steps. He noticed Ty’s limp. “Does your left leg feel weaker than your right?”

  “Yes, sir, just like you said it would.”

  “You’ll need to favor it a bit for a while. It should become stronger as you heal,” Dr. Gates said. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  Once Ty was abed, Dr. Gates said, “Walk every morning and every aftern
oon. If you notice any bleeding, stop till it stops. Has Dana been changing your bandages, per my instructions?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ty said, suppressing a guilty smile.

  The bandage changing highlighted his recovery. He took advantage of her closeness, marveling at the swell of her bosom in the scalloped hollow of her bodice, how she bit her lower lip when concentrating, how readily she blushed, the sudden gleam of her blue eyes when their conversation became animated, the schoolgirl charm of her throaty laugh, how she smelled of a fresh scent each day, how she missed nothing that happened about her or its implications. She was a female wiser than her years. Maybe too wise to entangle her emotions with those of a seventeen-year-old male with honest love for her in his heart, but the blood of her people on his hands and prison awaiting him.

  Leather satchel in hand, Dr. Gates halted in the doorway, grinned mischievously, and said, “Enjoy Dana’s company while you can, Corporal. Life is a short venture that rewards those who grasp the brass ring when it swings their way.”

  Ty was mulling over the doctor’s parting words when Dana Bainbridge arrived with his dinner. By the bounce in her step, he could tell her spirits were running high. The fare for the evening was basically that of his first meal at the Bainbridge dinner table—corned beef with cabbage, corn cut from the cob swimming in warm cream, loaf bread, butter, hot coffee, and Miss Lydia’s famous cinnamon-dusted custard.

  Dana said, “It’s time for you to eat as much as you want. We need to build up your strength.”