by L. J. Martin
I wish I had the shotgun I'd cast aside, and the makins to charge it. I wish I had my squirrel gun, as I would quickly become a bushwhacker as I know the country...every slough, stump and tall tree of her. But I will have to bide my time until I can kill some Yankees and take a cat-o-nine-tails to that faithless Pearl until her beauty is nothing but a crisscross of festering slashes.
God help my parents, God help Pearl who took the name McTavish then turned brazen traitor and sullied it, and God help the Yankees who desecrated my home and all I hold dear...help them to a rump roast in hell.
I fade away into the darkness, hoping to find the farm vacated by morning, so I can properly bury my daddy and try and find my ma.
I retreat to my high spot and find a small hollow in the ground at the edge of the cotton and sleep.
It's been the most difficult day of my life...I've killed a man, maybe two, and lost all I've held dear.
Morning is a dark one with a sky as flat and gray as slate. I lay on my back and review the previous day in my mind, and only then mount the hill again to see who's now invaded my home, and make out another group of riders, a Union cavalry troop, but this one is followed by an infantry troop of more than three dozen. I watch as they move closer to the river and continue setting up camp where it appears they've spent the night. A couple of shots ring out and I wonder if I've been spotted and hunker down even lower among the cotton stalks, then see a couple of troopers appear, each with a shoat slung over a shoulder. I guess it'll be roast suckling pig for the bastards tonight. Our pigs.
And papa still sways in the breeze. These bluebellys have no shame.
This will be the last time I see my home place for a good long while. As it seems the bluebellys are settled here. The cavalry troop has set up a camp a hundred yards or so downstream from the infantry. They've picketed their horses over graze a hundred feet farther on a line tied from cottonwood to cottonwood, and it gives me an idea.
I've been horseback since I was five, and I don't plan to walk now. And I see no reason to chase our stock all over hell and gone as what the Yankees haven't stolen have flown to the wind. Fire makes critters more than just a little crazy. Besides, my old mare would not be suited for riding into battle as her best years are behind her. I hope she'll find an easy life in the forest.
And I may be crazy as well, but I'm gonna steal me a fine horse, maybe that Captain's gray if'n it ain't shot fulla holes.
The willow thicket begins just beyond where the yanks have picket lined their stock, and under the last of the large trees, one of the few live oaks on our place, is the troop's tack, saddles nicely in a row. A few rest on stumps we've left from cutting small oaks for firewood, bridles draped over a low branch.
I have no intention of slipping up on their camp in the light, even though it's a dark day. I'm praying for rain as I'm sure it will discourage guards and keep their heads down.
I fade back off my perch on the crest of the hill and back to my ravine, then down toward the river until I'm inside the copse of river willows. Only then do I risk a look and begin to carefully pick my way through the thicket. When I figure I'm only fifty yards from the horses, I curl up and try and get some sleep.
Waking startled, I rise and realize my gut is gnawing in hunger, and it's made worse by the smell of roast pig and the ring of laughter coming from the Yankee camp. To assuage my gut, I make my way to the river's edge and drink my fill, only to have to drop to my back as some damn bluebelly is thirty paces upstream, and it's plain what he's doing as it sounds like a deluge being sprayed into the river. Downstream of the camp was not a place to quench my thirst.
I work my way back to my sleeping spot and arrive just as a low rumble of thunder rolls down from upriver—at first I mistake it for cannon fire, but the low growing rumble is then unmistakable. Only a few minutes pass before a crack of lightening throws harsh shadows through the willows and in the count of two, thunder rattles the narrow willow stalks and a gust of wind bends them to the south.
Rain follows almost as quickly as the thought comes to mind. I've made a ruck sack of one of the shirts and carried the other one and the spare pants wrapped therein, and pull apart my makeshift sack and pull on the pants and other two shirts. Now I'm wearing all I own.
I work my way to only twenty-five paces from the horses, when another crack of lightening shatters the darkness and I can clearly see a lot of nervous critters pulling at their lead ropes and stomping fearfully. Under the cover of their shrill whinnies and snorts, I move even closer. When the echo of the crack of heaven's fire resides, I hear the soft sound of a harmonica coming from the camp and make out, through the horses legs, three campfires which are surrounded by tents, some of which appear to be canvas and some Mr. Goodyear's rubber coated material.
A little farther away this time, God lights the sky again and I'm pleased to see the horse nearest my end of the string is a dappled gray, sixteen hands if he's a finger, and probably the least troubled by the kettledrums of thunder. He seems a calm sort.
One of the saddles nearest him, and me, is covered by a pack canvas, so I inch forward on my belly and lift the edge. The sight warms the cockles of my heart as it's a well-oiled McClellan and far the better is a pair of saddle holsters riveted to its fenders, and both have a revolver still stuffed therein. Laced to the cantle in back and to the forks in front are saddlebags, and they are stuffed full, and a blanket roll, picket pin, and canteen are still in place. Unfortunately, the rifle boot is empty. I guess one of those new Springfield's is just too much to ask.
I hope the blanket roll not being used means I've kilt the son-of-a-bitch who ordered my pa hung.
At the far end of the string, maybe a hundred feet from where I study the camp, a single picket guard leans against the stump of an oak, his head down, his wide brimmed cavalry hat dripping water. He never raises his head as I—almost flat on my belly in the mud—pull the saddle out from under the canvas and slide it back into the willows. I hope the Remington I pull from the holster and shove into my belt is capped and loaded, as my life could well depend upon it.
Getting the gray loose and under the taut picket line will be another feat altogether. I smile as the rain begins to be a gully washer even as it floods down my back. The picket guard rises and runs for the camp, I presume to outfit himself with a slicker.
It's my chance, and I lift the picket line and lead the gray under and a dozen feet into willows.
Only then do I realize I don't have a bridle or a blanket, but I saddle him none the less. I know how to tie an emergency rig and almost as quickly as I can say it, have a Spanish hackamore tied from the lead rope. The resulting reins are a bit short, but beggars can't be....
And with another distant crack of lightening, I see the guard returning, only this time he's headed for the tree sheltering the saddles as it's the thickest of the trees nearby. And it's only paces from where I'm mounting up. He's a redheaded whelp no older than myself and I'd hate to kill a fella before he's lain with his first love, but not so much as I'd hate to be kilt.
And therein is the making of war, I'd guess.
There's no time to tarry, so I swing into the saddle, give my heels to the gray, and he damn near leaps out from under me. The willows slap and tear at us as he plunges into the thicket. He stumbles a bit and I pray he doesn't fling me face-first into the mud and tangle of stalks. A shot rings out behind me, but it only encourages the gray, and in a half minute we're clear of most the willows and he's pounding like he's happy to be free of the company of Yankees...he must be a fine Tennessee stud, probably stolen from some Confederate colonel as I've just stolen him from a Yankee captain.
Now to find General Price and his butternut boys so we can both, gray horse and I, join up and help to run these damn Yankees back to New York or wherever they hail from.
I’ll come back for what I hope has gone undiscovered in the house…someday, not too far off, I’ll come back.
Chapter 2
As I ride a
way, I can hear the call to arms being bugled from the camp. In a half mile I come to a rock shelf and cross it to a six foot stream I know well, then turn down hill, keeping the gray stream-center. They'll never track me in the darkness. After a couple of hundred yards of six inch deep muddy stream, I rein the gray out and onto a game trail through a dogwood thicket.
Knowing I'm being pursued, I ride all night, south toward Springfield. With the light I hear cannon rumble on south, and only pause to rest, water and graze the gray and fill my own belly with some salted meat and hard crackers courtesy of the Captain as they filled half of one of the rump saddlebags—enough to last me a week, if'n I don't give into a gnawing stomach too readily. Near Sedalia I hear the cannon again, only this time to the east, so I head that way, skirting every sign of life as no one knows who is who.
Near the end of the day, after near twenty-four hours in the saddle, I hear gunfire to the east and become extra careful as we pick our way around a field of corn stubble. We are into the Ozarks and the hills, covered in post oak, rise both to the north and south of the field. As I rein the gray around to the north side of the field, I can hear the gunfire receding in front of me, the sounds of a running fight probably between mounted cavalry as it is moving quickly away.
The hill to my left, to the north, is thick with post oaks and underbrush, but not so thick that I don't quickly gig the gray up into the shadows when I hear the galloping hoof beats of a horse coming our way. Before he comes into view, he's slowed, to a trot, then a walk.
I palm one of the Remingtons and wait. Afraid to even breathe. A sorrel colored head appears, then drops to graze. I stay dead still ready for him to be a bluecoat, and sure as hell the front edge of his saddle blanket appears, blue with yellow trim. Then the sorrel takes another step and I can see he isn't mounted. I give heels to the gray and edge him down the hill, moving slow and easy as I have no idea if his rider is walking along behind, or what? As it happens, the horse is alone. And as it happens, his saddle is empty, but his saddle boot is not. I dismount and let the gray drop his muzzle and graze, and move slowly over to beside the sorrel, and slip a fine Sharps muzzle loader carbine from the boot. The sorrel is unconcerned with the theft. I dig into a saddle mounted bullet pouch riveted to the fender and remove its handful of .52 caliber balls along with some more from a pouch on the other side. It is a bonanza for a fellow far more familiar with long arms than handguns. The last thing I do is drop the saddle off the sorrel and give him some freedom, and myself a new horse blanket, but only after slipping his bridle over his ears.
"Thank you, Lord," I say under my breath.
I re-saddle the gray using my new saddle blanket, reversed so the colors and regiment number don’t show.
But my joy is short lived. I've barely gotten the hand-tied Spanish hackamore turned back into a lead rope, the bridle adjusted to the gray, the Sharps into the boot on my saddle, and remounted, when the oaks rattle behind me and I turn to see a half dozen riders staring at me. I smile broadly as they are butternut boys.
"Don't reach for one of those weapons, bluebelly," a fellow with sergeant stripes on his sleeve commands.
"Bluebelly. I ain't no damned Yank," I sputter.
"Climb down, slow and put your face in that cow patty down there."
"I ain't—"
"What you are is about to get yourself killed instead of taken prisoner. Now get down if 'n you wanna take another breath."
I decide I can explain later, and quickly dismount, as six firearms are leveled at me.
As I put my face on the ground, the sergeant guffaws, then says, "Funny, that there fine lookin' gray has a U.S. brand, a McClellan saddle, and a Sharps in the boot, but he ain't no Yankee."
The others in the troop laugh. I take offense and yell from my spot flat on my belly. "I'm Braden McTavish from just north of Arrow Rock where my family’s farmed for four generations and I stole that gray from a Union troop in the middle of a rainstorm last night...after they freed our nigras and hung my daddy and probably burned up my ma. And I just freed that Sharps from Union possession...and that bridle, which I've been riding without, with naught but a lead rope, trying to find you fellas. You put a bluebelly in front of me and watch me tear out his eyeballs and piss his sockets full, you don't believe me."
The sergeant is quiet for a moment, then smiles and turns to a rider at his side. "The younger’s got more than a dollop of piss and vinegar. Take a look in those saddle bags and see what you turn up. You, down there, shut the hell up while we figure out if you're off to a prisoner camp on we hang you right here or whatever."
"I ain't got nothing in those bags but some dried meat and crackers," then it dawns on me. "Right front, just beside the saddle holster, in the little shoulder bag is a packet of letters. I ain't had a chance to give them a read yet. My name, like I said, is Brad McTavish, and you'll see that none of them is addressed to me."
"Reynolds, check it out."
The corporal digs into the packet, reads the first one, and laughs. "It says, happy fortieth, Alfred...."
"Hummm," the sergeant says, then exclaims, "you don't look no forty to me, nor like an Alfred." The sergeant then snaps at the reader. "Dig halfway and read another."
He did so, and laughs again. "It says 'our baby girl has turned eighteen and we wish you were here to celebrate with us..."
"Get up, McTavish. You ain't home free yet."
I climb to my feet and brush off my trousers as he asks, "Who was the governor of Missouri five years ago?"
"Turstin Polk resigned to take a seat in the U.S. Senate and Stewart defeated that know-nothing Rollins in a special election, who also lost in forty-eight."
"Humph," the sergeant says, then asks, "And who was the other senator?"
"Geyer, and that abolitionist son-of-a-bitch Henderson was appointed to replace Polk when he come south."
A slow smile parts the sergeant's gray mustache and beard. "None of that proves nothing until you do rip the eyes out of some northern pile of dog shit." Then he seems to relax. "So, where the hell you off to, son?"
"I'm lookin' to join up and kill me some more Yanks. I got me two before I run off ahead of the rope. I'm looking to get me two hundred more...maybe two thousand, God willin'."
"And you stole yourself a fine mount. Is that a stud horse? We can't have no stud horse in the ranks, no mares either."
"Hell, I don't know. He's mighty calm for a stud if he is one. Let's see how he acts while I ride along with y'all, if that's okay with you, sir."
"I ain't no sir, wet behind the ears. I'm a sergeant. You get yourself in the middle of our string and we'll get you sworn in when we get back to camp. If we can find a 'sir' what thinks you're fittin'."
"Yes, sir…I mean, yes Sergeant." And I mount up and fall into the middle of the line as they move uphill and into a single column at a canter. I guess I'm about to be a butternut boy.
If I live long enough.
We don't ride a quarter mile before a line of bluecoats pop up fifty yards in front of us, and white smoke and whizzing mini balls fill the air...and the first volley fells three of the six of us.
I am not wet behind the ears for long.
And I’ve put the gray to a fine test, escaping the ambush alongside the sergeant, who I've come to know as Ira Keeney.
Sworn in a few miles east of the Big Mo and Arrow Rock at a place called Higginsville, I join up with Lt. Col. Lucious St. Alexander, and his cavalry regiment—thanks to bluebelly Captain Alfred Doolan and his fine gift of a sixteen hand gray. In a matter of days we find ourselves victorious in the Battle of the Hemp Bales at Lexington, on the banks of the Big Mo again. I am promoted to corporal due to the fact the damn gray spooks at the first cannon barrage and, against my better judgment and totally without my permission, carries me at the head of a charge against a larger entrenched force, thus branding me a hero. My charge is instrumental in our capture of Colonel Mulligan and gets me shot through the left side of my butt, making it more than a
little difficult to set the saddle.
Damn horse.
My butt is mostly healed by the time we ride against the bluecoats at Wilson’s Creek, on a hot August day made even hotter by cannon and musket fire and white smoke covering the battlefield. Again the overenthusiastic gray will not respond to the rein, and gets me out ahead of our line, and I am soon made a lieutenant. However, he gets me shot through—flesh only, thank the good Lord—on my upper left arm.
And again I am healed up when on a cold March day we ride against the Northern Army at Pea Ridge, all the way over in Arkansas. On the first day it looks as if we are again to become victorious as we push the bluebellys back to Elkhorn Tavern. The following day, however, they came back at us like demons from hell. This time the damn gray takes me so far and fast I find myself behind the enemy line, and giving him the spurs he takes me at a gallop up behind a pair of Union cannons and caissons. The boys in blue didn’t see me coming, and I am able to put a couple of them on the ground as the gray pounds up, as there were six more, it was no place to rein up. The gray leaps a union cannon like it's a pasture fence, and throws me with his stumble, but I am able to hang onto the reins.
I fire my Griswold and Gunnison .36 caliber four more times, dropping two more cannoneers before I am able to get back in the saddle. I lay so low as the gray kicks up clods on the way back to our lines that I get a mouthful of mane by the time I can dismount. I am made captain as the cannon didn't get back into the battle, even though the Union boys beat us badly, and General Price was wounded.
But we fight on. Crossing the Mississippi, we ride against, and seize the Union supply depot at Iuka, Mississippi. A great victory but a short lived one. When Maj. Gen. William S. Rosecrans counterattacks and again, after charging behind the lines, the gray has gone a step too far and a Union cannon ball puts dirt and limbs in our faces. We go down hard.
It is September 19, 1862, and I am a Union prisoner and my gray—which I've come to love-hate—is feeding the crows among my dead comrades. I find myself limping north among several hundred other Butternut boys…all prisoners.
