Raiding With Morgan (10 page)

A surprise awaited Ty when he and Shawn Shannon rejoined General Morgan's staff. Owen Mattson had swapped his Texas garb for cotton pants and shirt, a slouch hat, and flat-soled brogans. Three additional troopers wore the same farm clothing and stood with him before General Morgan.

Once within earshot, Ty heard General Morgan say, “How many of Burnside's men are holding Cincinnati? How are they positioned? How many troops are arriving from Kentucky? How prepared are they to pursue us? What's the mood of the city? That's the information we need you to obtain.”

A lump clogged Ty's throat. His father was being dispatched on a spying mission into the very heart of the enemy's lair. If captured, his fate was prison and a hanging rope.

Four horses best described as healthy nags—they, at least, walked sure-footedly—were brought forward. Colonel Johnson said, “Captain Taylor, you lived in Cincinnati for a number of years and will take the lead. Given Lightning Ellsworth's confusing transmissions and our subsequent cutting of the telegraph lines feeding Cincinnati, the place will be a well of confusion and fear, creating enough diversion for you to sneak through at night. We'll rendezvous east of the city at the Great Miami River Bridge.”

“Mount up, gentlemen,” General Morgan said. “Off with you and good luck.”

Owen Mattson winked at Ty in passing. The bulge beneath his father's cotton shirt didn't lessen Ty's concern. Four pistols against thousands of weapons were outrageous odds that begged disaster.

“Don't fret yourself, Corporal,” Lieutenant Shannon whispered. “If Owen can steal a rifle from a sleeping Comanche in broad daylight, those Yankees will never know he was amongst them in the dark.”

Ty wasn't certain he shared Shawn Shannon's confidence. Maybe he would if he'd experienced his father's years in Texas. His father seemed to have a penchant for seeking danger, a desire foreign to him. Ty didn't believe he was a coward. Yet, despite the success of that wild, unintentional cavalry charge at Corydon, he had no inkling if he was capable of such bravery the next occasion he was under fire. Being shot at for real took some getting used to, if one ever did.

General Morgan cleared his throat and raised his arm to insure he had everyone's attention. “It's vital that Burnside expects us to attack Cincinnati and stay put. We will move that direction with the main column. Our scouts will make a feint toward Hamilton and convince the Union forces there that we are headed in their direction. We need to buy enough time to slip between the two cities without a major engagement. If we're successful, we will be able to outrun our pursuers to the ford at Buffington Island, on the far side of Ohio. The waters there will be too shallow this time of year for Yankee gunboats out of Louisville and Cincinnati.”

Flashing his irresistible smile, General Morgan said, “Gentlemen, we're in for the ride of a lifetime, longer than anything we've ever attempted. Keep the column closed up as much as possible. I pray I'll see all of you again. Sergeant Rainey, have the buglers sound ‘Boots and Saddles,' if you please.”

General Morgan hadn't lied. The following thirty-five hours were the most taxing that Ty had ever experienced. When the skirting of Cincinnati finally ended at four o'clock in the afternoon of the following day, he was so exhausted that all he remembered of the overnight ordeal in the saddle were bits and pieces hard to pull together in their proper sequence.

He remembered the moonless darkness they rode through, mile after mile, that made shadows of the troopers ahead of him and behind him; men tumbling from the saddle and refusing the order to remount, willing to risk capture for a few hours of sleep; horses collapsing and dying under their cursing riders; kneeling troopers holding burning splinters, searching for horse slobber to guide them, as the straggling column crossed numerous roads running southward to Cincinnati; the ring of shod hoofs on cobbled streets and their thud on a plank highway; a voice he recognized, the rasping, sawlike voice from the sinks; his disappointment when it faded without his identifying its owner; the huge red flare spawned by the firing of the Great Miami River Bridge; hands tying him to saddle horn and stirrups; burning sunlight that parched his throat and forced his eyes closed; the smell of meadows lush with summer hay; being untied and lifted from the saddle; the rubbery squeak of a gum poncho beneath him, cool water on his lips; the return of black velvet darkness.

T
he scaffold is a stark, skeletal structure, with a wooden crossbeam looming above it that holds four nooses. A large chattering crowd surrounds the elevated platform, waiting for the unfolding of the spectacle, which they long to witness. Owen Mattson and his three fellow spies, hands tied behind their backs, climb the twenty wooden steps that lead to eternity.

Owen Mattson turns to face the crowd, red hair a touch of fire against the bright blue sky. He smiles as the uniformed Yankee officer reads a proclamation sentencing him and his companions to death by hanging. The smile is still on his face when the hangman lowers a black hood over his head, followed by one of the carefully knotted nooses. The crowd hushes as the trapdoor beneath the four spies springs open.

 

Ty's arms thrashed wildly and he awakened with his mouth poised to scream. Hands clasped his shoulders and his father said, “Easy, son. That must have been a damn bad dream.”

Ty came to his senses and hastily wiped the tears dampening his cheeks from finding his father was alive and unharmed and back in uniform. “I dreamed you were being hanged for spying on the blue bellies.”

“Naw, Cincinnati was stampeded. I've never seen that many soldiers and people running amok. Not a soul had any interest in us.”

Owen Mattson examined Ty's wrists. “Shawn always was good with leather thongs and knots. Didn't chafe your skin overly much, either.”

“I will thank Lieutenant Shannon straightaway,” Ty promised. ”Did you gather the information General Morgan wanted?”

“Yes, we did. All told, including cavalry, regulars, home guards, and militia, General Burnside has approximately fifty thousand effectives spread out behind us in the city, the countryside, and on the river. Plus every single one of them wants a piece of our hide.”

The sheer number of enemy available to pursue them staggered Ty's mind. The jaws of a giant trap were closing on them. How long could they continue to elude forces of that size?

Ty pushed himself into a sitting position. Not knowing when he might have the opportunity to speak with his father again, he said, “I couldn't see him in the dark, but I heard that voice from the sinks sometime during the night.”

“Could you make out anything he said?”

“He was angry. He warned his cousin that if he fell off his horse one more time, he'd damned well finish the war in a Yankee prison camp. He called him ‘Cousin Elam.' ”

Owen Mattson smiled. “Now we have a name. The Second Brigade led the advance from Harrison through the night. He's a member of Colonel Gano's Texas Brigade, not the Texas detachment in Colonel Duke's First Brigade. I'll have Lieutenant Hardesty check the muster rolls of Gano's companies for the name ‘Elam.' Maybe we can flush out our would-be assassin before he makes his move.”

Ty said a silent prayer. Until the threat hanging over his father's head was eliminated, he would be on edge day and night. “Do you have any idea who he might be? Lieutenant Shannon thought you might.”

“Yes, Jack Stedman's son. Jack and his father, Frank, headed a ring of cattle rustlers in Southwest Texas. They drove off a herd after killing the crew at the chuck wagon and the two nighthawks. I was delivering a prisoner to Three Forks for the Rangers and buzzards led me to the provisions wagon. The camp cook survived his wound long enough to identify Jack. Being miles from any help, I covered the dead crew best I could, tied my prisoner to the wheel of the wagon, with a cache of corn biscuits and water, and followed the stolen herd south toward the Rio Grande. To make a long story short, I caught up with the herd. I knew the Stedmans by sight. Through my field glasses, I saw Jack and Frank break off from the herd, so I trailed them. Turns out, they had a cabin in the hills outside Parker City.

“They were sitting on the porch slugging whiskey and having a high old time while their gang drove their stolen herd across the border. It was windy and threatening rain. I rode up with a linen duster draped across my saddle horn and a pistol in each hand beneath it. I didn't waste their time or mine. I told them they were under arrest for murder and cattle rustling. They gawked at me for a few seconds, and their eyes got big. Frank dove for a rifle leaning against the wall beside him and Jack drew his pistol. I shot and killed both of them through the folds of the duster—Jack first and then Frank. Not what I wanted to do, but they gave me no choice.

“I'd trailed them for three days and I was getting worried about my prisoner back at the provisions wagon. I carried their bodies inside the cabin, torched it, and rode out of there. I never laid eyes on Jack's son.”

Ty wasn't the least bothered that Jack and Frank Stedman might have been inebriated and perfect dupes for his father's trick with the duster. What chance had they given the cowboys they'd killed? Still, he saw clearly how Jack Stedman's son would nurse a lifelong grudge against the man who killed his father and his grandfather and burned the family cabin. Ty was beginning to appreciate the truth of Shawn Shannon's assertion that Owen Mattson was “a good, hard man.”

Dawn light bloomed. Troopers were up, grumbling and moving about. Smoke from cooking fires lingered over the bivouac. Thirsty and hungry horses snorted and pawed the ground. “Boots and Saddles” would sound within the hour.

Ty's father helped him to his feet. “Private Pursley has some of that Dupont ham boiling in a pot and loaves of three-day-old hard bread warming in a pan. I smell coffee, too.”

“Don't complain a lick,” Private Pursley warned his messmates. “Wasn't for me, you'd be eating field corn and happy to have it. Where's Cally Smith?”

“With the blue-belly cavalry,” Ad White said. “He refused to get up after falling off his horse outside Glendale.”

The loss of Cally and his sense of humor saddened Ty.

Shawn Shannon said, “That's a crying shame. Didn't someone try to tie him in the saddle?”

“He fought us off, Shawn. We couldn't stay with him any longer without falling behind the whole column.”

Shawn Shannon grimaced. “Cally was one of many to fall out and be captured. Lieutenant Hardesty reported that today's muster by company sergeants showed one out of every five troopers missing from the rolls. We're wasting away pretty quick.”

“You attended General Morgan's staff meeting, Shawn,” Ad White said. “How far are we from the ford at Buffington Island?”

“Best estimate is one hundred miles,” Shawn Shannon said.

“Good God, Shawn,” Given Campbell said. “Didn't you calculate we rode ninety miles avoiding Cincinnati? I don't know if my tail can stand another one hundred miles without a month's rest in a feather bed, with a fair maiden tending to my every want and need.”

After the mess finished laughing, Shawn Shannon said, “Owen, I haven't had a chance to tell you yet. We're accompanying Colonel Dick Morgan on a little twenty-mile ride down to the Ohio this morning. General Morgan wants a report on the status of the river.”

Ty enjoyed the ride to Ripley, Ohio, with the Fourteenth Kentucky and Quirk's Scouts. Everyone involved was refreshed and invigorated after a full night's sleep. They sang as they rode, as if there were no organized opposition or bushwhackers within miles. Troopers had confiscated two violins, a guitar, and a banjo. They accompanied the Kentuckians as they sang “My Old Kentucky Home,” “Juanita,” “Arkansas Traveler,” “Hills of Tennessee,” and their favorite, “Lorena.” The war seemed a long way off for a few hours.

The view from the hills overlooking Ripley shattered their festive mood. The Ohio, a wide expanse of brown, fast-moving, roiling water, was almost at flood stage—a most unusual occurrence for the month of July—and the local ferries were under heavy guard.

On the return trip, Ty was riding between his father and Shawn Shannon. “There's nothing closer now than the Buffington Island ford, providing we can beat the gunboats there,” Owen Mattson said. “If we don't, we'll have to keep moving upriver to get beyond their reach.”

Shawn Shannon said, “Every hour we spend on Ohio soil is to Burnside's advantage. We'll keep losing men we can't replace, and he's yet to bring his full might to bear. I'm glad I'm not the one who has to deliver this news to General Morgan.”

The somber mood of their return ride was brightened briefly at Winchester, where boys from the Fourteenth Kentucky tied American flags to the tails of six stolen mules and galloped them through the town's main street, rebel yelling to scare the locals. They were drawing down on Locust Grove, their rendezvous point with the main column, by six at night.

Though it was probably a waste of breath, given Ty's next-to-nothing chance of spotting Jack Stedman's son amongst the Texan members of Johnson's brigade, he couldn't resist asking his father, ”What did the Stedmans look like?”

“No different than most men, from the neck down,” his father answered. “What distinguished them was their pale blond hair, wide foreheads, bear trap jaws heavy on chinbone, and gray eyes cold as dead ashes. They never showed any feelings, unless they were liquored up.”

From Ty's other side, Shawn Shannon said, “We'll keep a sharp lookout, Owen. We've been lucky before in circumstances like these. Remember Buck Granger? He was wrapped up in a winter blanket, face hidden from the wind, riding past you in Wyattsville, intending to back shoot you. You saw his fancy hand-tooled boot sticking out from under the bottom of that blanket, knocked him from the saddle with your rifle, and we hauled him off to jail. I don't think Buck's shoulder ever healed right. Let me tell you, Ty, that was one wicked blow.”

“He was deserving,” Owen Mattson said.