Raiding With Morgan (19 page)

T
wo 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 afternoon. 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.”

Ty sensed a slight tension in her voice. Had something transpired that threatened to force him from the Bainbridge home prematurely? He wasn't ready to undertake a journey of any length. Another week of rest, walking, and solid food might turn the odds in his favor, if he wasn't forced to march too far afoot.

 

In their brief hours together, Ty had shared with Dana the story of both his finding of his father and his death by bullets from the gun of a fellow Rebel soldier, not the blue-belly enemy. Having lost close family members recently herself, she understood and they shared their pain and grief.

He found it easy to be forthright with Dana Bainbridge. She was enthralled by his recounting of how his mother and father had met at the Iron Gate, how Ty came to live with his grandparents, his father's hard, lean years in Texas, and Ty's decision to leave home and seek out his father. She laughed heartily when Ty told her of the stolen hams, the stolen beer wagon, and Cally Smith's gastric nightmare.

In turn, he listened attentively to her tales of life with a stern judge for a father, a warm, loving, “waste not, want not” mother, and three brothers. The two older brothers had stood guard over her at church, at school, and during community socials, running off suitors as she grew into a woman. She regaled Ty with tales of how Franklin and Joseph had put the school bully in his place by dangling him from a rope atop the cliff behind Pomeroy in the dead of night, frightening him nearly to death. No outdoor privy in the city was safe and the two ornery brothers weren't particular about whether they were occupied during the overturning. Pretty young females seemed to be a target of choice. No school bench was safe from tacks. Pigtails were for yanking. No male body part was spared a rough pinching. Mouth washing with lye soap for swearing had no more effect than throwing wheat chaff into a strong wind. Halloween brought on an annual frenzy of pranks, screeching ghosts, and a parade of Headless Horsemen that shamed Ichabod Crane. Mothers kept their children away from windows from dusk to dawn, against, of course, the protests of their offspring.

These same two young hellions were perfect students in school, chased a knife-wielding robber from the Kenton Mercantile, armed with spade shovels at the age of twelve, chopped wood an entire winter to keep the destitute Larson family from freezing to death, rescued eight-year-old Bobby Lynch from a flood-swollen Ohio River, led the town carolers at Christmas, made the Fourth of July resemble a duel between military cannons with their homemade fireworks, and swore an overweening allegiance, which defied logic, to the flag of the United States.

No one would deny, though, that the entire adult population of Pomeroy, including their own father, had breathed a collective sigh of relief the morning Franklin and Joseph, both bitterly disappointed they hadn't secured appointments to West Point, took up arms with the Union Army. Their send-off on the morning packet boat had gleeful townspeople and saddened children cheering long after the stern-wheeler disappeared round a bend in the Ohio. Ty had no doubt that Alexander Bainbridge thought he had boots to fill as big as those of Owen Mattson.

Ty loved the zeal of Dana's brothers, their cleverness, their courage, and their commitment to protecting their sister. He saw himself locked in the barn on a diet of cold corn bread and water for prolonged periods, had he pulled their shenanigans on Enoch Mattson, for his grandfather seemed to know which horse farted last in his stall.

Ty smiled inwardly, trying to imagine what it would have been like to court their sister, if the two brothers were still living at home. That would have been a unique challenge. Would he have been up to it? Maybe now, if he recovered, but definitely not before he'd fled Elizabethtown.

Dana's only sad reflection was her father's insistence that the family abandon the hustle and bustle of Pomeroy for a quiet existence in the country. She hazarded a guess that as he grew older, her father had desired to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond. She missed the gracious Bainbridge home overlooking the city and the river, as well as the family's autumn and spring excursions to Cincinnati to partake of its delicious Southern food and enjoy stage performances by actors and musicians from across the world. But as a loving daughter, she'd eventually accepted the move, as she did the other vicissitudes of life she couldn't control.

 

The next morning, Ty counted on the closeness and friendship they had developed and hoped she wouldn't disappoint him. Hands occupied with a fork and a wedge of bread, he mentally crossed his fingers and asked, “Am I causing your family a problem?”

Bad as the news was, Dana didn't avert her gaze. “Alex claims there's a rumor afloat in Portland that a local family is hiding a Morgan Rebel.”

Ty blurted out, “Maybe Alex started it,” and then he wanted to bite his tongue in half for saying it.

“Oh, my,” Dana said, taking a deep breath, “I'm afraid I've been naïve. Father keeps saying Alex wouldn't dare betray you, but Alex has disobeyed him before. As you well know from his attempt to kill General Morgan, Alex is consumed by his hatred for anyone wearing a gray uniform. He'll never accept the fact that it was the war, and not you personally, that took his brothers. You're a convenient and handy outlet for his vengeful feelings.”

A new twist, Ty thought. If Alex hadn't the nerve to shoot him, he could recruit the local Rebel haters to do it for him. Bullet or rope, dead was dead.

Not wanting to push ahead too fast, Ty kept his voice soft and low. “Have you discussed the rumor with your father?”

Dana refilled Ty's coffee mug. “No, but he went to Portland, as is his custom on Saturdays. He enjoys a weekly game of pool and a few beers at Hall's Emporium. If the rumor is for real, he will certainly hear it there. Father says the ‘Hall's gang' even knows when someone isn't feeding his horse regularly and cheerfully will let it be known far and wide. Rumors are their best friend.”

“When will your father be home?”

“Late today. He lingers at Hall's longer since Mama died.”

“You'll let me know if you learn anything?”

“I'll wait up for him,” Dana promised, gathering together her dishes, bowls, utensils, and coffeepot. “I'm fearful of what might happen. I want no harm to come to you.”

Arms full, she turned away quickly. For a second, Ty thought he saw tears welling in those lovely sky-blue eyes. Then she was gone down the rear stairs before he could respond to a sudden, overwhelming desire to yell out that he loved her.

He flopped back on his bed. He shared her foreboding. Her family had secreted him away from public scrutiny for three weeks. That couldn't continue without something going haywire, and though the evidence was skimpy, he was certain it had. Any man was entitled to only so many answered prayers and pure luck.

He felt empty of both.

 

Late in the evening, carrying a coal oil lantern, Magistrate Bainbridge entered Ty's room. The sight of his rigid face in the lantern's flickering wick meant he was there on what he deemed serious business. Ty knew deep in his heart that his life was about to change directions. At this juncture, it was a matter of how much, not how little.

The magistrate leaned over Ty. “We must move you to a safe location tonight. The Lebanon County Militia, the most misbegotten, foul-tempered, dim-witted, battle-leery bunch of nobodies, will commence a house-to-house search at dawn. This house will be high on their list. I made a big to-do about how they could start here if they liked, to throw them off the scent. By morning, with Dana's help, there'll be no sign you were in my house.”

The magistrate looked over his shoulder. “Lathrup, bring those clothes in here.”

A tall, lanky black male, with a seamed, kindly, intelligent face, appeared behind Cordell Bainbridge. Ty remembered he was Miss Lydia's husband. Lathrup was toting a pair of trousers, a pair of brogans, and a large straw hat.

The magistrate pulled the covering blanket from Ty. “Time to be up and about, Corporal. Lathrup will help you dress. Ben Jack and I will harness the buggy horses. Then Lathrup and Ben Jack will drive you to Dr. Gates's hospital in Pomeroy. Dana will pack cold food for your trip.”

Lathrup's arms were strong, and his grip gentle. He held Ty upright with one arm, while he used his free hand to help him don the trousers.

“Them shoes will fit, too,” Lathrup said. “They belonged to Mr. Franklin, the master's eldest. He was a big fellow like you.” Lathrup laced the flat-soled brogans for Ty, for which Ty was thankful, as bending over would imperil his balance.

Surprisingly, the pain was manageable and Ty's mood brightened. Maybe the coming buggy ride wasn't as lethal for him as he'd assumed.

A black male, the same size as Lathrup, joined them. Lathrup jammed the straw hat on Ty's head; and with Ty's arms draped over Lathrup's and Ben Jack's shoulders, they descended the rear steps without incident to the first floor.

Dana Bainbridge was waiting at the bottom of the stairs by the kitchen doorway. Had Ty's arms been free, he would have attempted to embrace her, told her he loved her, and kissed her good-bye. The fact that her father was watching within earshot and might have disapproved, or he might have had his face slapped for his troubles, wouldn't have hampered him in the least.

However, his arms weren't free; and as he passed her, he looked straight into her eyes, with all the yearning he could muster, and whispered, “Write to me in care of Boone Jordan, Elizabethtown, Kentucky.... Don't forget, Boone Jordan, Elizabethtown, Kentucky.”

D
eparting the Bainbridges' farm, Ty rode the entire night between Lathrup and Ben Jack on the cushioned seat of Magistrate Bainbridge's two-horse buggy, sleeping fitfully against their shoulders whenever the road smoothed out. Dana's basket of cold beef, cheese, and bread, washed down with a jug of springhouse buttermilk, kept their hunger at bay.

Unlike many Kentuckians, Ty had no problem sharing the same milk jug with his black companions. His grandfather had trained him that every man was to be judged by how he acquitted himself, not the color of his skin, a philosophy that had caused him considerable difficulty with his pro-slavery neighbors.

They passed not a soul on the moonlit road and reached Pomeroy with dawn light washing the rock face of the high ridge that paralleled the Ohio River behind the town. Dr. Gates's two-story residence/hospital was situated on the southwest corner of Mechanic and First Streets, within sight of the riverbank. Pomeroy's streets were virtually deserted at that hour. A Federal packet stern-wheeler, boilers huffing in preparation for an early departure, was moored at the public levee.

Lathrup and Ben Jack wasted no time tying the buggy team to an iron hitching post at street's edge and hustling Ty to the front steps. Once they were on the porch, Ty stood without assistance. At the sound of the bell and the door opening, Dr. Gates, clasping his satchel, stepped from the home's dining room and pulled its doors shut behind him. Both sets of parlor doors were also tightly closed.

“Good morning, Corporal, I've been expecting you. I received an encoded telegram from Cordell Bainbridge last evening.”

The Pomeroy physician nodded at Lathrup and Ben Jack. “Gentlemen, please help Corporal Mattson with the stairs. We'll put him in my private quarters up above so he's isolated from my other patients.”

Three weeks abed and his wounds had weakened Ty, yet he needed less help ascending the stairs than he anticipated. His pain had diminished to a dull, manageable throb. Except for the limp he would have to deal with—and he had no idea how bad it might be—if he suffered no setbacks, he was convinced a complete recovery was possible.

Ty's destination was an upstairs room that held a single bed, a night table with a coal oil lamp, dresser with commode, wash pan and water pitcher, and in the far corner, an iron bathtub with tall legs and claw-feet. A thunder mug protruded from beneath the wooden frame of the bed.

The bed linens and covering spread were the whitest of whites, indicating a recent washing and pressing. Dr. Gates had a true fetish for patient cleanliness, which fascinated Ty.

Lathrup and Ben Jack took their leave. At Dr. Gates's bidding, Ty disrobed for a full examination of his wounds, front and back. “Remarkable, one must never underestimate the resiliency of our early years. We'll forgo new bandages. You've scabbed over quite nicely.”

Ty was delighted with his prognosis. Collecting the old bandages, Dr. Gates stood and repacked his satchel. “I will have breakfast sent up,” the doctor said, “then Jarvis will fetch water for the tub. I trust you will indulge me, Corporal. It's good that you're not adverse to water. Many of my patients fear bathing more than they do smallpox and diphtheria.”

The Pomeroy physician withdrew before Ty could ask him how soon he might be turned over to the Federal authorities. Disappointed, he waited in his short drawers and shirt for breakfast. Twenty minutes later, a stubby, stoop-shouldered, white-bearded gnome of a man, moving with surprising quickness for his age, delivered a tray of poached eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, grits and milk in a bowl, bread, and freshly brewed coffee.

Jarvis patiently watched Ty savor every bite. “You
best
enjoy that,” the gnome said. “I hears dogs won't eat the slop they call food in the Yankee prison camps.”

When Ty finished his breakfast, Jarvis poured him a final cup of coffee, swept the tray from his lap, and said, “I'll be back with your bathwater afore you know it.”

The gnome made a believer of Ty. The door hardly seemed to close before he returned, carrying a bucket of steaming hot water in each hand. Numerous trips up and down the stairs were required to fill the big iron tub, but stubby Jarvis was up to the task, aided immensely, Ty decided, by his thick forearms and hands with knuckles the size of crab apples and palms the size of small cabbages.

The last two buckets contained cold water. Jarvis poured them into the tub and stuck his arm into the water up to the elbow. He flashed a satisfied smile and motioned a naked Ty into the tub.

Ty crossed the room, one careful step at a time, and climbed into the tub, left arm braced against the wall. The water was still very hot, but not hot enough to burn. Jarvis passed Ty a bar of brown soap and a thick-bristled brush for scrubbing. “I'll haul up the rinse water and towels whiles you wash.”

Ty soaped and scrubbed until his skin was raw red, except in the area of his scabbed wounds. He wondered as he made a last swipe of the brush how Jarvis was going to empty the tub for his dozen buckets were now full of rinse water and aligned beside the tub. Beckoning for Ty to stand, Jarvis reached into the water in front of him and his hand emerged with what Ty realized was a threaded drain plug. “The doctor man,” Jarvis explained, “saw this tub in Paris and he had to have one like it. A pipe under the tub drains the water out through a hole in the wall.”

The after-bath water was cold enough to provoke shivers and chattering teeth. Ty toweled off and, though he was short of breath for a few moments, climbed from the tub, walked to the bed, and donned his short drawers and shirt with little difficulty.

Wet towels looped over his shoulder, Jarvis stacked his buckets, one into the other, and backed out the door. “I'll bring you another meal this afternoon.”

Ty stretched out on the bed. He found he couldn't relax and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Was he ready to undertake a journey to a prison in an undisclosed location? He had better be. That decision was beyond his control, and he had a feeling Dr. Gates would make it before the end of the day.

A sense of loss and frustration descended on Ty like a smothering blanket. His life was less certain than it had been the evening he rode away from Boone Jordan's livery stable. He had found his father and then lost him to an assassin's bullet. He did not know if Lieutenant Shannon or any of the other raiders he had fought with were still alive.

Had his father's murderer survived Buffington Island? If he had, was there a chance Ty would share a Yankee prison with him? Ty was certain he'd recognize Jack Stedman's son, even at a distance. If by chance he was so fortunate, what could he do, if anything, to avenge his father stuck in a Yankee prison without a weapon?

Other questions ate at Ty equally hard. Supposing Dana Bainbridge did write to Boone Jordan. If personal letters were taboo in Yankee prisons, how could Ty inform Boone where he was to start written communication with Dana?

And though perhaps of lesser importance in the eyes of some, but not Ty's, what had happened to Reb? Had the big gray gelding been killed, or was he in the hands of the blue bellies? Ty had bonded with Reb, as cavalrymen were prone to do with their mounts. Losing the big gray was akin to parting with a cherished friend.

Ty had never felt so alone and helpless. He gripped the edges of the feather mattress to keep from shedding useless tears. Hard as it was to swallow, there were equally mean days ahead of him. What little he had heard about Yankee prison camps was enough to impress upon him the fact that he could possibly be in as much danger there as he'd been on the battlefield. Ty remembered Professor Ackerman's lesson that the hatred of the victor often leeched from the battlefield into their prison camps, where unarmed enemy soldiers were frequently treated with the harshness shown head lice.

He reminded himself, as he had a thousand times before, that he needed to gather his wits together and be the man his father was. Owen Mattson wouldn't fall prey to his weaknesses because things hadn't gone his way, not as long as he could still fend for himself.

Ty had his father's blood. He was, and would always be, first and foremost a Mattson. His grandfather had stressed that the family name stood for honor, trust, and courage. Cowardice and fear did not abide beneath the Mattson roof and Ty vowed aloud that he would not be the Mattson who held the door open for them.

Ty drew enough strength from that vow to hold his fears at arm's length long enough for him to drift into a much-needed, deep, restful slumber.

Dr. Gates and Jarvis awakened Ty, who was amazed at how long he had slept, in the early evening. They brought with them a meal of fried pork, cheese, corn bread, and coffee. It was solid fare, though Ty sorely missed the creamy taste of Miss Lydia's cinnamon-dusted custard.

Once the dinner tray was situated on Ty's lap, Dr. Gates allowed him to enjoy a few bites, and then said, “The Federal authorities will be here at six in the morning, sharp. You will travel to Cincinnati on the morning packet boat.”

The Pomeroy physician allowed Ty a minute to absorb his news. “I don't know where you're bound after that.” Dr. Gates swallowed hard. “Corporal, I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. I recommended that you be paroled because of your wounds and the future difficulties you might have with that leg. Unfortunately, General Burnside's headquarters refused to parole you. Quite frankly, I believe the Union boys are still furious at themselves for not catching your General Morgan sooner. Leniency is mighty scarce for those that raised Cain with him.”

Parole had not entered Ty's mind. He had no trouble grasping the blue bellies' overwhelming anger at how arrogantly the raiders had led then on a merry chase across three states. It was their hateful, revenge-seeking attitude that frightened him the most.

“I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, Doctor. I was aware soon after I joined General Morgan's forces that my service with him might be brief and come to a bad end.”

Ty sighed. “Like my grandmother said, ‘Life's twists and turns may not suit us, but it's up to us to weather the storm.'”

Dr. Gates extended his hand. “I must tend to my other patients. You may be our enemy, but you're a fine young man. I wish you the best. Who knows,” the doctor continued with a sly grin as he and Ty shook hands, “maybe you'll pay Dana Bainbridge a visit when this miserable war is over. If you do, I'd give anything to witness the shock on old Cordell's face.”

Dr. Gates's wry comment left Ty wondering what Magistrate Bainbridge would think of Ty courting his daughter from afar, which he hadn't considered before. Would he permit her to write to him?

Ty supposed there was a goodly chance Cordell Bainbridge would not tolerate Dana corresponding with a Rebel imprisoned by the blue-belly army, whose cause he fervently supported. But she had seemed adept at dealing with her stubborn, headstrong father.

After Jarvis disappeared with the supper tray, Ty whiled away the hours by daydreaming about Dana Bainbridge. Perhaps without meaning to, she had hooked Ty as deeply as Keena McVey had his father. He saw her again in detail as if she were before him—the tiny cleft in her chin, the delicate curve of her ears, the daisy-shaped blemish on the back of her left hand—for no feature of hers had escaped his notice.

It fascinated him that he could recall word for word every conversation with her. He had detected nothing then or now that indicated a lack of interest in him on her part. He believed her affection for him was sincere and honest and not motivated by pity and kindness.

He must have her. And to that end, he would pursue her by whatever means he could devise until his chances with her were dead-flat impossible, willing to risk suffering a broken heart to the grave.

 

He dozed off and dreamed near dawn that he was on his knees asking Cordell Bainbridge for his daughter's hand in matrimony. The magistrate was poised to answer, when bare knuckles beat a rapid tattoo on the door of his room, which boomed through the entire dwelling.

The handle turned and the door flew open. A blue-uniformed Union infantryman, armed with a bayoneted rifle, marched into the room and halted a few paces from a bewildered Ty. The footslogger was blunt at shoulder and hip and built rock solid. His eyes were the feral yellow found in mongrel cats; his nose was bulbous, red-veined, crusted, and dripping; his mouth rivaled that of the baboon. His neatly trimmed auburn beard hung to the middle of his full-muscled chest. Ty couldn't detect an ounce of fat on him anywhere.

The Yankee soldier came to attention and announced, “Lieutenant Sheldon Foote, Company B, Sixteenth Regiment, United States Infantry. Rebel name on my orders reads Ty Mattson. Would you be him?”

Ty swung his legs over the side of the bed, rocked his body, and then stood. He swallowed to steady his voice and said, “Yes, sir, I am.”