Raiding With Morgan (6 page)

Instigated by Colonel Morgan, the cry of “Buglers, blow ‘Charge!' ” sounded clarion clear, a fateful command that unraveled the peaceful, hot, sun-bright morning with brain-numbing speed.

Ty was in the extreme rear, per Lieutenant Shannon's orders, with every honest intention of remaining there. He was standing in the stirrups for a better view of the barricaded militia when bugles echoed in the valley; the front line of troopers broke into a gallop and Reb lunged ahead without any warning. Nearly unseated, he grasped the saddle horn with both hands, giving Reb a free rein. In five strides, the gray gelding was running at a full gallop and Ty was charging the enemy, orders be damned.

He sawed on the reins, but Reb had the bit in his teeth, determined to catch his hoofed cohorts. Ty's initial fear ebbed and he carefully drew his Remington, fingers locked on its walnut grips. Clods of dirt torn loose by the racing animals in front of him peppered his face and eyes, and he dropped beside Reb's neck. Under the same earthen assault, Reb didn't falter. Boone Jordan hadn't told Ty about Reb's whole history, but the horse surely had been a cavalry mount in the past.

Ty was suddenly spurring Reb, completely immersed in a reckless, dangerous, and spontaneous undertaking that might cost him his life any second. Screeching rebel yells rose from the ranks of the raiders. Ty drew breath into lungs starved by excitement and joined them.

Lancing flame erupted the length of the barricade blocking the road; wisely, the home guard had waited until the onrushing enemy was virtually in their laps before firing their first volley. At close range, the barricade seemed too high for a jumping horse to clear. Not a single raider tugged on his reins.

Ty watched leaping horses fall short, smash into the breastworks, and slew sideways in a mass of thrashing hoofs and flailing human arms and legs as their riders struggled to avoid the crushing impact of a nearly two-thousand-pound animal. Other horses cleared the barricade without difficulty, their riders firing downward at defiant militia while in the air.

Ty sensed Reb gathering his legs beneath him; then the big gray soared upward. He leaned forward, too busy maintaining his seat in the saddle to search for targets beneath the gray's belly. Reb's rear hoof clipped the top rail of the barricade. They landed with Ty still in the saddle and galloped onward through terrified home guards desperate to avoid Reb's iron shoes.

The scurrying crowd bumped into each other, and the gathering crush of bodies slowed Reb to a walk. Fingers trying to drag Ty from the saddle clutched his sleeves and pants leg. Realizing he would quickly be overwhelmed on the ground, Ty fired a bullet into the crowd and wheeled Reb on his rear legs, scattering home guards like windblown leaves.

A coal-black gelding cut in front of Reb, his rider's huge nine-round LeMat pistols shooting left and right simultaneously. Somehow Lieutenant Shannon's shout was louder than the roar of guns. “They're blowing ‘Recall.' Follow me.”

The killing whirlwind on horseback cleaved a clear path to the home guard barricade. Ty was so anxious to escape capture, he even forgot his Remington contained four live rounds. There was no hoof clipping of the top rail this jump.

Hunched low in the saddle to present the smallest possible target, Ty and Shawn Shannon maintained a full gallop until they were beyond rifle range.

Now that the excitement and uproar had ended, the danger was past, and they were safe, Ty was shaking all over.

“Well, lad,” Lieutenant Shannon called out, grinning. “You've looked the elephant in the eye. Right big, ain't he?”

T
y's adventures wielding a pistol were finished for the day.

General Morgan arrived and agreed with Colonel Johnson, of the Second Brigade, that the Corydon breastworks were too high and too well defended for mounted cavalry to breach. The resulting strategy was the encirclement of both flanks of the barricade, while an on-foot frontal assault, supported by two howitzers, occupied its defenders.

At Lieutenant Shannon's suggestion, an intrigued General Morgan agreed to Ty serving as his “eyes” from the low hill overlooking the battlefield. Ty had stopped shaking from his close brush with death and looked forward without any qualms to watching the conclusion of the battle from safer ground. A hero he was not.

The home guard center repulsed two charges by dismounted raiders before they wilted under heavy cannon and small-arms fire and their flanks collapsed. Realizing their situation was hopeless, the green militia enlistees panicked and fled, discarding weapons, accouterments, and any other possession that might hinder their hasty departure. Ty cheered with General Morgan and the general's fellow officers at the sight of so many Indiana citizens in full flight.

After a quick reconnaissance of the battlefield by their subordinates, Colonels Duke and Johnson informed General Morgan that preliminary counts, yet to be confirmed, indicated raider losses of eight killed and thirty-three wounded and the taking of 340 prisoners. The front lines of the raiders were at that moment in hot pursuit of the retreating enemy not already under guard.

“Gentlemen, mount up,” General Morgan said. “We have a town to subdue, prisoners to parole, and dinner to find.”

The subduing of Corydon proved a minor affair. With the field secured, a Parrott gun battery was established within easy range of the town. Two shells were fired. One was a dud. Ty saw the second explode in the center of town's main street. He didn't discern any real damage for General Morgan, but the single explosion was sufficient. Colonel Lewis Jordan, of the Indiana Legion, hoisted a white flag and surrendered the town.

The first pubic building spotted by the raiders, a small Presbyterian church, was converted to a field hospital for the wounded. The Confederate dead were placed beneath white sheets in the church's fenced yard. Prisoners being excess baggage for Morgan's rapidly invading command, home guard captives were herded into lines at the limestone courthouse for paroling without arms.

Shouts of indignation on the part of Corydon citizens attracted Ty's attention. Raiders were helping themselves to horses and emerging from retail establishments carrying pants, shirts, boots, and hats by the armfuls, with the complaining sellers dogging their heels. Four Indiana merchants stepped in front of Glencoe and confronted General Morgan.

A florid-faced older male in a black suit, starched snow-white shirt, and red string tie spoke for the four of them. “By what right do your men take what they want and offer worthless Richmond greenbacks or no payment at all in return?”

General Morgan stood in his stirrups and pointed to the hundreds of troopers occupying the town's entire center. “They, sir,” he said, “are my authority.”

Dropping back into the saddle, General Morgan said, “And what might your name be, sir?”

“Urea Haggy, sir.”

“What's your position in this community, Mr. Haggy?”

Skeletal chest puffed, voice dripping with pride, Urea Haggy said, “I'm Corydon's sole banker.”

“How fortunate, Mr. Haggy. You are the proper person to carry our demand to your fellow businessmen. My scouts reported there are three gristmills in the Corydon area. It is one o'clock by your courthouse clock. The ransom for each mill is one thousand dollars to be paid by two o'clock. If the monies aren't forthcoming to the minute, we will burn the mills. Understood?”

“But those mills are no threat to you or your men,” the outraged Haggy protested vehemently.

“Banker Haggy, you Northerners have enjoyed a full belly and full larder far from the fighting. But the bloom is off the stem. Henceforth, we will provision ourselves from your rich land. Every horse, mill, bridge, trestle, depot, telegraph wire, Federal greenback, morsel of food, and ton of forage are now fair game. We will allow you to experience—as we Southerners have—the harsh bite and deprivation of conflict.”

Peering about, General Morgan located his adjutant. “Lieutenant Hardesty, where are we dining?”

“The Eagle Hotel, sir. First-class fare, according to the locals.”

Focusing his icy glare on the Corydon merchants again, General Morgan said, “That's where you may bring the ransom. One hour, gentlemen, one hour.” His casual, dismissing wave infuriated Urea Haggy. The banker huffed and fumed; but aware any further protests would be of no avail, he shooed his companions toward a brick bank building across the crowded street, which displayed his name in gold-painted script on the front window.

With no specific orders, Ty reined Reb behind Glencoe and Lieutenant Shannon's black gelding. The gist of the general's lecturing of the Corydon citizenry stuck in Ty's craw, for it declared a major shift in tactics for his raiders.

Ty was better educated than some of General Morgan's officers. Grandfather Mattson had an extensive library and the Cincinnati, Louisville, and Lexington newspapers were delivered weekly to the family manse at his grandfather's expense. From the time Ty was twelve years old, his grandfather had insisted that Ty read and digest the papers' contents and be prepared to discuss them at dinner and in the evening hours before bed. Their discussions ranged from the selling prices of Thoroughbreds in the three cities to the seasonal status of the hemp and grain market.

With the advent of the conflict between North and South, the war became a daily topic for the grandfather and grandson. Ty learned early on that Grandfather Mattson believed guerrilla warfare behind established lines of defense was an abomination and violation of the proper conduct of war. To him, General John Hunt Morgan and his raiders were loathsome; they were an affront to decency, deserving nothing but the lynching rope.

Though he didn't dare admit it openly, Ty admired the exciting and daring General Morgan. He could hardly wait for the details of Morgan's latest venture behind enemy lines. He frequently met his grandfather's courier at the bottom of the lane.

Ty didn't sway Grandfather Mattson's opinion whatsoever when he read to him how Morgan's troopers respected civil property and didn't result to horse stealing or general thievery. They destroyed warehouses containing military stores, depots, telegraph poles, railroad trestles and rolling stock, tore up iron rails and burned wooden ties, and misdirected troop trains with fake telegraphic messages—military tactics designed to disrupt the Union's means of communication, reinforcement, transportation, and supply. Unless they armed themselves and joined the home guards or local militia and stepped into General Morgan's path, civilians were in little danger of harm.

But as Ty had heard just minutes ago, those tactics had undergone a major transformation with the raiders crossing of the Ohio River into Indiana. Horse thievery, ransom for money, looting, and mill burning were now permissible with the blessing of General John Hunt Morgan himself.

Much as Ty wanted to succeed as a soldier and not embarrass his father, the thought of what was in store for the peaceful countryside of Indiana and Ohio made him shudder.

 

The fare of the Eagle Hotel, if not “first class,” a term new to Ty, was certainly belly-filling and tasty. The hotel owner—gray-haired, big-nosed, bull-necked, wearing a stained white apron tied off at the waist—refused to serve uninvited and what would be nonpaying guests, according to the rumors Ty was hearing.

“George Kintner feeds only those welcome at his tables. I leave you to my daughter. Sallie may do as she wishes,” the hotel owner said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Sallie Kintner was a yellow-haired, charming gal in her early twenties. She pooh-poohed her father's rude exit and announced, ”Dinner is served.”

The kitchen door swung open and waiters appeared with platters of roasted beef and fried chicken, large bowls of boiled potatoes and pole beans, and smaller dishes of cove oysters, maize pudding, and sliced cheese. An abundant supply of freshly baked bread, butter, and beef-dripping gravy, along with pots of black coffee and pitchers of milk, reached the table next. Twelve hungry males ate as if they hadn't tasted food for a year of Sundays.

General Morgan was his usual warm, engaging self after the ice-veined confrontation with Urea Haggy. He soon learned that Sallie and her father were originally from Virginia, and Sallie was not totally hostile to the Confederate cause.

Charmed by John Morgan's openness, Sallie Kintner served him an Eagle Hotel delicacy: mint-flavored pudding with dried apples. “I certainly hope you fare better than General Lee and your soldiers at Vicksburg.”

“How do you mean that, my dear girl?”

Sallie hesitated, and then said, “Oh, my, you haven't heard. General Lee has been defeated at Gettysburg, and the Confederate Army besieged at Vicksburg surrendered to General Grant.”

“Are you sure of what you say, young lady?”

Placing her coffeepot on a nearby sideboard, Sallie walked to the hotel lobby and returned with the latest editions of the
Indianapolis Star
and the
Corydon Weekly Democrat.
One glance at the headlines and dispatches from the Union War Department confirmed her truthfulness.

The instantaneous change in General John Hunt Morgan's demeanor astonished onlookers. His eyes clouded and the corners of his mouth tightened. His crestfallen, mournful expression revealed a side of their commanding officer that his staff had not been permitted to see.

Their superior sat silently for a long minute. Straightening his shoulders, he gathered himself and perused every single face in the room. “Gentlemen, this is news we prayed we'd never receive. The righteous cause so dear to our hearts has suffered a serious blow. But make no mistake, that cause is not yet hopeless. It falls to us to do our duty and force our enemy to commit as many soldiers and militia to forestalling our campaign as possible. We must terrorize and frighten the populace into demanding our capture—a clamor so loud it reaches President Lincoln's desk. The longer we force the enemy's attention on us, the more time our beloved country has to regroup and prepare for future battles. Are you with me?”

The depressed atmosphere of the room vanished. Chins lifted, backbones stiffened, jaws jutted, and heads nodded, including Ty's. Morgan's key men, thanks to the persuasive power of their leader, were able to set aside the bad news for now. They were full-bellied and eager for the saddle once more.

“Fellow officers, I believe that speech deserves a round of applause.”

Heads swiveled and there in the dining-room doorway stood the parent Ty was seeking. Captain Owen Mattson initiated the applause as he walked straight to Ty's table.

“Good afternoon, son,” Owen Mattson said, extending his hand. “You must be Ty. You were riding Boone Jordan's gray gelding, with that black splotch on his face, at the Brandenburg Wharf—and you're the only other redhead in the room.”

Ty was taken aback. He'd often thought what might happen when he caught up with his father. How would they be introduced? What would they say in greeting each other? Would his father know him for certain?

His father's simple greeting and offering of his hand answered those questions with such lightning speed that Ty had to swallow hard to free his tongue. Remembering his grandfather's dictum that no Mattson tendered any man a limp wrist, he secured a good grip on his father's palm and matched his strength. “Hello, Father.”

Owen Mattson's warm smile told Ty he was pleased with his son's handshake. Ty was thrilled that they seemed to be starting off on the right foot. He had a thousand questions to ask, but none would come to mind. He was so excited.

His father filled the void. “I understand, Lieutenant Shannon, that you took my son to meet the elephant this morning.”

Unsure whether or not his best friend approved of his untrained son being part of a cavalry charge under fire, Shawn Shannon was quick to answer. “He was safely in the rear, Owen, and that horse of Boone Jordan's grabbed the bit on him. He done fine, though, once we were in the thick of it.”

The conversation so important to Ty was interrupted by the abrupt appearance of hard-breathing Urea Haggy with two tin boxes. The entire room watched with considerable interest as the banker, looking harried and distraught, bargained with General Morgan. As the haggling progressed and became contentious, the banker's normally florid face turned the deeper brick red of a bonfire. Eventually an agreement of $700 per mill, rather than $1,000, was reached. Urea Haggy's explosive, snorting sigh of relief told everyone present that was the exact amount in his tin boxes, and not a penny more. Morgan's laughing officers showed no mercy. Haggy was hooted out the door.

A grinning General Morgan was on his feet. The room stilled. “Gentlemen, to horse,” he ordered. “We have miles to ride yet today.”

The hotel emptied with a rush. The general's personal groom held the reins of Glencoe, Reb, Shawn Shannon's black gelding, and Owen Mattson's blaze-faced chestnut at the foot of the hotel's front porch. “They been groomed, watered, and fed per Captain Mattson's orders, General Morgan, sir,” the black youth said with a prideful smile.

Ty's respect for his father gained a notch. Amidst the tension of the raiders' occupation of Corydon and the luxury of a hotel's hot meal, his father had seen to their horses first. It was a lesson he would take to heart. If he wanted to be a real cavalryman like his father, Reb came first, before his belly and other needs.

Stepping aboard Glencoe, General Morgan said, “Captain Mattson, since the would-be Ty Mattson is with you and not in handcuffs, I assume you have claimed him for your own. Please bring him to my tent this evening and we'll discuss his future with my command.”