Raiding With Morgan (7 page)

Ty was ecstatic. All in the same day, he'd looked the elephant in the eye, found his long-missing father, and been invited to a meeting with General Morgan that might enable him to enlist with the raiders.

He'd never been happier in his whole life.

T
he raiders rode within sixteen miles of their next objective, Salem, Indiana, by late afternoon and went into camp with two encircling lines of pickets. Cooking fires were soon ablaze for hungry troopers who had gulped whatever food they could scarf up while on the move throughout the day.

Ty discovered that he was hungry, despite the big hotel meal in Corydon. When E.J. Pursley saw an opportunity to fill bellies, he seized it. Under his direction, his mess had absconded with cakes, candy, and peanuts from a Corydon confectioner; they took bacon, ham, and cheese from a Corydon grocer, and fresh eggs and root cellar potatoes from empty farmsteads. He served his feast from three skillets on two fires, designating Ebb White a temporary cook.

Their horses watered, fed, curried, and tethered, Ty and his father ate their fill with the others, hedging against the usual lack of vittles that occurred during a lightning-fast cavalry raid. Then they retired to the edge of the firelight, where their horses were picketed. They sat on gum ponchos draped over their grounded saddles.

“Boone Jordan's gray held under fire, did he?”

“Yes, sir. He wouldn't be left behind. Mr. Jordan didn't mention Reb was cavalry trained and he caught me by surprise.”

“I'm just glad you weren't hurt,” Owen Mattson said, patting his son on the knee.

Aware his presence was so new to his son that Ty might dissolve into a bundle of nerves trying to sustain a conversation, the elder Mattson said, “Ty, maybe it would help us get acquainted faster if I told you my history with your mother and your grandparents. Then you can ask any questions you like. That all right by you?”

A relieved Ty sighed and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Son, I love your grandfather, always have and always will. He taught me right from wrong with no in between. He provided me the same wonderful book and practical education he did you. He introduced me to horses and taught me how to breed, train, and care for them. We never exchanged a contrary word.

“On my twenty-fifth birthday, he sent me across the ocean to buy horses of Arabian blood in deserts where horse racing is king. On my journey, I met explorers, sheiks, and soldiers of fortune, who had fought in wars on four continents. I encountered a world where no two days were the same, where life was chancy and dangerous, where the enemy might be the next person you met, as every male bore arms.

“When I returned home to Elizabethtown, I wasn't the same man who'd left thirty months earlier. I realized a life in which each day is planned in detail had no appeal for me. I craved the danger and uncertainly of living amongst the horse-loving sheiks that inhabit deserts and fortresses as old as time itself. There I was the outsider who had to prove his worth every minute of every day. It was like drinking fine wine from a glass with no bottom.

“Ty, your grandfather is a hidebound but loving parent. I was restless and bored and stayed over once too often to bet on the races after a horse-selling trip to Louisville. Enoch Mattson breeds, trains, and sells horses, and follows the results at the racing tracks, but he is too Baptist to race or bet on them personally. He took exception to his son engaging regularly in what he deemed sinful behavior and threatened to disown me.

“That's what started the serious trouble between us. I resented his having the gall to tell a grown son what he could or could not do. Your grandmother tried to smooth things over. Your grandfather refused to talk to her, and the three of us went weeks without speaking at the supper table.”

Owen Mattson sipped water from a canteen, spat, and offered Ty a drink. Ty was immersed in his father's story and nearly choked on a single swallow. He cleared his throat and nodded he was okay.

“It was my love for your mother that brought everything to a head,” Owen Mattson said. “Your mother was a red-haired, bewitching, high-strung girl. I fell in love with my first glimpse of Keena McVey at her father's Louisville tavern and boardinghouse. Bran McVey's Iron Gate was the favorite gathering place for horse owners, horse lovers, jockeys, and those anxious to learn the favorites for upcoming races. When she was six years old, Keena lost her mother to fever, and Bran McVey didn't remarry. He saw that Keena never knew want. He enrolled her in the Louisville Female Academy and insisted that she graduate. Your mother always said the most enjoyable moments she spent with her well-to-do, snobby classmates in three years was her piano lessons in a private room.

“After her graduation, Bran McVey tried his best to make a schoolteacher of his daughter. Your mother refused. After three years of boredom at a female academy, a schoolroom offered the same dull bill of fare to a tavern rat like Keena McVey. She ragged on her father until he agreed to take her aboard as a partner in the Iron Gate. It was a decision he never regretted. He was soon bragging that his daughter was the belle of the Louisville racing scene. Horsemen and their wealthy guests, knowing the Iron Gate respected proper decorum, came from far and wide to listen to Keena McVey play the piano and partake of the most famous menu in the city. Your mother and her servers were treated as ladies and nothing less, without exception, or you were shown the back alley—same as any customer who overimbibed. The Iron Gate was the place to be seen in Louisville.”

Owen Mattson sipped more water. Ty was sorry for the brief delay. “I was searching for a table the last night of racing season and, by sheer chance, met your mother face-to-face. I'd observed her from a distance, and not being acquainted with anybody close to her, circumstances didn't arise that would allow me to meet her properly. Our coming together by chance in the middle of the crowd that evening probably wasn't what some called ‘proper,' but I looked into Keena McVey's violet eyes and sparks flew both ways, burning a hole in my soul.

“She treated me to a smile that melted my heart and curled my toes. I wasn't going to miss my chance. I sucked up my courage, bowed at the waist, and proclaimed, ‘Miss Keena McVey, you're the most beautiful lady in God's realm.' Her response was what every man longs for in his dreams. ‘And you're Owen Mattson, of Elizabethtown. You're respected for your knowledge of horses, Mr. Mattson, and not many men are built like you or look like you. You are a man I've asked about and wanted to meet, without appearing too forward.'

“Ty, your grandmother was prone to say certain things were meant to be. Your mother and I talked until dawn, after the Iron Gate closed. In a mere month, I was asking her father for her hand in marriage. Bran McVey trusted his daughter's judgment and gave us his blessing.

“I never lied to your grandparents. Your grandfather was livid when I told him of my pending marriage to the daughter of a tavern owner. Keena's education, her musical talents, the fact she was co-owner of a respected Louisville business establishment, frequented by the governor of Kentucky, fell on deaf ears. Enoch Mattson refused to admit anyone to his home associated with the serving of alcoholic spirits, the same as he threatened to bar a son who imbibed and gambled.”

Ty watched a grim sadness wash over his father's face. “His reaction didn't surprise me. Your grandmother was weeping, and it near tore my guts apart that if I married Keena McVey, I'd most likely not see either of them again unless it was your grandmother on the sly. Lord, how she would have loved your mother's high spirits and her music.

“I left that stone wall of silence behind me for good. Bran McVey had always wanted to own racehorses. He provided the money and I provided the horse knowledge. We bought a farm, south of Louisville, and established Iron Gate Stables. That fall, your mother became pregnant with you. It was a happy, busy time for us. Then came the war with Mexico. Your mother was familiar with my adventures in the Arabian Desert. She understood my restless nature, and that nothing would keep me from fighting for God and country. I enlisted with John Hunt Morgan's cavalry unit in Lexington and headed west. I wasn't worried about leaving your mother in her condition. I had faith in Bran McVey to care for the two of you until I returned.

“But as they will, things went awry while I was off glory seeking. Your mother died giving birth. It was weeks before I learned that. I couldn't desert the army, and Bran McVey was now in full charge of you, so I wasn't terribly worried about your welfare. The situation quickly took a second turn for the worse. One afternoon, Bran's buggy horse ran wild as he drove to Iron Gate Stables. The buggy crashed into a fence post and Bran was killed.

“Bran's sole living relative was his brother, Dagon. By Bran's will, Dagon inherited a one-third interest in everything his brother owned. Dagon managed the taproom at the Iron Gate. He had a wild eye and a loose wallet. He did make one good decision. Being a bachelor who liked the ladies his brother wouldn't admit to the Iron Gate, he had no intention of assuming responsibility for a child not yet a year old. He hired a wet nurse and together they traveled to your grandfather's farm.

“According to your grandmother's letter, it must have been a onetime occurrence, never to be repeated. Dagon banged on the front door with that big brass knocker Mother loved to hear announce guests. Your grandfather answered the door. Without any exchange of greetings, Dagon set your bassinet on the stoop and told an astonished Enoch Mattson, ‘Here's your grandson, Tyler Owen Mattson. His mother's dead and his father's in Texas, killing stinking Mexicans. You raise him. I don't have the time or the interest.' And with that, he climbed into his buggy and whipped his horse down the lane, fearing your grandfather might fetch a gun and shoot him.”

Ty was brimming with questions. “What happened after Dagon left?”

“Well, for certain, your grandfather's bobber had gone under. An upstanding Baptist elder didn't dare shun his own blood. He could disown a straying son, but renouncing a helpless infant would subject him to public scorn. That's a fate worse than death for a hard-shell believer.”

The cooking fires were smoldering embers and General Morgan was expecting them. Ty hurriedly asked, “What became of Dagon McVey?”

“I hired a friend, a Louisville lawyer, to investigate the status of Bran McVey's holdings after Bran's death. By Bran's will, I wasn't given a stake in them. Your mother was granted the other two-thirds interest, not held by Dagon. Upon her father's death, that portion passed to you. Bran's faith in his brother was misplaced. Soon as Dagon had control of a substantial sum of money, gambling became his prime interest. Unfortunately, he was a poor judge of horseflesh and a sucker for a hot tip from hangers-on, who knew even less. His debts totaled in the thousands after a single racing season. He ducked his creditors for a while, but those he owed grew tired of his excuses and came calling with drawn pistols.

“That's when the money-grubbing leeches grabbed control of the Iron Gate. They cut the spirits with water and cheapened the food, wanting to gain a quick, fat purse. Without the draw of Keena's piano, Bran McVey's charm, and the superb menu, the quality people drifted away. The end wasn't pretty. Bran McVey's assets—the tavern, the farm, and the horses—sold at sheriff's sale for far less than what they were worth. Dagon was found severed in half on the L and N Railroad tracks. The authorities ruled his death a suicide. Given the ruthless bunch of scalawags he dealt with, I believe he had help.”

Lieutenant Shannon approached Ty and his father with a tin cup in each hand. “Coffee laced with Corydon's best brandy,” he said, “courtesy of E.J.'s private stash. It's time, Captain. General Morgan's messenger said he's ready for us.”

Accepting the offer of coffee and brandy, Owen Mattson said, “Give us a couple of more minutes, Shawn.”

Ty found E.J.'s mixture quite tasty. His ears perked anew when his father said, “Ty, I had good reasons for staying in Texas after the war. It wasn't that I didn't want to claim you or raise you. With Dagon's demise and the loss of the McVey fortune, I decided the safest and best place for you was with your grandparents. I was a poor ex-soldier in a Texas known for its Comanche, cattle rustlers, horse thieves, outlaws, and cutthroats. I rode with the Rangers and arrested or killed all of their kind at one time or another. My knowledge of horses gained me partnerships in a cattle ranch and a freighting company. We lost the ranch to rustlers, twisters, and droughts, and the freighting outfit to renegades with red, brown, and white skins.”

Owen Mattson drained his cup and stood. Ty did the same. “Ty, Texas is more dangerous than the Arabian Desert for a stripling with no mother and a footloose father with empty pockets. Trust me, I haven't liked being separated from you all these years. You know your grandfather as well as anybody. If you live with him, it has to be on his terms. I can't, so I stayed away.”

Owen Mattson's smile was a mile wide. “Maybe it will all work out. I suspect your grandfather reared a son for me that I'll be proud of when this campaign is over. Now, before we try our general's patience, let's see what he has in store for you. Just be prepared for anything. John Hunt Morgan is a very resourceful military officer.”

Ty tried to keep his mind clear during their walk to General Morgan's tent. It was nearly impossible. Questions that had kept him awake many sleepless nights and questions that wouldn't have dawned on him to ask had been answered in one conversation with his previously missing father. It would take a while to come to grips with all he had learned.

His father had gained in stature in his eyes. Owen Mattson was not afraid to put forth the truth. He hadn't asked Ty to forgive him for skipping his son's life until today. And Ty hadn't expected he would.

The past was the past. Whatever future he shared with his father commenced with Captain Owen Mattson's wish to have a son he could be proud of when General Morgan's great raid was over. If Ty wanted his father's respect, he must earn it. That's how it worked with the descendants of Enoch Mattson. Nothing was free. It was a hard road to travel. Ty knew in his heart that he preferred that path to anything else.