Spake As a Dragon (14 page)

“
Come on Jamie, now’s our
chance – let’s go. Jump from the wagon and run into the woods. If
we get separated go south. Just remember if you are facing the sun
in the morning head to your right.”

At the front of the wagon train, one
of the Confederates fighting the Yankees is a man whose name Luke
might not recognize – Sergeant Yancey Coker. He might not recognize
his name, but Luke’s family had a connection with this Coker
family. Yancey’s grandfather was Captain John Coker. The same John
Coker that was guarding the two heavy-laden wagons out of
Dahlonega, Georgia during the Revolutionary War – the same John
Coker that fought beside Luke’s grandfather Jacob Ingram at the
Battle of Scarburg Mill.

Sadly the two will never meet, Luke
hits the ground running, and Jamie still groggy follows, but isn’t
nearly as fast. One of the Yankee guards sees Luke scampering into
the woods beside the road, but he doesn’t have time to fire his
musket, Jamie wasn’t as fortunate. The guard draws a bead on Jamie,
cocks the hammer and fires. Luke stops in the tree line long enough
to see the bullet tearing through Jamie’s back and exiting above
his right armpit, killing him instantly. Luke turns from the bloody
scene, he knows there is no reason to go check on him, using the
same advice he had just given Jamie, he heads south.

A few wagons up in Robert’s wagon, one
of the prisoners lying on the floor comments, “Whosever is shootin’
at us must’ave stirred up a hive of bees, listen?”

“
Bees, the Devil,” says
Robert, “Those are bullets comin’ through our canvas. Keep your
head down!” The men in the wagon needed no encouragement they hug
the floor as though they are squeezing their long ago
sweethearts.

Robert thought of slipping out the
back of the wagon and trying to escape; however, with his wound in
his chest and the bullet gash on his head, he knew he had little,
if any, hope of making a successful escape. He lay on the floor of
the wagon listening to the ‘bees’ zing through the canvas cursing
his luck. Finally, the noise of the rifles began to abate, and the
wagon train began to move once again. He knew another rough day
slipping and sliding should bring Point Lookout mighty
close.

He is right. The next day around
mid-morning the wagons pull into Lookout Point. The men in the
wagons do not have to look outside to verify they had arrived –
they could tell by the smell! Most of the Rebs in the wagons have
been raised on farms – they have never smelled anything around
their barns that reeked as badly. One man remarked he always
thought his hog pen had a bad odor, he now believed his hog pen
smelled better.

Chapter
Nineteen

MORGAN’S
MAURAUDERS

Luke ventures into the woods a couple
of miles, sits down on a fallen tree and tries to plan his escape.
He tries hard to remember his geography he had learned while in
school. He knows the southern peninsula of Maryland is bounded on
the north by the Patuxent River and on the south by the Potomac
River. Luke figures it must be about ten miles to the Potomac. It
is late in the afternoon; if he can find a place to hide out
overnight he should be able to reach the river sometime tomorrow.
Once across the river, he will be back in the good old Confederate
States of America, the state of Virginia in particular. He believes
he can get to Richmond. From Richmond, he might work his way west
to the Shenandoah Valley. The Yankees have raided the Valley so
many times that the residents there hate the Yanks with a passion,
and will be very sympathetic to his plight. From the Valley of the
Shenandoah, it is only a couple of day’s journey to Knoxville, then
down to Chattanooga. From Chattanooga, he can easily continue south
to Huntsville, Alabama. Then to Albertville and home just up the
mountain.

It is sundown darkness is enveloping
the forest. Luke must find suitable shelter for the night. He finds
a large overturned oak with a massive trunk. From its looks, it had
not fallen too long ago. The truck and branches covered with leaves
will make a suitable place to slip under to bunk down for the
night. If he only had some food, he would be quite comfortable.
During his trek through the woods he ran across a place that,
obviously, had been used as a campsite by the Yankees a few days
earlier. He did not find any food, but he did uncover a powder horn
full of powder, a cartridge case with ten or twelve percussion caps
and a rifle with a broken stock and barrel. It appears a bullet or
a piece of shrapnel struck the barrel deforming it greatly. He
strikes the musket against a tree trunk breaking off the useless
barrel. All he wants is the trigger group with the percussion cap
nipples.

Luke places more branches around his
campsite creating a small hidden enclosure; he piles up a mound of
leaves for a bed. A few twigs and a couple of pieces of wood he has
readied himself the makings of a small campfire. He pours a small
amount of black powder under his pile of kindling places a
percussion cap on the nipple, holds it close to the black powder
and pulls the trigger. The flash sets the gun power afire, it in
turn sets the kindling ablaze. Perfect, now that he has a small
fire burning, the warmth from its glow makes him feels better
already.

Luke crawls into the pile of leaves
exhausted. In the distance, a couple of whip-poor-wills endlessly
chant back and forth to each other. Directly overhead the hooting
of a great horned owl lets the forest know he is alive and on
guard. Off in the wood’s far recesses the mournful cooing of a dove
is heard calling its mate. Luke listens to this wonderful symphony
of nature – they are free, and so is he. In a moment, he drifts off
into a peaceful, sound sleep.

It is still dark an hour or so before
sunup, but the northern mockingbird is already up mimicking every
bird it has ever heard. He is not the only one up this summer
morning - a man gently taps Luke on the forehead with a pistol’s
cold, steel barrel. Luke deep in sleep grunts and turns over. The
man gives Luke a swift kick to his hind side – this gets Luke’s
attention.

“
Getup,” the man demands.
“Who are you? And what are you doing out here in my
woods?”

Luke still half asleep cannot think of
a quick answer.

Poking Luke in the stomach with the
end of an Army revolver the man clearly annoyed repeats his
question, “Who are you I say?”

His head clearing, Luke replies, “Luke
Scarburg... Private Luke Scarburg recently of the Army of Northern
Virginia.”

“
You a Rebel, huh? What’s
you doin’ hidin’ under this here tree?”

Luke explained how he had participated
at Gettysburg with his brother and father. Both had been wounded or
killed. Luke told of being captured, put on a wagon train to Point
Lookout, Maryland. Attacked by a force of Confederates, escaped,
made his way through the woods, and until disturbed was enjoying a
restful sleep under this fine old oak tree.

The man, dressed in civilian clothes,
asks what is Luke’s plan of escape. Luke explains how he has
envisioned his path from Maryland to Alabama. He tells the unknown
fellow with the pistol how he is through with fightin’ and he is
heading home.

“
Why do you care? You’re a
civilian, why are you so concerned about where I am
headed?”

“
In reality, Private
Scarburg, I’m not a civilian. I’m Captain Benjamin James of General
John Hunt Morgan’s band of guerillas; we’re a clandestine
operation, and don’t use uniforms or visible rank.”

“
In other words, you all
are spies. If caught, you will be hung.”

“
No, hardly, we’re a
partisan force that operates legally behind the enemy lines. The
1862 the Partisan Patriot Act was passed by the Confederate
Congress authorized the formation of units like ours and gives us
legitimacy, which places us in a different category than the common
'bushwhacker.’ Allow me to comment on your escape – I don’t know
how you figure to make it across the Potomac, but let’s suppose you
find a way you will then be faced with the 20
^th
Massachusetts, the 10th New York and the 28th Ohio. They will be
between you and Richmond. If, by chance you make it to Richmond,
the trip to the Shenandoah will be over trails, there are no
passable roads that are not swarming with Yankees. You might make
it the rest of the way south, but your chances are very
slim.”

“
Well, that’s fine
Captain, but I have no idea where my old unit is and even if I did
I have no way to get to them. What am I supposed to do – I don’t
want to spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war
camp.”

The Captain replies, “Come with me to
our camp.”

“
I have no skills that you
could use Captain!”

“
You can shoot and ride a
horse can’t you?”

“
Well, yes, yes of course
I can do that.”

“
Then we can use you, come
on I will introduce you to General Morgan.”

Leaving Luke’s campsite, the Captain
and Luke ride double for a couple of miles through the thick
underbrush of the forest. After an hour or so Luke smells smoke
from a campfire, he can hear whinnying of horses and the muted talk
of men. Rounding a curve in the trail the Captain and Luke are
stopped by two sentinels, and allowed to pass. Luke is in the midst
of John Hunt Morgan’s camp. The white Army tents have been arranged
in a semi-circle – the Yankees have only one way in and one way
out. General Morgan’s tent is pitched in the center. Two guards are
posted on either side of the opening to his tent.

Dismounting Captain James barks orders
to the two sentries standing guard. “Arrest this man, he is a Union
spy. Tie him to that tree over yonder.”

“
Wait! Wait, I tell you I
am no spy...I am an escaped prisoner of war.”

As the guards grab Luke the Captain
says to Luke, “So, you thought I was buying all that hogwash talk
about you escaping and all...what do I look like, a
fool?”

“
No Sir,” said Luke, “all
I said was the honest truth.”

“
Sergeant,” the Captain
said, speaking to a soldier running up. “Assemble a firing squad,
we’ve got ourselves a Yankee spy.”

Luke is bodily dragged to a nearby
tree. His hands are lashed behind and five men with muskets stand
in a line about twenty paces to his front.

“
Do you require a
blindfold?” Questions the Captain.

“
No, but wait, wait you
are making a terrible mistake, I am not a spy.”

“
Men of the firing squad,
‘Make ready your weapons!”
The men raise their muskets, pull
the hammer in the ready position and wait for the order to
fire.

The Captain raised his sword high
above his head,
“Ready... aim...”

“
Wait,” said Luke, “I’m
telling you, I was with the 48
^th
Alabama Infantry. Hear
me! The 48
^th
Alabama! I am not a spy!”

A slightly built man steps to the
opening of the tent. He is dressed in a Confederate General’s
uniform. A long cavalry saber hangs from his waist, so long, if
fact, its end drags the ground. He is slightly bald, sports a
mustache and goatee. Luke figures him to be in his late thirties or
early forties. His steel grey eyes seem to pierce Luke through and
through.

“
Hold on! Did he say the
48
^th
Alabama?” The General asks. “Bring him to my
tent.”

Luke enters the commander’s
headquarters. General Morgan is sitting at his camp table writing.
Without looking up, he motions Luke to take a seat.

Placing his pen on the table, Morgan
stares at Luke. Luke remains sitting ramrod straight, at attention.
“So, I see by the absence of stripes on your sleeves you must be a
private, is that right son?” Before Luke can answer the General
continues, “You must not be much of a soldier or you would have
been promoted. Am I right?”

Again Luke can not answer, General
Morgan stands up and walks across to stand in front of Luke, “You a
deserter? A coward? Or are you a Yankee spy as the Captain says.
What’s your unit?”

The General hesitated after asking
these questions. Luke also arose and comes to attention, “No, no
Sir, I’m not a deserter, nor a coward, and I am certainly not a
spy. I belonged to the 48
^th
Alabama Infantry, or what is
left of them, I guess, and I fought in every battle they were
engaged in, up to and including Gettysburg.”

“
A yellow-hammer huh?
Alabama boy, then what you doing in my woods?”

“
Well Sir, you see I was
captured at Gettysburg and those blue-bellies were hauling us to
the prison at Point Lookout, Maryland. We were ambushed by a
sizeable force of Rebs, I saw my chance, took it and
escaped.”

“
Escaped you say? Where’d
you think you were goin’, back to Alabama?”

“
Sir, yes Sir, that was my
plan.”

“
Foolish lad...foolish.
You’d been lucky to get across the Potomac, much less get all the
way to Alabama. I know of what I speak, I was born in
Huntsville.”

John Hunt Morgan was born in
Huntsville, Alabama, the eldest of ten children of Calvin and
Henrietta (Hunt) Morgan. His father, Calvin Morgan, lost his
Huntsville home in 1831 when he was unable to pay the property
taxes following the failure of his pharmacy. The family then moved
to Lexington, where he would manage one of his father-in-law's
sprawling farms. In 1846, Morgan joined the Fraternal Order of
Freemasons, at Daviess Lodge #22.