Raiding With Morgan (14 page)

We have at last made Buffington Island. General Morgan's temporary headquarters is located in a large, two-story farmhouse one mile north of the village of Portland. A snore-scarred hush prevails throughout its rooms as I write in the wee hours of the morning. The men are fatigued, hollow of cheek and eye, tucked up from hunger and dispirited. We are lacking morale, gumption and ammunition. By the latest reports Captain Byrnes has but twenty rounds remaining per cannon. A sizable Yankee force is entrenched behind solid earthworks to our front beyond Portland. We know not how many blue-bellies will oppose us come dawn. We do know that they are in the vicinity in the thousands while we now number but sixteen hundred, six hundred troopers having been killed, captured or wounded since we crossed the Kentucky-Tennessee border. Our day of reckoning is upon us. We have led the enemy a merry chase, but the fox has been brought to bay, and that same enemy craves a full measure of revenge on his terms and on his ground. We will know our fate on the morrow, be it escape, death or imprisonment.

—Journal of Lieutenant Clinton J. Hardesty, Morgan's Confederate Cavalry, 19 July 1863

J
ust beyond the intersection of the Chester Road and a north-south road that ran the length of the narrow valley parallel to the Ohio, a lit lantern swung from side to side in the dark. “That's Captain Mattson's signal, General Morgan,” Lieutenant Hardesty said. “He has located temporary quarters for us.”

General Morgan's entourage continued on the Chester Road for forty yards and reined through the open gate of a wrought-iron fence. The farmhouse at the end of the graveled, buggy-wide lane was a towering black shadow. One by one, coal oil lamps responded to the touch of wooden matches and sprang to life, illuminating the first floor of the dwelling.

Owen Mattson met General Morgan as he stepped onto the home's front porch. “Owner's a tad up in arms, but without arms, sir,” Ty's father said, drawing a chuckle from his superior officer.

Lieutenant Shannon opened the front door from within the house. A bald, rotund, beardless, middle-aged male, starched white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, suspenders dangling at his waist, stepped into the center hallway from a formal living room and said in a near shout, “I am Magistrate Cordell Bainbridge, and I will not grant Rebel trash like you the use of my home as long as I draw breath!”

General Morgan removed his hat, bowed, introduced himself, and said, “Quite frankly, I would prefer to be elsewhere, Magistrate Bainbridge, but I have no choice but to intrude on your privacy. The hour is late and I need quarters and food for my staff officers. The necessities of war demand such, not gentleman John Hunt Morgan of Lexington, Kentucky. I pray our abrupt arrival did not frighten any female residing within your abode. May we enter?”

“Man can charm a rattlesnake,” Ebb White mumbled behind Ty.

Sure enough, being spoken to as one gentleman to another, not enemy to enemy, coupled with General Morgan's genuine concern for the emotional welfare of any female who might be hiding elsewhere in his home, squashed Magistrate Bainbridge's outburst. Bainbridge buttoned his shirt, looped his suspenders over his shoulders, and nodded decisively. “Sir, on those terms, I grant you the hospitality of my home for the night.”

Ty was certain the fact he was speaking with General John Hunt Morgan had played a major role in Magistrate Bainbridge's acceding to the general's wishes. Ty bet that for the balance of Bainbridge's days on earth, the mollified magistrate would tell the tale of this rare event in his life to anyone with a willing ear.

As Magistrate Bainbridge escorted General Morgan into his formal parlor, Lieutenant Shannon tugged at Ty's sleeve. “Womenfolk are in the kitchen. Old Box won't catch up to us for three hours, maybe more. Get them started preparing the general's supper. Wouldn't resist a bite myself.”

Ty headed down the center hallway of the Bainbridge home, noting the rich blue Brussels carpet, the diamond pattern of the silk wallpaper, etched glass of the coal oil chandelier, the large wall mirror, and the painted portrait of Magistrate Bainbridge hanging above a slim marble-topped table. Like his grandfather, Magistrate Bainbridge was a citizen of stature, power, and substance in the community of Portland, Ohio. Grandfather Mattson, however, was too strict in his thinking and lacked the necessary vanity to commission a self-portrait.

Twelve chairs surrounding a mahogany dining table, a sideboard, buffet, and china cabinet of the same polished wood, a mirror that covered half of a wall and a chandelier befitting a foreign prince graced the dining room in which Magistrate Bainbridge sustained his rotund waistline and hefty jowls.

The kitchen Ty sought was behind the dining room, accessible from both the dining space and the hallway via separate doors. A bone-tired, sleep-starved, hungry Ty didn't bother knocking on the hallway kitchen door. He swept it open and barged into the kitchen, smack into the enticing smells of roasting meat, boiling coffee, and baking pie, strawberry he was certain.

An assortment of pots, frying pans, cooking utensils, spices, and gourds hung from the ceiling over a large square, oilcloth-covered table in the center of the substantial kitchen. A cast-iron stove, with side-by-side ovens, covered the back wall. Opposite Ty was a large porcelain sink, with a sideboard supporting a hand pump for water. The third wall, outfitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves, served as the kitchen's pantry. Judging by the full larder of preserved fruits and vegetables, extensive stock of canned goods and the bursting flour and sugar bins that filled those shelves, until tonight the real war had truly been fought hundreds of miles from the Bainbridge home.

Two females occupied the kitchen. A handsome black woman, with gray hair, was slicing melon on the center table with a well-honed knife. What Ty judged a nicely shaped posterior, undoubtedly female, owing to the coal-black hair trailing above it, was bent over in front of the cast-iron cookstove. The owner of the nicely built rear and midnight tresses slid something from the oven, with mitt-protected hands, straightened, turned about, and nearly dropped her freshly baked pie upon sighting Ty. Eyes bluer than the brightest spring sky widened and pinned themselves on Ty's face. “You don't know enough to knock? Maybe you didn't have a mother with proper manners.”

Ty Mattson hadn't much experience with full-grown females, but minimal exposure to the fairer sex didn't hinder his ability to discern the beautiful from the pretty, the unusual from the ordinary. He was staring at the most beautiful and most unusual female he'd ever seen. A finely sculpted nose, firm chin, rounded cheekbones, and generous mouth—full lower lip trembling at the moment—fit perfectly with her sky-blue eyes and raven hair.

He understood her trepidation over confronting him so boldly in such a sharp tone. He remembered how he had looked in the hallway and dining-room mirrors: red-eyed, bearded, shirt filthy with caked road dust, trousers bullet torn at the knee, and a body stink strong enough to gag a maggot. He regretted his holstered revolver. He couldn't appear more dangerous if he tried.

Remembering his manners at last, he snatched his hat from his head, aware that his flame-red hair would be standing straight up in bunches and do nothing to soften his image. She had to think he'd stepped from the very depths of Hell, the realm inhabited by outlaw misfits and rabble-rousers.

“Corporal Ty Mattson, of Elizabethtown, Kentucky, ma'am,” Ty said, keeping his voice low and calm, not wanting his unnaturally deep voice to startle her all over again. “I apologize for scaring you. I'm afraid my hunger got the best of me.”

“You didn't scare me, Corporal. We've just never had an armed Rebel scoundrel storm into our kitchen before, have we, Lydia?”

“No, Miss Dana, never,” black Lydia said.

The name, elegant and easy on the ear, matched her beauty. There was nothing Ty wanted more in the whole world right then but to watch her and talk with her. But military discipline ruled. General Morgan's dinner had to come first.

Given the age of Cordell Bainbridge, Ty chanced that Dana was his daughter and not his wife. “Miss Bainbridge, your father has invited General Morgan and his staff to be his guests this evening and dine with him. Will you please serve them when you are ready?”

Dana Bainbridge placed her strawberry pie on the center table and removed her mittens. Fixing those sky blues on Ty once more, she said, “Your General Morgan must be quite diplomatic to wrest an invitation from my father without threatening him with a gun. He hates you Rebels with a passion.”

Ty was totally smitten with Dana Bainbridge. A warmth and longing swept through him that made his chest ache and tightened his throat. He knew instantly how his father had felt when he met Keena McVey and realized in a flash she was the woman for him. But unlike that first meeting of his parents, there was no sign the magistrate's daughter felt the same feelings for him whatsoever. She probably wanted the unshaven Rebel lout from Elizabethtown, Kentucky, out of her kitchen—jack quick—and who could blame her?

One important thing was in his favor. She hadn't corrected how he had addressed her. For what it might be worth, if by some remote chance he somehow found himself sharing her company later, she wasn't married.

“You are lucky, Corporal,” Miss Dana said. ”It is my father's custom to dine after the house cools in the evening. Lydia and I were just completing our final preparation. You may inform Father and your General Morgan that we will be ready to serve them in thirty minutes. Will there be other diners?”

Ty cleared his throat, swallowing instead of spitting, and said, “Yes, Colonels Duke and Johnson and Lieutenant Hardesty usually dine with him.”

“And where and what will you eat, Corporal Mattson?”

“With the cook's permission, scraps on the rear stoop, Miss Bainbridge,” Ty said with a grin.

Dana Bainbridge threw her head back and laughed. “I like a man with a sense of humor. We'll do better than that for you, Corporal. Now pass the word to my father. Make sure you inform father first. We don't want him thinking he's not in charge. He has enough pride for ten of you males. I prefer a quiet evening meal without the usual shouting and haranguing with our visitors about the merits of this godforsaken war.”

Ty was delighted. He was certain Dana Bainbridge was at least two years, if not three years, older than he; yet she had referred to him as a man, not a boy. Speculating about a relationship with her was undoubtedly a waste of time; but, then, weren't dreams free for the making?

“Corporal Mattson, you can't stare at me and tell my father about dinner all at once,” Dana Bainbridge said with a sweet smile, “unless, of course, you carry a miracle in your pocket.”

Face aflame, Ty fled the kitchen, angry with himself for lingering like a child with his mouth hanging open in awe of what his eyes were seeing, instead of paying attention to his soldierly duty.

As he expected, Magistrate Bainbridge was seated in the family parlor across the hallway from the kitchen, not in the formal parlor at the front of the house with General Morgan. The general was adamant about preventing enemy civilians from eavesdropping on his meetings with his highest-ranking officers. In fact, the sliding doors of the front parlor were closed.

Magistrate Bainbridge spied Ty in the hallway and laid his leather-bound book on a low table. “Yes, young man?”

“Sir, Miss Bainbridge would like you to inform General Morgan that dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

“I appreciate good manners and appropriate behavior, but in this unusual situation, it would be best if you delivered her message.”

Ty nodded and walked to the front parlor doors, knocked, and waited. His father slid the oak doors open gently and bid Ty to enter. Ty whispered the status of dinner to his father, who, in turn, quietly informed Lieutenant Hardesty without disrupting the ongoing conversation of General Morgan, Colonels Duke and Johnson, and Captain Byrnes.

“Gentlemen, I will not countenance an assault on the Yankee redoubt to open the ford for a night crossing,” General Morgan was saying. “We would be facing unfamiliar ground and we don't know the size and quality of the enemy. Our men are exhausted, and I fear that if we are repulsed, they may panic and create a situation beyond our control.”

“We could leave the baggage train, artillery, and the sick and wounded here and seek a ford upriver,” Colonel Johnson said.

General Morgan rejected Johnson's suggestion out of hand. “As I said at Chester, I would not abandon a single man. We will save all or lose all.”

“Your orders then, sir,” Colonel Duke said.

“Colonel Duke, you will prepare your First Brigade for an attack on the Yankee redoubt at dawn. Colonel Johnson, your Second Brigade will guard the approach from Chester Road. Please send out pickets and assess the enemy's location to the west. Captain Byrnes, please station your guns so you may support Colonel Duke's morning assault. Any questions?”

When no questions were forthcoming, General Morgan said, “Lieutenant Hardesty, will we be dining soon?”

“Twenty minutes, sir,” Lieutenant Hardesty said.

A wan smile creased General Morgan's cheeks. “Gentlemen, while not normally an imbiber, a taste of good brandy or sherry would be most delightful. An elected official, like Cordell Bainbridge, must have a supply of cordials for wooing votes. Captain Mattson, would you ask the magistrate to join us with a bottle of his choosing?”

“I believe Corporal Mattson is up to the chore, sir.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Ty said, “but it might be best if the request came from a captain, not a lowly corporal.”

General Morgan actually giggled. “Captain, given Bainbridge's evident buffoonery, our young chap is on target.”

In four short minutes, Cordell Bainbridge entered the parlor with a round wooden tray holding seven hand-molded glass goblets and a glass decanter filled with a shiny brown liquid. “This, General Morgan, is my very best cognac, saved for my most special guests.”

Placing the tray on a side table covered by a knitted lace doily, Cordell Bainbridge filled each goblet with three fingers of cognac and passed a goblet to each of his guests. Ty accepted his goblet with some misgivings. To the grandson of Enoch Mattson, liquor was a forbidden indulgence, but how could he refuse it and insult Magistrate Bainbridge's hospitality? Everyone lifted his goblet with General Morgan's prayer that the war would end quickly. The memory of Shawn Shannon pouring Ebb White's corn squeezin's on his wounded arm made Ty cautious. He watched the others drink until he learned cognac was for sipping, not bolting. The first dab burned his throat a tad, but the warmth magnified a taste smooth as silk. Ty was sorry Shawn Shannon had volunteered to look after their horses and missed a delightful repast.

Apparently, if Ty was old enough to imbibe with General Morgan and his lead officers, he was old enough and important enough to dine with them, for the general himself invited Ty to join him at dinner. Ty was thrilled with the invitation. If Miss Dana Bainbridge knew anything about military protocol, a mere corporal dining with a general and his key staff might impress her favorably. Ty suppressed a temptation to smile and swagger, fearing he would appear an overjoyed child amongst mature soldiers.