Raiding With Morgan (15 page)

The evening temperature was dropping and the open windows of the dining room allowed a cross breeze, which cooled those seated at the Bainbridge table. Miss Dana and Lydia had gone to great lengths in a hurry to accommodate the large number of unexpected guests. The two ladies served up a veritable summer feast of corned beef, both hashed and with cabbage, sweet corn, pole beans with crumbled bacon, loaf bread, still warm from the oven, a crock of butter, cider, black coffee, and strawberry and blackberry pies. The ladies retired to the kitchen, and the head of the house and his guests ate with a passion, leaving no time for idle chatter.

The quiet chewing and drinking was disrupted by a screeching yelp as the diners finished their pie. Before any inquiry as to the source of the nerve-jangling interruption could be made, the front door swung back against the hallway wall with a crash that threatened to shatter its glass panels. Shawn Shannon dragged what appeared to be a mere boy resisting his efforts into the dining room. One of his hands had a firm grip on the boy's shirt collar and the other held an ancient, single-barrel, black-powder shotgun.

“Don't know who he is, General, but he was drawing a bead on you a few paces from the window,” Lieutenant Shannon said.

God forbid, dignity blown to pieces, Magistrate Bainbridge shot to his feet, napkin flying from his collar and landing in the middle of his plate. “That's my youngest son, Alex. Alex, cease that caterwauling this second. How could you contemplate such a heinous act?”

Twelve-year-old Alexander Bainbridge came to rigid attention like a disciplined soldier, eyes cold with unfathomable hatred and said, “They killed my brothers, the bastards. I'll kill them, generals and all, till they hang me for it. War or no war.”

“Alex, go to your room,” Magistrate Bainbridge said. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in our home.”

To Ty's surprise, General Morgan didn't object to the dispatching of his would-be executioner to his private quarters. Alex Bainbridge poked his nose into the air and marched from the room. Everyone heard his boots pounding up the stairs at the rear of the house.

Cordell Bainbridge regained his composure. “My sincerest apology, General Morgan. I lost my two older sons at Shiloh and Gettysburg. Alex's mother died of what I'm sure was pure grief just a few weeks after Franklin was killed at Shiloh. Alex can think of nothing but becoming a soldier and extracting a measure of revenge for his brothers. I was unaware Alex had a weapon. He was staying overnight with my brother's family in Portland.”

Bainbridge harrumphed to strengthen his faltering voice. “There are no other weapons in my house, sir. You may search room to room, if you prefer.”

General Morgan's response was a soothing smile. “That won't be necessary. I understand young Alex's feelings. I lost my youngest brother, Tom, to a Yankee ball at Lebanon, Kentucky, just thirteen days ago.”

General Morgan's deep sigh equaled a gust of wind. “No matter who emerges the victor in this brutal conflict, Magistrate, the tragic loss of life will forever haunt those wearing both blue and gray who perpetrated it and fought it.”

Magistrate Bainbridge sank back into his chair. “General, I never thought I'd admit it, not in a hundred years. You Rebels aren't so easy to hate at close range. I'd be proud to share another cognac with you.”

General Morgan emptied his coffee cup, pushed back his chair, and stood. “I'm afraid I must decline your offer, sir. Much remains to be done for the morrow.”

Magistrate Bainbridge rose from his chair again. “I fully appreciate that, General. There are two spare bedrooms above us. Use them, as you see fit. I will be retiring. My daughter will do so after the kitchen chores are completed. I will make sure Alex is not a problem.”

“What about your family? If a battle breaks out in the morning, as I expect it will, you may not be safe here.”

“General, there's a deep root cellar beneath the house. We will take shelter in it if the situation requires. I bid you good night, sir.”

Magistrate Bainbridge departed with a nod that General Morgan returned. The General's eyes surveyed the room. “Lieutenant Shannon, your vigilance in the matter of young Alex is much appreciated.”

“No problem, sir. He came across the cornfield behind the barn. I caught a glimpse of him sneaking to the corner of the house. He hid in the bushes along the side of the house. I waited and jumped him the second he sighted that old shotgun on the open window. You were an easy shot, with your back to him.”

“The ‘Thunderbolt of the Confederacy' assassinated by an Ohio farm boy while dining in a Northern Yankee home,” General Morgan said. “Good Lord, how the Union correspondents would have treasured that headline.”

That remark garnered a hearty laugh from everyone present. “Lieutenant Shannon, if you have not eaten, I'm certain the ladies of the kitchen will provide for you. You may tell them we are finished with their fine meal. Gentlemen, we will repair to the living room for a final review of our strategy for the morning.”

Ty followed Shawn Shannon into the hallway. The kitchen door was closed. “Make sure you knock,” he warned.

The evening didn't conclude as Ty prayed it would. He did learn during the second parlor meeting that the main preoccupation of General Morgan and his officers was the location of the Yankee gunboats. The current height of the Ohio's flooded waters raised the distinct possibility that the gunboats could steam upriver to Buffington Island. Even with an exclusion of the baggage train, a fording by Morgan's troopers under their relentless fire was problematic at best. General Morgan closed the meeting by repeating his firm orders to have the cannons properly placed to support Colonel Duke's assault and the entire column—every man who could stand and fire a weapon—ready for action at daybreak.

Ty hustled to the kitchen. He was too late. The stove fire was banked for the night; the cleaning up completed; Miss Dana Bainbridge and Lydia gone. He'd longed for one last look at Dana Bainbridge in all her beauty.

Shawn Shannon stepped through the rear door of the kitchen. “I'm disappointed that Bainbridge gal retired for the night so quickly.”

“Me too,” Ty said, wishing he hadn't.

Shawn Shannon grinned slyly. “If you hadn't noticed her with those field glass eyes of yours, I'd be worried you'd gone blind on me or you're too young to kiss a woman. Now, don't get your knot tied double on me, but I think she was taken with you.”

“How could you tell that?” a doubting Ty asked.

“She asked if you were married and how old you are. That's kind of unusual for a female after a chance meeting with an armed enemy combatant you've never laid eyes on before.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her you aren't married and that you're twenty years old.”

“Why did you lie about my age?”

“I didn't want to scare her off straightaway. You mad I fibbed to her?”

“No,” Ty said. “You know more about women than I do, and the odds are that I won't ever see her again, anyway.”

Shawn Shannon shrugged his shoulders. “Don't discount anything in this-here world, my boy. Only the Lord knows in advance what will come to pass, and He hasn't yet chosen to tell me or you ‘yea' or ‘nay' in advance.”

W
ith the conclusion of the evening's festivities and military strategy sessions, Ty bedded down on the rear porch of the Bainbridge home. His gum poncho made the hardness of the rough planks tolerable, and the roof of the porch offered protection against the heavy morning dew common to river bottoms. His thin blanket was sufficient to ward off the chill spreading through the narrow valley.

Ty was as comfortable as he'd been any other night and desperately tired, but he couldn't sleep. His chance meeting of Dana Bainbridge had started him thinking about what kind of future he might have if he survived the battle tomorrow and whatever came afterward.

Ty had willingly severed his ties with Grandfather Mattson to search for his father, which most likely meant he wasn't welcome to grace that Elizabethtown doorstep anytime soon. The key question, then, for Ty was what were his father's postwar intentions? Would Owen Mattson invite Ty to follow him home to Texas? If he did, what would they do to provide themselves sustenance and shelter? If his father became a Texas Ranger again, was Ty old enough to be sworn in with him, if the Rangers would accept him? If not, what could Ty do to make his own way as Shawn Shannon had said Ranger pay supported the officer in fair style, but often left a meager amount for the man's family.

The things Ty knew best were horses and farming. From observing his grandfather, he knew the secret to acquiring land and animals was securing the necessary credit. But what did a former Ranger and his son have to offer a bank in return for financial backing?

Ty realized that chill dark night on the Bainbridge porch that he'd been buried in the details of his sheltered life—hearty meals morning and evening year-round, library brimming with books, lessons with Professor Ackerman, evening discussions with Grandfather Mattson, colts to break and train for the races, crop fields to inspect, and a few hard chores—to the exclusion of any future planning if anything went awry. He'd forever assumed he would live with his grandfather until, as Enoch Mattson had said, “You are grown enough to sit at my desk.”

Ty sighed. If his being a Rebel, and she the daughter of a Rebel hater, didn't negate a relationship with Dana Bainbridge, his prospects were so dim and uncertain that the only worse situation he could imagine was writing to her from the moon, begging her to abandon her father's cozy quarters to marry a former soldier with empty pockets and no assurance where their next meal would come from. Dreams might be free for the making, but Ty was beginning to understand that a man needed a mountain of luck for a few of them—perhaps those he cherished the most—to come true.

He eventually dozed off. Gentle fingers shook him awake. Still groggy with sleep, Ty grabbed for his Remington. “Save those bullets for the Yankees,” Lieutenant Shannon said. “We'll need every one of them before the morning passes.”

“What time is it?” Ty asked.

“Five-thirty,” Shawn Shannon answered, “and we have our orders for today.”

Ty heard the movement of troopers and horses before he saw them. Ground-hugging fog filled the river bottom and he couldn't make out the Bainbridge barn a mere thirty yards away. Dawn was a slight brightening of the sky to the east.

Shawn Shannon helped Ty to his feet and handed him a mug of black coffee, hot from the stove, a strip of bacon, and a cold biscuit. “That's breakfast. You can eat on the way to the horse lot. We need to be in the saddle in five minutes.”

The coffee burned Ty's tongue and he let it cool while he chewed on the dry biscuit. He had no fondness for what the troopers called “iron rations.” But he was lucky to have anything hot. No external cooking fires had been permitted since their arrival yesterday. The scalding coffee had come from the Bainbridge kitchen.

He finished wolfing down what passed for breakfast as they entered the Bainbridge horse lot, a fenced enclosure large enough to accommodate a dozen loose horses. Reb nickered upon sighting Ty and was his usual docile self, until the bit was in his mouth. The big gray's head lifted and he came alert, anxious to be saddled. It was as if the miles he'd trod to date were meaningless. Ty doubted he would ever mount a finer animal.

Owen Mattson's chestnut gelding, with the white stockings and blazed face, wasn't amongst the other horses in the lot. “Father out and about already?”

“He's with Colonel Duke's Fifth and Sixth Kentucky Regiments. They're preparing to assault the Yankee redoubt below Portland. Let's ride.”

Once they were under way, Shawn Shannon located the raider divisions for Ty. Colonel Duke's Fifth and Sixth Regiments held the south line, and Colonel Johnson's Seventh and Tenth straddled the Chester Road to the west. The remaining regiments—Duke's Second and Tenth, and Johnson's Eighth, Eleventh, and Fourteenth—occupied the open area opposite Portland that extended to the Bainbridge farmstead. The baggage train was ensconced at the foot of the Chester Road, behind Colonel Johnson's line.

Clusters of weary-eyed, slump-shouldered troopers, their drooping heads matching those of their horses, fumbled with paper cartridges and ramrods in the fog, trying to be certain their rifled muskets were properly loaded. Ty saw no evidence the troopers had eaten that morning except for possibly hardtack and water. Morgan's Raiders seemed to have little fight left in them. Ty had been taught that famished, exhausted soldiers were prone to flee a battle when confronted by well-armed superior numbers.

After covering a mile and a quarter of fields covered with wheat stubble, the fog parted briefly and a twenty-five-foot-tall mound, with the conical shape of a bullet, swelled to their right.

Lieutenant Shannon halted his black horse, Buster. At Ty's quizzical expression, Shannon said, “It's one of the Indian burial mounds that dot the middle of the valley. This fog will lift, and when it does, you'll be on top of it and be Duke's and Morgan's eyes.”

“How far away are the Fifth and Sixth Kentucky?” Ty inquired.

“About a hundred and fifty yards. Keep in mind that it's confirmation of what's reported that counts. A general's couriers provide him much information, some worthwhile, some useless. What counts with Duke and Morgan is not that the enemy has cannons, but how many cannons does he have and where are they positioned on the battlefield. Report to Colonel Duke first, and then General Morgan, unless Duke says otherwise.”

“Where will you be?”

“Wherever Colonel Duke wants me to be. Keep a sharp lookout in all directions. Consider everything you see unusual, until you determine otherwise. Do not, I repeat,
do not
stand upright for any length of time. Don't make yourself an easy target for Federal sharpshooters.”

Shawn Shannon rode forward and Ty dismounted. He thought about Reb being on a loose rein and decided the big gray, with his fearless temperament, would hold on his own.

The grass on the mound was slick with morning dew. Climbing carefully, Ty gained the crest without mishap. The rounded top of the conical mound was bigger than he anticipated and provided him just enough space to sit or crouch. If anything untoward happened, three quick steps would put him down behind the crest and out of harm's way. That was except for an unseen bullet.

The quiet was unnerving. He was alone in a sea of swirling gray mist. Visibility, though, was improving minute by minute as the rising sun backlit the fog. He stared to the south, searching for any sign of the Fifth and Sixth Kentucky. The lack of any firing by cannon or musket meant the raiders had not yet attacked the Yankee redoubt.

Oblivious to Ty's presence, a rearward-bound, wildly spurring courier went racing by the mound. What was there to report in such haste? Had the Yankees abandoned the redoubt without any resistance? Ty resisted the urge to scratch his chin. He was on station to observe, not speculate.

Not ten minutes later, the fog lifted with the speed of a slatted window blind responding to its pull rope. Ty leaped to his feet. The dismounted Fifth and Sixth Regiments were in line of battle and before them, at a mere distance of thirty yards, caught completely off guard, was a small force of mounted blue bellies that had a single cannon in tow.

Raiders swept muskets to their shoulders and loosed a full volley into the surprised enemy. Between the sporadic shots of the Yankees' return fire, Ty heard raider sergeants shouting, “Handle cartridge!” In unison, every Rebel took a cartridge from his box with thumb and first two fingers and carried it to his mouth. With “Tear cartridge!” each man bit off the paper end to the powder and carried it to the chamber of the weapon. At “Charge cartridge!” they emptied the powder into the chamber, pressing the ball in with the forefinger. At “Ram cartridge!” they tugged their ramrod from its tube under the barrel of their weapons, seated ball and charge, with a quick downward thrust, and then returned the ramrod to its tube. With the final reloading order of “Prime!” each raider cocked his musket and applied a percussion cap to hollow metal “nipple” at the rear of the barrel. It never ceased to amaze Ty that the whole process required less than ten seconds.

The sergeants yelled, “Commence firing!” The second full volley was too much for the outnumbered blue bellies. They broke line and, in the welter of confusion that followed, their artillery horses spooked, upsetting both cannon and caisson and blocking their only escape route—a narrow section of road bordered by fences and deep ditches. The Yankees abandoned their mounts and rushed, afoot, for the bluffs fronting the Ohio.

An exuberant Ty watched the raiders charge after their fleeing foe, capture the Federal cannon, and take forty prisoners. The troopers in gray had won the first skirmish of the day quite handily.