Raiding With Morgan (30 page)

Ty's opponent was too late.

Ty stepped inside the arc of the descending shovel; abiding the instructions of Shawn Shannon, Ty thrust the stiletto up under his opponent's breastbone. He would stop every now and then the rest of his days and remember how easily he'd taken a life. It was akin to sticking a finger in freshly churned butter. One breath, Jack Stedman's son was alive and hell-bent on revenge. The next, he was a lifeless body propped against Ty's chest. Ty pulled the stiletto free, shrugged, and Jack Stedman's son's body fell away from him, landing in the mud with a soft
plop.

The sheer excitement of the encounter ebbed, Ty's nerves calmed, and he thought of what must be done next. Prisoners fleeing the wrath of irate guards flooded the far end of the street. Ty drew back his arm and threw the stiletto into the dark night in the general direction of the northeast tower. Clasping the shirt collar of Jack Stedman's son, he hurriedly dragged the dead body to the edge of Barrack One and rolled it into the crawl space under the building, where it probably wouldn't be discovered before morning.

He scooped up the shovel and marched for Barrack Ten, remembering what his father had said after Shawn Shannon told of his breaking of Buck Granger's shoulder with the stock of his rifle:

“He was deserving.”

T
he next morning, the tally of prisoners killed and wounded as a result of Yankee rifle fire was zero dead and ten injured. Ty thought that a minor miracle, given the number of rounds he'd heard fired. The biggest toll on the Rebels was knotted heads, bruised egos, and wounded pride. The twenty-five prisoners who successfully breached the outside wall were recaptured within an hour. Sergeant Blair Taylor and six other revolt ringleaders, who were ferreted out by the testimony of blue-belly spies, were dispatched to the dungeon with a ball and chain padlocked to their ankles for good measure.

While outwardly appearing to share the bitter disappointment of those in his barrack, a warm glow of satisfaction filled Ty's heart every additional day there was no report of the capture of the Rebels having fled via the northeast door of Prisoner's Square. The process of elimination identified the escapees and Ty delighted in watching the frustrated attempts of Snag, Mouse, and their cohorts to pinpoint how three Rebels had escaped under their noses without a trace. It became commonplace for Ty and E.J. Pursley to look at each other and burst into gales of laughter, leaving other inmates to wonder if the long imprisonment finally had skewered silly the minds of Barrack Ten's cooks.

The discovery of a Confederate body beneath Barrack One launched the most thorough search for bladed weapons in the brief history of Camp Douglas. Prisoners were stripped naked and their clothing, boots, bunks, and blankets torn apart. When a Yankee patrol found a bloody stiletto between the deadline and the stockade wall, and no prisoner could be coerced into claiming ownership, Commandant Sweet, lacking credible eyewitnesses, moved on to bigger issues than the death of a single secesh. Ty prayed his father was resting easier in the grave. As Grandfather Mattson preached, justice might be a long time coming, but she always got her proper due.

Without the company of his messmates, the monotony of the daily grind behind guarded palisades overseen by enemies who detested him doubled for Ty. The one constant that helped keep his spirits from sagging into total despair was the eternal optimism of E.J. Pursley. The old chef found something positive in whatever befell them. If Snag and Mouse lingered in Barrack Ten, they weren't harassing raiders in the other barracks. If the ground froze overnight, it was easier to walk to the sinks, an important advantage for ancient legs that ached without warning. If they had but ten potatoes in the kitchen, ten was better than five. There was always a new way to season the same old fare. It was a matter of learning what new spices might be available from the blue-belly commissary. And the bottom rung was that when all else seemed bleak as warmed-over death, there was food on the table. Though short rations continually contributed to illness amongst the prisoners, no raider had yet to starve to death.

When Ty asked E.J. what he would do once they were free men, the goateed ladle wielder rubbed his chin and surprised Ty by saying, “Family's gone. I got no prospects. But that don't concern me too much. I been thrown out with the garbage before and landed on my feet. I can beg to cook at one of those fancy Chicago hotel dining rooms, if need be. I'd have to start out washing pots and pans. That don't really matter much. Before I croak, I'll have my own stove again and hungry mouths to fill.”

Adhering to E.J.'s outlook, Ty gained a smidgen of hope from rampant rumors that the Yankees were planning to institute a large prisoner exchange by the last day of the year. In succeeding weeks, Ty spent his time contemplating his future as a free man.

He wrote again to Dana Bainbridge—she was never absent from his thoughts—reaffirming his intentions and his love for her. The lack of any response to his entreaties was worrisome and kept him on edge. Had he totally misread her feelings for him? Had it been merely pity and kindness on her part, as he had feared earlier, but dismissed because his deep attachment to her foolishly led him to believe otherwise?

To keep his wits about him and not succumb to the hopeless stupor he saw turn many inmates into walking zombies, he resolved that his first destination as a free man was Portland, Ohio. He would call on Miss Bainbridge, and if she had reservations regarding his sincerity, he would overcome them. He would worry later about his ability to provide for her financially. For Ty, Dana fulfilled dreams he hadn't imagined before meeting her—dreams that were too precious to relinquish until she personally, God forbid, said she had no true interest in him.

When he wasn't dwelling on Dana Bainbridge, Grandfather Enoch Mattson occupied the balance of his private waking hours. He felt no guilt whatsoever for killing Jack Stedman's son. But the wrong he had perpetrated on his grandfather began to plague him every minute, day and night. It wasn't a matter of his writing to beg for forgiveness. The deed was done and couldn't be undone, nor could any hurt he might have caused his grandfather be erased. The question that needed answering was very simple: Was Ty enough of a man to apologize, knowing his letter might be burned without even a cursory reading?

He mulled it over another day and then seated himself at E.J.'s private kitchen table. With blank paper in front of him and pencil firmly grasped, Ty wrote:

Ty read over what he had written three times, decided no editing was warranted, secured envelope and postage from his stash, and went directly to the Prisoner's Square post office. He stood in line until the hazel-eyed, cigar-loving Yankee sergeant he had dealt with before was available. The smoke-wreathed sergeant recognized Ty without any introduction, stamped his letter approved without opening it, affixed his initials, and dropped it into his outgoing mailbox.

Ty didn't feel the biting cold and the usual raw-edged wind barreling through Camp Douglas that afternoon during his hasty walk back to his barrack, not when he'd just dumped a mighty heavy weight from his shoulders. Shucks, even the weak late-fall sun added a cheery note to what was a fine, good day to be alive.

 

Three weeks later, Snag barged into E.J.'s kitchen after roll call and halted a step from Ty. With mouth exuding a cloud of sewer gas, he blurted out, “I've come for you, secesh, and I don't want a word out of you. I'm not in the mood for no questions. You're to report to Colonel Sweet this minute and I'm bound to transport you.”

The disruption of Ty's normal routine didn't unsettle him. He was not the unsure, inexperienced lad who had ridden free of Elizabethtown sixteen months previous. Reb grabbing the bit on him at Corydon, his father's violent murder, and the midnight ambush by Jack Stedman's son had taught him that part of a man's attention best always be attuned to unseen developments that spring upon him with lightning quickness. He had no clue as to why the camp commandant wanted him in his office without delay. If an eyewitness to his killing of Jack Stedman's son had come forward, he might well face the dungeon, possibly a hanging rope. But then, there might be another explanation, though he couldn't imagine what it could possibly be.

The cold weather refused to abate, forcing Ty to quail within his best winter garment, a thin blanket wrapped about his body, on the wagon ride to Garrison Square and Colonel Sweet's headquarters. He wondered which Yankee bastard was wearing Boone Jordan's confiscated greatcoat. At least he was somewhat presentable in the clothing given him upon his discharge from the hospital.

His one regret as he was conveyed to an unknown fate was his failure to tell Dana Bainbridge how much he had loved her before he was whisked from her father's Portland home under cover of darkness. How could he have allowed that to happen? His father wouldn't have, and neither would he, by all that was holy, given another opportunity.

The lack of activity at Yankee headquarters surprised Ty. He had expected the beehive gyrations of General Morgan's staff meetings. A blue-belly corporal wet enough behind the ears he wasn't shaving yet was seated behind a desk piled high with bulky ledgers. The Yankee sprout's eyes jumped from his detail work when Snag said in an unnecessarily booming tone, “Reporting with Ty Mattson as ordered, sir!”

The Yankee corporal's disapproving hunch of his shoulders was lost on Snag, who left Yankee headquarters in a huff, without waiting to be dismissed. A grin tweaked the corporal's mouth. “Sergeant Oden is such an intolerable bore on every occasion. Now, to the business at hand.”

Lifting a muster roll of Rebel prisoners from the pile on his desk, the corporal thumbed through the company rosters, paused, and said, “You are Corporal Ty Mattson, Quirk's Scout Company, Fourteenth Kentucky Regiment, Morgan's Confederate Cavalry, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Ty responded.

“You hail from where, Corporal Mattson?”

“Elizabethtown, Kentucky, sir.”

“Your birth date?”

“July 12, 1846,” Ty answered, concern growing. The Yankee brass seemed to be going to great lengths to be certain they hanged the right Rebel.

The corporal laid the muster roll aside and came to his feet. “Excellent, we have the man we want. Follow me, Corporal Mattson.”

The blue-belly corporal knocked on a door with a sign reading,
COMMANDANT
. A firm voice with the slightest lisp bade him to enter.

Colonel Benjamin A. Sweet, beard and mustache dense and neatly trimmed, widow's peak exposing a high forehead and brown eyes shining with interest, inspected Ty from behind a massive wooden desk. Though his uniform tunic was devoid of decoration, its double row of polished brass buttons sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the window of his office.

The shaggy-haired captain with the lisp standing at the corner of Colonel Sweet's huge desk announced, “This is the secesh officer cited in the document, sir.”

Colonel Sweet licked his lips, wiped them with his fingers, and, with a final glance at the sheet of paper that had triggered the meeting of a Yankee superior officer and a lowly Rebel prisoner, said, “Corporal, what I have before me is a full pardon for you and for any offenses you may have committed in pursuit of your duties as an officer of the Confederate Army. You will be pleased to know the pardon was signed by President Abraham Lincoln.”

With this incredible news, Ty's knees trembled and threatened to desert him. If he had been asked to list five things he would least expect to happen to him before his death, a full pardon from President Abraham Lincoln defied odds of a million to one. Speechless, he could but stare at the bemused Colonel Sweet. He had been handed a reprieve from a sea of uncertainty.

“Corporal Mattson,” Sweet said, “whoever secured this pardon for you has political clout beyond my comprehension. Pardons for Confederate prisoners of war have been nonexistent for months. You are a very lucky man to have the support of properly placed people.”

Not people, Ty rejoiced, but a prime leader of the Kentucky Republican Party. Ty read every newspaper brought to his barrack and frequently purchased them from his own pocket. While President Lincoln had not carried Kentucky in the 1864 presidential election, Ty knew from his daily reading that a certain elder of the Elizabethtown Baptist Church had turned out large numbers of Republican voters in northern Kentucky counties, and the pardon on Colonel Sweet's desk had to be President Lincoln's personal thank you for such ardent support in the face of fierce political opposition.

Ty crouched slightly to steady his legs, burning with embarrassment at how badly he had misjudged the depth of his savior's love for his own blood. He would be a long while forgetting such rampant stupidity on his part.

To his amazement, Colonel Sweet had additional news of great import. “Corporal Mattson, a letter from Secretary of War Stanton accompanied your pardon. You are to be released from Camp Douglas this date in sixty minutes at high noon. For the sake of my career, it is most fortunate that my subordinates responded with alacrity to the dictates of my superiors. You will be provided a railroad pass to a destination of your choice, and any funds deposited by you in the commissary bank will be returned to you posthaste. Do you have any questions?”

“The pass won't be necessary, sir,” Ty said with conviction. “Transportation will be waiting for me outside the main gate. I do have one request, sir.”

Never having heard of a prisoner declining free transportation home, a most curious Colonel Sweet stiffened in his chair. “And what would that be, Corporal?”

Ty ratcheted up his nerve. What he was about to ask resulted from a snap decision. “Private E.J. Pursley, of Barrack Ten, was a noncombatant during our months in the field. His rank was honorary. He was never sworn to duty and never carried a weapon. He was, and still is, a civilian cook. With your permission, I would appreciate your freeing of him with me. He is elderly and has no home to return to after the war.”

Colonel Sweet didn't refuse Ty's request out of hand. He turned, instead, to the shaggy-haired Yankee officer waiting patiently by his desk. “Captain Farrell, your opinion, if you please?”