Raiding With Morgan by Jim R. Woolard Page A

“No offense taken, Private Smith. I’m new to the cavalry. I’ve no real training and I’m not always certain what’s expected of me.”
    Ty and Cally shook hands and exchanged smiles. It was a satisfactory resolution in Shawn Shannon’s mind to a minor set-to, one that could have resulted in bad feelings and grudges, the bane of the battlefield. He wouldn’t forget, though, that Ty Mattson had shown a lot of sand for his age.
    â€œEmpty your plates, boys. By all that commotion at the farmhouse, General Morgan’s about to make an appearance.”
    General John Hunt Morgan appeared fresh and rested despite the ordeal of his march across Kentucky. He spoke from the farm porch with an inclusive gaze filled with such personal warmth that each officer and trooper believed he was being talked to personally. “We are on Indiana soil at last, are we not?”
    Hats flew and lusty cheers rang out in every corner of the barnyard. Positioned at General Morgan’s side on the covered porch, Colonels Basil Duke and Adam Johnson, commanding officers of the First and Second Brigades, joined in with much verve.
    General Morgan called for quiet. “We face a momentous task. Our orders will take us to the far corners of Ohio. The enemy soldiery will outnumber us twenty to one. Telegraph lines stretching across the country in every direction will constantly report our movements. Railways will bring assailants against us from every quarter. We will have to run this gauntlet for six hundred miles. It will be a long, hard, dangerous ride, but never forget for a moment that General Bragg is counting upon us. President Davis is counting upon us. The entire Confederacy is counting upon us. We must not fail. Defeat and disgrace are becoming to no man and to no country.”
    General Morgan paused, and then he flashed his famous smile. Nodding at Colonels Duke and Johnson, he said, “To horse, gentlemen. The enemy expects us. Let’s not disappoint him.”
    The speech sent Ty’s blood racing. He couldn’t wait to engage the Yankees. He felt sorry for the hundreds of troopers who weren’t present and would be told of this magnificent speech secondhand, for any man hearing it in person would deny their leader nothing—even if it meant sacrificing his own life.
    After a final round of cheers for General Morgan, the barnyard became a swarming beehive. Orders for the day were issued and mounted messengers hustled from camp to deliver them. Mess gear disappeared into storage trunks. Cooking fires were doused and canteens filled at the nearby creek. Horses were saddled and cinches double-checked. Firearms received a final inspection for clear barrels and proper charges.
    â€œIs your Remington revolver fully loaded, Ty?” Lieutenant Shannon inquired.
    â€œYes, sir, it is,” Ty said.
    â€œTake the cap from the ball beneath the hammer so that chamber can’t fire by accident. When you’re riding hard, you’d be surprised how easy it is to shoot yourself in the leg or kill a fine horse. I saw it happen, same as your father.”
    Lieutenant Shannon watched Ty remove the cap. “Did Boone Jordan supply you with extra cylinders?”
    â€œYes, sir. They’re in my shoulder bag, but I haven’t loaded them yet.”
    â€œLoad them with powder and ball, but not with caps. Capped cylinders bounce against each other in your bag and they might fire off a round.”
    Ty absorbed Lieutenant Shannon’s instructions with the concentration of a green recruit. Everything the lieutenant taught him diminished the chance he would embarrass his father.
    He finished loading the chambers of his spare cylinders with powder and ball, returned them to his shoulder bag, and hoped he wasn’t being too forward when he asked, “Where’s Captain Mattson this morning, Lieutenant? He wasn’t at General Morgan’s headquarters, was he?”
    â€œNo,