Raiding With Morgan by Jim R. Woolard Page B

he’s out front. He’ll be where the next battle will be fought. That’s his prime skill. Seeing the elephant close enough to look him straight in the eye is second nature to him.”
    Ty had no clue what the lieutenant meant by “seeing the elephant.” But in light of General Morgan’s speech, he didn’t think much time would pass before he did.
    The stripling messenger Ty had watched board the John B. McCombs ahead of General Morgan fetched Lieutenant Shannon his written orders for the day. The lieutenant read the single sheet of paper and motioned for his messmates to gather around Ty and himself. “We’ve been assigned to the Fourteenth Kentucky Cavalry Advance Guard, under the command of Colonel Richard Morgan, General Morgan’s brother. Colonel Morgan will lead the advance. We’re to join Quirk’s Scout Company. Given and Harlan, you’ll feel right at home with that bunch of rowdy roughnecks. Our next objective is Corydon, Indiana. Ty, you can ride with us, if you prefer.”
    Ty gladly accepted the lieutenant’s invitation. He didn’t want to be detailed to the rear guard or another mundane function buried in the column. He’d already eaten enough dust for three lifetimes.
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    The road to Corydon wound through alternating patches of ripening corn and woodland, rowed trees defining individual properties. Each farmhouse encountered was carefully scouted, though the occupants had fled in haste, leaving doors wide open. With the locals aware of the horse-stealing talents of the raiders, good horses were scarce in number. Nags were plentiful.
    â€œThey learn we’re coming by saddle telegraph. They run for the nearest cave or town,” Cally Smith said. “Mean and decrepit as we appear, I believe I’d be right on their heels, was I in their shoes.”
    Ty found the dust from trailing after thirty horses versus two thousand was child’s play. His thighs and buttocks still ached, but much less after just a few hours out of the saddle. He was certain the pain would return as the day advanced and his raw blisters burst anew.
    Lieutenant Shannon’s verbal instructions and training continued as they rode. “Ty, whenever we meet the enemy, you’re to remain in the rear, and I mean what I say. I don’t want you wrapped in a burying blanket when your father comes calling. Understood?”
    At Ty’s nod, the lieutenant asked, “Is your horse gun broke?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHave you ever fired a revolver from the saddle of a horse?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œOn the outside chance you might find yourself in a skirmish with the blue bellies or their home guard militia, shooting from a standing horse is the same as target practice on the ground with your arm fully extended. From a running horse, you rise slightly in the stirrups for better balance with your arm half extended, body turned toward the target. Again, whether at a trot or gallop, shoot with your arm half extended and body turned toward the target. And always remember there’s a horse under you. Many a green trooper gets excited in battle and shoots his own horse in the head.”
    Lieutenant Shannon swiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “There won’t be time for any serious field training, fast as we’ll be moving day and night. I’ll stick to what will keep you alive, the same as Owen would.”
    The terrain gradually melded into rolling hills overshot with ravines and abrupt changes in elevation. Every sharp rise of ground or hairpin turn in the road was a mystery as to whether the enemy lurked ahead. With church bells in Corydon pealing a warning to the local populace, the scout company finished climbing a low hill, about two miles short of the city.
    At the bottom of the hill, a patrol of home guards in slouch hats and cotton frocks reined their horses about and spurred madly to the north. A