Raiding with Morgan
“You have no business to take my property without paying for it!” the farmer was saying, angrily. “I am a friend of the South; I have opposed the war from the beginning.”
Seeing Calhoun, and noticing he was an officer, the farmer rushed up to him, crying, “Stop them! Stop them! they are stealing my property!”
“Well, I declare, if it isn’t my old friend Jones!” exclaimed Calhoun. “How do you do, Mr. Jones? Where are those five hundred armed Knights who you said would meet us here? Where is your hat, that you are not throwing it high in air? Why are you not shouting hallelujahs over our coming?”
Jones had stopped and was staring at Calhoun with open mouth and bulging eyes. “Bless my soul,” he at length managed to stammer, “if it isn’t Mr. Harrison!”
“Lieutenant Pennington, at your service. But, Jones, where are those Knights of the Golden Circle you promised would join us here?”
Jones hung his head. “We – we didn’t expect you to come so soon,” he managed to answer; “we didn’t have time to rally.”
“Mr. Jones, you told me this whole country would welcome us as liberators. They did welcome us back there in Corydon, but it was with lead. Sixteen of our men were killed and wounded. Mr. Jones, there will be several funerals for you to attend in Corydon.”
“It must be some of those Union Leaguers,” exclaimed Mr. Jones. “Glad they were killed; they threatened to hang me the other day.”
“They were heroes, compared to you!” hotly exclaimed Calhoun. “You and your cowardly Knights can plot in secret, stab in the dark, curse your government, but when it comes to fighting like men you are a pack of cowardly curs.”
But Mr. Jones hardly heard this fierce Phillipic; his eyes were fixed on his smoke-house, which was being entered by some more of the soldiers.
“Won’t you stop them,” he cried, wringing his hands; “they will take it all! Why, you are a pack of thieves!”
“Boys, don’t enter or disturb anything in the house,” cried Calhoun, turning to his men, “but take anything out of doors you can lay your hands on; horses, everything.”
The men dispersed with a shout to carry out the order. Calhoun left Mr. Jones in the road jumping up and down, tearing his hair and shouting at the top of his voice, “I am going to vote for Abe Lincoln. I am – I am, if I am damned for it!”
In all probability Morgan’s raid in Indiana and Ohio made more than one vote for old Abe. Of all the thousands of Knights of the Golden Circle in Indiana and Ohio, not one took his rifle to join Morgan, not one raised his hand to help him.
In speaking of this to General Shackelford, who captured him, Morgan said, bitterly: “Since I have crossed the Ohio I have not seen a single friendly face. Every man, woman, and child I have met has been my enemy; every hill-top a telegraph station to herald my coming; every bush an ambush to conceal a foe.”
The people who lived along the route pursued by Morgan will never forget his raid. What happened has been told and retold a thousand times around the fireside, and the story will be handed down not only to their children, but to their children’s children. Morgan was everywhere proclaimed as a thief and a robber. They forgot that he had to subsist at the expense of the country, and that he had to take horses to replace those of his own which had broken down. Not only that, but it was life to him to sweep the country through which he passed clear of horses, that his pursuers might not get them. The Federals in pursuit took horses as readily as Morgan’s men.
Those who proclaim Morgan a thief and a robber sing with gusto “Marching through Georgia,” and tell how “the sweet potatoes started from the ground.” They forget how Sheridan, the greatest cavalry leader of the Federal army, boasted he had made the lovely Shenandoah Valley such a waste that a crow would starve to death flying over it. The Southern people look upon Sherman and Sheridan as the people of Ohio and Indiana look upon Morgan. These generals were not inhuman; they simply practised war. It is safe to say that less private property was destroyed in Morgan’s raid in Indiana and Ohio than in any other raid of equal magnitude made by either side during the war.
One can now see by reading the dispatches the panic and terror caused by Morgan in this raid. From Cairo, Illinois, to Wheeling, West Virginia, the Federals were in a panic, for they knew not which way Morgan would turn, or where he would strike. From the entire length of the Ohio, the people were wildly calling on the government to send troops to protect them from Morgan. There were fears and trembling as far north as Indianapolis. Governor Tod, of Ohio, declared martial law through the southern part of his state, and called on Morton to do the same for Indiana. But Morton, cooler, more careful, and looking farther ahead as to what might be the effect of such a measure, wisely refused to do so.
From Corydon Morgan rode north to Salem. The Federals now thought for sure that Indianapolis was his objective point, but from Salem he turned northeast and swept through the state, touching or passing through in his route the counties of Jackson, Scott, Jennings, Jefferson, Ripley, and Dearborn, passing into Ohio, in the northwest corner of Hamilton County, almost within sight of the great city of Cincinnati. Turning north, he entered Butler County. Here, as in Indiana, he met only the scowling faces of enemies.
“And here is where they worship Vallandigham!” exclaimed Calhoun, passionately. “Here is where they told me almost every man belonged to the Knights of the Golden Circle, and that the whole county would welcome us. Here is where even the Democratic party meet in open convention, pass resolutions in favor of the South, denounce Lincoln as a monster and tyrant, and demand that the war cease at once and the South go free, saying they will support no man for office who in the least way favors the war. And now not a word of welcome, not a single hand reached out in aid. Oh! the cowards! the cowards!”3
Morgan made no bitter reply, but said. “You warned us, Lieutenant, how it would be. I have expected no aid since the first day we entered Indiana. But with God’s help we shall yet escape from our foes. Oh, if my gallant men were across the Ohio once more! It is only that river which stands in between us and safety. There is now no hope of securing a steamboat. But at Buffington Island the river is shoal, and can be forded. If we can reach Buffington Island before our enemies, we can laugh at our pursuers.”
And for Buffington Island Morgan headed, threatening each place along the way, to keep the Federals guessing where he would attempt to cross. Like a whirlwind he swept through the counties of Warren, Clermont, Brown, Adams, Pike, Jackson, Gallia, Meigs, brushing aside like so many flies the militia which tried to impede his progress.
The goal was nearly reached. Hobson was half a day behind, still trailing, still following like a bloodhound. The Confederates knew of no force in front except militia. Safety was before them. The river once passed, Morgan would have performed the greatest exploit of the war. His men were already singing songs of triumph, for the river was in sight. Night came on, but they marched through the darkness, to take position. In the gray of the morning they would sweep aside the militia and cross over.
In the morning a heavy fog hung over river and land, as if the sun were afraid to look down upon the scene to be enacted. In the gloom, Colonel Duke and the dashing Huffman formed their commands and moved to the attack. They were received with a fire which surprised them, coming as they supposed from militia. But with loud cheers they swept forward, and the Federals were forced back, leaving a piece of artillery. A little farther and the ford would be won; then there came a crashing volley, mingled with the thunder of artillery, and they saw before them, not militia, but long lines of blue-coated veterans. General Judah’s brigade had been transported up the river in steamboats, and landed at Pomeroy. They had marched all night, and were now in possession of the ford.
In vain the gallant Duke and Huffman struggled against that force. They were driven back. Flight was to be resumed up the river, when couriers came dashing in with the news that Hobson was up. They were hemmed in. There was one place yet, a path through the woods, by which a few could escape, if the Federal force could be held back for a time.
“Go!” cried Duke to Morgan, “and I will hold them until you are gone.”
“Go!” cried Huffman, faint and bleeding from a wound, “and I will stay and help Colonel Duke.”
“Go!” cried Calhoun, “if you are saved I care not for myself.”
Then there arose a storm of protests. Who could so well guard and protect the chief as Calhoun and his scouts? And so, against Morgan’s will, Calhoun went with him.
“Come, then, we will clear the way,” Calhoun cried to his scouts, and before the way was closed, six hundred men with Morgan had escaped.
Hemmed in on every side, the Confederates fought as only desperate men can fight; but as soon as it was known that Morgan was well away, Duke and Huffman, and with them many other gallant officers, saw it would be madness to fight longer, and with breaking hearts they surrendered to their exultant foes. Then it was that some two or three hundred, in spite of shot and shell, in spite of the leaden hail which fell around them, plunged down the bank into the river. The bodies of many floated down, their life blood reddening the water. The current swept many a steed and rider down, and they were seen no more. A few there were who struggled through to safety, and these were all that escaped of the thousands that crossed the Ohio at Brandenburg.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RIDE OF THE SIX HUNDRED
What Morgan’s thoughts were, what his hopes were, as he rode away from that fatal field at Buffington Island, no one knows. With him rode six hundred, all that were left of three thousand. He could have had no thoughts of attempting to cross the Ohio anywhere near Buffington Island, for he rode almost due north. It may have been he thought that he might cross near Wheeling or higher up, and escape into the mountains of Western Pennsylvania; or as a last resort, he might reach Lake Erie, seize a steamboat, and escape to Canada. Whatever he thought, north he rode, through the most populous counties of Ohio. And what a ride was that for six hundred men! Foes everywhere; Home Guards springing up at every corner; no rest day or night.
Close in his rear thundered the legions of General Shackelford, a Kentuckian as brave, as fearless, as tireless as Morgan himself. But in spite of all opposition, in spite of foes gathering on right and left and in front, Morgan rode on, sweeping through the counties of Meigs, Vinton, Hocking, Athens, Washington, Morgan, Muskingum, Guernsey, Belmont, Harrison, Jefferson, until he reached Columbiana County, where the end came.
At almost every hour during this ride the six hundred grew less. Men fell from their horses in exhaustion. They slept as they rode, keeping to their saddles as by instinct. The terrible strain told on every one. The men grew haggard, emaciated. When no danger threatened, they rode as dead men, but once let a rifle crack in front, and their sluggish blood would flow like fire through their veins, their eyes would kindle with the excitement of battle, and they would be Morgan’s fierce raiders once more.
As for Calhoun, it seemed as if he never slept, never tired. It was as if his frame were made of iron. Where danger threatened there he was. He was foremost in every charge. It looked as if he bore a charmed life. The day before the end came he was scouting on a road, parallel to the one on which the main body was travelling. Hearing shots, he took a cross-road, and galloped at full speed to see what was the trouble. A small party of Home Guards were retreating at full speed; one far in advance of the others was making frantic efforts to urge his horse to greater speed. Calhoun saw that he could cut him off, and he did so, reaching the road just as he came abreast of it. So intent was the fellow on getting away he did not notice Calhoun until brought to a stand by the stern command, “Surrender.”
In his surprise and terror, the man rolled from his horse, the picture of the most abject cowardice Calhoun ever saw. He fairly grovelled in the dust. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he cried, raising his hands in supplication. “I didn’t want to come; they forced me. I never did anything against you.”
Dismounting Calhoun gave him a kick which sent him rolling. “Get up, you blubbering calf,” he exclaimed, “and tell us what you know.”
The fellow staggered to his feet, his teeth chattering, and trembling like a leaf.
“Now, answer my questions, and see that you tell the truth,” said Calhoun. “Are there any forces in front of us?”
“N – not – not as I know,” he managed to say.
“Do you know the shortest road to Salineville?”
“Yes; yes.”
“Will you guide us there if I spare your life?”
“Anything, I will do anything, if you won’t kill me,” he whined.
“Very well, but I will exchange horses with you, as I see you are riding a fine one, and he looks fresh,” remarked Calhoun.
The exchange was made, and then Calhoun said, “Now lead on, and at the first sign of treachery, I will blow out your brains. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, I will take you the shortest road.”
“What’s your name,” asked Calhoun, as they rode along.
“Andrew Harmon.”
“Well, Andrew, I wish all Yankees were like you. If they were, we should have no trouble whipping the North. I reckon you are about as big a coward as I ever met.”
Harmon, still white and trembling, did not answer; he was too thoroughly cowed.
Ride as hard as Morgan’s men could, when they neared Salineville Shackelford was pressing on their rear. They had either to fight or surrender.
“My brave boys, you have done all that mortals can do. I cannot bear to see you slaughtered. I will surrender.”
As Morgan said this his voice trembled. It was a word his men had never heard him use before.
“General, it is not all over for you,” cried Calhoun, his voice quivering with emotion. “Think of the joy of the Yankees if you should be captured. Let me take half the men. You take the other half and escape. I can hold the enemy in check until you get well away.”
Morgan demurred. “The sacrifice will be too great,” he said.
“You must, you shall consent. We will force you,” the cry went up from the whole command as from one man.
Morgan bowed his head, he could not speak. In silence he took Calhoun’s hand, tears gathered in his eyes, the first tears Calhoun ever saw there. There was a strong clasp, a clasp which seemed to say “It may be the last,” then, wheeling his horse, Morgan galloped swiftly away, followed by less than half of his six hundred.
There was not a moment to lose, for the Federals were already charging down with triumphant cheers, confident of an easy victory. Calhoun had posted his men well, and a withering volley sent the Federals reeling back. They charged again, only to recoil before the fierce fire of the Confederates. There was now a lull in the fighting. Calhoun saw that they were flanking him on the right and left. “Charge!” he shouted, and the little band were soon in the midst of their enemies. The Federals closed in around them. There was no way to retreat. Calhoun’s men, seeing how hopeless the fight was, began to throw down their arms.
“Surrender,” cried a fine-looking officer to Calhoun, who, well in front, was fighting like a demon. Even in that hell of battle Calhoun knew the officer. It was Mark Crawford, the captain whose horse he had captured in Tennessee, and whom he afterwards took prisoner at Cave City. But the captain was wearing the shoulder-straps of a major now.
“Never!” shouted Calhoun, in answer to the summons to surrender, and with sword in hand, he spurred forward to engage Crawford in single combat. But that officer had a revolver in his hand, and he raised it and fired.
Calhoun felt as if he had been struck on the head with a red-hot iron. He reeled in his saddle, and then fell forward on his horse’s neck. His sword dropped from his nerveless hand. His horse, wild with fear and not feeling the restraining hand of a master, broke through the ranks of the Federals, and bore him out of the conflict.
Still clinging to the neck of his horse and the horn of his saddle, he kept his seat. He straightened himself up, but the blood streaming over his face blinded him, and he saw not where he was going. Neither did he realize what had happened, for the shock of his wound had rendered him half-unconscious. His mind began to wander. He was a soldier no longer, but a boy back in Kentucky running a race with his cousin Fred.
“On! on! Salim,” he weakly shouted; “we must win, it is for the Sunny South we are racing.”
The horse still ran at full speed, his glossy coat dripping with perspiration, his nostrils widely distended and showing red with blood. But his pace began to slacken. Darkness gathered before the eyes of Calhoun. “Why, it’s getting night,” he murmured; “Fred, where are you?” Lower still lower he sank, until he was once more grasping the neck of his horse. A deadly faintness seized him, total darkness was around him, and he knew no more.
With Calhoun gone, all resistance to the Federals ceased. Of the six hundred, who had ridden so far and so well, fully one-half were prisoners.
The Federals were greatly chagrined and disappointed when they found that Morgan was not among the prisoners. The man they desired above all others was still at liberty. “Forward,” was the command, and the pursuit was again taken up.
With the remnant of his command, Morgan was nearing New Lisbon. If there were no foes before him there was still hope. From a road to the west of the one he was on, a cloud of dust was rising. His guide told him that this road intersected the one he was on but a short distance ahead. His advance came dashing back, saying there was a large body of Federal troops in his front. From the rear came the direful tidings that Shackelford was near. Morgan saw, and his lip quivered. “It is no use,” he said, “it is all over.”
The ride of the six hundred had ended – a ride that will ever live in song and story.
“Morgan has surrendered! Morgan is a prisoner!” was the news borne on lightning wings all over the entire North.
What rejoicing there was among the Federals! The great raider, the man they feared more than an army with banners, was in their power.
CHAPTER XIX.
AN ANGEL OF MERCY
In front of one of the most beautiful and stately farm-houses in Columbiana County stood a young girl. With clasped hands and straining eyes she was gazing intently down a road which led to the west. The sound of battle came faintly to her ears. As she listened, a shudder swept through her slight frame.
“My brother! My brother!” she moaned, “he may be in it. O God of battles, protect him!”
She would have made a picture for an artist as she stood there. The weather being warm, she wore a soft, thin garment, which clung in graceful folds around her. Her beautifully rounded arm and shapely shoulders were bare. Her luxuriant hair, the color of sun-beams, fell in a wavy mass to her waist. Her eyes, blue as the sky, were now troubled, and a teardrop trembled and then fell from the long lashes.
As she looked, the sound of battle became fainter, and then ceased altogether. But down the road, a mile away, a little cloud of dust arose. It grew larger and larger, and at last she saw it was caused by a single horseman who was coming at a furious pace. Was the rider a bearer of ill tidings? No, there was no rider on the horse. He who rode must have been killed. It might be her brother’s horse; she grew sick and faint, but still she gazed. The horse came nearer; he was slackening his speed. Yes, there was some one on the horse – a man – but he had fallen over on the saddle, and his arms were around the horse’s neck.
It must be her brother, wounded unto death, coming home to die, and she gave a great convulsive sob. Then like a bird she flew to the middle of the road. She saw that the horse’s mane and shoulders were dripping with blood, that the rider’s hair was clotted with it.
As the horse came to her it stopped, and the rider rolled heavily from the saddle. With a cry she sprang forward and received the falling man; but the weight of Calhoun, for it was he, bore her to the earth. She arose, screaming for help. There was no one in the house except a colored servant, who came rushing out, and nearly fainted when she saw her mistress. No wonder, for the girl’s dress and arms were dripping with blood.
“Oh! Missy Joyce! Missy Joyce!” wailed the colored woman, “what’s de mattah? Be yo’ killed?”
“No, no, this soldier – he is dead or dying. Oh, Mary, what can we do?”
But help was near. A couple of neighbors had also heard the sound of battle, and were riding nearer that they might learn the result.
“Great heavens! what is this?” exclaimed one, as they rode up. “As I live, that is Andrew Harmon’s horse. Well, I never thought Andrew would get near enough to a battle to get shot.”
By this time they had dismounted. Going to Calhoun they looked at him, and one exclaimed, “This is not Harmon; it’s one of Morgan’s men. Got it good and heavy. Served him right.”
“Is he dead?” asked the girl, in a trembling voice.
The man put his hand on Calhoun’s heart. “No, marm,” he answered, “but I think he might as well be.”
“Carry him into the house, and send for Doctor Hopkins, quick,” she said.
“What! that dirty, bloody thing! Better let us carry him to the barn. It’s a blame sight better place than our boys get down South.”
“The house, I say,” answered the girl, sharply.
“Why, Miss Joyce,” said the other man, as he looked at her, “you are covered with blood.”
“Yes, I caught him as he fell from his horse,” she answered. “I am not hurt.”
The men were about to pick Calhoun up and carry him in according to the directions of the girl, when she exclaimed, “There comes Doctor Hopkins now.”
Sure enough, the Doctor had heard of the fight, and was coming at a remarkable speed, for him, to see if his professional services were needed. He reined in his horse, and jumping from his gig, ejaculated, “Why! why! what is this? And Miss Joyce all bloody!”
“I am not hurt. The man, Doctor,” she said.
The Doctor turned his attention to Calhoun. “As I live, one of Morgan’s men,” he exclaimed, “and hard hit, too. How did he come here?”
“His horse brought him,” answered one of the men. “He clung to his horse as far as here, when he fell off. Miss Joyce caught him as he fell. That is what makes her so bloody.”
“Well! well! well!” was all that the old Doctor could say.
“The queer part is,” continued the man, “that the horse belongs to Andrew Harmon. I heard that Andrew had gone out with the Home Guards, but I could hardly believe it. I guess this fellow must have killed him and appropriated the horse.”
“What! Andrew Harmon killed in battle?” cried the Doctor, straightening up from his examination of Calhoun. “Don’t believe it. He will turn up safe enough.”
Then speaking to the girl, the Doctor said, “Miss Joyce, this man has nearly bled to death. I cannot tell yet whether the ball has entered his head or not. If not, there may be slight hopes for him, but he must have immediate attention. It is fortunate I came along as I did.”
“Miss Joyce wanted us to take him into the house,” said one of the men, “but I suggested the barn.”
“The barn first,” said the Doctor; “if I remember rightly, there is a large work-bench there. It will make a fine operating-table. And, Joyce, warm water, towels, and bandages.”
Joyce Crawford, for that was the girl’s name, flew to do the Doctor’s bidding, while the men, to their credit be it said, picked Calhoun up tenderly and carried him to the barn, where the work-bench, as the Doctor had suggested, made an operating-table. Joyce soon appeared with the water, towels, and bandages. The Doctor had already taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready for work. Although he was a country practitioner, he was a skilful surgeon. Carefully he washed away the blood, then clipped away the matted hair from around the wound. It seemed to Joyce a long time that he worked, but at last the wound was dressed and bandaged.
