Raiding with Morgan. Dunn Byron Archibald
“but may the time never come when he will have to give it up.”
“Amen to that!” answered Calhoun.
From Rogersville Calhoun made his way north. He ascertained that the railroad which Mitchell was engaged in repairing was not strongly guarded, and he believed that with five hundred men Morgan could break it almost anywhere between Athens and Columbia.
Near Mount Pleasant he met a Confederate officer with a party of recruits which he was taking south. He sent back by him a statement to Morgan of all he had learned, and added: “Taking everything into consideration, I believe that Pulaski will be the best place for you to strike. I have no fears but that you can capture it, even with your small force.”
Calhoun met with his first serious adventure shortly after he had crossed the railroad, which he did a few miles south of Columbia. Thinking to make better time, he took the main road leading to Shelbyville. He was discovered by a squad of Federal cavalry, which immediately gave chase. But he was mounted on a splendid horse, one that he had brought with him from Kentucky. He easily distanced all his pursuers with the exception of three or four, and he was gradually drawing away from all of them, except a lieutenant in command of the squad, who seemed to be as well mounted as himself.
“Only one,” muttered Calhoun, looking back, as a pistol-ball whistled by his head; “I can settle him,” and he reached for a revolver in his holster. As he did so, his horse stepped into a hole and plunged heavily forward, throwing Calhoun over his head. For a moment he lay bruised and stunned, and then staggered to his feet, only to find the Federal officer upon him.
“Surrender, you Rebel!” cried the officer, but quick as a flash, Calhoun snatched a small revolver which he carried in his belt, and fired.
Instead of hitting the officer, the ball struck the horse fairly in the head, and the animal fell dead. Leaving the officer struggling to extricate himself from his fallen horse, Calhoun scrambled over a fence, and scurried across a small field, beyond which was a wood. A scattering volley was fired by the foremost of the pursuers, but it did no harm, and Calhoun was soon across the field. Mounting the fence on the other side, he stood on the top rail, and turning around, he uttered a shout of defiance, then jumping down, disappeared in the wood.
The foremost of the Federals, a tall, lanky sergeant named Latham, galloped to the side of his commander, who was still struggling to extricate himself from his fallen horse. Springing from his saddle, he helped him to his feet, and anxiously inquired, “Are you hurt, Lieutenant?”
“The Rebel, the Rebel, where is he? Did you get him?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Get him!” drawled the Sergeant, “I think not. He got across that field as if Old Nick was after him. But once across he had the cheek to stand on the fence and crow like a young rooster. I took a crack at him, but missed.”
“Why didn’t you pursue him?” demanded the officer, fiercely.
“What! in those woods? Might as well look for a needle in a haymow. But are you hurt, Lieutenant?”
“My leg is sprained,” he groaned; “but the worst of it is, Jupiter is dead. Curse that Rebel! how I wish I had him! I would make him pay dearly for that horse.”
“Here is the Rebel’s horse. I caught him!” exclaimed one of the men, leading up Calhoun’s horse, which he had captured. “He looks like a mighty fine horse, only he seems a little lame from his fall.”
“That is a fine horse,” said Latham, looking him over, “but he has been rode mighty hard. Wonder who that feller can be. I see no signs of any other Reb. He must have been alone. Say, he was a Jim-dandy whoever he was. I thought you had him sure, Lieutenant.”
“So did I,” answered the Lieutenant, with an oath. “When his horse threw him I had no idea he would try to get away, and ordered him to surrender. But quick as a flash he jerked a revolver from his belt, and fired.”
“Better be thankful he hit the horse instead of you,” said the Sergeant.
For answer the Lieutenant limped to a stone, and sitting down, said: “Examine that roll behind the saddle of the horse. Perhaps we can find out who the fellow was.”
Sergeant Latham took the roll, which was securely strapped behind Calhoun’s saddle, and began to unroll it as carefully as if he suspected it might be loaded.
“A fine rubber and a good woollen blanket,” remarked the Sergeant. “Looks mighty like those goods once belonged to our good Uncle Samuel. Bet your life, they are a part of the plunder from Shiloh. Ah! here is a bundle of letters.”
“Give them to me,” said the Lieutenant.
The Sergeant handed them over, and the officer hastily glanced over them, reading the superscriptions.
“Why,” he exclaimed, in surprise, “these letters are all addressed to persons in Kentucky. What could that fellow be doing with letters going to Kentucky? We will see.” He tore open one of the letters.
He had read but a few lines when he exclaimed, with a strong expletive, “Boys, I would give a month’s pay if we had captured that fellow!”
“Who was he? Who was he?” cried several soldiers in unison.
“He was – let me see – ” and the Lieutenant tore open several more of the letters, and rapidly scanned them – “yes, these letters make it plain. He was a Lieutenant Calhoun Pennington, and he was from the Rebel army at Corinth. I take it he was on his way back to Kentucky to recruit for the command of a Captain John H. Morgan. Morgan – Morgan, I have heard of that fellow before. He played the deuce with us in Kentucky last winter: burned the railroad bridge over Bacon Creek, captured trains, tore up the railroad, and played smash generally. These letters all seem to be private ones written by the soldiers in Morgan’s command to their relatives and friends back in Kentucky. But he may have carried important dispatches on his person. We let a rare prize slip through our fingers.”
“Can’t be helped now,” dryly remarked Sergeant Latham. “If you had captured him it might have put one bar, if not two, on your shoulder-strap.”
The Lieutenant scowled, but did not reply. All the letters were read and passed around. Three or four of them occasioned much merriment, for they were written by love-lorn swains whom the cruel hand of war had torn from their sweethearts.
“Golly! it’s a wonder them letters hadn’t melted from the sweetness they contained,” remarked Sergeant Latham.
“Or took fire from their warmth,” put in a boyish looking soldier.
“Not half as warm as the letter I caught you writing to Polly Jones the other day,” laughed a comrade. “Boys, I looked over his shoulder and read some of it. I tell you it was hot stuff. ‘My dearest Polly!’ it commenced, ‘I – ’ ”
But he never finished the sentence, for the young soldier sprang and struck him a blow which rolled him in the dust.
“A fight! a fight!” shouted the men, and crowded around to see the fun.
“Stop that!” roared the Lieutenant, “or I will have you both bucked and gagged when we get to camp. Sergeant Latham, see that both of those men are put on extra duty to-night.”
When things had quieted down, others of the letters were read; but some of them occasioned no merriment. Instead, one could see a rough blouse sleeve drawn across the eyes, and a gulping down as if something choked the wearer. These were letters written to the wives and mothers who were watching and waiting for their loved ones to return. These letters reminded them of their own wives and mothers in the Northland, waiting and praying for them.
Suddenly the Lieutenant spoke up: “Boys, we have been wasting time over those letters. That fellow was making his way back to Kentucky. He has no horse. What more natural than that he would try and obtain one at the first opportunity? That old Rebel Osborne lives not more than a mile ahead. You remember we visited him last week, and threatened to arrest him if the railroad was tampered with any more. It was thought he sheltered these wandering bands of Confederates who make it dangerous to step outside the camp. If we push on,