Riding with Morgan on His Great Raid Through Indiana and Ohio

Micah C. Saufley, a Confederate veteran who served in the 6^th Kentucky Cavalry and rode with John Morgan, wrote the following letter to his daughter on Christmas day, 1906 giving his reminiscences of Morgan’s raid through Indiana and Ohio and his capture shortly after Buffington Island. It was shared at a United Daughters of the Confederacy meeting in Knoxville on January 16, 1907, and subsequently published in the Knoxville Sentinel.

First Lieutenant Micah C. Saufley served in Co. H of the 6th Kentucky Cavalry, riding as part of Morgan's command from his enlistment until his capture in Ohio in the days after Buffington Island. After the war, he entered the practice of law and was elected judge in 1870. He was appointed to the territorial supreme court of Wyoming in 1888 by President Grover Cleveland and served in that capacity until Wyoming achieved statehood in 1890. Returning to his home in Stanford, Kentucky, he again served as a judge and was regarded as one of the best circuit judges in Kentucky. He died August 12, 1910, at the age of 68. 

Stanford, Kentucky

December 25, 1906

My dear daughter,

          On this Christmas day 1906, I devote a few hours in compliance with your request for an article embracing my personal recollections of Morgan’s raid into Ohio. I am well-disposed toward this task for it is not infrequently a pleasure to call up from the mists of the past such events of that sweeping ride which yet lie within my memory, some of them ludicrous, some pathetic, and many of them impressive. Not a few of these are so indelibly impressed that my memory of them is as clear as if they had occurred but yesterday. Others are as shadowy as the faces we see in dreams. Doubtless many of them have long since been forgotten, chiefly because the intense weariness of the body during the last days of the raid made me, as well as comrades of tougher fiber, indifferent even to tragic environment.

        On Wednesday the first day of July 1863, I received an order from the regimental adjutant of the 6^th Kentucky to take 10 men, swim the Cumberland at 9 o’clock that night, move northwardly and develop the enemy known to be in force on the north bank. I obeyed the order and this was the beginning of the raid. A little after midnight, moving slowly and cautiously, having proceeded only about 4 miles, I discovered 100 yards ahead a small body of cavalry, but obviously greater in number than my own squad. We mutually halted. The officer in charge refused to tell his name or where he belonged. I was equally guarded.

          After a short parley, we agreed to tell the truth. At this he shouted, “Who are you, then?” I answered, “There are more of you than there are of us, you answer first.” He replied, “I am Lieutenant pace, 11^th Kentucky, Johnson’s brigade, Morgan’s cavalry.” I responded, “I am Lieutenant Saufley, 6^th Kentucky, Duke’s brigade, Morgan’s cavalry.” The solution was that he had been sent out as an advance scout from Johnson’s brigade camped 4 miles down the river, just as I had been dispatched from Duke’s brigade.

          We united forces and soon encountered in the darkness a large body of the enemy. We had a little scrap and sent a courier for reinforcements. The first lieutenant (Coffey) of my company came up in the course of two hours with 15 men. By this time, it was daylight. Coffey immediately attacked and was killed in 5 minutes. The command then devolved upon me. With Pace’s force I then had about 45 men pitted against about 150. It is drawing it mildly to say that the boys in blue handled us roughly. But just as they were giving us what seemed to be the coup de grace, General Morgan himself came at full speed at the head of the balance of my company and the way he lit into those fellows who had shown so little respect for his scouts was good for sore eyes.

Colonel Basil W. Duke

          I have read much of General Forrest’s individual prowess in battle and my admiration of both his genius and personal heroism is almost without limit. But I thought that day, when Morgan with drawn sword, dashed into that body of brave Federal soldiers, that Richard at the Castle of Torquilstone did not display a knightlier courage. He drove this force back on their reserves and the reserves several miles further, opening the way to Columbia, Kentucky where on the next day we encountered another large force and routed it in a half hour engagement.

          Leaving Columbia, we swept through Kentucky, engaging the enemy every day so that it may be almost said we fought every foot of the way from the Cumberland to the Ohio River. At Lebanon, Kentucky, we had a fierce and protracted encounter with Colonel Charles Hanson, brother of General Roger Hanson who fell at Murfreesboro. Tom Morgan, a brother of the general and a handsome, daring youth, was killed here. A report was rife at the time that he was shot after the enemy had hoisted the white flag and for a time there was an excited state of feeling. The report was both true and untrue. Colonel Hanson’s men were stationed in the railway station house, churches, and other substantial houses. After a stubborn defense they surrendered in detachments and at different times. Doubtless if was after one or more detachments had surrendered that Tom Morgan was shot by one which had not surrendered.

          Reaching the Ohio River opposite the Indiana shore, we captured two steamers and by this means crossed. They were burned to the water line after the last company had crossed. About two years ago I was informed by a gentleman who professed to have seen it that the hull of one of these steamers still lay there imbedded in a sand bar. While were undertaking this crossing which consumed the greater part of one day, there were in our rear and not exceeding five miles distant over 3,000 well-equipped Federal cavalry under Wolford, Hobson, and Shackleford, leaders of approved spirit and enterprise.

Why they did not attack has ever been a vexed question with me. Many years after the war, I asked Colonel Wolford his reasons for declining to attack. In substance, he said that he knew if Morgan crossed his destruction would be inevitable; that the great number of militia and home guards which would assemble to harass him and impede his progress, together with the regular troops which could be hurled against him from Louisville to Cincinnati, would make his escape impossible. Meanwhile, an attack by him on the Kentucky side might or might not have been successful. Subsequent events showed that Colonel Wolford’s military forecast was well made, so far as it related exclusively to Morgan’s capture. But it is due to the truth of history as well as to Morgan’s sagacity to say that his final overthrow was caused not so much by the conditions which Colonel Wolford foresaw and which were equally within the contemplation of Morgan as by a rise in waters of the upper Ohio, an event without known precedent in the usually dry month of July.

On the Indiana shore near the town of Corydon, a formidable force of militia with one or two pieces of artillery had assembled to resist our crossing. Morgan first ordered Colonel Ward’s regiment of Tennesseans to leave their horses on the Kentucky side and cross the river down in canoes, ferryboats, and such other river craft as they could find and to strike the enemy in the rear. This was a hazardous undertaking but successfully accomplished by that superb officer Colonel Ward. The cavalry in our rear followed closely, their numbers augmenting while ours diminished by the casualties of daily fighting.

The Battle of Corydon, Indiana was fought on July 9, 1863, scarcely a week after the Battle of Gettysburg.

The fatigue of the march and these many engagements began to tell with serious effect. The night we passed around 8 miles north of Cincinnati the men suffered the greatest exhaustion. Many fell from their horses while fast asleep in the saddle. It was estimated that in Cincinnati there were 10,000 regular troops under orders to throw themselves across our line of march or to defend the city should Morgan attack. My information has always been that the Federal authorities rather inclined to the opinion that Morgan would attack and that for this reason these did not take position in our immediate front. It is my opinion that our safe passage may be ascribed to the mistaken calculations of the commanding Federal officer.

In making this circuit around the city, we covered 90 miles in 32 hours. When daylight dawned we were confronted by a garrison force which moved out from Camp Dennison. It was not Morgan’s purpose, because it was not to his interest, to engage this force. We were too hard pressed in the rear to lose the necessary time. He simply threw out a detachment to skirmish with the garrison while the main body moved on. It fell to my lot to be put in command of the skirmish line and moving rapidly on foot, I deployed my men along the line of a worm fence, directing each man to lie down in the inner angle and to await the near approach of the enemy who was moving towards us.

In a brief moment after taking my recumbent position, I awakened and at once became conscious that I had fallen asleep for a few seconds. Instantly, the thought occurred to me: if I who am in command and responsible for the success of this feint can’t keep awake, what are my men doing? I crawled along the ground and found each man sound asleep with his gun protruding through the crack of the lower rails. I aroused them, we stood the enemy off until the main body had passed, then beating a hasty retreat, we mounted our jaded horses and joined the moving column.

A period depiction of Morgan's men riding into the Washington, Ohio. 

          From this point on, each day was a repetition of each preceding day, with added difficulties and a rougher experience. The portion of Ohio we were in is rugged and hilly. In almost every defile and on every hilltop the militia of the state took position and from these points of comparative security, they peppered us with all manner of guns. Dozens of times a day detachments were dismounted to dislodge them from places inaccessible to cavalry. My memory of occurrences about this time is rather indistinct. Fatigue and the loss of sleep so dulled my capacity for thoughtful observation, made me so callous to the influence of any sort of environment, that I was almost unimpressionable.

But now and then an awakening would come. I recall one afternoon when we halted for a few hours’ rest. My whole company was placed on picket in the rear; we had a stream of water running nearby. One of my comrades named Crutchfield and I concluded to take a bath. I had not washed my face since crossing the Cumberland River. We had but fairly gotten into the water when a dozen quick, sharp reports rang out near the videttes. Simultaneously, we jumped from the stream. I jerked on my trousers, jacket, and boots, leaving the rest of my wardrobe consisting of a calico shirt and a so-called pair of socks on the ground. I jumped on my horse and dashed towards the videttes.’

I found that the shots had been fired, not by regular troops as I had feared, but by a squad of militia which had slipped on the videttes through the undergrowth. Cowan and I gave chase for about two miles but they eluded us. By this time it was near sundown. We saw a little way up a valley an inviting looking white house with green shutters. Always on the alert for something to eat, we rode to it. We tried to enter the house peaceably “in the name and by the authority of the Confederate states” but the door and shutters faithfully held their own against the peace and dignity of that government.

Cowan used a large rock as a battering ram against the door and we entered. Searching through the house, we were unable to find a mouthful to eat. We did, however, capture two workman shirts, one red and one blue. Cowan put on the blue and I the red. As we were not going into society that summer, shirts were regarded as luxuries rather than necessities and would have been readily exchanged for a pone of cornbread. Prosecuting our searches a little further, we found at the back of the house a folding trap door that opened into the best arranged and furnished cellar I had ever seen. It makes me feel fat and comfortable to this day to think of how I went for all that was in sight.

We confiscated all the loose sacks and baskets that lay around in criminal negligence, filled them to their capacity, and caught up with our people about 10 o’clock that night with more rations for our company than it had drawn from the commissary since we began service under Morgan. For truth to tell, General Morgan, while a hard rider and a prize fighter, was a poor provider. He never had such time to attend to such minor affairs. The man who followed him must depend on his wits for his rations or go to bed hungry.

The route of Morgan's raid starts at Sparta, Tennessee, winds through central Kentucky to cross the Ohio River at Brandenburg, Kentucky, before turning east through southern Indiana and southern Ohio. Morgan lost heavily at Buffington Island on July 19, 1863 and turned north with his survivors trying to find a ford across the Ohio River. Morgan was finally captured on July 26th near Salineville. 

It would be a long and I fear tedious story should I recount the many happenings between this and the day of our battle at Buffington Island where we met with our greatest disaster. We reached this point Saturday night at 10 o’clock on July 18. It seemed we had won the race and at last our splendid endeavor was to be crowned with splendid success. Before General Morgan had finally settled on his general route through the north, he sent spies to examine the upper fords of the Ohio. Buffington Island had been one where a crossing could be made without boats. On arriving there it was ascertained that an unusual rise in the river had taken place which made fording impossible.

A night crossing was deemed perilous and wholly impracticable for this and the additional reason that the enemy had planted artillery at a point which commanded the ford. It was decided to wait for the dawn of day. The captain of my company and I were reclining in a fence corner, holding our horses by the reins while they munched the grain. A little way off I heard one of our men singing a bit of doggerel the like of which was common enough in the army: “I’ll eat when I’m hungry, I’ll drink when I’m dry, If the Yankees don’t kill me, I’ll live till I die.” Poor fellow, he received the next day a wound which cost him his life.

By daylight next morning the battle was on. The cavalry which had pursued us all the way caught up. Infantry and artillery had been landed from transports from Cincinnati. River gunboats opened on us from the river. We fought to the front and to the right and left flanks for three hours, losing about 600 out of 1,200 men. A few hundred had crossed the river before the fight opened. This, it must be understood, was not a desertion. The crossing had begun before the pursuing forces had come up.

The enemy closed in on every side except that there was a gap in their lines to our rear about 100 yards wife and about 600 of us got through that narrow pass. I have not the time or space to tell you how I escaped but I got out with this retreating fragment. We traveled northwardly the remainder of the day until 2 o’clock the next morning. General Morgan then gave us two hours’ rest and on remounting, like a fox, he doubled on his track and moved south. But the deliverance was of short duration.

Morgan turned and accepted battle when the enemy came up in force. After a series of brilliant charges and countercharges, the enemy, outnumbering us ten to one, completely surrounded us, and the deed was done. I surrendered to my boyhood friend and schoolmate Captain Brent Tishback of Wolford’s cavalry. Morgan, in some way I have never known, got off with 150 men, but was captured 10 days later near the Canada line.

As for myself and the men of my company, we went to prison. Being a commissioned officer, I was put in the Ohio penitentiary where I did not see daylight for several months. I was then transferred to the military prison at Fort Delaware. With only one remaining incident, though there are hundreds untold, I close this story.

You will recall my old red shirt that a few days before our final disaster I had found in the Ohio farmer’s house. I wore it until the sleeves were in tatters. My gray jacket had fallen to pieces. The weather was intensely cold at Fort Delaware in the month of December. Finally, the brilliant idea struck me that I could cut off the tail and patch the sleeves. With men of inventive genius like your father, the conception of a great thought means its instant execution. I stretched the old shirt on the barracks floor and with a dull knife amputated what might be called by poetic license its caudel appendage. But for the life of me I could not fit the tail onto the sleeves and thenceforward I made my social calls and went on dress parade in decidedly undress uniform.

All badinage aside, in these later years my reveries by day and my dreams at night carry me back to that heroic time when every day brought forth a noble chance and every chance a noble knight. I often see the noble chieftain whose banner I loved to follow, whose life was a romance, whose death was a tragedy. As my judgment matures, I discover in his methods an originality in the science of war which, if not so productive of great results, was as striking and peculiarly his own as that startling genius which has placed the name of Stonewall Jackson above every other name in modern warfare.

As I am sure that history will accredit him with having been a soldier of rarest distinction in an era rich in military fame. His chivalrous humanity to a fallen foe outshone the luster of the victory which placed them at his mercy. He did not fight any great battles but he fought many battles. He never suffered humiliation or defeat when he stood upon an equal footings with an enemy. He had learned nothing of the art of war from the drillmaster or the manual, but guided by the light of an original and creative genius, he had no need to seek in books the sanction of rules or precedents. The God who made himself signed his commission as a leader of men.

I have written this with my own hand that your little boys may know in after times that their Kentucky grandfather was a Rebel soldier.

Source: “Morgan’s Raid Though Indiana and Ohio; His Stand in Battle of Buffington Island,” First Lieutenant Micah Chrisman Saufley, Co. H, 6^th Kentucky Cavalry (C.S.A.), Knoxville Sentinel (Tennessee), April 27, 1907, pg. 15