JUDITH GREENE: The Old Port Chronicles, Part 1

by James C. Burke

  As they pass Mrs. Greene, she walked behind them. The Colonel was too consumed by his thoughts to notice.

  “Mrs. Greene came asking for you yesterday and I told her you were expected this morning, and well … she is right behind you this moment.”

  Puzzled, the Colonel looked over his shoulder and saw Mrs. Greene. Startled, he exclaimed,

  “Mrs. Greene I didn’t see you standing there!”

  “Oh, please pardon my effrontery, sir.”

  “Judith, you are a pretty mess... I’ve told you that time and again.”

  “That can account for my most grievous faults, Colonel.”

  “No doubt, dear lady. How can I be of service to you?”

  “I would like to speak with you for a moment. Can we take a little stroll?” Wyche answered,

  “That is possible, if walking in the frigid air is what you would prefer?” Judith replied, in jest,

  “Sensible people would seek the warmth, so the out of doors is appropriate for us.”

  “Very good. Mr. Chance I assume that the lady intends to tell me something in confidence. Could you have coffee waiting when we return?”

  Judith and the Colonel walked alone down to the end of the platform in the frigid air. When she spoke, the façade of playful banter had fallen.

  “I will not keep you long, sir. The coffin found under the bridge was the same I brought to Old Port for burial in the family plot during the days that the town fell to the Yankees. The one that was supposed to be in my boy’s grave. It contained a pouch of English bonds and letters for the Confederate Government. Sometimes after the war Fred McAdams opened the burial vault and took the coffin without my knowledge. This was included in the pouch.”

  “I should have known you were at the bottom of this, Judith”

  Mrs. Greene removed a folded twelve page document from her bag, handed it to Colonel Wyche, and said,

  “It is in a strange code that I have never seen before. I cannot make heads or tails of it. Don’t look at it now! Just put it in your coat pocket. Somebody might be watching.”

  The Colonel nonchalantly pocketed the document with his trembling right hand as he took a handkerchief from his other pocket with his left hand. It was smoothly done. She continued.

  “I did not bury it with the bonds as Fred instructed. Something told me to hold it aside. It has been hidden in the old Greene place for all these years. See if you can decipher the text. It might tell us where those cursed things came from and maybe lead to Fred’s killer.”

  “Laura found the coffin, Judith… and I think Jane was behind this crude reburial that Mr. Chance just informed me of.” Judith took his arm, and said.

  They both might be in danger! Anybody connected to Fred McAdams! He was murdered. Now, it is Judge Pugh! The judge was a spy in those days, too. He was very daring! … They tried to murder me, Colonel. Friday somebody tried to drop a heavy block on my head while I was alone in the theatre. I know it was no accident.

  “Who else was working with McAdams?”

  “Senator Grundy, Mr. Cassidy, and that is all of us.”

  “All your old admirers…”

  But I must confess something to you, sir… Also, Laura.” The Colonel brought his hand up to his brow.

  “Don’t tell me you got my daughter mixed up in this?” Timidly, she answered,

  “Yes… and no.”

  “You took advantage of her gift, didn’t you?”

  “Can you forgive me, sir?” The Colonel shook his head,

  “That is neither here nor there. Now, I must tell you something. Jane and I found the bonds after Fred died, but Laura found them first. She hid them in the privy. After Fred was killed, she said that men had broken into her house looking for plunder. I didn’t believe her. She did not seem to be in her right mind at the time… and there is another thing!”

  Colonel Wyche then told her about his encounter with the Confederate agent in 1863. He was surprised to see him appointed attorney for the railroad – it was Mr. Thomas. He said,

  “He had been appointed out of the blue, so he had to have connections.” Judith asked,

  “Fred told him about us?”

  “Who knows, Judith? I don’t understand any of this! We cannot stand around out here talking about it and that’s one thing for sure. Where is Senator Grundy?”

  “Back and forth... The General Assembly is still in session.”

  “I am going to send him a telegram. When he gets his hide down here we are going to have a little talk. What gets me is that it has taken all these years for you to get around to unburdening yourself – a pretty mess indeed. Is there something else you’re not telling me?” Judith paused, then said,

  “Phillip knows nothing about this. Doctor Lovejoy – oh, he is a smart fellow – found a type of markings on the casket that led back to the man who made it and the place where I purchased it. He told my husband there was never a body in it and now he wants to open the grave. I had to tell Phillip it was all a ruse so I could keep Little Jack!”

  “Who is Little Jack?”

  “My son.”

  “You are just full of surprises, Judith. I thought you found a home for that boy after the war.”

  “He is studying law in college.”

  “What? So he can file suit against you? How did you pull this one off? Never mind, we’ll discuss that later. At least, it explains why you have been tight-lipped about the rest. Living the double life is par for the course with you.” Judith pleaded

  “You’re not going to tell Phillip!”

  “I should! Who drove you here?”

  “Doctor Everett.”

  “And you have him waiting out in the cold?”

  “No. He is in the depot.”

  “Good. I am getting frostbit. We’re going to join him right now to discuss your trip over a cup of hot coffee.”

  “My trip?

  “Yes. Let’s get inside before we catch pneumonia!”

  The Colonel took Mrs. Greene’s arm and walked briskly to the depot. He asked,

  “Have you fired a revolver lately?”

  “How did you know I have a revolver in my bag?”

  “I didn’t! I was going to offer you one of mine.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir.”

  “I should have known. You had better keep it handy because Laura will be going along, too.”

  “Do you think that is a good idea?”

  “I am not going to take any chances. By the way, Judith, we ran into an old friend of yours in New York. I’m sure you recall Captain Willard.”

  “How could I forget, Captain Willard? He had such a way with the ladies.”

  “He is running a detective agency – one of the best around – and I have hired him to reopen the investigation into Fred’s murder. The railroad might have given up on trying to find his killer, but it will never be that way with me. I promised my little girl that there would be justice.”

  The Colonel burst into the stationmaster’s office with Mrs. Greene in tow.

  “Mr. Chance Where is that coffee? Good! Please pour a cup for the lady. I’ll have the rest of it. There is a gentleman in the depot waiting on Mrs. Greene named Doctor Everett Send for him and send word to my wife to prepare Laura for a little excursion up the line with a family friend. Make sure Jane bundles her up! I’ll give her the details when I come home this evening. Pretty mess-pretty mess, my goodness Judith.”

  Colonel Wyche arranged for a special train to be prepared at his own expense. The rationale behind his plan was to keep Mrs. Greene and Laura safe and in constant motion for a day or two. He could figure out what to do next. The train comprised a fast and reliable wood burner and tender driven by his most trusted employees from the war years, Johnston and Dobbs. An old mail car with a contingent of armed men, and his personal car for carrying the ladies made up the rest. Perhaps, he thought, Mrs. Greene could pry some hidden clues from Laura that had escaped his comprehension.

  ****
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br />   It was the evening of Wednesday, January 25, 1882. The frigid cold of the previous days had transitioned into an unseasonable warmth, and the clear sky had grown cloudy. Caleb Martin, the stationmaster of Northeast depot, whiled away the hours of his shift reading a dime novel. Whittling, his son Edwin, the telegrapher, was also passing time. Jeb, the father of Caleb, was just beginning his shift as night watchman.

  Beautancus, the night watchman’s hound, sprawled comfortably on the platform doormat. The sun had set a few minutes before six o’clock. When the last hints of twilight faded twenty minutes later, the watchman had completed lighting the last of the station lamps. The two large lamps suspended from poles illuminating the adjoining warehouse, lit by the stationmaster when the freight office closed for the evening. Outside light from the few houses fronting the railroad and the first quarter moon overhead, made the station a bright point of light surrounded by a shroud of darkness. An advancing overcast sky soon obscured the moon and stars.

  The temperature, however, had been unseasonably warm that day. The men that worked this rural stop on the line enjoyed throwing open doors and windows to the fresh air for once in so many weeks. Such was the case, at least at the station, when the evening mail train from the city passed through as usual without stopping at six-fifteen.

  Caleb Martin, the stationmaster, riveted to a dime novel, hardly lifted his head to glance at the locomotive racing past the platform. The dog, ensconced on his mat, threw back is head and howled with the first blast of the whistle. The din of dog and train in concert only disturbed the telegraph operator, Edwin, Caleb’s teenaged son. He was trying to whittle a horse from an old block of oak, and doing a poor job of it. Within a few minutes, silence fell over Northeast Station once again.

  In the old days, Northeast Station was an important one for planters living along the river. At slightly over ten miles from the city, it was the first station set up on the railroad. Its railroad’s charter required the company to open new sections of the line in ten-mile increments. Each section had to end with a station. Since the ten-mile mark was in the middle of the river, the station had to be built on the opposite side of the bridge. The opposite bank of the river was 366 feet short of ten miles. The company built a bridge over the river and located the station short of the eleven mile mark even though it was easier to land boats on the other side. A stationary engine once housed under a shed behind the station conveyed a flat car by cable up an inclined plane from the river landing. This was in the late 1830s. Planters floated their crops downriver on bateaux to be loaded on the train. With the primitive English style locomotives running on strap-iron rails, it took an hour to transport freight over the ten miles to the docks in the city. However, it usually took a bateau a day and a half to navigate the serpentine bends of the river down to the port from the landing at Northeast Station. By the 1840s, an enterprising miller had built a steam mill near the landing so grain coming downriver could be milled into flour before being put on the cars. That way, it could be loaded directly on the ships, and everybody would make a nice profit.

  In 1882, however, the stationary engine and the mill were long-gone, and the inclined plane was an overgrown path to the river. The bridge had been rebuilt in iron after the Confederates set fire to the original wooden bridge near the end of the war. Local farmers still bought their crops to the station, but in wagons; and those to the north used the nearest station. Nothing was sent downriver on bateaux. Trains passed the station six times a day between five in the morning and nine-thirty at night, but only the midday passenger train and the afternoon freight stopped regularly. The station functioned as the local post office, so there had to be a morning and evening dispatch if there was any mail. Usually, there was a handful of letters every few days. The station employed a stationmaster and a telegrapher, more often the stationmaster functioned as both, and remain there the full day while the trains were running.

  The night watchman was Jeb Martin, Caleb’s father, the only male in the neighborhood willing to stay up all night for meagre pay and an occasional free pass into the city. A widower, his hound Beautancus served as a constant companion around the clock. Supposedly, the dog was from a lineage of prize hunting hounds, but the only game that Beautancus hunted was the carcass of something that was already dead. Still, Jeb petted him gratuitously for the effort and rewarded him with treats. As watchman and watchdog, the two walked the station grounds from sundown to sunrise and then slept the rest of the day. The purpose of this routine was to prevent fire, not theft. A fire hose, fed from the water tank used for the locomotives, was at hand; but nobody at the station was sure how it worked. The last time there was a fire at the station it had been set by the Yankees, and it burnt itself out before doing any serious damage.

  Things seemed quiet at Northeast, and except for Edwin, the Martins seemed happy that every day appeared to offer the prospect of more of the same. Jeb and Caleb, having already lived through interesting times, welcomed the routine. They were proud that Edwin was shaping up to be a sharp telegrapher and hoped somebody at the Union Depot might take notice. A telegrapher at the main office made a decent salary. But Edwin, being a teenage boy, was expectedly depressed by the state of his life and its projected potential. Compounding his problems was the certain end of his education in the spring. He could read, write, and figure better than boys in the neighborhood. Twelve lived within a ten-mile radius. It seemed like a satisfactory education. Many in the region could not sign their own name. His education, however, had opened his eyes to other places and work that could lead to greatness. None of these possibilities, he knew for certain, would ever be realized without a few more years in school. He had heard the brightest boys, even those of little means, might gain admission to the state university or military academy. Pondering these thoughts rather than his whittling, he severed the hoof of his project.

  It was about a quarter of eight when Beautancus perked up and rose from the mat. His attention fixed northward at some distant point in the darkness. Jeb, sitting on the bench nearby, noticed. Typically, the dog assumed this position when some wild animal, like a fox or bobcat, was lurking about. However, this time he stood absolutely still for several minutes. Edwin, taking a break from his post after his somewhat disappointing whittling mishap, stepped out of the office to see his grandfather and the dog standing still at the end of the platform. As he drew near to the two, Jeb raised his hand out to his side. Edwin stopped, and tried in vain to see something in the darkness. Beautancus growled. Edwin asked what was out there, but Jeb cut him off with a “Hush!” The dog’s growl became more persistent. Soon, the sound of metallic grinding and creaking became audible.

  No sooner than Caleb muttered an expletive, a yard engine burst out of pitch darkness into the glow of the lamplight. It had no light! It was driverless! Trailing behind the engine was a few boxcars. Beautancus barked frantically. Rolling at a running pace, it passed by the platform. Jeb rushed inside to get Caleb. Edwin ran down the steps at the end of the station platform, and tried to run alongside the moving cars. He counted the boxcars, and all of them appeared empty. Running up behind the last car, he grabbed hold of the rungs of the ladder at the rear of the car. After being dragged twice in his attempt to climb the ladder, he lifted himself up the next few rungs until he could get his feet on the ladder. Barking continuously, Beautancus followed behind. Soon he was joined by his terrified father and grandfather. He yelled out as he approached the iron bridge that spanned the river there were nine empty boxcars, but he doubted he could be heard over the barking dog. Then he disappeared into the darkness.

  From Edwin’s view, he saw his father, grandfather, and the dog stopping at the edge of the light. Whatever the men were yelling was impossible to discern over the barking dog. Though he could see nothing beyond a hand’s length, he could tell by the sound of the wheels when the first car crossed onto the bridge. His heart skipped a beat, and he almost lost his grip when the wheels below him jumped as his car passed t
he threshold of the abutment. Now he felt the breeze above the river! If he lost his grip he would fall against the iron supports of the bridge, or fall forty feet into the river. The lights of Northeast Station faded to a pinpoint. Grasping the ladder firmly facing forward, he pressed his body against the rungs. His heart raced, but he could hardly take a breath. Soon he heard the sound of the yard engine crossing onto the abutment of the opposite side of the bridge. Each car made a like sound until his car crossed. He braced himself for the jolt when his car left the bridge; but when that came, it was not as bad as the other side. After several moments of wrestling with his terror, he claimed enough resolve to continue his way up the next rung of the ladder.

  The telegraph began its frantic clatter at Old Port Union Depot at five minutes to eight. The telegraphers on duty quickly relayed the message to the stationmaster by a messenger, and telegraphed the communication to the manager of the upper yards. Within a minute, preparing the evening freight was halted. Mr. Chance decided to sidetrack the runaway train onto a dead end if it was going slow enough to make the curve. If it was crossing the bridge over the creek at the end of the upper yards too fast, the switch would not be thrown. The locomotive and cars would continue to the lower inclined plane, it was a straight stretch that extended ten city blocks with a fall in elevation of fifty-six feet. The lower inclined plane ended on the first of the company wharves. The cars would go directly off into the water since the company had been using the wharf to load and unload barges.