by Bob Young
Copyright © 2012 by EVS LLC
All Rights Reserved
This publication is protected by Copyright and permission should be obtained from the publisher prior to any reproduction, storage in a retrieval system, or transmission in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or likewise except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of historical fiction. Some of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialog in this novel are as accurate as can be determined from the historic record or are products of the author’s imagination using contemporary accounts.
Published by Eagle Veterans Services LLC, Augusta, GA
www.eagleveteransservices.com
Printed by CreateSpace, An Amazon.com Company
ISBN-13: 978-1467969956
ISBN-10: 1467969958
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61916-663-9
For Gwen
and
For all who have served and will serve in the defense of our nation
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
PROLOGUE
Through the unending rain and choking smoke, gunfire pierced the soldier’s senses. The thundering boom of cannons and incessant whizzing of airborne minié balls wrapped his brain as though it were bending.
His heart began racing at the pace of a dying bird’s. After all, he had been sent to the front to keep a watchful eye on the youthful cadets in his charge. These were boys. Fresh-faced. Lanky, some of them. Eyes aglow with the vitality and curiosity of youth. Ready on the moment with an abandon to confront the enemy for the glory of the South and their revered VMI.
Nobody could have prepared them for battle under ordinary circumstances, but this day was especially difficult on account of the rain and crushing fog. Yes, the fog.
It filled one’s sight. Its shade was gray. It dampened the lungs and brought a tickle to the throat. The soldier had heard stories about fog bringing blindness, but he hoped that such tales were merely myths.
It didn’t matter. Whether or not blindness was a danger, the gunfire was lethal enough. It cracked out against the farmer’s field that lay before them with brutal, breath-shattering force. It always came when one least expected it.
It took out throats and chests and skulls.
Helpless, the soldier witnessed the bright orange flashes. Even the thickness of the fog could not dull their sharpness. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
He smelled blood. Or was that his imagination? Whatever it was, it made his tear ducts leak. From atop his mount, he shouted commands. “Hold the line!” “Maintain your positions.”
But no one seemed to hear.
He was drowned out by the excitement of the moment. “Charge!” shouted one young voice. Then another. And another. “Forward!” The echoes of a series of rebel yells began to fill the field as the lads plodded out into the muddy field, their gray VMI uniforms disappearing into the damp shroud.
In fact, his own words sounded deathly silent even to him. He whirled around on his horse and gave chase.
He wished and wished for the fog to clear. But when it did, he wished for it to come back. For the absence of the fog revealed five dead bodies.
Not boys any longer. Their faces bore the kind of shock known only to men. Bullets had blown great holes through their skinny forms.
The soldier was shredded with a gnawing sense of helplessness. What could he have done to save these boys? Had he failed them— and the Southern cause that was now counting on them?
As he lay in the mud, reeling in pain from the round that knocked him off his horse, he dared not show weakness.
He would have many days to be ravaged by guilt.
CHAPTER ONE
Late March, 1865
Richmond, Virginia
At long last, nature has sounded its gallant wakeup call. The sun curls upward, over the horizon, and another beautiful spring day dawns on the Confederacy’s capital city.
But for Captain Patrick Graham, there is no time to enjoy nature’s splendor. On this day, the rising rays find him on the move, winding through the streets of Richmond, driven by a clear sense of purpose.
As he walks with a deliberate stride beneath the early morning’s light, his shiny boots and pressed-out long coat betray his training as a professional soldier. Not for him are weak or sloppy movements. Nor for him a gaze that could grant entrance to forces of intimidation.
Patrick’s shoulder-length blond hair bounces in the breeze, yet never loses its frame around his piercing blue eyes and sharp features. At the same time, his is not a style that is designed to draw excess attention, and so he easily blends into the surrounding street scene, in comfortable context amid every other young man on his way to a shop or an office…or, as the case may be, a military assignment in defense of the Southern homeland.
In a rare but needed moment of pause, Patrick stops before a bread cart and presses a coin into the vendor’s crackled hand. “One biscuit,” Patrick says, the words coming out fast, so fast that any wise listener will know that small talk and socializing are not bound to ensue.
The vendor is quick to produce the biscuit, which Patrick is fast to plant inside his sack. Thankfully, its fresh smell hits his nostrils before the sack is closed. He then gives a swift nod and paces onward.
Overall, Patrick presents the smart bearing that one would expect from an officer of the Confederate Army. Tall and erect. Shoulders back. Figure fit and firm. Gone are the days when the elders on the farm called him “Scrawny.” Present are days when he occupies the role of a respectable adult.
In other times a visit to Richmond would include a fine dinner with friends, and perhaps even an evening show. Without question Patrick knows enough people in this city to prevent him from being bored. To boot, his smart manner of dress and youthful good looks have a handy way of attracting the young ladies. And with so many men away at war, available ladies are in abundance.
However, for worse or for better, this is not a trip that affords Patrick leisure time.
At this moment, grave matters of life and death are at stake.
Upon his arrival in the city last night, he found his instructions awaiting him in an official-looking sealed envelope when he checked into his hotel:
Captain Graham, Welcome to Richmond. I trust your travel was without incident. Please report to Colonel Liston in the Treasury Building sharply at 8 1/2 in the morning. Bring your luggage with you. Warm regards…
Captain Graham was familiar with the signature that followed— that of George Trenholm, Secretary of the Treasury.
* * *
The two men had met last summer in Charleston, the city where Trenholm had built up a staggering financial empire, complete with plantations, steamships, banking, railroads, and hotels. His rampant ambition notwithstanding, Trenholm was one of the South’s most benevolent citizens, contributing his money to charities that helped both South and North, white and black. As well, he had a special interest in hospitals that served the wounded soldiers of the Confederacy. It was not unusual to spot the man st
anding over a soldier’s hospital bed, whispering warm words about the greatness of America and the worthiness of the fight.
After Patrick got wounded in the Battle of New Market, he found himself in one such hospital bed with the classic guilt of a survivor tearing through his very being.
“You’ll get through this, young man,” Trenholm said to Graham with a wink, reaching out to touch his arm, but then remembering the minié ball that was still lodged inside of it.
“Have you ever known guilt to enter your heart?” Patrick asked the older man. Though it was not Patrick’s custom to display vulnerability, he was indeed in unusual circumstances, and a shield of toughness would likely seem stranger than a simple display of humility.
With a nod, Trenholm confided, “All men but those who do nothing with their lives must wrestle with dark emotions. It’s the man who stays at home who avoids suffering. The man in the field, be it the field of battle or the field of life, is bound to find himself getting hurt.”
After Trenholm departed on that day, Patrick felt the moist presence of tears rolling down his cheeks. Perhaps, the Secretary’s wise words are opening a door of understanding for guilt Patrick carries.
Now, as he saunters with pride about the streets, Patrick does his best to conceal the shadows of agony and restlessness that are never completely gone from his mind.
That inquiring mind served him well in school. At moments when others rolled their eyes with boredom, Patrick found himself enjoying an immersion in detailed research.
From the earliest days of his military assignment Patrick developed extensive networks of sources both outside and inside the command. In time things got to the point where his commanding general, John C. Breckinridge, wouldn’t dare make a troop movement or engage the enemy without first benefitting from a briefing by Captain Graham. As fate would have it, it was Breckinridge who ultimately introduced Patrick to Secretary Trenholm.
Trenholm had been given the impossible task of repairing a terminally ill economy. Inflation was spiraling out of control. For example, so-called “nickel newspapers” now came with one-dollar price tags. It didn’t take long for the new Secretary to realize that he needed some specialized help, and he cast about for people whom he could hold close and trust.
Captain Patrick Graham more than fit that bill. His reputation was such that others could trust him with their lives and could always count on him to keep his essential loyalty intact. In Patrick’s mind, two things were deserving of his utmost attention and esteem: the South and his fellow soldiers.
Trenholm’s chief priorities were collecting taxes and protecting the value of the Confederate government’s currency. It was on Breckinridge’s fervent recommendation that Patrick was included in a group of wounded soldiers invited to a summer evening reception hosted by Trenholm at Ashley Hall, his opulent Charleston mansion.
Immediately Trenholm recognized Patrick from his hospital stay. After dinner, the pair adjourned to Trenholm’s library. Speaking in hushed tones, Trenholm extended to Patrick the offer to help build a new agency to strengthen Southern economic independence.
“You’re fit to operate at a whole other level, my friend,” Trenholm all but whispered. “You and I, together, we can really build something that endures.”
Patrick’s knowing eyes sparkled. This was simply too good to pass up. What intrigued Patrick the most was that, according to Trenholm, they would go about their business in a very discreet way, virtually operating in the shadows.
Trenholm had other cards to put in play. To lead the new office, the Secretary recruited an old friend of his, Colonel Charles Liston, a trained warrior, a veteran commander in the Army of Northern Virginia and, like Patrick, a graduate of West Point. On two occasions, Liston had found himself upon the battlefield with his brain ringing in pain and his body raining blood. The second wound nearly cost him his life and rendered him unable to return to the field.
The field commander’s loss was Treasury’s gain. Trenholm did not hesitate before picking this Virginian for his bureau chief. It didn’t hurt, either, that Liston had spent several assignments in the Signal Bureau—the Confederacy’s spy office.
* * *
In a testament to Trenholm’s matchmaking skills, Patrick and Charles make for an exemplary team. They are both still in possession of their youth, and both have had a good taste for the fight. Patrick enjoys the privilege of being the taller one, but Charles’ dark hair and beard grant him a look that is much older than his years.
Patrick is always concerned about the way he looks and takes great pride in dressing appropriately for every occasion. Oftentimes, he finds it difficult to walk past a mirror without eyeing his reflection. Charles, on the other hand, is more concerned with the work in front of him than how he looks while doing it. As far as Charles is concerned, nobody pays attention to appearances, for action is all that matters.
Despite the pair’s significant differences, they are bound by a deep devotion to the Confederacy. This allows them to make their differences work and grants them the latitude to play off of and complement each other.
Patrick never enjoys being in the Richmond Bureau offices, as the walls there seem to always close right in on him. His higher affection is for field work, where he can see immediate results. On the other hand, unsurprisingly, Charles takes to the bureau offices like a fish to water, as the chess master who keeps all the players and pieces in motion.
But as well as they work together—even President Davis is aware of their near-legendary accomplishments—Patrick tends to harbor a single, unspoken complaint: The fact of the matter is, he has never been able to penetrate the veil that shields the personal side of Charles’ life. Indeed, rocks and bricks seemed to contain more emotional moisture.
Early in their relationship, in a moment of blinding fascination, Charles did let slip to Patrick some memory about how he manhandled a drunk who’d been impolite to his wife.
“I don’t much care for bullies,” Charles said. “Never have, never will. And what interested me about this fellow was his large, hanging gut. I very much wished to slam my fist right into…”
But just as Patrick sensed his blood pressure rising, Charles quickly caught himself and changed the topic. Forcing a shrug, Patrick thought to himself, Maybe Charles is a good secret agent because he’s good at keeping secrets.
* * *
During their initial weeks of duty, Patrick and Charles spent some time with the officers they knew in the Signal Bureau. The bureau was the joint creation of Captain E. Porter Alexander and Major William Norris, who had led the organization from a two-man concept to an influential body with fifteen hundred soldiers. These men were more than just “flag floppers,” the fellows who signaled from point to point with “wig wag” flags. No, these men also functioned as spies, keeping themselves actively engaged in espionage in America and abroad. The greatest secrets of the North and the South flowed through their nondescript but well-protected suite of offices in Richmond.
For worse or for better, Patrick’s new bureau in Treasury was tasked to focus narrowly on issues of commerce and taxes. Nonetheless, he didn’t hesitate to share the information he gathered with the War Department, especially ever since his former commanding general, Breckinridge, had been named Secretary of War the previous September.
Immediately after the Treasury Office of Special Operations was established and staffed, Patrick made a dash for the field. He knew he wouldn’t be gathering critical information from behind a desk in Richmond—that work was better suited for Charles. Meanwhile, he knew full well that Liston had plenty of others back at headquarters who would keep the ever-exciting stream of paperwork in flow.
As a Treasury Agent, Patrick enjoyed authentic freedom of movement throughout the South. He spent a great deal of his time collaborating with local and state government officials, assisting them with building cases against profiteers, counterfeiters, and tax dodgers.
The way Patrick saw it, there were
patriots and there were parasites. Patrick’s pride in his young country trumped any other man’s scheme to make a profit from the war at the expense of hard-working Southerners. Patrick had seen far too much blood spilled on the battlefields to allow even a single soldier’s sacrifice to be tainted by anyone’s greed.
And so it was that Patrick Graham was attending to the field when he found himself summoned by the Secretary back to Richmond with terrible urgency.
* * *
The orange and pink setting sun makes for a spectacular railroad ride along the James River into Richmond. The shadow of the interlinked cars can be seen racing across the water as the train passes by Belle Isle and its prisoner of war camp on one side and the houses and shops of Manchester on the other.
While crossing the turbulent rapids of the James, the engineer blows the whistle to announce the train’s gallant arrival.
“Richmond, Virginia. End of the line,” bellows the conductor.
As if to accent the announcement, the engine noisily releases its reserve of steam while it pulls into the Richmond and Danville Railroad Depot.
The evening hour notwithstanding, the station is packed with people and their belongings, all of them ready to board the next train out of town on the only rail line that is still in service. Patrick clearly sees the motivation for their urgency upon a poster tacked to a station post.
In large bold letters, dire words warn the citizens of Richmond that “the enemy is approaching the city!”
Rather than call for evacuation, the message instead screams a cry for help. In effect, the words serve to summon the men of Richmond to arms to oppose Grant’s soldiers, who are pressing Lee’s defenses not far away at Petersburg. With the enemy so close, Patrick cannot blame the civilians for seeking safer ground.
All across the city, the excitement radiates like lethal heat. As Patrick makes his way toward Capitol Square, he sees the streets packed with horses and wagons and carriages—as well as people, lots and lots of people. The signs and sounds of danger fill the air, and clearly the population of Richmond is doubled over in fear.