The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  Furthermore, he also knows that the successful counterfeiting of Union currency is unheard of because the Federals have a national banking system and print their own money at the Treasury Department in Washington City. Dozens of civil servants work there around the clock, turning out crisp new notes with red Treasury seals on the front and green imprints on the back, thus creating the term “greenback.”

  Unlike Confederate notes, which are individually signed, the signatures on greenbacks are a built-in part of the printing process. The distinctive cotton and linen paper even has red and blue fibers imbedded within it.

  Patrick ponders the alternatives and comes to the conclusion that if a counterfeiter like Roads were able to get his hands on a set of plates, he’d be more than halfway home. The sole remaining issue would be the ink and paper. And in the underworld, presuming the price is right, anything is obtainable.

  The train’s loud whistle pulls Patrick out of his studies and back to the reality of his travel. The noise in the car around him has settled quite a bit, and the woman and children sitting near him are all now sound asleep.

  Patrick’s mind begins to focus on the mission at hand. He realizes there’s more to this than he’s being told. Shutting down a counterfeiter doesn’t require a visit to the Secretary’s Office.

  He reaches into his bag and pulls out a second large envelope. This one contains more targeted information: his introduction to one Adolphus Roads.

  Now, he thinks, we’re getting somewhere.

  By all accounts, Roads is as big a man physically as he is in importance amongst the citizens of Augusta. He towers over most folks by at least a couple of inches. His attire is like that of any prosperous businessman: a black suit atop polished boots. A trademark white shirt and black tie are always front and center, both flattened to perfection and positioned to catch the sun. His receding hairline is kept concealed by a gallant top hat, and the rest of his face is kept hidden behind a fluffy graying beard. What you notice most when you see the man, however, is that Roads’ brown eyes peer through narrow slits, the edges of which are near to deep, darkish lines.

  Roads grew up across the Savannah River, in Hamburg, South Carolina, where he spent more time working for the railroad than he did studying in school. It was through his association with the transient railroad laborers that he learned of a much bigger world in existence just down river.

  So Roads wasted no time in quitting school and going to Savannah to find work on the docks. There, he resumed his education, but not within the pages of stuffy books. He instead learned how to make a good living pilfering from cargo shipments. Perfumes, linens, tobacco, whiskey, and other finery from Europe always demanded top dollar—that is, when sold on the black market. It wasn’t long before Roads had others working for him, a gang he used to enforce his self-proclaimed territorial borders on the docks. He paid the local authorities for protection and didn’t take long to learn the value of having “friends” in city hall. However, as Patrick sees with clarity, a man such as this one has no friends. At least friends who are loyal.

  Rampant talk of secession inspired Roads to return home to Hamburg. He knew that once he was upriver in Augusta, he could lay out a lucrative plan to make money from Southern independence.

  His first steps included purchasing some downtown properties from which he would operate his businesses. Then, once the shops were up and running, he settled into one of the larger mansions in Summerville, right up on the hill near the federal arsenal.

  The arrival of a middle-aged bachelor from Savannah, especially one with lots of money for purchasing status and influence, was not lost on Augusta society. And so it was that Roads was eagerly sought out by equally greedy local businessmen. But Roads made easy work of outclassing them all. His personal polish was high enough to compete with the hardwood floors of his abode.

  Several in-town storefronts were covers for the smuggling and hijacking activities that he continued in Savannah and expanded to the wharves on the Savannah River at Augusta. The influx of soldiers into Augusta allowed him to expand into robbery, gambling, and prostitution. And, true to his pattern in Savannah, he became close to Augusta’s political leadership—that is, if closeness can be defined by keeping certain people’s bank accounts full.

  Patrick comprehends full well that Roads will be a tough adversary, but he doesn’t realize how dangerous the man truly is until he pulls a newspaper clipping from the envelope. Yellowed and torn, it tells the story of three visiting English sailors in Savannah who stumbled across a theft on the dock next to their own ship. It was daylight, and the three couldn’t believe that someone would be raiding cargo out in the open, for all to see. Their first inclination was for two of them to stop the activity while the third sought out a constable. Unbeknownst to the foreigners, the thieves were professionals, which meant they were well armed. So when the two Englishmen intervened, they were quickly overpowered. And when the third arrived with a constable, the officer actually turned the Samaritan over to the thieves! What happened next isn’t really clear, but later that night, the bodies of the three crewmembers were found to have been dumped into the river near their ship. No witnesses ever came forward.

  Clearly, like everything else in his life, Roads keeps his docks in control.

  After folding the papers to put them back into his bag, Patrick settles down into his seat, leans his head against the window, and allows the movement of the train to rock him into a lingering nap. He has been given quite a lot of information in a short period and is beginning to understand the danger that awaits him. No doubt he is unafraid of the mission, but what shall remain of him when his work is done?

  * * *

  Getting to Augusta is no easy exercise. After all, Georgia is surrounded by the terrors of war. Federal troops are active in North and South Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama. The South can lay claim to neither an offensive nor a defensive position from which to push the invaders back up North. This is hardly the future that Patrick envisioned when he resigned his Union commission and signed on with the Confederate States.

  Growing up on a farm in South Carolina’s Lowcountry taught Patrick all that he needed to know about life. For on that farm, he was the master of his destiny. What came to him was the result of his own hard work, done with his own two hands, which is why the loss of Joey was particularly shattering—for not only was the boy beloved, but his tragic end represented a cruel departure of control.

  Patrick’s family was neither poor nor political. Around the dinner table, they spoke in proper tones, somewhat refined, yet did not lay focus upon matters of government or law. They could have afforded slaves if that’s what they had wanted, but Patrick’s father shook his head at such a notion, preferring instead to believe that a man should do his own work, or at least pay an honest wage to someone else to do it for him. Within this position was no political sentiment; Patrick’s father arrived at it through his own common sense, the sharpness of which had a tendency to serve him well, along with the rest of the family. To be sure, the patriarch of the Graham family was by no means a Unionist. Quite the contrary, Southern gray blood flowed through his veins. But Patrick’s father just looked at the world through a set of unique eyes, and fortunately had the means to live in accordance with his values.

  As for Patrick’s spiritual life, it was formed inside the tabby walls of Sheldon Church. This church, proud yet simple, sits in the heart of the Low Country’s farms and plantations. While Patrick was growing up, many of the local families attended the Episcopal services there, and on most Sundays, the Graham family could be counted on to sit amongst them. As with his formal weekday studies, Patrick had a keen interest in the Bible and the canons of his religion. Patrick’s mother even told him that she thought he might make a good minister. After all, she said he had charisma, and he tended to naturally inspire others. Patrick saw things another way, however. In his view, the minister is supposed to have the answers; he would rather ask the questions.


  With his inquisitive nature serving as an engine, Patrick excelled in school and was often far ahead of his classmates in their studies. He was a strong young man, and tall, with hair bleached by the sun and a body well developed from his regular outdoor labor. In a memorable instance one of his teachers took enough notice of him to suggest to one of the local Congressmen that Patrick would be an ideal candidate for West Point.

  “I daresay that boy’s knowledge and discipline put many of his elders to shame,” the instructor declared.

  Whether or not that was entirely true, he was certainly officer material. And with increased talk of secession, the South was going to need good, smart, strong, and young military leaders.

  And so it was that in 1856, Patrick was plucked from his farm to join the corps of cadets. As one might have predicted, he enjoyed the discipline that came with the military lifestyle, but he especially appreciated the intellectual exchanges that went on with the faculty. His inquisitive mind was always active, always searching for one more fact. Patrick’s brain was a natural collector and organizer of information, and it would serve him well in the years to come.

  At key junctures throughout Patrick’s life, he found himself being noticed. Just like the teacher in South Carolina who helped him into West Point, one of his professors made it a point to be sure that the Secretary of War knew of this remarkable young cadet.

  “This is more than a recommendation,” the professor beamed. “With Patrick defending me, I very well shall feel safer!”

  Graduation led Patrick to Washington City, assigned to the Secretary’s Office as a special assistant. He used his time there to learn all that he could about how Army bureaucracy works. But as it turned out, his service to the Union was fated to be short-lived.

  When war broke out in the spring of 1861, Patrick resigned his commission and volunteered for an assignment with the new Army of the Confederate States. By then, he already knew exactly where he wanted to be and what he wanted to do. Patriotism threaded through his veins. A need to protect others uplifted his soul. Moreover, his ambitions were far from abstract or theoretical, and were the result of exacting research.

  Then-Lieutenant Graham wanted nothing more in the world than to be assigned to a young Kentuckian who had already made quite a name for himself—John C. Breckinridge.

  Breckinridge was a lawyer, U. S. Representative, and esteemed Senator. At the intimidating age of thirty-six, he was inaugurated as the fourteenth Vice President of the United States. In I860, he was the Southern Democratic candidate for president, losing out to a tough campaign fought by the Republicans and Abraham Lincoln. Breckinridge’s public persona drew Patrick in like a magnet. The young South Carolinian knew that Breckinridge would not only be a great mentor for him, but could very well be Patrick’s ticket to quick advancement.

  He joined Breckinridge’s staff as an aide, but quickly evolved into the unit’s intelligence expert. Nobody else could argue with young Patrick’s command of information. Patrick served his commander well in the Western Theatre, though he just barely escaped getting himself killed at Shiloh. That experience was a frightening yet life-affirming one: frightening because it almost put him underground, but life-affirming because it made him regard the church less logically and more as a potential source of contact with divinity.

  With a renewed head upon his shoulders, Patrick followed the General into the Shenandoah Valley in the Eastern Theatre, as well as last May, to New Market, Virginia.

  At the time of that particular battle, Patrick found himself yearning for a change of scenery. Without question, he and the general had worked well together and made for a superior team. There was also no question that Patrick’s ability to unearth and convey information saved many Confederate lives and contributed to a host of battlefield victories. But after three years, his system was stirring; he simply needed to face new challenges. In another possible testament to the existence of divine forces, the job offer from Secretary Trenholm came at just the right moment. Had it not, Patrick undoubtedly would have followed Breckinridge to the echoing corridors of the War Department in September, when the latter man was appointed Secretary by President Davis.

  * * *

  As the train pulls into the North Carolina station, the conductor all but screams the word “Greensborough!”

  Patrick helps the young mother and her two children gather their belongings. It is only at that moment that the family takes true notice of him. Such is the nature of Patrick Graham: invisible when he needs to be, yet shining when he chooses. They had ridden through a long, dark night, but the rhythmic rocking of the railcar kept all of them deep in slumber.

  Even though Patrick’s stomach is sending up crackles of discomfort, he must skip eating and run to catch the next train to Newberry, South Carolina. He desires to be in Augusta by the end of the week. Thankfully, however, while rushing through the station, he finds a vendor who sells him some bread, some jelly, an apple, and a newspaper. “What’s the rush?” the vendor smiles.

  If Patrick were to answer truthfully, he’d be risking national security.

  Patrick already knows the news from Richmond, but he finds himself growing curious about Federal movements in the Carolinas. Clearly the Yankees want to put the South into a box, with Grant moving from the North, Sherman from the South, and Stoneman’s raiders from the West. Like all of his fellow military men, Patrick understands the implications of these proceedings. Slipping into the role of an armchair general, he instinctively searches his mind for a way out, but sincerity ultimately trumps his ego: What could he envision that the generals haven’t already?

  “All aboard!” the porter shouts, as the train begins to release its head of steam. The wheels come to life and pull the massive carriage along the tracks.

  Patrick jumps on board at the very last moment, his perspiring good arm loaded with luggage, bread, jelly, the apple—and news. Briefly, he wonders if anyone will notice the imbalance and question the health of his unoccupied arm. His vanity retreats when he again finds a seat tucked away in the back corner of the passenger car, where he proceeds to set up housekeeping.

  * * *

  Augusta, however important to the war effort as it may now be, was once a city in search of an identity. More than a hundred years ago, the founders of the City of Savannah established Augusta as a center for trade between settlers and Indians in the tangled wilderness of the Savannah River valley. As expected, Augusta prospered, but the Revolutionary War bitterly split the population between those seeking independence and those who embraced the Crown. What else could be expected in a city that was named for the mother of King George?

  Ironically, the brutality of that early war brought the local citizens closer together. Still to this day, many people in Augusta harbor ill feelings toward the British over the brutal hanging of patriots in the stairwell of Ezekiel Harris’ house. At present many in Augusta fear that the North will be even more oppressive than the British ever were. Old memories thus fuel new fears. And General Sherman’s march through Georgia last fall worked to confirm all lingering doubts. However, although Sherman famously wreaked havoc upon the government and private property, at least he didn’t hang any Augusta residents.

  After the War for Independence, Augusta sought out new avenues of prosperity. One main pursuit came to a close in 1847, with the completion of an industrial canal to furnish waterpower for manufacturing. Augusta thus became the largest manufacturing center for textile, paper and machinery in the state. Not everyone was sold on the idea of an economy based on anything other than farming, however, and not every effort at manufacturing was successful. Yet by 1864 The Augusta Factory had changed the minds of even the harshest skeptics.

  The Factory was the largest of its kind in Georgia, employing more than eight hundred people—mostly women—and producing upwards of twenty thousand yards of cotton cloth per day. The business was good to its workers, paying top wages, and even selling them provisions at subsidized prices. In a gestu
re that showed where its heart resided, The Factory also generously supported charities that aided the poor and the families of soldiers. A writer for the Richmond Sentinel estimated those donations to number in the millions of dollars.

  * * *

  Nowadays, Augusta has identity to burn.

  Under the leadership of Mayor Robert H. May, Augusta’s wartime economy is booming for its thirteen thousand residents, about a third of which are negro. Happily, dry goods shortages and rampant inflation seem to have had little effect on the daily commerce. The Augusta Hotel, Southern States Hotel, and Planters Hotel are all doing brisk business, serving as host to a wide variety of comers and goers. In the meantime, auctioneers such as Atkinson & Shecut, T. Savage Heyward, and Millner, Keen & Co. seem to have no shortage of domestic and foreign commodities to offer.

  The families of Augusta are able to live comfortably, on account of their ready access to syrup, sugar, coffee, tea, flour, bacon, perfume, tobacco, and even whiskey. Presently, in her Broad Street shop across from the Southern States Hotel, Mrs. Tweedy is advertising a “desirable” lot of palin and fancy bonnets of the “most fashionable” styles, as well as ladies’ handkerchiefs, lace shawls, and straw hats for both women and men. A few doors up Broad Street, F. M. Fisk is speculating on the economy, busily buying and selling gold and silver bank notes and bonds.

  One merchant whose days will be vividly determined by the outcome of the war is Solomon Cohen. From his Ellis Street storefront, Cohen runs a negro brokerage and commission office, promising that any slaves entrusted to his care will receive prompt attention. As well, he offers liberal cash advances on all consignments.

  As all who dwell there are aware of, the heart of retail commerce in Augusta is Broad Street, so wide an expanse that the Savannah River could easily flow down the center and never get the sidewalks wet. Of course, that would have to occur on a dry day, because during the rainy season, the Savannah has occasionally overflowed its banks and flooded the city. Broad Street is anchored at each end by public markets, the bodies of which align nicely with the center of the street. South of Broad Street are the fine and stately residences of the more prosperous city residents, living in the shade on their tree-lined streets. Two blocks to the north of Broad Street is the river itself, complete with its wharfs and warehouses.