The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  The Savannah River indeed runs strong as the very lifeblood of Augusta. Her waters provide something of a liquid turnpike for moving manufactured goods and agricultural products to the port of Savannah and beyond. Even though Augusta is rapidly seeing itself become a rail center, the river is a force to be reckoned with and still maintains a preeminent role in the daily flow of commerce.

  Before long, during ginning season, the streets of Augusta will be lined with thousands of bales of cotton waiting to be loaded onto barges and floated to Savannah. Meanwhile, the river maintains its status as a route of choice for passenger travel upon grand steamboats to and from Savannah.

  Despite its many claims to glory, Augusta has found itself shaped by the war, as has every other city in the South. Ever since the early days of secession, Augusta has fielded military companies including the Clinch Rifles, the Oglethorpe Infantry, the Irish Volunteers, the Richmond Hussars, and the Washington Artillery, and Augusta also became the site of the Confederate government’s powder works.

  The city also enjoyed the distinction of becoming an important rehabilitation center for wounded soldiers. The boys’ military school, Richmond Academy, once a training ground to future soldiers and commanders, was converted into the Third Georgia Hospital. The City Hotel is also now a hospital. On any given day, wounded soldiers pass through Augusta by the hundreds. The citizens of Augusta are mindful of their surroundings and respond to the needs of these brave men with donated comforts, pillow cases, sheets, and anything else that may be of use and value. The Ladies Volunteer Association and Georgia Relief and Hospital Association serve as sibling entities to the hospitals, recruiting their own companies of nurses, cooks, and washers to work in them.

  Patrick does not require a textbook to understand why Adolphus Roads would carve out his piece of the dark side in a thriving city like this one. Here his potential would be limited only by his imagination, along with his ability to recruit the muscle needed to carry things out. Recruiting shouldn’t be that hard, Patrick reasons, with so many returning soldiers out of work and desperate to put food on the table.

  Although Patrick has never been to Augusta before, he is soon to observe it from a very intimate vantage point, viewing it in ways that the locals could never imagine.

  * * *

  The train pulls into Augusta’s Georgia Railroad depot late on Saturday, April 1. The trip from Richmond has taken several days, mainly because the sustained Federal advances keep rail traffic in a continuous state of disruption.

  Beyond pleased that his journey has ended, Patrick steps down from the passenger car and lets out a grand sigh of relief, the force of which is rivaled only by the belch of steam released simultaneously from the engine. In contrast to the excited population stirring about in Richmond, the locals now gathered at the Augusta depot seem to be rather calm.

  Armed with directions to the Planters Hotel, Patrick skips the carriage ride and chooses to walk the few blocks. This he does in order to get a closer look at his new home for the near future, as well as to get his blood flowing again. He is immediately struck by the trees—massive ones that grow higher than many of the houses and spread broad canopies of shade. As he often does, Patrick thinks of God and imagines somewhere above the trees, the Almighty is gazing down.

  He turns the corner onto Greene Street to be greeted by a long, proud row of trees and bushes that would rival any thoroughfare in any American city—and possibly even Europe!

  The surrounding scenery is exhilarating. But as Patrick turns to cross the street, he is jolted by the unmistakable clanging bell of the fire wagon, which quickly brushes by him and stops at the home of Dr. Paul Eve. The barn in the rear of the good doctor’s house is lit up by a fire that blazes brightly against the sunset. The doctor, some local fire fighters, and a few neighbors work together to get water, bucket by dripping bucket, onto the hot spots. Those who have the privilege of hand-pumping the fire wagon direct a somewhat steady but limp stream of water out by hose, from which it makes an unimpressive leap toward the heart of the flames. Yet, before Patrick’s watchful eyes, the fast work pays off in full, and the fire is extinguished without major damage to the barn.

  In no time at all, the good doctor is trading handshakes with those who’ve helped him.

  While Patrick stands and watches, he overhears some of the locals commenting on the fire. The event is rather strange, they maintain, for this is a brand new barn, built within the past few weeks. Seems, as well, that Doctor Eve’s previous barn was also destroyed by a suspicious fire.

  A current of sticky anxiety runs through Patrick’s body.

  Although the fire at Dr. Eve’s is hardly a part of Patrick’s mission, his instincts tell him to file the events of this night away for future reference. The plain reality is that Patrick doesn’t yet know how he’s going to carry out his mission. He still has a lot of information to gather before taking any substantive action. Be that as it may, every detail that he can grab onto could soon prove to be of value.

  Okay, enough excitement for tonight, Patrick thinks to himself. Off he goes, pacing the remaining couple of blocks over to the Planters Hotel.

  Prior to reaching his destination, Patrick finds that Broad Street lives up to its name. He is hard-pressed to recall a street anywhere else that seemed nearly as wide and open. Most streets are designed just wide enough to allow a wagon to turn around. But on Augusta’s Broad Street, a whole wagon train can circle up!

  Even now, at the end of the day, Broad Street is crackling with liveliness and activity. Dust hangs thick, waist-high, in the air, kicked up by the horses and mules that pull the wagons and buggies. While walking along the sidewalk, Patrick finds himself forced to dodge the people who are entering and exiting the storefronts.

  And soon, right there, fronting this magnificent center of commerce in the middle of downtown, sits the Planters Hotel. A tall six stories high, it rises above the other shops and buildings on the block to offer a more-than-commanding presence. To Patrick, it represents not only human achievement but also the opportunity to get some solid rest.

  As Patrick approaches the main entrance of the Planters, he can see that the veranda above him seems to be the evening gathering spot. The wrought iron-wrapped balcony juts out far enough to serve as a cover for the hotel entrance. On it he sees tables and chairs surrounded and occupied by people eating, drinking, and just conversing. One or two women catch his eye, not only because they are attractive, but because they are either alone or accompanied by fellow females.

  But for Patrick, tonight is not a night for socializing. His arm wound is scolding him. His eyelids have weights sewn into them. Sleep beckons him with far more beauty than anybody atop the balcony.

  * * *

  Patrick awakes to see the sun rising over the Savannah River and the town of Hamburg beyond. His top floor window allows the scene to gush right into his eyes. The red and orange rays burst white-hot through the low clouds on the horizon. Now, Patrick thinks, this is a welcome sight. His travels tend to put him into hotels in the middle of hot and dusty cities, where the view consists of buildings and more buildings. But the sunrise on this day reminds Patrick of growing up on the family farm and watching the sun rise over Port Royal sound. His blood feels fresh. His eyes bear zero strain. What a welcome way to start a day!

  Within Patrick’s taste buds is a gentle itch, one which begs to be scratched—and soon. Accordingly, today, there shall be no skimping on luxury: Patrick shall take breakfast in his room. He wants not only to eat a good meal in peace, but also to review his briefing materials one last time. When he checked into the hotel last night, the clerk handed him a box from Fraser, Trenholm, & Company that had arrived from Charleston two days earlier. Too bushed to be curious, Patrick set it aside for later review. As Patrick now opens it with his pocket knife, its contents are slowly revealed: writing materials, blank forms and invoices, calling cards, and other items to help Patrick establish his cover as a visiting cotton broker.
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  This ripe and gorgeous day is a Sunday, two weeks prior to Easter. Patrick works to assemble his most presentable set of clothes with firm plans to attend Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church, just a couple of blocks away. There he shall establish his presence, however subtly and modestly. Perhaps eyes will land upon him and questions will begin to form in the minds of onlookers.

  The modest church sits on the river’s south bank, at the site of the original town settlement and Revolutionary War Fort Augusta. It’s the fourth church constructed on its site, and it was built in 1819, after the Anglicans gained control of what previously had served as a community meeting house.

  At the very top of the stone steps, four huge columns support the entryway to the Georgian-style building. A series of tall, clear windows rise in succession along the church’s two sides, giving the congregation ample light for reading. The center aisle serves as a direct path to the speaker platform and the pulpit, which are flanked by chairs for the clergy. On the wall behind the chairs is an ornate wooden frame supporting a very large cross, and above that are three decorative windows, with the centered one reaching to the vaulted ceiling.

  Aside from serving as a religious sanctuary, Saint Paul’s Church has played an important role in the movement for Southern independence. On November 22, 1862, the bishops of the Church of the Confederate States of America met here in General Council for what turned out to be their only gathering. The initial call to organize apart from the Episcopal Church of the United States was issued in March 1861 by Leonidas Polk, Bishop of Louisiana, and Stephen Elliott, Bishop of Georgia. The two men shared not only a point of view, but also an authentic closeness. In later days, Polk would leave the church to command Confederate troops. After he was killed by an artillery shell during the Battle of Atlanta, Polk’s body was brought back to Saint Paul’s for a state funeral…to be presided over by his colleague Bishop Elliott.

  The church’s current rector is a Northerner, Reverend William Clark of Connecticut. He became the assistant rector shortly before the war began, and then became the official rector about three years ago, upon the death of Reverend Edward Ford.

  To the unwise observer, Reverend Clark and his wife Sophie may look out of place—a couple of Yankees serving a Southern congregation, but that is not an accurate picture. True to his spiritual calling, the rector bases his ministry on personal religion as opposed to political ideology. He is extremely active in the cause of aiding the sick and afflicted, within both the church community and the greater Augusta population.

  The bells in the church tower ring out with elegant harshness, signaling the hour of worship. Patrick winds his way through the gravestones in front of the church and then climbs the front steps. On account of his visitor status, he is directed by an usher to an available seat. At the same time, the members make their way to their family pews.

  Many of the ladies are dressed up in their finest clothes, which are notably striking given the present conditions. Other women have arrived in their work clothes, directly from their shifts in the mill. Soldiers, too, are scattered about in various states of military dress; some sport bandages wrapped around broken limbs.

  All, regardless of clothes or condition, are received with palpable warmth.

  A young boy takes the handles on the pump organ and begins to give them all he has. He is amply rewarded as the bellows push the air through a collection of pipes and the organist produces a magnificent melody. The congregation then joins in to sing:

  There is a land of pure delight,

  Where saints immortal reign.

  Infinite day excludes the night,

  And pleasures banish pain.

  Patrick looks all around, soaking in the expressions of the people who have sought the comfort of God’s house as a place of refuge from war. He cannot help but allow himself a smile. Their bright eyes and wide grins are entirely the reaction one would expect from souls immersed in such comforting, igniting words:

  O could we make our doubts remove,

  Those gloomy thoughts that rise,

  And see the Canaan that we love

  With unbeclouded eyes!

  Reverend Clark devises the order of service based on the Book of Common Prayer. This prayer book is the prime guide for worship liturgy for Episcopalians. Even the General Council, in that famous meeting within these very walls, knew not to tamper with that book for fear of the laity rising up in yet another rebellion among Southerners. The church authorities, however, did make one revision to reflect the political reality of the current times: No longer does the church pray for the President of the United States.

  The edit was entirely uncontroversial. Not a single church member complained.

  This morning, the prayers are being read by the new young assistant rector, Jacob Anderson, a Confederate Army veteran, who grew up in this parish. He begins:

  “O Lord, our heavenly Father, the high and mighty Ruler of the universe, who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon the earth; Most heartily we beseech thee with thy favour to behold and bless thy servant, THE PRESIDENT OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES, and all others in authority; and so replenish them with the grace of thy Holy Spirit, that they may always incline to thy will, and walk in thy way. Endure them plenteously with heavenly gifts, grant them in health and prosperity long to live; and finally, after this life, to attain everlasting joy and felicity; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  At which point the congregation joins in saying, “Amen.”

  The soft, subtle ghost of an echo follows.

  In light of the bad news pouring in from the battlefields in Virginia and the Carolinas, Reverend Clark delivers a sermon based on protection—God’s protection. He knows that Easter is but two weeks away, turning the corner with its trusted message of salvation and new beginning. But for now, he is called upon to reassure his congregation that under the shadow of the Lord’s wings, they will find protection “from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who encompass me about.”

  Patrick feels the faintest hint of moisture in his eyes. The message is hardly lost on him. He is a stranger in a strange land on a dangerous mission. If put in a corner, he’ll call on his revolver for protection, but he also wants God to be present.

  * * *

  In Richmond on this bright-skied morning, President Davis is in his pew in Saint Paul’s Church. He is there without his family’s company because he has sent them south by train. Reverend Minnegerode has just completed his sermon when Davis feels a thick tap on the back of his shoulder. The Sexton hands him a note from General Lee, which, according to the messenger, Secretary Breckinridge has sent over. Davis reads it without expression and then quietly follows the Sexton down the aisle to the back of the church. His movements do not disturb the rector’s service, but some congregants do begin to suspect that something is broiling when additional government officials are summoned to the rear of the church to join the President.

  Lee’s urgent message informs the Secretary of War that he has abandoned his defenses at Petersburg, and moreover he recommends that the government get out of Richmond as fast as possible.

  Davis briefly wonders where he’ll be spending Easter.

  Briskly, breathlessly, Davis walks across Capital Square to his office, where he meets with the gathering cabinet. The Danville Railroad is the only means of escape, and he announces to all that they should be at the station, with luggage and vital records, ready to depart at eight o’clock.

  Although the evacuation order comes quickly, it takes nobody by surprise. For days and even weeks now, government offices have been packing up important documents to ship away from the city.

  If the people of Richmond need to gain a good idea of what’s going on, they need look no further than the boxes stacked outside the government offices.

  But naturally, more than government records are deserving of protection. Davis says they must also evacuate the specie, gold, and silver in the Confederate Treasury along with the re
serves of the Richmond banks. Navy Secretary Stephen R. Mallory quickly volunteers to orchestrate the treasure’s escort.

  Mallory bears the distinction of being one of the few original members of the Davis cabinet, having taken office on May 4, 1861. A patriot from another land, he was born in Trinidad, West Indies, and was raised in Key West. He became a close friend of Jefferson Davis when they served together in the Senate, where Mallory chaired the Committee on Naval Affairs and became an early supporter of ironclads. A Renaissance man in his own right, while serving in the Confederate cabinet, Mallory was credited with acquiring commercial raiding ships from England, developing torpedoes and floating mines, and constructing the CSS Hunley, which was the first ever submarine to sink a ship during warfare.

  To carry out the evacuation of the treasury, Mallory chooses Captain William Parker and his Naval Academy cadets. The decision is a considered one, because the Confederate Navy is rapidly ceasing to exist. Besides, what’s left of the home guard needs to remain in Richmond for the sake of maintaining order, as the regular troops are serving at the front.

  On this now-critical Sunday morning, Parker is on his school ship, the steamer Patrick Henry, at a wharf on the James River, about two miles outside of Richmond. The academy is housed on the ship itself and in a nearby converted warehouse. Parker has with him sixty midshipmen trained in infantry tactics and a full corps of professors who have military service under their belts.