The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  A knock on the door interrupts Patrick’s panic.

  Upon opening it, Patrick is greeted by the young man from the express office.

  “This wire came for you from Charleston, Mr. Graham,” he announces.

  “Thank you,” Patrick says as he reaches into his pocket and hands the boy a dollar.

  Patrick sees the wire is from Fraser, Trenholm, & Company. He opens it just as the boy departs.

  The brief message only confirms what its earlier mysterious counterpart said:

  Mr. Trenholm and his colleagues are relocating from Danville to Charlotte. General Lee has surrendered. We need you to press ahead with your work with utmost urgency.

  It’s entirely clear to Patrick that the Confederate government’s days are numbered. More importantly to him, perhaps his days are numbered, too. But until he is relieved by the Secretary or Colonel Liston, he has a job to do.

  Besides, this business with Roads, intense to begin with, has taken a turn toward the personal.

  * * *

  Patrick and Elisabeth have elected to take a break from their torment with a simple evening of leisure. They have planned to attend the Ballad Concert at the Masonic Hall and will meet there before the show. Both are in dire need of a bit of diversion, and Patrick wants a comforting backdrop when he personally delivers the envelope to Elisabeth.

  Tonight’s program features John Sloman’s family, fresh from the stage of the political rally. They’re quite the local draw, as Patrick has come to find out. The concert hall is large, but seems smaller on account of the standing room crowd. Confederate flags line the high-reaching walls and are even pinned to the stage curtain. The men puff on cigars while the ladies fan themselves to keep away the smoke and perspiration. Patrick and Elisabeth squeeze their way through the growing mass of people to find a pair of seats near the middle of the room.

  The Slomans are at the peak of their popularity, able to fill up concert halls with remarkable ease. Their performances sell out, and cities of all sizes actively seek out their presence. They not only generate high-quality music, but they also tend to light up the stage with their indelible features and unhidden enthusiasm.

  From the Slomans’ point of view, however, this night brings more challenges than it does opportunities for uplift. After all, they know that the gathering crowd has come not only for entertainment, but for tangible escapism. Atop their daily lives is the pressure of a war that has gone on and on, and they have come to the concert hall to take a break from war’s grim headlines and rising casualty counts. Accordingly, the Slomans have a pressure of their own: to make the crowd forget what is going on beyond the walls of this regal hall.

  John Sloman spies the worn looks upon the citizens’ faces. If he can make his family’s music excellent enough to take off some of that wear, at least for a few hours, then he will have done his job correctly. It’s a tall order, and as with any other show, the Slomans cannot predict what will unfold in the hours to come.

  They merely must do the best they can to send sounds of beauty up toward the Masonic Hall’s high-reaching ceiling—and perhaps beyond it, into heaven itself.

  When the show begins, the music indeed reveals itself as simply splendid, with a series of songs and duets played on strings and piano. The Slomans overcome the evident modesty of their small band, making it sound like the finest symphony on the planet.

  Among the evening’s many high points is the span when family patriarch John Sloman offers the Augusta debut of “Black Eyed Susan”:

  All in the dawn the fleet was moor’d, the streamers waving to the wind,

  When Black-eyed Susan came on board, Oh where shall I my true love find?

  Englishman John Gay’s popular ballad has never sounded better, even in its native form in the former colonies.

  The younger Sloman daughter follows that number with the American patriotic ballad, “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet,” which, while not quite the show-stopper like the previous number, manages to get the audience to clap their hands in rhythm and sing along on the chorus..

  The troupe then pauses between selections to acknowledge the assorted soldiers and widows in the audience. Such guests have never been held in higher regard than they are in the present age, and the audience does not hold back: everybody cheers their enthusiastic approval.

  But no sooner does the music resume than John Sloman marches to the center of the stage. A piece of paper swings from his hand, and his hand and the paper alike appear to be shaking. His skin is pale; he’s visibly upset. The crowd reacts accordingly, quieting down and visibly stirring. This is obviously not a part of the program. The whispers on the floor proceed to grow louder.

  “Quiet. Quiet, please.” Unless Mr. Sloman intends to play a prank on the audience, bad news is most certainly forthcoming.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of Augusta. A dark cloud now hangs over our great nation,” he begins. The people are already unsettled enough by the disruption of the program. The last thing they need is to hear a weather report.

  Mr. Sloman looks at the paper, then looks back at the audience. Clearly, this man has no intention of prolonging the suspense, but the task before him seems a mighty one.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen. General Lee has surrendered to General Grant.” Mr. Sloman pauses, and the void between his words is quickly filled by shouts of disbelief. Some in the audience rise to their feet, demanding that Sloman take back what he has said.

  “General Lee has surrendered! It is a fact. The news just arrived by wire.”

  Quickly, as fast as fire spreads, the audience grows extremely agitated and unsettled.

  “Traitor!” a one-legged veteran shouts.

  “Damned lies!” shouts another, throwing his waded playbill toward the stage.

  Sloman hardly wants this dignified concert audience to degenerate into a mob scene. So, thinking quickly, he sits down at the piano and begins to play. Those nearest to the front hear him first, and, recognizing the familiar tune, instantly fall silent…and rise to their feet. The effect ripples slowly through the Masonic Hall, all the way to the room’s remote rear.

  When Mr. Sloman puts words to the music he is playing, the moment becomes a heavily emotional one.

  I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times there are not forgotten,

  look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.

  The entire room, to a man, enthusiastically joins in:

  In Dixie Land where I was born in,

  Early on one frosty mornin’

  look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.

  As he joins the singing, tears flowing from his eyes, Patrick is meditating on how Dixieland has changed in the course of a single day. Lee: surrendered. The great Army of Northern Virginia: no more. Can Johnston hold Sherman in North Carolina? Where are President Davis and his cabinet? So many questions, such a fury of uncertainty.

  But on this night, in this place, the citizens of Augusta sing on as one…

  I wish was in Dixie, hooray! Hooray!

  In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand

  to live and die in Dixie,

  Away, away, away down south in Dixie,

  Away, away, away down south in Dixie!

  * * *

  Elisabeth’s home bears a darkness both emotional and physical.

  Patrick strikes a match to light the lamp in its sitting area. The room gains warmth along with the subtle, radiant glow. Patrick has been here before, but the house seems somehow different. To be sure, the furniture and curtains are nothing extraordinary. In fact, Elisabeth lives rather simply, but manages to give her surroundings a slight lift through good taste. The colors and furniture are sparse but coordinated and show her woman’s touch from corner to corner.

  The residence is a small one and built in the style of the mill houses that dominate the Harrisburg and West End sections of town. It contains a simple sitting and eating area, with a small kitchen and a bedroom—very basic, no fancy wallpa
per or wood trim, and only the sparest pictures or trinkets. But outside is different. Outside is a full, amazing garden of spring flowers, within which hides the potential for a bounty of summer vegetables. For Elisabeth, whatever her troubles may be, this is home, and it is a fine one.

  She and Patrick sit on the sofa, and Patrick, having been delayed by the ill-timed mid-concert announcement, plucks the envelope from his pocket. He has taken no chances; he has kept it on his person since it resurfaced.

  Elisabeth can’t believe what she sees. “Hold on a second. Is this the envelope you told me about?”

  Patrick nods.

  “How did you find it?” She’s excited, yet has a head filled with questions and anxiety.

  “Yes, this is the one,” Patrick confirms, “but I didn’t find it. It found me. Showed up in my coat in the hotel room.” Briefly, he feared that she would deem him mad.

  “You probably just overlooked it,” Elisabeth offers, reaching for it.

  “Possibly,” he says, not wanting to seem a fool, yet still wanting to avoid a discussion on the mystery that continues to haunt him.

  Elisabeth opens the envelope, and out spill five one-hundred-dollar greenbacks. Brand new. Crisp. Smelling potent and deep.

  Elisabeth looks them over, then lays them in her lap. She reaches back into the envelope, where she finds a note.

  While unfolding it slowly, she hopes for some news, anything, regarding her son…

  Mrs. Vernon, My business arrangement with your family has come to an untimely conclusion. I regret the loss of your husband. When you make arrangements to leave Augusta at an appropriate time, your son will be returned to you.

  It is signed: A. Roads.

  At long last, a display of reason on the part of that awful man. Elisabeth’s eyes light up at the prospect of seeing her son again. No question about it: she’ll make immediate arrangements to leave the city. And as it happens, the five bank notes in the envelope give her a method of escape. No doubt Roads planned it this way.

  Patrick, too, is looking over the notes. Are these the subject of his mission—the product of Roads’ counterfeiting operation? He’s got to know. Moreover, what is this about Elisabeth leaving Augusta? If she is going to leave, it will be with him. He would not have it any other way. But first things first: her son. She must get him back.

  Patrick speaks first: “It’s a positive turn, but I don’t think this is going to be as easy as it looks. First, you know too much about Roads and his illegal activity to just leave town on the next train out.”

  Elisabeth responds with a knotted, puzzled frown.

  Patrick goes on, “And these greenbacks. Look at them. Why Union money? Why not Confederate notes? How did he manage to get brand new issue Yankee currency?”

  Elisabeth nods as she listens.

  “As for your son,” Patrick continues. “How do you know you will actually ever see him again, when you are dealing with a man who will commit murder to protect his interests?”

  She answers quickly, her speed indicating that she resents being pulled from relief to more terror: “Yes, Patrick. We have a lot to think about tonight.” She pauses. “This is all a bit overwhelming. You do make good points that we have to consider.”

  Patrick hopes that Elisabeth will think about all he has said. He reaches over and embraces her. She responds by pressing her face against his.

  For the final part of the conversation, she is the first to speak:

  “Patrick, will you stay with me tonight? I feel so alone, and so afraid, and so…”

  Their eyes meet. Warm. Tender. Sparkling.

  “…confused.”

  He replies, “Elisabeth, I do not make promises lightly. But I will protect you. I make you that promise, from my heart.”

  Patrick leans across Elisabeth’s money-filled lap and blows out the flame in the lamp.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At long last, Election Day has come to Augusta, and the Office Restaurant is buzzing with little other than news about the war and politics. Elisabeth has returned to work, and Patrick is seated at the corner table right beside the front window. Mayor May is working the room like the veteran politician that he is, stopping at each table to press palms and incite exhilaration. The polls will open within the hour, and the mayor wants to personally ensure that no one misses the chance to vote.

  General Fry, meanwhile, is holding court at the table next to where Patrick is seated. Patrick overhears the general talking with one of the city’s business leaders about the evacuation of Richmond, as well as the resulting chaos and fire that turned so much of the city into a dark, hollowed shell. Fry announces to his table mates that he’s put the city of Augusta on notice—the cotton and tobacco in Augusta cannot fall into the enemy’s hands, and he has directed the Mayor to burn the entire lot if necessary, even if it means destroying the city!

  As for Adolphus Roads, he is at his usual table in the back corner, joined by a couple of his goons. No doubt he’s working the final components of his plan, utilizing all the moves at his disposable in pursuit of a successful election outcome. Beyond the political stakes involved, it’s clear he likes a good adventure, and today’s election provides ample entertainment. The polls close at two o’clock, at which point all will see who celebrates.

  Patrick is reviewing the morning Chronicle & Sentinel when he notices an interesting item:

  On Saturday night last an entrance was affected into the store of Messrs Millner, Keen & Co, on Broad Street, by boring holes with an auger through the back door. A considerable quantity of property was taken. Hearing of the robbery, Mr. Levy, the acting marshal of Hamburg, arrested a negro man on suspicion. The fellow, finding himself in close quarters, thought that it would be best to make a clean breast of it. He accordingly confessed to the crime, and implicated another negro who was associated in the burglious enterprise. Friday the Court was engaged in an examination of the case and the negroes were adjudged to receive 500 lashes each and be imprisoned for 30 days.

  Amid the assorted details, what most caught Patrick’s eye was the timing of the robbery. It happened at the same night as he arrived in the city, and the same time that the fire in Doctor Eve’s barn had the firemen and constables all tied up. Could the fire have been a diversion set up by the burglars? Moreover, isn’t Roads from Hamburg? Does he still have close connections there? If he paid the poor negroes enough, they might have been willing to take the consequences and hold their silence regarding such a deed. Sure, it would mean prison, but perhaps the men had families to feed. Patrick folds up the newspaper, feeling vaguely as though he’ll be spied reading the article, and looks over at Roads’ table. He wonders if the very stolen goods remarked upon in the paper had been on display in Roads’ store when he stopped in to visit.

  One of Augusta’s business leaders takes the liberty of pulling up a chair at General Fry’s table. Patrick hears the agitated string of talk from the mouth of this highly upset merchant. In fact, everyone in the restaurant can hear him. Blaring, he says he cannot believe that Lee has surrendered. He then bellows that he is disgusted with the cowardly retreat of President Davis from Richmond and goes on to share with the general that he has it on good authority that ten thousand Yankee troops are on their way to Augusta right now. He bangs the table with his fist, shaking the drinking glasses and plates and demanding protection.

  Fry tries to be polite. He looks around at his fellow diners and puts on his most credible face, then tells the man not to believe all he hears. He says that he, too, has heard the rumor, and suspects it was started by speculators who are trying to buy cotton at bargain prices with Confederate Treasury notes. The General reminds his table mate, “Speculators don’t care what they say, as long as it helps them meet their end.”

  Then the general turns back to the other diners, who have been listening intently, and takes the kind of initiative that only a general would dare: He raises his voice to caution all the people in attendance. “If you hear someone speaking
words of panic and then wanting to buy something, walk away.”

  Now Patrick’s curiosity is really bubbling. Didn’t he just have a discussion with Roads about buying cotton for Fraser, Trenholm, & Company? And what a coincidence—now someone is starting a rumor with the express purpose of driving down the local price of cotton. And might that someone then resell the cheap cotton to a certain Charleston cotton broker at a higher market price?

  Patrick thinks it over repeatedly. No, he is not imagining anything. He gives Roads a look, more determined than ever to put the man out of business. Roads and his goons are too busy chattering and stuffing their faces to take notice. But Patrick is watching, knowing that he has a case, even though in his business, rumors, hunches, and suspicions don’t put men behind bars.

  Patrick needs hard evidence.

  * * *

  Patrick and Elisabeth have a plan. She is going to tell Roads that she is prepared to leave Augusta with her son the week after Easter. Patrick alone has the knowledge that she and the child will actually be going to the South Carolina Sea Islands to stay with his family on their farm. It’s the safest place for her right now, and better yet, going there will give her a chance to be reunited with her son, away from the dark, ill specter of a criminal enterprise and a nation at war. She’ll be close enough that Patrick can visit, and she’ll be perfectly safe with his parents.

  But before Elisabeth can deliver her message to Roads, Patrick wants to check the greenbacks that were in the envelope. So he takes the notes to his hotel room, where they he will be able to examine them without interruption.

  Passing through the lobby, Patrick catches a shout from the desk clerk. He calls Patrick over to hand him a new wire. Nodding once, Patrick takes it and walks on, those crisp bills burning a hole in his pocket.

  Once in his room, Patrick opens the envelope from the Express Office. Although the address that the wire clerk has written on the form says it’s from Fraser, Trenholm, & Company, Patrick instantly processes that it’s from Colonel Liston.