by Bob Young
Every eyeball in the place goes to him. Throats lock. Mouths go dry. Is it about the war?
The express agent shouts, “Lincoln’s been shot! Lincoln’s been shot!”
Around the room, like a lethal fire, moves a smattering of applause. The conversations at the tables become more heated, but many people rapidly begin to leave.
Patrick and Charles are among them.
“Patrick, I must get back to the Secretary.”
“Yes. I better get back to Augusta. Looks like we’ve both got some hard riding ahead.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Patrick rides through the night at the speed of a blazing panther and arrives in Augusta with the rise of the bright morning sun. When he gets in, there’s little activity to note. Even those who are up the earliest show no sign of having heard the news from Washington City.
And what to make of that news? Is Lincoln alive? Is he dead? Patrick knows only that he has been shot. Who would do this? Southern conspirators? Angry Northerners? Just some nut? Patrick has not a single clue. Has the shooter been found? Has anyone else been shot? Was Mrs. Lincoln with him at the time? Is she all right?
Patrick’s head is swimming and feels as big as the sky. So little information, so many possibilities, so much history hanging in the balance. Moreover, Patrick and his fellow agents were often called upon to protect senior government officials, so he can only imagine the emotions of the person in charge of guarding Mr. Lincoln under whose watch such a calamity occurred. Patrick knows better than to judge the guard because assassins have infinite ways of accessing their targets.
Bag in hand, Patrick runs the few blocks from the livery stable to the hotel. He hasn’t slept all night but knows that there’s no time for that right now. He wants to freshen up and get over to Elisabeth’s house. Sleep will come when his mind demands it.
His blood feeling cool, he races through the hotel lobby, calling out to the clerk as he goes by, “Any messages?”
“No, sir,” replies the clerk as Patrick bounds up the stairs and disappears out of sight.
He finds his key and unlocks the door to the room. As it opens, like clockwork, he sees a piece of paper on the floor. In a swift swoop, he picks it up and examines it. The handwriting immediately spurs his inner questioner. It’s from the same anonymous note writer as before. Recalling his conversation with Charles, Patrick asks himself, Is this from a Yankee spy? At that point even more questions begin to fill Patrick’s mind, but he puts them aside to read the note:
“President Lincoln has died. Secretary Seward and his son were seriously wounded. The conspirators are being rounded up. There will be an effort to blame this on President Davis to inflame Northern passions. But we know on good authority that he was not involved.”
We? Who is we? Patrick asks himself. How did this information get here so quickly? It’s got to be the work of a Northern agent. How else?
Though the world is spinning with violent madness, Patrick has no choice but to continue to hang on for the ride. On his walk over to Elisabeth’s house, Patrick overhears the conversations of those in the streets on their way to market.
“President Lincoln has been shot. Have you heard?” “He was watching a play with his wife.” “Mrs. Lincoln was not hurt.” “They say he was killed by an actor.” “They usually say an actor dies in a role, not someone in the audience!” “He had it coming.” “Maybe with Lincoln out of the way we can win the war.” “I wouldn’t be surprised if Vice President Johnson didn’t plan this so that he would become president.”
Lots of idle gossip and chatter, Patrick reasons. Most of it sheer opinion, and therefore without any real use.
New posters are already appearing on the posts in the market.
“Headquarters, Augusta, GA,– Circular – No permits to pass the Confederate Lines will be given at these headquarters unless upon orders from the War Department or from superior headquarters. B. D. Fry, Brig Gen”
Along with…
“Until further orders no furloughs will be granted to detailed men employed in any of the departments at this post under any circumstances whatsoever. By command of Brig Gen B. D Fry.”
As the bulk of Augusta awakens to the new day, the people will know for certain that they are in a city on alert.
Elisabeth is already getting up as Patrick knocks six times on her door. She opens it, and he locks his eyes on the brightest smile that he has seen in a very long time—or at least since they last stood before each other. They embrace and kiss.
“I’ve missed you so and thought of you every waking moment,” Patrick tells her.
“I have missed you, too, Patrick.” Elisabeth’s eyes begin to tear up with joy. “I really didn’t know how much I would miss you until I heard you knocking. Promise you’ll never leave me again.”
A rather tall order for a treasury agent who spends his life on the road.
“I know what you mean, darling,” Patrick says, groping for the right words. “I want us to be together.”
That seems adequate for the moment. Graciously accepting his hesitant commitment, she gives him another kiss.
Patrick then takes her hand and leads her to the chair by the fireplace.
“Any news of your son?”
“No,” she says. “My instructions are still the same. A steamboat ticket was delivered to me at work yesterday morning. I can’t wait for Tuesday to come.”
“Me neither. I’ve wired my parents, and they are ready to receive you. They’ve arranged for a wagon to meet you at the wharf in Savannah and take you to the farm. I just hope Roads keeps up his part of the deal.”
Although Patrick still doubts that Roads has played all of his cards.
“Your mom and dad are so kind to do this, Patrick,” says Elisabeth.
“Well, truthfully, mom always wanted a daughter, so now I guess fate has strange methods of delivery,” replies Patrick. They trade smiles.
“You look exhausted,” Elisabeth observes. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No, haven’t eaten yet. I rode all night to come back to you,” Patrick gently proclaims. “And actually, I have some news. I don’t know whether you’ve heard or not, but President Lincoln has been shot.”
Elisabeth releases a gasp!
“I wish I had details. Don’t even know whether he’s alive or dead, but I rode all night to get back in case the military closed the turnpikes or restricted travel,” says Patrick, his eyes crackling with deep, tender tiredness.
Touching his shoulders, she tells him to lie down and rest while she takes care of making the breakfast. She gets no argument from Patrick, whose head is filled with sleep as soon as it hits the pillow.
* * *
When Easter Sunday descends upon Saint Paul’s, the sanctuary is overflowing with the spectacular colors of the flowers of the season. As it has for so many prior years, the drabness of the penitential season of Lent makes way for the spirited renewal of Easter. The clergy and choir are all smiles as the parishioners enter between the high columns, across the porch, through the narthex and onward to their pews.
The boy at the organ goes straight to work. He begins to pump with great excitement, breathing life into the magnificent instrument:
Children of the heavenly King,
As ye journey, sweetly sing;
Sing your Saviour’s worthy praise,
Glorious in his works and ways.
As the singing intensifies to a feverish height, Patrick looks across the church, toward the right side near the front and sees a familiar figure in his regular place.
Even Adolphus Roads is not one to miss the Easter Sunday service.
Lord, obedient we would go,
Gladly leaving all below;
Only thou our leader be,
And we still will follow thee.
All the people make their way to their seats as Reverend Clark approaches the pulpit. He’s most pleased to see such a large crowd on Easter morning. He’s even more pleased to see the Augusta ladies s
howing off their high fashion such as it is and wide-brimmed spring bonnets. Apparently, Easter service is more about being seen than about searching for salvation. Salvation will have to take a break until next week.
The men, of course, are at a distinct disadvantage. Their church clothes typically come in two shades: black and…black. But at least their outfits do not distract from those of the ladies. And to boot, they help the veterans in their gray uniforms to stand out, as they deserve.
The rector leads the prayers this morning, including the institutionalized prayer for THE PRESIDENT OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES. To be sure, Jeff Davis could use quite a few prayers right about now, being on the run with his cabinet and treasury department.
Whereas prayerful attention is given to Davis, there is no acknowledgement of the fact that the President of the United States has just been killed by an assassin. Not even so much as a mention for the repose of his soul, or prayers for the people of the United States, which is in a severe state of mourning at this hour.
Instead, Reverend Anderson reads the Easter scripture, which he has chosen from the Gospel of John:
“But Mary stood without at the sepulcher weeping: and as she wept, she stooped down and looked in the sepulcher, and seeth two angels in which sitting, the one at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. And they said unto her, Woman, why weepest though? She saith unto them, Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him. And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, If thou have bourne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master.”
Father Clark talks to his flock about the resurrection. He reminds them that the prophets had long prepared believers for the resurrection. But when it came time for the Lord to be reborn after conquering death, he wasn’t recognized. Not even Mary, who knew him all his life and who stood with him in the tomb, realized that she was talking to Jesus. She initially thought him to be a mere gardener.
“Such it is in our lives,” the pastor reasons. “We have people here in Augusta with severe needs, especially in our hospitals, which are full of wounded and sick soldiers. We have widows with children and no income. We have people without food and shelter. When we see these people, do we look beyond them, as Mary did? Or, do we immediately recognize and respond to their need, like Jesus said—’ ‘when we do it unto the least of these, we’ve done it unto the Lord?”
His Easter message having reached its completion, the bellows on the organ rapidly begin to fill, and the resulting music engulfs the church.
Almighty Father, bless the word
Which through thy grace we now have heard.
O may the precious seed take root,
Spring up, and bear abundant fruit.
And with that pastoral blessing, Reverend Clark sends his flock into the Easter afternoon to go practice Christian charity. However, he knows full well that many of them are just interested in flaunting their style.
* * *
Come lunchtime, Patrick, Jacob, and Elisabeth gather on the veranda of the Planters Hotel. The tables are filling up fast on account of the holiday, but they have luck enough to secure a good table overlooking the street. All around them in the restaurant, just as on the walk over from the church, the people are engaged in agitated conversation about the newly late President Lincoln.
“I fear for what lies ahead,” offers Jacob. “Perhaps reprisals from the North. Maybe targeting our government leaders for assassination. I hate to give it any thought.”
“It’s all so shocking and unsettling,” adds Elisabeth, looking over to Patrick.
With a nod, Patrick adds, “It raises the stakes in this war to new levels, that’s for sure. Look what they say in the Chronicle & Sentinel this morning. Old Mr. Morris isn’t giving up to the Yankees without a fight.”
Patrick reads aloud to Jacob and Elisabeth:
“We have before given briefly our ideas as to the possibilities before us, and do not yet think that the wager of battle has decided against our people to the extent of utter ruin. True, the political heavens are very dark, but the eye of hope can see openings in the black mantle of the sky and through them the golden gates of honor that will open to all willing hands and lead to the paradise of peace.”
“He does have a way with the language,” Patrick adds.
“To say nothing of the truth,” Jacob winks.
All three enjoy a chuckle as a server comes to their table.
At the server’s exit Patrick continues, “I was really struck by something that Vice President Stephens shared with me in our visit.”
“What’s that?” asks Elisabeth.
“He said at the peace meeting President Lincoln talked about freeing the slaves over a six-year period and paying slave owners four hundred million dollars for releasing them.”
“Wow!” exclaims Jacob. “That’s serious information. Had that ever gotten out, it would have spelled the political end of Lincoln.”
“How come?” Elisabeth asks.
Patrick responds, “Because the people in the North would consider it unclean. They’d call it a form of blackmail, paying off the South to end slavery. Essentially, that money would have paid the South for four years of war. Politically, it’s dynamite.”
Elisabeth shifts the conversation to Jacob: “Hasn’t the Episcopal Church been taking an active role in preparing the slaves for their freedom?”
Jacob pauses for a moment, having been caught off guard by her phrasing of the question. “Actually, Elisabeth, we are preparing the negro for the freedom that comes with salvation. Long before the war, slave owners were engaged with the church in spreading Christianity to their workers. Many church buildings have a special place for slaves. And parishes hold afternoon services for the slaves, which are as well attended as the morning services for whites.”
Patrick joins in: “I remember growing up that we would have negroes from time to time in our church. The reverend would make it a point to teach and preach in such a way that the negroes could understand the service and the meaning of what he was saying. He would even baptize them and confirm them in the faith.”
Jacob continues, “Thank you for saying that, Patrick. That’s an important part of the ministry—bringing them into the church. And we are encouraged to press upon all the masters their religious duty to their slaves. Some have taken the charge most seriously and constructed churches on the plantations that are grander than our parish churches.”
Elisabeth says, “What troubles me would be freeing all the slaves in the South at one time. I think it would create massive problems, not just for the economy, but for negroes in general.”
Patrick gives the lady an inquisitive look. “In what way?’
“You will have hundreds of thousands of people without jobs and many without places to live,” explains Elisabeth.
Jacob gives a nod. “That’s a good perspective, and something I don’t think the Union has thought about. Just look at what’s happening as the Union army occupies territory in the South. The slaves become refugees and follow the soldiers, expecting the government to take care of them.”
Patrick says, “Down on the Sea Islands, near where my folks farm, the Federals are using something called the Freedmen’s Bureau to help the coloreds. But my folks tell me there are still a lot of problems. Negroes are leaving the farms and their places of employment just to enjoy their new freedom without any thought about the consequences of not working and having a place to live.”
“Well, it’s President Johnson’s problem now,” responds Jacob.
“Not really,” Elisabeth replies. “It is all of our problem because these folks will be in our cities and on our streets.”
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sp; Patrick adds, “And they’ll be competing with our war veterans and war widows for work and shelter. Mr. Lincoln’s timetable and cash offer look mighty good from that perspective, but I don’t think we should expect President Johnson to jump on it.”
The server brings their orders, and after a blessing from Jacob, they enjoy their Easter dinner minus the weight of any further political talk.
* * *
The following morning, Patrick is pulled from sleep by a rustling at the door. There is no knock nor other signal of anyone’s intentions to enter. But the sound gets Patrick out of bed and on his way to the door just as a folded piece of paper is slid under.
Stepping aside, he quickly snatches the door open, only to see a dark figure vanish around the corner and into the stairwell.
Instead of following the courier, Patrick steps back into his room, closes the door, and stoops down to pick up the paper. After all, no harm was done to him, and he’s hardly in any condition to engage in a chase, given all the sleep that’s still sticking to his eyes.
He opens it to find a copy of an official Union dispatch:
To Maj Gen Sherman, President Lincoln was murdered about ten o’clock last night in this city by an assassin who shot him in the head with a pistol ball. About the same time Mr. Seward’s house was entered by another assassin, who stabbed the Secretary in several places, but it is thought he may possibly recover. But his own son Fred may possibly die of wounds received from the assassin. The assassin of the President leaped from the box brandishing his dagger and exclaimed – Virginia is avenged. Mr. Lincoln fell senseless from his seat and continued in that condition until twenty minutes after ten o’clock this morning at which he breathed his last. Vice President Johnston now becomes President and will take the oath of office and assume the duties today. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War.
However grateful he is for the news, Patrick is dismayed that he is getting information on events as quickly as they unfold. Comically, he considers the notion that the next report he receives will arrive before the events actually occur!