by Bob Young
“After I clean up a bit and get myself something to eat,” says Patrick, “I’ll give Mom her proper rest.” Then Patrick again turns toward his father. “Did you and Mom ever talk about where you wanted that rest to be?”
George wrenches up ample strength to produce a nod. “The water oak, son. The big water oak with the Spanish moss on the small rise beyond the barn. That’s where your mom and me picked for our final rest. Up there next to your brother.”
Brushing his palms against each other, Patrick sighs and says, “Dad, I’m worried we won’t be able to get Mom to the church or get the rector out here for the proper words.”
George waves this remark away with his hand. “Son, words is words. In the good book the Lord has already said everything that needs to be said.”
Patrick gives his dad another hug. He hugs Elisabeth again, as well.
Then, with his heart and throat aching worse than ever, he heads back to the barn to do as he must.
* * *
On this new day, Philbrook and Parker pay their first visit to Mayor Robert May, who continues to bask in the results of his smashing re-election just a week ago. But May, being human, is somewhat preoccupied by the events at hand.
“Gentlemen, good day to you,” he offers as they enter his city hall office. He then sits in a chair in front of his giant desk. “I’m pleased you stopped in. General Fry briefed me this morning on your mission.”
Philbrook replies, “And so I trust, Mr. Mayor, that you understand the confidential nature of our work. We wouldn’t want our cargo to be a drawing card for trouble.”
“Oh, we don’t want any trouble in Augusta,” May responds. “We’ve got a wonderful city here, with peaceable people. Why, if the North would just leave us alone, we’d be fine!”
A sad and somewhat wooden laugh follows this statement.
After clearing his throat at some length, Captain Parker tells the mayor the story of their travels since fleeing Richmond, and concludes by assuring the mayor, as he did General Fry, that Augusta is not a permanent store for the treasure. They will move on as soon as President Davis tells them where and when to go.
“Good enough. I’m pleased you understand,” the mayor says, “that we cannot afford to offer the type of protection you need to keep that kind of cargo safe for an extended period of time, especially with the threat of the Federal army pushing in this direction from Macon.”
“Certainly we do,” Philbrook replies. “The general, as you probably already know, is going to give us some support, but I would not underestimate the midshipmen and Marines. They are a fiercely loyal group, indeed. I wouldn’t want to test them.”
“But I don’t anticipate any problems in Augusta,” Parker adds.
“And I don’t, either,” says the mayor. “Besides, we’re otherwise occupied now, trying to assist our gallant men from the army of Northern Virginia, who are presently passing through here on their way to their homes. They’ve withstood the storm of battle for years, and they come to us worn down by the hardships of the field.”
“I’m sure they appreciate your hospitality,” says Philbrook.
“Indeed, they are entitled to every consideration at our hands, and it is appropriate for us, the people of Augusta, to show that we appreciate their trials and sufferings.”
Parker stirs a little in his seat, getting a vague sense that the mayor may be starting to make a speech. He only hopes that Philbrook doesn’t follow suit. The last thing he needs is to witness a private speech-making contest.
The mayor continues, “I’ve formed a committee to coordinate this effort. The citizens and residents have been asked to send contributions of money and provisions so that these patriotic soldiers can have full bellies before their cars depart each evening.”
“A wonderful gesture,” Philbrook smiles.
“When this war started,” the mayor says, rising from his chair and slicing through the air with an extended finger, “we all took pleasure in cheering the soldiers as they passed through our city on the way to scenes of conflict. Let us now greet them on their return, and manifest our grateful recollection of their glorious services.”
“And every last one of them will appreciate it,” says Parker, as he motions, a bit too obviously, to Philbrook to get up to leave.
“We enjoyed our visit and look forward to seeing you again soon, Mayor May.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” declares the mayor, taking a slight but undeniable bow.
* * *
This is something that Roads has to see for himself.
The biggest treasure he has ever heard of in his life is right here in his city.
With his usual hangers-on in tow, Roads walks from his Broad Street office to the rail yard just a few blocks away. He’s recognized by nearly all he passes, and he energetically tips his top hat to each lady walking by. Whether or not they take notice is beside the point; he’s a man of grandiose gestures. And besides, his mood is good and high.
It’s a glorious morning for a walk.
Amidst his prevailing mania, Roads is still troubled by the killing of his two men on the South Carolina coast. He has needed answers since Tuesday night, but he’s not getting any. Though he dares not personally submit an inquiry to the authorities, he’s sent enough emissaries to wear out any welcome mat. He’s even got his Savannah connections trying to pry out new information.
As for the deceased men, Roads has already taken care of their families with a small payout, and when their bodies come back up the river this week, he’ll see to it that they each get a proper burial. After all, he does have appearances that require keeping up. As far as the public is concerned, Roads has made them out to be the victims of a Yankee patrol.
Roads walks by the station building to a siding where the rail cars are parked. The midshipmen and Marines have transformed the siding into quite a camp. There are about one hundred and fifty guards in total, not counting the local militia sent over by General Fry. But the militia totals just a handful of men, and Roads knows most of the ones that he sees. In fact, most have even worked for him on one or two occasions.
Even though the scene plays out near an obscure rail siding, the setting still has the appearance of a fortified citadel. The guards have laid their defenses to the point of perfection. It would be most difficult for any opposing party to storm this camp. So difficult, Roads concludes, that such a move would never, ever succeed.
He thinks about hooking an engine up to the cars and pulling them off. But no, the guards have isolated the track, so nothing can move until they put it back together. Perhaps the guards could be bought off? No. He quickly dismisses that idea as impractical, what with so many patriotic young men on hand, relishing their status.
No, Roads concludes, there is nothing he can do in Augusta to get his hands on even a modest piece of the treasure. However, he also believes it will not stay where it is forever, and if he watches it for a long enough time, a vulnerable moment is bound to arrive.
Until that moment is at hand, he’s content to have his men just watch the cars and report back. Time—glorious and generous time—is on his side.
* * *
The burial of Patrick’s mother is several hours in the past.
Their hands and fingers interlaced, Patrick and Elisabeth enjoy a quiet moment on a blanket spread under the tree just feet from the newly turned earth. A weather-beaten board plays the role of a headstone. Upon it, Patrick has written in charcoal:
Dora Graham
wife and mother
b. July 23, 1811
d. April 18, 1865
God rest her soul.
In time, she’ll get a proper marker, but that will have to come once all else is sorted.
For now, the couple enjoys the light evening breeze, which flows through the Sea Islands like clockwork each and every day. It has a gentle yet authoritative way of sweeping out the oppressive heat and humidity and bugs, making Lowcountry life a bit more tolerable.
&
nbsp; As the wind licks by them, Patrick sits on the blanket and Elisabeth lies on her side, her head in his lap. His touch so delicate as to be almost weightless, Patrick strokes her long brown hair. He doesn’t say as much, at least not yet, but he is proud of Elisabeth’s performance during the attack on the wagon. She reacted with a level of courage that he has seen in a few men, but never before in a woman.
No question about it: Elisabeth is indeed someone special.
As the two of them sit, Jimmy plays in their sight; he’s over by the barn, chasing chickens around.
“He’s never seen any live ones before now,” Elisabeth says. “A farm is quite an experience for a city boy.”
“As is a city for a farm boy,” Patrick laughs. His tone then turns grave: “Elisabeth, I want you to stay here with Dad till he is able to fend for himself. He’s got some good hands on this farm, but they can’t give him the care that you can. Besides, he needs a good shot close by.”
Elisabeth chuckles at the notion of someone deeming her a “good shot.”
“I will, Patrick, and it will do Jimmy and me both good to spend some time together, away from other folks. To say the least, we have a lot of catching up to do.”
Patrick nods. “I’m going to head back to Augusta this weekend, try to get my work finished up. But I’ll be back down here before you know it.”
“Do you think we’re still in danger, Patrick?”
His shrug is imperceptible. “Hard to say. Maybe the guys were out to rob you, and you put an end to that.”
Elisabeth responds, “Or maybe Roads sent them after me. You said we never could trust him, and my departure was much too simple.”
“You have a point, and I plan to ask around when I get back up there. In the meantime, you, Jimmy, and I can take care of Dad and the farm. Let someone else worry about the war for a while.”
* * *
News of the armistice spreads fast through the region.
General Fry, for his part, is dispensing information as quickly as it comes in. This evening he is huddled with a group of officers on the Planters Hotel veranda. The atmosphere is notably more social than business, but the talk? That’s strictly business.
Captain Parker walks out onto the balcony. Immediately, he is summoned by the general to his table.
“Captain, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got the latest dispatch from Macon, Special Field Orders number twenty-two.”
“Good. What does it say?” Parker asks.
Fry begins to read so all can hear:
“ It is hereby announced to the Cavalry Corps of the Military Division of Mississippi, that an armistice has been agreed upon with a view to final peace.”
A rotund and balding colonel comments, “We know about the armistice. What’s new? Read on, General.”
The general continues, “Well, this is where it gets interesting. It says…
“The troops of the Cavalry Corps are ordered to refrain from further acts of hostilities and depredations. Supplies of all kinds are to be contracted for and foraging upon the country will be discontinued. The officers of the Cavalry Corps will enforce the strictest discipline in their commands. Guards will be established, private and public property respected, and everything done to secure good order.”
“Clear enough,” offers one major. “These folks are going home.” The general resumes reading:
“The Brevet Major General Commanding again takes great pleasure in commending the officers and men of the Corps for their gallantry, steadiness, and endurance in battle, and during the arduous marches to this place.”
“Good for him,” injects one young captain.
“He enjoins them to remember that the people in whose midst they are now stationed are their countrymen and should be treated with magnanimity and forbearance, in the hope that although the war which has just ended has been long and bloody, it may secure a lasting and happy peace to our beloved country. By command of Brevet Maj Gen Wilson.”
Lowering the paper, General Fry looks at his officers. All of them silently look at each other.
“It’s over,” says the general. “This war is over.” A young lieutenant asks, “What do we do next?” Parker for one is not convinced that the war is over, although he knows any fool can see that the Confederacy is collapsing. What about his mission? What about the treasury? What is he to do? For certain, regardless of his convictions, it’s time to make a decision.
Parker abruptly leaves the gathering to report what he has heard to Philbrook. Together, they will have to chart their own future, and there’s not a lot of time left in which to do so.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By Monday afternoon, Patrick is back in Augusta, checking back into the Planters Hotel. Ironically, returning to the war now seems like a holiday compared to taking a hurried trip home to the Sea Islands to bury his mother, nurse his wounded father, and comfort a close lady friend and her son.
Prior to arriving, Patrick has sent word to Jacob to meet him on the veranda for an update.
“Jacob.” Patrick calls out, waving him over to his table. As could be expected, the table is Patrick’s favorite: the one overlooking Broad Street.
Jacob extends his hand; Patrick rises to shake it. Together, the pair sits down.
“Patrick, I have been most concerned for you. You left here quite quickly and quietly, I must say.”
Shaking his head, Patrick opens up: “Jacob, there was a terrible accident back home. My mother was killed and my father injured. I had to get back to attend to them.”
Jacob’s face displays his dismay. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry, and I fully understand. Your family certainly will be in the prayers of our parish. Is there anything I can do for you? What happened?”
“No, I’m fine. Still a bit shaken, but I’ll be all right. And I’d prefer not to get into the details of it. It’s much too unsettling right now.”
“As you wish, Patrick. But you—you’re doing all right?”
“Oh, yes. I’m going to be just fine. Get my mind back on work, and I’ll be as good as new, or at least as good as one can be in these circumstances.”
Personal talk aside, Patrick knows he needs to be brought up-to-date on what’s happened in the week since he left, and no one keeps up with the city better than his friend the parish priest. So he wastes no time in asking for details.
With a cooperative nod, Jacob starts his report: “First off, Elisabeth has disappeared. She just up and left. No trace of her anywhere. Looks like she cleaned out her clothes and vanished, although some say she was seen on the Jeff Davis last week, headed for Savannah. The Provost Marshal has been looking, but he hasn’t turned up anything on her yet.”
“Wow, that’s a shocker,” says Patrick, feigning surprise. “Maybe she was lonely after losing her husband and went back home, wherever that is.”
“Could be. I’m really worried for her, as I expect you are, too.”
“Oh, yes. If I weren’t so tied up with brokers buying up cotton, I believe I’d be out there looking for her, too. But I will ask my associates on the coast to keep an eye out for her. As pretty as she is, she won’t be hard to spot.”
Judging from the look on Jacob’s face, Patrick can tell that his deception is working. This pleases him to his core.
“Also,” Jacob goes on, “last week two of Adolphus Roads’ employees were found shot to death outside of Savannah. Both of them hit point blank by a shotgun. They think it was some of those Colored Troops the Federals are using to patrol the Lowcountry.”
Patrick elects to act bored at this news. “I’m sure they’ll get the person responsible sooner rather than later,” he sighs, looking to his left and pretending to be distracted by a passing waitress.
“And probably the biggest news,” Jacob says, lowering his voice a bit to command greater attention, “the Confederate Treasury arrived in Augusta last week.”
“You don’t say,” says Patrick, offering more detectable acknowledgment.
“Yes,�
� Jacob continues, “about fifteen million dollars in gold and silver and jewelry sitting in some cars near the railroad depot. Been there for almost a week, guarded by the midshipmen from the Naval Academy and some seasoned Marines. No one is supposed to know it’s here, so the whole town has promised to keep it a secret.”
Jacob lets out a laugh as he says this, for keeping such a secret is beyond the capacity of even the tightest community.
“And what about the war?” asks Patrick. “What are you hearing?”
“Well, Patrick, the war is all but over,” Jacob says, making his resignation audible. “Just this morning, President Davis wired to General Johnston his approval of the agreement with Sherman to end hospitalities. And General Fry was told that Colonel Henry of Johnston’s staff is personally delivering orders from Sherman to end hostilities.”
These remarks make Patrick wonder. This minister sure knows a lot about military communications—certainly much more than an average person would. But people have a way of dishing out surprises. Maybe he’s just got good connections.
“As for President Davis himself, we haven’t heard much. He’s in Charlotte and said to be well protected. I don’t have to tell you that the Yankees would love to get their hands on him.”
“He’s probably as big a prize as the treasury,” says Patrick, nodding.
“Meanwhile,” Jacob goes on, ignoring Patrick’s jest, “we’ve been incredibly busy at the church. Reverend Clark has been working with the Mayor through the Augusta Purveying Society to help the poor. They’re actually serving about fifteen hundred families now, many of them the families of Southern soldiers. I hate to think about adding thousands of freed slaves to the growing list of the poor. And you probably noticed how crowded the streets are getting. Thousands of soldiers pass through here every day, headed home from the front and the fight. Many of them are in need of food and shelter, too. We do what we can, though I often fret about it not being enough.”