The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  In a consoling tone, Patrick says, “It’s no different anywhere else. For a time, the war provided order and kept everything in its place. We were prepared for a fight. But we’re obviously not prepared for the peace.”

  The coolness of the evening begins to thicken, and the men go about the loose process of enjoying the camaraderie and the wine.

  * * *

  The sunrise brings a sense of new life and urgency to the midshipmen and the Marines guarding the treasure train. Once again, they have received orders to move on.

  Patrick has arrived at the depot to confer with Captain Parker and Mr. Philbrook about their itinerary.

  Roads, too, is here. As he walks past the three men, he remarks to Patrick, “You won’t find any cotton in these cars.”

  In no mood for feeling intimidated, Patrick shoots back, “If you want cotton, you have to pay for it.”

  Patrick turns back to Philbrook as Roads walks on. “Do you have current information on the President’s movements?”

  “Not at this time, I’m afraid,” Philbrook replies. “Captain Parker and I figure that they will be coming through Abbeville and Washington because the enemy cavalry has all the other routes closed.”

  “Patrick,” says Parker, “we just can’t keep roaming the countryside like a band of homeless wanderers. It’s even beginning to get dangerous here. My men can provide only so much security. Philbrook and I believe it’s best to find Davis and turn the treasury over to him.”

  “Correct. We’ve got to find him, and to that end we’re going to roll out of here this morning and retrace our steps. I have no choice but to believe we’ll run into him,” adds Philbrook.

  “I’d like to go with you,” offers Patrick, “but I need to tend to my original reason for being here. I’m simply too close to walk away now.”

  “Understood. Just the same, we’d like to have you along,” says Philbrook.

  “Maybe I can catch up with you later. I’d like to see Secretary Trenholm one last time.”

  “Your work here must be important for the Secretary to personally send you, Patrick,” offers Philbrook.

  “Indeed it is, and maybe one day I’ll have the honor of sharing it with you. For now, though.”

  In quick, borderline impatient motions, Patrick shakes their hands and wishes them safe travels. The men then mount the cars for their journey. In a single instance, the engine belches out steam and the whistle screeches to life, the latter sounding like a metallic insect. As Patrick can make out through the windows, the midshipmen and the Marines are all on board. Their muskets are at the ready as the large, cumbersome engine slowly picks up speed, rolling its way from the siding, through the switch, past the depot, and at last onto the main line.

  As he watches the train leave, Patrick finds himself surprised by the scene that has just played out at the station. The Mayor, General Fry, various important political and business leaders, dozens of colored men and women, and even Roads have all turned out to see the train off. This was the Confederacy’s best kept secret? He’d hate to see the one that’s the worst kept.

  And then a sight strikes Patrick’s eyes: Two horsemen are riding off in the distance in hot pursuit of the train. Train robbery, Patrick thinks. No, that’s foolish; they’re too outgunned. More likely, he thinks, they work for Roads, and have been tasked with shadowing the train.

  In due course, he’ll wire ahead to Parker in Washington to keep an eye out for these men.

  * * *

  On his way to breakfast, Patrick stops by his hotel room to pick up the morning newspaper. Opening the door, he’s greeted with a familiar sight upon the floor. Unfolding the note, he reads:

  President Davis and the Cabinet are leaving Charlotte tomorrow. Their route will take them to Abbeville and Washington.

  Patrick nods to himself, figuring that they will be in Abbeville in three days. He’d very much like to finalize his work in Augusta and ride out to meet the Secretary, but he doesn’t yet know if the timing is practical. It’s no small matter that he still has not found Roads’ clandestine press, nor the printing paper. For all he knows, Roads could have everything together and the press in full operation by now.

  Tonight Patrick will have to continue his search. He just needs a good clue to fall upon him from the sky.

  * * *

  Roads and Patrick each arrive at The Office for a late breakfast in a rather comical fashion, walking in and taking their seats at nearly the exact same moment—Patrick in front by the window, and Roads in the back across the room. They take notice of each other and share a nod of recognition. After a stiff moment of hesitation, Patrick decides to get up and walk over.

  “Mr. Roads,” he says, forcing himself to contort his mouth into a smile, “it was a pleasure to see you this morning at the depot. Quite a festive time.”

  “I agree. We haven’t had this much excitement since we saw our boys off to war!”

  His tone intact, his smile flawless, Patrick goes into searching mode. “I’m in need of some printing. Do you still have your shop? There are so many here in town.”

  Roads pauses for a moment, his eyeballs dark and shadowy, then offers, “Actually, I still do all my own printing. You know, if you want something done right, you just have to do it yourself. Maybe I can help you.”

  “I’d like to get some envelopes printed. I expect to begin closing cotton sales next week and will need some.”

  “I don’t see a problem. I’m sure my folks could print those for you.”

  “Very good. Where do you do your printing—here in Augusta?” asks Patrick.

  “Yes, I have one of the finest printing operations in the South. Just bring your order by the store, and we’ll take care of it.”

  “Well, where exactly is the press located? Is it open for…tours… by customers?”

  A massive, overwhelming pause. Were it not for Patrick’s seemingly casual delivery, this inquiry would reveal its inherent strangeness.

  “No, Mr. Graham, it’s not open for tours. Just leave your order at my office.” Roads smiles from one ear straight across to the other, yet somehow, someway, he seems to be frowning, even sneering.

  “Be glad to. Thank you for your assistance.” Patrick pivots and proceeds to leave.

  “Oh, by the way,” Roads says, catching him in mid-step, “have you done any baking lately?”

  Turning around with a more measured smile, Patrick says, “Baking? No. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, no reason. It’s just that… when I saw you down at the ferry, you had flour on your pants and shoes.”

  “Never was much good in the kitchen,” Patrick responds, then walks away just a little too fast.

  Roads is mentally engaged in rapid calculations. At first he just didn’t understand why a flour-stomping cotton broker from Charleston would want to snoop around his buildings. But Patrick’s newly disclosed interest in printing has more than validated Roads’ concerns. There’s more to this young man than he lets on, and Roads intends to wring out the basic truth.

  A bit startled by the mention of flour, Patrick now figures Roads will be too on guard to let anything slip, so he will have to find the print shop another way. Moreover, he now has heightened time demands, for he’ll have to find answers even while Roads is suspicious about him.

  He goes back to his table to drink his coffee and read the newspaper, his hands trembling a little bit as he handles both.

  Bearing a head filled to the brim with its own set of worries, General Fry marches into the restaurant with his aide and takes a seat at the mayor’s table. All around them, eyebrows cock and ears perk up. When the two most powerful men in the city are sharing a table, it’s only natural for the other diners to try to pick up bits of the conversation. Patrick joins them in straining to listen, and he finds himself less than disappointed.

  “Mister Mayor, I want to share with you the order just published by General Johnston himself, which is being distributed throughout the states today.
It reads:

  “By the terms of a military convention made by Major General W. T. Sherman, U.S. Army, and General J. E. Johnston, C. S. Army, the officers and men of this army are to bind themselves not to take up arms against the United States until properly relieved from that obligation, and shall receive guarantees from the U.S. officers against molestation by the U.S. authorities so long as they observe that obligation and the laws in force where they reside.”

  “Hold on, hold on. Read that again, general, but a bit slower this time. It sounds to me like you said we are no longer to take up arms against the Union.”

  “You heard right, mayor. Allow me to continue:

  After the distribution of the necessary papers the troops will march under their officers to their respective States, and there be disbanded, all retaining personal property. The object of this convention is pacification to the extent of the authority of the commanders who made it. Events in Virginia, which broke every hope of success by war, imposed on its general the duty of sparing the blood of this gallant army and saving our country from further devastation and our people from ruin.”

  “That’s it, mayor. American history. The war is officially over.”

  “But, general, I am puzzled by the part that says…”—the mayor reaches over and takes the paper from the general’s hand. He runs the well-filed nail at the tip of his index finger down the script— “yes, this part here. ‘The object of this convention is pacification.’ What does that mean?”

  “Mayor, you should know, because that sounds like political talk, not military talk.”

  The men both share a hearty laugh. The mayor then shoots back, “I’m not even persuaded that it’s English!”

  Unbeknownst to the man himself, Fry’s proclamation that the war is over is being passed around from table to table with the intensity of a growing fire. This is a day long awaited by North and South alike. It is the first day of the peace.

  As if there were any doubt before, Patrick now knows full well that he has got to step up his investigation of Roads. Reason being, counterfeit greenbacks are about to find a ready market.

  * * *

  The streets are a spectacle of animation as word of the war’s end spreads. A fresh new attitude is crackling across the city. But, at the same time, a tidal wave of concern for the city’s white population is growing. The question at the forefront of many people’s minds concerns the negroes and what will happen to them. If they are no longer slaves, but freedmen, then where do they go and what do they do? At the present juncture, the answers are not coming nearly as quickly as the questions.

  This much is certain: Augusta and the South are changing. Already, the local Provost Marshal is fielding grim reports of negroes being beaten and robbed. In an effort to help maintain a reasonable semblance of order, Mayor May issues a proclamation closing all the bars and other places where liquor is sold. The choice is met with concern, though it’s whispered concern, for only the most treacherous citizens would dare to shout it. And General Fry, meanwhile, cancels all leaves.

  In a rare effort to inject some levity into the current state of affairs, the Slomans are preparing a grand concert for Friday night. The focus will be on humor, keying off the comic songs of the English, Irish, Scotch, and Americans. The event, regardless of whether or not it’s a hit, demonstrates by its mere existence that even in uncertain times for ten dollars the people of Augusta can buy some laughs.

  Patrick sees word of the conflict’s finality posted on the bulletin board in his hotel lobby—General Sherman’s General Order Number Sixty-Five—there for all who are interested to inspect for themselves. General Wilson will be sending General Upton to Augusta to “accept the surrender of the garrison, to take charge of public property, and to execute the paroles required by the terms of surrender.”

  As a long-time employee of the Confederate States government, Patrick assumes with mixed emotions that he no longer has a mission—or for that matter—a job. On the other hand, per his training he has been conditioned to believe that every good soldier remains on station until properly relieved.

  Formalities aside, Patrick also has his own personal mission to look after.

  He’s after the person responsible for his mother’s murder.

  And no force in the world could ever relieve him of that job.

  * * *

  When the afternoon arrives, Patrick goes to the market to kill some time before meeting with Jacob in the St. Paul’s churchyard. People seem agitated. Pulses seem to run high. Patrick makes his way toward the nearest vendor.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes watchful.

  “It’s a bear. A bear is loose!!” he shouts, then proceeds to pack up his cart and wheel it away at lightning speed.

  A young black bear broke loose from the wagon it was chained to, explains another merchant, this one more calm and collected.

  “Its owner was driving the wagon through the market to show off the bear for the benefit of anyone who could be enticed to buy it,” he explains, blowing out some tobacco smoke after he does so.

  “It broke through its chain?” Patrick asks, looking all around for a glimpse of fur or teeth.

  “That’s what they say,” he responds with a shrug, seeming as bored as a man who’s having his shoes shined.

  At that very moment, across the street, Patrick sees some spectators scatter and catches sight of the bear jumping through the open window of a storefront. Right behind the animal in hot pursuit is its owner.

  In a surreal, swift moment that is charged with fright, the owner is able to corner the bear with a sturdy axe handle and broom, then return it to its very unbroken-looking chains.

  The market is no worse for the dose of excitement. In fact, the shoppers now have the Great Bear Invasion to gossip about—and no doubt many will relay near-death experiences!

  Patrick walks off with a smile on his face, the most genuine one he has worn in quite some time.

  * * *

  Just the same, Patrick needs someone to talk to, and his growing friendship with Jacob Anderson makes him the logical person. After all, if a clergyman can’t help you unscramble your life, then who can?

  They meet on a bench in the graveyard in front of Saint Paul’s Church. The area feels dense with history. It’s as though the scents and textures of the past remain palpable at this very moment. Many of the city’s prominent early settlers are buried right here. With novel steadiness, the cemetery has served the city through skirmishes with Indians, the Revolutionary War, and now the Civil War. For Patrick’s present purposes, it also happens to be a place that keeps its secrets.

  “Jacob, you’re the only person I’ve really told this to: I’m deeply troubled over the murder of my mother,” Patrick says.

  “I understand,” Jacob replies. “It’s to be expected. It happened only a few days ago.”

  “But I have to say, my feelings are not as much for mourning as they are for revenge,” Patrick says, looking straight into Jacob’s eyes. For a moment, their eye contact seems to generate a hard current of energy. “I want to find the person responsible and exact my own justice.”

  “Patrick, that too is a perfectly natural way to feel. We all want vengeance when bad things are done to the people we love. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard others say the same thing you are saying to me.”

  “How do they deal with it?” Patrick asks. “I want to follow the teachings of my faith, but my emotions have overtaken my mind. I feel as though my mission is to carry out justice.”

  “Justice is a reasonable thing to wish for. But that doesn’t necessarily make you responsible for executing it. The easiest way to respond,” says Jacob, “is to let God get your revenge for you.”

  Patrick cannot help but smile. “Are you suggesting that the Almighty’s hand will swoop down out of the clouds and pluck the killer from the earth?”

  “Not quite in that way,” Jacob explains. “But our faith teaches us God is manifest in e
verything we do, every action we take. If we truly believe that, then we know things don’t just ‘happen,’ but are ordained by God. On the other hand, if we do not believe, then the actions we take are not necessarily divinely inspired and are not accomplishing God’s will for our lives.”

  “So if I take revenge into my own hands, then in the eyes of God I am no better than the person who killed my mother?”

  “Well, it’s not a question of comparison, but you’re certainly not equipped to be the avenger on your own. You have a right to help bring the murderer to justice, but you have no right in God’s eyes, nor the eyes of the government, to administer that justice.”

  “Jacob, this is wise advice. But it goes against our nature.”

  “It does, Patrick. But God has put us in this world not just to fall in love and have families and make money. He has put us here like pupils in a giant schoolhouse, so we can learn to live by His word and, through our own deeds, we can come to have a personal relationship with Him before he calls us home.”

  “Pastor, you make it sound so easy. And yet I sit here with a burning in my blood. And, it is simply added to the guilt I carry over the death of my brother and those brave VMI cadets.”

  “Oh, I may make it sound easy, Patrick, but I know it’s not— not even for your parish clergy. I have my struggles, too. Quite similar to yours.”

  “In what way?’

  “Well, Patrick, with the war behind us, I do suppose that it’s time for confession.” Jacob pauses to mentally link his thoughts and words. He rises from the log and takes a couple of steps away, then turns back to face Patrick. “Your mother was killed in a cowardly way, and Elisabeth in turned killed two of her murderers. We both know someone else is behind it.”

  “Jacob, what are you saying?” Patrick’s jaw hangs open; he’s astonished by what his friend has just let slip.

  “How do you know about Elisabeth? And what do you mean, ‘We both know’?”