by Bob Young
Patrick says, “Then he wasn’t a war hero, I reckon, because the soldiers in that part of the state didn’t see a whole lot of fighting.”
“You’ll love this part,” Jacob says, his alert eyes scanning the paper. “He has a reputation as a strict disciplinarian—even banned alcohol and card games in camp. Once conducted his own temperance meeting! Guess that’s why he ended up being appointed the provost marshal.”
“Tell me there’s not more…” Patrick sighs.
“Well, like a lot of officers, Bryant was having problems with his commander, and that led to his court-martial on charges of failing to obey orders and insubordination. Now, here’s where it gets interesting, though: The military governor, General Rufus Saxton, took a liking to Bryant and rescued him from the grasp of military justice. He put Bryant in charge of the recruiting camp for colored troops. Saxon later gave Bryant the authority to recruit his own unit of colored troops. But last summer, he left to rejoin the Eighth Maine at the siege of Petersburg. And when his enlistment expired, he went back to Maine to study law.”
“Does the major say how Bryant ended up here? I don’t exactly think the coloreds need a lawyer right now.”
“During his time in the Sea Islands, he became very friendly and sympathetic with the coloreds, along with the Northern missionaries that had come down to help them. When the war ended, General Saxon was named assistant commissioner for the Freedmen’s Bureau for Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida. He asked Bryant to join him to head the Bureau’s operations in Augusta. So here we are.”
“So here he is.”
“Say, didn’t you tell me Elisabeth said something to you about a guy with the Bureau down in the Lowcountry – some fellow to watch out for?”
“Yeah,” confirms Patrick, remembering their conversation in the carriage following their stretch of spying on the press. “Some guy called the Frenchman.”
“According to this information Bryant became real close to one of the missionaries – a preacher named Reverend Mansfield French. And French is on his way up here from the coast, too.”
Patrick sucks in a great deal of breath. Indeed, just because the man’s name is “French” doesn’t mean that he’s the Frenchman; yet the odds of him being so are high enough to regard with seriousness. “I don’t think the people around here have any idea what’s in store for them,” he says to Jacob.
“No, Patrick, they don’t.” Jacob pauses for a moment before he refolds the paper and puts it back into his pocket. “And they have no choice but to bear it.”
* * *
His feet in marching formation, General Molineux enters the restaurant and is shown to the favorite table of General Fry, who has no more use for it, given the circumstances. Major Allen, the provost marshal, is accompanying Molineux and getting an earful that is not hard to overhear.
As they take their seats, Molineux wants to know why it’s so damned hard to enforce his special order Number Three.
“I issued the order days ago,” the general complains, “that no one is allowed to sell or give liquors to enlisted men of the U.S. Armed forces or enlisted paroled prisoners.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Allen replies.
“We have to keep our men in order and put a stop to drunkenness and disturbances.”
“Yes, sir, most certainly,” Allen again responds.
“Let’s just leave it at this,” the general continues. “If the people are not going to comply with this directive, then you are directed by me personally to arrest and bring up for punishment all liquor dealers who are guilty of disobeying my order.”
“Yes, sir,” says Allen. He’s gotten the message loud and clear— and especially loud!
“And I want these paroled soldiers out of their gray uniforms. If they have nothing else to wear, then they should remove their buttons and decorations. To continue to wear these Confederate uniforms is not in keeping with the good order we must maintain.”
“So, I should treat this as a misdemeanor also?” asks the major.
No pause at all before the answer: “Yes, that would be appropriate.”
Just then, a commotion out on the street catches everyone by surprise, even the garrison commander. Most of the tables clear as people hurry toward the windows to see what is happening on the street. At their table by the window, Patrick and Jacob also turn to look.
General Washburn has come to town, and he obviously wants everyone to know about it. He marches his brigade right up Broad Street, past the garrison commander and his lunch. The troops look most grand, with their colors waving crisply in the breeze and their accompanying band playing patriotic music.
It’s a gallant scene, but it’s no match for a good meal. Accordingly, the diners soon return to their tables and conversations. For Molineux in particular, there is still work to coordinate with his provost marshal.
“General Wilson has directed us to seize the rolling stock of the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad still currently on the line of the Georgia Railroad.” He hands Major Allen a paper. “This list from General Upton includes twenty locomotives and tenders, one hundred and sixteen freight cars, and sixteen passenger and baggage cars.”
“Yes, sir,” Allen responds. “We should be able to locate all of them. No concern.”
“They don’t want us to confiscate the stock that is being used to haul prisoners and supplies. We can deal with that later.”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” responds Allen.
“And they also want us to round up this list of folks associated with the Bank of Tennessee and the state archives, but I suspect some of them have already vanished.” Molineux hands Allen another list.
“Yes, sir.”
Huddling close together, the two begin to go over the names; meanwhile, Patrick’s eyes are drawn to the door—right when a strange face appears. The stranger’s sharp facial features, some of which are hidden by bushy sideburns and a moustache, in no way betray his identity. But the mystery is resolved in no time at all.
The young man, who by all appearances is about thirty years old, walks directly to General Molineux and introduces himself.
“General, I’m John Emory Bryant…”
Patrick nods to himself.
Molineux cuts him off. “I know, agent of the Freedmen’s Bureau.”
“Actually General Superintendent, sir,” Bryant says. “I am pleased to meet you.” Turning to Major Allen, Bryant offers his hand for the second time. “You must be Major Allen.”
“Yes, Mr. Bryant, I am.”
Bryant continues, “It’s fortunate you are both here, because this matter involves all three of us. I trust I am not intruding.”
“No, please go right ahead,” says Molineux, though he withholds an invitation to take a seat.
Patrick and Jacob both find themselves leaning a bit, the better to take in every word.
“Sir, I have been advised of General Gilmore’s general order Number Sixty-three, and want to discuss how we intend to enforce it here.”
Bryant’s reference is to Major General Q.A. Gilmore, commanding general of the Department of the South, who is based at Hilton Head.
“Continue,” General Molineux says, reinforcing the permission with his hand.
“The order says Governor Brown in Georgia and Governor McGrath in South Carolina are no longer in office because of their treasonous acts,” Bryant explains.
“We are well aware of that,” says Allen.
Then Bryant continues: “General Gilmore says, and let me read it to make sure I say it right…
The people of the black race are free citizens of the United States. It is the fixed intention of a wise and beneficent government to protect them in the enjoyment of their freedom and the fruits of their industry. And it is the manifest and binding duty of all citizens, whites as well as blacks, to make such arrangements and agreements among themselves for compensated labor as shall be mutually advantageous to all parties. Neither idleness nor vagrancy will be toler
ated, and the government will not expend pecuniary aid to any persons, whether white or black, who are unwilling to help themselves.”
Bryant finishes by adding, “General Molineux, the establishment of the new relationship between white and black, as expressed in General Gilmore’s order, is indeed the explicit focus of the Freeman’s Bureau.”
“Mr. Bryant, I understand that,” the general responds. “My responsibility is to administer civil authority in this district. It is not up to me nor my soldiers to put people to work or determine what fair wages are.”
“Then we understand each other?” Bryant asks, seeking an aboveboard confirmation.
The general replies without missing a beat: “I was earlier reviewing a dispatch I have here from Captain Abraham, my provost in Washington. His men have been pulling down the shanties that the negroes are building on the public walkways. Many have begun living under trees and bushes, or pulling a blanket over a pole. These people have left their plantations, coming into the cities and towns and looking for whatever it is the government is going to give them. They steal to survive.”
“General…”
Molineux cuts him off and continues, fishing through the stack of paper in front of him for an item of particular importance. “Ah, yes. I have a letter here from Ms. Eliza Andrews in Washington. She tells me about a matter that took place the other night in Lincoln County. She writes:
“The negroes were holding a secret meeting, which was suspected of boding no good to the whites, so a party of young men went out to break it up. One of the boys, to frighten them, shot off his gun and accidentally killed a woman. He didn’t mean to hurt anybody, but the Yankees vow they will hang the whole batch if they can find them.”
“This, Mr. Bryant, is what we, the military authorities, have to deal with every day and everywhere. So whatever assistance the Bureau is going to provide to help us bring order is appreciated. That’s the priority.”
“I am, general, at a disadvantage,” says Bryant, “for the Bureau is only I. No assistants. No clerks. It is up to me to carry the load.”
“Then, sir,” Molineux says with a smile, “I trust you will get a rather large bucket to carry it in.”
“Well, I do, sir, have some help on the way. I am to be joined by Reverend Mansfield French, a Methodist missionary who is coming up the river on a steamer on this very day. But the two of us can do only so much.”
Molineux anticipates a question then shoots straight into the answer: “No, Mr. Bryant, the army is in no condition to assist you in your work. We have a large area to cover, and I am losing men every day as the War Department transitions from the war effort. No, sir, I have no man to spare, I’m afraid.”
Bryant looks disappointed. “I understand. I would hope, though, that we would be able to work together for our mutual advantage, as General Gilmore has so ably stated.”
“I’m sure we will,” says Molineux, as he and Allen, in an apparent display of extreme shared intuition, rise from the table to take their leave.
Patrick looks at Jacob and speaks first:
“Doesn’t look too good.”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s like many other things in that regard.”
* * *
It’s late in the afternoon, and beneath the softening glow of the slowly sinking sun, many of the townspeople have gathered at Sisters Ferry. They have come to witness something not seen on the Savannah River in a very long time. Two steamers have made the voyage from Savannah and are about to dock at the same instant. A festive air pervades the crowd because the scene is quite a distraction from the misery of war and the struggle for peace.
Patrick stands alone on the dock, his eyes peeled for Elisabeth and Jimmy. The Leesburg and the Amazon are coming closer, but he has no clue which one holds the cargo most precious to him. He looks at one and then the other. His eyes scan the decks from bow to stern, peering through waving arms on the decks for a glimpse of a familiar face. Just one look.
And then, in a soft and subtle yet magical moment, there she is, near the gangway cut in the railing of the Leesburg. To Patrick, she looks as radiant as she did the first time he saw her, her long brown hair now blowing in the breeze, her fair skin and piercing eyes coming into sharper focus as the boat draws closer across the waves. He beams from ear to ear, reaches his arm ever higher, and waves as vigorously as he can.
At long last, they are together again.
After the boat is stopped and tied, the gangway is lowered. Elisabeth and Jimmy edge their way through the passengers to be the first ones off. Patrick is fast to make his way across the dock to the gangway and within moments is there to greet her.
They fall into each other’s arms.
The embrace gets tighter as it persists.
Their lips then meet for a plush moment of passion.
Patrick pulls his head back and looks deep into Elisabeth’s eyes: “God, how I have missed you.”
Elisabeth responds, “Darling, I never thought I would miss anyone as much as I have missed you. Just seeing you. Hearing you. Smelling you. Sensing you.”
“I don’t ever want us to separate again,” says Patrick, rubbing his face against her cheek.
“Together forever,” she replies.
Then Patrick reaches down and picks up Jimmy. “He’s getting so big,” he says to Elisabeth. And then to Jimmy, he says, “Welcome home, son.”
Jimmy smiles and puts his face against Patrick’s chest. Patrick could not have hoped for a more direct show of affection. He’s again with the woman he loves, and her son has come to accept him. Can they possibly—already—be a family?
“Oh, Patrick.” At once, Elisabeth’s mood has gone serious. “Look, over there on the Amazon, coming down the gangway. See that tall, slender man with the beard?”
“Wearing the black hat?” Patrick’s zeroed in on him.
“Yes, him.” Jimmy lifts his head to look, too. “That’s the Frenchman. He’s the one we’ve got to look out for.”
“Heard about him today at lunch. He’s some big deal in the Freedmen’s Bureau.”
“He’s some kind of minister from Massachusetts who has spent most of the war among the negroes. They’ve come to call him the ‘White Jesus.’ But I heard only bad things about him the whole time we were at your family’s farm.”
Patrick averts his eyes from the man, electing instead to preserve the moment’s pleasantness. “Speaking of family, how’s Dad doing?”
“He’s back working the farm. It’s a good crew he’s hired on, and his foreman is the best.”
“And his wound?”
“Healing nicely. He’s going to be fine.”
Patrick nods, pauses, then proceeds with a larger question: “And how is he about Mom?”
“He talks about her all the time. Your dad really misses her. Spends a lot of time at the grave talking to the headstone.”
“Elisabeth, I don’t know of two people who loved each other more than they did. Dad’s carrying a lot of pain. I know that.”
Patrick winks at Jimmy, seeing quite clearly that the boy is oblivious to the content of their conversation. He then takes Elisabeth’s hand, and they all start walking toward his carriage. “I’ve arranged to have your bags delivered to your house. Tried to get it fixed up for you. Bet you’re glad to be home.”
Patrick lifts up Jimmy onto the seat.
“In more ways than you will ever know,” she replies.
Nodding and smiling, Patrick helps her up the step and climbs in himself. He grabs the whip and is fast to pop it. The two horses head toward the city.
* * *
Come Sunday morning, Elisabeth is most pleased to be in church with Patrick and Jimmy. Her physical and emotional weariness are hard to fight given the length of her trip, but she has not been to worship in weeks and presently feels an overwhelming need to be among the congregation.
As for Patrick, he is happy she feels that way, as his attendance, too, can use a boost.
Leaving
the church, they all walk together, much as a family would, along the neighboring riverbank. For Patrick, good feelings are flowing hard.
Jimmy skips ahead of them and starts throwing pebbles into the water, trying to hit the dragonflies. Elisabeth and Patrick keep an eye on him, walking hand-in-hand. The scent of fresh grass is strong.
There is then a tap on Patrick’s shoulder.
Jacob, who has had to run to catch up, is now standing behind Patrick.
“I’ve got some things I need to share with you, Patrick,” he says. He turns to Elisabeth with a nod of the head and a sheepish look. He wears no hat, but if he had one, he would tip it. “Excuse me, ma’am. I know I wasn’t expected.”
Patrick clears his throat. “Jacob, I would have thought you said everything you had to say in your sermon this morning.”
“Well, Patrick, not quite everything is suitable for the public. Shall we meet later?”
“No,” says Patrick, his impatience audible. “We can meet right now.”
“Well, I don’t know…” Jacob looks at Elisabeth.
“She has to know what is happening. I shall hold no secrets from my future wife.”
Elisabeth glances over at Patrick with a look of unguarded amazement. Is she excited about the veiled proposal, or concerned about what secrets Patrick has been keeping—or both?
“Please, Elisabeth. Have a seat here on this log.” On sheer instinct, Patrick takes off his coat and spreads it out on the log to protect her church clothes. Jimmy continues to play on the bank, oblivious to Jacob’s arrival.
“Darling,” Patrick starts. “I love you with my whole heart. I want to ask you to marry me, but I must share some things with you first.”
“Please go ahead,” Elisabeth says, her quickening breath telegraphing her concern.
“I’m not a cotton broker from Charleston. I’m a farm boy from the Lowcountry who graduated from West Point, was wounded in battle and became a special agent in the Treasury Department.” Elisabeth’s look is puzzled, but he presses on. “I came to Augusta on an undercover assignment to shut down Adolphus Roads’ criminal organization.”