Confederate Gold and Silver

by Peter F. Warren

  “As ready as I’ve ever been!” Odom was itching for the fight to start.

  Carrying a musket he had retrieved from the wagon and with his Remington revolver stuffed in his waistband for easy access, Francis moved slowly into position. His revolver was a souvenir he had taken from a dead Union officer on the battlefield at Bull’s Bluff. Francis, followed closely by Odom, stepped quietly from the tree line. Moving slowly at first at the pace of a fast walk, they then began to run down the hill as quietly as they could. As they ran they kept the wagons between them and the strangers who had invaded their camp. Reaching the wagons, Francis first, and then Odom, each dropped one of the strangers with well placed shots. As the other two men turned to fire back at them, they were quickly tackled from behind by Sgts. Stine and Banks. In short order they were beaten to a whisker of their lives.

  As soon as the threat was extinguished, and with his men now in control of the two severely beaten intruders, Francis ran to the nearly lifeless body of Sgt. Griffin. He had been ambushed by these four men while riding around the perimeter of the camp and had been shot in the right temple when he attempted to fight them off after getting back to warn the others. As he knelt on the ground next to Griffin, Francis soon heard him take his last breath.

  “Captain, look at these boys here. On the outside they are wearing Confederate shirts, but under that they is wearing Yankee uniforms; Yankee pants and all. Who are they, our boys or Yankees?”

  “Yankee spies more than likely,” Francis quickly answered as he looked at one of the bodies lying dead next to him. “Damn Yankees!”

  Francis stood up and walked back to where the two seriously injured Union soldiers lay on the ground. Without saying a word, he drew the revolver which had once been owned by a Union cavalry officer and then shot each of the two men once in the head. He shot them with bullets issued to the Union officer who had once owned the revolver. The revolver was one he now claimed as his. Angrily he yelled to no one in particular. “We still shoot spies, don’t we?”

  “Damn right we do,” replied Sgt. Stine, “shoot the bastards again!”

  Francis thought about it for a moment, but despite the urge he refrained from doing so. “They are already dead. Shooting them again will not bring Griffin back to us I’m afraid. For if it would, I would surely shoot them many times over to get him back with us.” Of the five men shot and killed that afternoon only one was buried. The others were left lying on the ground under the hot South Carolina sun.

  Soon after they had buried Sgt. Griffin, Francis knew he had to move his men away from the area. They moved another ten miles south before he allowed them to make camp for the night. Along the way Sgt. Stine rode up to Francis and kept him company for part of the ride. “Captain, we hope you know we weren’t being lazy when you were gone. We all took turns riding around the camp. Them fellas who bushwhacked Griffin, they just got the jump on him, that’s all. Likely he saw them wearing Confederate uniforms and he thought they was with us. What happened to Frank could have happened to any of us. We all feel bad we kinda let you down.”

  Knowing any anger he displayed would have been misplaced, Francis calmly assured Stine he knew they had been doing what was expected of them. He told Stine he did not hold them responsible for Griffin’s death. “We are at war and bad things happen to soldiers who fight in wars. I just wish I had been there to help him. We all likely feel that way. Tell the men I am not angry with any of them.”

  In camp that night, as the men quietly ate their dinner, Francis brought out the two bottles of spirits James Wood had given him earlier in the day. They had been intended for the men to have a pleasant evening with, but now they drank to forget what had happened to Griffin earlier in the day. For Francis, the alcohol only served to make the pain he felt feel worse, not better.

  Soon his men were asleep under a sky full of bright stars. Nothing disturbed the quiet of the South Carolina evening. Francis was still so upset over the loss of Griffin that he did not even bother to post a guard as they slept. “What’s the point?” he thought as he finally drifted off to sleep while trying to remember the names of his men who had died during the mission. Remembering each of their names made their faces appear in his mind. Seeing them only increased the pain he felt as he finally closed his eyes. It would be a night in which Francis would not see much sleep.

  Summer, 2011

  21

  Gold in North Carolina.

  “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is

  trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He

  hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword . . .”

  Lyrics to ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’

  Several days had passed since the press conference was held in Wilmington. Outside of a couple of reporters contacting Paul with a few follow-up questions and a couple of others calling to see if he had found the grave site of the three Confederate soldiers, not much yet had happened to give him any hope of finding the grave. He knew it was still early, but each time the phone rang he prayed it was the call he had been waiting for. Paul spent the days following the press conference doing what he had expected to be doing in his retirement life. Playing golf, working a couple of shifts at his part-time job, and taking the boat out on the river was what he thought would keep him happy in retirement, but now he just went through the motions. His focus was on waiting for the phone to ring to tell him what he needed to know. Even helping Donna unpack a few more boxes from their move did not help him to stop thinking about the whereabouts of the wooden cross and of the treasury that had likely been buried near it. Several boxes still had sat untouched in their garage since being left there by the movers. Hoping he would soon be receiving the phone call he was waiting for, Paul used two cardboard moving boxes to pack some tools, pads and pencils, some batteries, a flashlight, and a few other items in. They were items he thought he might need when he went to hunt for the missing Confederate treasury. He wanted to be ready to roll when he received the phone call telling him where the grave site was. It was a site he was anxious to find.

  During the same time, Chick had sought out the help of a part-time guest instructor he knew at Coastal Carolina University. Pete Cater was a former video technician who had worked at a couple of local South Carolina television stations before venturing out on his own, filming weddings, graduations, and other local events for those who could afford his prices. Besides running his own business, he was also an occasional instructor at the school’s Video Production Unit, helping students to edit and produce their required projects in several film classes. Chick and Pete had gotten to casually know each other from several school sponsored events they had each attended. From talking at those events, Chick had learned Pete had a passing interest in American history.

  From his time working at several television stations, Pete knew everything about video production techniques and knew a great deal more than most people about video cameras and other related equipment. His technical expertise was the main reason Chick sought him out for the film project they wanted to undertake; it certainly wasn’t because of his passing interest in history. He knew Pete had other interests in life which excited him far more than history did, but he did not care what those other hobbies and interests were as he just wanted his help due to his acquired skills and experience.

  On the afternoon Chick sought him out, he tried learning if Pete had any possible interest in helping them produce their Civil War documentary. After listening to what Chick presented to him, Pete initially told him he was not interested in doing that kind of work anymore. “Chick, I’ve been there and done that. Those kinds of projects require a great deal of work and a huge commitment of time from many people. Many times the reward does not equal the effort you have put into projects like the one you want to try and put together. These days I kind of like working by myself.” Pete was even less interes
ted when he heard the opportunity did not come with a guarantee of making any money until after the documentary got sold.

  As they talked, Pete asked more about the film’s subject matter, but Chick was forced to give him a vague answer. “I’m sure you have read about the recent discovery of the remains of a Confederate soldier down in Murrells Inlet. Well, the guy who found him is a friend of mine and we are working on an idea which has grown out of this discovery of the soldier’s remains. I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you anything more about this right now. I can tell you this is one of those once in a lifetime opportunities we hear about. Pete, I am not going to make you any false promises, but I can promise you if you help us we will pay your expenses and we promise you will receive full credit as our video producer if the documentary gets sold. Plus, I know you will also get a couple of thrills out of this as well. I will also tell you on a couple of occasions you might have to get your hands dirty, but it’s nothing like having to clean out a sewer or anything like that. You interested?”

  “Gees, I don’t have to clean out any plugged sewers! Where do I sign up for this gig? Chick, I don’t know about this offer, I like having a regular paying gig. You know what I mean?”

  Beginning to feel a little frustrated by Pete’s lack of interest, Chick let him know it with a dose of sarcasm. “Yeah, I do. I can see how you would not want to pry yourself away from filming those exciting weddings and kid’s birthday parties every weekend. Sounds like your life is really packed with excitement these days, I don’t know how one person can stand having so much fun.”

  Pete understood the sarcasm which was being directed at him. He knew it was part of the recruiting effort to get him to join Chick and the others with the documentary they were working on. “OK, OK, I surrender. I’m sure I am gonna regret this, but what the heck, you are probably right. Your gig has got to be better than filming those weddings every Saturday. OK, sign me up. Call me when you want to get together.”

  “Great! But one thing, Pete, this is not for the world or for anyone to know about. You need to keep this to yourself for now. OK?”

  Intrigued to hear about the degree of secrecy, Pete wondered what it was all about, but knew Chick would fill him in soon. “I’m sure you will tell me what the big secret is about when you are ready, but OK, mums the word for now.”

  ******

  Paul had gotten home late in the day on Sunday afternoon after taking Donna for a boat ride. He finally felt comfortable enough with the boat to make the leisurely ninety minute trip down the Waccamaw River to Georgetown. They had enjoyed their ride down the river and had docked the boat along the river walk on historic Front Street. After seeing the sights along Front Street, they enjoyed a casual lunch at the Crazy Mermaid, one of the many waterfront restaurants located along the river. Eating outside on one of the restaurant’s sun drenched wooden decks had allowed them to enjoy their lunch while they watched the boat traffic on the river and the tourists walking up and down the river walk.

  It was a beautiful sunny day and they had taken full advantage of it by enjoying a leisurely ride back to the marina. Paul had purposely taken his time getting back as he wanted the quite afternoon to last as long as possible. They had left their cell phones at home so they would not be interrupted as they enjoyed the day together. Neither of them missed the interruptions their phones often seemed to cause.

  After they arrived back home, Paul began putting some of their gear away in the garage. As he did, Donna came back into the garage carrying his cell phone. She heard his cell phone beeping when she had gone into the house to throw their beach towels into the washing machine. “Paul, your cell phone is beeping. Looks like you have a couple of messages on it.”

  “That’s a shock,” Paul sarcastically responded, “probably just some more crank phone calls generated by some of the articles which have been written, but let’s see.” As he took the phone from her, he asked Donna for a favor. “Hey, would you bring me a Coors Light from the kitchen? The refrigerator out here is tapped out of beer. I’m just going to put the rest of this stuff away and then listen to the messages here in the garage. I’ll get the grill fired up for dinner in just a few minutes.”

  After putting away the two life preservers they had used and after emptying out the small cooler they had taken out on the boat, Paul grabbed one of the plastic lawn chairs he had stacked in the garage. Sitting down in the chair, he took a long swig on the can of beer Donna had brought out to him. Then he began listening to his messages.

  The first two messages were follow-up calls from writers he had previously spoken with. They had called about a few needed clarifications for articles they were about to publish. The third call had simply been a wrong number. As Paul deleted the third call, he took his second swig from the can of Coors Light. Then the fourth message played. It was the call he had waited several days for.

  “Mr. Waring, my name is Joseph Johnson, my friends call me Duke. I’ve been following your story about finding the Confederate soldier and I’ve got to say its one heck of a story. I own a hog farm, almost two hundred and fifty acres in size, up here in Maple Hill; it’s a small community in Pender County, here in rural North Carolina. The reason I am calling you is I think I might have what y’all are looking for. Listen here, I’m reading the story in our local paper about what y’all have found and I see this part about the grave site you are looking for. Well, like I already said, I think I just may have what y’all are looking for. Call me when you can and we will talk on it. My number is 910-623— . . . .”

  When the message finished playing, Paul stood up so fast he forgot about the can of beer he had placed between his legs as he sat in the chair. In his excitement from listening to what Duke Johnson’s message had told him, he sent the partially full can of beer flying onto the garage floor when he stood up. Ignoring the mess he made, he scrambled to find something to write with so he could jot down Duke’s phone number. Replaying the message a second time, he was still so excited he wrote Duke’s number down wrong. He had to hit the button on his phone so he could play the message again. Finally calming down, he wrote the phone number down correctly on one of the cardboard moving boxes still stacked in the garage.

  The phone rang three times before Duke Johnson answered his cell phone. “Mr. Johnson, good day, sir. This is Paul Waring returning your phone call. I appreciate you calling me.”

  “Well, thanks for calling me back, Paul. My friends call me Duke, please do the same.”

  “I will, thanks, Duke. From your call it sounds like you believe you may know where the grave site is for the three soldiers who once served with the soldier I found. Is that right?”

  “Based on what I’ve read in the local paper, yeah I might know where the grave site is. My family has owned our property forever, since before the Civil War. It’s actually been in our family since the late 1700’s. Some of the property, like where I believe the grave site might be, is as pristine as it ever was. We have kept over fifty acres of meadows just for hunting. We also fish in one of the ponds on the back of the property, but we have never used it for our hog business or for anything else. We kind of use it to relax on, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do, it sounds beautiful. I’d like to see it someday. Duke, let me ask you, why do you think you know where the grave site is? I can’t imagine a simple wooden cross which was made almost one hundred and fifty years ago to mark the site is still in the ground today, or is it?”

  “No, it’s not. After the cross had broken apart some in a windstorm many years ago, my granddaddy had it repaired and then he put it in one of our barns. It’s still hanging on the barn wall just like it has been for years.”

  Paul was stunned by what Duke had told him about the wooden cross. “What? You still have the cross? Wait, so how would you know where the graves are after all of these years or would you just be guessing where they are?”

  �
�Paul, folks here still have a deep respect for the dead. When the wooden cross broke apart, my granddaddy made another cross, made it out of scraps of metal and steel he had lying around. Then he placed the new cross back in the very same hole the wooden cross had been in. Did so out of respect for ‘Old Charlie’, least that’s what we have referred to the grave site as.”

  “That’s a tribute to whoever is buried there. It’s also a wonderful act of kindness which was done by a special person. Your granddaddy must have been some kind of man. Duke, help me out here. Why did you refer to the grave site as ‘Old Charlie’?”

  “Well, the original wooden cross had the initials CSA carved into it so we figured the man buried there might have been named Charles, so we started calling the grave site ‘Old Charlie’. Just as a family joke, I guess.”

  “The cross has CSA carved into it?”

  “Sure does. It even has holes carved into it to resemble periods after each of the three letters. Amazing stuff, huh?”

  “Duke, I would have to agree with you on that.” As he listened to Duke, Paul realized CSA did not refer to anyone by the name of Charlie or any other name, but instead stood for Confederate States of America. As Duke spoke more about his property, Paul only heard parts of what he was saying. His mind was concentrating on the letters carved in the wooden cross. “That was a clue he left behind. It would have helped Francis find the gold and silver he buried there only he never made it back. But I bet he had those initials carved in the cross in the event he could not make it back there. It was meant to help him, but it was also a clue he was leaving for someone else as well. Pretty ingenious of him to plan ahead like that.”