by Bob Young
* * *
Patrick’s walk up the hill toward the capital is one that he has taken many times before. The wide, tree-lined streets are beginning to subtly herald the return of spring. The stark canopy of bare branches is already turning green on account of new foliage. And all along the way, the gardens are starting to show their richest colors.
Patrick steps carefully to avoid landing in the occasional puddle left over from the morning rain. The puddles are shallow, yet Patrick’s boot skin is thin.
Feeling a hungry ache in his gut, Patrick stops in Congress Hall, a popular saloon, for a bite and a drink to soothe his being, particularly his ever-aching arm. Taking a table near the front window, he watches the quilty shadow of darkness begin to settle over the street.
Even at the dinner hour, the streets of Richmond are very much alive. All through the city, store shelves are laid bare. Bacon, flour, and even whiskey are in short supply for the civilian population. But for the military, it’s a different story. From the Commissary Depot the quartermaster works tirelessly to rush foodstuffs and ammunition to the men toiling on the front lines.
Above the intense chatter at the surrounding tables, Patrick can hear the distinct rumble of cannon fire breaking in the distance.
The military ambulances seem to charge non-stop through the crowded streets. They carry the sick and wounded to more than a dozen hospitals spread across the city—Georgia soldiers to Winder Hospital on Cary Street or Jackson Hospital near Hollywood Cemetery, Alabamans to Howard’s Grove Hospital, Floridians to General Hospital on Main Street. Patrick knows the names all too well, to say nothing of the facilities themselves. He’s been inside several of them, visiting friends with bandaged skulls and missing limbs.
Following a hearty-enough dinner, which was served up more like a plate of leftovers, Patrick walks across Capitol Square in the direction of his hotel. Even at night, the view of Richmond from the steps of the capitol building is enough to still a beating heart. Off in the distance, toward Petersburg, flashes of cannon fire reflect off the dim, somber clouds.
As he absorbs the evening air, Patrick’s thoughts are drawn to his own experience under fire—the sounds of exploding shells, the whizzing minié balls, the wrenching screams of the wounded and the stench of death. The images within his mind bear a sharp glare of reality for he has lived them. This war, he declares within his mind, must not be allowed to go on.
The crowd that gathers on the square on the hill hungers for news, any news that will allow them to exchange their concerns for a single restful night. Patrick has no such news to offer—either hopeful or otherwise—but he does take stock of the tidbits others are adding to the local rumor mill. They include the traditional, bland chatter about sudden surrenders and white flags waving, mixed in with the usual tired counterpoints about how the war has just begun.
By now, he is immune to all of it, knowing that real information comes only from authoritative sources.
Patrick’s brief stroll comes to an end at the American Hotel on Main Street. It’s in the heart of the city, across the street from the Treasury Building.
“Welcome back, Captain Graham,” the desk clerk cordially declares. “Shall you be joining us for a while this time?”
The staff members know Patrick well, as his work has him travelling into and out of Richmond on a regular basis.
“I don’t think so,” Patrick replies. “Was told to pack light.”
The clerk reaches for a slot on the room board behind the desk, then hands Patrick his key and an envelope with the Department of Treasury seal on it. The clerk’s motions are swift and swollen thick with a regal silence.
“Have a good night, sir,” says the clerk, turning to the next guest.
Patrick nods once in acknowledgement then climbs the stairs leading to his room.
* * *
Morning comes early. So early, in fact, that Patrick surprises himself: He is up in time to attend the seven o’clock Lenten service at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. This trip is turning out to be a novel one; it has actually been quite some time since Patrick last attended services in Richmond. So on his brief walk across Capitol Square, he prepares himself by mentally putting together his own prayer list for the morning service. It’s not a very long one.
There’s family, there are friends, and there’s the Confederacy.
Packing light, as always. Reserving his heart for the ones who are most deserving.
The Confederacy’s Episcopal Church is recognized more for its influential communicants than for its number of members. Only about ten thousand Southerners are Episcopalians, but on the other hand, many of the South’s political and military leadership are counted among them. General Robert E. Lee and his wife regularly attend Saint Paul’s, and President Jefferson Davis was confirmed as a parish member in 1862.
Located on a corner across the street from the Capital Square, Saint Paul’s is a Richmond landmark. Its one hundred fifteen-foot-high steeple can be seen from nearly anywhere in the city, and its doors open to seat one thousand people—no doubt the sixty-seven original members who financed the construction of the church twenty-two years ago had minds with big ideas.
The rector, Reverend Charles F. E. Minnegerode, has been a fixture at Saint Paul’s for a decade. The good reverend is well qualified to understand the stakes in this war for Confederate independence. After all, his own “revolutionary ideas” as a college student put him into prison in his native Germany for a half dozen years.
Reverend Minnegerode’s heart is hardly hard. Indeed, he is especially fond of church music. People like to recall how he once told his long-time organist Jacob Reinhardt, “You bring in the crowd, Jake, and I’ll preach to it.”
On this morning, the crowd indeed has been brought in, and Patrick stands tall within it. He needs some time to clear the clutter of work from his mind, to hear half-forgotten words of comfort. The daily burden carried by Patrick leaves little room for anything other than work and warfare, neither of which is always easy to distinguish from the other.
Precisely at the appointed hour, Reverend Minnegerode strides to the raised center pulpit to address the assembled congregation. A man of slight build, he appears to be consumed by the massive sanctuary. However, what he lacks in physical size, he makes up for in spiritual heft.
His messages of late have reflected the uncertainty of the times, the threat of an enemy residing so close, and, above all, how the Confederate States of America will survive somehow in accordance with God’s plan. On this particular morning, he reminds his congregation that Lent is a time for penance, for reflection, and for preparation for the miracle of Easter. It is safe to assume that all agree—however veiled or guarded their positions may be—that only a miracle can keep the Yankees out of Richmond.
Appropriately, this morning’s prayer service concludes with one of the many formal prayers sanctioned by the Episcopal Church of the Confederate States to ask for protection in war:
“O ALMIGHTY God, the supreme Governor of all things, whose power no creature is able to resist, to whom it belongeth justly to punish sinners, and to be merciful to those who truly repent, save and deliver us, we humbly beseech thee, from the hands of our enemies; that we, being armed with thy defence, may be preserved evermore from all perils, to glorify thee, who art the only giver of all victory; through the merits of thy Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.”
With resonating boldness, the several dozen parishioners join their voices to add an “Amen.”
The lone word echoes throughout the vast space.
Patrick has heard the prayer many times before. Its familiarity flattens it somewhat, leaving him room to wonder if God is really listening. He wonders because the war is dragging on without end and consuming the next generation of Southern men, to say nothing of untold resources. On the other hand, Patrick’s religious upbringing has conditioned him to know that it doesn’t hurt to ask God to keep everyone safe, especially given the current state of affairs.
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And so, just like everybody else, Patrick engages in prayer.
Reverend Minnegerode holds his prayer service every morning during Lent. Of late, it’s become quite the fashion among the single ladies and men in Richmond to attend his service and later meet up for breakfast. But there’s no time for breakfast for Patrick today. Hence his decision to buy a biscuit from the vendor prior to entering the church.
He’s due at the Treasury Department in thirty minutes.
* * *
The Confederate Treasury Building strikes a commanding presence, filling the entire city block between Main and Bank streets across from Capitol Square. The three-story Italianate structure was designed for use as the customs house by Ammi Young, the United States Treasury’s first architect. The Confederate government initially took over the building when Virginia seceded from the Union in 1861 and has since granted the structure its own unique inflections.
At precisely half past eight in the morning, never one to be a moment late, Special Agent Patrick Graham passes under the building’s Main Street arch, sweeps through the ornate lobby, shuffles down the hall, and rushes up one flight of stairs to the office of Colonel Liston, just down the hall from the Cabinet meeting room. Patrick has his own office just nearby, but he spends so little time in it, he’d be hard-pressed to provide a description of the most overt detail.
Shooting up from behind his desk, Liston bounces around to the front, leading with an extended right hand.
“Patrick, it’s so good to see you again. Welcome home!” His voice echoes off the walls of the cavernous office while he offers an airless, taut handshake.
Aside from Liston himself, the most prominent feature of the room is the large portrait of President Davis that stares down from the wall behind the director’s desk. Patrick and Charles can never agree as to whether Davis was smiling or smirking, and Patrick sometimes wonders whether the painter even knew.
The pair sits down and Charles releases a sigh. In a rare but welcome moment, Charles offers a smile. He is genuinely pleased to have his deputy back with him, even if only for one brief morning. Whatever their differences may be, he has a great deal of respect for the work and dedication of his junior officer.
Today, Charles is in his finest gray field uniform, an unaccustomed look for him, but a most appropriate one for meeting with the Secretary. Patrick, on the other hand, is in civilian clothes and expects to be back out on the road very shortly.
“It’s good to be back,” replies Patrick, settling into the tight leather of the chair beneath him. He puts down his overnight bag on the conference table just to his left. “I much miss being here at headquarters with you and the Secretary, but you know how I am with field work.”
Charles nods in acknowledgment.
“I must say, Charles,” Patrick goes on, “it’s becoming much harder to get around in the field. Travel is more and more difficult every day.”
Again, Charles nods his agreement, and then, perhaps having been relaxed by the faint possibility of Patrick joining him in the office, sinks back into his chair.
Patrick continues on, “Those Yankee raiders treat our railroads like firewood, and our own inability to quickly repair the damage makes some trips nearly impossible.”
Leaning his long, thin frame against the front of his desk, Charles says, “A growing problem, if you ask me. People are expecting so much of us. We’re in the position of fighting an army with bullets and a public with empty promises.”
Patrick stirs. His seat feels hard beneath him. “And the political situation?”
“It’s getting worse, not better.” Charles speaks ruefully regarding his firsthand view of Richmond. “Davis is losing support. As for the Confederate Congress, they’re no help. Even Vice President Stephens has gone back to his home in Georgia to await the end.”
“And with Grant pressing from Petersburg, what is our option for Richmond?” Patrick asks, recalling the throng near the rails last night.
“Not good,” says Charles. “Davis believes Lee can hold the city, but most folks doubt that. And you have to wonder what the President really thinks. He’s putting Mrs. Davis and the children on a rail car out of here later this week! We’ve been asked to prepare an escort for the family.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Patrick mutters.
Minus any need for analysis, it makes sense to Patrick that Treasury agents would be traveling with the Davis family. In fact, Patrick was personally in charge of the security detail that escorted Vice President Stephens to the Hampton Roads Peace Conference with President Lincoln back in January.
“And just look around you, in this building,” Colonel Liston offers, gesturing toward a stack of boxes in the corner of his office. “All the government workers have begun to pack our important records, like we’re going somewhere.” Patrick gets up for a closer look at the collection of boxes, while Charles continues: “But, politics and war aside, the business of the government goes on. That’s why Secretary Trenholm wants to see you.”
Patrick turns back to the desk with a nod. “How’s his health these days?”
His concern is most genuine. Charles’s eyes go soft for a moment, as he knows the two men share a bond.
“He’s prideful, you know. Lots of dignity. But it’s obvious,” Charles starts, picking his words carefully. “The neuralgia and internal problems are at times nearly debilitating. He takes morphine for the pain, though. Gets some relief.”
Charles stirs in his place, detesting personal talk. “Lately, though, he seems to have had more bad days than good.”
On that note, minus a chaser, minus any further demonstration of sensitivity, Charles rises from the desk and the two men walk down to the Secretary’s suite.
Trenholm has been Treasury Secretary for less than a year, yet he seems like he’s been here for ten. The man’s history is a commendable one. At the age of sixteen, he dropped out of school and joined the Charleston cotton brokerage firm of John Fraser & Company as a clerk. Thirty years later, with all his fellow clerks having gone on to other occupations, Trenholm finds himself owning the company.
Such is his natural way.
When war broke out, Trenholm was among the most ardent secessionists. He used his company and his connections to help his new government find stable footing. The company developed a foreign branch in Liverpool, England, where the newly renamed Fraser, Trenholm, & Company became the Confederacy’s foreign financial agent. He opened other offices in Nassau and Bermuda and used his sixty-ship fleet to run the Union blockade, trafficking in cotton, arms, ammunition, tobacco, coal, iron, and salt.
At that time, Trenholm was no stranger to the goings on in the Treasury office. He’d long served as an unofficial advisor to his embattled predecessor, Christopher Memminger. But when Trenholm assumed the position, he found himself no more successful than Memminger in trying to get the Confederate Congress to pass a new monetary policy. Trenholm couldn’t even get the railroads to ship the government’s cotton so it could be traded for badly-needed foreign munitions. He was a man swimming upstream with a current of unique political and economic strength forcing its way against him.
At one critical juncture the Secretary even called for donations from patriotic citizens and put up two hundred thousand dollars of his own money to keep the government afloat.
But Trenholm knows full well that he’s not running a charity, or a business for that matter. He’s managing a publicly funded train wreck, and his position is one of hopelessness. In a moment of candidness he recently wrote one of his agents in Augusta: “If we break down under such circumstances, it will be our fault, and we deserve nobody’s compassion or sympathy.”
As one might expect of a man from Charleston, Trenholm is possessed of charm and good looks. It’s even been said that the “contour of his face plainly bespeaks intelligence, firmness, a strong character and a good heart.”
A knock on the door announces his visitors.
“Mr. Sec
retary,” intones Patrick as he enters the office. “It’s good to see you again.”
Liston follows. “Good morning, sir.”
The Secretary’s eyes light up. These two men’s successes in the field are the one bright spot in Trenholm’s department, the one thing that spurs his gratitude. And like all men who have known success, Trenholm knows when to be grateful.
“Patrick, Charles.” He welcomes them with little formality, aside from a light handshake apiece. The scent of Trenholm’s cologne—sweet, thick, and costly—is all that Patrick can think of for a brief moment, before his brain adjusts to its overt presence. “Please come in and have a seat.”
Patrick and Charles pick two overstuffed leather chairs that are in the path of the morning sun, which slips its way in through the tall, ornate windows. Alas, the government lives large, even in times of hardship.
Settling into his seat, the Secretary offers, “Can I get you some coffee?”
Patrick responds for both, “No, sir. We’re fine.”
“And your wound, Patrick?” Trenholm asks, leaning forward in his chair.
“Can’t complain, sir. Just a bit painful now and then.” Patrick is modest about the pain and would never say more than he just offered. To do so would be a sign of weakness, and the last thing any soldier needs is the doubts of his fellow fighters. “My pain is nothing compared to the terrible wounds that some of our other soldiers have suffered.”
“I know what you mean,” replies the Secretary. “This war is costing us untold numbers of lives.”
Patrick nods inwardly, knowing this to be all too true. Returning the inquiry, he asks, “And sir, how are you feeling?”
“Today is a good day,” Trenholm replies. “The doctors say they are doing what they can. Some days, the body is hard-pressed to keep up with the mind, but I have the flower of the Confederacy, my wife Anna, here to help me through.”
