by Bob Young
Patrick can only imagine what it’s like to have a good woman attending him in a time of need. Briefly, he imagines a day when he might know firsthand. A day when meaningless single-night affairs are a thing of the past.
Then Patrick asks how the Secretary and the government are holding up against the enemy at the gate.
“Patrick, I know I can level with you,” Trenholm says, as he rises and moves out from behind his desk. “The hour is dark, and the future is very bleak. Our armies have acquitted themselves in an outstanding manner for four years, but time and lack of resources are working against us. ‘How much longer can we keep this up?’ is the question of the day, it would seem.”
Turning to his aide, he asks, “Charles, do you have the answer?” Trenholm is being only somewhat rhetorical, as he certainly bears the patience to field an answer.
“No, sir, I don’t,” Charles crisply responds, as any professional soldier would.
His inner landscape darkening, Patrick speaks up: “And what are President Davis’ intentions?”
“The President is determined to see this to the end,” replies the Secretary, with the kind of casualness one might employ in the course of ordering breakfast. He pauses for a moment and then adds, “Wherever the end may be.”
The three men then converse about the Treasury Department and how well the work is going in Liston’s Office of Special Operations. Happily, several important counterfeiters have been disrupted, and tax evasion recoveries are holding at significantly high levels.
“But Patrick. I didn’t bring you here to give you an update on the Treasury Department,” says his boss, his tone now very serious. “We have a mission I want you to handle personally.” The Secretary’s delivery slows, and then his voice grows softer: “Due to the nature of what’s at stake, you must do it alone—and you must succeed.”
Now Captain Graham is focused entirely on Trenholm. It’s as though Charles, although still present, has thinned into something of a ghost.
Patrick is sitting erect and even leaning slightly forward in his chair, the better to capture every word. Waves of anticipation rip through him, sharpening his mind yet unsettling his heart.
Trenholm continues, “The President’s Office has received information from our most reliable sources about an activity that would severely damage and, perhaps, even doom our cause if it were to succeed.”
Ironic words considering that just a moment ago, Trenholm was flatly declaring the end was near. Regardless, the old man’s words bear authority, and Patrick follows Trenholm’s every facial flutter.
“Here’s what we know. A criminal organization is about to engage in the counterfeiting of currency on a scale that we’ve never known.”
Patrick cannot help but experience perplexity. Scale we’ve never known? Counterfeiting is nothing new. His office has been fighting against counterfeiters since its very first day. In fact, there’s so much counterfeit money in circulation that it’s heavily contributing to the devaluation of legitimate Confederate currency.
Trenholm clears his throat and begins to explain: “These counterfeiters know that Confederate money is virtually worthless. And they know that the Union military victories of late could soon spell the end of the war. They’re betting on a Union victory, and the instrument of that bet is counterfeit Union greenbacks—by the millions.”
Patrick is beginning to see the whole picture.
He joins the conversation: “So, they’re going to count on a Southern defeat to enrich themselves. As though we’re in a betting parlor.”
“Exactly,” says Liston, settling back down into his chair.
Trenholm continues to lead the discussion: “About three years ago, a Scottish dentist in Augusta, Georgia, Dr. James Paterson, got into the printing business. His firm—J. T. Paterson and Company— initially partnered with Hoyer and Ludwig here in Richmond to turn out stamps for the post office department. It wasn’t long before Paterson struck a deal to buy out his partner’s presses and materials. Hoyer and Ludwig even threw in thirteen apprentices to sweeten the deal. Paterson then shipped the equipment and moved the employees to Columbia, South Carolina. That’s when we gave him some business to print currency, bonds, call certificates, and warrants from the original Hoyer and Ludwig engravings. In the meantime, at his other print shop over in Augusta he concentrated on financial instruments and found active work with general printing like sheet music. In actuality, the doctor was doing better financially as a printer than as a dentist!”
Patrick injects, “I’m familiar with his work. He also prints state notes and bonds for Alabama and North Carolina.”
Colonel Liston adds, “His reputation as a printer is pretty good. Or at least it was until he lost his contract with us last year.”
Patrick and Charles trade nods. Then both men look over at the Secretary.
“And that’s where the story gets interesting,” Trenholm continues. “When he lost our business, Dr. Paterson was forced to close his Columbia operation and move his equipment to Augusta. He also let some of his people go.”
Almost below the level of perception, Patrick moves his chair a bit closer to the Secretary’s desk.
“Those people he put in the street are men skilled in doing only one thing—printing money. Our sources tell us it wasn’t long before those men were hired by another Augusta businessman, Adolphus Roads, who up till now has had nothing to do with printing.”
Patrick’s mind is churning, outpacing the clock.
“Despite the picture he paints to the public, Roads is not a legitimate businessman and philanthropist. He’s a war profiteer who runs a pretty extensive criminal operation with interests in gambling, smuggling, and hijacking. The authorities in Augusta have had their eye on Roads for some time, but they’ve never been able to get to him. Here’s what got our attention—they tell us he recently rented a storefront and purchased from Paterson the printing equipment that was in Columbia. Roads also hired and moved to Augusta many of Paterson’s fired workers. There’s no doubt that Roads is getting into the printing business.” The Secretary’s worn eyes shift rapidly between Patrick and Charles. “But why do we suspect he’s going to counterfeit Union currency?”
Now Colonel Liston joins in. “Patrick, Signal Bureau agents have shared with us confidential information about the recent theft of greenback engraving plates from the Federal Treasury Department. I know what you’re thinking—the mere thought of such a theft is unbelievable—but clearly the Union Treasury has some severe security issues. Working with the Signal Bureau, our agents have tracked the plates as far as Columbia. There, unfortunately, the trail gets cold. But the location of the trail’s end is too much of a coincidence, and too dangerously close to Adolphus Roads and Augusta for us not to be concerned.”
Patrick jumps in: “So, putting two and two together: the plates, the presses, the workmen, and the crime boss are all about to go into business in Augusta.”
Trenholm nods. “Patrick, I want you to go to Augusta, find those plates, and shut Roads down.”
“But sir,” Patrick responds, his eyes unblinking and his expression charged, “isn’t it to our advantage to have someone printing counterfeit Federal money and putting it into circulation?”
“It would certainly seem so,” the Secretary replies, “but the people who will be hurt most will be our fellow Southerners. Greenbacks are already widely accepted in our economy. And if the Union wins this war, as it seems likely it will, then we’ll be asked to rebuild our economy with money that’s just as worthless as the Confederate dollars we’re using now to try to keep the Confederacy alive.”
Trenholm pauses. “No, Patrick. We’ve thought it through. This plot cannot be allowed to advance.”
“You can count on me, sir,” Patrick responds, not missing an eighth of a beat. “I’ll be on my way on the noontime train.”
That’s just what the Secretary expected to hear. “And so you see why I told you to bring your luggage.”
&n
bsp; All three men share a laugh. Then Patrick and Charles clap their knees, rise, and walk toward the door.
But Trenholm’s not quite through; he stops them to pass on some parting words. “Hold on. Patrick, your cover will be as a cotton broker for Fraser, Trenholm, and Company. Charles will supply you with your credentials and your briefing papers. The three of us in this room are the only ones who know what your mission is about. You of course understand the need for total secrecy.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick confirms.
“I know you’ll approach this job with the same dedication you’ve shown on all of your other assignments, Patrick,” Trenholm concludes as the men slip through the doorway, “but this one could bring a taste of the…unexpected. God be with you.”
CHAPTER TWO
The train’s large body rolls out of the Richmond and Danville Railroad Depot promptly at noon, headed straight into the Deep South. The depot platform is overflowing, and the passenger and freight cars are filled to capacity with wide-eyed civilians and broken soldiers. Those who couldn’t get a seat try to go unnoticed as they line the aisle. Meanwhile, many brave souls also find space outside, atop the cars. Everywhere the conversation is loud and non-stop, even at times drowning out the sound of the locomotive itself and the thick clang of metal wheels upon the tracks.
This is not the first time Patrick is leaving Richmond, except this time a scared population is headed farther south along with him.
As the train crosses the James River over the very tracks that brought him into the city just a day earlier, Patrick settles into his window seat in a rear corner of the crammed car. He needs whatever privacy he can carve out to sort through his notes on his meeting with Charles and the Secretary, and to review the briefing materials that have been prepared for him.
Without a moment wasted, the plan is well in motion. Trenholm’s company in Charleston has made reservations for one of their cotton brokers, Patrick Graham, to spend the next few weeks in Augusta. He will stay at the Planters Hotel on Broad Street, right in the middle of the business district. And, as a businessman with money to spend, Patrick will have a standing invitation to the city’s business, financial, and government institutions.
In the farmland around Augusta, cotton is still “king,” but the industrial canal constructed twenty years ago is steadily giving Augusta a reputation as one of the few real manufacturing centers in the South. The canal was also instrumental in Colonel George Washington Raines’ choosing Augusta for the site of his massive powder works for the Confederate government.
Patrick opens his bag and takes out the several sealed envelopes that Colonel Liston handed him on their way to the depot. They hold credentials, tickets, travel documents, currency, maps, and everything else that he will need to conduct his trip and establish his new identity. Patrick does not hesitate to tear open the envelopes right there in his seat on the train, for across from him sit a young mother and two young children. They do not care one bit what he is doing, nor what he is reading.
And yet, the sight of these innocents cannot help but intrude into his professional thoughts.
More specifically, the mother and youngsters remind him of his own family in an earlier time. His gaze becomes fixed on the younger of the two boys, who’s maybe about eight or so. The other boy appears to be a couple of years older. Handsome they are, he observes, in the patchwork clothing their mother has no doubt collected and stitched together.
But it is the younger one who spurs on the images within Patrick’s mind.
Patrick, too, had a younger brother, Joey. But he died in a horrible accident, one which Patrick still holds himself responsible for. His mother had told Patrick to keep an eye on the boy while cleaning out the barn stalls on the family farm.
Joey and Patrick were so much alike, both anxious to skip childhood and become young men.
Perhaps that’s why Joey grabbed the bucket and rake like he had seen his father do so many times before and slipped into the stall with the large Hanoverian.
It was the horse his dad was training for a race at the county fair in Beaufort. This chestnut was tall—more than seventeen hands. To these young lads, it seemed taller than a house.
The abrupt appearance of the young boy in the cramped stall spooked the horse, causing it to let out a startling screech and raise its front hooves high. Young Joey became frightened and also let out a scream.
All the commotion got Patrick’s attention, and he came running from a stall at the opposite end of the barn. But his feet were too slow. His run was too slow. His mind was too slow.
And he was too late to do anything but watch in horror as the horse’s front feet dropped down again and again on his little brother, who lay on the floor, less a boy now than a mashed assortment of flesh, bone, and blood.
Patrick climbed over the railing around the stall to calm the horse, a feat that involved no small amount of forced, wheezy whispering. He opened the gate and grabbed the horse by its mane, leading it out to another stall. The natural white markings on the horse’s face were now speckled with red; likewise, the white stocking marks on his front feet had changed color entirely. But just as quickly as the horse had been spooked by the intruder in his stall, he settled down and meandered with Patrick to the opposite end of the barn.
Then Patrick raced back to see Joey.
The sight of his brother in his blood-soaked coveralls, curled up in a now crimson-colored patch of hay, shot harsh tremors through Patrick’s small body. He collapsed over Joey, lifting his sibling’s battered head up against his chest. The harsh stench of blood stabbed into Patrick’s nostrils. From the house, Patrick’s mother could hear his loud shrieks and sobs, and within three swift moments she was there as well.
Joey’s body was buried on a rise above the homestead under a giant water oak, the branches of which drip liberal gobs of Spanish moss. The peacefulness of the setting masks the brutality of the boy’s tragic death, but cannot mask Patrick’s memories. Into eternity, he is resigned to haul the guilt.
* * *
The thickest envelope is replete with background materials; it contains a lot of detailed information about counterfeiting. Probably more than Patrick will ever want to know. In recent months, he has been personally involved in several counterfeiting investigations that were actually pretty cut and dried, yet involved enough to enrich his understanding of the matter.
Confederate currency is easy enough to copy. The paper and ink are poor because high quality materials simply cannot penetrate the blockade. But the sad thing is, the public isn’t sophisticated enough to tell the real thing from a fake, and so the deception goes on.
Reviewing the material does what it’s supposed to do: It gets Patrick to thinking. He pulls from his bag the envelope holding the money that has been furnished for his trip. From inside the envelope, he slips out a Confederate one hundred dollar Treasury warrant and holds it up close to his eyes for a detailed inspection. The note is properly dated September 23, 1862, with a handwritten serial number and original signatures from the Register and the Treasurer. The engraving of the bellowing steam engine and rail cars across the top center looks much like the train that is getting him started on this new adventure. Along the left side is the engraving of a tall, slender woman with an apron around her waist and a basket upon her head that evokes even more images of growing up on the family farm. Yes, the note looks genuine enough, clear and sharp. There can be no doubt that this is quality work. To dig deeper, Patrick pulls the note even closer to his eyes for one last inspection of the minute printing under the Treasurer’s signature. It discloses the note’s source: J. T. Paterson & Co. Columbia, South Carolina.
As Patrick has come to learn, the biggest obstacle facing counterfeiters of Confederate money is the achievement of perfection. The difficulty resides in the shading because the engraving is done directly onto the plate, leaving a rough and scratchy look. Official currency always looks the best, for the plain and simple reason that the govern
ment can afford to hire the most talented and professional engravers.
Two of the best known counterfeiters of Confederate currency are actually Northern businessmen—Winthrop Hilton of New York and Sam Upham of Philadelphia. Upham by far is the better known. A couple of years ago, about fifteen million dollars of Sam’s bogus bills made it into the Southern economy, many of which got used by smugglers to purchase cotton.
Patrick is familiar with both men. Sam was a small shopkeeper who ran a drug store and stationary shop. He specialized in something that turned Patrick’s stomach: selling patriotic items that cast the South in a bad light. In his first stab at the trade, Sam reproduced a rebel note that he saw in the local newspaper and quickly sold three thousand of them…for a penny each. On his second run, he added a line to the bottom margin that stated: “Facsimile Confederate Note—Sold Wholesale and Retail by S. C. Upham, 403 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.”
Sam’s disclosure notwithstanding, people could easily cut the tag line off and put the note into circulation. Sam eventually produced twenty-eight different varieties of Confederate currency, and even spearheaded a thriving mail order business. Some folks arrived at the suspicion that his activities were sanctioned by the Union Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton.
They certainly were not sanctioned by Confederate President Jefferson Davis. Davis made that clear when he placed a ten thousand dollar reward on the Yankee entrepreneur’s clever head!
The scent of money also motivated businessman Winthrop Hilton to print counterfeits. He had been secretly employed by the Confederate government to print its new currency. But when the Confederates failed to pay up, Hilton got creative, instead using his plates to print his own facsimiles. And what was to stop the man? He ran a thriving business, even if he never achieved the notoriety of Sam Upham.
Patrick knows for certain from his own experience that perhaps as much as half of all the Confederate money presently in circulation is as real as a wooden nickel, thanks to the work of Upham, Hilton, and various other enterprising businessmen, both North and South.
