The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  It is noon on April 1 when Captain Parker receives his official orders:

  Have the corps of midshipmen, with the proper officers, at the Danville depot today at 6 pm. The commanding officer is to report to the Quartermaster-General of the Army.

  After reading the orders three times in quick succession, Parker follows up with the Navy Department and learns that the government is evacuating the city. His young lads will thus be put in charge of a train of cars containing the treasury of the Confederacy.

  Things then begin to unfold at a hectic pace. Parker dispatches ten midshipmen under the command of Lieutenant Billups to burn the Patrick Henry. With it turned to ash, enemy hands cannot get to it.

  The other midshipmen are marched at double-quick time to the naval storehouse, where they dispose of their midshipman dress and are clothed, armed, and equipped like infantry soldiers. By four o’clock, minus a speck of perspiration on their flesh, Captain Parker and his paymaster, John F. Wheless, are leading their young charges to the Danville depot.

  Once there, the midshipmen are addressed directly by their commandant, who tells them that they have been selected by the Secretary himself for their bravery, honesty, and discretion. Holding nothing back, he informs them that their mission will be one of “danger and delicacy,” words that strike these fourteen-to-twenty year olds squarely between the lungs.

  * * *

  After services at Saint Paul’s in Augusta, Patrick and Reverend Anderson, the rector’s assistant, have a planned encounter on the veranda of the Planters Hotel. Earlier that morning, during introductions in the narthex, they found themselves getting on well, and so they agreed to have dinner together. Patrick arrives first. Without a second thought, he picks a table overlooking Broad Street. Jacob follows in a short time period. He’s no challenge to recognize. His clergy attire notwithstanding, he strikes quite the image: He is a tall, well-built young man with a rounded head topped by a thick patch of coal-black hair.

  Patrick is intrigued to discover during this first encounter that Jacob grew up in Augusta and has been attending Saint Paul’s for his entire life. Jacob’s family owns a mercantile store on Broad Street—Anderson and Son—although the “son” doesn’t spend as much time behind the counter as his family would like. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Patrick nods his understanding as Jacob explains, for he knows a great deal about choosing a path that is different from what family might expect.

  During a lengthy conversation over fried chicken and collard greens, the texture and taste of which radiate with welcome perfection, Patrick comes to learn that he and Jacob have a great deal in common, most prominently the fact that they are both young and single. Unlike Patrick, Jacob is an only child, though like Patrick, he is the child of hard-working and principled parents. After graduating from Richmond Academy, Jacob dove into studying law at Franklin College. When Georgia seceded from the Union, he found himself leaving his studies behind and quickly returning to Augusta to muster with his home guard unit—the Clinch Rifles.

  “It was the right thing to do,” Jacob says with confidence. “I’ll never forget the day when Captain Charles Platt marched us up to Summerville to seize the U.S. Arsenal. Our chests got swollen up with pride as we moved up the hill from the parade ground, decked out in our emerald green uniforms, all trimmed in gold and carrying those Mississippi 1841 muskets. We put on quite the show.”

  Momentarily with his recollection Jacob’s eyes seem far away.

  Named for General Duncan Clinch, a hero in the Seminole Wars, the Clinch Rifles were organized as a volunteer militia in 1851. The assault on the arsenal in Summerville on January 24, 1861, did not quite live up to the company’s motto, which also happened to be General Clinch’s famed battle cry: “Charge Again!” In their inaugural assault of the war, the unit saw the Federals walk away peacefully. However, the absence of an armed confrontation hardly dampened the enthusiasm felt by the guardsmen.

  Two months later, the company assembled on the green on Broad Street in front of Captain Platt’s store to receive the unit’s new banner of Southern freedom from two original company members. One of them, W. D. Tutt, issued a challenge to his comrades: “Let us follow where this glorious flag shall lead, and let the wave of its silken folds beckon us on to victory or to death.”

  Those last words were far from lost on Captain Platt, who holds the unique distinction of being not only a furniture merchant, but also an undertaker.

  Ensign James Ells accepted the flag on behalf of the Clinch Rifles and declared by way of a response: “We unfurl it now to the breeze, invoking the blessing of Heaven to attend us in peace or conflict, as citizens or soldiers, come weal or woe, in life or death!”

  Indeed, upon hearing such stirring words, Captain Platt must have smiled anew.

  As Jacob shares his memories of that grand day with Patrick, he moves his hands about a great deal, describing how the company marched down Broad Street to the front of the Augusta Hotel for a photograph, then relocated to the Place D’Armes for a demonstration of drill movements. The Clinch Rifles closed out the exhibition with their popular old skirmish drill, removing any doubt that they were ready for any emergency that greeted them.

  Jacob goes on to explain that when the war broke out, the Clinch Rifles were folded into the Fifth Georgia Infantry Regiment and designated Company A. Two days after the flag presentation, the regiment was posted to Pensacola, Florida, for training under General Braxton Bragg, who called Fifth Georgia the “pound cake regiment,” on account of the variety of home guard uniforms worn by the soldiers.

  In just a few short months, they got what they’d been waiting for: their very first taste of combat. It occurred when they pushed the Federals off Santa Rosa Island. The prophetic words from the flag presentation rang in the men’s ears as they counted off their first battlefield casualties. In a hurtful blow, Joseph Adams and Fred Cooke were both killed in action. Jacob knew both men very well, and with this in mind, Captain Platt enlisted Jacob to escort their bodies back to Augusta, where their families stood in wait.

  “That first engagement was quite the test,” Jacob recalls. “Not only for us as a unit, but for me personally.”

  Twisting his brow, Patrick inquires, “How so, exactly?” It’s more a gesture of courtesy than an actual question, for Patrick can certainly and quickly draw his own conclusions.

  “Truth be told, despite all the grand speeches that had been shouted our way—and despite the stories we had read as children—I don’t think many of us were prepared for what real combat was all about,” Jacob replies. “Of course, we trained—trained often and hard. Tied our stomachs in knots. But the thing about training is, no one shoots back at you…and everyone goes home alive. Without question, Santa Rosa was our reality check for what was to come. And for me, well…returning those bodies to weeping wives and mothers was not something I was prepared for.”

  Patrick weathers a tug within his chest. “How did you handle that?” he asks, not entirely certain if he cares to know the answer.

  Jacob is fast to clear his throat. “I prayed a lot beforehand, asked to find the right words. These men who’d fallen were real heroes of our independence, but patriotism is not what the grieving families want to hear about—or at least not as they mourn. It’s in their faces; it becomes a psychic wound. So I looked for ways to speak in very personal terms. Reverend Clark was a champion; he helped me to find those words, and in the course of our discussions, I arrived at my own reality.”

  “Which is what, precisely?” Patrick asks, knowing the inquiry to be a wide-reaching one, yet pleased by the sense of intimacy growing between them.

  Plain-faced, Jacob says in reply, “That God was calling me into his service.”

  After a still pause, Patrick leans forward and comments, “Few people can claim such a gift, to be called to ministry. My mom thought that’s where I would end up.”

  “I believe you completely, because I never thought I would!” Jacob laughs. “
But Reverend Clark was struck by what he called my ‘compassion, my religious foundation, and my saint smarts.’ He said I understood people from Christ’s perspective, and that made me a natural candidate for holy orders.”

  Briefly, for the first time in many years, Patrick finds himself wondering what his life would be like had he taken the other option at his fork in the road. “And how did you feel when you heard that?” he asks.

  “Stunned.”

  Jacob pauses for a moment, drifting into contemplation. Patrick is watchful as Jacob lowers his head. The moment is far from lost on Patrick. He feels privileged to witness a fellow human being contemplating his sense of mission. He remembers when his own mother broached the subject of the priesthood to him, so long ago, in the joy and freedom of his younger years. From the very first moment, Patrick was sure she mentioned it only to help him move beyond his feelings of self-guilt over Joey’s loss. And so, the rest was history: When he went to West Point, even the fear of violent death in battle could not shake the gray, steely burden of his brother’s demise. In fact, his inner torment was only compounded by the deaths of the VMI cadets he was watching at New Market. Patrick feels a cool strain within his bronchial tubes as he inhales a deep, sad breath.

  Jacob raises his head and looks directly into Patrick’s eyes. He senses that his companion’s mind has wandered, quite the way his own just did.

  “I prayed deeply over this,” Jacob says, “and came to my own realization that God indeed was calling me to service. It wasn’t enough to hear it from another mouth; it had to register from within somehow. Meanwhile, I had this harsh sense of urgency. After all, the country would certainly need strong men of faith in the dark times to come.”

  As Patrick listens, he begins to feel a slight sense of unease. One thing puzzles him. Jacob is speaking plainly and clearly, yet his apparent clarity seems to mask a contradiction. “What about the Clinch Rifles?” Patrick asks. “Didn’t you have an obligation to your unit?”

  Jacob produces a quick nod, having clearly anticipated the question. “Thankfully, it was no secret. Captain Platt and the other men in the unit fully understood what I was going through. They supported my appeal to General Bragg to muster out in order to follow my calling, and when I made it, he was agreeable. I hope one day soon the fighting will end, and I can spend some time with the Rifles, ministering to their needs. Then I’ll have the best of both worlds, and they’ll have a break, at last! They’ve certainly been through the ringer—Corinth, Shiloh, Chickamauga, Chattanooga, Atlanta, and now they’re in Bentonville, North Carolina, looking for a rematch with Sherman.”

  Turning the conversation toward his new acquaintance, Jacob asks, “Now what about you, Patrick? Men of cloth grow uneasy when they speak only of themselves. You say you are a cotton broker?”

  “I am.” There it is. For the very first time, Patrick is speaking under his cover. “I’ll be here for a few weeks, acquiring cotton for the government to exchange for munitions in Europe. The growing season has been good this year, so I suspect I’ll be very busy.”

  “And what of your previous work? Did you serve in the army?” Jacob asks.

  “Went to West Point, but resigned from the Army when South Carolina seceded. Got an assignment to Breckinridge’s headquarters.” That’s all Patrick has to say on the matter. No need to detail the battles, for everyone knows of Breckinridge’s reputation. Moreover, too much information will leave Patrick with too much to memorize. Better to keep it simple and lean. “But I was wounded last year, and because of that, they mustered me out. I’m from the Sea Islands, where my family farms, so I went back home to heal and look around Charleston for my next adventure. Found it at Frazier, Trenholm, and Company. You’ve heard of them, I reckon?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Jacob says. “George Trenholm has been one of the biggest supporters of the Confederate States, when you add up his personal service, his business, and his charity. We could use more like him, if you want my opinion.”

  Moving the conversation along, Jacob offers, “You seemed familiar with our rites of service this morning. So much so you might have blended in. However, I’ve a sharp eye, and I couldn’t help but to notice your new face in the crowd.”

  “Been an Episcopalian all my life—cradle to grave, they say, although I’m not quite ready to test that last part,” Patrick jokes.

  Jacob responds with a chuckle. “I know what you mean. Nor am I. Catchy thing to say, though.”

  “It is. Speaking of today’s service, maybe you could help me with something.” Patrick is good and ready to steer the conversation to business.

  “I spied a tall man in a dark suit with a bushy beard, sitting on the right side, about a half dozen rows back. I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before…”

  Before Patrick can progress any further, Jacob jumps in: “That’s Adolphus Roads.” Jacob peeks around at the neighboring tables, then leans in to Patrick and lowers his voice: “I’m not one to speak ill of parishioners, but he’s someone you should keep your distance from. They say he’s up to no good, though he has apparently been good to Saint Paul’s and a lot of other charities in Augusta. Growing up around here…you hear a lot of stories…” Jacob cuts himself short.

  Nodding, lips briefly pursed, Patrick presses on: “Jacob, last night, walking to the hotel from the train station, I came across a fire in the barn of a Dr. Eve. I couldn’t help but overhear the people who had gathered saying it was the second suspicious fire in the doctor’s barn. Do you have some local fire problem?”

  Jacob considers the matter for a moment, then offers, “Well, Dr. Eve is the surgeon in charge of the garrison in Augusta. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to burn his barn.”

  Briefly, Patrick’s eyes find their way downward.

  “But since you mention it,” Jacob goes on, “we have had a number of strange fires here. The biggest one involved the Belleville Factory.”

  Patrick, masking his inner excitement, simply sits and waits for more.

  “It happened on a Monday night. The manager was on the second story, talking with the watchman, and all seemed to be all right. But about an hour later, the fire broke through the roof of the attic. Some men had been working in the attic room earlier in the day, but had long since retired to their homes.”

  “Why the suspicion, though?” Patrick inquires, gently.

  Jacob continues: “No fire is used there. The building is heated with steam pipes that had been shut off. And anything that could produce spontaneous combustion is carried out of the building every night. Darndest thing, I tell you. The fire spread with such speed, the factory was completely destroyed. Everything was gone—the bales of wool and cotton, the machinery. About two hundred people were put out of work. At the time the factory was doing work exclusively for the government, so the loss of production initially hurt the quartermaster who was supplying our troops.”

  “And a cause was never determined?” Patrick asks, steering things back to the point.

  “No. Nothing. It remains a great mystery. So much so that people have more or less ceased discussing it. And to further stimulate your imaginings, there have been some other fires of equally suspicious circumstances, but not nearly as big or destructive.”

  Just then, out of nowhere, despite the apparent fact that Jacob is enjoying getting to know his new friend, he realizes that he still has hospital rounds to make. He needs to leave. Apologizing, he tells Patrick he’d like to get together again, and, nodding, Patrick assures him that he would, too. His words are sincere; Patrick knows that he has just made an important connection. A clergyman can always produce better information than any policeman or newspaperman.

  “Oh, Jacob, one more thing,” Patrick calls out as the other man leaves. “Where’s the best place to eat here in town?”

  Jacob gives it only a second’s thought before shooting right back, “The Office Restaurant up at 176 Broad. It’s ‘first class,’ or so says their advertising! See you later, Patric
k.”

  And Jacob jogs down the flight of stairs leading to the lobby.

  Patrick goes back up to his room to freshen up, and in the course of doing so, he almost misses the note that has been slipped under his door. As cool, fresh water dries upon his cheeks, he digests its words, which are stark and simple:

  Richmond is being evacuated. Union soldiers occupy Petersburg.

  The handwritten note betrays no indication of who wrote it or when it was delivered, but the information wrangles Patrick up into an instant state of hyper-alertness.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon finds Walter Philbrook, the Chief Teller of the Treasury Department, back in Richmond from a tour and inspection in the field. A courier sweeps up to his home with an urgent message:

  Confederate States Treasurer’s Office

  Richmond, Va., April, 1865

  Mr. Walter Philbrook, Chief Teller Confederate States Treasurer.

  Sir: As you have returned from the South you will relieve Mr. Wise, Assistant Teller, of the charge of the specie, bullion and other property of this department, and care for it during its removal, and afterward until relieved by competent authority. You will proceed to Danville, Va., and thence to Charlotte, N. C. At the latter place you will transfer the specie and bullion to the vaults of the Mint. In case of any emergency which may threaten your safety, you will confer with our agent there and take such action as may be deemed prudent. The routine of your office is to be maintained as far as practicable and the clerks who accompany you are expected to subsist on their salaries. By order of

  G. A. TRENHOLM

  Secretary Confederate States Treasury.

  JNO. OTT, Chief Clerk

  The streets of Richmond are beginning to sprout waves of life as rumors of the government evacuation spread. His heart ablaze within his chest, Philbrook makes his way to the Treasury Building, which is already engulfed in fierce activity. Clerks and soldiers are removing boxes from offices and hallways and stacking them onto the sidewalk for outward transit. Meanwhile, other boxes filled with less important papers are being tossed into a huge bonfire; history going up in smoke.