The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  Under Wise’s precise directions, the clerks have begun emptying the vaults and loading the treasure onto wagons for delivery to the midshipmen waiting at the Danville station.

  The Confederacy’s treasury is a king’s ransom. The contents of the many boxes and kegs total three hundred twenty-seven thousand dollars—a mixture of gold, silver, double eagles, Mexican dollars, ingots, silver coins, and copper pennies.

  Some boxes contain five individual stacks of five thousand dollars in gold coin, weighing about seventy-five pounds per box. A total of one hundred and forty-three thousand dollars exists in the form of U.S. silver dimes, quarters, and half and whole dollars, accounting for another four tons. And fifty kegs of Mexican dollars—about four thousand dollars each—add another five tons to the load.

  Also amid the specie, gold, and silver is a large stash of jewelry and stones donated to the government by the ladies of the Confederacy, along with four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold and silver from the deposits of the Richmond banks.

  Indeed, this string of wagons will be a bona fide treasure train.

  * * *

  Patrick goes to the express office right up the street in the Augusta Hotel to send a wire to Charleston and see what he can find out through his cover—Fraser, Trenholm & Co.

  By now, the mystery of the note left under his hotel room door is consuming him like a growing fire. Only two other people know that he is in Augusta—Secretary Trenholm and Colonel Liston. So how did either of them communicate a handwritten note to him from Richmond? To be sure, he knows that couriers can be fast, but in light of the fact that he hadn’t traveled to the future, this would be too fast to be believable!

  Eerier still, how did that note get placed under his hotel room door? Has the Secretary sent another agent along on this mission? Is Patrick being…shadowed, somehow? Or, what about the mission itself? Has it been compromised before its beginning?

  Amid all these flurrying inner queries, Patrick focuses on one question in particular—Is my life in danger?

  Delivering his words in sharp and measured tones, Patrick leaves specific instructions with the wire operator: “When a response comes back, please have it delivered directly to my room at the Planters Hotel. It is to be shown to no one and its existence is to be shared with no one, under any circumstances. Moreover, you will not even acknowledge to anyone that I have received a wire. Understood?”

  Risky words, to be certain, but the wire operator is young and evidently dutiful. Patrick slips a five dollar note to the boy, who clicks off a nod of his head.

  * * *

  Rapidly, the streets of Richmond are becoming more agitated and engulfed with pandemonium. The more people learn of the evacuation, the more chaos spurts into the air. The streets run thick with wagons loaded with luggage and household goods. Negroes push the handcarts bearing the belongings of their owners to the Danville station’s loading dock.

  Upon arriving at the depot, the midshipmen are ordered to fix bayonets and march inside. Task number one is to secure the building for the treasure’s arrival. Midshipmen are strategically placed at each doorway, with the job of clearing the building of the frightened masses. It’s difficult to move these people—after all, many are women and children. But the midshipmen go about their task in a determined manner. Rifles, loaded, are at the ready. No exceptions for anyone.

  Once cleared, the depot is at last locked down to receive the treasure.

  Two trains are scheduled to leave the station tonight. One will take the president, cabinet members, their families, selected government workers, and selected records to the capitol’s temporary relocation point in Danville, Virginia.

  The second train will evacuate the Confederate treasury and the money from the Richmond banks. As to whether any other trains will pass these tracks on this night, that is far from certain. Accordingly, the citizens of Richmond will have to rely upon their own devices to leave the city.

  His eyes betraying his exhaustion yet his steps betraying his mettle, Colonel Charles Liston has arrived at the station with a detail from Treasury’s Special Operations Office. His task is to provide security for the senior government leadership on their travels to Danville. Charles carries an ache within his being. He wishes in the worst way that his top agent, Patrick Graham, were here to assist with the evacuation. Charles knows he could have counted on Patrick to make sure the President and his Cabinet remained unharmed on their moonlit flight south.

  Quite an effort goes into keeping these important figures from being consumed by the throng swelling outside the depot. Already Navy Secretary Mallory has arrived. He confers with Captain Parker on the burning of the Patrick Henry, and sees to it that preparations are made to secure the treasure when it appears. Giving a terse nod of his head, Parker assures the Secretary that his men are ready for the task. As the two converse, just to their right, carriages carrying the heavy-set Attorney General, George Davis, and Postmaster John Regan make their way through the crowds to the loading dock.

  Charles is pleased and relieved when Secretary Trenholm and his wife arrive by ambulance. A smile nowhere near his face, he personally attends to their transfer to the train. Trenholm, as ever, is not feeling well, and he needs Charles’ assistance to get into the passenger car.

  The short and stout Secretary of State Judah Benjamin rounds out the collective of dignitaries aboard the train.

  Secretary of War Breckinridge is at the station, yet he will remain behind to see both trains safely off. Only when their smoke trails off into the distance will he dream of considering his own needs and next moves.

  When President Davis’ party finally boards the train, the intensive preparations for departure have at last paid off. The engine engages and the train pulls away from the depot, out over the James River and into an uncertain future as dark as the night sky above.

  * * *

  Patrick is pacing. His blood feels hot. He has waited in his hotel room all afternoon for some response to his wire. What is happening up there in Richmond? What of the Secretary and Charles? Why has he not heard from a single soul, or at least one whose identity he can verify? Why has he not even gotten the courtesy of an answer from Charleston? Is all of this some putrid joke?

  A light knock at the door pulls him back into the reality of the moment. Patrick answers to be greeted by his young ally from the express office.

  “Sir,” he offers, “you wanted this brought to you immediately.”

  “Thanks.” Patrick grabs it and, in a swift, single motion, slips the boy a dollar.

  Bolting the door, Patrick applies the privacy of his room to the cause of unfolding and reading the communication. It’s from the brokerage house in Charleston, and that’s good, because its existence validates his cover story.

  The news is grim: Yes, the government is evacuating Richmond and relocating to Danville, Virginia; Lee’s forces have pulled back from Petersburg and cannot hold Richmond beyond tonight; the Confederate Treasury is relocating to the Charlotte mint; and, on a personal note, Secretary Trenholm and his wife appear to be safe for now.

  Not good news, but laced with some reassurance—the government has not collapsed; it is merely relocating. If the military situation improves, then perhaps everyone will be back in Richmond by the end of the week. Isn’t that what often happens throughout history? Situations turn corners when all hope seems lost?

  In any case, if it doesn’t improve, the government may yet have a lot of traveling in its future.

  * * *

  A procession of five covered wagons arrives at the Richmond & Danville Railroad Depot, along with a company of clerks from the Treasury Department and the Richmond banks. If only paper and pencils were weapons enough to win the war, then the Yankees would not stand a chance against this dedicated fleet of civil servants. Civility is collapsing all around them, dropping right onto the streets of Richmond, yet these clerks remain committed to completing the necessary paperwork to move the treasure.

>   The wagons, all told, hold more than seven hundred thousand dollars in specie, gold, and silver. The midshipmen preserve their characteristically watchful eye for trouble as the clerks transfer all of it to the waiting rail cars, careful to keep the government’s money separate and apart from that of the banks.

  General Breckinridge and Captain Parker begin to share concerns, namely that the crowded streets in Richmond, especially those around the depot, are filling with people who have no desire other than to take advantage of a chaotic situation. To these people’s minds, it is the end of the world, and be that as it may, there is an appropriateness in leaving sanity behind. Already, however, the quartermaster has thrown open the government storehouses to the crowds. That explains why even at this late hour, people are roaming the streets with armloads of bacon, clothing, boots, and other symbols of civilization. On the other hand, despite the efforts of city and military officials alike to destroy the liquor supply, both citizens and soldiers have found more than enough to slosh their minds. They move through the night, the scent of spirits around them, much the same as bands of reckless thugs.

  Since the plundering is well under way in the city, both Breckinridge and Parker fear it’s only a matter of time before it spreads to the depot. The gathered crowd is not only reacting to the general unrest, but is also a bit unsettled that politicians and papers are getting priority treatment over them when it comes to evacuating. And should any of the rowdies discover the nature of what is in the boxes and kegs now being loaded onto the train, holy hell could rip upward through Richmond’s ground.

  Yet, as midnight ticks into being, the loading is complete and the last paper signed. Soon, not only are the treasure, midshipmen, and clerks on board, but so are their family members and others with special connections. So many folks are present, in fact, that some are forced to ride upon the catwalk atop the rail cars.

  The conductor’s sagging arm signals that all is ready, and the engine—strong, gallant, proud—begins to pulse to life. As the train inches away from the station, Parker waves goodbye to Breckinridge, whose next move is to ride out to the countryside on horseback for a meeting with General Lee.

  While moving across the James River, Parker looks back to see that the Confederacy’s beloved capital city is in flames. The military’s intention was straightforward: to destroy all supplies and facilities that would be of any value to the Federals. But the fire has overshot its target, and quickly spread throughout the city—to houses, businesses, government offices. The fire consumes with a bottomless mouth. Everything in its path is reduced to ashes. Not even the burning of Atlanta and Columbia by the Federals made for such a spectacular sight as this. Even the bridge across the James River erupts into flames…mercifully, after the last rail car clears it.

  Richmond now bears the dubious honor of being the former capital of the Confederate States of America. On this night of crushed dreams and starved hopes, the political leadership of this struggling nation, along with its national treasure, rolls through the dark unknown toward a vague and most mysterious destiny.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The new morning finds Patrick in a new frame of mind, eager to be introduced to his new surroundings. Although the people, places, and things of his past are marred by turmoil, he gains nothing from resting his focus upon them, just as he gains nothing from pondering the fate of his younger brother or the dead of the cadet corps.

  Patrick is fast to recall Reverend Anderson’s recommendation of the Office Restaurant. It’s a block over from his hotel, toward the lower market. As Patrick makes his way along the sidewalk, the city is coming to life, the early hour notwithstanding. The market serves as the focal point for commerce, and under its massive roof, the stature of which is owed to the support of fine masonry columns, items of every description are available for sale. The clock in the tower will announce the hour when the daily activities begin.

  Patrick steps into the Office Restaurant and finds his esteem for Jacob expanding. Immediately, he is impressed and perplexed.

  For certain the morning newspaper’s description of the restaurant as “elegant” may be something of a stretch. Some tables have cloths over them, but most make open displays of bare wood. The windows lack curtains, and past efforts to tack up pieces of cloth are evident from the holes in the walls around them. All told, it’s far from true that the owners have spared no expense in preparing “an inviting resort for the hungry and thirsty,” as the paper bellows.

  Tables of varying sizes are scattered about the main room. Patrick takes a small one in the corner, by a window that opens onto the street. He immediately buries his nose into the daily Constitutionalist, which he picked up leaving the hotel. The newspaper, being only as current as it can be, is devoid of any dispatches on the evacuation of Richmond, but it does contain plenty of news about Johnston’s adventures in North Carolina.

  As well, he finds a chilling item for the people of Augusta to digest. Seven members of the Clinch Rifles are missing following the clash between Johnston’s and Sherman’s forces at Bentonville. Surely these men—F. G. Barnum, Harry Young, N. Roberts, and Adam Vernon, among others—Jacob knows personally, since he served with them:.

  Patrick’s dutiful ingestion of the morning news is disrupted by a beautiful sight standing beside his table.

  “Good morning, sir. May I help you?” asks a sweet, soft voice.

  Struck by the friendly greeting, Patrick looks up to see one of the most beautiful women he has ever laid eyes upon. Obviously, he has spent too much time with government clerks and officials and forgotten what the flower of the South looks and sounds—and smells— like.

  “You certainly may,” Patrick grins in reply, removing his hat to reveal his well-combed hair. He’s tempted to stand up by way of an introduction, but is quick to catch himself, and instead offers a dip of the head. “Coffee would be a good start, followed by eggs and ham. But I shall understand if such delights are in short supply.”

  “Oh, no sir,” she shoots back, fine, clear, radiant. “We happen to have just what you are asking for. Let me get your order and put your coffee in.”

  The young waitress, stricken by her handsome customer, quickly catches her mistake: “Or rather, I should say, ‘Let me get your coffee and put your order in.’”

  They both laugh, their eyes wrapped up in mutually absorbing each other. Patrick stirs as a holy pulse winds through his being.

  Elisabeth finds herself admiring his sense of humor. She is struck by his bearing and demeanor, an impressive combination that she hasn’t witnessed of late in many other young Southern men. She also likes the way he is paying attention to her: so politely, almost innocently.

  Advancing to the logical next step, Patrick offers, “My name is Patrick, Patrick Graham. I’m visiting from Charleston.”

  “Elisabeth is my name. Elisabeth Vernon.” Then, to maintain equilibrium, she adds, “I live here.”

  They both share another chuckle. Patrick’s ears all but bend in delight at the sound of her laughter, which is refined yet somehow childlike.

  Following a happily awkward pause, Elisabeth says, “Now I’ll get your coffee,” and hurries back toward the counter at the opposite side of the room. Patrick’s eyes track her thin figure in its light blue dress and apron, topped off by wavy brown hair. The view is much nicer than anything he can find in the morning newspaper. By any rational measure, her blue eyes and fair skin are wholly more appealing than newsprint.

  The Office is now beginning to swell with people. If the Planters Hotel veranda is the evening gathering spot, then the Office must be where Augusta commences her day. The conversations proceed to get louder as more people come in and exchange the news of the day. Patrick picks up bits of items about the war, as well as the issues one farmer is having in the course of trying to get a cow of his to reproduce.

  And then, just when it seems as though the intensity cannot grow any greater, the ringing of the chime above the door announces the entranc
e of yet another diner. This one is resolutely recognizable. Patrick has seen him before. The whole room knows who he is, as evidenced by all the eyes that look his way and the fact that the conversation quickly hushes.

  Adolphus Roads has arrived for breakfast. Two of his associates walk a short step behind him.

  The manager greets the man in the dark suit as if he were a long-lost friend, then escorts him to a table in the far corner of the back of the room, obviously his regular perch. There he and his companions will dine uninterrupted, and more importantly, out of earshot.

  Patrick looks as closely as he can without risking bringing any attention to himself. He finds that Roads looks exactly as he did for his trip to church—black suit, white shirt, black tie and bushy beard.

  Elisabeth walks back over to Patrick’s table with his coffee. “Here it is, the freshest in town. Just came through the blockade,” she explains. Patrick’s eyes are now back on his new discovery. He wants to know more about Elisabeth but knows that she, like he, is preoccupied with work.

  “Thanks. You really have a nice way about you.” Patrick is sifting around for conversation, but his mind is not seeming very helpful. “I mean, your service to your customers is real good.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Graham. I try real hard.” Elisabeth, too, is feeling around for words to keep the dialogue in force. But alas, the reality of the morning intrudes upon her. “Excuse me, off to look after these other folks.”

  And just like that, once again, she is gone.

  How lucky those ‘other folks’ are, Patrick thinks to himself.

  As he sips his coffee, Patrick lets his eyes dart about the room to take in some other morning customers. The caffeine, good and strong, has brought his senses to a state of maximum acuteness. Seated just a couple of tables over is the unmistakable figure of Brigadier General Birkett Davenport Fry, the commander of the Confederate garrison in Augusta. His presence is noteworthy under any circumstances, but he looks especially sharp in his crisp, gray morning coat. General Fry’s reputation only serves to enhance his local stature.