by Bob Young
He is well known throughout the Confederacy for his actions at Gettysburg, where his flesh broke twice during Pickett’s charge. In a monumental display of bravery, he led his brigade up Cemetery Ridge into the unrelenting artillery and small arms fire. Sharp wounds to the shoulder and thigh not only knocked him out of battle, but threw him into the enemy’s hands, complete with a final stop in a Northern prison. More importantly, Fry’s troops reached the stone wall at the top of the rise, where his flag bearer stabbed a Yankee soldier with his flag staff.
A case of sheer glory overcoming the constraints of a prison cell.
Fry was paroled about a year ago, promoted to general, and then assigned to Augusta last September.
Fry’s responsibility is hardly limited by geography. His domain stretches from Augusta, down the Savannah River to the city of Savannah, and south along the coast. At his disposal are only about one thousand five hundred soldiers and cavalrymen to secure the entire area, even with Federal forces occupying Savannah since Christmas. The general has told his troops to go after enemy foragers and patrols and to focus on keeping the Yankees confined to the areas they already hold. In the meantime, his cavalry units are under strict orders to prevent Negros from fleeing to Federal troops.
Seated with the general is someone not immediately recognizable to Patrick, but a man who needs no introduction anywhere in the city—Mayor Robert H. May. May’s reputation as a solid manager has helped to keep him in office through the duration of the war. He spends a lot of his time, money, and energy on charitable causes, including his signature organization, the Augusta Purveying Association. Although the man shows calmness as he chats and dines, one mere week from today, the voters of Augusta will decide whether to keep May on as Mayor. Probably no reason to change, Patrick figures, based on what little he has heard about the man.
Patrick’s foray into surveillance is interrupted when Elisabeth places a steaming and aromatic plate before him. On it are a pair of fried eggs and a generous slab of ham. Sweet smoke rises upward; fork and knife are at the ready..
“I believe you will find this to your liking,” she chirps.
And then, upping the stakes of their flirtation, she all but sings, “I told the cook it was for a special guest.”
Patrick is most impressed, and the special treatment registers with firmness inside him. If this food tastes half as good as it smells, then he is most certainly in for a treat. “You are so kind,” he responds. Then, in a moment of great relief, the words he had wanted to say earlier come out of him in an elegant rush: “Maybe we can get together later today, when your work is over.”
“I would like that,” she answers, unsure of how wide to let her smile become. “Why don’t you come back by here around ten and a half?”
Perfect, Patrick thinks. He’ll have a chance to look around town beforehand.
“That’s fine. I’ll plan on it,” he says, at which point, nodding, Elisabeth walks over to the General’s table.
* * *
Patrick spends the couple of hours after breakfast on a quick walking tour of the downtown area. It is surprisingly busy, serving as host to commerce of goods of every sort. If the only place known to a person was Augusta, they would never suspect the presence of shortages nearby, much less a war raging on across the South. The only hint that life is not normal is that everything costs so much more than it ordinarily does, because on each and every day the Confederate currency loses more value.
A brief visit to a barbershop, ostensibly for a shave and trim, serves as a treasure trove of information for Patrick. When it comes to knowing what’s going on around town, barbers are second only to the clergy.
According to these esteemed experts on this particular morning, what should have been a routine mayor’s election is becoming quite the source of intrigue.
“Mayor May is a good man, and mighty popular. He ought to be easily re-elected,” offers Dave as he snips away at Patrick’s blond locks.
Dave Reeves, the owner of the shop, is not shy about freely dispensing the news and his opinion to whoever has the patience to listen. Most of the time, however, it’s hard to tell where the news ends and the opinions begin.
“Two other men got into the race. Neither one was invited. And you know what?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer from Patrick or either of the other two fellows in the shop. “One of them has disappeared!”
“That’s strange,” Patrick responds, feigning a mild hint of boredom.
“Not if you knew the feller.” Dave engages in one of his specialties: taking back control of the conversation. “James Grady hasn’t been heard from since he announced he would run.”
Patrick nods his head, which Dave then grabs to prevent his scissors from wandering.
“Hold still,” he says.
Patrick knows better than to argue with a man who’s wielding blades.
A large man with a big round head, Dave wears a white barber’s smock that shows the traces of several, if not years’ worth of, meals—which easily explains why he’s so massive. Mixed in with the edible leftovers are also a few patches of dried blood, something that cannot escape Patrick’s alert attention.
Patrick can only wonder why the big man is called “Chicken” by the others in the shop. “That’s because he’s as likely to pluck the hair from your head as cut it!” announces one of the other guys.
Dave continues, “The other challenger, Augustus Picquett. He’s actively campaigning, but heck, he’s an attorney, so folks are just mostly polite to him. Doesn’t have much of a chance, you want my opinion.”
From across the room, one of the other men chimes in: “You heard the People’s Ticket endorsed May this week? They’re pretty influential, I’ll say.”
Billy Stenson is one of the shop’s regulars. Not because he needs to get regular haircuts—heck, if he had any hair, his head wouldn’t be so shiny. But he gives Dave something that can’t be replaced: a good and genuine audience. And for that alone, Dave keeps Billy’s coffee mug filled.
“Does that surprise you, Billy?” Dave asks as he turns toward him. “Everyone’s getting involved in this race.”
In general, across the board, the chief speculation among the barbershop patrons is that the hands of Adolphus Roads are deeply acquainted with this election.
“How might Mister Roads be involved?” Patrick asks.
“Well, he openly supports May, but I have no doubt he also got Picquett into the race as insurance against any anti-May backlash,” says Dave, his large voice booming with great authority. “That way, he wins either way. You got power like that, you gotta play all the angles.”
“Of course,” injects Billy. “And I’ll bet he disposed of Grady when Grady showed up to run without an invitation.”
A new voice joins the conversation. This is Ralph Easter. Ralph is appropriately known as “Lefty,” having lost his right arm in the Battle of Atlanta. “No evidence, mind you. Just good speculating.”
“Ralph and Billy know their politics,” brags Dave. “Ralph was on city council before the war, and Billy—well, you’ve been to some council meetings, haven’t you?”
But Billy offers nothing in the way of a reply.
Lefty, however, does look like someone who could be trusted in a position of importance. He’s dressed quite nicely, in a coat and tie. He, like Billy, did not come in here for haircut. He’s obviously just come into the shop for a daily dose of stimulating information.
Lefty presses on with his analysis: “The number of registered voters has grown higher than Stone Mountain. We’ve got about four hundred more folks who paid their poll tax than in the last election.”
“And I guarantee you,” Chicken Dave adds without missing a beat, “Roads paid the taxes for all of them—war refugees, former soldiers, stragglers, homeless men, and anyone else whose lungs know how to breathe.”
Smiles across their faces, the men have no doubt that they impressed their humble visitor from Charlest
on.
“Well, I certainly don’t know where else I would have found such important information,” says Patrick to the three men, his eyes moving about to acknowledge each one.
Even in times of war, the gossips like variety in their topics.
At any rate, in a few more days, Patrick will see for himself how all this plays out. For that’s when the mayoral candidates will make speeches at a community meeting in the lower market. At present, the barber chair experts are taking bets as to whether Mr. Grady will even show up.
* * *
The lower market could compete with a beehive in terms of its level of activity. Today is auction day in Augusta, and Patrick arrives carrying an abundance of curiosity.
People are bustling in every direction. The farmers, their faces tanned or reddened, have come in from the countryside. The businessmen have loosened their ties and taken leave of their shops. Soldiers, as well, have taken morning leave. The curious, Patrick among them, have blended into the sweep of the crowd. The day of the auction marks a time for trade, but it is as much a social engagement as anything else. Hands are shaken; smiles are tossed back and forth.
The market is the city’s center for commerce. For an entire city block, rows of brick and masonry columns support an expansive wooden framework that seems to push the wooden shingled roof atop it right up into the clouds. And as big as the market building is, it is still not large enough to hold everyone who shows up with something to sell. As a result, tables displaying all manner of goods spill out onto the street and the adjoining sidewalks. If you fail to look carefully enough, you might miss where the street ends and the building begins!
Patrick is particularly taken aback by a noteworthy contrast, namely the one between the much sought-after imported goods that have successfully maneuvered through the Union blockade to reach the sellers in this market, and those meager domestic possessions offered up by the peddlers and poor people who seek enough money to eat another meal.
While Patrick mingles among the sellers, he catches an imposing figure out of the corner of his eye. It’s the man in the black suit, the white shirt, black tie and tall hat. There can be no mistaking the arrival of Adolphus Roads. Like Patrick and most everyone else in attendance, Roads is examining the assortment of goods on offer.
All in attendance make room for Roads as he looks over the livestock and inspects the diverse array of imports spread out before him. On this day, the cases of whiskey from Scotland get as much attention as the envelopes from France. In other words, each bidder on hand is an expert in his own way and doesn’t mind sharing his valued opinion with anyone who might care to listen. Patrick even suspects that some of the less audible remarks might be deliberate misstatements, carefully crafted to drive a potential competitor away from a favored item. After all, the auction may be a lot of things, but at its core it is a game, and some people happen to play it better than others.
Clearly Roads is among those who play it well, and Patrick cannot help but stick around and watch.
At the present moment, the auctioneer is Walter “Tiny” Clark, a local hero who claims to have personally killed a dozen Yankees in the battle of Atlanta before getting his right leg shot off. Walter matches his nickname in every regard: short and plump, and propped up by a crutch. His tall top hat, however, does add some authority to his squatty presence, making him appear a bit taller than he actually is.
Tiny hobbles up the steps leading to the platform, upon which he can command those who are gathered below him at the market’s west end.
His husky baritone voice calls out for order, as though he’s calling out commands at Resaca. He bellows, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! If you will, please lend me your attention, the hour of the auction is at hand.”
The crowd responds with lowering voices and turning heads. And then, with a pair of mighty cracks, Tiny strikes his gavel on the small table before him.
The folks are quick to cease their conversations.
“Folks,” Tiny begins, “you know I won’t start until you are ready, but I also don’t plan to stay here all morning long.”
Then comes a voice from the back of the crowd: “You guys down front, be quiet! Tiny’s ready to start!”
The only people who are still making noise, three fellows immersed in an animated discussion by the edge of the stage, look up to see all eyes glaring at them. Their conversation quickly takes a dive into extinction. One of them raises his head up toward Tiny, a mask of politeness upon his face, and says, “We apologize. Let’s get her started.”
“Thank you,” says Tiny, as he looks down at the men and loudly plants his crutch down on the platform.
“First item up today is a good one. This-here handsome dark bay horse.” Tiny has wasted not a moment of time and finally has the selling under way. The horse in question is led through a small lane that cuts between the crowd and the platform. Tiny peers down from under his hat’s wide brim, stealing a glance at the bidders, then looking over at the thin, unsteady horse. He sighs. No question about it: He sees he’s in for trouble with this one. The tone is lukewarm at the very best.
A few tentative voices ask a couple of obvious questions about the horse, but no one wants to offer a bid. Tiny does not want to prolong the owner’s agony, much less risk a dip in the event’s momentum, so he tells the attendant to retire the horse and move along to the next item.
Next is a pair of horses, complete with a wagon and harness; a handsome, complete package. This time the temperature rises! The bidding starts and ends almost before the wagon gets put into position.
“Sold!” shouts Tiny as he bangs the gavel.
And as the horses are led away, Tiny holds up a piece of paper.
“What is that, Mr. Clark?” someone asks from the crowd.
“Well, I’ll tell you if you give me a chance. It’s fifty shares of Mechanics’ Bank stock.”
Immediately, a storm of bidding begins, and after a few quick, flurrying gestures, Tiny again shouts, “Sold!”
The momentum is well intact. The activity is picking up. Moving fast, Tiny pulls out a rag, removes his hat, and wipes his brow. As he does so, he calls up the next item.
“Ten thousand cigars,” Tiny loudly announces. “Finest Cubans we’ve seen in a very long time.”
A familiar voice from near the back of the crowd can be heard barking out the first offer, and all heads turn in that direction. The first offer is the only offer.
“Sold,” says Tiny, “to Adolphus Roads!”
Sure, Patrick has seen Roads a couple of times since arriving in Augusta, but until now he has known him only by reputation. This morning he is finally seeing him in action. It’s obvious to Patrick, as it would be to any man with full command of his senses, why there is no underestimating the power and influence that this man has over the people of this city— even when it comes to such simple pleasures as smoking.
The bidding goes on at a terrific pace for six mules and three horses, a brick storehouse and lot in Hamburg, and many, many other items, the presentation of each ending with the booming voice of “Tiny” Clark announcing “Sold” and banging his gavel with the might of God himself.
Up next is the slave auction. Patrick stirs a bit upon his seat. A wave of stress goes through his body, punctuating its motion right at the weak spot in his arm. In the past, he has seen many such events, in many cities throughout the South. However, each sale manages to leave him ill at ease. He understands the importance of slavery to the Southern economy, but his Christian values and his upbringing in a family that doesn’t believe in owning slaves make such spectacles repugnant in his view.
To start things off, Tiny offers up a twenty-one-year-old negro man. Wearing tattered clothes and shackles about his legs and arms, the fellow is pushed by a handler to the front of the platform, where prospective buyers can get a good look at him. He’s a strong, healthy specimen of manhood, described by the auctioneer as “a first-rate dray hand, accustomed to plantation work, and warran
ted to be sound and healthy.”
The object of the auction says nothing, electing instead to defiantly stare at the assembly of bidders.
The bidding starts slowly. Tiny takes fast notice of this. In recent auctions, more and more, Tiny has seen some buyers who are reluctant to make bids on slaves. He understands the ethical questions involved, but nonetheless he works hard to find the right words to coax out a string of offers.
Indeed, there is something in the air that makes this slave auction different from the others that Patrick has witnessed. It could be the realization the war is ending, and with it, the institution of slavery, which could stand to make slaves a bad investment. On an official level, the tide in Augusta is already turning. Just two weeks ago, Mayor May suspended enforcement of the ordinance requiring the registration of negroes. And just last Friday, the city council voted seven to four to sustain the mayor’s action by repealing the ordinance outright.
The council’s actions notwithstanding, the auction continues apace. A seventeen-year-old girl, offered as “good house servant.” A sixteen-year-old boy, “sound and healthy and sold for no fault.” Forty-year-old Daphne, a cook and washer. And thirty-nine-year-old Philis, a home servant, offered with her two children, six-year-old Ellen and four-year-old Jacob.
All of them sporting dark, tired faces. Dark not only in terms of shade, but also in terms of tone. Their spirits, clearly, have been crushed. Or at least as much seems clear within the eyes of Patrick.
“Sold! Sold! Sold! Sold!” cries the auctioneer. The morning air is thick with humidity, and Tiny has worked up quite a sweat. His lungs working overtime, he feels ready to take a break.
