by Bob Young
Upon Tiny’s exit, T. Savage Heyward, auctioneer extraordinaire, takes over the platform. “T,” as he is known to most, has a reputation for generating some of the best prices, even in this inflated economy. He is one of the best salesmen in the city, and this morning he intends to uphold his reputation.
In contrast with the struggles faced by Tiny in the course of coaxing out bids, T seems to operate without any real effort. His well-chosen words bring out ready responses.
A negro carpenter fetches five thousand five hundred dollars. A twelve-year-old girl, four thousand one hundred dollars. And a thirty-year-old woman and her babies, three thousand five hundred dollars..
For T, if the auction is work, then it is the work of an artist. He makes a clear distinction between man and beast, and as an example of his finesse in the latter category, he draws an average of a thousand dollars apiece for twenty condemned government mules.
“Sold! Sold! Sold!” T. Savage Heyward is, in his profession, without a peer. Knowing this, Tiny has left the scene, content to remain out of earshot, sipping cold tea.
By the time T’s show is over, the crowd knows that it has witnessed the master at work, and its appreciation rings out in the form of applause. T takes a bow and tips his hat as he climbs down, smiling, from the platform.
The buyers go about the business of settling up their accounts and leaving with their purchases. The animals thus make their way to new barns and pastures. The slaves, heads hung low and eyes softly glistening, also leave with their new owners. And the crowd disperses, fully impressed with Heyward’s performance, and creating much chatter about the prices fetched by the different items.
While leaving the market, Patrick gets a sense of the war’s progress by reading the posters and notices that have been strategically tacked to the surrounding columns: General Wade Hampton summons the men in his cavalry service to report to Raleigh. Governor Brown orders all militia in the state “under fifty years of age” to join the defense of Columbus. More evidence that the darkest days of the Confederacy are only getting darker.
* * *
Elisabeth stands on the sidewalk outside the Office Restaurant as Patrick walks up. In the morning sunlight, she looks even more radiant than she did before. And minus an apron, her shapely body nicely fills out her blue and white cotton dress, frayed though it may be. Clearly, Elisabeth is not a woman of means. This notion, however, is of no concern to Patrick, who’s smart enough to know that currency cannot purchase love.
Patrick takes the initiative and extends his right hand in greeting. “Well, hello again. I’m so glad you could get away.”
Elisabeth extends her own hand, knowing nothing could have kept her from getting away to meet Patrick. “Hello there.”
“Since I’m the new guy in town, why don’t you show me the way?” Patrick begs.
After lending the matter a moment’s thought, Elisabeth suggests that they first go to the churchyard at Saint Paul’s. “It’s the most picturesque spot downtown, with a lovely view of the river,” she explains. As she does so, it occurs to Patrick that so much of life is about making sales. For example, at the auction, people were selling an assortment of goods and slaves, while at present, Elisabeth is selling a place to go. Such sales, he sees, are a part of human nature, which is why currency is so important—and why it is worthy of copying.
“Your lead,” replies Patrick, taking leave of his internal philosophy and extending his arm to link with hers.
Their three-block walk to the church is filled with small talk— the weather, their dress, the street’s condition, the dust and traffic— and as minor as the topics may be, both seem to find an appropriate level of comfort.
The street surrounding them is crowded with horses and wagons, and the sidewalks are jammed with people of every description, the most distinct of whom are soldiers. But, their uniforms notwithstanding, the soldiers in Augusta at present are not the most fit of Southern manhood. Most carry scars from battles past, some visible, others not apparent at all. Patrick knows too well of the challenges faced by each and every one.
As the walk progresses, Elisabeth opens up to her new friend. She is an only child, the daughter of mill workers. Her mother and father both worked long, hard shifts, seven days a week, to make a better life for her, but a couple of years ago their lives were cut short by a horrible mill fire. The workers had been putting in extra time to meet the Confederate government’s orders; they considered it their duty, very much the way a soldier would. But one night, a careless accident involving unattended candles ignited the thick cotton dust into an explosive ball of fire. To say the least, it has been a tough adjustment for Elisabeth. Upon hearing her story, Patrick finds his eyes watering and his mind drifting toward his own losses of a brother and those cadets.
The church, in contrast to Elisabeth’s tale, is a source of light. Tall oak trees with moss-draped limbs stand nearby, reaching out like muscular arms and shading the church grounds and cemetery from the glare of the mid-day sun.
Their bodies still conjoined, Elisabeth leads Patrick past the gravestones, down a grassy path next to the main church building, and onward to the riverbank. The grass is laid out like a carpet, with large and thick dead tree trunks spread across it like random benches. The flowers, meanwhile, are out in magnificent display— lantana, azaleas, wisteria, and even a few strategically placed rose bushes. To Patrick’s eyes, Elisabeth’s choice for the tour’s first stop got to be the city’s most beautiful spot.
Pointing at one tree trunk, Elisabeth says to Patrick, “Let’s sit here.”
Without missing a beat, Patrick removes his coat and lays it across the trunk for Elisabeth to sit down on. Pleased by the gesture, Elisabeth settles into her position before the water.
He joins her on the log. “What a beautiful setting,” says Patrick, alternating glances between Elisabeth and the gentle river. “I don’t know how I’ve missed all of this.”
Elisabeth smiles her approval. After pushing her bangs out of her eyes, she looks directly at Patrick.
“Patrick, I think it’s best that we be honest with each other,” she starts.
Feeling his heart quicken slightly, Patrick says, “Yes, I agree.”
“I find you fascinating…”
“As I do you.”
“…because you look so much like my husband,” she announces.
Patrick’s eyes widen. Just as quickly, his emotions sink. How could I have fallen for the graces of a married woman? he asks himself.
Speaking quickly, she goes on, “I know how this sounds, but please hear me out because you have come into my life at a critical time.”
Patrick’s ears remain present though his heart recedes.
Elisabeth is interrupted by the screech of a whistle from a passing steamship, bringing another supply of goods to the wharf just above where they sit.
Their eyes remain locked; no one is speaking. Only as the whistle fades into the distance does Elisabeth resume her story.
“For the past ten years, I have been married to a wonderful man who loves me very much. He is a hard worker, and he provided enough so that I could stay home to raise our child.”
A child? Patrick thinks. What have I gotten myself into?
Still, however, he listens intently.
Elisabeth presses on, “When Georgia joined the Confederacy, he signed on with the Clinch Rifles and went off to war. I was so proud of him, as all we women were of our men. So fine looking they were, in their crisp uniforms, their chests all puffed up with patriotism. I used to get letters from him every few days. Then, as the war dragged on, the letters would come every few weeks, then every few months. I wrote nearly every day, though, and our son was also writing to his father, as he learned the words.”
Patrick certainly thinks it odd that a man at war wouldn’t keep in closer touch with his wife, but then again he doesn’t have one—yet. Nonetheless, he’s met no shortage of married men in combat who do nothing other than speak
longingly of their awaiting wives.
“I stopped hearing from him altogether about a year ago, when his unit was reassigned to Charleston to guard the prisoners. For that whole year, he never took a furlough to come to Augusta to visit me and our son. And some of the other members of the Rifles came home for visits, so I know that he could have come home had he wanted to.”
Patrick keeps his eyes on Elisabeth, nodding in seeming approval.
“Anyway, several months ago I went down to see him, expecting a loving reception. After all, we’d been separated for four years. Well, it turned out to be a loving reception, all right. But not loving for me. He had taken up with another woman!”
This comes as somewhat of a relief to Patrick, as it seems to balance the ethical scales, yet he still does not prefer to be in the company of a married lady. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Patrick says, trying to offer a comforting response, and hoping to sound at least somewhat sincere.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Elisabeth shoots back, suddenly stern. “I was the one keeping the family and home together while he was off doing his patriotic duty, but then to find that he had just tossed my commitment aside for another woman, well…that was too much. But no, there’s nothing to be ‘sorry’ about. It was what it was. Straight away, I came back to Augusta so that my son and I could begin our new life together—without his father.”
“So if he’s abandoned you, why do you still say you have a husband?” Patrick asks, his heart beginning to thaw.
“The next step would have been for him to file for a divorce— not the easiest thing for a man, and near impossible for a woman. But, before Adam could even do the paperwork, his unit shipped out to join with Johnston’s forces in confronting the Yankees in North Carolina. They were in a terrible battle in Bentonville…”
Yes, Patrick remembers the morning newspaper article. Seven members of the Augusta unit went missing in that fight.
“My husband is among the members of his unit reported missing. An officer came to my home to tell me that Adam was missing, and the officer went on and on about how brave and valiant and committed and loyal Adam was in battle. I was pleased to hear it, though I wish I could have said as much about his personal life.”
Patrick is surprised to find how touched he is by her tale.
He is quick to extend his hands, and clasp both of hers.
Relieved by the gesture, Elisabeth says, “So you see Patrick, I’m only married to someone who no longer loves me, and to someone I’ve mentally put out of my life months ago. I’ve been looking for a new beginning, and you arrived at absolutely the right time. Afraid to say, my son and I feel so alone.”
Nodding his understanding, Patrick raises Elisabeth’s hands up to her chin, offering a comforting expression that she hasn’t seen from a man in years. He’s looking for the correct words to say but soon finds himself content to let the silence of the moment take hold. Patrick knew that something special was in the air when he first laid eyes on Elisabeth at breakfast. And he knew it couldn’t be a chance encounter. How could God be so cruel as to tease him that way?
He holds her hands. He takes in her face. He feels a heavenly grip upon them both.
* * *
Upon arriving back at his hotel room to prepare for dinner, Patrick finds another note under the door:
The government is safely resettled in Danville. The Secretary and Charles are fine. Continue with your assignment as originally planned.
And so the mystery continued to deepen. The news is reassuring on its face, but where did this message come from? Its unknown origin is far from reassuring. Its writing and manner of arrival certainly did not display the protocol for a message from the Treasury office, nor from the cover firm in Charleston.
Patrick goes down to the desk to inquire as to whether anyone had delivered a note to his room. “No” is the answer, short and total.
Just before Patrick leaves, a young boy in coveralls and bare feet sprints through the front door and across the lobby. He comes to a short stop at the front desk. He’s struggling to catch his breath as he tells the clerk, “Mr. Graham. I need Mr. Graham quick!”
The interruption grabs Patrick’s attention. He turns to the boy.
“I’m Mr. Graham. What is it?”
“Yes, sir!” the boy shoots back, excitement beaming from him. “Miss Elisabeth sent me to get you. I am her neighbor. She says you need to come now. She told me to bring you straight away.”
And with that, Patrick and the boy disappear into the crisp night air.
* * *
The whole way over, Patrick is entangled in a thicket of fear. His mind is racing and keeps slipping off its native track. Why has Elisabeth sent for him so urgently? Has something terrible happened to her? These questions, mixed with the ones about the origins of the notes in his room, have him in a state of extreme agitation, bordering on panic. Patrick and the boy run down the middle of the street, dodging horses and carriages as they go.
With hardly a bubble of air in his lungs, the boy leads Patrick to a small frame house, set very close to a side street. It shows its wear in its faded whitewash. The glow of candlelight can be seen through the front window, as well as through the red front doorway, which is propped open.
More prominent still, standing in the doorway against a back-lit glow, is Elisabeth. She’s leaning against the doorframe in obvious and feverish anticipation of Patrick’s arrival.
“Thank God you came,” she sobs as she falls into Patrick’s arms. The little boy looks on, blinking and gulping. Patrick carries Elisabeth over to a nearby sofa and lays her down. Taking a handkerchief from her hand, he wipes the tears from her eyes and cheeks.
“Oh, Patrick,” she says softly. “When I got home today, an army officer was waiting here for me. He said he had news about Adam.
He said that Adam was found….and that he is dead.”
The words come to a silent, tomb-like stop, and new tears begin to flow. It is clear to Patrick that even though Adam had mistreated Elisabeth, she still holds strong feelings for him. How could she not? After all, they were wife and husband.
Patrick sits on the edge of the sofa, continuing to wipe away the tears. As well, he strokes her long, brown hair. He then holds her moist cheek in his hand. He says nothing, for what words could bring her comfort?
Elisabeth begins to regain her composure, at least outwardly. “I’m so sorry to have called for you like this, Patrick, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
Patrick looks at the little boy, whose hands are in his pockets as he watches the adults’ exchange.
“Think nothing of it,” Patrick replies. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Well, I suppose there’s the funeral and all that, and…I just don’t know what to do.”
“Of course. I’ll help you with that,” offers Patrick, his mind without a clue as to how someone gets buried in Augusta. “Let’s talk about it in the morning, when you are a bit more settled.”
“That’ll be fine,” she replies. And then, with her voice rising slightly: “Oh, Patrick, I feel so alone. Somehow I didn’t feel this empty when Adam was alive—even though we were apart. But now, I feel this great hollowness has settled over me, and my emotions just can’t seem to stay nailed down.”
Again Patrick dries her eyes and strokes her hair. He says to her, “I understand. It’s an entirely different state of affairs. It’s important that you stay here at home and get some rest. In the morning, I’ll stop by the restaurant and tell people there you’ll be off for a few days. With your consent, I’ll share the news about Adam.”
Gratitude spreading like sun-rays across her face, Elisabeth gives a nod.
Patrick has some sense of what Elisabeth is going through. After all, this is not the first time that Patrick’s had to be with a newly formed war widow. Such is one of the more unpleasant tasks of being a Confederate officer, and it’s one that cannot become comfortable. Quite the contrary, each ti
me tends to seem more difficult than the last.
“Get rest for tonight, and tomorrow we’ll talk again.”
“Thank you, Patrick. You don’t know how much I appreciate this,” says Elisabeth, her stare penetrating deeply into Patrick’s eyes, indeed, into places even deeper.
He blinks and turns away, then rises from the sofa. By now, the little boy who led him to Elisabeth has made his way into the doorway, where he stands in the shadows, his head hanging low. Patrick pats him on the shoulder and thanks him for his help, then tells him to go home to his family.
As he walks out the door, Patrick knows that he must search for someone who knows about funerals.
And who better to seek out than Reverend Jacob Anderson?
* * *
Although Jacob doesn’t know Elisabeth personally, he has seen her in church from time to time, and he knows her husband Adam from their service together in the Clinch Rifles. Naturally, whether he knew her or not, Jacob would have been honored to assist. After scratching his chin and giving it a moment’s thought, he suggests that Patrick see the Platt family to orchestrate a proper burial. In terms of his desire to help directly, Jacob does offer to preside at the service of such an honorable soldier, particularly given the fact that he died in combat. Patrick cannot help but wonder if this offer would have materialized had he let on about the marital difficulties that Elisabeth and Adam were having. In any case, that factor is moot. As far as anybody is to be concerned, they were one shining, happy couple, and Elisabeth is the wholly grieving war widow.
* * *
Following his meeting with the Platt family, Patrick stops by to see Elisabeth. She is pleased to receive a report that is marked by such progress. However, this will be an expensive send-off, and she knows that even under the best of circumstances, her waitress salary would never be enough.
“Don’t worry about the cost,” Patrick assures her. “The charities of the city are going to take care of Adam’s final rest and be there to help you and your son.”
