by Bob Young
Her eyes showing a glaze, Elisabeth nods her appreciation. Patrick hears a small, weak breath escape from her tired lungs.
Something then strikes Patrick, a feeling of curiosity. Regardless, he does not express his inquisitive thoughts to Elisabeth. She told Patrick that she and Adam have a son. But Patrick’s been to her small frame home twice now and has not spied such a youngster. Nor has he seen clothing laying about, much less any other evidence indicating that a young lad lives in this house.
Doing his best to achieve a casual tone, Patrick asks, “Is your son attending the service tomorrow?”
Elisabeth is flat in her reply: “No, he isn’t. The service would be too much for a five year old, so he will be staying with a friend.”
Patrick accepts the answer on the outside but dislikes it on the inside.
In twenty-four short hours, his trip to Augusta has evolved into quite the mystery. He cannot help but wonder how that mystery will deepen when he has an occasion to chat with Adolphus Roads.
CHAPTER FOUR
Knowing full well that he has to get busy with his investigation, Patrick begins a process of elimination. Since the presses and the workers for the suspected counterfeiting operation have already been traced back to J. T. Paterson and Company of Augusta, his first stop will have to be there.
On the morning of Patrick’s arrival, the office is a flurry of activity. The presses are well in motion, producing smooth yet clanking sweeps and groans, and the smell of fresh black ink permeates the entire building. But, Patrick figures, it’s a tolerable scent, for it’s the smell of money. Literally, as the workmen are printing state notes for North Carolina, Alabama, and Mississippi.
With a firm handshake and his patent confidence-inspiring smile, Patrick introduces himself to the attending manager, Edgar White.
“Dr. Paterson here this morning?” Patrick asks.
“Nope,” replies White, his eyeballs creeping up over his reading glasses. “He’s actually in Hamburg at Camp Rendezvous this morning, attending to the dental needs of the soldiers. He is also a dentist, you know. Don’t expect him in here at all today ‘cause Major Allen is rounding up the absentees from the Army of Tennessee and using the camp to get them fit to return to the fight.”
Patrick is almost certain that something is wrong. The man’s strict tone is either indicative of a poor personality or a hidden conspiracy. Moreover, his eyeshade casts something of a shadow across his eyes. However, they do seem to brighten like a pair of lanterns when he steers the talk to misfits. “In fact, the major put out word that any stragglers who don’t report will be arrested.” White thrusts his index finger right into Patrick’s chest. “You want my opinion, I think they ought to be shot!”
Not much is lost on White, apparently. His pure gray hair tops a slight frame that has evidently been around for a long time. Too long to serve in this war, it seems. Ironically, though, despite his salty toughness, it is a high-pitched and squeaky voice that accentuates his assortment of opinions.
Giving a terse nod, Patrick replies that he understands the urgency of getting every able-bodied man to the front. As well, he readily agrees that they should not be distracted from the cause by a mere tooth problem. Any man inclined to be so easily distracted has no business being near combat in the first place.
Shifting quickly to the business at hand, Patrick proceeds to explain that he is a broker for Frazer, Trenholm, & Company, then shows White a blank invoice he needs reproduced in bulk by way of the latter’s printing gear.
“Not a problem,” says the seasoned printer, examining the paper, “but don’t you think it ought to have a bit more flourish to it? This looks like something designed by a bookkeeper.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asks, leaning in for a look.
White’s eyes soften; he welcomes the invitation to expand upon his opinion. “Your paperwork ought to make a statement about your firm. People should know you are with a big-time outfit, and this invoice should scream your company name.”
To be sure, Edgar is versed in the reputation of the company that Patrick represents, and is certain that good, thorough service could lead to even more business.
“Well, no doubt you have a point, but I don’t design these,” Patrick says, “I just use them. Why don’t I take your suggestion back to Charleston, and let the boss decide?”
“Well, between you and me, I don’t hold much stock in your boss’ decision-making, because he chose this one, didn’t he?” White then holds up the modest invoice, as if seeking affirmation from everyone within earshot of his voice.
Patrick is stoic; no way he will take the bait. “I guess he did, but I’m sure it won’t hurt to ask him.”
Another shining smile from Patrick.
It’s clear to White that his argument is going nowhere, so he looks away, telling Patrick, “Can have it ready for you in a couple of days.”
“That’s great. Just have them delivered to my room at the Planters Hotel.”
And now, despite the casualness in his voice, Patrick gets down to the real business at hand. He asks White how long J. T. Paterson & Co. has been in business.
Another opportunity for White to speak; another sign of softening within his gaze. “Doc Paterson got into publishing about four years ago, when he was up in Richmond serving as a dental surgeon with the army. First project was a war map he got Hoyer and Ludwig to print. Doc had dental equipment, you know, not a printing press.”
Patrick gives a nod, pretending to be only half-interested.
“The government did a lot of business with Hoyer and Ludwig but decided for security reasons that its printing should be done somewhere deeper in the South. Well, the printers were stuck on Richmond like bees on honey, so Doc bought some of their equipment and designs and set up his own shop in Columbia. Smart move, because right away he got some contracts from the government for stamps and money and bonds.”
“When did he start printing in Augusta?” Patrick asks.
“About the same time he began in Columbia. He brought me in to get this shop set up, and we started here with North Carolina state bonds, but not any local notes.”
White pauses for a moment of thought, pushing his slipping visor back up on his forehead.
“No, hold on; I take that back. We did print some notes for the Mechanics Bank, but they never were issued. You want my opinion, I think the bank was crazy not to use those notes. They were some of my best work! Instead we used the backs of them for printing some North Carolina notes. What a waste of talent! But given the paper shortage, especially after the big fire at Bath Mills, we found ourselves doing a lot of improvising.”
“It’s even getting hard to find writing paper and envelopes these days,” says Patrick. “Are you still printing for the Confederate government?” he asks, already knowing the answer on account of his status as a Treasury agent.
“No,” White responds. “We lost the business last year when the government consolidated most of its work with Evans and Cogswell. And then Colonel Blanton Duncan shows up.”
Patrick nods again. He is familiar with Duncan. The man bought out Evans and Cogswell.
But then White shares something that Patrick has not heard:
“The Colonel is a tricky one, doesn’t play fair.” White leans toward Patrick and lowers his voice to just above a whisper. “He tried to get our printers in Columbia conscripted! A move like that would have shut us down. I’d have stood up to him in a heartbeat,” White declares, jabbing his fists into the air before him, “but Doc Paterson just closed up the shop and brought all the work here.”
Now Patrick’s horse of awareness is galloping down the right road.
“And your equipment? Your employees?” Patrick asks.
“That equipment was darn good, because we were doing high-quality printing. But we don’t need it here, so we sold it. As for the employees, well, we don’t need them here, so we had to cut them loose.”
“And where’s the press now?
” Patrick’s brows are drawn close together.
“It’s actually here in Augusta. Adolphus Roads bought it. Paid top dollar. And he hired our printers in Columbia—moved every one of them, along with their families, to Augusta. Looks like he’s going to be doing some serious printing of his own. Don’t know how well he’s going to do though. There’s work here, but not enough for a huge new print house.”
Then White adds, “But that’s his business. We don’t have any relationship with him, official or otherwise. Don’t want to, for that matter. Roads makes Colonel Duncan look like a vicar.”
“Probably true, given what I hear,” Patrick says.
“Well, you know how people talk,” responds White, his words tight and neat, expressing his desire to leave the discussion about Mr. Roads where it is.
“Look forward to getting my invoices in a couple of days. Just leave them at the desk. Planters Hotel,“Patrick says, turning to the door.
White is as cordial upon parting as he was tense upon greeting: “Thanks for the business. And let me know when you want me to make ‘em look real good for you.”
* * *
The funeral procession’s arrival at stately Magnolia Cemetery on the east side of town occurs late in the morning. The sun, fine and gallant, has already risen over the tall magnolia trees, and the air is rapidly collecting its warmth. Even in the springtime, Augusta can suffer through hot and humid days that function as a test of human endurance. Unfortunately, today is shaping up to be one such day.
The procession is a modest one, yet it includes an escort from the Augusta Arsenal Battalion, which has become a tradition in the year since Major V. J. B. Girardey wrote his well-publicized letter. Major Girardey was openly disturbed that so many gallant heroes were going to the graveyard without even a single attendant at their sides. He described such neglect as “an act of inconsiderate injustice” and argued that soldiers who fight and suffer for a common cause “are brothers and should be treated accordingly.” Girardey made good on his uncompromised promise of “an appropriate escort from my Battalion,” and on this day, one such escort accompanies the hearse.
The flag-draped coffin is brought to the cemetery in a spectacular hearse drawn by six black horses, all of which have black trappings and black ostrich plumes attached to regal headbands.
On reaching the entrance gate, the coffin is unloaded from the hearse by a collective of pallbearers clad in finely pressed gray uniforms accented with gold braids. Lining up behind them are Elisabeth and Patrick, as well as an assortment of city citizens, soldiers, and leaders. Reverend Anderson takes the processional lead as the pallbearers haltingly carry the casket along the dust-filled path. They pass beneath no small number of stately magnolia trees en route to the newly opened grave.
Elisabeth, with Patrick as her direct escort, stops beside the fresh mound of red Georgia clay and peers down into the hole where the casket comes to its final rest. Gently touching her arm, Patrick leads her over to a sitting area, shaded by the huge branches and leaves spreading out from the magnolia trees.
“ I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
The young clergyman reads the Order of Burial of the Dead from the Book of Common Prayer. Ironically, although it’s a fact that goes unspoken, these are the very same words pronounced over the graves of Union soldiers.
“…so teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”
And the assembled group joins together in a collective “Amen.” The funeral of a soldier who dies in combat is not just an exclusively somber affair; it is also an occasion to see and be seen.
Most of the ladies are wearing fine black hoop dresses, black gloves, and veils as they wipe away tears with—as one could predict—black handkerchiefs. The men, for their part, wear black suits and black top hats. The attending soldiers, led by General Fry himself, are in their finest dress uniforms. Even Mayor May is in attendance. Not lost on Patrick is the fact that the mayor’s election is just a couple of days away. See and be seen, for certain. With a stark emphasis on the latter.
As they all stand around the grave, Jacob continues to read:
“Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayers, but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy Judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.”
Although Elisabeth is trying hard to fulfill the role of the emotionally distraught widow, in the difference of a day, she has put aside any lingering feelings for Adam. Yes, they were lovers and in love, but he betrayed her, and for that he will never receive her forgiveness. God’s? Yes. Her’s? No. Within the contours of her heart, Elisabeth feels that justice has been done, and that Adam will never wound another woman in the way he wounded her.
A crack rings out. Her thoughts are interrupted. The honor guard is firing the salute, which echoes loudly amid the thick trees. Then, a moment of silence…followed by the lone bugler playing “Taps.”
Jacob digs his hands into the pile of red clay next to the coffin and scoops out a healthy handful. As he tosses it onto the casket where it lands with a quiet thud, he reads anew:
“Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God, in his wise providence, to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come”
After a final prayer, followed by a blessing, the service comes to a quiet end. The funeral home staff scurries about at a slow and respectful pace, preparing to return the horses and carriage. The grave diggers, hoping to be functionally invisible, wait among the trees to finish their work after everyone else has vanished. As for the visitors, they all, no matter their trajectory or point of origin, make their way toward Elisabeth to offer words of sorrow and encouragement. With some flint in his voice, General Fry assures her that the Yankees who killed her husband will be held accountable. Touching her shoulders, Mayor May promises that her family will not be forgotten.
As no person possessed of eyes could miss, even Adolphus Roads is among the mourners. He approaches Elisabeth and takes her hands in his, telling her how proud he is of her husband’s service, yet how sorrowful he is that she is now a widow. Patrick is standing next to Elisabeth, her arm threaded around him. In a moment that is quietly startling, Roads turns to address him.
“Adolphus Roads,” he announces.
Patrick takes a moment before answering back, “Patrick Graham, a family friend.”
Instantly, Patrick regrets his eagerness to put himself in context. After all, Roads did no such thing. Then again, the latter man truly needs no introduction.
“Mr. Graham,” Roads says, “we are deeply troubled by the untimely loss of Sergeant Vernon.” Stuffing a thick envelope into Patrick’s hand, he continues, “This should help Miss Elisabeth recover from her loss.”
Patrick thanks Roads, then puts the envelope into his coat pocket, which suddenly hangs lower than it ever has. What an odd encounter, he thinks.
Jacob lingers after the service, purely to visit with Elisabeth and Patrick.
“I knew Adam very well,” Jacob tells the widow. “He was a good man and a loyal soldier. I was always impressed by his courage.”
As she listens, Elisabeth drums up a smile of gratitude, hiding the fact that she is dissecting the pastor’s comments: No, she thinks, you obviously did not know him very well. He was not a good man, nor was he loyal. And, he certainly didn’t have the courage to say “no” to infidelity.
“Thank you, Father,” she says, drawing massive power from heaven above in service of remaining polite
. “Adam will be missed,” she says, thinking, no doubt by a certain woman in Charleston, “and, he would have been proud of today’s most dignified service.”
Patrick is fast to agree with Elisabeth’s last thought: “You did a fine job with the funeral. Let’s hope this is your last for a member of our brave legions.”
“I only pray it is,” says Jacob.
Elisabeth and Patrick turn away from the grave and begin the several-block walk to Elisabeth’s house. The more they walk, the closer Elisabeth edges toward Patrick, and the tighter she holds her arm in his. For the first time in a long time, he imagines that his arm might fully heal someday. She presses her head against his hard, blunt shoulder.
* * *
Patrick is off to have a friendly meeting with the man he has come to put out of business, Adolphus Roads.
The center of Roads’ world is his office building, located in the 300 block of Broad Street. The building functions as the face of his many enterprises, both legitimate and otherwise. The sign painted on the store window out front is simple: “A. Roads, Mercantile.”
Upon walking through the front door, Patrick finds himself surrounded by stacks of boxes, barrels, and goods that managed to make it through the blockade: English tweeds and long cloth, spool cotton, white flax thread, buttons, perfumed toilet powder, black and white muslin, cashmere, alpacas…even whiskey—Bourbon, Rye, Corn; take your pick by the bottle, gallon, or barrel—and English pickles.
Seeing Roads’ stock is like happening upon a feat of magic. It is most certainly unbelievable, and far outside of the norm for a wartime economy. By the very same token, so are his financial dealings in real estate, stocks, gold and silver bank notes, eight percent Confederate Bonds, and just about anything else of value— that is, of value to Roads.
Patrick is truly taken aback. If he’d needed any further indication of this man’s power, he now has it. He’s never seen anything like this before, not in any big city nor even in the quartermaster storehouse.
