by Bob Young
Gathering up as much confidence as he can, and hoping not to repeat his awkwardness following the funeral, Patrick walks up to the counter to announce himself to the clerk:
“Patrick Graham of Fraser, Trenholm, and Company to see Mr. Roads.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk replies. “Be happy to tell him you’re here.”
The clerk spends a long moment rising from his metal stool, after which his wiry frame disappears into a side office, but only for a moment, because he quickly emerges following Adolphus Roads. The abrupt sight of Roads startles Patrick, despite the fact that this is actually the fifth time that he has seen him since arriving last weekend. First at St. Paul’s, then at the Office during breakfast. Previously, yesterday at the market and at Adam’s funeral earlier this morning. Still, Patrick is far from prepared for his first face-to-face meeting with this man, that the Secretary believes might subject the entire South to grisly doom.
“Mr. Graham, welcome to Augusta,” Roads says in a deep baritone voice, extending his right hand. His grasp on Patrick’s hand is tight, very tight…antisocially tight. Patrick cannot tell which is more forceful: his grip or his voice.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Roads,” Patrick responds, unsure of whether he should pretend this is their first meeting, much less whether Roads is presently doing likewise. “I have been amply impressed by the hospitality of your fine city.”
Roads replies, “Why thank you for noticing. We work hard to be a welcoming community, especially to outsiders. You’re from Charleston, right? Frazer, Trenholm, and Company?”
“That’s right.” Patrick knows he must preserve his cover like a bear must preserve its fur. “I’m a cotton buyer, and I’m here to make Mr. Trenholm some money.”
“From what I hear,” Roads offers, smiling, “he’s already got all the money.”
Patrick smiles back, sharing in the sweet amusement. Just a pleasant moment between two gentlemen at least up on the surface. “Well, he is quite wealthy, but he gives a lot of it away, so we have to replenish the account from time to time.”
Roads nods. He understands. “I know what it’s like to have a reputation for charity. I’m constantly asked to contribute to worthy causes, and it is hard to say no, especially where our veterans and widows are concerned.”
A puzzled look drops on Roads’ face for a moment, and just then something dawns on him. “Say, didn’t I see you at the funeral today? Why yes! You were standing there with the widow, and I handed you something for her!”
Now Patrick must quickly decide that he, too, has suddenly remembered meeting Roads earlier. Raising his eyebrows, he all but shouts, “Oh! Yes!”
“Rather strange of you not to mention it, no?” Roads asks, his tone pleasant, but his content thick with menace.
Feeling awkward all over again, Patrick gives a shrug. “I was certainly just about to.”
In an eternal moment, Roads looks Patrick over. “Very well then,” Roads says, making way for a return to normalcy.
Suddenly, Patrick realizes that he has indeed forgotten to pass the envelope along to Elisabeth. In fact it is still in his coat pocket, all by its lonesome, back in the emptiness of his hotel room. Guilt shoots through Patrick’s system like a minié ball crossing a battlefield.
Recovering his composure, Patrick states, “I am a friend of the family and was fortunate to be in Augusta on business when the service was held.”
“I hope she can use what I left for her,” Roads says, efficiently returning the attention to himself.
“I’m sure she can,” Patrick responds, feeling ill at ease about the notion of reassuring a man of such obvious stature.
“The widows, especially those with children, have it rough when these soldiers get killed. But…how can I help you and Mr. Trenholm today, Mr. Graham?”
With gestures large and devoid of subtlety, Roads invites Patrick into his office to continue the discussion.
The office is just as cluttered as the storefront, but Roads manages to locate a chair.
After clearing his throat and gathering his thoughts, Patrick suggests that Roads can help him acquire cotton from the local farmers and get it shipped to Charleston. Cotton prices are still strong, with a huge market in Europe, and Roads does not have to do ten rounds of long division to see the profit potential for himself. Patrick promises some orders in the next couple of weeks, which should give him ample time to complete his mission without having to actually purchase any cotton. For Roads, the reward is huge, and the risk is minimal. Selling cotton to Patrick could actually be the most honest thing he’s done in a while; it’s just a shame it’s not a legitimate deal.
But before Patrick takes off, he has another question: “Do you know where I can get some printing done? Mr. Trenholm is looking for someone to print warrants for his company.”
“No problem, Mr. Graham,” Roads bellows, a thick stench of self-congratulation within his voice, “I am confident that I can help you.”
“But I didn’t see a press out there,” Patrick observes.
“Oh, I have a press,” says Roads with a wave of his hand. “It’s one of the finest printing presses you’ll find anywhere in the South, and I have the experienced men to do the work. We’re all set up.”
Patrick gives a nod. This is all most helpful to him. He has just seen first-hand the fruits of Roads’ criminal enterprise, as well as confirmed the information he had that Roads was going into the printing business. Patrick must now seal the deal by getting a look at the print operation.
“Is it possible,” Patrick asks, “to visit the print shop? I’d like to observe your capability first-hand.”
Roads lands upon a pause.
“Sounds quite impressive,” Patrick throws in for good measure.
“No,” Road says emphatically. “We’re not set up for tours.”
Forbidden territory. Patrick changes the subject before either man has time to blink:
“I understand. I can appreciate how busy you must be,” says Patrick. “I look forward to doing business with you, and trust our dealings will be mutually advantageous.”
“Thank you for stopping in, Mr. Graham.”
Having closed the conversation, Roads steps toward the office door, offering Patrick a fine Cuban cigar. “Purchased just yesterday at the market,” Roads adds.
After the two men’s exchange of farewells, Patrick steps back out onto the street and rushes over to the Planters Hotel.
* * *
Patrick Graham is hot with panic.
He rifles through the coat he wore to the funeral now hanging on the coat rack by his hotel room door. He puts his hand into every pocket and opening, feeling around for the envelope that Roads handed him. Nowhere can he find it, however. Presently, he searches the floor, then looks under the bed and behind the dresser. No, the envelope is not in the room.
A terrible position to be in, indeed. One of the worst characters in the city, someone who is capable of killing an enemy without giving it a second thought, has entrusted to him an envelope containing who-knows-what, for the benefit of a soldier’s widow. And what has he done? He’s lost it!
No, Patrick, says to himself. I didn’t lose it; someone took it. He closely examines the door and window for evidence of tampering, but finds none.
Without question, Patrick knows he must think this through. He heads over to the hotel veranda for a drink.
Maybe the answer will appear at the bottom of his glass.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturday at the lower market is a scene that belongs in the dictionary beside the word “busy.” Farmers have ushered in their best produce. Merchants have laid out their clothing and trinkets. But despite the variety of options, the attention is focused on J. V. Clark, for on this day he has brought a rare commodity to market—beef. The mouths of all the shoppers are watering, whether or not they can actually afford it. Moreover, he promises that today’s supply will be the first of many installments of prime beef. Not good news
for his cows, but great news for his customers.
If Clark’s beef is the market’s star offering, then the town meeting featuring the candidates for mayor qualifies as a close second. Having spent some time in Richmond in the vicinity of the Confederate government, Patrick is well aware of politicians’ potential for blustering and bragging, especially those who are trying to persuade voters to support them.
Mayor May is set to share the stage with his chief opponent, Augustus D. Picquett, a well-respected attorney. There’s also room for the phantom candidate, James Grady. Grady has not been heard from since he announced he would run. Most certainly, the gang from the barbershop does not want to miss this moment should Grady choose it to suddenly appear. Their eagerness is in plain sight; they’ve perched themselves on some barrels stacked next to the speakers’ platform to achieve an ideal view.
The stage boasts patriotic colors: deep and proud reds, whites, and blues present on flags and signs and banners. Off to one side is a smiling John Sloman and his band of musicians, their clothing also the colors of the flag, and their stringed instruments producing a series of classic American tunes.
Unheard and unseen beneath the outward display of patriotism is an inward sense of tension, even dread. All who are in attendance know full well that this election can amount to a significant shift in the city’s political winds. The heavy emotions can be read most clearly upon the faces of the elders in attendance, some of whom have faint memories of the post-revolutionary period and the uneasiness that followed.
As for the younger voters in the crowd, they, too, look ahead to an unknown future, the true face of which is now wearing a mask. Will the coming days bring in a credible economy? Will their America live up to its ideals and promises?
No man or woman here can serve up any answers with real confidence.
Accordingly, as the cheerful music swells on and the reds, whites, and blues soak up the rays of the strengthening sun, the overflowing crowd is well aware that the surface celebration conceals a deep-running anxiety.
Such is how a long-running war can inflict damage far from any battlefield.
Looking over the selection of candidates, it can be plainly observed that the mayor has drawn the largest group of supporters by a good measure. To boot, they are boisterous and eager for a fight. May is too busy shaking hands to notice that Adolphus Roads has mixed his goons into the crowd, the better to keep the citizens liquored up, and thus in high spirits about the mayor.
Picquett has neither the following nor the enforcers that May has on hand today. But what he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in spunk. A short, stout man of the law, he looks less like a politician than a professor behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Mayor May, in visible contrast, strikes a commanding pose. Tall and thin, with full beard and flowing dark hair, he’s got the incontestable advantage of actually looking like a mayor.
Patrick and Elisabeth are standing on the crowd’s outermost fringe. Patrick not only wants to hear the speeches but believes that some fresh air would be good for Elisabeth. Besides, she’s been looking forward to doing some shopping in the market.
Picquett is the first one to climb up onto the wooden platform.
“Good morning, my fellow Sons of the South and ladies of the morning dew,” he bellows with a tip of his hat and a slight bow to round out the greeting.
Patrick thinks to himself, What a way to start. More like he’s addressing a jury than a political rally.
“I am honored to be with you this morning at this historic meeting and to share the stage with my good friend, Mayor Robert May.”
Historic? My good friend? Patrick finds himself drowning in the insincerity.
No question about it, Picquett has lots of flourishes and many platitudes to share with the crowd this morning, and he isn’t going to let a single one escape their half-bored attention. And so, on he goes—for nearly an hour. Periodically, he removes his straw hat to wipe his brow, and then, having provided such evidence of the fact that he is indeed human, he launches right back into his oration without missing a beat. If only words counted as votes, then Picquett would be declared the winner in a landslide! But even if this were some other place, one in which the people actually wanted to respond in appreciation or agreement, they risk doing no such thing with Roads’ goons mixed among them.
When he finally arrives at a stiff and wooden conclusion, one which is so ill-timed as to seem, frighteningly, more like a midpoint, the crowd gives Picquett some polite applause, which follows him down from the platform.
Then the mood of the meeting changes.
May is introduced amid wild cheers. In no time at all, some hand-painted “May for Mayor” signs get hoisted on sticks, occupying space above the peoples’ heads.
Now, at last, they have themselves a real political meeting.
An enthusiastic supporter of the man of the hour, T. Heyward leaps to the platform, demanding strict attention from the crowd. As is obvious from his manner, T is not part of a well-orchestrated presentation, but nonetheless, he grabs the crowd’s attention as if he were starting another auction.
“As we all know, the election for mayor and councilmen of the City of Augusta takes place tomorrow! Now, indeed, it is perhaps unnecessary that anything should be said in favor of our present worthy Chief Magistrate to ensure his re-election to the responsible office which he now so credibly fills.”
Heyward turns to Mayor May, apparently seeking an approving nod, which May is all too happy to provide. Then he turns right back to the crowd, as if getting a second wind despite the fact that he’s still getting warmed up.
Regardless, off Heyward goes, filled with high energy and no shortage of hot air: “But having had many opportunities to know him and witness his official conduct, conduct which is possessed by few others, I take pleasure in bearing willing testimony to the zeal and ability and courtesy which have characterized his administration.”
“Yes, go on! Tell us, T!” shouts a voice from the crowd.
Patrick raises an eyebrow at the voice of support, hardly impressed by T’s command of the English language.
“He devotes almost his entire time to the duties of his office,” responds T, without skipping a shred of a beat.
“That’s right!” bellows another crowd member.
“He is kind and courteous to all who have dealings with him.”
“He sure was with me!” yells yet another man.
“He keeps a vigilant watch over the families of soldiers who are absent in the service of their country, to see that they do not suffer or are not insulted.”
“And we love him for that!” cries one evident war widow.
“He is charitable and humane.”
“To a fault!” someone who has already chimed in shouts.
“He has been in perfect harmony with the military authorities of this city.”
“Hurrah!” shout a couple of men in uniform.
“His financial policy has brought the city to its present flourishing condition, despite the war and its natural consequences.”
“Now, T, you’re really talking,” says a businessman, amid a renewed thunder of shouts and cheers.
And not a beat too soon or too late, Heyward’s presentation reaches its climax: “In short, he is just the right man in the right place in the right time, and it is to be hoped for the interest of Augusta, that its citizens will retain him in that position by a handsome majority.”
This ringing endorsement is all that it takes to get the crowd worked up again. As Heyward steps down from the platform, Mayor May steps forward to shake his hand, followed by a firm pat on his back. Watching the exchange, it’s hard for Patrick to tell who is more pleased—the supporter or the candidate. But May does not seize center stage quite yet.
Back to the program: Councilman John Foster climbs up to the platform.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I want to thank you for your enthusiastic presence here today. Before we hear from the mayo
r, I want to read to you a resolution your city council unanimously, and without dissent, adopted in our meeting of just yesterday.”
And so Foster proceeds to read:
“ Whereas, the ability with which the Honorable Robert H. May, Mayor of Augusta, has presided over the deliberations of this body, and the courtesy and kindness which have distinguished his intercourse with us during the past year, demand special acknowledgment at our hands, therefore, Resolved, that we tender to the said Robert H. May, Mayor, our cordial acknowledgement of the kindness and consideration which have marked his connection; that we fully appreciate and recognize the devotion he has exhibited for the highest interests of Augusta, and that in taking official leave of him as our presiding officer, we bear willing testimony to his zeal and ability. Resolved, that these proceedings be entered in the minutes and published with the proceedings of Council.”
Wild applause erupts. Whistles. Cheers. It is clear that the people agree with the sentiments so recently administered by their elected council members.
The new waves of cheers bring Mayor May front and center on the platform. He walks from side to side, waving at the assemblage. He even takes off his hat and twists it in the air, managing to wring the crowd’s general enthusiasm from a gesture that lacks a clear purpose. The only mayor known to Augustans since the war began, May has a popularity level that has been quite high, and his charitable work has kept his popularity intact. Moving at last to the front of the stage, he leans over to point to some familiar folks whose mouths quickly don glowing smiles. Only when he steps behind the podium does the applause die down—with audible reluctance.
“Councilman Foster, friends, fellow citizens of Augusta, I return you my sincere thanks for the expression of sentiment in the resolutions just read. I am entirely satisfied it proceeds from the honest impulse of each of your hearts, and I am proud to be able to say that it is fully reciprocated by me.”
A strong wave of applause crackles up toward the podium.
