by Bob Young
“Although we have been associated in the service of our city during a year of unexampled hardships and peril, it will always be a pleasing reflection to me that no event has occurred to cast a shadow over our personal intercourse, but that we have been actuated only by feelings of the utmost kindness towards each other, and animated by an honest desire to perform our various duties to the satisfaction of our fellow citizens.”
May pauses rapidly, taking a large sip from a nearby glass of water. Upon exhaling some cool air, he goes on:
“We have occupied positions of no trivial importance in the estimation of our people, and it is for them to say to what extent we have answered their expectations. I am deeply grateful to you, gentlemen, for the honor you have done me. And I assure you that I shall cherish the remembrance of our association to the latest hour.”
Again, as if you could set your watch by it, the crowd erupts into noisy applause. Patrick joins in the clapping, but his applause is that of a passive observer, not a fervent supporter, and his palms hardly generate sound upon connecting.
Mayor May responds to the general enthusiasm with waving arms and a series of deep, borderline athletic bows. His every movement only serves to intensify the people’s feverish response. Clearly, the only way for him to quiet the crowd down is to step down from the platform, which he does with a theatrical and somehow cheerful frown of reluctance.
That, indeed, will be a hard act for James Grady to follow. But Mr. Grady bears no worries, for he doesn’t ever appear on stage.
Indeed, he is nowhere to be seen.
“I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t be here,” Chicken Dave shares with Lefty and Billy, setting the tone for the critique of the barbershop gang.
“If I were Grady, I wouldn’t be here either,” responds Lefty. “Heck, I don’t even know why Picquett showed up.”
As they turn to walk back to the barber shop, Chicken Dave is positively beaming over the fact that he won the bet. But Billy isn’t inclined to prolong his buddy’s celebration, and he’s already looking for a way to get his money back. “Let’s take a look at those council races,” Billy offers.
Like a sprinting grass fire, word is circulating around the market that the voting on Monday will be huge. The tally of registered voters has risen to over thirteen hundred. That means more than twice the number of people who voted in the same election last time have paid their one-dollar poll tax to participate in Monday’s election.
It’s set to be one for the history books.
* * *
At Saint Paul’s Church, Palm Sunday arrives with an overflow of pomp and ceremony. The congregation is gathered in the churchyard, the better to receive the rays of God’s blazing sun. At the appointed hour, the doors are thrown wide open and the holy and layered sound of the organ spills outside among the congregants in unmistakable majestic authority. Reverend Clark and the crucifer lead the entire congregation through the narthex and into the sanctuary, palm fronds held up high.
The organist looks over. The sight of the parishioners arriving in their pews sends him to full throttle, prompting the choir members to raise their voices even higher:
Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land;
I am weak, but thou art mighty;
Hold me with thy powerful hand;
Bread of heaven, Bread of heaven;
Feed me till I want no more,
Feed me till I want no more.
The choir is a model of sheer enthusiasm, working itself into a frenzy. It is a special day, indeed. Such joyous tunes have not been raised with this volume of accompaniment in years. The organist seems physically attached to his instrument; he is truly outdoing himself on this day. Singing their hearts out, the choir members move on into the loft as the clergy take their seats down near the lectern.
If the road to heaven is paved with stanzas, then today the parishioners of Saint Paul’s are in the center lane:
When I tread the verge of Jordan,
Bid my anxious fears subside;
Bear me through the swelling current,
Land me safe on Canaan’s side;
Songs of praises, songs of praises,
I will ever give to thee, I will ever give to thee.
As the opening hymn arrives at its noble and profound conclusion, the magnificence of this morning’s procession is hardly lost on anyone. In hushed tones, many cannot resist commenting on the spirit of the service. Even from his seat at the front of the church, Reverend Clark overhears the active conversation of the congregation. He allows it to go on for a few more moments, for what harm is there in words of joy and enthusiasm? His beaming face exchanges a few approving looks with that of the equally enthralled organist.
Patrick is back in church today, sitting in a visitor’s pew box, and with him, as in the days before, is Elisabeth, looking stunning in her new dark blue dress and hat, purchased in the market yesterday. Mentally, Elisabeth is relieved to find herself entirely over her personal period of mourning, yet she’s socially obligated to maintain an outward appearance of sorrow for at least a few more weeks.
The rector remains in his throne-like chair on the platform under the cross, his eyes observing Jacob as he walks up to the lectern. Patrick had told Jacob that Elisabeth would be attending today’s service, so Jacob thought he would try to reach out to her personally. The gesture is intended to aid her through her grief. And so the scripture he chooses from Corinthians is more for her personal benefit than to prepare the other parishioners for the coming Easter.
Howbeit we speak wisdom among them that are perfect: yet not the wisdom of this world, nor of the princes of this world, that come to naught: But we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery, even the hidden wisdom, which God ordained before the world unto our glory: Which none of the princes of this world knew: for had they known it, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory. But as it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.
If only Jacob knew what was actually inside Elisabeth’s heart……
Elisabeth, however, is only one parishioner. Most everyone in the church on this morning senses that the spirit of God is moving among the clergy and staff. Either that, or they got into some liquid spirits before the service. In any event, when Reverend Clark rises to approach the pulpit, the congregation greets him with high expectations.
And the reverend does not fail them.
His message regarding the coming Easter, the message of Christ crucified and risen from the dead, provides a perfect metaphor to call up the ravages of war and an uncertain future. Reverend Clark must choose his words with tremendous care, for the congregation of Saint Paul’s has as many Unionist members as it does Secessionists.
All the political subtext is lost on Patrick this morning. His mind isn’t really in the room, as he’s just pleased to be spending time with Elisabeth. And, given the looks of her eyes, she is just as content to be with him.
When the sermon and the prayers come to an end, the organ once more finds a fresh beginning. As before, the passion is beyond grounded measurement. The young boy pumping the bellows can barely keep up. The parishioners sing their way down the aisle, out of the church, and into the world with such enthusiasm that they surely cannot help but compete with the volume of the Catholics and Presbyterians on the other side of Broad Street.
* * *
Patrick and Elisabeth are going to have lunch on the hotel veranda, but before they do, Patrick leaves Elisabeth in the lobby for a moment to stop by his room and freshen up. He suggests that she join him, but, being a proper Southern lady, she elects to stay downstairs.
Upon opening the door, Patrick is greeted by yet another note on the floor. He feels the burn of acid within his chest. These notes are getting to be a bit much for him.
Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Courthouse this morning. The government is evacuating Danvill
e and heading South.
Wait, what?
Patrick reads the words to himself again, this time out loud. The hour of this government is growing dark. At long last, the days of the Confederacy are numbered. But Patrick’s most pressing questions are local rather than far away.
How is he getting this information so quickly? Who is putting these messages under his door?
For now, however, mysteries will have to wait. He’s got to get back downstairs to Elisabeth.
* * *
After a light and pleasant lunch, the couple makes their way across Broad Street and down to their familiar spot on the Savannah River behind the church. Both of them feel an ache about their eyes and need a respite from the events of the past week.
Pointing his finger, Patrick picks a fallen River Birch log a few feet up from the water on the grassy bank. Not a word passes between them before Elisabeth takes off her shoes and hat, and Patrick takes leave of his coat. They sit side-by-side, looking out over the tranquil river with its lazy, unambitious current. After a still and settling moment, Patrick puts his arm around Elisabeth and starts to address her.
“I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you this week.”
She responds very rapidly, almost cutting him off, “Oh, I’ve enjoyed being with you.”
Patrick continues, his tone taking a subtle shift, “But as much as we have gotten to know each other, there is still a lot that I don’t know.”
“You’re right, Patrick. There is a lot you don’t know, and I guess the time is right to change that from being the case.”
At once, Patrick feels a fullness in his blood. “Well first, your son. I’ve never seen him, nor have I seen any evidence of him at your house.”
“You are very perceptive, Patrick.” Elisabeth thinks for a moment. Within that moment, Patrick consciously realizes that her compliment will not make things better if she has deceived him. “I really can’t hide this anymore,” she says, “at least not from you. I do have a son. He is five years old. But I haven’t seen him in a year.”
“What do you mean you haven’t seen him?” Patrick asks. “Is he away at school or something?”
“No,” says Elisabeth. She looks directly at Patrick, then applies great effort to the cause of holding in her emotions. “He is with Adolphus Roads. Actually, Roads has him staying with a family somewhere that I don’t know.”
The world at once begins to spin around Patrick. The river, so slow a moment before, suddenly seems to swell with agitation.
“What is he doing with your son?” Patrick’s voice cracks for the first time since he was a teenager.
“He is holding the boy in return for something from Adam.”
“Something from Adam? Well, whatever it is, Adam can’t give it now.”
Briefly, Patrick fears that his words were insensitive, but judging from the plain look on Elisabeth’s face, she is not ruffled.
“Adam’s loyalty. It’s a way to keep Adam loyal to him,” Elisabeth says, at which point she begins to share her most incredible story…
“You see, Adam was recruited by Roads to run his black market operation in Charleston when the Clinch Rifles were sent there for guard duty. We needed the money, so after a lot of sleepless nights and detailed conversations, Adam agreed to help. At first, it was innocent. Stealing a box of goods here and reselling it there. But then Roads smelled trouble among his thugs and demanded that Adam eliminate a couple of the ringleaders. Adam responded that he didn’t sign on to kill people.”
Patrick listens in utter suspense.
“This makes for a problem. Roads demands total loyalty from his workers, so he sent two of his henchmen to our house and took my son—literally right out of my arms. There was nothing I could do. And the message he’d sent was clear: Adam will follow orders, or we’ll never see our child again. So Adam did what he was told to do, but afterwards, rather than give our boy back, Roads kept him to make sure that Adam was not a problem again. After that, Adam changed completely. He became even more focused on what Roads wanted and less focused on me and our son. It was like he was trying to put us out of his life. That’s when he turned to other women and liquor. It’s no wonder he got killed in the fighting at Bentonville; he was probably drunk on the battlefield.”
Patrick listens in disbelief. There was no way in the world that he could have guessed at how deep Elisabeth’s well of troubles ran. He feels a tangible sadness for her and wants now more than ever to help her get on with her life.
“Elisabeth, hearing your story puts an ache in my chest. You can count on me to help see you through this. Okay?”
She nods.
“Okay, let’s think hard about this. How do we get your son back?” Patrick asks.
“Quite a question, isn’t it?” she asks, clearly not possessed of an answer.
Immediately, Patrick’s mind goes back to the envelope that Roads passed him at the funeral. Was it a message to Elisabeth about her son? Patrick supposes he will never know.
“Elisabeth…” Patrick begins. “Elisabeth…I have something to share with you.” Patrick slides off the log and kneels in front of her. They are face-to-face.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Remember at the funeral, when Mr. Roads came up to speak with you?”
“Yes.”
Patrick takes Elisabeth’s hands in his.
“Well, after he spoke with you, he handed me an envelope to give to you. I put it into my coat pocket to pass on to you later, and then forgot I had it.”
Anxiously, she asks him to hand it over.
“I can’t,” Patrick confesses. “It’s gone. It wasn’t in my coat pocket, nor anywhere in my hotel room when I went back to get it. And I’m practically certain I didn’t drop it anywhere.”
“Are you practically certain or are you certain?” Elisabeth is unable to conceal her fury.
“Certain,” he says. “I think.”
“Patrick, I can’t believe this!” Elisabeth snatches her hands from Patrick’s. Patrick professes to be her protector but loses what could be critical information?
“I am so sorry, Elisabeth.” Patrick shows his regret in his tone. “It was an honest mistake. Now we’ve got to find that envelope.”
Elisabeth cannot contain her emotions any longer; she lowers her head into her hands and releases a string of sobs.
The most frightening aspect of this predicament is that neither Patrick nor Elisabeth have any way of knowing what Roads was trying to communicate through his gesture. Was it about her son? Was it a donation to help with expenses? Was it a simple note of sympathy? A dire warning? Any or some or all of the above?
They’ve got to find the envelope.
* * *
Patrick does the most basic and practical thing: He goes back to Magnolia Cemetery to retrace his steps. Did he actually drop the envelope? After a brief stretch of searching, he finds the wooden grave marker on which has been carved “Adam Vernon.” Carefully, he searches the freshly turned red clay that now covers the grave. As well, he looks and picks through the flowers that have been left behind. He even scours the ground around and under the huge magnolia trees.
Nothing.
Dare he go to Roads directly and confess his lame misstep? An extremely risky prospect. What harm might come to Elisabeth and her son if Roads feels threatened by the disappearance of what could be an incriminating note?
Patrick cannot get over this; he is a master of investigation and espionage, yet this ordeal has him stumped. And scared. It’s as though the envelope’s disappearance is mocking him, for it’s such a simple occurrence that it calls upon none of his professional strengths. There’s no nuance, no depth—just a foolish missing item! He feels like punching tree bark.
He retraces his steps back to the hotel, scanning the sides of the streets. Despite whatever optimism he manages to scrape together, in the end he finds nothing other than the trash that some folks have tossed away.
Back in his hot
el room, Patrick sinks into the plush chair by the window and slips deep into contemplation. He’s aware of the stark and petrifying reality that failure is not an option. There’s far too much at stake for him to fail at this: not only his own life, but now the life of somebody he’s falling for, as well as the life of her dear son. He has true feelings for Elisabeth, and he winces hard at the thought of any harm coming to her. But, even with all the power of the Confederate government and the Treasury office behind him, Patrick is helpless to help himself, let alone Elisabeth and her boy.
Just like I was that day in the stable, he thinks. So much blood, so much horror, and not a thing that I could do. The same for New Market. How do you grab a handful of air?
Never again does he wish to feel that way.
For some reason, perhaps because he is devoid of any other moves, Patrick feels drawn back to his coat, which is hanging on the rack by the door. It’s still in the same place where he put it after the funeral. Looks the same, too; a button he had noticed missing is still waiting to be replaced. Patrick slips his hand into the inside pocket…
…and touches something. He works his fingers, and the object makes a rustling noise. He grabs the source of the noise and pulls it out.
Patrick is a model of astonishment! He has in his hand the envelope for Elisabeth. He closely examines it. Yes, it’s the one Roads passed to him following the funeral. And no, it does not appear to have been opened. But how could he have missed it before?
Patrick has a feeling that he didn’t.
And more than relief, he feels a deepening sense of dread. Most probably, the envelope was seized and altered in his absence. The only alternative explanation is even more troubling:
That Patrick Graham is losing his mind.
It has happened to other soldiers before. The intensity of battle can certainly alter the shape of a strong man’s brain. Is he not up for this particular mission? Has he departed from his basic good sense?
