by Bob Young
Mr. Graham, We are glad to hear your work is coming along so well and would like to meet with you for a status report. Friday, April 15, at noon at the stagecoach inn, Washington, GA.
Charles Liston, Sales Manager
A fine proposal. Patrick has a lot to talk over with Charles. Besides, Patrick is momentarily at a real disadvantage when it comes to keeping up with the state of the Confederate government of which he is still an employee.
Recalling the prior vanishing-and-reappearing act pulled by Elisabeth’s envelope, Patrick takes no chances with this note. He places it in the top dresser drawer, underneath the liner paper that his clothes rest atop. No one will see it there.
Unless, of course, they go searching for it.
Patrick checks the drawer three times before moving on.
Now for the greenbacks. Patrick takes a seat in the chair by the window. The morning sunlight is bright and beaming in. He holds up the first one-hundred-dollar note. It is quite the fine specimen, new and crisp. And what’s this? The date is April 1, 1865. How did Roads get his hands on brand new greenbacks, here, in the middle of the Deep South? He had to print them, reasons Patrick. There’s no other way.
The note looks perfect. It contains the red treasury seal, along with red serial numbers. The signatures are printed in correct style, too—and all the names are accurate! The shading in the engraved portrait is a feat of perfection. Patrick can’t see a speck of wrongness on its front. And when he turns it over…the back looks just as pristine.
When the Union government began printing greenbacks, it did so with the intention of using a newly automated system, for the sake of turning out a perfect note every time.
Patrick has to hand it to the Yankees. They really have their act together when it comes to printing money—to say nothing of fighting wars, if the present talk is to be believed. And in the bargain, they also have it together when it comes to fighting counterfeiters.
An expert on the high standards set by the Union, Patrick has not a shred of doubt that the greenback he holds in his hands is genuine. He then holds up the second one and examines it. And the third, then the fourth…and the fifth. All look genuine.
And yet, he would not be considered an expert if he were not inclined to be excessively thorough. Accordingly, he wants to make one last check.
Beyond Patrick’s class of professionals, there is a group that really, deeply, and undeniably knows money, on account of handling it all day long, every day of the week.
These people are called bankers.
And so, expecting the worst but hoping for the best, Patrick leaves the hotel and heads over to the Bank of Augusta. There a teller, a chief teller, and a manager all examine the notes with great attention to detail. Their verdict is the same as his. Each bill is genuine.
So goes the life of an investigator: another theory slain, another piece of evidence not obtained. Patrick had really believed that he had counterfeit greenbacks that he could tie directly to Adolphus Roads, and better still, counterfeits that Roads had personally delivered into his hands. But Roads had gone and let him down by giving Elisabeth the real thing. The question still lingers in Patrick’s mind though: How did Roads get brand new bank notes from the U.S. treasury within a week of them being issued? Whoever his source is must be first class, and not the sort of person you’d encounter on any given street corner.
* * *
It’s late in the afternoon when Patrick meets Elisabeth in the Saint Paul’s churchyard. They walk and talk.
“Heard anything about the election?” Patrick asks, imagining the buzz at The Office after the polls shut their doors.
“Actually, as I was leaving, the mayor came in with the results— and he was beaming,” she said.
“Was there ever any doubt?” One needn’t have owned a crystal ball to have predicted such an outcome.
“I wrote the numbers down,” she says, unfolding the scrap of paper. “It was nine hundred sixty-four votes for Mayor May and one hundred thirty for Mister Picquett.”
“I guess they weren’t kidding when they applauded that speech,” Patrick opines.
“Probably not,” Elisabeth smiles. She folds the paper into her pocketbook. “What about the currency? Is it good?”
“I’ll give Roads this: If he’s a counterfeiter, then he’s the best who ever lived. The money is real,” Patrick confirms.
Taking a step away from him, Elisabeth takes a seat on a nearby bench and unleashes a sigh of relief. Her whole chest seems to collapse in the process.
“That’s great news. Oh, Patrick, the money will come in real handy while we’re staying with your folks. I’ll be able to pay them some rent and help with the expenses.”
Patrick nods tersely, unsure as to whether his parents would accept her generosity. “Elisabeth,” he says, shifting into a different topic, “I know you’re anxious to see your son, but why don’t you try to get him back the first of next week?”
“Wait why?!” Elisabeth is surprised. “Patrick, I haven’t seen my son for months. He needs to be with his mother!”
“I don’t disagree for a moment, but…” Patrick begins making his case: “I’ve got to make your travel arrangements. My parents want to make the cabin on the farm ready for you. You’ll want to give the restaurant a little notice. And you’ve got to close out your house here to at least make it look like you are permanently leaving. We’ve got a lot to do before you can just walk out of here.”
In other words, given the importance of this departure, there is no sense in executing it without having ventilated every conceivable obstruction.
“As usual, you are right, Patrick,” says Elisabeth, her words slow and sounding detached. She lowers her head into her hands. “I just want this nightmare to end, the sooner, the better.”
Patrick takes her hands from her head and holds them. Lowering his voice, he tells her, “Yes, it will end soon enough. And at the end, you and your son will be fine. I promise.”
“I believe you. I have no other choice,” Elisabeth replies, sliding closer to Patrick and resting her head on his shoulder.
“Okay, so you have a lot to do this week to get ready, and I’m going to have to…go away for a few days to do some work. But we’ll be back together this weekend, get you set up to leave.”
Now Elisabeth’s voice is loud: “What do you mean, Patrick, that you have to go away?”
Patrick chooses his words with utmost care, using the same attention to detail that he used when assessing those bills: “My manager needs to meet with me, and we’re going to connect in Washington later this week. The trip will also give me a chance to pay a visit to our Vice President, Alexander Stephens, at Liberty Hall in Crawfordville.”
Patrick looks at her, hoping for her consent, but does not receive it. “Believe me, Elisabeth, if I didn’t have to go, I’d be right here with you. But my work is the whole reason I came here in the first place.”
“The official reason,” she says, her luminous face studying his.
“Yes, that’s right,” he agrees, and then, tossing in a bit of sincere yet manipulative romance, “but my fate was to find you.”
At least, it felt sincere for the moment. But then again, thought Patrick, what do I know about fate? Who can know what structure commands this world?
“Please keep in touch,” Elisabeth begs. She squeezes both his hands, drawing redness to their flesh. “Send me a wire every day to let me know you are safe. There are Yankees all around the woods north of here.”
Patrick works up a strong, full smile. “Don’t worry, ma’am. That kind of trouble is not on my agenda.”
* * *
Given her new status as a war widow, Elisabeth finds herself on the receiving end of many invitations to participate with Augusta’s benevolent organizations. Tonight finds her at a meeting held by the group that is raising funds to assist the Third Georgia Hospital.
The hospital holds about four hundred sick and wounded soldiers, most of whom
require some sort of special diet. The director, lacking the money to buy what he needs, has issued a plea for a benefit concert. Already, the Sloman family has offered to perform, and the Mayor intends to assemble a committee to handle the details. Elisabeth, despite her litany of troubles, is more than pleased to participate. The way she sees it, to sit at home feeling sorry for herself would cast her in a role that she abhors more than any—that of the victim.
As for Patrick, tonight he is having supper on the veranda with Reverend Anderson. The assistant from Saint Paul’s is seeing no decrease in his interest in Patrick and his activities in Augusta. Patrick does not quite know what to make of this, but he suspects that Jacob is trying to recruit a new member to his church.
Patrick arrives first and is pleased about that, as he’s early enough to get them a table overlooking the street. Considering that it’s springtime in August, it’s been an unkindly humid and hot day, but the air is cooling down nicely, issuing a slight breeze up the river valley as the sun begins to recline beneath the horizon. This particular evening seems made more for supper on the veranda with Elisabeth. But Jacob will have to do. In any event, he is a reliable provider of good conversation.
Jacob arrives at a festive moment, just as the server is bringing out a bottle of wine. Patrick took the liberty of ordering a French Merlot.
“Looks like the Lord is still looking out for my timing,” says Jacob, seating himself at the table.
Patrick laughs. “You could not have planned it better, my friend,” he replies. “It’s good seeing you. This is just the way to end a long day.”
The waitress pours two glasses, and after making eye contact, each man raises his to toast. Patrick offers: “To the Confederacy.”
Jacob counters, “How about to an end to war?”
Patrick says, “I like that. Cheers.”
They touch their glasses and each takes a swallow.
Patrick commences their discussion by asking about the spirit in yesterday morning’s service. He says he’s never seen anything like it anywhere, much less in an Episcopal church.
Jacob nods his agreement. “But you’ve heard it said that the Lord works in mysterious ways. I’m just glad that he was clocking some time at Saint Paul’s!”
They share a laugh.
Jacob continues, “The Lord is doing his work in some good ways during these dark times in Augusta. Church of the Atonement is collecting bandages and raising funds for our sick and wounded in the field. The president of the Hebrew Benevolent Society offered up a public prayer to deliver the Confederate States ‘from her oppressors.’ And the congregation of the Children of Israel raised one hundred dollars.”
Impressed, Patrick adds, “Even Elisabeth tonight is with a group that’s going to put on a show with the Slomans to raise money for one of our hospitals.”
Jacob’s eyes beam; he likes the sound of that. He responds, “Yes, it is wonderful that in times when we don’t have a lot, people are willing to sacrifice. I like to think it comes out of Christian duty. And, speaking of Elisabeth, how is she doing?”
“Much better, Jacob. Thanks for asking,” Patrick replies, talking another sip from his glass. The liquid delivers a nice, gentle burn to his throat before slipping down deeper. “She is going away for a little while to get away from here and her work. She really needs some time alone, for her mind to mend. And she can’t get it here because everyone wants to help the war widows.”
“Well, despite what you’ve said, if I can help in any way, I hope you will know to call on me. It was good to have her in church with you Sunday. Is she staying for Easter?” Jacob asks.
“She’ll be here for Easter, for sure, then probably leave the first of next week. I offered to help with the arrangements,” volunteers Patrick, before catching himself. No need to distribute too much information. It’s important that no one knows where Elisabeth will be, and he only abandons control by making it clear that he’ll be aiding her. “I mean, I told her I would get her to the train station or the riverboat, depending on what she decides to do. Don’t want to invade her privacy.”
The server walks up and refills their wine glasses. The wine, while being poured, catches a fine sparkle from the rising moon outside. “Supper, gentlemen?” she inquires.
Patrick goes first, following a gesture from Jacob. “I’ll have the pork, potatoes, and corn.”
Then Jacob jumps in: “Make mine the fried chicken and greens—and don’t forget the cornbread.”
The waitress replies, “I can see you gentlemen are hungry, so I’ll get the cook right on this.”
She scoops up their menus and leaves.
“Jacob,” Patrick says, “our country is coming unraveled, no doubt. And I must ask, where does that put our church, which is in a rebellion of its own with the church up north?”
“Excellent question, Patrick. It’s one I ask often,” Jacob responds. “When you go back to the pastoral letter from the bishops after their meeting at Saint Paul’s in 1862, it seems that the door to reunification has always been open. That’s because they said the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States—and I’ll try to use their words—is ‘a church whose doctrine, discipline, and worship we are in entire harmony.’ I believe that’s right.”
Patrick nods his head in agreement, taking another most welcome sip of wine.
“And they went on to state that above all, they wanted to ‘preserve the rich treasures of doctrine and worship,’ which are in the Book of Common Prayer. Patrick, I won’t attempt to read anything into this, other than it looks like the bishops left open a path to reconciliation at the end of hostilities…”
“Or, at the beginning of peace,” says Patrick.
“That’s a good way to look at it,” Jacob replies. “The membership of our church is no more united on our destiny than are the people of the Confederate States. Many believe in this war, while others don’t.
After clearing some dust from his throat, Patrick adds, “And then there are even those that don’t care one way or the other.”
“Exactly,” says Jacob, taking a small sip from the surface of the liquid in his glass. “As for me, I guess I would be called a Unionist. Granted, I’m a son of the South, and I took up arms in her name. But, I cannot say that I support this war, to say nothing of the succession that got us here. That said, I’m confident we can work out our differences within the family of one nation, as we are bound to do when the war’s day passes.”
Patrick gives a nod of his head, but agreement is not quite expressed.
“Getting back to the church: The only real issue is the prayer for the President of the Confederate States, and not praying for the President of the United States. I personally believe that God calls us to pray for all in authority, wherever they be; to pray that He would give them wisdom and guide them according to His will. I mean, look at it this way…from a Southern perspective, Abe Lincoln could certainly use a lot of prayer to make different decisions.”
Patrick takes a moment to absorb his friend’s logic. “I can’t disagree with that, Jacob,” he says.
Patrick knows the value of prayer from his own life experiences— namely when his brother died and when those in his charge were killed in battle. His life has led him to believe that prayer is not the exclusive province of any group of people nor any political organization.
“Things are already getting stirred up in Richmond,” Jacob says.
“In what way?” Patrick asks.
“We received word this week that Father Minnegerode, the Rector of Saint Paul’s…”
“Yes, I’ve worshipped with him,” Patrick says quickly, not wanting to interrupt, yet desiring to relate.
“Well, he’s raised the issue of the loyalty oath to the Union that the commanding general in Richmond is requiring. Father is standing firm in the contention that ministers are subject not to civil law, but to ecclesiastical law. He’s arguing with General Ripley that he cannot change prayers in worship, that instead
the convention of the diocese of Virginia would have to authorize it.”
Patrick gives a shake of his head. “That’s a heck of an argument to make.”
Jacob continues, “He did agree to drop the prayer for the President of the Confederate States, even though Jeff Davis is still in office. Doesn’t want to appear disloyal to the occupying forces. In fact, Father has watered down the language to pray for 'all in authority.’”
Patrick asks Jacob if Saint Paul’s in Augusta has talked about how this will be handled, in the event that it comes to that.
“Reverend Clark and I have talked at some length about it, and so have the vestry, but we’ve come to no conclusion as of yet. Probably best to wait for now. If we go too far one way or the other, we could drive members out of the church, and none of us want that.”
As Jacob finishes this remark, the suppers arrive, and the two hungry men give their conversation a rest while keeping their mouths wholly occupied.
* * *
The sun beams down upon all with palpable might and authority.
Patrick has spent much of the new day making arrangements for his trip to Crawfordville, to visit Vice President Stephens, after which it’s on to Washington for the meeting with Colonel Liston. But prior to leaving, his thoughts are nowhere near this pair of destinations. Rather, he is anxiously awaiting a report from Elisabeth on a morning-time visit that she is paying to Roads.
Patrick thumbs through a newspaper in a chair in the corner of the hotel lobby, his eyes hardly taking notice of its contents, so busy are they waiting for the first sign of Elisabeth.
The light tap on his shoulder is unmistakable. Patrick is up from his chair like a quail from the grass.
He and Elisabeth embrace with the intense emotions of two old friends who haven’t seen each other in years. Holding her body against his, Patrick can feel Elisabeth’s heart racing. She releases her grip from Patrick and sits down in his chair, her body all but collapsing.
