The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  Meditating on Charles’s warning about a Union spy, he asks himself, Could the spy have been the source of this document? Perhaps the spy is beginning to be less secretive and may soon reveal himself to Patrick. Such a thought certainly does not mark the first time that a man has wished for a spy to give up his own identity, and Patrick knows it. His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by another knock on the door.

  Before him stands the clerk from the express office.

  Patrick fumbles through the items atop his dresser—watch, rings, assorted papers and files—for a dollar to tip the boy.

  Upon being alone again and opening the paper, he sees it is from Fraser, Trenholm, & Company. This morning brings an update on the military situation:

  Columbus, Georgia fell last night after a hard fight, and we believe they are moving toward Macon. The enemy also attacked West Point and Thomaston. Their number is about 9,000.

  Be careful.

  Patrick rapidly concludes that at this pace the enemy is not long for Augusta and could even be on a collision course with Davis and the scared, fleeing government. More pressing still, Patrick is running out of time to break up this counterfeit operation while he still has some authority as a Treasury Agent. Come tomorrow, Elisabeth will sail for safe harbor in the Lowcountry, and if God is merciful, she will have her son back. That reality would allow Patrick to put this case to rest.

  * * *

  Patrick heads to the Office Restaurant. Breakfast is his second priority. His first is to see Elisabeth.

  The diners are abuzz with news of the war—amidst their gossip, fact and fiction hardly bother to separate from another. Lincoln is dead. Seward is dead. Other cabinet members are near death. The Union government is near collapse. Johnson is in hiding. Columbus has fallen. Evacuations are already underway in Macon. Augusta is going to be the new capital of the Confederacy. And looming above all else, a question:

  Where is Jeff Davis?

  It’s a lot of routine chatter. But one particular bit of it captures Patrick’s attention.

  “Yes, they say that the treasure is fifteen million dollars. Jeff Davis has it, and he’s going into hiding with it.” “I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up here in Augusta with it. Safest place around, you know.”

  Now, Patrick knows full well that these townsfolk couldn’t possibly have details of the Confederate Treasury movement, but he is quite concerned that outlandish stories might incite some folks to try to take it for themselves. After all, there is nothing to stop them because times are indeed that hard. He is most certain the treasure will be particularly appealing to the local master criminal, Adolphus Roads.

  “Good morning, Patrick,” a smiling and perky Elisabeth says as she approaches his usual table by the front window.

  Patrick stands up to greet her. He gives her a strong hug, followed by a soft kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, darling.”

  “This is my last morning at work. The Jeff Davis sails for Savannah at noon tomorrow, and I’ll be darned if I miss her.”

  “I’m just as excited as you are,” Patrick says. “I’ll come take you to the landing.”

  “I’d like that,” says Elisabeth. “Tomorrow, it’ll be a new day, Patrick. I’ll have my son back, and we’ll be on our way to our new life.”

  Nodding, Patrick addresses a practicality: “My folks wired me that they’ll be at the wharf in Savannah to meet you. You’ll so enjoy staying with them; I’m actually envious.”

  It was true. What he wouldn’t give for a break from work and a quiet string of days on the farm.

  “I thank you and your family so much for this. And I’ll do my best to not be a bother.”

  “Stop it. You certainly will be anything but. Now, how about some coffee and breakfast—the usual?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away,” Elisabeth says, giving a quick salute, then turning with a smile and heading for the kitchen. Patrick’s attention is then drawn to the morning newspaper.

  Roads saunters into the eatery with his usual entourage of hangers on, but instead of going straight to his table in the back, he makes it a point to seek out Patrick.

  “Good morning, Mr. Graham,” Roads says as he approaches Patrick’s table. It’s all that Patrick can do to avoid perspiring. Roads sticks out his hand to shake Patrick’s and invites himself to a seat. In the same instant as he sits down, he waves off his escorts to the table in the back.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Roads,” Patrick says with a smile, touching his forehead and finding with great relief that its skin is dry.

  “I wanted to share with you that I have of late acquired a substantial amount of cotton, which I’d like to offer to Fraser, Trenholm, and Company,” Roads says, dispensing with any formalities and getting right down to business.

  “Oh, I’m glad to hear that,” Patrick replies. “Our buyers are increasing their orders on a daily basis, especially those in Europe. And lately we’ve had some discreet inquiries from concerns in the North, which seems to be having cotton supply problems.”

  “One can only wonder why the North would have supply problems,” Roads says with a chuckle beneath his words. “Why don’t you come to my warehouse down on the wharf and take a look? I’d like you to see the fine quality the farmers have taken to market this season.”

  “Be glad to, Mr. Roads. Why don’t we say..later this afternoon?”

  “That’ll be fine. And also, I want to thank you for the tickets you send over to the benefit tonight. I had enough for my employees and their families to attend, and I’ll be joining them. We’ll help pack the house for these wounded heroes of the South.”

  Roads knocks his fist on the tabletop, a gesture to punctuate his stated good intentions.

  His words are just what Patrick needed to hear. With his employees otherwise occupied Roads’ businesses will be ripe for reconnaissance tonight, as long as the Slomans just keep singing.

  “Great. I’ll see you there,” Patrick responds.

  Roads gets up from his seat, tipping his hat. “Looking forward to it,” Roads says as he walks over to his own table.

  Elisabeth had waited beside a tall plant for Roads to leave before bringing Patrick his breakfast.

  “Quite the way to start your morning, conversing with the devil,” Elisabeth says, glancing in the direction of Roads’ table.

  “No argument there. He is the devil himself. But soon he’ll see just how vulnerable he is.”

  “Patrick, you’ve been such a good friend and companion,” Elisabeth offers. “I know I can count on you.”

  Patrick gives the lady a nod. He doesn’t quite like being called a “friend,” but he knows what she means, and he’s more than happy to serve as a source of comfort for Elisabeth.

  * * *

  Electricity hangs thick in the air as people arrive at Masonic Hall for the Third Georgia Hospital concert. Elisabeth, the city’s other war widows, and members of the mayor’s organizing committee can only trade bright smiles upon seeing the turnout. Tonight will be a grand night for music—and entertainment in general.

  When Patrick arrives, he finds Elisabeth backstage helping the Sloman family get their music sheets and instruments in place for the opening numbers.

  “Looks like you’re in for an overwhelming success,” Patrick says. “The house is filled past the brim.”

  Elisabeth takes a brief pause from her work. “Oh, Patrick, I just don’t know what to say. The people of Augusta are so generous.”

  Patrick aims a finger at the Slomans’ materials. “You need some help?”

  After studying a clock on the wall, Elisabeth shakes her head. “We’re hurrying, but we’re fine. Why don’t we meet out front after the show?”

  “Sure,” he says, as he leans way over to give her a kiss, testing the limits of his balance in the process. “I’ll look for you there.”

  The sun is setting, beaming with orange brilliance, as Patrick leaves through the rear door of Masonic Hall and steps out onto dusty Ellis Street.
During the afternoon, he identified all the most likely places where Roads would have set up his printing operation, and tonight, he intends to go back for a peek inside. One place where he will not go is the warehouse at the wharf. His visit in the afternoon to inspect the cotton convinced him that the printing press couldn’t be hidden there.

  * * *

  The sign upon the storefront on lower Broad Street says “Adam Smith & Co, Auction House.” Patrick peers through the front window, gazing into the darkness of the shop. The large and spookily unoccupied room is filled with all kinds of mercantile goods. Mr. Smith has done very well in assembling his consignments, no doubt. But Patrick knows that everything in here really belongs to Adolphus Roads, and the only Mr. Smith around here exists on the sign painted on the door. Seeing no activity among the shadows inside, Patrick walks around to the rear of the building to take a closer look.

  The lock on the cracked wooden door is easy enough to pick, and Patrick carefully steps inside, measuring his every pace. He does his best to keep his footsteps soundless, and to keep his breath as quiet as humanly possible. Rapidly, he finds that his eyes are adjusting to the darkness, but not before he stumbles over a barrel of flour, which spills onto the floor. A soft, near-invisible cloud of whiteness travels upward. It’s a tense, bleak moment, but no voice or movement comes in response to the noise, so he knows he’s alone in the shop. He tips the barrel back upright and replaces the lid.

  A survey of the first floor turns up nothing, so he makes his way up the stairs to the second floor, his ankles tight and his steps all deliberate. Some of the boards let out startling groans, but his step is light enough to keep them contained.

  The ambient light flowing in from Broad Street provides an eerie glow through the front windows, revealing the upper floor to be just as cluttered as the lower with commodities like sugar, flour, cloth, and envelopes. But one stack does catch Patrick’s attention. He strikes a match for a closer look. Its orange flame crackles in the darkness. The boxes are labeled “Ink,” as manufactured by Smithfield, Stein & Co, London. He can clearly see the colored labels—black, red, and green—just the combination needed to print counterfeit greenbacks…

  Some of the boxes have been opened, the containers of ink missing. Patrick immediately suspects that the printing operation is already underway. But where?

  Although he is short on all the needed facts, Patrick is learning just how clever Roads really is. He has obviously spread the elements of his counterfeiting around to different locations. That way, if one part of the scheme is discovered, then the other parts will remain secure. Tonight, however, Patrick will put the scheme to the test, as he visits three more of Roads’ buildings. He has found the ink. Now, where are the paper, the plates, and the press?

  The most startling discovery comes at the office of “Dr. Powers Collier,” located on Jackson Street. Although the sign says doctor’s office, you would be hard pressed to get a consultation with a doctor on the inside. The building is devoid of any medical equipment. Its cramped quarters are packed with a lot of old office equipment, some of which is covered in sheets.

  Shortly after entering Patrick is drawn to a row of cabinets. While going through the drawers one by one, Patrick sees manifests from blockade runners, invoices for sales, and an odd-looking green ledger. As he did before, he strikes a match for a closer inspection. The sweet scent of smoke coils into his nostrils. Upon opening the cover on the first page, he sees a list in two columns. The list contains about two dozen entries that appear to be initials with a dollar amount written beside each one. Some have more than one dollar amount. And some of the entries are fairly recent.

  Could these be payoffs? Are these loans? What could the list possibly be, and what do all of these entries have in common? Patrick feels the brief bite of fire on his fingers. The match has gone out. He strikes another one and copies the entries he sees onto a separate sheet of paper. If these are indeed initials, then it shouldn’t be hard to come up with some names. That is, of course, if they’re actual initials and not ruled by some arcane code. But what are the currency amounts for? As Patrick continues to write, his newly lit match burns down to his fingers. He quickly drops this one, then reaches into his pocket for another and strikes it hard. As the glow begins to grow, Patrick’s eyes are drawn to the last entry on the page: EV $500c.

  Might “EV” be Elisabeth Vernon? After all, he did pass five hundred dollars to Elisabeth after the funeral. “c?” Does that mean “counterfeit?” But how could it? The greenbacks he gave to Elisabeth were real. Maybe it simply means “claimed” or “collected.” But either way, the entry gives Patrick every indication that he has discovered an important piece of information.

  He places the book back into the cabinet drawer where he found it, then pulls open another drawer. A dirty, clumped-up cloth catches his eye. It is covered in what appears to be ink stains. As he lifts up the cloth to unwrap it, he hears the sound of the door opening and men conversing. Then a lamp is lit, brightening up the room. Patrick disappears into a dark, shadowy corner behind a stack of desks.

  “Over here; this is the drawer,” he hears one gravelly voice announce.

  “I don’t know why the boss sent us here tonight. I was actually enjoying the concert,” says another.

  “You kidding me, Lindsay? When the boss says he wants something, we don’t ask him when or why. We just get it.”

  Then a third voice joins in: “I especially liked those Sloman girls. They got some impressive lungs. And they sing pretty good, too.”

  The trio laughs: hard, thick, and smoky.

  “Charlie, anything with two legs will make you drool.”

  They all break out in more laughter as one of them opens a drawer and removes the book that Patrick just looked through. Timing is everything, Patrick thinks to himself, and he’s glad that his timing is seemingly strong tonight.

  The ledger in hand, the three men extinguish the lamp and leave the building to return to the concert.

  After he hears the soft closing and locking of the front door, Patrick is immediately back at the cabinet where he found the dirty rags. He picks them up and quickly finds them to be much heavier than a couple of cotton cloths. Pulling away the ends, he unwraps his discovery and finds three rectangular-shaped pieces of metal. His fingers still stinging from being burned twice, Patrick strikes yet another match for a closer look.

  What he sees is unmistakable: Plates for printing greenbacks. One hundred dollar notes. They are fine specimens, too. On the reverse of the plates is engraved “Property of U. S. Treasury.” Patrick knows right away that he holds in his hands the plates stolen from the Yankees. He takes one of them and wipes his finger across its face. Ink, and a lot of it, fresh and wet, darkens his finger revealing that the plates have been recently pressed into service. Patrick wraps the plates back up and returns them to the privacy of their drawer. He then quietly slips out of the “doctor’s office.”

  Patrick makes two more stops for the night, but finds no more results. He is unable to locate the press, nor is he able to find any paper. He knows that Roads must have access to at least one other location to conduct his criminal activity. But tonight won’t be the night when Patrick discovers it.

  * * *

  His palms interlaced and his hands hanging down in front of him, Patrick stands in the rear of Masonic Hall to hear the grand finale. By now, his forehead really is sweating. The Slomans are joined on the stage by a group of amateurs, all of them engaged in a rousing rendition of “Bonnie Blue Flag.” The audience is on its feet. Fists pump into the air with each “hoorah!” from the performers. A series of whistles and a few rebel yells punctuate the orchestration. And when the curtain comes down, the enthusiastic crowd files out, generating instant commentary:

  “Grand affair.” “Best show I’ve ever seen.” “Proud to support the veterans.” “Should have lasted another hour!”

  Glad it didn’t last another minute, Patrick says to himself. He is year
ning more than ever to see Elisabeth, given that this will be their last night together for several weeks.

  Roads and his employees walk by Patrick as they make their way to the door. Patrick’s body tightens up; he uses the back of his hand to dry off his forehead. His catches a glimpse of an ink stain on it and quickly thrusts his hands behind his back.

  Roads claps Patrick hard on the shoulder, and offers, “Wonderful concert. Thanks for the tickets,” as he passes, looking toward the floor to measure his steps.

  “Snowing outside tonight?” Roads asks jokingly.

  Patrick is puzzled by the question, but looks down, too, to see the white powder on his pants and shoes.

  “No,” he quickly responds. “Got caught up in the kitchen with the ladies before the show. You’ll have to admit the cookies they served were grand.”

  The men’s eyes meet. Patrick doesn’t think for a minute that Roads is buying what he’s selling.

  “You’re correct on that count, sir. Good cookies,” Roads replies as he turns to walk away.

  “Glad to hear that,” says Patrick. The trio behind Roads gives Patrick a hard look, but Patrick simply smiles back. Had he truly gone undetected by them in the shadows of the doctor’s office?

  After several more minutes, Elisabeth steps down from the stage and walks through the now empty concert hall. The distance between her and Patrick closes. She is beaming from ear to ear. Her face is bright and aglow, as if she were a star at center stage, performing for an appreciative packed house.

  “Oh, Patrick,” she says, reaching out to embrace him.

  “Elisabeth,” he replies with open arms and a kiss.

  “What a wonderful night. I could not be more pleased.”

  “Darling, you should be very proud.”

  “Oh, Patrick,” she repeats, the excitement swelling up to overtake her voice. “We raised one thousand forty-six dollars to help those sick and wounded soldiers. When you get right down to it, people are so generous!”