The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  “Congratulations!” Patrick exclaims, finding her enthusiasm to be contagious. “This calls for a celebration, indeed. And, I know just the place to celebrate.”

  Smiling and laughing and linking arms, they leave the hall and turn toward lower Broad Street, walking amid the trees and houses until they arrive at Elisabeth’s home.

  At which point the actual celebration begins.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Frankly, Gentlemen, I Just Can’t Believe What I’m Hearing!!” JL His booming voice reverberates through the entirety of the store.

  Roads has begun his day seated at his cluttered desk in his back room office at A. Roads Mercantile. Before him is the ledger from the doctor’s office and his two most trusted strong arms, Lindsay and Charlie.

  “Do I have to attend to every detail myself?!” he shouts at them.

  “No,” they reply, their voices barely audible and their heads hanging low.

  “What am I paying you guys for—to not use your brains?” he shouts again, pounding his desk for emphasis and making various items jump up and drop back down.

  Lindsay and Charlie are anxious for a quick exit, but they both know that if they move once, they may never move again.

  Roads goes on, attempting to collect himself: “So you’re telling me that it looks like the auction house was broken into and the intruder tracked flour through the building? And you also found footprints made of flour on the floor of the doctor’s office?”

  “That’s right, boss,” Lindsay answers.

  “And you saw nothing last night?”

  They shake their hanging heads.

  “And nothing is missing?”

  “Not a thing,” states Charlie.

  “And what about my paper, the fiber paper for our printing project. Is it here yet? Can you at least squeeze out one small droplet of decent news?”

  “Last night. Last night. It came up on the Jeff Davis late yesterday, and I had the boys move it to the print shop last night,” says Lindsay.

  “We’d planned to move the ink and plates this morning. That’s when we found the flour tracks,” adds Charlie.

  “The press will be ready for full operation tomorrow, no problem,” says Lindsay. “We got the boys on it right now.”

  “No problem?! You better hope so!” shouts Roads. “We’re running out of time with the Reb government on the run and the Yankees squeezing us. We’ve got to get that money in circulation.”

  “We will boss, not to worry,” assures Lindsay.

  “Easy for you to say. You have no responsibilities. I am very worried,” says Roads. “But maybe you two can calm me down.”

  The men trade cautious looks.

  “I have a special project for you two,” Roads explains. “I need you down at the dock right away. You’re heading to Savannah on the Jeff Davis. Ron will give you the details and your expense money on the way out of here. Just be sure you do it right—or don’t bother to come back!”

  Both men assure Roads that they can be counted on, then proceed to make their way toward the door, beyond which lies not only their mission, but a feeling of relative safety.

  “And close the door on your way out!” he shouts after them. With a resounding “thud,” the door shuts, leaving Roads to the welcome silence of his office. His head is spinning with the news that he has just been presented. What does this mean, if anything? Roads did not get where he is today by being stupid or careless, and he’s certainly intent upon putting this situation to rest.

  He knows that Elisabeth is leaving Augusta on this day. Is she up to something? A parting shot? Has she gone to the authorities in spite of his threats against her son?

  Roads feels a tremor within his system. The day is not starting well for him…but he already has a plan in place.

  It’s just a question of whether or not the plan will work.

  * * *

  Patrick and Elisabeth awake early. The latter is all smiles, so excited is she about going to get her son. Patrick, for his part, is anxious about the arrival to the city of hundreds of thousands of dollars in government treasure.

  Nonetheless, this, their final morning together, finds them lingering a bit longer than usual beneath the sheets.

  “Elisabeth, darling,” Patrick says, placing a hand against his chest, “I know in my heart that I am falling madly in love with you.”

  Elisabeth strokes his forehead. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same way.”

  “From the morning I first saw you at the restaurant,” Patrick tells her, “I said to myself, ‘This is one special woman.’ I could sense something about your eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Your eyes do betray you.”

  “I’ll have to keep them closed, then, won’t I?”

  They smile.

  “They are the window into all the goodness that I see in you. The sensitivity. The caring that you show for others. The love you have for those closest to you.”

  Elisabeth gives an appreciative smile, but dismissively says to Patrick, “I thought your eyes just told you whether you were asleep or awake…or dead or alive.”

  She winks, and in so doing, contradicts her very own theory.

  “No,” Patrick says, “they tell you what’s in a person’s soul. And I love what I see in yours.”

  “Patrick Graham, I declare. Are you trying to get fresh with me?” Elisabeth asks, giving him a playful shove.

  “Not trying! Succeeding!” says Patrick, grabbing the sheet and pulling it over the two of them. He doesn’t want to waste a single moment of their time left together.

  * * *

  Come late morning, Patrick and Elisabeth take a carriage down to Sisters Ferry on the Savannah River below Augusta. Waiting there is the steamer Jeff Davis, resplendent in bunting and other displays of patriotism, showing no favor to either side in the war. The captain doesn’t want to offend the Federals who have controlled Savannah since Christmas nor the Confederates who are still holding on to Augusta.

  Other passengers begin to gather in as the bales of cotton and other goods are loaded onboard to be taken to markets down river. There is quite a sense of festivity in the air, much different from the arrival of the Jeff Davis yesterday. At that time, it was called a “truce boat,” and it carried women and children refugees. The Union army graciously allowed these family members of Confederate officers to escape the fear of occupation and have a chance to be reunited with their husbands and fathers upon friendly soil. The patriotic people of Augusta waited at the ferry landing in wagons and carriages, ready to take the families to Waynesborough and safe haven. In a fitting gesture, the rebel army had provided them with forage and rations.

  With the military situation in a state of rapid deterioration, additional security is stationed at the landing and on the boat. General Fry is in no mood to make it easier for the enemy to inflict harm upon anyone in his charge. Moreover, he wants to be sure that his ban on travel across Confederate lines is duly enforced.

  Patrick and Elisabeth wait on the dock, alert for the signal to board.

  “My father and mother will be waiting for you when you get off the boat in Savannah. Dad said he’s bringing his finest covered wagon to take you to the farm. My folks even have one of the worker’s cabins all set up for you and…” At that moment, with the force of a lightning bolt, it dawns on Patrick that he doesn’t know her child’s name. He feels a mixture of guilt and fear; guilt for never having asked, and fear over what all the pressure of this assignment has been doing to his mind.

  “…Jimmy.” Elisabeth finishes his sentence.

  “Perfect. A fitting name for a young boy. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  The steam whistle on the boat lets loose a glorious bleat, and after that noise clears, the captain calls for the passengers to board.

  Patrick and Elisabeth embrace one more time. Lips pressing together. Breath mixing together. They know, or at least hope, that they won�
��t be separated for too terribly long.

  As she begins to walk away, Elisabeth takes notice for the first time of Patrick’s pants and shoes, which still bear blotches of white powder. “Darling, what did you get yourself into?”

  Patrick is momentarily taken aback. He much preferred being in the reverie of focusing on Elisabeth. “Oh,” he stammers. “Guess I spilled something in the kitchen.”

  “Better get your clothes washed before you go to see your customers.”

  “I will,” says Patrick.

  A line of guards on the gangway checks the papers of each person boarding. Elisabeth has no papers, but neither does she have any trouble getting on the boat. Mr. Roads has seen to that well in advance.

  Elisabeth and Patrick wave to each other as she backs up the gangway. When she turns, she can hear Patrick’s voice overtaking the rumbling of the crowd: “I love you!”

  “Nice lady,” says Adolphus Roads, who has walked up behind Patrick. The voice makes the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck stand at attention.

  “Yes, a very special lady, who deserves a lot better than she’s been getting,” Patrick comments, turning to face the other man.

  Says Roads with a smile, “Look, I’m just a businessman who wants to take care of business.”

  As it would be out of character for a special agent like Patrick to take the bait, he is mindful to resist.

  “Perhaps, I can help you do that,” says Patrick, as he turns back around to wave to Elisabeth one last time. She waves back from the deck, finishing off their goodbye, but Roads has yet to finish the conversation.

  “Couldn’t help but notice your pants and shoes, Mr. Graham. They’re in terrible need of washing and, I must say, out of character for a respected salesman who calls on customers.

  “Why don’t you bring your pants by the store? I have a wonderful wash woman.”

  “I’ll do that, thank you.” And Patrick turns back to the boat.

  The deck hands have untied the vessel from the dock. The Jeff Davis is quickly in the grip of the river’s current and begins to drift its way out of sight.

  Patrick turns around again, and this time Roads is done with conversation.

  He is gone.

  * * *

  Patrick has plans to meet up with Jacob on the hotel veranda for lunch, but first he stops by his room to freshen up.

  Upon opening the door, in a moment of clockwork choreography Patrick sees a piece of paper on the floor. He picks it up and unfolds it. The handwriting: familiar. His anonymous correspondent has left him yet another message…

  Roads will begin his counterfeit printing operation tomorrow. The press and supplies are in an abandoned house on the east side of town down near the swamp.

  Not bad—one mystery is apparently solved. But for Patrick, the greater mystery persists. What is the source of this information? He no longer questions the accuracy of what he reads. He has obviously got a friend somewhere. But who is this person, and why is he being of help? Patrick knows that to make a tight case against Roads, he’s got to actually catch him with the counterfeit money. Disrupting the printing is not enough. Even if the phony money scheme is successfully disrupted, Roads might get a pass to continue his other activities. No, he must wait for something better and catch the master criminal in a critical mistake.

  * * *

  Patrick stands upon the platform as the special train carrying the Confederate Treasury pulls its massive body into the Augusta station. When it rolls to a final stop, the brakes send out an ear-splitting screech. Sparks scamper from the wheels like giant fireflies. A massive cloud of chocking gray smoke billows upward, coating the sky with a haze. The train’s arrival, while occurring without fanfare, manages to be an event nonetheless. Even before the railroad cars stop, the midshipmen and Marines are on the ground, walking in escort formation around the train’s large assemblage.

  The engine makes its way to a complete stop, and the engineer goes about the process of bleeding the steam. It is near dark, but there’s still enough light in the sky for people to see the mysterious rail cars and their guards get pushed off onto a remote siding.

  What’s the fuss?—they all must wonder. Is Jefferson Davis in Augusta? Are the rumors true that the Confederate capitol is now Augusta, Georgia? Why such a heavy security presence?

  While the midshipmen and Marines undergo preparations to camp with the train tonight, Captain Parker and Mr. Philbrook are already on the platform conferring with Patrick. He is no stranger to Philbrook, who’s one of the top officials in Treasury and the man in charge of the shipment. Parker, on the other hand, is known only by his reputation as a courageous seaman and an able naval educator. Parker has been brought into the circle of those who know Patrick’s real identity, information he can surely be trusted with, considering the fact that the government trusts him with all of its treasure.

  After their exchanges conclude, Philbrook and Parker retire to the Planters Hotel with Patrick for a bite to eat and a restful night of sleep. The cars will remain locked down on the siding tonight, watched over by the sea cadets, Marines, and bank clerks.

  During their walk, they retrace Patrick’s first steps at his arrival in Augusta about three weeks ago.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Patrick,” offers Parker, bringing a hint of informality into their discussion. “For more than two weeks our company has been on the road, beating a hasty run from the Yankees.”

  “You seem to have done well,” Patrick acknowledges.

  Philbrook nods his agreement.

  Parker continues, “Well, maybe so, but I’m not used to running; I’m more interested in advancing and fighting.”

  “What soldier isn’t?” asks Patrick, laughing. “If they trained us to run, we’d never stand a chance.”

  The three men share a chuckle.

  “In the meantime, I’m a bit out of place conducting my maneuvers on dry land,” insists Parker. “A fish out of water in the most literal sense.”

  “Well, if you find a need for water, I’ll get you a canoe and set you adrift on the Savannah for a while. That is, if you’re willing to patrol these darn fishermen who constantly clog the channel,” offers Patrick with a wink.

  “High price to pay, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  They all generate another laugh.

  Philbrook then shifts the conversation back to the reality of the moment: “I suspect this is the safest place for us to be right now. The Yankees are everywhere in the Carolinas, Tennessee, and Alabama.”

  Shrugging and sighing, Patrick admits that he hasn’t had an update on the military situation in this part of the country since the news of Lincoln’s murder reached Augusta. He knows that fighting has been fierce in North Carolina with much bloodshed and many casualties, as a lot of the wounded are flowing into hospitals in Augusta.

  “With Lee’s Army out of the picture,” Patrick says, “I don’t see Johnston being able to check Sherman, much less beat him back.”

  * * *

  The trip down river is an uneventful one, a fact for which Elisabeth is thankful. She manages to rest most of the way. Except for a snag below Shell Bluff, the Savannah River makes for a perfect turnpike out to sea. Not only does the ride offer less dust than a wagon and more smoothness than a train, it also provides breathtaking scenery. Little wonder early settlers chose this magnificent valley as a place to live, work, and play.

  The Jeff Davis pulls up at the dock on River Street, right in the heart of Savannah. Dock workers ready themselves to tie up and unload the steamer as the passengers file off one by one. At the bottom of the gangway are three soldiers dressed in dark blue uniforms. Two have muskets at the ready, while the third, unarmed, inspects the paperwork of each passenger debarking.

  These men are serious about their work. They pause upon finding that the papers of Augusta socialite Mary Faye Amason and her two little girls, Donna Michelle and Andrea Lynn, are not in order. Mary Faye’s complexion turns pale, but just as quickl
y her face turns a boiling crimson. In a firm tone, the guard directs her and her girls to remain on the boat for the trip back to Augusta.

  “No way will I remain on this boat,” she tells the young soldier in a very forceful and agitated way, her long curls becoming airborne with every twist of her head. “You obviously don’t know who I am, and who these precious little girls are.”

  “Ma’am,” says the soldier.. “You will not be allowed to get off this boat until I see your signed pass to enter Union territory.”

  “Let me tell you something, fellow.” Although only moments have ticked by, Mary Faye has grown more than upset. Her body is now swaying back and forth, her ample dress billowing in the afternoon air.

  She raises her index finger and points it squarely into the soldier’s face. The two armed soldiers raise their guns and move a step closer. “This is not Union territory. This is the soil and water of the Confederate States of America. And, by the grace of God almighty, you Yankees will soon be on your way back North. Your presence defiles sacred ground.”

  The two children don’t know what to make of what is playing out in front of them. They exchange puzzled looks and move closer to their mother.

  The poor sentry lets his eyes tilt downward, not knowing whether to feel mad or sad. After all, he’s only following his orders. In a slightly softer tone he tries to explain as much to Mrs. Amason. But, she cuts him off.

  “Your duty is to protect the flower of the South. Your duty,” she presses, “is to allow Southern women to be with our Southern children and our Southern men. Since you don’t have Southern men in the North, you’ll never understand what this means.”

  “No ma’am, we don’t have Southern men in the North, unless you count the traitors that we have in our prisons,” responds the soldier.

  His two fellow guards step even closer to the conflict, knowing that their comrade has finally lost his cool and crossed the line. The other passengers waiting to debark from the gangway break into supportive applause for the spry lady.