by Bob Young
“Well, I do declare, you are an insolent young man. You come to my city and insult me in front of my girls.” Mary Faye is hardly one to back down, but she sees she is getting nowhere. She’s convinced Yankees speak a different language and simply don’t understand the Southern woman. “Bless their hearts,” she says to herself.
And she finally relents: “My girls and I will go back up on deck and sit down. As for you, you will find your commanding officer because you haven’t heard the last from me!”
Mrs. Amason grabs her daughters by the arms and spins around, heading back up the gangway. As she walks past Elisabeth, she tells her to watch out for the sentry checking the manifest.
“Bless his heart,” she remarks, “he can’t help having that Yankee blood in his veins. I’ve seen it destroy many a good man. Just one drop’ll turn a man cold.”
“Point well taken,” Elisabeth nods.
When the sentry asks for her paperwork, Elisabeth is in worse shape than Mrs. Amason. She doesn’t even have invalid paperwork to offer; she can only offer her name. Regardless, the sentry instantly recognizes it and waves her on. Roads’ Savannah connections are good and healthy.
No sooner does Elisabeth step away from the gangway than she is met by the call of a young boy.
“Mommy!
“Mommy!”
The voice draws closer. Elisabeth anxiously scans the crowd.
“Mommy!”
It’s really close now. Suddenly, something clamps her legs from behind. She looks down to see Jimmy standing there. Elisabeth picks him up and holds him close, pressing their faces against each other.
“Mommy, I was so scared,” Jimmy wheezes, beginning to unleash tears.
“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. God, I have missed you so much. I have prayed for this moment over and over again, and here we are. Son, don’t ever leave me again,” Elisabeth says, sobbing softly, her own tears mixing with those of her child.
A series of urgent thoughts charge through Elisabeth’s mind: Is my son all right? Where has he been kept? Is he healthy? Have they poisoned him against me? Is he the same sweet boy who was taken from my arms last winter?
“Jimmy, I love you so much. And I’ve missed you more than anything in the world.”
“More than Daddy?” Jimmy asks.
“Yes, more than Daddy.” She doesn’t have to think about the answer to that question. “Did they tell you about Daddy? That he was killed in the war?”
“They did,” says the boy, continuing to cry. “Said he died a hero on the battlefield.”
“And you remember that, Jimmy. Your daddy was a hero.” Elisabeth has no interest in stealing from Jimmy whatever good feelings that he has for his father. There will be time enough later in his young life to talk about the truth, but not anytime soon.
Elisabeth continues to hold Jimmy tight, until there is a tap on her shoulder and a soft voice begging her attention.
“Misses Vernon?”
She turns around. “Yes, Elisabeth Vernon. Who are you?”
“I’m Patrick’s father, George. I’ve come to fetch you and your son.”
Without missing a beat, Elisabeth releases one arm from Jimmy and throws it around George’s neck.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Graham,” says Elisabeth, her face lined with still-flowing tears.
“My wife, Dora, is waiting with the wagon. Can I help you with your bags?”
It isn’t long before the Grahams’ wagon is aboard a ferry crossing the Savannah River into South Carolina and on the tree-lined pike to the Sea Islands. As darkness descends, Elisabeth is overcome with feelings of warmth for her new family.
She truly has made it. Life has smiled down upon her. Just like she saw during the afternoon thunderstorm that briefly interrupted her voyage—the dark clouds have drifted apart and the light is now shining through.
“Our farm is just up the road here a few miles on the way to Port Royal,” announces George to Elisabeth, who is seated between him and Dora. Young Jimmy is settled into the back of the wagon with the bags and the results of the Grahams’ day of shopping in Savannah.
As George works the reins, the mule team struggles to pull the wagon through the potholes and muddy spots left from the afternoon storm. Evening is quickly turning to night, and the silhouettes of the tall trees along the roadbed begin to blend into the darkness. The appearance of the bright, full moon gives enough light to navigate the way. The loud whining of the cicadas is a constant reminder that there is life in the forest.
“The landscape is crawling with Yankees, especially the colored soldiers,” informs George. “They’re recruiting from the freed slaves, giving them guns and then sending them back against us. It’s not right, but it’s the way of life we have here.”
Dora interrupts, attending to more practical concerns: “I’ll bet you’re hungry. I brought along some biscuits and honey.”
“Wow!” exclaims Jimmy. “That’s my favorite.” Turning to Elisabeth with a wanting expression, he continues without missing a beat, “Can I have one, Mom, please?”
Elisabeth nods her agreement, at which point Dora passes one of the bigger biscuits to the back of the wagon. Jimmy’s hand is fast to grab it.
“And how ‘bout some lemonade to wash it down?’ she asks.
“Oh, yeah!” says Jimmy. “I think I’m going to like being back with you, Mom. You’ve got some nice friends.”
Smiles are traded. But the frivolity is suddenly interrupted when a shot rings out. The explosion of powder echoes off the tall oaks. A minié ball passes right over their heads, ripping through the wagon’s canvas cover.
“Get down, Jimmy!” shouts Elisabeth as she dives over the back of the front seat and into the rear of the wagon with her son.
“Get back there with them, Dora!” George yells out as he whips the mules to a charging sprint.
Dora turns to climb out of the seat when another shot rings out. Her body tumbles uncontrollably into the back of the wagon. Her forehead was split wide open by the second minié ball. Crimson flies everywhere, covering Elisabeth and Jimmy.
Jimmy screams out, “Mommy! Mommy!” and begins to cry a fresh wave of tears. Elisabeth goes into hysterics. Are they under attack by Yankees? George is not going to wait around to find out. He whips the mules as hard as he can. They run as though there’s a devil at their hooves.
The wagon careens down the darkened road, jostled by rocks and ruts unseen with only the flow of the moon to guide them. The mules’ erratic racing causes the wagon to wobble very unsteadily along the road.
Despite the intense speed of the wagon and team, a third shot rips through the canvas on the wagon above them. Then a fourth one slams into the wagon’s side wall, splintering the old wood but failing to reach those inside.
The wagon resorts to shuddering as George works to get more speed from his mules. But then, abruptly, George pulls back on the reins and brings everything to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?!” Elisabeth screams.
“No choice,” George yells back, cocking his chin straight ahead. “The road’s blocked by a tree blown over in the storm this afternoon. No way to get around.”
The old man then reaches for something down below where he’s seated. Elisabeth sees through the slats in the seat that it is a shotgun.
George never hears the fifth shot. The minié ball strikes his left shoulder and knocks him out of his seat and to the ground
Fearfully, Elisabeth wonders:
Are these Yankee soldiers shooting at us? Who would want to kill us? It couldn’t be the work of Roads. I have a deal with him, and I’ve kept my part of the bargain. But has he?
She can hear horses approaching. Sounds like two of them. And then a voice:
“Lindsay, it’s too dark. I don’t know whether we got them or not.”
“Well, God’s on our side, Charlie. This tree blocked the road.”
“You hear anything?”
“Nuh uh. Maybe we got ‘em all.”
“Here’s one over here on the ground, Charlie.”
By now, the riders have set eyes upon George. His shoulder is crushed inward and covered with blood, and he’s not moving, apparently knocked unconscious by his fall.
“Looks like we got him pretty good. What do you see in the wagon?” Charlie asks Lindsay.
Lindsay rides around to the wagon’s rear and pulls his horse up next to it. He reaches down and flings open the flap on the back panel, revealing Dora’s body, with her gaping head wound, positioned right in front of him.
“Got another body in here, Charlie.”
As Lindsay speaks, his eye catches a glimpse of light flickering off the barrel of the shotgun. Before he can react, Elisabeth cocks the hammer and jerks the trigger. The blast catches Lindsay point blank in his face, and its force sends him head over heels off his horse.
As for Charlie, all he can see is the flash from the muzzle through the wagon’s canvas cover. He reaches for his revolver and fires in the flash’s direction. Elisabeth, having shifted her position, sees the pistol flash through the canvas. She fires the second barrel, which shreds the canvas and blows Charlie off his horse. His shirt is ripped to shreds…as is much of the flesh upon his chest.
His lungs barely able to expand or contract, Charlie gasps for air. He’s not going to last long with such a massive wound. Elisabeth jumps from the wagon and rushes over to him. “Who sent you?” she asks. “Why are you here?”
But Charlie turns his head away and spends his last breath.
Elisabeth races over to George, who’s beginning to regain his senses. Working fast, she tears off a large piece of her skirt and presses it against his wound. George is groggy, but rises up on his knees. He puts his right hand on her shoulder and, after a series of halting moves, is up on his feet. She helps him over to the wagon and then into it.
This tragedy marks the end of a good, lengthy marriage. George and Dora had been together for thirty-five years. Thirty-five good years that produced two sons, of which any man and woman would be proud. Through all those years, Dora sacrificed mightily, mainly so that George could be the farmer he’d always wanted to be. She lived her life for her husband and her boys. Now that life has ended.
The pain within George’s heart is greater than any hurt that a minié ball could ever cause. He is a broken man, but somewhere inside himself, he knows that he is not beaten. George uses his good hand and arm to place a blanket over Dora’s still body. He vows to himself to find the person responsible…and hold him accountable.
And if in any way possible, deliver justice to that person.
Elisabeth has reloaded the shotgun and taken over the driving duties. Jimmy is with her in the front seat, holding the shotgun for her. His small hands are shaking wildly, not only from fear of what might come next, but from trauma over all that has come already. George is in the back, cradling Dora’s body and stuck on an unrealistic hope that she will get up and join them in their ride.
CHAPTER TEN
Patrick meets Captain Parker and Mr. Philbrook on the hotel veranda for dinner. They’re quick to get Patrick’s regular table overlooking Broad Street. That’s the only thing regular about tonight, however, as an unusual amount of activity plays out below them. Every inch of the sidewalks is filled with people. The streets are alive with the motion of wagons and carriages. Stores are open late, doing ample business. Patrick figures that people have come to believe that the end is near, and that they had better stock up now, or do without later.
Intent upon keeping his mind in the moment, Patrick orders a bottle of wine. French. Now that’s something his visitors haven’t seen in weeks. Their toast is for the Confederate States of America, or at least whatever is left of them.
After some minutes spent on casual informalities, Patrick finally gets down to business. First, he wants to know what has happened to President Davis and the government.
Captain Parker speaks up: “That is a great question because we have not seen the president since we left Danville. They ordered us ahead to lock up the treasure in the Charlotte mint. But once there, Mr. Philbrook looked over the Union field operations and thought it best we move farther South. We caught up with Mrs. Davis and her family, and they traveled with us as far as Abbeville. Then we went on to Washington, where we commandeered a train, which brought us here tonight.”
“I think President Davis is still in Charlotte,” Philbrook says. And that’s just as well, for he has no reason to think otherwise. Davis could very well be pinned down in Charlotte by the Union cavalry operations underway in western South Carolina.
Philbrook adds, “It’s hard to tell how long the Confederacy will hold together. Attorney General Davis resigned in Charlotte. Secretary Trenholm is awfully sick and may not last much longer. The president is intent upon keeping the cause alive in the Trans Mississippi, but members of the cabinet are thinking more about themselves and making plans to escape through Florida.”
“Well, frankly I’m disappointed over the lack of timely information on the status of our government and the war,” Patrick sighs. “But I guess we’ve reached a time where events are happening too fast to keep up with them.”
“Oh, that’s certainly a big part of it,” intones Parker. “We keep hearing Johnston and Sherman are having discussions about a truce, or even surrender, but hard facts are tough to come by.”
“Even in light of our situation with the treasure in our care—I figure more than seven hundred thousand dollars—we don’t know where to take it or what to do with it,” offers Philbrook. “So we’re just going to use our best judgment to keep it safe until someone in higher authority tells us otherwise.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” says Patrick, as he snaps his fingers and holds up the empty wine bottle so the server can see it. Clearly, a second bottle is in order.
“Those midshipmen and Marines have been fantastic. Never a complaint,” says Parker. “We loaded and unloaded I don’t know how many times. We’ve been on wagons and on trains. We have stopped and restarted more times than I can count. These young lads and those seasoned Marines are exceptional. I just wish I could go to sea with the lot of them.”
Patrick gives a polite, fast nod. He truly does appreciate the pair sharing their travels and perspective, but he has no choice but to dig a bit deeper into business…
“It’s important that both of you keep my confidence. I am here undercover as a cotton broker working on a very delicate mission for the Secretary. Confidentiality will allow me to be successful—and to stay alive.”
“Go on,” Philbrook says, the seriousness of his tone matching that of Patrick’s.
“We’re dealing with some dangerous people here. I suspect that if they knew what was in those railroad cars you brought with you, they might try to take it for their own. I’m also concerned about the influx of stragglers into the city. The Garrison Commander, General Fry, is doing the best he can, but his resources are limited. All things considered, it wouldn’t take much to try to wrest the treasury from your men.”
“None of that sounds good,” says Captain Parker, emitting a thick air of concern.
“It’s not very good, and that is the reality of what you have driven yourselves into,” says Patrick, his words betraying his authority. “In the morning, you should present yourselves to General Fry and advise him of your mission. He will help you. He’s a good man. Good enough to charge the wall at Gettysburg and survive. But remember that his first job is to protect the people of Augusta from the invaders. So he may prefer that you move the treasure elsewhere.”
Parker responds: “I just cannot imagine getting back on the pike one more time. For God’s sake, we must get some rest so our boys can be refreshed.
”
“If they rest, just make sure they do it with one eye open,” Patrick advises.
* * *
In the middle of a vague but gentle dream, Patrick is awakened very early by banging on his hotel room door. “Who in the hell?” he asks aloud. The sun is just beginning to rise, and few people are moving about the city.
“Who’s there?” Patrick asks in a louder voice.
“Express Office with an urgent wire for Mr. Graham,” comes back a young male voice.
After pulling himself out of bed, Patrick reaches toward the chest for a one dollar bill, opens the door, and hands it to the boy in exchange for the envelope.
What could this be? Why is a wire coming at this hour marked “URGENT”? Has the war finally ended?
Patrick rubs the sleep from his eyes and opens up the envelope. He lights the lamp by the bed and sits on the mattress to read the message. While staring intently at it, he pauses as if in suspended animation. The message drops to the floor, and Patrick is drawn back down on the bed as if by a forceful magnet. There he begins to sob hard against his pillow.
The wire reads:
I regret to inform you that your mother is dead and your father was seriously wounded in an attack on their wagon last night. The young girl and child are safe at their farm.
It is signed by the Union commander at Hilton Head Island.
After a few long, terrible moments, Patrick slides off the bed and bends down to pick up the telegram and read it again. Perhaps his reading of the note had just been a bad dream. Knowing this to be a desperate and foolish notion, this time he reads it aloud, filling the room around him with the tragic news.
In his life thus far, Patrick has seen war. He has seen killing up close. He saw young boys knocked down right in front of him at New Market. Maybe there was a time when he thought that the tragedy of battle would harden his feelings toward killing, but it didn’t, not even close. Especially where his family is concerned.
