The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  It’s time to go home, he tells himself.

  Patrick dresses and packs with great speed. He wires Fraser, Trenholm, & Company that he’s coming to Charleston for consultations, which is his cover for getting word of his abrupt departure to Colonel Liston.

  On his way out, after collecting himself, he stops by Captain Parker’s room to advise him that he and Mr. Philbrook are on their own for a few days.

  Next, down at the livery stable, Patrick picks a fine mare that should carry him the distance, at which point he’s off on the overland route to the Sea Islands.

  * * *

  Adolphus Roads is at his office desk when he too receives a wire from the Express Office clerk.

  Lindsay and Charlie will not be coming back from Savannah. Their bodies have been found on a road between Savannah and the Seas Islands.

  Both men were shot to death.

  The sound of his knuckles against the desktop is frightening. The impact reverberates throughout the office. And the accompanying yell jolts even his closest associates. No one has ever heard a more terrifying series of noises from Roads’ office.

  Roads’ mind is ablaze. He knows that he has a serious problem. Two men are dead, and it won’t be long before the authorities discover who they worked for.

  Because clearly, Elisabeth and her son escaped.

  In a merciful moment for both him and his staff, Roads’ attention is diverted to an envelope that has been left in a prominent place atop his desk. He picks it up and opens it to find a small stack of crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills, fresh off his own press. He holds them up to the light for careful inspection: the shadowing, the colors, the seal, the serial numbers, the signatures. They all look so perfect. And the paper? It’s beyond detection.

  Well, at least the news from the print shop is good.

  Roads sends word to his printers to immediately turn out five million dollars’ worth of the fake greenbacks.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Reverend Anderson goes to the Planters Hotel in search of his friend, and perhaps a chance to share a cup of coffee. But he learns that Patrick has abruptly checked out and left town for a few days. There’s no word as to when he will return.

  * * *

  Mr. Philbrook and Captain Parker pay a call on General Fry to brief him on their sudden visit to Augusta. Unfortunately for them, the general is in no mood to engage in anything that will disrupt his planning for the defense of his prized city. He has some home guards, but all the regulars are with Johnston. Just three days ago Columbus fell to the Union, and Fry knows General Wilson and his invaders will be entering Macon with any tick of the clock.

  “General, we are on a mission of the utmost importance for the government. The treasury and the deposits of the banks of Richmond are within your jurisdiction and in need your protection,” Philbrook pleads.

  “Sir,” says Parker, “we have been on the road for more than three weeks by wagon and railroad to seek safe harbor for the treasury. We are not here by desire, but by our choice to protect the property that the people of the South have entrusted to President Davis!”

  “Gentlemen,” Fry breaks in, “I’m in full sympathy with you and the predicament you find yourselves in. But you must understand that all the treasure in the world will not buy peace and security for the people of Augusta in their darkest hour!”

  “But, sir,” Parker interrupts.

  “No, captain, hear me out.” Fry is now going to make his case: “What you have brought into our city during a time of extreme anxiety and turmoil is a bait that will draw every thief and scoundrel within a day’s ride and beyond! When word reaches the enemy of your location—and don’t think it won’t—the nine thousand Yankees breathing down our necks from the South of us will be the least of our worries. No, sir. You have increased the stakes here beyond measure.”

  “We need a secure location for the treasure for just a couple of days, so that we can find President Davis and get our instructions,” urges Philbrook. “Surely, sir, you can support us in bringing some good resolution to the awful dilemma we face. I cannot believe that such a patriot as yourself would abandon the specie and gold and silver that represent the government’s payments for her soldiers and widows, and the life savings of the good people left in the shell of a city that was once the proud capital of our great nation!”

  The room, by now, has grown heated and tense. Though they hold no weapons, these men are in a lethal standoff, the result of which could determine the very trajectories of their lives…as well as those of many, many others.

  “Mr. Philbrook,” Fry asks, “are you sure you are simply a staff member of the treasury office and not one of those boisterous members of the Confederate Congress? I applaud the passion from which you draw arguments that no reasonable men could escape. At Gettysburg, I led my men up Cemetery Ridge. We marched into the musket and cannon fire, never shirking once. Had I not been wounded four times, I would have been on that stone wall myself, sabering the Yankees into a state of submission. Sir, I must say, if you had led our charge with your oratory, I assure you the enemy would have capitulated early and the South would have prevailed.”

  Philbrook cannot help but smile. The air in the room suddenly feels less thick, and although no outcome has been arrived at, at least for the moment they have peace and civility. “General, you are much too kind. I simply speak the truth. And, the truth is that we need some assistance for just a few short days, so that our men may rest and we can determine the intentions of President Davis.”

  “And, if we can at least get our men into some billets for those few nights, it will make a world of difference in their attitude and performance,” adds Captain Parker. “Surely you can understand that.”

  “Yes, gentlemen, I do.” General Fry rises from his desk, his body tall and proud and mighty, as if he is about to address a collective of troops in a mass formation. “Gentlemen, you have been given a profound mission by our president, a mission on which the very future of our country hinges. When the history of the Confederacy is written, let it not record that the grand experiment failed because we could not secure her financial resources in Augusta, Georgia, for a few nights. Nay, let the record show that the garrison commander welcomed this mission with open arms. That the requests of the purveyors of the treasury have been granted in the excess. And last but hardly least, that the quartermaster will assist your soldiers— err, midshipmen and Marines, I should say—with any equipment or provision that they may need for the prosecution of their mission. So help me God. Good enough?”

  Philbrook and Parker trade elated looks, pleased not only with the response from General Fry, but with their ability to actually wring it out of him.

  It seems as though great days reside ahead.

  * * *

  Elisabeth and Jimmy are huddled close together in the farmhouse, doing their best to attend to George’s wound. He lost a lot of blood last night, which made the gushing wound look much worse than it actually was. Thankfully, the surgeon for the U.S. Colored Troops company that found them out on the pike managed to patch him up pretty well. But regardless, George will not be doing any farming anytime in the near future. In fact, his most pressing priority is to actually wake up.

  Meanwhile Dora’s body is draped with a canvas tarp and laid out in the barn, awaiting proper burial. Since Elisabeth knows that Patrick will arrive within only a day, she plans on deferring the honors of his mom’s final respects to her only living child.

  Upon hearing the sounds of arriving horses, Elisabeth steps outside to greet the visitors, a patrol of colored troops. Although the introductions are cordial, the visit is strictly business.

  “Ma’am, do you have any idea who those men were that shot at your wagon last night?” This is the Union captain speaking. He wants some answers because the last thing he needs is the local folks blaming his soldiers for the shooting.

  But Elisabeth cannot provide the answer, although she has a private hunch. “Afraid n
ot, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

  “We understand that they were also passengers from Augusta on the Jeff Davis yesterday. I don’t suppose you recall seeing them on the boat?”

  “I really don’t.” Elisabeth’s words come out quickly and urgently; she would just as soon end the questioning right here.

  The captain presses on, however. “Do you know whether they knew the Graham family…and might have a grudge against them?”

  “I truly don’t. I just met the Grahams myself last night.” Elisabeth knows that this information doesn’t bear much meaning, even though it has the benefit of being true.

  With a nod of his head, the captain explains that his soldiers forage on the farms in this area from time to time. If and when she sees them, she should not be afraid, because the soldiers are always on their best behavior and would never dare leave a family destitute. Elisabeth, however, is having quite a hard time stomaching what she’s hearing—a Yankee officer in charge of colored soldiers is telling her that they are on some kind of benevolent mission? Is this a war or a charity? she wonders to herself.

  Tipping his hat, the captain and his soldiers at last take leave with a parting promise to keep an eye on the farm and prevent any more trouble.

  “Be sure to let me know if you think of anything that would help us,” he says, mounting his horse and turning to ride away.

  Elisabeth gives a warm but false nod of her head.

  * * *

  “There is what?” “How much?” “Is it guarded?”

  These and other questions spout quickly from the mouth of Adolphus Roads as he’s told by one of his contacts from the rail yard of the treasure train’s arrival into Augusta.

  “Yes, sir,” the railroad man responds, his breath nervous and sputtering. “I hear it’s in the millions—maybe fifteen million in gold and silver and jewelry and specie—and it’s all sitting in rail cars in our yard being guarded by a bunch of…heck, kids!”

  “Lord, I do believe you are smiling down on me,” says Roads as he looks up toward the ceiling. This is simply incredible, he thinks. “The government is on the run and its bank has landed in my front yard.”

  He then says to the yard man, “Sir, thank you for this important information. Keep me posted on any changes.”

  With that, Roads slips the man a crisp, new one-hundred-dollar greenback from the envelope that he has been thumbing through atop his desk.

  Instantly pocketing and crumpling the bill, the yard man makes his exit.

  Once alone, Roads summons two of his associates into his office and tells them that he wants the train watched around the clock with regular reports brought back to him on activities involving the cars, their cargo, and the guard. Now let’s just see who is smarter, he thinks: the Confederate government or Adolphus Roads?

  Minus a shred of hesitation, Roads prefers to bet on himself.

  * * *

  Late in the tired grayness of the afternoon, General Fry summons Philbrook and Parker back to his headquarters.

  The news from the field is urgent, and not in a good way. General Fry tells them that he was notified just today that an armistice is in force between Generals Johnston and Sherman. And moreover, the two commanders are negotiating under a flag of truce.

  “Gentlemen, the armistice should be interpreted to mean that the North and the South are at peace, at least for the moment,” Fry informs them.

  General Fry also tells his guests that earlier today in Macon, General Cobb notified General Wilson about the truce, then asked his invading army to respect it. Wilson at first was mystified, choosing not to believe Cobb. But General Cobb issued a clear directive that no defensive preparations be undertaken in Macon. Effectively, his orders leave a clear path open through middle Georgia for the six thousand mounted Union infantry and two sections of artillery that are on the approach to Macon.

  “Gentlemen, the sober conclusion is, we are not long for this place, because I fear when the armistice expires, the Federal soldiers will move on my command,” says Fry.

  Captain Parker shakes his head in disbelief. Would Georgians really roll over to invading forces?

  “Mr. Parker, you must understand this…” The naval officer stills himself, knowing that he’s about to get a lesson from the army general. “The sons of Georgia are not here ready to defend her. Our regulars are up against Sherman in North Carolina. We are protected only by our home guard. And while I’ll be the first to admit that these are patriotic, courageous, and honorable men—and boys— they are no match for the Union regulars. Plus, any resistance under these circumstances only gives the enemy an excuse to light up our towns, our homes, factories, and property. I think you’ll find, too, that Georgia has already been beaten down severely by the enemy as a result of Sherman’s invasion last fall. No, sir. If we can bring this to a peaceful end, we should respect that possibility.”

  “I do understand your perspective, general,” Parker replies. “No man of civility can argue with peace.”

  “Mr. Philbrook, Captain Parker, let me take you out for a drink. I believe we could all use one right now.”

  The general’s invitation meets with no argument.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Patrick rides hard through the night. And by the time he reins in his horse in front of the family farmhouse, his body is crushed with exhaustion. However, a flood of invigorating memories comes rushing back to him as he ushers the horse to the barn for the sake of unsaddling it. It is there that he discovers the body of his mother, wrapped in the tarp, blood stains soaking through aggressively at one end.

  Patrick’s knees meet the hard dirt below.

  He immediately breaks down, overcome by his emotion. His throat swells up to the point that he feels actual pain there. His mother, the woman who not only gave him life, but taught him how to live it to the fullest, has been taken from him, and violently at that. Never again will they trade stories of Patrick’s upbringing in the Sea Islands. Never again will he feel her soft hands reaching out to comfort him in a moment of need. Never again will he hear that soft, sweet voice of hers, expressing the kind of love that only a mother has to give.

  The relative emptiness of Patrick’s future rushes through his mind:

  His mother will not see him married. She will not know his children. She is no longer a physical part of his life. But amidst the dark charge of his current heartbreak, Patrick recalls what his faith has taught him: His mother is with the angels in Heaven, where Jesus has already prepared a place for her, free from pain and the sins of mortal man. A place where no need goes unmet. A place where she is again with young Joey.

  And so, Patrick tries to tell himself, even if the secular world is not at peace, at least Dora is.

  Wiping the large tears from his eyes, he rushes into the house to check on his father and Elisabeth. Upon bursting through the door, he finds his father lying in a bed, his head propped up, and Elisabeth holding a spoon near his lips, feeding him some soup. She jumps at the intrusion, her eyes betraying her fresh, scalding traumas.

  But her emotions quickly change at the sight of Patrick standing in the doorway, the crisp morning sun outlining his silhouette. She puts down the bowl and spoon and dashes to him, embracing him with novel force. She, like he a moment ago, is crying. Crying tears of sadness over the tragedy that has unfolded—and over the joy of being in his arms once again.

  “Patrick, thank God you are here with us,” she sobs as he gently pats the back of her head. “I’ve never needed you more.”

  “It’s all right,” he replies. “You and Jimmy are safe, and that’s important.”

  Patrick then shifts his focus to the bed and locks eyes with his father. He bends over to give his dad a hug and a kiss, careful not to bump his wrapped left arm.

  Patrick’s eyes continue to fill with tears. “Now we’ve got matching wounds,” George says. “We Graham men won’t be doing much work left-handed anymore,” he jokes.

  A laugh e
merges, and one they all needed, although it is audibly forced.

  “Son.” George forms the word through quivering lips. “Your momma was a good woman. We had a great life together. She was so proud of you and what you have made for yourself.” The old man’s emotions overtake him. “God, I miss her. Why Dora? Why her? Why now?”

  “There’s a lot we can’t answer, Dad, but I’m going to find out. Mom’s death will not go unpunished; that I promise you.”

  “Mr. Graham, it’s important that you get your strength back,” says Elisabeth, reclaiming the bowl of soup and scooping another spoonful up for George.

  “She’s right, Dad. You take care of yourself. You’re needed now, more than ever. We’re all counting on you—Mom included.”

  Patrick is interrupted by the sudden appearance of Jimmy, who has darted over to his mother from a corner of the room. “Jimmy,” she says, “this is Mr. Graham, my friend from Augusta that I told you about.”

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Patrick says, reaching to pat the boy’s golden head of hair.

  In a plain show of shyness, Jimmy nudges closer to his mother. “There’s no need to worry, son. Mr. Graham is going to take good care of us. He’s a nice man.”

  As she speaks these words, Patrick extends his hand toward Jimmy so they can shake. With his mother’s encouragement, the lad slowly inches his hand away from around his mother’s neck and extends it until his palm meets Patrick’s. The little boy’s palm is slick, a sign of nervousness. Patrick offers him a big, wide smile. And after a slight pause, Jimmy gives him one back, even if only for a moment.

  He then turns and runs back toward the bedroom.

  “Your boy’s been through a lot,” says Patrick. “I suppose we just need to give him some space for now.”

  “Oh, he’ll learn to love you, too,” says Elisabeth, cutting right to the heart of the matter. She feeds George another spoonful of soup. His swallow is stiff, but he gets it down.