The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  “Patrick, certainly you must believe that Elisabeth was the intended target.”

  Patrick’s thoughts proceed to tie themselves into intricate knots.

  Jacob continues, “And do you not believe that there is only one person who would benefit from her death?”

  “Well, that thought has crossed my….”

  “The man who kidnapped her child,” Jacob states with force, the same force he uses to command his Sunday services. “The same man who solicited her husband to commit murder. The same man who arranged for one of our own soldiers to kill her husband and make it look like a battlefield casualty.”

  “Jacob, you’re confounding me. How do you know all of this?”

  “Patrick, Adolphus Roads sent two of his thugs to Savannah to kill Elisabeth.”

  “Come on, now. Did you hear Roads’ confession? He handed over her child like there was nothing to it.” Patrick wants to think that Jacob is right but knows he lacks the correct information to declare as much.

  “No, but it’s time I share some secrets with you. Patrick, I know you are no more of a cotton broker than I am.” Patrick’s ears perk up as his eyes widen. He then feels a blushing wave of shame; has he really done such a poor job upholding his cover? “You’re a Confederate Treasury Agent,” says Jacob, his words as straight and pure as the breeze between them.

  “How’s that?” Patrick asks, lacking the breath to say anything else.

  “Oh, come on, Patrick. You don’t need to fake it with me anymore. I know all about you.”

  Patrick has no choice but to preserve the ploy. “No, you must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “No, I’m afraid not, Captain Graham,” Jacob replies with the utmost firmness. “I knew you before you ever arrived in Augusta with your phony credentials.”

  “Is this what you meant when you said it was time for confession?”

  “It is, Patrick. For both of us.”

  “Both of us? What is your confession?”

  “The confession of a Union agent.”

  Patrick recoils, then jumps up from the bench. His legs feel like liquid columns underneath him. “What is going on here? Is this some kind of a sick joke?”

  “No, it’s not. Patrick, I am a man of God. But I’m also a man President Lincoln sent here to assist you.”

  “Assist me? A Unionist? We should be having a duel!”

  “The Confederate government is collapsing, so there is no reason you should not know, and we should work together as a team to shut Roads down. My government wants the stolen Treasury plates recovered. And we don’t want someone of Roads’ ilk continuing with his criminal activity after the war. He has much to answer for.”

  Patrick’s head feels barely attached to his neck.

  “Patrick,” Jacob goes on, “I was an idealistic son of the South during all the talk of secession, and I proudly marched off with my home guard to join the fight. But my first taste of war wasn’t heroics for the folks at home. For me, it was sickening. And when I escorted those bodies of my friends and neighbors back here from Florida, I knew I had to find a way to help end the war and the killing. After all, we’re all Americans!”

  Patrick offers some agreeable words: “I can understand that. War is not for everyone.”

  “I was determined to serve my country in another way, so I studied for the ministry. It was at that time when I was first approached about working for the Federals. They were seeking an informant in Augusta and knew of my anti-war sympathies. Believe me, it was not an easy sell. I initially turned them down, but we continued to meet. As the war progressed and our battlefield deaths continued to rise to astounding levels, I committed myself to doing what I could to stop the killing—on both sides.”

  “So you betrayed your fellow soldiers and your countrymen?”

  “No, Patrick. I agreed to assist the North, but only with information of a non-military and humanitarian nature.”

  “I don’t see how you can separate the two,” says Patrick, palming some beads of sweat off the back of his neck.

  “You can view it however you wish, but my conscience is clear that no soldier or citizen was put in harm’s way as the result of my work,” says Jacob. “In fact, I’d like to think lives were saved because of my service.”

  “Jacob, if you don’t mind, let’s postpone the philosophy. I’m still stunned to think that my pastor is a Yankee spy!”

  Jacob goes on, “It’ll sink in soon enough, my friend. After all, I’ve even been helping you—you know those notes under your hotel room door?”

  “You?! You put them there?”

  “And the envelope for Elisabeth?”

  “You took it?”

  “I sure did.”

  “But why did you put it back?”

  “Glad you asked. Your mission is all about counterfeiting, right?”

  “Yes,” Patrick replies.

  “I had to know if Roads is good at printing counterfeit money. In the envelope for Elisabeth, I found five hundred-dollar counterfeit notes. Just as pretty as anything I’ve seen off the press. Probably the results of a test run.”

  Patrick shakes his head, not buying it. “But when I checked the notes in the envelope, they were genuine.”

  “Yes, those were real. I replaced the counterfeits with the real thing because I knew Elisabeth needed the financial support. So I got my evidence, and she got her aid, courtesy of the Union treasury.”

  “But if you actually got the notes, and we know that they passed directly from Roads’ hand to the hand of a Treasury Agent, then why don’t we make an arrest?”

  “Because we need to put him out of business for good. We can’t do that on a single count. We need to find the press and paper.”

  Patrick nods. Although his body is physically rejecting this onslaught of information, he knows in his heart and spirit that it is genuine. Moreover, he finds himself becoming thankful for it. Just the same, however, he keeps a few feet between himself and the pastor.

  Jacob continues, “You did a good job the other night of finding the ink and plates, and while you were away, the paper shipment from Europe came in. So I suspect he’s ready to fire up his operation full speed any day now, if he hasn’t already. We can work together on this and bring him down soon. In the process, if you want my prediction, we’ll nail him with your mother’s murder.”

  “Well, since both of us are now being honest, I have to make clear that I was sent on this mission by the Secretary. I’ve got to consult with him before I begin working with a Northern agent. My people have got to back me up,” Patrick warns.

  Jacob hesitates for a brief moment, then says he doesn’t disagree. He offers Patrick all the time he needs to talk with his superiors, despite the fact that they no longer have any legal authority.

  Both men have a lot to think about. As they go their separate ways, the southern spy is covered in perspiration, while the northern spy has something of a skip in his step.

  They shall meet in the churchyard again beneath tomorrow’s sun.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Something is much different about Augusta on this new day. The people seem more subdued. They are, after all, citizens of a defeated nation that will soon come to grips with the new reality of occupation and freedmen, and whatever glories and challenges those conditions may bring.

  Patrick goes to have breakfast at the Office Restaurant. Usual table, front by the window. Roads, surprising no one, is at his table in the back. General Fry and the mayor have taken a table in the middle of the room. As before, the diners speak in hushed tones so they can hear what the city leadership is saying.

  “General Sherman is making plans for the occupation of Augusta,” the general tells the mayor, “and we ought to be ready when that day comes.”

  Mayor May puts down his cup of coffee. Its blackish surface stirs as he responds, “Well, I just hope for the sake of our citizens that he does not use the model he employed when he last came through Georgia. You kn
ow, burning homes and cities and destroying civilian property.”

  The general picks up on the mayor’s subtle sarcasm, but answers with resolute straightness: “No, mayor, I truly think the terms of the peace will preclude that. At least that’s what we’ve been hearing from Washington City. Before his murder, President Lincoln had said he wanted things to return to their pre-war state, except on the matter of slavery.”

  “Do we know when the soldiers will arrive?”

  “I was told that General Upton’s division would arrive forthwith to accept the surrender of the garrison and issue paroles to our men who take the loyalty oath. Suspect they’ll be here for a while. General Gilmore has been told by Sherman to send clothing and small stores up here from Hilton Head for Upton’s men.”

  “Are these the only troops?”

  A shake of the general’s head: swift and certain. “Not at all. There’s plenty more coming. The Yankees have commandeered the steamboat Jeff Davis and loaded it with provisions and forty men who will occupy our arsenal in Summerville. In the meantime, a brigade commanded by General Molineux is marching overland from Savannah for permanent station here. I hear that Molineux will assume command of the Augusta garrison.”

  The mayor’s expression betrays his concern. So many events unfolding, such a slippery, fog-shrouded future. “Do you know anything about him—General Molineux, you said?”

  “Not a lot, I’m afraid,” replies the general. “But it seems we’ve got a real Yankee hero to look forward to. Molineux’s from New York and served in Louisiana and at Port Hudson. He was severely wounded at the Battle of Irish Bend, but later participated full force in a number of battles. He was brevetted for gallantry.”

  “I trust he’ll provide reasonable authority in the city,” says the mayor, scraping up a bite of his eggs. “And I say reasonable because that’s the most we can hope for. We have so many poor families to look after, we have the interests of our white citizens to protect, and we have the newfound freedom of the negro to define.”

  From his table, unbeknownst to the mayor and the general, Roads is listening and taking mental notes. Although he doesn’t know the new military leadership coming to his city, he does suspect that he’ll be able to do business with the Yankees. Why? Because in his eyes everyone has a price. That price may be a bit higher during peacetime, but he has no doubt he will make it work and manage to be around for a very long time.

  * * *

  As planned, Patrick and Jacob again meet on the bench at the church cemetery. This time a new and uncertain yet exciting energy surrounds them. Fortunately, given their shared status as spies, it’s a safe enough place—just public enough and just private enough.

  “Jacob,” says Patrick, dispensing with any greeting, “I sent a wire to Fraser, Trenholm, and Company using some cover code to get a status report on the Secretary. As soon as I can find him, I’ll arrange to have a discussion with him about your offer.”

  “That’s good, Patrick. I’ll see if my network can locate him, too. Should have thought to do so already.”

  “I overheard General Fry in the restaurant this morning saying that General Molineux is going to be the Federal garrison commander in Augusta.”

  “That’s right. He’s coming overland from Savannah, but General Upton will be here in a day or two to accept the formal surrender of the garrison.”

  “Do you happen to know General Molineux?”

  “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, but my contacts say he’s a fair man who will treat the citizens of Augusta in a kind but firm manner. I’ve already arranged for you to meet with him when he arrives.”

  “You did what?” Patrick asks, feeling a step behind again. Jacob is upholding his status as a man of many surprises.

  “I’ve arranged for you to meet with the general and take the loyalty oath. That right there gives you your pardon. Additionally, I’ve convinced my superiors to allow you to work for them as my partner in the Roads investigation.”

  “So in other words, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing, but I’ll do it for the Union?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Jacob, I have to say…I appreciate the confidence you have in me. You know how badly I want to catch the ghosts we’ve been chasing. I wrote Elisabeth today to tell her that I would be down to see her in the next few days. It’s probably a good time to go, before the Union occupation begins.”

  “Are you familiar with the steamer Amazon? She is leaving for Savannah at noon today,” says Jacob, handing Patrick a taut, sealed envelope. “Here’s your ticket.”

  “You are too good. I could get used to this.”

  The two men, having warmed up to each other anew, trade affectionate smiles.

  * * *

  As his visit to the homeplace draws close to its conclusion, Patrick finds that it is getting harder and harder to leave. His father is recovering well from his wound, and Elisabeth and Jimmy are enjoying the time in seclusion together. The Colored Troops regularly patrol the region and maintain order, so right now the Lowcountry is one of the safest places for them to be. Yet, the site of his mother’s grave under the oak by his brother remains a haunting reminder of his need to get back to Augusta and capture the man behind her killing. As to what he will do when that capture occurs, well…his mind keeps going back to his discussion on the matter with Jacob. Jacob did a good job of convincing him of God’s role in all things, but the timing with which he did so—right before revealing himself to be a spy—gives Patrick reason enough to question him somewhat. Or perhaps Patrick is simply rationalizing his wish for vengeance.

  Young Joey’s grave, meanwhile, reminds Patrick of how his inattention resulted in his brother’s brutal death. Could God be giving him a chance at redemption, as Jimmy’s newfound protector? Could this be his long-awaited opportunity to free himself from the shackles of guilt that he has carried for so many years?

  This is not the first time that Patrick’s mind has gotten into a routine of haunting him.

  Patrick’s doubts surfaced many-fold as he recovered from the wounds he suffered at New Market. There he had been entrusted to keep watch over the cadets from Virginia Military Institute. These young men were the future of the Southern Confederacy. To this day, he doesn’t know who started it or how it came about, but as the word “CHARGE!” spread among the ranks, the excited boys arose from that muddy field on the Bushong farm and ran headlong up the hill into the volley of Union fire. Patrick did everything in his power to hold them back, but the sound of exploding powder and the thick drifting smoke effectively put the cadets out of sight and out of earshot. He mounted his horse and took off after them, only to be felled by the precise aim of a sharpshooter.

  Experience should have taught Patrick that these youngsters would be aggressive on the field of honor. After all, they did not go to the battle to serve in the rear. They went to stop the invading force. In any case, because Patrick could not arrest their charge, five cadets were killed outright in the assault, five more died later, and twenty-three others were injured. The charge was a victory for the cadets, but one that came at a tremendous price.

  It is a price that Patrick continues to pay every day in his mind and soul.

  But presently, a wire arrives and duty calls. Jacob has abruptly summoned Patrick back to Augusta. Ironically, Jacob has arranged for him to ride back up river on the Jeff Davis, with the Union regulars who are going to occupy the arsenal. Patrick can’t help but remember that the last time he saw the boat…he was putting Elisabeth on it for her trip to his farm.

  A harsh chill makes its way through him.

  * * *

  Jacob is there to meet the steamer when it docks at Sisters Ferry.

  “Patrick, you are back not a minute too soon. All hell is breaking loose!” he exclaims. Patrick climbs aboard the carriage. Jacob takes up the reins and they head off to Augusta at a rapid speed.

  “What’s going on, Jacob?” Patrick asks, staring ahead
into the opaqueness of the future.

  “I hope you enjoyed your time on the farm because we’ve got some real work ahead of us now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It started this morning. Three hundred Confederate soldiers— all paid with worthless Confederate money—broke into the quartermaster stores on Broad Street. They also looted Mister Whitlock’s tobacco store.”

  “Who’s maintaining order?”

  “‘Order’? What’s that?” Jacob asks, forcing out a wink. “Well, the mayor’s tried everything. A citizen guard formed up and John Milledge fired some shots into the crowd. That didn’t do a lot, so General Ambrose Wright stood up before the veterans and appealed to their better nature.”

  “Did they have one?”

  “Yes and no. Not for long, anyway. Fist fights broke out on the streets and a man was killed near the river bridge. In the meantime, General Fry sent the infantry to guard the Augusta Factory. Problem is, the trouble’s not limited to Augusta.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got a wire this morning that the news of Johnston’s surrender prompted rioting in Washington. The Eighth Texas Cavalry raided the commissary warehouse and the quartermaster store. Even the citizens joined them.”

  Patrick’s head, so calm mere minutes earlier, has begun to throb with tension. “Who’s in charge of defending our citizens and merchants?”

  “Good question. Major General Lafayette McLaws has put the city of Augusta under martial law. But he’s got no troops to enforce it. If you want my opinion, I don’t believe the troublemakers can be reined in until the Federal authorities exercise some real control.”

  Given how frightening Jacob’s opinion is, Patrick doesn’t feel so sure that he wanted it.

  Doing his best to shift the mood, Patrick offers some news of his own: “I heard on the way up here that the presidential assassin, Booth, was captured yesterday. Maybe that will settle some of this down. At least people won’t believe Davis had a hand in the assassination.”