The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

Jacob’s shoulders crunch upward in a shrug. “I don’t think it will make any difference, Patrick. Folks up North are just as stirred up about it as the people in the South.”

  Jacob continues to hurry the carriage toward Augusta. He knows that Patrick will be back on the road straightaway to find the treasure train, which serves as a more tempting target now that law and order are disintegrating.

  “Something we can perhaps appreciate is that Reverend Clark is already trying to bring the opposite sides together at Saint Paul’s. At services yesterday, for the first time, he read the prayer for the President of the United States. Oddly, not a single response was heard. But when Father Clark read the prayer for the prisoners and captives, there was a rousing round of ‘Amens.’”

  Patrick gives a nod, slightly displeased that Jacob is offering good news about the church after having dismissed his good news about Booth. Regardless, it’s no time for quibbling.

  “I’m not surprised,” Patrick says in an even tone. “You’re asking people to accept change overnight regarding feelings and attitudes that they’ve spent four years nurturing. When the time is right, Reverend Clark and the parishioners will know it.”

  “There have been other changes here in the past week,” Jacob presses.

  “In what way?” Patrick asks.

  “You need a passport to travel from the city now. And you have to have a certificate showing you took the amnesty oath just to pick up your mail. But, I know you’ll appreciate this one…” Jacob can’t restrain a broad smile. “Our one sturdy constant is entertainment. The Slomans played to another sold-out house on Friday. And tonight, the Cheatham Minstrels are throwing a benefit. Apparently, no matter the circumstances, people are not going to give up the chance to attend a good musical show.”

  “And why should they? I’m tempted to go myself.”

  The pair laughs, and in doing so, feels the mild tension between them fade away.

  The carriage pulls up at the Planters Hotel, where a wire from Colonel Liston is waiting for Patrick. It reads as follows:

  Secretary Trenholm resigned. Reagan appointed. President Davis and cabinet in Abbeville tomorrow. Meet at Burt house.

  * * *

  The overnight ride to Abbeville is a generous source of exhaustion. Patrick is more than pleased to see Charles waiting for him on the porch of Armistead Burt’s house. They have a lot to talk about, in addition to serving each other as a comforting source of familiarity during such a critical juncture in time.

  Speaking of critical junctures in time, presently it’s near lunchtime, and Patrick’s stomach is issuing him signals.

  “Patrick, welcome. It’s so good to see you, again,” says Colonel Liston, extending his hand and offering his old mate a seat. “I’m sorry for the short notice of our arrival.”

  “Nonsense; I’d have seen you even faster. Our world is changing so quickly.”

  “Indeed it is,” Charles replies. “Let me get you something to eat and something cool to drink. You look a bit worn out.”

  Charles lightly snaps his fingers at the servant to bring some food and drink over to the table.

  “That’s putting it mildly. These overnight rides are not just hard on the horses,” says Patrick, reaching around awkwardly to rub his lower back.

  “A good hearty meal will set you upright,” Charles declares, a little too buoyantly, as though he’s hoping for the words to be proven true. “The President is inside the house right now meeting with his war council, if you want to call it that—Duke, Dibrell, Ferguson, Vaughn, Breckinridge, Bragg.”

  “That’s quite a constellation of stars.”

  “The President wants to push west to the Trans-Mississippi Department and reorganize, but his generals, I fear, are going to tell him it’s a lost cause. At least that’s what Breckinridge told me on the ride into town this morning. Things change behind closed doors, however.”

  Nodding, Patrick observes, “The President is a hard man to get to change his mind.”

  “Sure, but in this case, he doesn’t have much choice,” Charles concludes. “His escape routes are being cut off by the Federals, and his best alternative is to run to Florida and leave the country. We’ll have to see how he responds to his military advisors.”

  “You mentioned in your wire that Trenholm resigned,” Patrick says, his pinkish eyes flicking toward the door, through which he’s hoping to see the servant return.

  “Indeed he did,” Charles replies. “When we crossed over into South Carolina at Fort Mill, he told the President his health would not permit him to continue. He and his wife were going to try to make their way to a home they have in Columbia.”

  “Meaning Reagan is the new Secretary of Treasury?”

  “Well, the President told him that he didn’t have much responsibility as Postmaster anymore, so he could do both jobs! Reagan wasn’t that keen on the idea, but he accepted anyway. We all need some stability right about now.”

  “Have you discussed my work with him?”

  “Indeed, and he says for us to continue in all areas, just as we were when Trenholm was Secretary.”

  “Charles…”

  Above them, from the trees, a flock of birds sprays outward.

  “…you need to know that I have connected with the Union agent you warned me about, and he has arranged for me to continue my work for the Federals.”

  If Charles is taken aback, then he certainly does not show it. “Patrick, that’s a generous offer, and you ought to take him up on that. I fear that all that’s left of a Confederate government is here in Abbeville. We offer no future.”

  “Do I assume then…that I am properly relieved?”

  Charles replies, “Not quite. Why don’t we say we’re beginning a transition.”

  “How’s that?” Patrick asks, his face wearing a puzzled expression.

  “When we arrived this morning, Captain Parker was waiting here with the Treasury, which Secretary Reagan turned over to General Duke. I want you to remain with General Duke until a final disposition of the Treasury is made. Then you can return to Augusta and wrap up your work there.”

  Patrick’s guts are a bit unsettled by the lack of closure, but he nods regardless. “That sounds fair enough.”

  “Parker and his midshipmen have since been relieved, and I expect they will be heading home. General Duke is looking forward to having you in his party.”

  “Well, Charles, if you’re going to keep me working, then I’d better get some rest.”

  “I’ve already arranged a room for you at the Perrin house. That’s where the cabinet is staying tonight. Enjoy your nap. And take a bath first for that back of yours.”

  Feeling a raw pinch in the area Charles is referring to, Patrick gives a nod that says he will.

  * * *

  It is evening when Patrick awakes from his brief rest. His brain feels limp and overworked after a series of feverish and surreal dreams. He cannot recall what exactly was taking place in them, but it had something to do with Elisabeth at the farm. She was swinging back and forth on a swing, and seemingly enjoying herself, but was the tree limb on which the swing was hung beginning to break?

  Patrick looks about his room. He’s unhappy about having woken up in the evening, as it will now take a day or so for his schedule to readjust itself.

  Moreover, he is still tired and sore from the ride overland. The prescribed bath helped a good deal, but not enough to make his body quite feel like his own.

  On the other hand, he is pleased to have tasted the hospitality of James Perrin in his Greek Revival mansion, a home that has been described as “one of the finest mansions” in South Carolina.

  Perrin is quite a character—a lawyer, planter, businessman, and politician, having served as mayor, state representative, and senator. He revels in hosting the members of Davis’ cabinet and is eager to discuss the future of the Confederacy with them. Perrin, after all, had played a significant role in the secession. He chaired the Abbeville delegation to the
state Secession Convention and was actually the first to sign the Ordinance of Secession.

  But alas, life is not a place of permanence, and everything the hardworking man had hoped for, all his dreams for the new nation, are now vaporizing in front of him. The cabinet aches from the absence of Attorney General Davis and Treasury Secretary Trenholm. And President Davis is now hearing from his generals that their men will not continue in the fight.

  Upon arriving on the porch, Captain Parker looks like the standard model of a much-relieved man. His mission now completed and his discharge from Navy Secretary Mallory formalized, he is preparing to take his midshipmen back home. He tells Patrick that he has already made his final report to President Davis.

  “These midshipmen are,” he says, “the best sentinels in the world… prompt in action and brave in danger. Their conduct always merited my approbation and excited my admiration. They never faulted.”

  “I can appreciate that,” Patrick responds. “It’s good to have a favorable impression. You all have spent a long, tough month together.”

  “We thought for a time this morning that it was all for naught,” Parker says.

  “How’s that?” asks Patrick.

  “When we got here,” says Parker, clearing his throat, “we put the specie and bullion in a warehouse on the town square. But the men have been concerned about threats from recently paroled soldiers who wanted to break in to get what they considered was due to them. Nothing came of it, though, just a lot of talk. Then this morning I was awakened early – really early – by Captain Peek, the officer of the guard, calling out: ‘The Yankees are coming!’”

  “What happened?”

  “We rousted everyone out to load the cargo onto the rail cars, and the engineer started building up a head of steam. We were preparing to make a quick escape to Newberry. But when the sun came up, we could see the so-called Yankees were actually the advance guard for the President’s party. We breathed quite a large sigh of relief, as you can imagine!”

  “That’s a heck of a scare.”

  “President Davis and Postmaster Reagan were riding in the lead of the column as they came into town. Davis pulled up in front of a cabin and asked the lady on the porch for a drink of water. As he drank, a baby crawled across the floor. The woman asked: ‘Ain’t you President Davis?’ He replied that he was. And she said that the baby was named for him.”

  Parker continues, “So the President took a gold coin out of his pocket and gave it to her, telling her, ‘Please keep this for him, and tell him about it when he’s old enough to understand.’ Then they rode off, with Davis telling Reagan that was the last coin he had— that he had kept it for luck. Guess his luck run out in Abbeville.”

  Patrick regards the irony with a silent grin.

  After clapping Patrick on the shoulder, Parker takes his leave, telling Patrick that his midshipmen have seen enough adventure and are ready to head back home. He also tells Patrick that he appreciated the wire concerning the two men shadowing the train. They are still in Abbeville but have yet to make a move.

  It isn’t long before General Breckinridge, wearing his signature hunting jacket, stops by the Perrin mansion to visit his former staff member.

  “Patrick, I heard you were here, and I could not let you pass through without paying my respects,” he says. The two men share smiles and a firm handshake.

  “Sir, that sentiment is mutual,” Patrick replies. “I must say that it has been an eventful year for both of us since our separation at New Market—you now Secretary of War and me a Treasury Agent.”

  “Indeed it has. Your wound healed well?” Breckinridge asks, peering around to Patrick’s left shoulder, his eyebrow cocking upward like an upside down “V.”

  “It’s much better, sir. Still a bit of pain now and then, but tolerable. And how, sir, are you?” Ever the dutiful captain, Patrick continues to show respect for his general officers.

  “Very well. Much better now that I know this war is finally over.”

  Patrick can’t help but ask, “You met with the President this afternoon, sir?”

  “I did, along with General Bragg, and Ferguson, Dibrell, Duke, and Vaughn and Colonel Breckinridge. With all the surrenders of our general officers, Bragg is now the senior general in the Confederacy. Certainly not one of my favorites, but fate has played her hand. She always does.”

  Breckinridge gives the younger man a wink.

  Indeed, when Bragg commanded the Army of Tennessee, his general officer staff was in open revolt, Breckinridge very much among them. Breckinridge wanted to challenge him to a duel. Bragg countered by accusing the Kentuckian of inept leadership.

  A sugar planter and commissioner of public works in Louisiana, Bragg joined the war effort as a colonel in the state militia. But in only a matter of months Bragg was appointed a brigadier general in the Confederate States Army and posted to Pensacola, where he trained the home guards from Augusta prior to the assault Jacob participated in on Santa Rosa Island.

  His formidable leadership at Shiloh resulted in promotion to full general in command of forty thousand troops. But his failure to exploit Confederate gains at Corinth and Chickamauga marked a setback. He found himself entangled in disputes with subordinates before encountering reassignment as an advisor to his staunchest supporter, President Davis. Ineffective in Richmond, he was posted to his home state of North Carolina in the war’s closing days. Today, now that he is general in charge, he and Breckinridge have managed to set aside their differences.

  “Was there a consensus among the military leadership?” Patrick wants to know, particularly from someone who was in the room during the War Council meeting.

  “There was. Davis was in good spirits and humor, and he counseled us to continue the struggle. It’s a position he advocated for ferociously during our cabinet meetings in Charlotte. Today he was looking for ‘some definite plan upon which further prosecution of our struggle shall be conducted,’ is how he put it.”

  Patrick asks, “Did he get one?”

  The Secretary responds, “Davis overtly asked his generals for suggestions on how they should continue the war. He was met with dead silence. The officers looked around the table at each other. Duke spoke for the group, expressing the hopelessness of an armed struggle by arguing that the fight for the Confederacy would only inflict more misery on the South. I think what drove the issue home for the President was his generals saying that their men would continue to serve to help Davis escape, but they would fire not one more shot to continue the war.”

  “And how did the President respond?” Patrick’s mind can barely contain the epic scale of such an exchange.

  “Once the realization set in, he accepted the finality of the moment. ‘All is lost,’ he said, with his head literally in his hands. It sent a pang of sadness through me. The President looked beaten when he left the room,” recounts Breckinridge. “It wasn’t his best day.”

  “He is a good man, whatever position history may take. What is next for him?”

  “I met with him privately after the war council, and we discussed different manners of escape. I suspect he’ll continue to work his way south to catch up with Mrs. Davis, who is about two days’ ride ahead of us. Then, they’ll make for Florida and transit to Europe or Texas.”

  “I don’t think anyone saw it ending like this,” says Patrick. “You’re right,” responds Breckinridge. “And I fear we all will have a lot to answer for once the occupation army gets collected.”

  * * *

  The night is pitch dark. A chilly rain is falling from black, invisible clouds.

  President Davis, General Bragg, Secretary of State Benjamin, Postmaster Reagan, and Navy Secretary Mallory rapidly depart from Abbeville at midnight. General Ferguson’s brigade has already gone ahead to secure the pontoon bridge crossing the Savannah River. Patrick is told that the Federal army has raided the town of Anderson, just about thirty miles away. And President Andrew Johnson has posted a one hundred thousand dollar rewar
d for the arrest of President Davis, still insistent on believing that he was behind Lincoln’s murder. Clearly, there will be no parole for the leadership of the rebellion.

  Colonel Liston has joined the escapees, and so has an old friend of Secretary Benjamin’s – Colonel Henry Leovy. Leovy was originally from Augusta and practiced law in New Orleans with Benjamin and Horace Hunley. He was instrumental in financing the development of the C.S.S. Hunley, the Confederate submarine named for his law partner. When New Orleans fell to Union forces, Leovy made his way to Texas to trade in cotton. Last year, he was appointed a special commissioner to investigate disloyalty in Virginia and just after Christmas was appointed a military judge. The Leovys had been staying in Abbeville, but the opportunity for Henry to be reunited with his old friend Judah Benjamin was simply too tempting.

  The hour hand is ticking toward midnight when General Duke takes charge of the Treasury and has it moved from the railroad cars to wagons for transport back to Washington. Breckinridge tells Duke to detail fifty of his men to guard the train. Duke wastes no time in recruiting ten men from each of the five brigades, the better to ensure that no one unit will be tempted to make off with the treasury. Under the command of Colonel Theophilius Steele, the soldiers secure six wagons and teams and, making use of lanterns and candles, transfer the bags, money belts, boxes, and barrels containing the Confederate treasury.

  Mr. Philbrook is on hand to account for the cargo. The bulk and weight of it is cited in Mexican dollars, packed in kegs about the size of those commonly used for nails. The gold is chiefly in double eagles, divided into sacks of five thousand dollars each and packed in regular coin boxes, twenty-five thousand dollars to a box. Some silver bricks, gold ingots and nuggets, and a lot of copper cents round out the manifest.

  In a fitting parting comment, Philbrook tells Patrick, “It speaks well for the morals of a beaten and dispirited army that no raid was ever attempted on this train by our own troops during its long journey, although the contents were well known all along the line and the amount much exaggerated. It was generally believed the amount was two million to ten million dollars, but we know how exaggerated those numbers are.”