The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  In his usual hushed yet menacing tones, Roads makes his instructions clear: “Richard, it is critical that every one of those bills we print is accounted for, especially the bills we did in the test run a couple of weeks ago. I see those didn’t get put into your logbook.” Roads looks right through the young man’s glasses, as if two hot iron rods are simmering within his eyes. “We cannot afford any more mistakes. Is that understood?”

  “Very clearly, sir,” Young Richard nervously replies. He is all too aware that people get only one chance to make a mistake in this organization. He knew it before he had the job and has seen the principle proven on numerous occasions.

  Satisfied with Richard’s reply for now, Roads continues sawing at his sausage.

  Meanwhile, T Heyward enters the restaurant and is immediately spotted by his fellow merchants, who are gathered at a corner table. T’s got a long face this morning. The men, however, cannot resist teasing him.

  “What happened to the big auction this week?” one mockingly asks.

  T replies, but not in a very friendly way, “You guys know what happened. And if you don’t, you can ask the Yankees.”

  Heyward was forced to cancel the auction at the lower market and forfeit any consignment fees that he might have had coming. “End of an era, boys. No market for slaves anymore,” he says.

  Before the bottom fell out of the war, T had advertised he would be offering up Peter, a finished waiting man and house servant, and Laura, a good field hand. And he knows they would have brought top dollar—maybe three or four thousand dollars each, sweetening his commission. But slavery is now outlawed and probably will be from here on out. The planter who was going to sell them no longer owns them. Fate has snatched away his property like a mouse from the paws of a kitten.

  “There’s going to be plenty of other things to sell, as soon as we get trade going with the North again,” T offers, his flat tone not entirely supporting his optimistic content. “The slaves were good business, but from now on we’ll be doing other kinds of business. Such is life.”

  Another gent generates a round of laughter when he speculates, “Maybe you can even teach the coloreds how to bid.”

  T looks right at him. “We’re going to have to teach them a lot more than that, I fear.”

  One of the men glances over toward Mayor May’s table. “Is T joking, Mayor?” he asks. “Are we going to have to teach these negroes a lot of things?”

  A grand sigh exiting his mouth, Mayor May puts down his newspaper and looks over at the table surrounded by businessmen. He’s been only half-listening to their dialogue with Heyward.

  “Yes, sir. T’s exactly right. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. This is a new South, and like it or not, the darkies are going to play a part in it. In some places there’s more of them than of us!” declares the mayor. “Didn’t you sense the difference the other day when General Upton marched his army up Broad Street to assume military command of this city?”

  “He’s one sharp soldier. Yes, sir,” observes one of the diners, whose attention has now been absorbed into the mayor’s presence.

  “Upton is now in control of the arsenal and the powder works and all of the troops presently here.” The mayor lifts up the morning Chronicle and Sentinel, holding it at eye level. “See, here’s what the morning paper says about him: ‘His bearing in all his intercourse with the Confederate authorities has been courteous. Everything about him betokens a true gentlemen and accomplished officer. We are satisfied that his administration will be mild but firm.’”

  This is more than enough to get Roads’ attention. Now he is beginning to listen to the mayor, as well.

  The mayor continues to read: ‘“Of course, one of the most important duties will be the preservation of public order and the protection of public and private property. More troops will join him by the end of the week.’”

  Wonderful, just what Roads needs—a bunch of Federal insects crawling around the city.

  * * *

  Late in the day, as the sun is dying, the engine chugs its way into the depot in Augusta, boiler and wheels covered with dust and grime after a long journey in from Washington. Patrick grins with delight upon seeing Jacob at the station waiting for him. He is anxious to brief him on the events in Abbeville and Washington, as well as during the ride in. But, recalling their recent conversations, Patrick has a hunch that his friend probably already knows quite a bit about what has happened.

  There was, however, a moment when Patrick actually thought he wasn’t going to make it back to Augusta. It’s a story he’s all too happy to recount for Jacob.

  Patrick shared his berth in the passenger car with Major Moses, who was delivering some of the Confederate treasury to the commissary in Augusta. Of the forty thousand dollars that Captain Clark had given him the night before, Moses left ten thousand with the Commissary officer in Washington and was bringing the other thirty thousand to the officer in charge in Augusta, to help pay for care for the sick and wounded soldiers in the city.

  Recalling the previous night, Moses said it didn’t take long for every straggler and destitute person to get word that he had a king’s ransom in his custody on that train. It mattered not why he had it, because it was Confederate funds, which no longer had a rightful owner. In due course, the regulars who had just been paid twenty-six dollars each figured they could make good use of hundreds or even thousands more.

  Moses explained to Patrick how he went to Robert Toombs for help to secure the funds for the night. Toombs offered him the names of ten former members of the Washington Artillery who were well known to him and could be trusted.

  Moses then told Patrick, “I agreed to pay them ten dollars each in gold to guard it that night and go with me to Augusta. I then took a squad of them and destroyed all the liquor I could find in the shops. I got part of a keg of powder and put it in a wooden building that was unoccupied, then put the boxes of bullion in the same room, placed my guard outside and around the building, and disseminated word that I had laid a train of powder to the outside, and if the guard was forced, the train would be fired.”

  Looking the man up and down, Patrick said to him, “Obviously you made it through the night in one piece.”

  Moses continued, “This morning I had the bullion loaded onto the train, but I am quite a bit nervous about having a couple hundred armed soldiers also riding with us.”

  No sooner had Moses said that than the conductor came up to them. “Major, from the talk I reckon the boys are going to charge your car when we reach the station at Barnett.”

  There was a race between Patrick and Moses in terms of whose jaw could hit the floor first.

  Their footsteps hurried, Patrick followed Moses to the freight car, where the major held a council with his guard. He told them that if they would stand with him, keep cool, and fire through an opening they would make in the doors, they could successfully defend the car against the attack. However, if they were not ready to do this, they would most assuredly be overcome.

  The men consulted together in private, and Moses was sweating as they did so. Primarily, he feared that they would choose to join up with the soldiers. But after several tense moments they reported back: “We will stand by you…as long as there is a chance to save the specie.”

  Just when the train got to Barnett, right on schedule, the expected crowd began forming around the freight car. The men were not unruly at first. In fact, their apparent calmness created a chill. But as the moments ticked by, they grew most forceful in pressing their demands that the gold be turned over to them. Their argument was a simple one: That it was theirs as much as anyone else’s.

  Patrick’s heart was pecking against the rears of his lungs. However, he found himself growing impressed as Moses stepped out into the crowd and began to make his case. For a man packed into such a tight corner, he certainly had an eloquence about him: “Every dollar of the bullion will be devoted to feeding your fellow soldiers and caring for the wounded in the hospit
als at Augusta.”

  Having laid out this bid for compassion, the officer then proceeded to outline the seriousness of the moment: “Moreover, you men might kill me and my guard, but you would be killing men in the discharge of a duty on behalf of their comrades, and it would be murder. If we kill any of you in defending the bullion, which we certainly would endeavor to do, we would be justified as the killing would be in self-defense and in a discharge of a sacred duty.”

  That was it. Moses had said his piece. He turned away, hardly eager to be contested. After he left, individual soldiers began to speak up for Moses, and over the course of several long yet merciful moments, the crowd slowly dispersed.

  So the major calmed the gathering storm clouds, but unfortunately not for long. The train they were meeting to take them onward to Augusta was over an hour late. And in no time at all, having reevaluated its position, the crowd at the depot started to reform. Soon they were pushing their body weight against the door of the boxcar.

  Moses made himself apparent again. As perspiration began to dot his face, he continued to press his argument that the gold was to be used for the benefit of the sick and wounded, and he was willing to die, if needed, in the course of defending it. Yet again, he appealed to the honor of the crowd, as well as even their sense of patriotism, but apparently, they were hanging onto little of either. It appeared that there was nothing he could do to stop the men. Patrick for one was prepared for a fight; he had already drawn his pistol and taken a defensive position amongst the guards.

  As Jacob listens to Patrick recount this tale, he feels thrust into the present moment, as though he’s in the thick of the conflict.

  A fellow officer confided to Moses, “A young man from Tennessee is about to lead a group in a charge on your car. Keep an eye out for ‘im. He’s the one with the wound on his cheek.”

  Moses was fast to spy the wounded soldier in question. Then with incredible courage he went right up to the man. “Sir, you appear to be a gentleman and bear an honorable wound. My orders are clear, and it is most trying to be forced perhaps to take men’s lives and lose my own in the performance of a duty that I cannot voluntarily avoid. I do have a guard and some friends in the crowd, but we are outnumbered, unless of course I can enlist men like yourself on our behalf.”

  Then Moses, not having a moment to spare, took a calculated risk, electing to make a direct plea to the soldier. Resting his right hand upon the man’s shoulder, and looking directly into his eyes, Moses said, “I appeal to you in the spirit of that honor that belongs to all brave men, to assist me in the discharge of this trust.”

  It was a tough, tight moment, but fortunately the injured soldier put an end to it.

  The young soldier, actually seeming embarrassed, opened his mouth and said, “I don’t think you will have any further trouble.”

  And so it was that Major Moses did not. Patrick, the major, and the guards alike concluded their trip to Augusta without further incident.

  “Quite an adventure,” Jacob responds, and Patrick is pleased to detect that Jacob bore no prior knowledge of it.

  “The countryside is positively a no man’s land,” reports Patrick. “And I’m glad to be back in the city.”

  Unaware of Patrick and Jacob’s watchful eyes, Moses and his guards leave the railroad station to take the bullion over to the Provost Marshal’s Office. Their faces bear the determination of men who didn’t very nearly lose their lives earlier in the day.

  After a moment, Patrick and Jacob leave as well, walking the few blocks to Broad Street and the Planters Hotel. Patrick can immediately sense that Augusta is a different place than it’s ever been before. For one thing, United States flags are hanging everywhere, flapping freely in the breeze. For another thing, blacks are freely massing and associating along all of the streets. They are out and about with their newfound freedom, but still in search of what exactly that freedom means.

  The end of hostilities has also had the effect of settling the economy down. Newspapers that last week sold for a dollar cost only a nickel on this morning. But ironically, cheaper commodities have little meaning when you have no money to buy them.

  As they walk and talk, Jacob describes for Patrick the arrival of the Federal troops in Augusta and the disintegration of the Confederate Army.

  Over in Aiken, Jacob says, General Lovell tried to direct his troops to surrender, but the units had already disbanded, and the men were headed home on their own authority. “It’s hard to keep folks around when there are no rations and no forage, much less when the men and horses are suffering.”

  The two make a stop at City Hall to have a conference with Mayor May. It’s time to bring him into the fold of their confidence.

  The mayor’s face is a spectacle of grins. He could not be more delighted to have a distinguished representative from the most famous cotton brokerage firm in the South in his office! And to have his own pastor along for the visit! A special treat, indeed.

  “Please, my good men, have a seat,” he offers, gesturing toward the two stuffed chairs by the window, the surfaces of which are streaked by a bar of sunlight drifting in from overhead.

  The visitors, nodding their heads, comply.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” the mayor asks. “Mr. Heyward sent some over to me after breakfast this morning. He had been involved in a spirited discussion, and he was most appreciative when I came to his aid.”

  Patrick responds, “Coffee sounds good, yes.”

  “I’ll have some, too,” adds Jacob.

  As the mayor pours, he allows his voice to soften: “Jacob, I must tell you, I can appreciate the new world we live in, but it’s going to take me a bit to get used to praying for President Johnson on Sundays.”

  “On the other hand, Mayor, I’m sure many people were praying for the Union President all along. They just didn’t say it out loud.”

  Patrick adds, “And probably lots of folks up North were praying for Jeff Davis.”

  “That’s accurate, I suppose. Everyone needs our prayers, silent and otherwise.” The mayor finishes serving the coffee, pulls up a third seat, and asks what brings the men to his office at this hour..

  Patrick goes first. “I’ve just returned from Washington, and I must confess that I am disappointed in the demeanor of our people, especially the paroled soldiers. This wave of lawlessness is not helpful to restoring peace in the South.”

  The mayor responds, “City Council is aware of this and just adopted an ordinance to organize a police force for the city. Believe me, we’re not going to tolerate an open-ended state of lawlessness.”

  Jacob asks, “How is the force going to function?”

  “I’ve directed all able-bodied male citizens between the ages of sixteen and sixty years to report to the clerk of council Thursday morning to be enrolled and to meet at the city hall at five o’clock that same afternoon to be organized. I’m expecting the good men of Augusta to step forward promptly and cheerfully.” The mayor smiles wide, a living force of optimism.

  “What kind of response are you getting?” Patrick asks.

  “The people support us because the present condition of affairs renders it absolutely necessary that all good citizens unite to protect their property, maintain order, and defend their families from violence and insult at the hands of the lawless and depraved.”

  No question about it, the mayor loves any chance to make a speech, even if he only has two listeners. Indeed, even if he only has a mirror! He rises from his chair and extends his right arm into the air to punctuate his points:

  “Good order and the fame of our city must be preserved, and if our people will but do their duty promptly and fully now, we shall be spared the scenes of disorder which so many apprehend and which would bring ruin and disgrace upon our community.”

  “And we applaud your leadership on this effort,” says Jacob, partly stirred and partly embarrassed by the mayor’s sudden outburst.

  Patrick says that he, too, appreciates what the may
or is doing. Meanwhile, the hour is late, so he expresses that he would like to come back later to discuss other matters of mutual interest among them.

  After Patrick makes eye contact with Jacob, Jacob agrees, and they take their leave of city hall. It just was not the right moment to get down to business.

  Walking down the steps to Greene Street, Patrick says to Jacob, “I like the guy, but he makes it difficult to sense when the timing is right to discuss something with him.”

  “Isn’t that the case with all politicians? If they allow for too much intimacy, they can’t control the conversation.”

  “Jacob, as usual, I guess you’re right.”

  Smiling, Jacob pats his buddy’s shoulder.

  They arrive at the lobby of the Planters Hotel. On the bulletin board is the news of the day, including a wire from the Federal authorities in Macon:

  $100,000 REWARD IN GOLD!

  Headquarters, Cavalry Corps

  Military Division Mississippi

  Macon, Georgia

  One hundred thousand dollars reward in gold will be paid to any person or persons who will apprehend and deliver JEFFERSON DAVIS to any of the military authorities of the United States. Several items of specie, reported to be with him, will become the property of the captors.

  J. H. Wilson, Maj Gen, US Army Commanding.

  “So Jacob, do you think a loyal Southerner would actually sell the President to the Yankees for such a sum of gold?”

  “Never forget, Patrick, that our savior was sold by a trusted disciple for thirty mere pieces of silver.”

  Smiling between themselves, they start to head up the stairs to the veranda for a late dinner, but a bellman gets Patrick’s attention along the way.

  “A letter, sir. A letter for you,” he tells Patrick, pressing it into his palm as he turns and leaves.

  He recognizes the writing on the envelope, and upon doing so, he holds the letter to his face to get a sniff of its scent. Yes, it is from Elisabeth. But he’ll read it later, when he’s in the privacy of his own room. He and Jacob have shared a great deal, but they’ll have to become far closer before Patrick opens up about his love for Elisabeth.