by Bob Young
Allen continues, “And we’ve got to begin collecting cotton specie, tobacco, and other things that belong to the late so-called Confederate States. We know where a lot of it is, but people are going to extraordinary lengths to hide it from us.”
“We’ll certainly keep our ears open,” Jacob says.
Major Allen nods, then elects to return the favor: “I’ll send a detail over to the barn to cut him down and take care of the body. At least we can get that accomplished today.”
“Not high on my list of jobs I envy,” replies Patrick.
“My list is any job but this one,” says Allen, as his visitors take their leave.
* * *
The streets of Augusta are developing a surreal resemblance to a crowded field as Patrick and Jacob again ride through them. A mass of humanity presses against their carriage as they depart from the arsenal grounds and head back into the city. From store front to store front, the public thoroughfare is jammed with people, wagons, and animals. Meanwhile, large numbers of negroes are coming in from the plantations. These are people with no place to go and no real means of support. Many are in the process of setting up tents and lean-tos along the sidewalks.
“Sad sight,” Patrick remarks to Jacob.
“Truly man’s worst moment,” replies Jacob, shaking his head. “Reverend Clark and Mayor May and so many others have worked so hard through the war to take care of the poor and destitute already numbering in the hundreds. But now the numbers are overwhelming—in the thousands.”
“Where will they go? What’s their future? Anyone’s future?” asks Patrick, looking out upon the homeless.
“We’ll certainly maintain the order. The general and Major Allen have said enough times to both white and negro leaders that disturbances, robberies, and other uncivil excesses will not be tolerated.”
“But these people steal because they have nothing,” says Patrick, his eyes attached to the surreal landscape of humanity.
“Well, General Molineux has made it clear that the only commissary stores he has are for his troops. And he’s said it would be best if the negroes would return to their homes for now.”
Patrick asks, “Can’t the general just ask the quartermaster for more forage to be sent up from Savannah?”
“If only it were that simple, my friend. There are few steamers and no flats. And a draft of three and a half feet makes it impossible to move large amounts of goods on the Savannah River. I just don’t see any big change in the conditions for these people for several more days, at least,” Jacob speculates.
“And these conditions only breed trouble,” says Patrick.
“Of the worst kind,” adds Jacob, as he whips the horses around a corner and down Broad Street.
“Enough excitement for one day, Patrick. Let me show you the press a little later, when I’m in the clear.”
“In the clear?”
“I’ve got to get about my Sunday visitations,” Jacob explains, winking subtly.
“All right, Jacob. Just drop me at the Planters.”
* * *
As Patrick heads through the lobby to the stairs, a new posting on the lobby information board grabs his eye. The first thing he sees, in big, bold characters, is “$360,000 REWARD.” The sign goes on to read:
The President of the United States has issued his proclamation announcing the Bureaus of Military has reported undoubtable evidence that Jefferson Davis, Olement Clay, Jacob Thompson, George N. Gannders, Beverly Tucker and William O. Cleary incited and concerted the assassination of Mr. Lincoln and the attempt upon Mr. Seward. He therefore offers for the arrest of Davis, Clay and Thompson one hundred thousand dollars each; for that of Gannders and Tucker, twenty-five thousand dollars each; for that of Cleary, ten thousand dollars.
James H. Wilson, Maj Gen U S A commanding.
A jolt goes through Patrick. He knows right away that something is terribly wrong, that forces within the Federal government have obviously been feeding President Johnson some horribly poor and inaccurate information. President Davis is no more involved in the assassination than Patrick himself is! All President Johnson is doing now is stirring up the flames of hatred in the South and in the bargain, giving fuel to those Northerners who are bent on punishing the South for the war. Even if they catch Davis, Patrick concludes, they’ll never be able to prove that he conspired to kill anyone. It’s a meaningless exercise, a snake eating its own tail.
* * *
Under the door to Patrick’s room awaits an envelope. Unlike his assortment of spy notes, it bears the markings of the express offices.
Patrick settles into the chair by the window and reaches over to open the curtains. The afternoon sun is a bright shock as it enters the room. And as Patrick slips the paper out of the envelope and unfolds it, the brightness seems to make the words jump right off the paper.
It’s from Elisabeth. She and Jimmy are leaving for Augusta. No—correction: They are actually already on their way to Augusta because the note was written two days ago.
Patrick lowers the paper into his lap. Why is she coming back? She was in safety at his family’s farm. His mother and father sacrificed greatly to protect her. Why is she walking away from the safest of all places to return to the vile world which bears the man who helped corrupt her family and possibly ordered everyone in it killed?
His thoughts in knots, Patrick picks up the page and continues reading:
Darling, you cannot imagine the oppression the Union is applying to the people of the South. Dangerous men are on their way to Augusta that make Roads look like a priest. For the sake of Jimmy’s future, we must stop them all.
Whatever her failings in terms of self-preservation, Elisabeth is indeed her own woman. And she knows full well how to silence her critics. Apparently her time on the farm has hardened her. By now, Elisabeth no doubt knows how to protect herself and her son— Patrick’s father saw to it that she would learn how to fire a rifle and pistol.
And she had plenty of time to practice.
The letter goes on to say that she and Jimmy have grown increasingly closer as mother and son. No one, she declares, will ever separate them again.
With Elisabeth’s new attitude and the Union enforcement of law and order, maybe she will not have that much to fear in Augusta from Adolphus Roads or otherwise. Her wire says she will be arriving shortly.
Patrick supposes he had better get her house in order to prepare for her arrival. Lots to do come the rise of the morning sun.
* * *
During a streak of quietness in his storefront office, Adolphus Roads is reviewing the ledger left behind by his chief bookkeeper, Richard Walker, who has suddenly vanished.
Or at least that’s what he’s telling those who ask. Thankfully for him, very few are bold enough to inquire.
“Yes,” he generally says, “Richard has left my employ, but I have no information as to his whereabouts. His sudden departure was very strange indeed.”
The fact is, Roads doesn’t need Richard to tell him what he wants to know. The numbers in the book left behind by the man don’t lie.
The counterfeiting is progressing well. Each day, production runs up into tens of thousands of dollars. And within two short weeks, he’ll have the millions he needs to flood the Southern economy. However, not all is perfect: Roads is a bit distressed that local merchants are rejecting greenbacks for trading. On the other hand, General Moulineux’s threats appear to have helped overcome this difficulty.
On his desk is an uncut sheet of hundred-dollar notes. He holds them up against the lamp for a closer examination. They are perfect in every way. And why not? They come right off of plates stolen from the Federal treasury.
Like a farmer counting his chickens before they hatch, Roads is already counting his profits. Regardless, he has better odds than such a farmer.
He’s also mulling over a wire from his men in Washington. They say they’ve picked up some chatter that the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold and
silver belonging to the Richmond banks may soon be sent back to Virginia. They sense that Roads’ opportunity to make his move may be mere days away.
Right now, all over the South, times are tough for a lot of people, but for Roads, the times—and the timing—couldn’t be better.
* * *
Loud banging on the door awakens Patrick. The sun has risen before him. He fumbles while wrapping himself in his blanket, then staggers to the door.
“Who’s there?” he asks.
“Jacob,” replies the voice. “Let me in. Quick!”
Patrick opens the door just a crack, then Jacob pushes it open the rest of the way.
“Sit down, Patrick,” says Jacob. “I’ve got important news.”
Patrick returns to the bed and descends upon the literal edge of his seat, his feet barely touching the floor. Jacob pulls up a chair, its wood legs screeching against the floor.
“The day we’ve all been anxious about is here.”
“What is it, Jacob, the end times?” Patrick asks, cracking a smile.
But Jacob is not laughing.
“No, Patrick. It’s serious. President Davis has been arrested.”
“What? How did you come by this?” Patrick asks, his eyes now fully open and his body erect.
“We weren’t ready for this. We thought he’d get away, but some Union cavalry found his party near Irwinville in South Georgia. Major Allen briefed me this morning on what he had heard.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t give up without a fight. Jeff Davis hates the Yankees,” says Patrick.
“Quite the contrary. They said he was trying to escape from his camp disguised as a woman.” Now Jacob allows himself to smile.
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Well, you know how people talk. But regardless, he’s in custody and should be turned over to General Wilson in Macon tomorrow.”
Patrick says, “Well, if your goal was to wake me up, you’ve certainly done so.”
“There’s more.”
“More?”
“Lots more,” says Jacob.
“Go on, then,” encourages Patrick.
“Major Allen got copied on a wire from General Wilson that said Vice President Stephens was arrested at Liberty Hall.”
Patrick absorbs the news, says, “I doubt he put up a fight.”
“You’re right, there, Patrick. You know as well as anyone that Stephens was so against this war. But there’s even more!”
“Somehow I knew you would say that.”
“At about the same time that the soldiers were in Crawfordville, another company of cavalry descended on the home of Robert Toombs in Washington.”
“What kind of fight did the general put up?”
“Actually, with the soldiers at the front door, Toombs high-tailed it out the back door, mounted his horse, and took off. They never caught him. But General Wheeler and his staff were captured at Conyers station. Wheeler was using a forged passport and trying to pass himself off as a Lieutenant Sharp. They say he was trying to get to the Trans-Mississippi Department.”
“Jacob,” says Patrick, stars dancing in his eyes, “this is one heck of a way to wake up.”
“I knew you would want to know right away. Certainly there is no doubt now that the rebellion is over and the states are going back into the Union.”
“I just wish I had been there to see Toombs riding off into the distance,” says Patrick, as both men share a mighty laugh.
“Get dressed,” says Jacob. “Let’s see if we can finally get a glimpse of the printing press.”
“I’m with you,” replies Patrick, as he sheds the blanket and rises in search of his pants.
* * *
Jacob’s carriage maneuvers its way through the crowded streets to a place near the city Common on the other side of Magnolia Cemetery. Once there, he picks up a cut through the trees that is actually more trail than road. After some distance they come to a clearing. There the men abandon the carriage and walk down a small path to an opening in the pine trees. Patrick sees a rather large cabin, the clapboard siding of which is in desperate need of whitewash. Smoke is coming from the chimney and drifting up into the pine needles. Two carriages with teams and a collection of horses are tied up to rails near the front porch though there is no sight of a human being anywhere outside the cabin.
“This is the way it’s been both times I’ve been out here,” whispers Jacob. He and Patrick spy on the cabin from behind a couple of fallen trees. “All the activity is inside, and they must be pretty confident because I’ve never seen a guard outside.”
“So—this is where the money’s being printed?”
“Looks like they’re doing it ‘round the clock, as best they can. Remember: Roads picked up about a dozen former employees from Paterson, so that would give him enough manpower for a near-continuous operation.”
“Where is the finished product?”
“Best I can figure, it’s still in the house. Some of the bills from the test printing a couple weeks ago have gotten out, like those originally given to Elisabeth and the money found on the bodies of his men outside Savannah. But all the rest of it seems to be in there.”
“Have we come up with a plan just yet?” Patrick is readier than ever to wrap this up, since Elisabeth is going to be in town. He wants bad things to happen to Roads, not her.
“I’ve been consulting with Major Allen on this, and we both agree that we want to catch Roads with the money, and catch him when they’ve finished their work. We believe that opportunity will present itself fairly soon,” says Jacob.
Patrick is open about his concern: “I would hope he doesn’t slip away on us.”
“I don’t think he will. He’s too busy. Other interests, you know. He’s got men watching the deposits of the Richmond banks in Washington. Plus, a lot of railroad money is starting to show up in Augusta, giving him some additional tempting targets.”
“How, exactly?” asks Patrick.
Jacob sets his voice even lower: “The president and cashier of the Bank of Tennessee have sought refuge in Augusta, and they did not come with empty pockets. They brought about a half million dollars. General Molineux is also sitting on one hundred eighty-eight thousand dollars of assorted private funds. And the specie of the Georgia Central Railroad is locked up in Augusta. That’s another two hundred thousand dollars. I expect a lot more is going to turn up before long. And you know Roads won’t be long for picking up the scent.”
Patrick says, “You can say that ag—”
“Shhhhh. Head down,” hisses Jacob.
They both duck, but then raise their heads just enough to see three men coming out of the cabin. Each man lights up a cigar as they engage in conversation, but the agents are too far away to hear specifics. In a few moments Patrick and Jacob can, however, smell the potent smoke.
The men climb into one of the wagons and ride away.
“Shift change,” says Patrick.
“Or no one’s cooking, and they are in search of food,” offers Jacob.
Patrick says, “Let’s head back to town while we still have our heads and limbs.”
They turn away, walking as silently as they can back to the carriage.
Patrick has an uncanny feeling that he is about to finish up his assignment. And he sure wants to, as he’s eager to begin his brand new life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On his walk from the hotel to the Office Restaurant for lunch, Patrick spots a new sign on the Broad Street storefront that was once the headquarters of General Fry, next to the Bank of Augusta:
Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen and Abandoned Lands.
Capt. John Bryant, Agent.
Office hours 9 am to 3 pm
Already a line of negroes has begun to form at the door. For what, though? Patrick wonders. He recalls Elisabeth’s letter warning him about the Freedmen’s Bureau and the trouble they have been stirring up in the occupied territories, especially along the Sea Islands of South Carolina, where his f
ather lives. What agenda might they have in Augusta?
Patrick and Jacob arrive at the restaurant at the same time and share a table—Patrick’s usual, by the window.
“I’m beginning to get a bit concerned, Jacob. About maintaining my cover,” Patrick says.
“I’ve talked to a lot of people about buying cotton the past couple of weeks, but I haven’t bought one bit. That could lead to talk.”
“Patrick, no matter what’s going on, in slow times or fast times, folks will look for any excuse to talk. I wouldn’t worry about it. We’re almost finished with our work.”
Patrick leans forward, says, “I even think that Roads may suspect something. He’s been too interested in my activities since seeing that flour on my pants and shoes down at the landing last month. I believe he made a connection to my nighttime visit.”
“If he did, he would have done something about it.”
“He didn’t get where he is by being stupid.”
“Nor by being rash.”
Patrick quickly changes the subject, asking Jacob what he knows about John Bryant at the Freedmen’s Bureau. “I saw a sign in announcing his office.”
“An abolitionist is what he is,” explains Jacob.
“He ought to feel right at home here, then,” says Patrick, chuckling.
Jacob continues, “The North set up the Bureau to resettle the freed slaves and to distribute to each of them forty acres of the lands confiscated by the government.”
“Now, you’re playing with fire. That will not go over famously with local folks,” replies Patrick.
“Well, don’t look at me. The law the Bureau operates under is not written very clearly, so these agents, like Bryant, can do pretty much what they want.”
“What else do you know about Bryant?” Patrick asks.
“Not a whole lot,” Jacob responds, as he pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket and begins unfolding it. “Yesterday Major Allen shared with me what information he has. This Bryant was a teacher; his father, a Methodist minister. Comes from Maine, where he mustered into the Eighth Maine Infantry early in the war. Commissioned a captain. The unit was sent to the Sea Islands and stationed at Hilton Head.”
