The Treasure Train

by Bob Young

  “Elisabeth! Elisabeth!” He belts out her name as he tears from one end of the house to the other.

  “Jimmy! Elisabeth!”

  No answer. He opens the back door and calls them again, his voice landing against the deadness of the yard. Still, no answer. Back in the kitchen, though, he sees a note tacked on the wall above the work table.

  Cotton salesman. If you want to see these people again, come to the cotton warehouse on the wharf Saturday night 8 ½.

  There’s not a speck of doubt in Patrick’s mind: Roads has taken Elisabeth and Jimmy. He’s using them as bait to draw him in. And Roads knows that a desperate man has nothing to lose.

  If he goes, Roads will kill them all.

  But Roads has certainly played his cards right, as Patrick has no choice.

  * * *

  Patrick may not have a choice, but he does have a plan. Before carrying it out, he is going to fulfill his promise to meet Jacob. When he arrives in the churchyard, Jacob is already there waiting for him.

  “Jacob, I’ve got some awful news,” Patrick says.

  “All right. You go first,” says Jacob, sighing.

  Patrick can barely register the notion that Jacob, too, has bad news. “Elisabeth and Jimmy are missing. I’m sure it was the work of Roads.”

  “What are you saying?” asks Jacob, his face a contortion of concern.

  “The door of her house was kicked in, the place is a mess inside, and a large pool of blood is on the bedroom floor. And there’s no sign of either of them.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “And there’s more,” offers Patrick. “A note was left in the kitchen telling me to be at the cotton warehouse on the river at eight and a half on Saturday. I have no choice but to go.”

  “That’s not necessarily so, Patrick. You’re going to take a great risk,” warns Jacob. “You know how dangerous these people are.”

  “Of course I do! Remember what happened to my mom and dad?”

  “Let’s get the Provost Marshal to send some men down there to get them out.”

  Patrick responds, “No. I don’t want the authorities to know about Elisabeth and Jimmy. Their lives are in danger. We cannot take that chance.”

  A stiff, cold moment.

  “You’re right, Patrick. We have no choice.”

  “I didn’t say ‘we,’ Jacob. I said ‘me.’”

  “No, my friend. We are in this together. I am going to help you.”

  “I think your prayers would be helpful. Those I’ll take, but not your life.”

  “My prayers are a given. We’ll work out a plan together,” Jacob says. “Now, let me share with you what I have learned about the Freedmen’s Bureau.”

  “Go.”

  “Another agent is due here tonight. Tomorrow, he and the Frenchman are headed up to Washington to look into allegations that former slave owners are still treating negroes like slaves.”

  “I don’t know why they need someone else to do that,” says Patrick, his distraction thinning out his tone.

  Jacob responds, “The government is concerned about how the situation in Augusta is being portrayed in the Northern newspapers.”

  Patrick shrugs, asks, “What are they saying?”

  “The New York Herald says their correspondent found more bitter rebel sentiment in Augusta than anywhere else in the South.”

  Collecting himself, Patrick formulates a question of substance: “But aren’t the mayor and other city leaders forming a local Union Club to show their support for the government?”

  “They are, Patrick, and with good results, even though Judge Hilliard was confronted with some angry insults at a recent meeting. But the policies of the Freedmen’s Bureau are keeping angry sentiment stirred up, and their new addition is a professional troublemaker, at that—it’s General Edward Wild.”

  More shrugging from Patrick. “Don’t think I’ve come across him.”

  Jacob continues, “And you don’t want to. His reputation precedes him. He’s going to be nothing but trouble for the citizens of this area, and General Molineux and his garrison.”

  “What have you learned about him?” Patrick’s interest is at last authentic.

  “He’s another ardent abolitionist in the same class as Bryant and French. Wild is a doctor who served in the Sultan’s forces in the Crimean War—while he was on his honeymoon, of all things.”

  “Got a real thirst for adventure, eh?”

  “He mustered into the First Massachusetts and saw action at Manassas, Seven Pines, and South Mountain. It was at the mountain that he lost his left arm. In April sixty-three, he was appointed Brigadier General of Volunteers and spent the remainder of the war recruiting Colored Troops and leading the ‘Wild African Brigade’ on a rampage through North Carolina.”

  “Was it that bad?” Patrick wants to know.

  “He makes Roads look like one of my Sunday school teachers.”

  The mere thought of Roads causes Patrick to shudder. “Come on.”

  “Seriously. His wounds left him embittered toward the people who supported slavery, so when he had a chance to strike at them, he did. In the fall of sixty-three, he took his troops into North Carolina to find guerilla camps and to kill or capture the guerillas. He claimed they were nothing more than bandits and pirates.”

  “Was he successful?”

  Jacob continues, “Depends on how you define success. In December, he tied up the wives of two Confederate regulars and held them hostage. He threatened to hang them, if any harm came to a negro regular the Confederates had captured. Then, get this, they go to the house of Daniel Bright, take him to a crossroad and hang him for consorting with the guerillas. Bright, it turns out, was a Georgia regular and should have been treated as a prisoner of war. But there’s more.

  Without hesitating, Jacob goes on: “The gallows malfunctioned and the Colored Troops let Bright strangle for twenty minutes until he died. Then Wild ordered that a placard be pinned to the hanging corpse that read—the provost wrote this down for me.” Jacob pulls a sheet of note paper from his pocket.

  “This is sickening,” says Patrick.

  “Here it is. The sign said: ‘This guerilla hanged by order of Brigadier General Wild.’ And they left his body hanging there as a warning to others. Wild and his Colored Troops had the population up there around Elizabeth City scared to death. The citizens called the invasion a reign of terror. Anyway, Colonel Griffin, who’s commanding the Confederate forces, lets Wild know that he hanged the black soldier in retaliation for Bright’s hanging. And he’s holding two more Yankees he’ll hang if anything happens to the two ladies being held hostage.”

  “Jacob: Are you certain that someone didn’t make this up?”

  “Absolutely. Wild’s commander intervened and ordered him not to hang the ladies. But Wild kept up his outrageous conduct. He ordered a plantation owner ‘stripped and whipped’ by his former female slaves in retaliation for their treatment under his ownership. They finally brought Wild up on charges, but nothing came of them.”

  Patrick asks, “And this guy is now working for the Freedmen’s Bureau?”

  Jacob fumbles with the sheet of paper, creating a light crackling sound as he does. “Even though a superior describes his conduct as ‘barbarism,’ Wild has never admitted he did anything wrong. In fact, he sees himself as the negroes’ truest friend because he identifies with their cause. And he believes that the Southerners never really surrendered, that indeed we need a ‘lengthy, firmly supervised reconstruction.’”

  “This is too much, Jacob. First, a raging abolitionist shows up. Then, the ‘White Jesus’ comes to town. Now, a hot-headed barbarian joins them. Don’t you just love the ‘new South’?”

  “Clearly, Patrick, more hard days are ahead. These agents have full authority to dispose of our property. They’re even talking about setting up their own courts.”

  The state of the union is too much for Patrick’s mind right now. Though his days as a soldier have schooled
him to concentrate on a diversity of intense and challenging topics at the same time, right now only one topic is truly important to him:

  “Jacob, we just can’t worry about those folks in Washington. Getting Elisabeth back is the first priority.”

  “I understand, and I apologize. I just wanted you to know that we’ll be doing so against a backdrop of chaos.”

  Patrick nods his understanding.

  Jacob continues, “I think I know just how we can achieve success. I believe Elisabeth and Jimmy are still in Augusta and okay. But you and I will have to wait for the exact right time to free them.”

  * * *

  At a mind-shattering volume, the cannons blast their metal projectiles through clouds of fire. The shots land with explosive force, clearing the ground of all the life in their craters.

  Meanwhile, musket fire sends balls of steel whizzing about wildly, buzzing like a flock of mosquitoes as they dart forward. Those that find their marks do so with a stinging bite, robust enough to sever limbs and even life.

  And then there’s the smoke.

  It is everywhere. It engulfs areas near and far, known and unknown. It invades all senses, causing tears and coughs. Amid this mix of cannon and musket and smoke can be heard the cries of many men, young and old. Cries of anguish and pain. The cries of the victor and the vanquished.

  One such fighter enters this field at his own peril. The rain has rendered the land a muddy pit. The fog is so thick that it impedes any movement through it. And more often than not, the shoes are sucked right off the feet of those who enter.

  Testing this field would be treacherous for even the most seasoned veteran. The oncoming fire is most oppressive and the field offers no cover nor place to hide. But, the young cadets from VMI have already been tested, and their previous success in taking the farmhouse emboldens them to press on even further.

  “No. No!” the voice shouts. “Hold here until we are reinforced.” But the boys do not hear, whether due to the zeal overriding their senses or the thundering sound of battle. “Do not advance!”

  “Charge,” is the response. “Charge!” One word coming from many directions and from a growing number of voices. The admonition to seize the moment spreads with the speed and lethality of a contagious virus.

  “Stay down! Stay down!”

  But the plea is ignored, if it is even heard at all.

  The cadets of Virginia Military Academy, the future leaders of the new South, rise as one and begin to plod forward amid youthful yells of encouragement. They press on through the muddy field, not seeing their objective, but knowing that victory awaits at the top of the hill.

  Then they begin to fall. First one, then two. Followed by another, and another, and finally more and more.

  Five do not arise to continue the charge.

  Then through the smoke comes the vision of a small boy, following in the footsteps laid out before him. He’s not a stranger.

  “Joey!” the voice cries. “Joey. No!”

  For a moment the battlefield falls silent. The boy collapses to the ground head first, his face burrowing down in the mud. The voice offers only a helpless cry of anguish. And the body of the young lad rolls its way to a solemn rest.

  “No. No. Not again. Not this way!” cries Patrick, as he abruptly awakes from a nightmare that his mind has replayed so many times before. He’s sitting up in his bed, his nightshirt soaked in sweat. His heart beating strongly—and loudly.

  He was entrusted with the lives of his brother and the VMI cadets. And their losses eat at him relentlessly.

  Patrick sobs, letting himself become absorbed in his own guilt, and pledging that Elisabeth and Jimmy will not be allowed to fall to a similar fate.

  * * *

  Morning finds Patrick at his usual table in the Office, only this time his head is less calm than it has ever been before.

  The scene on the street outside the window is no different from what he found on days gone by: The sidewalks and streets are jammed with people, especially the coloreds. Families have come into Augusta to try to connect with relatives who were sold off to other owners. Most have come to discover what this new-found freedom is all about, and more urgently, to find out where they can get the material rewards of freedom.

  As always, Mayor May and General Molineux are holding court at the center table. Patrick has no trouble overhearing them today, although his interest is far damper than it has been in the past.

  “My condolences, general, on behalf of the citizens of this fair city on the loss of three of your soldiers at the arsenal,” says the mayor, dipping his head in reverence as he delivers his report.

  “Your kind words are deeply appreciated, Mr. Mayor,” responds Molineux. “It was indeed a tragic accident. My chief of engineers tells me they were trapped in the cave-in of the well.”

  “I know the losses touch you personally, and indeed, the loss of the lives of these brave young men has moved us all,” the mayor intones, his voice at a false “hush,” which is clearly intended to keep his audience engaged.

  “I will share your sentiments with the garrison and with the grieving families of the deceased.”

  “Much obliged, sir,” responds the mayor.

  “Mayor,” says the general, shifting his chair and his tone alike, “I have a number of important matters to discuss with you this morning.”

  “Please, sir. You have my undivided attention.”

  “We urgently need your help to move the transients from this city,” says the general. “Many of the problems we are having with crime and disturbances are the result of paroled officers and men who remain here for no specific purpose.”

  Mayor May responds, “Getting them out of the city would certainly ease the burden on the relief associations that are called upon to provide for them, too.”

  “My headquarters is issuing an order telling the parolees that they can’t stay more than twenty-four hours without special permission. If they don’t leave, they’ll be arrested.”

  “That ought to get their attention,” says the mayor, his lips bending downward in a theatrical, disengaged frown.

  “I’ve appointed Lieutenant Colonel W.M. Rexford of the one hundred eighty-first New York Volunteers as the provost judge. He’ll have jurisdiction in all cases and misdemeanors. His work is already underway. And mayor, he’ll have concurrent jurisdiction with you and the council. I think you will find him a fine man to work with.”

  “Good enough. Now that you have a judge, people will take your edicts much more seriously.”

  “I hope so,” replies Molineux. “I’ve also appointed Captain Wells O. Petit of the one-fifty-ninth New York Volunteers as the chief of military police. He’ll be reporting to Major Allen and enforcing martial law in your city.”

  The mayor nods, sipping down some coffee. “The lawlessness is what I hear more about than any other thing, general.”

  “Colonel Allen has issued General Order Thirteen…”—he hands the mayor a copy—“which should give Captain Petit the backup he needs to deal with the troublemakers. The order makes it clear that slavery is abolished, and any action that continues to recognize slavery is prohibited. We are going to help restore the peace for your citizens who have taken the oath.”

  “As many have,” the mayor verifies.

  “I want Captain Petit made aware of any lawlessness or violence, so the perpetrators can be punished. The order allows your local sheriffs, justices of the peace, and constables to enforce good order once they have taken the amnesty oath. And the cases they file against both whites and blacks will be tried before the provost marshal.”

  “As for the negroes, namely the ones who continue to come into our city with no forage or shelter?”

  “They, sir, are subject to the military law, too. Vagrancy and idleness by the freedmen will not be tolerated.” Then, with emphasis, the general says, “Whatever support they seek, they are going to have to work for it.”

  General Molineux has obviously show
n up well-prepared to meet with the mayor, Patrick observes. The general pulls appointments and orders from the stack of paper in front of him, the proficient manner of a man going down a list.

  The general continues, “The appointment of our surgeon-in-chief has also been accomplished. He’s a fine man of medicine, Doctor Y. A. Provost. You’ll probably be hearing directly from him later today.”

  “What for, may I ask?”

  “Mayor, he is requiring all cellars to be pumped out, cleaned, and whitewashed by the first of the month. The doctor tells me it’s a health issue. He’s even had us take similar actions in the buildings from which we work.”

  “Well, we’ll be glad to cooperate with him on this. I fear that the surge in people living here in less-than-desirable conditions does create a most unhealthy environment, and is no doubt taxing our associations to their limits.”

  “It won’t just be a one-time cleaning. We’re going to hold the occupants of these buildings responsible for keeping them clean going forward. You can share that news with your citizens.”

  “And I will, sir,” the mayor assures him, looking around at the other diners straining to hear him. “That is, the ones who don’t yet know.” He winks. “Is that all for now?”

  The general shuffles through his papers. “Yes, that’s all I have.”

  “Allow me, if I might, sir, to extend to you an invitation to pull yourself away from these dreadful administrative functions and be my guest tonight for the performance of Hampton’s Celebrated Minstrel Band.”

  The general replies with measured delight. “I’ve heard of them—the favorite band of Old Virginia, I believe.”

  “That is correct. But they don’t use that standing in their advertising anymore. Perhaps a better group came along in Virginia.” The mayor chuckles. “The performance is at the city Concert Hall. And the program consists of music, songs, and Burlesques dancing. Please, if you will, join me in the mayor’s box tonight.”

  “I’ll consider it most seriously, mayor. Have my aide get back to you. It’s a very kind invitation.”

  “I’ll look forward to it, sir,” says the mayor, jumping to confirm the other man’s commitment. “We’ll meet after the town meeting at Masonic Hall.”