Confederate Gold and Silver

by Peter F. Warren

  Francis had ridden around the northern perimeter of the camp for the second time, keeping a sharp eye out for any movements which would cause him to sound the alarm to wake his men, but the night had been a peaceful one. As he stopped his horse for a few moments, he pulled out his pocket watch. From the light the full moon displayed on this beautiful summer evening, he could see it was just past three in the morning. As he placed his watch back into his uniform blouse, he could see the silhouette of one of his men riding out to meet him. Sgt. Roy McKinney, the short stocky North Carolinian, who had been such a big help during their mission by always being ready to care for the horses and their needs, rode up to where Francis had stopped his horse near a small stand of pine trees.

  “Morning, captain. I thought you could use some sleep. I’ll stay out here until we get moving in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Roy. I could use some sleep. I appreciate the consideration.”

  “Captain, I am sorry to tell you this when you are so tired, but I checked on Sturges before I rode out here. He’s dead, likely been so for about an hour. I think he bled to death as I could see his shirt and bandages were soaked in blood. I had checked on him earlier and I knew Odom had did so also. He was fine both of those times, but he must have bled to death from his wounds as he slept. I liked that boy, he’s one I’m gonna miss.” McKinney turned his head away so Francis would not see him wiping away the tears starting to form in his eyes.

  As tired as Francis was from being up all day, and for most of the night, upon hearing Sturges had succumbed to his wounds, he now felt exhausted. He knew he had to get some sleep, but as he rode back to where the others now slept he also knew without Sturges he would have to figure out how to finish his mission with only six healthy soldiers, one injured soldier, and a slave.

  Before attempting to fall sleep, Francis knelt down and pulled back the blanket covering the face of the now deceased Sgt. Sturges. He had been the quiet one of the group. While he had fit in well with the others, especially when they had played card games by the campfires at night, perhaps because he was older and more mature, Sturges had kept his distance at times. As he looked down on Sturges’ still youthful face, a face his parents would never see again, he bowed his head and prayed for him. After he finished his prayer, and despite knowing Sturges was dead, Francis softly spoke to him, not knowing if he was comforting himself or Sturges’ spirit, a spirit he believed was still present. “Later this morning we shall bury you near your friends, Sgts. Foster and Rickert. You have each served our cause so well together and now you shall sleep near each other for eternity. I shall miss each of you.” Pulling the blanket back over Sturges’ face, he then went to lie down. He knew it would likely prove to be a wasted effort as he could not possibly fall asleep after three of his men had just died.

  As he thought about his men who had died that day, his thoughts turned to others who had also lost men in battle. “How had so many generals been able to sleep at night after they had ordered thousands of men to their deaths in some battle? I have lost only three men today and I wonder if I will ever be able to sleep again or get their faces cleared from my mind.” Lying on his blanket, Francis knew his troubles would likely continue. He also knew the chances of his mission being a successful one was now in trouble.

  If he knew how much more trouble they would soon face he might have been able to plan for it, but Francis was just a soldier and on most occasions soldiers do not know the trouble that lays waiting for them. He would just have to deal with it when it confronted him, just like so many other soldiers before him had.

  Amongst those thoughts, with his blanket spread out on the ankle deep and dew covered North Carolina grass, he finally fell asleep. It would not be a restful sleep.

  ******

  The men had already risen and taken care of their horses before Francis woke a few scant hours after falling asleep. They had made themselves some coffee and were preparing to move out for the day by the time he started to stir in his blankets. They appreciated his efforts last evening in riding guard duty while they had slept and now they tried to quietly complete their morning chores so he could sleep as long as possible.

  It was Sgt. Griffin who saw Francis starting to stir and who had made the morning coffee for all of them to start their day with. “Morning, captain. I set a cup of coffee down by you a couple of minutes ago; it should still be plenty warm. I know you heard about Sturges. We dug a grave for him this morning near where we buried Rickert and Foster. We got him wrapped in a blanket, but we ain’t yet buried him as we knew you’d want to say some words over him.” It was not the type of a greeting Francis normally started the day with.

  Propping himself up on his elbows, Francis saw the still steaming cup of coffee which had been set down next to him. Picking up the cup of hot coffee, he nodded his thanks to Griffin. Drinking his coffee, he saw the others were huddled around Sturges’ blanket wrapped body.

  As he stared at this scene, he then saw the injured Sgt. Hatfield climb down out of the wagon he had been riding in. He watched for a moment as Hatfield started hobbling to where the others had gathered. As he hobbled along, Francis easily caught up to him. “Good morning, Sgt. Hatfield, how is the leg this morning?”

  “Captain, good morning to you, sir. I am making it, but not too well I’m afraid. This leg splint is an evil device. I know it’s supposed to help my leg get better, but to be honest, it ain’t working. My leg hurts real bad. Sadly, I’m afraid as much as my leg hurts; I’m a doing better than Sturges is this morning. He and I became good friends in a short period of time. He was a good man, a real Christian man.”

  “That he was, that he was.”

  As they walked the short distance towards where Sturges was to be buried, Francis saw the pain in Hatfield’s face with each step he took. “Edward, I know you are having trouble with your leg, but I need you more than ever now that Sturges is dead. This is going to be difficult and I hope we can jerrybuild something to help ease the pain in your leg, but I need to know if you can drive a wagon for us. Can you do it?”

  “I guess we will know soon enough, won’t we, captain?”

  “I guess we will.”

  Francis now knew Hatfield’s leg was hurting him more than he had previously let on as each step brought a grimace of pain to his face. The grimaces told Francis he now needed to find proper medical care for him. He knew the ride in the back of the wagon for the past several days had been painful for Hatfield to endure, but now the ride on the hard seat of a wagon would offer no comfort at all to his broken leg.

  Soon after they buried Sturges, next to where they had buried their other two friends, they broke camp and started the ride south for the day. The men had rigged a contraption to try and ease the pain Hatfield would feel from each bump his wagon would hit, but it took only a few minutes of the ride before he let out the first of several screams. Hatfield’s painful screams told them their efforts had failed to make the ride any easier for him. Still they pushed on.

  Moving south towards Darlington and the North Eastern Railroad, Francis surveyed the looks on the faces of his men. He sensed the deaths of their friends, and the screams of pain Hatfield let out, were taking a toll on his men. They were struggling to finish their mission with far less hands than they had when they had started out.

  Francis had grown to admire his men not only for how they had handled themselves when they were faced with adversity, but how they had done so despite the loss of several of their fellow soldiers. Others had selected these men for this assignment, and while they now were his men, he knew those who had selected them had picked the right soldiers for this mission. He was grateful to them as well.

  As they moved along, Francis could also not help but smile when he saw the irony which now existed. The irony involved Samuel. As the wagons moved south and deeper into the Confederacy, a slave now drove one of the wagons, one loaded wi
th gold and silver needed to help keep the Confederacy alive. He shook his head at this sight as he knew many a Southerner would be appalled over this, but times were different now and Samuel drove his wagon as well as any other man could.

  Under the hot North Carolina sun they slowly moved along. As they did, they purposely skirted the few homes and villages along their route of travel to avoid being detected by anyone. As they did, a tired Francis, still fatigued from being up most of the night, dozed somewhat in his saddle. The slow pace helped to keep him upright. It was a shout from Sgt. McKinney which woke him up and got his attention back. The shout alerted him to a new problem. Francis saw the wagons had come to a stop and McKinney was now waving him to come over to where they had stopped.

  The rough ride had damaged the hub on the right rear wheel of one the wagons and now it was threatening to fall off the completely. Again they were forced to waste time unloading the damaged buckboard wagon and redistributing the provisions, as well as its hidden gold and silver, to the remaining Conestoga wagons. After the tasks were completed, Francis had the damaged wagon and its team of horses tied behind two of the other wagons. He had no time to make repairs to a wagon he really did not have a driver for. He hoped the wagon would stay together until they made camp that evening. They would then try to make the necessary repairs to it before dinner.

  Before they moved out, Francis allowed the men time to rest and to drink from a nearby stream. As the others made their way to the stream, Francis, assisted by Sgt. Odom and Sgt. Stine, helped the injured Hatfield down from the wagon he had been driving. After being helped down, he started to limp to a nearby fallen tree to sit down, but quickly his injured leg gave out. After falling, Hatfield screamed out in pain when his leg struck the ground. As the others did, Francis also rushed to Hatfield’s side. “Sergeant, can you continue or do I have to make room for you in one of the wagons? Tell me the truth as I shall not feel any ill will towards you. You have already done an admirable job despite your injured leg. I know the pain you are in and I do not wish to see you suffer any more.”

  Waiting for the pain to subside, Hatfield finally answered. “Captain, it hurts real bad, but I ain’t gonna let y’all down. Let me keep going, at least until we stop this evening and then we can decide. Y’all have other things to be worrying about besides me. Just get me back up into the wagon, I’ll be fine.” Reluctant to let Hatfield continue on, but needing him to drive a wagon, Francis soon had him helped back onto the wagon. They were quickly on the move again.

  Francis knew he had to get medical help for Hatfield if he had any chance in saving his leg for him. As they moved along he called for Sgt. Odom. Telling him they would continue to move in a southeasterly direction for about another five hours before they would make camp for the evening, he instructed Odom to ride off to try and find medical help for Hatfield.

  ******

  They had just made camp for the evening, settling down under the fading sun, when Sgt. Banks sounded the alert. He had been performing sentry duty when he saw two riders approaching their position. Grabbing their weapons they prepared for the worst, but then the familiar voice of Sgt. Odom called into camp to alert them he was one of the riders Banks had seen approaching.

  “Captain, this here is Doc Brede from outside of Darlington town. I stumbled upon him by accident and told him about Hatfield needing help. Even though he’s a Tar Heel he seems to be a good man!” Odom laughed at his own joke as he climbed down from his horse, but the others were too tired to laugh. Even Doc Brede did not find humor in the good natured joke which had been directed at him.

  Dusting himself off from his ride, Doctor Kenyon Brede watched as Francis approached him. “Captain, I can assure you, despite your sergeant’s comedic protests about the fine state of North Carolina where I reside, that I am a true patriot to the Confederate cause. I am more than pleased to assist you. Now, where is your injured Sgt. Hatfield I have been told about?” Doctor Brede shot a quick look of mild disdain at Odom before following Francis to where Hatfield had been resting near the fire.

  Hatfield’s boots had already been taken off by the time Doc Brede arrived. After briefly speaking to him about his injury, Doc Brede removed the wooden splint that had been in place along the broken leg. As he ripped open Hatfield’s pant leg, the foul smell of his infected leg gave the doctor the first clue that Hatfield’s condition was serious. The light from the campfire, and from a torch Sgt. Davis held in his right hand, showed the horrible discoloration which had settled in his broken leg.

  “Captain, this man is in bad shape. He is losing blood into his leg from the broken bone. That is what is causing the discoloration. The open wound also appears to be infected. The wound has caused gangrene to set into his leg. He may lose his leg if he is not stabilized immediately and if the wound is not cleaned better than it has been. I am afraid the situation is very bad.” Francis saw the worried look on Hatfield’s face. He also saw the look of concern in Doc Brede’s face. From the looks he saw, Francis now knew Hatfield was in serious trouble. He also could tell from the doctor’s brief examination that Hatfield losing a leg was probably the only good news they would hear. The bad news was he might possibly succumb to an infection or to blood poisoning.

  After Doc Brede had done what he could to make Sgt. Hatfield comfortable for the night, he walked to where Francis now sat by himself. Francis was reading his bible near one of the two camp fires which had been started for the evening. He had always found comfort in reading the bible and he cherished the one his mother had given him as a gift just before he left to fight in the war.

  “Captain, excuse me for disturbing you, but I thought I would let you know Sgt. Hatfield is asleep now. I cleaned his leg wound as best as I could, but what I really need to treat his broken leg with is back in my office. I will clean it better tomorrow when I get him back there and then I will set his leg if I can. I’m afraid it may be too late to do what I would like to do to try and save his leg, but we will see tomorrow if it is or not. I will at least try to save his leg, but I am not optimistic I can. The high temperature he has seems to indicate the infection is too far along for me to be able to do anything to save his leg, but I will try. My main focus will be trying to save his life, but I’m afraid it may even be too late for that. I expect he will lose his leg, if not more, in less than a week. His condition is very serious now. I’m sorry to give you such bad news.”

  Francis bowed his head momentarily after listening to what Doc Brede told him. Now he looked up at him before speaking. “Doctor, I also have the same fear, this is why I am sitting here with the Good Book. I am praying for a miracle to happen for such a fine young man. I am also praying the worst that happens to him is he just loses his leg. It saddens me to pray for a man to just lose a leg. I hope the Lord understands my prayers are meant as prayers of hope for Sgt. Hatfield.”

  Tired from a long ride that day, and upset by the condition of Hatfield’s broken leg, Doc Brede sat with his head down, staring only at the small campfire in front of him for several long moments. “Captain, I commend you on your concern for one of your men. I will pray that someone hears your prayers for help. I am afraid divine intervention is the only real hope he has now.”

  Francis could see Doc Brede was tired and likely very hungry from a long day. He sought to thank him for his assistance with Hatfield’s injuries. “Doctor, thanks for your help today, we are blessed that you were kind enough to come out here this late in the day. I know all of my men appreciate what you have done for their friend. I only wish we had found you sooner than we did, perhaps Sgt. Hatfield would have had a better chance of keeping his leg.” Doctor Brede just nodded his head at Francis’ comment.

  Captain Francis and Doc Brede sat in silence for several minutes by the campfire, each of them thinking of Hatfield’s serious medical problems. Doc Brede was the one who broke their silence. “Before I join your men for some dinner, I need to
see one more patient of mine.”

  “Doctor, I beg your pardon, but I am confused. Who is it you are referring to?”

  “You, captain. Let’s take that bandage off so I can see exactly what you are recovering from.”

  Unwrapping the bandage caused even the seasoned doctor to be taken back by the sight of Francis’ left hand missing two fingers. Doc Brede held Francis’ hand in his own hands as he carefully inspected the injury that was now healing very nicely. “For such a traumatic injury, it looks like your hand has healed very well. Your surgeon did a remarkable job amputating your fingers as I do not see a hint of any type of infection. His skills obviously have saved the rest of your hand. I suggest when this war is over with you need to find him and thank him for what he has done. While you have the bible open you also might want to thank our Lord for blessing the doctor with such great skills.”

  “Doctor, I assure you I will do both. For now, I just want to get rid of these stitches so I can start using my hand again.”

  Doc Brede walked back to where he had left his medicine bag by the sleeping Hatfield and then returned to where Francis still sat. “Hold your hand up so I can work on it. Just hold it steady and I will remove the stitches for you. Your wounds have healed nicely so the stitches can come out now. Just make sure you are careful using your hand for the next few days.”

  As Doc Brede began to remove the stitches from Francis’ left hand, Sgts. Davis and Banks walked over to see what was happening. Watching as the stitches were being removed, the two sergeants now saw for the first time the seriousness of the injury Francis had sustained. The sight of his injured left hand missing two fingers was almost too much for them to look at, but they did. Realizing what he had endured since his fingers had been amputated, and realizing all he had accomplished during their mission, gave them an even better respect for Francis as he had never once complained about his injury. Neither was sure if they could have accomplished what he had done since losing his fingers. After removing all of the stitches, and after sharing a meal with Francis, Doctor Brede again checked on Hatfield.