Confederate Gold and Silver

by Peter F. Warren

  Before burying them, Francis removed his gold watch and the two glass bottles from inside the saddlebags. One of the bottles contained the letter he had recently written to President Davis. They also contained the two letters he had been handed at the start of his mission. Placing the saddlebags within the hole, he quickly filled it with loose soil, doing his best to make it look like no one had been there. Still fearing someone would see where he had been digging, he managed to find a few handfuls of pine needles. He scattered them on top of the small hole in a further attempt to hide what he had just buried inside the small family cemetery.

  Even without the heavy saddlebags to carry, he struggled to make his way back to where he had tied up his horse. Francis now tried to climb up onto his borrowed horse, just as he had effortlessly done so many countless times before with his own horse. Weak and tired, the wound to his left leg bleeding again, he fell twice as he tried to mount the horse. Lying on the ground after his second fall, he gasped for air on this warm evening. He sensed a fever had begun to invade his body, likely from an infection that had settled into his leg. Summoning all of his strength, he made it up onto the horse on his third attempt. Exhausted, he paused for a moment to catch his breath before slowly moving off in the direction of the Waccamaw River.

  As he rode back towards the river, Francis tried eating from the satchel of food Diana had made for him, but his fever now diminished his appetite. After riding for only a couple of miles, most of the time slumped forward in the saddle and barely conscious, he fell from the horse, unable to hang onto the reins any longer. Falling asleep where he landed, he made no effort to crawl into the safety of the nearby woods. Utterly exhausted from the events of the day, he cared little about anything except fulfilling his need for sleep. As he slept his borrowed horse wandered off, leaving him truly alone.

  The stars were shining brightly in the clear night sky when Francis finally came to. His clothes were now damp from sleeping in the dew covered meadow grass that he had landed in when he fell off his horse. Lying there on this peaceful night, he could hear the sound of the river as it flowed nearby. It was the only sound he could hear. The woods and the adjoining meadows were remarkably quiet this night. His leg now throbbed and touching it only intensified the pain he felt. He sensed the bandages had become soaked with blood. Then he smelled the rancid odor coming from his wounded leg. “Gangrene has set in! I must get to a doctor or I am surely going to lose my leg! My God, my God, what has happened to me?” Seriously injured and with no one to help him, Francis felt alone and scared. Less than two days ago he had been strong and confident, now he was barely able to care for himself.

  Looking for his borrowed horse for several moments, he soon realized it was gone. Lying on the ground, Francis collapsed into tears. He now knew he was likely facing the final days of his life. With his horse now gone, he also knew his chances of reaching a doctor and saving his leg, and possibly his life, was now unlikely. For nearly an hour he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity, picturing how and where he would soon die.

  After forcing himself to finally sit up, he contemplated his next move. As he did, he forced himself to eat the rest of the food Diana had prepared for him. Eating soon caused his determination to momentarily return to him. “I will make it to the river and somehow I will make my way back to the Daly plantation. They will help me!” Lying back on the ground as he waited for a moment of severe pain to pass, Francis was determined to move on, but still exhausted he again fell asleep in the meadow’s damp grass.

  Soon waking up more feverish than he had been, he was momentarily confused as to where he was because of the infection which had set in. After clearing his head, he looked at his pocket watch before heading out. From the light of the moon, he could see it was almost four in the morning. Concentrating on standing up, Francis finally began making his way towards the river.

  Reaching the river just after daylight, he stumbled upon a wooden dock. Tied up to the dock was a small wooden flat bottom boat, one very similar he thought to the one Johnny Lincoln had been in the day they had met. The boat was one used by slaves as they worked in the nearby rice fields which lined the river. Francis had been told by Thomas Daly that his plantation was surrounded by three other large rice plantations. Each plantation stretching from the South Carolina coast back to where the land met the Waccamaw River. “Finally a little bit of luck,” Francis thought as he crawled into the small boat.

  Barely having the strength to push away from the dock, Francis found the river’s current to be stronger than it was when he had crossed it the first time. He struggled in his weakened condition to steer the boat, but now the current was stronger than he was and it carried him away from the Daly plantation. It also carried him further away from where he had buried the gold and silver. As he struggled with his attempts to steer the boat, he heard voices come from the same side of the river he had just left.

  “There he is, there he is! Look in the boat, that’s the reb we were told about!” Another angry voice yelled out. “Get him! Shoot that son of a bitch!” The three Union soldiers fired their muskets at him several times, but the distance between them and the boat caused the minie balls to fall far short of their intended target and they splashed harmlessly in the river.

  Out of range of the muskets being fired at him, Francis momentarily became lucid and strong. Frantically he steered the small boat to the opposite shore. Across the river and downstream from where he had climbed into the boat, he was quickly out of sight of the Union soldiers. In electing to row the small boat to the opposite side of the river, he now made his second mistake. It was a mistake which would soon prove to be a costly one. Still weak and exhausted, his temperature spiked even higher from the infection which had begun to invade his body, Francis’ decision making skills now started to falter. In a moment of bad judgment, he had steered the small boat towards shore. Staying in the boat would have taken him down the river towards the relative safety of Georgetown and perhaps, just perhaps, things might have gone differently for him.

  Struggling to climb out of the boat, his pistol fell from his waistband into the shallow murky water. Not stopping to look for it, Francis summoned some of his remaining strength to pull the wooden boat up onto a small sandbar along the bank of the river. Finally getting the boat onto the sandbar, he then did his best to hide it within the branches of a tall pine tree which had recently fallen alongside the river. While he knew the boat was his only way out of the area and while he also knew he needed to keep it from being found by anyone who might be searching for it, his confused mind won out over logic. Instead of telling him to stay in the boat, something which afforded him some safety and comfort for his injured leg, his confused mind told him to hide in the woods from the soldiers who were hunting him. As he finished hiding the boat, he spied a length of rope which had been left in it. Grabbing the rope, he slowly limped away. It was a spontaneous thought to take the rope with him, but it was one which would soon help hide him.

  As he limped along the sandy shore of the river, a few gold coins fell from his pockets. Picking them up, he placed them back into one of the pockets of his blouse and then moved as quickly as he could out of sight into the woods. Slumping against a large tree, Francis thrust his saber into the ground to help slowly lower himself to a seated position. Thirsty, and now in significant pain, he reached into his blouse and pulled out the small bottle of bourbon Thomas Daly had given him. Dismissing any notion of pouring some of it on his wound, he drank the bourbon in three quick swigs.

  From where he sat slumped against the tree, Francis had a clear view of the river. As he rested, he watched to see if any soldiers or anyone else approached his position. After resting for almost two hours, he realized he was safe for now. He also now realized if he was threatened by anyone there was little he could do to protect himself except to possibly hide from being captured. The thought of hiding and not making a stand to fight was against
his principles, but with few other choices he knew he would hide in order to survive. While he had rested in the humidity of an already hot morning, he found himself alternating between being feverish and having the chills. His weakened condition soon caused him to fall asleep again.

  Waking up almost two hours later, Francis at first felt somewhat better as his fever seemed to have lessened for the time being. After sitting up, he unwrapped the bandages around his wounded leg and saw the infection which had set in around his wound. The foul smell of dying tissue was sickening. “I am dying,” he thought, “and no one is here to help me.”

  Francis briefly thought about surrendering to any Union soldiers who might find him, but he immediately dismissed the idea as it went against everything he stood for. “If I am to die I will die on my own terms, not in some intolerable Yankee prisoner camp and certainly not missing a leg. I may die, but I will have my dignity and my honor intact.” The thought soon cleared from his tired mind, he crawled down to the water to wash his leg, hoping at the same time for some miracle to occur from the powers of the river.

  After washing himself, Francis put his uniform blouse back on. As he did, he took the time to go over the letter he had written to President Davis. Playing the letter over and over in his head, he knew he had failed to complete his mission. He paused to look back on all that had gone wrong. “Perhaps the assignment was doomed from the beginning.”

  Sitting down, Francis took the folded up paper from the envelope Thomas Daly had given him. He also took the quill and the small bottle of ink out of his blouse. Then he started to write a letter, but it was not addressed to Daly. It was a letter he addressed to his father. As he started to write, tears flowed down his cheeks as he knew he would never again see his parents or the home in Virginia he loved.

  Folding up the letter, Francis inserted it into the same bottle which contained the letter he had written to President Davis. In the same bottle was the small map of the field where he had buried some of the gold and silver in North Carolina. Reaching into his blouse pocket, he pulled out the second bottle which contained the letters President Davis and Secretary Memminger had written for him. As he stared at the folded up pieces of paper inside the bottle, he thought back to the day he had met both Davis and Memminger. “If only it could have worked out differently. I have failed them and myself.”

  As he went to place the two bottles back inside his blouse, Francis now could not find the cork to the bottle which contained the letters he had written to President Davis and to his father. The cork had fallen into the thick layer of dead leaves blanketing the ground he sat on. Despite frantically searching for it, he could not find it. Ripping a piece of cloth off of his dirty bandana, he placed the cloth within the neck of the bottle to try and keep the letters dry. Then he placed the small bottle in the inside left front pocket of his uniform blouse. The other inside pocket now held the other bottle containing the letter to President Davis. “At least if I should die the letters will survive me. Hopefully someone will read my letter to President Davis and deliver the gold and silver to a place I was not able to reach, for I have failed to complete a mission that was entrusted to me.” Even as injured as he was, Francis was upset that he had failed the men who had trusted him. Briefly he thought of the men who had died during this mission. He knew he had failed them as well.

  From off in the distance, Francis could now hear voices. Soon he could tell they were across the river, but moving closer to him. He knew he was not in any immediate danger, but painfully he stood up, looking to see where the voices came from. As he tried to determine how close the soldiers were to him, he tightened the worn leather belt holding his pants up. Because he had lost so much weight, his uniform was now far too big for him. It simply hung on him. As he dressed, his thoughts took him back to the day he had his picture taken wearing his uniform. It had been the only picture ever taken of him. He smiled as he thought about the picture as he had looked so proper in his uniform. As he looked back, he hoped his parents had received the single photograph he sent them several months ago. “At least they will have something to remember me by.”

  Finished getting dressed, Francis threw the quill, the bottle of ink, the bottle which had contained the bourbon he had just drank, and the envelope Daly had given him, into the river so nothing was left behind for Union soldiers to find. After ripping them up, he did the same with the extra copies of the letters President Davis and Secretary Memminger had written for him. Then he moved away from the river several hundred feet, hoping as he did that he would not be seen by an alert Yankee soldier. Stopping soon to again rest from the exhaustion and hunger pains he felt, he sat down on an old moss covered tree stump, his saber drawn and ready. “If they come it shall be over quick for me as I am too weak to defend myself.” Bowing his head, he silently prayed. “Please, God, when the time does come, please have mercy upon me. Please let my death come quick.”

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, his leg now having been quickly ravaged by the infection inside of it from the bullet wound and from the brackish water which had entered his body through the open wound, Francis remained seated on the tree stump within a group of large Live Oaks. In one of his remaining lucid moments, he spied a nearby Live Oak tree with a large opening in its base. It was an opening large enough for a man to hide in. His will to survive still with him, he crawled his way to the large tree to investigate the opening at the base of the tree. As he crawled to the tree, Francis could see the clear early afternoon sky had quickly grown darker. A thunderstorm was rapidly approaching. Lightning and thunder were already announcing its fast paced arrival, one which would soon drench the woods with heavy rains.

  Even though he was dying, Francis still paused at the opening at the base of the tree to make sure no animals were hiding inside. “I am hurt enough already, I do not need to be bitten by a coon or by some other animal.” Poking his saber around inside the opening, he was soon relieved to find no one had yet made the inside of the Live Oak their home.

  The thunderstorm was soon upon him and was one like most storms which hit the Carolinas in the afternoons. It lasted only two hours, but it dumped a great deal of rain in a short period of time. While taking refuge inside the large tree, Francis was able to catch a few handfuls of rain as it cascaded down the outside of the Live Oak. “How can something as simple as rainwater taste so good?” It tasted better to him that afternoon than it ever had before. His thirst quenched by the captured rainwater, he soon drifted in and out of consciousness. Hidden inside the massive Live Oak, he remained there for several hours.

  The next morning he was awake early. After crawling out from inside the tree, Francis realized how weak he had gotten and how stronger the foul smell was that came from his injured leg. He knew the end was likely near. Second guessing himself as he sat on the ground, he wondered if he should have stayed at the Daly plantation due to his injury. At the same time, he also wondered if he should have tried to make it to Georgetown in the small boat he had found. As he found himself questioning what he had done, he also told himself if he had stayed at the Daly plantation he would have wondered if he should have tried to finish his mission.

  “I am a soldier and I did what soldiers are ordered to do, I tried to finish my mission. I will not fault myself for trying.” Deep down though he wished he had stayed with the Daly’s. “If I had, perhaps I would have had a chance to see mother and father one more time.” Francis briefly thought about trying to make it back to the small boat, but it was only a brief thought as he was now too weak to even attempt it. He again heard the voices of the Union soldiers who continued to hunt for him. Now he could tell some of the soldiers had crossed the river looking for him. He knew they would soon find him if he did not hide.

  Despite the effects of the infection which continued to sap his strength, Francis continued to fight the brave fight. “I may be dying, but I am still going to make it hard for the Yankees to find
me.” Mustering all of his remaining strength, he got to his feet and staggered over to where a rock sat several feet from the Live Oak he had sought shelter in. Weakened greatly by the infection, the rock now looked to him like it weighed about a thousand pounds. In normal times he could have picked it up and carried it with little effort. Summoning his remaining strength, he first carried, then rolled, and then pushed the rock until he had it positioned within the base of the deformed Live Oak tree. The simple task of moving the rock inside the tree, one he could have completed within five minutes if he was healthy, took him over an hour to now complete. Finished positioning the rock, he rested for several minutes as the effort of moving it to where he wanted it had nearly done him in.

  Knowing he was fading fast, Francis again crawled back into the base of the tree after catching his breath. Steadying himself by holding onto the tree’s interior, he painfully stood up on the rock. Using deformities he found within the tree, he used them as hand and footholds to climb several feet higher. As he climbed slightly higher, splintered sections of the tree’s interior caught on his clothing, badly scratching his hands and legs at the same time. Ignoring the sharp edges of the splintered wood, he climbed high enough within the cavity of the tree until he was satisfied that no one could see him from the outside.

  Using the rope he had found within the small boat, Francis now strung the thick rope across the middle of the tree’s interior. He tied the rope to two opposite and splintered sides of the tree. The badly splintered sides allowed him to securely fasten the rope to them. He was able to run the length of rope easily across the tree’s narrow interior twice. Using the rest of the remaining length of rope, he fastened himself to the two sections he had strung across the inside of the tree. Finished tying the rope around his chest, he slowly leaned against the rope to make sure it would hold his weight. “This rope will help me keep my balance. It should also hold me for some time if I should lose consciousness and fall onto it. Even if I lose my balance, I am high enough in the tree no one will see me.” The tree’s interior had grown tight where he had fastened the rope, but it served the purpose he was looking for. It would hide him from the Union soldiers for a while.