Confederate Gold and Silver (31 page)

“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.

Early the next morning Hatfield was placed into the back of the wagon he had been driving the previous day, its damaged wheel fixed during the night. As Doc Brede prepared to move out, his horse now tied to the rear of the wagon, Francis climbed into the back of the partially covered buckboard wagon where Hatfield lay. Shaking hands with him, Francis briefly spoke to him. “Sergeant, if we succeed in our mission, it is partially due to your efforts. Please know I am personally grateful for your help and know that I shall make mention of your efforts to both General Lee and to President Davis. God bless you.” Then Hatfield was driven to the doctor’s home some fifteen miles away. Once there Doc Brede would further try to treat his injured leg. Unfortunately it would be treatment which would neither save the leg or the life of a brave young Confederate soldier.

With Hatfield taken away by Doc Brede, Francis now was down another man. As much of a concern this was to him, the news the doctor had given them last night of Union cavalry recently being seen to the north and west of their current position caused him even more concern. They still had two more days of travel before they would reach the Darlington area and then at least two more days of hard travel before they would reach Florence and the railroad connection there. As he moved the men out, Francis had but one thought. “Surely the North Eastern Railroad has to be still running, it has to be!”

Despite the hardships caused by almost two more full days of hard travel, they finally reached the relative safety of Darlington. There they enjoyed their first real hot meal in several days. There they were also able to obtain some additional provisions, but they had little time to rest. As hard as it had been on the men to reach Darlington, it had been just as hard on their horses. Between Darlington and Florence they lost three horses because of the heat. They had simply been overworked.

After finally reaching Florence they had a chance to eat another hot meal and to get cleaned up for the first time in many days. After taking care of both their horses and themselves, they moved the wagons and their precious cargo into a large barn which sat close to train station. Next to this barn they found room for their horses in a smaller adjoining barn which also had an attached corral. Both barns sat just east of the Florence train station. After getting the information he needed at the train station, Francis returned to where his men had just finished with their chores at the barns. He told them he had learned it would likely be hours before the train would arrive back at the station. The news pleased his men as they would be getting their first nights sleep indoors in several weeks.

Before he allowed himself to get some sleep, Francis went back to the railroad station’s telegraph office in an attempt to send a message to Secretary Memminger in Richmond. But as he had learned in the previous telegraph offices he had found along the way, the lines here had also been experiencing problems with Union sabotage. “Captain, I guess it’s up to you, but these here lines have been unreliable the past few days. The damn Yankees keep cutting the lines. When the lines are working, I suspect they are listening in to as many messages as they can. I wouldn’t trust these here lines if ya want to send anything too important. No sense lettin’ them know what you boys are up to, if ya know what I mean.” Francis knew William McGuire, the railroad’s telegraph operator, was right about what he should and should not risk sending over the telegraph lines to Richmond.

Tired after another long day, Francis sat down on a wooden chair outside the telegraph office. Relaxing for a moment, he wondered if he should risk sending a telegram. “I cannot risk sending a message to Secretary Memminger and then have the Union army intercept it. Our problems would be even worse than they already are if the Yankees knew what we had in the wagons and then came after us.” Francis continued to ponder his next steps as he sat outside the window to the office where McGuire was busy trying to send another telegraph message. “Mr. McGuire, are you confident these lines have been tampered with by the Yankees or is that what others have told you because they are afraid of the Union army possibly being headed this way?”

Looking at Francis through his wire rimmed glasses McGuire tempered his words as he knew he was dealing with a Confederate army officer. “Son, I been doing this far too long to be guessing about my lines. I know when they have been tampered with and when they haven’t been. As far as listening to talk about when them Yankees are coming, well I guess when I see them coming down the tracks that’s when I know they are here. Now, and with all due respect, ya gonna send a message or not? For what it’s worth, I’m suggesting ya don’t, especially if it’s anything too important.” McGuire stared at Francis for a couple of minutes before returning to what he had been doing.

Francis was not sure what he would have told Memminger, but he wanted to let him know some of the problems he had encountered. They were now too far south for him to even consider sending a messenger back to Richmond, plus he could not afford the loss of another man. Deciding to risk it, he wrote down a brief message to send, one he hoped only Memminger would understand. After he read what he had written, making sure it would not jeopardize the rest of his journey south, Francis handed the message to McGuire. “Send this out as soon as you can!” Looking to see who the telegraph message was being sent to, McGuire saw it was addressed to the Confederate capitol in Richmond. Pushing aside the other messages which still had to be sent, he quickly transmitted the important message Francis had written.

Walking back to the barn, Francis spent time trying to figure out how to get the gold and silver to Atlanta, but again realized he would have to first make it to Charleston before he gave any thought of moving the money further south. “Perhaps I can get some more men in Charleston to help us. If I can, then things might look better, but right now I am worried.” As he arrived back at the barn, he knew whatever the coming days would bring, the gold and silver was not going to leave his sight, with or without any additional help.

After making sure his men and the wagons were safe, and the barn doors had been properly secured, Francis finally fell asleep. He had only been asleep for a short time when he was woken from his deep sleep by his nightmare, the same nightmare he had first experienced two nights earlier. In his nightmare he again heard the voice of Sgt. Hatfield calling for him as his injured leg was being amputated. It was a dream which caused him to wake up in a cold sweat. It would also be a dream which would revisit him on several more occasions in the coming days.

Summer,
2011

15
Whom
To
Tell.
 

“My
plans
are
perfect,
and
when
I
start
to
carry
them
out,
may
God
have
mercy
on
General
Lee,
for
I
will
have
none.”
General
Joseph
‘Fighting
Joe’
Hooker,
USA

On Tuesday morning, before Paul was to meet with Chick Mann at Coastal Carolina University, he stopped in at the diner to settle the craving he had for their blueberry pancakes. The diner was little more than a greasy spoon, but they made pancakes like nobody else and he needed a fix. He had not been back to the diner since he had discovered the remains of the Confederate soldier in the woods.

As Paul walked through the diner’s front door, the bell above the door announced the arrival of another customer. Wiping down the lunch counter where an earlier customer had sat, Betty saw him as he walked through the door. “Well, well, look who it is, our own world famous South Carolina discoverer of dead Confederate soldiers himself!” She had announced his arrival loud enough for everyone in the diner to hear. Her doing so made Paul cringe. He had not sought the media attention his discovery had brought him, nor was he interested in being the focus of attention in the diner. He just wanted to have a quick breakfast and to enjoy his blueberry pancakes in peace.

As he made his way to the booth he always sat in, Paul gave a brief wave to a couple of men who were seated at the far end of the lunch counter. They had interrupted their breakfast to clap their hands for him when Betty announced his arrival. Sitting down in the booth, he heard a voice he recognized yell out a comment which brought a smile to his face. “That’s what happens when you get a boat, Yankee boy!” The good natured jab was from Chubby, who had helped him purchase the boat from Steve. Looking over to where Chubby was sitting eating his breakfast, he gave him a wave. As he looked over, he also saw Chubby’s friend was sitting with him. Swamp sat there angrily staring at Paul.

“Y’all told me that you weren’t up to nothin’ the day I seen you in the boat. You lied to me boy!”

Even from where Paul was sitting on the other side of the diner, he could still see the anger in Swamp’s face and the flecks of food which spewed from his mouth when he yelled at him. Chubby hollered at Swamp to shut up, but he just continued to glare at Paul for a few more seconds before returning to his grits and eggs.

“Don’t mind that stupid old jackass. Like most ignorant fools he’s got a big mouth that opens before his brain engages.” Betty gave a nod of her head in Swamp’s direction as she poured Paul’s coffee for him.

Betty asked Paul a few questions about his discovery, but he deflected them as best as he could. “You been busy I bet, making that discovery and everything. That must have caused you to about pee in your pants when you found that ol’ boy in the tree, huh? You gonna tell me about it?”

“Not today, Betty, but I will. I have to meet somebody across town and I just have time to eat this morning, but I promise I will tell you about it soon. Can you get me some of your blueberry pancakes and some bacon? I don’t have much time.”

Waiting for his pancakes to arrive, Paul gave the day’s
USA
Today
a quick once over. Leafing through it, he saw a follow-up story to the feature article the paper had written just after he had found the Confederate soldier’s remains. He was pleased to see the background work the reporter had obviously done regarding the discovery and on him. He was also pleased the reporter had gotten all of the facts correct. Reading the article reminded him of several newspaper articles he had read back home that had been poorly written. Those articles had not reported the facts accurately on several major cases he had participated in. Those articles, regarding several brutal murders and a few high profile narcotic cases, had numerous factual mistakes in them. He had often bristled at the poor quality of many news stories some reporters had written. On one occasion he had called one of the Connecticut newspapers to complain about the numerous mistakes an article had contained, but the editor he had spoken with could have cared less that a cop was calling to complain about one of his reporters. In this particular story he was pleased by what he had just read. Finishing the article as he dug into the fresh blueberry pancakes and the generous side of bacon he had ordered, Paul thought about some of the people he had worked with back in Connecticut. “I wonder what the guys back home are thinking about this story?”

After paying for his breakfast, Paul waved a goodbye to Betty, promising her he would be back soon for their talk. Then somewhat out of character, but with a purpose, he yelled a goodbye to Chubby. In doing so he made sure he got Swamp’s attention. Turning in the booth to look back at Paul, Swamp was greeted with the middle finger salute and with four words.
“Up
yours
fat
ass!”
The message he sent to Swamp was to let him know he was not taking his crap any longer. The gesture caused Chubby to let out a big laugh from his oversized belly. Betty, as well as the two men sitting at the lunch counter, also got a laugh out of the message as well. Swamp had not found the gesture quite as funny as everyone else did.

Paul’s drive to Coastal Carolina University took less than twenty minutes. As he followed the signs to the Kimbel Library, he could see two people apparently waiting for him as they sat on a bench in the library’s courtyard. Chick Mann, who wore his long grayish hair in a ponytail, was someone who Paul guessed to be in his mid-seventies. Soon he learned Chick was an American History professor at the University of South Carolina and had been for almost fifteen years. After they exchanged greetings with each other, Chick told him about his passion for the Civil War. As he talked about his passion, Chick made sure he mentioned that he did not consider himself to be an expert on the war. He told Paul while he felt he knew more than most people about the fighting and the politics which had taken place in North and South Carolina, he knew others were well more versed than he was about the events which had occurred in Washington prior to the war. “My focus has always been more about what occurred at the local and regional levels. The war’s political stuff never really interested me enough to focus on it too much.” Paul quickly read Chick to be a down to earth person who he got a good first impression of. He was not the stuffed shirt
‘know
it
all’
academic type he thought he might be meeting. The fact that Chick told him his other passion in life was trying to regularly reduce his golf score did not hurt the first impression he had of him either.