Confederate Gold and Silver (73 page)

“Yes, suh, I’ll tell them about this soldier man!”

Francis collapsed back onto the ground; relieved help was on the way for him. “Thank you, Mr. Daly. Thank you!”

Soon Francis found himself lying on a large wooden table in what appeared to be a room off the plantation’s kitchen. The room was mostly bare except for a few plates and glassware sitting on a small table on one side of the room. Nearby on a wall hung a likeness of George Washington, resplendent looking in his uniform. Even from the starkness of the room he could sense it was the home of a wealthy plantation owner.

Diana Daly had introduced herself to Francis when she first saw him being carried into the room by Moses and Big Ned. Soon she was telling him to prepare for the pain he was going to feel when she removed the boot from his injured leg. She had already tried to comfort him by cleaning his dirty face with a cool wet towel and by giving him two small glasses of bourbon to help dull the pain, but Francis writhed in pain when she took his boot off. The pain was one he had never experienced in life before.

As his pain momentarily subsided, Big Ned’s wife, Josalee, a large woman with a warm friendly face, entered the room carrying a large white ceramic bowl filled with hot water and rags torn from old bed sheets. She never looked at him, but rather directed all of her attention to the wound in his leg. By this time Diana had removed his boots, his left sock, and had ripped most of his left pant leg up past his knee. Doing so allowed the small round hole in his leg to be easily seen against his otherwise almost pale white leg. From the looks he soon saw in the faces of Diana and Josalee, Francis could tell the wound was bad.

“Mrs. Daly, I can tell from your expressions the wound must be bad. If you cannot get the minie ball out, then all I can ask of you is to clean the wound as best you can. Whatever you can do for me is most appreciated, but please do your best as I must get back to Charleston, both to see a doctor and to complete what is expected of me. Please know I am most grateful for your kindness.”

Diana then gave Francis a larger glass of bourbon to drink. With Josalee’s help, she went to work on his leg while Big Ned and Moses held him down on the table. The sting of the bourbon that she poured directly into the leg wound was in itself almost too much pain for him to bear, but as she poked around in his leg with a large pair of tweezers trying to find the minie ball, the pain he felt was now unbearable. “Please, I beg of you, please stop!” Diana ignored his cries as she had finally found the minie ball, but despite her best efforts over the next few minutes she could not free it from where it had lodged in his leg. After Francis passed out from the pain he felt, she again attempted to free the stubborn minie ball. Her efforts again failed to free the stubborn ball from his leg.

When Francis finally came to, Diana was again cleansing his face with a cool towel. It did little to help dull the pain he still felt. “Son, we tried our best, but we could not get the minie ball out. You need to see a doctor as soon as possible if you want to save your leg. I’m afraid if you don’t that soon an infection will set in and you will likely lose your leg. I’m sorry I could not do more for you.”

Still groggy from the bourbon and the pain, Francis patted Diana on the left hand, thanking her for her help. Then he fell asleep again.

******

Waking up three hours later, Francis found himself alone in the same room and still lying on the table. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked for his saddlebags, hoping they had not disappeared. He soon saw they had been placed in a corner of the room. Next to the saddlebags sat his still wet boots, his pistol and his saber. Looking down at his injured leg, he saw his wound had been bandaged with clean white pieces of cloth. The pain was still intense, but it was far more manageable than it was when Diana had been poking around inside of it earlier.

As he sat propped up on the table, Diana entered the room carrying a small tray of food. Josalee soon followed her into the room carrying a large glass of warm cider. She quietly walked to where Diana now stood. “We don’t have nearly as much food as we had before the war started, but we have enough to be thankful for and to share with you. We probably would do the same for a Yankee soldier who was hurt just like you are. It makes no sense not to be compassionate when someone is hurt.”

Francis quickly ate the meal that had been prepared for him, realizing as he finished how fast he had eaten everything which had been set in front of him. The warm cider had been his first real treat in several weeks. He was now somewhat embarrassed by how fast he had eaten his meal. “Sorry, Mrs. Daly, I guess my table manners are a bit rusty these days.”

“Nothing to apologize for, my boy use to eat like that also. He was a big eater, just like you. At least I know you like our cooking. I’ll get you some more food later, you just rest for now.” As they left the room, Thomas Daly came into the room to check on Francis.

“Mr. Daly, I am most appreciative of the hospitality your family has shown me. I shall never forget how kindly I was treated. I hope I can someday repay the kindness to your family.”

Francis then told Daly of his plan to soon leave so he could try and make his way back to Charleston. “Mr. Daly, I need to borrow a horse to finish what General Lee has assigned me to do. I fear I am going to fail him, but I must try to complete what is expected of me. For me to do so I must have a horse, but as an honest man I must tell you I do not know when, or if, I can ever return your horse to you. Sir, I must again ask you for your help. Can you lend me a horse so I can at least try to finish what my men have already died for?”

Thomas Daly was silent for a few moments as he thought about what Francis had just asked of him. “Captain, I am not a born Southerner like you and like many of my neighbors are. Perhaps it is for that reason I cannot make sense of this terrible war. This is a war where men from the same country, who just a few short years ago fought side by side to defeat the Red Coats, now fight and kill each other. All of this, especially the killing, just makes no sense to me.”

“Mr. Daly, I also have difficulty understanding it at times myself. I do not know if that gives you any comfort, but many of us share your concerns as well. I agree with the senselessness of this war and that it needs to end before we are all dead, but like my fellow Virginians I will continue to defend my home from those who want to tell us how to live. All we want is to be free and independent—free from any type of government which tries to tell us how to live our lives. But I do agree with you, there is no reason we cannot live in peace amongst each other.”

“Judiah, you appear to be a bright young man, a dedicated idealist perhaps, but a fine man. I will be happy to lend you the horse you need and I hope whatever it is you need to do that you can finish it. I can sense it is important for you to do so. Whether I get the horse back or not is of little concern to me. What is of concern to me is I fear what you are trying to finish is soon going to kill you. That, my friend, will cause me great sorrow. I will not try to dissuade you from your responsibilities, but I am afraid I shall never see you again.”

Daly excused himself, coming back several minutes later when Francis had just finished putting his boots back on. Making sure the cork was tight on the bottle, he handed Francis a small bottle of bourbon. He also handed him an envelope containing several sheets of writing paper, a quill, and a small bottle of ink. “Judiah, the bourbon is for the pain. The pen and paper is because I would like to hear from you so I know you are safe. When I receive your letter, I hope it will tell me you have seen a doctor and your leg is healing. Please, I beg of you, get to a doctor soon!” Tears soon welled in the eyes of both men as in their own hearts they both knew Daly’s prediction of Francis dying was a strong likelihood.

Soon climbing onto the horse Daly had lent him, Francis expressed his appreciation to both Thomas and Diana for their kindness. “Remember not to worry about the horse, Judiah, consider him a gift.” Sitting on the borrowed horse, he smiled at them as he patted the satchel of food they had prepared for him. He promised he would see them again, but as he rode away he knew that would likely not happen in this lifetime. Diana now had tears in her eyes as she watched him ride away. They had just met a few short hours ago, but she had already lost one son to the war and now she feared she would lose their new friend to the war as well.

******

It was dusk by the time Francis finally reached the Allston cemetery. Nearing the cemetery, he took time to briefly scout the surrounding area, making sure he was alone. Reaching the back wall of the cemetery, he carefully dismounted from his horse. His leg was now throbbing from both the minie ball still inside it and from enduring the ride back to the cemetery from the Daly plantation. “Whatever good they had done to my leg, I now fear I have set that good deed back because of this painful ride. I must get this money buried and be on my way to Charleston.”

Being careful to protect his injured leg, Francis was forced to drag the heavy saddlebags behind him for most of the way. He was exhausted from the ride and from the leg wound which had sapped his strength. Tired and confused, he struggled to find the location where they had previously buried some of the gold and silver. It took him several minutes to get his bearings, but finally he was convinced he was close to the original location. Using just his hands at first and then using a broken brick which had once been part of the cemetery’s wall, he scraped away at the soft sandy soil. Soon he had dug a shallow hole, one slightly deeper than he needed to bury his saddlebags.

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.