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The matter was referred to the House Committee on War Claims, in the 49th Congress, 1stSession, (1886), and the following report, which shows the leading facts in the case, was made: 

“The facts in this case have been so often and so fully reported that your committee have adopted in the main the report from the Judiciary Committee of the Forty-fifth Congress, as setting forth accurately the facts involved. 

“That it appears from the papers referred with said petition that on the evacuation of Richmond, on the 2ndof April, 1865, the Bank of Virginia and the Farmers’ Bank of Virginia withdrew from their said banks about $450,000 in gold and silver coin and bullion, principally, however, in gold coin, and proceeded with said treasure, under the care of certain officers of said banks, to Washington, in the State of Georgia; that on the 24th day of May, 1865, the said officers of said banks, together with said treasure, set out with a wagon-train from Washington, Ga., for Richmond, having the proper permit and safe-conduct for so doing, issued by General M.B. Patrick, provost-marshal-general. 

“That sometime during the night of the 24th of May 1865, being encamped near the Savannah River, about 18 miles from Washington, Ga., they were attacked by an armed cavalry force and their surrender demanded. They claimed the protection guaranteed them under the safe-conduct or pass of General Patrick, which was disregarded, and, under threat of death, they were obliged to submit to being pillaged. 

These robbers succeeded in carrying away about $250,000 in gold and silver coin and bullion of the said $450,000. The following day that portion of the treasure train left intact proceeded on its way to Richmond, and finally arrived there.”

Cop cars on Union Avenue, lights flashing, sirens blaring, sped past me, jolting my thoughts about Grandfather’s cremation last Thursday and how well Neena was holding up. Then all vehicles abruptly stopped, shutting down the street. Within seconds, police vans pulled in behind, blocking me. 

An officer tapped my window. “Name?” 

“Tim Clary.” 

“Are you part of this?” he asked, pointing toward the park. 

“No. Just passing by.” 

“Stay in your car.” And he moved on. 

Which was a complication because my uncle Brad Clary, an attorney, has a non-jury trial Monday morning, and needs a bit of last-minute research accomplished. Called Uncle Brad: “I’m trapped in police activity near Health Sciences Park. Gonna be late to the office.” 

“Thanks, Tim. Hey, get out and meander around. Find out what’s going on. If anyone’s arrested, give ’em my card.” 

The day was not too hot due to early-morning showers. Perfect for a meeting in the park. A boisterous gathering of protesters surrounded the Nathan Bedford Forrest Memorial statue. I grabbed a few of Uncle Brad’s business cards and went to meander. 

Speeches were loud over two huge speakers, fueling emotions, making it sound like an athletic event, everyone yelling. Several protesters carried signs, some professionally made — Black Lives Matter and peace symbols of many colors. Others hand-painted — Hate Can’t Stand and Stop Honoring Racism. 

A new speaker incited more shouting and chanting. A couple of guys walked close enough for me to overhear. 

“It’s bronze, twenty-one feet six inches tall.” 

“How you know that stuff?” 

“Research.” 

“Where the hell will the city move it to?” 

“Their problem. Ours is to get them to move it.” Then he yelled, “Remember Fort Pillow!” 

One group near the edge of the park burned a Confederate battle flag. 

Someone nearby yelled, “Confederates were traitors to our country.” 

Shook my head, turned to walk away, and bumped into an earlier speaker I’d watched. 

“You disapprove?” the Black man challenged. 

I was caught off-guard. “Yes. Burning a flag helps no one.” 

“That flag is all about fear. Our people’s fear of white man’s justice and racism. This gives us a chance to express that fear without violent resistance.” 

That needed a response. “But that’s a battle flag, not the official Confederate flag.” 

He squinted as if I were a Neanderthal. “Why are you here?”

“Got stuck in traffic.” 

Getting in my face, he said, “Well, Mr. Stuck-In-Traffic, was one of your ancestors a slave owner? A plantation owner who whipped field hands and raped young Negro girls?” Luckily, he was pulled away, leaving me embarrassed, mouth hanging open. 

I wandered toward the Confederate cavalry general’s statue. Four or five people were climbing, trying to cover it with a white sheet. Deputies yanked them to the ground. One protester lost his balance, screamed, and fell to the stone walk below. He didn’t move but was still clutching a sheet with signage saying “TakeEmDown” in red paint. 

Several protesters hurried to check, grabbing him by the arms and hustling him away from the converging police. Other protesters ran.

But many became combative, shouting, spitting, pushing, and throwing punches at the officers. Stunned by the unnecessary violence, I yelled, “Don’t resist. Cops are just doing their job.” 

A nearby protester struck an officer with his sign. The cop retaliated, clubbing the protester’s head with a baton. 

Caught up in the moment, I yelled again. “Go passive! Let ’em carry you away. Tell the court your issues.” The noise was so loud, no one heard me. 

One group refused to move and began to chant: “No justice. No peace. We don’t want no racist police!” 

More officers pulled out batons and pepper spray, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder near the statue, slowly advanced forward, pushing the crowd away from the memorial. Anyone who did not back up was hit or sprayed. Any who came to the aid of those temporarily blinded received the same. Noise intensified as several ambulances arrived. Plus, a van from the local TV channel was blasting its horn to move people aside to get closer. 

Chaos intensified. Police drove protesters out of the park, dragging some, taking the most militant to patrol cars and stuffing them inside. But the riot was not over. Locking arms, demonstrators surrounded several police cars, not allowing them to move. The activists’ success only infuriated other officers, who tore into them, batons swinging. 

I needed to separate from the conflict. Turned to see one young woman outside the circle taking pictures. Moving in on an officer wrestling with a protester, she got too close. The cop grabbed her cellphone and tossed it. I saw no more because an officer pepper-sprayed a guy’s face next to me.

Then with his baton pushed my shoulder. “Move the hell out of the park.” 

Slowly backing away, raised my hands, and out of the corner of watering eyes noticed police officers picking up the banner. 

Then another poke in my chest, harder than the first. Raising his baton, the officer shouted, “Fuck-stick, move your six-foot, skinny ass!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

Obey. Don’t be negative. 

I turned to run, but tripped over a woman lying atop her sign, a cut on her head. I helped her up. She reached for her blood-spotted poster, but I pulled her toward the street. “Come on. No time. You need medical care.” 

I led her to an ambulance, then headed for my car. With help from traffic officers, patrol cars with arrestees had been able to exit, leaving officers to scatter the remaining crowd. Clothes, papers, and food containers were everywhere, litter for the Park Service to clean up. 

An officer on Union stopped cars and let me and several others move into the flow of traffic. The clock on the dash said it was almost 5 PM.  

“Shit,” I muttered. Still had to do Uncle Brad’s research. So much for an early night. 

* * * 

By the time I got to the Monroe Office Building, the lobby and elevator were empty, and the fourteenth floor was almost empty. Turning the corner toward Clary Law, though lighting was low, I saw a man in front of our office.

Because of the hour, I approached apprehensively. He was a little shorter than me, older, dressed in a dark Henley and pants, hair long enough for a ponytail, and a scruffy beard. 

“Can I help you?” 

“You work here?” 

“Yes.” 

“Here,” he said, thrusting a sealed brown package into my arms, then turned and walked away.

The package was a heavy-duty envelope, thick, with a white #10 envelope attached. I shifted it until there was enough light to read: “Richards.” The package was for Ison Richards, the certified public accountant across the hall from us.

I ran toward the elevator yelling, “Stop! Stop!” But the doors had already closed. 

Once inside Uncle Brad’s office, I tossed the package at the receptionist’s desk too hard, and it slid across and onto the floor behind. “Shit.” 

I turned on the lights, recovered the package and saw the white envelope on the floor with a card protruding. I could see the name of the card’s owner. 

Irvine Services, LLC 

Risk Management Advisors 

Felipe Aguilar, Executive VP 

Think we got a whistleblower! was written on the back. 

As the sky began to lighten, Union Major William Bradford, commander of the 13th Yankee Cavalry and second in rank at the fort, walked along the top of the fort’s hard-packed rampart, occasionally looking out over the five-foot-tall parapet wall into the fronting ditch below and the hills and woodlands beyond. 

The Mississippi River provided protection from the west, so the three-sided defensive earthwork was originally built and occupied by the Confederate Army before losing the fort to the Union in 1862. Over the two years, the Federals had made improvements. 

The parapet wall extended one hundred and fifty yards along the rampart, protecting men and artillery from attacking troops but still allowing clear fields of fire. Six openings in the wall allowed mounted guns to fire in all land-approach directions. 

Checking the artillery, Bradford found many of the crew manning the cannons asleep, but each piece had at least one man awake and alert. Bradford spoke to several, nodded to others. 

At one of the ten-pound Parrott guns, the gunner asked Bradford about protective repairs needed near his cannon’s porthole. “Sir, the wall’s sandbags are deteriorated; rain’s washed away much of the rampart’s exterior, makes it easy for Rebs to climb.” 

“Thank you,” Bradford said sincerely, “for pointing that out.” 

The gunner nodded. “Also, sir. Is it possible to move a caisson closer to the ramp? Cannonballs are good now, against their riflemen. But when them Johnny Rebs attack, we’ll immediately need canister shot to use against infantry.” 

“Good idea,” Bradford said, thinking he needed to watch that sergeant for promotion. 

As Bradford continued checking the fort’s defenses, he wished he had another cup of coffee. He’d heard about areas where rain had created gullies and channels along the rampart, and with this soldier bringing it up, made a mental note to check the repair schedule. He’d not seen soldiers’ heads in the twelve-foot-wide and six-foot-deep front ditch. Probably asleep. Another point to bring up to the fort commander, Major Lionel Booth. The ass only outranks me by two months. 

At the southwest end of the rampart, Bradford took off his kepi cap and looked north along the bluff, which dropped steeply to the Mississippi. He peered down at the tunnel directly below — the fort’s river gate. 

Bradford played with his mustache as he looked south to the Mississippi River steamboat landing, about two hundred yards away, where the gunboat New Era, lanterns lit, was docked. 

He heard a moan and found the fort’s signalman curled in a corner against a stack of sandbags, coat rolled up, used it as a pillow. He kicked the man’s foot, waking him. Recognizing his brother, he said, “Theo. Are you on duty?” He smelled alcohol. 

“Yes, but we can relax. Forrest is headed north toward Union City and Paducah.” 

“Relax? Only small numbers of Forrest’s units have been seen. Hell, he could be anywhere. Have you been drinking?” 

“No. Only Dr. Hostetter’s Bitters. Prepping for a skirmish.” 

Bradford wished Booth had overridden the surgeon’s purchase of ten cases of that dog piss. It purported to “invigorate” a soldier before a “dangerous battle”, but smelled more of alcohol than Old Overholt, the 120-proof rotgut, straight rye whiskey. 

“Theo. Dammit. I could have you court-martialed. You’re the eyes and ears for this section. What if the gunboat needed help? Signaled you?” 

Hearing musket fire, Bradford muttered, “That’s from our pickets. Confederates must be moving in.” 

Below, Bradford saw a panicked woman carrying a child, screaming at a guard, “We gonna die! We gonna die!” 

Bradford returned to his brother and ordered, “Flag a message to the Liberty to evacuate all women, children, and non-combatants, and take them across the river. And to the New Era: Have it provide protective cover.” 

His adjutant, Lieutenant Leaming, rushed up. “Sir, Rebs are in the woods, sneaking in.” 

“How far out?” 

“About four hundred yards but creeping toward the ditch.” 

“Damn. Our outer pickets have been overrun.” Pointing east, “Put additional men in the ditch and rifle pits. Tell Hurst to move his men there.” 

“Sir, Hurst and his men snuck out around midnight. Rumor is Forrest is after his ass!” 

“Damn sumbitches!” Bradford took a deep breath. “Get everyone to the wall. Send whoever you can. Also, add more men at the southern wall to protect the loading of the women and children onto boats. Post spotters around the fort and keep Major Booth informed of the location and movement of the Rebels, especially sharpshooters.” 

Turning, he shouted over his shoulder, “Lieutenant, I’m going to move additional guns and ammo below the bluff.” 

--- END SNEAK PEAK ---