Some Hidden Thunder (U.S. Grant Mysteries)

by Jeffrey Marks

  The mayor introduced another man who’d joined the group as Chief of Police James Ruffin. Grant’s eyes squinted, wondering how much he could ask of the man about Granby’s death without attracting attention. He actually wished Hart were here to pose the tougher questions. The man could be a nuisance, but his job as a reporter gave him license to irritate those in charge.

  Grant turned to the policeman. “Sir, I hear that there’s been a spot of trouble with the local colored folks here. Something about a killing—a man from the Fifth Regiment of the U.S. Colored Troops?” Grant tried to sound only casually interested, though his skin prickled with anticipation of an answer.

  Ruffin choked down a swallow of his liquor and looked directly at Grant. “Sir, nothing could be further from the truth. It is a fact that there was a bit of unpleasantness across the river, but that’s technically the Confederate States, and it’s a crying shame what they do to the colored folks down there.”

  “What do you mean?” Grant had spent several weeks in the South investigating just such complaints. He’d thought that the border states had escaped the intense hatred, but apparently that wasn’t the case.

  “A freedman in Covington was beaten to death, apparently for looking at one of our ladies. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. He was a veteran too. You know how those folks have been after the war. You can’t change things too fast around here. I was not at all in favor of them taking up arms. Why, they think they’re like us now.”

  Grant shook his head at the comments. He wasn’t about to tread this minefield with a minor politician when he hadn’t even talked about the matter to the likes of Stanton or the other Radical Republicans, who he’d likely join in 1868. “I was talking about that colored man who drowned a while back.”

  The sheriff drew his eyebrows into a V-shape. “Granby? Where would you be hearing about that shiftless?”

  Grant frowned. While he knew the faults of his troops, he still considered Granby a man under his command and therefore his responsibility. Just like a man might criticize his own son, no one else better try. “I hadn’t heard that about the man. I’d heard something that he’d been killed.”

  Ruffin took a cigar out of his breast pocket and bit down on it hard. Even though he had to know of the general’s penchant for cheroots, he didn’t offer one to him.

  “Killed is a mighty strong word for what happened. He drowned, more’n likely whilst drunk. My department has over eight thousand crimes a year to solve, and we really can’t spend time on accidents.”

  “Then there was no foul play?” Hart asked. He must have come up behind them while Grant was posing his awkward question to the police chief.

  Ruffin guffawed. “Not likely. River still claims a number of men each year, especially those who don’t live far from there. Can’t be helped. I’m surprised we found his body. Most of the times, we just have to mark them dead without a corpse.”

  A tall man with dark hair and a mustache as thick as a rope came up to the group. From the way that the mayor and police chief deferred to him, Grant assumed the man was well heeled.—money still commanded attention. The general didn’t recognize him, but the war had turned the fortunes of many an ironmonger and wagon maker.

  “Is anyone free to join this conversation or are you discussing some great military secret?” The man approached the group as if he fully expected entrance no matter what the topic of conversation. He was carrying a flute of champagne that flamed with the reflection of the lanterns in the ballroom.

  The mayor looked briefly to Grant and cleared his throat. “By all means, Major Mitchell, we’d enjoy your company this evening.”

  Hart stepped across the circle and extended his hand. “Major, I’ve been trying to get an interview with you for the past two weeks. I’m very interested in talking to you about what your ironworks will be doing now that the war is over. I think it would be a wonderful article for the Gazette.”

  Mitchell managed a small smile that looked especially reserved for mosquitoes and reporters. “Well, sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I think your readers would be more interested in hearing about the general here.”

  Grant nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment and looked around the room for Julia. Passing the time with men who’d spent the war making money didn’t appeal to him. He was fairly certain that Mitchell’s title was strictly ceremonial; the rich didn’t get blood on their hands, leaving that to the poorer classes, like Granby. The draft proscription had left loopholes for the rich to buy someone to take their place in the army. Three hundred dollars kept many a rich boy from Cold Harbor and the outskirts of Petersburg.

  “So what did I interrupt?” The man’s smile made it seem as if he was pleased to have broken into the conversation.

  Ruffin paled a bit as he realized the topic of conversation. “Well, sir, we were talking about the situation with Israel Granby, the black man drowned in the river last month. General Grant was commenting on that situation and whether the death was accidental or something more.”

  “Well, sir, I must commend you. I don’t think I know many politicians who take such an interest in their constituents, or future constituents, that way.”

  Mitchell took another sip of champagne and smiled again. He seemed to be the type of sycophant Grant really didn’t care for. He was more used to his own father, who used his money like a sledgehammer rather than using it to curry favor with others.

  “Well, I’ll be a part of that show at the Pike Opera House this week, General. You’ll have plenty of constituents there to converse with. Ones that can still vote.”

  Grant was familiar with the old wooden building that served as the locus for the local arts and amusements. He and Julia had passed it on the way to the hotel. Laura Keene and her cast of Our American Cousin had played the venue just after the assassination, her arrival delayed by several arrests. People believed at first that she might have been conspiring with Booth.

  “Perhaps not,” Hart said as he nudged Grant. “The night that Lincoln was assassinated, Junius Booth was at the Opera House. He fainted, but according to my sources, he was so afraid of being lynched that several arts patrons spirited him out of town that night. I’m not sure how welcome you’d be there, considering you were nearly a victim of that same plot.”

  Mitchell stared at the reporter. “Sir, where did you hear that story?”

  The mayor broke the ensuing silence. “Now, Max, you know it’s true enough. People were pretty het up that night. We couldn’t let anything happen to that actor. You can’t help your kin.”

  “Well that might be, but we don’t need to be spreading those kinds of stories. People will think Cincinnati is some kind of backwater town.”

  Hart barely managed to conceal a smirk. “Of course not, after all, this is a city where pigs roam the streets at will. It’s well known as ‘Porkopolis.’ Fanny Trollope recorded it all.”

  “Well, there are some of us who’d like to see Cincinnati with a cleaner and more palatable reputation.”

  The major brushed a spot of lint from his jacket as if this would help make Cincinnati cleaner.

  “I think pork is very palatable. It’s a staple for a lot of the poor people in this town.” Hart seemed to want to goad the man, as if that would help him get an interview. He probably just wanted a speck of revenge against the man who’d denied him an interview and a chance to advance his career. Grant remembered the reporter’s ambitions above all from their past dealings.

  The major ignored the comment and turned to face Grant directly. The mayor and police chief were now at his back—the man must have money if he was able to practice those kinds of manners.

  “Sir, don’t listen to the naysayers. Why don’t you stop by my home tomorrow and see how Cincinnati has progressed in the past few years?”

  Grant looked around the room, again looking for Julia to help provide him with a hasty retreat, but he couldn’t find her in the crowd. He thought he heard the distant tinkle
of her laughter, but there was no sign of her. Finally, he turned back to the group and gave his assent to the visit.

  Chapter 6

  Grant had hoped for a few minutes of peace the next morning, but he had no sooner stepped into the cigar store off the lobby of the Burnet House than he heard his name being called. He steeled his shoulders for another round of glad-handing when he spied Ambrose Hart and a young woman. Grant was glad to see the young man in the company of the fairer sex, but he suspected that it was more for the purposes of a story than for sparking. Hart had never shown any inclination for domestic bliss.

  “General, I’m glad we caught you here. I’ve someone that I’d like for you to meet.”

  The young man appeared to be out of breath, and his cravat was slightly skewed to the left, not the proper look for a man courting. The woman with him was harder to get a bearing on. Her demure, almost mournful attire made it impossible to see her clearly. She wore black from head to foot. The dainty shoes that showed as she walked were ebony, as was the rather fashionable dress. Grant recognized a similar one in Julia’s closet, although Julia’s was a mite more colorful. Her face was covered to the chin with a black veil, but from what he could see, the young woman with a pointy jaw looked as tenacious as Hart’s reporting.

  Grant waited patiently for an introduction, knowing that Hart must have found a clue to the apparition for him to scurry over here quite so fast in the morning. Julia was still performing her ablutions and humming her enjoyment from last night.

  “Madame Blanche, I’d like for you to meet General Grant, the man who saved the Union this year. Sir, this is Madame Blanche.”

  The girl looked to be in her late teens or early twenties, a good marrying age, but far too young for the title of “Madame.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Grant bowed from the waist and tipped his hat to the woman.

  “Madame Blanche is a spiritualist. I had the chance to talk to her last night about a situation that I thought you might be interested in.”

  “Indeed?” Grant wondered exactly what the reporter had shared with her, and if he’d indicated to the woman what had transpired in the Belmont. Grant’s ire grew as he thought of his wasted confidence in the reporter. This was not a problem he needed.

  “Yes, sir. I explained to her that you had a family member who’d recently thought to have seen an apparition and that you didn’t share his beliefs. I wanted to find out from a true spiritualist if there was a way for someone to fake a sighting or try to fool a person into thinking he’d seen a ghost. I thought it might just expedite the matter along if I brought her along.”

  The veil trembled as the woman spoke. “Sir, I can assure you that I hold no truck with the charlatans, like Colchester. I am only here to help those communicate with the dearly departed and find their way in this world.” She referred to Charles Colchester, a blackguard if ever there was one. He had held séances with no less than Mary Lincoln in the White House, and later tried to blackmail the poor, desperate woman. Shady men of this caliber had jaundiced Grant’s eye to spiritualism in general, even if he hadn’t been a strict Methodist.

  Grant raised an eyebrow. “So you think it’s possible that… my friend… was tricked into seeing an apparition that was really a man?”

  “Well, sir, I must tell you that our other-worldly cousins do exist, but sadly, there are those would take advantage of those who want to believe.”

  Grant was suddenly aware of his surroundings. He threw a copper two-cent piece on the counter of the cigar shop and motioned for the two to follow him. He led the group to the central courtyard, where two elderly men sat sipping coffee from china cups. The outside setting protected from the city by a ring of hotel rooms was a far cry from the likes of Bethel. An iron lattice bridge across the courtyard led to the public privies.

  Madame Blanche sat on one of the wooden benches by a tree, and the two men sat opposite her like schoolchildren learning a lesson.

  “There are two reasons why a spirit would appear,” she began. “The first is that he is somehow connected to the place where he appeared. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but when I heard Mr. Hart’s story, it seemed rather unlikely that this was the case. No matter how good-hearted Mr. Longworth might have been, I doubt that he was in the habit of inviting laborers to sup with him. So I would doubt that his spirit left this earthly plane from there. The other more likely reason for an appearance is that this spirit had something to say to your friend, General Grant. Were they acquainted?”

  Grant shook his head. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember Granby. Of course, if the man had served in the Fifth Regiment of the U.S. Colored Troops, they might have crossed paths in some battle. Grant would have to telegraph Stanton to find out if the Fifth had fought in Petersburg with him. Would that be enough reason for Granby to appear to his superior officer and request help?

  “If your friend didn’t know the man in this world, then it’s likely he had a message for your friend. He must want some assistance from your friend—something only that friend can do.”

  “Like what?” Hart sat with both hands clasped on his knees, waiting for more.

  “If the spirit were not that of an old man, perhaps it wasn’t his time. The spirit might be caught between this world and the next, waiting for something.”

  “What could the general’s friend provide this spirit?” Hart asked, oblivious to Grant’s discomfiture.

  “If, and I do specify ‘if,’ the man was taken before his time, his spirit might want to see justice done for himself. Perhaps your friend can provide a resolution for the man.”

  Grant doubted he could do anything for the spirit of Israel Granby. Of course, he had solved a few crimes in his day, but he wasn’t an avenging spirit for freedmen who got themselves drowned in the river. “And if my friend saw an elaborate hoax?”

  Hart pulled out a notepad and scribbled a few words in it. “Madame Blanche had a few questions about the spirit.”

  “I understand. Well, miss, what would you like to know?”

  “Please, General, call me ‘Madame Blanche.’ I am wed to the spirit world and their minions.”

  Grant stifled the urge to laugh. “Very well, Madame Blanche. How can I assist you in getting to the bottom of this matter?”

  “You are not a believer, are you, General? My spirit guides tell me this.” She adjusted her hands on her lap and leaned back, taking deep breath and exhaling slowly as if she were smoking one of Grant’s cheroots.

  “No, I’m not.” Grant had too much of his mother’s stern Methodist upbringing to believe in things beyond this life. People went to Heaven when they died, and that was that. The Bible said so. He’d heard the rumors that people spread saying he believed in the spirit world because he didn’t regularly attend church. Bobby Lee hadn’t let him have Sundays off for church. However, it was difficult to order an army into battle, though David had done just that at the Lord’s command. How could he reconcile that with his mother’s faith?

  “I thought not. That’s unfortunate because I’d heard that great strides had been made in Washington during Mr. Lincoln’s terms there.”

  Grant winced. “I doubt that Colchester would have been called a great stride by any spiritualist of ethic. He tried to pass himself off as a Lord, a child of a Duke who was born on the wrong side of the blanket. That’s hardly a pedigree.”

  Mrs. Lincoln had invited Grant to one séance at the White House. She’d lost so many children, and now her husband, it was no surprise she’d turned to mediums and spiritualists to talk to the departed. The situation had been particularly awkward after little Willy’s death. Lincoln himself was too distraught to deal with her inclinations, and the worst types of charlatans had descended on the White House to make a name for themselves. Lincoln had never disavowed his wife’s superstitions, but Grant suspected that he only endured them to make her life a bit more comfortable.

  “That may be so, but just because a few generals were unethical, we did
n’t stop the war, did we?”

  Hart shot a glance at the general that Grant couldn’t read. Was the reporter amused at the analogy or worried that Grant would leave before they could discuss the problem?

  “Well, enough discussion. Madame Blanche has a few ideas, but she wanted to hear more details about the situation from you,” Hart stated. “I explained that you’d talked directly to your friend, and that I’d only heard the story second-hand.”

  Madame Blanche took another deep breath, causing the black veil to flutter, and rested against the bench. “Where exactly were you in relationship to the nearest door when the apparition showed itself?”

  Grant cleared his throat. “I thought that Mr. Hart explained—”

  “Sir, I would be a poor seer indeed if I didn’t know that it was you who had seen the ghost. Now, if you don’t mind, may we drop the pretense and discuss the facts?”

  Hart reddened a little but remained silent.

  Grant closed his eyes for a moment and tried to picture the Belmont’s long hallway again. “I was about ten or fifteen feet from the man when he seemed to disappear into the wall. I’d say that he was maybe two or three feet from the entrance to a doorway.”

  “Was the hallway empty?” The woman’s words were monotone in pitch, almost as if she was sleeping, but her voice was strong and clear.

  “There were no other people, but there were a number of things in the hallway—furniture, paintings, and such.”

  “Forgive me all the questions, but poor spiritualists from Over-the-Rhine never get to make it to the halls of power like the Belmont. Were there any large pieces of furniture there? Mr. Hart mentioned something about the furniture being covered with sheets. Was that true in the hallways or just in the unused rooms?”

  “In the hallways as well. There was a rather large armoire or something like it not three feet from the door.”