The Ambush of My Name
By Jeffrey Marks
Copyright © 2001 by Jeffrey Marks
A Good Soldier
By Jeffrey Marks
Copyright © 2003 by Jeffrey Marks
Some Hidden Thunder
By Jeffrey Marks
Copyright © 2012 by Jeffrey Marks
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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To my two favorite denizens of Brown County,
my parents, Ron and Barb Marks
The Ambush of My Name
Who may, inthe ambush of my name, strike home and yet my nature never in the fight
Measure for Measure, Act I, Scene III
Acknowledgements
I've learned the hard way that a historical mystery takes that much more research to get all the details right about an era. I did take creative license to make the story by reversing the Grants' trip from Cincinnati to Georgetown. While the town of Georgetown resembled what is portrayed in the book, all the people in the novel are fictional except for the Grants and the mayor. The National Union was an actual hotel, but never run by the Massies. The Brown County News was available, but Ambrose Hart never contributed. These people are my creations.
I'd like to that Rob Schofield and his mother for his help in pointing out Civil War inconsistencies and Rob Perry for his invaluable assistance. Beyond the Brown County and Hamilton County libraries a number of research books came from my parent's collection of Brown county history — too many to mention. The Civil War Museum in Philadelphia gets a special mention for their wonderful collection of biographies and artifacts from the era that made me step back into the 19th century for a day or two. These people have provided me their knowledge; any mistakes are my own.
I've learned the hard way that a historical mystery takes months of research to get the details right. Ulysses and Julia Grant did take the trip recorded in this book in September and October of 1865. Some of the stories used in the novel are true. I did take creative license to make the story by reversing the Grants' trip from Cincinnati to Georgetown. While the town of Bethel resembled what is portrayed in the book, all the people in the novel are fictional except for the Grants and his family. All the other people are my creations.
I'd like to thank Rob Schofield and his mother for his help in pointing out Civil War inconsistencies. Rob Perry is my best friend for more than his invaluable assistance in editing and suggestions, but those never hurt. Of course, it goes without saying that the people at Overmountain and Silver Dagger have been extraordinary. Beth Wright is a wonder to work with and Sherry Lewis is an editor from Heaven. Karin O’Brien is an incredible publicist for them, and she should take a bow for all her hard work. Matt Kovach gets a special mention for letting me read his forefather’s diary of the Civil War that included a number of battles that Grant participated in. It made for many nights of fascinating reading.
I grew up in the shadow of Grant by virtue of my birthplace. Many of the stories about Grant I’ve known for years. It only made sense to write those down as part of the story. My parents, of course, besides giving me the opportunity to write, have helped immensely with Grant lore and local sites. Beyond the Butler County Library in Batavia and their historical society, a number of research books came from my parent's collection of Southern Ohio history. In reading about the final days of the Confederacy, I was amazed to learn of the lost Confederate gold. While it’s now been 146 years since the end of the war, there’s still no conclusive explanation for what happened to over $40,000 in gold and silver.
The Civil War Museum in Philadelphia gets a special mention for their wonderful collection of biographies and artifacts from the era that made me step back into the 19th century for a day or two. These people have provided me their knowledge; any mistakes are my own.
Table of Contents
The Ambush of My Name
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A Good Soldier
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Some Hidden Thunder
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
"Go back home, butcher." A man's voice richoted through the Georgetown crowd. A ripple of approval and shouts followed the initial cry, but no one spoke up to denounce the sentiments. The words cut into Ulysses S. Grant’s psyche, piercing deeper than any Reb’s musket ball.
Grant swung around to locate the source, but the milling spectators prevented a search. Some people didn't understand the nature of war as he did. West Point and the Mexican War had seasoned him for the fight. The South would never have surrendered without massive losses. Grant felt at home on the battlefield, not making speeches and stumping for votes in an election three years hence. Yet despite his feelings, every city wanted his words. Or his head.
"Don't pay no nevermind to him, Hiram Grant. There are just a lot of people hurt by the war." He hoped so. Georgetown was more than home to him. He’d made the town a weathervane for 1868 and the presidency.
The old woman shuffling towards him pronounced his name "Harm". Despite the intervening years, Grant recognized his former teacher. Decades of care hunched her shoulders. Bird-like features poked from beneath a bonnet while loose flesh danced around her neck.
"Weren't we all?" Julia demurred. His wife was a striking woman with dark hair and eyes, a proper lady who supported him unconditionally — his closest confidant even in matters of war. How he'd missed her over the past two years. Her infrequent letters had b
arely sustained him.
A commotion bubbled behind them and a tall wiry man shoved his way past the fray. He carried a July issue of Harper's Weekly under his arm though autumn was in full swing. His tie hung loose; white shirt dotted with sweat and dirt. The natty trousers told Grant that the reporter was not a horseman. No signs of a dusty ride. Scooping a bale of raven hair from his eyes, he stared at the trio. "Sorry I'm late, but there was a quilting bee over at the parson's wife's. Such is the life of a village reporter. Ambrose Hart. Any chance I can get an interview with you for the Brown County News?"
"Ambrose, where are your manners? I certainly taught you better than that when you were in my class." The schoolmarm's voice rang out of the wizened woman.
The man's face reddened and he wiped the day's sweat from his temple. "Yes, Miss Wethington, ma'am."
Julia stepped forward, a frown on her face. "We're not doing anything until we get settled into our hotel. It's been a grueling journey and we need rest."
Ambrose took a step back from the formidable figure. "I can escort you to the hotel. This means you'll be in town for a few days?"
Grant nodded. "It's been a long time since I've been here and I want a chance to look around. Remember."
"Here." Julia shoved carpetbags at Hart while trying to locate the surrey with their steamer trunks.
"Wonderful. This way to the National Union Hotel. Best place in town." Arms full, the man strode towards the town center, a few blocks from where the wagon had halted.
Miss Wethington patted the corded shoulder of Grant's tunic and waved as she shuffled off in another direction.
Most of the crowd has dissipated, leaving stragglers behind in the dirt streets. Fame was that fleeting. From the second floor windows lining Main Cross Street, Grant spied women peering from behind curtains. He beamed back. Certainly no one from Georgetown had ever done so well for themselves: a fine military career, a beautiful wife, and a place in the annals of history.
"So any truth to the rumors that you'll be our next president?" Ambrose turned to ask, nearly thumping the general with a case.
"It's a little early for that, isn't it? The next election isn't for three years." Grant stopped to look at the Charles Theis storefront, the general store where he'd run errands for his father. Barrels of hardware and tins of staples flooded his mind. The memories of this place rushed back to him as he tried to recall that carefree time. The ripe smell of tanning hides brought back the revulsion of that career and his youth.
"I find that question in poor taste, young man. Mr. Lincoln is barely cold in the grave and you're starting this kind of speculation. Appalling." Julia kicked up tufts of dust as she sidestepped wheel ruts and hardened animal pies. She'd made navigation worse by wearing heels for an anticipated Higginsport reception.
"Now Julia, he's just doing his job." Besides, Julia had done little to mask her ambitions. Grant suspected that she'd memorized the words to the Inauguration by this juncture. He wanted her certainty on his future; he still needed a sign, an omen of some kind to tell him what to do.
Ambrose sped up his pace. "That's right, Julia. I have a job to do."
"It's Mrs. Grant to you, thank you." She lifted the hem of her dress from the dust and overtook the reporter.
Grant raised an eyebrow. Julia didn't feel comfortable with his rural roots, but this visit was off to a bumpy start. She'd been at home in White Haven, with her father's newfound respect for Grant. Not Galena, not Philadelphia, not here.
He hastened to a military trot, following his wife over the paving stone sidewalk up the hotel steps. Ambrose continued to bring up the rear, trying to catch enough breath to ask another question. A large livery stable stood next to the three-story brick hotel. The odors of decaying straw and horse manure greeted them at the door. With a few boards missing from the roof and the door off its hinge, the barn looked long overdue for repair. Grant wished his horse had been able to make the trip, feeling homesick for his favorite steed. A man needed some constants in his life.
Julia charged up the wooden stairs to the National Union, like Pickett on a rampage. She shot through the open door, Grant right behind her. He stepped gently inside the hotel, careful not to invite dust and grime from the dirt streets. Hart followed, dumping the bags on the rug.
This hotel hadn't been here when he left Georgetown in 1839. At Julia's pace, he hadn't been able to gauge the structure properly, just enough time to notice the huge porch and sign out in front of the establishment. A great deal had changed in twenty-five years, but he supposed that held true for America. He walked towards the counter, admiring the burnished trim of the doors' perimeters.
Someone had invested substantial capital into a hotel in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Was there money to be had in innkeeping? Who would stay here in this town? Most of the surrounding communities held farm folk. Grant couldn't imagine that many travelers from Cincinnati making this trip without good cause.
An elderly man, built like a cannon ball, approached the hotel desk. A gaily-colored vest peeked out from under his black morning coat. He'd managed two buttons on the proper coat over a dingy white shirt. A mustache and goatee camouflaged numerous chins. "Lt. General Grant. Mrs. Grant. How are you? I'm Mr. Massie, the proprietor here. We've taken great pains for your visit. I truly hope you enjoy your stay." The man extended a hand and Grant shook it. His grip felt like a three-day-old catfish. Grant pulled his hand back quickly and wiped it on his dress blues. "A number of people have called for you today. Some left notes and calling cards." He offered a lump of paper to Grant.
"Thank you. Could you show us to our rooms please? I am prostrate with exhaustion." Mrs. Grant paused by the stairs. A young freedman replete in red uniform picked up the bags and stood aside for Massie to lead the way.
The party proceeded to the second floor where the elderly innkeeper stopped and turned left. "This is our best suite. You have a view of the whole town. I've kept it locked in honor of your arrival. I didn't want the riff-raff to sneak into our hotel. We have standards to uphold. I had to ask another guest to change rooms, but he was amenable when he heard the name of our new guest."
Grant was unimpressed. He figured any second floor room could survey the whole town from the intersection of Main Cross and Pleasant, all thousand souls of it. He was still more comfortable under an old army canvas.
With a bow hampered by his girth, the man pushed open the door and stood aside for the Grants to enter. Grant deferred to his wife who practically shoved the bellman out of her way to enter. Within seconds, she screamed and landed prostrate on the divan located by the window. Grant checked her pulse. She was fine, just unconscious. He looked up to see what had upset her.
On the bed was a man. Eyes open wide, lips drawn back, smudges of dirt worn on each cheek like rouge. He sat upright, leaning back against the headboard as if waiting for guests. Except he would be idle for an eternity because he wore a bullet hole through the center of his forehead.
Chapter 2
The room assigned to the Grants by the National Union was unremarkable except for the corpse on the bed. French doors opened onto a stark wooden balcony, overlooking Georgetown. The remaining three plaster walls boasted flocked wallpaper, scoured clean behind the lanterns to remove the inevitable soot. Grant recognized a series of watercolor paintings as the work of local artists from his youth. Tallow stubs protruded from wall sconces and a small blaze in the hearth gave light to the room. The smell of chestnut logs in the fire would have been enjoyable if not for their uninvited guest. Julia's divan and a tempting pitcher and bowl deposited on a marble-topped washstand accounted for the only other furniture save the bed.
Grant insured Julia faced away from the corpse. He strode over to the four-poster, typical country fare with a cornhusk filled mattress and cotton sheets brought out for the occasion. The rest of the welcoming party stood transfixed in the doorway, mouths agog and eyes wide. Mr. Massie turned his head so that it almost rested on the free
dman's shoulder.
At this distance, Grant studied the bullet hole. Dark powder marks around the wound on the corpse's forehead told him the weapon had been fired at close range. He'd seen this type of burn when he'd put a gun barrel to a man's head and pulled the trigger. No sniper. No rifle wound through an open window here. His knees wobbled. He'd killed too many men to be squeamish in the luxury of a hotel. The irony of the timing hit him. Six months ago in the heat of battle, a white cross and a quick burial would serve a man found dead of a gunshot. Now the scene would be beset with sheriffs and doctors. Justice re-asserted itself in the aftermath of the war.
He pulled the man forward. The husks in the mattress crackled in protest as the corpse bent easily at the waist.
"What on earth are you doing to that poor creature?" Hart asked, stepping into the room. "Hasn't he been through enough already without this indignity?"
"He was shot recently. Stiffness hasn't set in." Grant leaned behind the corpse and examined the back of the man's skull for a few seconds.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to . . ."
"And a small caliber bullet. The wound in the back of the head isn't too big, but larger than what's in front. He was shot in the forehead."
"Well, of course he was." Hart's color returned in blotches as he extracted a tablet of paper and a gray charcoal pencil from his jacket pocket. Within the course of seconds, he scrambled to the foot of the four-poster and sketched furiously, bestowing life on the page.
"He knew who shot him."
"And your point is?" Hart continued to draw, moving the pencil rapidly across the page.
"Ambrose Hart, you don't give General Grant any lip or I'll tell your mother about it." The hotel manager shuffled into the room with his eyes fixed on the hardwood floor to avoid the bed's occupant. "Sir, I can assure you — nothing like this was in the room when I came up here before your arrival. Certainly if there had been, I would have never given you this room."
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 1
