The room at the top of the staircase was large enough to house the entire Grant clan. A huge bed staked the center of the room, circled by a fainting sofa and three wooden chairs. A small fire heated the room as it licked its logs in the hearth. Grant deposited the luggage near the fireplace and made his way to the bed. He pulled out the trundle for Jess and found it already prepared with sheets and pillows.
He turned to find Julia looking at Jess, speechless. There were times when he found that his wife was less than firm with the children. From her struck expression, this might be one of those moments.
He marched over the pair, and inspected them more closely. Jess had his coat off and stood in a dirty white shirt. Surely Julia had seen worse garments from their three untidy boys. The boy’s shoes were dumped on the floor, but it was natural to want to run barefoot in the likes of Bethel. Not many people had the wherewithal to buy shoes in this part of the country.
Julia held out her hand to him. Even in the dim light of the fire, Grant saw three coins. From what he could tell, they looked gold. Each coin had an eagle with outstretched wings on it, making a majestic flock of birds in her hand. Double-eagles. The fire managed to catch the golden glow of the coins as if to wink at the trio. But they couldn’t be real. That amount of money added up to more than a year’s wage.
“Jess, wherever did you get this?” Grant thought of all the hard times when this amount of money would have saved him from the ignoble fate of selling firewood on a St. Louis street corner or borrowing from his father.
“Papa, those boys gave it to me. They said it was play, not real.” The boy looked like he might cry. His bottom lip stuck out as far as it could go, and the corners of his mouth trembled.
Julia looked at her husband for a minute. “Ulys, I’m speechless.”
Grant tried not to chuckle, now knowing what it took to silence his wife. He hefted one of the coins in his hand. He twirled it in his fingers, and tried to take a bite of the coin. Solid as a bullet. Any coin could be play money, but from the look and feel of the coin, he was pretty certain these were real gold pieces.
Chapter 2
The dawn came with the musty gray hue that seemed to last from late September to March in the Ohio Valley. The blues and grays reminded Grant of the colors he’d seen the past four years. An opaque mist hung from the tops of the trees and muted the fall colors. Perfect day for a funeral, Grant thought as he managed to straighten his tie in the mirror.
Their room at Newman’s had been gracious. The mattress was thick and comfortable. Grant had no trouble in falling asleep serenaded by the rhythmic breathing of his wife and child. He hadn’t woken until the thick aroma of coffee filled his nose. He’d grown accustomed to chicory and root coffee during the final battles of Virginia. Supplies of real beans were just too much extra cargo, and he had his men forage for what they could find. Coffee had been a luxury then, and the mere scent of it now filled his lungs with joy.
Julia must have smelled it as well. She had slipped out of bed quietly and had started her morning ablutions. Jess hadn’t stirred during the splash of water or rustle of clothes from the carpetbags. Grant had followed her and evoked a similar response from his son. He was amazed at how soundly the boy slept, especially if he knew what his mother had in store for him.
The Grants had stayed up talking after putting Jess to bed, discussing what to do with the money. Julia had been all in favor of marching the boy back to the Halley house immediately. Grant’s calmer words had prevailed and encouraged her to wait until dawn. Chances are that the widow and her brood were beat after the viewing. The funeral had been set for this morning, and tradition always took people back to the house afterwards. Neighbors would call with vittles, and the family would find the kitchen stocked with enough food to feed them through the early days of mourning.
Grant pocketed the coins and decided to talk to the widow after the funeral. The coins would be safe until then, and the family wouldn’t likely be looking for the hard currency any time soon.
Julia had shooed Jess off to the outhouse, and the Grants had a moment alone. She rested on the edge of the bed, trying not to crease her best black dress. “Ulys, I can’t bear to think of Jess involved in thievery. There has to be an explanation.”
Grant nodded. “I hope there is, but we’ll find out soon enough. I expect the children were playing or something. But we need to give it back.”
His wife nodded. Julia had known the Halleys better than he had. Her time in Bethel during her pregnancies had earned her some friends here. Grant knew her to be remiss in correspondence, so he didn’t know how much she had kept up with the people in Bethel since her stays in the 1850s. Julia could be the worst epistle writer.
How much of the Halley’s funds did this money represent? With a husband in a prisoner camp during the war, Mrs. Halley couldn’t have much to her name. The long battle for unity had made paupers of too many ordinary folk.
Jess bolted up the stairs, looking almost presentable. Julia managed to bring his collar to attention, and the family descended the stairs to find their host.
Newman sat at the dining room table, a large mahogany affair, and drank the coffee that had woke Grant earlier. He’d dressed for the occasion in a full-length black dress coat and tie. A black hat sat on the chair next to him.
Grant knew that funerals fell just behind weddings as serious social engagements in the villages of Southern Ohio. The events were spread out over multiple days, starting with the laying out of the body, the visitation, and then the funeral itself. Once the body was interred, then the eating began. Grant saw two pies on the table in front of Newman and figured they were from his wife, who they had yet to greet.
“Well, Captain Sam. You clean up right nice.” Newman’s face broke into a grin at the sight of his old friend. “Can’t say that I’ve seen you look this good.”
Grant cracked a half-smile on his lips. He felt a mite guilty for enjoying himself at a time when Halley was dead, and waiting to be buried, but he had looked forward to this trip for a dog’s age.
Being called Sam again brought back a flood of memories about a happy time in his life. He marveled how a simple man could end up with so many names. When Grant went off to West Point, the government in their infinite wisdom had decided that his name was “Ulysses S. Grant”, and not “Hiram Ulysses Grant”. In order to accept his appointment at West Point, he had to don a new name. Everyone knew that the government couldn’t have made a mistake, though Grant often suspected that the real root cause rested with his patron, Thomas Hamer.
The initials of U.S. stood well at a patriotic institution like the Academy. He’d been “Uncle Sam”, then “Captain Sam” and then later just plain Sam. Only a handful of people called him that anymore, men who had met him during his first year at the Point. Even Julia, who he’d met through his Point roommate, called him Ulysses.
“Well, I haven’t had much cause for fancy. There doesn’t seem like much point when the Rebs are firing on you.” Grant didn’t like dressing up for the military like many of his commanders did. They could sport the fancy dress uniforms, but he’d managed to wear results instead. Grant had modeled himself on his informal leader from the Mexican War, Zachary Taylor. He’d hesitated to pull out his finery in Bethel. He recalled an early trip to Bethel in his full West Point regalia. A little boy had painted red stripes on his trousers and followed Grant around town. The whole town had mocked his hubris after that.
Newman opened his breast pocket and pulled out two cheroots. He proffered one to Grant and took the other for himself. Grant immediately recognized the full scent of local tobacco. Probably Newman had grown the plants on his farm.
“Sam, I got a favor to ask of ya.” Newman struck a match on the edge of the dark wood table and inhaled sharply as he pressed the flame to the end of the cigar. Thick gray puffs of smoke nearly obscured his face.
“What’s that?” Grant looked for a suitable surface to strike his match. Julia would die
if she saw him scuffing good furniture, especially for something she considered to be a filthy habit. He finally lifted one foot and struck the match on the sole of his boot. Grant savored the flavor. He’d picked up the cigar habit after he’d left Ohio, so the taste of the local tobacco was still a unique joy. He enjoyed the moment, knowing that Julia would be back in a few minutes and insist on putting it out.
“I have to go somewhere after the funeral. I was wondering if you could stop back here for the pies and take them to Mrs. Halley for me. I’d be much obliged
Grant nodded slowly. Small price to pay for his hospitality last night. “I’d be happy to, but wouldn’t your wife want to take them herself? I don’t want to steal any thunder from her cooking.”
Newman turned his head as he blew out a puff of smoke. “Theda died two winters ago. I got the news when I was at Belle Island. She was carrying a child for us. Neither one of them made it. The pies were made by the colored help.” He grunted as he stood up and found his crutches. He slid them under each arm and made his way for the door.
Julia and Jess still waited in the front parlor as Grant and Newman made their way out to the front door. The tiny procession followed Newman out the front door and down the path to the dirt road. They all turned left and walked along Plane Street, Bethel’s main road, practically its only road, to the cemetery.
From the distance, Grant saw people congregating in the cemetery. Despite the misty disposition of the day, the men had removed their hats as a sign of respect, and the women’s heads were bowed. He guessed that it had to be the Halleys. The village wasn’t big enough to need multiple funerals in one day. The gravedigger’s death from over-exertion would be next if that were true.
A score or more people were at the grave. All eyes shifted to the strangers. Grant got a couple of grins from people he recognized, but no one made a sound in respect of the dead. The preacher, or at least the man at the funeral carrying a leather bound Bible, nodded and looked to Mrs. Halley. She began to weep as the preacher cleared his throat, and read from the book.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die.” The preacher looked around the group for a reaction, continued, “a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted: A time to kill, and a time to heal: a time to break down, and a time to build up.”
Grant searched the crowd for familiar faces, but found few. He saw a man who might have been Adam Woerner, but he couldn’t be sure. No sign of the Browns at all. He recognized Mrs. Halley, her face shrouded by a veil and steadied by a young man’s comfort who couldn’t have been more ten. Grant looked at the boy, standing as tall as his mother. He’d have a hard life trying to earn a living for the family after his father’s death. That chore fell to the oldest when a parent died.
One face that Grant had no trouble in recognizing came over and threw his arm around him as if he hadn’t seen him in years, rather than yesterday. In a knee-length overcoat with polished gold buttons and his affected gold-rimmed glasses, he looked every bit the prosperous merchant. And Grant’s father was. Jesse Root Grant had moved from abandoned child to tanner to merchant to mayor of Bethel. Still, he managed to rankle people wherever he went. A vehement zealot against slavery, he’d actually worked for John Brown’s father at one time.
Jesse Grant was in his element here. The farmers and townspeople treated him like an old friend and royalty. With his expensive clothes and gold trim, Jesse didn’t let them forget it either. He’d moved from Bethel years ago, but he’d made a special trip from Covington to help his son bask in the glow of notoriety. At a rally in Georgetown, he’s managed to talk for nearly ninety minutes after his son’s three-minute speech
Now Grant hoped that Jesse wouldn’t try to steal the thunder from the deceased. The elder Grant had made a career of turning others’ events into his own opportunities.
The preacher finished the readings and managed a few words about Halley. Despite the pats and hugs from loved ones, the widow broke down twice during the ceremony. Grant looked at his own wife and couldn’t imagine life without her. He’d endured too much time away from Julia over their marriage. He planned on making the most of his leisure time. If the powerbrokers were right, Andy Johnson would be a one-term president, and Grant himself would be the next Commander-in-Chief. Even in the proximity of the White House, he and Julia wouldn’t be able to enjoy time alone. Too many people traipsed through the White House, looking for jobs and favors.
How far removed his friends from Bethel seemed from his life now. He’d risen through the ranks during the war to its highest echelons, and this group of compatriots had lingered in Andersonville for over a year. Grant had met Lincoln. These men had seen comrades starve to death. How much different could their paths have been? Yet at one point, they’d ridden the hills of Southern Ohio together, spent time at the same swimming hole. Who knew what turns life had for you?
Grant wondered if there were any hard feelings. Did they look at him and see what they could have been? The men didn’t seem to harbor a grudge. Newman and Halley had welcomed his family into their homes. That didn’t speak of bitterness from the war.
Grant turned his attention back to the preacher. The parson had about finished extolling Christopher Halley’s virtues. For all the death he had seen, Grant had not experienced many funerals in the past four years. Corpses of men not afforded a proper Christian burial had littered the battlefields. Those who had managed to be interred were put into common graves with their fallen comrades. The army was usually on the move by the time the dead were laid to rest. Lincoln’s funeral was one of the most recent ones he could remember as well as one of the most painful.
Mrs. Halley threw a handful of dirt on the casket and turned away. She retreated towards the black iron gate. The soldiers who attended started into their routine. Shoulder arms, present arms, shoulder arms, rest. Attention, shoulder arms, load at will and fire. Grant knew those proceedings all too well.
After the guns were quiet, the rest of the mourners took their cues from Mrs. Halley and fell in behind her. A few of the group stopped to talk to her as they started back to her house. Grant took the opportunity to approach her. Julia nodded as she took little Jess by the hand and reluctantly followed her father-in-law to the widow’s house.
Grant cleared his throat and looked down at the ground. Grant wished he had a nice veil to hide his discomfort. He didn’t need to see her eyes and the grief that they would clearly show. “Mrs. Halley, I hate to bother you in such a painful moment, but I have the most embarrassing of things to relate.”
He saw her look up. “What might that be, General?”
Grant held out the three gold coins in his palm. The eagles nearly flew in formation. He pushed his hand towards her. “My son took these last night by accident. You have my most sincere apologies.”
She looked towards his eyes. There was a flash of some emotion that Grant couldn’t read staring back at him. He wished that Julia were still by his side to interpret womanly emotions to him. He had never understood the fairer sex. “Thank you for your kindness, General. I appreciate your generosity, but our family will be fine. Your charity isn’t needed. Christopher provided for us well in death.”
“But, ma’am. These were taken from your house.” Grant felt his cheeks burn in the cool autumn air.
“Most kind sir, we have no gold in our house. I’m not sure where your son received the coins, but they do not belong to my family.” She turned and started off to her house and the guests who had come to bid her husband farewell.
Chapter 3
Julia knitted her brows and her one eye looked at him with suspicion. “Of course, Jess took the coins from her house. He said so. He’s not a liar, Ulys. I know my son.”
“But mama, they gave me the coins,” the boy protested beside the couple. They had come to the widow’s home. Grant needed to consult his wife on what had just happened. He couldn’t fathom Mrs. Hall
ey lying any more than he could imagine his son telling a fib. Jess was the carefree one of their brood. He’d never shown any signs of stealing before.
“Well, Mrs. Halley said differently, Jess. She said they weren’t hers.”
“Perhaps they belonged to someone else who was there, Ulys.” Julia tapped her demi-boot on the floor as she tried to think of an explanation. Grant knew it was useless to try to interrupt her in one of these moods. She would puzzle something until she had an answer or wore herself out. Best just to stand back and let her have at it.
Jess flounced down on one of the chairs, and crossed his arms over his chest. The little boy looked as if he might bust into tears. Grant was pretty sure that the boy had no reason to lie about where the coins had come from. He’d already been chastised for taking the money.
Grant looked behind him to the milling people in the next room. So far no one had come in to see why the Grants had taken to themselves. Perhaps it would be attributed to no more evil motive than big city thinking – the notion that the Grants were now too good for the likes of Bethel.
Jesse Grant came in the room and harrumphed. He’d taken off his wide brimmed hat to show a mane of wild hair. “What are you doing in here, son? You need to be out there, wooing voters.”
“We’re trying to solve a problem.” Julia gave Jesse a withering glance that he didn’t seem to notice. His father lived in a world of his own making, one where right was decided by Jesse Grant and no others.
Jesse looked at the coins Grant was holding. “Where on earth did you get those? I haven’t seen any like that in years.” He picked one up and flipped it over in his fingers, twirling it like a spin top. Grant knew that most merchants dealt in greenbacks now, rather than gold.
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 19
