Some Hidden Thunder Read online

  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.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Is there not some chosen curse, some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man who owes his greatness to his country's ruin! Joseph Addison

  Chapter 1

  If Julia Grant shone any brighter tonight, thought Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, they wouldn’t need any tallows in their hotel room later. His wife was in her element; men bowed to her, waiters refilled her glass without asking, and women curried her favor. The cream of Cincinnati society courted her tonight, knowing that Julia would likely be the nation’s next first lady.

  They had not always lived in luxury; she had been equally comfortable as a farmer’s wife, army wife, and now politician’s lady, and she’d handled all of these roles with ease, even though they both knew where her druthers lay.

  As for Grant, he regretted the loss of their recent bucolic days as they’d bounced along the coach road from Bethel to Cincinnati; the farms had slowly begun to intrude upon one another. A new city meant more speeches and more politicians, yet cities, with their thousands of voters, won elections, not farming communities. Nearly a quarter of a million people resided in Cincinnati, making it the nation’s sixth largest city, a fact belied by its proximity to Grant’s hometown. The sheer importance of such a city and its elite made tonight at the Belmont feel even more confining. The Queen City of the West would not be denied its contribution in getting Grant elected as the next President of the United States.

  Grant abhorred trying to make small talk, and his speeches were often painfully brief—less than a minute if he could get away with it. Leave the kowtows to Julia. The elite of Cincinnati society had all turned out tonight to meet the hero of 1865. , The Belmont, the familial home of the Longworths, had been opened to greet them. Since the passing of Longworth’s wife the previous year, the house had stood empty while the heirs tried to decide what to do with the pretentiously named “Belmont Estate.” The Longworths had kindly allowed the businessmen of Cincinnati to use their one-time home as a reception hall for Grant and Julia, so the reception wasn’t disturbing a living soul.

  Of course, a grand home like Longworth’s would certainly need a name like Belmont. The double-arched doorway and elegant walkway had cried wealth before Grant had even entered the Pike Street home. He and Julia had seen the house on previous trips to the city, but as their carriage pulled up in front of the Belmont, Julia had let out a gasp realizing that she had now gained admission into these parties. The home vaguely resembled many in the nation’s capital; what Grant believed was called the “Federal” style.

  Even though they had seen its exterior many times, nothing could quite prepare Grant for the sumptuousness of the interior when they arrived. Eight landscape murals circled the foyer, each depicting river scenes set during the day and at dusk, and looking up, Grant could see a huge plaster medallion encircling the chandelier.

  One of the local politicians had offered Grant a much-needed drink, which he had promptly declined. Cincinnati newspapers had been derogatory towards him at the start of the war, repeating the old stories about his drinking; he would allow no reason tonight to start those rumors up again.

  Standing to Grant’s left, another politician’s wife had started into an extended monologue about Robert Duncanson, the freedman of color who’d painted the murals for Longworth before the war. The lady had taken great pride in the Longworths’ recognition of the former slave’s talent and pointed out in endless detail how the city hoped to do the same with many of the former slaves who’d streamed into their fair city. Everyone at the Belmont tonight had an opinion on what to do with the freedmen.

  Grant knew that many of Cincinnati’s upper crust had taken up the abolitionist banner; after all, how could they not? Their champion, Harriet Beecher Stowe, had lived in town. The city had clasped Stowe and the cause of black freedom to its bosom, and they encouraged the free blacks to migrate there just as Eliza fled over the ice floes crossing the Ohio, the same river that flowed just yards from the Belmont.

  Now that the war was over, and the question of abolition settled, there was talk of giving freedmen the vote—which meant campaigning to them and addressing whatever needs they might have.

  Southern Ohio had attracted more than its share of freedmen. The South had not suddenly grown more hospitable to slaves at the end of the war, and the landowners who could afford to keep them on as hired help paid grudgingly, but Sherman’s March had effectively ruined some of the plantations the slaves had called home. So many former slaves moved north to industrial jobs and the chance of a new life. Even in the worst of conditions, Grant never heard one of them ask to go back into slavery—freedom was far too precious.

  The migration seemed more noticeable in Cincinnati, with the city folks compacted inside city limits with little chance of pushing out the boundaries of town. Cincinnati sat in a basin, hemmed in by the Ohio River to the south and a series of rolling hills to the north; the same Appalachians that made Georgetown and Bethel so dear to Grant. In Cincinnati though, the tenements and industry that had filled the basin to its edge camouflaged the hills.

  Despite the overcrowding, Cincinnati seemed almost utopian in comparison to other places in the nation. Even though Ohio was certainly moving towards more rights for the freedmen, it would take time and new ideas to ease blacks into the historically white society. As slaves, the men were counted as three-fifths of a white man, but at this moment in time, blacks had no rights—none whatsoever. Rights were reserved for citizens, and former slaves were only unwanted guests in the nation.

  The whites in the South hadn’t taken black freedom so sanguinely. Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest had begun a vile, secret organization aimed at keeping the former slaves in their place. While the war had been lost, many of the “Rebs” had opted to maintain a silent battle against the black population. Grant had heard of the atrocities committed and had even visited some of the trouble spots, but he hoped the Freedmen’s Bureau would help to rid the South of those men.

  Grant had fought the war simply because he knew how to fight, not because he held any deep-seated views on the issue of slavery. His father, Jesse, was a fervent abolitionist; the man was impassioned in all of his views, but he hadn’t bequeathed that certainty of opinion to his son. This was a good thing to Grant, as he knew the next several years would be a morass of ideals and compromises on how to settle the slave problem permanently. Still, such decisions would come after 1868. For now, he had to deal with the hoard of sycophantic politicians and moneymen.

  Grant had left for a few minutes to be alone, needing a minute to collect his thoughts.

  He leisurely strolled the long hall in no hurry to return to the crowd. Normally, he’d never have wandered in the private quarters of a family home, but old Nicholas Longworth had passed away during the war and the home had stood empty since then.

  He stopped just outside the library and paused, the shadows shifting in the gray half-light. The furnishings, draped in sheets to keep the dust off, left only the outlines of what was beneath. Shelves stripped of their books, paintings draped in white stood like sentries guarding the once busy room. Grant tried not to disturb anything as he made his way through the house. Most of the rooms were closed off, but a few doors still stood ajar. He paused long enough to see that most of the other rooms looked similar in size and function.

  Grant suddenly saw the figure of a man at the end of the long hallway and caught his breath. He tried to think of a plaus
ible reason for being alone in the library instead of glad-handing businessmen and politicians. He waited for the other person to speak, but the figure said nothing. Maybe he had the same problem fetching an excuse. Grant could make out his long lanky frame even at that distance.

  The man took a few steps forward, and the general decided to take his lumps honestly. No one said much against him these days anyway. The worst he would get is a “tsk-tsk” from an embarrassed host.

  As the man approached, Grant realized that this inhospitable co-conspirator was black, and he drew a sigh of relief. Chances were that he’d come to fetch the General back to the party or to bring new refreshments to the voracious guests. Yet the kitchen was underneath them, and the ballroom was somewhere on the east side of this floor.

  The man continued to walk towards Grant, and the general decided to address him. Some servants knew not to speak first to harsh masters, and habits like that were hard to break.

  “Were you looking for me?” Grant asked as he walked towards the man, but as he grew nearer, he could see that the man was agitated, nearly toppling a chair-shaped sheet against the side of the wall.

  The man still didn’t speak as he stopped in his tracks and stood in the center of the hall, almost willing Grant to approach him.

  Funny method of finding someone, Grant thought. He was only about ten feet away from the man now, and he slowed his pace as he noticed that the man appeared to be wet. He was dripping from head to toe as if he’d been caught in a rainstorm or dunked in the river, but Grant knew that the weather outside was clear.

  “I said were you looking for me?” Grant had stopped now.

  The man didn’t appear to notice him and still looked towards the end of the hall where Grant had come from.

  Grant managed to turn his head to look back, but no one was down the hall behind him.

  Upon closer inspection, the man was light-skinned but unmistakably black. The scene reminded Grant of some of the plays he’d seen where men put on powder to look dead. The man’s eyes looked glassy, almost shiny as he turned to face Grant. The general wondered if the man had been drinking and slid his hand through the grip of his sword to give him a sense of security.

  Then the stranger said softly, “I’ll lie in de grave, and stretch out my arms.”

  Grant recognized the spiritual recitation from the black troops in the war and responded in a slightly off-tone bass, “When I lay dis body down.” The words sounded strange, echoing in the quiet hallway but with none of the poignancy the colored troops managed to convey.

  Before Grant could take another step, the suddenly man executed a quarter-turn to his left. He didn’t seem to notice things like doors and plaster as he walked straight through the wall and simply disappeared. Grant could see the sparse furnishings in the hallway and the doors further down the way. Yet he saw no one.

  Grant stood there for a moment, trying to understand what he’d just seen. A soaking wet black man had disappeared through a wall. He’d heard stories of hauntings before, but he’d never taken them seriously. Superstitious souls tended to use outlandish tales to explain coincidence and things only God could understand.

  Grant knew that Julia had her moments of presentment, and he recalled that she’d had a vision during a battle in Missouri. While he’d been galloping up the gangplank to the safety of his steamboat, she’d seen her husband astride his horse at their home. That was the day Grant’s closest brush with death. Rebel troops had only been a few dozen yards from him, and the bullets had whizzed by his head as he retreated astride his mount.

  Of course, he knew that Julia exaggerated her psychic abilities; he barely believed her stories about “knowing” of Lincoln’s assassination. After the fact, she’d told people that she’d had a vision of danger, which is why she’d whisked Grant away to New Jersey. However, Grant only remembered that she’d worried about another tongue-lashing from Mary Todd Lincoln, whom Julia detested.

  The general tried to shake off the thoughts of ghosts; if he’d had a drink right now, he’d have downed it, but he had to make do with a hard swallow instead. The gulping noise echoed through the empty halls.

  He walked to the wall where the man had disappeared and spied a few drops of what appeared to be water on the floor within a foot of the door to the music room, but no other reminders of the apparition remained.

  Grant ran his finger through the liquid and brought it to his nose. The liquid didn’t burn him and had no smell, so most likely it was just water. He looked into the music room, where the man had disappeared, but like the other rooms, it had sheet-draped furniture and no lights to illuminate his quest. He stood in the arched entrance for a few seconds, pondering his next move. The windows only provided a wisp of light from the quarter moon. If the man was indeed of flesh and blood, he supposed that the man could have escaped on the outside staircases at either end of the building.

  Grant started to see another figure at the end of the hall, and he stiffened, but this time he was determined there would be no escape for the man. He would catch this apparition like Lee at Appomattox.

  Grant trod softly on the pine floors, his shoes barely making a sound as he walked towards the figure. As he got closer, he began to puzzle the differences between this figure and the soaking wet man he’d seen earlier. This apparition carried a flute of champagne and resembled a reporter Grant had met earlier that month. He was dressed rather foppishly in a red brocade jacket over a cravat and white shirt. Grant shook his head, wondering whether he was seeing another hallucination.

  “General, there you are.” This apparition spoke and walked towards Grant with an arm extended.

  This was no ghostly illusion; a pesky reporter perhaps, but very human. Grant shook his head, realizing that he’d started to perspire.

  “Your guests are waiting for you in the ballroom. How have you been?”

  Ambrose Hart looked good; the city seemed to suit him. Even though he hadn’t quite made it to New York City yet, Cincinnati was a sight larger than Georgetown, from where both men hailed. Hart looked at ease here, more like he’d grown up in this splendor rather than come from a dirt-poor family.

  Even so, Grant knew he had to watch his words; the reporter was likely to sell him down the river for a good story and a chance of improvement. Grant had encountered many a general during the war who were much the same, just wanting a successful battle to propel them to the Statehouse.

  “Were you talking to someone up here?” Hart looked around with interest, scanning each crevice of the hallway.

  “You saw him too?” Grant felt a weight lift off his shoulders, a validation that he’d not just been imagining things.

  “Who?” Hart seemed to glom on to the question, his eyes glowing with the anticipation of a scoop.

  “No one. Never mind.”

  Hart appeared crestfallen. “Was this about the presidency? Was someone here talking politics to you?” Hart rummaged through his pockets and came out with a scrap of paper and a pencil.

  “Nothing like that at all. I thought I saw a man up here, a black man, but he seemed to disappear.”

  Hart smiled. “If a black man was here, he’d do well to disappear. Not much chance of him being invited for dinner. Polite society is still just that—polite and white.”

  “So you didn’t see him?”

  Hart shook his head. “I saw you standing in the hallway. I was looking for you to see how your trip was progressing. I’d heard rumors of gold and murder from Bethel.”

  Grant nodded distractedly; only he had seen the man.

  “Well, I can see that I’m not going to get a decent response out of you until we find out who has perplexed you so. Would you like some help looking for this man? And I do stress man. I don’t really believe in spirits and manifestations and all that hokum.”

  Grant nodded. He himself had never been impressed with people who professed to talk to the “other world;” he had enough difficulties in communicating on this side of the divide.<
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  “First things first though. I don’t mean to be impertinent, sir, but have you been drinking?” Hart asked.

  Chapter 2

  Grant’s Methodist upbringing prevented him from cursing as he studied the reporter. He could just be trying to be impertinent, but Grant also knew the way his political enemies thought. A drinking scandal could cause him a lot of grief in the upcoming elections. Major Rawlins, Grant’s personal temperance adjunct, would never have allowed the hint of a drink near him, but Rawlins was visiting his family this month, and Julia was in another room.

  Grant knew the rumors about Andy Johnson showing up drunk as a skunk to his Inauguration, but the truth was in fact much less scandalous. Johnson had been under enormous stress since Lincoln’s assassination, and spirits hit him harder than most men. Still, that didn’t stop the tongue wagging, and the stories had plagued the new president ever since. Every bad decision Johnson made brought back the stories and rumors. Grant could just hear what the naysayers would say about his own misfortune—seeing spirits and then drinking them.

  “No, I haven’t been drinking. Mrs. Grant has seen to that.”

  “Good then. Where shall we begin?” Hart swiveled his head around, looking for likely hiding places for the other world.

  Five minutes later, they had searched all the most likely places for someone to hide. Other than a few hall trees and pieces of furniture covered with white sheets, nothing resembled a ghost in the slightest. Grant saw that Hart’s belief in him had waned, replaced by tolerance and sympathy.

  Grant then pointed out the rapidly evaporating drops of water, but in less than an hour, the Belmont would hold no more reminders of its otherworldly guest.

  Hart did stop for a second and puzzle over the wet spots. While Grant might have been lying about the ghost, obviously he hadn’t lied about something being in the hallway. Grant could see some of the respect return as Hart touched a few of the drops and followed their path towards the wall. Still, Hart would be the only one ever to see his proof.