Some Hidden Thunder Page 3

  Grant slipped into that political mindset. “Well, Mr. Bell, thank you. I appreciate your words of support. Will you help us then? Does Mr. Granby have any family?”

  “Indeed, he does, sir. Just down the street on Sixth Street. You can’t miss it.” Bell gave the pair detailed instructions as he eyed them anxiously.

  Grant stood and Hart followed his lead. “Thank you for your time. We won’t trouble you any more today.”

  The general bowed slightly to the man, aware of the precedent he’d just set. Even if Bell had come from slavery, the man was free now, just as he was. Grant knew that his peaceful policies on the Indians had surprised many, so he was less worried about common courtesies to men who might vote in three years time.

  Bell showed them to the door and smiled again as Grant and Hart were greeted by the stench of animal entrails and sewage outside. A dark stream ran along the edge of the broken rocks that tried to mimic cobblestone.

  Hart blanched at the sights on the street, but Grant strode down the stoop and into the dirt-rutted street stones. “I thought you wanted a story?”

  Chapter 4

  Grant strode off down the trash-covered street. He wasn’t sure how Hart was holding up. The young reporter trotted next to him, as near as his nursemaid, General, Rawlins, would be on a trip to a saloon, and he understood why. This part of town was not hospitable to whites, and with good reason. The former slaves and runaways had been forced into the roughest, dirtiest city blocks, and they called this area “Bucktown” or “Little Africa.”

  A rat skittered across the street, and Grant could hear Hart’s ragged breath as they continued. A few of the local colored men stepped out of barely standing shacks to see what two white men wanted in the area, but no one spoke. Grant didn’t know if the people recognized his face from the newspapers, but he doubted if many of the folks here could read anyway. Their owners forbade them from learning, living in fear that their property would communicate with each other and rise up.

  Grant glanced again at the directions Bell had provided. The house should be just up ahead, but the shacks were ramshackle and unnumbered. Grant stopped in front of a tenement. A dark alley ran down past the side of the house, and Grant marched to the entrance of the path. Mud and urine had caked together to make the pathway bumpy, but Grant couldn’t tell if it was human waste or not, and he didn’t really care to know.

  Hart was practically walking in his pocket now, but Grant knew that he couldn’t afford to show fear in dealing with these people—the leader of the Army never showed signs of retreat in a bad neighborhood. If the Radicals had their way, all of these men would be voters by the time 1868 rolled around, and he tried to remember that fact in the face of this unrelenting poverty. Grant’s own lean years had been tempered by wealthy families on both sides that helped at the price of conceding his own personal decisions in matters of housing and employment. He tried to imagine the futility of not having any escape.

  He walked into the darkened alley with Hart on his tail. A pair of undernourished chickens squawked and ambled past, but there were no other signs of life. Grant made his way to a hole in the wall—what could liberally be called a door. The stench inside was almost unbearable: a mixture of human waste and years of decay.

  Hart covered his nose with a handkerchief as they entered and stepped across the rotting boards that served as a floor.

  Bell had told them that the Granby family lived on the second floor, but Grant wasn’t sure if the stairs would hold his weight. The planks had come loose on many steps, making it difficult to navigate the way without breaking bones.

  Hart watched Grant’s steps and traced each one meticulously. His newfound silence told Grant that the boy was extremely uncomfortable in this setting.

  Grant and Hart had never discussed the subject of black men in the North. Hart was wont to talk about anything involving the South; his father had died on the battlefield, serving in the CSA. More than a few men would have been embarrassed by this fact in Grant’s presence, but Hart didn’t seem to mind, though he never mentioned it.

  Grant knocked on the doorframe, as only a dirty quilt covered the entrance.

  A dark-skinned woman pushed the fabric aside and looked at them without expression. She might have been expecting them from all that her countenance told.

  Grant cleared his throat and tried to act as if he made this type of inquiry every day. “Are you Mrs. Granby?”

  “Was.” The woman pulled the cloth back farther to reveal a baby on her hip. The little one was naked and playing with the woman’s tattered blouse.

  Grant thought he heard the sounds of other children in the background behind the woman.

  “I had hoped to talk to you about your husband, ma’am.” Grant had hoped for a chaperone of some sort in this home, but it didn’t look like any other women were available. No church-going woman would come to this part of town, even in broad daylight. It was too dangerous for a woman here, and her reputation would never stand the gossip about her calling in Bucktown.

  “Might as well come in, if you don’t mind the children.” The woman stepped away while still holding the quilt aside.

  Grant and Hart stepped into the single room and looked around. A mattress of sorts lay against the wall under a paneless window. A bundle of cloth lay on the other side of the room, and Grant guessed that was the bedding for the other children.

  Two little boys ran into the room to meet the strangers. They looked at Grant for a second and decided to continue their game in the hallway. Mrs. Granby hunkered down against the wall and waited for the pair to speak.

  “Mizz Granby, you must be wondering what we’re doing here.” Grant had his hat off and in his hand, the same way he would have in front of any woman in a social situation.

  “Indeed I am. Unless I’m mistaken something terrible, you’re that Union general man.”

  Grant nodded, surprised that a former slave would recognize a soldier, albeit a famous one. He’d assumed that he’d be anonymous in such a situation. “Yes, I am.”

  “I thought as much. I seen a picture of you in the newspaper one day. No offense, sir, but my master called you a ‘Yankee devil’.” She smiled as she spoke, as if the memory was not one that caused her pain.

  “I imagine I was called worse than that.” Grant looked around the dismal room and wondered if she thought she was better off now in her single room with three children and no husband.

  She smiled. “I’ve heard worse, but I’m a God-fearing woman and wouldn’t repeat them words in polite company.”

  Grant laughed and smiled into his beard; polite conversation was still unaccustomed after a world of war. These days men wanted to talk politics and women simply wanted to curry favor for their husband’s political careers. This was a pleasant change from parties and events, even if the subject was murder and the surroundings dire.

  “Well, ma’am, we’re on something of a mission here. We were hoping to find out more about your husband. I understand he’s recently deceased.” Grant crouched down so he was at the same level as the woman. Hart tried to follow suit but wobbled precariously in that position, pressing two fingers down on the filthy floor to steady himself.

  Her face showed emotions now. A cloud passed across her face and wiped away any moment of joy or curiosity surrounding the visit. “You mean he was killed. He was only thirty-seven. Not like he died of the old age.”

  “Yes, that what we heard as well. Have the police investigated?” Grant knew the answer of course, but he hoped to hear more about her suspicions and what she knew.

  “No, sir. The likes of them wouldn’t be caught dead in Lil’ Africa. Not likely that they care much unless there’s something in it for them.” She rubbed her fingers together in the sign for cash—the recently minted greenbacks had caught on fast in the North.

  “I figured as much, ma’am. How do you know that he was killed?”

  “Oh, sir, he was a scrappy man. He fought with the Fifth Regiment o
f the Colored Troops and was never even shot. He wasn’t about to come home and fall into the Ohio likes that.”

  Hart scribbled down a few words. The reporter kept looking around the room as if someone was going to accost them at any moment. He hadn’t spoken more than a word in the time they’d been in the building. Grant didn’t remember ever hearing him this taciturn no matter the circumstances, and he’d keep this in mind for future times when he wanted some peace from the press.

  “So you think he was killed? Did Mr. Granby have any enemies to speak of?”

  Her eyes got wide, as if she hadn’t thought of murder in such practical terms. A murdered man meant a motive as well as a killer. A man’s sins could easily fall over into his family, which meant that the entire Granby clan could be in danger.

  “No, sir. Not more than the folks who hate us black folk. Other than that, I can’t think of a soul who’d want to hurt my Izzy.”

  “So you can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm your husband?”

  “No, sir. Perhaps a few people, but no one would want to kill my man. He was a good man. He loved all of us—me, and the four kids.”

  “Four?” Hart finally spoke. He’d been watching the two little ones run in and out of the room with interest.

  “Yes, sir. An older boy too. His name is Andrew Jackson Granby.” She smiled again at the thought of her children.

  “Is he here? Maybe he has an idea of what happened to his father. Someone who didn’t like him or had a grudge.” Hart was warming to the surroundings; perhaps he’d just been embarrassed by his finery here.

  “Sir, my man was a good man. No one wanted to see him dead.” The whites of her eyes shone bright against her skin.

  “Well, perhaps your son could tell us what your husband did with the last few days of his life.”

  Mrs. Granby seemed mollified by the suggestion. “Well, the two of them did work together. Perhaps Andy might know something about his work that I don’t.” She pulled the two young children close to her, one in each arm. The children didn’t seem to enjoy the attention and squirmed at the restraint.

  “Where would we find Mr. Granby?” Grant wanted to get out of this depressing room before Hart passed out from fright.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t rightly know, sir. He hasn’t been here in a few days. He’s gone away. Can’t tell you wheres.”

  “Is that normal?” Hart asked.

  “Can be. Andy had big ideas of becoming something in this town. I tried to tell him what happens to men who get above their place, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Grant frowned, wondering if the younger Granby was in fact a second victim in this case. It wouldn’t bode well for the younger man to be missing. In the lawless world of Bucktown, anything could happen to a young man who sought to improve himself. There were always people who wanted to see a man fail—Grant knew that for a fact. Many people couldn’t believe what they called his “luck” in winning the war and gaining notoriety.

  “Is there anyone who might know where Andrew is?” Grant planned to track the boy down and find out why this ghost had visited him. There had to be a reason why this manifestation had come to him rather than anyone else. Granby’s ghost had chosen to appear at a gala in Grant’s honor, no less.

  “No, sir. I surely don’t. Likes I said, he was coming home most every night until this past week. Then he just gone.”

  Hart stood up to leave, and Grant decided that they’d learned everything they could from this interview. The poor woman had her hands full without missing children as well; Grant understood that two young ones were a challenge for anyone.

  He and Hart retraced their steps downstairs and back to the alley. The shadows had deepened into near darkness now, and Grant double-stepped to hurry back to the safety of his hotel.

  A shadowy figure crossed the entrance to the alley, making Hart move a step closer to Grant. The shadow became the figure of a big man, who stopped in the street just in front of the alley. The man was a few inches over six feet and weighed at least 250 pounds. He made a door blocking their egress.

  “What you doing here? You bothering that poor Miz Granby? Don’t she have enough trouble without you white men sniffing around?”

  Hart stepped in front of the general and pulled on Grant’s lapel to show the insignia. “No, sir. Don’t you know who this is? This is none other than General Ulysses S. Grant of the Union Army. He paid a call on Mr. Granby of the Fifth Regiment of the U.S. Colored Troops only to learn that the man had passed away. He offered his condolences and now we’re proceeding back to the hotel.”

  The monolith of a man took a step closer to the men. His arms fell to the side, but the muscles in each one made them hang askew from his body. Grant could see the man’s ham-sized fists flex as he took another step closer.

  He stopped abruptly and clapped his hands together. “Well, damn it all, so you are. Sir, we all in Bucktown owe you a great debt.” The man whistled and two other toughs walked over. The two men bore a resemblance in size, shape and facial features. Grant deduced them to be brothers or cousins at the least.

  The three of them conferred for a minute and then all faced Grant. “Sir, it’d be a pleasure to get you back to your hotel safely and soundly.”

  Grant smiled. “It would be our pleasure, indeed.”

  As the five men made their way back to the hotel, Grant wondered how they appeared. Even if the city papers hadn’t covered Granby’s death, Grant figured that this informal funeral procession would be in the next day’s papers.

  Chapter 5

  Grant looked around the lavish appointments of the ballroom of the Burnet House and wondered what it had looked like three years earlier. At that time, the city hunkered down for a possible attack by General Kirby Smith, a confederate leader who’d crossed Kentucky with hopes of an attack on Union soil. On that September morning, when Smith had passed untouched through Lexington, Cincinnati had requested the assistance of the Federal troops. Rumors had swirled that the Rebs wanted to torch the city.

  General Lew Wallace, who’d managed not to get lost this time, had protected Cincinnati during its dark days. He’d come to town, declared martial law, and with the help of Governor Tod, who was also in town, closed all the businesses in Cincinnati. No man was exempt from service in that month. Wallace had marshaled the troops of the Department of Ohio and marched them up and down the city streets farthest from the river. He’d managed to fortify the city against attack and had even created a pontoon bridge constructed of coal barges across the mighty Ohio. The makeshift structure had ended at Vine Street, only a matter of four blocks from Burnet House.

  Prior to Wallace’s plan, the city had no bridges connecting Covington and Cincinnati; Roebling’s strange bridge was still unfinished, another victim of the war, since Roebling had enlisted, like so many others. The brick supports were in place, but the iron wires needed to support the span were still missing. Iron served new purposes now that the war was over.

  Like so many of the Confederates’ plans, the attack was easily repelled, and Wallace lost his command once more. At least ten different patrons at tonight’s gala had managed to point out that Wallace had stayed at the Burnet when he resided in Cincinnati, forgetting that Grant and Sherman had stayed here to plan Sherman’s March. Grant knew they were trying to make small talk, rubbing elbows with the Savior of the Union, but he’d never been much for it. He preferred fewer words laden with more meaning.

  Grant considered himself fortunate that these well-wishers didn’t bring up the name of George B. McClellan. The little general had lived in Cincinnati at the outset of the war, and Grant had come, hat in hand, to see McClellan about a position in the Union Army. He’d sat for days, waiting to see the railroad magnate and future presidential candidate. McClellan had never bothered to find the time for Grant, and he’d returned home without as much as a meeting. At least McClellan wouldn’t be here tonight. Since losing to Lincoln the year before, Little Mac had toured
Europe as a civilian.

  Combined with the times he’d come to his father asking for money to support his family, Cincinnati always reminded Grant of his failures before the war. Even with the successful outcome of the war, he still had those niggling reminders from the hard times.

  No one in Cincinnati could have missed the name “Grant” even before Fort Donelson. In spite of Grant’s doubts, the gala at the Burnet buzzed with excitement. With Jesse Grant just across the river in Covington, he’d managed to make a name for his son with frequent and vehement letters to the Enquirer and Gazette about Jesse’s exploits.

  Julia had been led off by a bevy of young matrons who wanted to hear about the thrills of battle from the view of the fairer sex. Besides Ambrose Hart and a sated Colonel Dent, Mayor Wilstach was one of the first to approach Grant.

  “Sir, it’s a pleasure to have you back in our fair town. I trust your stay here is a pleasant one.”

  Grant nodded, preferring to ignore the fact that he’d already been haunted by spirits on this trip, there was no use in ruining the politician’s evening. Grant’s eyes wandered off, looking for Julia’s navy brocade dress that she’d selected just for this occasion. The woman had a steamer full of dresses for the social functions in the city.

  Grant turned his head back to the mayor to hear him say, “Did you know that General Wallace also stayed at Burnet House during the war? He was most pleased with its amenities. I hope they are sufficient for you.”

  Grant smiled into his beard at the man’s desire to give him comfortable surroundings. He’d spent the last four years fighting a war in all kinds of conditions—tents, borrowed housing, and steamships. He’d have stayed in a small room next to the boiler room at a New York hotel, when he and Fred had visited, had it not been for an astute front desk clerk who’d recognized Grant’s name and provided accommodations in keeping with what he thought a general would want. Now people assumed that he required luxurious appointments.