US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  He paused. In a town like Georgetown with one foot in each camp, a conspiracy to topple the Federals wouldn't need to enlist outside help. The town's sympathies definitely tilted to the Rebs. Abe Lincoln couldn't have whooped Jeff Davis in an election here.

  Besides, a small community automatically suspected anyone new. Verity's suspicions of Julia's murderous tendencies proved that conclusion along with the town's curiosity about the victim. Conspirators would stand out like a gray coat in Union lines. More likely, the Rebs had recruited local sympathizers to execute their plans — and him.

  Grant's thoughts went to the first Rebs who had wanted the Union government dead. Booth's gang. Miss Wethington was related to the tried and executed. Could she have traded her loyalties from a former student to traitors? She couldn't be the sniper, but the schoolmarm could easily hide outlaws in that house of hers. And what about her kin? They too had been shamed by Surratt, but still bore her name. Blood was supposed to be thicker than water.

  Grant caught Shane's eye. He had been studying Julia's steamer trunks and gowns. "Where exactly was the line down?"

  The big man cleared his throat. "Outside of Ripley about halfway to town. Took long enough to find."

  Grant perused the message again. Could someone have tampered with the lines to prevent a correspondence from making it to him in time? Nothing in this note warranted such drastic action. "Why couldn't you find it sooner?"

  "The line looked like it had been shot clean through, but the ends were tied together so I missed it the first time I went looking."

  "Tied? So it wasn't an accident?"

  Julia took a step closer to her husband. "Those marauders have been at it again. I'm frightened, General."

  "Marauders?" Shane's tone mocked them. Either he must not have heard of their adventures or been ambivalent to their fate. It seemed unlikely that anyone in Georgetown had missed a recounting of their exploits. Weekly newspapers couldn't keep pace with the spread of gossip in a small town.

  "People who would like to see me dead, Shane. Men who would stop at nothing to topple the Federal government."

  Shane stood on his tiptoes and pretended to glance out the windows. "Andy Johnson's in town? My, my. This is certainly becoming the Washington D.C. of the Midwest."

  Julia's mouth hung open. Grant chose to ignore the man as he had for years. "Are there any more telegrams? I'm sure you have a great deal of work to do with delivering all these." Grant's hand brushed the stack of papers Shane held.

  "Matter-of-fact, I do have a couple more here." He handed over three tattered sheets to Grant.

  The first was another message from his father, wanting to know the exact time and arrival of their boat into Covington, just across the river from Cincinnati. Grant didn't know and didn't particularly care at this point. They would leave when things were settled so Verity wouldn't chase after Julia.

  His father's interference had caused enough problems in this town without even residing in the same county. The man was probably planning some grand celebration for their arrival with a particular notice to Jesse Root Grant himself.

  The second note dealt with Army issues that needed to be resolved. Trouble brewed in Texas and Stanton wanted Grant, not Sherman, to attend to it. Certainly nothing which couldn't wait for his return in a few weeks. More likely the bureaucrats enjoyed the new technology, making people dance attendance through dots and dashes.

  Grant turned to the final page, pondering if one of these notes had been of such importance that a murderer wanted to block it. The severed telegraph lines had to be related to the murders. There were too many guns not to be connected. Even if every man had brought a weapon back from the war, they hadn’t all decided to use them this week.

  Grant read the note through twice. A harmless request from some newspaperman in New York City who inquired about his connection to a Mr. Ambrose Hart of Georgetown, Ohio. How in carnation did some big city editor get to hear about a small pond reporter, much less track him down in this backwater? Grant had a hunch this wasn't good news for his gentleman's agreement with Hart about keeping the murders under wraps. Had Hart severed the line to keep Grant from learning about this betrayal? Nothing was beyond this ambitious reporter when it came to leaving Georgetown.

  Julia leaned over his shoulder. "What's that you have, Ulys?" Her hand slid over his and touched the paper.

  "Just a job reference for young Hart. Some New York paper wants to know if he's legitimate." He pushed the paper into his wife's hand and turned towards the window.

  He caught a glimpse of his name in the papers still in Shane's hand. "I believe you have more for me?"

  Shane shook his head. "These are for that namby-pamby Hart."

  "But I saw my name," Grant sputtered.

  Shane laughed. "You can't think he had anything to do with what's happened. He ain't enough man to do those killings."

  Grant shook his head. "We'll see about that. I'm going to ask him about these in a few minutes.

  Julia stepped up again, head bowed. "I'm afraid I had something to do with that. I arranged for Mr. Hart to receive copies of your recent interviews with the papers. He thought it might help research his story."

  Grant cast a sideward glance at the notes in Shane's hand. Nothing on those pages told him why someone had gone to the trouble to slice the telegraph lines in the middle of a message about the people who had killed the man in their room and later, Adelaide. His dear sweet Adelaide who had never done anything to harm a soul, though she had broken many hearts. Perhaps her killing was related to the man in their room. Yet Grant knew the truth because his kerchief had been used to throttle the woman. The matter involved him personally. Just as that corpse had been placed in their room to humiliate him.

  He turned back around and noticed Tyson in the doorway, posed as if waiting for a cue. He felt constricted at the sight of the agent, nearly claustrophobic as he thought of sharing an entire tour with the man. He was used to keeping his own counsel, not being guarded. Grant motioned the Pinkerton into the room. Shane didn't budge, locked in place like an oak. Tyson walked around him. Surely the telegrapher didn't expect a gratuity. After all, he'd forgotten the original telegram. What kind of service was that?

  Tyson softly enticed the papers from Julia and began reading them. He fanned them in his hand so that he could see all three sheets at once, black eyes darting across the page. Julia reclaimed her place on the divan, propping an arm under her as she reclined on the thick fabric. She looked drawn from worry and strain. Her war experiences were sanitized by being second hand, pawned from the letters of his campaigns. She hadn't experienced the daily slaughter.

  Grant cleared his throat and slid his hands into his pockets. "Not much there."

  "And yet that might be instructive, don't you think? He folded the sheets neatly into quarters and pushed them into his jacket pocket. "Sometimes what is spoken aloud can be less revealing than what isn't said."

  "Such as?" Grant eyed the pocket. He didn't appreciate notes from his kin being appropriated like he was a criminal.

  "'Catch those rebs.' Now I don't know Mr. Seward personally, like you have the privilege of doing, but those don't sound like the words of an educated gentleman."

  Grant concurred. Recently, terms of respect for Southern sympathizers had come from the Cabinet, instead of calumny. The vitriol of the war years had vanished. As politicians, they counted the number of voters in the South to be wooed, especially in upcoming presidential elections. No one wanted to appear openly hostile to the South even if the Northern Republicans did nominate the General who had conquered the errant states. One more reason to want solid support from his hometown. The war was over and the North had triumphed. No use in rubbing it in the voters' faces. Republicans had an eye to keeping the South as their personal voting bloc to victory in the polls. "So what exactly are you trying to say?"

  Tyson patted his shirt pocket. "Well, sir. What did you think of the first part of the note you received?"r />
  Grant looked to Shane shifted from foot to foot. He remembered that two-step maneuver from when they had attended school together. Shane invariably rocked side to side when Miz Wethington caught him doing something wrong. "I saw nothing wrong with that document. I took it at face value."

  Tyson tapped a finger to his forehead. "Of course, you would, but what evidence do you have that two strangers were coming to town other than that note? None. Just the word of the telegraph operator who delivered it."

  "My son took that message, damn it. What - you calling him a liar?" Shane clenched a fist and stepped towards Tyson. The Pinkerton man took a step back and nearly jammed into the door.

  "Sir, I implied no such thing. Only that the telegraph is not well built as a foolproof mechanism of communication between two parties. Anyone might have sent that message."

  "Well, it came from Washington. That's what the message said."

  "But we have only the word of the operator that it came from Seward. Anyone might have sent it to Georgetown. Washington isn't far from Virginia, mind you. Rebs could have come from across the border into town to send that missive. Let's not forget that the dead man sent notes to Virginia as well. He could have wired his conspirators to telegraph a message here. No one would be the wiser for it."

  Shane snorted and leaned up against the wall. He threw a heavy boot back against the plaster wall, smearing mud and what else on the white surface. Julia glared at him, but even she stood mollified by the bully. No one in Missouri would ever have gotten away with such an action. "Mebbe there's only one Reb or maybe they aren't Rebs at all."

  Tyson nodded. "You are correct, Mr. Shane. Any number of permutations is possible. But for that matter, I suspect the first part of the note is genuine. It makes sense from my perspective as it announced my arrival. So it's accurate in content if not semantics."

  "Perhaps someone else completed this document for Mr. Seward." Julia appeared less dyspeptic as she listened to the detective. Perhaps Tyson could make life a little easier by taking Julia's mind off the murders. Or helping to solve them.

  Tyson tipped his hand towards the divan. "My thought exactly, dear lady. No man of obvious breeding would use that kind of vernacular. 'Rebs' is not a polite term where I'm from."

  "Well, I was actually thinking of the usage of 'catch'. A man of refinement would use 'apprehend' or 'locate'." Julia sat up straight on the divan and arched her back slightly to accentuate her respectable posture and impeccable upbringing. She practically beamed in the man's attentions. Grant made a mental note to talk to Tyson about his mood-lightening techniques. They worked better than flowers and chocolates.

  "I suppose you're right. So by deduction, then the second half of a note is a forgery. Where did this come from again, Shane?"

  The burly man shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his feet on the floor. "Don't rightly know. I guessed the young'un, but now that you're asking, I can't say for certain. Them papers was on the desk when I got back from fixing the wire along with all these others."

  "Your son didn't tell you?"

  "He wasn't there. He'd gone to drop off a note to Mrs. Hart about some relative what's taken ill."

  Tyson arched an eyebrow. "So the office was left unattended? Anyone could have replaced that note in the stack of telegrams. Simplicity itself."

  Shane nodded. "I reckon so."

  Tyson slapped the man on the shoulder with over-enthusiastic camaraderie. He yanked the heavy drapes shut. "Let's go wake Mr. Seward from his slumbers and see if that is the case. General, Mrs. Grant, I trust you'll be safe here for the night. Please stay away from the windows as much as possible though. Good night."

  Before Grant could speak, his tentative bodyguard and his nemesis walked into the hall together and shut the door behind them.

  Chapter 20

  Grant surveyed the congregation like an enemy encampment. Albeit a famous cleric with a mission, the Reverend Rankin had been pretty much what he'd expected of small town clergy. Stern mouth, graying beard, black slits eyes that burned like cannon barrels. The preacher had met Grant at the parsonage, a wooded two-story with a view of the steep slope to the banks of the Ohio River and the hills of Kentucky beyond. Harriet Beecher Stowe had used the house as a model of the escape home when writing Uncle Tom's Cabin and given the nation five years of bloodshed as a result. Grant suspected that Rankin had no qualms about the loss of life necessary to free the lives of others. He didn’t look like a man of regrets.

  Rankin pierced him with those eyes. "What will you be instructing the flock on today, General?"

  Rankin had coerced him into speaking to the parish. Grant had expected to only make a homily, not give the sermon. How was a hard-working military man supposed to speak to these people's eternal lives? Jesse Grant could have spoken on any topic for hours, except perhaps vanity. Rankin had proposed a short homily for himself to be followed by Grant's own words. The general blanched at the thought of composing his thoughts on the Bible. He racked his brains trying to remember the Bible stories of his youth.

  The pastor and the general traced the path to the white structure used for the Ripley Presbyterian Church, recently recombined as a single denomination. If the church couldn't agree on slavery, how did the entire country stand a chance? A plain cross rose out of the steeple and cast a long shadow along Third Street. Grant thought it appropriate that all travelers on the road out of town had to pass under the reminder. Tall paned windows dotted the sides of the building and double doors stood in the front. Inside, the pews on both sides of the aisle stretched ten rows to a woodhewn altar and a small podium, flanking the left side.

  The rows were packed. The men's slicked back hair and demure bonnets of the ladies greeted his arrival. No one here he would recognize though it was good to see a heavy turnout. Julia had opted to stay in Georgetown with his aunt for services. She had claimed the five-mile ride to Ripley was too taxing. Tyson had mounted up a pair of the Massies' steeds and followed Grant down the forgotten paths of his youth. Tyson wasn't sitting in any pew as Grant passed each row. What kind of bodyguard vanished?

  A pair of children turned to gawk at him as he went down the aisle. Their mother smiled at Grant as she reprimanded their sleeves. Grant missed his home and children at that moment. The years of travel and war had taken a toll on family life. Fred and Buck would be men soon. Julia had raised the children without much assistance, only letters of instructions from the battlefields. Rankin stopped at the front and bowed his head to pray. Tilting his head to the side, Grant tried to observe the preacher to mimic his moves.

  Rankin raised his head. "I've prayed for your sermon as well, since you seem unsure of the subject. That God may do his work through you."

  "The moral victory of the war." Grant pushed his chest out. At least this was a topic Rankin could relate to. He was sure the congregation had heard this subject many times from the vehement abolitionist. What would this minister talk about now that slaves were free? And without a model for her character who would Stowe write about? Had they served their purpose in God’s eyes? Would they now fade from notice without a cause to fuel them? Grant was so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly missed Rankin's introduction.

  He snapped to attention and looked at the preacher. Taking a deep breath, he approached the pulpit and looked down at the congregation. Three men to Grant's left dozed while children squirmed on the right.

  "There is a time for war and now there is a time for peace, a time for coming together and rebuilding. The book of Ecclesiastes says as much. Now our country must bind its wounds and help the freedmen find their place in our great united country."

  Grant talked about the war and how it had changed his life. The struggles, the trials, and the victories which shaped his character for the past half decade. The words tumbled out of him like White Oak Creek over the stones. The audience listened with interest as he spoke about Robert E. Lee and the battles against his one-time colleague and recent nemesis.

&n
bsp; He looked up and wondered where Hart was. He hadn't seen the reporter all day. Unlike the young scribe to not be here for the oration of the year. And still no sign of Tyson in spite of all the precautions the bodyguard had insisted upon. Grant continued speaking of the good fortune the country would share now that slavery was abolished. With the moral compass of the country returning due north, they would surely see the end of poverty and bad times. The subject of freedmen's rights never came up. He knew enough not to broach such a difficult subject. Congress would legislate those choices soon enough and new battle lines would be drawn over that debate. Who knew what the next year would bring for the people of color, but Grant did notice that the abolitionists hadn't bothered to invite the newly freed people to worship with them.

  Grant thought he heard the click of a revolver being closed. He looked around the congregation, but all eyes were focused on him. No one seemed to be fiddling with anything in their lap or on the floor. Maybe he was just a nervous nellie about such things. Even so, Grant knew the reputation of men like John Brown and their ilk who had carried Beecher's Bibles to their fighting comrades in Kansas. He decided to finish the lecture and wrapped up the talk in a few staccato sentences. The congregation quietly rose in song as he slipped down into a pew. A gentle hymn from his past rose from their lips. "Rock of Ages." He smiled as he remembered the Sunday services forced on him by his parents as a child.

  Tyson stepped into view, sunshine spraying across his face through the paned window. The dark features and pencil-thin mustache looked haunting and familiar in the holy light. He'd wanted Grant to leave without greeting the congregation after the service, but Grant wouldn't allow it. He stepped outside into the warm October noon, the sun falling across the gilded trees that lined the banks of the Ohio. No Washington view of the Potomac could rival the calmly flowing waters of the river as it wended West through the newly re-united nation. Grant had missed the Ohio, even though he'd been reminded of it constantly as he forded the Mississippi near Vicksburg. It didn't have the same feel as these waters that changed with the season. The Mississippi would never see ice floes.