Lyneé Foster

141 years ago today, on July 23, 1885, Ulysses S. Grant died at 63. Most people know him as the general who won the Civil War and the two term president on the fifty dollar bill. Almost nobody knows how his story actually ended, and it's one of the most quietly heroic things in American history. Start with the fact that "Ulysses S. Grant" was never even his name. He was born Hiram Ulysses Grant. When he got to West Point, a congressman filled out the paperwork wrong and wrote him down as Ulysses S. Grant. The S stood for nothing at all. Grant just shrugged and kept it for the rest of his life. Later, when he forced a Confederate fort to give up with no conditions, soldiers said the U.S. stood for "Unconditional Surrender." Here's the strange thing though. Before the war, Grant was a failure at nearly everything he tried. He flopped at farming. He flopped at real estate. By his late thirties he was working as a clerk in his father's leather goods store, hauling hides for his younger brothers. Then the war came, and the quiet clerk turned out to be one of the greatest military minds the country ever produced. He took Vicksburg. He ground down Lee. He accepted the surrender at Appomattox and, instead of gloating, let the Confederate soldiers keep their horses so they could plant crops. Then he won the White House twice. So how does a man like that end up dying broke? In 1884 Grant trusted his savings to a Wall Street firm run by a young hotshot named Ferdinand Ward, basically the Bernie Madoff of his day. Ward was running a con. When it collapsed, Grant lost everything. He was so wiped out that he had to borrow money just to cover his household, and he handed over his war trophies and swords to pay a debt. The most famous soldier in America was suddenly poor. Then it got worse. Doctors found throat cancer. Grant had smoked as many as twenty cigars a day, a habit the public actually fed. After his victories, admirers mailed him cigars by the thousands, and it very likely killed him. Now here is the part that gives me chills. Grant knew he was dying, and he knew he was leaving his wife Julia with nothing. So a man in constant pain, throat closing up, some days unable to speak above a whisper, sat down to write his memoirs and out earn death itself. Mark Twain, who admired him, offered him a stunning book deal, far better than anything normal authors got. Grant took it and went to work. He wrote something like three hundred thousand words in about a year while cancer ate his throat. On the days he couldn't talk, he wrote on slips of paper. Witnesses said the pain was constant. He kept going anyway. He finished the manuscript just days before he died. And it worked. The memoirs became one of the best selling books of the century and are still considered maybe the finest memoir ever written by an American president. The royalties sent to Julia came to roughly four hundred fifty thousand dollars, an enormous fortune then, enough that she never had to worry about money again. He couldn't win the money back on Wall Street, so he wrote his way out and crossed the finish line with almost nothing to spare. When he died, the country stopped. Around a million and a half people lined the streets of New York for his funeral, the largest the city had ever seen. And look at who carried him. His pallbearers included Union generals and Confederate generals, side by side. One of them, Simon Bolivar Buckner, was the very man who had surrendered to Grant at Fort Donelson decades earlier. He came to Grant's sickbed near the end, two old enemies making peace, and then helped carry him to his grave. That grave became Grant's Tomb in New York, the largest mausoleum in North America. A failed store clerk who saved the Union, lost everything to a con man, and then, dying and in agony, wrote a masterpiece to protect his wife. 141 years ago today. They really don't make them like that anymore.