Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  “Yes,” I answered. “Watch, and listen.” The spirit flinched once more as I turned on the phone, but stayed in place as I pressed the seven numbers that would connect me to home. I put the phone on ‘speaker’ so Billy could hear. When my oldest son answered with “Hi, Dad,” the spirit’s eyes enlarged and it faded to near invisibility once more. After a few seconds it came back. His immediate fascination with the telephone made him forget the subject of our conversation. I spoke with my son for several minutes before he handed the phone to my wife, apologizing to both for my lateness coming home. The spirit listened with rapt attention, but was not as interested in the conversation as he was with the device that made it possible.

  “Do I understand correctly that you speak into the box and someone hears your voice at a distance?” he asked when I ended the call. I answered in the affirmative, prompting a new question. “Does this distant person have his own small box, or does your voice simply materialize from the air?” He listened intently to my answer, and followed with, “How far distant did this person hear you?” When I explained that my family lived about five miles away the spirit looked skeptical once more. “What if they were further away?” he queried, then, “What if they were ten miles away, or twenty?” I told him it would make no difference, that anyone at the other end of the call could still hear me clearly. Billy laughed. “You jest with a poor country boy who does not know better that to believe you,” he said. After a moment of silence he asked, “What is the farthest distance your voice will carry when you speak into your device?”

  I thought about how to answer him. “Are you familiar with England?” I asked.

  “My family came here from London,” he answered quickly before looking at me with total disbelief. “Are you about to tell me you can shout all he way across the Atlantic with that tiny box? I am not daft, you should know.” After another protracted period of silence Billy stated, “My grandparents came from London to Boston in 1720. The voyage took almost three months. When you shout into the box, how long does it take for your voice to travel across the ocean, and why does the wind not blow the sound away?”

  Rather than enter into a physics discussion that I myself didn’t understand, I answered in a roundabout fashion. “Have you ever stood on a mountain top and signaled someone far away with a mirror or a fire?” When the boy nodded I continued, “Those signals, which carry to many miles distant, are signals of light. This box,” I indicated the telephone, “does the same thing with signals of sound. The distance it can carry is virtually limitless. If I knew someone in London to call, I could press the correct buttons and talk to them right now. As soon as I speak into the telephone, the person with another telephone in England can hear me immediately. There is no wait…not months, not even hours…it is immediate.

  Billy faded away and after several minutes did not return. I feared I had overloaded the eighteenth century spirit with more information than he was prepared to believe, causing him to abandon me. I suddenly laughed at myself. Only a few minutes ago I had been afraid to even look at this apparition, even more fearful of interacting with it. Now I was feeling remorse for having driven away a being I was beginning to consider as a friend. As I was still laughing, Billy returned.

  “Do you laugh because you play me for a fool?” he demanded. “I had thought you to be my friend.” The boy spirit’s face looked sullen.

  I had to remember that this ghost might be centuries old, but the entity with which I was speaking was only a fourteen-year-old boy. “Billy, you are my friend,” I began. “If I have offended you, please accept my sincere apology. Everything I have told you…everything…is true, but I fear I have told you too much, too quickly. There are many wonders in my world that I do not understand even though I have grown up with them. This is an age of miracles, and many of those miracles are beyond the scope of belief for common people such as myself. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for one such as you, who grew up in the eighteenth century.” I gave him a moment to assimilate that explanation, then concluded, “There are many things I would like to know about you, about your world, and I suspect there are many, many things you will question and want to learn more of in my world. For now, however, I suggest we put those questions behind us and concentrate on you and your immediate circumstance. Why are you here, and what, if anything, can I do to help you?”

  Billy thought about that for a long moment, fading in and out as he did so, but always remaining visible. Finally he answered, “Yes, you are correct. That is the prudent and proper course of action.” His eyes softened and he smiled. “General Pulaski would have liked you. He had the ability to see through the fog and distraction of a battlefield and find the most prudent course, the most direct avenue of attack. You appear to think the same way. You and he could have been great friends.”

  We sat knee to knee and stared at each other in silence for several minutes. In a world such as mine, where people always seem anxious to speak regardless of whether or not they have anything of importance to add to the conversation, silence is a rare thing. I was beginning to understand that, with Billy, extended silent intervals was the norm for thoughtful conversation. I was quickly becoming comfortable with that idea, and feeling that ‘the ball was in his court,’ even though he would not understand that simile, I could wait patiently for him to speak.

  The wait was not a long one. “There are two issues we must resolve,” the ghost began. “First, the why of my existence here is relatively simple to explain, although you as a mortal may have some difficulty believing the facts that conspired to bring me here. Second is the method by which you can help me find resolution to the situation in which I find myself.” He looked at me with great intensity for a long moment, then continued, “The first issue requires only that you listen to my explanation and hopefully attain belief in my tale. The second issue,” Billy stopped suddenly and looked pensive, as if considering how to word his next statement. “The second issue,” he repeated, “will require that you trust me more than you have ever trusted anything…anyone…in your life. The second issue will require of you something that is impossible in your world, in your life, in your understanding. Much like your telephone is something I am not prepared to believe even though I have seen and heard it, my request for particular assistance from you will be one which you must accept entirely by faith, not by belief or comprehension, for you will possess neither.” The ghost smiled broadly. It was a friendly smile, but I felt fear nonetheless. “Shall I go on?” he asked.

  My head was spinning and sweat was trickling down my forehead in rivulets, threatening to sting my eyes at any second. Here I was surrounded by thousands of art students, young people who possessed great creativity, drive, and desire to push any envelope in any direction, but this ghost has motioned for me to come into his room and hear his story. He seemed as if he was (or at least had been) a great guy, and after only a short time with him I had embraced him a friend. I realized a world-class headache was pounding within my own skull as I considered the odd request. I wanted to say no, wanted to go home to my family, wanted to prop my feet up in front of the television to watch a rerun of Star Trek. I wanted to do all that, but I knew I couldn’t. Finally I relented. “Okay, Billy,” I said with all the confidence I could muster, “tell me your story.”

  Chapter 2

  Billy leaned forward and suddenly stood, his head and chest disappearing through the truck’s roof. Although I could not see his face, he must have had the ability to see mine, for as my own eyes registered my surprise he sat once more and began an immediate explanation. “My movements are not limited in the sense that I can go anywhere I choose, but from a practical standpoint I have many limitations. I can choose not to be seen by mortals such as you, but if I desire for you to see me, it must be in shadow or the dark of night. In sunlight I cannot be seen and, for some reason I cannot fathom, cannot be heard to speak. As you have noticed, my image has no physical substance at all. I can move through objects…doors,
walls, carriages and such…but it is very difficult for me to interact with anything in your world in a physical sense. I cannot pick up a spoon, fire a musket, or do most other things that would be of value to a soldier without great effort of a very special kind. You touched me earlier and experienced some of the horror of my battle.” I nodded, remembering, and felt a slight shiver as he continued.

  “That touch lasted only an instant, and that instant is the extent of my ability to interact with things in your plane of existence.” He looked at me with such great intensity I could not hold his gaze. “There is a way for me to experience life in your world, your time. It is a method I have been taught, but have never tried on my own. It is a method that will allow me to feel once more as if I am a living being. I can touch, lift, and use objects as you can; I can feel rain and wind on my face; I can interact once more as if I was alive, as you are.” I could feel Billy’s excitement as he described this process, but I had no idea of what he was actually explaining to me. Finally, he sent a chill through my body as he concluded, “It is in this regard that your assistance will be most valuable, but first, I need to explain why I am here, and I must take you back to the battle in which I was killed before you can fully understand.”

  I was pleased when the change in his tone indicated he was changing the direction of his story away from the current track which was causing me great discomfort for reasons I didn’t fully understand. He began, “I first materialized on the brick bridge near the room in which we first met for a special reason.” I waited impatiently for several seconds while the spirit was completely silent, apparently collecting his thoughts.

  Finally he began, “As I explained before, I was killed during my company’s attack on the British defensive position known as the Spring Hill redoubt. My shattered body fell within only a few steps of the very cannon that killed me. My skull was broken into disparate pieces, my limbs broken and scattered, such is the uncivil destructive nature of grape shot. After the battle ended in the defeat of the Continentals and our French allies, my body lay in the sun for much of the day in the company of a few hundred others who were killed in the charge.

  “Luckily for us, I suppose, among those who defended Spring Hill redoubt were many colonials who fought on the side of the British soldiers. They were Loyalists who fought for England, but they also had been friends and neighbors to many in our patriot force before the war. Because they knew us, and because they had a sense of honor, they would not see us rot in the sun. Once the Continentals and French had pulled far enough away, the men who had defended the Spring Hill redoubt collected our remains in carts and brought us into the redoubt for burial. It was not a proper Christian burial, but they were at least kind enough to excavate a deep trench large enough to inter our bodies, and engaged the services of one of their clerics to pray over the mass grave and offer a few kind words regarding our heroic, if ill fated, charge.”

  Billy twisted and fidgeted in his seat while looking out the windows on all sides of the enclosure, as if he were a caged animal wishing to be outside. I wanted to say something, anything really, to break his tension, but was enthralled in the story and could think of nothing to offer that might diminish the burden of such a tragic personal tale.

  After a few moments of what appeared to be discomfort, he seemed to calm and composed himself once more before beginning to speak again. “Unbeknownst to the Loyalists who picked up our bodies, a portion of my head had been thrown far afield by the impact of the grape shot. It was a rather large piece, consisting of the entire top of my head, my forehead, and my left eye socket.” As he spoke he moved a vaporous hand around his face and top of his head to indicate the areas of which he spoke.

  I recoiled a little, both at the grisly vision of the bloody destruction and at the fact that Billy told of it so dispassionately. Was that the nature of spirits, to speak of death and mayhem without passion, or was it the fact that the boy had endured over two centuries of considering the tragic incident? Thinking back, I remembered him adamantly denying the now obvious fact that he was a ghost. Only a few minutes later he explained meeting spirits on the brick trestle outside the dormitory, spirits that explained to him that he was a ghost. He also spoke of time having little relevance to a ghost. There was doubtless much going on here I did not yet understand. Not wanting to interrupt Billy’s story, I didn’t ask, but waited for him to continue.

  “This piece of my body,” the boy recounted in the same unemotional tone, “had actually been thrown forward, toward the cannon, into the unstable sand that formed the base of the redoubt. The British trenches and redoubts, I should explain, had been under construction for several weeks before the battle, but final stages were completed in great haste when it was discovered that French ships were only days away from the mouth of the Savannah River. Our spies reported the Redcoats in open panic and considering surrender as they realized the French were bringing four thousand troops to join with the Continentals’ troop strength. The earthen bases to the redoubts should have been fortified with logs for stability, but that job was never completed. The abatis in front of the redoubt was dense and complete, but past them and beyond the trench was only loosely packed Georgia sand. That fact is only important to my story because a federal shell exploding against the wall of the Spring Hill redoubt caused unsupported earth to cascade down the base of the structure and bury the missing part of my head. Those who later searched for bodies…and parts…never found it. At the time the only significance was that my body was buried in two different places. I know that seems to add to my somewhat tragic history, but considering that my entire company was annihilated by British cannons firing grape shot, I suspect the same thing happened to many others that day as parts of their destroyed bodies were never found.”

  He stopped for a moment, and I thought of a question. “Billy, where was this redoubt? Was it right here, on this very spot?” I pointed down toward the ground. “Is that why you materialized in this room? Is this the place you were killed?” Before he could answer, I added to the questions. “For that matter what is a redoubt. I know it has something to do with forts and battles, but nothing specific.” The look he returned could only be classified as a smirk, something I would never have associated with a ghost, but it told me my simple question had turned into a barrage.

  “You ask many questions,” he finally answered, “but they all have related answers.” He pointed toward the south wall of the room. “A redoubt is simply an earthen fort. A deep trench is dug, with the removed soil stacked up on the inside of the trench to form defensive walls, where men and sometimes cannons are protected from enemy fire. The Spring Hill redoubt was over there…a strong stone’s throw to the south. That is where I died. We were attacking from the northeast after traversing a narrow trace through the swamp.” The face before me suddenly brightened into a broad smile, causing me to raise my eyebrows in question.

  “I just remembered,” Billy said, continuing to smile. “The swamp west of town was very dense…too thick and tangled for troop movement. Our scouts found a narrow avenue, at it widest point allowing only a few soldiers to walk abreast. I was not assigned to the column, but as I moved through on my way to an assigned observation post, I saw an American company marching among the French in the column and stopped to speak with friends. As we were moving through the swamp as silently as possible, my friend Thomas Lowell stepped on a snake that curled around his ankle and bit repeatedly at his leggings. It couldn’t penetrate the thick leather, of course, but Thomas’ face turned as white as a ghost…” He stopped for a moment before saying, “Now that is quite a funny statement in this circumstance.” I nodded agreement, smiling then to myself. “Thomas clapped a hand over his mouth to stop a scream from escaping and leaped into my arms, causing the snake to drop to the ground. I carried him for several steps, cradled in my arms like a bride. We both shook with laughter until I could no longer breathe, and stopped to put him down.” The smile suddenly evaporated, replaced with a downc
ast look. “Thomas was one of the company of militia assigned to charge with the French. His company was among the first in the column and I watched from my assigned post as they took heavy casualties. It is possible that the entire company was killed.”

  Billy was silent for several minutes. I took the time to calculate, as best I could, where a ‘strong stone’s throw’ to the south would take one in present-day Savannah. Perhaps I was taking his example too literally, but even in a metaphorical sense it could not have been too far away. To the south were the Savannah Visitors Center and Museum, and…the Roundhouse and Georgia Railroad Museum. The Roundhouse! I remembered reading a newspaper account of excavations near the Roundhouse a few years ago. The Georgia Historical Society reported they had found the location of the Spring Hill redoubt. That was the place, I was certain! As a lifelong Savannah resident I am ashamed to mention that there are many historic places within the city I have never visited. Just south of the visitor’s center I was aware of a small plot of ground called Battlefield Park, but I had never done more than drive past it on Martin Luther King Boulevard. The park was, generally speaking, only a stone’s throw from where I currently sat. That must be the place!

  As I was thinking about the location, Billy began to speak once more. “I am uncertain of how I know the next part of my story, but I know it as fact. At some point years after the battle my body, along with all the others buried in the redoubt, was disinterred and moved to another location. I know not where. The redoubt was effectively destroyed for some reason, and the earth of its construct was moved about to other nearby places, perhaps as foundation for new structures. I do not know. The other piece of my body, which was only bone by then, was not moved with all the other bones, as no one knew it was there. As the earth was moved around to new locations, the piece of my skull went unnoticed as a part of the mass. As I earlier stated, that part of me may have become part of the foundation of some new structure, or it may have been tilled under as farmland. Whatever its use, my skull was interred once more, and I have no remembrance beyond that point…at least for many more years.”