Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  “Billy, I know this story,” I exploded with excitement. “Our local newspaper, the ‘Savannah Morning News,’ published a story a few years ago that may explain what happened to your skull. In the 1830s,” I noticed the boy looked at me quizzically when I mentioned the date, “which was only fifty or so years after your battle, a railroad was being built in Savannah. The area occupied by the Spring Hill redoubt was turned into storage buildings, repair shops, and a roundhouse for the trains.”

  Billy interrupted, “I know nothing about that of which you speak. You talk of trains, and railroad, and other things of which I am unaware, but I can see your excitement, and I believe your story has merit. Please continue, but later you must explain railroad and roundhouse to me.”

  The thought took me aback. Slowly realization dawned on me that this young man (or, rather, old spirit) knew nothing of the world beyond his own time, and my explanations must account for that. “You are right, Billy. I apologize for throwing unknown elements into the story, but we will speak of them later. For now, when I mention railroad, think in terms of a road for wagons and such in your own day. The importance will become apparent. This new railroad system for Savannah required that many different roads be built around the city, all converging on the area that was once the Spring Hill redoubt and surrounding battlefield. In many places the road had to be built up higher than the surrounding terrain, sometimes only a few inches, but on occasion many feet higher. Just outside the building where we first met is an example of what is known as a viaduct, a brick, mortar and earth structure that allowed the new road to cross a stream or ravine. It is the bridge on which you said you met your friend, Clinton Dodge. The viaduct was first built for railroad use in the 1830s, and is still in use today, almost two hundred years after its construction. SCAD students walk across it every day to reach other dormitories and their cafeteria.” Seeing the question in the ghost’s eyes, I corrected, “Their dining hall.”

  Billy was satisfied with that answer, but interrupted with another question. “I am sorry to distract you from your explanation, but what is a scad?”

  I was learning that laughing at my new friend’s questions or actions often offended him, so I made an effort to control my mirth. Even so, the solemnity and earnestness of his question made me smile broadly, largely in response to the inadequacy of my explanation to one who did not know my world. Billy pursed his lips, making clear at least mild offense at my smile, so I quickly assumed a more neutral look and answered, “SCAD is the shortened name of the college around us. It is spelled with all capital letters, S-C-A-D, and stands for the Savannah College of Art and Design. Most folks in Savannah simply call the college SCAD to avoid the longer name. You and I met in one of the college’s student dormitories, or living quarters, but SCAD classes are actually taught in buildings all over downtown Savannah. Many of the old buildings in the Historic District were renovated by SCAD workers and students, and are now used as classrooms, libraries, museums, and for living and dining.”

  Billy was characteristically silent for a few minutes as he absorbed this new information. Finally he said, “Thank you for that explanation. I fear I have much to learn of your world before I can understand many things of which you speak. I pray you will be patient with me.” He stopped again for only a moment before adding, “You were telling me of how my skull may have been moved from the redoubt when I interrupted you with questions. Please continue your explanation.”

  “Ah, yes,” I began, “the railroad construction. The soil excavated from the redoubt was carried by cart and wagon to several places along the path of the road to be placed along the foundation for the railroad…road.”

  Billy was nodding as understanding encompassed him. “So my skull could have been transported and buried anywhere along this rail – road.” He broke the word into sections, but certainly grasped the idea.

  “Yes, you are correct,” I answered, “but based on your description of events and the fact that you materialized on the bridge, I have a suspicion that your skull was either buried in that viaduct,” I pointed out the window, “or under the Turner House dormitory adjoining the bridge, where the track had to continue toward the roundhouse.”

  Billy frowned. “You have used another word which has no context to me…track…is that just a continuation of the road?”

  “I apologize once more, Billy.” I said contritely. “Yes, the road must have continued under what is now Turner House. If your skull was there, then it is safely buried for many, many more years.”

  “But it was not buried under the structure.” Billy said excitedly. “The reason I materialized here and now is that my skull was recently disinterred once more, and has been desecrated in some fashion. If it were under a large building, that would not be possible, so it must have been buried under the road very near the building! I think your supposition is correct. From either on or near the brick bridge…what you call a viaduct, my skull was removed from its grave and taken away. I must find it.” He looked at me through spirit eyes narrowed to slits. “And you must help me. That brings us to the second part of our association…the part you will find to be very difficult.

  “I notice it is dark outside,” He changed the subject. “The time of day when I can move freely about and be seen or not seen as I choose. Perhaps we could walk through the town, and I will explain the task I am hopeful you will assume.”

  “I would enjoy that, Billy,” I answered, “but won’t your ghostly appearance be frightening to those who see you, or at least attract unwanted attention to our conversation?”

  “As I said,” he answered with his ghostly smirk, “I can be seen…” Suddenly he disappeared as I heard, “…or not seen, as I choose.” When visible once more he continued, “If I choose for you to see me, and I shall, of course, then you will see me as clearly as I am capable. At the same time I shall choose for all others not to see me, and they shall not. As you will be listening to my request and explanation, what passersby will see is you walking alone and looking as if you are deeply involved in your own thoughts. If, on the other hand,” he went on, the smirk blossoming into a full smile, “you choose to ask a question or make a comment, then you may attract unwarranted attention from those passing by who see you as an unfortunate mentally unstable or demon-possessed soul who traipses the streets at night speaking only to himself.”

  “I can see that,” I said with a chuckle as the apparition stood and began walking toward the door. To be clear, he was not walking in the sense you understand it, but clearly floating as a vapor, even though his legs were exercised in a walking motion. The movement was disconcerting to me, but then the entire afternoon had been as well, so I was becoming more and more prepared for such minor distresses to my psyche.

  We walked east on Turner Boulevard until we reached Martin Luther King Boulevard. Billy had not spoken, seemingly captivated with all of the structures around us. “I have no memory of any of this,” was his only statement along the way. There was no traffic as we walked on Turner, but as we reached MLK, traffic was still heavy to and from the downtown area. I stopped at the curb, but my spirit companion, as if his momentum wouldn’t allow him to stop, moved across the broad street at his same relaxed pace. He walked into cars. SUVs, large trucks, and motorcycles passed through him unabated as their paths intersected.

  I froze in place on the curb and shouted, “Billy! No! The traffic!” A group of young people, presumably SCAD students, stopped near me and looked across MLK to see what tragedy was unfolding. Seeing nothing, they looked back to me, their expressive eyes saying, “Yeah, he’s demented.” As if to fuel my embarrassment they stood beside me and turned back to the street, shouting, “No Billy! Traffic bad! Stop! Stop!” They waved their hands and looked horrified as they shouted. So convincing was the production that several automobiles stopped in the street, creating a traffic jam in both directions. One driver actually got out of his Ford Mustang and walked around his car, looking for a body in the street, I suspe
ct. Apparently satisfied with the mayhem they had created, the students laughed and ran away down the sidewalk toward City Market. As they passed me, a few patted me on the shoulder, saying through their laughter, “Way to go, dude.”

  After they had gone I coaxed Billy back across the street with shouts and hand signals. I assumed I had already been branded as crazy, or demon-possessed as my friend would say, so any continued personal embarrassment had little meaning. As we walked south on MLK, Billy continued to watch the heavy traffic as it whisked by us only a few feet away in the nearest lane. When an eighteen wheeler blasted by, causing my hair and shirt sleeves to fly in the wind, the boy watched with interest and asked, “What are these contrivances? Some are the size of a carriage, some as big as a house, but all fly at speeds faster than an eagle attacking a field mouse. What purpose do they serve in your world?”

  He had asked a similar question while within my truck and I had dismissed it. I supposed now was as good a time as any to explain modern transportation to an eighteenth century spirit. “The smaller ones are called automobiles, or cars.” I began. “They have replaced the horses and carriages of your time to transport people around town and other places. We have laws that limit the speed they may travel in certain areas, but they can be very fast. On this street their speed is limited to twenty-five miles per hour.” To clarify, I added, “That means if they travel for a full hour at that speed they will have traveled twenty-five miles.”

  “Twenty-five miles in one hour!” he exploded in a loud and strangely reverberating voice I had not heard before. At the same time began the exaggerated fading in and out that I believed to mean he was either thinking deeply or was very upset. “You are being truthful with me? You do not play me for the fool? Twenty-five miles is a full day’s journey over good ground in my estimation. Such a journey in only one hour would seem to stand against the laws of nature and of Providence.”

  I laughed, and could immediately tell from his facial expression that I had hurt his feelings, that is, if spirits, in fact have feelings to be hurt. “I’m sorry to laugh at your expense, Billy,” I apologized once more. “I can think of nothing in your time that even relates to the mechanism that makes such travel possible, so I won’t even attempt to explain it for now. I will say that the bigger vehicles like the one that just blew my hair all around operate similarly to the small ones, but are designed to replace your large wagons. The entire house sized box they pull behind is filled with goods going to or from markets or farms or manufacturing facilities. In fact, only one of those large trucks could probably carry all of the goods from an entire wagon train of your era.” I could see in his eyes that he was considering, but not necessarily believing, my explanation.”

  After a moment’s pause while he contemplated my description, he faded almost to invisibility for several seconds before returning and saying, “It stretches incredulity to the very limit, but I am beginning to understand that you are an honorable man whose veracity I should not question.”

  I was surprised at both his ready acceptance of my account, and the educated language in which he spoke. “Billy, your language and vocabulary indicate a high level of education for a fourteen-year-old boy. Now that I think about it, your thought processes and analytic ability do the same.”

  I’m sure it was entirely my imagination, but the spirit before me seemed to blush. He answered, “My grandfather, who was also William Buckland, was a minister. When my father was of age, Grandfather insisted he travel south to study religion and rhetoric. Father became a minister and teacher as well. His name was also William. As I was growing up in Carolina, father tried to teach me rhetoric as well. The nearest school was several days journey, so most of my learning came at home. Most of the nearby boys and girls who were my friends had no education at all. I wanted to fit in, so I learned to speak their language and tried to learn enough rhetoric to make father happy at the same time. Some of his teaching took, I suppose, but much did not. On those occasions when grandparents came to visit, Grandfather always laughed when he heard me recite my lessons. He said I was learning ‘country bumpkin eloquence rather than proper magniloquence.’ I had no idea what he meant, but I am certain that is the reason I speak as I do. My grandmother was of a Huguenot family. She insisted I be taught French as well as proper English, and for good measure also taught me some German, Polish, and Italian. She said we lived in a great time of immigration from many parts of Europe to the Americas, and I should be able to converse with all whom I might meet.” He glanced at me with what could only be described as a mischievous look and continued, “The lessons were quite a burden to a small boy who would rather be swimming in the creek or setting snares for rabbits, but I found the language skills to have value during the war.”

  “That’s quite a story, Billy.” I quickly replied. “Not only your education, but the fact that three generations of you were all called William. That must have created confusion when you mother called for one of you to take out the garbage.”

  He looked at me quizzically but quickly discounted my modern-day reference as understanding of my meaning occurred to him. “When I was needed for a chore, I was called Billy. My father was called William, and my grandfather was Reverend Buckland, even to my grandmother. There was no confusion.” The matter-of-fact nature of his answer made me laugh, causing him to give me a stern look for a brief instant before seeing the humor in his statement for himself and rewarding me with a broad smile.

  Our walk had brought us past the SCAD administrative building and the parking lot between it and the Savannah Visitors Center. Before we reached the old red brick building that was once the passenger terminal for the Central of Georgia Railroad, my ghostly companion suddenly stopped. He took a few steps through the entrance to the parking lot before stopping again, his face looking ghostly and pale, even for a real ghost. He stared at me for a long moment, then turned and advanced a dozen more steps into the lot before holding out his arms, palms down, and slowly turning in a circle. “This is where he fell,” Billy said in a tone that conveyed great remorse. Seeing the question in my eyes, he explained, “General Pulaski, my friend and mentor. He fell on this very spot. There was much confusion and his charge was ill advised but he charged nonetheless and…” He stopped, fading almost to nothingness. After a few silent minutes he returned, his face conveying a sadness I am incapable of putting into words. He dropped to his knees on the spot and placed his hands over his face, remaining in this position of grief and possibly prayer for several minutes. I watched, but did not interfere.

  Finally he stood. “I cannot speak of this now,” the spirit said with eyes riveted on the ground, not wishing to look at me, as he trudged (actually floated, but with the distinct look of a sad and slow trudge) back to the sidewalk.

  “You cared deeply for him,” I stated. My only answer was a nod of the head as he continued to cast his gaze downward to our feet. I coaxed him to walk on, and finally we passed the visitor center and crossed Louisville Road. I stepped onto the sacred ground of Battlefield Park for the first time in my life and slowly moved toward the redoubt. Billy suddenly looked interested in his surroundings once more.

  “Is this the redoubt?” he asked with some excitement in his tone. “It is still here? You have maintained it throughout these many years?” He ran past me toward the earthen structure, finally entering it through the opening on the north side. Once inside he began the circling motion with his arms stretched out and his palms down, just as he had done in the parking lot. After a few moments, his arms returned to his side, and the spirit looked at me. “Something is not right,” he said. “This is not the Spring Hill Redoubt, not the right place.” Emerging from the opening of the structure, Billy looked to his right, across MLK, which was still bustling with traffic in both directions. He pointed across the street and asked, “What is in that direction?”

  “Downtown Savannah,” I answered. “It is a beautiful city, with small parks, or squares, every few blocks to provide resi
dents places to sit and talk in beautiful surroundings.”

  “Ah, yes,” Billy said, his fact brightening, the squares of Savannah. I have heard of them. The squares were laid out by James Oglethorpe, the founder. My father visited the city one time, before the war, and has told me of the squares and the busy riverfront. I would like to see them.” Before I could answer, he looked to his left, holding his gaze for several silent minutes. Without voicing his intent, the spirit began walking in that direction, westward down Louisville Road. I followed without speaking for what was probably a hundred yards until we reached a historic marker announcing the location of the actual Spring Hill Redoubt. Billy did not even glance at the marker, but went through his circling motion for a brief moment before saying with reverence, “It is here.” He looked quizzically around him. “The terrain is different, the hill is greatly diminished, but this is the redoubt where many French soldiers, Continental Regulars and militia charged…and died.” He moved around the marker until he was standing on a stone outline that may have marked the location of the trench or redoubt wall on the east side of the monument. “I am uncertain of how I know this, but this place is where the Loyalists dug a trench and buried most of my shattered body along with those of my fallen comrades.” He looked about for a moment before continuing, “The hill was much higher then, and the walls of the redoubt would have been several feet above out heads.” Billy held a ghostly hand above his head as he spoke “We are, in fact, standing at the level that was the bottom of the burial trench, where my bones lay for many years before being moved to another location I cannot identify.” He walked out onto Louisville Road, just north of the redoubt marker, and stood in the center of the road as one car and one large truck passed through him. I flinched both times, but said nothing. Finally he said, “The north side of the redoubt was here.” Looking east down the street, he added, “This road was actually the narrow trace through the swamp that the French marched upon to attack the redoubt.”