Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  For several minutes he said nothing more, but performed whatever spiritual magic was necessary to allow me to see the area as it was during the battle. Thankfully the scene was played in silence, but I could clearly see the French army along with a line of Colonial militia advancing through a heavy fog along a narrow trail toward a redoubt bristling with cannons and soldiers aiming muskets at the advancing army. As the attacking force charged forward, guns from the redoubt rained devastating fire upon them. Smoke from the guns mixed with the fog and mist to nearly obscure all that was happening, but I was sickened as I saw shadows of the advancing army and watched helplessly as one body after another fell to the ground before ever reaching the earthen fort and its surrounding abatis.

  Billy had been standing silent while watching my reaction to the early moments of the battle, but suddenly moved across Louisville road until he reached what I assumed was the back wall of the visitor center. After a quick glance back at me, he disappeared through the wall and was gone for several minutes.

  When he materialized back through the red brick wall he had the same ashen look on his face that I had seen in the parking lot where he said Pulaski had fallen. I didn’t question him, but after slowly approaching me, he said, while looking forlornly back at the visitor’s center, “There is a spot inside that structure where I fell…where I died.” The vapor faded in and out of focus several times before completely disappearing.

  I am not certain how, but for several minutes I could actually feel his sadness and even some of the revulsion the spirit felt on being reminded of the battle, his fallen comrades, and his own gruesome death. After an extended period the sadness passed and I felt him assume a more positive attitude. When he reappeared he was standing beside me and looking across MLK.

  Sounding more like a boy on an exciting quest he asked, “May we cross this avenue and walk in that direction? Is that allowed for you without worry of trespass?”

  We found a break in the traffic and I ran, while Billy floated, across MLK. After a safe crossing we walked east down Liberty Street. Along the way we passed several parked cars, and I encouraged Billy to look them over while they were not traveling at high speed. My idea was that he would move around the vehicles to see them from all angles, but he surprised me again as he moved into and through the vehicles, observing them from angles I had not considered. I could not gauge his reaction to the automobiles, for as he emerged from the last one, located at the corner of Liberty and Barnard Streets, he pointed excitedly down Barnard. About a block away, illuminated by street lights, trees were visible against the backdrop of paved streets and brick buildings.

  “Is that one of the city squares?” he asked with excitement brimming in his voice. “I would like to see it!” The spirit moved away at a speed that exceeded my ability to run, but I kept up as best I could and finally joined him as he stared at a sign on the periphery of the park announcing that it was Pulaski Square. “This is Pulaski Square?” he asked in a reverent tone. “Named for my general?” He looked near tears.

  “Yes,” I whispered, then, in a firmer voice, “Savannah has paid tribute to many great men of your time…Madison Square is near here, as are squares named for Nathaniel Greene, Benjamin Franklin, Lafayette, and others. Billy repeated each name in a whisper and looked at me in a penetrating gaze.

  “This is a wonderful thing you have done,” he said while looking into my eyes with such an admiring gaze that it seemed he thought I had named Savannah’s squares myself. “All of those men were heroes in my time.” Billy said softly. “It is fitting that they are memorialized, that their deeds are remembered, for the generations that follow.” He looked across the square, which was bereft of any monument but included a small garden in the center. “Do my general’s bones lie here in the park? I see no monument, no gravestone.”

  I was uncertain of the answer, but thought I remembered that this was just a square named for the great general. “I don’t think he is buried here, Billy,” I answered.

  The boy stared at the park for a long moment before walking through it with his hands outstretched, palms down, as he had done in the place he said Pulaski had fallen. There was a small garden of flowers and shrubbery at the park’s center. He walked slowly around it, then through it. Finally he flickered in and out of vision several times before completely disappearing. Several minutes later he reappeared and said with disappointment in his tone, “It is so. General Pulaski is not buried here. If he were I could feel his spirit, but I do not.”

  He looked at a concrete bench near the garden and said, “We need to speak of that thing you can do for me. The explanation will be long, and you will find much of it to be unbelievable.” He indicated toward the bench. “You should sit. I shall sit beside you.” Noticing a group of elderly people entering the square on a relaxed evening stroll, the boy continued, “You need not speak and draw attention from others. Just sit and listen.”

  I complied and took a seat on the hard concrete, my heart pounding in my chest at the spirit’s ominous tone. I nodded at the strolling group as they passed, but did not return their greetings. Billy sat beside me and, without preamble, said bluntly, “It will be necessary for me to inhabit you.”

  He was silent after that opening, perhaps allowing me to evaluate what had just been said. I looked toward the group of elders, who were now leaving the park, then around in other directions to make certain no one was within earshot before answering with a simple, “What…what do you mean?”

  Billy held out his hands, palms up, and projected the appearance of a pitiful waif. “I have no substance,” he grimaced. “I can see and hear, I can speak, I can move around, but I cannot physically interact with your world. I cannot touch or feel or smell, cannot grasp or move objects with physical properties, cannot feel the texture of things, or the wind on my face, cannot smell the aroma of coming rain, or the leaves and musk of the forest floor, or the acrid stench of gunpowder.” The boy stared at the ground, despondent, as he spoke, but finally looked up at me. “I must find my skull, the missing part of my bones, and see that it is properly interred with the rest of me…with the rest of my friends, my company, who fell that day. I need to be able to touch, to feel, to lift, to interact with all that surrounds me in your world, in order to accomplish that mission.”

  I thought for a moment before answering, “And I can help you with your mission by…”

  “Allowing me to inhabit you,” Billy interrupted.

  “Inhabit me,” I repeated. “I shudder even to ask what that means, or how it is even possible, or of the consequences.” My eyes were wide and my heart threatened to leap from my chest with each beat. “You were certainly wise to have me sit before you delivered this bombshell.”

  “Bombshell,” Billy muttered while shaking his head. “I have heard no bombshell. The battle is long over. There are no bombs, no cannon fire.”

  “It’s just a figure of speech, Billy,” I fired back with just a little disgust more aimed at the prospect of being ‘inhabited’ than with his lack of understanding of my slang. “Tell me more about inhabiting me. What does it require, exactly? What will it do to me? How will I feel? Is it permanent? Is it as unpleasant as it sounds?”

  The ghost was quiet, pensive. He stood and began to pace, or as close to it as one who only floats above the earth can approximate. “You ask many questions,” he said while moving. “Perhaps I should just clarify that which I desire. Mayhap I will answer your questions during the account.” After circling the bench four or five times he stopped in front of me and began to explain. “You have seen me move through fences and in and out of your aut-o-mobiles,” he spoke the word haltingly. “I can move through living people as well. The difference is that your cars, structures, even living trees, have no spirit, no soul. I cannot physically interact with them because I have no corporeal substance. I cannot spiritually interact with them because they have no spirit residing within them.

  “You, my friend, have a spirit, a soul coursin
g through your being. If I inhabit you, that is, step into you just as I did the car, I can interact with your spirit and, in essence, become you, or share you may be a better way to state it. As I share your body, it is through your mortal senses I will be able to touch, to feel, to perform actual work that may allow me to find my missing skull. In return, while we are sharing each other’s essence, you will be able see the world through my eyes, you will be as a spirit, a vapor, as I am.” He gave me a piercing stare, sensing that I might have questions.

  “What will it feel like? What will it do to me?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “I am sorry that I cannot tell you how it will feel,” Billy answered. “I have never inhabited a mortal before, so I have no reference to report. I can assure you, however, that there will be no deleterious effects on your physical or spiritual health. When I moved through the aut-o-mo-bile I was inside the structure, then I was outside. When I was gone, nothing was changed inside or out. It will be the same with you. Your physical body will remain as it has always been. Our spirits will intertwine, but when I remove myself, the only change you may feel is close kinship to me. When I am gone, you will miss me as if I had been a close friend or relative. You will remember everything that has happened during my inhabitation, and there may even be times when you wish you could still use my ghostly powers.” He smiled broadly, not a frightening ghostly smile but a friendly one that immediately put me at ease.

  “I’m not convinced I want to do this,” I said, “but you make it sound as if it is a little less than awful. I am committed to helping you, however.” I returned his smile, continuing, “It’s not every day I get to see a ghost, much less actually get to help one. Now it sounds as if you’re giving me a chance to be one, for a little while, and then return to my mortal life. How could I say no? What do I need to do for this thing to happen?”

  “You need do nothing,” Billy answered. He looked both happy and relieved as he continued, “All that is required is that I move into your body, just as I did that of the car. As I have no essence, you will feel nothing. Once I am within you I will begin to interact with your own essence, your spirit. You will doubtless feel something as that happens, but I cannot predict what that will be. It will not be physical pain. It may be more of a dream state, as I become part of you, then you will become part of my being. When our spirits are completely knitted together, I will be able to direct your movements, but only when I so choose. That will probably be the most difficult part for you. You will have freedom of movement as usual except when I need to direct your body. When that happens, you will doubtless feel helpless as I do things…or, rather, you do things over which you have no control.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear any more,” I protested. After thinking for a moment, however, I did formulate a question. “Billy, you said you had never done this before. How did you learn? You mentioned other people, or rather, other spirits you had met. Did they teach you, or is it something every ghost knows?”

  Billy was silent for an extended time. Finally he smiled at me. “There are many questions you could have asked,” he said, “but you ask first about my education. I suspect what you really desire to know is how I am qualified to do this thing that I have never done and that you do not understand. It is a legitimate question. The answer is not one that has any real importance to our quest, but at the very least it is a very good story you will enjoy.” He stopped for a moment, deciding how to proceed with the story. Finally he said, “I did have a teacher, a very good one. His name was Louis Karto-Kray. He was an Ocmulgee Indian boy long ago, and is now a spirit like me. Kray, as I call him, was this city’s very first ghost. His is a tragic story you should know. Let me tell you about Kray, then we will finish discussing how you can help me.

  Chapter 3

  Louie Karto-Kray, referred to as simply Kray by his grandfather and others in his tribe, was an Ocmulgee Indian boy traveling alone through the forests and swamps of what is now known as southeast Georgia. The “Louie” portion of his name was not of European origin, but was a word of the Ocmulgee dialect that meant ‘son of the most brave.’ Kray’s father had been chief of the small tribe, and had been elevated to that high post because he exhibited unmatched bravery in battle against invading tribes and the occasional party of white men who came from the east. Kray had never seen a white man, but he knew his father had been killed by one when Kray was only a child. Tribal legend told that the white man had pointed a long stick at the Ocmulgee chief from a distance farther than a strong man could throw a lance. The stick made a loud noise like thunder. Smoke poured from the end, and Kray’s father fell to the ground, dead, with a small bleeding hole in the center of his chest. Kray wasn’t certain he believed the story of the magical thundering stick, but he knew his father had been a great hero. Because of that, much was expected of the boy, who had been born fourteen growing seasons ago and was now traveling on a solo journey to prove his manhood.

  The Ocmulgee were an ancient tribe, with an oral history extending back through more generations than anyone could count. They had built large mounds near the Ocmulgee River and the ancient Lower Creek Pathway a few thousand years before Kray’s time, but their history extended back several millennia before even the mound builders. There were many stories of Kray’s ancestors killing giant beasts that had long noses – longer than a tall man’s leg – and carried long, formidable spears on both sides of their mouths. It required the cooperation of many warriors to kill even one of the beasts, and often men were killed in the process. Kray believed the stories because he had seen evidence of the creatures. In the tribal shaman’s tent were relics of the tribe’s past. Among them were two long and curved spears, perhaps as wide as a man’s hand on one end and tapering to a point on the other end. These were the weapons carried by the massive beasts hunted by the Ocmulgee in times long past. Another of the relics interested Kray even more. It was the skin and head of a vicious beast that had been brought to the shaman by a man who was still living. Kray had often spoken with the man, who was old and frail, but who still had the spark of life in his eyes, and who greatly enjoyed telling stories of his youth to all who would listen.

  This tribal elder had several times told Kray the story of the skin he had brought to the shaman many years before. He had traveled east to the great sea during his journey to manhood, and, while standing knee deep in a swamp attempting to spear a fish for his dinner, had been attacked by a great beast that was twice as long as the elder was tall. The animal crawled on four legs, dragging its belly on the ground, but was incredibly fast. It had a long and narrow head that was mostly mouth, and that mouth was filled with dozens of sharp teeth. According to the old man, the beast had lunged at him and missed, but in doing so had bitten down on a tree trunk that was as thick as a man’s thigh, and had snapped it in half in an instant. It was covered with a thick and rough, green skin, a kind of armor that appeared to be stronger that a warrior’s shield. The beast’s tail comprised almost half of its total length, and lashed constantly back and forth, destroying trees and anything else within its reach. This beast could easily kill a man at either end.

  In telling the story, the elder always looked around and lowered his voice as if he did not want anyone but Kray to hear part of the story. “It was either by luck or by divine guidance from our ancestors that I was able to kill the creature. As it lunged at me a second time I shoved my lance into its mouth, and was surprised when the weapon went in so deep that the beast almost closed its teeth on my hand. I jumped back, and saw surprise on the creature’s eyes that may have exceeded my own. As it backed a few steps into the swamp, I could see blood beginning to pulse from its mouth. It was still for a few moments, but still glared at me with hatred burning through those evil eyes. Suddenly it lunged once more, running toward me as I tried to back away without taking my eyes from the creature. Finally it stopped and lay on the ground breathing heavily while blood still poured from its mouth.

  “The sun was high in
the sky when the creature first attacked,” the elder continued, “but evening darkness was near when it finally closed its eyes and I saw the breathing stop. It took all night and most of the next day for me to skin the creature. The skin was so large and heavy I found need to construct a litter to hold the head and skin while I dragged it back to the village. I presented the skin to the shaman, and have never entered his tent to see the evil beast again.” The elder called the creature al – e – gate – or. When Kray asked about the meaning of the strange word, the old man smiled wryly and answered, “It means ‘beast I never want to meet again.’”

  The story had enthralled Kray from the time he was a small boy. Over the years he had asked the old man to retell the story many times and had visited the shaman’s tent even more often, to view and touch the skin of the creature.

  All boys of Kray’s age were required by tradition to leave the tribe and travel alone to some distant place and not return until they had accomplished some great deed. Usually that meant traveling to some distant area to track and kill some large or dangerous animal and bring evidence of the kill back to the tribe. Most boys traveled north to the Catawba River, about three days journey from the Ocmulgee village, where large deer were in abundance and buffalo could occasionally be found. Buffalo skins were a rare and prized possession, so an Ocmulgee boy who could kill and skin a buffalo by himself was assured to be lauded as a brave warrior by all the tribe.