Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  It was the next morning before the tops of the vessel’s masts were visible to the south of the bluff. Kray and his new friends stood spellbound as they watched the ship move their way against the river’s strong current. They were disappointed that the sails were down and the ship was being propelled up river by men rowing in four large boats attached to the bow. There were ten men rowing in each boat, and they made very slow but steady progress dragging the giant ship behind them into the current. Many more men and, surprisingly to the Yamacraw, women could be seen standing on the decks staring toward the banks of the river. As the ship drew even with the bluff a commanding voice shouted a few words from the ship. The men rowing in the smaller boats stopped their labor as two large anchors were dropped into the river. Three of the rowboats allowed the current to drift them back to the larger vessel as the fourth began to move toward the narrow strip of land at the base of the bluff.

  As the men approached the shore and Kray could see their white faces clearly, the boy was suddenly engulfed with rage. He had never seen a white man before, but had grown up hearing the story of how a white man had killed his father by pointing a long stick at him that sounded like thunder and belched smoke from the end. As his rage intensified, Kray realized that he must attack these white men to avenge his father. But he was only a boy, with only one lance. Reason told him to hold back, but rage won the day. He took a steep path from the top of the bluff down to the shoreline and ran toward the men, shaking his long ceremonial lance in the air and screaming at them while tears ran from his eyes. “I am Louie Karto-Kray,” he bellowed. “My father was chief of the Ocmulgee and a brave warrior. White men killed him!” He stumbled and fell to his knees. Still crying uncontrollably, the boy raised his lance above his head with both hands and screamed at the men once more, “Why did you kill my father? Why?”

  One of the white men reached into the boat and retrieved a long stick. He pointed it at the screaming boy and pulled the trigger. In the microsecond before the bullet reached him, Kray saw the smoke explode from the end of the stick and heard the thunder just as the projectile struck his chest and ripped through his heart. He lived just long enough to know the truth of the stories told of his father’s death. The Yamacraw screamed in mass from the top of the bluff at the tragedy that had unfolded below them. They reveled at the boy chief’s bravery as he ran toward the invaders of their land, but they were shocked at his sudden death at the hands of the first white men they had ever seen.

  Kray’s death marked the inauspicious beginning of James Oglethorpe’s landing and founding of the city of Savannah, Georgia in 1733. Oglethorpe himself was probably unaware of the boy’s murder and had no idea that the young brave was held in such high esteem among the Yamacraw people. Despite the rocky beginning, Oglethorpe was a great negotiator and convinced the tribal leaders of his good intentions. He went on to negotiate a friendship with the Yamacraw tribe, purchased land from them for his new city, and became great personal friends with Tomochichi, Chief of the Yamacraw. Louie Karto-Cray, the young man who was seeking his rite of manhood and, in doing so, had made a lasting name for himself among the Yamacraw, never saw the early settlement of Savannah. His unfortunate and tragic death at the hands of the first white settlers of the community established his unsettled spirit as the first ghost to inhabit the city.

  Chapter 4

  I was silent for several minutes while absorbing the story. Billy had told it matter-of-factly, as a factual biography of the Indian boy. I had no doubt of the veracity of the tale, but still did not understand how it related to our current circumstance. “Billy, that is a wonderful story worthy of inclusion in a book,” I said. “How does it relate to what we were talking about before? Did you say Kray was your teacher? When and how did you meet him? Is he the one who showed you how to ‘inhabit’ living people? Where did…”

  Billy started to laugh, cutting off my question. “I am certain you have many talents, my friend,” he chuckled, “but asking a single question is not among them.” He was pensive for a moment, probably collating my questions and determining his sequence of answers. Finally he said, “Time is not measured as you understand it in my world…in the spirit world. I was killed in battle over two hundred years ago, in your time, but to me it happened only a second ago. In that second, however, I have met spirits from a thousand years ago and from only a few days ago. Somehow we are joined together and can interact within our spiritual plane of existence. Perhaps one day I will understand it; for now, I do not. In answer to your questions, I met Kray on the same bridge where I met the spirit of Clinton Dodge, the same bridge where my skull may have been buried at one time. According to your measure of time, I may have met both Kray and Clinton in the same instant. For me, however, in my world’s time, I had long conversations with each of them at different times. I met others as well. It is possible that none of the spirits with whom I conversed and from whom I learned ever met each other, even though you might assume I saw them all at the same time.” He stopped for a moment, his eyes downcast. “I am sorry,” he said, “I know that explanation is inadequate, but I cannot explain it with any more clarity.” Suddenly he looked brighter. “I can answer another of your questions much more clearly. You asked if Kray was my teacher. He was. It was he who taught me how to inhabit the spirits of living beings.” Smiling broadly, Billy continued, “He told me the story of killing the great alligator in the swamp, of how the smaller beasts encircled his island but parted to allow the great beast to come to the battle. It was as if the beasts communicated and planned their actions together. Kray wanted to understand the alligator better, so after he became a spirit he traveled back to the swamp and learned to inhabit the beasts’ spirits. Do you remember when I moved through the au-to-mobiles not long ago?” Billy asked. When I nodded my head he continued, “Kray did the same thing to one of the alligators, only he discovered while he was within the beast that it had a living spirit, and that he could interact with that spirit as well as only the shell of the animal. He learned to control the movements of the beast, and could even feel what the alligator felt, both the thrill and anger of attack and the simple pleasures of touching wind, water, and earth. He later removed himself from the alligator and returned to the Yamacraw village, where he experimented with the habitation of living people. It was frightening for the people, of course. He did not ask permission to inhabit them, as I have done with you, but he was thrilled to be able to move about and speak with others. He taught this skill to me, and it is the device I wish to use to inhabit your body. When Kray inhabited the Yamacraw people, he simply took over their bodies. What I wish is more of a collaboration. We will each be part of the other. You will experience the world as I do, and I will be able to control your movements only when you permit me. It may work better at first if I only suggest movements to you such as ‘walk this way,’ or ‘pick up this object.’ You may follow my suggestions as you desire. On the other hand,” Billy said with a broad smile, “I will be able to experience life as you feel it! That is a rare and wonderful thing for a ghost! To feel the wind on my face, to taste a buttered biscuit or a slice of venison…such things are what I will enjoy the most, I think.”

  My ghostly friend spoke with such sincerity and emotion that I could not have denied his request even if I wanted to. I called upon every ounce of false bravado I could muster I said, “Billy, I may live to regret this, but let’s do this thing!”

  Billy surprised me by saying, “No. Not now. You spoke into a small box before and talked with your family so they would not worry that you were not there. Your family must care very much for you, and you them. I would prefer that you go to your home now, to be with your family. Return to this place tomorrow in the hour before dawn. I will still be visible to you then. Once the sun has arisen, I cannot be seen by anyone, but before that time arrives I shall have inhabited you, and we may move about as if we were only you.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Billy,” I answered. “But where will
you go?”

  “I am a spirit,” the ghost replied. “There are many places I can go. Perhaps I shall search for the bones of my general,” he said while gazing around Pulaski Square. “Where his bones lie, his spirit will not be far afield. Good evening to you, friend. We shall meet on the morrow.”

  In an instant the spirit was gone. I began the walk back to Turner House to retrieve my van and go home to my family. During the drive I considered what I should tell my wife and children about my recent experiences. I was certainly reticent about telling them of my meeting with a ghost, but hated to make up lies to explain my tardiness. As I pulled into my garage, I decided just to apologize for my lateness and avoid any other discussion unless I was pressed. As it turned out, they were just happy to have me home, greeting me at the door with hugs and kisses and requests for help with homework.

  Chapter 5

  At my spirit friend’s suggestion, we met back at Pulaski Square just before sunrise the next morning. It was too early for foot traffic wandering through the square, so we stood alone in the early morning mist that clung tenaciously to the ground around us. Billy was correct in his supposition that the inhabitation would be painless. Even thought the mist was cool, Savannah can be a humid place even in October, and I found as he stood, or, rather, floated, beside me in preparation for the transition, I was sweating profusely both from the humidity and from my fear of what was about to happen. When his spirit began to ‘intertwine,’ as he referred to it, with mine I felt dizzy, then euphoric, then dizzy again. As those initial symptoms subsided I began to experience a strangeness that I cannot adequately describe. I was two people, wrestling at first, for physical and psychological dominance of my body. I had heard of the condition once known as split personality, which, if I understood correctly, was characterized with one personality at a time making itself known through the body. It could later be replaced with another personality, and maybe even a third, but always one at a time. That was not the case with me. There were two distinct personalities grappling about within me at the same time, each trying to wrest control of my thoughts and movements from the other. Nausea overwhelmed me and I sat down n the bench to keep from falling.

  I lost all sense of time, but after an indeterminate period the nausea subsided and my head began to clear. “That was quite a lively tussle,” a voice spoke. I looked around, but saw no one. “I am speaking from within you,” the voice I knew as Billy said gently. “You can speak if you wish,” he continued, “but within our current association I can interpret your thoughts. If you ‘think’ a question, I can understand and answer it.”

  My first and most urgent thought, which popped to the front of my brain with no effort, was, “Are you controlling me? Can I move on my own, think on my own, or are you directing it all?”

  “You are in complete control,” my spirit half assured me. “I have joined you in such a way that I can control your movements, but only when we wish it so. I cannot control your thoughts at all, but I can interact with them.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, and hoped the ghost could sense the trepidation in my question.

  He startled me by answering, “Yes, I can sense your fear. I hope we can quickly build a relationship of trust that will assuage your apprehension of me and my spectral prowess.” I sensed the spirit laugh. “I see you are still impressed with the vocabulary skills of such a young boy,” he said with a continued chuckle. His light demeanor relaxed me considerably, but he avoided my question. “If your head has cleared and you feel no disorientation, try standing,” I heard him say.

  I slowly stood, keeping my hand on the concrete arm of the bench in case of weakness. There was no weakness, however, no dizziness or disorientation. Without his prompting I took a few tentative steps, then a dozen more confident ones. When I stopped, the voice said, “Marvelous! You are in complete control.”

  “Good for me!” I answered brightly. “But you also said you could control my movements whenever we wished for you to. Do you want to try controlling me now? I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be.”

  There was no answer for several minutes, and I used the quiet time to attempt a few exercises…squatting and standing, throwing an acorn, jogging to the street and back. Everything seemed to work normally. I probably wouldn’t be able to run a marathon anytime soon, but then I had never entered a running event of any kind, so it wasn’t something I would miss. I sat back down on the bench, feeling nervous about prospect of being ‘controlled.’

  Billy finally spoke. “I think it will be better if you and I approach our new relationship in small steps. Before I attempt to control your movements, allow me to make suggestions for how best you can control your own movements to accomplish my goals. For instance, if we are walking and I desire to make a turn to the left, I will simply request that you turn left. You will be completely free to do as you choose, but my hope is that you will turn to the left because that is what will best assist me.

  “Okay, Billy,” I answered, “Where do you suggest we go first?”

  After a moment’s silence he said, “Before we attempt moving very far, I should address part of the fear I can sense within your psyche. You have been kind enough to allow me to inhabit your very being. You need to be assured that this is not a capricious quest on my part, nor a feeble attempt to rejoin the corporeal world. Perhaps it would be best if you knew a little more about me, or, rather, about Billy Buckland the living boy from 1779. I think it would be best if you understood my role in the battle…how I came to be with the Continentals, from whence I came, the officers with whom I interacted, and so on. My story may not help us in our quest, but I suspect it will interest you, and will certainly help you to better understand me. Do you agree?”

  It was a very bizarre sensation. I could ‘hear’ Billy speak, but at the same time I was acutely aware of the fact that I was not ‘hearing’ him through my ears. It was as if I was dreaming, or possibly thinking to myself. The mere fact of the extraordinary conversation was enough to make me unsteady. I had been clinging to the arm of one of the park benches, but finally felt the need to sit down. Billy sensed my discomfort.

  “Relax,” he said. “Take some deep breaths. It is much to assimilate, and even though this relationship is new to me as well, I am better prepared to accept our current circumstance.” After thinking for a moment he continued, “Perhaps we should practice. You should try walking short distances around the square while I speak to you. There are trees and benches you can grasp to steady yourself until you gain control of the tremulous sensation I cause you when I speak.”

  The suggestion worked well. I staggered around the small park for several minutes, grasping at anything that would support me every few steps, much like a baby learning to take his or her first steps. Billy spoke incessantly, but I paid no attention to what he said. I was only concerned with maintaining my balance and eliminating the drunken sensation from my head. The odd phenomenon slowly subsided until it was finally gone. I became aware of my friend saying, “This is wonderful! It has passed. Now we can go to work.”

  Using senses I did not understand, Billy directed me a few blocks southeast until we reached Forsythe Park, a beautiful expanse of green much larger than the typical Savannah squares. I had often brought my family here to fly kites, listen to concerts, and picnic on the grounds. We always made a point to come when the Savannah College of Art and Design sponsored their sidewalk art contest every spring. Thousands of visitors were always in attendance to watch as SCAD students, each assigned a few square feet of concrete sidewalk, drew magnificent works of chalk art throughout the park. It was always a great family weekend, the only major side effect of which was the desire of my children to draw their version of chalk art on the driveway at our home for several weeks thereafter.

  I was thinking of all the good times my family had enjoyed in Forsythe Park when Billy jolted me from my memories by saying, “I almost died here, in this very spot.” I was, or, rather, we were standing in
the northeast corner of the park near the intersection of Drayton and Gaston Streets. Before I could even voice the question, he explained, “The French had made their camp south of here, perhaps half a mile, but were digging trenches to allow movement of troops and cannons to near the location of the British defenses.” He caused me to point to the north, back toward the Savannah River from our position. I resisted the movement of my arm, feeling as if I was in an arm wrestling match for several seconds before I remembered my odd circumstance and realized it was my internal guest who was my opponent in the match. Finally Billy continued, “This spot where we are standing was part of the trench closest to the British, who were about three hundred yards to the north. With no warning, they attacked us in force, approaching from the north and west, and were able to drive us back and destroy this section of our construction. We were trapped in the trench, taking musket fire from three sides. Many were killed. I was knocked over in the stampede of Frenchmen in the narrow confines, and that probably saved my life. I lay among a dozen or more dead men as the bulk of the British force charged past, chasing the French eastward. After they were gone I climbed out of the trench and moved several yards to the south where I could hide in the safety of a dense thicket and watch the area for subsequent action.” Billy suddenly and without warning caused me to move quickly toward the Forsythe Fountain, the large and beautiful stone fountain that greets visitors as they enter the park from the north side. Sensing my discomfort, he stopped after only a few steps. “I am truly sorry, my friend,” he said with great sincerity. “I became excited and forgot my promise to suggest movements to you rather than take over your body. It will not happen again.” We were facing the fountain, and I could sense Billy’s enjoyment as he stared at the artful design. “It is beautiful,” he finally said as a breeze from the south blew a light mist onto my face. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed as he felt the mist, “What a delightful sensation…there is so much I have missed, so much I thought never to experience again. Thank you, my friend, for allowing me this indescribable experience.” We looked at the fountain once more. “It was exactly here,” he said, “where I hid in the brush after the French attack.