“My clothes and exposed skin were so soiled with loose dirt from the excavation that I looked as if I were part of the earth. With such natural camouflage, I was certain I could remain undetected at length while remaining in my observation post. After perhaps an hour a group of black slaves arrived out of the woods to the north. They were guarded by British soldiers as they pushed dirt back into the trench, effectively destroying it for as far as I could see from my position. I moved out of the shelter of the thicket and walked cautiously back to the French camp.” Billy made a noise within my mind that I interpreted as a sigh. “I had no idea at the time, of course,” he continued, “that I would be killed in the not-so-distant future, but I almost entered the spirit realm on September 24.
I, or more accurately, we, walked to a concrete bench beneath an ancient oak tree, the branches of which were heavy with Spanish moss. I had no idea how long it might take to become accustomed to an entity abiding within my own mind and sinew, and there was certainly no one I could ask. I made a sigh of my own, one of resignation to my current condition. As we sat down on the bench (and please note how quickly I adapted the plural to what had previously been a singular action), our eyes looked up into the tree and Billy spoke. “We have little of this in the north…the moss, I mean. As we marched south toward Savannah, the trees were covered with more and more of the stuff, dripping down toward the lanes on which we walked. I always thought it eerie and forbidding, portending demons or ghosts around every corner.” He stopped momentarily. “Ghosts. I never thought to be one.”
“Would you like to hear a funny story about the Spanish Moss?” I asked, trying to lighten the spirit’s mood.
“Of course,” he quickly answered.
“The automobiles you saw earlier…the cars…they were invented many years after the war in which you fought. About a hundred years ago an inventor named Henry Ford devised a way to mass produce the automobile in a way that made them affordable to common people. Most of his ideas for building the cars worked out very well, but he ran into a problem when he encountered Spanish Moss.”
At this point my split-personality self was engulfed in an indescribable sensation, of which I will try to describe regardless of its impossibility. Billy was suddenly very interested and excited to hear the story of the Spanish moss, and his eyes, or our eyes, or whatever (it was a very frustrating predicament in which I found myself) widened. He tensed with excitement, and his emotions trotted out to the very edge of anticipation. But Billy was me…or was part of me…or something of the sort, so I found that even though I was the one telling the story and I already knew the punch line, so to speak, I was also trembling with excitement to hear the conclusion of a story that I already knew. Whew! Didn’t I tell you back in chapter 1 that you wouldn’t believe this?
Billy could tolerate it no longer, so I completed the story. “Are you familiar with chiggers, my friend?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered, and I felt myself grimace. “My grandfather said God must have been particularly proud of His creation of chiggers, otherwise He would not have made so many of them. Many a trip to the creek for fishing or hunting through tall grass or heavy growth resulted in days of itching misery from chiggers we brought home. My mother always made a noxious paste of pine tar and pepper and things even witches avoid to smear on those of us unfortunate enough to be plagued by chiggers. Even now I am uncertain as to which was worse, the itch or the cure.”
I found myself laughing at the story which, for all practical purposes, I was telling myself.
“Henry Ford and his customers would probably have agreed with you,” I said. “As the story is told, Mr. Ford wanted the seats for his automobile to be cushioned for the comfort of the driver and passengers. He searched the country for what he considered to be the best padding material at the lowest price, and for some reason settled on the idea of padding the seats with Spanish moss. It was gathered by the truckload and delivered to his factory in Michigan, where it was stuffed into the seats of hundreds of his newly produced cars.” I paused briefly and could actually feel my own heart beat begin to race due to Billy’s anticipation. Rather than waiting for it to explode out of my chest, I concluded, “There was a problem Mr. Ford didn’t consider. Spanish moss happens to be a favorite habitat of chiggers, and usually any sizeable lump of the stuff is just teeming with the bugs. For many months after unsuspecting buyers purchased their first Ford automobile, they found themselves smothered with chigger bites covering their backsides and legs. The Ford Company finally figured out the problem, but not before dealing with hundreds of irate customers who may have wanted to throw a punch at old Henry, but were too busy scratching their butts to do so.”
Billy began to laugh, and I found myself shaking and wiping tears from my eyes. “I wish I had known of this back when I was…living,” he said. “Old Mr. Barlow down the ridge from us and a few others were in need of being treated with a moss padded chair or mattress to put them in their place.”
I felt a sensation of gratefulness. “That was a wonderful story,” my internal companion gushed. “Thank you. I was in need of something to elevate my morale.”
He was silent for several minutes, but I could feel his thought processes almost as if he were speaking. The silence was protracted but not unpleasant. By now the sun was up and a slight breeze had blown away the mist. A group of joggers was crossing through the park, and a few of them nodded a greeting as they passed. The air was warming, birds were chirping, and the sky soon would be the brilliant blue I associated with fall in Savannah. For a few brief minutes I almost forgot about my recently acquired duality as I was lost in the quiet of what was to be a beautiful day.
“You are right, the day is beautiful,” my other self suddenly spoke. “As a spirit, I do not sense my surroundings as you do. It is a wonderful thing you have done, allowing me to feel a sense of humanity once more.”
“You asked how I came to serve in the army. It is a lengthy story, but one that would doubtless help you to know and understand me. I have told you a little about my family and my upbringing, but there is much more that contrived to bring me here.”
Chapter 6
We (that is, I, or whatever my entity was at the current and confusing moment) squirmed uncomfortably on the bench beneath the massive oaks at the north end of the park. As I sat, appearing to be a lone or even lonesome individual to any who observed me, Billy began to relate the tale of his history.
“As I mentioned earlier,” he began, “my grandparents emigrated from England. They first came to Boston, but later moved to Virginia so my father could attend the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg. Grandfather insisted my father study religion and rhetoric in hopes that he would become a minister and teacher. Father was a dutiful son, and so achieved degrees in both areas. His heart was never in it, however. Aside from my mother, his first love was always exploration of the wild country in the western mountains. He had always found cities and crowds of any kind not to his liking, After completing his studies at William and Mary, my father disappeared for more than a year, exploring the mountains for a home in the wilderness.
“While at college he had read an account written by Hernando de Soto of his expedition through the western mountains of what would later become the Carolinas. De Soto described a plateau on which was the intersection of two ancient Indian trails. The plateau was said to include several hundred acres of good soil near a wide creek running from the mountains to the north. The entire area was surrounded by forests and mountains, with a narrow pass to the east by which one could travel to the eastern coast and the Atlantic Ocean. He described game in abundance and advised that the native Indian population was friendly and amenable to trade.
“Father doubtless read this account with great excitement, and, regardless of the adamant opposition of his parents, left for the western lands as soon as was practical. He traveled south and east for several weeks before being captured by an Indian tribe who called themselves the
Buhuron. They were not unkind to Father, keeping him well-nourished and unharmed, but basically enslaved him, making him do mundane tasks such as gather fire wood, skin animals and prepare the skins for later use, and build or repair shelters. They were unfamiliar with his long rifle. Not wanting them to understand the true nature or value of the weapon, he explained to them through gestures and demonstrations that it was simply an elaborate ‘club.’ The tribe’s language, Father later reported, was a strange combination of Portuguese, Spanish, and an Indian dialect with which he was unfamiliar. He understood enough of the European languages to piece together a method of communication. The tribe’s leader was named Amercedes. He and the other tribal elders described a legend of white men in iron hats and chest plates traveling through the area many generations before. Even the oldest of the Buhuron could only describe stories told to them in their youth. Father wished to know the origins of their strange language, but they had no concept of etymology, only that their language was the way they spoke.
“One day Indians from another tribe came to the camp. They were a people known to the Buhuron as Cherokee, a name Father knew and recognized as one of the friendly tribes de Soto had described in his account of his travels. The Cherokee, Father learned, had much more contact with white settlers to the east than did the Buhuron, and had traded with them for valuable metal tools such as axes, knives, and sewing needles. The Buhuron elders looked with wide eyes at such implements, and were anxious to trade much of value for them. After three days of feasting and haggling with the visitors, the Buhuron traded a large stack of alligator skins and pottery acquired from the Seminoles far to the south, along with several other items including over one hundred pounds of cured meats and jerky and…my father!”
I started laughing. “A hundred pounds of meat and your father?” I asked through a chortle. “How much did he weigh?”
“Sir, are you alright?” a deep voice asked from nearby. I looked up from my seated position into the eyes of a very large policeman who was looking at me with concern. I didn’t answer for a long moment, realizing what I had done and considering what possible answer I could give to account for my strange behavior.
“Sir?” the policeman pressed.
I arrived at a logical answer. “I’m sorry, Officer…,” I looked at his chest for his name tag, “Perry. I was daydreaming. I guess it looked pretty crazy, laughing and talking to myself. I was thinking about…but you don’t want to hear about any of that. I’m sorry if I startled you.” I was babbling. “I suppose it could have been worse.”
It suddenly became worse.
As I had looked at Officer Perry’s chest for the name tag, I also noticed the distinct outline of a bulletproof vest he wore under his shirt. As the thought passed through my mind with little interest from me, it was Billy who seized on the wondrous possibilities of a garment that might stop a bullet. “Bulletproof?” he asked me silently with what I could only describe as incredulity in his tone. Suddenly my right hand shot out, completely under my ghostly alter ego’s control, and grasped at the policeman’s shirt in an effort to assess the feel of such a wondrous garment.
The officer grabbed my wrist in a pincer grip and pulled my hand away from his shirt. “What do you think you are doing?” he bellowed.
I was aghast…speechless. The officer stared daggers at me for a very long minute before relaxing his gaze. His assessment of me was doubtless that of just one more crazy park inhabitant who was probably harmless. I was at that moment very thankful for the numerous ‘eccentric’ citizens of Savannah, many of whom wandered the streets and parks of the Historic District every day. Rather than labor through the mountain of paperwork that would be generated by a needless arrest, he decided to dismiss me with a warning. “You can laugh all you want…talk to yourself all you want,” he growled. “But if I find you grabbing people,” he gripped the front of his shirt for emphasis, “I will introduce you to the rats in the basement of our riverfront jail. Do you understand me?”
I nodded and whispered, “Yes, sir.” As the officer walked away I released an audible sigh and asked gruffly, “Billy, what were you thinking?”
Billy said only, “Bulletproof?”
“Why don’t we get back to your story.” I suggested. “Perhaps we should walk a bit. That policeman was headed toward the river, so let’s walk the other way.”
As we headed south through Forsyth Park, Billy continued with his family history. It was certainly an interesting story, and as soon as my heart had slowed pounding from the encounter with Officer Perry, he had my rapt attention.
“The Cherokee were very kind to my father. They almost immediately considered him a friend rather than a slave. He told them of the plateau he sought and, recognizing the place from his description, they took him directly to it and offered friendship, protection and trade if Father chose to settle the area with his family and friends.
“He spent several more months exploring the mountains north and ever west, but found no place more likely for a permanent home place than the Cherokee plateau. When he returned to Williamsburg, Grandfather had arranged a position for him teaching rhetoric at a local school. Father tried that for a few months, but quickly began feeling oppressed by the crowded city of over 2000 people. His only pleasant memory of his stay in Williamsburg was meeting and later marrying my mother, who was another teacher at the school. This was in 1764. Father and Mother stayed in Williamsburg for another year, during which I was born. Mother sensed his ever growing wanderlust, and even though I was only a babe, she offered to travel to the mountains with him and establish a home on the Cherokee Plateau, as Father called it. Three other young and like-minded families decided to go with them to establish a new life, and within a few weeks we were in our new home. He located our camp on one corner of the plateau near the stream, which Father named Christian Creek.
“The oldest member of the group, and also the best woodsman, was Eli Morris. He was of such great help and direction in building a small fort and cabins for the few families that the group voted to name their new community Morristown. From the beginning Father served as their minister and occasional teacher to the young children, but the constant work of establishing a new home in the wilderness required much of his time, and that of the others, in those first years. As I grew, I was taught to hunt, to make what we needed from animal skins, plants around us, and those things
for which we could trade. I learned much from the Cherokee, and Father taught more formal lessons as there was time.”
I looked around to make certain no one was looking before I spoke, then interjected, “That sounds like a fascinating childhood, Billy. It sounds as if you grew up as a regular Dan’l Boone!”
I stopped short, not of my own direction, and was abruptly filled with a confusion of questions, emotions, and wonder. We were silent for a moment, my head completely cleared of words. Finally Billy asked, “You know of Daniel Boone? I was about to speak of him and his relationship to my story.”
In my new association with a ghost wandering around within my skin I was completely devoid of any expectations of what I should expect on a moment to moment basis. Perhaps the simple fact that my guest was considering mentioning Daniel Boone’s name was the impetus for my flippant statement. On the other hand, Boone was an American hero, his exploits taught to students in American History classes and once immortalized with a television series. Billy’s description of his life as a youngster was, in fact, reminiscent of the life Daniel Boone was portrayed to have lived, so I may have come upon the parallel on my own. I hoped so.
We had ambled to the southern end of Forsyth Park and were entering a neighborhood some distance from the historic district proper, but still filled with homes and businesses of aged and interesting architecture. Billy was obviously enjoying the stroll through modern day Savannah and my legs had not yet begun to tire, so we continued our walk down streets less busy as my internal spirit continued his story.
“I returned home from fish
ing in Christian Creek one afternoon in the spring of 1779, the year I turned 14, and was preparing to clean my catch when Father called from inside our cabin. I hung my catch on a high peg on the porch of the simple dwelling to keep beyond the reach of scavenging animals, and was surprised to find both Father and Mother sitting at the table talking to a stranger. The man was well groomed and clean shaven, but rough dressed in animal skins and moccasins as if he was a woodsman. On the table sat a hat made of raccoon skin with the fur and the long tail still attached. I smiled as I envisioned what this bonnet would look like atop the stranger’s head. The man’s eyebrows raised in question and, before even being properly introduced, I said, ‘I have never seen such a novel head covering, sir. It is very distinctive. I like it!’”
“The stranger surprised me by rising from his seat, picking up the cap, and handing it to me. ‘If you like it, Master William,’ he said, ‘it is yours.’ I was stunned to silence. I glanced at my father, then my mother, and was pleased when both nodded their approval of the gracious gift.
“My father stood. ‘Billy,’ he said, ‘allow me to introduce Captain Daniel Boone of the Kentucky Militia. I have known Daniel for many years, and I can assure you that he is the greatest woodsman and explorer on this continent. He is on his way to Charles Town for news of the war effort and possible orders for what he can do in the western lands. The way is long, but relatively safe. Your mother and I have asked Mr. Boone if we may accompany him and he has agreed. You are nearly 14 years old and, with the community around you, are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself in our absence. However, if you choose to come with us on this journey, I am certain you will enjoy the trip and you will learn much of woodsmanship from Daniel that will serve you well in later years. You have never seen Charles Town…any city for that matter…and should be exposed to that way of life.’ He smiled wryly. ‘And, of course, during the journey I can continue your daily lessons so when you meet your grandfather he will be pleased at your level of education.’
Ghosts of the Siege Page 8
