“Mother interjected, ‘And I can continue to teach you the languages of Europe.’”
“Father added, ‘While we are speaking of lessons, I believe it is time for yours.’ He looked at our guest and added, ‘Daniel, you are welcome to join us. I am endeavoring to teach Billy something of elocution, history, and mathematics.’ His eyebrows rose in jest. ‘You may find need of those things yourself.’
“Captain Boone saw my disgust at being forced into lessons, and he said, ‘Billy, I will make a deal with you. If you will pay close attention to your lessons, as soon as you are finished I will teach you something of shooting.’ He picked up his long rifle, which I had not noticed resting against the wall behind him.
“I scoffed, angry at the prospect of lessons. “I know how to shoot,” I growled. Father frowned and started to speak, but Mr. Boone stayed him with a gesture of his hand.
‘You know how to speak, as well, young man,’ he said firmly. Looking at my father with a smile he added, ‘But apparently not well. I’ll wager your shooting leaves room for improvement as well.’
I looked at Billy, at least I attempted to look, in wonder. “You really knew Daniel Boone.” I tried to project surprise in my tone. Billy quickly answered, “Yes, and I am just as surprised that you know of him these many years after he lived. Father always said he hoped Captain Boone was remembered as one who opened up much of the western lands for future settlement. From what you have said, Father’s wish has come true.
“And so we traveled to Charles Town. Both the trip and my first visit to a city of any size were eventful, but I will not bore you with the many details. Suffice to say that I learned enough of the war with England to become excited about fighting for the American cause. I learned that many boys of my own age were fighting with the Continentals and various militias, and begged my father to allow me to join in the fight. Grandfather was a loyalist, and I was warned not to speak of my desire to fight for American freedom in front of him. Father and Mother, while both patriots who believed in the cause, were terrified that I would simply run away without their blessing and enlist in the army. Captain Boone suggested a compromise. Without my knowledge he spoke to both of my parents about arranging for me a staff position with General Lachlan McIntosh, who commanded a garrison in Augusta, Georgia consisting of both Continental Regulars and the South Carolina Militia. Boone was well acquainted with the general, and had no doubt that the man would be impressed with my education and communication skills, and would place me in a noncombative position within his general staff. This was not, of course, what I had in mind, but my parents were relieved at the idea and agreed to take a slight detour on our return home to meet General McIntosh.
“We spent most of the summer in Charles Town, and it was late August before we met the general in Augusta. He spoke privately with Captain Boone at length, then with my parents for a shorter amount of time. At last, he summoned me alone for an interview that lasted over an hour. He asked what knowledge I had of military organization and chain of command, and seemed to be impressed with what I already knew, little though it was. I was surprised when he grilled me at length on my reading ability and the skill of proper spoken English. He handed me a quill and small piece of parchment and asked me to scribble a sample of my handwriting, with which he seemed satisfied.
“The general spoke no language other than English, but had been told by Boone that I was at least somewhat conversant in French, Spanish, and some German. He summoned one of the few Hessians in his command, doubtless a deserter from the British, and had me converse with him in German and French. Whether it was the notable impression I had made, or simply at the encouragement of Captain Boone, General McIntosh agreed that I would make a valuable addition to his staff. Part of his command was the South Carolina Militia. Unlike the Continental regulars, which required a signature on a document to serve for a specified time in whatever conditions prevailed, the militia was less formal. One could simply elect to serve for as long as he wished, but also could choose to leave at any time with no repercussions of any kind. The militia under McIntosh were a rough-and-tumble lot, poorly equipped, mostly illiterate Carolina farm folk who were ready to fight for freedom from English rule. While the rank and file militiamen would doubtless have little to do with one of my education, my position was to be a direct assignment to the general, so I would have little actual contact with the militia.
“Mother, Father, and Captain Boone left for home after a few days in Augusta. There were tears and many farewells, but then they were gone, and I was in the army. Only a few days later a messenger came from General Lincoln bearing orders for General McIntosh to mobilize his entire command and move south into Georgia to meet Lincoln at Ebenezer. Lincoln and his command were at the time in Charleston and were beginning to move south immediately. McIntosh knew from Captain Boone of my skills as a woodsman, and dispatched me to find General Lincoln as he moved south and tell him McIntosh was on the move and would be in Ebenezer by the 11th of September.”
Billy and I (whether singular or plural) had been walking for some time and I had not been paying attention to our location. I was surprised when we were forced to stop at a very busy cross street that was unlike the quieter neighborhood streets we had been traversing. Checking a corner street sign, I was shocked to find we had walked all the way to 37th Street and were currently standing at its intersection with Bull Street. I sensed Billy was unusually quiet and pensive. He caused me to look around, finally gazing toward the west.
I saw traffic moving rapidly along 37th Street, and a jumble of houses and businesses extending into the distance. Billy said with excitement that made my heart beat faster, “The American camp was here.” He continued to gaze through my eyes to the west, and I felt my hand reach out to indicate a wide swath that encompassed the camp. We continued to stare in silence for several minutes and I was astounded to see the buildings, traffic, and streets around us slowly fade away, replaced by a vision of eighteenth century camp life. Soldiers in blue and white uniforms were bustling about in organized groups setting up tents, unloading wagons, picketing the draft horses, gathering firewood, and many other mundane tasks that were a fact of life for soldiers of that era. Rifles were stacked in a conical arrangement, with muzzles pointed to the sky at the top of the cone and the rifle butts dug into the ground in a circle to form the bottom of the cone. In the distance I could see cannons and caissons being moved by horses at the back of the camp. There were orders being shouted, much talk and laughter within the troops as they went about their tasks, and the sounds of hammering, wood cutting, and the clanging of metal against metal as the camp was being assembled. Morale within the camp seemed good as soldiers performed their work with confidence.
“We were certain of victory,” Billy said suddenly. “There was to be a siege, both from land and from the river from the French ships.” He turned around and pointed to the east. “The French were encamped just over there,” my internal voice continued. “They would dig trenches to approach close to the British positions and move their artillery close in for accurate and massive fire. At the same time, our own artillery would amass fire on the British right, and ships from the river would lob their own shells against the enemy rear. It would be devastating. There was no doubt among us that the British would surrender quickly.”
“Come,” Billy said excitedly. “Let me show you my post.” At his direction I walked rapidly eastward, basically parallel to 37th Street. At one point his path veered out onto 37th, and just as he had done while a spirit unencumbered by human flesh, Billy started to walk out into the traffic with no fear of the danger. It required great strength on my part to wrest him back onto the safety of the sidewalk, and then only by the thinnest of margins. The exertion tired me, and once assured of safety I fell on the ground and began to laugh. Imagine wrestling with yourself, in a non-metaphorical sense, of course, and needing to exert maximum strength on both sides of the fight! I was living in an impossible situation, but at le
ast found I could laugh about it.
After a few minutes Billy caused me to stand and compose myself. After brushing leaves and dirt from my clothing, we walked perhaps two hundred yards along 37th until before finding a safe place to cross the busy street, finally turning left into a dark alley. He moved slowly along the narrow trace, looking left and right as if uncertain of his goal, and finally stopped, staring intently at a wooden fence that marked the boundary of the back yard of a private home. The fence was in a bad state of repair, with several boards missing and a gate that was partially opened due to broken hinges. Before I could react of my own accord, Billy caused me to step through the opening and into the yard. I could sense elation within his spirit as he moved to a position near the house itself and began to pace in a rectangle four strides in width and five in length. In the center of the rectangle was one of those metal storage buildings, the kind you buy at Sears, take home in a flat box, and spend many frustrating hours assembling panels and frame while wondering why the screws and holes don’t match up from one sheet to another.
“This was it!” he virtually shouted in my head. “General Lincoln’s headquarters!” This was where I worked, where I was given my orders. I could feel my own chest swell with pride as he said, “I was the general’s aide.”
“Billy,” I spoke out loud in an incredulous tone, “that is quite an important position for a 14-year-old. How did it all happen? How did you come to be in Lincoln’s command and in such an important post for such a young boy?”
I suddenly felt faint. There was a disorientation of some kind happening within me that was quite different than before. For a few seconds I felt as if I was going to sleep, then I would bounce back to wakefulness, then to sleep once more. As this was happening I began to experience…what?…pain?…regret?…no. It was embarrassment. Why would I feel embarrassment, and why would it make me go to sleep?
Billy understood my questions and quickly answered. “I am sorry,” he whispered to my consciousness. “I make myself out to be more important than I really was. General Lincoln had three Aides de Camp, actually, all of whom were officers. I was basically an errand boy, so chosen because of my language skills and, according to the general, my sharp wit. Most of my time was spent conveying messages and orders between commanders across the field. Communication was often a problem. General D’Estaing, the French commander, could speak some rudimentary English, but was a haughty man who preferred to write all orders and communicate verbally in his native French. Many of his officers spoke no English at all. General Pulaski was Polish, and did not understand English well enough to read or communicate orders regarding precise troop movements or their timing. General Lincoln spoke English, of course, but even though he was commander of all American forces, including the French and Haitians, D’Estaing was arrogant enough to command his French forces as he saw fit at any given moment. Often he did not even advise his own officers of his battle plans until the last moment.” He paused for a moment before concluding, “It required a great deal of diplomacy as well as language skills to communicate between the commanders. One of the general’s aides, Colonel Winston Marlowe, usually accompanied me when the communiqués were of great import, but the colonel spoke little French and no Polish at all, so I was forced to learn diplomacy without formal training.” I felt a smile wash through me, and it was likely that my own lips smiled broadly at Billy’s direction. What a strange life I was living! “Colonel Marlowe always reported back to General Lincoln that I comported myself very well, even though he usually had no idea what was being said or done.”
Feeling that his story was done, I replied, “It sounds as if you not only did your job very well, Billy, but also that you were developing some very powerful friends while at a very young age. You would doubtless have gone far if only you had…” my words faded away as I didn’t want to finish the thought.
“Lived,” Billy said matter-of-factly, then was silent.
After a while I asked in an effort to change the subject, “Billy, you seem to be starting your story here, at the American camp, when you had already achieved a role of some importance to the army and its commanders. You explained before how you came to join the army and were assigned to General McIntosh. How did you come to be in the service of General Lincoln and trusted so much after what must have been only a few days?”
“Ah, yes,” my ghostly friend answered, obviously distracted. There was a combination padlock on the door of the metal shed that for some reason had caught Billy’s attention. As he made my hands fiddle with the lock, twisting the dial this way and that, he started to complete the thought. “That is an interesting tale in itself. I almost drowned. Had it not been for…”
The back door to the house suddenly exploded opened and a large black man wielding a baseball bat rushed into the yard. He was barefooted but wore a Chatham Area Transit uniform with the shirt partially unbuttoned and revealing a wide chest that matched perfectly with his large, muscular arms and shoulders. He held the bat high over his head as he shouted, “What are you doing in my yard? Get away from my storage shed. There’s nothing in there worth getting your head busted over.”
As he rushed toward us I felt a new and terrifying sensation from my inhabitant. Billy quite suddenly disengaged from my spirit and rushed out of my body, creating the spectral vision all around the back yard of a heated battle, with combatants on both sides fighting hand to hand in smoke and haze, the roar of cannons in the background followed by shells exploding all around, and the crack of nearby muskets only yards away as I felt myself charging into the fray. I could feel musket balls and shrapnel tear at my skin and watched as friends around me were grotesquely torn to shreds by grape shot. A few steps away I could see the large homeowner who was accosting us. From the look of revulsion and fear on his face I was certain he was seeing and feeling the battle just as I was. While I was frozen in place, possibly at Billy’s behest, the man turned and ran back into his house, slamming the door loudly behind him. When he was gone the battle scene faded away and Billy slipped quietly back into my body and spirit.
Ghosts are always depicted as malevolent entities who are driven to frighten and possibly injure the living. I had not detected any evil intent within the spirit of Billy Buckland, but I now knew that such behavior was possible when he felt threatened. As we moved from the yard back into the alley I realized I was seeing all around me a strange overlay that included both the homes and streets of modern Savannah and the American army encampment of 1779.
I wasn’t sure what to say to Billy, even though I realized he probably knew my feelings as well as I did. We retraced our steps through the alley without speaking. I finally decided to break the silence by changing the subject.
“Billy, you were going to tell me story of how you came to be working for General Lincoln,” I suggested in a tone I hoped did not betray the slight fear I now felt of my inhabitant. While I am certain Billy recognized my feelings, he did not speak of it.
He was silent for several minutes, and left me with no impression of what he might be thinking. Finally he spoke, tentatively at first. “Ah, yes, the crossing.”
Several more minutes passed and he did not speak again. I could only assess his mood as sullen, but that term failed to convey the precise emotions I was feeling from him. Perhaps regret was closer to the emotion he was exuding.
“Regret!” he suddenly bellowed in my head. “Yes! That is it!”
My friend’s state of mind was distressing, but no less so was my own distress over the fact that he could immediately sense my every thought, every emotion. I had no privacy within my own mind and being. I certainly hope my wife and children never develop such abilities!
Billy spoke softly, “In the vernacular of your mortal emotions, I lost my temper back there. I am sorry. Just as you doubtless feel various discomforts with my inhabiting your spirit, I am wrestling with the reawakened reality of a corporeal body that can feel fear and pain and the need for self-protection. Early in
our association I felt in you a quite normal human fear of everything ghostly. You associate the ghost stories of your youth with only the evil those of us in the spirit world can inflict on mortal beings. All of those things you believe are certainly within our abilities…my abilities…but I have no desire to inflict them upon you or anyone else. You are my friend. You are helping me. I will endeavor never to frighten you again.” He was briefly silent once more before adding, “Perhaps we should return to apologize to the gentleman I frightened so badly in his own domicile.”
My thoughts went to the size of the man’s biceps and the length of the bat he was wielding, imagining his reaction if I simply walked up and knocked on his door. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said slowly. Billy assimilated my complete thought process and answered, “Yes, I can see that.”
“Now, Billy,” I said more brightly, “Why don’t you tell me the story before we are interrupted again.” We were traveling on the sidewalk adjacent to 37th Street once more, and had come to a large dwelling with a low stone fence next to the concrete walk. I sat down to rest my legs and said, “I’m listening.”
Ghosts of the Siege Page 9
