I felt my companion smile. He began, “As I began to explain earlier, I had only been with General McIntosh a few days when he received urgent orders from General Lincoln, who was in Charleston. Lincoln had received word that the French General Charles Comte D’Estaing, who was also an admiral, was off the coast of Savannah with an armada and nearly three thousand men. He was prepared to help the Americans retake Savannah, but time was short. His ships were in poor repair, having traveled through a violent storm on leaving Haiti, and, it being the hurricane season, one never knew when another storm could sweep them away from the coast.
“Lincoln’s orders were for General McIntosh to assemble his troops as quickly as possible and move south to meet Lincoln’s forces at Ebenezer, a small village about twenty-five miles north of Savannah. It would take some time and involve all of the general staff to assemble the scattered troops, especially the militia, but McIntosh needed to send an emissary back to intercept Lincoln on his march south and arrange for the two forces to meet. He had learned from Captain Boone of my woodsman skills, but was wary of my age and inexperience in military matters. It took some time – time that the general really did not have – but I was finally able to assuage his doubts about my abilities by explaining an extensive knowledge of the region’s geography that maps had no ability to impart.
“We studied his maps of the area and decided my best intercept course would be to ride as directly as possible southeast to Beaufort. Lincoln would be traveling almost due south to reach the town, which was a distance of about forty miles as the crow flies from Charles Town. My route from Augusta to Beaufort was twice that distance, but I would be traveling over good roads and marked trails, while General Lincoln would be directing his army through swamps and across inlets, slowing his rate of travel to a crawl.
“General Lincoln had planned his move to the south with information I did not possess. Heavy rains in the western mountains had swollen the already treacherous Broad River south of Beaufort to over two miles in width at his chosen crossing point. He chose to direct the army in a more westerly direction over ground that, while still swampy and slow, would not require a dangerous crossing over a river with almost impassable currents. His course would take him to Pocotaligo, a small settlement that was once a Yamassee Indian village and now had a small trading post with a few white settlers living among the Indians.
“The Yamassee harbored an intense enmity toward the British since their war with them in 1715, and were willing allies of the Colonials in their fight against the redcoats. I had no knowledge of these changes, of course, but as I neared Pocotaligo, which was on my route as well, I met a hunting party of Yamassee who were excited about a large force moving from the east toward their village. It required only a few questions to determine it could only be General Lincoln and his army. I accompanied the party back to the village and waited for Lincoln, who arrived that very night.”
“Lincoln was pleased to know that General McIntosh would be in Ebenezer within a few days, as he expected to be there about the same time. He spoke with me at length, with many questions about the size and preparedness of McIntosh’s force. For much of what he asked I did not know the answer, for the general was just beginning to gather the militia from outlying areas as I had left to find Lincoln. I did have an assessment of the regulars under McIntosh’s command, and something of his expectations for the militia, and Lincoln seemed impressed with my answers. He asked how I became associated with General McIntosh, and I explained a little of the introduction by Captain Boone, as well as my education and language skills. He was particularly interested in my language skills.”
“ ‘A Huguenot grandmother, you say? So your French is probably quite good and proper,’” he said to me. When I answered in the affirmative, he thought for a moment before saying, “ ‘Your skills are impressive for such a young man. I think I shall have need of your services during this campaign. Our force includes, along with Americans, many French, some Polish, a few Germans, and possibly those of other nationalities. You have at least some command of several European languages, and you have a head about you in speaking with commanders. I shall request your transfer from General McIntosh’s command. He will doubtless be sorry to lose one of your ability, but I have no doubt that your service to this campaign shall be invaluable.’”
Chapter 7
I stood to stretch just as one of the Savannah trolley tour buses passed by. For a few seconds I could hear the tour guide regaling the passengers about one of the many Savannah ghost stories. A few passengers waved as they passed, and I waved back, wondering what they would think if they knew the bus had just passed a real ghost ensconced in the body of someone as human as they were.
“Do you tire of my story?” Billy asked.
“No,” I answered quickly. “It’s fascinating. I’ve always enjoyed learning about history, but to learn it from one who experienced it first hand is both unique and wonderful. Keep going,” I implored.
“Let me show you something first,” my companion said. “The driver of the conveyance that just passed was telling the story of a ghost to the passengers. Something he said made me think there may be many such stories in this city. Is it so?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “Especially in the Historic District near the river, there is hardly a building or an alley that doesn’t have a ghost story associated with it.”
“Are the stories true?” Billy asked after a moment of thought.
“Who knows?” I answered. “Some are about real people who died ages ago, some are told by business or hotel workers who swear to have seen or heard apparitions as they go about their work. Some are doubtless just great stories made up to excite the tourists.”
I could feel what could only have been a smirk on the face of my passenger.
“I saw a ghost one time, back when I was living. I even spoke to her. Would you like to see where it happened? It’s not far. Perhaps she is still there and I can speak to her again.”
Without waiting for an answer, Billy directed me to walk west once more along 37th Street. What a situation! I was inhabited by a ghost, walking down a busy Savannah street trying to find another ghost in hopes of renewing a conversation that started in 1779 before my ghost was a ghost. Such an incredible story! Not for the first time since meeting my new friend, I wished I was a writer.
I sighed with relief as we continued past the area in which we had terrorized the CAT worker in his own back yard. We continued west until reaching Montgomery Street. Billy stopped me for a moment, possibly perplexed with the traffic pattern at the busy intersection or remembering earlier encounters with modern-day traffic. Finally we turned north and walked about four blocks before he stopped me once more and gazed wistfully toward the center of the street. It was only with great restraint that I could keep him from walking us into the heavy traffic.
Finally he directed me to point at a manhole cover in the center of the street. “Is that a well?” he asked.
I answered that it was not, and briefly explained the underground system of man-made tunnels that served as drains and conduits for other utilities beneath the city.
“It was just there,” he said, continuing to point at the steel cover, “and it was a well.” He looked away from the street in the direction from which we had come. “The western edge of our camp was there, perhaps a fourth of a mile in that direction. We carried water from a well over twice that distance to the east of here, between our camp and that of the French. It would have been a convenience if we had included this well within the perimeter of our camp, but to a man, neither the militia nor the regulars would move any closer to the well than the camp edge they had established. A ghost, they said, inhabited the place and threatened all who came too close. The Indians we lived near back in Carolina believed in spirits and places that were haunted by spirits, but they told me it was possible to speak with their spirits if one projected bravery and a pure heart on approaching the haunted places. I had never actually seen
a spirit, and wanted to, so I assumed my bravest face and walked to the well.
“I came upon a clearing that was partly grown up in bushes and tall grass. There was an old stone foundation of a house and some decayed, burned wood that suggested the house had burned down in the distant past. The well was not far from the ruins of the house, and was ringed in a low wall of stones similar to those of the foundation. Two heavy oak posts still stood on either side of the stone circle, with a strong hewn crosspiece still joining them. My bravery must have been something less than complete, for as I approached the well I was trembling. I stopped some ten feet before reaching the stone wall and stood perfectly still, staring just over the edge into the well itself. There was not a sound around me…not the chirp of a bird or the rustle of grass in the wind. The silence seemed to close around me, and suddenly I could see the ghost.
“It was a little girl. She was much younger than me, at least would have been in life, perhaps four or five years old. That she was not of earthly substance I could see clearly, for even though I could look at the apparition, I could also see through her. She sat on the edge of the stone ring, wearing a grey homespun dress and smiling the innocent smile of a child, revealing slightly spaced white teeth. Suddenly she leaned backward, screamed, and fell into the well. I rushed to the edge, hearing the scream echo down into the depths, and was about to lean down into the mouth of the well when a hand grabbed my shoulder and roughly jerked me back. ‘I thought you might do something stupid like this,’ a gruff voice said as the hand pulled me back several steps from the well. I looked into the face of a grizzled old man whom I had seen in the militia back in Augusta. ‘Now stand here and watch the well,” he growled.
I did as he commanded, and in a short time, the little girl appeared once more, sitting on the stones and smiling as before. We watched, and again just as before, she leaned back and screamed as she fell into the depths.
“I looked at the old man as he spoke in a gravely voice, ‘Me and Riley and Simkins, we was the first to come here lookin’ for water. We seen the little girl, seen her fall and heard her scream. Riley, he ran to the well and leaned way over the edge. The well, it seemed to try to suck him right in. He was about to fall when Simpkins grabbed his boots an’ tried to pull him out. Whatever it was down there kept pullin’ on the both ‘till Simpkins was double over and about to fall his’self. I grabbed Simpkins’ legs, bein’ careful not to look into the well, and finally was able to pull him out. He had held onto Riley somehow, so I got ‘em both and pulled ‘em over yonder away from the well.
‘Simkins, he was pale and shaking, and his eyes was big and kind of red lookin’. Riley was in a real bad way. He was white as a sheet, shakin’ all over but otherwise not movin’ at all. I left ‘em both there and hurried back to the camp to get some help bringin’ ‘em back to the surgeon. After tellin’ the story I couldn’t get no one to help me ‘till Captain Jennings ordered an entire company to come with me, muskets primed and ready. I laughed to myself, but didn’t let on to them. All them guns wasn’t gonna’ do no good against a ghost! They came to help, anyways, and we got Riley and Simkins back to the surgeon’s tent. Far as I know they is still there, still pasty white and shakin’. I promised myself I’d never come near this place again, but then I seen you…just a dumb kid…about to get his’self in a bad way, so I come to help.’
“Without another word, the old man turned and hurried away. He didn’t even tell me his name. I supposed I could find him later and properly thank him for his assistance.
“I turned back to the well to find the little girl once more on the stone wall. This time she seemed to be watching me curiously, not smiling as before, but not looking malicious in any way. I approached a couple of steps and she remained. ‘Did you fall into the well and drown?’ I asked. She sat watching me for a long moment, and seemed to be fading in and out of existence. Finally her form settled into what I thought to be its most substantial vestige of being. She did not speak, but nodded in answer to my question.
“After watching for a few more minutes I asked, ‘Can you tell me your name?’
“This time she did not fade, but looked perplexed, as if considering the possibility of speaking to me. After a long silence, I saw her lips move, but heard no sound. Only seconds later I heard within my head a faint echo of sound. It was as insubstantial as the apparition at first, but finally materialized into a whisper. ‘My name is Shania,’ she said, then, ‘I like you.’ Suddenly she screamed and fell back into the well. I waited for perhaps half an hour, but she never returned.”
I had the distinct impression that Billy was waiting for some kind of confirmation from me that I believed his story, but I was speechless. I stared for a long time at the manhole cover in the middle of the street, half expecting to see a ghostly vision shoot up through a vent hole and mingle with the traffic. It didn’t happen, so I finally said, “Wow, Billy, that was quite a ghost story. If I ever tell anyone about you, I’ll be sure to include that story in the telling. Savannah has many ghost stories, but none to my knowledge has ever been told by an actual ghost about seeing and speaking with another ghost!”
Billy was smiling. Actually, I was the one smiling, and apparently in such a goofy manner that I was attracting attention from drivers and passengers in the cars that were racing by. I suddenly realized that the volume of traffic was due to rush hour. It was late afternoon. Billy and I had walked and talked through the day. Having missed lunch, I was hungry, my legs were tired, and I was many blocks from my van. Billy sensed my discomfort and suggested we had accomplished enough for one day. He quietly and painlessly disengaged from me and suggested we meet an hour before dawn in the morning. I countered with the idea that if it was actually before dawn then, in my mind at least, it was not yet tomorrow morning. I suggested nine o’clock. Billy bristled at the thought of such a slackerdly idea. “It will waste much valuable time,” he growled, “but if you insist, that is what we shall do.”
He disappeared into a place or dimension I did not even hazard to define. Having no desire to walk the miles back to my van, I spied a bus stop not far away and hustled toward it. Savannah has a great city bus system, the Chatham Area Transit, or CAT buses transport thousands of passengers throughout the downtown area at no fee. Perhaps the driver of my bus would turn out to be the gentleman to which Billy and I had given such a fright earlier in the day, and I would have a chance to apologize to him. On second thought, he might be inclined to throw me off of the bus, so I hoped my driver did not turn out to be him.
Chapter 8
We met the next day at mid-morning, as Billy disgustedly referred to it, on the parking lot of the Savannah Visitors Center. I had been lucky enough to find a parking spot a block away on Turner Street and found my friend hovering over the spot on the parking lot where he had indicated General Pulaski had fallen. Since it was daylight, I could not see him, but in the time I had known the apparition, I had learned to sense his presence. I stood silently beside him for several minutes. The evening had allowed me to become re-accustomed to being my own man in the several hours the ghost had been disengaged from me, and I experienced minutes of discomfort as he engaged with my being once more. As soon as his spirit was securely ensconced within my own, I realized I was crying.
“I am sorry,” Billy said immediately. “I was lamenting the loss of my friend. I became very close to General Pulaski. He treated me as if I were his son. I thought of him, not as a father figure, but as the big brother I never had. He taught me much of military protocol and much more of the Polish language that I had known. At the same time he was very interested in my upbringing in the ‘savage mountains,’ of Carolina, as he called them.”
“How did you come to know Pulaski?” I asked. “And for that matter, you were telling me yesterday the story of how you came to be so trusted by General Lincoln…and how you almost drowned. Can you continue that story as well.”
Billy was suddenly excited. “It is all the same story!” he
gushed. “The crossing, General Lincoln, Count Pulaski…it all happened in one glorious and terrifying moment.”
His excitement was contagious. “I can’t wait to hear it,” I said. There was an unoccupied bench nearby, just outside the visitor’s center where tourists wait to board the Savannah Historic District tour busses. I walked in that direction and quickly sat down, anxious to hear the story.
“General Lincoln had ordered General McIntosh to meet him in Ebenezer, which is on the Georgia side of the Savannah River about twenty-five miles north of the city of Savannah.” Billy began. “Lincoln was marching his own force southward on the Carolina side of the river to Zubly’s Ferry, which is only a few miles south of Ebenezer. The river was quite swollen from recent rains, just as had been the Broad River to the north. Lincoln had ordered General McIntosh to bring boats down from Augusta, with which he hoped to facilitate a safe crossing, but when we arrived on September eleventh, McIntosh had not yet arrived. We found an old flatboat in some disrepair and a decrepit old log raft, neither of which appeared to be strong enough for a river crossing.
“The old flat was patched up to a point that it floated well enough to hold a couple of horses and a few troops. General Lincoln dispatched Count Pulaski and part of his cavalry to cross the river and reconnoiter Ebenezer. I had not met the Count at that point, but was beside General Lincoln when he arrived at the river, and was awestricken when he rode up on a magnificent bay gelding in a resplendent uniform of red and blue, with gold braid on both shoulders and highly polished brass buttons. General Lincoln, while always maintaining a well groomed and professional soldier appearance, looked positively shabby standing next to the Count.
“He listened to General Lincoln’s orders, then spoke a few words of halting English as acknowledgement before looking at me and nodding a simple greeting. My tongue may well have been cut out, for all I could do in response was stammer. The Count smiled at me, but the smile quickly disappeared as he looked at the river and the ungainly craft on which he was to cross it. He mumbled a few words of Polish, which General Lincoln did not understand, but I did. It was a short prayer to God for a safe crossing and a brief admonishment of Lincoln for risking his cavalry in such a way. My tongue loosened and I answered, in Polish, “I pray for you as well, sir, and for your men.”
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