“I suddenly remembered a story of similar terror told to me by my father on the eve of my departure to join the militia. General Pulaski did not seem inclined to speak any more, so I said to him, ‘My father told me a story of how he met a spirit in the Carolina Mountains long ago. He is a brave man, my father, and I remember being shocked to see the distress and even fear in his eyes as he told me of the event many years after it happened. The look on his face was not so dissimilar to that I now see on your own.’ As I spoke a slight spark of interest began to glow in Pulaski’s eyes. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged me.
“‘Father was traveling with a Cherokee hunting party deep in the mountains of Carolina. They were moving northward along the banks of a stream with mountains on either side so tall as to block their path from the sun even though it was early afternoon. There was a fork in the stream at one point where the water divided almost evenly into two streams, one continuing to the north and the other angling to the west. It was the usual habit of this group of eight men to divide into two groups, with one of the groups scouting the stream branch for game while the other continued on. Father said they had done this many times since he had joined the party. In this case, however, the entirety of the party continued along their northern route, and my father said none of the Indians even glanced toward the water flowing to the west. Only a few steps after passing the branch, the group stopped and began to build a fire, as if they might be making camp for the night. Always a curious man, father asked why they were stopping so early in the day. One of the Indians pointed back toward the stream branch, without raising his eyes to look in that direction, and said, ‘Spirit cave…no good.’ Picking up a small branch, he made a sign for evil in the dirt and moved away to help with the fire.’
“I could tell I had the Count’s attention now. He did not speak, but his eyes were bright and questioning, and he was sitting straighter, his back stiff against the tree with the posture of the military leader he was. I continued, ‘The Indians were not camping for the night. They built their fire according to very specific guidelines and performed a ritual to cleanse their spirits after passing so close to an evil so great it frightened even brave Cherokee warriors. The ceremony required about an hour, and when it was finished the entire party seemed more relaxed, talking and laughing among themselves, but always careful not to look down the path toward the stream branch. Father’s curiosity would not be contained. He asked the leader to tell him what it was that produced such great fear among warriors so brave as the Cherokee. He said the group of Indians bristled at the suggestion that they were afraid, but did not object too much.’ I observed the slightest hint of a smile from General Pulaski as he identified with their feelings. ‘Father wanted to see this evil thing,’ I continued, ‘and after much arguing convinced the Indians that since he was a white man the evil probably would have no effect on him. He suggested that it might even be to the Cherokees’ benefit if he could intercede with this malevolence and make it go away, possibly to haunt their enemies. Finally the Indians agreed to show him the way. One warrior was assigned to guide Father to the spirit cave. Father noted that, even though his guide was one of the older members of the party, a veteran warrior who bore the scars of battle and of the tough life of an Indian, he was notably shaken at the prospect of traveling to the spirit cave.
“‘The remainder of the hunting party did not even look as Father and his guide made the turn at the stream branch and disappeared around the bend of the mountain, but hurried on their way to distance themselves from the evil. The day had been clear as the party had moved on their mission, but after only a few yards along the stream branch, a fine mist began to surround the two men on their quest for the evil place. More and more dense became the mist, until nothing could be seen beyond the narrow path at their feet. After walking what Father estimated to be half of a mile, the guide stopped. Father looked all around, but could see nothing through the fog. There was no sound…no birds, no wind, no scavenging animals scurrying along the ground. Even the brook beside which they had been walking, which had been babbling along as mountain streams do, was still and silent in this place. Whatever else this evil was, Father thought, it was one that reveled in silence. The Indian guide pointed across the stream and up the mountain on the opposite side. Father looked, but could see nothing. The guide then pointed to the stream at their feet. A stone protruded through the still water, and through the mist Father could see the faint outline of another. His guide then pointed back toward the mountain across the stream. ‘Cave there,’ he said, then, ‘I go no farther.’ Without another word the Indian turned and hurried back along the path to join the safety of the hunting party. Father was left alone, and he wondered if his guide would find need of stopping for another cleansing ceremony before he joined his group.
“‘He found that stones were placed evenly across the eerily still stream, allowing him to walk across without water touching his moccasins. From the stream’s edge a steep and narrow trail led up the mountain, often so narrow that Father had to hold to stones protruding from the mountain to keep from falling into the void of fog below the path. He had no sense of height due to the dense fog, but after half an hour of climbing the narrow trace widened into a shelf several yards in width. Staying near the mountainside because of limited visibility, he walked only a few steps more before finding the entrance to a cave. He described the entrance as a very narrow one between two boulders that required him to enter by squeezing sideways through the opening.’ I looked at the general to make certain he was paying full attention to what I said next. ‘When Father entered the cave, he said he was suddenly very cold, but he described the cold as one which formed within his heart and his bones, not one that could be held at bay by a thick blanket.’ Count Pulaski’s eyes widened in full understanding as he nodded his head in agreement.
“His great interest encouraged me to continue, ‘Father lit a torch and entered the cave. He described it to me as the coldest place on earth, even though it was only a few feet from the warmer outside air. ‘It was not an earthly cold,’ Father told me. The cave was small, perhaps twenty feet wide and half again that much in depth. The walls were smooth, as if polished by human hands, except for the center of the back wall. At that center point was a chair hewn into the stone wall. Above the chair was writing, of a language that Father did not know. He moved carefully around the room for many minutes, examining each wall, each corner with great care. After studying the room as carefully as he knew how, he took a seat in the chair carved into the wall. For a few seconds nothing happened, then the room before him began to blur. Wavy lines, as if a mirage in a hot desert, engulfed the room before him, and he described the chair feeling as if it were falling backward through the wall and into a gulf that seemed to descend forever into a deep abyss.
“‘The sense of falling finally ceased, and Father found himself sitting in the same chair facing an image of stone houses carved into the steep rock wall of a deep rift in the earth that seemed to extend forever in the distance. There was enough light for him to see, but the vision was clouded in mist that made it impossible to see with any clarity anything around him. In the foreground dark figures were moving about. They seemed as clouds, he described, until one would occasionally glance at him with red, fiery eyes that seemed to communicate great menace even from a distance. The sense of unreality, of mirage, seemed to stay with him in this environment. Shadowy figures, and even the stone buildings in the distance, seemed to disappear without warning, then reappear in different locations minutes later. When he stood, Father kept one hand on the arm of the stone chair for fear that it would disappear if he let go. He stood with a great sense of unease in what was a strange world to him until suddenly a group of the shadowy figures raced toward him. He described them as having terrifying faces that might be demons, and screamed at him that death was imminent and that they would have his soul.’
“‘The Count was standing and beginning to pace with an excitement that pleased me. �
��It is so similar to that I encountered,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘It must be the same evil…but many of the creatures in place of my one? Your father is an exceptionally brave man.’
“I continued the story, ‘Father is a brave man, but just as you were, he found himself paralyzed with fear as the demons rushed him. He tried to back away, but with only the chair and the stone wall behind him, all he accomplished was to fall back into the chair. As he did, one of the creatures grabbed onto the chair arm. As had happened before, the chair fell backward into a great void, and Father found himself falling endlessly through space, this time with a red-eyed demon at his side snarling and threatening him with death. When the falling ceased, the two of them were back in the cave which Father had first entered. He leapt from the chair and ran to the opening, the evil spirit close behind him. At the cave mouth he found a thick branch and picked it up to brandish at the creature to no avail. A sudden thought occurred, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve an ancient Roman coin Grandfather had given him. He held out the coin, and the demon immediately ceased to growl and retreated back into the cave.’ Pulaski looked at me with questions when I mentioned the coin, but I thought it was not the right time to inject another story into the one I was telling him. ‘Father was thinking of how he might trap the evil spirit as he moved out of the cave and onto the shelf outside. Boulders were strewn on the mountainside above the entrance, and he wondered if it might be possible to seal the opening and trap the evil inside. He described it to me as a simple matter, although it probably was not, to climb above the cave and dislodge several boulders, causing a landslide that covered the cave opening as if it had never been there.
“‘There was no way to know if spirits, evil or otherwise, could be trapped by stone or earth, but Father hoped it was so. He sat on the ledge for several hours waiting, he said, for his heart to cease its attempt to leap from his chest. At last he climbed down the mountain. The mist was gone, and birds and other small forest animals were flitting around about their daily business. When he reached the stream, the ominous stillness had disappeared, replaced by the happy sound of a mountain brook babbling on its way.’
“I stared intently at the Count and found him to be gazing into my own eyes. ‘I am just a boy,’ I said to him, ‘but I grew up in the mountains with tough men and with Indians, all of whom often wandered in far places and told me of their journeys. Many had stories of seeing unexplainable things in the sky, or of wandering into extreme cold in the middle of a desert where all else was hot, or of seeing shadows or glimpses of fleeting terrible images that brought sudden chills. I myself have felt the discomfort, when walking in the woods alone, of feeling that someone or something was following me, watching me with evil intent, but no amount of exploration of my surroundings found any indication of such a stalker. There is evil in this world, my general. You have seen it closer than most. But you need not fear of its taking of your soul. My father found a way to defeat the evil on his mountain, so you will find a way to defeat the evil spirit you have faced.’
“General Pulaski was silent for a long time, appearing both hopeful and pensive. Finally, he walked to me and placed both hands upon my shoulders. ‘So young,’ he said with admiration, ‘and yet so filled with wisdom. You are right, of course. I have defeated evil men in battle, men who were doubtless filled with evil spirits as vile as the one I faced tonight. All I need do is devise a way to defeat the spirit directly, before it has the chance to inflict its malevolence against me or my men. Fear had clouded my judgment and I had not considered that. You, Master William, have been my guide and my mentor! You, Brevet Colonel Buckland, have saved me from a melancholy of my own devising, and have set me upon a road to victory!’ He surprised me by coming to full attention and giving me a proper military salute, as if to a superior officer, and said, ‘I am forever in your debt, sir.’
“Before I could speak the Count mounted his horse and galloped off in the direction from which he had come. I sat upon the ground, stunned, and all thoughts of sleep were gone from my mind. In the distance I could hear the camp cooks banging their pots together in a manner suggesting they might be early about their business of preparing a meal for the army. Leaving my horse and belongings, I moved in their direction in hopes of a bit of hard biscuit or perhaps a thick slice of salt pork to break my fast.
Chapter 13
A thought suddenly entered my head. I looked at my watch and said with some excitement, “Billy this is a great story, worthy of being recorded as one of Savannah’s wonderful ghost stories. It made me think you might enjoy taking a ghost walk tour of downtown Savannah.”
Of course my friend looked at me quizzically, not understanding the concept of a ‘ghost walk,’ which was a staple of tourist entertainment in the city.
“Savannah is a very famous city,” I began to explain. “For entertainment or vacation, tourists come to Savannah throughout the year for a day or two, or sometimes for a week or more. They visit our parks, squares and ancient cemeteries, visit the shops along River Street and throughout the Historic District, sample our food, nightlife and southern hospitality. There is much of interest in the city to bring visitors from all over the world. One of our most famous attractions for tourists is called the ghost walk. Actually there are several of them, operated by a number of private companies.”
Billy was interested in these details, which could have come straight from a chamber of commerce brochure, but I had not yet explained the mechanics of a ghost walk. “A ghost walk is simply a walking tour of the Historic District, led by a guide who knows the history and details of the area very well, and who can describe, sometimes with great drama and embellishment, where ghosts have been detected. The tours always suggest that visitors watch carefully, for ghosts are sometimes encountered by the tour groups.”
“Have you ever joined one of these tours?” Billy asked. Without waiting for an answer he continued to question, “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“Well of course I have seen a ghost!” I quickly responded, laughing in the process. “But I have never been on a ghost walk. It’s strange that the people who actually live in interesting cities often never visit those interesting places that are so nearby. Before meeting you, I had never been to Battlefield Park, where the Spring Hill Redoubt was discovered. Out near Tybee Island there is an old fort called Fort Pulaski. I’ve never been there, either. It’s a shame, now that I think about it.”
“There is a fort named after my friend, Count Pulaski?” Billy asked with excitement.
I tried to turn the subject back to the ghost walk. “These walking tours always start after dark, which it is now.” Looking at my watch again, I continued, “I can probably reserve us a place for one leaving soon if you are interested. No promises about seeing any ghosts, unless you look in a mirror.”
Billy was interested, both in the tour and in taking a break from his story of the battle. I called and made a reservation for one, assuming Billy would gain more from the tour if he was within me and could feel any skepticism, or possibly terror, that I felt as the tour guide took us through ghostly alleys and buildings.
The tour began in the lobby of a hotel on Bay Street. Our guide was an energetic young lady in her mid-twenties, dressed in what I assumed to be eighteenth century goth apparel, complete with black lipstick, eye makeup and fingernails. She spoke in low tones as if telling ghost stories around a campfire as she warned us not to follow her into the spiritual bowels of the haunted city if we had heart disease, brain damage, explosive flatulence, or any number of other maladies that might make the tour uncomfortable for ourselves or others. No one left the group.
The tour lasted an hour and a half, and covered much of the Historic District. Our guide proved to be both engaging and interesting as she led us through dark alleys, down narrow stairs into the basement of an ancient building, and along streets which, during the day, were filled with happy tourist traffic, laughter, and commerce. In the dark of night, however, and desc
ribed in the hushed, ominous tones of our leader, the streets were at the very least unsettling, bordering on frightening. Occasionally we passed an alley, down which many people walked during the day with no thought of fear. At night, during this tour, however, a mere glance into the stygian darkness of the alley brought certain knowledge of terror into the hearts of everyone in the group.
Everyone except Billy, of course. My friend proved to be far more interested in the tour than I could have imagined. At our first stop on the tour, where the guide pointed to a third floor window of an old building on Bay Street and told us many Savannah residents had seen ghosts in that window and heard unnatural sounds emanating from the building, Billy departed my body and disappeared through the window. It was dark and at his election no one could see him except me. The guide droned on describing individual accounts of ghost sightings in this place, dating back to the Civil War, and after a few minutes Billy reappeared and stood beside me, still invisible to everyone else. “No spirits in there,” he whispered.
Soon we moved on to the next haunted place. At each stop Billy would test the veracity of the guide’s story by entering the structure, alley, or in one case, boat, to search for ghosts. His reports were all negative until we reached the seventh stop on the tour. At the corner of Bull and Bryant Streets, our group was standing before a bank and listening with rapt attention while the tour guide was telling a story about a little girl named Gracie. Gracie had died of pneumonia at age six in 1889. While we listened, Billy disappeared inside the building for several minutes before reappearing and leaping into my body with a rush of excitement.
“There is an actual ghost inside this structure!” he exploded with unrestrained exuberance. I could tell it was going to be difficult to listen to his tale without reacting in some way that might disturb the other members of the tour, so I moved to the back of the group. “The spirit is that of a little girl named Gracie who has been here since a previous building on this corner was a hotel. Gracie used to hide under a staircase in the hotel and play while her parents entertained guests. After she died, she occasionally showed herself to guests in the hotel, and many more have heard her playing while not actually seeing her spirit. The old hotel was later demolished and this structure replaced it, but customers still report hearing her playing in the area of the old staircase. This is the first real spirit the guide has shown us!” he virtually shouted inside my head. I reflexively put my hands over my ears, and was glad I was in the back of the group so no one would notice the odd movement.
Ghosts of the Siege Page 15
