Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  “When we were about fifty yards from the Spring Hill Redoubt I heard a cheer go up in that direction. Straining to see through the fog and smoke, I saw the French flag and the colors of Dillon’s Irish Regiment go up on the redoubt. I knew Dillon had commanded the French right column and assumed that he had been able to break through the confusion and take the redoubt. I started to raise my hand in triumph and cheer the victory when, suddenly, the flag vanished. Seconds later it appeared through the smoke once more, wavered, leaned far to one side, stood erect and proud for another few seconds, then fell. I watched intently for several minutes, but the flag never reappeared.

  “Suddenly there were screams and curses behind me. I turned to see General Pulaski’s cavalry tearing our line in half as they charged the British cannons. The Count himself led the charge. I had not thought of it until that very moment, but I remembered from the original battle plan that General Pulaski had been assigned to charge through the abatis and into the British trenches between the redoubts only after the Spring Hill Redoubt had been taken. Doubtless, he had seen the flag go up at Spring Hill and assuming the French had prevailed, had mounted his charge as ordered through the fog. The American column was expected to be assailing the Carolina Redoubt a hundred yards to the north, and Pulaski had no reason to expect them to be in the way of his charge.

  “There was great confusion as the cavalry tore into our line, pushing a portion of the column toward the British line and becoming entangled in the abatis. I could see horses rearing and crushing soldiers on the ground with their hooves. Some of those still mounted were about to break through the British line when General Pulaski tensed seconds before falling from his mount.

  “I glanced at General McIntosh and saw him looking at the melee with shock registering on his face. He shouted a few words to Colonel Laurens before turning to run down the column to deal with the cavalry’s interruption of the charge. At the same time Colonel Laurens was waving the troops forward and shouting for the charge to continue toward the Spring Hill Redoubt. We had reached the abatis, and were attempting to tear through it to reach the trench.”

  Billy had been speaking quickly and more excitedly as the story went on, but suddenly stopped as if to take a deep breath, at least in the spirit sense.

  After a long moment he began once more, this time slowly and in a more reserved tone. “Remember, while all this was happening…the column charge to the redoubt, the chaos of the cavalry charge breaking through the column, General Pulaski shot from his mount…the British cannons were still cutting us down at an incredible rate. The constant roar and the smoke from the guns, the tenacious fog that engulfed us, and the riotous writhing of men and horses as they sought to disentangle themselves in the face of the guns all conspired to make the moment more surreal than any scene from the Inferno of Dante Alighieri. As the shock of seeing my friend, General Pulaski, wounded and on the ground, I moved away from the fighting at the abatis and hurried toward my fallen friend. As I looked down our column, I expected to find few, if any, still charging toward the redoubt. I was surprised to find the column still at half strength, at least, and moving briskly along in the charge. Many of the brave men still had fire in their eyes, apparently unmoved by the death, destruction, and mayhem surrounding them, but intent on their target in the near distance.

  “I found the Count, wounded and bleeding profusely from a wound in his upper thigh. He was pale from blood loss when I grasped his hand, but his eyes opened at my touch and he offered a weak smile as he looked into my face. ‘Brevet Colonel Buckland, my very good friend,’ he whispered. ‘I am so very happy to see you.’ Two other dismounted cavalrymen from his legion arrived and made ready to drag their general away from the intense fighting, but he stayed them with his free hand. He reached into an interior pocket of his uniform jacket with the same hand to retrieve something. Holding it out to me, I could see it was the Roman coin I had given him before the battle. ‘Take it,’ he whispered. I had to lean in close to hear the rest. ‘Take it, and thank you for being such a good friend…such a good mlodszy brat.’”

  Not waiting for my question, Billy looked at me and explained, “That is Polish for little brother. It was the greatest of compliments. The Count had considered me, an American country boy from the hill country, as part of his royal family.” Billy was his own entity at that moment, not within my body, but he delivered the line with such emotion of caring and loss, that I felt tears running down my cheeks.

  “I tried to pull my hand away, not wanting to take the coin from him. ‘This coin will save you from the evil you faced near this spot last night. It will protect your spirit, just as it did that of my father in the Carolina Mountains.’ I said.

  “As he grabbed my hand I could tell the general’s strength was waning. He held my wrist with one hand while shoving the coin into my palm and closing my fingers around it. ‘You have already saved me, my friend,’ he said. ‘I glimpsed the evil as I led the charge. It fled in fear of the coin.’ He smiled weakly, his grip loosening from my wrist. ‘I may die today, but my soul is freed from evil, Brevet Colonel Buck…’

  “General Pulaski stopped speaking and, as far as I could tell, ceased to breath.” Billy looked through the north wall of the museum toward the parking lot where he had first shown me the spot where Pulaski had fallen. “His cavalrymen carried him down the hill away from the battle, and I never saw him again. I stayed on my knees at the spot from which he was carried for what may have been a long time, deafened and oblivious to the terror going on around me. I have vague remembrance of staring at the Roman coin in my palm, and of replacing it into the leather pouch I still wore around my neck.

  “Suddenly, rough hands grabbed my shoulders and jerked me to a standing position. I took me a moment to recognize Clinton Dodge. ‘Billy!’ he was shouting at me. I think what awakened me from my stupor was the fact that he had never before called me by my first name, as if we might be friends. I looked dumbly at him for a long moment as he continued to shout, ‘Billy! We’re attacking the other redoubt! Come on. Run behind me and I’ll protect you!’

  “He stood patiently amid the mayhem until I gained my senses and began to run along, first behind him, then beside him, toward the Spring Hill Redoubt. As I thought of General Pulaski, tears of rage began burning trails down my cheeks. I tripped over the body of a fallen militiaman and bent over while still running to retrieve his musket. I raised the weapon toward the enemy and screamed what must have seemed to be a maniacal battle cry as I quickened my pace toward the enemy. A glance to my left showed Clinton Dodge to be there, protecting my flank from the enemy guns. I nodded to him, a gesture of thanks, and was looking his way as he stumbled, his left leg disappearing in a cloud of blood as his eyes assumed a look of astonishment. I saw him fall, and took no more than two steps toward the abatis before I felt a hammer impact my right shoulder. I looked down and had no more than a second to recognize the wound as that from a musket ball when my entire body was ripped to pieces by an onslaught of grapeshot.”

  Billy had moved about the room as he had told the story, but as he reached the tragic end, he was standing on the very spot he had earlier told me was the place on the battlefield where he fell. “It was here,” he said slowly, looking down at the spot. After a moment of silence he added, “I remember no more.”

  Chapter 17

  Billy’s story had lasted far into the night, and I was so enthralled with his details of the battle and events leading to it that I had not considered the time until he completed the tale with such finality. He stood upon the spot of his death with such a forlorn countenance (As I write this I suddenly realize how much my own language skills have improved just from listening to my ghostly friend speak). Rather than offer words of comfort and condolence, which would have been the proper thing to do, I looked at my watch and was shocked to realize the lateness of the hour. My family would be worried. Through whatever spiritual hocus pocus Billy could access, he quickly realized my worry and snapped
out of his lassitude. “I have kept you far too long,” he said with great sincerity. “You must go to your family immediately.” We made our way through the museum to the main door of the center only to find a Metro Police car parked just outside. A single police officer sat in the vehicle, and we could see he was occupied with something on the computer screen affixed to the center dashboard. I waited impatiently for several minutes, but found the officer did not seem inclined to move away anytime soon. I looked at Billy, who was fading in and out of focus ever so slightly, a sign I had learned meant he was thinking or considering some situation.

  “This is the police authority in your city?” he asked. When I nodded, he asked again, “You cannot leave because he will incarcerate you for being in this building illegally?” I nodded once more, and was surprised when my friend assumed an impish grin. “I can solve this problem for you,” he said, and immediately passed through the door to the parking lot.

  Seconds later Billy appeared on the hood of the police car. I could see the officer clearly through the door as he typed something onto his keyboard and continued to stare intently at the computer screen. He raised his head for a moment and rubbed at his neck as if massaging a muscle cramp, then looked down as if he had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. Only a second passed before he jerked his head up to stare at the diaphanous form that appeared to sit on the hood of his patrol car. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the officer move his head from side to side in order to look at the image from different angles. Billy suddenly disappeared, but the man kept staring through the windshield. After perhaps ten seconds Billy popped back into vision again with such suddenness that the unsuspecting policeman jerked violently in his seat, slamming his head into the roof of the car. He opened the door and shot from the car, unsnapping his holster and drawing his pistol at the same time. What good he thought a pistol would do against a ghost I had no idea, but I was enjoying the show. I backed up a few steps into the darkness for fear he would see me, but his attention was riveted on the ghostly image before him. The young man couldn’t have been more that twenty-five years old, and I wondered if he had ever drawn his weapon in the line of duty before.

  “Hold it right there!” the patrolman demanded as he pointed his weapon at Billy. The pistol was visibly shaking in his hand, and I had to stifle an outright laugh. I should have felt at least some compassion for the man, for I had experienced much the same fear and disbelief the first time I had encountered a ghost…this ghost. Billy disappeared from sight once more, but the officer remained at attention with his weapon still raised. After a moment he lowered his arm and relaxed a bit, but continued to stare at the hood of his car. Billy must have materialized at the front corner of the building, a few steps from MLK Boulevard. From my position inside I could not see him, but the officer’s head snapped in that direction and he raised his weapon once more. Suddenly, I saw the ghostly visage race toward the police car, pass through it in a manner that left no doubt as to its lack of earthly substance, and race across the parking lot toward Turner House.

  The young patrolman kept his eye on the fleeing image as he leapt into the car and turned the ignition switch. A loud grinding sound emanated from the front of the car, announcing that the engine was already running. He fumbled nervously at the gear shift arm, finally moving it into drive, and lurched to a start as he raced across the empty lot to chase the ghost. I finally did laugh out loud when he flipped on his flashing blue lights for the chase. This was my cue to leave. I exited the building and moved away toward my truck, hoping Billy would lead the policeman far enough afield that I would not encounter him on my way home.

  My wife is a very understanding woman, but not one given to whimsy or flights of fantasy. We lead a remarkably dull but happy life, and trust each other implicitly, so lying to her or concocting fanciful tales is not part of my character. On the other hand, there is no way this lovely woman would ever believe my ghost story. She would immediately consider it a prevarication, and would wonder what I had really been up to. As I drove home I devised an elaborate story of vandals and burst pipes and flooding in a downtown area that was prone to such events, and in the end convinced her that only emergency and sheer necessity would keep me away so late. I felt bad about the lie, but the strange circumstances of the last few days made it much more believable than the truth. My wife’s only question was, “Why didn’t you call?”

  Billy and I had made no plans to meet the next day, so I was surprised on leaving my house to find him sitting in the passenger seat of my truck. He passed through the door as I was exiting the house and met me with a broad grin on his face.

  “Were you pleased with my diversion last evening?” he asked.

  I began to laugh as I remembered the poor young policeman with the shaking gun. “Yes, Billy,” I answered. “It was a great diversion. I only hope the patrolman survived with his wits and his career unscathed. I can only wonder what kind of report he made of the incident.”

  Billy laughed himself, saying, “As he chased me, he also called other policemen to join him. By the time I reached the river, there were four police cars behind me. Even in my day, people were thought peculiar when they told tales of ghostly encounters. I did not wish to be the source of problems with his peers for the young policeman, so I made myself visible to all of them. They chased me down River Street past the shop where we tried ice cream and the one in which we discovered the replica of my skull. I disappeared into that shop, which was closed and locked for the night. The policemen paced outside, uncertain of what to do. I materialized on a balcony above the shop and faded in and out of view as I do so they would be certain of my ghostly nature. Finally I disappeared from view, but stayed in place to watch their reaction. They argued among themselves about whether or not to tell their superiors of their encounter with a ghost. I know not what they decided, for after a while they each got into their police cars and drove away.

  “Last night, both with the police encounter and the ‘ghost tour,’ was the first time I can remember actually experiencing enjoyment as a spirit. It was much like playing games as a child. I would prefer mortal life, please understand, but I can now see there could be some advantages to my ghostly existence.”

  His smile suddenly vanished and a more serious expression encompassed his face. “Before I became so engrossed in telling you the story of the battle and my death, you mentioned an idea of how to find my skull. It is the reason I am here, after all. Everything else is a distraction, and I have allow myself to become quite distracted.” He looked up and down the block on which I lived. There were manicured lawns and hedges, cars on paved driveways, as well as swing sets and other play structures in many back yards. “The city has changed much…life has changed much…since my time, and I see much of which I would like to learn,” Billy lamented, “but I must be about my task. Can you help me?” he asked, as if there was any question that I would.

  “Of course, Billy,” I answered quickly. “Let me make a telephone call.” My wife’s brother is a Chatham County Deputy Sheriff. He was the only policeman I knew well, and I thought I might be able to reach out to him in this unusual matter. I hadn’t considered how much, if any, of Billy’s story I could tell him, but at worst I could concoct some tale explaining why I needed to find the decorated skull. I had lied to his sister, after all. Why not make a habit of lying within the family, if only on the matter of ghost stories. As it turned out, a lie was not required.

  Deputy Jimmy Leonard, my brother-in-law, sounded anxious to see me. He said he was just getting off duty, having pulled the night shift, and had a story to tell me that I wouldn’t believe. I looked at Billy, adding up in my mind my own experience from the night before, the police chase of a ghost, and the fact that my wife’s brother had been on patrol, and came to the conclusion that I knew what his story would be. “Billy, do you want to make your presence and your story known to another?” I asked.

  He answered quickly, “Of course, if it will help me
find my skull.”

  Jimmy was unmarried, and was on his way to his home in an apartment complex on Abercorn Street. My children had already boarded the bus to school, but my wife planned to remain home for most of the day, so we agreed to meet at Jimmy’s place. Billy could travel with more anonymity during the day if he inhabited me, so we went through that process before boarding the truck and heading toward Abercorn. It was only a twenty minute drive, but while usually talkative or full of questions about the modern surroundings, my passenger was strangely silent. He kept his feelings to himself for the most part, but I could still sense an anxiety within him as we embarked on the trail of his lost skull. I left him to his own thoughts as I paid particular attention to traffic while threading my way around a fender bender at the intersection of Jefferson Street and Anderson.

  Jimmy opened the door before I even had a chance to knock. He looked pale, shaken, as he motioned me into the living room. “Have a seat,” he said as he headed toward the kitchen. “Can I get you a beer or something?”

  “Jimmy, it’s 8:30 in the morning!” I blurted, incredulous at the offer. “Are you okay?”

  He returned carrying a Pabst Blue Ribbon, which he placed unopened on the end table beside his favorite recliner. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said with a slow cadence, as if uncertain of himself. “I should be asleep…but I can’t sleep, not after last night.” He looked at me as if expecting a question. I complied.