Ghosts of the Siege

by Steven Abernathy

  We arrived at the Lindsey residence about 2:00 pm, and were surprised when an energetic couple dressed in tennis attire met us at the front door of their condo. We had rather unjustly stereotyped the couple as redneck retirees who might decorate their dwelling with standard touristy seashell decorations on the walls, pink and green seashell upholstery on the sofa, and the obligatory wicker table and chairs in the combination kitchen/dining room…with seashell salt and pepper shakers, of course. We were pleasantly surprised to be guided through a tastefully decorated home without a seashell visible anywhere. The only concession to Florida décor could be seen tied up at a peer a few yards away from the patio. Hal’s pride and joy was a thirty foot sailboat with a pirate flag flying from the mast.

  Roxie saw me admiring the mast and flag. With a sneer on her face, she said, “You should see the boat’s cabin. It’s full of pirate maps, pirate swords, and ancient nautical gear.” She patted Hal on the rear end. “Hal thinks he was Blackbeard in another life.” The sneer returned as she said, “I drew the line at that disgusting lamp, however. Even pirates had better taste than that!” She looked at Jimmy. “And you said that was a real human skull?” Shifting her gaze to her husband, she asked harshly, “Did you know that?” Hal said nothing, but looked contrite.

  “Our daughter and her family live over in Seminole,” she explained. “Hal has managed to convince our grandson, Jacob, that he is a pirate, too. He’s only six, but he has a pirate hat and plastic sword, and old Grandpa, here,” she slapped playfully at Hal’s arm, “has helped him decorate his room with pirate junk.” She cupped her hand and held it up to her mouth as if to whisper at us, but left no doubt that Hal could hear her clearly, “I’m pretty sure Julie, that’s our daughter, throws most of the junk away, but she leaves just enough to keep Jacob and Grandpa happy. When we were there a few days ago that disgusting pirate lamp was still in his room. I’m surprised Julie tolerates it, and I’m sure she will want to get rid of it when she finds out the skull is real.”

  She retrieved a cell phone from her pocket and made a call to Julie. Looking up at us after the call, she said, “Jacob will be at school for another hour or so, but Julie is home. She said we could come on over. I didn’t tell her about the skull, just that we had company she should meet.”

  It was only a twenty minute drive to Julie’s. She listened to our story and, like her mother, was aghast to find out the skull was a real one. “Take it!” she said firmly, without giving it a moment’s thought. “I don’t know if Jacob will notice that it is gone or not, but I don’t want it in my house.”

  “I’ll take Jacob shopping to find another gaudy pirate trinket to replace the lamp,” Hal spoke for the first time. He aimed a smile at both Julie and his wife that said he would keep on buying ‘pirate junk’ for his grandson. “Maybe an eye patch, or a peg leg and a hook.” The grandfather looked dreamily at the ceiling as he assayed what might be missing from the boy’s buccaneer collection.

  Julie motioned us to follow her to the boy’s bedroom, where the skull was located. Jimmy followed close behind her, but Billy held me back. He had been uncharacteristically silent since we arrived in Clearwater Beach, and I could tell he was tense, anxious at the thought of actually seeing his skull for the first time. Each time I tried to take a step, the spirit would prevent my muscles from moving in the direction of the bedroom. Finally he spoke only to me. In a pleading tone, he implored me to look away when his skull was brought from the room.

  I called to my brother-in-law before he entered the room. “Jimmy, I’ll stay out here. Remember this is a human skull. I think it would be fitting if it was covered up before you bring it out of the room. We wouldn’t want anyone to be upset by seeing it.” I emphasized the word ‘anyone.’ The Lindsey’s looked at me curiously. They had seen the skull before. Who would be upset? Jimmy understood, however, and when he returned from the room holding the lamp, he had removed the pirate hat lampshade and used it to completely cover the skull. Billy seemed to ‘peek’ through my eyes, and became noticeably relaxed when he saw his skull was not visible.

  Chapter 20

  Back in Savannah, Billy went to where ever it is spirits go when not haunting the living to give me time to prepare his skull for burial. I found a metal box of the proper size with a tight fitting lid and lined it with a soft cloth to make a resting place for the skull. I threw the remainder of the disgusting lamp in the trash. Once his skull was safely enclosed in the box, Billy reappeared. I don’t know how he knew his skull was safely out of sight, but within seconds of my closing the top of the box he came through the wall into the room where I had been working.

  “Where would you like to be buried, Billy?” I asked.

  “I have no idea where the rest of my bones were reinterred after being dug up during the building of the railroad buildings.” He was silent for a minute before adding, “It doesn’t seem to make any difference, as they are resting peacefully wherever they are.” Even though his eyes were sad, his lips formed into a slight smile as he said, “How strange it is that I, who have been dead for more than two centuries, am afforded the chance to choose my own burial site, for part of my body, at least.” The smile disappeared as he considered his choice.

  “You took me to Pulaski Square on the day we met. It was named for my closest friend and mentor. I think I would like to be buried there. Is that possible?” he asked. “Can my remaining bones be buried in one of your famous city squares?”

  I doubted the possibility of such a strange burial. I could show city officials a skull, but there would be no way to prove it came from a Revolutionary War combatant. Government bureaucrats are almost always unwilling to consider any actions that fall outside the normal routine, and the request for burial of human bones in a city park would certainly be met with a bureaucratic ‘no’ without chance of further consideration. It would not be legal, but that didn’t necessarily mean it couldn’t be done. Billy was my friend. More than that, he really was an important figure in the Siege of Savannah and, as such, deserved consideration that fell far outside the concept of ‘business as usual.’

  Burial in a city square would have to be accomplished in secret. But not in Pulaski Square. I had a surprise for Billy, something I had researched after first meeting him, but had never informed him of the result.

  “Billy,” I said, “usually the law is designed to delineate right and wrong, but sometimes it is just the law. Sometimes doing the right thing doesn’t necessarily mean doing the legal thing.”

  My friend surprised me by answering, “I am certainly aware of that. The entire American Revolution is a perfect example of that concept. We, the patriot soldiers I mean, were all considered criminals for violating English law by revolting against British authority. We were doing the right thing, but were violating the law, at least from the perspective of those loyal to the king.”

  My eyes widened at his quick understanding. “What I am suggesting is certainly not as great a violation as revolting against a country, but you are correct. You did the right thing in the 1700s. Just as then, it is the right thing for me to bury you where you choose, even if it against the laws of Savannah.”

  “You are a good friend,” Billy answered, “to do such a thing for me.”

  “But Billy,” I added, “we should not bury you in Pulaski Square. There is a better place.” He looked at me quizzically, prompting me to continue. “I did some internet research.” His eyes raised in even more questions, having never heard of the internet, but I did not deviate from my primary explanation. “The research determined that General Casimir Pulaski is buried here in Savannah, just not in Pulaski Square.”

  Billy’s interest was immeasurable. Ghosts cannot cry, but he was near shedding tears from the revelation. “Where?” he whispered.

  “Near Pulaski Square,” I answered quickly. “In fact, only a few blocks southeast of Pulaski Square is another, called Monterey Square. I don’t know how it came to be, but the actual monument to General Pula
ski is in Monterey Square. He is buried beneath the monument.”

  Billy was silent for several minutes. At last he whispered in a wavering voice, “Can you bury me there? With Count Pulaski?”

  I didn’t know how, but I knew I would make it happen.

  Chapter 21

  It was not a conventional funeral. Billy immediately insisted that I take him to the Pulaski memorial so he could verify that it was, in fact, the burial place of his friend and mentor. When we arrived at Monterey Square I could feel his anxiety as we walked to the large monument in the center of the park. I could not see my friend, but could sense him as we stood reading the inscription that marked the grave. A black wrought iron fence perhaps three and a half feet in height surrounds the monument, creating room on the inside for flowers and graveside memorabilia placed both by those who maintain the grave and people who remember and admire the great Polish general and his contribution to the founding of our nation.

  After standing very still for several minutes, Billy suddenly left my side and projected a faint image to me as he disappeared into the monument. He was gone for such a long time that I thought he might have decided to stay, but at length he emerged and stood beside me once more.

  “He is here,” Billy whispered reverently. “There is no doubt. The bones of my friend lie here.” He looked at me with pleading in his eyes. “Can you bury me next to my friend? Perhaps just inside the fence so I might rest on the foundation of the monument?”

  There was no way to deny my friend’s request. All I had to do was find a way.

  Savannah is a great city and a wonderful place to live, but like all cities it has its fair share of crime. Sometimes that crime is perpetrated in and around the city’s famous parks and squares. Billy was anxious to see his skull properly buried, but he understood my trepidation about digging holes in a city park next to a famous monument. Police regularly patrolled the parks on foot and at irregular times to confound likely muggers or drug dealers who might frequent these parks, especially at night. Automobile collisions, home and business breakins, and other crimes were not daily occurrences in the downtown area, but such occurrences were not uncommon, either. When such unsavory events happened, the normal police routine was disrupted, and routine patrols were often abandoned as police presence was needed at the scene of the accident or crime. I decided to wait for such an event to occur near Monterey Square.

  Each evening after dark and sometimes until as late as midnight, I would walk around and through the square carrying my toolbox, in which was placed Billy’s skull in its burial case and a small collapsible shovel I had purchased in a military surplus store. Twice, I encountered police patrolling the area, one of whom only nodded as I waved from several yards away. The other stopped me, wondering why I was out so late. I told him I had just finished up an emergency call having to do with burst pipes in one of the historic buildings nearby and was walking home. The story and my tool box were enough to convince him I was not a threat, so he sent me on my way. On other evenings I saw police patrolling at a distance, but was able to avoid them before they noticed me. After two weeks of evening strolls around the square, I came to the conclusion that Savannah was a very crime-free city, deserving of some kind of national reward.

  Billy was understandably restless, my wife was nearing the end of her patience, and my children were beginning to carry photos of me in their book bags just so they could remember what their father looked like. I was wracking my brain to come up with a ‘Plan B’ when at precisely 10:38 pm on the fourteenth night of my nocturnal excursions, police sirens erupted a couple of blocks west of Monterey Square. After a few moments, other sirens joined the concert, and the glare of a street light on the north side of the park illuminated a bicycle cop moving in the direction of the patrolman’s descant. Now was the time.

  I climbed over the fence with some difficulty and quickly located a suitably bare spot between two flowering shrubs near the monument. The soil was soft, allowing me to make rapid progress. Billy was so excited he actually vaulted in and out of my body several times, the effect of which made me quite nauseous, but I persisted in my digging. It required only ten minutes to excavate a grave wide enough to accommodate the metal box and about three feet in depth.

  I stepped back to admire my work and was startled when a strong voice behind me ordered, “Freeze!” I immediately assumed a stiff posture as immovable as the granite monument before me. “Now drop your…er…shovel, put your hands on top of your head, and slowly turn toward me,” the voice commanded. I complied as ordered, and found myself facing a large policeman who looked angry but, thankfully, was not aiming his Taser or service pistol at me.

  “What do you think you’re doing in there, sir?” he demanded in a measured tone.

  I stammered something meaningless while trying to come up with some reasonable explanation for my late night gardening in a restricted area. As I struggled with an answer, Billy came to my rescue. My ghostly friend erupted from the Pulaski monument and raced toward the policeman, who instinctively reached for his pistol. I wanted to laugh, but prudently stood frozen in position as I watched Billy fly completely through the policeman, causing him to grasp his stomach with a loud grunt as if he had been shot. His eyes were large as he watched the specter circle. While the officer’s head moved from side to side following the path of the apparition, his shaky hands fumbled to unsnap the safety strap on his holster.

  As the policeman attempted to draw his weapon Billy charged back into his body and inhabited him has he had done with me. The officer looked both frightened and sick, and as I remembered my first similar experience I felt great sympathy for the man. I finally did break into a smile as I watched the struggle going on before me. With great personal strength and resolve, the policeman tried again and again to draw his pistol, but each time he did the force within him slammed the weapon back into the holster. Finally he dropped his hand from the butt of the weapon and staggered backward a few steps. Billy emerged and moved toward the park entrance on Bull Street. The police officer followed his movement for a few steps before stopping abruptly and looking away from the spectral vision.

  “Nope,” I heard him say softly, as if to himself. “I didn’t see nothin’. I’ve a promotion commin’ up in a week, so I didn’t see no ghost. I didn’t see it down on the river last week, and I don’t see it now.”

  Obviously this was one of the several policeman involved in the chase as Billy had run from the Visitors’ Center a few days before. I was smiling in remembrance when the officer turned back to face me. “Now you, on the other hand, are flesh and blood. You I can deal with. I don’t know what you did to unleash that ghost, but if you do it again, I’ll shoot you.” He emphasized the point by finally drawing the pistol from its holster. “Now get over than fence,” he growled while pointing the weapon at me with a still-shaking hand.

  I started to climb, but froze when a loud cry reverberated within my head. It was a piercing battle cry such as one might scream during a charge. The noise was within my head, but somehow I knew it emanated from behind me. I turned my head just in time to see a giant apparition, a man on horseback, fly from the granite face of the monument and leap so high through the air as to pass over me and the fence like a show horse over a hurdle. There was no doubt in my mind that the specter was General Casimir Pulaski. Wearing his resplendent uniform, sitting straight-backed and proud upon his magnificent steed, Pulaski drew his sword as he charged toward the terrified policeman.

  The officer immediately turned to run away with all the speed of an NFL running back. The general charged after him, sword held high, until he reached the boundary of Monterey Square. He watched the policeman escape up Bull Street, then reached down to lift Billy, who was also waiting at the park entrance, onto the saddle.

  The two rode soundlessly back to where I was still frozen at the top of the fence surrounding the monument. From outside the fence, Pulaski helped Billy climb down from the large horse. He then gave me a sl
ow and solemn salute by bringing the hilt of his sword up to his face with the blade pointing toward the sky. As he lowered the sword I could see on his face a hint of a smile. I was filled with pride when a slight nod of the count’s head made me feel his gratitude and a sense of comradeship. Without warning, he prodded the horse to leap high over the fence and disappear back into the monument.

  I jumped, or, more accurately, fell from my tenuous purchase on the fence back into the memorial, where I stood dumbfounded, staring at the granite monument. Suddenly Billy was beside me, looking down into the small grave I had dug for his remains. Very quietly he said, “I think it is time.”

  He watched in silence as I gently placed the container with his skull into the grave and covered it with the soil I had removed from the hole. “There should be a marker,” I said. Billy looked up at the full fifty-five foot height of the Pulaski monument and answered, “There is.”

  I stood back, uncertain of how I should proceed. I had attended a few funerals and graveside services, but had never officiated at one. “Billy,” I asked, “what should I do now? Do you want me to say a few words about you? It seems only right.”

  “No more words are necessary, my friend,” he answered softly. “We have spoken many words already, you and I. We have become friends across centuries of time and more generations that I care to count. What a rare thing that is.” He was silent for a moment before saying, “Perhaps you can say a short prayer for me, that God will join me with my friends and family, and that I will reside peacefully in His grace forevermore.”