“This monument before you was the first of any type to be placed at Gettysburg. The cornerstone was laid on July 4, 1865, and the full monument was dedicated on July 1, 1869. The white, westerly granite pedestal supports a shaft and marble statue entitled Genius of Liberty. Four buttresses on the pedestal support allegorical statues of War, History, Plenty, and Peace.
“I hope you have enjoyed our tour, and I will stay behind for a few minutes for anyone who had further questions. Please observe the cemetery protocol of silence and respect as you walk about the grounds. Thank you for your patience on this hot day, and enjoy your visit to Gettysburg.”
A few stragglers stayed behind to ask questions but most moved off to wander about before heading back to their tour bus. Some of the older men had a distant look in their eyes, perhaps remembering their own battlefield experiences in more modern conflicts.
“So, how was it, big guy? Did I bore you?” asked Mike, putting an arm around his nephew’s shoulders.
“Not at all,” said T.J. “Actually, I’m starting to get into it.”
“Super. You gonna do the bus tour I mentioned?”
“Not today. That might be overdoing it.”
“You’re right, no need to rush all this. If I were you I’d take a stroll around downtown, grab a bite to eat. There’s all kinds of fast food places and a couple ice cream shops just a block away. A cold vanilla shake would go down nice right about now. Today I don’t knock off till five, but you can hop the trolley when you’ve had enough and it’ll drop you fairly near Seminary Ridge.”
“Sounds great, Uncle Mike.”
“You still worn out from this morning?”
“Well, I’ve kinda gotten my second wind. Still, it’ll feel good to go home later and put my feet up.”
“Listen,” said his uncle, “don’t let LouAnne steamroll you. She can be a handful when she gets going. If you think she’s being too bossy or a know-it-all or whatever, give it right back. She respects that.”
“Will do. See you later.” And with that, T.J. ambled off to see where the day would take him while his uncle downed a bottle of water and steered the golf cart back toward the Visitor Center.
T.J. wandered along Steinwehr Street, the most commercial avenue, ducking in and out of the many shops that filled the gaps between eateries and motels. In some ways they were all the same. There would be a front counter that sold “authentic” Civil War bullets and artillery shells and fragments, right next to the refrigerator magnets and key chains, followed by racks of kiddie plastic guns and swords, much more realistic, and expensive, replica pistols and rifles for adults, hats, flags, tee shirts, blankets, toy soldiers and cannons, belt buckles, glassware, collector spoons and thimbles, CD’s, DVD’s and books, a surprising percentage of which that dealt with ghosts and hauntings in the area.
Especially strange to T.J. were the Southern-oriented tee shirts with likenesses of Robert E. Lee and other Rebel commanders with inscriptions like “The South Shall Rise Again” and “Hell, No, I Won’t Ever Forget!”
There was also a brisk business in Civil War art (a couple galleries on the street were even devoted to it) with various vignettes or leaders from key battles being portrayed. Some of it was quite good, while some was downright amateurish and horrible. But no matter the quality, T.J. marveled that anyone would frame this stuff and hang it on the walls of his living room. He’d heard that some enthusiasts, especially reenactors, could be Civil War maniacs, but always considered them an exaggerated fringe element. Viewing all of the memorabilia, trinkets and art throughout his Historic Downtown exploration, he wasn’t so sure now. This town was “making a mint” as his dad would say. He thought to himself, as he sucked on a truly satisfying vanilla shake, that an 1860s soldier would take a look around at all this crass commercialism and say, “So this is what I died for?”
As he caught the Town Trolley, a plan began to form in his mind. Somehow, he had to catch up to his cousin before she totally humiliated him with her running prowess, and tonight he’d put that plan into effect, no matter how much pain it caused.
Chapter Nine
As he laced his running shoes, T.J. felt a tingling sense of excitement. Mike and Terri were out to dinner, and LouAnne was going to be staying late at Charney House entertaining a large group from the Virginia Daughters of the Confederacy, who had arrived in town via tour bus that afternoon. This would be the perfect time to try out Coach Autieri’s workout without LouAnne’s scrutiny or the oppressive morning heat. And if he got stopped, he reasoned, he could always drop Uncle Mike’s name.
After pulling on his light gray Bridgefield Middle School track suit, he quickly stretched and then set off on an easy jog in the opposite direction from the first run, crossing the Hagerstown Road toward Reynolds’ Woods, where the Union general of the same name was shot from his horse on the battle’s first day. He thought it was rather cool that the Hagerstown Road also went by the name of his hometown, Fairfield.
Feeling strong, T.J. spied the outline of the McPherson Farm’s barn, which had survived the battle, amid a field of grass that murmured to him in the cool breeze. Why not? He left the pavement and made for the structure, noting the decidedly uneven terrain and wondering if his desire to gain an advantage on his cousin was perhaps foolhardy.
He was within fifty yards of the barn when, almost as if on cue, he stepped into a chuckhole and tumbled forward, his hands outstretched to break his fall. T.J. effected a forward roll and ended up in a sitting position, shaking dirt and sweat from his hair. He tried to stand but clearly wasn’t up to it, his right ankle screaming with pain. So he sat back in the long grass and got his bearings. He could make out the Seminary’s cupola in the distance from where he’d come, figuring he’d covered at least a mile and a half. What had he been thinking? Now he’d have to get back to Uncle Mike’s on his own, where he could hopefully ice his ankle while concocting some kind of story that wouldn’t have his relatives regarding him as an irresponsible jerk. But if he was going to beat them home he’d have to get cracking, bad ankle or no. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly rose, dusted himself off and guesstimated an angle that would get him to Seminary Ridge in the shortest possible distance.
He was approaching Reynolds’ Woods when the pain became unbearable and he paused for rest, the stubby obelisk commemorating the fallen general etched against the sky before him. T.J. lay back against a tree on the woods’ edge, massaging the tender ankle, and immediately cursed his bad luck. Had he sat in animal droppings? Or was something dead in his immediate area? He couldn’t tell, as the evening was becoming increasingly overcast, but the smell became stronger.
Then he heard hoof beats, unmistakable, mingled with the sound of metal clinking on metal. What in the world?
He looked from side to side into the gloom. Gotta get moving, he thought. Suck it up and GO. But as he rose to his feet a figure stepped from behind a tree, so quickly that T.J., backpedaling, put too much pressure on the injured joint and went down yet again.
The soldier stood before him, feet planted wide, gauntleted hands on hips, his head slightly cocked to one side. T.J. couldn’t tell if this was from amusement or sheer bewilderment at the tableau of the fallen boy.
“Who...are you?” T.J. managed.
“That is NOT your concern,” the man replied. “State your business here.” His dark eyes bored into the boy.
“Well, I, er—”
“Spit it out, lad!”
“I was running.”
The tall soldier seemed taken back. “Running? From what?”
What, indeed? “I don’t know,” he said.
The soldier squinted an eye. “Your name?”
“T...Thomas Jackson, Junior, sir,” he whispered hoarsely, as the realization dawned upon him that this man’s uniform matched that of the Confederate cavalry officers on display in the Visitor Center, right down to the plumed hat.
“Thomas Jackson, Junior. Is that a fact?” the man said. “And I suppose
this is your uniform?” he added, flicking a finger at T.J.’s track suit.
“Well, yeah, uh, yes, sir. I guess you could call it that.” Even as he spoke T.J. made the connection. Bridgefield Middle School’s colors were gray with red and blue piping, the same colors as the Confederate Stars and Bars.
“And am I to believe that you are actually the son of Thomas Jackson?”
“Yes, sir, he’s my father.” What was up with this guy? How could he possibly know his dad? And where was that ungodly smell coming from? He heard the sound of a horse nickering in the woods behind them.
“Brutus, hush!” the soldier commanded and the animal silenced.
T.J. was frightened, yet fascinated. The specter before him was powerful, even regal, though darkly menacing. He felt he must keep a conversation going or this...whatever he was, might cause some serious harm. His mind raced...and then, for some reason he thought, what would Bortnicker do?
“I have two questions,” he said, trying to eliminate the waver in his voice.
“And they are?”
“Well, first, are you real?”
“Do I seem real to you, boy?”
“I guess so. I think. I can see you.” And I can sure smell you, he thought.
“Your second question.”
“Well, uh, why are you here?”
“It is my home,” he said firmly.
“You live in town, then.” Thank God, T.J. thought, this guy just likes dressing up and riding around at night.
“No,” he said, “I live here.” He made a grand sweep of his arm, suggesting that the general landscape was his home.
What the heck? “How long have you lived here?” T.J. attempted.
“Time has no meaning for me,” was his answer.
Back to square one. “Are you going to harm me?” T.J. asked in the most mature tone he could muster.
“I should,” the man said evenly. “You have no business being heah at this time. This is sacred ground.”
At that moment a passenger jet broke through the clouds above, the drone of its engines barely discernible, its red wing lights blinking. The soldier looked skyward, his eyes widening.
He doesn’t know what an airplane is, thought T.J. He took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, sir. I don’t belong here. I just stopped because I was injured.”
“You are wounded?”
“No, not like, shot or anything. I turned my ankle a ways back near that barn. I’m trying to make my way back to Seminary Ridge.”
“I see.” The cavalier seemed conflicted over what to do. From the woods came the sound of his horse restlessly pawing the ground. The man took a step forward, causing T.J. to shut his eyes in fear, then dropped to one knee and examined the ankle, his smell eye-watering. He touched the bone, and T.J. almost screamed in fright. It was like being touched by something dead and dark and otherworldly.
“There is no break,” the soldier concluded. He rose and adjusted his gloves as T.J. quietly exhaled. “Well, young Master Jackson, if that is indeed your name, you may carry on. But I warn you, this is not the place to be at night. Other transgressors have paid for their thoughtlessness and regrettable behavior. I would not want to include you among their number. And so, I take my leave of you.” He bowed slightly then strode towards Reynolds’ Woods, his spurs jangling. When he crossed the tree line, the sound faded out with the rustling of leaves. T.J. was left to contemplate his tenuous hold on reality and whether he could even share this occurrence with another human being.
He slowly pushed himself up and realized that much of the pain in his ankle was gone.
How is that possible? Is it because he touched me?
T.J. tentatively bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. No doubt, he was much better. Not risking re-injury, he began a brisk walk back to Seminary Ridge, hoping he’d arrive before those who would ask questions he could not possibly answer.
Chapter Ten
“Okay, settle down, everyone, I don’t want this to take too long,” Bruce Morrison said, his spectacles reflecting the conference room’s overhead lighting. “Chief Warren wants to brief you about a serious situation we’ve got on our hands, and I want you to understand what we’re dealing with. I apologize for not letting you in on every detail, but that’s why we’re here, to get on the same page. Al?”
The assembled national park rangers edged forward in their seats, including Mike Darcy. There were nine permanent rangers, including Mike, and nine seasonal rangers who represented a cross section of gender, age, and color, their one true denominator, a love and respect for American History. Rumors had been flying, and they were both relieved and curious as to what was really going on in their place of work.
“Thanks, Bruce,” said Warren, placing his Smokey hat on a nearby table. “Rangers, I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve got a killer loose in the area and we have no leads as to whom he is, his motive for this violence, or when he might strike again.”
An audible gasp came from the assemblage.
“Just listen while I tell you what we know,” said Warren, his hands outstretched in a calming gesture. “What you’re going to hear will sound bizarre, but I don’t have to tell you that you absolutely must keep this confidential. This town’s livelihood depends on it.”
Many of the rangers, including Mike, nodded, knowing full well the reliance of Gettysburg’s economy on the tourist trade.
“Okay, then. A few weeks ago two Gettysburg College students were shot to death in the cemetery, at night. Both were boarders; one was from Maryland, the other from Idaho. Apparently, they were partying amid the gravestones, oblivious to their setting or anything else, it seems, when someone blew them away at close range with what appears to be an army issue, 1860 .44 caliber pistol.”
Many of the rangers turned toward each other, eyes wide. Warren paused to let his words sink in. One fortyish female ranger with short brown hair began to raise her hand, but Warren stopped her. “Not yet, Ma’am, let me finish. Unfortunately, there’s more. A couple weeks later we had a relic hunter from down South digging near Spangler’s Spring around midnight, armed with a metal detector, night camos, the whole nine yards. He became victim number three. Same murder weapon. And the bullet matched the other two homicides.”
What Warren had purposely left out, however, was even more stunning. Not only did the bullets from the two shootings match—the State Police in Harrisburg had confirmed it—but the ammo itself was old, of 1860s vintage.
Out of the corner of his eye Mike Darcy could see Bruce Morrison giving him a look. Morrison knew that Mike owned the exact pistol being discussed, and that he often went shooting with his buddies. And while it was true that the two rarely saw eye-to-eye because Mike considered Bruce an over-officious jerk at times, he couldn’t conceive of his boss having suspicions of him. Or could he?
“Okay, I’ll take questions,” said Warren.
The same female put up her hand and he acknowledged her. “So what you’re saying, Chief, is that we have no witnesses?”
“Not exactly.” Warren looked briefly at the ceiling as if searching for words. “We had one other incident. A man, once again in the park after dark, somewhere near Devil’s Den, was, he says, threatened by a male Caucasian, over six feet, with longish, dark, curly hair, dressed in full Confederate cavalry uniform.”
“WHAT!” burst forth from the mouths of more than a few of the rangers.
“Please, please people, calm down,” cautioned Morrison.
“This is a positive I.D.?” asked a portly male ranger who resembled the comedian Jonathan Winters.
“Well, near as we can tell,” said Warren, “and he might be...mounted as well.” He paused to let this extra bit of information wash over the gathering. Some just sat there with mouths agape; others were thinking hard, trying to process this incredible revelation.
A young African American female ranger raised her hand. “Does the Mayor know about this?” she asked uncertainly.
“Y
es, Ma’am, we discussed the situation in depth just last night and he asked if we should call in outside help. I had enough faith in my department— and yours—to request that he let us handle it.
“So what I’m telling you folks is this: we all know the high season is here, and reenactment week is coming on fast. My officers are doubling up on nightly patrols and will really, I mean really, crack down on anybody entering the park after dark. Be vigilant and professional, and above all, keep this quiet. Hopefully this guy will slip up or get spooked when he sees a heavy police presence.”
“Is there anything you’re not telling us?” asked Mike.
“That’s all you need to know right now, sir,” was Warren’s cryptic reply. He reached back for his hat as Morrison said, “Okay, folks, we have tourists waiting. Let’s have a good day out there.”
As they filed out Mike could see Warren and his boss deep in conversation. He hoped his name wasn’t part of it.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning T.J. was the first to awaken. His sleep had been fitful, filled with crazy dreams of cavalry charges and blowing bugles. He gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed and touched his injured foot to the floor, anticipating a sharp pain, flinching in advance.
Nothing.
Had it all been a nightmare? Had he really gone for the night run, encountered the soldier, and barely made it home to bed before the Darcys returned? T.J. crept over to his crumpled track suit on the floor. The pants were still dirty, especially in the seat, from when he’d fallen backwards. There was still grass and burrs stuck to the fabric.
Last Ghost at Gettysburg Page 6
