Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  It wasn’t a dream. It had happened. The question was, what was he going to do about it?

  He never got a chance to come to a decision because there came the familiar knock-knock-knock and LouAnne’s “Rise and shine, Cuz. Time to get after it!”

  As they stretched he asked if they could go the opposite way today, basically so he could get a look at last night’s route in broad daylight.

  “Sure, why not?” she replied. “Besides, you haven’t been that way yet.”

  You have no idea, Cuz, he thought.

  They took off, chatting about LouAnne’s interactions with the Daughters of the Confederacy, who apparently were poor tippers, and her upcoming day of babysitting. The whole time his mind was elsewhere, retracing his movements of the night before. They passed the monument to General Reynolds, the red barn visible in the distance. It all looked so serene, so...normal.

  Do I tell her? And if I do, how’s she gonna react? Will she understand? Or think I’m some kinda nutcase?

  The last thing he wanted to do with this girl was seem frightened, or even worse, immature. Uncool.

  “This is a nice stretch coming up,” said LouAnne. “We’re gonna follow this to a loop where there’s the Eternal Light Peace Memorial at the top. Then we’ll take it on back. Sound good?”

  “Fine. Lead the way.”

  They glided through the last mile, T.J. recognizing a minimal improvement in his stamina.

  “What’cha got on tap today, Cuz?” LouAnne huffed as they climbed a hill.

  “Bus tour, I think.”

  “Jeez, T.J., I never thought you’d get into it like you have. I mean, you’re taking tours, hitting all the museums. Dad said you were all over it yesterday.”

  “Well, you’ve gotta admit, there isn’t much else to do here except watch TV. I can help your mom with the minor chores, but that only kills a couple hours. But, hey, I don’t mind. I’m learning a lot.”

  “Well, as long as you’re not totally bored. I just feel bad I’m working all the time.”

  “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Tell you what. I’ll come by the Charney House tonight and keep you company.”

  “Sounds great.” They pulled up in the front yard and immediately began their post stretch. The day was again drenchingly humid, the trees barely stirring. LouAnne assumed a hurdler’s position and slowly slid forward, face down, until she had grabbed her front foot with both hands. She held it for fifteen seconds then gracefully switched sides. The morning sun glinted off the platinum highlights in her hair. Could she possibly be more beautiful?

  That afternoon he climbed aboard a double-decked tour bus and moved to an inconspicuous railing seat near the rear. Though this would not be the more intimate ranger-led tour he’d skipped the previous day, it would serve as the initial excursion. Since he was a single he’d had no problem just walking on today, but these busses booked up fast. A friendly, middle-aged gent in a white golf shirt manned the microphone and began his spiel as the bus pulled out of the parking lot and cruised toward the first point of interest on the ninety-minute ride.

  T.J. settled back, making note not only of the sites and monuments pointed out by the guide, who’d obviously done this thousands of times, but of any places on the vast battlefield where a horseman could possibly hide. There were old, standing barns here and there, the buildings of Gettysburg College, the Seminary, the numerous farms in the surrounding area. The soldier could be anywhere.

  That is, if “he” was an actual human being. But what if he wasn’t? What if T.J. had stumbled upon a genuine ghost? How could he possibly prove this had happened? Well, he’d have to go back. At night. But not alone. No way, José. He’d have to tell his cousin. If he broke it to her the right way, she’d understand. Probably. But he couldn’t tell Uncle Mike. Not yet. Because his uncle might react badly, and not just yelling at T.J. for being in the woods at night. Maybe “Maddog Mike” would want to go after the ghost. Not good, because as tough as Mike Darcy was, he was no match for a malevolent being packing what appeared to be a very large, mean-looking horse pistol, which T.J. sensed he’d used before.

  He’d tell LouAnne tonight at the restaurant. It was the only way to go. Together they’d figure it out.

  As the tour guide droned on, T.J. regarded a little girl across the aisle from him eating a chocolate cone, the sweet goop dripping all over her hand and shirt as she struggled to keep up with the rapidly melting ice cream. She caught him smiling at her and frowned. “It’s not funny,” she grumbled. But nothing was going to dismay T.J. He had a plan.

  Thus, he kept smiling throughout Aunt Terri’s spaghetti and meatballs dinner, until Uncle Mike cleared his throat. “Uh, LouAnne, before I take you to work, I’ve got to discuss something important. We’re having problems in the park.”

  “Such as?” inquired his daughter, arching an eyebrow.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Not yet. What I can tell you is that it’s become downright dangerous at night, and I have to remind you both again to stay away.”

  “A man of mystery,” cracked Terri, attempting to lighten the mood. A sharp look from her husband put an end to any such levity.

  “Okay, Uncle Mike, no problem,” said T.J.

  “Good. At least my nephew understands when I’m being serious.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go, babydoll, you’re gonna be late.”

  They left as T.J. helped his aunt clear the table. “Any idea what’s up?” he attempted, trying to be nonchalant.

  “He won’t even tell me,” was her answer. “Which is very unlike your uncle. I hope he’s not banging heads with his boss again. Bruce Morrison can be difficult, and your uncle is known to be a bit hardheaded himself, so they sometimes clash.” She sighed as she loaded the dishwasher. “Let’s hurry up, and we can watch Wheel of Fortune!”

  “Sounds good. Hey, Aunt Terri, I’m going to walk down to the Charney House a little later on, okay?”

  “Sure. Just skirt the battlefield, like Mike says. Take an umbrella, though. They’re predicting rain for later on.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  They watched Wheel of Fortune, and a few more shows as well, Aunt Terri taking breaks from her needlepoint to peer over her reading glasses at the TV. T.J. counted the minutes until he could get out of there. Uncle Mike had returned and was clanking weights out in the garage. No way was he going out there, taking a chance on slipping up and blabbing.

  Finally, 9:00 P.M. arrived. T.J. scooped up a blue Totes umbrella and headed down Buford Avenue towards town, almost jogging. Thunder rolled in the far distance. A ghost tour up from Baltimore Street crossed the town square, a couple of the teenaged girls waving at him coyly as their mothers fanned themselves in the evening heat. Maybe a good rain would cool things off.

  He entered the Inn as the last patrons were streaming down the stairs from the garret. LouAnne followed a few steps behind, giving him a little wave. When she reached him she quickly squeezed his hand and said, “I’m parched. You want to have a Coke at the bar?”

  “Can we?”

  “The place is empty, silly. And I’m pouring. Let’s go.”

  The bar was tiny, more for waitresses to pick up table orders than for a cocktail hour setup. LouAnne, quickly shedding her 1860s outfit and hanging it in a back room, slipped behind the bar, loaded two glasses with ice, and filled them with cola from a spray nozzle before dumping in a few cherries. They clinked glasses and tipped them back. The moisture was welcoming to T.J.’s throat. He had no idea how to start. But, as usual, LouAnne beat him to the punch when she said, “So what’s bothering you, my darling cousin?”

  “How do you know something’s bothering me?”

  “Puh-leeze. Girls know these things. What’s up?”

  “Something you’re probably not gonna believe.”

  “Love problems? That Katie Vickers babe dumping you long distance?”

  “What? Who?” T.J. stammered, momentarily off balance. Katie Vickers was the last thing on his
mind. He couldn’t even believe LouAnne had remembered her name. But he put aside any possible implications of her question and said, “I think I know what your dad was talking about at dinner.”

  “How so?” she said, the different colored liquor bottles on the shelves behind her creating a surrealistic frame for her curious smile.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but please don’t laugh at me.”

  “I won’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She reached across the bar and put her hand on his.

  T.J. took a deep breath and then, as calmly as he could, told her everything about his adventure in Reynolds’ Woods, right down to the miraculous recovery of his injured ankle. LouAnne listened carefully, chewing on her ice cubes, her brow furrowed, never interjecting, even when he confessed why he was out there in the first place and, thankfully, never laughing. By the time he was finished his tee shirt was soaked, though the air conditioner was cranking.

  “Oh...my...gosh,” was all his cousin could muster. There was the crack of thunder outside, followed seconds later by the beating of rain on the windows.

  “The thing is, I don’t know what to do now,” he confessed. “Part of me says to just leave it alone and be happy I got out of there alive. But I also kinda want to know what the deal really is, and if he’s like, a ghost, maybe I can, like, find out if there’s another side.”

  “Another side?”

  “You know, the hereafter. Heaven. Whatever.”

  “Does this have something to do with your mom?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” He thoughtfully chewed on a cherry. “The other thing is, whether this guy is real or not, I think he’s dangerous. Like, so on edge he could snap at any time. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “I get what you’re saying, dude,” said a voice in the shadows. T.J.’s head snapped around and LouAnne squinted into the gloom at the rear of the dining area. Under a portrait of General Robert E. Lee a young guy dressed in solid black, his gelled hair askew, sat slumped over a tumbler of amber liquid. As he raised his head T.J. could make out sunken, red-rimmed eyes looking out from his somewhat familiar face. “I know exactly what you’re saying.”

  * * * *

  T.J. and LouAnne huddled together under the tiny umbrella, her arm around his shoulder to conserve space, which he didn’t mind at all. They’d just left a still shaking Mike Weinstein, who’d finally be joining his film crew in St. Augustine the next day because his flight out of Philly had been delayed due to severe thunderstorms. After their conversation with him, LouAnne had phoned a very concerned Mike Darcy, giving the excuse that the teens had been pressed into service setting up tables for a luncheon to be held the next day.

  As the rain pelted down, LouAnne broke the silence once again. “You think he’s on the level, Cuz?” she asked. “He was pretty wasted.”

  “And scared.”

  “Yeah, that too. It’s funny; I’ve seen the guy’s TV show a few times, and I know reality TV isn’t really real, but wouldn’t you think he could handle the situation better? I mean, I give him credit for being honest, but he was literally quaking in fear. Not exactly the macho image he projects as a Gonzo Ghost Chaser.”

  “He said he hung around a few extra days to see if anything else went down in the Park, but it looks like I’m it, basically. The thing is, why was the soldier willing to spare me after trying to blow Weinstein away?”

  “You don’t know?” she said, blinking away some stray raindrops.

  “’Cause I’m a kid?”

  “Kids your age served on both sides in the Civil War, T.J. No, what saved you is your name.”

  “What?”

  “You honestly don’t know? What, were you asleep during your eighth grade Civil War unit? Your name is Thomas Jackson, Junior. Well, there was another Thomas Jackson of note. General Thomas Jackson of the Army of Northern Virginia. His troops called him—”

  “Stonewall.”

  “Ah, maybe you weren’t asleep the whole time after all.” She smiled. “By the time the Battle of Gettysburg rolled around, Jackson was dead, accidentally shot by his own men during the Battle of Chancellorsville. Maybe our Confederate soldier boy is a history buff who wouldn’t dare murder the namesake of a Southern saint. Or, if you believe Weinstein’s story, he’s a ghost stuck in July of 1863 and he genuinely thinks you may be the son of his fallen leader.”

  “He did seem confused about how to treat me,” T.J. said, shivering slightly as he recalled the soldier’s touch.

  “Well, there you go.” A few blocks away, the headlights of Mike’s truck turned a corner toward their direction. LouAnne bit her lip for a second then added, “And that’s why you, I mean we, have got to go find him again. But we can’t tell my dad, for now. He’d have a canary, and then he’d put us on 24/7 lockdown.”

  “You got that right.”

  “The thing is,” she said, “I just don’t know if we’re knowledgeable enough to get to the bottom of this. If we do meet up with this...being, I’m not sure I’ll know what to ask him, or if he has questions, what to tell him.”

  “I think I can help on that one,” said T.J. as Mike pulled up and threw open the passenger door.

  “Hurry up and get in, you two,” he said, obviously agitated. “What took you so long to call? I was about to put in a missing person’s report!”

  “Oh, Daddy,” said LouAnne, disarming him with a kiss on the cheek as she slid into the front seat. “You worry too much.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “FAR OUT!” Bortnicker cried so loud that T.J. had to hold LouAnne’s cell phone away from his ear. “A Confederate ghost rider, you say?”

  “I said I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, c’mon, now, T.J., I can hear it in your voice. You think he’s a spook! Admit it!”

  “Well, I’m leaning that way –”

  “TOO COOL! I told you this would be a great vacation for you. And how’s your female relative? Still her dorky self?”

  T.J. looked across the room at his cousin, sitting in the guest room window’s alcove, deep in concentration as she applied a coat of clean polish to her toenails, her blond tresses cascading over the straps of her pink halter top.

  “Hey, are you there, my brother?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Bortnicker, I’m here. I mean, we’re here.”

  “Oh, I get it, Big Mon. She’s within earshot. I catch your drift. So, back to our Johnny Reb. What’s your plan of attack, if you’ll pardon my pun?” Steely Dan’s “Katy Lied” was playing in the background.

  T.J. shut his eyes and took a deep breath, remembering just how annoying his friend could be. Bortnicker was probably perched on his bed right now, surrounded by half-eaten saltines and dog earned train magazines, watching History’s Mysteries or Ancient Almanac.

  “That’s just it. I, uh, want to meet up with this, uh, guy again, but, like, despite everything I’ve been learning down here, I just don’t know enough about his world to relate to him. I’m afraid if I say or do the wrong thing he’ll do some serious harm to me.”

  “So, what is it you’re saying?”

  “Well, ah, I checked with my uncle and, ah, when could you get down here?”

  There was a brief pause. “What time is it now?”

  * * * *

  The next day was Sunday, and though it was an official day of rest from running, T.J. put the morning to good use by reading some of the books about Gettysburg that Mike had laying around the house. Especially helpful was a picture book entitled Gettysburg Then and Now which presented numerous sites as they appeared today versus photos taken immediately after the battle. He was able to start making mental connections to many of the tour bus stops from the previous day.

  At precisely 4:00 P.M. he and LouAnne stood together in the Gettysburg town square as the charter bus from Philadelphia disgorged its contents. Bortnicker was among the last to disembark, an overstuffed duffel bag slung over his bony shoulder. He stepped upon the pavement, dropped his bag, and started warbling a l
ine from The Dan about a guy getting insulted about his shoes.

  “ ‘Pretzel Logic,’ ” LouAnne stated, stepping up to greet him, her hand outstretched.

  Bortnicker turned beet red, his mouth literally falling open. “You...you’re LouAnne?” he managed, his gaze going everywhere at once. “You know...‘Pretzel Logic?’ ”

  “From the album of the same name, I believe,” she replied airily.

  Bortnicker took her hand and fell to one knee. “You are a goddess. I am not worthy,” he intoned, as if waiting to be knighted.

  “Jeez Louise, Bortnicker,” moaned T.J., “will you cut it out and get up? At least try to act halfway normal.”

  Bortnicker rose, grinning sheepishly, his bangs hanging in front of his tortoise shell glasses.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Cuz,” said LouAnne, hefting the dusty duffel bag, “I think he’s kinda cute.”

  T.J. shook his head in disgust. “Don’t encourage him.”

  They started back towards Seminary Ridge, Bortnicker’s head continuously swiveling, taking in all the shops, eateries and bullet-pocked row houses. It was why he did so well in school, despite his eccentricities. Bortnicker had a way of taking a mental inventory of everything around him to the smallest detail, especially if it was of interest to him. And, boy, was he interested.

  “How’d you get here so fast?” asked LouAnne as they climbed along Buford Avenue toward Seminary Ridge.

  “It was easy. The Internet is such a great tool that I had it mapped out within minutes. I took the New Haven Line into Grand Central, the Amtrak to Philly, and then picked up a tour bus to here. I’d never done Amtrak before. Way cool! Has T.J. told you I’m big into model railroading?”

  “No,” replied LouAnne. “We really didn’t have much time for that. Your mom’s okay with you coming down here alone, just like that?”

  “Oh, yeah. She likes when I do grownup stuff like this. Plus, I just spent some time with her up in Boston and I think she needed a break from me. I can’t imagine why,” he added wryly, and LouAnne smiled. T.J. just frowned.