Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “Is that so?” said T.J., an eyebrow raised.

  “That is so,” Bortnicker slyly replied.

  “How about you, T.J.?” asked Mike.

  The boy could see the hopefulness in his uncle’s eyes. “Yeah, sure, Uncle Mike. I was kinda wondering what it would be like to shoot one of those guns anyway.”

  “Great!” he replied. “I’m bringing my Colt .44 revolver today. It’ll be quite a challenge for you. Just make sure to wear some grubby clothes ‘cause you’re going to get dirty.”

  “Very dirty,” echoed LouAnne, taking her empty cereal bowl to the sink.

  Mike sighed and went out to the garage to pack up the equipment. Within minutes they were headed out of town towards the shooting range in Bonneville.

  “So how’s work been?” said T.J., making conversation as cornfields flew by.

  “Not bad. As you can tell, the town is swelling a little more each day. The crescendo will come soon enough during the reenactment days. But you two boys have been really busy, I take it.”

  “Uncle Mike, you have no idea. Bortnicker can’t get enough of this stuff. We’ve been to the Visitor Center museum twice already, and he wants to hit every museum in town, even the sketchy ones, as well as the souvenir shops. The bus tour people are gonna be on a first name basis with us. I hope you don’t mind that we use your name.”

  “No problem. I’m glad you guys are so busy, and so into it. And Bortnicker’s okay. Poor kid, he follows LouAnne around like a lost puppy dog.”

  “Yeah,” said T.J. uncertainly, recalling Bortnicker’s open-mouthed rapture at the Charney House during LouAnne’s presentation the previous evening.

  “Well, it’s to be expected. This whole trip is probably like a big adventure to him. I get the impression he doesn’t get out much.”

  “Um, I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

  “You know, even though I was kind of in the jock group in high school and college, I tried to have all different kinds of friends. Did LouAnne mention that in high school I was in the chess club?”

  “Get out.”

  “No, really. Of course, a lot of it was because I liked this girl who was also in the club.” He stared straight ahead as if going back in time. “Ellen Redgate was her name. T.J., this girl was so smart it wasn’t funny. But she was sweet, too. I think she ended up going to M.I.T., full boat.”

  “Wow.”

  “The thing is, some of the kids in the chess club ended up being my lifelong friends, whereas a lot of my high school teammates just faded away. There were actually some guys who were jealous when I got the scholarship to Michigan State. Thought it should’ve been them. Oh well. But what high school taught me was that it takes all kinds. That’s why I can appreciate you having a pal like Bortnicker.”

  “He’s really not so bad,” said T.J.

  “I’m sure. Just stay out of trouble, the two of you. Don’t get too adventurous, okay? You’re still visitors in a strange land,” he grinned.

  “You got it.”

  They arrived at the firing range and were greeted by Mike’s ragtag shooting cronies. “Okay, T.J. This is Matty, Bobby, and Eddie. They all belong to the 72nd Pennsylvania Regiment.” All of the guys wore orange or traditional hunting camos, and a couple were chewing tobacco.

  “What kept you, Darcy?” admonished Matty, a burly, good-natured man who T.J. thought might have also been a football player in his youth.

  “The usual. Family stuff and whatnot. But enough with wasting time. I want to show my nephew how to shoot a Colt .44. So let’s stop lollygagging and get after it!”

  “Yes, Coach Mike!” piped Eddie, the smallest one, in his best high school nerdy voice.

  Uncle and nephew entered a “booth” fashioned from primitive plywood sheets that looked out toward a paper target. There was a particleboard table before them resting upon two sawhorses. “It’s not exactly first class,” said Mike, reading T.J.’s mind, “but nobody really bothers you.”

  BOOM!

  T.J. reflectively put his hands over his head, feeling like an artillery round was coming down on them. In the next booth Bobby cackled, “Got ‘im!” and the stench of sulfur wafted over to their booth.

  “Bobby shoots a replica Enfield rifle. They were imported from England and used mostly by the Southern troops, but they were basically the same as the Union model.”

  “If Bobby’s in a Union reenactor regiment, how come he’s shooting a Southern rifle?”

  “Oh, this is just one of the firearms Bobby keeps around. He also likes his Sharps carbine, which is quicker to load. My other gun, which I left at home today, is a Sharps as well. It’s a real one, too, as is the revolver you’ll be shooting today.”

  “Aren’t these guns a little old to be used?”

  “Well, I had them both refitted awhile back, so they can fire modern ammunition. Anything older has the potential to screw up the inside of the barrel.” Mike pulled out a pair of padded earmuffs and some goggles and handed them to his nephew. “These will help until you get used to the sound and whatever.

  “Okay, so let me give you a brief history on the firearm you’re gonna be using here. The 1860 Colt .44 Army sidearm is called a revolver, not a pistol, because it’s a multiple shot weapon. Both armies used versions of this gun. Since the Union had far more industry, there was always a shortage of arms for the Confederates, and they stripped the dead of their firearms whenever possible. These revolvers were prized, especially among cavalry officers.

  “All the handguns in the Civil War used black powder, as my daughter so tactfully alluded to this morning. They also used caps to fire the main charge.” He placed one on the table in front of T.J. It looked like an eraser-sized metal drinking cup. “These guns could fire bullets or balls, the balls obviously being more round. A .44 caliber bullet like this one is almost a half inch in diameter.” He placed a bullet next to the cap. “Again, notice that this is a new bullet. Theoretically, the gun could fire old ones, but it’d be risky, and as an original this is a very valuable weapon.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Finally, you need the paper cartridge which contains the black powder. During the Civil War the governments of both sides supplied their troops with paper-wrapped cartridges to speed up the loading of weapons during battle. A cavalry soldier would have a cartridge box attached to his uniform belt filled with enough rounds to load his revolver anywhere from six to nine. His caps would be in there, too.” Mike produced a roll of thin paper whose bottom section contained a measured quantity of powder. Attached at the top was a bullet. “Many cartridges had a greased bullet or ball, which caused the cylinder in the gun to revolve more smoothly. So now we’re ready to load up. And here’s our bad boy.”

  He pulled from his bag an object wrapped in oilcloth, which he peeled away in layers to reveal a perfectly preserved Colt .44 revolver with brass trigger guard and walnut grip. Ever the thorough teacher, Mike pointed out to T.J. (who just wanted to shoot the darned thing) the front blade sight, loading lever, cylinder release tab, six-shot chamber, hammer, and nipple upon which the cap would be placed. “Here, heft this and get a feel for it,” he said, carefully handing over the weapon. The two-pound, nine-ounce gun immediately made T.J.’s hand droop.

  “Wow,” he muttered. “You had to be strong to use this.”

  “No question. I think the real reason your cousin dislikes shooting isn’t the powder thing, it’s that she has a hard time controlling it.”

  T.J. wondered if he could do any better than LouAnne. This thing was heavy.

  “Okay, ready to load it?”

  “Me?”

  “T.J., the average Civil War soldier was an illiterate farm boy. C’mon, I’ll walk you through it. We’re not talking about brain surgery here.”

  “All right.”

  Again the patient teacher, Mike instructed T.J. in the insertion and seating of the cartridges and the capping of the nipple. It seemed to take a long time. “I can’t imagine doing this in th
e heat of battle,” T.J. said, preparing the final cylinder.

  “Yeah, there are reports of soldiers who got so crazy and scared with their rifles that they just kept ramming charge after charge down the barrel, which caused the gun to either misfire or blow up.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Which brings me to my last point.” Mike waited until his buddies had each let off another round. “Black powder revolvers when discharged will produce a considerable flash of fire. It’s not unusual for sparks or even flames to shoot out the barrel of the gun. One of the reasons they used grease with the paper or wadding was to prevent the flame from burning backwards and into another unfired chamber. A multiple chain fire could occur with all the rounds going off at once.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” T.J. said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Don’t worry. I specially prepared your rounds. Now, put on your earmuffs and glasses, stand a little sideways, take aim and have at it.”

  “No ‘shooter crouch’ and two-handed grip like on TV?”

  “That’s modern stuff, T.J. This is the 1800s we’re talking about. Be careful ‘cause it’s gonna kick.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay, here goes.” He raised his right arm, tried to sight down the wobbling barrel, and let off a round. As Uncle Mike had predicted, there was a flash that accompanied the explosion, and the revolver kicked upwards so violently that T.J.’s wrist stung. Acrid smoke filled the air as Mike’s friends cheered from their booths.

  “Think I hit the target?” said T.J. feebly.

  “Only if you was aimin’ for ducks flyin’ over!” bellowed Matty from the other side of the plywood.

  “Hey, enough, you hammerheads,” said Mike authoritatively. “He’s just learning.” Then he turned to his nephew and smiled. “Want to try again?”

  T.J., determined now, said, “You bet.”

  “Okay, we’ll alternate. Watch me.” The boy marveled at his uncle’s control as Mike calmly stepped forward, raised his arm and fired, all in one motion.

  “Got ‘im in the shoulder, Ranger Mike!” yelled Bobby, who obviously had brought binoculars.

  Mike gave T.J. a quick wink and handed back the gun. “See? It’s not hard. Just relax and hold steady.”

  And so, they passed the rest of the morning, T.J. improving to the point where he actually hit the target a couple of times. He even became somewhat proficient at loading the weapon.

  Afterwards, the group retired to a diner in the heart of Bonneville for some burgers and fellowship. All the men agreed that T.J., with some practice, could become a decent marksman, which made the boy feel good. “I have a question, though, guys,” he said finally. “A pistol, er, revolver, is meant for close combat, right? Not long range stuff?”

  “Yup,” agreed Matty, glopping more ketchup on his double bacon cheeseburger. “Up close that sucker of your uncle’s would tear a guy’s head off.” Darcy’s pals giggled.

  T.J. looked over at Mike, who stared at his food, deep in thought.

  “Uncle Mike, you okay?” said the boy.

  “What? Oh, yeah, sure, T.J. Finish your lunch, and let’s get home before we’re missed.” Uncle Mike was much more subdued on the ride back.

  * * * *

  Just about the time T.J. was squeezing off his first round at the firing range, Bortnicker straightened up from his hands and knees and looked to the skies. “Lord, Lord, deliver me from these weeds!” he implored, arms dramatically upraised.

  “Bortnicker, we’ve hardly gotten started!” admonished LouAnne, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing a pink man-tailored shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of snug, patched-up jean shorts.

  “Better watch that you don’t get sunburn on those arms,” cautioned Bortnicker, whose own Boston Red Sox tee shirt was darkening with sweat around the collar. He had to keep removing his glasses to wipe them down.

  “Thanks for the advice, Lawn Doctor,” laughed LouAnne. “Now get back to work!”

  “How much more of this do we have to do here? Not that I’m complaining.”

  LouAnne looked around. “How about we finish this patch here and call it a day. I’ll make you some ice cold lemonade. Sound good?”

  “Heavenly.” He went back down on all fours and started pulling.

  “Say, Bortnicker, I’ve got a question.”

  “Ask away, my dear.”

  “Does T.J. really dislike his dad’s girlfriend?”

  “Big time. See, he thinks his dad’s acting all weird around her, like the guys in those ‘Just for Men’ hair cream ads. I mean, she is kind of attractive... I don’t know how much brain matter there is between her ears, but...”

  “He really misses his mom, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah. Talks about her once in a while, but you can tell she’s on his mind all the time.”

  “Uh huh. Must be tough. Plus, he’s away from his girlfriend.”

  Bortnicker turned to face her. “Girlfriend? What girlfriend?”

  “You know, that Katie Whatshername.”

  “Vickers? Katie Vickers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you kidding? That stuck-up babe doesn’t even know he’s alive! She’s going out with some tenth-grader.”

  “You mean Katie lies? Can you see it in her eyes?” she said with a twinkle.

  “Good one,” said Bortnicker, catching the Steely Dan reference to “Doctor Wu.” “But seriously, he told you she’s his girlfriend?”

  “I must have misunderstood. Let’s change the subject,” said LouAnne, embarrassed.

  “If you say so,” said Bortnicker, as he continued weeding while pondering the intricacies of his best friend’s mind.

  * * * *

  That evening the three teens strolled around town, stopping for an ice cream cone. LouAnne ordered the chocolate frozen yogurt while T.J. opted for black cherry. Bortnicker, of course, chose the special, “Pistachio Fantasia Surprise.”

  “What’s it taste like?” asked LouAnne.

  “Hard to describe,” said Bortnicker. “Want to try it?”

  “Sure.” She lifted her hair from the side of her face, leaned in and took a lick, Bortnicker all the while smirking at T.J. with eyebrows raised. “Tastes like plain old pistachio,” she decided. Turning to her cousin, she asked, “So how did you like going shooting with the Hee Haw Gang?”

  “Ah, they’re not so weird,” said T.J. “It was kinda fun, and I didn’t do too badly. Took a lot of time to wash up, though.”

  “Told you. That black powder’s nasty.”

  “So, Dr. Bortnicker,” challenged T.J., “what have you ascertained so far about our mystery rider?”

  “Well, based on what we know about the battle, the Confederate cavalry, led by General Jeb Stuart, was basically a no-show till the third day of the battle. In fact, there are some who kinda blame him for the Confederates getting beat.”

  “How come?” asked T.J.

  “Well, Stuart was like Lee’s right hand man after Stonewall Jackson got killed.” He turned to T.J. “That would be your father, I believe.”

  “Very funny,” T.J. grumbled as LouAnne stifled a laugh.

  “And as his cavalry chief, Lee expected him to totally scout out the Union forces they would be going up against for this battle. So, Stuart, promising to keep in constant contact, took off with his eight thousand or so men and proceeded to ride all around the Army of the Potomac without ever reporting back to Lee until the evening of the second day. By then it was too late to help his commanding officer.

  “Now, the last day Stuart’s force got into a big exchange with the Federals.”

  “On East Cavalry Field!” LouAnne cut in.

  “Right you are, my dear. Old Jeb wanted to make things right with General Lee for going MIA by whipping the Yankees, but it seems the Union cavalry had this young commander you might’ve heard of, George Armstrong Custer.”

  “From the Little Big Horn?” asked T.J.

  “One and the same. Yeah, they had a pretty i
ntense encounter that went back and forth. It was pretty much a standoff, not the outcome Stuart had wanted.

  “I figure our mystery guy had to be part of Stuart’s cavalry force. But I have no idea of his division, though we’re kinda sure he’s an officer from T.J.’s description of the uniform.”

  “So when are we going?” pressed LouAnne.

  “When’s your next night off from the Charney Inn?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Then Wednesday it is.”

  They walked back toward Seminary Ridge, satisfied to have finally chosen a course of action.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rudy Herzog dropped the transmission of his police cruiser into DRIVE and left his parking spot near the Rose Farm, where in 1863 some Confederate dead had been dumped in a shallow grave so they would not have to be moved too far from where they had fallen. He was trying to hit a lot of different sites, parking in secluded areas for ten or fifteen minutes at a time then moving on. His four-hour surveillance gig was almost over, and he couldn’t wait to get home to his house in Hagerstown for some real sleep.

  Since the murder of the relic poacher, things had been quiet, if one omitted the TV ghost guy. Herzog had his doubts as to the sincerity of the man’s account even though Chief Warren was fairly convinced the guy had seen something.

  The car radio crackled with Spence’s familiar voice. “Anyone out there tonight, Rudy? Over.”

  “Nah, pretty quiet. I’m passing the Trostle Farm and I’ll be getting on the Taneytown Road. Over.”

  “Okay, see you in a few. Over.”

  “Can’t wait.” His eyes were getting heavy. At night, particularly when the moon was in and out, your eyes could play tricks on you in this place. Especially some of those equestrian statues. A few of them, like the one of General Longstreet, were set so low that if you looked quickly you’d swear it was a real mounted soldier.

  Herzog was just about to turn left onto the Taneytown Road when he topped a rise and saw the horseman. Or was it a monument? He went through his mental rolodex of statues and came to the realization that the only markers in this area were of the granite block variety, with a couple cannons here and there. So who—or what—was this?