Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  Rudy slowed the car so it was pointed at the figure, which stood upon a hummock near a small copse of trees about fifty yards away. Taking a deep breath, he flipped on the roof-mounted searchlight. What he saw shocked and awed him. The magnificently clad Confederate cavalier sat astride a coal black horse, one of the most imposing he had ever seen. The soldier turned in his saddle and faced the light as though he had not the slightest grain of fear in being detected.

  “Stay where you are!” Herzog barked over the cruiser’s PA system. “You are illegally trespassing on government property! Do not—”

  But that was as far as he got because the horseman spurred his steed and took off on a diagonal that would have him passing to Herzog’s right. As he gunned the engine and spun the wheel with one hand, his left grabbed for the intercom to HQ. “Spence! Spence! I’ve got a sighting! He’s...oh my God he’s by me already! I’m in pursuit! Over!”

  “Where are you?” Spence demanded.

  “Past the Weikert Farm! I’m going right through the fields! Spence, it’s a mounted Confederate, full uniform, I’d say over six feet. He whooshed by me going the other way and my windows are open and I can SMELL him, just like that Weinstein guy said! Over!”

  “Stay on his tail. The other cruiser’s all the way over by Seminary Ridge! You’re own your own! Don’t lose him! Over!”

  The police car bumped over ruts in the earth, rocks and tree branches. Herzog wove the vehicle in and out of monuments big and small which would suddenly loom out of the darkness. Every time he closed to within fifty feet the rider would zig or zag, the magnificent stallion leaping over any obstructions, the rider never looking back, as if he were on a spirited Sunday jaunt.

  “He’s making for Little Round Top!” Rudy screamed into the radio as the first boulders at the base of the promontory flew by. “He’s climbing the hill!”

  Herzog again pushed the car harder up the paved road that led to the crest, the distance between them gradually shrinking as the horseman was forced to stay on the narrow shoulder. Rudy lost sight of his quarry for a second as he rounded a bend. He was almost past the parking area and then the downhill slope, where the advantage would be his. He smiled. “Got you now, you no good—”

  And that was when he clipped the temporary road work barricade that a maintenance crew had put in place just that afternoon to surround a pothole in the pavement. Herzog fought to stay in control of car, swerved, and crashed through the tree line just below the rocky crest of the hill. Fighting for control, he sideswiped a boulder and finally came to rest not three feet from the edge of the precipice from which Union artillery had raked the Confederate forces below in Devil’s Den and the Slaughter Pen.

  After the dust cleared and he made sure he was in one piece, Rudy snatched the radio transmitter off the floor and said, wearily, “Spence, this is Herzog. I lost him. Wrecked the car, too. Over.”

  “Where are you? Over?”

  “I’m going to find out. Over.” With that he slid across to the passenger door and shouldered it open, as his driver’s side was hemmed in. He half-rolled out of the vehicle upon one of the stony crags of the hill. Had the trees and boulder not slowed his momentum, the cruiser would have rocketed over the edge into the boulder-strewn gorge below. Above him the statue of General Gouverneur K. Warren silently scanned the battlefield. It was Warren who had saved the Union’s bacon on Day One when he scaled Little Round Top, ascertained its advantageous location, and frantically ordered Federal artillery to occupy the hill as quickly as possible. Herzog sank down at the foot of Warren’s statue’s pedestal, head in his hands, still shaking from his near-death experience. Above the nearby crickets he heard hoof beats, tailing off in the distance, lost on the cool midnight breeze.

  Then, for no reason he could explain, he stood up and screamed, “WHO ARE YOU!”

  The sound of crickets was the only reply.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “C’mon, admit it,” huffed T.J., bent over with hands on knees, “If it was a race I would’ve beat you.”

  LouAnne, gasping herself from the last one-hundred-yard sprint of their run, grudgingly conceded that he’d have beaten her. “But not by much, Cuz,” she added. “Tomorrow you’re mine.”

  “Says you.” He smiled, proud of how far he’d progressed.

  After a much-welcomed shower they gathered at the breakfast table where Aunt Terri and Chef Bortnicker were whipping up a Pennsylvania favorite, eggs with scrapple.

  “What’s scrapple?” said T.J., eyeing the gelatinous hunk of brown matter at the end of his fork.

  “It’s a sausage-like product made of meat scraps, spices and whatnot,” said Terri, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Some things are better left unexplained,” cautioned Bortnicker. “Just try it. It’s really not bad.”

  “By the way, boys,” added Terri, “Mike wanted to know if you’d like to join him on a cemetery tour today. He knows you’ve done it already, but today he’s supposed to meet a platoon of Iraq war veterans there. He thought it might be memorable.”

  “Sounds cool,” said Bortnicker, and T.J. nodded.

  “Rats, I’ve got to babysit,” LouAnne said with a frown.

  “So I’ll drop you guys at the Visitor Center, and you can ride over with him on the golf cart.”

  “That would be great, Aunt Terri,” said T.J., appreciative that he wouldn’t have to walk after the taxing morning race with his cousin.

  As they exited Terri’s Accord she said, “Try the rangers’ office. He might be there.” Sure enough, Mike was at a desk, going over that day’s itinerary.

  “Oh, hi, guys,” he said, looking up. “I guess you’re here for the war veterans’ tour. Should be pretty emotional. They should be arriving at the cemetery in around fifteen minutes.”

  “Great,” said Bortnicker, “because that scrapple mystery meat went right through me. I’ve gotta hit the can, and fast.”

  Mike cast a furtive glance to his left and right. “Well, if it’s an emergency, you can use the rangers’ restroom to the right. You’re really not supposed to. Just be quick.”

  “No problem there,” said Bortnicker, already in motion. “You coming, Big Mon?”

  “Why not?”

  The boys pushed through a pneumatic metal door, walked down a short corridor, then made a right into the surprisingly spacious restroom.

  Minutes later they were washing up when the heavy door banged open again, the voices of two men clearly audible. “Let’s talk in here, Bruce,” said the first voice. “Too many people in the office.”

  “Okay, Al,” said Morrison, whose voice the boys instantly recognized from their previous encounter. “So, let me be clear on this. One of your officers actually had an encounter with the horseman?”

  Upon hearing these words T.J. and Bortnicker turned toward each other, their eyes silver dollar wide. And then, T.J. did something he would never be able to explain later. Grabbing Bortnicker by the arm, he half-dragged, half-pushed him into a stall, latched the hasp behind them, and yanked Bortnicker upwards to where they crouched precariously on each side of the toilet seat, their hands on each other’s shoulders for balance.

  “That’s the size of it,” said Al Warren, as the men entered the larger area of the restroom. “Rudy Herzog was on night patrol around 12:45 A.M. in the area of Trostle Farm when he spotted him. When Rudy made his presence known, the horseman bolted.”

  “He took evasive action?”

  “Yup. Rode right past the cruiser and led Rudy on a merry chase. Herzog nearly ripped the bottom out of the cruiser going through the fields.”

  “And he confirmed Weinstein’s description?”

  “To a T. Over six feet, full Confederate uniform, on a very big black horse. He got the dead animal smell, too.”

  “Holy Toledo.”

  “But that’s not all. Rudy chased him all the way to Little Round Top, but he ended up swerving to avoid a road maintenance barrier and wiped out. He almost went
over the edge, Bruce.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, as okay as you can be after seeing a ghost.”

  “So you believe it’s not an actual human?”

  There was a pause. “Listen, Bruce. I believe there’s an explanation for everything, even crazy stuff like UFO’s. But this? I don’t see any other answer.

  “The good thing is that this being has only manifested himself at night. The bad thing is that reenactment week is only days away, and I can’t be sure he won’t show up during the daytime. Can you?”

  “No.”

  The boys heard the sound of a urinal flushing, then water running at the sink and the rattling of a paper towel dispenser. Warren concluded, “We’ll just stay after it and hope for the best. I’ll tell you, Herzog’s pretty fired up over this. He says if he sees this guy again he’s gonna blow him away.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “Bruce, I almost found myself asking my deputy if he seriously believed his Glock could hurt a ghost. Incredible.”

  The two men walked out of the restroom, the door whooshing shut behind them. T.J. and Bortnicker allowed a minute to pass then carefully let go of each other and stepped down off the commode, their hearts still pounding. “So it’s not just you,” said Bortnicker, swallowing hard.

  “And I get the feeling it’s not just Weinstein, either,” added T.J.

  They quickly exited the restroom and made for the front desk, hoping Mike hadn’t left for the cemetery yet. “So, you still up for Wednesday night?” said T.J. as they hurried along.

  “More than ever,” answered Bortnicker.

  They caught up with Mike and together took the golf cart to the cemetery, where the soldiers awaited them near the Lincoln Monument. Most were young men in their early twenties, but they seemed older, reserved. Thankfully, none had obvious wounds from their time in action. However, at various points in Mike’s presentation the boys could see some of the young veterans tearing up, maybe thinking of their own comrades who had given “The last full measure.”

  * * * *

  They met up with LouAnne for a late lunch at the house. Aunt Terri was absent, probably running errands. T.J. helped Bortnicker assemble some peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches on whole wheat bread, accompanied by glasses of iced milk and a huge communal bowl of potato chips.

  “Your father’s got to know what’s going on,” Bortnicker mused, trying to clear the roof of his mouth of the gummy peanut butter.

  “That’s probably why he’s always after us about staying clear of the battlefield at night,” added T.J., dropping a handful of chips onto his plate.

  “I agree,” his cousin said, “but we still can’t let him know that we’re aware of what’s going on. One thing, though. If we do meet up with our ghost on Wednesday night, do we tell my dad then?”

  “We’ll just have to play that by ear,” cautioned T.J.

  “Unless the ghost just shoots us all, then there’s nothing to worry about,” joked Bortnicker.

  “Not funny,” said LouAnne.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  “So how do we get out there?” asked T.J.

  “Well, both our bedrooms are on the second floor, but right below is the roof of the front porch overhang. We go out the window onto the overhang and climb down onto the porch. It’s sturdy enough.”

  “You’ve done this?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Of course,” said LouAnne proudly. “Don’t you think I have any fun around here?”

  “Won’t your parents hear us?” asked T.J.

  “Not if we’re quiet,” assured LouAnne. “Their room is across the hallway, so their window opens on to the other side of the porch. No big deal.”

  “What time do we go?” asked Bortnicker.

  LouAnne’s brows knitted in concentration. “I’d say to be on the safe side we slip out at ten. Both my parents are ‘early to bed, early to rise’ fiends. We could be out on the battlefield proper by ten-thirty or so.”

  “Where should we want to be?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Well,” said T.J., “if you consider the reports of Weinstein, the deputy and me, this guy is all over the place. I think if he wants to find us, he will. What we have to make sure is that we can’t be seen from any paved roads a police car could use.”

  “Like a woodsy-type area?” asked his cousin.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmmm...my choice would be Pitzer’s Woods. It’s at the southern tip of Seminary Ridge. There was some fighting there, although it didn’t involve cavalry. I mean, we could go to East Cavalry Field, but that’s a couple miles from here and I just don’t know how we could get there without a car. What do you guys think?”

  “Pitzer’s Woods it is,” said T.J. decisively.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday was rainy and dreary and seemed to take forever. After an abbreviated run the cousins and Bortnicker sat down with Aunt Terri for some cereal and small talk. LouAnne had a rare day off from babysitting and was traveling with her mother a few miles away to the nearest shopping mall in Hagerstown for back-to-school clothes and a new pair of Nike track shoes she couldn’t find locally. Terri asked the boys where they were headed and Bortnicker wondered if she could drop them off at the Visitor Center.

  “Again?” moaned T.J.

  “I want to check out their research library,” said Bortnicker. Then, quietly to T.J. he whispered, “I have to check some leads on what division our boy is from.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, why not?” T.J. agreed.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, Mike Darcy had stopped at the General Meade Luncheonette for a buttered roll and was surprised to see his former student, Rudy Herzog, hunched over a steaming cup of coffee, alone in a booth. He was staring into the black liquid and had a vacant look in his eyes that frightened his former teacher. Darcy checked his watch, figured he had at least twenty-five minutes until he had to check in, and approached the booth.

  “Okay if I join you, Rudy?” he asked.

  “Oh, hi, Coach. Yeah, of course, slide on in,” the deputy said, beckoning with his hand.

  Mike settled into the leather bench seat and looked into Herzog’s haggard face. “Not to be insulting, Rudy,” he began, “but you look terrible. Like when Chambersburg beat us your senior year.”

  Rudy managed a tight smile. “Don’t remind me. I was the one who blew the coverage and let their wide-out get behind me, remember?”

  “Rudy, everybody on Defense was to blame that day. No one man loses a game. You were one of the best strong safeties I ever coached. So what’s got you so down? Anything I can help with?”

  “Nah, Coach. This is beyond you. Maybe beyond any of us in this world.”

  Darcy looked around, made sure there was nobody near. “Does this have to do with the shootings?”

  “Yeah. You know, I had the misfortune of being the first guy at both crime scenes. Three people. It was awful.”

  “I heard. Maybe you need to take some time off.”

  “No. I’m a police officer, Coach. It’s my job. But, the other night, man, that was just too much.”

  “What other night?”

  Herzog, realizing he’d divulged sensitive information, buried his head in his hands. “Aw, jeez, what’ve I done now?”

  “Hey, Rudy, if you don’t want to tell me...”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. I mean, you guys got briefed by the Chief on the shootings, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the TV guy?”

  “TV guy?”

  “Yeah, there was this ghost hunter guy from one of those cable shows. He was confronted by the soldier in Devil’s Den.”

  “But the soldier didn’t shoot him?”

  “His gun jammed.”

  “Oh. Hey, Rudy, I know you take your job seriously, it’s just the way you are. But you’ve got—”

  “I saw him.”

  “You? When?”

 
; “Sunday night. When I wrecked the car.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I still don’t believe it myself, Coach. But hear me out.” He told Darcy the whole story, at times gesticulating wildly as he described the desperate chase across the battlefield and his near brush with death. Mike tried not to interrupt his former player, who clearly needed to unburden himself to someone he trusted, someone who knew him and wouldn’t think he was crazy. Darcy was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice Bruce Morrison, who just happened to be passing by, observing the men through the plate glass window of the luncheonette.

  Morrison only paused a few seconds, guessing at the content of Herzog’s histrionic-filled monologue. He was still contemplating what he’d witnessed as he entered the Visitor Center and came upon Darcy’s nephew and his strange friend sitting on the floor before the glass-encased uniform of a Confederate cavalier. The friend was sketching the uniform, pointing things out to Darcy’s nephew. Morrison crept within earshot and heard the nephew say, “Yeah, Uncle Mike’s .44 would blow a mega-hole in you. I can’t believe how easily he can control it.”

  The friend said, “How about the sash around this tunic’s waist. Was the soldier’s red like this one?”

  “Couldn’t really tell. It was dark.”

  Morrison backed away, wondering what in the world was going on with the Darcy clan. Could one of his rangers, or these two kids, be involved in any way with the goings-on in Gettysburg? He’d already had a sit-down with the elder Darcy. Now all he could do was keep a close watch on him and note anything suspicious. But he would mention what he’d seen today to Al Warren.

  Yes, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “What’s with you guys? Something wrong with my fruit salad?” asked Aunt Terri.

  “No, it’s great,” assured T.J. “Really.”