It was the vibration that awoke him, faint but unmistakable. LouAnne must have felt him jump, because she came awake, stretching her now-cramping neck. “What is it?” she yawned.
“I’m not sure. I felt something. Like maybe hoof beats...not too far off.”
“Bortnicker, wake up!” whispered LouAnne, giving the boy a gentle shake.
“I’m up, I’m up. What’s happening?”
“Nothing yet,” said T.J. “Just listen.”
This time there was no doubting it. The hoof beat tremors become more pronounced. Then they actually heard it.
“How does he know we’re here, on this huge battlefield?” wondered T.J.
“Why don’t you ask him?” countered Bortnicker, trying to make a joke.
As the pounding came inexorably nearer, the three teens again held hands.
“Get up,” ordered T.J., remembering his first encounter with the mystery rider. “We don’t want to be in a position where he’s standing over us.”
“I see him!” cut in LouAnne. “Just past the trees!”
“Holy mother of God,” Bortnicker said with a loud gulp. “How big is that horse?”
All the teens were afforded at this point were glimpses of the rider through the heavy tree cover. LouAnne was the first to catch a faint trace of the smell.
“Remember, don’t acknowledge it,” cautioned T.J., steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation. Standing his ground, gripping the hands of his cousin and neighbor tightly, he had never felt so resolute, so connected, so strong in his life.
And then the horseman was suddenly before them, huge against the summer moon. He gracefully dismounted his ebony steed, tied him to a nearby tree, and approached the trembling trio.
“Young Master Jackson, ah believe?” he said in a deep baritone.
“Yessir, it’s me.”
“And how is your injury?”
“My...oh, my ankle. It’s mending well, sir.”
“And who are your comrades?”
“Well, this is my...closest friend, Bortnicker, and my cousin LouAnne.”
The horseman nodded toward the boy then swept his hat from his head and, with a flourish, took the girl’s free hand and kissed it gallantly. “Ah’m charmed, young miss.”
LouAnne, whose knees almost buckled, managed a faint “Th-thank you.”
The horseman turned back to T.J. and fixed him with a withering stare. “You should not be here, none of you. Please explain yourselves. Mr. Jackson?”
T.J. cleared his throat. “Well, uh, we are here out of concern for you.”
“Concern for me? Based upon what?”
“Well, sir, if I may,” broke in Bortnicker, “it would seem to us that it is your presence that needs to be explained.”
T.J. felt the blood drain from his face. The soldier’s eyes narrowed and his gauntleted hand began moving toward his holster. “How dare you question—”
“Please, sir,” LouAnne cut in, slipping into her finest Charney Inn persona, “what my dear friend means is that while we know you deserve to be here more than any of us, you must surely understand that you are alone on this vast battlefield. We are here to try to help you find some peace... or, are you happy with the existence you lead?”
The soldier shut his eyes momentarily and shook his head, the long black ringlets of hair brushing his collar and shoulders.
“Sir?” asked Bortnicker, assuming his most masculine tone, “Do you even know what year it is?”
“I know what day it is, boy. July the third, 1863.”
“But—”
T.J. flung out his hand to stop Bortnicker short. “Would you be able to tell us your name and regiment, sir?”
The cavalier threw his shoulders back proudly and said, “Please excuse my deplorable manners. I am Major Crosby Hilliard of Charleston, South Carolina, serving under the division command of Brigadier General Wade Hampton, Army of Northern Virginia.”
“Under the cavalry command of Jeb Stuart?” asked Bortnicker.
“General Jeb Stuart, reporting to General Robert E. Lee,” he replied evenly.
Just then the horse snorted and began restlessly pawing the ground. “Brutus!” snapped Hilliard, and the animal was calmed.
Sensing their time was short, T.J. asked, “Major Hilliard, we feel that we have been sent here for a purpose, much as you have. That purpose is to reunite you with the brave men of your regiment. Believe me, we mean no disrespect and only want to put things right.”
“Are you a God-fearing man like your father?” Hilliard asked.
“My what?”
“Your father, T.J.,” said Bortnicker, “General Jackson. Yes, Major, we are well aware how devout Tom Junior’s father was, how he prayed to his Lord before each battle and abstained from drink and other vices as an example to his men.”
The soldier seemed satisfied with this response. “Very well then, young Master...”
“Bortnicker.”
“Yes. We must rendezvous again, for I have many questions to ask.”
“As we do of you, sir,” said LouAnne.
He nodded, set his plumed hat upon his head, and bowed deeply. “We shall meet again on the field, it matters not where. I shall find you. But I warn you all. If your intentions prove in any way to be duplicitous, you will regret the abuse of my benevolence and wish you were never born. And that includes you, young miss.”
LouAnne, displaying uncommon bravery, stepped forward and proffered her hand. “I look forward to our next meeting, Major,” she said warmly, a faint smile creasing her lips.
Again he kissed her hand. Then he smoothly mounted Brutus, gave him the spurs, and was gone in seconds.
A seeming eternity passed before anyone could speak. It wasn’t until Bortnicker said, “If that isn’t a candidate for Irish Spring, I don’t know what is,” that they finally relaxed a bit.
“If you can get past the stench,” offered LouAnne, “he really cuts a dashing figure.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said T.J. “But I think he’s as confused as we are about all this. And on top of that, he still thinks, or wants to think, that I’m Stonewall Jackson’s son. So what now?”
“Well,” said Bortnicker, “Now I’ve got a name. It’s time for some heavy duty research time. Back to the Visitor Center Museum Library tomorrow?”
“Looks like it,” said T.J.
“It’s so far out I still can’t believe it happened,” marveled LouAnne.
“Well, it did,” said T.J. “The question is, are we going to be able to do anything about it?”
“You can count on it, Big Mon,” answered Bortnicker. “One way or the other, we’re gonna get Major Crosby Hilliard to wherever he belongs.”
The trio retraced their steps down Seminary Ridge, stealthily climbed the ivy-covered trellis to the porch roof and quietly said their goodnights. As Bortnicker slipped through the window LouAnne stopped her cousin. “You were really brave out there, Cuz,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“Well, it wasn’t my first time,” responded T.J. “I kind of knew what to expect.”
“Makes no difference. You kept us all together.” And for the second time, she lightly brushed his cheek with her lips before padding away to her window.
T.J. stood there a moment in the moon glow, the events of the night flashing by him. He sighed then turned to face the hurt and accusation in his best friend’s eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning T.J. was up a little early to use the bathroom when Aunt Terri intercepted him. “You dad’s on the phone from Paris,” she whispered.
He padded downstairs to the kitchen and took the receiver off the counter. “Hello, Dad?”
“Hey, son! How goes it there on the battlefield?”
“Okay, I guess,” T.J. answered, thinking if you only knew. “It’s hot.”
“Same here. But I’ve got good news.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Well, my man, it looks like the pro
ject won’t be taking as long as we’d estimated.”
“W-what?” T.J. stammered. “I thought you said you’d be away all summer.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Son, I thought you’d be ecstatic. The last time we talked you seemed really bummed out.”
“Well, uh, I mean, I am happy you’re coming back sooner,” said T.J., recovering. “When did you have in mind?” he ventured, his mind screaming Not till we solve this! Please!
“Well,” said Jackson Senior, “I definitely won’t be home for the Fourth of July. Maybe a couple weeks after that. Sound okay?”
T.J. breathed a sigh of relief, his forehead resting against the wall.
“Son?”
“That sounds fine, Dad. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me, too. We’ll go fishing out on Mohegan Lake first thing. Just you n’me.”
“What about Wendy?”
“I get the impression baiting hooks and cleaning fish might not be her thing.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You taking care of LouAnne and Bortnicker?”
Oh, yeah, Dad. It’s just that I think I’m in love with my own cousin and my best friend now hates my guts. I’m really taking care of it.
“Sure. We’re having a great time.”
“Alright then. Don’t eat you aunt and uncle out of their house. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to have a good old, fat American cheeseburger. We’ll do some serious grilling when I get back, right?”
“You got it.”
“Seriously, though, is everything okay? You doing alright? I get so worried that you’re bored stiff.”
No chance of that, Dad. In fact, last night I was talking to a one hundred percent authentic ghost!
“Nah, I’m fine. There’s more stuff to do than you’d think.”
“Great! So I’ll call you when I have a handle on when things’ll wrap up here, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Alright, Son. Gotta go. Stay safe.”
“Will do.” T.J. hung up the phone, wondering if he’d be able to keep his promise.
Creeping back into the bedroom past a snoring Bortnicker, he scooped up his running stuff and dressed in the bathroom, meeting LouAnne on the front lawn.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asked while executing a standing hamstring stretch.
“Kinda. How about you?”
“I couldn’t get that Major Hilliard out of my mind. Tossed and turned for hours.”
“Guess I did, too. What are we gonna do?”
“Well, I guess you and Bortnicker have to get a little more info on him, like you said. That poor man. Imagine being trapped like him, not able to get released to wherever it is you’re supposed to go when you die. Ugh.”
“I just don’t know what the three of us will be able to do.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’d feel bad if we just let it drop. But, I don’t know, don’t you feel, like, scared and excited at the same time?”
LouAnne raised her gaze to his. “T.J., if we live to be one hundred, this is going to be the most amazing thing we’ve ever experienced. I just have a fear that somehow we’re going to get off his good side.”
They started on their run, their strides in sync, side by side. “When Bortnicker and I overheard the police chief and the ranger the other day, I got the impression Hilliard had done some nasty stuff besides just scaring Weinstein. Bottom line, he’s armed and dangerous.”
“The good thing is,” said LouAnne between long, deep breaths, “he only comes out at night.”
“So far. Who’s to say he won’t manifest in the daytime?”
“You think?”
“Listen, another thing Warren and Morrison were worried about is the reenactment. I don’t know why, but I get the feeling we’ve gotta resolve this thing by then.”
“T.J., that only gives us a few days!”
“I know, Cuz, but don’t you feel like, I don’t know how to put it, something’s coming?”
She was silent for almost a quarter mile before she said, “Yes.”
“And you still don’t want to tell your dad?”
“Not quite yet.”
“Okay then. At breakfast today the three of us will sit down and discuss our next night out to the battlefield.”
“Sounds good. T.J. Do you think Bortnicker’s going to be able to figure this guy out?”
“Well,” he said speculatively, “I think we’ll dig up the history on Hilliard, if you’ll pardon the pun, but I’m really afraid of Bortnicker being Bortnicker and ticking him off so much that he wastes us.”
“You think he would?”
“I know that if I was angry as he must be over his situation, I might have a somewhat short fuse. And my buddy does have a way of annoying people.”
LouAnne giggled, despite the seriousness of the conversation.
“Coming up on the Eternal Peace Monument,” said T.J., who was by now well-versed on the environs of the park. “Race you back?”
They turned and hit it hard for home.
T.J. had expected his best friend to be miffed at breakfast, maybe even sullen, but Bortnicker was one unpredictable dude. He and Aunt Terri were yukking it up while preparing plates of French toast with fresh fruit on the side. After she left to tend to the garden the three conspirators regarded each other eagerly.
“Well,” said Bortnicker, wiping the last traces of maple syrup from his lips, “here’s how I see it. We’ve got this ghost who thinks it’s 1863 and probably always will unless we convince him otherwise. But the key to all this is to find out how he died and, if possible, where he was buried on the battlefield.”
“Or if his body was relocated to a Confederate graveyard in the South,” T.J. cut in.
“Maybe, but unlikely. He’s tied to this place, guards it like it’s his responsibility. We’ve gotta get into the archives today and do some serious digging. I went online this morning and found a lead, but we’ve gotta follow it.”
“Tell us,” said LouAnne.
“Okay. Last night Hilliard said he was in Jeb Stuart’s cavalry unit under the direct command of Wade Hampton.
“Hampton was born in Charleston, South Carolina to a family of rich planters who owned a lot of slaves. His father served in the War of 1812 under Andrew Jackson, and his grandfather even served in the House of Representatives. His uncle had been a senator and also served as Governor of the state, so he was pretty connected.
“Hampton was a well-educated guy who studied law in college, then took over running his family’s plantation business while entering the political world himself, becoming a state senator. But the whole time he established this reputation as a great hunter and horseman.
“When the war started Hampton felt his first allegiance was to his home state. The Governor made him a colonel in the Confederate army even though he had no military training. Because of his plantation Hampton was loaded, so he personally financed his own unit, which came to be known as ‘Hampton’s Legion,’ and had companies of infantry, cavalry and artillery.
“By all accounts he was a natural cavalryman and leader, but he was never the showboat his eventual commander, J.E.B. Stuart, was. Just a real solid soldier.
“I think to find Hilliard we have to research Hampton’s Legion. Hilliard did tell us he was from Charleston, so we’ve gotta look for the connection there.”
“Bortnicker, you’re amazing,” marveled LouAnne.
“Yeah, well, it’s what I do,” he answered off-handedly, carrying his plate to the sink.
LouAnne gave her cousin a “What’s up with him?” look.
T.J. answered with his own “Don’t ask me,” gesture, though he knew very well.
“Hey, guys,” said LouAnne, breaking the awkward silence, “I don’t have to babysit at Mrs. Spath’s till noon today. Want me to help out at the Research Center?”
“Sure, why not?” said Bortnicker, rinsing his orange juic
e glass.
Aunt Terri dropped them off and they headed inside to the climate controlled Research Center where LouAnne knew the director, Dr. Mary Ellen Landon, who had gone to high school with her dad.
“LouAnne Darcy!” exclaimed the portly academic, her hair pinned up in a tight bun. “What brings you to our resource room?”
“Hi, Dr. Landon. Well, my cousin T.J., here, and our friend Bortnicker want to look up a Confederate soldier who was killed in the battle.”
“Hmm. Do we have a name?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Bortnicker, stepping forward. “Major Crosby Hilliard of Charleston, South Carolina, who served in General Wade Hampton’s cavalry.”
“Well, that’s a start. Let’s pull up the Confederate Order of Battle and any information related to Hampton’s command.”
Things were a little slow that morning, so Dr. Landon was able to join them, sitting between the two desktop computers as Bortnicker and T.J. tried link after link, to no avail. By the time Aunt Terri came to pick up LouAnne, the boys’ eyes were red and their patience was waning.
“We’re cooked,” said T.J. finally. “I don’t think we’re ever gonna find this guy. Maybe he didn’t really exist, or he isn’t who he says he is.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Bortnicker, rubbing his eyes. “We’re just looking in the wrong place. He’d have no reason to lie to us, anyway.”
“Well, you don’t have to get snippy about it.”
Bortnicker turned to T.J. and fixed him with a withering look whose origin was obviously the previous night. “Don’t even,” was all he said.
Fortunately, Dr. Landon reappeared that very moment. “You boys hit a bump in the road?” she said sweetly.
“More like a dead end,” mumbled T.J.
“Well, there is one more avenue we can try. One of the finest Civil War museums in the land is located in Charleston, run by the Daughters of the Confederacy—”
“The who?” cut in Bortnicker.
“Allow me to continue,” said Dr. Landon primly, alerting Bortnicker to his rudeness. “The Daughters of the Confederacy is an organization of descendants of Southern soldiers who keep their memory alive for both scholars and the general public by funding and maintaining museums and other research facilities. Charleston’s is open on a daily basis and is located in an antebellum building directly over the Charleston Market. A remarkable place, really, crammed to the rafters with artifacts donated from hundreds of veterans’ descendants all over the South and elsewhere. I just happen to be good friends with their longtime director, Margaret Thibodeaux. Let me call her over there... I just might catch her at her desk.”
Last Ghost at Gettysburg Page 14
