Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “We’re pretty good. Most of us are veterans and our unit has never had a violation, so we’re not overly scrutinized. There have been some units who have been caught a few times and thus aren’t allowed to attend reenactments.”

  “Other battlefields have them?”

  “Oh, yeah. All the major ones do it yearly, some of the smaller ones here and there. But this is the big one. That’s why it draws participants from all over the world.”

  “What if you’re some guy, say, in England, and you want to come over and do it?”

  “They’ll assign you to a unit, pretty much. You can’t just be running around out there. These battle reenactments are carefully scripted to mirror the actual events, though on an obviously smaller scale. We even know who’s gonna die or get wounded.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way. Think about it, T.J. You can’t have a battle where nobody gets killed. So, we volunteer or even draw straws ahead of time to see who goes down.”

  “Wow. I never realized it was so organized.”

  “It has to be. And if you think it’s stringent for us infantrymen, just imagine all the additional rules for mounted soldiers and cavalry, or the artillery batteries.”

  “So you guys are pretty meticulous about being historically correct.”

  “You have no idea. From the uniforms to the weapons to our canteens and eating utensils to our tents and sleeping equipment. If anybody is even a little off on this stuff he gets mercilessly ragged on.”

  “But LouAnne said you don’t go in for the camp out part.”

  “That’s true, although there are all kinds of designated camps; one for Union troops, one for Confederate, and one for dependents and family of soldiers where you have men and women reenacting the roles of doctors, cooks, seamstresses, etc. But, just like the soldiers, they have to be well versed on their roles.”

  “Did Aunt Terri ever participate?”

  Mike gave a short, snorting laugh. “No, your aunt isn’t a big fan of all this. The last thing she wants is to be dragging around in some big hoop skirt on a ninety degree day. She just says, ‘You can go play with your friends, Mike.’ She attends the reenactment as a spectator when I participate, though. Says it’s to make sure I don’t get killed, but I think she gets a kick out of it. And, of course, LouAnne spends her whole summer reenacting at the Charney House, so she doesn’t feel the need to suit up for the battle as well, though she’d be one of the best.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  They arrived at the range and set up a booth, where T.J. impressed his uncle with his memorization of the loading and firing procedure of the .44. He even hit the target more times than he missed.

  Mike was clearly a great marksman, deftly loading and shooting his rifle and hitting the mark consistently. Uncle and nephew joked with each other and thoroughly enjoyed their day of shooting, then retired to the same burger joint for a hearty lunch and gallons of iced tea. It was while they were awaiting the bill that Mike’s cell phone beeped. He clicked it open and read the caller ID. “That’s odd. It’s my Civil War unit commanding officer,” he said. “Wants me to call him. Says it’s important. Give me a few minutes, T.J., okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll just hang out here and watch SportsCenter,” he said, pointing to a TV over the bar.

  Mike returned a few minutes later, grinning from ear to ear, and sat down across from T.J. “Talk about coincidence, this is eerie!” he began.

  “What’s up, Uncle Mike?”

  “Okay, so that was my commander, Colonel Pelham. Actually, his real name is Jack Pelham, and he’s a computer technician with some big marketing agency in Philly. Anyway, his twin sons are our unit’s drummer boys.”

  “Drummer boys?”

  “Oh yeah, most units have ‘em. Well, it seems these kids are on the same Babe Ruth League travel team that just made their league playoffs, and they have to play in a regional tournament in Pittsburgh during the Reenactment Days. Their dad said they had to make a choice, and they chose the tournament, since both guys are starters. Needless to say, Jack’s not happy. So, we’re scrounging for at least one drummer boy.”

  “What do you have to do as a drummer boy?” said T.J., who had an idea where this was all going.

  “Well, technically you have to have had previous experience in reenacting because Gettysburg’s a tough one to start with, but I know I can get my hands on a ‘how-to’ list of guidelines of what your duties would be, both in camp and in the battle. The key question is, can you actually drum at all?”

  “Well,” said T.J., wiping away some remnants of black powder from the back of his wrist that he’d missed while scrubbing up in the men’s room before lunch, “as it turns out, both Bortnicker and I played the kettle drum in our school orchestra. See, every kid in our school has to take music lessons or be in chorus, because Fairfield is a very artsy town. We decided the kettle drum would be the least demanding instrument, except maybe cymbals, so we signed up for it. We’re not that great, but we’re not horrible, either.”

  “Are you saying that both you guys would want to do this?”

  “I can’t speak for Bortnicker, Uncle Mike. Who knows how he’d feel about this? And, to tell you the truth, I’d only do it if he was going to do it, too. Don’t want to be the only one making a fool of myself.”

  “I think you two would be great!”

  “I’m not so sure. Could I talk to him about it when we get home?”

  “Sure thing. Let’s get outta here.”

  As they drove back to Gettysburg Darcy was bubbling with excitement. T.J. likened his demeanor to a football coach the week of a big game. Which was, of course, exactly what Mike used to be. “You nervous about tonight, T.J.?” he asked finally.

  “Yeah. Going shooting actually took my mind off it, but now the butterflies are creeping in.”

  “I understand. Here’s what we’ll do. After dinner we’ll sit down together and nail down a plan for our procedures. Try to think of any details we should cover and talk to Bortnicker ahead of time. He should be home by the time we get back. That way you can also talk about the reenacting thing. I just want to make sure nothing bad happens to you kids out there tonight. You’re really sure you want to do this?”

  “We have to,” said T.J. firmly.

  “Alright. You guys seem set on this. My job is to get you in and out of there without being detected. But you have the hard job. You have to reason with this being and try to find out if you can help him. That may be asking too much. And besides, what if he doesn’t show?”

  “He’ll show, I know it,” said T.J.

  * * * *

  T.J. found Bortnicker in their room with his laptop, a box of saltines at the ready, once again going over the strategic elements of the Battle of Gettysburg. “How many times are you going to read that stuff?” he moaned.

  “I’m thinking our guy got killed in one of two places,” said Bortnicker, absently reaching into the box for a cracker, his glasses riveted to the laptop screen. “It was either East Cavalry Field, which would make the most sense, or during Pickett’s Charge.”

  “But, wasn’t Pickett’s Charge an infantry battle?”

  “Yeah, with an artillery barrage to kick it off. But those are the only two encounters on Day Three. Either he took part in one or the other, or he just plain ran away like it was rumored. But I don’t think he deserted.”

  “Me neither. So, how’d your shopping spree go today?”

  Bortnicker snapped the laptop shut and plopped himself on his bed. “Man, you won’t believe the stuff they have for reenactors,” he marveled. “You could spend hundreds or even thousands getting yourself suited up for battle. I just lost myself in those places.”

  “Places? How many of those stores are there?”

  “Well, there are two major ones, the Battle Cry and the Soldier’s Supply Depot. Their prices are about the same. I’m thinking of bringing home a Union infantry cap as a souvenir.”

  “I think
you could do better than that,” said T.J., a twinkle in his eye.

  “What do you mean?”

  T.J. filled Bortnicker in on Mike’s phone call from Jack Pelham and the drummer boy offer. He expected his friend would be sky high at the prospect of participating in the battle. He was therefore surprised and disappointed when Bortnicker frowned and said, “Jeez, I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? I would think you’d be psyched for this! You’re the big Civil War expert.”

  “Yeah, I know, but marching around some dusty cornfield beating a drum... can I think about it?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said T.J., hiding his annoyance. “Tell you what, let’s get through tonight and we’ll see what we wanna do.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “So, you know what you’re gonna ask Hilliard tonight?”

  “Well, kinda. I’d like to run through it with you first.”

  T.J. lay back on his bed. “Toss me a couple Saltines,” he said. “I’m all ears.”

  * * * *

  At about the same time T.J. and Bortnicker were reviewing their plans for the upcoming evening, Al Warren heard a tapping noise on his office window and looked up to see the smiling face of Doc Lamberg, who reminded him of Orville Redenbacher, the popcorn guy. He motioned Doc inside and told his secretary to hold all calls.

  “I was just in the area, Chief, and thought I’d drop by. Haven’t heard from you in a while,” said Lamberg, settling into a chair and pulling out his pipe. “Mind if I light up?”

  “No, go ahead,” said Warren. “I apologize for not keeping you up on things since the Weeks shooting. All in all, it’s been quiet, as far as any violence goes.”

  “Which means what, exactly?” said Lamberg wryly as he fired up his pipe.

  “We know who the shooter is, because he’s made two more appearances.”

  “Then, you’ve picked him up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is he under surveillance?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  Lamberg puffed away, then took the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Warren. “You’re being very vague here, Al,” he said. “It’s not like you.”

  “Doc, I’m just trying to keep this quiet until after Reenactment Week. Then I’ll have a better handle on it.”

  “I see,” said Lamberg, somewhat miffed he’d been left out of the loop. “Don’t you think it’s odd that these three murders were committed with period ammunition?”

  Warren’s mouth nearly dropped open. “How did you find that out?” he asked.

  “Oh, come on, Al. You don’t think that when I leave a murder scene I lose all interest in the crime, do you? I have a friend at State Police HQ in Harrisburg who clued me in. Who on earth goes around shooting old ammo like the rounds they took out of those guys? Where do you even buy stuff like that nowadays?”

  “Well, I’m sure some of the war relic places around here have them,” said Warren.

  “Al, those old bullets were fired from a period .44, as you well know. Don’t a lot of those reenactors use period weapons?”

  “Not many, actually,” said Warren. “Most use reproduction rifles and pistols.”

  “So I would assume you’ve asked every shop owner in the area who sells Civil War bullets and the like if .44 calibers had been purchased lately?”

  “Of course, Doc. It took weeks, too, because everyone and his mother sells that stuff. I mean, they found barrels and barrels of bullets in ammunition warehouses at the end of the war. If you add in all the stuff that’s been dug up over the years, you have a seemingly never ending supply.”

  “Yes, but how many places around here sell the pristine, ready-to-fire bullets?”

  The answer was only a few, and although he’d implored those proprietors to call him immediately if any .44 purchases were forthcoming, it seemed moot now because Warren truly believed the shooter had brought his Civil War ammo with him—fresh from 1863.

  “Doc,” said Warren patiently, “believe me when I tell you that we’re close on this,” though he wasn’t sure of that at all. “When the case breaks I’ll call you right away.”

  “Alright then, Chief,” said Lamberg, slowly rising. “Good luck to you then. I’d hate to be you this week. The idea of Gettysburg being flooded with hundreds if not thousands of firearms, both real and reproduction, this coming week must be keeping you up nights.”

  “You have no idea, Doc,” answered Warren, walking the old coroner to the door. “Hopefully, I won’t have to call you again in the middle of the night.”

  They shook hands. “Call me anytime, Al,” said Lamberg, trailing a cloud of pipe smoke behind him as he strolled away down the hall. “It’s all the excitement I get these days.”

  As soon as Warren returned to his desk he summoned his secretary, Officer Jo Vigorito, to his office. She was new to the job but thorough and direct, which was just what he needed now. “Call these five stores, Jo, and remind them that I need to know immediately if someone tries to purchase live .44 caliber bullets.”

  “I’m on it, Chief,” she replied, snatching the list from his hand and retreating.

  When she left Warren slumped forward onto his desk and rubbed his eyes. He knew something was going to happen, and was almost as certain he wouldn’t be able to prevent it. As far as he was concerned, there was only a remote chance of the shooter being human. Speaking of chances, they were taking a huge one by keeping this thing quiet. Everyone from the Mayor on down to the newspaper people and park rangers who knew the very existence of their town rested on the success of the upcoming week, especially in these troubled economic times. It was a great roll of the dice, and Warren had no doubt who the scapegoat would be if the horseman struck again.

  * * * *

  Mike Darcy looked across the now-cleared dining room table at the three dark-clad teens as his wife busied herself in the kitchen, too nervous to even be a party to what she considered a half-baked scheme. “Cell phone?” he said.

  “Check,” answered LouAnne.

  “Charged?”

  “Check.”

  “Flashlights?”

  “Check,” said T.J.

  “Tape recorder?”

  “Check,” said Bortnicker, “Though if our encounter is anything like Weinstein’s, nothing’ll come out.”

  “List of questions?”

  “They’re all in here,” said Bortnicker, tapping the side of his head. “T.J. and I went over them this afternoon.”

  “How long do you think you’ll have?” said Mike.

  “No idea of knowing,” said T.J. “If nobody bothers us, we could be there a while. But, you know, he might not want to do a lot of talking.”

  “Don’t worry, Daddy, the three of us will keep him on track till we get what we want to know.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  “How and where he died, of course,” said Bortnicker.

  “How much realization he actually has of his situation, whether he knows he’s, uh, dead,” offered T.J. “And, personally, I’d like to know what being dead’s like.”

  “LouAnne?”

  “I want to know if he has such a thing as a future plan, or if there’s a way we can free him from Gettysburg, or if he wants to leave at all.”

  “He’s gotta want to leave,” said T.J.

  “How do you know, Cuz?” she retorted. “He may feel like it’s his responsibility to stand guard over the battlefield or something.”

  “Maybe so,” T.J. admitted. “I just hope we don’t blow it.” They all turned toward Bortnicker, who looked hurt.

  “What? You think I’ll tick him off or something? You want me to stay in the car with Mr. D.?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said LouAnne, placing her hand over his clenched fist. “As long as we all stay calm and forget about how utterly bizarre the whole thing is, we’ll be okay.”

  “But also remember,” cautioned T.J., “from what we’ve learned, we know he ha
s a mean streak. For that reason I think we should keep the premise going that I’m Stonewall Jackson’s son.”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” agreed Darcy. “It will be dark in a half hour,” he said, checking his watch. “We’ll give it another hour on top of that, and then I’ll drop you guys at the Taneytown Road entrance. We’ll be taking Terri’s Accord because it’s navy blue and because everybody around here knows my truck.”

  Suddenly, Terri appeared in the dining room doorway, a tray of brownies in her shaking hands. “Dessert, anyone?” she managed.

  “I’ll have one of those, hon, and a big cup of coffee,” said Mike.

  “Make that four coffees,” said Bortnicker with authority. “I think it’s gonna be a long night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After receiving hugs from Aunt Terri, Mike Darcy and the ghost hunting team piled into Terri’s Accord for the short ride across town.

  “Stay low in your seats in case we pass anybody,” cautioned Mike. All three slid down, quiet as a mouse. As they approached the Taneytown Road Mike reminded them, “Once you’re at Devil’s Den, shoot me a text so I know you got there. After that, just let me know if you need me.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” answered LouAnne.

  “And if it looks like this guy’s becoming unreasonable or belligerent, just get out of there without angering him any further.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said T.J. “We’ll be gone in a flash.”

  Mike stopped the car in a secluded area near a park entrance in the general vicinity of Little Round Top. “So, what you’re going to do is skirt the base of Little Round Top. You’ll pass Plum Run and Devil’s Den will be right there. Should take you about twenty minutes. Keep to the woods and away from the paved roads. The moon is in and out, so you’ve gotta be careful. If you see any car headlights, get into the underbrush till they pass.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” said LouAnne earnestly, and kissed her father through the driver’s side window.

  T.J. flicked on his flashlight. “Let’s do it, then,” he said quietly, and they were off. They moved as quickly as was possible through the wooded areas, tripping occasionally on tree roots or rocks, but making steady progress. Bortnicker quietly whistled Steely Dan songs through his teeth as he picked his way along, but this was no time to play “Name That Tune.” Finally, they crossed over Plum Run, which was barely a trickle in spots, and entered the monolithic boulders which comprised Devil’s Den, which had been a stronghold for Confederate snipers during the battle. They made their way into a fairly sized natural alcove where the rocks rose to twenty feet around, totally obscuring them from the battlefield plain and, more importantly, the road that wound through it. The only sound was an occasional mosquito, which the teens warded off by earlier spraying themselves with OFF.