Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “Well, here we are,” said T.J. “Might as well have a seat.” Bortnicker started walking toward the far end of the alcove when T.J. stopped him. “Not there,” he cautioned. “Let’s park ourselves closer to the opening. If we go that far in he’d have us trapped.”

  “Good idea,” said LouAnne, and they hunkered down nearer to the mouth of the corridor. The rocks felt cool despite the oppressive humidity of the evening. She pulled a Vitamin Water bottle out of her small tote sack and passed it around as Bortnicker set the palm-sized tape recorder on a nearby ledge. Each of them was lost in thought, willing the being to appear.

  A half hour went by.

  Nothing.

  “Maybe this isn’t the night,” LouAnne whispered. “Or maybe he’s just given up and—”

  “Wait,” said T.J. urgently. “Listen!”

  And there it was, the familiar far off sound.

  “He’s coming,” said Bortnicker. “Oh, God.”

  “It’s what we want,” reminded T.J. “Be cool.”

  Within minutes the smell was in the air, declaring his nearness. T.J. looked his compatriots in the eye and quietly gave each a soft fist pound. “Here we go, guys,” he whispered, then shot them a reassuring wink. Bortnicker hit the ON switch of the tape recorder. They heard the galloping hoof beats slow to a canter, then a walk. The smell became stronger. And then, Major Crosby Hilliard turned the corner of the alcove and entered. All three teens immediately stood at attention, LouAnne literally trembling in fear and excitement.

  “Young miss,” he began, taking her tiny hand in his weathered gauntlet, “it is a pleasure to see you again. Please do not be afraid.”

  “Yes, sir,” she managed, wincing from the touch of the grave.

  “Young Master Jackson, we meet again,” he said evenly. “It seems now that you are purposely seeking me out. I think it is time you make your intentions known to me, as we spoke only briefly last time.”

  “How long do we have?” said T.J. bravely.

  “As long as it takes,” was the soldier’s answer.

  “Well,” said Bortnicker gently, “why don’t we all sit then?”

  “As you wish,” said Hilliard, seating himself on a stray boulder. The teens simply slid down the stone wall behind them and exhaled.

  “Major Hilliard,” T.J. began, “since our last meeting, my friend Bortnicker and I have tried to find out as much about you as possible so we could, uh, have a dialogue about your career and the war and...well, all that.”

  “Indeed. And where did this information come from?” Hilliard asked, his eyes steely.

  “Charleston, sir,” said Bortnicker. “I believe that’s where you’re from?”

  “Ah, yes. Charleston. The home of my youth. And what did you find, young man?”

  “Well, ah, that you are from a very wealthy family that owns a large tobacco plantation with lots of slaves.” Bortnicker shut his eyes, immediately realizing his potential inflammatory statement.

  “A necessity,” said Hilliard tersely. “Continue.”

  All three youths breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well, when South Carolina seceded from the Union,” Bortnicker continued, “you sided with your state. After Fort Sumter fell, you joined Hampton’s Legion.”

  “Your information is accurate. Wade Hampton is a close associate of my family. It is an honor to serve with so gallant a soldier. And I think that during our various campaigns I have repaid his trust and loyalty to myself and my family by fighting bravely at his side.” He shot a look at LouAnne that made her shiver, as though her blood had run cold. “Unfortunately, not all who live in Charleston view me in the same light as my commanding officer.”

  “Have you enjoyed being a cavalryman?” asked T.J.

  “I don’t know if enjoyment enters into the equation,” said Hilliard. “We are sworn to defend our homeland against the invaders from the North who desire to destroy the very fabric of our existence. Life in the saddle is incredibly taxing, periods of boredom mixed with horrible bursts of terror and carnage. I have seen so much that I would rather forget. Good friends blown to pieces. Strong men calling for their mothers as they are wrenched from this world.

  “But I do my duty, and I do it well. I have been twice decorated for bravery under fire, and I would put my record against any man’s.” He paused a moment, deep in thought. “But there is a certain romance to being a cavalier. We are modern knights, the vanguard of our army. I could not imagine myself in any other role during this conflict. Thank God for General Hampton who gave me this opportunity.”

  “How did you come to be here, at Gettysburg?” asked Bortnicker.

  “It is quite simple,” said Hilliard. “General Lee felt it was finally time to take the fight to Northern soil, as our rich farmland in the Southern states was being destroyed. If we could force the issue by encircling the Yankee capital, perhaps Lincoln would see the light and sue for peace.

  “As always, our cavalry would lead the way. Hampton’s Legion, under the overall command of General Stuart, crossed over in Maryland. Our mission was to ascertain the strength of Union forces in Pennsylvania so General Lee could find the most direct route to Washington.

  “Our first major encounter with the enemy was at Brandy Station, where we achieved the most narrow of victories over General Buford’s men, who fought bravely. As explained to me by my immediate superior, General Hampton, our cavalry force had been ordered by General Longstreet, General Lee’s second in command, to protect our advancing infantry’s right flank to the north and east. General Stuart decided he could fulfill this mission by passing around the rear of the Federal Army and disrupting its communications and supply. We had already executed a similar maneuver during the Peninsular and Sharpsburg campaigns, so spirits were high that we could again outfox the Yankees.

  “On June 25th we encountered a Union force heading toward Frederick, Maryland. This forced us farther south, and there were other delays that hindered us from a planned rendezvous with General Ewell’s infantry at York, Pennsylvania. So, we kept moving, skirting the Union force, riding through small towns where, surprisingly, we were greeted as heroes, especially by the young maidens of the area.”

  “I would imagine you and your men cut a pretty dashing figure,” said LouAnne, who, like the others, was adjusting to the cloying, sickly-sweet smell of decomposition that accompanied the soldier.

  “Indeed, young miss. Why, in one village we came to a halt and immediately were assaulted by groups of eager young ladies from a local female academy who attempted to cut buttons from our cavalry tunics with knives and scissors.” He smiled at the remembrance.

  “But, really, you were cut off from General Lee,” pressed Bortnicker.

  “Unfortunately so, by two mountain ranges as well as the Army of the Potomac. But we did come tantalizingly near to Washington, could even see it in the distance. And we were capturing supply wagons, mules and soldiers from their rearguard. Both Washington and Baltimore must have been thrown into a panic.

  “But then, for reasons that only those above me are privy to, we seemed to lose contact with General Lee. The many wagons and mules we’d captured were slowing us down, as were periodic skirmishes with Union cavalry. By the time we got our bearings and made our way to York, General Early had already left. Our men were exhausted and had been pushed to the limit of physical endurance by the time we fought yet another small battle with Union troops near Hanover, Pennsylvania. Finally, on July 1st a courier from General Lee’s headquarters found us near Carlisle and delivered orders for us to proceed immediately to Gettysburg. By this time it was July 2nd and the battle at this place was well underway.

  “We found General Lee at his headquarters the night of July 2nd, and as I dismounted with Generals Stuart and Hampton I could sense the unease, bordering on pure anger, of General Lee’s staff toward our cavalry command. General Stuart had long been a favorite of General Lee, whom he held in solemn reverence, but on this night, as I observed fro
m the background, Lee merely looked at my commander and said, ‘Well, General Stuart, you are here at last.’ The rebuke in his words was clearly implied, and I learned later that some on Lee’s staff had even recommended a court martial for General Stuart for failing to be the Army’s eyes and ears at this most crucial time.”

  Hilliard’s head drooped for a moment, and he seemed to study the tops of his boots. When he raised his head again T.J. thought he detected traces of tears in the soldier’s eyes. “General Stuart violated no orders,” Hilliard explained. “He simply guessed wrong, on multiple occasions, and in doing so dragged our Legion along with him. I, for one, burned with the desire to turn the tide of negative sentiment around, and it seemed that, although we’d arrived so late, there was still a chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

  “Early on July 3rd General Lee summoned General Stuart to his tent and dispatched our force to protect General Longstreet’s left flank as he mounted an all-out assault on the center of the Union line. General Hampton, I could tell, was somewhat disappointed that we were being afforded a secondary, though necessary, role in the upcoming conflict. As for me, I was devastated. Perhaps I took too much to heart the looks of accusation in General Lee’s camp. And perhaps I was just being a fool and attaching too much importance to my own role in the conflict. But I chafed the whole way as we rode east on the York Road and turned south to cut off any Federal cavalry in the area. We sent scouts ahead who spotted Bluecoats, and thus we formed our battle lines near Spangler’s Farm on the Hanover Road to wait for the enemy.

  “It was at this moment that I could contain myself no longer. I approached my immediate commander, General Hampton, and requested permission to take a detachment of men and support Longstreet’s assault. I’ll never forget the look on his face. It was if my good friend had never seen me before, like he was in the presence of some kind of madman. ‘Out of the question,’ he snapped. ‘Permission denied. You will rejoin your company, Major, and assist in this maneuver.’

  “‘But General,’ I pleaded, ‘please allow me to restore the honor of our Legion by taking part in the assault. Our presence on horseback will only inspire the men.’

  “And then my friend, my mentor, looked me in the eye and said, ‘Crosby, the attack of the Union center today is folly. Longstreet himself tried to talk General Lee out of it, to no avail.’ We heard the crashing of hundreds of cannons as the prelude to the assault commenced. ‘Crosby,’ he continued, ‘that farmer’s field that Longstreet’s men are going to try to cross today will be a bloodbath. I forbid you becoming a part of it!’

  “Just then bullets began clipping the edges of leaves around us. The Federal cavalry was engaging us. General Hampton said, ‘Now, for the last time, you will obey my orders and rejoin your men!’”

  “What did you do?” said T.J., his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “I spurred Brutus in the direction of Seminary Ridge and left my post,” Hilliard said, looking forlornly at the moon. “Perhaps I had gone mad, but I felt I could make a difference in the assault, as I had made in others. There was no personal regard whatsoever for my physical wellbeing.

  “By the time I reached General Lee’s staff, who were viewing the battle from the ridge near the Seminary, the carnage was well underway. Wave after wave of brave Southern men crossed the trampled fields only to be mowed down by withering Union fire. The air was full of lung-searing smoke from the artillery barrages of both sides, but I could still make out thousands of men from George Pickett’s and A.P. Hill’s divisions rolling away from Seminary Ridge toward the Union lines one mile away. It was magnificent and horrible at the same time.

  “But something besides Union fire was hindering the progress of our brave men,” he continued. “There was a split rail fence that ran the length of a road which dissected the fields through which our men had to advance—”

  “The Emmitsburg Road,” said LouAnne. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, young miss,” he said tightly. “I could see our men being mowed down as they tried to climb over this roadblock and was amazed that no one else was addressing this matter. Then I spied General Longstreet, slumped against a tree, tears rolling down his cheeks that formed streaks in the gunpowder which coated his face. ‘General,’ I cried, ‘that fence must come down if we are to have a chance of crossing that field! Our men are being slaughtered!’ He stared ahead as if my words weren’t registering. So, without any regard to protocol, I got right in front of his face and screamed, ‘Permission to attempt to pull down the fence!’ He looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen and weakly waved me toward the battlefield.

  “Again, I spurred Brutus and we flew past General Pickett, who was impotently clenching his fists and moaning, ‘Oh, my men, my men!’ In a matter of moments, with Brutus leaping over the shattered bodies of our fallen and shells exploding overhead, I reached the Emmitsburg Road to discover huddled masses of our troops along the embankment below the fence, unable, or unwilling, to climb the fence and thus expose themselves to the Union fusillade. I rode among them as bullets flew all around me, imploring them to get up and help me pull down the fence so our advancing soldiers could pour through. But I was met with wails of terror or catcalls of derision from those too cowardly to join their comrades on the field of honor. One sergeant from Alabama even called up to me, ‘Well, why don’t y’all knock down the fence y’self and we’d be happy to follow you through!’ I’d had enough and was livid with anger and a sense of impotency. A few of the soldiers, out of fear and cowardice, I suppose, began rising and running back towards the rear. This, as the men most forward were actually breaching the Union line! I reached down from my saddle as one ran by and grabbed him by the collar of his tunic. ‘Turn around and fight, you coward!’ I screamed into his face, which was white with terror and oh, so young. He struggled and yelled, ‘Let me go! I’m gettin’ out of here!’ So I slapped him with my free hand and then...that’s when I felt the pain...a searing jolt in my back like a white-hot knife plunged deep. I slid from the saddle and landed face down in the matted wheat of the field and felt the pounding of footsteps going past me towards the rear. I wanted to scream or call out, but I couldn’t. Nor could I move a solitary fiber of my body.

  “For hours more the guns boomed and the sun beat down. I went in and out of consciousness, but in those moments of lucidity I wondered, was I shot by my own men? I lay there, praying for death, as day turned into night and hordes of flies began buzzing around the thousands of dead and dying on the field. Horribly wounded men and horses were crying out, their screams chilling me to the bone, yet I could not reply.

  “The next morning dawned, yet still I lived. And then it began to rain, a hard and cold torrent which soaked me to the skin. How I did not drown in the position where I lay is a wonder. I thought of my life back in Charleston, my family, the woman whom I’d loved, and the utter futility of my actions on the previous day and was consumed with the feeling of utter despair.

  “And then I heard the voices of men, Negro men, who were moving among the dead and nearly dead such as myself. They spoke in casual tones, as if the horror around them was merely an annoyance. Slowly they made their way toward me, and I wanted to cry out with the joy of my possible deliverance. You can imagine how my heart sank when I felt a boot nudge my shoulder and a voice declare, ‘This ol’ boy’s had it.’ And then, the most chilling sound of all came to my ears, the sound of shovels digging into the rich farmland beneath me, and the sensation of being first rolled into a trough—”

  “Omigod,” gasped LouAnne, choking back tears.

  “Then finally, the sensation of cool, black earth being thrown upon me, until the world as I knew it ceased to exist.” He stood and looked again at the moon, his brass buttons throwing quick reflections of its light.

  Bortnicker squinted sideways at the tape recorder, whose tiny wheels were still spinning. He cleared his throat, mustered up his courage and said, “Major Hilliard, do you know what year
it is?”

  The soldier looked down upon him, and for the first time his shoulders seemed to sag a bit. “For me, lad, it is, and always will be, July 3, 1863.”

  “What if we told you the year is 2010?” asked T.J., struggling to keep his voice from cracking.

  “Then I would suspect that the things I’ve seen in these recent nights are not wild fantasies, but portents of the future.”

  “What have you seen?” pressed T.J.

  “Fantastic things. Carriages moving under their own power, quietly and with amazing speed, contraptions like giant glowing birds gliding overhead.”

  “Much has happened since July 3, 1863,” said LouAnne gently.

  “What could we tell you to help you understand?” said T.J.

  “There’s so much. To begin, I would assume our army was defeated in this battle.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” said Bortnicker. “Most historians regard this battle as the turning point in the war.”

  “I take it we lost.”

  “Yes, sir, but not until after two more years of bloodshed. General Lee proved to be a great commander who finally had to surrender because of the Union’s overwhelming numbers.”

  “And my dear friend, General Hampton?”

  Bortnicker said, “Though sustaining at least five major wounds, he survived the war and went into politics.”

  “He didn’t go over to Lincoln’s side, did he?” Hilliard said incredulously.