Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “He couldn’t have even if he wanted to, sir. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated days after the war ended in April of 1865,” said T.J.

  “And what of the slavery issue?” Hilliard asked, absently rubbing his thigh.

  “They were freed and slowly were included in American society,” said Bortnicker. “But it took over a hundred years for them to get equal rights. In fact—”

  At this point T.J. clamped his hand on his friend’s knee as a signal to stop. He was afraid the revelation that a black man was now President would be too much for the Confederate soldier to take. Bortnicker fell silent.

  Hilliard sighed. “All for nothing, all for nothing,” he murmured, shaking his head. “And would I be correct in assuming that, with all the new inventions that have come along, we have found more efficient ways to kill each other?”

  T.J. thought for a moment about his twentieth century history studies and said, “You don’t want to know.”

  “My Gawd,” said Hilliard, sinking down to his seat again, elbows propped on knees, face buried in his hands. “You say that you made inquiries about me in Charleston.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” answered Bortnicker.

  “How am I remembered there?”

  “Well, sir,” Bortnicker began tactfully, “Your disappearance was noted by General Hampton in his battle report. They had no idea what happened to you.”

  “Do they think I shirked my duty? That I deserted?”

  “There seems to be some confusion about that,” said T.J.

  “Obviously, they don’t know about your heroic attempt to rally the troops during Pickett’s Charge,” said LouAnne.

  “Pickett’s Charge? Is that what this senseless slaughter goes by?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, sorry she’d spoken up.

  T.J., trying to change the direction of the conversation, said, “Major, pardon me for asking, but do you have any recollection of, ah, where you were before you reappeared in our time?”

  Hilliard took a deep breath and looked up again to face the teens. “It was a void. A nothingness. A darkness. If there is a heaven, or a hell, I visited neither.”

  “Do you remember your return?”

  “The split-rail fence,” he said dully. “Suddenly it was night, and I was above ground again, and I was alive, and I turned and my beautiful Brutus stood there in the moonlight. I was never so happy to see another living being in my life. So I mounted up and began to traverse the battlefield. I come and I go with no rhyme or reason. I see all the monuments and the statues and the cannon, a mute testament to the horrible conflagration that occurred here. But I have also dealt with those who would besmirch the honor of the gallant men who fell here.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Major,” offered Bortnicker, “the thousands of men who died here, including yourself, are celebrated for their valor in a host of ways. You can’t just go by the actions of a few idiots.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for example, besides all these monuments that recognize regiments from both North and South, there are military museums, the National Cemetery, which was dedicated by President Lincoln himself, the reenactments—”

  “The what?” Hilliard asked sharply.

  Again, Bortnicker had misspoken, but T.J. couldn’t stop him in time, so he carefully went ahead. “Well, sir, every year they, um, commemorate the battle on its anniversary by holding, uh, staging, uh—”

  “A mock battle?” the cavalier spat, eyes blazing. “You are telling me that men actually dress up and play at soldier for the entertainment of others? What purpose could this possibly serve?”

  “Well,” said T.J. evenly, “They probably want to show people how it really was.”

  Hilliard threw back his head and let out a loud, cynical laugh. “The way it was? They want to show the way it was? These imposters, these...tin soldiers actually think they are paying homage to the brave men who gave their lives for a cause they believed was just? And what does the audience do? Pack picnic baskets and cheer for their favorite side?”

  The teens’ eyes grew larger. This was not how they wanted the discussion to go, and Hilliard seemed to be working himself into a frenzied state. As if reading their minds, he fixed his cold eyes on T.J. “Master Jackson, what is today’s date?” he demanded.

  “Uh, well,” T.J. stammered.

  Hilliard drew his pistol. “Answer me, boy!”

  “It’s June 28th, sir,” said LouAnne, summoning all her courage. “And I would be appreciative if you would not try to intimidate us. We are here to find a way to free you from being bound to this place.”

  “Oh, is that so, young miss?” he replied sarcastically. “You give yourselves far too much credit. But never you worry. I shall leave this place, but not before I attend to some unfinished business.”

  “Major,” backtracked LouAnne, “We’re only trying—”

  “You’ve tried enough, the three of you,” he hissed. “Leave me. Now!”

  “Major,” T.J. attempted, “are you sure—”

  “Master Jackson, if that is indeed who you are, I am only allowing you to depart out of respect to the memory of General Jackson. You will be wise, all of you, to never cross my path again.” He drew his pistol and cocked the hammer. “Once more. Leave!”

  “Come on,” said T.J., rising to his feet. Bortnicker deftly palmed his recorder and they were off, running for all they were worth out of Devil’s Den, past Plum Run, where Brutus stood pawing the ground, eyeing them suspiciously. They raced through the woods, LouAnne plucking her cell phone from her pocket and flipping it open, telling Mike they were on their way.

  After what seemed like an eternity, they spied the concealed car and dove into the back seat. Bortnicker was hyperventilating from the unusual amount of exertion he’d pushed himself to. Mike pulled out carefully and then they were motoring toward home. “What happened? Did you see him? Did you talk to him? You were out there for hours!” he admonished.

  T.J. slowed his breathing somewhat until he was able to speak. “It happened, Uncle Mike,” he wheezed. “We found out everything. And it isn’t good.”

  * * * *

  While Mike parked the car the exhausted trio huddled on the porch. Suddenly T.J. grabbed the other two. “Listen, guys,” he whispered hurriedly, “Uncle Mike’s gonna want to know everything, but I think we should leave out the reenactment stuff.”

  “How come?” said LouAnne.

  “Just trust me. Bortnicker, you think he came out on the tape?”

  “Let’s see. I’ve rewound it all the way.” He pressed PLAY and they all waited breathlessly. There was a brief silence, then LouAnne saying, “Yes, sir,” then silence again. Once T.J. said, “How long do we have?” they knew that Weinstein had been correct. The ghost could not be captured on audio.

  “Okay, kids,” said Mike, hustling back from the garage,“ let’s go inside and review what happened. All that waiting made me crazy.”

  “Bad news, Mr. D,” announced Bortnicker. “No tape recording. But we can tell you what happened.”

  Aunt Terri, clad in her bathrobe, let them in. “Did he show up?” she asked tensely.

  “Oh yeah, Mom,” answered LouAnne, pecking her on the cheek.

  “Does anyone want coffee?”

  Mike looked at his watch. “It’s way past midnight,” he said. “A little late for coffee. Besides, everybody’s too jacked up anyway. Let’s just sit down and get this all out.”

  They all took their seats at the dining room table, Terri listening with rapt attention as the teens spun their tale, Mike punctuating their narrative with an occasional “wow.”

  T.J. handled the last part of the account, deftly skirting the reenactment part and Hilliard’s violent reaction.

  “I think you’re all incredibly brave,” said Terri at the end, relieved that they had returned safely.

  “So, he knows how he got here, and he implied that he’s going to get himself out,” said Mike
. “I guess, then, there’s nothing else you can do.”

  “Yeah,” said Bortnicker, “he made it pretty clear that this would be our last discussion with him, ever.”

  “Well, you tried, kids, and I’m proud of you,” Mike said. “I just wish he’d let on how he’s going to accomplish leaving this place. But, hey, we’ve all had a long night. Why don’t we all try to get some sleep? I, for one, have work tomorrow morning.”

  “We running tomorrow, Cuz?” asked LouAnne.

  “You know it.”

  As soon as he’d closed the bedroom door, Bortnicker was after him. “So why didn’t we tell your uncle about the reenactment business?” he said, shucking his clothes and lying on the bed.

  T.J. slowly reclined on his, staring at the ceiling. “I think you know the answer to that, man,” he said tiredly.

  “Hilliard’s gonna try something during the battle?”

  “That would be my guess. Maybe make some grand gesture he never got to do in real life.”

  “But he only comes out at night!”

  “Says you.”

  “Oh, man. Listen, I’m sorry I let it slip about the reenactment. I didn’t know he’d take it that way.”

  “Yeah, well, I probably would have left it out myself, but let’s face it, he’s a loose cannon, no pun intended. Who knew what would set him off?”

  “I’ve got a real bad feeling about this, Big Mon.”

  “Me, too. I think that one way or another, it’s all gonna end next Sunday at Pickett’s Charge, in front of thousands of people. And we’re the only ones who can stop it.”

  “Well,” said Bortnicker, removing his glasses to go to sleep, “I guess there’s only one thing to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re going to join the army.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “You can’t be serious!” said LouAnne heatedly as they jogged along Seminary Ridge. “You and Bortnicker in Dad’s regiment? And Hilliard showing up in broad daylight to do who-knows-what? This is crazy!”

  “Maybe it is, Cuz, but I have a hunch this is how it’ll play out. Your dad invited me to participate and bring Bortnicker along. Neither of us was too keen on the idea of playing drummer boy, but this is too much to pass up.”

  “And if he does show up, like you say, and tries to wreak havoc at the battle, how are two drummer boys going to stop him?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “Oh, brilliant. And you’re still not going to tell my dad about Hilliard’s reenactment rant?”

  “Not yet. Maybe not at all. Listen, Cuz, if your dad knew Hilliard might materialize at Pickett’s Charge, angry and armed to the teeth, do you actually think he’d still want me and Bortnicker out there to maybe get our heads blown off?”

  “You’ll be lucky if all three of you don’t get killed. Why couldn’t we live in Florida?” she shouted to the heavens.

  * * * *

  The boys gratefully accepted a ride from Aunt Terri into town after dropping off LouAnne at Mrs. Spath’s. They found Mike in front of the Visitor Center where he was concluding his first cemetery tour of the day. People were everywhere; the town was busting at the seams, and it was only the beginning of Reenactment Week.

  “Hey, guys,” he said, removing his hat to wipe some moisture out of the hatband. “Man, it’s hot today, and it’s only nine-thirty in the morning.”

  T.J. looked at the hordes of tourists jostling in and out of the main entrance. “I see what you were saying about the town going crazy during this week.”

  “For sure. The hotels are booked solid, and the campgrounds are RV parks are packed. Tomorrow they’ll start setting up the military camps, and whatever reenactors aren’t here already will be coming in. It’s bedlam.”

  “Speaking of which, Uncle Mike,” said T.J. tentatively, “we’ve decided we’d like to participate with your regiment on Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Really? The both of you? Fantastic! I’ll give Jack Pelham a call and ask him to email me any drummer boy guidelines he has from his sons. I’m sure they’ll let you borrow their drums, which belong to the regiment anyway, but we’ll have to scrounge uniforms for you. His boys are both kind of short and squatty, and you’ll never fit into their clothes.”

  “No worries, Mr. D,” said Bortnicker, flashing a plastic VISA card. “My mom said to use this if I needed it, so I guess T.J. and I have to visit ‘Reenactment Supply Central’ this morning.”

  “You sure you guys won’t want me along to help you out?”

  “Nah. I checked out the main places already, and I think I’ve got a pretty good eye for what’s the most authentic looking,” Bortnicker said confidently.

  “Well, okay. Just remember that it’s the 72nd Pennsylvania. You’ll need proper badging for your army hats and such. But I warn you, it’s not going to be cheap.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. D.,” said Bortnicker. “Hey, if you’re gonna do this you’ve gotta do it right. People are gonna think we’ve been doing this all our lives!”

  “Doing what all your lives?” inquired Bruce Morrison, who had eased in behind the trio unnoticed.

  “Oh, hi, Bruce,” said Mike uneasily. “Well, it seems my regiment is a couple drummers short for the weekend and the boys here have volunteered to fill in.”

  “I see. Sure they’ll be able to handle all this? It’s easily the most involved battle reenactment in the country. Not exactly recommended for novices, I’m told.”

  “Don’t worry, Bruce,” said Mike with an air of determination. “I’ll have them ready.”

  “Well, okay, I’m sure you know better than me. I just hate to lose you for an entire weekend, but I know you do it out of a respect for history, so I have no choice.”

  “You going to be there?” asked Bortnicker, a crooked smile creasing his face.

  “Oh, yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Morrison answered, all the while his sly smile indicating he was thinking, they’re up to something.

  * * * *

  “The Battle Cry, huh?” said T.J. as they stood outside the storefront on Baltimore Street with its crossed pistols logo.

  “Also known as ‘Guns R Us’,” Bortnicker joked as they eyed some uniforms in the window. “Like I said yesterday, there’s around five stores in town that have this stuff, but a couple of them are really schlocky, uniforms you might wear on Halloween or something. This place is top of the line, but it’s the priciest, too. You can even buy some real stuff, though we don’t have to go that far.”

  They entered and were immediately greeted by the proprietor, a rotund middle-aged guy whose head seemed too small for his 300lb-plus body. “Help you boys?” he said, his face florid from the heat despite the huge blade fans that turned overhead.

  “We need some Civil War clothes,” said T.J. with some uncertainty.

  “You mean, like a souvenir hat? We have both Union and—”

  “No, no,” said Bortnicker, holding up his hand. “We need one hundred percent completely authentic Union uniforms for this weekend’s battle.”

  “You’re reenactors?” the man asked dubiously.

  “Of course.”

  “What unit?”

  “72nd Pennsylvania Infantry,” said Bortnicker proudly.

  “Regular infantry?”

  “Drummer boys,” said T.J. with some embarrassment.

  “Oh. Well, we can certainly outfit you, but it can get expensive.”

  Bortnicker flashed his credit card. “Money is not an issue,” he said grandly. “We need a full uniform from hat to shoes, canteens, and whatever else a drummer boy would be carrying.”

  The shop owner grinned, dollar signs dancing in his head. “Right this way, gentlemen!” he said, pointing them toward the more expensive uniforms and accoutrements. The place was stocked to the rafters of its stamped tin ceiling with hats, coats, jackets, shirts, undergarments, shoes, boots, and every other conceivable article of clothing a soldier on either side might wear. Ev
ery rank was represented, and there was also a large civilian section with ladies bustle dresses and men’s frock coats. In another room were cases of replica rifles, pistols and swords, and still others of period antiques that could have served as a museum in itself. T.J. also saw mess kits, Bibles, reading glasses, photos, playing cards and other personal items soldiers carried in their knapsacks. This was big business.

  It took an hour for the boys to be fitted for their uniform jackets, pants and brogans, as well as their blue kepi caps, to which the shop owner, whose name was Wyatt Moss, affixed replica brass letters, numbers and crossed swords which identified them as members of the 72nd Pennsylvania. Undergarments and heavy socks followed, as did canteens and leather belts.

  “We’ve gotta wear all this out there?” moaned T.J. “We’re gonna die in this heat!”

  “You said you wanted to be totally authentic,” chided Moss. “Well, this is what your typical drummer boy wore.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” said Bortnicker with a wave of his hand. “What’s the damage on all this?”

  Moss slid behind the counter with a calculator and started punching numbers. By the time he was done T.J. was grimacing. “That’ll be five-hundred-twenty-six dollars and fifty-four cents,” Moss announced with a smile.

  Bortnicker smiled right back and slapped the VISA card on the counter. “No problemo,” he sniffed.

  But before Moss could reach the card, T.J. snatched it away. “There’s one more thing we need, though I’m not sure you carry it.”

  “Young man, The Battle Cry has everything. What is it you want?”

  * * * *

  The boys walked out together, weighed down by the huge plastic bags full of Civil War clothes and accessories, and couldn’t help running straight into Carlton Elway, who was delivering a large box of DVDs which Moss sold for a commission. As all three of them stooped to pick up items dropped in the collision, Elway said, “Well, it’s our two newspaper reporters. How’s the article coming, guys?”

  “Fine,” said T.J. “Almost done.”

  “Enjoying your stay in Gettysburg?”