Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “It’ll be fine, Sergeant,” smiled Mike. “It’s not like we’re firing live rounds, you know.”

  “True, but you have a priceless antique here. It was used in the actual battle, right?”

  “Which is precisely why I should use it, sir!” smiled Darcy.

  “Touché,” said McAllister, handing it back and moving onto the next man.

  The regiment re-formed for dismissal by Colonel Pelham and then returned to camp. By this time tourists were all over the place. T.J. noticed that he and Bortnicker were getting quite a few looks from young ladies, and Bortnicker really played it up, taking a page from LouAnne’s Charney House routines. They wandered around the village, stopping for a snack here and there and interacting with the other attendees. It was great fun to be the center of attention.

  “I’m really starting to like this soldiering thing,” said Bortnicker, waving back to a high school-aged girl with pink hair who’d winked at him.

  They finally returned to their tent and lay down for an hour to rest. The midday heat had become oppressive, and both boys had drunk numerous tin cups of water from the regimental jugs that had been set up near the headquarters tent before sacking out.

  It was Uncle Mike who woke the boys with a hearty “Up and at ‘em, lads, the Rebs are coming!” They popped up smiling, pulled on their tunics and hats, slung their full canteens over their shoulders, adjusted their drum kits and made for the pasture.

  It was an awesome sight to see upwards of a thousand men assembling into their regiments, forming ranks. Momentarily confused, T.J. was relieved to see the smiling Pat Garvey motioning him over to where the drum and fife corps was preparing to lead the column onto the field. They hustled over and fell in next to each other, their hearts pounding.

  “Good luck, T.J.,” said Bortnicker, who was sweating profusely.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” he replied. “Remember, we’ll just join the 72nd when they break off from the column. As long as we stay within earshot of either Pelham or McAllister we’ll know what to do.”

  “Gotcha.”

  And then, officers on horseback rode to the front of the column, the musicians struck up Garry Owen, and they were off to battle.

  As they entered the “battlefield” the crowd erupted in anticipation. The boys easily blended with the other drummers and marched proudly, their heads high. It’s so much easier when you know you’re not gonna die, thought T.J.

  Suddenly, a few cannon, which had been placed to the rear of the entering armies, opened up. T.J. had to keep himself from flinching every time one discharged. Now mounted officers were everywhere, deploying regiments to their prearranged areas. T.J. caught sight of Colonel Pelham and the 72nd and the boys made a beeline for their group.

  Across the field the Confederates, who numbered roughly as many as the Federals, were doing the same. They wore a variety of outfits, especially the enlisted men. A few of the officers were dressed as elaborately as Hilliard, though this was primarily an infantry engagement.

  The boys took their place alongside the regimental colors, which were held aloft by a guy named Jerry who was by day an auto mechanic in Harrisburg. Then the shooting commenced, and it became a blur of action, with the unit moving forward, then falling back, to mimic the actions of the Union troops on July 2, 1863. The rolling volleys of percussion caps were incessant, and the smoke stung their eyes. Here and there a soldier suddenly clutched his chest or leg or head and went down, some immediately lying still, others writhing in agony and screaming.

  “You dyin’?” Bortnicker asked, rat-tat-tatting away.

  “Not today,” answered T.J. He was having too much fun. And yet, the whole time he kept scanning the Confederate lines, wondering if it could even be possible that Crosby Hilliard would show up to join the battle. Suddenly, Uncle Mike, who was a few yards to the side, gripped his stomach and keeled over, deftly laying his antique Sharps rifle in some tall grass as he fell onto his back. T.J. reflexively ran over and looked down into his uncle’s face. “You okay?” he panted.

  “Sure,” said Mike, smiling. “I’m just gassed. Man, it’s hot out here. Besides, I’d rather die today than tomorrow. Hey, get back to drumming!”

  T.J. grinned and rejoined Bortnicker, just as Jerry the color bearer got shot. “Don’t let the colors hit the ground!” cried Bortnicker and, shucking his drum strap, caught the pole on the way down.

  “Good catch!” said Jerry, lying on his side.

  “What do I do now?” said Bortnicker, in a panic.

  “Ah, just wave it around and stuff!”

  He didn’t have to say it twice. Suddenly, Bortnicker was running back and forth, exhorting the 72nd Pennsylvania forward. Sergeant McAllister, caught by surprise, said, “Well, lads, you heard the boy. Forward we go!” And with that, Bortnicker led a charge into the line that ended with some realistic looking hand-to-hand combat with a unit from Alabama.

  T.J. couldn’t help but smile. You had to hand it to Bortnicker. He always managed to make things interesting.

  Finally, after about an hour, the Confederates began to fall back. Union soldiers squeezed off a couple more rounds, then raised their hats and cheered “Huzzah!” As the spectators roared, the Union column once again formed up and the boys—after Bortnicker had returned the flag to Jerry, who had made a miraculous recovery—joined the front of the column to lead the victorious Union force from the field. The PA announcer reminded the crowd to drive safely.

  Back at camp, the 72nd Pennsylvania was still on a high. Remarks like “One of the best ever!” and “I didn’t want it to end!” filled the late afternoon air. Colonel Pelham told the troops they’d turned in a fine performance, “...including our heroic drummer boy, Private Bortnicker!” to which Bortnicker took a deep, theatrical bow as the men laughed uproariously. Uncle Mike just shook his head.

  As the boys returned to their tent, recounting the events of the afternoon, they were met by the vision of LouAnne Darcy, in her full costume, holding a frilly umbrella aloft to shield her fair skin from the sun. “Oh, it is my valorous defenders, who have returned from the bloody battle safe and sound!”

  “You saw me out there?” said Bortnicker. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Of course, though I watched it from the rear with the rest of the civilian reenactors. Mom dropped me off just as the fighting started. You guys did great. Now, let’s go get some cold lemonade. I’m dying in this dress!”

  The boys stowed their drum kits and slung their tunics over their shoulders as they escorted LouAnne around the grounds. Once they’d had their fill of lemonade, they were off to the photographer’s booth, where the two serious looking recruits, holding repro pistols for effect, stood behind the seated LouAnne, who struck a coquettish pose. It was a really interesting process. The photographer, a bald, whiskered old gent in period garb, lost himself under the curtain attached to the rear of the huge daguerreotype camera, which was perched on top of a tall tripod. “Hold the pose for at least six seconds!” he cried before taking the shot. Then he retrieved the negative and laid the blank film in a bed of chemical solution. As if by magic, an image began to take shape. The finished vignette couldn’t have been more authentic looking, right down to the serious faces sported by the boys.

  “It’s perfect!” trilled LouAnne as she paid the photographer, who secured the 8x10 inch photo in a large cardboard envelope. “This is going on the living room mantel!”

  Back at camp, Mike was somewhat surprised to see his daughter strolling in with the regimental drummers. “Well, well, well,” he said, arms crossed over his chest, “what have we here? The belle of Charney House has seen fit to join us lowly soldiers in our humble camp?”

  “But of course, Father,” she replied with a dramatic curtsy. “Now, where can a girl get a decent meal around here?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Bortnicker, “we’re starving after a long day of fighting!”

  Mike just rolled his eyes. “Well, if you two heroes want to grab your mes
s kits, the stew they’re cooking should be done in a few minutes.”

  The teens made their way over to the dog tent, which Mike had thoughtfully converted into a shebang to air it out. Nevertheless, LouAnne wrinkled her nose at the accommodations. “No, thank you!” she said daintily.

  “Well, it’s only for this one more night,” said T.J. with some relief. “We can get through it.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you guys when the AC’s humming in my room tonight.”

  “Kill us some more, why don’tcha?” joked Bortnicker.

  They gathered with the regiment for heaping plates of beef stew and biscuits, which were washed down with tin cups of sun tea. LouAnne ate carefully so as not to spill any gravy onto the lacy front of her robin’s-egg blue dress. “You have no idea how expensive it is to get this dry cleaned!” she moaned.

  “What’s dry cleaning?” countered T.J., reverting to his 1860s character.

  “Very funny.”

  As the sun set many of the soldiers, and a few of the female reenactors, pulled up camp chairs or wooden kegs to use as seating in a large circle around the crackling regimental campfire. Some of the men were passing silver flasks around, which T.J. suspected were filled with a liquid much stronger than sun tea. No matter, they were entitled after a long afternoon in the field. Then, one of the ladies produced a fiddle and began a beautiful rendition of “Ashokan Farewell,” the mournful tune made famous in the Ken Burns Civil War documentary.

  “I love this song!” said Bortnicker.

  “Incredible,” said LouAnne. “And it’s not even Steely Dan!”

  Another reenactor, an infantryman from nearby Cashtown, produced a banjo and the duo launched into an impromptu performance of the Civil War’s greatest hits. When they began “Cumberland Gap,” a real toe-tapper, some of the troopers began to polka with the women. Mike Darcy presented himself before his daughter. “May I have this dance, young miss?” he said gallantly.

  “If you promise not to break my toes,” she giggled. Soon he was whirling her around to the music, the assembled participants clapping in time. LouAnne couldn’t have been more radiant. Her long hair, tied back with a simple blue ribbon, shone in the firelight as she threw her head back and laughed in delight with her father, who was most definitely a very proud man.

  As the song ended the dancing couples bowed to each other as the banjo player said, “And now, one of your all-time favorites, I’m sure!” and stuck up “Garry Owen.” T.J. looked up to see the wondrous LouAnne standing in front of him, her hand extended. “I believe this dance is ours, Cuz,” she said, her face flushed with color.

  “C’mon!” said Bortnicker, pushing him off his stool. “It’s time for T.J’s Got Talent!”

  He rose uncertainly and took her hand as other couples joined in. “Just keep up with me,” she advised, and they were off, her skirts swirling, her hair flying, he struggling mightily to keep up. The soldiers clapped in time and the song seemed to go on forever. But T.J. didn’t care. It was the happiest moment of his life.

  * * * *

  When it was over he bowed and she curtsied again, obviously pleased with their performance. “Daddy,” she said to Mike, who had obviously had quite a few pulls on the flask, “I’m going to call Mom on my cell phone to come pick me up. Is it okay if T.J. walks me to the entrance?”

  “Sure, honey,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’ll have Bortnicker escort me to my tent.”

  “Watch it, Ranger Mike,” joked Matty, “we need you to be in full fighting trim for tomorrow!” This drew loud guffaws from everyone.

  “I need to talk to you,” said LouAnne as they crunched along the gravel path that led to the farm entrance.

  “About what?” said T.J. warily.

  “Tomorrow. You have a bad feeling about it, don’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Every time I looked up tonight, you were deep in thought,” she said. “Is it that you think the Major’s going to appear?”

  “Well, tomorrow’s Pickett’s Charge, Cuz. If he’s ever gonna do it, that’s the time.”

  “And what do you plan to do if he tries to do something...dramatic?”

  T.J. stopped walking and looked her in the eye. “I’m gonna stop him.”

  “Why do you feel it’s your responsibility?” she said, exasperated.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s just like, I feel that this whole deal, me coming down to Pennsylvania and all, was for a reason. And when he appeared to me that kind of sealed the deal.”

  She squeezed his hand. “You can’t get hurt,” she said, the emotion rising in her voice. “I won’t let you!”

  T.J. held her gaze for a moment, then started walking again, never releasing her hand. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, “and if it gets weird, Bortnicker and your dad will be nearby. Will you be there?”

  “I’ll be around, don’t worry,” she said enigmatically as Terri’s Accord pulled into the entrance. They waved to her and she drove over, putting the driver’s side window down.

  “You two okay?” she said, sensing their tension.

  “Yeah, sure, Aunt Terri,” said T.J. “It’s just been a long day.”

  “Well, only one more to go,” she said brightly. “I might even spectate. Did you have fun tonight, hon?” she asked her daughter.

  “No doubt, Mom,” LouAnne said, sweetly. “And you should see T.J. polka! Very impressive!” She released his hand and walked around the car to the passenger door. But before she got in, she gave him a hard look over the roof and mouthed be careful.

  He nodded gently. Then the car pulled away and T.J. was alone in his gloom.

  * * * *

  When T.J.’s eyes opened around 2 A.M. he found himself looking into the very wide-open eyes of his friend.

  “You smell it?” said Bortnicker.

  “Yeah, at least I think I do.”

  “Wanna check outside?”

  “Might as well.”

  After pulling on his brogans T.J. gingerly ducked out of the dog tent, Bortnicker at his side. It was very dark, but they could make out a figure not far away, standing beside the opening of another tent. It was Bobby, one of Uncle Mike’s shooting buddies. He turned toward the boys and half-whispered, “What in the Sam Hill is that smell?”

  “Don’t know,” said T.J., trying to stay calm.

  “It’s coming from over yonder,” Bobby said, pointing to the trees that separated the two camps, “like somethin’ up and died in those woods.”

  “Think we should check it out?” said Bortnicker uncertainly.

  “Heck, no,” said Bobby. “I ain’t going in there in the dark. Well, g’night, boys. Try to get some shuteye. It’ll be daylight before you know it.”

  The boys crawled back to their blankets and lay down, silent until Bortnicker said, “Think it’s him?”

  “He does have a distinctive odor,” answered T.J., weakly attempting levity.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  In the darkness of the tent, T.J. told him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  July 4, 2010 dawned, hazy, hot and humid. The boys awoke at first light, never falling into a deep sleep after the previous night’s event.

  “Let’s find some sinks and try to wash up a bit,” said T.J. “I feel disgusting.”

  “Me too,” said Bortnicker. “It doesn’t help that it’s like a thousand degrees already.”

  By the time they returned from cleaning up and visiting the porta-san, the campsite was alive with activity. The troops of the 72nd Pennsylvania were already checking their rifles, cap boxes and other equipment. Pots of coffee and biscuits with ham and gravy were cooking on the campfire, which brought Mike and Matty out of their tent, trying to stretch the soreness out of their bodies.

  “Too many hits on the whisky flask last night, Ranger Mike?” said Eddie, as Matty chuckled.

  “Something like that,” said Mike, shaking the cobweb
s.

  “Well, at least you slept,” said Bobby, tying his bootlaces. “I got woken up by the most god-awful stink around 2:00 A.M.”

  “What kind of stink?” said Mike, suddenly interested.

  “Hard to describe. Kinda sweet and putrid, you know?”

  “Well, don’t look at me,” said Matty, making light of the situation, “I made sure to bring a change of socks.”

  Everyone laughed at Matty’s joke. Except Mike.

  None of this was mentioned as the boys joined his little clique around the breakfast campfire.

  “Bortnicker, son, I’ve never seen someone take to camp food like you,” said Matty as he watched the boy pop a gravy-sodden biscuit into his mouth.

  “A soldier’s gotta eat,” was his reply.

  * * * *

  Sergeant McAllister was making the rounds, dropping in on the clusters of men. “We’ll have a regimental meeting at 1:00 P.M. Fellows, do an equipment check, and the Colonel will address the unit.”

  “Let me guess, Mac,” said Matty, “Pelham’s gonna tell us the story of Pickett’s Charge for the hundredth time?”

  “It must be a great responsibility being the regimental malcontent,” was McAllister’s sarcastic reply. “Let’s just be good boys and humor the Colonel, okay, Matty?”

  “Sure, Mac.”

  “There’s a good lad.” He winked and moved on to the next group.

  “He’s not a bad guy, Matty,” said Mike.

  “I’m just having fun with the good sergeant,” Matty replied. “I’m quite content being a lowly infantryman, thank you.”

  Mike used his morning free time to stroll over to the command post building where he found Rudy Herzog and some EMTs huddled around a coffee maker. Banks of walkie-talkies were being recharged on long tables, and the day’s timetable, with the names of those assigned to what areas, was posted on a whiteboard in the center of the room.

  “Hey, Coach,” said Rudy, waving Mike over.

  “Hi, Rudy,” said Mike, shaking his hand. “How’s everything going at the Nerve Center?”