Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “I’ll tell ya, Coach,” said Herzog, “It’s been a relatively quiet weekend.” He quickly leaned over and knocked on a nearby wooden table. “A few turned ankles and one broken wrist from the obligatory fall off a horse. The EMT’s have been hopping with heat exhaustion cases, however. Military and civilian. We should have a shuttle bus to the hospital just for that.”

  “Well,” said Mike, “No matter how much you tell people to hydrate, it can still sneak up on you.”

  “Yeah. Now I can appreciate how you coaches gave us regular water breaks during summer practice. None of that ‘water makes you weak’ baloney.”

  “Well,” explained Mike, “I had enough sadistic coaches in the ‘70s to know better. So, you guys ready for the grand finale today?”

  “I think so. The Chief and I will be on hand to observe. I think I heard your boss will be showing up, too, though the park rangers have nothing to do with these events.”

  “Yeah, but Bruce can’t stay away from this stuff. Deep down we’re all history junkies.”

  Rudy laughed. “Is the missus attending?”

  “Well, you know she’s not thrilled about all this,” said Mike, sweeping his hand across the room. “Thinks it’s too big a production. Maybe she’s right. But I’ll bet that when the cannons open up this afternoon she’ll be in the stands with LouAnne, like always.”

  “Well, have a good battle, Coach,” said Rudy as his radio began crackling.

  “You too,” said Mike, backing away with a wave so Herzog could attend to business. As he left the building Mike could hear Rudy call out, “We’ve got a guy in the Confederate camp, 16th Mississippi Volunteers, who just dumped scalding coffee all over his leg!”

  “We’re on it!” said two fuzzy-cheeked EMTs as they hustled out a side door.

  * * * *

  T.J. had waited until Mike was far in the distance to attend to his battle preparation. With Bortnicker standing guard at the front of the tent, he got on his knees and gently lifted Mike’s towel-wrapped .44 Colt from his knapsack. Carefully he loaded the weapon, drawing upon his memory of those times at the shooting range. He had tremendous misgivings about what he was doing, and was sure his uncle would kill him when he found out, but in his mind he had no choice.

  Enough of taking the easy way out. Gotta roll the dice on this one. I just hope this old ammo doesn’t make the gun blow up in my hand.

  “You done in there?” said Bortnicker nervously. “I think I see your uncle coming. Hurry up!”

  His fingers shaking, T.J. hurriedly re-wrapped the pistol, cursing himself for only chambering one round. He heard Bortnicker say, a bit loudly, “He’s right inside, Mr. Darcy,” and covered the leather knapsack just as Mike stuck his head in the tent.

  “I want to check out a couple of the exhibit tents. Why don’t you guys keep me company?”

  “Sure thing,” said T.J., realizing he couldn’t say no.

  The three soldiers made the rounds of the village, checking out a Civil War worship service and a “medical demonstration” that left many of the spectators cringing. After munching on some peanuts and other Civil War snacks, it was time to get back to camp to dress for the regimental meeting and inspection. T.J. hoped he’d have time to load another couple bullets, but there was too much activity now. He had a sinking feeling that he was doomed to fail.

  By the time the 72nd Pennsylvania dressed their lines for inspection, the merciless sun was beating down hard and the men were already sweating. Sergeant McAllister did a thorough firearms check, which seemed to go on forever, and then he nodded to Colonel Pelham, who stepped forward, visibly excited, to deliver his Final Day speech.

  “Men,” he began, “just the phrase ‘Pickett’s Charge’ brings forth a multitude of vivid images. This was a battle that displayed the most terrible aspects of war: artillery barrages, brutal hand-to-hand fighting, and waves of Confederate soldiers being chopped to pieces by a hail of canister and musket fire into which they so bravely marched.

  “After an artillery attack to soften the Union line, the proud forces of the Army of Northern Virginia, in lines a mile long, stepped off to attack the Federal lines a mile away. These men of the South were crossing open fields with nothing to shield them from what promised to be nothing short of total annihilation.

  “But, if they could just cause one breach in the Union line of defense, they could punch through and perhaps link up with Stuart’s cavalry, who, unbeknownst to them, were being stalemated by a mounted force led by George Armstrong Custer and his Michigan Wolverines.

  “The task of carrying out the assault fell primarily upon two brigade commanders, General James Pettigrew and General George Pickett. Because of his somewhat flamboyant stature in the Army of Northern Virginia, Pickett ended up having his name lent to this valiant effort.

  “As we all know, though the Confederates did actually reach, and, in spots, penetrate the wall, they were beaten back, incurring horrific casualties. Entire units were virtually wiped out.

  “It is our task today to portray for the immense crowds they are expecting the desperate fighting that occurred on that day. Our unit will be situated practically dead center of the line.”

  Here Pelham paused to let his words resonate as his men, including T.J. and Bortnicker, lifted their hats aloft and cheered. This was the premier spot to occupy during the reenactment, and the 72nd had merited such favorable positioning based on their past performances.

  “We will enter the field behind the 32nd New Jersey, and the 44th New York will follow us. These are good, solid units, so I am confident we will acquit ourselves admirably.

  “Now remember, people have to go down in this battle. I will expect at least half of whoever didn’t fall yesterday to do so today. Again, make sure your cap boxes are full and your canteens as well. The Southern artillery barrage begins in an hour, which will be followed by the Union response. Therefore, we will re-form in thirty minutes to await the signal to take the field. Any questions?”

  Nobody spoke up, though the air crackled with tension.

  “All right then. Let’s give them a good show today, boys!”

  With that, the 72nd let out another cheer. McAllister dismissed them, and everyone returned to the campsite to use the bathroom or fill their canteens.

  With Bortnicker again guarding the entrance to the tent, T.J. hurriedly unbuttoned his blue woolen tunic, slipped the revolver from his knapsack, and secured it as best he could in the waistband of his blue trousers, which he’d cinched with a leather belt. Since his drum would hang off his left hip, he had no choice but to place the gun on his right side.

  He emerged from the tent and looked Bortnicker in the eye. “It’s done,” he said quietly.

  Bortnicker nodded and then smiled. “It’s like The Dan says, Big Mon. Even with a gun, you are who you are, just the same.”

  Suddenly, bugles blew. They slung on their shoulder straps and drums and hustled out to the head of the Union column where the other boys waited.

  “This is gonna be wicked cool!” said a boy from Massachusetts.

  “Just keep it under control,” cautioned the veteran Pat Garvey. “Listen for your unit commander’s orders.”

  Regimental flags, along with the Stars and Stripes, were unfurled. Mounted officers scurried about, getting everyone in line. As far away as they were, the slight hot breeze carried the opening monologue of the PA announcer.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the 147th Anniversary Reenactment of Pickett’s Charge.” The raucous response of thousands of spectators just amped up the soldiers even more.

  Suddenly a somewhat rotund, gray-bearded general appeared at the front of the column, looked through his field glasses for what was obviously a signal, and then turned back to the musicians who fronted the extremely long line. “Fifers, I think we’ll go with ‘The Battle Cry of Freedom’ today.” He lifted his saber, which glinted in the afternoon sun, then let it drop. “Forward...march!”


  And so, off to the final battle they went, stepping proudly, sergeants to the sides of the column calling off the cadence, mounted officers cantering in the wings. At the sound of the music the din of the crowd grew louder and louder, until the head of the column finally entered the field of battle, and then it was sheer bedlam.

  One by one the units marched to their positions across the expansive Union lines. The boys broke off to join the 72nd’s regimental color bearers. Colonel Pelham and Sergeant McAllister barked orders, and everybody was hyped. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Did any of those soldiers notice the clouds that day? T.J. wondered. Would you try to drink in every detail of what might be your last moments on earth?

  Pelham’s harsh voice broke his reverie. “Off you go, lads!” he yelled. “Take your places and let’s hear those drums!”

  They took their position behind a knee-high wall fashioned from loose field stones. T.J. and Bortnicker found themselves to the extreme left of the regiment, near the flags; Mike was farther down the line to the right, almost obscured by the twenty-five or so troops in between. T.J. looked over his shoulder to see artillery placements some fifty yards behind their lines, and still behind that, grandstands chock full of spectators sipping cool drinks and fanning themselves furiously. To the sides of the stands thousands of others sat in lawn chairs or stood three or four deep, and these sections stretched for fifty yards apiece. The enormity of it all made him a bit queasy.

  As T.J. beat a steady tattoo he peered through the summer haze across the expansive fields and was awed by the sight of hundreds of men clad in gray and butternut brown, in long parade lines, poised to step off one wave at a time. He kept drumming, his heart hammering as the anticipation built.

  “This is awesome!” cried Bortnicker, who despite his excitement managed to keep in sync with T.J. “I can really feel what those guys were dealing with. Wondering if it was their last minute on earth... T.J., my legs are wobbling!”

  “Stay cool, man,” cautioned T.J., barely in control of his own emotions.

  “Jeez, guys, you’re not gonna wet your pants, are you?” a high-pitched voice cried from behind them. They both turned to find a soldier not much older than themselves, his hat tugged low over his eyes, which were obscured by old-fashioned granny glasses. He held a fife, but T.J. wondered why they hadn’t heard it on the march over. Then he looked more closely into the dirt-smeared face, which was trying to mask a mischievous grin.

  “Cuz, is that you?” he said incredulously.

  “Ssshhh!” she nodded quickly. “You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?”

  “You’re nuts!” said Bortnicker. “Your dad’s gonna kill you when he finds out you’re here!”

  “I’ll handle my dad. Now, get back to your job and don’t give me away, you morons!”

  “Listen,” said T.J., “I really think you’d better–”

  Whatever he said was immediately lost as the Confederate artillery, which was spread across a distant ridge behind their infantry lines, opened up, the cannons firing down the line at two second intervals. It was like rolling thunder, and the ground started shaking. Almost immediately the soft breeze, which was blowing toward the Union lines, began carrying the thick haze of smoke toward them. The spectators started applauding wildly, happy to finally see the action commence.

  “Stand your ground, men,” bellowed Colonel Pelham dramatically, so that the crowd might hear him. “They are just trying to soften us up. The attack will come soon! Be brave!”

  Again and again the cannons roared in syncopation. Soon there was so much smoke that the Rebel army was obscured. And then the cacophony stopped, followed by a deep, rousing cheer that emanated from the Confederate masses and rolled across the fields. The Rebel yell.

  “They’re stepping off!” announced Pelham, peering through a telescope. “Remember to listen for my signal to commence firing. Stay disciplined!”

  T.J. and Bortnicker kept drumming, their tempo increasing as the first waves of enemy troops began their long march across the fields toward them. Their ears had barely stopped ringing when the Union batteries responded, causing their bodies to shudder from the concussion.

  LouAnne crouched behind the madly drumming boys, searching the fields for Hilliard. There were a few mounted Confederate officers, but they stayed closer to the rear so as to help the lines remain formed until they stepped off. But with every passing second the clouds of cannon smoke permeated the field, making it hard to see anything, much less pick out a specific soldier on horseback.

  “Steady men, steady...” said Pelham, his voice unwavering. “They’re almost within range... Prepare to fire... FIRE!”

  With that, the entire Union line, including the 72nd Pennsylvania, unleashed their first volley, the air ripping with sound. The boys couldn’t help but flinch from the concussion, and it was now becoming impossible to maintain their drumbeat.

  “My eyes are killing me!” cried Bortnicker.

  The first wave of Confederates was closing, one-hundred yards...seventy-five yards. With each cannon blast and rifle volley men fell, but the line simply closed up and they kept coming, just like in 1863. T.J. marveled at the courage that enabled those waves of Southern farm boys to march into the jaws of death as their comrades were blown apart around them. Though this was only a reenactment and there was no Emmitsburg Road or picket fence to navigate, he could just imagine the panic and fear of the soldiers huddled by the fence that Hilliard had disgustedly described.

  I would have been right there with them, he thought. No way would I be brave enough to keep going forward.

  The Union troops, Mike Darcy included, fired round after round. The volleys became more disjointed as the Confederates came closer, the action more confused. Now only a handful of attackers from the first wave remained, and were threatening to breach the wall of defense.

  “Keep pouring lead into them, boys!” yelled Pelham, waving his hat. Here and there a Federal soldier crumpled to the ground, and when one burly trooper fell forward across the wall, the youths were fully exposed to Mike Darcy’s field of vision. His mouth literally fell open when he saw his daughter poised between the drummers. Mike started gesturing wildly for her to fall back, but LouAnne stared straight ahead, feigning that she hadn’t seen him. All the while reloading and firing, Mike started creeping sideways along the wall in the melee, trying to reach them.

  Now the few Confederates who had been chosen to get the farthest started to clamber over the wall, and one grabbed Mike around the shoulders, trying to “wrestle” him to the ground. “Lemme go!” he grunted, which made his attacker struggle all the harder, trying to put on a good show.

  Then LouAnne screamed. “I see him!” She pointed between the boys’ shoulders.

  There, riding hard parallel to the last wave of Confederate troops, Major Crosby Hilliard spurred his beloved Brutus, clearly the most formidable animal on the field, to speeds that had his “comrades” diving out of the way.

  But LouAnne was not the only spectator who sensed something was happening.

  * * * *

  Carlton Elway, who had staked out a choice spot dead center on the bleachers, spied the pointing trooper—could that be a girl?—with the drummer boys gesturing wildly, and followed her line of vision to a striking cavalier who was churning toward the Union center at a pace far too fast for reenactment standards. The moment had arrived! For the first time, he was viewing a genuine ghost! In broad daylight! He zoomed his hi-def camcorder on the rider, who was clearly not a reenactor but a one-hundred percent authentic Confederate cavalryman, galloping right out of 1863 and toward him, dead ahead.

  “I got you now!” he screamed with glee, spectators nearby shrinking back in fear of the man with the cameras who seemed to have lost his mind.

  * * * *

  At the same time Chief Al Warren, who was leaning against his cruiser with Rudy Herzog and taking in the whole scene through field glasses from roughly two-hun
dred yards away, noted some strange movements in the drummer boys, whom he’d been keying on from the get-go. Something was going wrong out there. “Rudy, come on!” he yelled, grabbing Herzog’s uniform sleeve.

  “Chief!” gasped the patrolman, jogging along behind his boss. “We can’t just run into the middle of a battle!”

  “Oh yes we can! Stay close!” But Warren knew he was already too late. They’d never be able to close the gap to the front lines in time.

  “This is it!” cried Bortnicker. “He’s coming straight for us!” Indeed, Hilliard had hung a sharp left and now was on course for the center section of the Union line occupied by the 72nd Pennsylvania. Wave after wave of remaining Rebels parted as he blew through their lines. When Hilliard was less than fifty yards from the wall he drew his revolver, Brutus’ reins tightly clenched in his other hand.

  “No!” screamed LouAnne, and before T.J. could react she was by him, scrambling over the wall in Hilliard’s direction. Just as quickly, Bortnicker threw off his drum and bolted after her, displaying incredible speed and athleticism that he’d pulled from some unknown source.

  Momentarily frozen, T.J. now sprang into action, following the process he’d gone over so many times in his mind the previous days. Shucking his drum kit, he reached inside his blue tunic for Uncle Mike’s .44 Colt, praying that he’d loaded it correctly in the tent that morning, praying that he’d have the nerve to fire it, praying that his aim would not fail him. But this wasn’t a calm summer day at the range with his uncle. He was in the eye of a maelstrom, men “fighting” hand-to-hand all around him, sweat and smoke stinging his eyes and his head pounding from the incessant gunfire. He wished he had time to really aim but there was no time. His foolish cousin and best friend were about to be run down by a ghost on a maniacal mission to validate his heroism. They were almost twenty yards away from the wall when Bortnicker finally caught LouAnne from behind, bringing her down with a waist-high tackle. As they fell forward T.J. raised the revolver, his hand refusing to stop shaking. Hilliard seemed to look him dead in the eye, a sneer curling his lips as he recognized the boy he’d thought was the son of Stonewall Jackson, garbed in Yankee blue. He leveled his weapon and—