Ghost Soldier (17 page)

That entry was dated less than two weeks before Rich had lost his life at Fort Stedman. I looked at his sleeping face. All he'd wanted was to find out what had happened to his family, to Louise. And all I wanted was to find out where my mother was and what had happened to her.

There wasn't any way that I could undo the fact he'd died in the battle, of course. So there was no way he'd ever make that dream of sitting down at the dinner table with his family come true. But I'd been thinking about the locket and the note and the reasons that had drawn Rich and me together, and I had an idea. I wasn't sure if it would work, but I'd come up with a way that we might—just possibly—be able to find out what happened to Louise.

Chapter Fifteen

F
ACING THE
Y
ANKEES

It was still early when I got back from running, but Nicole was already in the kitchen toasting a bagel. That seemed to be her regular breakfast.

“You stink,” she said.

“Good morning to you, too.” I was nervous, but I'd made up my mind. I was going through with it. At least, I'd try. “Your mom was so impressed with your interest in history yesterday she said you could spend today with your friends, right?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“No what? Did she say you couldn't after all?” I was going to carry out my plan no matter what, but if I could use Nicole to cover for me, Dad wouldn't be so worried.

“No, you can't come with us.”

“Oh! I don't want to,” I said with relief. “But I'm going to leave my dad a note saying I'm with you, okay? If he asks, could you just say I tagged along?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What are you up to anyway? More history museums?”

“Basically, yes,” I told her, which wasn't really untrue—it was just stretching things a little.

“So tell me about this thing with the cold and maybe I will.”

“I told you—it's not me.”

Nicole bit into her bagel and crunched for a while. “Are you sure everything's okay, Alexander? You seem—kind of jumpy.”

I looked up, surprised. What did she care? Anyway, she'd never believe me if I told her about Rich. “Everything's okay,” I lied.

She stared at me for a minute, then shrugged. “Well, we're going to the movies, so we'll be back late. You'll have to make up a story about leaving us and coming home on your own.”

“Thanks. I'll think of something,” I told her, heading upstairs to shower. I dressed as quietly as possible and managed to sneak out of the room without waking Carleton.

I didn't see Nicole, so I quickly made myself a couple of sandwiches and wrapped them up to take with me. Then I grabbed a pencil and the magnetic pad stuck to the refrigerator and left a note:

Dad—

I had a good time with Nicole yesterday (surprise, surprise!). Thought I'd spend today the same way.

Guess you had a good time with Mrs. Hambrick, too, so I hope you won't mind.

See you later, A.

It covered me so that Dad shouldn't worry too much, and it wasn't exactly a lie. I
was
going to spend today the same way I spent yesterday—helping a ghost.

Rich looked surprised when I woke him up on the porch.

“I have an idea,” I said softly. “Come on.”

He stuffed his journal into his knapsack and grabbed his musket. “What is it?”

I started around the house, nearly expecting Dad and Mrs. Hambrick to catch me. But we made it up the driveway, and I headed for the Duke bus stop with relief.

“What's this idea?” Rich asked again.

“Well, I couldn't sleep last night, and I was thinking about seeing you at Fort Stedman. You said you'd been waiting for me.”

He nodded. “For an out-of-timer who could see me.”

“Well,” I asked, “was everybody in the battle waiting for me?”

He looked at me, surprised.

“In fact, did everyone I see there die that day?” I asked, remembering the Confederate troops who made it back across the cornfield and the Yankees who attacked the fort at the end. “I don't think so. I'm guessing I saw that battle because a bunch of things came together at the right time.”

Now that I was talking about my plan, I felt calmer. “First of all, you needed someone to help you, and you said I was the right out-of-timer for you. Second, that was an important battle to the men who fought in it, so it was sort of stamped into their memories—the ones who lived, anyway. And the ones who died—well, you said yourself that there were others like you who came back to Fort Stedman because they had no place to rest. There were a lot of—I don't know—strong emotions, I guess, tied up with that event and with the place where it happened. So it kind of replays itself, over and over, until something stops the cycle.”

Rich was nodding. “That all makes sense, but what good does it do us?”

“And third,” I finished, “I didn't see you just any day—Saturday was the anniversary of the battle, and you told me you all ‘experience' the battle again on each anniversary.”

“It was—but I still don't see what you're getting at.” He sounded frustrated.

“Remember Louise's note?” I asked him. “I know it wasn't very clear, but her name was and so was the date—most of it, anyway.”

His eyes narrowed as he struggled to picture the note in his mind. Then they opened wide.

“March twenty-ninth is what her note said,” I told him. “Today.”

I saw the bus coming toward the stop and got out my fare. “We're going back to Research Triangle Park. It must have been an important day to Louise and Amalie, and to you, too, even though you weren't there. I'm betting that Louise needs someone to help her find out what happened to you as much as you need help finding out what happened to her—maybe I'm the right out-of-timer for her, too. And today's the twenty-ninth, so if it's going to work, it's got to be today.”

The bus screeched to a halt and the doors wheezed open. I jumped on. Behind me, Rich climbed the steps more slowly. “Do you really think it can work?” he asked, his voice sounding as if he scarcely dared to hope.

I couldn't say anything but I nodded, and he broke into a broad smile.

The bus was packed with commuters, so Rich and I had to stand. Even in the crowd, other riders gave us a wide berth, and I wished I'd brought my sweatshirt. Rich was so excited, the cold was coming off him in waves, like the first time I met him.

*   *   *

We caught the morning shuttle from the Research Triangle Park bus center and got off one stop past the computer buildings.

“Shouldn't we go to the same place as the farm?” Rich asked, puzzled.

“As close as we can get,” I told him. “But remember those guards? I don't think they'll want us hanging around waiting for history to repeat itself.”

We crossed the street and walked back toward the construction site opposite the recreation area. There were plenty of trees there to keep us out of sight. It should be good enough if we were close to where Rich's tree had been. At least, I hoped so.

I sat down and unwrapped a sandwich while Rich paced. “Before I got to Fort Stedman,” I said, “I heard a lot about the battle and the siege, at that museum and from Mrs. Hambrick. Maybe that helped me slip into your time.” After all, the times I'd seen ghosts without knowing anything about their history, I hadn't stepped through the window. “So—tell me more about what it was like living at Two Stirrups.”

He glanced down at me. “You mean during the War?”

I nodded.

Rich looked across the road at the recreation area thoughtfully. “The Yankees always talk about the South as if it was all one big, wealthy plantation. Two Stirrups was just a small farm. Things were better before the War, but I wouldn't say they were ever luxurious. After the Yankees blockaded our ports, we couldn't ship our crops abroad, so we didn't earn any money to buy food or anything.”

I swallowed a bite of sandwich. “How did you get by?”

“We had to work harder to feed ourselves. We got a little butter and milk from the last of the cattle, though we shared that with the Bakers on the next farm over. And we had to grow vegetables in Amalie's flower beds. We made do with two meals most days—I could see Louise getting thinner, and that worried me.”

Rich had gotten pretty thin himself, but I didn't say anything. The morning turned into afternoon as he told me how conditions worsened as the War dragged on. I watched guards drive through the building parking lots and shipping bays as trucks came to load circuit boards and whatever else they made there.

I wondered what time of day it was when Sherman's men came through the Chamblees' fields, burning their crops. Would we have to be there at the exact moment? I'd found Rich at Fort Stedman hours later than the dawn attack. Perhaps it could happen anytime. Perhaps it could happen now. But I didn't feel drawn anywhere as I'd been drawn to the Salient and then to Fort Stedman that day. And there were none of the signals that meant a ghost was nearby—except Rich, of course. Maybe my plan was no good.

Traffic picked up as people went home from work, and then quieted down as the offices closed, and the guards across the street made fewer passes in their trucks.

As twilight deepened, Rich said, “After the blockade tightened, we'd go to bed at darkfall, because we only had tallow candles to burn.” He wrinkled his nose. “They were made from beef fat, and they stank like a frypan full of greasy bacon that had gone bad.” He looked off into the distance. “Sometimes Louise and I would sit out on the porch in the moonlight. I'd play my harmonica and she'd sing. Or we'd just talk about our dreams for After the War—everything was After the War, because we were so miserable in the present. I thought that fighting would be better. At least I'd be doing something. But in the end it didn't matter.”

“Yes, it did!” I said fiercely, surprising myself. I'd eased into the past along with Rich and now I cared about protecting his world and his family.

“It didn't matter to Louise,” he said tiredly. “I wasn't there when she needed me.”

“But she left you that note. I think she was proud of you for doing something.” I stood up. Traffic had all but disappeared, and I could feel a strange pull urging my feet toward the buildings beyond the weeping willow trees. It was time to go.

I asked, “You said the house was past the willow trees and the lake, right? I'm going to see if anything happens as I get closer to the place.”

As we crossed the road, I felt goosebumps rise along my arms. Had I thought it was cold around Rich these past few days? I began to feel I was in a January ice storm back home, and fumbled to button up my flannel shirt. Suddenly I nearly choked on the familiar orange smell.

I circled around the hedges, using the trees to shield me from sight. Rich walked through the branches, looking back and forth uncertainly.

“What's going on?” he asked. “I smell—oranges.”

I opened my mouth to say, “Welcome to the world of ghosts,” even though I knew my voice would be shaky, but before I got the first word out I heard a shout.

“You, kid! What are you doing here? This is private property—no trespassing!”

Through the trees, I could see two guards running across the volleyball courts beyond the lake.

“Alexander!” Rich shouted.

I turned to run back across the street to the construction site, but my ankle caught in the tangled roots. I lost my balance and stumbled, falling toward the hedges, hearing more shouts behind me. I picked myself up and glanced back to see how close the guards were and ducked as I heard that strange popping whoosh of a gunshot, then another. Could they actually be shooting at me?

Smoke swept over me in gusts. The building behind the men with guns glowed red and yellow against the darkening sky—and the men in front of it weren't guards, but soldiers. Only a few of them were wearing proper uniforms, but there were enough dark blue jackets to mark them for Northern soldiers—Sherman's raiders! It wasn't the one-story computer building I had seen a minute ago. It was a two-story house. The white paint was already soot-stained by the fire, but I could make out the green door, hanging half open, and the green shutters I remembered from my dream. Beyond it, flames leaped through the wooden slats of a barn roof.

A young woman ran past me, clutching a pink and white quilt. She ran maybe six steps farther, and then a soldier carrying a swaying torch reached out and grabbed the trailing edge of the quilt. “Leave it!” the man snarled. “That's too good for a secesh the likes of you—freeze with the rest of you rebel scum!” He twisted the torch into the center of the quilt and threw the flaming mess on the ground.

“Private!” An officer wearing a blue uniform rode up to the soldier. “Leave the women alone!” He turned to Amalie. “Are you hurt, ma'am?”

“Amalie!” Rich cried as he ran to her, but she just hugged her dress around her and backed away from the two soldiers as if she didn't see her brother. Rich drew his bayonet from his scabbard and turned on the drunken soldier, twisting the blade into place on his musket. But the long three-edged bayonet passed through the soldier the way Rich had walked through the tree branches. This was 1865, but it wasn't his time—he'd been dead before Sherman's raiders reached his farm. More gunfire rang out behind the house, along with whoops and shouts.

“Teach these secesh a lesson,” the soldier said, and ran to join the others.

The officer reached toward Amalie. Maybe he was trying to help her, but she turned from him and ran into the shadows. Rich followed a few steps, then stopped.

“The Bakers' farm is that way,” he panted. “Maybe she's running to them for help—but the raiders must be headed there as well. I don't know if she'll be safe!”