Ghost Soldier (9 page)

Rich swallowed, and when he looked up at me, his dark eyes glittered as if they were damp. “So I stood fast. There wasn't much training, but Noah worked with me. My father had taught me to shoot straight and reload fast to shoot again when he took me hunting, and Noah taught me to keep shooting when someone was firing at me. He made me drill and drill until I could go through the steps of tearing open a paper cartridge, pouring in the powder, seating the minié ball, setting the percussion cap, aiming and firing—almost without thinking about it. He showed me how to use my bayonet as a rest for my ramrod so that I could load even faster.”

He went back to wiping down his musket, his hands moving methodically over every inch of it as though he had done the task thousands of times. I guess he must have. “Noah taught me everything he knew, and I stayed with the Army of Northern Virginia instead of going home to Two Stirrups. When General Gordon ordered us forward, I advanced with the 49th and we took Fort Stedman, and we stood fast even when the blue coats pushed our men back. We stood fast to cover the retreat. I stood fast with Noah and the other survivors from D Company, and after Noah fell, I stood fast while the Yankees overran Fort Stedman, and I died standing fast.”

Rich had finished cleaning his musket, and he held it so tightly his long, thin fingers seemed to sink into the wood of the stock. “So I did my job, just like Noah told me, but when I died my last thought was of Louise, and I couldn't rest until I knew what had happened to her. I guess I must have drifted in some sort of limbo for a while, because I was still at Petersburg when I came back to myself, but the other Confederate soldiers were gone. There were only blue uniforms everywhere. So I went back to Two Stirrups to make sure Louise was safe.”

“Like Odysseus coming home after the Trojan War,” I said suddenly.

“That's right,” Rich said, and smiled. “My father used to read the
Iliad
and the
Odyssey
at night, and George and Jefferson and I all dreamed of being brave as Achilles and coming home to everyone's surprise like Odysseus.” Then his smile faded. “I sure didn't dream of coming home dead.”

He looked away. “It took a long time walking, because I got tired, even if I was a ghost. And my bedroll and haversack straps still felt like they were rubbing my neck, even though I didn't exactly have a neck anymore. Sometimes I'd ride a ways in a passing wagon. I found out I could reach through things, but if I concentrated I could sort of rest on top of something, and a wagon went faster than I could walk.” His voice grew quieter, and I had to lean forward to hear him. “The wagons had wounded men, going home, and sometimes they felt the cold—a couple of them even woke up and saw me if they were far enough gone from their wounds. If I didn't frighten them, I'd just ride along for a while. If they got upset, I'd slip off and keep walking. I knew I had to see Louise before I could rest and be certain that our soldiers had stood fast and kept Two Stirrups safe. But when I got there—” He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it. “She was gone.”

I straightened on the porch swing with a jerk, and the recorder case slid off and thumped to the plank floor. I guess I should have known she'd be gone, since he told me he needed my help to find out what happened to his family, but I just wasn't expecting his sister to disappear. I asked, “You mean she left?”

“The whole family left,” he said. “At least, whoever was alive. I don't know that either.” He banged one fist against his cartridge box. “The fields were burned, the barn burned to the ground. Part of the house still stood, but it was only a scorched shell of charred walls, every pane of glass shattered before the fire went out. Inside I saw shreds of ripped and blackened upholstery hanging from broken furniture. The hardwood floors that Amalie used to make Louise work so hard to scrub were stained black with smoke.” Rich shuddered. “Two Stirrups—a ruin.”

“But they must have been somewhere nearby,” I said, horrified. Then I wished I hadn't said anything as I finished the thought. “Unless they were … dead.”

Rich shook his head. “I went to the other farms looking for Louise—but they were all in shambles, too. Then I searched farther and farther, listening to people talking, mostly Yankee soldiers and those Reconstructionists who took over running the county. No one ever said anything about the Chamblees.”

“Then how can I find them?” I asked, overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the puzzle.

“After I searched,” Rich said, sitting upright, “I realized that Louise would never have just gone without leaving word for me—at least, unless she really was dead. And I wouldn't believe that! So I checked our hiding place. Louise was the one who had first discovered it, of course.” He smiled. “It was a hollow in an oak tree—an obvious choice, except that you really couldn't see it. There was a cluster of oaks growing too close to each other, and this one had low-hanging branches—they hid the hollow completely.”

His smile faded. “I looked in the tree, and there was something tucked into the hollow. It was a metal box—enough sun came through the bare winter branches to make it sparkle silver.”

“So what was it?” I demanded.

Rich shook his head in frustration. “I don't know! I reached inside, but my hand slid right through it. I couldn't hold it or open it—but who else could have known about the hollow? Amalie didn't, that's for sure. Louise used to snatch sweets from the kitchen when Amalie was baking, and she never once found where we stashed the treats. Louise would wrap them up to keep them fresh, and we'd eat them together the next day.”

Then he leaned forward eagerly. “I've been pondering on it a long time, Alexander. If Sherman's raiders burned the farm, Amalie and Louise knew they'd have to go someplace safe, at least until Father came home, or George or Jefferson or I got back from the War. I think Louise left a note in the tree, telling me where she went. If I could only read it, I could go there and find out what happened to her.”

I felt a sudden surge of envy. When Mom had gone, the only thing I found was her old soprano recorder, wedged in the back of an otherwise empty lilac-scented drawer. I told myself she'd left it especially for me and taught myself to play it, but there was no note or anything. Deep down inside, I was afraid she'd forgotten it, or just hadn't wanted it anymore. It didn't seem fair that the ghost's sister had cared enough to leave him something and Mom hadn't. “Rich,” I said finally, “that was a long time ago. Even if she left you a note, the paper would have disintegrated outdoors.”

He shook his head impatiently. “That's why she put it in the metal box—to keep it dry and safe. But I need you to take the box out of the tree and open it for me.”

“But even if the note tells you where to go, she'll be long gone,” I told him.

“I know that.” He looked away from me, out into the shadowy yard. “But she'd have grown up and married. She'd have children, and they'd have children. If I only knew she got out safe, I'd know our family survived. And I guess I'd know it was worth it, standing fast at Fort Stedman.”

I realized I was committed now. I wanted more than anything else to know it was worth it, standing fast for Mom, keeping everything ready for her. If Rich felt the same way, I had to help him. I reached down and picked up my recorder case. “All right,” I said. “I don't know how to find Stirrup Iron Creek, but if we can get there, I'll take down that box and open it for you.”

“Thank you, Alexander,” he said, smiling. “I knew you would help me in the end. I knew there was a reason I saw you in the bomb proof. We're not too far from Stirrup Iron Creek right now.”

Of course, I thought. It's not as if I'd find a ghost who needed help with a place way over in South Dakota. He's a North Carolina ghost—his secret hiding place would be right here. So it was no accident Dad had met Mrs. Hambrick and brought us to Durham after all. I didn't know why I had ended up with the job, but I was going to help this ghost, whether I liked it or not.

But I did wonder about something Rich hadn't mentioned; 1865 was a long time ago. Oak trees can live a long life, but would the tree still be there, protecting the metal box Louise had left?

Chapter Eight

F
INDING
S
TIRRUP
I
RON
C
REEK

“How'd you like to come to Research Triangle Park with me?” Dad asked when I came in after my morning run. I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd been trying to figure out an excuse to look for whatever was left of Two Stirrups and the oak tree Rich had told me about.

Dad and Mrs. Hambrick stood over a map at the kitchen table. Dad looked strangled in a tie, and a sports jacket was hanging over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. I didn't know he'd brought nice clothes. Nicole sat on the far side of the table, eating a toasted bagel and staring off into the yard.

I jogged in place over by the sink to cool down, wondering why Dad was so dressed up. “What's in Research Triangle Park?”

Dad frowned at me, his eyebrows almost meeting in the middle of his forehead above his nose. It's the same exasperated expression he gets when he's rewritten a program ten times and it keeps crashing. “Weren't you listening at all last night? The software company we were discussing has its headquarters there. That area used to be farmland once, but it was all bought up for an industrial complex.” His face relaxed and he grinned at me. “The Silicon Valley of the South.”

“I thought Silicon Valley was in California,” I said, concentrating on my cooldowns. “What's the big deal about this place?”

Dad glanced at Mrs. Hambrick. “They're interviewing me for a job, Alexander.”

I stared at the tangled branches outside the kitchen, not wanting to hear about it.

“I told you that,” Dad said quietly.

I knew he had. I just hadn't wanted to listen to him any more than I'd wanted to listen to Rich.

“I'm going upstairs to shower,” I told them.

“When you come down, let me know if you want to go,” Dad said. “If not, Nicole said she'd show you around.”

Nicole practically choked on her bagel. Apparently I didn't fit into her spring break plans any better than she fit into mine.

“Where is this place?” I asked, edging closer to the table.

Dad pointed on the map. Sure enough, it was a big, pale green patch labeled Research Triangle Park. But it was shaped more like a jalapeño pepper than a triangle. Aside from the big streets that looked like parkways, there were only a few small streets running through it, with names like Intel Avenue and Laboratory Drive.

Then I saw it. A narrow blue line ran down along the east side of the green shape. The tiny words that curved alongside it read Stirrup Iron Creek.

A sudden cool breeze brought the wind chimes to life. “Sure, Dad,” I said, watching the hummingbirds jostle. “I'll go.”

*   *   *

Rich was waiting for me in the van, along with Dad and Mrs. Hambrick. I'd thought it would be just Dad and me. And the ghost, of course. Why did
she
have to come along?

“Paige set up the interview,” Dad explained, as if he'd read my thoughts. He leaned around the front passenger seat as I climbed in. “After we're done, I thought we could go out to lunch—do a little sightseeing—whatever you'd like.”

I knew Dad was trying to be friendly, but I didn't care about sightseeing in Durham, especially with Mrs. Hambrick. I wanted to take care of Rich's problem, then figure out how to talk Dad into going back home once and for all. Maybe he'd mess up the interview and they wouldn't want to hire him. That was something to hope for.

Rich grinned at me. “I knew you'd find a way to get us to Stirrup Iron Creek.”

I checked to make sure that Mrs. Hambrick wasn't looking at me in the rearview mirror and grinned back at him in spite of feeling weird seeing him there and seeing Dad and Mrs. Hambrick just past him. Rich looked as solid and real as they did, and yet they couldn't see him. Or hear him. But they'd sure hear me if I tried to answer him.

I settled back to watch the trees go by and thought about going home to Indiana. I wondered if maybe Dad wanted to do something new—maybe he was sick of programming. Mom had always wanted to try new things, but I wanted things to stay the way they were—or at least the way they'd been. Maybe Dad was bored with our life in Indiana. The idea spooked me more than I would have thought. If he could get bored—would he get bored with me? Mrs. Hambrick turned onto a street called Cornwallis, and I saw a small green sign posted on the side telling us we were headed toward Research Triangle Park.

“Dad,” I asked, “are you tired of writing programs?”

He looked surprised. “Of course not. I still love messing around with code, seeing what I can make computers do.”

Mrs. Hambrick had to get into the conversation. “Did you know that 90 percent of programmers quit programming inside of five years, Alexander? Your father's in the 10 percent who seem to love it for life.”

I wish she'd kept that little statistic to herself. What did she know about my dad, anyway? Did everybody quit one thing to try something new? Was Rich the only one who stood fast and stayed with what he was supposed to do? The road widened into four lanes, and we passed a cemetery and then some churches and a high school. I shifted uncomfortably in the van's seat. My back and shoulders felt stiff. “Why would they just quit programming, Dad?” I asked.

“I guess some of them get tired of trying to straighten out buggy code. And some of them probably get burned out with creating something new.”

Rich listened to the conversation from the seat in front of me, but he didn't say anything.