Last Ghost at Gettysburg (14 page)

Cheers rang out.

“Okay, I’m Ranger Mike Darcy, and today we’re
going to tell you about a dark period in American history, and a
battle that was both glorious and tragic, a battle that helped
shape our country as we know it today...”

That would be the last thing T.J. remembered
until Bortnicker nudged him awake some ninety minutes later. “Hey,
Big Mon, we’re back. You z’d through the whole thing!”

“Whoa, sorry,” T.J. mumbled, blinking in the
sunlight as he rose and stretched.

“Let me shoo the scouts off the bus and we’ll
go for an ice cream in town,” said Mike. “This is my last
assignment for the day and I’m craving a strawberry shake. Sound
okay to you guys?”

“Great!” the boys said in unison. They
climbed off the bus together, Mike’s muscular arms draped over the
teens’ shoulders. They almost ran right into Bruce Morrison, who
was standing outside the Visitor Center entrance, clipboard in
hand.

“Good tour?” he said to Mike, eyeing the
threesome.

“Too cool!” blurted Bortnicker. “Mr. Darcy’s
the man!”

“Easy, Trigger,” said Mike. “Bruce, this is
my nephew, T.J., and his somewhat excitable friend, Bortnicker.
Bruce is the chief of rangers here, guys.”

“Pleased to meet you boys,” said Morrison
evenly. “So, you’re liking our little corner of the world?”

“Way cool!” said Bortnicker.

“I’m learning a lot,” agreed T.J.

“Well, great,” said Morrison. “We’ll be
seeing you around.”

“No question!” chimed Bortnicker.

Somehow, Mike was sure his superior didn’t
like the boy’s answer.

Chapter Seventeen

Saturday began with a fine run down the
Chambersburg Road in which LouAnne and T.J. took turns pacing each
other. Conversation was minimal; it was clear that with T.J.’s
improvement their casual jaunts had become more competitive. Of
course, no dialogue could be conducted without talk of Bortnicker,
who was still blissfully asleep after a late night on the computer.
As T.J. had nodded off, his friend was still clicking away madly,
trying to dig up information on Confederate cavalry movements
during the battle.

LouAnne asked about Bortnicker’s family life,
and T.J. tried, as tactfully as he could, to describe the
eccentric, feng shui-dominated existence of mother and son. LouAnne
had a lot of questions, but she wisely stopped short of getting
into T.J.’s own current situation with his parent and his father’s
girlfriend. Why ruin a beautiful morning workout?

All five inhabitants of the Darcy house were
enjoying Aunt Terri’s homemade granola cereal when Mike asked,
“So, who wants to go shooting with me?”

“Yuck,” was LouAnne’s reply.

Mike turned to the boys and patiently
explained, “The princess here doesn’t like to get black powder on
her fingers.”

“Or face. Or hair,” finished LouAnne. “And
let’s face it, Dad, a couple of those guys you hang out with at the
range are a little out there. It’s like the annual reenactment is
their Christmas. I hope you’re not going to actually suit up with
them again this year.”

“You’re a Civil War reenactor?” said
Bortnicker, milk dripping down his chin.

“We try to discourage him,” chided Aunt
Terri, “but every couple of years they talk him into it.”

“But Dad’s kinda weak about it,” continued
LouAnne. “Instead of tenting on the field with his wacko friends he
sneaks home and showers and sleeps in his own comfy bed. Am I
right?”

Mike frowned, his face coloring.

“Well, I for one think it’s cool, Mr. Darcy,”
said Bortnicker. “You’re keeping history alive and all that.”

“So, does that mean you want to come shooting
with me?”

Bortnicker thought for a moment, then said,
“Ah, no. Not today. Besides, I’ve already promised LouAnne I’ll
help her with some weeding this morning.” He said it with a smile,
as if he would have agreed to eat the weeds as well if she’d
asked.

“Is that so?” said T.J., an eyebrow
raised.

“That is so,” Bortnicker slyly replied.

“How about you, T.J.?” asked Mike.

The boy could see the hopefulness in his
uncle’s eyes. “Yeah, sure, Uncle Mike. I was kinda wondering what
it would be like to shoot one of those guns anyway.”

“Great!” he replied. “I’m bringing my Colt
.44 revolver today. It’ll be quite a challenge for you. Just make
sure to wear some grubby clothes ‘cause you’re going to get
dirty.”

“Very
dirty,” echoed LouAnne, taking
her empty cereal bowl to the sink.

Mike sighed and went out to the garage to
pack up the equipment. Within minutes they were headed out of town
towards the shooting range in Bonneville.

“So how’s work been?” said T.J., making
conversation as cornfields flew by.

“Not bad. As you can tell, the town is
swelling a little more each day. The crescendo will come soon
enough during the reenactment days. But you two boys have been
really busy, I take it.”

“Uncle Mike, you have no idea. Bortnicker
can’t get enough of this stuff. We’ve been to the Visitor Center
museum twice already, and he wants to hit every museum in town,
even the sketchy ones, as well as the souvenir shops. The bus tour
people are gonna be on a first name basis with us. I hope you don’t
mind that we use your name.”

“No problem. I’m glad you guys are so busy,
and so into it. And Bortnicker’s okay. Poor kid, he follows LouAnne
around like a lost puppy dog.”

“Yeah,” said T.J. uncertainly, recalling
Bortnicker’s open-mouthed rapture at the Charney House during
LouAnne’s presentation the previous evening.

“Well, it’s to be expected. This whole trip
is probably like a big adventure to him. I get the impression he
doesn’t get out much.”

“Um, I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

“You know, even though I was kind of in the
jock group in high school and college, I tried to have all
different kinds of friends. Did LouAnne mention that in high school
I was in the chess club?”

“Get out.”

“No, really. Of course, a lot of it was
because I liked this girl who was also in the club.” He stared
straight ahead as if going back in time. “Ellen Redgate was her
name. T.J., this girl was so smart it wasn’t funny. But she was
sweet, too. I think she ended up going to M.I.T., full boat.”

“Wow.”

“The thing is, some of the kids in the chess
club ended up being my lifelong friends, whereas a lot of my high
school teammates just faded away. There were actually some guys who
were jealous when I got the scholarship to Michigan State. Thought
it should’ve been them. Oh well. But what high school taught me was
that it takes all kinds. That’s why I can appreciate you having a
pal like Bortnicker.”

“He’s really not so bad,” said T.J.

“I’m sure. Just stay out of trouble, the two
of you. Don’t get too adventurous, okay? You’re still visitors in
a strange land,” he grinned.

“You got it.”

They arrived at the firing range and were
greeted by Mike’s ragtag shooting cronies. “Okay, T.J. This is
Matty, Bobby, and Eddie. They all belong to the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania Regiment.” All of the guys wore orange or traditional
hunting camos, and a couple were chewing tobacco.

“What kept you, Darcy?” admonished Matty, a
burly, good-natured man who T.J. thought might have also been a
football player in his youth.

“The usual. Family stuff and whatnot. But
enough with wasting time. I want to show my nephew how to shoot a
Colt .44. So let’s stop lollygagging and get after it!”

“Yes, Coach Mike!” piped Eddie, the smallest
one, in his best high school nerdy voice.

Uncle and nephew entered a “booth” fashioned
from primitive plywood sheets that looked out toward a paper
target. There was a particleboard table before them resting upon
two sawhorses. “It’s not exactly first class,” said Mike, reading
T.J.’s mind, “but nobody really bothers you.”

BOOM!

T.J. reflectively put his hands over his
head, feeling like an artillery round was coming down on them. In
the next booth Bobby cackled, “Got ‘im!” and the stench of sulfur
wafted over to their booth.

“Bobby shoots a replica Enfield rifle. They
were imported from England and used mostly by the Southern troops,
but they were basically the same as the Union model.”

“If Bobby’s in a Union reenactor regiment,
how come he’s shooting a Southern rifle?”

“Oh, this is just one of the firearms Bobby
keeps around. He also likes his Sharps carbine, which is quicker to
load. My other gun, which I left at home today, is a Sharps as
well. It’s a real one, too, as is the revolver you’ll be shooting
today.”

“Aren’t these guns a little old to be
used?”

“Well, I had them both refitted awhile back,
so they can fire modern ammunition. Anything older has the
potential to screw up the inside of the barrel.” Mike pulled out a
pair of padded earmuffs and some goggles and handed them to his
nephew. “These will help until you get used to the sound and
whatever.

“Okay, so let me give you a brief history on
the firearm you’re gonna be using here. The 1860 Colt .44 Army
sidearm is called a revolver, not a pistol, because it’s a multiple
shot weapon. Both armies used versions of this gun. Since the Union
had far more industry, there was always a shortage of arms for the
Confederates, and they stripped the dead of their firearms whenever
possible. These revolvers were prized, especially among cavalry
officers.

“All the handguns in the Civil War used black
powder, as my daughter so tactfully alluded to this morning. They
also used caps to fire the main charge.” He placed one on the table
in front of T.J. It looked like an eraser-sized metal drinking cup.
“These guns could fire bullets or balls, the balls obviously being
more round. A .44 caliber bullet like this one is almost a half
inch in diameter.” He placed a bullet next to the cap. “Again,
notice that this is a new bullet. Theoretically, the gun could
fire old ones, but it’d be risky, and as an original this is a very
valuable weapon.”

“Gotcha.”

“Finally, you need the paper cartridge which
contains the black powder. During the Civil War the governments of
both sides supplied their troops with paper-wrapped cartridges to
speed up the loading of weapons during battle. A cavalry soldier
would have a cartridge box attached to his uniform belt filled with
enough rounds to load his revolver anywhere from six to nine. His
caps would be in there, too.” Mike produced a roll of thin paper
whose bottom section contained a measured quantity of powder.
Attached at the top was a bullet. “Many cartridges had a greased
bullet or ball, which caused the cylinder in the gun to revolve
more smoothly. So now we’re ready to load up. And here’s our bad
boy.”

He pulled from his bag an object wrapped in
oilcloth, which he peeled away in layers to reveal a perfectly
preserved Colt .44 revolver with brass trigger guard and walnut
grip. Ever the thorough teacher, Mike pointed out to T.J. (who just
wanted to
shoot
the darned thing) the front blade sight,
loading lever, cylinder release tab, six-shot chamber, hammer, and
nipple upon which the cap would be placed. “Here, heft this and get
a feel for it,” he said, carefully handing over the weapon. The
two-pound, nine-ounce gun immediately made T.J.’s hand droop.

“Wow,” he muttered. “You had to be strong to
use this.”

“No question. I think the real reason your
cousin dislikes shooting isn’t the powder thing, it’s that she has
a hard time controlling it.”

T.J. wondered if he could do any better than
LouAnne. This thing was
heavy
.

“Okay, ready to load it?”

“Me?”

“T.J., the average Civil War soldier was an
illiterate farm boy. C’mon, I’ll walk you through it. We’re not
talking about brain surgery here.”

“All right.”

Again the patient teacher, Mike instructed
T.J. in the insertion and seating of the cartridges and the capping
of the nipple. It seemed to take a long time. “I can’t imagine
doing this in the heat of battle,” T.J. said, preparing the final
cylinder.

“Yeah, there are reports of soldiers who got
so crazy and scared with their rifles that they just kept ramming
charge after charge down the barrel, which caused the gun to either
misfire or blow up.”

“Ugh.”

“Which brings me to my last point.” Mike
waited until his buddies had each let off another round. “Black
powder revolvers when discharged will produce a considerable flash
of fire. It’s not unusual for sparks or even flames to shoot out
the barrel of the gun. One of the reasons they used grease with the
paper or wadding was to prevent the flame from burning backwards
and into another unfired chamber. A multiple chain fire could occur
with all the rounds going off at once.”

“Thanks for telling me,” T.J. said with a
hint of sarcasm.

“Don’t worry. I specially prepared your
rounds. Now, put on your earmuffs and glasses, stand a little
sideways, take aim and have at it.”

“No ‘shooter crouch’ and two-handed grip like
on TV?”

“That’s modern stuff, T.J. This is the 1800s
we’re talking about. Be careful ‘cause it’s gonna kick.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay, here goes.” He raised his
right arm, tried to sight down the wobbling barrel, and let off a
round. As Uncle Mike had predicted, there was a flash that
accompanied the explosion, and the revolver kicked upwards so
violently that T.J.’s wrist stung. Acrid smoke filled the air as
Mike’s friends cheered from their booths.

“Think I hit the target?” said T.J.
feebly.

“Only if you was aimin’ for ducks flyin’
over!” bellowed Matty from the other side of the plywood.

“Hey, enough, you hammerheads,” said Mike
authoritatively. “He’s just learning.” Then he turned to his nephew
and smiled. “Want to try again?”