Last Ghost at Gettysburg (19 page)

“The good thing is,” said LouAnne between
long, deep breaths, “he only comes out at night.”

“So far. Who’s to say he won’t manifest in
the daytime?”

“You think?”

“Listen, another thing Warren and Morrison
were worried about is the reenactment. I don’t know why, but I get
the feeling we’ve gotta resolve this thing by then.”

“T.J., that only gives us a few days!”

“I know, Cuz, but don’t you feel like, I
don’t know how to put it,
something’s coming
?”

She was silent for almost a quarter mile
before she said, “Yes.”

“And you still don’t want to tell your
dad?”

“Not quite yet.”

“Okay then. At breakfast today the three of
us will sit down and discuss our next night out to the
battlefield.”

“Sounds good. T.J. Do you think Bortnicker’s
going to be able to figure this guy out?”

“Well,” he said speculatively, “I think we’ll
dig up the history on Hilliard, if you’ll pardon the pun, but I’m
really afraid of Bortnicker being Bortnicker and ticking him off so
much that he wastes us.”

“You think he would?”

“I know that if I was angry as he must be
over his situation, I might have a somewhat short fuse. And my
buddy does have a way of annoying people.”

LouAnne giggled, despite the seriousness of
the conversation.

“Coming up on the Eternal Peace Monument,”
said T.J., who was by now well-versed on the environs of the park.
“Race you back?”

They turned and hit it hard for home.

T.J. had expected his best friend to be
miffed at breakfast, maybe even sullen, but Bortnicker was one
unpredictable dude. He and Aunt Terri were yukking it up while
preparing plates of French toast with fresh fruit on the side.
After she left to tend to the garden the three conspirators
regarded each other eagerly.

“Well,” said Bortnicker, wiping the last
traces of maple syrup from his lips, “here’s how I see it. We’ve
got this ghost who thinks it’s 1863 and probably always will
unless we convince him otherwise. But the key to all this is to
find out how he died and, if possible, where he was buried on the
battlefield.”

“Or if his body was relocated to a
Confederate graveyard in the South,” T.J. cut in.

“Maybe, but unlikely. He’s tied to this
place, guards it like it’s his responsibility. We’ve gotta get
into the archives today and do some serious digging. I went online
this morning and found a lead, but we’ve gotta follow it.”

“Tell us,” said LouAnne.

“Okay. Last night Hilliard said he was in Jeb
Stuart’s cavalry unit under the direct command of Wade Hampton.

“Hampton was born in Charleston, South
Carolina to a family of rich planters who owned a lot of slaves.
His father served in the War of 1812 under Andrew Jackson, and his
grandfather even served in the House of Representatives. His uncle
had been a senator and also served as Governor of the state, so he
was pretty connected.

“Hampton was a well-educated guy who studied
law in college, then took over running his family’s plantation
business while entering the political world himself, becoming a
state senator. But the whole time he established this reputation
as a great hunter and horseman.

“When the war started Hampton felt his first
allegiance was to his home state. The Governor made him a colonel
in the Confederate army even though he had no military training.
Because of his plantation Hampton was loaded, so he personally
financed his own unit, which came to be known as ‘Hampton’s
Legion,’ and had companies of infantry, cavalry and artillery.

“By all accounts he was a natural cavalryman
and leader, but he was never the showboat his eventual commander,
J.E.B. Stuart, was. Just a real solid soldier.

“I think to find Hilliard we have to research
Hampton’s Legion. Hilliard did tell us he was from Charleston, so
we’ve gotta look for the connection there.”

“Bortnicker, you’re amazing,” marveled
LouAnne.

“Yeah, well, it’s what I do,” he answered
off-handedly, carrying his plate to the sink.

LouAnne gave her cousin a “What’s up with
him?” look.

T.J. answered with his own “Don’t ask me,”
gesture, though he knew very well.

“Hey, guys,” said LouAnne, breaking the
awkward silence, “I don’t have to babysit at Mrs. Spath’s till
noon today. Want me to help out at the Research Center?”

“Sure, why not?” said Bortnicker, rinsing his
orange juice glass.

Aunt Terri dropped them off and they headed
inside to the climate controlled Research Center where LouAnne
knew the director, Dr. Mary Ellen Landon, who had gone to high
school with her dad.

“LouAnne Darcy!” exclaimed the portly
academic, her hair pinned up in a tight bun. “What brings you to
our resource room?”

“Hi, Dr. Landon. Well, my cousin T.J., here,
and our friend Bortnicker want to look up a Confederate soldier who
was killed in the battle.”

“Hmm. Do we have a name?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Bortnicker, stepping
forward. “Major Crosby Hilliard of Charleston, South Carolina, who
served in General Wade Hampton’s cavalry.”

“Well, that’s a start. Let’s pull up the
Confederate Order of Battle and any information related to
Hampton’s command.”

Things were a little slow that morning, so
Dr. Landon was able to join them, sitting between the two desktop
computers as Bortnicker and T.J. tried link after link, to no
avail. By the time Aunt Terri came to pick up LouAnne, the boys’
eyes were red and their patience was waning.

“We’re cooked,” said T.J. finally. “I don’t
think we’re ever gonna find this guy. Maybe he didn’t really exist,
or he isn’t who he says he is.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Bortnicker, rubbing his
eyes. “We’re just looking in the wrong place. He’d have no reason
to lie to us, anyway.”

“Well, you don’t have to get snippy about
it.”

Bortnicker turned to T.J. and fixed him with
a withering look whose origin was obviously the previous night.
“Don’t even,” was all he said.

Fortunately, Dr. Landon reappeared that very
moment. “You boys hit a bump in the road?” she said sweetly.

“More like a dead end,” mumbled T.J.

“Well, there is one more avenue we can try.
One of the finest Civil War museums in the land is located in
Charleston, run by the Daughters of the Confederacy—”

“The who?” cut in Bortnicker.

“Allow me to continue,” said Dr. Landon
primly, alerting Bortnicker to his rudeness. “The Daughters of the
Confederacy is an organization of descendants of Southern soldiers
who keep their memory alive for both scholars and the general
public by funding and maintaining museums and other research
facilities. Charleston’s is open on a daily basis and is located
in an antebellum building directly over the Charleston Market. A
remarkable place, really, crammed to the rafters with artifacts
donated from hundreds of veterans’ descendants all over the South
and elsewhere. I just happen to be good friends with their longtime
director, Margaret Thibodeaux. Let me call her over there... I just
might catch her at her desk.”

Sure enough, within a minute T.J. and
Bortnicker were on a conference call in Dr. Landon’s office with a
decidedly southern belle-ish Margaret Thibodeaux.

“And to whom do I have the pleashuh of
speakin’?” she trilled.

“Uh, my name’s T.J. Jackson, Ma’am, and I’m
here with my friend Bortnicker,” answered T.J., taking the
lead.

“Would that ‘T’ be for Thomas, young
man?”

“Yes, but sorry, no relation to Stonewall,”
he replied respectfully.

“Aw, what a shame,” she said. “Oh well, how
can I help you fine young men?”

“Ms. Thibodeaux,” broke in Bortnicker, taking
over, “we’re trying to find information on a particular Confederate
cavalryman who we think fought at Gettysburg. Major Crosby Hilliard
who served—”

“Under Wade Hampton and was himself a native
of Charleston.”

“Right! You know of him?”

“Deah boy, the Hilliards are an ancient and
noble family whose prominence in Charleston society predates the
American Revolution. Their patriarch, Josiah Hilliard, established
one of the first major tobacco plantations in the region. He owned
hundreds of acres and—”

“Slaves?”

“Yes, well of course, that was considered a
necessity in those days, unfortunately. Josiah Hilliard was
well-connected within the state and all the way to Washington.”

“So he would have been friends with Wade
Hampton’s family?”

“Land sakes, yes.”

“So when Hampton raised his ‘Legion’ it was a
natural that Crosby Hilliard would be involved?”

“Yes, of course. Unfortunately, Mr.
Bortnicker, the story of Crosby Hilliard is one we might call a bit
checkered.”

“How so?” Both boys edged forward on their
seats.

“Well, as the story goes, Crosby Hilliard and
Wade Hampton frequently hunted together and attended many of the
same social events, though Hampton was ten years or so his senior.
I think General Hampton viewed Hilliard as a kind of wild younger
brother whom he had to take under his wing.

“But despite his best efforts to mold Crosby
into a gentleman planter, Wade Hampton could not manage his
protégé’s mercurial temper for him.

“There was a young lady in Charleston at the
time named Mary Londoner, who by all accounts was both beguiling
and flirtatious. She unfortunately found it entertaining to pit two
of Charleston’s most eligible bachelors, Winthrop Barry and Crosby
Hilliard, against each other, allowing each to escort her to
various gatherings and balls in the area. As you can imagine, their
patience for each other grew thin, fueled by the machinations of
Miss Londoner.

“Then, one day it spilled over, in the middle
of Market Street not fifty yards from where I now sit speaking to
y’all. Crosby Hilliard came upon Mr. Barry and Miss Londoner arm in
arm, promenading in public and, if accounts are to be believed,
whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.

“This was more than Crosby Hilliard could
take, apparently, and he challenged Winthrop Barry to a duel right
there and then.”

“Wow,” said T.J.

“Wow, indeed,” she answered. “So on the
appointed day the two suitors and their seconds met out near what
we call the Battery today and had their duel.”

“What happened?” said Bortnicker.

“According to local legend, the men hefted
their pistols and stepped off. But it gets cloudy here. Some say
that Hilliard killed Barry fair and square with a bullet through
the heart. Other reports have Barry’s pistol jamming and Hilliard
shooting Barry as the latter was raising his off-hand to alert
Hilliard to the situation.”

“Ouch,” said Bortnicker. “So what happened to
Hilliard?”

“What happened? Why, nothing, deah boy,”
Thibodeaux said assuredly. “It came down to one man’s word against
another’s, and the Hilliard family’s status in Charleston precluded
any charges being brought. Besides, duels were not governed by
conventional law. That’s not to say, however, that word didn’t leak
out that Crosby Hilliard had not acted in the most admirable
manner. In any event, whatever relationship he’d planned to forge
with Mary Londoner was dashed, but Crosby Hilliard was about to be
saved by divine intervention.”

“What was that?” said T.J.

“Why, Fort Sumter, of course,” said Ms.
Thibodeaux. “From the very area where Hilliard shot Barry dead,
Confederate artillery commenced shelling Fort Sumter in Charleston
Harbor on April 12, 1861. The conflict was underway, Wade Hampton
snapped up Hilliard and made him a lieutenant, and off to war they
went.”

“Do you know what happened to Hilliard after
that?” asked Bortnicker eagerly.

“Let me put my staff of two on it, and by
tomorrow this time we should be able to provide further information
on Crosby Hilliard. Shall I call you at this number?”

“Well, you could email us, if that’s easier,”
said Bortnicker.

“I’m sorry, young man, but I try to avoid
email or texting or Tweetering or whatever you call it... It’s all
too cold and impersonal. I’d much rathuh speak to you wonderful
gentlemen again. Do we have a date for, let’s say, ten tomorrow
morning?”

“Yes, Ma’am, thank you,” said T.J. in his
best choirboy voice as Bortnicker frowned. She clicked off just as
Dr. Landon popped in.

“Any luck?” she said hopefully.

“I think we’re in business,” answered
Bortnicker with a smile. “But Ms. Thibodeaux needs us back here
tomorrow to take her call. Is that okay?”

“Oh, sure,” said Landon. “And meanwhile, you
tell that Michael Darcy that I said hi. You know,” she said,
patting the side of her bun, “we were quite the item for a little
while our sophomore year.”

The boys kept as straight a face as they
could, at least until they exited the Research Room and fell all
over themselves, temporarily putting their differences aside.

* * * *

That afternoon, as the boys helped Aunt Terri
clear a section near the back of her lot for a new compost heap,
Mike returned from lunch to find Mary Ellen Landon pushing a
utility cart of hanging file boxes past the ranger office. Though
they worked in the same building, Mike tried to cut her a wide
berth because, frankly, she never failed to embarrass him with
semi-suggestive remarks that harkened back to their high school
days. As far as he was concerned it was ancient history, but Mary
Ellen never failed to give him the creeps.

“Well, hi there, Ranger Mike,” she said
coquettishly.

“’
Lo, Mary Ellen,” he
mumbled.

“Guess who came to visit me this
morning?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Why, your very own lovely daughter, your
nephew, and their somewhat interesting friend.”

“Really? What for?”