Last Ghost at Gettysburg (27 page)

“For hours more the guns boomed and the sun
beat down. I went in and out of consciousness, but in those moments
of lucidity I wondered,
was I shot by my own men?
I lay
there, praying for death, as day turned into night and hordes of
flies began buzzing around the thousands of dead and dying on the
field. Horribly wounded men and horses were crying out, their
screams chilling me to the bone, yet I could not reply.

“The next morning dawned, yet still I lived.
And then it began to rain, a hard and cold torrent which soaked me
to the skin. How I did not drown in the position where I lay is a
wonder. I thought of my life back in Charleston, my family, the
woman whom I’d loved, and the utter futility of my actions on the
previous day and was consumed with the feeling of utter
despair.

“And then I heard the voices of men, Negro
men, who were moving among the dead and nearly dead such as myself.
They spoke in casual tones, as if the horror around them was merely
an annoyance. Slowly they made their way toward me, and I wanted to
cry out with the joy of my possible deliverance. You can imagine
how my heart sank when I felt a boot nudge my shoulder and a voice
declare, ‘This ol’ boy’s had it.’ And then, the most chilling sound
of all came to my ears, the sound of shovels digging into the rich
farmland beneath me, and the sensation of being first rolled into a
trough—”

“Omigod,” gasped LouAnne, choking back
tears.

“Then finally, the sensation of cool, black
earth being thrown upon me, until the world as I knew it ceased to
exist.” He stood and looked again at the moon, his brass buttons
throwing quick reflections of its light.

Bortnicker squinted sideways at the tape
recorder, whose tiny wheels were still spinning. He cleared his
throat, mustered up his courage and said, “Major Hilliard, do you
know what year it is?”

The soldier looked down upon him, and for the
first time his shoulders seemed to sag a bit. “For me, lad, it is,
and always will be, July 3, 1863.”

“What if we told you the year is 2010?” asked
T.J., struggling to keep his voice from cracking.

“Then I would suspect that the things I’ve
seen in these recent nights are not wild fantasies, but portents of
the future.”

“What have you seen?” pressed T.J.

“Fantastic things. Carriages moving under
their own power, quietly and with amazing speed, contraptions like
giant glowing birds gliding overhead.”

“Much has happened since July 3, 1863,” said
LouAnne gently.

“What could we tell you to help you
understand?” said T.J.

“There’s so much. To begin, I would assume
our army was defeated in this battle.”

“That’s correct, sir,” said Bortnicker. “Most
historians regard this battle as the turning point in the war.”

“I take it we lost.”

“Yes, sir, but not until after two more years
of bloodshed. General Lee proved to be a great commander who
finally had to surrender because of the Union’s overwhelming
numbers.”

“And my dear friend, General Hampton?”

Bortnicker said, “Though sustaining at least
five major wounds, he survived the war and went into politics.”

“He didn’t go over to Lincoln’s side, did
he?” Hilliard said incredulously.

“He couldn’t have even if he wanted to, sir.
Abraham Lincoln was assassinated days after the war ended in April
of 1865,” said T.J.

“And what of the slavery issue?” Hilliard
asked, absently rubbing his thigh.

“They were freed and slowly were included in
American society,” said Bortnicker. “But it took over a hundred
years for them to get equal rights. In fact—”

At this point T.J. clamped his hand on his
friend’s knee as a signal to stop. He was afraid the revelation
that a black man was now President would be too much for the
Confederate soldier to take. Bortnicker fell silent.

Hilliard sighed. “All for nothing, all for
nothing,” he murmured, shaking his head. “And would I be correct in
assuming that, with all the new inventions that have come along, we
have found more efficient ways to kill each other?”

T.J. thought for a moment about his twentieth
century history studies and said, “You don’t want to know.”

“My Gawd,” said Hilliard, sinking down to his
seat again, elbows propped on knees, face buried in his hands. “You
say that you made inquiries about me in Charleston.”

“That’s correct, sir,” answered
Bortnicker.

“How am I remembered there?”

“Well, sir,” Bortnicker began tactfully,
“Your disappearance was noted by General Hampton in his battle
report. They had no idea what happened to you.”

“Do they think I shirked my duty? That I
deserted?”

“There seems to be some confusion about
that,” said T.J.

“Obviously, they don’t know about your heroic
attempt to rally the troops during Pickett’s Charge,” said
LouAnne.

“Pickett’s Charge? Is that what this
senseless slaughter goes by?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, sorry she’d spoken
up.

T.J., trying to change the direction of the
conversation, said, “Major, pardon me for asking, but do you have
any recollection of, ah, where you were before you reappeared in
our time?”

Hilliard took a deep breath and looked up
again to face the teens. “It was a void. A nothingness. A darkness.
If there is a heaven, or a hell, I visited neither.”

“Do you remember your return?”

“The split-rail fence,” he said dully.
“Suddenly it was night, and I was above ground again, and I was
alive
, and I turned and my beautiful Brutus stood there in
the moonlight. I was never so happy to see another living being in
my life. So I mounted up and began to traverse the battlefield. I
come and I go with no rhyme or reason. I see all the monuments and
the statues and the cannon, a mute testament to the horrible
conflagration that occurred here. But I have also dealt with those
who would besmirch the honor of the gallant men who fell here.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Major,”
offered Bortnicker, “the thousands of men who died here, including
yourself, are celebrated for their valor in a host of ways. You
can’t just go by the actions of a few idiots.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, besides all these
monuments that recognize regiments from both North and South, there
are military museums, the National Cemetery, which was dedicated by
President Lincoln himself, the reenactments—”

“The what?” Hilliard asked sharply.

Again, Bortnicker had misspoken, but T.J.
couldn’t stop him in time, so he carefully went ahead. “Well, sir,
every year they, um, commemorate the battle on its anniversary by
holding, uh, staging, uh—”

“A mock battle?” the cavalier spat, eyes
blazing. “You are telling me that men actually dress up and play at
soldier for the entertainment of others? What purpose could this
possibly serve?”

“Well,” said T.J. evenly, “They probably want
to show people how it really was.”

Hilliard threw back his head and let out a
loud, cynical laugh. “The way it was? They want to show the way it
was? These imposters, these...
tin soldiers
actually think
they are paying homage to the brave men who gave their lives for a
cause they believed was just? And what does the audience do? Pack
picnic baskets and cheer for their favorite side?”

The teens’ eyes grew larger. This was not how
they wanted the discussion to go, and Hilliard seemed to be working
himself into a frenzied state. As if reading their minds, he fixed
his cold eyes on T.J. “Master Jackson, what is today’s date?” he
demanded.

“Uh, well,” T.J. stammered.

Hilliard drew his pistol. “Answer me,
boy!”

“It’s June 28
^th
, sir,” said
LouAnne, summoning all her courage. “And I would be appreciative if
you would not try to intimidate us. We are here to find a way to
free you from being bound to this place.”

“Oh, is that so, young miss?” he replied
sarcastically. “You give yourselves far too much credit. But never
you worry. I shall leave this place, but not before I attend to
some unfinished business.”

“Major,” backtracked LouAnne, “We’re only
trying—”

“You’ve tried enough, the three of you,” he
hissed. “Leave me. Now!”

“Major,” T.J. attempted, “are you sure—”

“Master Jackson, if that is indeed who you
are, I am only allowing you to depart out of respect to the memory
of General Jackson. You will be wise, all of you, to never cross my
path again.” He drew his pistol and cocked the hammer. “Once more.
Leave!”

“Come on,” said T.J., rising to his feet.
Bortnicker deftly palmed his recorder and they were off, running
for all they were worth out of Devil’s Den, past Plum Run, where
Brutus stood pawing the ground, eyeing them suspiciously. They
raced through the woods, LouAnne plucking her cell phone from her
pocket and flipping it open, telling Mike they were on their
way.

After what seemed like an eternity, they
spied the concealed car and dove into the back seat. Bortnicker was
hyperventilating from the unusual amount of exertion he’d pushed
himself to. Mike pulled out carefully and then they were motoring
toward home. “What happened? Did you see him? Did you talk to him?
You were out there for hours!” he admonished.

T.J. slowed his breathing somewhat until he
was able to speak. “It happened, Uncle Mike,” he wheezed. “We
found out everything. And it isn’t good.”

* * * *

While Mike parked the car the exhausted trio
huddled on the porch. Suddenly T.J. grabbed the other two.
“Listen, guys,” he whispered hurriedly, “Uncle Mike’s gonna want to
know everything, but I think we should leave out the reenactment
stuff.”

“How come?” said LouAnne.

“Just trust me. Bortnicker, you think he came
out on the tape?”

“Let’s see. I’ve rewound it all the way.” He
pressed PLAY and they all waited breathlessly. There was a brief
silence, then LouAnne saying, “Yes, sir,” then silence again. Once
T.J. said, “How long do we have?” they knew that Weinstein had been
correct. The ghost could not be captured on audio.

“Okay, kids,” said Mike, hustling back from
the garage,“ let’s go inside and review what happened. All that
waiting made me crazy.”

“Bad news, Mr. D,” announced Bortnicker. “No
tape recording. But we can tell you what happened.”

Aunt Terri, clad in her bathrobe, let them
in. “Did he show up?” she asked tensely.

“Oh yeah, Mom,” answered LouAnne, pecking her
on the cheek.

“Does anyone want coffee?”

Mike looked at his watch. “It’s way past
midnight,” he said. “A little late for coffee. Besides, everybody’s
too jacked up anyway. Let’s just sit down and get this all
out.”

They all took their seats at the dining room
table, Terri listening with rapt attention as the teens spun their
tale, Mike punctuating their narrative with an occasional
“wow.”

T.J. handled the last part of the account,
deftly skirting the reenactment part and Hilliard’s violent
reaction.

“I think you’re all incredibly brave,” said
Terri at the end, relieved that they had returned safely.

“So, he knows how he got here, and he implied
that he’s going to get himself out,” said Mike. “I guess, then,
there’s nothing else you can do.”

“Yeah,” said Bortnicker, “he made it pretty
clear that this would be our last discussion with him, ever.”

“Well, you tried, kids, and I’m proud of
you,” Mike said. “I just wish he’d let on how he’s going to
accomplish leaving this place. But, hey, we’ve all had a long
night. Why don’t we all try to get some sleep? I, for one, have
work tomorrow morning.”

“We running tomorrow, Cuz?” asked
LouAnne.

“You know it.”

As soon as he’d closed the bedroom door,
Bortnicker was after him. “So why didn’t we tell your uncle about
the reenactment business?” he said, shucking his clothes and lying
on the bed.

T.J. slowly reclined on his, staring at the
ceiling. “I think you know the answer to that, man,” he said
tiredly.

“Hilliard’s gonna try something during the
battle?”

“That would be my guess. Maybe make some
grand gesture he never got to do in real life.”

“But he only comes out at night!”

“Says you.”

“Oh, man. Listen, I’m sorry I let it slip
about the reenactment. I didn’t know he’d take it that way.”

“Yeah, well, I probably would have left it
out myself, but let’s face it, he’s a loose cannon, no pun
intended. Who knew what would set him off?”

“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this, Big
Mon.”

“Me, too. I think that one way or another,
it’s all gonna end next Sunday at Pickett’s Charge, in front of
thousands of people. And we’re the only ones who can stop it.”

“Well,” said Bortnicker, removing his glasses
to go to sleep, “I guess there’s only one thing to do.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re going to join the army.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“You can’t be serious!” said LouAnne heatedly
as they jogged along Seminary Ridge. “You and Bortnicker in Dad’s
regiment? And Hilliard showing up in broad daylight to do
who-knows-what? This is crazy!”

“Maybe it is, Cuz, but I have a hunch this is
how it’ll play out. Your dad invited me to participate and bring
Bortnicker along. Neither of us was too keen on the idea of playing
drummer boy, but this is too much to pass up.”

“And if he does show up, like you say, and
tries to wreak havoc at the battle, how are two drummer boys going
to stop him?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Oh, brilliant. And you’re still not going to
tell my dad about Hilliard’s reenactment rant?”

“Not yet. Maybe not at all. Listen, Cuz, if
your dad knew Hilliard might materialize at Pickett’s Charge,
angry and armed to the teeth, do you actually think he’d still want
me and Bortnicker out there to maybe get our heads blown off?”