Last Ghost at Gettysburg (28 page)

“You’ll be lucky if all three of you don’t
get killed. Why couldn’t we live in Florida?” she shouted to the
heavens.

* * * *

The boys gratefully accepted a ride from Aunt
Terri into town after dropping off LouAnne at Mrs. Spath’s. They
found Mike in front of the Visitor Center where he was concluding
his first cemetery tour of the day. People were everywhere; the
town was busting at the seams, and it was only the beginning of
Reenactment Week.

“Hey, guys,” he said, removing his hat to
wipe some moisture out of the hatband. “Man, it’s hot today, and
it’s only nine-thirty in the morning.”

T.J. looked at the hordes of tourists
jostling in and out of the main entrance. “I see what you were
saying about the town going crazy during this week.”

“For sure. The hotels are booked solid, and
the campgrounds are RV parks are packed. Tomorrow they’ll start
setting up the military camps, and whatever reenactors aren’t here
already will be coming in. It’s bedlam.”

“Speaking of which, Uncle Mike,” said T.J.
tentatively, “we’ve decided we’d like to participate with your
regiment on Saturday and Sunday.”

“Really? The both of you? Fantastic! I’ll
give Jack Pelham a call and ask him to email me any drummer boy
guidelines he has from his sons. I’m sure they’ll let you borrow
their drums, which belong to the regiment anyway, but we’ll have to
scrounge uniforms for you. His boys are both kind of short and
squatty, and you’ll never fit into their clothes.”

“No worries, Mr. D,” said Bortnicker,
flashing a plastic VISA card. “My mom said to use this if I needed
it, so I guess T.J. and I have to visit ‘Reenactment Supply
Central’ this morning.”

“You sure you guys won’t want me along to
help you out?”

“Nah. I checked out the main places already,
and I think I’ve got a pretty good eye for what’s the most
authentic looking,” Bortnicker said confidently.

“Well, okay. Just remember that it’s the
72
^nd
Pennsylvania. You’ll need proper badging for your
army hats and such. But I warn you, it’s not going to be
cheap.”

“Not a problem, Mr. D.,” said Bortnicker.
“Hey, if you’re gonna do this you’ve gotta do it right. People are
gonna think we’ve been doing this all our lives!”

“Doing what all your lives?” inquired Bruce
Morrison, who had eased in behind the trio unnoticed.

“Oh, hi, Bruce,” said Mike uneasily. “Well,
it seems my regiment is a couple drummers short for the weekend and
the boys here have volunteered to fill in.”

“I see. Sure they’ll be able to handle all
this? It’s easily the most involved battle reenactment in the
country. Not exactly recommended for novices, I’m told.”

“Don’t worry, Bruce,” said Mike with an air
of determination. “I’ll have them ready.”

“Well, okay, I’m sure you know better than
me. I just hate to lose you for an entire weekend, but I know you
do it out of a respect for history, so I have no choice.”

“You going to be there?” asked Bortnicker, a
crooked smile creasing his face.

“Oh, yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,”
Morrison answered, all the while his sly smile indicating he was
thinking,
they’re up to something.

* * * *

“The Battle Cry, huh?” said T.J. as they
stood outside the storefront on Baltimore Street with its crossed
pistols logo.

“Also known as ‘Guns R Us’,” Bortnicker joked
as they eyed some uniforms in the window. “Like I said yesterday,
there’s around five stores in town that have this stuff, but a
couple of them are really schlocky, uniforms you might wear on
Halloween or something. This place is top of the line, but it’s the
priciest, too. You can even buy some real stuff, though we don’t
have to go
that
far.”

They entered and were immediately greeted by
the proprietor, a rotund middle-aged guy whose head seemed too
small for his 300lb-plus body. “Help you boys?” he said, his face
florid from the heat despite the huge blade fans that turned
overhead.

“We need some Civil War clothes,” said T.J.
with some uncertainty.

“You mean, like a souvenir hat? We have both
Union and—”

“No, no,” said Bortnicker, holding up his
hand. “We need one hundred percent completely authentic Union
uniforms for this weekend’s battle.”

“You’re reenactors?” the man asked
dubiously.

“Of course.”

“What unit?”

“72
^nd
Pennsylvania Infantry,” said
Bortnicker proudly.

“Regular infantry?”

“Drummer boys,” said T.J. with some
embarrassment.

“Oh. Well, we can certainly outfit you, but
it can get expensive.”

Bortnicker flashed his credit card. “Money is
not an issue,” he said grandly. “We need a full uniform from hat to
shoes, canteens, and whatever else a drummer boy would be
carrying.”

The shop owner grinned, dollar signs dancing
in his head. “Right this way, gentlemen!” he said, pointing them
toward the more expensive uniforms and accoutrements. The place was
stocked to the rafters of its stamped tin ceiling with hats, coats,
jackets, shirts, undergarments, shoes, boots, and every other
conceivable article of clothing a soldier on either side might
wear. Every rank was represented, and there was also a large
civilian section with ladies bustle dresses and men’s frock coats.
In another room were cases of replica rifles, pistols and swords,
and still others of period antiques that could have served as a
museum in itself. T.J. also saw mess kits, Bibles, reading glasses,
photos, playing cards and other personal items soldiers carried in
their knapsacks. This was big business.

It took an hour for the boys to be fitted for
their uniform jackets, pants and brogans, as well as their blue
kepi caps, to which the shop owner, whose name was Wyatt Moss,
affixed replica brass letters, numbers and crossed swords which
identified them as members of the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania.
Undergarments and heavy socks followed, as did canteens and leather
belts.

“We’ve gotta wear all this out there?” moaned
T.J. “We’re gonna die in this heat!”

“You said you wanted to be totally
authentic,” chided Moss. “Well, this is what your typical drummer
boy wore.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” said Bortnicker
with a wave of his hand. “What’s the damage on all this?”

Moss slid behind the counter with a
calculator and started punching numbers. By the time he was done
T.J. was grimacing. “That’ll be five-hundred-twenty-six dollars and
fifty-four cents,” Moss announced with a smile.

Bortnicker smiled right back and slapped the
VISA card on the counter. “No problemo,” he sniffed.

But before Moss could reach the card, T.J.
snatched it away. “There’s one more thing we need, though I’m not
sure you carry it.”

“Young man, The Battle Cry has
everything
. What is it you want?”

* * * *

The boys walked out together, weighed down by
the huge plastic bags full of Civil War clothes and accessories,
and couldn’t help running straight into Carlton Elway, who was
delivering a large box of DVDs which Moss sold for a commission. As
all three of them stooped to pick up items dropped in the
collision, Elway said, “Well, it’s our two newspaper reporters.
How’s the article coming, guys?”

“Fine,” said T.J. “Almost done.”

“Enjoying your stay in Gettysburg?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Bortnicker. “Can’t wait for
this weekend.”

“Wait a minute,” said Elway, taking in the
various articles that had spilled from the bags. “You two
are...participating in the reenactment?”

“Of course,” said Bortnicker offhandedly. “We
figured, why not? Say, have there been any sightings lately?”

“None to speak of,” said Elway, not letting
Bortnicker’s comment rile him. “But you never know. This event
creates an atmosphere that could bring something out.”

“You think?” said Bortnicker, who was
obviously enjoying himself.

“C’mon, Bortnicker, we’ve gotta go,” said
T.J., tugging at his friend’s tattered Boston Red Sox tee
shirt.

“Right. Later, Mr. Elway,” he said over his
shoulder as they staggered up the sidewalk.

* * * *

Some twenty minutes later Al Warren’s phone
rang. He truly didn’t want to answer it, as he’d spent the entire
morning overseeing the setup of the police and EMT command posts on
the reenactment “battlefield.” There had already been various
fender benders around town, a shoplifting complaint, and a late
night call from the Cannonade Motel manager about a bunch of rowdy
reenactors from Arkansas who had gotten stinking drunk and were
singing “Dixie” at the top of their lungs.
What now?
he
wondered as he picked up the phone.

“Chief? It’s Wyatt Moss over at The Battle
Cry.”

“Oh, hi, Wyatt. What’s the problem? Somebody
try to lift something?”

“No, nothing like that. You said to call if
anyone came in asking for period ammo?”

Suddenly Warren was all ears. He slid forward
in his seat. “What happened?”

“Well, these two boys came in. One kinda
looked like a young Paul McCartney—”

“And the other was a goofball with Coke
bottle glasses.”

“Right! How’d you know?”

“It’s not important. What’d they buy?”

“Well, besides two complete Civil War drummer
boy outfits, which cost a pretty penny, let me tell you, the good
looking one bought four .44 bullets and some cartridges.”

“Repro?”

“Nope. They were period.”

“You’re sure that’s what he wanted?”

“Chief, he specifically asked for ‘never
fired .44 pistol bullets.’”

“And you
sold
them to him?”

“Chief, there’s no law against purchasing
antique bullets. It’s not like the kid bought a gun to go with
it.”

“Okay, okay, thanks for the call, Wyatt.
Sorry I was short with you. It’s been a long day.”

“That’s okay, Al, I understand. But you’ve
got to pace yourself. It’s only Monday. We’ve got a whole week to
go.”

“You’re right,” said Warren, reaching into
his desk for some Advil. “Let me know if they come back.”

“Will do.”

Warren washed down three pills with some iced
tea and sat back in his desk chair, rubbing his face. How could
this day get any worse? As if in reply, the phone rang again. He
took a deep breath and picked up. “Chief Warren.”

“Al?” said Carlton Elway, “you’ll never guess
who I just ran into.”

* * * *

By the time the boys finally mounted the
Darcys’ porch they were exhausted and soaked to the skin. Aunt
Terri and LouAnne relieved them of their baggage and they collapsed
onto the living room couch. “I’ll be back in a second with some
lemonade,” Terri said, as LouAnne started poking through the
various bags. “How much coin did you guys drop on all this?” she
marveled.

“History comes at a price,” said T.J.

“I guess,” she said. “But I have good news
for you.”

“They’ve cancelled the reenactment?” mumbled
Bortnicker.

“Ah, no, sorry. Apparently, my dad called his
buddy, Matty, who stores all the regiment’s bulky stuff in his
farm’s barn, and ol’ Matt just couldn’t
wait
to drop off
your drums and sticks so you can get to drumming. He also emailed
Dad some guidelines, which I have graciously printed out for
you.”

“You’re too kind,” said Bortnicker.

“Can I see them?” requested T.J.

“Here you go,” said his cousin, handing over
the document.

He started reading through the material,
skipping over the part about obtaining the right equipment,
tightening the drum heads, etc. “It says here there’s a manual we
should read called
Bruce and Emmett’s
Fifer and Drummer’s
Guide
,” he said with a frown.

“Oh, sorry. It’s in the garage with the
drums. Matty left that as well.”

T.J. started passing the printout sheets over
to Bortnicker, who did a quick study. “Well,” he said, “because of
all the stuff we had to do in orchestra at school, we know all the
‘traditional grip’ stuff and basic drum rolls and whatnot. In the
manual we’ll find the basic pieces like assembly, drummers call and
reveille.”

“We’ll need to have the music for some of the
songs in here,” said T.J. “Let’s see...there’s some I’ve heard of
like ‘Yankee Doodle’ and ‘Garry Owen’ but some of these others like
‘Army 6/8’ and ‘Connecticut Halftime’ I’ve never heard of.”

“I’m burning you guys a CD of those tunes as
we speak,” beamed LouAnne.

“Well then, Bortnicker, let’s get out of
these sopping clothes, grab a sandwich and get after it,” sighed
T.J.

“Might as well.”

After changing they sat down for some tuna
sandwiches and lemonade and then ventured into the garage where
they found two fairly new Civil War reproduction drums with eagles
stenciled on the side, along with the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania
logo. After adjusting their cotton slings so that the drum fell
around their left hip, they went into the spacious back yard and
worked on some basic rolls. LouAnne joined them and set up a beach
chair with a mini umbrella attached.

“The manual says that keeping your posture
erect is a big thing,” reminded T.J. “These drums are gonna get
heavy after a while.”

They stayed in place for a time, working out
the various rolls until they were pretty much in sync. After a
while LouAnne looked up from her paperback. “Uh, guys, don’t
forget the marching part,” she said sweetly.

“All in good time,” responded Bortnicker
through gritted teeth.

Slowly they began, a few steps at first, then
ten yards, then fifty, back and forth, stopping occasionally for
lemonade refills that LouAnne poured. It was monotonous, repetitive
work, and the boys were again dripping sweat, but neither wanted
to quit, especially in front of their one-girl audience.