Last Ghost at Gettysburg (4 page)

“LouAnne plays the part of a young girl who
was there during the battle, and after dinner she has a setup in
the attic where she tells the story of the citizens during the
summer of 1863 and how Confederate snipers shot at people from that
very space. And I have to say, she’s pretty convincing. LouAnne’s
too young to be formally employed, but she makes a lot of tips from
tourists. Last year she made enough in one week to buy herself an
iPod.”

T.J. tried to imagine his homely cousin in
period garb, and the image wasn’t appealing.

“I can run you over there after dinner,
T.J.,” said Mike. “See her do her
schtick
.”

“Sure thing,” said T.J., chewing a delicious
drumstick.

The after-dinner goodbyes were brief and
awkward. Both father and son promised to call or email as often as
possible, and Wendy even gave the boy a hug and a peck on the
cheek. “Stay out of trouble!” were his dad’s last words as he
backed the car out of the long driveway. And then, with a wave,
they were gone to Philly.

T.J. suspected his uncle could sense his
uneasiness by the way Mike playfully cuffed him on the shoulder.
“Hope you’re not down over getting stuck with us,” he said with
mock seriousness.

“Nah, it’s okay, Uncle Mike. I just hope Dad
doesn’t do anything crazy.”

“Like what, T.J.? Fall in love? Sometimes you
just can’t help it, my friend. After all, he fell in love with my
sister once upon a time. Your dad deserves to be happy. I’m sure
you told him that.”

“Yeah, well, of course,” T.J. mumbled.

“So let’s go to Charney House. Have you there
in a flash.”

Indeed, it was just a few minutes’ drive from
Seminary Ridge to the historic section of town. T.J. remembered
from an early childhood visit the blocks of row houses on Baltimore
Street, invariably Pennsylvania red brick or clapboard, most
sporting American flags and window baskets brimming with flowers.
The entire town, in fact, was well kept. Private residences mingled
with souvenir shops, museums, eateries and motels from 1950s style
motor courts to modern chains. Some areas were getting a bit too
commercial for T.J., but there still existed sections where, if one
closed his eyes and imagined, he could hear the bullets ricocheting
off brick facades and shattering windows. Though it was early
summer, tourists strolled about in the twilight, individually or in
groups, sporting golf shirts and Civil War-themed tee shirts,
Bermuda shorts, jeans and sundresses. Some of the children wore
cheap replica kepi-style army caps, both blue and gray, each topped
by imitation brass crossed swords. Others brandished plastic
cavalry sabers and pistols. T.J. couldn’t help but chuckle to
himself.

As if reading his mind, Mike said, “Yeah,
summer gets crazy here. It’s kind of like a Civil War theme park. I
mean, you get the scholarly types who show proper reverence for the
battlefield and the town, but then you get a lot of yahoos with no
real sense of history, which they pass on to their kids, like for
example that one little guy across the street slashing his buddy
across the neck.” He sighed. “And then there’s the reenactors. Man,
some of those guys are so hardcore, so into character, they don’t
even use real toilet paper when they camp out! Parade around town
in their uniforms, march into the Waffle House or Friendly’s with
full backpacks on, that sort of thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
ragging on what they do...they seem to have a real appreciation for
history...but
come on
. It’s 2010.”

The truck pulled up outside a two-story brick
house with stone steps leading to a first floor entrance.
Surrounded by an ornate wrought iron fence, it was the very essence
of pre-Civil War architecture. Warm light emanated from the first
floor dining rooms, and conversation mixed with occasional laughter
wafted into the front yard. “T.J.,” said Mike, “we’ve reached our
destination: Charney House, circa 1810, and pretty much intact.
Tell the hostess who you are and she’ll direct you to where LouAnne
is in the garret.”

“The garret?”

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell you. The dining room
and kitchen are on the first floor, the second floor has four
rooms, so it’s like an inn. Then, on the third floor you’ll find
LouAnne doing her thing. See, during the battle it was occupied
for a time by Confederate sharpshooters. You can see bullet holes
all over the outer walls, and the garret, uh, attic, was a good
spot to hide out and pick off Yankees in the surrounding area. Tell
LouAnne to call if you guys want a ride home.”

As T.J. mounted the steps with slight
trepidation, he tried to imagine himself a young man in 1863
calling upon a chum or a young lady perhaps. As Mike predicted, the
hostess, a plump college-age girl in full period garb, amiably
directed him to the stairs.

“You should get there just in time for the
eight o’clock performance,” she said with a wink.

Indeed, when T.J. reached the garret most of
the dozen or so straight-backed wooden chairs were taken. He eased
into one of the rear seats as the speaker, who was looking out the
window behind her, turned to face the audience, causing T.J. to do
a double-take.

It wasn’t LouAnne...or was it? Through the
filmy candlelight he saw not his mousy, painfully skinny cousin,
but a beautiful young girl with long, honey-blonde hair pulled back
and fastened with a blue bow that matched her bulky, high-collared
dress. Even so, there were the unmistakable outlines of an
athletic, yet feminine figure. And her face...gone were the
Coke-bottle glasses he remembered, replaced by piercing green eyes
and skin of a tawny brown hue that reflected an outdoors
healthiness. She was breathtaking, and all T.J. could think of was
Katie Vickers, the prettiest girl in the eighth grade at
Bridgefield Middle School, whom he’d pined after, but who would
barely acknowledge his existence though other girls thought him
“cute.” In fact, his late mom had playfully called him “my little
Beatle Paul,” for his resemblance to a young Paul McCartney.

LouAnne blew Katie Vickers away. No
contest.

Suddenly snapping out of his reverie, T.J.
realized he’d missed the beginning of LouAnne’s presentation. He
tuned in, his attention riveted to the stunning girl who held her
small audience, especially the males, in a trance.

“I was only thirteen when the War Between the
States came to Gettysburg,” she said. “My family had lived in the
area for generations, and my father was a local boot maker. Sadly,
I had lost three siblings to disease...one was just a baby. But my
older brother had survived, a strapping young man who was among the
first to enlist in the 72
^nd
Pennsylvania Infantry. I had
not seen him in two years, and of course Mama feared the worst. But
we persevered, and I helped out around the house as much as I
could. We all hoped the war would end, and had no idea it could
spread this far north.

“But then we heard rumors. General Lee’s
forces were on the march towards Washington...then they were in
Maryland. The word was that they were deathly in need of shoes, and
were looking for a factory or warehouse to outfit their horribly
equipped men.” She paused for effect, glancing out the window
before locking onto the audience again.

“Oh, why did they have to come here, to our
sleepy little town? Was it because we stand at a crossroads? Was
it because of our abundant farms whose grain and livestock would
fill their stomachs? Or were we just chosen by God to bear the
horrible burden of destiny?”

She’s really got them
, thought T.J.
Some of the women are starting to tear up!

“And so,” she continued with a sigh, “the two
great armies collided. For three bloody days we townsfolk hid in
our cellars as the village streets changed hands. Why, this house
alone came under both Yankee and Rebel occupation. After the battle
we found blood on the floor of this very garret where a Johnny Reb
had been winged while sharpshooting with a long distance rifle at
Union soldiers on the neighboring fields.

“When it was over, the poor citizens of
Gettysburg emerged from their cellars to find the streets awash in
blood and filth and the surrounding fields littered with the
corpses of men, horses and cattle. Only one of our citizens had
been killed—poor Jennie Wade, who was shot in the back with a stray
bullet while baking bread in her kitchen—but we might as well all
have been dead, as the stench of carnage and decay hung over the
town for weeks afterward. Our homes all became makeshift hospitals
for hundreds of wounded, mutilated men, and it seemed like forever
until the thousands of dead were finally laid to rest, and the
animals burned in huge pyres.

“As for my family, we were never the same.
Daddy took sick shortly afterward, and was gone by October. And we
never heard from my brother again.” She stood up, looking directly
at T.J. “But, thank God, my cousin Thomas has come, from the great
state of Connecticut, to help us put our lives back together!”

At that, the entire assemblage turned and
gaped at T.J., who managed a weak wave while detecting a wry smile
creep across his cousin’s lips.

“That ends our presentation, ladies and
gentlemen, if there are no questions. Thank you so much for your
patience. You’ve been a wonderful audience. Tips are
appreciated.”

Satisfied, the people applauded politely and
filed out, dropping change and small bills into a labeled ceramic
jar by the garret door. When the last person had exited, LouAnne
glided over and gave T.J. as much of a hug as she could manage over
her cumbersome hoop skirt.

“Not bad, Cuz,” said T.J. “You almost had me
bawling there.” The smell of her lilac perfume was intoxicating in
an old-fashioned way.

“Ya think? Let’s see how much the touristas
loved it.” She dumped the contents of the jar onto a barrel top and
quickly counted it. “Twenty-one fifty? That’s all? Sheesh! I bared
my soul to those people!”

“Well, I thought you did great.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t see
you
throwing
any dinero in the jar.”

T.J.’s eyes widened. “Well, uh...” he
stammered.

She laughed. “I’m just kidding, T.J. It’s
great to have you here. Welcome to Gettysburg.” She gave him a
quick peck on the cheek and he felt his face flush. “Now sit right
back down, my darling cousin. I’ve got one last tour group coming
up the stairs.”

So T.J., his head spinning, reclaimed his
seat as a new audience filed in and took their places before the
girl who was looking forlornly out the window.

Chapter Six

“Are you sure you want to walk home?” T.J.
asked. “You’re not tired?”

“Nah,” said LouAnne as the last group made
their way out of the garret and down the wooden staircase. “Just
let me change downstairs and give Dad a ring to tell him we’re
walking. I’ve been cooped up all evening in that room and could use
some fresh air. Besides, it’ll give us a chance to catch up. It’s
only a mile and a half. You can wait outside the Inn. I’ll just be
a minute.”

As T.J. stretched his legs out front, he
noticed that by 10:00 P.M. the town had quieted considerably, save
for clusters of tourists being led on some kind of walk by guides
dressed in period garb who held antique lanterns. A few early
summer fireflies danced in the small side yards of houses.

“Okay, ready to go,” said LouAnne, bounding
down the steps in faded jeans and a Beatles “Abbey Road” tee shirt
that made him think briefly of his mom. Her hair swung behind her
as she hit the sidewalk. “All in all, a successful night,” she
said, fanning the greenbacks she’d earned in tips. “Some of this
goes to the college fund, some for spending. My goal this summer is
to get myself a laptop with all the bells and whistles.”

“Cool,” said T.J. as they started up
Baltimore Street. He wondered how much Uncle Mike made from his
park ranger salary. He also realized that he’d stupidly forgotten
to bring his laptop down to Pennsylvania. Oh, well. “You were
pretty convincing back there,” he offered. “How many of those talks
do you do a night?”

“Depends. On the weekends and during
Reenactment Week it seems I’m doing fifty in an evening. And it
does get a little old at times. Some nights I end up changing my
story around, adding characters to my family, blah, blah, blah.
Once in a while, if tips are slow, I’ll even kill myself off, you
know, die of disease a year or so after the battle. Overall, it’s
a good gig. For the most part, the people are really nice. Of
course, you get some guys who maybe have a couple drinks too many
with dinner and try to be smart-alecky, trip you up with questions
or make inappropriate remarks. Then you have some of the reenactors
who show up in their uniforms and try to take over the show by
quizzing me. But I know my stuff. You can’t go to school in this
town without having the history drilled into you. I handle them
okay. The worst are little kids. Man, some of those rug rats can’t
sit still for a minute! Of course, back in the 1800s they’d just
get slapped, but that’s politically incorrect these days. Not that
I haven’t considered it,” she added with an impish smile that made
his heart jump. What was up with
that
?

“What about that dress you have to wear?”
asked T.J. “Doesn’t it get hot in the summer?”

“Hot isn’t the word,” she answered. “’Cause
there’s a lot more that you don’t see. First, I slip on a chemise
and drawers. On top of that is a corset. Then comes an under
petticoat, also called a privacy petticoat because you wouldn’t
want anyone to look up your skirt when you’re going up the stairs,
would you?”

“Guess not.”

“Then comes the hoop, followed by more
petticoats to hide the boning, under sleeves and a collar, and
then
the dress. And, of course, socks and shoes, which you
have to get on before the hoop or you’ll never reach ‘em.”